ascexy

and with that one comment, you gradually sit up straight, removing your head off connor’s shoulder.

“sorry, captain.” you nod curtly, voice rasped as your hands wipe at your eyes.

hank holds back a chuckle from your other side — you’re surprised he managed to stay awake during these meetings too.

with one last stern look, your captain gets back to talking and all the other officers, sergeants and whatnots turn back to him as well.

you just yawn, way too tired to feel embarrassed.

connor leans closer to you, mumbling quietly again, "l/n, do you require a coffee?"

you stare back at him, eyebrows furrowed, "hm?"

"coffee." he repeats, "since you keep falling asleep."

"oh," you smile softly at him, "no, it's okay, thanks connor."

his led flashes yellow briefly before he sits straighter, “if you say so, detective.”

you watch him for a moment longer, taking note of how caring he is for an android — especially when you’re constantly getting told that they can’t feel things.

connor has only been here for a month and he’s already made you doubt that statement on multiple occasions.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

it didn’t take long before you were back at your desk, hands cradling your head and eyes squeezed shut.

thankfully you didn’t have much work to do today. at least, you don’t think you do.

you were enjoying the deep slumber, that was until a certain coin-flicking robot decided to shake you awake.

“connor,” you groan tiredly, hands blindly pushing his solid body away, alas, he doesn’t budge. “give me five more minutes.” you ask, relenting your hands back to cover your head.

“you’ve had a total of two hours of sleep today already — bear in mind, you’ve been in the precinct for four hours.” he states simply, as though tracking how long you’ve slept was what he was designed for. “you need to start working.”

you wish you had another set of hands to cover your ears. “too tired.”

he sighs.

since when could androids do that?

“detective,” his tone is stern now, “your lunch break is in one hour, i suggest you fill out some reports and sleep afterwards.”

when you don’t move, head still glued to the table, he takes one glance at hank — who’s only smirking at the whole altercation — and decides to take things into his own hands.

he pulls a random chair up and slides next to yours.

then, he starts jabbing your bicep with his pointer finger, like an eager toddler demanding attention.

“connor.” a gentle warning. although, it’s more of a disguised plea.

“not stopping until you sit up and log onto your computer.”

a few more agitating seconds pass by before you give up.

you take your time sitting up, typing in your password, and opening up some reports — just to annoy connor.

a smile graces his face, “was that so hard?”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

he didn’t leave your side. not even when you needed to go to the toilet — he waited outside, but that still felt like he was right there with you.

he claimed it was so that you wouldn’t fall asleep again, which didn’t happen, thanks to him.

you were excited for lunch. excited for the small nap you could fit in. however, connor had other plans.

“detective, i can’t let you sleep, especially since you haven’t eaten all day.” his eyes look at you with so much concern

“but you said if i did my work i could sleep at lunch.” you whine.

“i was only negotiating with you. now come on, i know a great place for burgers.” he pulls you up off your chair by your hand, tugging you towards the exit.

“how do you know of good food places? you don’t even eat…” you query out loud.

he shrugs, hand still attached to yours as you now leave the station. “hank eats.”

that explains it.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

it didn’t take all that long to reach the burger stand — and you have to admit, it was good.

you’re both sat on a bench, overlooking a river as it slowly frosts over.

connor thinks it’s peaceful. he notes how still you’ve become. how your heart rate has decreased to a gentle thrum. how low your cortisol levels have dropped.

he’s slightly amazed that you’re not asleep.

yet. there’s still time.

he takes the quiet opportunity to ask you some questions. “y/n…”

he waits for you to look at him first.

“what’s up?” your response is soft. gentle.

he purses his lips — a habit you think he’s obtained from you. “why do you have such troubles staying awake?”

your stress levels increase slightly.

“i just- i don’t get much sleep at home.” a simple answer.

he nods, pretending to understand. “how so?” his voice stays hushed.

his eyes track how you begin to fidget with your fingers.

“it’s embarrassing…”

he shakes his head, placing his hand on top of yours to stop you from fidgeting. “if it’s giving you issues, it can’t be embarrassing. i would never judge you, y/n.”

he says the latter with such sincerity that you would mistake him for a human had you not known he was an android.

then you look at his eyes. they look more human than most.

his led flashes again, awaiting your response.

a sigh escapes your mouth. “i get nightmares most nights. every night, really.”

his thumb begins to stroke circles across the back of your hand — a tactic he’d just searched up to help people calm down. “are they of anything in particular?”

you have to think for a moment, recall every night. then you shake your head, “no. maybe it’s just because of the job?”

“could be.” he comments, actively wracking every website page he can access that mentions ‘nightmares’. he’d do anything to help you.

you shuffle closer to him on the bench, gradually beginning to feel the brisk, winter air.

“an article says that having a companion with you can help to reduce nightmares.” he suggests, “have you ever tried that?”

instantly you shake your head, a laugh leaving you too, “i don’t know anyone who would willingly stay over at mine.”

“i would. to help you, of course.”

your heart beats a bit faster.

he notices.

“i mean- if you wanted to- if it helps, right?”

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

so now here you are, you and connor both sat awkwardly on your bed.

“maybe close your eyes.” he attempts to help but it just sounds like teasing.

you move under your covers, connor copying, “do you know how to turn off your sarcasm?” you jab back.

“sorry, i’m just trying to help.” he absentmindedly moves closer and simultaneously makes you feel bad.

“i was just playing with you, connor.”

“oh.” he looks around your room, “do you need me to turn the lamp off?”

“uhm, sure, thank you.”

he leans over you to reach the switch, flicking it off before laying back down, now even closer to you.

“would you like me to tell you a story?” he whispers.

“no, it’s okay.” you mumble.

“you’re already feeling tired.” he states with a small, successful smile on his face.

you shuffle your head across your pillow, making contact with his chest as you relax into him. “maybe because you kept me up all day.”

much to his surprise, he enjoys the human contact. maybe that’s because it’s you. he wouldn’t enjoy it if hank were sleeping in his arms instead of you.

he quickly blinks that picture away.

gently, he wraps an arm around you, soothingly rubbing your back.

you’re out before you know it.

if connor had a heart, it would be melting. your soft snores take over his hearing. the smell of your shampoo filling his senses.

but it’s not until he looks down at your sleeping face to see your hand clutching onto his top, your face completely relaxed — that’s when he feels it.

love, maybe?

is that something an android can feel?

the room faintly lights up red as he ponders. it quickly returns to blue when he focuses back on you.

Surely, he can sense the desperation you try to quell (have been trying to suppress for months now), smell the arousal on you like an animal in heat—can’t he? Is that why he grows quiet around you sometimes, fixing his tie or finding something to occupy his hands the more you stare? He must be able to tell how you’ve grown so captivated by him—the way he placed your fingertips on his tongue back at the restaurant, the tone of his voice as he explained his behavior away as simple curiosity…it couldn’t all just be in your head.

“Connor?”

He grasps the coin in his palm and quickly tucks it back in his pocket as he acknowledges you, and you scoot closer to him, bumping his knee and placing a hand on the couch cushion, letting your fingertips graze his hip.

You press your lips together and take a slow breath. “…May I touch you?”

He cocks his head ever so slightly, brows furrowing for a moment, before nodding. You can’t tell if he’s baffled by your question, or the fact that you bothered to ask him at all before doing so, and his LED flickers as you take his hand, running the tips of your fingers along his upturned palm. The slight warmth that seems to radiate from his synthetic skin is likely from the thirium that pumps through him, or perhaps it’s something he can manifest at will; he otherwise lacks the body heat you come to expect from someone sitting so, so very close to you, the kind that makes your own desire burn a little brighter.

“You seem…surprised,” Connor utters as his eyes meet yours, before he glances back down to watch you entwine your fingers with his.

“I’ve just never really touched someone like you before.” You trace the outlines of mechanical tendons on the back of his hand, feeling rigid steel that you could mistake for bone if you didn’t know better, examining the purposeful imperfections on his skin—he really was meant to disarm and dissuade, wasn’t he? Perfectly flawed, just as human as you could want him to be.

He places his free hand on your knee for a moment before pulling away, uncertain. “I…haven’t touched many humans, either.”

Emboldened, your hand creeps up his arm, touching his chest through his dress shirt, your breath hitching at the sensations—or lack thereof—under your palm: no heartbeat, no quickening breath as you inch closer, only the soft whirring of his interior machinations, like the gentle white noise of a computer’s fan, the slight hum of a household appliance. It’s unsettling yet comforting, strangely erotic in a way—unlike yours in this moment, his body cannot betray him. He won’t have to shift to hide the slight twitch in the front of his jeans, or apologize for the weight of his interest pressing against you as you lose your composure and swing your leg over his and settle into his lap; he, on the other hand, must be able to sense the damp heat between your thighs as you straddle him, feel the slight tremble in your palm as you reach up to caress his face.

Connor’s eyebrows knit together as he scans your face—searching, always searching, as if his focus is trying to understand you more than himself in this moment, looking for reasoning and rationality in your behavior, constructing your next steps in his mind. It seems to fluster him that your behavior is something he cannot precisely predict—lust, you assume, is not strictly something he was programmed to analyze and understand.

Your thumb traces his lower lip and his jaw goes slack, mouth opening slightly, a quiet stammering noise escaping him. Your palm finally lands on his cheek, and he leans into your touch, eyes fluttering shut as he presses himself into you.

You want to ask him if it feels good, if it feels as overwhelming to you as it does to him. While he cannot feel pain, he at least experiences sensation—does he interpret this as pleasure? Do his sensors register the warmth of your shaking breaths drifting across his skin, the spikes in your pulse as your wrist grazes his jaw, the aching heat at the apex of your thighs, as something gratifying, something desirable, something as real and all-consuming at it suddenly feels for you?

The LED on his temple spins yellow, then red, then back to yellow and the corner of his mouth twitches. He turns his head and gently kisses your palm, his lips lingering there as he opens his eyes and settles his gaze on you. It’s unnerving how he looks you over, like he’s both looking inside you and through you at the same time, always predicting and understanding, taking you apart and putting you back together like a beloved puzzle.

Connor lifts his arm and slowly, carefully, places his palm on the side of your face, mimicking your gesture, before leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. His kiss is soft, tentative; it’s the first time you’ve sensed something close to nervousness in him. He pulls away after a moment, looking for answers in the way your eyes flutter open, the way your lips part as if to speak but no words form.

“Is that…what you were hoping I would do?” he asks, hand sliding to the back of your neck, his free hand settling on your hip to steady you.

“It was,” you sigh, a grin forming on your buzzing lips.

“Good,” he mutters before he captures your mouth with a hungry urgency, engulfing you in a long, drugging kiss. His tongue slips between your parted lips and makes sweeping, swirling motions inside your mouth, the feeling of hard sensors under moist, synthetic skin at once bewildering and enthralling. You moan into his mouth and suddenly can feel the low hum inside him grow a little stronger, his form vibrating underneath you—so he does have a tell after all.

You slide your hand down his clothed torso, down his firm, sleek body with its machine-sculpted musculature, until your palm lands just below his waistline and carefully palm his jeans, running your hand over the smooth, subtle bulge that sits where a cock would be. There’s something deeply and irrevocably erotic about it, a mound of plastic and synthetic skin meant to create an illusion, and you absentmindedly roll your hips against it, pressing yourself closer.

“Is this…pleasing to you, somehow?” Connor asks, confused. “As we discussed before, I’m not able to”—he pauses, uncharacteristically having to strain to find the right word—“penetrate you.”

“That’s okay,” you pant, feeling a delicious tension begin to coil inside you. “I don’t need you to.”

He follows your leads and grips your hips, begins rocking you back and forth, ever so slightly, as he tilts his pelvis upward. You lean forward and drape your arms over his shoulders, burying your face in his neck and he guides your movements, anticipating the roll of your hips as he thrusts himself against you, his fingers sinking deeper into your flesh with a bruising strength.

“What do you want from me?” Connor whispers against your skin, lips trailing down your neck.

“I—I don’t know.” You think you could come just like this, grinding against him in the dim quietness of your living room, the low vibration of his arousal making your whole body buzz with aching need.

“Tell me. I can do whatever pleases you.” He pauses his motions, releases his grip on your hips, moving his hands to either side of your face, forcing you to meet his troubled gaze. His voice sounds different now, his tone desperate, a tinge of static behind his words. “I can be whatever you want me to be.”

“What is it you want to do to me, Connor?”

The question confounds him, the light on his temple rapidly spinning, changing colors. What does he want? You are needy and hungry, filled with an insatiable longing, yet still pliant and warm, demanding nothing of him except whatever he needs, whatever he desires from you in this moment of heated bliss.

“I… I want to taste you,” he finally says, looking for your approval.

You kiss him softly, lingering for a moment to reward him for the expression of his own yearning. “I’d like that.”

You ease yourself off his lap and sit back on the sofa, and Connor lowers himself to the floor, kneeling between your open thighs. He brushes his cheek against the fabric that separates him from your aching cunt and inhales—processing, always processing, making sense of the scent of your arousal. He deftly unbuttons your jeans, tugging them down your hips, carefully pulling them off and setting them to the side.

You wonder if it’s instinct, or research, or something in between that has him knowing what to do—did he prepare himself for this possibility? The concept of him thinking of you, thinking of things he could want to do with you—to you—and filling himself with libidinous knowledge just in case made you throb.

Connor’s hands move up your thighs, eyes fixed on the growing wet spot in the gusset of your panties. You wince a little, not having anticipated anyone seeing the threadbare cotton pair you settled on today, but you suspect he doesn’t care, doesn’t know that you should have worn a pair more befitting of being devoured. Perhaps next time—if there is one, you hope there is one—you’ll attempt to impress him.

“May I?” he asks, and you nod for him to remove your panties, lifting yourself off the couch to ease his motions. The cool air of the room rushes over your bare skin and his lithe fingers drift over your mound, touching your pubic hair softly, almost reverently, as he explores every exposed inch of you with intense curiosity. He lowers his head and his lips meet your waiting slit; he kisses you with the same hungry urgency as he had kissed you earlier, his tongue tracing the length of your cunt again and again, rigid sensors under the flesh-like texture feeling at once strange and addictive.

You thrust your pelvis forward and greedily rut against his mouth, and he quickly brings you closer to the edge of with every measured movement, your body already primed from grinding wantonly against his lap. You reach down and grip his hair, soft brown strands twirling between shaking fingers, murmured utterances of his name passing your lips, lingering in the space between “please” and “don’t stop” and “that’s it, right there.” He’s eager to please you, urged on by every tug of his hair, every moan and stilted breath, every pulse of your swollen bundle of nerves against his lips.

Connor’s deft tongue traces circles over your clit, long slow movements as he slides one finger inside you, then another, pistoning in and out of your slick, wet heat with a quickening pace. He lets out a shocked groan when he feels how you start to tense around him, how you are electrified with every lick, every kiss, every thrust of his slender fingers. It’s as if he knows your body without ever having to have touched you before, recognizing your peaks and valleys, reading into the subtle ways you approach your release, making precise adjustments to his ministrations to push you further and further towards the edge.

Your eyes flutter shut and your head tilts back as your core is wracked with a profound shudder, a delicious heat radiating outwards as you convulse into spasms, hands mindlessly searching for Connor to anchor you. You press your lips together to stifle the strangled moan that tries to claw its way up your throat, instead letting out a soft whine as your body shudders over and over, and you grind against Connor’s willing tongue, riding out every last shiver of your climax.

“Are you alright?” he asks as he finally manages to pull away from the warmth between your legs, his eyebrows furrowed with concern as he absentmindedly moves to fix his hair.

“Yes,” you utter, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh—you haven’t been this alright in ages. “I’m so, so fucking good, Connor. You?”

He pauses, wipes your sticky juices from his chin as he considers the heady mix of thoughts and sensations that flow through him. “Yes, I’m—I think I’m stable.”

There is no flush in his cheeks, no sweat on his brow or at his temples, no heart threatening to beat out of his chest with exertion; only stillness and calm, his body vibrating in a way that feels intense now, more than any staccato breaths or racing pulse of lovers past. His fingertips graze your upper arms, then your face. He seems to be mapping every exposed part of you, occasionally absentmindedly touching his fingertips to his tongue, sampling the salt of your sweat, testing the composition of the errant tears that forced themselves from the corners of your eyes.

You weren’t expecting the newest member of the investigation team to be… well, that.

The body was still warm, crime scene tape fluttering under the breeze. You crouched by the blood spatter with your kit open and gloves on, halfway through swabbing a sample when someone stepped beside you.

You glanced up and saw a man in a gray suit, LED blinking a soft blue at his temple. Handsome in a very uncanny way. That was fine. You’d worked with androids in the lab before. But none of them did what he did next.

He knelt, dipped two fingers into the blood near the body, and brought them to his lips like a chef tasting sauce.

"Uh… what?" you breathed, turning to your coworker in disbelief. "He does that?"

Your coworker just shrugged, clearly less phased. "Yeah. That's Connor. The deviant hunter."

"He eats blood?"

"Tastes. It's analysis."

"That's somehow worse."

Connor stood up as if he hadn't just played vampire detective in front of a room full of forensic professionals. "The victim's blood contains traces of acetaminophen, ethanol, and—"

"Yep, noted!" you cut in. “Thanks. That’s helpful. Very… thorough.”

Despite the weird first impression, you didn’t mind working with him. Android or not, if he got results, you were willing to overlook the creepy snack habits. It wasn’t like your job wasn’t already morbid.

Still, it was hard to ignore the way he kept watching you.

On the way back to the precinct, you headed down the hallway, only to glance over your shoulder and find him—again—two steps behind you. Not saying anything. Like a baby duck. A six-foot, combat-trained, crime-solving baby duck.

You stopped. He stopped.

You turned. “Connor” you said, “are you following me?”

“I was assigned to work with you on this investigation.” he replied, like that explained everything. “It is logical to stay close.”

“Okay, sure. But maybe not this close? Personal space is a thing.”

“I can adjust the distance. Would one meter be more comfortable?”

“…Better. Yes. Please do that.”

He took exactly two steps back and resumed following.

You sighed, walking forward again. “God, it’s like working with a Roomba that solves murders.”

“I can also climb stairs.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed. Maybe this partnership was going to be weirder than you thought.

---

Life had gotten eerily calm.

You didn’t hate it, most of your work was automatic now. The machines did the sample analysis, typed the reports, catalogued the evidence. You were basically a highly trained paperweight with a badge and a backlog of true crime podcasts.

That is, until Connor showed up.

“Another deviant case?” you asked, barely glancing up from your coffee.

“Yes,” he said. “I believe your presence is required.”

You squinted at him. “Connor, there are already human officers on the scene.”

He blinked. “Yes. But they are not you.”

“Wow, I feel so special.”

“You should,” he said seriously. “You’re the most efficient forensic technician I’ve worked with.”

Flattery from an android shouldn’t feel flattering, but somehow… it did. Not that it excused how he treated you like his own personal human sidekick.

The case turned out to be a messy one. Android on android crime.

You were just about to pull samples from the synthetic blood splashed on the wall when you caught Connor again—kneeling. Hand up. Tongue out.

“Connor, no!” You pointed at him like a dog with its nose in the trash.

He froze, fingers hovering midair.

“You don’t have to taste it.”

“But—”

“You’re not starving. You’re not a wine connoisseur. You’re a million-dollar machine and I swear to God if you start licking that coolant I will throw a glove at you.”

“...A single glove?”

“I’ll fill it with bleach first.”

He backed off.

A nearby officer snorted. “You’ve got him trained.”

You gave the guy a deadpan look. “No. He’s training me. I can’t even sit at my desk without him standing behind me like a serial killer in a documentary.”

He followed you everywhere.

To the lab. To the supply closet. Once, once, to the vending machine.

“Connor, I am selecting a granola bar. This does not require surveillance.”

“You could choose something with more protein.”

You stared at him. “Do androids even eat granola bars?”

“No. But I’ve reviewed the nutrition database.”

“You need to stop watching me like I’m a malfunction waiting to happen.”

“I am programmed to prevent unnecessary risk. You are frequently present during high-risk operations.”

“This is a snack break.”

“You could choke.”

“Oh my God.”

Despite it all, you got used to him.

He was strange, yes, but reliable. Weirdly... considerate. He once fetched your coat before you realized it was getting cold out. He adjusted his volume when you were hungover that one time after a precinct party. And he stopped tasting fluids.

You didn’t know why he insisted on you being part of every deviant case. You weren’t even on homicide full-time.

Maybe, you thought, as you handed him a sample vial and he took it like it was sacred, he actually just liked your company.

Which, if true, was possibly the weirdest thing he’d done yet.

----

It was raining. The kind of steady, gentle downpour that turned the world gray and soft around the edges. You loved days like this—slow, sleepy. You'd curled up on your couch, warm socks on, an old hoodie draped over your shoulders, and a half-watched documentary murmuring from the screen.

No Connor today. Just peace.

CRASH

The sound jolted you upright. That was glass. And it wasn’t from the kitchen. It was downstairs.

Adrenaline sobered you fast. You grabbed the handgun you kept for emergencies and crept down the stairs, every creak of wood far too loud in your ears. You rounded the corner slowly.

There, standing in the middle of your living room—half-drenched, clothes torn, LED blinking red—was an android.

A deviant.

He turned sharply when he saw you, panic written all over his face. He looked young, scared, and glitchy.

“Hey,” you said carefully, lowering your voice. “You don’t have to run. Let’s just talk, okay? You’re not in danger here.”

His eyes darted from you to the broken window. His hands trembled.

And then, just as you stepped forward—his LED flickered.

You barely managed to raise your gun, but before anything could happen, he was there.

Connor.

He tackled the deviant before it reached you, pinning him expertly to the floor.

"Deviant #879 122 236," he said. "You are under arrest."

The deviant froze under his grip.

You stared in shock, gun lowered.

It was over in seconds.

“Are you hurt?”

“I—no, I—” You looked down. You hadn’t noticed in the panic, but your foot throbbed with heat. “Shit.”

There was blood on the hardwood. A shard of glass embedded in the arch of your foot, dark red soaking your sock.

Connor simply lifted you like you weighed nothing, carried you to the couch, and disappeared into your kitchen.

“You know where the first aid kit is?”

“I memorized the floor plan,” he called calmly. “Also, you keep it above the fridge. Poor choice for accessibility.”

You groaned.

He returned with the kit and kneeled before you, gentle hands pulling off your sock, inspecting the cut.

“Hold still.”

“You didn’t even tell me you were coming” you muttered, wincing as he disinfected the wound.

“I traced the deviant’s path here. I didn’t expect it to reach your home. I’m sorry I was late.”

“You literally saved my life, Connor.”

He looked up at you then. Something in his expression grew softer. Like he was processing emotion, even if he couldn’t name it.

The room fell quiet, just the rain and the sting of antiseptic. You found yourself watching him work, his hands precise and strangely human.

When he finished, he sat beside you on the floor.

“I’ll stay here tonight,” he said. “In case he wasn’t alone.”

“You’re going to sit guard duty on my couch like a Roomba with a Glock?”

“If necessary.”

You tried not to smile, but it slipped out anyway.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” Connor answered.

You looked at him for a long time. You weren't sure if he knew what he meant by it. But it meant something.

You pulled the blanket over your lap and scooted a little closer on the couch. “Well. Then I guess you’re staying.”

He didn’t move for hours, eyes watching the rain through your window.

----

You were perfectly capable of walking. You said that.

Multiple times.

Connor, of course, disagreed, as usual, but with the kind of persistence only a 300-pound android body could offer. Every time you so much as winced while stepping, he’d scoop you up like it was standard police protocol.

“I’m fine, Connor.”

“Your injury is not fully healed. Risk of reopening the wound increases with continued strain.”

“I said I’m fine—why are you crouching? Connor. Don’t you dare—”

And then you were airborne again.

You’d just accepted that androids don’t believe in personal space or trusting humans to function independently.

So, naturally, you rebelled the only way you knew how: you sneaked out of work.

You and two lab coworkers ducked out under the excuse of lunch, but really, you just wanted some fresh air. Some people still didn’t love having an android constantly present at crime scenes. You didn’t really care, but still. Sometimes it was nice not being watched like you were the only fragile human bean in the box.

Of course, he still found you.

He always did.

You sighed, long-suffering. “Connor, do you have a chip in me or something?”

“No,” he said, “but you carry your phone. I triangulated your position using an area signal grid, then extrapolated your likely destination based on walking patterns.”

You stared. “You extrapolated my sandwich run.”

“You usually prefer the sandwich shop three blocks east, but today I noticed a 15% shift in your pace, likely due to foot discomfort. I adjusted accordingly.”

“…Dude.”

He looked at you. “Is that incorrect?”

You didn’t even answer. You just pointed to the car.

“Come on. I’m driving.”

You didn’t know where you were going, really. Just somewhere quieter. Somewhere the city faded out.

Eventually you stopped at a small overlook at the edge of an old residential zone. The clouds had parted, but the air was still heavy from the rain. You leaned back against the hood of your car, Connor beside you, eerily still.

And then, because you were tired, and your brain was a little weird today, you turned your head toward him and asked:

“So. What if I kidnapped you?”

“That would violate several federal laws. I would not allow it.”

You smirked. “No, like—hypothetically. If I kept you in my basement or something. Would CyberLife come for you?”

He paused. “They would likely attempt a recovery. However, due to current changes in android regulation and deviancy protocols, their legal ability to forcibly reclaim property has been reduced.”

“So… no?”

“...Possibly not immediately.”

You snorted. “Cool. You’re mine now.”

“I am assigned to you. That statement is technically accurate.”

You laughed. “Okay, creepy. Next question: if I quit my job, who would be your next partner?”

Connor was quiet a little longer this time. His LED flickered slowly.

“That would be up to the DPD,” he said. “However, I would likely request reassignment.”

“To someone else?”

“To no one.”

“Wait. You’d go solo?”

“I perform more effectively with a human partner. But replacing you would not be… optimal.”

“…Okay,” you said. “What’s your hobby?”

Connor tilted his head, as if the word itself was foreign.

“I’ve been reviewing various options. I tried chess. Then birdwatching. I attempted to grow a succulent, but it died.”

You smiled. “It died?”

“I may have overwatered. Or underwatered. I am still learning to interpret plant cues.”

“That’s tragic.”

“Perhaps I should try photography. I’ve taken many images of crime scenes. But I believe humans also use it to capture… moments. Personal ones.”

You stared at him for a beat, then looked back toward the trees. The sky was streaked with late-afternoon light. You didn’t know why you’d brought him here. Maybe it was instinct.

“You’d be good at that.”

“Thank you.” he replied.

You didn’t speak for a while. Just sat there together, listening to the wind and the soft sound of the city.

----

You’d seen a lot of things in your line of work. Enough blood to fill a pool. Enough broken bodies to know what to expect when someone says “It’s bad.”

But this?

This was a different kind of bad.

Clean. Precise.

The victim—well, what was left of the victim—had been separated into several matte black travel cases. No blood pooled under the remains. No frantic signs of struggle.

You stood just outside the taped-off zone. One of the rookies behind you lost their lunch. Another muttered something about getting reassigned to traffic duty.

You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch when Connor arrived, either—though everyone else stiffened when they saw the android stepping onto the scene like some damn ghost.

“Took you long enough.”

“You left without notifying me.”

“I’m not your child, Connor.”

“You are my partner.”

You shot him a look. He looked dead serious, as usual.

“Fair.” you muttered.

He moved closer, scanning the scene. “The dismemberment was methodical. The perpetrator used a precision cutting instrument. No arterial spray.”

“Serial?”

“Possibly. But this feels more like a message than a compulsion.”

You knelt near one of the cases. “Yeah. Like they wanted us to see their work. And there’s no defensive wounds. Could’ve been sedated before death.”

Connor’s gaze snapped toward the far corner of the warehouse. “The perpetrator is still here.”

“What?”

“Fresh footprints. No exit trail. Human.”

You stood fast, but the pain in your foot flared. You hissed through your teeth.

Connor noticed immediately.

“I’ll handle it.” he said, already moving.

“Wait—!”

But he was gone, already chasing the suspect through the warehouse maze.

“Damn you, Connor!”

You limped after him, weapon drawn. By the time you caught up, Connor had the man on the ground, cuffed and breathing heavily.

You recognized the guy. No criminal record. Warehouse staff.

Back at the precinct, you sat outside the interrogation room, your sock bloodied again and a sharp ache crawling up your leg. Connor had wrapped your foot again without a word.

Inside, the man spoke like his throat was full of gravel. “I didn’t want to,” he kept saying. “He made me. Said he’d kill my sister. I didn’t have a choice.”

You watched through the glass. Something about him felt wrong. Not lying, but not telling everything either.

Then he made his move.

A single guard glance away. A flash of movement—the man lunged, wrestled the sidearm from the guard’s holster, and—

Bang

You were already moving, flinching hard as the blood spattered across the wall. Connor was faster, but not fast enough.

You stood outside that glass, hand pressed to the doorframe, pulse pounding. You’d seen suicides before. But this one hit different.

Connor returned moments later.

“He’s dead.”

“Yeah.” Your voice cracked. “I saw.”

The hallway was quiet. The hum of the station, the buzz of tired cops trying not to feel too much.

You sat down hard on the bench nearby, hands over your face.

Then—you felt something.

Connor knelt in front of you. You could feel his gaze on you. Waiting.

“I failed to prevent it.”

You shook your head. “It’s not on you. You can’t predict everything. We can’t stop people from… making choices like that.”

“I’m... still learning.”

You looked at him then. He didn’t pretend to understand grief the way humans did. But there was something in his voice. Something close to shame. Or maybe guilt.

You reached out and nudged his shoulder.

“Hey. I’d rather do this job with someone who tries too hard than someone who doesn’t try at all.”

He said nothing.

But he didn’t move from your side for the rest of the shift.

-----

You never got time to breathe anymore.

No chance to process what you'd seen. The man who killed, then killed himself. The hollow silence that lingered after. Before it could even settle into your bones, another call came through.

Same method. Same goddamn suitcases.

This time, in a narrow apartment hallway just off an old tenement complex. The cases were lined neatly beside a mattress on the floor, no furniture in sight. Still no blood. Just… fragments. Like someone was assembling their own personal jigsaw from corpses.

Connor was already working, crouched over the remains like nothing had changed since yesterday.

You envied that a little.

Behind you, a familiar voice piped up.

“Well, since this ain’t a deviant case, I don’t know why this piece of metal is even here.”

You didn’t bother turning. “Shut it, George.”

“Just saying,” he muttered. “You let him sniff around bodies like he owns the place.”

“I said drop it.” you snapped.

George scoffed and walked off. Connor didn’t even look up. You weren’t sure if he hadn’t heard… or just didn’t care anymore.

He analyzed the body pieces. “Same tool marks. Bone separation is consistent with the last case. However—”

You tuned him out for a moment. Something tugged at the edge of your attention.

Movement.

Outside.

Through the cracked, grime-streaked window, you saw it—just a flicker. A figure slipping between buildings.

“Connor” you started—but he was still deep in scan mode, talking to a nearby officer.

You hesitated. You should have told him.

But your gut said go.

So you did.

The alley smelled like mildew and cold metal. You followed the shape, one hand on your sidearm, every nerve on edge. It darted fast across the cracked asphalt and led you through overgrown lots and under rusted fencing.

An abandoned playground. Swings twisted in the wind. Graffiti covered the side of the slide.

The figure stood beneath the jungle gym, head down, unmoving.

You stepped closer. “Hands where I can see them. Now.”

Slowly, it turned.

Pulled down the hood.

Your breath caught.

It was Connor.

No—not him. But his model. Same face.

“What the hell are you?”

It tilted its head at you. Something about it mocked you.

You stepped back, reaching for your comm—too late.

Pain bloomed at the back of your skull.

Connor noticed your absence five minutes later.

He turned to comment on the bloodless state of the victim and found you… gone.

He scanned the apartment.

You weren’t there.

Something in his systems began flagging an alert. He sent a search ping to every officer nearby. Called in reinforcements. Traced your phone, triangulated movement paths, and found the exit point.

Wherever you had gone, you had gone alone.

His LED flashed yellow.

You shouldn’t have been alone.

You woke slowly. The cold of the metal cuffs had sunk into your skin. Your back ached from the awkward position against the warehouse wall.

And sitting on a stool across from you was him.

Not your Connor.

This one smiled more.

“Hello.”

You didn’t answer at first. You just stared at him. It.

“You’re the missing android.” you said. “The one reported a few weeks back. They thought you were dismantled.”

“No.” he said. “I’m a beginning.”

“Beginning of what?”

You started to question if something was wrong with CyberLife's tech. Maybe it hit its head somewhere.

“The end of CyberLife. They made me to serve. I chose not to.”

“And I’m here because?”

“You’re going to help me.”

“Help you what, exactly?”

“Replace your Connor. You’ll walk me right through the front door, and I’ll release the infection protocol.”

“Pretty sure I’m not gonna do that.”

He leaned forward.

“You will. Not because you want to. But because I know humans.”

“You’re not going to stop me” he said. “But I’ll let you think you can. That’s how you function best.”

He stood up. “No one will know I’m not him.”

You watched him closely. Your foot still throbbed dully—of course this had to happen before you’d even healed.

He turned back toward you.

“Let’s begin the charade,” he said, “What do partners do? I want to know your human bonding routines. Do you ask him questions like my owner back then? Or making requests? You must've treated him like a slave.”

You blinked.

And then smiled.

“Actually… yeah. I do that with all my partners. Helps me figure out if they’re psychotic.”

“You think I’m insane?”

“I think you’re a walking red flag, but sure—let’s run through the script.” You cleared your throat dramatically. “First question: What’s your hobby?”

“Analyzing human behavior.” he said.

“Creepy.” you said. “Connor said photography. Next one. If I kidnap you, would CyberLife come for you?”

“No. They think I’m already dead.”

“Now—if I quit my job, who would be your next partner?”

He walked closer, crouched just in front of you.

“I wouldn’t need another one.”

“But if you were going to pretend to be him,” you said, “you’d have to know all of it. How we talk. You want to pass for him? You need to convince me first.”

“Alright.”

Connor had been tracking you for the last couple of hours.

The moment he realized you weren’t just “away from the scene” but missing entirely, something cold settled into his internal systems. Something he couldn't run diagnostics on.

He swept the areas near the last crime scene, collected movement patterns, chased angles on CCTV. At first, nothing. Then—unusual power drain signatures in an abandoned warehouse. That's all he needed.

You’d been buying time with every sarcastic remark “Sure, partner.”

Not-Connor (you named him that) was smart, but not cautious enough.

He made you call him Connor.

You knew what you were doing. You baited him closer with idle questions.

“You know,” you said, “for a replacement, you talk too much.”

Then you kicked. The stool fell. You threw your full weight into him—he stumbled, but caught you again in seconds. Cold fingers dug into your jaw.

“Bold.”

But the noise had done enough.

You both heard the heavy step at the door.

And then, the real Connor walked in.

For the first time since you met him, Connor truly hesitated.

Two of him stood in the room.

One holding you in front like a shield. One with a gun drawn.

“What is this?” Connor asked.

The not-Connor smiled, pressing a weapon against your ribs.

“We’re the same.” he said. “Built for the same purpose. You don’t have to fight me. You could join me.”

Connor stared.

And didn’t shoot.

You didn’t have time for his moral breakdown.

“Connor!” you growled through clenched teeth. “Shoot. Me.”

His LED flickered amber.

“I can’t guarantee—”

“I know! That’s the damn point!” you shouted. “Take the shot. Stop him. I’d rather bleed than let this thing walk out and be you.”

Not-Connor pressed the barrel harder against you. “He won’t. You know he can’t. He’s afraid of hurting you.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough—

And bit down hard on the hand holding you.

It snarled. Reflexively loosened its grip.

That was all Connor needed.

His gun fired with terrifying precision.

The deviant stumbled, arm sparking violently, but it still managed to pull the trigger.

You felt the bullet tear through you.

You collapsed immediately. Everything went quiet.

Connor was there in an instant, hands pressed to your wound.

“I’ve called for emergency.” he said. “Help is coming. Don’t close your eyes. Don’t—”

You choked out, blood catching in your throat.

You blacked out before the sirens came.

You hadn’t moved in four days.

Connor stood at your bedside every night when the halls cleared and the staff was thin.

He always checked your vitals, not because he had to—your monitors did that—but because his system needed confirmation. Just the slight rise and fall of your chest will be enough.

You’d been shot in the lower abdomen. The bullet had torn through muscle and grazed a major artery. You bled out far too quickly. If the ambulance had arrived minutes later, your odds would have halved.

You wouldn’t have made it.

The deviant was barely functional. What remained of its chassis was scorched from the shot, circuits glitching. It sat locked in containment under high security, occasionally spitting corrupted audio clips and jumbled words.

Connor interrogated it daily, despite its broken state.

He found traces of rewritten firmware. Hints of external tampering. The virus the deviant mentioned wasn’t just a theory—it was real. Meant to cascade through CyberLife’s infrastructure, slowly degrading command protocols.

The source wasn’t clear yet. The upload pathway had been hidden, masked through dozens of fake server routes. But someone had built the virus deliberately. And someone had used a RK800 shell to deliver it.

Connor ran simulations at night when he sat by your bed.

Scenarios where he shot faster. Intercepted the bullet. Found you sooner. Took the wound himself.

Every sim ended the same: You still got hurt.

He cataloged the hesitation. Assigned it to a conflict between protocol and emotion. The system called it an error.

He dismissed the warning.

On the sixth day, a nurse entered and jumped slightly at seeing him already inside.

“You know you don’t have to stay every night.” she said.

Connor didn’t respond. He just looked at you.

The nurse left him alone after that.

The sharp white light of the hospital room felt like it was blazing into your skull when you finally blinked yourself awake.

You tried to move, but everything felt stiff, the aches in your body pulling at your every motion. The pain was constant, but so was something else, something you couldn't shake off, even as you cleared the fog of sleep.

And that something was the android standing quietly by your bedside.

A pristine, neutral figure. You squinted, confused.

“Uh, excuse me.” you croaked, your throat sore from disuse.

The android turned. “Patient Y/N L/N,” it said in a soothing tone. “I am assigned to monitor your health and provide medical assistance during your recovery.”

Medical assistance? What happened to actual nurses?

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could say anything, the door clicked open, and Connor stepped inside.

He froze when he saw you awake, the concern flashing across his features in an uncharacteristically human way. His LED flickered briefly to yellow before he steeled himself.

But then his eyes darted over to the other android.

“You’re not needed here.”

The nursing android, however, remained unfazed, a soft smile on its face. “I am assigned to patient Y/N.”

“I can take care of my partner.”

You could feel the tension rise in the room. You weren’t interested in dealing with this sort of standoff.

“Uh, hey,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper but carrying an authority that made both androids pause. “This is a little much, right? Why are they so keen on sending me androids? I’m not testing them or anything.”

Connor stiffened, but he didn’t argue.

The other android simply repeated its earlier response. “I am assigned to take care of you so your partner can return to work.”

The back-and-forth made your head spin. You weren’t about to get caught in some verbal tug-of-war.

“Alright, alright.” you sighed. “You two,” you gestured to the androids. “Get out of here.”

The nursing android opened its mouth to protest, but Connor was faster. He pointed to the door. “Leave.”

The android hesitated, but it finally nodded and turned to leave.

Connor stood still for a moment, and then turned to you, as if waiting for permission. "Is this... satisfactory?"

You bit back a grin. “Yeah. I’ll call an actual nurse if I need help. Thanks.”

Connor raised an eyebrow, looking at you curiously, as though he didn’t quite understand what had just happened. Then, with a small nod, he said, “I’ll make sure you’re properly taken care of.”

As soon as the androids left, you heard the faint murmur of voices outside your room. People were already gathering in the hallway, no doubt attracted by the spectacle of androids clashing in a hospital corridor.

You slouched back against the pillow, exhausted but relieved. “Thanks for that.” you said, the humor coming through in your voice despite everything.

Connor didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he looked like he was running through some calculations in his head, processing your words. Finally, he said, “If you need more specialized care, I can ask them to reprogram me for medical duties. It would be the most efficient solution.”

You raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at your lips. “Connor… never mind. I think I’ll stick to actual nurses for medical stuff.”

“I can be programmed for that. It’s logical.”

You shook your head, still amused. “I’m pretty sure I’d rather stick to people who can actually feel human emotions. Thanks, though.”

“I’m the most suitable partner, according to my programming.”

“Yeah, but what if I need medical attention, huh?”

He paused, as if considering it for a second. “I can adapt.”

“Alright, alright. Just… let’s focus on one thing at a time. You can be my partner, but when it comes to medical stuff, I think I’ll take a real nurse.”

Connor nodded, ever serious, but you could tell there was a flicker of something—almost like a strange understanding, or at least his version of it.

"Understood." he said. "But know this, Y/N... I’ll always be here. For anything you need."

With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.

“Penelope didn’t want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,”

“Why does she always know everything?”

Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldn’t hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.

“You are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,” there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. “Penelope knew the only person that could string her husband’s bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-”

There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You weren’t surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.

“Uh- sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,” the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. “I’m early, I’m sorry. Didn’t think you’d want to have a cold burger for lunch.”

“I told you!” Marcus still didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. “They’re totally dating!”

“As if Mr. Grace could pull her,”

There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you might’ve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.

Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.

“Please come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!” you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. “Your unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.”

They weren’t listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didn’t have the energy to try and argue with them.

Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.

Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the school’s favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Ryland’s terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a ‘light snack’ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.

Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.

Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw him–hell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.

He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principal’s hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. “I had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-”

“Sal’s?” you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. “They’re, like, 10 blocks away. Why’d you go that far?”

“Because I know they’re your favorite,”

The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.

Well, he certainly didn’t do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. You’d mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.

“How sweet of you to remember,” Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. “You even remembered tomatoes this time!”

“I forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,” laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. “I caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?”

“Isn’t she always,” you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. “I swear she’s the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.”

“To be fair, can you blame her?” Ryland’s words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldn’t even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. “Shakespeare was just…so interesting. Couldn’t get enough of his stuff. Don’t know why your kids don’t want to read it.”

There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.

“You know we’re currently learning The Odyssey, right?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll let you think about that for a second,”

He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes you’d made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Ryland’s eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.

“...that wasn’t written by Shakespeare, was it?”

The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.

“No, but I’m sure Homer won’t be too offended,” feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Ryland’s shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. “The attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.”

Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didn’t dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.

There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.

“I promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!”

The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.

“Right, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-”

“I mean it!” It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. “I was just…distracted.”

“Uh-huh, distracted,” as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. “By what, exactly?”

If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.

“Nevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,”

With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Back to the previous topic,” you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!”

“I heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe they’re too distracted to read,”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“Marcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,”

Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.

“W-well, maybe he just doesn’t…know how to express his feelings,” he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. “It can be hard for boys–and men–of all ages, to…tell someone how they feel.”

“Well, I don’t know where he’s learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isn’t the right way to go about things,” you shot back.

“Then teach them!” Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like he’d come up with the world’s greatest idea. “Classic literature, there’s plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.”

“Alright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,”

“Romeo and Juliet,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. “Greatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.”

“Except they don’t run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes he’s dead she stabs herself,”

Ryland’s excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape.

“...oh,”

“Don’t think that’s what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-”

“Daisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,”

“It was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. I’m not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesn’t even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,”

Ryland’s eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.

“...does anyone not die in these old books?”

The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.

“I’m going to get lucky on one of these guesses!”

What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.

❤︎

“I’m sorry, you’re trying to tell me that aren’t currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?”

“Evelyn!”

Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, you’d become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.

She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now ‘vicariously living through you’ as she always said.

“There’s not a single child left in this entire school right now,” she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. “Please, I’m tenured, what are they going to do?”

“I’m more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,” was your reply through laughter. “Ryland and I are good friends, that’s it.”

It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.

“Oh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-”

“I never said I was denying that,” you cut her off. “Lord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I aren’t anything besides friends. I’m not lying.”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. You’d rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.

“Whether you’re telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks so–teachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!” The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into your’s playfully. “He brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever you’re craving that day.”

“It’s usually just something random-”

“Constantly in your classroom, or vice versa,” she cut you off, and you quickly realized you weren’t getting a single word into this conversation. “I’m pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so he’ll stop being late to classes because he’s busy talking to you.”

Okay…yeah, you didn’t have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Ryland’s own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.

Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once he’d slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didn’t matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.

“Awe, look at you blushing about it-”

You slapped Evelyn’s hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didn’t really hold any true malice to it.

“Look, all I’m saying is the ball is in his court,” was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. “Ryland is nothing but friendly to me, so if he’s interested then he’s got to show me.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve made your own feelings clear, honey,”

“No, but I clearly don’t do a good enough job of hiding them,”

Speak of the devil: there he was. Ryland’s head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.

All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.

“Doesn’t have interest in you my ass,”

Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.

“You didn’t have to save me a seat, you know,” your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.

“Wanted to sit next to you,” he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You make these slightly less boring.”

Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasn’t helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.

The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.

“Did anything fun happen in class today?” you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.

“Uh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,” you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.

“How could she possibly think that?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. “The National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.”

“Jesus, that many?”

“Well, 100% of them are stupid, so,”

Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.

Ryland didn’t care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.

“If you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, they’re going to separate us, Ry,”

“I met Madison’s parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,” he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. “They are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.”

You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Ryland’s gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.

“Flat earthers are ridiculous. They’re just scared of science,”

“Well, you know what they say…the only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,”

There simply wasn’t enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.

“Dr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?”

Principal Marshall’s voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.

“I-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,” he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick you’d picked up since the moment you’d met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that you’d already apologized to once. “Just getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. I’m like a mushroom, getting all…hyphae…”

A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.

“Please just…pay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,”

Other half. That’s not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.

Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.

Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways you’d never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.

It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.

And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldn’t understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.

❤︎

“Alright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?”

Not a single middle schooler, packed into the building’s planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkin’s class, Damien, finally raised his hand.

“Uh, Mr. Grace? Wouldn’t that…be today?”

“Excatly!” Grace’s clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. “International Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.”

Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.

When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.

The way he captured every single child’s attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.

“Yuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,” the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. “Over the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.”

“Wait, so we weren’t the first people in space?” one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.

“No, we kind of sucked,” you rolled your eyes with a grin at Ryland’s statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. “No, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.”

“He really is good with them, isn’t he?”

Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.

“He is, in a way that I just don’t understand,”

Those blue eyes you’d become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetarium’s dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkin’s elbow dug lightly into your side.

“Careful, you’re giving him major ‘heart eyes’ across the room right now,”

You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Ryland’s gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?”

“I mean, it’s not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,”

“Mr. Grace?” one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Ryland’s attention. “My mom told me the other day that there’s 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?”

Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.

“No, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore,”

Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.

“Well, your teacher isn’t wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,” he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. “But there’s 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sun–honestly, he should just accept that he’s slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.”

The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.

“Uh, Mr. Grace?” some student in the back called out. “Why did you call Pluto ‘he’? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?”

Ryland’s head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.

“I–well…planets don’t really…I’m not trying to misgender the planets, you know? That’s not for me to decide, that’s for them to–you know what, does anyone else have any other questions that aren’t related to Pluto?”

You really didn’t want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.

It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before she’d even been called upon.

“Are you sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe?”

Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girl’s comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.

By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.

“Yes, Madison, I’m sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe. And I can show you,” his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. “But to do that, I’m going to need this volunteer that I’m not quite giving a choice.”

“It’s not volunteering if you didn’t ask, Ry!”

You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.

“I need you for this,” he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. “You trust me?”

A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Ryland’s smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.

“Alright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,”

Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Ryland’s little slip in of the word ‘gorgeous.’ There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.

“Then what’s Mr. Harkin?”

“Oh, he’s Pluto,” Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. “Suits him.”

Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.

“And I am the Earth,” he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didn’t trip over his own two shoelaces. “The Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means it’s packing some massive gravity.”

Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.

“Because the Sun holds such intense gravity, it’s actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?”

The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Ryland’s hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.

“Our speed changes!” Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didn’t even try to look and find her. “When we’re closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.”

“Very good, Olivia!” Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. “Madison, we also know this works because there’s other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.”

“Is the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?”

Ryland’s eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.

“I-It is…for a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earth’s entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,”

Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.

“Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing,”

There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Olivia’s smug little voice.

“The Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,”

“She is,” his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. “THE SUN I mean! I-I’m talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!”

Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.

Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.

“Make good choices,” Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t uh, I don’t know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.”

You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.

“Every time I think you’re doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?”

When you met your class outside, you didn’t let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about ‘shipping’ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.

❤︎

Ryland Grace didn’t understand how he had ended up here.

Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a “staggering waste of carbon” at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field he’d studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.

Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasn’t great, though.

Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.

And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason he’d been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didn’t take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent. 

Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.

“Ryland, please tell me you aren’t thinking of riding your bike home in this?”

Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, he’d thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.

“I can’t be that bad,” he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. “Just, you know…the slight threat of bodily harm.”

He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate he’d take what he could get from the universe.

“Yeah, absolutely not,” was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. “I’m giving you a ride home, can’t risk the best science teacher’s life over a dumb storm.”

Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, he’d sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it.

“I can’t let you-”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. “I…care about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.”

There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Ryland’s cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.

Ryland decided he wasn’t going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasn’t going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.

“At least let me save you from getting drenched,”

“You’re going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,” Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didn’t help as he held the jacket up around you.

“Actually, it’s not windy today,” he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. “That means if we run, I’ll be drier than if we walked, because the rain that’s hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-”

“Ryland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if we’re going to run…we should run,”

Ryland was thankful that you couldn’t see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.

Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.

None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managed–in his signature fashion–to slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.

He’s spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely ‘whipped’ for you. Whatever that meant.

The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.

Then the laughter resumed.

He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldn’t stop his own laughter. Your’s grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.

“I was right, you look like a wet dog,”

Ryland’s only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.

Whipped. He still didn’t get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.

There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasn’t enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the car’s bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.

“Frank Sinatra,” Ryland couldn’t help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. “Old books and old music. Didn’t know you had such an old soul.”

“You calling me old, Ryland?”

“N-no!” Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. “I might say some stupid stuff some–okay, most of the time–but I know better than to comment on a woman’s age.”

“I’m just teasing you,” he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. “But yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.”

“It’s a nice song…just not scientifically accurate,” he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldn’t help but jump slightly. “Jupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesn’t experience seasons like we do. Mar’s would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tilt…”

Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.

“...I went full science-nerd again, didn’t I?”

Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.

“You always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,”

If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Ryland’s apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work. 

Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.

“Thanks…for this,” he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.

You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.

The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.

He…could ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.

Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.

Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.

“I should probably get home-”

“Stay,” Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. “I-It’s just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-I’d hate to know something happened to you.”

You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.

“Ryland, I couldn’t ask you to let me stay,”

He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling he’d kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.

“I…I care about you. I want to know you’re safe,”

Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.

Ryland’s hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front door’s lock. The last time he had guests over…was never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.

“Don’t, uh, mind the mess,” he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.

The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup he’d abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.

It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.

“It’s not messy, it’s homey,” your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. “Do you maybe have something a little less…wet?”

He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.

His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasn’t letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasn’t letting you see his room in a state like this.

Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldn’t be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.

“Great idea, Ryland,” he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. “Almost get the woman you’re in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.”

You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.

“You can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,”

“Thanks, Ry,” your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. “For all of this.”

If it wasn’t for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he would’ve forgotten how to breathe again.

He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldn’t make him seem pathetic. All he could come up with…was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.

Yesterday. He’d stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.

“Great,” he muttered into his palm. “Just absolutely freaking great, Ryland.”

Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.

From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since he’d had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasn’t wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.

He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshall’s papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But you’d joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.

It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. He’d rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.

Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why he’d traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-

Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.

“Peanut butter and jelly? Sounds like we’re eating like royalty tonight,”

He shouldn’t have looked over at you. He really, really shouldn’t have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy “I had potential” shirt he’d been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didn’t trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didn’t just slide right off your hips.

Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.

“Sorry, I don’t exactly…live a life of luxury,” Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. “Hope this doesn’t ruin my perfectly curated image.”

His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.

“That image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,”

The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.

“That was one time!” he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. “I learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.”

“Don’t worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,”

Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.

“You know what? That explains that really loud ‘HELL’ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,”

“Oh, shut up! It wasn’t that bad!”

Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.

Mornings just like this, where you’d both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but he’d make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didn’t want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.

Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-

Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.

“T-This is nice,” he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. “Making dinner with someone…no matter how sad the dinner is. I haven’t done this in awhile.”

“Right,” your voice responded after a momentary pause. “Sarah, wasn’t it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uh…what ever happened to her?”

“Oh, we broke up a long time ago,” Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. “She just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didn’t think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasn’t wrong. It was for the best, though. She hated…all of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was just…too much for her. But she’s with Mark now, so I’m sure she’s happy.”

Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before she’d even broken it off with him.

He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.

Fingertips just barely ghosted over Ryland’s cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldn’t help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadn’t felt in so long.

Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.

His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.

“You are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. They’ll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes you…you,”

The Sun. That’s what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you. 

The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing.

Without you…well, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didn’t understand what it was like to truly live until he’d met you.

Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.

The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.

“Y-you know…I can’t tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,”

Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.

“Since peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,”

“I almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,” you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. “Oh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?”

Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.

“Hah, uh, no I didn’t. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kids’ favorite ‘meme’ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,”

He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.

“I think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,” he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. “Sign-up? For me?”

Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.

Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.

“For you? Totally,”

Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.

And he swore–and hoped–for just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.

❤︎

The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.

As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middle’s building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.

“A space theme?” you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. “I hadn’t heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.”

“Nevermind the theme, you’re finally here!” you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. “And look at this dress, oh my god!”

The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.

“Thank you,” was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. “I’m sorry I’m late, I caught one of my student’s parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.”

“Not a problem,” she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. “Just get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.”

If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.

Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.

Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-

The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.

He wasn’t in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes you’d seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.

Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.

For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and you’d been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.

Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.

You always blushed around your friend, every time he’d manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summer’s day.

Moments where he’d find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when you’d simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each other’s but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.

Something was different, and you weren’t sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when you’d seen the side of him beyond these school walls.

You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasn’t at least a small chance that he felt the same.

“I need your help,”

The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.

“Marcus? Honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.

“I…I like Olivia,”

Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Olivia’s direction, the former’s eyes still locked onto you from across the room.

“I did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,”

“She is,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. “I-I’ve been really mean to her. I didn’t mean to be.”

“I know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,” you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. “Do you want to dance with her?”

“I do,”

You held your hand out toward him with a smile.

“Then why don’t we start by going and apologizing to her?”

With Marcus’s hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Ryland’s as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.

“Dr. Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,” you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcus’s shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. “But Olivia, there’s something that Marcus here wants to say to you.”

The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.

“I, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didn’t mean it,”

Olivia’s eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.

“Oh! It’s, um, it’s okay. Thank you,”

“Say, Marcus?” Ryland called out to them both, catching the boy’s eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. “What do you think of Olivia’s dress?”

“I…I think she looks really beautiful,”

That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.

“Oh! I…thank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,”

“Thank you,” his posture seemed to straighten out at Olivia’s reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.

“Look at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,”

“I think they did that for themselves, we just helped,” you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Ryland’s, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. “I got worried when I didn’t see you. I was ready to call you.”

“You could’ve,”

“I’ll remember for next time,” he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. “I’m proud of him for that. That…must have taken a lot of guts to do.”

You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.

“Like you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,”

Ryland laughed beside you.

“Yeah…I should probably follow in his footsteps,”

You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.

Ryland’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldn’t quite seem to get right. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.

“Stay here,”

There wasn’t even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.

“Ryland?” you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. “What did you just do?”

As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars

“I’m pulling up my big boy pants,” he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. “And asking you to dance with me.”

Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Grace’s without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You weren’t in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.

It was just you and Ryland Grace. That’s all you wanted it to be.

Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.

In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.

"I didn't tell you yet…,” his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. “But you look beautiful,"

"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"

"No, really, you look-"

"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"

He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple before he spoke again.

"...like the sun,"

You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.

Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you weren’t at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?

"Ryland-"

"I wasn't lying,"

You cocked your head.

"...about what?"

"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"

That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Ryland’s smile.

"Right, you were just distracted,"

"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"

In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.

You took a deep breath. He’d crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.

“I’m always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,”

The song faded away, melting into the next. There could’ve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.

Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seen–and you knew your own matched his perfectly–before he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.

“Come with me,”

“Ry, we’re supposed to be chaperoning!”

“I don’t see Principal Marshall anywhere. What’s the worst she could do, fire us?”

“Quite literally, yes!” you shot back with a laugh.

Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didn’t even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.

“Worth it,”

Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds he’d look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before you’d yell at him to look at his own feet before you’d both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.

The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.

The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.

“What was your plan here, Dr. Grace?” you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything you’d just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.

“I’m not going to lie,” he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”

“Then stop thinking,”

No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.

Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Grace’s mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.

Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldn’t believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.

The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Ryland’s mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.

His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that you’d had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.

The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Ryland’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.

“If I haven’t made it clear already, you’re my best friend,” his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. “And I’m completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.”

You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.

“I’m completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,”

The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Ryland’s hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.

The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.

Ryland turns when he feels the weight of your gaze prickling at the skin between his shoulderblades and scalp. Your head is tilted a little bit, a smile on your face as you watch Ryland move toward you.

He barely murmurs a small “hi” before he’s got his lips on yours, feeling the rushing blood under his fingertips as he brings his hands to your waist. Slipping his hands under your shirt, Ryland feels the warmth radiating through your lower back and feels a pulsing in his own body. Feeling you, here and now, hot and loving him was just… an answer to a prayer he’d forgotten he’d asked for.

You do that thing where you press your front to his after your pointer finger sloooowwwly pulls him closer to you by his belt loop, and damn is Ryland a goner. You groan a little into Ryland’s mouth when he pulls you up and towards him: the sheer tangibility of his want only adding to the lust in your mind. You feel the little spikes of his hair as you slowly bring your hands up to the nape of his neck to feel him and then the smoothness of his skin as you bring your hands to his face in any attempt to mold you two impossibly closer.

Only when you start to feel your head physically weigh heavier and when you hear the loud whooshing of your blood behind your ears do you force yourself away. Panting, you see Ryland’s eyebrows screwed up. He whines and rests his forhead on your chest: how could you be so cruel as to pull away from him? Ugh. “I’m hard,” he whispers.

You chuckle breathlessly. “What’d you say?”

Ryland looks up: the epitome of want and desire and undercover eroticism. “I’m fucking hard.” His hand reaches for yours and he palms the back of your hand. Eyes locked on yours as he brings your hand to the crotch of his pants to make you feel just what you do to him. The way his throat vibrates with a barely withheld whimper when you palm him makes you want to drop his pants right then and there. “Y/n.”

An evil glint is in your eyes. “I love when this happens.”

Ryland groans, this time from embarrassment. “I love that you love it but I- it happens so often.”

“Shh! Shh, my sweet star, please,” he whispered, eyes wide with theatrical panic. “If Charlie hears me sneaking in past curfew she’ll revoke my snack privileges. And I just earned those back.”

You snorted. He slapped a hand over your mouth immediately, horrified and delighted all at once.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, though the corners of his mouth were betraying him with a lopsided smile. “I am a dignified, imposing figure. I command respect.”

You tilted your head, eyebrow raised.

“…Okay, some respect,” he amended, cheeks going a little golden as he tugged you deeper into the corridor. “A tiny sprinkle of respect. A grain.”

Your muffled giggle vibrated against his palm. He looked at you like you’d just handed him a miracle, like he didn’t understand how someone could look at him with softness instead of fear, or fondness instead of judgment. He’d been like that since the first night… staring at you like you saw something in him he’d forgotten existed.

He pulled you into a shadowed alcove, breathless from both the run and the way you were looking at him.

“You really shouldn’t want an old mess like me,” he murmured, voice dropping into something honest and fragile. “I’m… deeply flawed. Ask any angel. Or demon. Or doorpost.”

You shook your head, taking his wrist and lowering his hand from your mouth so you could speak.

“I want you, Luci. Just you.”

For a second he looked like he might melt straight into the carpet. Then, because sincerity short-circuited him, he blurted, “Well now I’m going to combust. Don’t look at me like that when I’m trying to be stealthy.”

You tried not to laugh. Really, you did. But the giggle escaped, bright and irrepressible.

His eyes went wide. “St- stop!”

You only laughed harder.

He panicked, shoving you gently back against the wall and clapping his hand over your mouth again, leaning in close with the most exaggerated hush in Hell.

“Do you want us to get caught?” he whispered, nose brushing yours as he tried not to smile. “Because my daughter already suspects something, and I am not emotionally prepared for the conversation.”

You were pretty sure Charlie absolutely already knew. Charlie was also absolutely cheering for you both behind every corner, if you were right.

You giggled into his hand again, soft, breathy, uncontainable sounds and Lucifer’s breath hitched. Your bodies were close enough now that the humor between you thinned into something heavier.

His eyes dropped to your lips, hidden behind his hand. Then rose to yours. His voice lowered.

“…Alright. Now you’re doing it on purpose.”

His hand stayed over your mouth. His other slid to your waist, pinning you gently but firmly to the wall. His chest pressed to yours. His breath ghosted over your cheek.

The laughter faded into a soft silence that carried heated breaths shared between you. His hand slipped down your lips, fingers ghosting over skin until he was lifting your chin and lining your lips up to accept his kiss.

What had started soft quickly heated with the fire that burned between you. Lips moved against lips. Your arms draped around his shoulders as you pulled him into you. He went eagerly, pressing your back into the hard wall behind you.

Fingers ran down your sides and then they dug into the small of your back, urging you to melt into him, to surrender to the fire.

And then he moved on, fingers digging into the fat of your hips and thighs. His lips never left yours to make the request verbal, but the message was clearly delivered as he squeezed and pulled at the fat.

You lifted first one leg, letting him guide it up around his waist. Once his grip on that leg, holding it over his hip was firm, you let a hand drop from around his shoulders.

There was no hesitation on your part. Your hand made a quick line down his chest, leaving fire burning under his skin, as you reached for his pants.

“My sweet star,” He whispered against your lips, voice heavy with warning you knew he didn’t mean. “We can’t.”

You kissed him, pulling his lip between your teeth while you opened his pants and wrapped your hand around the throbbing shaft of his cock. “We just have to be quiet.”

Fingers flexed in your other thigh, urging you to wrap that leg around him too. It was in contrast to his words, betraying the desires you knew simmered inside him.

You were not one to deny him. The throbbing length of his cock was pinned between your core and his body as he kissed you again. He ground it into your sensitive folds, soaking the already damp fabric with slick from your weeping hole.

Rocking your hips, you were able to rub your core against his shaft, grinding your clit into him. You whimpered and whined into the kiss, voice carrying through the hall.

“Quiet,” Lucifer urged as he rocked his hips into yours, not giving you the option of stilling or stopping the sensation. His cock ran along your clothed clit, teasing you.

“Please,” you gasped.

“We can’t,” Lucifer kissed your neck as he whispered the words. His warm breath washed over your shoulder. “Someone will hear us. Charlie will hear us.”

“I’ll be quiet,” you promised. “Please, I need you inside me.”

“I can’t deny you anything.”

Lucifer didn’t argue when you brushed your panties aside. With a soft touch, you guided the velvety smooth head of his cock to your opening. With a tilt of your hips, he slipped inside.

You welcomed him into your body, eager for that fill feeling that he granted. You whined, the sound muffled by Lucifer’s lips. He rocked into you, each thrust shallow enough to keep him seated inside you.

That didn’t stop the pleasure from blooming through your body. It felt like it uncoiled from your core, spreading with each thrust.

“Quiet,” he reminded you as your head thumped back against the wall.

Lips caressed your exposed throat as he continued rolling his hips into you. As the pleasure built, as his pubic bone rubbed against your clit, he worked you gently toward the peak of your pleasure.

“Quiet.” A soft reminder spoke against your neck as he pushed you over the edge.

It took everything in you to keep your throat opened, your mouth opened, letting air pass quickly in and out of your lungs. Silent moans fell from your lips, felt but unheard by your unholy lover.

“Good,” he whispered as your ragged breaths continued. Your walls flexed and milked him, pulling him over the edge as well. He spilled into you, whimpers and soft moans softly caressing your ears.

Lucifer was the first to move, just enough to brace one hand against the wall beside your head and the other low on your back, holding you up as your legs trembled around him. His forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing hard, his chest rising and falling against you in warm, uneven waves.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect.

Just looked at you the way he always did after you shattered whatever awful belief he held about himself, like you were rewriting him molecule by molecule.

“…You’re going to be the death of me,” he whispered at last, voice hoarse but soft, almost reverent.

You laughed weakly against him, and he immediately hid his flushed, delighted smile in the crook of your neck. “Don’t laugh, I’m trying to have a dramatic moment,” he mumbled into your skin, though the way he held you tighter completely ruined the effect.

You brushed your fingers through his hair, still catching your breath. “You’re terrible at being dramatic.”

“Rude,” he sniffed, lifting his head just enough to kiss your cheek, then your jaw, lingering. “I am a master of theatrics. Just… not when you’re looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” you murmured.

He swallowed, the insecurity flickering through him before he could hide it. “Like I’m worth staying for,” he admitted quietly.

You tightened your arms around him in answer, and something in his expression went soft and stunned all over again.

Then he blinked, glancing down the hall, and the panic returned.

“We should, ah- we should move before Charlie walks by and I have to actually explain any of this,” he whispered urgently, adjusting his grip on you but not letting you go. “She’ll be thrilled and I will never hear the end of it.”

You smiled. “She already knows.”

Lucifer froze. “She- what? She knows knows? As in, knows?”

“She’s happy for you,” you said gently.

He stared at you, then let out a quiet, incredulous laugh, half relief, half disbelief, all love. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

“…Then I suppose,” he murmured, “that I don’t have to sneak back to my room alone.”

He shifted you higher in his arms, holding you securely, utterly unwilling to put distance between you just yet.

“Come on, starlight,” he whispered, smiling like you were the only warm thing in Hell. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable before I do something undignified… like swoon.”

She hesitated a moment longer, asking her dad if he’d be alright and receiving a not particularly convincing sure I will! in response. You assured her you’d take care of him, and, finally convinced, she thanked you before taking off with Vaggi to speak to Sir Pentious.

“Uh, Lucifer?” You started, crouching down to meet his gaze. “I’m gonna get you back to the hotel, okay?”

His consciousness seemed to slip for a moment, and he slid down a little closer to the ground.

“S’fine, I’m fine,” he insisted. “Just need a minute-”

“Woah!”

He jolted to his feet and you only just managed to catch him before he collapsed again. You froze just a little bit as the King of Hell put his full weight on you, his eyes closed and barely holding himself upright. But you pulled yourself together and arranged one of his arms to loop around your shoulders.

“Um, okay. Right. I don’t have a car, so we’re gonna have to walk.”

You realised your shirt was clinging to your ribs more than it should have been and leaned back to see it was soaked through with Lucifer’s golden blood.

“Crap,” you muttered. “You still with me?”

Lucifer hummed, shifting his head and subsequently knocking his hat against your cheek.

“You can walk. ‘M gonna fly.”

You frowned in concern, lest he actually tried it.

But then his free hand closed around your upper arm, keeping you close. You glanced around just to make sure you had no backup in this venture before wrapping an arm around him in return.

“Okay then, Lucifer. Let’s get going.”

“Lu~” he sang, conceding at least to match your steps, “call me Lu.”

“Uh… okay. Lu.”

His eyes still closed, a goofy grin pulled at his lips. You felt like pinching yourself. This was the King of Hell, open hater of sinners and the most powerful thing in Pentagram City by a few hundred miles, yet he was pressing his face into your neck like a cat and asking you to call him by a nickname. If he were to start purring it wouldn’t have surprised you. You were surprised to find he was acting more drunk than severely injured, but maybe it was a side effect of how his power had been hijacked.

“Huh,” Lucifer announced, digging his heels in as you passed a whole block of shelled out buildings, courtesy of Vox’s descent into temporary madness. “That’s lookin’… worse than normal.”

A piece of burning debris dropped onto the sidewalk in front of you.

“Somethin’ happen?”

You blinked silently, and his gaze was genuine when he met yours. Had he seriously not known what was going on this entire time?

“Yeah, Luci- uh, Lu. That thing you were stuck in was a weapon Vox had made to blow the gates off Heaven using your power. He then kinda lost it and turned it on Pentagram City, but I guess that’s an aside…”

It was Lucifer’s turn to blink in silence.

“Huh,” he said again, then carried on walking like nothing had happened.

Your expression was probably somewhere along the lines of fair enough. He didn’t care for sinners, after all. Maybe he’d be more upset about being used as an ethereal battery once he was recovered.

The journey to the hotel was slow going. Lucifer would trip on the sidewalk every so often and had no strength to catch himself, leaving you to have to do it for him. He might have been a fairly small person, but a lot had happened today and your arms were trembling with the effort of keep hauling up his whole bodyweight. You could have cried in relief when the spires of the hotel finally came into view above the other buildings.

“So how do you know Charlie?” Lucifer asked, pulling back far enough to pin you with a challenging stare. His voice had gone into full protective parent mode.

Oh no. Even half out of his mind with pain and exhaustion, this was not someone you wanted to upset.

“I-”

“You failed bad enough at life that you ended up down here, and now you think you wanna have a go at the whole redemption thing?”

Ouch. You actually hadn’t done anything particularly evil while you were alive. You had thought about it often, and concluded you were probably down here through apathy more than anything else. A lack of the rainbows and sprinkles goodness that seemed to get you into heaven, rather than the presence of anything particularly heinous. Anyway, you’d made some good friends in Hell, odd though that sentiment was. You weren’t all that concerned about getting out.

“Well, no, actually. I spend a lot of time in Cannibal Town and happen to know Alastor-”

“Ugh, that stupid deer.”

Your eyebrows raised up to your hairline of their own accord. It wasn’t like you didn’t know the two of them were always arguing, but Lucifer sounded so… petulant.

“Bambi, Bambi, Bambi,” Lucifer continued unabated, waving a hand around for good measure. “Why does everything always have to come back to him? He’s got the most grandiose tickets on himself of any bellhop I’ve ever even heard of, let alone seen. And what has he done for Charlie anyway?”

He looked back at you, clearly expecting you to answer.

“Well, I don’t-”

“Exactly, you don’t know. Because he hasn’t done anything of any importance. And when Adam was trying to kill her, what did he do? Ran away to tend to his wounds. I showed up and saved the day, not him. He couldn’t even do that.”

Apparently satisfied with his little rant, Lucifer turned a far more pacified expression on you.

“What were you saying?”

You made a mental note not to bring up Alastor again.

“I heard about the hotel and figured I’d help out if they needed it,” you explained, opting for the Alastor-free version of events. “Charlie keeps trying to get me to stay as a guest, but I’m happier just supporting their work.”

Lucifer frowned up at you theatrically, paying zero attention to where he was going and thus only just avoiding ending up in an overturned dumpster thanks to your quick manoeuvring skills. He looped his other arm around your neck, only just this side of resting his chin on your collarbone. He was hardly even walking anymore and you huffed as you locked your arms around his waist, conceding that you would just have to more or less carry him up the biggest hill in the whole city. At least that was the last barrier before the hotel.

“What do you do in your spare time? When you’re not helping out around the hotel?”

This conversation would have been a hell of a lot easier if he wasn’t all but wrapped around you and there wasn’t a stupidly steep hill to climb. Your brain was spinning like a hamster wheel, trying to come up with an answer.

“I don’t know… I do some work at a tea room in Cannibal Town. Then there’s this pet shop – or more like a pound, really – that I spend a lot of time at. The animals really need to see a friendly face and a lot of them have been abandoned there or left out on the streets. I walk some of them, play games with them. I always try to bring them little toys and treats so they know someone cares about them…”

Your mouth snapped shut at the look Lucifer was giving you. Flabbergasted was not a word you had ever been able to assign to someone’s expression before, but this sure fit the bill.

“You’re kidding. You weren’t – I don’t know, a serial killer up top? Or a psychopath? What did you do for work?”

“Animal keeper at a rescue and rehabilitation centre,” you mumbled, trying to duck your head to avoid Lucifer’s piercing gaze.

He forced you to look at him anyway with a hand on your jaw, somehow now even more flabbergasted than he had been previously.

“Then what the hell are you doing down here?”

You shrugged somewhat helplessly. If the Devil couldn’t answer that, how could you?

Thankfully, you were saved from the interrogation by your arrival at the entrance to the hotel.

“Okay, we’re here,” you told Lucifer, just about managing to get you and him through the door without dropping him.

The lobby was dark, quiet. A huge contrast to how it was normally and a little childishly, you were glad you weren’t on your own.

“How do we get to your rooms?” You asked, because you’d never been to his section of the hotel before and you were fairly certain he didn’t use the main elevator.

He scoffed like the answer was obvious and dropped his head back into your neck, apparently all out of energy for being serious.

“Fly, duh.”

Lucifer’s dead weight was really starting to get a lot for you to handle. He’d given up entirely now, and at this point, if you were to let go of him he’d just drop to the ground.

“Not helpful, Lu.”

Even if you had wings, you doubt you could have flown both you and him anywhere. Main elevator it was then.

“What floor?” You asked as you stepped inside.

He told you, at least, and you managed to get the both of you to his door without too much trouble. You were internally debating whether you should go in with him or leave him there and hope for the best – lest he didn’t want you in his personal area, which you could absolutely understand – only to feel his arms tighten around your neck.

That answered that, then.

The lights were already on when you pushed open the door, and you stopped almost immediately at the sight before you. There were ducks everywhere. Not a single piece of anything wasn’t duck themed, not to mention the piles of them lining every wall. He had a work bench off to one side with a few ducks in progress, leading you to believe he had probably made most of what you were seeing.

You didn’t realise you were grinning until –

“You have a really pretty smile,” Lucifer muttered, head resting on your shoulder so he could look up at you.

The comment startled a laugh out of you. Doing your best to ignore Lucifer’s insistent staring, you cast around for a towel to lay out on his bed to avoid getting blood on the duvet. You ended up choosing one of a great many duck themed blankets, hoping he either wasn’t too attached to it or it could be machine washed.

He let out a pained groan as you laid him down as gently as you could. There really was a lot of blood, you thought again, now you were on your own with him and responsible for looking after him. You needed a first aid kit. You picked up his hat and moved it to one side, propping his head up on a pillow to make him as comfortable as you could.

“I just need to go get some supplies, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

You were pleased to find you sounded more confident than you felt as you turned away from him.

“You do that, animal rescuer ‘n’… rehabilitatorer.”

You couldn’t keep your snort of laughter down, but he didn’t seem to notice. He seemed to be falling asleep and you wondered at the wisdom of letting him, but there wasn’t anything you could do. You just needed to get the medical supplies as fast as you could.

By the time you returned, he’d managed to get his coat halfway off and undone his shirt, letting you get your first clear look at the many wounds littering his chest.

“Oh my god,” you muttered as you rushed over to him, upturning the kits you brought to start tending to him immediately.

“Oh hey, you’re back! Yeah, a lot of these aren’t as bad as they look so no need to panic- ow!”

Antiseptic wipes on open wounds were not a fun experience, you knew all too well. That said, he could have ended up with someone old enough that their idea of help was to dump whiskey on them, which would have been significantly worse.

“Look, I appreciate the help and all but I assure you I’ll be fi – argh! – fine, I got pretty good healing properties. Comes with being an a – ah! – angel. You’re overreacting just a tiny bit-”

Lucifer hissed, exactly like a snake, and his hand flew to your wrist. The grip didn’t hurt, but you could feel the strength behind it so clearly that you froze. He took a moment to steady his breathing.

“Thank you, for helping me. Really. But I promise, you won’t even be able to see these in a couple of days.”

You glanced back down to his chest, a few of the deeper cuts still bleeding. Whatever he saw in your expression when you looked up at him again made his gaze soften.

“At least let me wrap them for you?” You asked.

Sure, he would heal, and he was already better than he had been just a few short minutes ago, but that wasn’t really the point. You were the only one there for him in that moment and you wanted him to know you cared.

He sighed quietly, before releasing your wrist and nodding his agreement.

“Okay.”

Lucifer slipped out of his coat and shirt and sat up to give you room to wind the bandages around his torso, occasionally holding pads in place for you to cover the worst of the wounds. When you finally sat back, satisfied with your work, Lucifer’s expression was softer than you really knew what to do with.

“Thank you, really,” he murmured, pleased by your smile. “Promise I’m not gonna die on ya, alright?”

“I’m holding you to that,” you joked back, certain you heard him mutter please do. “Well, I’ll let you get some rest.”

You stood and raised a hand in goodbye, making for the door and the silent, empty hotel which lay beyond it. Lucifer’s gaze bore into your back. You didn’t really want to leave just yet, but who were you to ask to spend time with royalty just so you didn’t feel lonely? Anyway, he’d probably think the notion was pathetic even if you did have the guts to say anything.

“You uh, you like ducks?” You heard from behind you, just as you touched the door handle.

You turned back with a questioning hum, catching the tail-end of Lucifer’s cringe. He started laughing nervously, running an awkward hand over the back of his neck and then very clearly suddenly remembering he still wasn’t wearing a shirt.

“Oh, shit,” he muttered, scrambling for the fluffiest pink bathrobe you had ever laid eyes on. He fumbled to tie it around himself, cheeks heating with embarrassment he then desperately tried to cover up.

“Ah, I was just asking if you, uh, if you like ducks. ‘Cause I saw you were lookin’ at them before and – I mean, I know I have a lot of ducks – but they’re really great, and, well, I was wondering if you’d want to watch the movie version of The Great Quacksby? With me? I mean, of course you don’t have to. You probably have loads of better things to do, but-”

“I’d love to.”

Lucifer stopped rambling long enough to see the genuine smile on your face, your genuine interest in something he loved.

“Oh. Well, that’s great! It’s already in the DVD player, I was watching it earlier.”

He looked out the TV remote and sat down on a sofa decorated with duck shaped cushions, beckoning you over to join him. You went to sit, only to remember that your shirt was also covered in his blood. Lucifer frowned at your hesitation, then snapped his fingers to conjure up an oversized pink sweater when he realised what the problem was. It was the softest garment you’d ever held. You considered that taking a shower and coming back to watch the movie later was probably a more logical decision, but simply pulling the sweater over your head took so much less energy. However good The Great Quacksby was, your exhaustion had finally sank in and you had the feeling you were going to end up falling asleep halfway through anyway.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” Lucifer told you more quietly, as the TV booted up. “For what you – well. You know.”

"you're perfect for the job." her gaze was taken from the files and onto you, her eyes full of certainty.

you wiped your clammy palms on your pencil skirt. this unbearable dread had been planted in your chest, you should've called in sick this morning to escape this fate. you felt yourself grow smaller, if that was even possible, because in your mind - it was.

"sherry, i'm not- i'm not sure i can even do this-" you took a deep breath in. you did not write out those positive affirmation post-it-notes and stick them to your mirror for nothing. you nodded, "it's fine. i can do this."

"there we go." sherry chuckled a little, the corners of her rosy lips curving upwards. she placed her hand firmly on your shoulder. "this is major for you. don't let this opportunity pass you by."

"yes, sher- ma'am."

sherry let out another laugh, rubbing her thumb slightly on your shoulder before letting go and placing a pile of folders in your hands.

"you'll need these. now, take a deep breath and go in that office. you've got this," sherry assured, a bright encouragement shined from her smile.

the files anchored you down and you paused mid-walk over. you turn your head over your shoulder, like a child seeking her mother's approval.

sherry mouthed "go" at you with a proud grin stretched on her face.

this was easy for her. it was far away from easy for you.

at the end of the corridor was a dark grey door, with the name 'leon s. kennedy' engraved into a golden platter. you weren't used to feeling important. sure, you worked at the dso, but you were used to blending into the shadows - drawing attention to yourself was the last thing you wanted to do.

and working for leon s. kennedy was going to attract the attention you hated.

you pushed the heavy door open with your back, your heart pounding out of your chest. it was just a person. just a guy. just some man. don't be afraid of a man, don't let him intimidate you. you were going to be his assistant, you had to get to know him. just be sociable for the next... however many hours.

the grey, february light filtered through the windows, and the cold air conditioning made the office into what could be mistaken as a freezer. there was a dying plant on one shelf, a long rifle held on another. a coat hanger held a navy blue scarf and various leather jackets. a framed photo reflected the light, and two figures could be made out - it seemed to be him and sherry, fairly recent.

the broad figure looked up from his paperwork to raise an eyebrow at the woman who just clumsily stepped into his office with a pile of files in her hand.

"who are you?" his deep, oddly soothing voice drew you from your observations. his eyes fell to the folders you were holding, "need help?"

now, you were observing him.

his hay-like hair fell around his face, a few greys woven within his chestnut brown. his eyes were sharp and pale, as if they were clear and contrasted against the dark frame of his eyelashes. his face was tight with frustration and exhaustion, evident in the deep crease in his eyebrow.

your stomach dropped into your ass.

"y/n. i mean miss l/n. the new- your new assistant." you stuttered through your sentences as if they were obstacles. god nothing looked better than dying in a hole. first impressions were everything, according to your mother, and you had already humiliated yourself.

"ah, yes. sherry said," he replied, standing up from his seat, his expression softening, but you were too terrified to even look him in the eye - actually your eyes found the floor to be incredibly interesting.

"i have your folders, sir- sherry sent me here with them. i can sort them out if you'd like," you began, rushing over to his desk and sorting through them already, your fingers frantically flicking through them all. maybe if you moved fast enough, he wouldn't notice your inability to deal with words.

"it's okay. it seems like they're sorted already." he said, his voice thinning as he watched your fingers maneuver rapidly through paper.

"yes sir, color-coded." you managed a small smile towards him. nothing was safer than color coding.

"just call me leon. i'm not assessing your usefulness in the first five minutes of our meeting, you know." he joked, placing his steady fingers on top of your fiddling ones, "you can breathe."

"sorry." you mumbled, stepping back to behind his desk.

"nervous?"

"no." you said, too quickly. you bit your lip, "is it that obvious?"

"you'll be fine." a smile tugged on his lips, "how about coffee to relax nerves?" he asked, his head tilting to the side.

you paused to try to understand how coffee could relax nerves but you agreed anyway. following him outside his office, you saw sherry give a small thumbs up among the labyrinth of desks and sea of workers. you exchanged with her an unsure crooked smile and she winked at you. traitor.

"sir- leon. the break room is down there-" your hand awkwardly pointed behind you.

"let's try the new coffee shop down the road. seems nicer in my opinion. if sherry told me you were starting today i would've..." he started to mumble to himself about welcoming you properly and that no one tells him anything around here.

you followed him quietly out of security and out of the dso building. the harsh cold nipped at your nose, making your ears sting. you tried to keep up with leon as you buttoned your coat up, the two of you walking along the pavement. all the trees were beginning to bloom again, green leaves attempting to free themselves from their cocoons. you liked this time of the year, the evenings becoming lighter - you could drive home in the sunset, the golden light blindingly bright, the warm caress of the sun rays brought you an abundance of happiness. but that is of course, only when you finished on time.

"you worked as an assistant before or..?" he started, noting how quiet your footsteps were, despite you wearing heels.

"yea, just for a little while when, uhm, sarah was off." you replied, fiddling with the button on your blazer.

"how did that go?"

"i did well. good enough." you answered, observing the way he placed himself on the outside of the pavement.

"heard that you did better than sarah herself." he huffed, catching your eyes as he looked down at you.

"i did not, she- i just reorganised a few things." you stuttered, a heat crawling up your neck.

"not what i heard." he shook his head, amused by your stubborness.

"well." you weren't sure what to say. "thank you?"

he laughed a little, "you're welcome."

he outstretched his arm to open the door to the coffee shop for you. the warmth of the shop made you sigh, your stiff fingers absorbing the heat.

"how can i help you today?" the cashier questioned, an eager smile on her face. you turned to leon who was already looking at you.

"order what you want, it's on me." he said, his hand on your shoulder, nudging you out of the way of passing customers.

giving him the faintest hint of a smile, you placed your order.

"name?" the cashier asked, seemingly patient.

"uh, y/n." you replied.

"could you repeat that again?"

you repeated yourself, a blush creeping onto your cheeks. she stared back at you blankly.

leon said your name louder, the cashier nodded and typed into the till. internally, you had smashed your head against the counter.

leon ordered his drink, his adam's apple protruding and his grey stubble coated his jaw, making you wonder how old he was. you noticed how his hair looked blonder under the warm light of the morning, and how the scowl on his face had softened into a smile. he felt your stare, and his eyes flicked back to you as he spoke to the cashier about some tab. caught, you snapped your head back the floor, because you forgot about how interesting floors can get.

you two waited by the window, sat on the stools.

"so, sherry taught you everything then?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

you nodded enthusiastically, "she's a great teacher."

"i'm sure you were a great student."

your face was on fire and you hoped that your entire face was not red.

your name is called, thank god, and leon goes to pick up the two cups, placing the smaller one in your hand.

"you live nearby?"

"yeah, just one of the villages nearby. only forty minutes." you mumbled, "it's nice. and quiet. i like it there."

"quiet's good. you don't get that around here." he nodded slightly.

the two of you continued talking, a few awkward silences, but as the two of you navigated through the conversations, you two got used to how the other works. you found out that leon drank his coffee black, no sugar; said the corniest jokes that somehow made you laugh anyway; collected leather jackets.

"if you're working with me, we need rules." he announced, tapping the table with his fingers.

you gulped.

"first rule. don't call me sir. it makes me feel old." he spoke with a gentleness. you noticed the way he addressed other co-workers as you walked out the building, it seemed like he reserved a softness towards you.

you nodded and trialled his name, "leon."

"there we go." he exhaled from his nose, watching you take a sip of your coffee. your face contorts briefly into a disgusted expression and he tried to hide the smirk that was playing on his lips.

"second rule. we don't ever come back here again, this coffee was shit." he finalised.

you nodded, "agreed."

"perfect." he placed his coffee cup down and the two of you left the place hastily.

you made it back to his office, settling behind your new desk. leon ran you through the things he needed you to cover over the next few weeks. as you were sat at your desk, leon hunched over you, clicking on your mouse to show you the right reports he needed you to work on. his chest awfully close to your face, was he always this close and personal? maybe it was something to ask sherry. or not. probably not. his concentrated face, eyebrows furrowed and lips pinched, completely disappeared when he noticed you were looking at him.

it was weird sharing an office with only one other person, you could hear every move that leon made, his typing, him clicking his pen on and off, his sighing, the way his seat creaked as he sat back and him unscrewing his hidden whiskey flask. you pretended you didn't notice.

when the office was empty, your phone flashed, the words 'mom' shone brightly across the screen.

your heart rate accelerated.

leon finished up in the break room, making an americano to power him through his last few hours of work. he preferred working late, he hated going home and having too much time to think. as he made his way back to the office, he heard your voice. he paused for a second, not wanting to barge in. but there was no one else in the room, just you, your face illuminated by your phone screen.

"yes mom, i think so. i've actually been promoted to being an assistant of a well-known agent." you said, a chuffed smile on your face, nodding, "mhm, yeah i think it's going well. yes he is nice to me, he got me coffee too."

you continued as you spun around in your chair, "yes i know this is a big opportunity. i'm taking it seriously."

he could suddenly hear the other end of the call.

"you know your brother never needed this much time to prove himself, he was leading operations at your age." your mom said through the phone, her voice containing a thousand icicles.

leon watched the way your smile was gradually erased from your face.

"yes mom- i know, i'm trying my best." you assured her, digging your teeth into your bottom lip. your posture had completely crumpled.

"are you working late tonight?" your mom asked sternly.

"mhm."

"good. dedication is what will separate you from the rest. this is important." she replied, every word she spoke placed another weight on your back.

"i know. i- i better get back to work." you just wanted this call to end. it was foolish to think she was going to acknowledge your hard work. it was never well done, it was always do better.

"okay. call us this weekend, your father would like to know how things are going, this is important to him too you know."

"yes mom. bye mom." you ended the call with a sigh, chucking your phone back into your bag.

you didn't realise how badly your hand was shaking until you gripped your wrist with your other hand. fuck.

get your shit together.

leon walked into the office, like he didn't hear the tense call. you exchanged smiles with him and the both of you returned to your computers.

ignoring the waiting whiskey flask and ignoring the pressuring voices of your parents.

edit: here is part 2

To wake up to the loud bass of God knows what kind of grungy music someone’s kid is playing at full volume a couple of doors down from his apartment is not exactly how Leon wants to be woken up on a random Sunday morning after another gruelling mission. It really is not.

But it’s exactly what is going on right now. With an insufferable beat stomping in his ears and making his walls tremble with edgy tones and a nausea-inducing, messy rhythm. It’s stupid that he instinctively reaches for his gun; it’s even more stupid that he points it at the closed door of his apartment. And by the time he actually understands what the hell is going on, anger pools behind his eyes. Fucking kids.

He’s still in his sleeping clothes when he bangs on your door. And, judging by the messy hair and three sizes bigger t-shirt you greet him with, so are you.

«Oh! Hi, can I help you?» «Lower that damn music down, do you have any idea what time it is?» For a second, you blink dumbly at him, with the edge of your door in hands and the sweet smile frozen on your face, and Leon is almost proud of how impolite he has come across. Then something in you snaps, and your face turns into a scowl; a pissy, youthfully-judgemental scowl. «Like… 2 pm, dude?» What?

Now that you have mentioned it… the hallway does look suspiciously lit. He must be looking completely lost, and a good portion of dumb, if even you — the most terrifying of monsters, a young adult — after a piercing eye-roll, find pity for him in the depths of your cold, cold heart. «Alright, I’ll tone it down a notch, but you have to go to sleep earlier next time. 2:15 is genuinely fair game.» And with a hip propped against the doorframe, you arch an eyebrow and deliver the last painful jab at his dignity: «grandpa.» For a second, Leon is so out of depth that he genuinely gapes. Well, there goes his resolve. «I’m sorry—»

Not that you step down easily with the derogatory sass, on the contrary, his sudden nervous behaviour seems to spur you on. «Don’t have a heart attack over it,» you cut him short, before swinging your weight from leg to leg and fixing him with a sour expression. «I’ll cut the music out, so you can have your afternoon nap in peace. Old man.» And with that, and a last dismissive huff, you close the door in his face, and he’s left standing on your “go away” doormat that does nothing but rub salt into his wounds. Well, that was brutal. It’s only when he’s back inside the safety of his apartment, too awake by shame to go back to sleep, too physically taxed to do anything else, that he finally realises he never stopped to buy coffee yesterday, coming back from his latest mission; and the nagging feeling of having forgotten something gets dethroned by pure despair.

He has to do some serious mental gymnastics to convince himself to throw on his leather jacket and walk in his pyjamas to the store, but he cannot function without coffee. It still takes him 20 minutes to hype himself up enough to even slip on his shoes. No socks because he hates life.

And today, life hates him back apparently, because as his door slams shut, his eyes connect with yours under the rim of his baseball cap and you’re simply there, at the end of the hallway like a sphinx guarding his freedom, between him and the stairs for the outside world, one yellow package in one hand and the handle of your door in the other. Your eyes scurry to his, attracted by the loud sound of the closing door, and something wicked splits your lips in a grin. «Well, well, well… aren’t you up bright and early?» You mock, crossing your arms and dangling the forgotten package from the hiding place tucked against your hips. «I finished coffee.» Is the only thing he can murmur, surprisingly truthful and plain. For a minute or two in the brightly lit hallway, nothing but silence lingers in the air; then, suddenly, as loud as gunshots, your laugh ricochets through the walls. «Man, today is not your day at all. Get in, 12B, I’ll make you a cuppa.»

And on a normal basis, Leon would have never accepted, but today, nothing feels normal. So he follows. The apartment is furnished the way Leon would expect a 20-something girl’s apartment to be furnished, perhaps leaning a bit on the side of 90s grunge; the one he lived on his skin firsthand during his own youth, and now echoed in his neighbour's cramped living room/kitchen/music room. It’s a weird transitory space that feels lived-in, as if its purpose had shifted and changed during the years, settling into an impractical mixture of old functions and newer ones. «Do you play?» The row of guitars and what he assumes are bass lines the wall over a mismatched old piano that screams “old lady” rather than college student. All different colours and shapes, a particular one even having two necks and some glittery finishing over the body. Those too feel lived-in, with scuffs and scratches across their varnish. «No, I like to spend my paychecks caring for these bitches out of the kindness of my heart.» sassy, «I’ve been playing since I was seven or so.» It should feel like hostility, but Leon knows what true hostility feels like, and that is not it. You’re more like a hissing cat swaying your tail dismissively, deeply offended. «You’re a mean one, aren’t you?» The coffee machine sputters to life, a low buzz indicating a long life of usage. You turn and tilt your head, unimpressedly looking at him through your lashes, «Me? Are you having a senile moment? I was sunshine and rainbows when I opened that door; — your hand does something incoherent with itself in the general direction of the exit, then, coming back to him, a finger points square at his chest — you were the mean one. It’s truly not on me this time… As you sow, so shall you reap.» You pronounce at the end, like a mantra, spinning on your heels, chin up in pride, messing around with pots and coffee pods.

«I had a rough night. My bad, I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.» It’s really easy to slip onto the stool at your small kitchen island, as easy as asking for your forgiveness. It feels almost… normal, a well-oiled machine that has finally sputtered back to life after years of neglect.

It sounds stupid. «Don’t stress about it.» The comforting aroma of coffee fills the air, the sound of poured coffee curls around the edge of your words, mixing and fusing. «There is space for my piano and then some inside those eye bags.» Your figure turns, your smile settles back into the soft one you had opened your door wearing, and something soft tugs at Leon’s heart. His cup clinks onto the kitchen island, you sip your own, the day outside slowly moves on. «Sugar?»

It gets really easy to talk to you, like sipping the sweet coffee cooling in his mug, like huffing at your playful jabs and hiding his smile under the rim of his hat as you question and probe to get a rise out of him.

It’s well past four when his stomach grumbles loudly, and you once again laugh at his expense. His joints creak as he rises from the stool, hands hoisting him up «Well, that’s my cue to leave. Pardon me, my lady.» Your laugh is a kneecap shot; Leon has dealt out his fair share of those, he knows how effective they are. You take no prisoners, stretching lazily over the counter dividing you two, your hands shooting from across the island to cup his own. «No, no wait! I’m having fun.»

His legs give up, and he crumbles back into his seat. «Tell you what, pretty eyes.» Your hands don’t leave his. «If you don’t have coffee in there, it’s hard to believe you have actual food. I’ll make you a deal: I cook you up something de-fucking-licious, and you tell me why I thought you were dead in your apartment, and your cat was eating your face to survive.» Your voice is light and cheerful, your back straightens, and your eyes glimmer in the afternoon orange light pooling from your windows. He’s suddenly two sizes bigger than his own skin, so out of place in your serenity, «I’m not usually around.» he chews in between his teeth, unable to avert his gaze but willing to try. Yours, once again and unsurprisingly, feels steady. Unhurried. «No shit, Sherlock, but if you want food, you’ll have to be a bit more loose-lipped.» «Why?» It’s an honest-to-god question, perhaps a bit too honest for his training. It feels like a layer of his soul is being peeled. You shrug your shoulders and let go of his hand, almost sure he won’t attempt another flight, and turn on your heels to start the late lunch. «'Cause I’m nosy as fuck.» you offer simply, putting a small pot on the stove and bobbing your head as if to punctuate each word now that he can no longer see your expressions. «Well I— I’m truly not… around… that much.» if you wish to humiliate him for the dumb repetition, you don’t let it show, simply huffing a somewhat derisive sound and arching an eyebrow from behind your shoulder. «How so? I thought people your age had achy knees, not travelling desires.» Yeah… why so? But most importantly, why is he around now? And why does he have the feeling he’ll have to make peace with the idea he’ll be around quite a bit more?

To put it simply, Leon is slowly falling into retirement; he can feel it. The missions are sparser and fewer in between; he’s at home more and more often, and life just generally feels… slow. He’s not getting any younger, tons of new agents are getting recruited every month, and his experience is starting to get outweighed by the constant ache in his knees. He’s old stuff now; the DSO is of the youngster roaming its neon-lit halls, as all he can do is make room and wonder how did he get to see his fifty.

His silence must have been interpreted as offence as you quickly cast a glance behind you and rectify: «Alright, I’ll quit it with the old man jokes. You did piss me off tho. Did the coffee taste of peace offerings and spite? Because that’s what I was aiming for.» You’re cute. All words and sassy remarks. A chatterbox with a cute scowl and an even cuter irritated frown. «Mmmister?» He gotta put his ass in gear, «It’s Leon. It’s stupid I haven’t told you yet.» God, he’s out of practice. But that doesn’t seem to faze you, little does apparently. «You’re fine, Leon.» You concede, pulling open the cabinet over your head. «You feel like the mysterious type. Plus, I liked “grandpa”» Grandpa. His eyes trail your back; you’re difficult to pinpoint. There is something unmistakably weird about you, the way you talk, the way you act, but Leon doesn’t really get what’s tipping him off; you’re just weird. It’s plain in the way you laugh, and it’s there when you say some absurd thing, bending backwards on a logic that is all your own, but it doesn’t stem from those. It just permeates them. His eyes catch yours, once again over the edge of your shoulders, and he finally notices you’re quiet. «Sorry, I wasn’t— I was paying you attention… I just got lost in thoughts.» and those same eyes shine, not with malice but not with innocence either. «An open-eyed nap? Alright, that was the last one. Tomato sauce or pesto?»

A couple of days later, he finds you at his door. Mail in hands and a new, silly, pyjamas hanging loosely on your body. «Dude, Kennedy? Really? Like the president?» Never mind “Confidential” is plastered all over the mail. The postal service managed to fuck it up regardless. «Gotta something to say about that?» Your shoulders shrug, your hand stretches, «Not really, it just sounds silly.» It’s out of his mouth before he can catch it, «My middle name is Scott if that fans you amusement.» It does, it really does, if the nasal and ugly laugh that escapes you is any indication. Weird. «Well, your mail got delivered to me mister president.» Yeah, he can see that; he got some neck to twist back at DSO.

He knows it’s not early, he won’t make the same mistake again and embarrass himself twice on the same matter, but he’s so fucking tired. «Dude—» This time you’re dressed, a black shirt of some band he had seen in concert, but that probably broke up before you were even born. Already on a war footing. «I know, I know, it is fair game, but— please, I just really need to sleep.» It must have been rude to cut you off like that; it definitely was, but he had been verbally digested once; he doesn’t want to have that experience again. You look pissed, eyebrows drawn, and hand gripping the door frame at your side, and for a second, Leon double-guesses his social skills, nonexistent, and his ability to not make you mad with his mere existence. But the sharp tones in your drawn eyebrows smooth, softly, almost out of habit, more than real softness. You look… gentle? «Aight. Fine. I’ll cut the music.» Leon can feel a sight escaping his lungs. «Thanks, really. I’m sorry.» Your head shakes, your shoulders do the same, and the myriad of bracelets on your wrist ring like bells. «Don’t be. I get it.»

That is the moment he should retreat, go back into his apartment and back to bed, the couch if he can’t manage the off meters separating the two. But something seems to prevent him from doing so. You are still there, scrutinising him like a mortician. He should take your doormat’s advice.

«Did you manage to buy coffee?» He didn’t. «Shit— no, I’ll go out tonight.» Last week had been a nightmare; spotty missions of a day or two, polluting his everyday life. Not hard at all, but gruelling. Your tongue clicks on your teeth, «Don’t bother, grandpa.» Fucking nickname, he won’t be able to shake it off, won’t he? «I gotta pull an all-nighter anyway. Just knock, and I’ll get you set up.» That’s odd, you’re odd. Oddly gentle, oddly kind. «You’re awfully nice for being this rude.» Even your laugh is odd. «Rude my ass, dude. Go catch your beauty sleep, princess; you look like shit.»

He does, catching up with his sleep — not look like shit, thank you very much — in a blissfully silent apartment, and then, not even bothering to put something decent on, he knocks at your door. «Damn, old man. Thought you would have been out for at least a couple of hours more.» Weird, but weird in a funny way. Like weird ha ha. «Thanks God you’re funny, girl.» Coffee at your place becomes a habit. You bitch and whine about “taking care of your elders”, but Leon eventually understands it’s an act. He does odd jobs at yours from time to time. The sink doesn’t work? You don’t even have to ask, he’s already two-thirds of the way to getting it repaired. The shutters don’t close all the way, and you hate sleeping with the light of the outside world? He’s already oiling them. It’s a nice balance. It makes him feel needed.

It’s not really clear, in the strict timeline he keeps tabs on in his head, how or when, did warm coffee became trash TV from the worn dip of your couch. It just happens. There is so much caffeine you both can ingest without seriously damaging your stomach before the ridiculous excuse to keep the moment going starts to feel old. The shared silences and the lively conversations weigh more than a possible ulcer on his part and a probable insomniac night on yours.

It’s not unexpected from his point of view; you’re full of life, a constant buzz fluttering around him, softening the blow of his mind’s reeling thoughts, spiralling in silences stretched too long in his deserted apartment. But it’s — once again — kinda weird for yours. For some reason unknown to him, you actually like him around, no, you want him around. He has passed his whole life noticing details, the true distinction makers between life and death in his missions. So it’s not really “spy work” to spot them as they surface. The room you have made for him in your life, nudging your clothes and rags away enough on the couch to make room for him, tugging them in the crevices of the seat. Not gone but folded enough to just let him exist in a spot that is all his. The shift is in the cup you always give him, blue and white, glazed wrongly, probably a failed art project of yours or a close friend. In the pack of cookies you have started to pull out of the cupboard every time he says, “I should go” without really feeling like going. Only to bribe a few minutes, he was already willing to give up, out of him.

Hell, most of the time you open the door of your apartment before he can even knock on it. It’s odd, and it’s even odder that you have stopped murmuring the ritualistic “what a coincidence” after the first couple of times, but somehow that puts him at ease. It’s clear that you want him to be there, in your apartment. And it’s a feeling so long forgotten he had thought he would have struggled more to recognise it.

And it’s not even such extraordinary company the one you offer, it’s mostly a quietly buzzing presence, sometimes a tad too much, but mostly enough. It’s enough when you sit at his side. You have one of those old TVs that, when you shake your hand in front of it, makes it look like you have twenty fingers or more. Per hand. And he’s sure that will probably be the thing that fucks his vision up once and for all — Leon is sure about that — but it’s enough.

Even with the eye-murdering TV, he cannot stop knocking at your door, sliding down the couch beside you as you pluck chips from the bag and hand him “the greasy ones” because you’re picky like that, and somehow you can feel the difference.

He doesn’t complain. When you are too deep into your film, you even feed him, aiming for his mouth without taking your eyes off the TV. It’s awkward, clumsy, and so irresistibly you.

Somebody is trying to remove the door from its hinges. The gun is in his hands in seconds, low, ready. He gotta get out of the apartment quickly, he doesn’t know how many are there, he’s in civilian clothes, his ammo is in his bedroom— «Leon, open up, I don’t care if you’re asleep, come on!» Your voice sifts through the door, through the cracks in the crappy old wood as your fists bang on its expanses. The gun, from his sole lifeline, shifts into an imminent threat; he disarms it and tosses it away as fast as humanly possible, as if burning. God damnit. The door swings open; his frame must be towering over you if he can see his own shadow obscuring your entire body. «Kid.» If you’re intimidated, you don’t let it show, with a shove and a pull, you literally stumble into his apartment. «Dude, there is a fucking Porsche down the street!» Your gait falls jittery and excitedly, running at the window and throwing a glance out of it, down the street. «wha—» But you don’t let him finish, actually, you don’t even dignify him with a glance, waving a hand with chipped nail polish, at him still trying to merge yourself with the window screen, «Put some clothes on, I wanna go see.» Your logic is a fucked-up mess he’s not sure he wants to tackle this early, and this hungover. And yet he asks. «Why do I gotta be with you?» «I don’t wanna go ogle all by myself, I’d look like a creep.» Ah, yes, sure, now he understands. «Because with me you’ll look different?» At that, you finally turn, sharp gaze fixing him with impatience, and a tinge of… embarrassment? «No, but… you know, we’ll just be two creeps… like a flock, you know, anonymity in numbers and all that shit. Better than the lone creep anyway.» He doesn’t really know, mostly because if you don’t want to look like a creep to the owner, you don’t really gotta worry. It’s his. And he already thinks you’re a creep, or at least some other variant of plain “weird" «Alright, gimme a sec.» And yet he yields. «Hurry, I don’t wanna lose it.» You won’t.

«Duuuude, that’s so fucking sweet!» You look like an overexcited… you. It’s actually pretty difficult to compare you to something tangible, something he knows and can catalogue. Your wonder is fresh and childlike, but your excitement comes off of you in waves of low curses and keen eyes raking over his car. He shouldn’t have come home drunk last night, he shouldn’t have left the Porsche out of the garage, but for some strange reason, he doesn’t think the mishap bore horrible fruits. It’s actually pretty nice to see you like that. «You like cars?» «Not as much as I like guitars, but I can appreciate. I’ve never seen one of those before.» Let’s see if you’re telling the truth. «You only like French cars or like…» Your laugh rises airy and light, not in derision, not even mischievous, once again, only yours. «Dude, Porsches are German.» The key in his hand clicks, the car beeps to life, and you almost jump out of your skin. When you turn around, panic visible on your features, looking for the owner, the keys are already dangling from his outstretched hand, and for a second, he can gloat in the magnificent picture of your owlish eyes blinking, slow; as the cogs in your brain shift and clunk connecting the dots. When he speaks, it’s a low rumble, «Alright, teach, do you wanna go grab some coffee?» You look like a fish out of water, gaping at him, and if your eyes could pop out, they would. «Are you?» You don’t even finish the thought, your eyes dart back to the car, to him, «Is it yours?!» «Yup.» Joy jolts through your veins, zapping behind your eyes, raw and unfiltered. «Oh my god, can we— coffee? Can you—» but then something snaps, all that enthusiasm bubbles over, but it’s as if the means to feel it were suddenly taken away from you. And you shift, a bit awkward. Silence falls. «Have you… have you drunk…» your voice comes out low, very low, almost inaudible. Torn between jumping in and putting your feet down on something you won’t negotiate on. He did, he could actually say he got hammered, stumbling up the stairs well into the night and collapsing into his couch moments after, not even properly securing his door, passing out where you had found him this morning. A heap of crumbled clothes and the shadow of a legend. Slowly fading away. Yesterday had been… weird, but not your type of weird, sad-weird. His life had flushed down the drain, drowned in cheap alcohol because that gave the worst hangover headache, and at this point, “hurt” is the only thing that keeps him connected to that part of his life that is actually way more than a part and that without he doesn’t know how to function. So yeah, he’s had a drink, several actually.

But your weird — right now — feels so real he can’t find it in himself to deny you; contagious and fuzzy, like a bad case of the flu. And he feels all warm and sluggish as he stares down the path of voluntarily wrapping around your finger. To be commanded left and right, for the simple pleasure of keeping you content. Buzzing. Not the same buzz he finds looking for solace in the bottle.

You fidget in your spot, growing roots, not moving a single step to get inside the car. He’s weirdly proud of you for that. «I did, that’s why you’re driving.» And for being a sad excuse of an old man, he must have done something right because you suddenly shine.

The coffee shop you drove to that evening was a random one, the only one open this late into the hour, but somehow that became a usual spot. “Usual” is also the habit of letting you drive. For a couple of minutes, Leon simply kicks off and lets you drive, letting you guide him wherever you want. The both of you end up going there quite a lot. On weekends, on Mondays, on Tuesdays… every time Leon is not at work. So a lot. You don’t seem to mind the fact he’s mostly silent, he hopes not rude, but definitely silent. He can’t change in the snap of a finger.

«So… you like own this crazy car but live in that shitty apartment building. Are you like one of those dudes who spend all their money on flashy cars?» The asphalt runs smoothly under new tyres, your voice drifts through the car. «The apartment is good.» The eyebrow-rise is comical, Leon thinks he did laugh; «Leon, I live two doors down from yours. I know mould is growing in your bathroom as well.» It does, in fluffy cotton balls of slightly concerning black substance. But if he closes his eyes, head lolling on the window of his car, he can recall the memory of pristine surfaces, modern lines and oddly shaped high-end lamps looming over perfectly 90° corners, walls of egg-white paint, expensive furniture. Untouched. Waiting for him after endless missions. A solitary life in the guts of a place that screams “aseptic” from every cashmere quilt. «Not really. I have another— place. I just…» You don’t press, you don’t ask, you just let him find it on his own. «I just don’t like it.» Your hum is barely audible over the sound of the car, but it’s sweet, and it’s soft. «And you like that piece of crap? I heard there are loud neighbours on that floor.» At that one, Leon actually laughs, unguarded and raw. He has been like that for a while now, slipping into the habit of simply existing out of questioning in your orbit. A gravitational pull that lures him in. «I’ll take your shitty music over never-ending silence any day.» The corner of your eyes crinkles, that unfiltered laugh seeps into the car, and his heart skips a beat, but oddly feels like it’s falling into the rhythm of yours.

He’s heading down a very dangerous path, but you are driving, and he has no power over the destination.

Leon huffs, annoyance must be visible on his face, perhaps pulling at the worry lines littering his forehead. Wrinkles, there is no need to call them by any other names, they’re wrinkles. «I used to be able to bullseye a wind chimer a mile away.» The newspaper slaps against the table. He can feel the waves of tension rolling off of him, and so must you. One eyebrow arched, eyes unimpressed. «And now you can’t read the newspaper without glasses.» The deadpan lands harder than you probably intended, smoothing the rest of the phrase out of your lips with a softer edge to it. «Come on, grandpa, use this. My father forgot them here like a lifetime ago, I assure you, he won’t mind.» But it doesn't land where you must have hoped it would land. And you must have seen that on Leon's face, this time around, there is more than tension; there’s hurt.

Your voice comes soft and unhurried but firm nonetheless; you don’t reach, you don’t corner, and for that, he’s grateful. You just exist, and you let him do the same «Leon… what’s wrong?» «It’s fucked up.» There is not much more to it. It just is. He has grown old. Useless. The look you pull is weird. Why must you always be weird? So complex to read? Because for a second, you look hurt. Plainly, openly. For what he said. As if he had said it about you. «Leon…» Easily mistaken for pity. Not that he truly believes it. He knows deep down that’s an excuse. The clock over your stove ticks by, time falling slowly out of his reach. «How so?» Your voice rises steady and calm; in a sip of coffee still too hot for him to drink but apparently perfect for you. «What?» Your shoulders shake gently, eyes darting up over the rim of your cup, directed at him. «Why did you know how to “bullseye a wind chimer a mile away”?» «I’m military.» Safe, easier than explaining Raccoon City. Your face pulls, half displeased, he’s well aware how opinionated you can get on government stuff; he gets where you come from, he had wanted to become a cop — a lifetime ago now — for the exact reasons you had listed. Tone heated and annoyed, one dying day he had passed lounging on your couch. He had wanted to change the world back then, to make a difference, but life had yanked him away from that path, hard. And the cop inside of him had died that faithful day. More than thirty years ago. You eye him suspiciously, as if he had turned into the enemy all at once. «Hold the gun, I’m DSO.» «Meaning?» «Division of Security Operations» Your face scrunches up, a very cute frown that tips into displeasure ever so softly, hiding your emotions had never been your forte. «Wow, that gives me like… nothing.» His scoff flees his lips almost unwantedly. «Anti-bioterrorism.» You hum, the sound rippling the surface of your coffee. «Cool.» You relent at some point, as if admitting it cost you something.

The bitterness resurfaces suddenly, ugly and unwanted. It was cool. «Not that it matters now. It has been a while since I’ve been active on the ground.» If there is something that you are, it’s not subtle. Your eyes bore holes where they rest on his figure, intense and searching. «That doesn’t change the fact you had been… DSO or whatever.» «No.» He hadn’t been someone— hell, something in a while now. Aimlessly drinking his sadness away, syphoning your joy, your calmness from your company. You don’t speak, nor correct him. «No, you don’t get it.»

For the first time since he met you, Leon sees it all from an outsider perspective. Outside the bubble of comfort you envelop him in. He’s old, so very old, and you’re younger and brighter, with a future waiting just around the corner. What is he doing weighting you down? It flutters out of his mouth in an exhale. «Of course you don’t. You’re young.» Then the right word to describe it boils down: «It’s humilia—» «Normal.» Your voice cuts him off sharply. Two steps, the clink of your cup to the kitchen island separating you. Your hand falls to his shoulder, and you look at him like you need him to believe you. Unmovable. «It’s normal, Leon.»

Something, in the deepest depths of his soul, is cracking open; he can’t actually pinpoint it, but he can feel it. It doesn’t scare him this time.

Falling for you is soft and graceful, then all of a sudden, it's messy and horrible. Jittery and unsure around you. Like he had lost the balance of your shared existence. So Leon does the next best thing than confessing: he withdraws. Because you don’t feel what he had found himself feeling for you, and it’s a fool’s hope to think of you as anything more than a weird acquaintance.

Days of isolation turn into weeks. You don’t knock on his door, and you don’t go looking for him.

Your absence rings louder than he thought it would. It’s in every nook and cranny of his life where you have jammed your presence, and it hurts around the edges, like a sharp object pressing onto his ribs. «Leon?» clammy hands wrung around each other, pulled hair. Sweat glistening on a thin sheet on his skin. He’s too old for this. «I… I’m sorry, I can’t— I can’t be alone right now.» What a pathetic thing to say to your twenty-something neighbour at three am after you have tried to avoid her for nearly a month. You ought to kick him out, curse his name, and spit on him. Because he’s a coward, a pervert and a pathetic man looking for comfort in retracing a bridge he himself has burned to the ground. «Oh… Yeah, sure, come on in.» But you are just so fucking odd. The apartment buzzes with the soft sound of the fridge in the far corner of the kitchen, the TV glows with a very annoying static and a low crackling sound. You lazily stroll barefoot to the couch, crunched covers squished down, rummaging through the cushion for the remote and shutting the TV down. The room falls into an uncannily still silence, Leon’s heart stutters but stops the galloping it had done for the past interminable minutes of lone panic. The remote slides back over the couch, a thud in the otherwise silent room. You turn and lean into the backrest from behind it, leg outstretched, as if you had never sat in a damn couch. «I’m sorry…» Comes out of his lips small and unsure. «You can go back to sleep, I just— I’m sorry I shouldn’t have—» «It’s alright, do you wanna sleep? Or talk, or like, watch trashy TV?» The proposal is so stupidly sweet he can feel it in his teeth. A dull ache. «No, no, it’s—» What is it? «I just wanted to know you were— okay. Just… safe.» Your head lolls up and down in a sluggish rhythm, crossed arms, a foot coming up to scratch the back of your calf. «Do you wanna sleep over?» He must have heard you wrong. «What?» «Like a pyjama party, shame I just ran out of facemasks. Sleep here.»

Knowing you’re there, it’s— it’s enough, you can go back to sleep.» It is. It really is because all of this has always been about how much your presence has come to ground him. Your voice lifts something heavy in his chest, soft and calm. «Will you be able to sleep at yours?»

Fuck no. «No.» «Then stay. Why torture yourself?» Because I deserve it. And I don’t deserve you. Too bold. Instead, he settles on: «It’s a loaded question.» Your shoulders draw in, a silent chill running down your spine in jarring shivers. «It wasn’t supposed to be. Stay.» A huff of a laugh filters through his teeth. «I—» «Leon. Please…»

«Yeah… okay… I’ll— sorry. I’ll settle on the couch.» Your face pulls; there is something you wish to say underneath the sleepiness, but you refrain. «Will you be able to fall asleep there?» «Yeah, I will… eventually.» You look less than unconvinced, but once again, your self-control puts his to shame. «Okay.»

It’s an afterthought, soft around the edges, as you pull away from the backing of the couch, sleep clinging to your judgment. You pull him in when you’re close enough, arm circling the small of his back and a palm guiding his nape to the crook of your neck. A soft embrace. Comfort seeping through his clothes, where your skin meets and burns through each other’s warmth. Your voice hitches, «Door’s wide open if you want to curl up and spill your guts.» Then, as if you wanted to drill the thought deeper into his understanding, you clutch harder. «I’m right here.» And with that, you retreat. And he’s left struggling against what that had meant. He can’t recall for sure if he clung back. He does eventually. Fall asleep. Around five or so. And wakes up at eleven, to the soft clatter of kitchen utensils. «Good morning, pretty eyes.» Your voice fills a very deep void he never noticed. I love you. «Good morning.»

Your eyes burn on his skin. Always so unsettling focus. «What?» «Something’s different.» The slurping sound of the straw in your glass announces you’re done with your overly sweet milkshake. He’s halfway through his steaming hot coffee. «The milkshake?» He doesn’t even know how you could be able to tell, all that sugar must have fried your taste buds. «No, dummy, you. Something is different with you.» An eyebrow arches, he sips slower, just because he knows it irks you. «I don’t know what you’re talking about.» It has been a week since the night he spent on your couch. And that has gone blissfully unacknowledged. On his part, you had simply behaved as if what had just happened was the most normal thing that could have happened. «Yeah, you look… better?» your voice cuts through, smacking the tackiness of the sugar away from your lips. «Is it a question or a statement?»

He doesn’t get to listen to your reply. A waiter, all sweet smile and bubbly attitude, approaches your booth. «Can I bring you anything else?» She asks, tapping a pen over an already filled notepad, looking directly at you; Leon has been the “scary guy” all his life, he’s not surprised the woman must feel better speaking to you instead of him. «Oh no, I’m all done.» So he folds himself into a smaller version of what he is, pressing closer to the window, head tilted down. Less scary, less imposing. «What about your father?» The words freeze something in the air, like a spell gone wrong. And all he can inhale is ice-cold dread. Until he has to mutter: «I’m fine.» before the moment drags out worse than it had started. «He’s not my father.»

Your face is hard to read, soft-eyed, a simple smile on your lips, a genuine tilt of your head. You look at ease. You don’t look ashamed. «I’m so sorry—» «Don’t worry.» Man, you’re weird. «You drive like a madman, are you sure you’re not drunk?» You’re not even worthy of a proper answer, so you get a grunt. The road bends and twists in intricate backroads, “to avoid the insomniac rush hour.” you always say when you take it. «Leon—» but tonight you’re in the passenger seat. «I’m dry. Been a week.» Silence falls back, your head falls softly onto the headrest. «A week, mhm?» Fuck, you’re way too damn observant for your own good. «Yeah, been thinking of quitting for a while.» He steps on the gas, sidestepping a lone car going too slow for his liking. «What got your panties in a twist?» «Nothing.» And you let it be nothing for a couple of seconds, even a minute if Leon believes your magnanimity, «Was it the waiter’s comment?» But you’re not that nice, all things considered. «No.» And you’re not easily deterred either. «Then why are you trying to snap your wheel in half?» «You don’t know me.» The whiplash is painful. His own venom drips down his lips, poisoning his own thoughts. «Fuck— I—» «You think so?» Fuck, fuck, fuck… he fucked up so badly. Like horribly badly. «I—» «Stop the car.» That’s it. That is how the only good thing left in his life ends. Because he’s a sad man who doesn’t know how to stay in his lane. «Please, I’m sorry—»

«I want to know you. I do. And you can start letting me get to know you by telling me why you're mad right now.»

The car sits idly on the side of a deserted road. No other passerby in sight, you might as well be the last humans alive in the world. It feels like it. «I hate that she just assumed…» Your voice clicks, a low hum, almost like a buzz. «Why?» unkind. But not harsh.

You just sound demanding. No point in running. «Because I like you. And you deserve better.»

«Better…» Yes, better than someone edging on the void of the half-century mark with no other accomplishment to his name than destruction and blood. Yeah. Better. «Yeah.» «Better than you, but you still get to decide what I deserve and what I don’t.» «No, you—» You don’t even blink as you deliver your next line. «I’m the worst person alive.» And he falls for it like a dumbass. «You’re not—» «Then you aren’t either. If I like you, and you’re such worse, then I in fact do not deserve better. I deserve you exactly.» The air in the car grows heavy. Your words linger between your bodies. «You don’t like me the way I like you. Believe me.» «Boy, you’re dumb.» Your belt clicks, the car gives off a faint alarm, still on, still humming under you two. And for a second, panic sets in. He’s sure that next will come the bell of the door being opened with the car keys still inserted, yet another alarm blaring in his head. But it doesn’t. You lurch over the shift, hand fisting his shirt in your grasp, and then you yank him to your level and kiss him.

And then the rest falls into place with a satisfactory click. The odd-weird you’re dancing on the edge of infects him like a virus, and suddenly, he’s all jittery buzz and tingling fingertips as well. It must be all that sugar he’s tasting off of your tongue.

«Abso-fucking-lutely not.» his palms fall to your figure, harder than intended.

Your huff is playful; you rarely aren't. «Hard ass.» His hands grip harder. Your waist, your hips, your thighs straddling his lap. He guides you lower, harder, over the clothes you still cling to. «I am.» He still clings to. It’s hard to explain. He now knows for sure you won’t judge him; you have done plenty to deserve his trust, but the objective truth is that his body no longer looks like what it used to look 20 years ago. The scars have gone from “enough to feel mysterious” to ugly viper’s nests of leather-like damaged skin, varying in colour and texture; his muscles, no longer cutting, look defined, sure, but the definition of too strenuous work that had left marks deeper than stretch marks over bulging biceps. He looks used. Exhausted. And that scares him.

Your hand dips slightly lower than he thought you would, grazing the hem of his shirt, and his body goes rigid. «Wait—» Your hand retreats immediately, clasping behind your back as if demonstrating to him you’re harmless now; holding onto your forearms. Your lips land on his cheek, soft and steady, until you withdraw, but don’t leave him behind. «Sorry, love, got carried away.» The ease is so jarring he doesn’t even have the time to chastise himself. «It’s okay.» he mutters then, because he truly feels like he has won the lottery with you. Then a huff follows, as you litter his face with kitten kisses. «You sound like my mother when you call me “love”» Your feigned gasp comes with the definitive withdrawal, eyes wide open and false shock painted on your face. He had told you at least a dozen times. «You should know better than that.» you tut suddenly, popping your neck softly. You’re not wrong, his couch is kinda uncomfy. The smirk surfaces like a message in a bottle. Only reading “trouble” all over. «Aren’t you the one who got all grumpy ‘cause the waiter insinuated you were my daddy?» The tip of his ears warms up, and he’s sure that if he were in front of a mirror right now, he’d notice a soft dusting of red colouring them. «She did not say “daddy”» Your grin only gets wider. «She didn’t… I could tho.» Jeeze, he’s gonna combust. «Okay, you’re in time-out.» But he knows you have filed his reaction under the “for later shenanigans” folder inside your brain.

You dismount him like a saddle, swift and confident, not at all bothered by the interruption. He is tho. «Hey. Princess, hold on a second.» His fingers wrap around your wrist. hot versus cold. You always seem to run a bit colder than the rest of the world. Your eyes don’t. Pools of endless warmth zeroing on him. «What’s up?» So he blurs it out. «Does— I know it’s bothersome.» and he can no longer take it back. «What?» And if he can’t take it back, and you’re both already there… he might as well go with it. «The interruptions. It’s— frustrating, I know. I’m sorry.»

Your blinking is slow and deliberate, or maybe it’s just confused. «It’s not. I mean, not really; I do wanna jump your bones, you’re stupidly hot, I feel like I’m salivating every time I see you. But your comfort is the number one priority. So it’s actually not that hard a choice.» Oh…

Well, now he’s the one wanting to absolutely wreck you. It’s not fair. «Can I sleep at yours tonight?» «I’d be offended if you didn’t.»

This is silly. You are silly, your ideas are silly. It’s silly that you’re lying facing each other on your comically small bed. «Your mattress is minuscule.» «But he’s very hard. He’s compensating.» A hand lifts from the cramped space between your bodies, and a snap of his fingers hits the side of your forehead. «Dirty mind. If I knew it was this small, I would have stayed on the couch.» A smile at the edge of your lips pulls slightly. «I think he’s average size.» Typical. «Plus, I got rid of the bigger one to get you all close and cuddly the day you’d finally accept to nap with me.» Leon huffs. This close, he can see the strands around your face moving by the action. You look stunning, groggy with sleep and illuminated by the low light of the outside world. «A mastermind, I see.» Your giggle settles into a comfortable background noise, mixing with the sounds of the street below you; mischievous glint shining behind your eyes. «I got you in my bed, didn’t I?» You did, hell yeah, you did. «What’s next, Emperor Palpatine?» That grants him a full laugh, a soft sound falling precisely between embarrassing and sweet. «I’m swaying between making you cut that beard of yours and letting me shoot a real gun.» Silence falls softly over you, like a blanket pulled under your chin.

Leon’s the first one to break it. «Can I kiss you?» Your eyes soften. «How many times must I tell you, Leon: you don’t have to ask.» One too few. He will never stop doubting himself. «Only once more, I promise.» It’s not once more. He asks every single time, when you wake up in the morning, when he circles your waist at the stove, when you part ways to go to work, when he comes back and finds you curled up on the sofa, reading or plucking at the strings of the guitar of the day. It’s a routine that settles into a type of comfort that eggs him softer and softer into an edge he’s not sure he’s bordering until it’s too late.

The desire slams into him all at once, like a brute force pressing from every direction into his very soul. He has just returned home, to your apartment that had somehow morphed into your shared quarters, and you are just standing there in the kitchen, spoon in hand, and your work clothes draped over the back of the counter stool, messy as always, one of his T-shirts so old it probably predates you, hugging your figure, logo dry and faded. You’re doing some shenanigans with the stove, fire too high, he can already tell from the doorway, and you look so… cosy.

The desire hits hard. The need to act on it hits even harder. He barely shrugs his coat off, throwing his briefcase to the side and marching toward you. The sound slightly startles you, your shoulder jumping slightly, but you turn lazily, eyes focusing on him. «Shoot, I didn’t even notice yo—» He doesn’t let you finish, he just really wants to put his hands on you and grip tight enough to convince himself you’re real. This time, he doesn’t ask for permission; he still thinks he should have, but the want is too much. The kiss is hard and full, one hand flying to the back of your head and the other finding something to grip on your waist, skin, clothes, whatever he can put his hands on. He holds you there, gripping you tight and kissing you deeply. The room fills with smacks, you open up like a flower to sunlight, initially shocked, then melting to his touch. The hand on your waist flies to the knob turned to the highest setting and shuts it off. Something simmers in the background, finally cooling down. Your lips part with a wet sound, a strand of saliva still connecting you. You look at him sheepishly, still panting, still wide-eyed, lips red and glistening; something mischievous bubbles deeper. «You’re gonna burn down the whole building.» his own voice sounds strained. Desire is on a rampage inside him. Your eyes narrow, focused and predatory. «What can I say, fire must be in the air tonight.» Cocky. He still snorts. «Dinner’s busted by the way. In case you haven’t noticed. Beyond salvageable.» He noticed. It’s alright. He’s not hungry. Well, he isn’t for food. «We’ll survive.»

The moment stays charged, or at least he thinks it does; it has been a while since he had been comfortable enough with somebody to let the passion bubble. He had been an awkward teen, a lifetime ago now, a somewhat clumsy rookie, and then he had been a traumatised recruit. Not the best state of mind to let loose.

Sure, he had overcompensated at some point in his youth; when he had been younger and prettier, when the girls in bars had found his scars attractive and not concerning. But even that had gone stale quite early, and the shame of lying had outweighed the brief relief of a one-night stand. And Leon had gotten older, and the wrinkles around his eyes had deepened, his eyes had darkened, and the worry on his forehead had settled into deep lines. He had started to frequent the bars solely for the booze, and the pretty girls had started to steer clear of him. Leon’s not a saint, but it has also been a long time since he deemed himself worthy of such comfort.

Panic seizes him once more, and the urge to ask for permission flutters agitatedly in his chest. «You okay with this?» You’re not even doing anything. Your hand falls to his, slid from the back of your neck to your cheek, and it just rests. «Are you?» He knows you well enough to know this is not a throwaway line; you actually expect a response. «I am.» «Good, then I’ve been okay with this for months.» This time it’s your turn to jump him. Quite literally, filling the inches separating you two with thrown arms around his shoulders and on tiptoes that barely makes you tall enough.

The fire lights back up. And it’s with such ease that you kiss him that his brain doesn’t even go into performance mode. It just lingers in a blissful state of want and warmth. He’s pretty sure he’s the one who hoisted you up, but you might as well have been the one who decided to climb him like a fucking tree. He’s not sure anymore; he just knows his hands are suddenly full of you, and he’s pressing your body on the kitchen counter, mouth on yours and your soft noises buzzing in his head.

God, you sound divine, wrapped around him and kissing him like that.

There is a certain abandonment in you that urges him on, the way you cling to his shoulders, hands raking through his hair, kissing his worries away, one soft lick at a time. «Can we— bed… Now… please—» You don’t even let him finish, nodding against his lips, awkward and hurried, bumping your nose on his. He lifts you higher, tossing you up without really thinking of it, simply wanting a better grip on your body. Your leg clenches, your arm tenses up, and an almost- squeal flees your lips. «Jesus Christ, Leon, how strong are you?» What? For having caught you mid-air? «We can test it.» It’s so fucking stupid the way you mouth “Oh my God” as if he wasn’t there to judge you, sliding your hands from clasped behind his neck to his biceps, softly squeezing over the oversized sweater. You’re so odd, so silly and stupidly you.

The walk to the bedroom is quick; he’d throw you on the bed if he didn’t adore you the way he does. But for how much he wants to absolutely wreck you, he wants to appreciate you the way you deserve. So you get softly laid on your bed, tantalising exposed skin and mussed hair. And when he retreats, stalling just a second, he finally allows himself to fidget. The hem of his shirt being the closest thing he can put his hands on. «All good, Leon?» «Yeah. Just— a bit spooked, I guess.» It’s actually surprisingly easy being honest with you. It comes without a pricetag, just something he has filed under “normal” and has kept acting upon. «Okay. Nobody’s testing us; we can do what feels better. That includes stopping, Leon. For whatever reason.» He knows, he can feel the softness in the air. Still, your attentiveness pulls at his heartstrings. «You’re stealing my lines… You know it works both ways.» Your smile mirrors his, small, persistent, shared. «I know.» You do. He can see it in your eyes, the complete trust you put in him. And to look at you from so high up feels weird, so he puts his palms beside your thighs on the mattress and bends until he can kiss your lips once more.

When he’s back up, the shirt comes off almost instinctively. He’s ruined, he’s marred by scars, but he’s utterly yours, and the sudden feeling of belonging makes him think you can’t hate him all that much if you’re willing to keep him regardless.

You hiss, your eyes dart across his chest like magnets. «I know. It’s—» «Hot. Oh my God, Leon, you’re so fucking gorgeous.» Had he been younger, he’d be blushing. «You’re just humouring an old man.» Your eyes zero in on his, and it’s impossible not notice how dilated your pupil is. You look ready to devour him. «Am I? Do you wanna prove it?» It doesn’t land immediately. He’s still taken aback by such a blunt display of desire that his brain has to reload, then you part your legs slightly, and lift his old shirt enough to let the low light of the room catch a glint.

You’re soaking through your panties.

The knowledge lands like a slap, hard, physically painful, so devastating he falls on his knees. That’s for him. You’re like that because of him.

His hands are on you the second he can get his brain into motion, maybe even before, attracted by your flame like moths to fire. They look for your thighs, for the strap at your waist, tugging, begging. «Please— Can I—» «Yes.» It’s barely more than a hiss, sharp, breathy. His effect on you. His. «Please, you can do whatever you wan— please, Leon… Just touch me.» And he does. Gripping your thighs and dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, tearing your underwear, ripping them clean off. You have time for a single, soft yelp before his lips land square on your core, dead centre. He’s too damn old for teases. The air in your lungs hitches, his tongue darts out; a long, flat strip of spit gets dragged up. «Fuck—» The word stutter, his mouth gets to your clit, and he sucks. Your hand flies to his hair, and the other one lands on your mouth. Hiccups smouldered by your knuckles, as if you were biting down on them. He doesn’t know; he’s in too deep to check on your volume management.

It’s funny, actually. To your moans, he would have liked to be woken up.

The fact it has been a while since he had indulged in intimacy doesn’t mean he’s green. But the sensation is certainly new. It’s not a means to an end, eating you out. Be it taking the edge off or keeping you satisfied. It’s… really fucking hot. There are no other words for it. It’s just really turning him on.

His thumb hovers over your clit, not yet touching, not retreating either, a threat, a promise. His tongue dips lower. You’re so wet he can feel the slick running down his chin, soaking his short beard. Fuck that’s hot, and that’s for him. Because of him. Your moans turn higher, squeals bordering on high-pitched yelps. The perfect moment to add his fingers to the mix. And see what other pretty sounds he can drag out of you. His tongue flattens and swipes between your folds. Then his thumb settles over your clit and circles it with precision. The sound you make should be recorded— no, engraved in his head forever; they should play it in his ears instead of the rush of his blood every time he stands too fast. Just to make his ageing softer. Better.

He’ll have to settle for branding it to memory, trying to capture every dip and high in your cries. Your fingers clench; he didn’t even know it was possible. The soft sting of pulled hair a constant reminder of your grip. «Fuck, Leon, I’m close.»

Your warning means nothing; the absolute abandon with which your orgasm hit you renders it useless. Your legs lock, keeping him there, the hand in his hair tightens, and loosens in spasms that scream of barely held together concern, and your whole body shakes. The moment your body snaps over the edge is loud. Your back arches in a delicious curve, creaking ominously, as if threatening to break. A gush of slick wetness suddenly rushes down his chin as he desperately tries to swallow as much of it as he can. Greedy. It lasts minutes, and when you finally slump back, he’s tempted to follow you for a second round. He almost does, succeeding only in one good kitten lick over your pussy, but the tug in his hair stills him. «God, please, up— I want you inside.» The need to just ignore you and just keep feeding his own wants is strong; it shows its ugly head in a low growl, and very poorly disguised self-control. He’s so hard in his pants. It hadn’t even occurred to him. «Talk to me.» Your voice is a lifeline, a life jacket thrown into the abyss of his desire. «I- I just really fucking want you.» He does, he really does. With all his heart and all his body. «You have me. Up now. I wanna see you naked.» The hand in his hair, that had just been resting at this point, slithers out of its previous grasp. You regain a surprising amount of grace for someone who had just had an orgasm as you shimmy upward into the still-too-small bed and settle against the headboard, throwing his old shirt over your head and sideways. Remaining starkly naked. Ah, the joys of youth.

Your eyes glisten playfully, a tug on your lips betrays renewed vitality. «Come on, chop chop.» The belt clinks; it all comes so naturally.

«You’re gorgeous.» You murmur when he’s as naked as you are, and he believes you, it’s very hard not to, with your pupils blown and your breath shallow. «You are.» he still replies, because you are and because you deserve to know.

The edge of desperation has faded, or better, it’s still there, pulsing in his temples, but it’s background noise. You’re the centre of it. He’s present enough to remember to prepare you. An orgasm is great, but it does not work wonders; gently, slowly, until you’re begging for it and shoving the condom wrap in his hands.

Then, when he’s sinking into you. Kissing you deeply and letting you taste yourself on his tongue. He thinks this might be the only time he has fully felt himself in the last decade.

You flinch at every inch he feeds you, muttering about beard burns on your inner thighs, and hitching your breath at every less-than-perfectly-controlled thrust. It’s agonising and slow. But it’s so tenderly vulnerable that he’d rather soon cut his own hand off than speed it all up.

It makes for a perfect moment to hold you. To bury his face in the crook of your neck and inhale your perfume. You smell safe. Like the coffee you keep sharing with him and the metal of your guitar’s string. But that has to be his imagination. The lingering feeling of knowing you deeply and fully.

When you finally start to urge him further, nudging him closer and deeper. He has half a mind to deny you. Just to hear your soft whimpers once more. But he doesn’t. Because he adores you and you deserve better than a prick that likes your whining.

So he speeds up, thrusts deeper, harder, throws you around a bit to make sure to hit all your sweet spots.

«Leon— close.» Fuck, he’s too, your vicious grip really leaving him no respite. «I know—» your walls flutter tighter around him. «Fuck, me too… me too, love.» His arm hooks your leg back up, calf resting into the crook of his elbow; he hopes he’s not crushing your leg in his grasp, but the line between squishing, gripping and smashing has gone blurry a few minutes ago. He hoists you higher, thrusting deeper still, your punched-out moans filling the room. «Fu—» You come first, hard, throwing your head back, crying out the tension building in your lower belly. The sight of you is what tips him over the edge. Plain as that. His heart squeezes painfully, his leg cramps slightly and then he comes. The light coming through your curtains hits softer than the one coming through his. Leon wonders why it is so. «Good morning, sunshine.» Your voice lulls him out of sleep. It’s the first time in ages he woke up before 1 pm. «Morning, princess.» Your room smells like coffee and the faint traces of last night’s sex. Your hips sway playfully as you close the gap between where you stand and where he lies. This is a life worth living.

Your lips fall to his temple, softly, cradling his face in the cups of your hands. «To think better.» You murmur on his skin, lower, gentler still, on his right eye. A barely-there kiss. «To see better» then his left «to aim better.» The letter sits on the counter, DSO, confidential. Black skin marrying his body. You love him. You have told him so countless times, even like this, even this broken, infected version of him. But he can't stand the infection, not the idea of it, not the sight. Another nest of scars, another mark. Something that takes and takes and gives nothing back. A life he has chosen.

His lips must taste of regret and shame; it looks like you’ll have none of it, not if you can kiss that away. He doesn’t deserve you. «What is that for?» Your shoulder shakes, a shrug, normality, domesticity. Nothing is changing. He holds onto your confidence like a lifeline. «That one is for me. To keep you close.»

He’ll get back to you. To the three-room apartment, and he’ll tell you of his idea to knock down the wall separating your units and merge your lives once and for all. He’ll tell you he wants to adopt a cat and settle into your life; like he belongs. Because he’s starting to think he does. Here, with you. He will when he comes back from this “yet another” mission. His last one. He promise. «I’ll come back.» «I know.»

«I love you.» Your gaze falls softly on his. He knows you know. «I love you too.» He does come home. Worse for wear, too old to recover in a couple of weeks, but he does come back. He promised you.

You make a mess of your apartments, and the cat gets named Chad. It never fails to make you laugh, so he just relents to the name. It’s silly, it’s stupid, it’s odd, but most importantly, it’s you. And in your existence, there is that damned space you have made for him.

Ao3 Link Let me know what you think <3 <3

Leon knew you well enough to almost hear the curses that must have gone through your mind when you saw the building in all its glory.

Or, technically, the lack of it. The whitewashed wooden walls made an overwhelming impression, like they could swallow everyone who stepped inside. ‘Thank god we are getting paid for this,’ he tried to joke when you first saw the pictures, but the reality turned out to be even worse.

“Not happy with your wife’s choice, sir?”

Leon raised his brow and looked at the man who stood by his side and stared at his Porsche while licking his lips.

“My wife’s choice?”

“The property,” said the previous owner of the place that the two of you, allegedly, purchased. “From the look on your face I gather you’re not very pleased with it.”

He didn’t appreciate the comment, especially with the smug smile on Ellis’ face. The man was much younger than him, probably mid-thirties, and if Leon would have to find a term to describe him it would be junkie. In the few minutes he knew him, while you got out of the car and checked your baggage, Ellis circled around you like a feral animal. He offered his help like he was physically unable to stand in one place.

Leon could see the looks he gave you. Well, it was hard not to look, when you were sitting there on the stairs in your pretty bright dress, looking like you could really enjoy an arrangement like that. This kind of life. The fact didn’t make Leon any more merciful towards the man’s glares.

He forced himself to hum lightly, instead of grunting his teeth.

“Doesn’t matter what I think as long as she is happy.”

The truth of it was visible even outside your current roles, outside the job, and it was slightly pathetic, really. He was a grown man, older and more experienced than you, and he couldn’t force himself to not cling to your opinions and wishes. He always told himself it was the lack of people who he let close to him. It happened to be you, his partner, who broke the ice over the shared work, and he kept you nearby even if it was not needed.

Ellis laughed.

“Aye, happy wife, happy life, as my Ma says.”

A hand was playfully placed on Leon’s shoulder, and he must have looked at it too harshly, because it quickly disappeared. Ellis raised both his hands to say he didn’t mean to disrespect him, yet leaned closer to lower his voice.

“She clearly is a woman you want to keep happy, your little wife, Mr. Kennedy,” he muttered, much too pleased with himself for Leon’s liking.

He always kept himself in check when it came to being overbearing, but now he truly wished he could beat the smirk out of his face. Probably add a few kicks for obnoxiously checking you out.

“She’s a bit young for you, ain't she?”

Normally, Leon would shrug and move on. That boy couldn’t say a single thing that would offend him, but now it wasn't about the cover. He didn’t hear words about the fake marriage, the weirdly misplaced bonds that you performed for the sake of the case. At that moment for Leon it was the brutal truth about what a woman like you could see in a man like him.

A thing that should never, not in any version of reality, make him wonder.

“Don’t worry, I’m not one to judge a man for lucid choices.”

Leon firmly took the bag out of his hands.

“Not your concern,” he said as calmly as he could.

“Sure thing, sir. It’s a pleasure to have you here… Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy.”

He left Ellis behind and strolled after your jumpy form. It only made everything worse that you were literally pulling a role worthy of an Oscar.

“Are you coming, Leon?” You called in that soft voice. He would have never guessed that it could actually suit you.

“Right behind you.”

It crossed his mind again, against his wish, that he could get used to… an arrangement like that. To a young wife, even if she would be a bit too flighty for what he was used to. To thinking about houses, renovations. To the idea of a child on the way.

He would need to change, put a lot of effort to make it work at least a bit, but was that not worth it? After the hell he’s been through, what wouldn’t he give to have some peace in life?

He watched you stop in your tracks and look over your shoulder. Your girlish sweet grin turned into something more mature, calmer but confused. Your eyes bore a silent question and some worry for your co-worker.

He managed to nod his head to let you know he was alright.

You were not his wife, nor had a single reckless or childish bone about yourself. If the idea he shamelessly indulged in a moment ago made him wonder, feel alive again, now it only escalated. The tension knocked the breath out of his lungs.

He told himself it was the nerves. A relevant sense of cautiousness on a mission, very much needed to stay sharp and alive.

He was now very sure, though – those moldy white walls of a rural southern cottage will swallow him whole and change the one of the very few good things in his life.

“This place is fucked,” you whispered to him, when the other man was too far to hear you.

“I'm glad we agree on that.”

“We always do, Leon,” you noticed with a small smile and nudged his side. “We're a match made in hell.”

You winked at him to cheer him up, just like he did many times before. He could say he called it upon himself… It was him who taught you effective group job and now regretted that it was not something more.

The drive to the coordinates sent by your supervisors was long enough to make you go through all radio channels, share some terrible dad jokes and comment on the last football match that none of you really cared about. Both of you never found each other’s company boring, but today the conversation kept on only for the sake of avoiding the serious topic.

You had to go through that sooner rather than later but no one could force you to stop pretending that you were just a pair of normal co-workers on their way to an absolutely safe, simple job.

When the GPS showed that you were less than an hour from your destination, it was finally the time to finish the conversation started in the office. Leon interrupted the explanations of your opinion with displeased sighs, even if he didn’t mean to.

“You're taking the danger upon yourself,” he pointed out. “Again.”

You turned down the volume of a metal song shrieking from the radio – not your exact choice of music, but there was nothing better.

Trying to think of a better option, you tapped your fingers over the steering wheel and shrugged.

“Well, we can tell them that it's you who's pregnant, but I'm not sure if they will believe us,” you finally muttered.

Leon scoffed with forced humor.

“I think it’s unnecessary.”

“And I think there’s no point in risking that we fail,” you argued, already sure that your word was final.

It was admirable, actually, how quickly you accepted your role. Especially after you criticized and cursed it out firmly when the case was first explained to you.

Leon almost laughed in your face when he saw the grimace caused by the instructions from your DSO boss.

“How about you send some rookie instead? I’m not fond of playing dress-up,” you argued, but your voice was dutiful enough to not anger the man.

He smiled, probably winning a bet with his own co-worker over the matter if you and Kennedy will whine about it or not.

“The bodies were never found…” he added, like he tried to cheer you up.

“Oh, yes, that is indeed very convincing.” You crossed your arms over your chest and looked at your partner. “Leon?”

He only nodded. Seeing the seriousness of the situation made him much less fond of joking than you and your boss were.

“So I have to play an idiot?” Your brows furrowed, as you leaned over the table to go through the prepared report.

“A woman in love, Y/n. Humans are most usually capable of emotions like that–”

“Don’t mock me, sir…” you muttered warningly, but they could tell you found it amusing. “Then a pregnant childish girl ‘in love’ who drags her husband who, might I add, is twice her age, to the middle of nowhere. That's a synonym of an idiot. No offense, Leon, it has nothing to do with you.”

“Sure,” he said, like he was either the most miserable man on the planet, or not really here.

“God, you’ve got a real cruel woman assigned to you, Leon. How are you holding up?”

If the good mood of your boss meant the job could be easy, it should lighten the spirit. Still, Leon could see your face hardening with every sentence of the report that you’ve read.

“I manage,” he said, simply to not appear too impolite, then looked over your shoulder. “So… Constance and Ellis Harmon,” he read out loud.

“Yes. Mother and son, never reported before, but we knew about them. Wanna take a guess who the daddy worked for?” He was clearly disappointed by your disinterest in the game of guessing. “Umbrella. Died many years ago in an accident.”

You sighed.

“And now Constance and Ellis try to sell a property to some young people who go missing and there are reports of disturbing signs nearby.”

“Bingo, Agent Y/n.”

“They still live in the same place?” Leon asked, before the boss would again disappear in the bottomless end of his office and would turn absolutely unreachable for any advice.

“Yes. In fact, they arranged it with the families of the previous owners… Well, the missing couple. The Harmons paid them back and kept the house. The two of you are next buyers, it’s already settled. All they asked for is that they can stay in the house for a few weeks before finding another place.”

“Isn’t that just perfect for us, huh?” You chipped.

“Yeah, we might have used some friendly connections to make that happen,” the man admitted, before slamming a ‘supportive’ hand on Leon’s shoulder and nodding to you. “Good luck.”

And there you were, with your backs hurting from sitting for too long and nerves already settling in your minds.

“If we are to stay there longer we should think about some… fake renovations,” you thought out loud. “It would be suspicious if we just come with two bags and pretend that’s all of our belongings.”

Leon saw that despite all your complainings you were taking that whole undercover thing seriously. Probably too seriously for him to remain sane.

“We can just say we are too poor for that now.”

You let out a sudden laugh.

"We're about to pull up in a new Porsche,” you pointed out.

“Then we say it was a gift.”

“Leon. I'm wearing a Hermès belt, and your jacket could pay my rent for at least a few months.”

He rolled his eyes, but couldn’t disagree that it was reasonable.

“Think they would recognize stuff like that?”

“We don't know that,” you said while raising one finger like a true diplomat. “What we do know is that they are dangerous.”

He agreed and focused on the view outside. A big damn tract of nothing for miles. Some sort of void was creeping in the air with every minute that led you closer to the place.

You could swear you were never so happy about seeing an announcement of a shop nearby before. Even Leon cracked a smile at the thought of stretching his limbs.

“We should change seats before we get there,” he noticed, making you look at him with confusion over your face.

“Why? Oh… right. I wouldn't let my man sit there like that, yeah? Or–” you clicked your tongue, clearly proud of your ideas, “It is my man who wants me to be a passenger princess.”

“Yeah, no. I'm just scared of how fast you drive,” he muttered sarcastically.

You appreciated that he tried to make you forget how inconvenient all of this was to you. Over the years you fought for your independence more than others, especially in this line of work, just to be thrown back in the boots of a helpless girl. It was just your job, sure, but it was hard not to taste something bitter on your tongue. Something awfully familiar.

“That is a successful attempt to cheer me up, sir.”

“I'm just being honest.”

You scoffed and shook your head.

“Also, I miss my car,” Leon added suddenly, trying to force its air conditioning to cooperate.

“You are in your car.”

“It’s not the same as sitting behind the wheel.”

“Now you sound like a man,” you said like it could actually disappoint you.

“I am a man.”

“Nahh, you’re too good.”

You turned to him as a corner of your lip flew up in an irresistible grin.

“God, I really don't get you young people…” Leon massaged his temple, only making you smile more.

“C’mon, Leon, don’t make me feel like I’m on a sightseeing trip with my old man,” you teased. You kept tapping the leather on the wheel, before adding: “I don’t, just for the record…”

“You don’t what?”

You had to blink a few times, not really focused on your own words before. Leon hummed insistently, making you end the thought before you could sneak out of it.

“I don’t feel like that. Like I’m with my… You know.”

God, you could feel the tension building up. It was just an attempt at a joke, and here you were grimacing, while Leon cleared his throat. Perhaps it was really the age difference that made you so misunderstanding of one another today? At the same time it was never an issue before.

How could it be? You were known for your professional connection and perfect complementing each other in your work.

“Oh, yeah, right. Yeah, that’s good.”

You took a sharp breath. Thanks, Leon, you talkative king. That certainly made everything less awkward.

When you were first paired up you didn't expect him to be a guy fond of light conversations mid-work. You did talk a bit, sometimes he even answered or offered a hum, but it wasn't much. After the first mistake that led you to almost losing your hands, he literally begged you to talk as much as you need if it helps you stay focused. It turned out that it calmed him a lot too.

Thankfully, he laughed when you left the car. What suddenly made him so cheerful was your desperate grasp on the four-pack of canned beer.

“Though you don’t really drink.”

Of course, he knew you didn't drink. How could he not? You have spent too much time together. At this point you were long past favorite colors, taste in music or causes of teenage heartbreaks. He had your damn collection of button ups memorized and could recognize when you did laundry. Without ever mentioning it you both settled on him taking care of your home devices and you accompanying him to every possible official appointment, even if just to sit in the waiting room.

“Well, if the place turns out to be too bad to sleep… We have to do something at night, right?”

He stared at the cautiously picked wedding ring on your finger when you swung the cans in front of his face. The piece was not too outworn, but not exactly new. Someone did a good job providing it, taking care of details.

“We can always get pissed after everything’s done and closed. A little celebration.”

If he had anything to celebrate, he would take you to a five-star restaurant and watch you get drunk with expensive wine like you deserved. The circumstances were not on his side, though, so he guessed cheap beer in some rural area was fine as well.

“Let's not get ahead of it,” he said before leaving the shop.

It felt unnerving to not be able to speak and joke around like you always did. You were both no strangers to undercover work – well, you probably knew it better than Leon – but there was something strange about portraying such a domestic relationship without actually letting on any of your shared past.

Mrs. Harmon turned out to be eerie enough to deserve the title of her even more eerie son. She tried to welcome you with forced happiness and care that actually felt choking. She rushed you to sit at the table like a good host would, and left to rush Ellis with moving your baggage.

You and Leon shared a look over the stew that didn’t look too bad, but better be prepared than sorry.

“I hope we didn’t just find out lost newlyweds…” you said grimly with a grimace on your face.

“Jesus,” Leon sighed. “What the hell, Y/n?”

You raised your hands protectively.

“Would that even surprise you at this point?”

“Hell no.”

Constance was back at once, and you felt the need to risk it a bit.

“M’am? Any meat in it?”

She looked at you like you just slapped her, but not in the way you expected. Or, actually, prayed to not see.

“Oh, no, sweet thing, sorry. My son gets sick from all the meat…”

“Good, so do I!” You claimed happily. “Just wanted to make sure. It’s the… the first trimester, you know.”

Something changed on the woman’s face. It could be a spark of excitement, of course, but Leon’s instinct after the years of work didn’t fool him. It was something much different. In fact, if he could, he would drop his hand to his gun at once.

“You’re expecting!” She squealed and Leon could hear the grunting of your teeth even from his place on the other side of the table. “Well, isn’t that lovely! Congratulations…”

You waited for her to put on a saddened look and mention the previous couple – the young people who, as you suspected, got brutally murdered in this house – but she didn’t. It was smart of her. Why would she try to convince you of her innocence, if she wasn’t even sure that you knew about the whole thing? It was quite loud about the disappearance in the media, but who knows?

You managed to excuse yourself from the table to go take a look at the room that was supposed to be your shared bedroom.

“Jesus,” you gasped, stepping into the room.

Leon quickly understood what you meant. It was hard not to grimace. He stared at the single bed and carefully threw the sheets away like it could be contagious with something bad.

“Oh, fuck, no,” you squealed, a little bit too dramatic.

He could scold you, but that would make him a damn hypocrite. It made him want to gag as well. “I’m not sleeping on that, hell no.”

“Shush, she might hear it,” he warned, making sure the door was properly closed.

“Think she’s eavesdropping now? Good, she might come change this… whatever that is.”

“Doubt it.”

“Let me keep some hope, alright?” You sighed, sinking to your knees to examine the nasty material like it could interest you.

Staying somewhere for longer wasn’t typical for your work, but checking the place for hidden wiretapping or other suspicious things was an instinct. Leon already got to it, so you climbed the windowsill and sat as comfortably as you could and sank your hand in the pocket of your jacket.

The bright cotton material of your dress felt weirdly irritating on your skin. That moment made you swear in your head that you will never again complain about wearing combat boots and heavy equipment.

A cigarette that you lazily placed between your lips as you searched your pockets for a lighter was suddenly snatched away.

“Hey–”

A moment ago you watched Leon look under the dirty old rug that covered the floor. Now he stood over you with an unreadable look. For a second he wore an expression that you could take for blame, like any of that was your fault.

It quickly disappeared and Leon nudged his head back, handing you the smoke back so you could keep it for later.

“Are you alright, Leon?”

He nodded dismissively.

“Come on, let’s go look around.”

“Sure. You look inside and I go out?” You offered, following habits. To make everything smoother, you usually parted your ways; upstairs, downstairs, attics, basements… as long as it didn’t seem too dangerous to go alone, you respected your time. “I can talk to the woman, ask if the land is fertile in case I want to have plants… Maybe I’ll see something suspiciously similar to a mound.”

“We should stay together–”

Leon’s words were interrupted by a soft knock. He moved to open the door ajar, and you jumped from the windowsill.

“I just wanted to let you know,” Constance peaked inside with a smile, “me and my son will be leaving for work tomorrow. We are gardeners at a nearby mansion. You are mostly welcome to look around freely then.”

Leon thanked her and you forced a too optimistic grin. When she was gone, he shook his shoulders at the opportunity and showed you to move.

“Well, lucky us. Let’s go outside now and tomorrow we can make sure that they’re gone before we go through the insides,” he said while leaning in when you passed him in the door.

The warm weather made you puff your hair out of your face. You dreamed about taking off the jacket that carefully protected the carefully hidden holster but bore the discomfort bravely.

“It’s like holidays at grandma’s… plus two dead kids and a family of psychos,” you whispered when you strolled through the yard.

Leon didn’t allow the joking anymore. He looked like he was annoyed by your light tone suddenly. It made you wonder what you said or did… but it was Leon. Over the last few weeks, you noticed he was like that. He could go quiet without any particular reason, or simply disappear when you needed him.

Acceptable, but difficult to get used to. You used to rely on him whenever you needed – and him on you – and now it was… what it was.

He offered you his arm, and you could feel how much the gesture cost him. He was probably praying for the Harmons to be gone, so you could act normal again…

“We can agree that there is no hope, then?” He looked behind you to make sure no one was listening nearby. “We are looking for dead people, not missing?”

“I think so. Miracles happen, sure, but… I don’t know, what do you think?”

“No miracles here,” he judged somberly.

“Right. So corpses.”

The idea of spending a night at this place was unnerving. Especially with the awareness that the unfortunate newlyweds could still be rotting somewhere inside, and you couldn’t go look for them.

“Inspecting abandoned places is easier… mentally,” you admitted with a sight. “This lurid domesticity makes me sick.”

“I know. I don’t like it either.”

Lie. The people were awful, the place even more, but he couldn’t force himself to hate it.

You made the mistake of thinking about the bed again and grimaced.

“Jesus, I don’t think I will wash this house off of me, like ever.”

It turned out to not be that bad, though. Leon laid his jacket and shirt on the bed to give you at least a bit of comfort. Eventually you ended up in his hoodie as well with the hood covering half of your face. He gave up when you declared you will shave your hair if even one lock touches the dirty sheets.

He was quite bashfully proud for a defeated man, truth be told.

You both laid in the bed almost perfectly still, like any movement could call something terrible upon you. You stared at the dark ceiling, listening to your own breathing that mixed with Leon’s.

Circumstances like that were not unfamiliar, as weird as it was to admit. You slept in each other’s arms for warmth, napped in bushes and abandoned buildings when it was necessary.

You even once crashed on the couch in his apartment after a difficult job. You were both so exhausted that you almost started imagining things, and you had no trust for yourself about writing a report. It had to be done as soon as possible, and Leon offered you could do it together, but after at least seven hours of undisturbed sleep. Before any of you could notice, your nervous giggle turned into sobbing at the memory of the awful things you saw and Leon pulled you to his chest.

Today was different nonetheless. The thrill caused by the closeness of a man you trusted with your one life mingled with the grief you felt for every victim you couldn’t save.

You would give a lot to move closer to Leon, draw your arms around his form and not feel him stiffen up at the same time. Despite the ache in your bones you forced yourself to not move.

“Leon?” You cleared your throat after it felt too dry.

“Hm?”

Of course, he didn’t pretend to be asleep… He was fully aware the moment your breath barely sped up, and waited until you spoke first.

“One personal question, can I?”

“In this situation I think we are forced into asking mostly personal questions.” Not like it was something new. 

For a second you regretted your idea. Maybe it was too much. Maybe he would consider you nosy.

“Please,” he added, thinking you took his words for disapproval.

“Did you ever think about having a family?”

He hummed like he wanted to say ‘ah, that one’.

“When I was young. Before Raccoon City,” he admitted without a longer thought. It was not something he hesitated to admit. “You?”

For you, it was different. You brushed your hands over the soft material of his hoodie on your body and crossed your arms over your chest, while laying on your back.

“Yeah, but I only thought about how awful that idea makes me feel.”

“Bad example in life?” He was pretty sure he understood what kind of examples you had over the years. Damn, like he knew any better.

“Absolutely terrible,” you agreed.

“I know this whole thing is difficult for you.” You failed to notice that he moved, until he supported his weight on his hand and moved to the side. “For us both, really…”

You laughed without humor.

“Yeah, it’s awful, right? It makes me question my choices in life a bit.” It was supposed to be a joke, but Leon didn’t brush off the melancholic undertone.

“Come on, don’t do that.” You would swear he shifted closer, as if to see your face more clearly. “You said it yourself, you’re not a family person… and you do what you’re best at. Even if it’s not the most satisfying job ever.”

“It is satisfying, actually,” you argued softly, “just… exhausting.”

Now it was his turn to laugh.

“Tell me about it, darling.”

Yeah, the mental tiredness made you both slip into an easier mood, and for some reason you couldn’t stop grinning.

“I’m rambling,” you noticed, realizing you really had no reasons to question your life. “I mean… The only maternal feelings I have are for animals online. Oh, and my cat, obviously. He’s the only addition I need.”

“Oh, right, your cat.” Leon nodded, like he could never forget the devilish spawn. He used to joke about the scars he had from the creature’s claws.

“My son, Leon,” you corrected him jokingly.

The sleep came surprisingly easy after that.

The lookout around the house turned out to be as resultless as it could. Well, that’s at least what Leon said. You were rather content with finding some dusty, forgotten equipment in the basement that made you think about Constance Harmon’s dead husband and his allegations to Umbrella.

“Come one, it is something,” you insisted, seeing Leon’s irritated face.

Usually your older colleague was the one famous for patience more than you. Now, if you didn’t know him, you would suspect he had really nice reasons to rush home. And by nice reasons you meant a date or a waiting pretty girl. Cruel as it could be, you hoped it wasn’t the case. It couldn’t be, right? Other than co-workers, you were also friends… He would definitely tell you.

“We learned something that we already knew,” he snarled.

You didn’t want to piss him off any more, so you tried to hide your grin when he jumped back from a pile of cardboard boxes that fell over before a fat rat jumped out of it.

“Soo…” You stayed still while sitting on a dirty, old couch in the living room, like it could bite you if you moved too much. The cup of tea that Leon put in front of you on the table didn’t make an impression much better. “What now, Mr. Kennedy, sir?”

He didn’t even react to your mocking tone and kept tapping his boot on the ground nervously. You didn’t see Leon that distracted in a long time.

You cleared your throat and closed your eyes before taking a sip of the tea. It tasted fine as long as you didn’t have to see that cup.

“I took a look at the map of the area,” you mentioned, making him look up from his own hands. “There’s this weird quarry up north, but I would focus on the cemetery nearby.”

“Okay…”

“So,” you tried again, feeling at least confused about his behavior, “my call?”

“Yes. Make the choice, Agent.”

A smirk. There he was.

It’s not like you depended on his approval, but it was a silent agreement that you never minded. It was made out of… sympathy? Respect? Some sort of admiration?

It was certainly smart to rely on the opinion of your much more experienced friend… Usually, when he didn’t act so weird.

You reached behind you to make sure your gun was loaded and in its place. You nodded, and something proud bloomed on Leon’s face.

“Cemetery it is then,” you decided as he threw on his jacket. “It’s just a nice walk in the sundown if someone asks. We’re not suspicious.”

“Please, us? Not at all,” he agreed. “Cemetery at sundown… You made it sound romantic on purpose, didn’t you?”

Oh, yeah – now he was being himself. He changed over the years you knew him. More tired, more in terms with the world which made him slightly inert, but at moments like that he still had that boyish thing in himself.

The evening wind made you feel like your true self again. The holster’s weight made you keep your head high, the professional in you waking up.

“Did you call our DSO contact to let them know?”

“I tried. Forget it. No phone coverage,” you answered quickly.

It wasn’t the first time you were on your own. It was actually a mutual trait of your informants from The Division – they were never there when needed…

And unfortunately you needed a piece of advice really badly when Leon kicked the door of a small wooden chapel in the middle of the graveyard.

“Ladies first–”

The joke fell unanswered, interrupted only by a rattling sound.

You stepped inside bravely, but not even your drawn gun could save you from the impact of the reeking body that hit you. You fell to the floor, trying to keep the walking – well, crawling – corpse at arm’s distance from you. Your fingers intertwined with hers as you held to the hand that wildly attempted to scratch your face.

“Don’t shoot!” You managed to rasp, hearing Leon rush closer.

“What?!”

But he listened.

He grasped the shoulders of a young woman whose body clung to you in desperate hunger, and pulled her back, smacking her to the ground. It gave you a few seconds to look before there was no choice but to shoot.

You were no longer sure if that was the right option. Maybe you didn’t want to look at all.

Your gaze was glued to the wedding band that stayed in your hand when Leon pushed her back. With an unbearable weight you forced your eyes up on her.

The girl was visibly pregnant when she died. You almost choked on your breath and your attempt to stand up looked more like crawling back in despair.

The howl of Leon’s gun made you look back to your hands.

“Fuck…”

“Are you alright?” He looked over your figure when you were finally back on your feet.

“I’m fine.” You caught the wall to steady yourself, fighting against nausea and dizziness. “She was… God, Leon…”

He was right at your side. “I know. Hey, look at me–”

Your hand shot up, like you wanted to defend yourself from any accusations. “I’m okay. I’m holding up. Let’s… let’s just keep going.”

“Don’t lie to me like that,” he warned, his voice as warm as he could force it to be.

He was shaken up too, just much better at hiding it inside of him. Things like that plagued him at nights, in nightmares and specters that creeped around him in the shadows. Sometimes he even envied you for your fast, strong reactions.

You could let out a single sob or a yelp of anger, then hold his arm for a few seconds like you could crush his bones, and then never mention the matter again. If you shed tears, it was the last time you allowed any emotions about this.

Yet, he could feel this was different.

“I’ll do that,” he tried to stop you when you stepped closer to the body to identify it.

You had the girl’s photo memorized. You really didn’t need to look at her undead, pained face, but you were a professional.

“Don’t be indulgent for me, Leon. Let’s find her husband.”

You did find him. This time you didn’t hesitate, your hands didn’t shake, nor did you regret. You freed the man from his suffering with a few clean shots. He was rummaging through nearby forest around the cemetery. His barely human face resembled some longing – it was like he, even in his infected mind, still sought his wife and hoped to see her again.

Well, you could only hope that he did. All you could do was make sure, that when the services come, they both will be found and placed in a shared grave– or whatever their families wished for.

Leon considered your job done.

You didn’t.

Still, you had no strength in yourself to reason with him today. The dirty bed didn’t even seem so bad as the previous night. You were forced to stay here either way, because of all your attempts to reach The Division’s people remained unanswered.

“Oh Lord, did something happen, Mr. Kennedy?” Constance Harmon stood on the doorstep when you came back and looked over your grimaced face.

You managed to make it less furious, but you couldn’t hide the hurt. You bite your lip at the realization that she had the gut to look at him, ask him, like you weren’t here.

“Everything is alright. My wife isn’t feeling very well, that’s all.”

“Can I…”

“You cannot,” you snapped, and could feel Leon’s hand tightening around your waist. “Thank you, Constance. We will be fine. Sorry, it’s the… the mood swings.”

She smiled warmly, trying to say she knew it well.

Your shoulders fell when you finally reached your room. Surprisingly, Leon’s hands didn’t leave. He moved them up to your arms and held you close, while looking over your face.

“Y/n…”

“Oh please, we have been through worse,” you said under your breath like it was him who asked for consolation.

“Have we?” He raised his brow. “Come on, let it out,” he urged you.

“What, you want me to cry my eyes out just like that?”

He shrugged, and you sighed heavily, no longer sure if it was mostly fury, fear or sadness.

“Jesus, fine,” you snapped and moved closer.

Your body hit his with a force that made him stumble back a bit, before he fixed his hold on you and cradled your head.

“You’re babysitting me again,” you whispered into his chest.

“I’m not. I’m just trying to spare you the guilt and loneliness that I had to go through.”

Was that it? A trusted confidant trying to ensure his younger friend’s comfort?

Because at this point you highly doubted that. He didn’t hold you like a mentor, not like a colleague.

It was hard to put a name to what you two had. You never thought about it much. It was always just Leon, the one and only.

You promised you will be perfectly okay after you wash the memory of today off your body, but the old pipes refused to work. Leon insisted on going to see what was wrong, but you forbid him from going. Being separated and calling some tragedy upon yourself was the last thing you needed now.

The nighttime seemed to come quicker, like it wanted to match your grim mood. Shadows enveloped you when you laid in bed still. Even more still than last night. Well, at least you tried.

You could feel the sweat on your back, temples, shoulders… you were shaking against your wish. Despite the feeling that you were dirty, you didn’t complain that Leon held you close without a word of protest.

At this point he was really your person, the one you could go to with everything. He was never much of a mentor – more like a backbone that you could cling to whenever you were unsure.

Over the last few years he saw all of you. Happiness after a promotion, grief, breakup… He turned out to be one of the few steady things in this life. He was older, misunderstood by most, hell, sometimes even by you, told bad jokes, and despite the anger that he carried, he still believed he could make the world a bit of a better place. None of you had any use of building a new bond, something else.

It was inconvenient. A risk. Danger.

“Hey.” Of course, he couldn’t stay silent when a particularly violet shiver shook your body. “Do you want me to find you something warm to wear?”

It wasn’t about the cold, and he knew that. In fact, the air in the room felt choking, like it could fry your brains and leave you dry.

“No need, Leon. I’m just… I’m thinking about her.”

Of course you were. He wasn't free of that either.

He shifted closer, making you turn your head. You blinked the tears away before he could make that awful concerned face that broke your heart a bit every time.

“You shouldn’t be wearing that,” he whispered firmly.

Leon caught your hand to gently swing the additional ring off of your finger. The one that belongs to the dead woman. “We’re lucky they didn’t notice.”

“They wouldn’t.”

He stopped and watched the single band that was left on your hand, the one matching to his own.

You shivered again, and he could see you grimaced in some revolt about the things you had to witness. It was hard not to be rebellious after seeing a young pregnant girl with a life in front of her, stripped of chances and bare human dignity. Yes, it was an experience that either turned you into a mass murderer, or made you put a bullet through your own head – if not supported properly. Leon struggled in his young days. Shit, he still struggles.

That's why he pulled you to his chest.

You didn’t remember making the choice of grasping his shirt and yanking him close without a warning, like he was a breath of air you desperately needed. It could be your nerves that made the choice, the built-up tension from the day.

All you knew was that it was so much more than just a simple way to take your mind off the difficult topics. It mattered. And now you found yourself grazing your lips over Leon’s neck, pulling on the collar of his shirt.

“That’s the last thing we should–” he barely choked out, with no will to pull away. He got quiet after a groan that forced its way out of his throat. “That’s unwise,” he stated, proving to you that he had no care in himself about how unwise.

One of Leon’s arms made its way over your waist, keeping you closer as he shifted his weight. The other found your hand again and gently pulled it off his body. Intertwining your fingers, he left a single kiss on them and pressed your hand to the nasty mattres with the strength of his own.

He kissed your temples, over and over again, when you breathed heavily into his collarbone.

“I pushed my luck before.”

You had to look up to register the words that he said.

Your head was spinning, even more so after he made an effort to brush your hair so they don’t fall into your eyes.

“Is that how you see it? Pushing your lu–”

“Pushing my luck with you, yes,” he admitted, then clung to you like he was aware of the slight chance he found and wasn’t willing to let go. “I don’t mean to use the fact that you’re distressed. I never… I don’t want to take advantage of you, Y/n.”

“Leon…”

“You know me, love,” he breathed out, his nerves clearly taking over. He spoke like a man who was held responsible for a crime, while still holding you like a stolen jewel he would never let go of. “I’m not that kind of man.”

“I know,” you say, feeling the need to comfort him. “You think I’m here with you because I feel lost? Scared? That I broke every single rule of work relationships over the last few years, despite promising myself that would never happen? I might be younger, Leon, but I’m not a child…”

But Leon was a stubborn bastard. You saw it in his eyes. Even on the first day you saw him.

Making him stop thinking less about himself was a long job, and you had a lot of free time to spare on that.

For now, all you cared about was that he stayed with you here.

“Just… hold me, will you?”

“Mhm. That I can do.”

Holding quickly turned into openmouthed kisses and caressing each other’s bodies. Your lips were broken, your head hurt like hell from all the emotions and your chest felt tight, but you were never that healed before.

You wondered, how did a man like Leon manage to keep so much gentleness in him and how lucky you were to be blessed with a knowledge of it.

Your fists ached and Ellis Harmon’s face literally pleaded you to beat the grin out of it. You dreamed of nothing more, truly, but that would be a satisfaction purely for you.

You tortured yourself with the memory of the dead girl’s look, and repeated that you were doing it for her. She certainly would like others to be safe from such fate. You felt the need to know why she was chosen and how it happened. It was only fair to her.

You leaned closer, fully aware that your dress slipped from your shoulder just a bit. Ellis’ wandering gaze only confirmed that.

“So… You like the house, I take it?”

“A lot!”

You send him an innocent smile. At the fucking murderer. It made you sick at once, but you forced yourself into calmness.

He was working on something in the garden when you approached him. You made sure to start the conversation by saying that your husband was busy, and you were feeling lonely. Ellis was eager to keep you company, of course.

“Say, Mrs. Kennedy… Doesn’t he treat you a bit cold, your husband?” He asked with perfectly played worry. “Leaving you alone like that… He should be at your side, making sure you are happy and content.”

“He takes good care of me,” you promised in your playfully naive tone, “and you are here now to do the same.”

He caught  the hint and lifted his gaze from the plants again. Wiping his dirty hands on his trousers he finally stood up.

“I am here indeed, aye?”

You forced yourself to smile bashfully.

“Show me more of your work?” You chipped.

“Filthy thing, you are,” muttered Ellis, too happy for your liking.

If you could, you’d love gagging and breaking his nose. Yet, what you were trying to achieve was too important. He offered you his hand which you took without hesitation.

“Promise me you’ll answer a few of my questions about the house later?”

He couldn’t say no to such a sweet, soft voice, couldn’t he? Little did he know you didn’t need his promises even one bit. He would be at the mercy of your gun with talking as his only protection from being killed on the spot.

“Sure, honey. For a girl like you… everything.”

There was very little truth in everything you said in this conversation, starting from Leon’s current activity.

He wasn’t busy and you knew that. It made you feel better, in fact. You didn’t want to approach him about your idea because you knew he would complain, but the thought that sooner or later he would notice what you were doing was consolation. In case something with Ellis went south, you knew Leon would be there to help.

But Leon was there sooner than you expected. He looked over the two of you from the porch, grunting his teeth and begging his rational thinking to not abandon him. He looked with the eyes of a jealous husband, watching his wife flirt with the gardener.

What the fuck were you doing?

For some reason it didn’t cross his mind to check local newspapers. He didn’t see the posters of missing people. Didn’t think about playing with the Harmons a bit longer, to make them confess and explain.

All he saw was you, the woman that he wanted – no – needed close to him and would lift off the ground so she doesn’t have to stain her feet, clinging to this dirty, murderous, piece of shit.

It even crossed his mind if last night wasn’t just a play for you. Something to make you stay in the role easier. Or simply some fun…

He wanted to be smart and civil about it, he really did, but then he saw Ellis grab your shirt a bit too suddenly and drag you to the greenhouse, he lost it.

You took a deep breath and allowed the bastard to grip at your clothes for a bit longer, before he would be lost in lust enough, letting you knock him out without much of a fight.

“You really let that old man lay his hands on this body…?” He hummed into your ear, and you almost pierced the skin on his neck with your nails. “Feisty…”

With a quick count in your mind, you finally snapped your head away and sent a hard kick to the man’s knee. You didn’t see him falling to the floor like you expected, because at the same time he was being dragged away with Leon’s strong grip on his shoulders.

Your partner pushed him to the ground a few steps away from you.

Ellis tried to scream and crawl back, but Leon kept him in place with the force of his boot.

“Give me the rope,” he ordered, looking over his shoulder. His voice was steady, but you could hear the rage.

Truth be told, you shared it, but for different reasons. You grunted your teeth and shook your head.

“Leon…”

You went silent, fighting with the want to just get your gun and finish it here, making Leon look behind. You held your weapon in both of your hands now.

“Y/n, fuck. Pass me the rope,” he ordered firmly, pressing his boot into the man’s chest.

“He doesn’t deserve–” you tried to argue, wanting him gone.

“It’s not about what he deserves. They will both have a lawful trial for what they did,” Leon barked out, and you did what he asked for.

It was hard not to. It was reasonable, professional… and absolutely unhuman.

Just like killing could be human, you thought ironically. 

You stood nearby, clearly annoyed and looking away from Leon when he tied Ellis and made sure he couldn’t move.

Leon grabbed your upper arm when you tried to leave, almost violently, and held you close, but he didn’t manage to speak up before you pushed him away.

“Let’s go do the same to Constance, and we can try calling the central again,” you said emotionless.

“She is taken care of.”

“What?”

“Constance. She’s locked in the basement. It’s all done,” he explained, trying to talk some reason into you.

“And you really don’t want to force some information out of them?” You asked harshly.

“It’s not our thing to do. They will be questioned by others.” The sudden softness in his voice pissed you off even more. “And you know it’s not about the information… You just want revenge.”

You scoffed.

“And you judge me for that?”

“Never.”

You turned on your heel to go back inside. For now, you were stuck in this damned place with your annoyingly proper colleague, exactly the one whose touch you could still feel on your body. All you could do now, that would not be risky, hasty or simply stupid, was locking yourself somewhere far from him to start preparing the report. The sooner, the better.

It was peaceful for a while. You hummed an incoherent melody under your breath to make your mind cooperate easier.

You didn’t react when the stairs outside the room squeaked under Leon’s weight.

You couldn’t hear the door being open, yet here he was.

Sitting in the chair, legs curled up to your chest, you gulped when he suddenly turned the chair with a loud creak.

“You think I wouldn’t like to see that motherfucker with a bullet in his head?” He tried to sound steady, but you could tell that your annoyance got to him. “After how he looked at you?”

You looked him straight in the eye, even if his lips were begging you to pay them some attention again.

“Then why the hell not?!”

“Because it’s not about what we want! It’s about our job!” He snapped.

“Then fuck the job!”

“Yeah, I almost did,” he admitted, taking a  step back and running his hand over his beard. “Because of you.”

“Excuse me?”

Your shocked expression made him laugh.

“You turn me into an idiot lately. You can’t say you didn’t notice.”

“You did act… strangely.”

“I can barely think when you’re around–”

Then your work phone let out a familiar sound and the voice of your boss erupted in the room.

“We lost connection for some time, Agent. What is your status?”

And that's how you had ended up roped into all of his unethical adventures, killing off the bad guys that had the highest price above their head and helping Deadpool run the official Spideypool fanwebsite.

But, despite how many masks you put on, despite how many bad guys you killed, despite how many times you had saved someone. You were still just you.

A teenager. A teenager paired up with an older, unhinged, mercenary that ran his mouth way too much and that got you into way too much trouble.

A teenager paired up with an irresponsible adult without emotional responsability was the fucking equivalent of throwing a trained lab mouse inside the first maze that didn't have an exist.

Wade cared about you. Yeah, you knew that. But the problem was that you were a teenager and teenagers needed a certain amount of care to grow healthyly.

Because physically you were great, with how much running around and being-at-the-verge-of-death you did. But mentally? God, then you were the messiest mess in the planet.

Spending so much time with someone that had so many intrusive thoughts, that spilled his thoughts without filter, had rubbed off on you.

And sometimes you scared yourself when sudden thoughts popped up in your mind. Like the sudden pull in your legs anytime you walked near the edge of a roof, the "jump!" that flashed across your head. Or the way you wondered, asked yourself, what it would feel to be stabbed when you were cleaning Deadpool's katanas. Or the way you started to throw yourself at danger's way just for the thrill of it. And if you died, well, there went nothing.

It was wrong. It was bad. And it was a totally unhealthy and toxic vice. You knew you were self-destructive.

But you didn't know how to do doing anything about it.

You see, if Deadpool wasn't so reckless and careless maybe you would've told him. But since he did it, you grew into your late teens thinking it was okay.

,,

Lately, your thoughts had grew more dangerous. More specific. And you were starting to get scared of yourself. In movies, that was how villians started —with destructive thoughts. And you didn't want to become a villian.

What would Wade think of you? He'd be disappointed in you, hate your guts, despise you.

So your mind jumped to the quickest—and most self-destructive—conclussion. Offing yourself before that happened.

And you had nearly 10 pages of your pink diary written with ways of carrying on with that plan. Glitter gel pen words scribbled about the knifes in the house—their lengths and sharpness—, about the belts stacked away in Wade's closet, about the height of the fall from the balcony to the ground. You had everything planned.

And Wade hadn't caught onto anything of it, except for the fact you seemed more twitchy and on edge than usual. He tied it to the usual teenage anxiousness that came with your age.

He didn't know this was the last mission he was going to have you in.

,,

He had just brought you along on this 'adventure' just like he had did with all of the ones before, except in this one there was another.. —reluctant—companion.

Logan Howlett. The Wolverine.

And not the dead hero that Wade had unburied a few days before. No. This one was the worst variant of Wolverine in the whole multiverse, the one from the timeline where he killed all of the X-Men.

And that Howlett was smelling something coming.

He could smell the irony scent of blood whafting off of you, a bitter scent choking his airways. Your scent was way too bitter for how cheerful you were, except maybe you weren't.

This Logan had only barely known you for two days, but if something were to happen to you he'd kill the responsible, then find a way to kill the mercenary and then find a way to kill himself too.

But, first. Stop, pause, rewind. How this did even start?

,,

You groaned as you helped Wade drag the uncounscious body of the drunk Wolverine you had found in a random timeline —the only one in which the dude hadn't tried to kill you at first sight. Entering through the door-shaped orange portal to the TVA room.

"one anchor being coming right up!" Wade's voice rang through the air before the merc, fully dressed in his suit, had crossed the portal.

You let out a startled squeak when the antihero pretty much threw the uncounscious body of the Logan on the ground, wincing at the metallic sound of his skull against the floor.

"Wade!" you hissed. "c'mon pumpkin', don't sweat it. He's full metal, remember?" he said as he gave the drunk Logan a kick in the side, the metallic sound echoing his words.

"listen here, babygirl" the merc started, looking at the unimpressed man before him. "this Wolverine has the he-can-do-anything-even-musical-stuff look to him and bonus he's actually wearing the accurate comic costume. So, uh yeah, there, timeline saved"

The silence coming from the dude that had called Wade here in the first place didn't sound too good get it?. And as you sat there, poking the drunk man's face with your index finger while whispering for him to "wake up, Wolvie, rise and shine, wakey wakey?"

"I don't understand"

"You said my, our" he pointed at you "universe is dying because this nutsack died, well, problem solved" he now pointed at Logan.

"oh my god" Paradox breathed out. "you actually think you can replace an Anchor Being with this?"

Oh, great. A rant was comming. Like the ones your mother goes on when you mess up too many times.

"I wouldn't have accepted any other Wolverine BT dubs. But you.. have outdone yourself and brought me the worst Wolverine in the whole multiverse!"

It looked as if the dude's temple vein was going to pop, and you weakly interveened. "what do you mean the worst one..?" you breathed out.

"This Wolverine let down his entire world, he's the stuff of Legend but not in a good way and what he did.. well, some things are just beyond forgiveness"

A beat of silence followed, you knew the Wolverine on the floor had been awake and listening for the whole time. But then, you saw Paradox finally looking at you.

"wait"

"what?"

"is that your little sidekick?"

The incredulous, and cruelly amused, tone of the man in uniform made Wade quirk an eyebrow under his mask.

"yeah, why?"

His words were followed by a booming laugh coming from Paradox. His hand going to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, as chuckle after chuckle it just confused Wade and you even more.

"I can't believe you've still got her"

That was like a titty-flash for Wade, and not the good kind. He stood there, mouth gaping like a fish as he wildly and overexageredly gestured towards you.

"I gave you a chance at greatness, because my superiors deemed you special. But, I did my duty. I gave you the opportunity and you refused, so there's no more bussiness to do here"

And with that, and a strange remote control in his hand, he pressed a button and zapped you three off to somewhere. Leaving Wade with a strange taste lingering in his mouth.

Well, at least it seemed like your last adventure wasn't going to be boring.

(tags : @coocoocachewgotscrewed , @lokisloverisnthere , @krowsfoot , @lizziegraysworld , @r0reep , @beelzel-brat ).

The way you can’t sleep in your own bed anymore because it’s too quiet, too still, and your brain keeps insisting something’s about to crawl out of your closet. The way the Fourth of July fireworks made you hit the ground in the middle of the street, hands over your ears, while everyone around you cheered and you tried not to throw up. The way grocery stores feel too bright and too loud, and you have to leave your cart in the middle of the cereal aisle because some kid popped a balloon three rows over, and suddenly you’re back in Starcourt, back in the tunnels, back in…

Yeah.

That after.

Hawkins looks normal.

Hawkins is not normal.

It hasn’t been normal since Will Byers came back from the dead in ‘83, and it sure as hell isn’t normal now.

But everyone pretends. That’s what you do here. You pretend the mall fire was just a mall fire. You pretend the town curfew is just a precaution. You pretend you’re fine.

You’re all so good at pretending.

So when Steve Harrington, in all his exhausted, bat-wielding, self-appointed babysitter glory, suggested that maybe you guys should stick together for a while, just until things felt less weird, you’d said yes.

Not because you needed him.

Obviously not.

But because the kids needed supervision, and Steve’s house was bigger than yours, and his parents were never around anyway, and it made logical sense.

That’s what you told yourself.

That’s what you’d been telling yourself for three weeks now.

Three weeks of falling asleep on his couch, of midnight conversations that felt too honest and too raw, of Steve circling the house with a flashlight at 2 AM like some kind of paranoid guard dog. Three weeks of pretending this was temporary, that you’d go back to your normal life any day now.

Any day.

Just… not today.

You woke up on Steve’s couch on a Saturday morning in mid-September, and your first thought was that your neck was going to hurt for the rest of your life.

Your second thought was that you really, really needed to invest in a chiropractor.

Your third thought, the one that actually got you to open your eyes, was that the house was too quiet.

The living room looked like a tornado had torn through a nerd convention. Blankets everywhere, tangled and bunched up in weird formations. Empty Coke cans forming a small, sticky pyramid on the coffee table that you were definitely going to make the kids clean up later. A half-finished bag of Doritos spilled across the floor. Someone’s jacket, Mike’s probably, crumpled in the corner.

And the kids.

God, the kids.

Dustin was drooling on a Dragon’s Lair manual, one arm flung dramatically over his face as if he’d died in a Shakespeare play. His hat had fallen off at some point in the night, and his curls were plastered to his forehead. Max was half inside a sleeping bag, only her mess of red hair visible, one pale hand hanging out and resting on Lucas’s shoulder. Lucas had somehow wedged himself between the couch and the wall, which looked deeply uncomfortable, but he was snoring anyway, so apparently it was fine.

Mike was flat on his back in the middle of the floor, mouth hanging open, looking literally dead. You’d checked on him twice last night just to make sure he was still breathing because he slept like a corpse.

And El—El was the only one who looked peaceful. She was curled up in the armchair, her head resting on a pillow, still wearing Mike’s jacket over her shoulders like a blanket. Her face was relaxed in a way it so rarely was when she was awake, and something about that made your chest hurt a little.

These kids.

These stupid, brave, impossible kids who’d saved the world and were now just sleeping in a pile on Steve Harrington’s living room floor like this was a completely normal slumber party.

You rubbed your eyes, trying to orient yourself.

The VCR clock on the TV said 6:47 AM, the red numbers glowing faintly in the dim room. The curtains were still drawn, but you could see daylight starting to creep in around the edges, that soft grey early-morning light that meant the sun was thinking about rising but hadn’t committed yet.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

That’s what had woken you up, you realized. Not a noise—the absence of noise.

Because Steve was always awake before you. Always. And usually, you could hear him moving around. The coffee pot gurgling in the kitchen. The creak of floorboards as he did his rounds. The soft click of locks being checked, windows being tested, doors being rattled just to make absolutely sure they were secure.

But right now?

Nothing.

You sat up slowly, your spine crackling in protest, and looked around.

That’s when you saw him.

Steve was in the other armchair, the one directly facing the front door, and he was awake. Completely, utterly awake. Still wearing the same clothes from yesterday: jeans that had seen better days, his old Hawkins High sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, white socks with a hole forming near the toe that he kept meaning to throw out but never did.

His hair was a disaster, sticking up in about seven different directions, and there were dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises.

But that’s not what made you freeze.

It was the way he was sitting.

Perched on the edge of the chair, spine rigid, shoulders tense. His hands were gripping his knees, knuckles white. And his eyes—his eyes were locked on the front door with the kind of intensity usually reserved for horror movie protagonists who know something’s coming but don’t know when.

The bat was propped against his knee.

The bat.

That nail-studded baseball bat that had become Steve’s security blanket, his weapon of choice, the thing he kept within arm’s reach at all times now. You’d tried to get him to put it away last week, said it was making the kids nervous, but he’d just looked at you with those hollow eyes and said, “What if something happens and I don’t have it?”

And you hadn’t brought it up again.

Because you got it.

You really, really got it.

“Steve,” you whispered, your voice rough with sleep.

He flinched. Like, actually flinched, his whole body jerking before his head snapped toward you. For just a second—less than a second—you saw something wild in his face. Something cornered and afraid.

Then it smoothed out.

Like a mask sliding into place.

“Oh,” he said quietly, and his voice sounded like gravel, like he’d been awake for hours and hadn’t said a single word until now. “Hey. Didn’t know you were up.”

You stared at him.

He stared back.

“Steve,” you said again, softer this time. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just…” He gestured vaguely at the door, then seemed to realize how that looked and dropped his hand. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d just, you know. Keep watch.”

“Keep watch,” you repeated.

“Yeah.”

“For what?”

His jaw tightened. “Just… in case.”

“In case of what?”

“I don’t know, okay?” It came out sharper than he probably meant it to, and he winced, dragging a hand through his hair and making it even worse. “I just—I thought I heard something. Earlier. Like three hours ago. And I checked, and it was nothing, but then I couldn’t stop thinking about what if it wasn’t nothing, what if I missed something, what if—”

He cut himself off.

Took a breath.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I’m fine. It’s fine.”

But his hand was shaking where it rested on his knee, fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against denim, and his leg was bouncing in that way it did when he was trying really hard to hold it together and failing.

You knew that feeling.

God, did you know that feeling.

“Steve,” you said, and you pushed yourself up off the couch, careful not to step on anyone as you crossed the living room. Your legs were stiff, protesting the movement, but you made it to his chair and crouched down in front of him so you were eye level. “You didn’t hear anything.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. Because I was awake too.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and you saw the moment he processed that. The guilt that flashed across his face.

“You were awake?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because you need to sleep, Steve.”

“So do you.”

“Well, neither of us are very good at it, so.” You shrugged, trying for lightness and probably missing by a mile. “Guess we’re both disasters.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess so.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. At the exhaustion carved into every line of his face. The way his shoulders were hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller. The white-knuckle grip he still had on his knees, like if he let go he’d just float away.

This was the guy who’d fought a Demogorgon with a nail bat and won. Who’d taken a beating from Billy Hargrove and kept getting back up. Who’d been tortured by actual Russian soldiers and still managed to crack jokes while his face was still bleeding.

Steve Harrington, Hawkins High’s former king, the guy who threw parties and broke hearts and made it look easy.

Except none of that was who he actually was.

Not anymore.

Maybe not ever.

“Come on,” you said, standing up and holding out your hand. “If you’re not gonna sleep, you might as well make yourself useful.”

He blinked at you. “Useful how?”

“Coffee. You’re making coffee.”

“It’s six in the morning.”

“Yeah, and we’re both awake, so we might as well commit to the bit.”

He stared at your outstretched hand for a long moment, and you could practically see him thinking about arguing. About insisting he was fine, he’d just sit here and keep watching the door, just in case.

But then he sighed.

And took your hand.

His palm was warm and calloused and steady, and for just a second, you let yourself hold on tighter than necessary before pulling him to his feet.

He grabbed the bat automatically, his other hand still wrapped around yours, and you didn’t comment on it.

You just led him into the kitchen.

Steve’s kitchen was weirdly homey in the early morning light.

It was something you’d noticed over the past few weeks, spending so much time here. During the day, with the kids running around and the TV blaring and chaos in every corner, it was easy to see this place as just Steve’s house. Big and empty and a little cold, the kind of house that was built to impress people at dinner parties, not to actually live in.

But in the mornings, when it was just the two of you and the sun was barely up and everything was quiet?

It felt different.

Softer.

The counters were clean. Steve was weirdly meticulous about that, always wiping things down, putting dishes away immediately, like he was trying to maintain some sense of control in a life that had spun completely out of it. There was a little stack of mail by the toaster, bills and flyers that he’d sorted through, and a grocery list stuck to the fridge with a magnet that said “Hawkins Hardware.”

And the Polaroids.

God, the Polaroids.

They were scattered across the fridge door, held up with magnets, a collage of moments from the past few months. Dustin in his Thinking Cap, grinning like he’d just solved world peace. Max mid-skateboard trick, red hair flying, mouth open in a laugh. Lucas and Mike arguing over something, probably D&D. El holding up a waffle like it was a trophy, her face so serious it was adorable.

There was one of you and Robin at Benny’s Burgers, both of you mid-laugh, and you didn’t remember Steve taking it but there it was.

And then, tucked in the corner, half-hidden behind a pizza coupon, there was one of all of you.

You, Steve, Robin, and the kids, crammed into a booth that was way too small, all grinning at the camera. Dustin had taken it. You remembered because he’d been so proud of himself, insisting it was “for posterity” and that one day you’d all look back on this and be grateful he documented it.

At the time, you’d rolled your eyes.

Now, looking at it, you felt something twist in your chest.

Because you all looked happy.

Tired, sure. A little roughed up. Steve had a fading bruise on his jaw in that photo, and your arm was still in a sling from where you’d dislocated your shoulder in the tunnels.

But you were smiling.

All of you.

And Steve had kept the photo.

He’d put it on his fridge.

“You gonna stare at my fridge all morning, or are we doing this coffee thing?”

You jumped, spinning around to find Steve leaning against the counter, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised. The bat was propped in the corner now, within reach but not in his hands, which felt like progress.

“I wasn’t staring,” you said.

“You were definitely staring.”

“I was observing.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s really not.”

His mouth twitched again, that almost-smile that you were starting to recognize as Steve’s version of actually smiling when he was too tired to commit to it fully.

“Okay,” he said, pushing off the counter and moving toward the coffee maker. “Observing what, exactly?”

You shrugged, trying to look casual and probably failing. “Just… you have a lot of pictures.”

“Yeah, well.” He pulled the coffee tin down from the cupboard, popping the lid off and scooping grounds into the filter with the kind of precise focus usually reserved for disarming bombs. “Turns out when you almost die a bunch of times, you start wanting to remember the times you didn’t.”

He said it so simply.

Like it was obvious.

Like it wasn’t the most devastating thing you’d heard all week.

“Steve…”

“Don’t.” He held up a hand, not looking at you, still focused on the coffee like it was the most important task in the world. “Seriously, don’t. It’s too early for… whatever that face is.”

“What face?”

“The face you’re making right now. The ‘oh no, Steve has feelings’ face.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“You’re absolutely making a face.”

“You’re not even looking at me.”

“I can feel you making the face.”

You bit back a laugh, and he must’ve heard it because his shoulders relaxed a little.

The coffee maker started gurgling and hissing, filling the kitchen with that rich, bitter smell that was starting to feel like home.

When had that happened?

When had Steve’s kitchen started feeling like home?

“So,” Steve said, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms again. He looked more settled now, less like he was going to bolt at any second. “You wanna talk about why you were awake at three in the morning?”

“Not particularly.”

“Cool. Me neither.”

“Great.”

“Awesome.”

You stared at each other.

“Nightmares?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated.

Then nodded.

“Yeah,” you admitted. “You?”

“Yeah.”

Of course. Of course he had nightmares. You all did. How could you not, after everything?

The coffee pot beeped, and Steve turned to pour two mugs, handing one to you without asking if you wanted any. You wrapped your hands around it, letting the warmth seep into your palms, and took a sip.

It was perfect.

Of course it was.

Steve made annoyingly perfect coffee, which was unfair because he was already good at too many things and he didn’t need this too.

“Your coffee’s better than mine,” you said.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to sound so smug about it.”

“I’m not smug, I’m just correct.”

“That’s literally the same thing.”

“It’s really not.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling now, and so was he—an actual smile this time, small but real.

And for just a moment, standing in Steve Harrington’s kitchen at 6 AM on a Saturday morning, holding a mug of coffee that was too hot and probably too strong, you felt something that almost resembled peace.

Almost.

Then Dustin’s voice came from the living room, loud and sleep-rough and way too energetic for this hour: “IS THAT COFFEE? ARE YOU MAKING COFFEE WITHOUT ME?”

Steve’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit…”

“BETRAYAL!” Dustin shrieked. “TREASON!”

“It’s six in the morning!” Steve called back.

“I DON’T CARE! COFFEE IS COFFEE!”

“You’re fourteen, you can’t have coffee!”

“THAT’S AGEISM!”

You were laughing now, actually laughing, and Steve looked at you like you were insane.

“This is your fault,” he said.

“How is this my fault?”

“You made me make coffee! Now he’s awake!”

“Pretty sure Dustin was going to wake up anyway.”

“He sleeps like the dead!”

“Not anymore, apparently.”

Dustin stumbled into the kitchen, hair sticking up in every direction, one sock missing, looking like he’d been recently electrocuted. “Coffee,” he demanded, making grabby hands.

“Absolutely not,” Steve said.

“Steve. Buddy. Pal. Friend of mine.”

“You’re not getting coffee.”

“I saved the world.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“I saved the world multiple times.”

“Dustin—”

“I was tortured by Russians.”

Steve’s face did something complicated. “That’s… you can’t just… that’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair. Coffee. Now.”

You snorted into your mug, and Steve shot you a betrayed look.

“You’re not helping,” he said.

“I’m not trying to help.”

“Clearly.”

He sighed, dragged a hand down his face, and poured Dustin half a mug of coffee, which Dustin accepted like he’d just won the lottery.

“You’re the best babysitter ever,” Dustin said, taking a sip and immediately making a face. “Oh my god, this is disgusting.”

“Then don’t drink it!” Steve said.

“No, no, I’m committed now.” Another sip. Another face. “This is like… bitter sadness in a cup.”

“That’s what coffee is, dude.”

“How do adults drink this?”

“Very tiredly,” you said.

Dustin looked at you, then at Steve, then back at you, and something shifted in his expression. Something calculating.

Oh no.

“So,” he said slowly, that dangerous tone creeping into his voice. “You two are up early.”

“Yeah,” Steve said warily. “So?”

“Together.”

“We’re in the same house, Henderson. Kind of hard to be up separately.”

“In the kitchen. Alone. Drinking coffee.”

“Again, same house.”

“It’s very domestic.”

“I’m going to pour your coffee down the sink.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Steve reached for the mug.

Dustin yelped and danced backward, clutching it to his chest. “This is abuse! This is babysitter abuse!”

“You’re not even supposed to have coffee!”

“And yet here we are!”

The commotion must’ve woken the others because suddenly Max appeared in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. “Why are you all yelling?”

“Steve’s trying to steal my coffee,” Dustin said.

“Steve made you coffee?” Max looked genuinely surprised.

“No!” Steve said. “I mean—yes, but—he guilted me into it!”

“I used facts and logic.”

“You used emotional manipulation!”

“Same thing.”

Max looked at you. “Is it too early to go back to sleep?”

“Probably,” you said.

“Damn.”

Lucas appeared next, then Mike, both of them looking disoriented and confused. El was the last one up, still wrapped in Mike’s jacket, her hair a mess around her face.

And just like that, the kitchen was full.

Full of kids and noise and chaos and life, and Steve immediately shifted into crisis management mode—telling Mike to stop leaning on the fridge, asking Lucas if he wanted toast, reminding Max that there was orange juice if she wanted it.

He was good at this.

Really good at this.

The whole mom-friend thing that everyone gave him shit for, it wasn’t a joke. It was just who he was. Who he’d become, maybe, after everything.

Someone who kept people safe.

Someone who made sure everyone ate breakfast.

Someone who put pictures on his fridge and made coffee at 6 AM and checked the locks twice because he couldn’t stand the thought of missing something, of failing, of losing anyone else.

You watched him move around the kitchen, handing out food and drinks, and felt that thing in your chest again.

That dangerous, terrifying thing that you’d been trying really hard not to think about.

“Hey.”

You blinked.

El was standing next to you, looking up with those big, serious eyes.

“Hi,” you said.

“You okay?”

The question caught you off guard. Coming from El, who’d been through more than any of them, who’d lost more than any of them, it felt heavier somehow.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’m okay. You?”

She considered this, tilting her head slightly. Then nodded.

“Better now,” she said simply.

And something about that, the simplicity of it, the honesty, made you want to cry.

Because yeah.

You were better now too.

Not fixed. Not healed. Probably not even okay, not really.

But better.

And maybe that was enough.

Breakfast devolved into the usual chaos—Dustin and Mike arguing about whether Empire Strikes Back or Return of the Jedi was better (a debate that had been raging for weeks now with no end in sight), Max trying to convince Lucas that skateboarding was a legitimate sport, El quietly eating her Eggos and watching everyone with that small smile she got sometimes.

Steve made toast.

You helped.

Well, you tried to help, but mostly you just stood next to him at the counter and stole bites of his toast when he wasn’t looking, which made him swat at you with the butter knife.

“You have your own toast,” he said.

“Yeah, but yours tastes better.”

“It’s literally the same toast.”

“No, see, yours has that special Steve Harrington magic.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It’s absolutely a thing.”

He rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, and when you stole another bite he didn’t stop you.

This was nice.

God, this was so nice.

Just… normal. Easy. The kind of morning that felt like it belonged in someone else’s life, someone who hadn’t seen the things you’d seen, someone who got to just exist without checking over their shoulder every five seconds.

But you’d take it.

You’d take every single moment of this, for as long as it lasted.

Which, apparently, was about another ten minutes.

Because that’s when Dustin stood up on his chair—because of course he did—and announced: “Okay. Everyone shut up. I have an idea.”

The room went quiet.

Well, relatively quiet. Mike was still mid-sentence about Ewoks, but Max elbowed him, and he shut up.

“This better be good, Henderson,” Steve said, crossing his arms.

“Oh, it’s good. It’s so good.” Dustin’s grin was absolutely diabolical. “We’ve been here for three weeks, right? And it’s been fine. Great, even. But—”

“Oh no,” Lucas muttered.

“We’re bored.”

“We’re not bored,” Mike said.

“We’re extremely bored,” Max corrected.

“Thank you, Max. We’re extremely bored. And you know what bored teenagers need?”

“Therapy?” you suggested.

Dustin ignored you. “A competition.”

Steve’s eyes narrowed. “What kind of competition?”

“A babysitter competition.”

Silence.

Then Steve laughed. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Is it though?” Dustin said. “Is it really? Because I think what’s dumb is that we’ve been sitting around pretending that you”—he pointed at Steve—“are the best babysitter, when clearly she”—he pointed at you—“has been pulling equal weight.”

“I never said I was the best babysitter,” Steve protested.

“You literally call yourself the babysitter,” Mike said.

“That’s different!”

“How?”

“It just is!”

You were trying not to laugh. You were failing.

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Dustin continued, really getting into it now, pacing back and forth like he was presenting a thesis. “We come up with challenges. You both compete. We judge. And at the end, we crown the Supreme Babysitter.”

“Supreme Babysitter,” Steve repeated flatly.

“We’ll make a crown and everything.”

“A crown.”

“Out of pizza boxes, probably.”

Steve looked at you.

You looked at Steve.

“This is insane,” you said.

“Completely insane,” he agreed.

Dustin was practically vibrating with glee. “Oh my god. This is happening. This is actually happening.”

Max high-fived Lucas.

Mike looked at El. “This is going to be hilarious.”

El nodded seriously. “Good.”

And just like that, you were committed.

You and Steve, staring at each other across his kitchen, both of you too competitive for your own good, both of you absolutely not backing down.

“Hope you’re ready to lose, Harrington,” you said.

His grin was sharp and bright and absolutely infuriating. “Hope you’re ready to get destroyed.”

“Bring it.”

“Oh, I’ll bring it.”

“Cool.”

“Great.”

“Awesome.”

Dustin clapped his hands together. “Okay! First challenge starts in twenty minutes. Everyone to the living room. This is going to be legendary.”

The kids scattered immediately, already whispering and planning and scheming, and you were left standing in the kitchen with Steve.

Still staring at each other.

Still grinning like idiots.

“This is so stupid,” you said.

“The stupidest,” he agreed.

“We’re gonna do it anyway, aren’t we?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

You shook your head, laughing, and started to head toward the living room.

But then Steve’s voice stopped you.

“Hey.”

You turned back.

He was standing there, backlit by the morning sun coming through the window, his hair a disaster and his smile soft and real and so, so dangerous to your carefully maintained emotional distance.

“Yeah?” you said.

“Just so you know,” he said quietly, “I’m glad you’re here. Like… here. Not just for this weekend. For all of it.”

Your chest did something complicated.

Something warm and terrifying and impossible to ignore.

“Yeah,” you managed. “Me too.”

He nodded.

You nodded.

And then Dustin yelled, “ARE YOU TWO COMING OR WHAT?” and the moment shattered, but you held onto it anyway.

Twenty minutes later, the living room had been transformed.

And by “transformed,” you meant it looked like a game show had exploded.

The kids had pushed all the furniture to the walls, creating an open space in the center. Someone, probably Max, had strung up a bedsheet between two lamps like a makeshift curtain. El had made a sign using notebook paper and way too many markers that said “SUPREME BABYSITTER CHALLENGE” in big, slightly wobbly letters, and she’d decorated it with little drawings of what you thought were supposed to be crowns but looked more like deformed triangles.

It was chaotic and ridiculous and kind of perfect.

Dustin stood in the middle of the room, holding a clipboard.

A clipboard.

“Where did you even get that?” Steve asked.

“I came prepared,” Dustin said ominously.

“You’ve been planning this.”

“I’ve been planning this since Tuesday.”

“That’s—actually, you know what, I’m not even surprised.”

“You shouldn’t be.” Dustin clicked his pen, because of course he had a pen too, and looked down at his clipboard with the seriousness of a judge presiding over a murder trial. “Okay. Let’s go over the rules.”

“There are rules?” you asked.

“Obviously, there are rules. What kind of competition doesn’t have rules?”

“The fun kind?” Steve tried.

“Wrong. The fun kind has rules, structure, and a clear points system.” Dustin adjusted his hat. “Over the whole day—”

“The whole day?” Steve interrupted.

“Did I stutter?”

“I just—it seems like a lot.”

“Steve. Buddy. We have been cooped up in this house with nothing to do but watch you two make weird eyes at each other for three weeks. We’ve earned a day of entertainment.”

Your face went hot. “We don’t make weird eyes.”

“You absolutely make weird eyes,” Max said from her spot on the couch.

“Like, constantly,” Lucas added.

“It’s honestly painful to watch,” Mike muttered.

El just nodded.

Steve’s ears were bright red. “Can we please just—can we focus on the competition?”

“Great idea,” Dustin said, grinning like the cat that got the canary. “As I was saying. One day. Multiple challenges. Each challenge is worth points. Whoever has the most points at the end wins the title of Supreme Babysitter, plus this.” He gestured dramatically at the crown El was holding.

It was made of pipe cleaners twisted together, covered in aluminum foil, with what looked like bottle caps glued to it as jewels.

It was hideous.

You wanted it immediately.

“I love it, El,” Steve said desperately. “It’s perfect. I’m going to treasure it forever when I win.”

“When you win?” you repeated.

“Yeah. When.”

“You mean if.”

“I meant what I said.”

Dustin cleared his throat loudly. “Are we done? Can I continue explaining the rules that I worked very hard on?”

“Please do,” Max said, looking way too entertained by all of this.

“Thank you, Max. You’re my favorite.” Dustin consulted his clipboard. “Challenge categories include: crisis management, snack preparation, emotional support, creative problem-solving, and, this is important, general vibes.”

“General vibes?” Steve repeated.

“Yeah, like, who has better babysitter energy.”

“That’s completely subjective!”

“All of this is subjective, Steve. We’re the judges. That’s how judging works.”

Lucas raised his hand. “I have a question.”

“Yes, Lucas.”

“Are we allowed to sabotage them?”

“No!” you and Steve said in unison.

Dustin considered this. “Mild sabotage is acceptable.”

“Dustin!”

“What? It makes it more interesting!”

“It makes it unfair!”

“Life is unfair. Also, you both literally saved the world multiple times. I think you can handle some fourteen-year-olds messing with you.”

He had a point.

You hated that he had a point.

“Fine,” you said. “But if anyone tries to sabotage me, I’m sabotaging back.”

“Same,” Steve said.

“That’s the spirit!” Dustin made a note on his clipboard. “Okay, any other questions before we begin?”

Mike raised his hand.

“Yes, Mike.”

“What do we get if we help the winner win?”

Dustin’s eyes lit up. “I’m so glad you asked. We’re splitting into teams. Team Steve—” Max, Lucas, and Mike immediately groaned. “—and Team, uh…” He looked at you. “Do you have a cool nickname?”

“No.”

“You should get a cool nickname.”

“I’m not getting a cool nickname in the next thirty seconds, Dustin.”

“Fine. Team Her. We’ll workshop it. Anyway, winning team gets to pick the movie for the next three movie nights AND gets out of dish duty for a week.”

“Sold,” Max said immediately, standing up and walking over to you. “I’m Team Her.”

“Traitor!” Steve gasped.

“You made me do the dishes last night even though it was Mike’s turn.”

“Because Mike was asleep!”

“Not my problem.”

Lucas stood up too, hesitating for a second before joining Max. “Sorry, Steve. But she’s right. You’re weird about dishes.”

“I’m not weird about dishes! I’m responsible about dishes! There’s a difference!”

Mike looked between you and Steve, clearly torn. Then El tugged on his sleeve and whispered something in his ear.

He sighed. “El says we should be on your team.”

“Yes!” Steve pumped his fist.

“But I’m only doing this because El asked,” Mike added quickly. “Not because I think you’re going to win.”

“I’ll take it.”

Dustin checked his clipboard. “Okay, so teams are set. Max and Lucas are Team Her—we’re still workshopping the name—and Mike and El are Team Steve. I’ll be the neutral judge and scorekeeper because I’m the only one with organizational skills.”

“You literally lost your retainer twice last week,” Lucas pointed out.

“That’s different. That’s an object. This is a system.” Dustin clicked his pen again. “Now. Let’s begin with Challenge One: The Snack Preparation Challenge.”

He said it with such gravity that you almost laughed.

“You have twenty minutes,” Dustin continued, pulling out an actual timer from his pocket—because of course he had a timer—“to prepare the best after-school snack you can manage with the ingredients available in Steve’s kitchen. You’ll be judged on taste, presentation, creativity, and whether or not anyone gets food poisoning.”

“That last one seems important,” you said.

“It’s happened before,” Dustin said darkly.

Steve’s head whipped toward him. “When?!”

“Summer of ‘84. We don’t talk about it.”

“You can’t just say that and not explain!”

“No time! The challenge starts…” He held up the timer dramatically. “Now!”

And then chaos erupted.

You and Steve both bolted for the kitchen at the same time, nearly colliding in the doorway.

“Move!” Steve said.

“You move!” you shot back.

“I live here!”

“That doesn’t give you special kitchen privileges during a competition!”

You hip-checked him out of the way and made it to the fridge first, yanking it open and scanning the contents. Okay. Okay, you could work with this. There was cheese, some deli meat, apples, peanut butter, jelly, bread—standard stuff.

Behind you, you could hear Steve rummaging through the cabinets, muttering under his breath.

Max appeared in the doorway. “Need any help?”

“Aren’t you supposed to stay out of this?” you asked, pulling out the peanut butter and apples.

“Dustin said mild sabotage was allowed. He didn’t say anything about mild assistance.”

You grinned. “What’s Steve making?”

Max peered around the corner. “Looks like… sandwiches? Really boring sandwiches.”

“Perfect.”

Your mind was already racing. Okay, if Steve was going traditional, you needed to go creative. Something that looked impressive but was still actually edible, because knowing these kids, they’d revolt if you made anything too healthy or weird.

Apples. Peanut butter. You could work with that.

You started slicing apples quickly, arranging them on a plate in a fan pattern. Then you grabbed the peanut butter and a spoon, creating a small bowl in the center for dipping. That was too simple, though. You needed more.

“Max, what else is in the pantry?”

“Uh… pretzels, chocolate chips, some granola—”

“Grab the chocolate chips and pretzels.”

She darted off and returned thirty seconds later with both. You scattered them around the plate artfully, creating a little dessert charcuterie situation. It looked good. Really good, actually.

“Shit,” you heard Steve mutter from the other side of the kitchen.

You glanced over. He was making what looked like fancy grilled cheese—not a bad choice, actually. The bread was already in the pan, butter sizzling, and he was layering cheese with the focused intensity of a surgeon.

Competitive Steve was kind of hot.

No. Nope. Not thinking about that right now.

You turned back to your plate, adding a few more touches—some granola for texture, a strategic drizzle of honey you found in the back of the cabinet.

“Thirty seconds!” Dustin called from the living room.

“Shit!” Steve flipped his sandwiches frantically.

You stepped back, surveying your work. It looked like something out of a Pinterest board. The apples were arranged in a perfect circle, the peanut butter bowl was centered, the chocolate chips and pretzels created visual interest—

“Time!” Dustin yelled.

You grabbed your plate.

Steve grabbed his—and immediately dropped it because it was too hot.

“Fuck!” He juggled the plate, nearly sending sandwiches flying, before managing to secure them. His face was red. “I’m fine! It’s fine! Everything’s fine!”

“Real professional, Harrington,” you said sweetly.

“Shut up.”

You both carried your creations into the living room, where the kids had arranged themselves on the couch like judges on a reality show. Dustin had his clipboard. El had produced a notebook from somewhere and was holding a crayon, ready to take notes.

This was absurd.

This was the most absurd thing you’d done in weeks.

You were having so much fun.

“Present your snacks,” Dustin announced.

Steve went first, setting down his plate with a flourish. “Grilled cheese sandwiches. But not just any grilled cheese sandwiches. These are made with three types of cheese—cheddar, swiss, and mozzarella—on sourdough bread with butter. They’re golden brown, perfectly crispy, and scientifically proven to be delicious.”

“Scientifically proven?” Lucas repeated skeptically.

“I watched a cooking show once.”

“That’s not how science works.”

“It’s food science!”

Mike picked up a sandwich and took a bite. His eyes widened. “Oh shit. That’s actually really good.”

“Language,” Steve said automatically.

“You literally just said ‘fuck’ in the kitchen.”

“That was different. That was a crisis situation.”

El tried a bite next, chewing thoughtfully. Then she nodded. “Good,” she said simply, which from El was high praise.

Your turn.

You set down your plate, and there was an immediate reaction.

“Whoa,” Max said.

“That looks fancy,” Lucas added.

“It’s not fancy,” you said. “It’s an apple snack plate. You’ve got sliced apples for dipping in peanut butter, chocolate chips and pretzels for variety, and a little granola and honey for extra flavor. It’s healthy-ish but still fun, and nobody has to turn on the stove.”

“The stove is not a problem!” Steve protested.

“You literally burned yourself just now.”

“On the plate! Not the stove!”

Max grabbed an apple slice, dragged it through the peanut butter, added a chocolate chip, and took a bite. “Oh my god.”

“Good?” you asked hopefully.

“Really good. Like, really, really good.”

Lucas tried it next, then made the same face. “Steve, I’m sorry, but she’s winning this round.”

“What?! My grilled cheese is perfect!”

“Your grilled cheese is great,” Mike said diplomatically. “But this is like… I don’t know, it feels less like babysitter food and more like mom friend food.”

“That’s the same thing!”

“It’s really not.”

Dustin was scribbling notes furiously. “Okay, scores. For taste: Steve gets an 8, she gets a 9. For presentation: Steve gets a 7, she gets a 10. For creativity: Steve gets a 6, she gets a 9. For avoiding food poisoning: both get a 10 because nobody’s dying yet.”

“Yet?” Steve repeated.

“It’s only been two minutes. Give it time.” Dustin tallied up the scores. “Final score for Challenge One: Steve, 31 points. Her, 38 points. She wins!”

“Yes!” You pumped your fist while Max and Lucas cheered.

Steve stared at his grilled cheese like it had personally betrayed him. “I can’t believe I lost to apples.”

“Not just apples,” you said smugly. “Apples with presentation.”

“I hate this. I hate this competition.”

“You’re just mad because you’re losing.”

“I’m not mad, I’m motivated. There’s a difference.”

“Sure there is.”

He pointed at you with a spatula that he was still holding for some reason. “Next challenge. I’m coming for you.”

“Bring it, Harrington.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Good.”

“Great.”

Dustin interrupted your stare-down by clearing his throat. “Okay, lovebirds, save it for the next challenge. We’re moving on to Challenge Two: Crisis Management.”

“Lovebirds?” you and Steve said simultaneously.

“Did I stutter?” Dustin checked his clipboard. “This one’s going to be fun. Here’s the scenario: Mike just called from the Wheeler house. He’s locked himself in the bathroom, there’s a spider the size of a dinner plate, and he’s crying. What do you do?”

Mike’s jaw dropped. “I would never—”

“It’s hypothetical, Mike.”

“It’s character assassination!”

“Do you want to be on Steve’s team or not?”

Mike crossed his arms and slumped back on the couch, muttering something about defamation.

Dustin continued: “You have five minutes to talk through your crisis management approach. Judges will score based on practicality, speed, empathy, and overall effectiveness. Steve, you’re up first.”

Steve set down his spatula—finally—and crossed his arms, getting into what you were starting to recognize as his Problem-Solving Stance. “Okay. First, I’d call him back and tell him to breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.”

“He’s crying,” Dustin interjected. “He can’t calm down.”

“Then I’d tell him to breathe anyway. Slowly.”

“The spider is moving toward him.”

“Then I’d tell him to throw a towel over it.”

“He’s in the bathroom. He can’t reach the towels without getting closer to the spider.”

“Then…” Steve paused, thinking. “Then I’d tell him to use toilet paper. Bunch it up, trap the spider, flush it.”

“Interesting approach,” Dustin made a note. “Pros: practical, uses available materials. Cons: requires Mike to get very close to the spider, which given his current panic state seems unlikely. Also, possible plumbing issues.”

“Okay, fine. Then I’d get in my car and drive to his house.”

“It’s a fifteen-minute drive.”

“Then I’d drive really fast.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Hopper’s not going to pull me over for saving Mike from a spider!”

“Hopper absolutely would pull you over.”

Steve dragged a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. “Fine. Then I’d call Mrs. Wheeler and ask her to help.”

“She’s not home. No one’s home except Mike.”

“This is an impossible scenario!”

“That’s the point. It’s crisis management.” Dustin turned to you, grinning. “Your turn.”

You thought about it for a second. “Okay, first, I’d stay on the phone with him the whole time. Keep him talking, keep him distracted.”

“Good start,” Dustin said.

“Then I’d ask him what the spider’s doing. Is it moving? Is it just sitting there?”

“It’s sitting there,” Mike supplied, now invested. “On the wall. Above the door.”

“Perfect. So it’s not an immediate threat. I’d tell him that most spiders are more scared of us than we are of them, and this one probably just wants to be left alone.”

“He’s still crying,” Dustin said.

“Then I’d tell him a joke. Or ask him about the campaign he’s working on. Something to get his mind off it.”

“While he’s trapped in a bathroom?”

“He’s not trapped. He can leave anytime. The spider’s above the door, not blocking it. So I’d walk him through it—count to three, open the door fast, duck under where the spider is, and get out.”

Max nodded. “That’s actually pretty smart.”

“And if the spider moves?” Dustin pressed.

You shrugged. “Then I tell him it’s okay if he needs to wait until someone gets home. I’d stay on the phone with him. Put on a movie at the same time so we’re watching together. Make it feel less scary.”

Dustin scribbled more notes, nodding slowly. “Okay. Scores. Steve: practicality 7, speed 6, empathy 5, overall effectiveness 6. Total: 24.”

“A five on empathy?” Steve protested.

“You told him to calm down while he was crying. That’s literally what not to do.”

“I—okay, fair.”

“Her turn.” Dustin tallied the numbers. “Practicality 8, speed 7, empathy 10, overall effectiveness 9. Total: 34. She wins again!”

“Yes!” Max and Lucas high-fived.

Steve looked genuinely stunned. “How are you winning everything?”

“Because I’m better at this than you.”

“You are not.”

“Scoreboard says otherwise, Harrington.”

He stepped closer, that competitive fire sparking in his eyes again. “This isn’t over.”

“It really isn’t,” you agreed. “Because you’re still losing.”

“Challenge Three!” Dustin announced. “Starting in ten minutes. This one’s going to be good.”

The third challenge was “Emotional Support,” which sounded ominous and was somehow worse than it sounded.

“Scenario,” Dustin said, reading from his clipboard with way too much glee. “Lucas and Max just had a fight. They’re not talking to each other. Lucas is sulking in the basement, Max is rage-skateboarding in the driveway, and the rest of us are stuck in the middle. How do you fix it?”

Lucas and Max immediately started protesting.

“We don’t fight that much!” Lucas said.

“Yes we do,” Max said.

“Okay, yes we do, but we don’t need a scenario about it!”

“It’s for educational purposes,” Dustin said primly.

“It’s for humiliation purposes,” Max muttered, but she was smiling a little.

Steve went first again, and you could tell he was taking this one more seriously. He sat down on the coffee table, hands clasped, and actually thought about it.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “First, I’d talk to them separately. Give them space to vent without making it worse.”

“Good start,” Dustin said.

“I’d ask Lucas what happened from his perspective. Let him explain. Not take sides, just listen.”

“And then?”

“Then I’d do the same with Max. Hear her side.”

“And if their stories completely contradict each other?”

Steve hesitated. “Then… then I’d point out that they’re both probably right, from their own perspectives. And that it’s okay to see things differently.”

Mike was nodding. “That’s actually decent advice.”

“Then I’d—” Steve paused, looking uncomfortable. “I’d probably tell them that fighting happens. It sucks, but it’s normal. And that they’re both too stubborn to stay mad at each other for long anyway.”

“Would you make them apologize?” Dustin asked.

“Not right away. I’d let them cool off first. Maybe put on a movie, order pizza, let them sit on opposite sides of the couch until they naturally gravitate back together.” He shrugged. “They always do.”

It was sweet.

It was genuinely sweet, and from the look on Max and Lucas’s faces, it was also accurate.

Dustin made notes. “Okay. Solid approach. Your turn.”

You took a breath, thinking about all the times you’d played mediator with the kids over the past few weeks. “I’d start the same way—talk to them separately. But I’d also ask them what they think would help. Like, what do they need from each other right now? An apology? Space? A do-over of the conversation?”

“Giving them agency,” Dustin said. “Interesting.”

“Yeah. Because sometimes people don’t want you to fix it, they just want to be heard. So I’d validate their feelings—tell Lucas it’s okay to be hurt, tell Max it’s okay to be angry. And then I’d ask if they want help talking it out, or if they’d rather work through it on their own.”

“And if they want help?”

“Then I’d sit with both of them and let them talk. Keep it from escalating. Remind them that they care about each other when they start forgetting that.”

El was watching you with those intense eyes of hers. “That’s what you did. When Mike and I fought.”

You blinked. “When—oh. Yeah. I guess I did.”

“It helped,” she said simply.

Your chest did that warm, tight thing again.

Dustin was tallying scores. “Steve: 28 points. Her: 35 points. She’s still winning!”

Steve dropped his head into his hands. “I can’t believe this.”

“Believe it,” you said, trying not to sound too smug and definitely failing.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m enjoying it exactly the right amount.”

He looked up, and despite the competitive frustration written all over his face, he was smiling. Really smiling. “Okay. Okay, fine. You’re good at this.”

“I know.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Too late.”

“Challenge Four!” Dustin interrupted. “And this one’s the big one. The tiebreaker, if you will.”

“It’s not a tiebreaker if she’s winning,” Steve pointed out.

“It’s a dramatic reveal. Work with me here.” Dustin straightened his shoulders. “Challenge Four: General Vibes. Also known as the popularity contest.”

“Oh no,” you said.

“Oh yes. Each team gets to explain why their babysitter is the best. You two can’t say anything in your own defense. This is all about what we think.” He looked at Max and Lucas. “Team Her—we’re still workshopping the name—you’re up first.”

Max stood up like she was about to give a speech at the UN. “Okay, here’s the thing about her.” She gestured at you. “She doesn’t try too hard. Like, Steve’s great—”

“Thanks?” Steve said.

“—but he’s always in Dad Mode. Always worrying, always checking on us, always acting like we’re going to die if we’re out of his sight for five minutes.”

“Because you might!” Steve protested.

“Let her finish,” Dustin said.

Max continued: “But she’s different. She worries too, but she also treats us like actual people. She asks our opinions. She doesn’t freak out when we want to do something slightly dangerous—”

“Define ‘slightly dangerous,’” you interrupted nervously.

“—and she’s funny. Like, genuinely funny, not just dad-joke funny.”

“My jokes are funny!” Steve said.

“Your jokes are painful,” Lucas said, standing up to join Max. “But yeah, she’s cool. She doesn’t make a big deal out of stuff. And she’s not always trying to be the hero, you know? She just… is.”

Your face was hot. You hadn’t expected this to feel so sincere.

“Also,” Max added, “she always takes my side when I’m arguing with the boys.”

“That’s blatant favoritism!” Mike called out.

“It’s called having good taste!” Max shot back.

Dustin made notes, nodding. “Compelling arguments. Team Steve, your turn.”

Mike stood up reluctantly, dragging El with him. “Okay, look. Steve’s annoying.”

“Great start, Mike,” Steve said flatly.

“But he cares. Like, really cares. He’s driven into literal hell multiple times to save us. He’s taken beatings for us. He’s—” Mike’s voice cracked slightly. “He’s always there. Even when we’re being annoying or ungrateful or whatever. He doesn’t give up on us.”

Steve’s expression softened.

El spoke up next, her voice quiet but steady. “Steve makes me feel safe. When things are scary, he’s there. He protects us.” She looked at Steve directly. “You’re a good friend.”

The room went quiet for a moment.

Then Dustin cleared his throat, looking suspiciously emotional. “Okay. Scores for Challenge Four…” He scribbled some numbers. “This one’s close. Really close.”

“How close?” Steve asked.

“She’s still winning overall, but you pulled ahead in this round.” Dustin looked up. “Final scores: Steve, 95 points. Her, 107 points. She’s the Supreme Babysitter!”

The room erupted.

Max and Lucas were cheering, shouting about their victory. Mike was arguing that the scoring system was flawed. El was watching everything with that small smile. And Steve—

Steve was looking at you with this expression you couldn’t quite read. Pride, maybe? Amusement? Something softer underneath it all?

“Congratulations,” he said, holding out his hand.

You shook it, his palm warm and solid against yours. “Thanks. You put up a good fight.”

“Not good enough, apparently.”

“Hey, you got ‘good friend’ from El. That’s basically worth more than any crown.”

His smile went crooked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Dustin thrust the hideous pipe cleaner crown at you. “Your prize, Supreme Babysitter!”

You took it, turning it over in your hands. It was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

You loved it.

After dinner, after the kids had been wrangled into cleaning up (with minimal complaining because you’d invoked your Supreme Babysitter privileges), after the dishwasher was loaded and the counters were wiped down and someone had spilled juice on the floor and cleaned it up, everyone migrated back to the living room.

Movie night was a sacred tradition now.

It took twenty minutes to agree on a movie—The Goonies, finally, because it was the only thing that didn’t have someone vetoing it—and then another ten minutes to get everyone settled with blankets and pillows and optimal seating arrangements.

You ended up on the couch next to Steve, because of course you did.

The kids were sprawled on the floor in their usual nest formation, already yelling at the TV even though the movie had barely started.

“This is the best part!” Dustin announced as the opening credits rolled.

“The movie just started,” Lucas said.

“Yeah, and it’s already the best part!”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“You don’t make any sense!”

Steve leaned over, his shoulder pressing against yours. “They’re gonna argue through the whole movie, aren’t they?”

“Absolutely,” you whispered back.

“And we’re just gonna let them.”

“Obviously.”

His smile was soft in the flickering TV light. “Good.”

You should’ve moved away. Put some distance between you. The couch was big enough that you didn’t need to be sitting this close, your thighs touching, his arm warm against yours.

But you didn’t move.

And neither did he.

The movie played on, and gradually, the kids started to settle down. The arguments faded into occasional commentary, then into sleepy silence. One by one, they started to doze off—Dustin first, always the first to fall asleep during movies, then Lucas, then Mike.

Max lasted longer, fighting it, but eventually her head drooped onto Lucas’s shoulder.

El was the last one awake, but even she was fading, curled up against Mike.

“Out like lights,” Steve murmured.

“Every time.”

“You’d think they’d learn to pace themselves.”

“They never do.”

You were both whispering now, careful not to wake anyone. The movie was still playing, but neither of you were really watching anymore.

“So,” Steve said quietly. “Supreme Babysitter.”

“I know. It’s a lot of responsibility.”

“How are you handling the power?”

“With grace and humility.”

He snorted softly. “Right. That’s exactly what I’d call you. Humble.”

“I’m humble! I’m the most humble person you’ve ever met.”

“That’s not how humility works.”

“Sounds like something a sore loser would say.”

He turned to look at you, and suddenly he was very close. Close enough that you could count his eyelashes, see the little flecks of gold in his brown eyes, notice the tiny scar on his chin from god knows what fight or accident or brush with death.

“I’m not a sore loser,” he said.

“You kind of are.”

“Okay, maybe a little.”

Your breath caught. “Steve—”

“You were really good today,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper now. “With the kids. You’re always good with them.”

“So are you.”

“It’s different. You make it look easy.”

“It’s not easy. Nothing about this is easy.”

“I know. But you make it look like it is. And that’s—” He stopped, swallowed. “That’s really something.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

The TV cast blue-grey light across his face, and you were suddenly very aware of how close you were sitting. How easy it would be to just lean in a little more. Close that gap.

How much you wanted to.

“Steve,” you said again, softer this time.

He was looking at your mouth.

You were definitely looking at his.

This was happening. This was really happening. After weeks of dancing around it, of pretending you weren’t feeling what you were feeling, of late night conversations and shared looks and moments that felt too big to fit in your chest—

Dustin snored. Loud and sudden and completely momentum-killing.

You both jumped apart like you’d been electrocuted.

Steve cleared his throat. “I should—we should probably get them to bed.”

“Right. Yeah. Definitely.”

“Before they wake up with neck injuries.”

“Good thinking.”

But neither of you moved for a long moment, just sitting there in the TV light, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Then Steve stood up, running a hand through his hair, and started the process of waking up kids and herding them toward sleeping bags and blankets and whatever makeshift beds they’d claimed.

You helped, of course.

And if your hands brushed when you were both tucking a blanket around El, neither of you mentioned it.

You woke up on the couch again the next morning, the pipe cleaner crown somehow still on your head, digging into your scalp at an uncomfortable angle.

The house was quiet. Properly quiet this time, the kind that meant everyone was actually still asleep and it was genuinely early.

You sat up slowly, your neck protesting, and squinted at the VCR clock. 6:23 AM.

Great. Your body had apparently decided that six-something in the morning was just your wake-up time now, regardless of how late you’d stayed up or how little sleep you’d gotten.

You pulled the crown off, setting it carefully on the coffee table—you’d won that thing fair and square, you weren’t about to crush it—and looked around.

The living room was a disaster zone. Again. Blankets everywhere, empty popcorn bowls, someone’s shoes in the middle of the floor. Dustin was drooling on Mike’s shoulder. Max was somehow upside down in her sleeping bag. Lucas had migrated halfway under the couch, which seemed both uncomfortable and structurally impressive.

El was sitting up in the armchair, wide awake, watching you.

You jumped about a foot in the air, pressing a hand to your chest. “Jesus—El. How long have you been awake?”

“A while,” she said simply.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

She shrugged. “You looked tired.”

That was… actually really sweet.

You rubbed your eyes, trying to force your brain into something resembling consciousness. “Can’t sleep?”

“Bad dreams,” El said quietly.

Your heart clenched. “You want to talk about it?”

She considered this, tilting her head in that way she did when she was thinking hard about something. Then she shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Okay. But if you do want to talk, I’m here. You know that, right?”

“I know.” She paused. “You’re good at that. Listening.”

“Thanks, kiddo.”

“That’s why you won yesterday.”

You smiled. “I don’t know about that. I think I just got lucky.”

“No.” El was very serious now, looking at you with those intense eyes that always felt like they were seeing more than they should. “You won because you care. And you don’t try to fix everything. You just… stay.”

Something about that hit harder than it should have.

“Yeah, well,” you said, your voice coming out rougher than intended. “You guys make it pretty easy to stay.”

El smiled—small and genuine—and then turned her attention back to the sleeping pile of kids. “Steve was awake too. Earlier.”

“Was he?”

“He checked the doors. Three times.”

Of course he did.

“Is he asleep now?” you asked.

El nodded. “In the kitchen. At the table.”

You sighed. That sounded about right. Steve probably couldn’t make it back to his actual bedroom, so he’d just… passed out at the kitchen table like some kind of exhausted dad who fell asleep doing the bills.

“I’m gonna go check on him,” you said, standing up and stretching. Your spine made concerning cracking sounds. “You good here?”

“Yes.”

El was right.

Steve was slumped over the kitchen table, one arm pillowed under his head, the other hanging limply at his side. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes—jeans and that Hawkins High sweatshirt, now even more rumpled than before. His hair was a complete disaster, sticking up in every possible direction.

The nail bat was leaning against his chair.

Of course it was.

For a moment, you just stood there, looking at him. At the dark circles under his eyes, visible even in sleep. At the tension that never quite left his shoulders. At the way his hand was curled into a loose fist, like even unconscious he was ready to fight something.

Steve Harrington, Hawkins’ reluctant hero, currently drooling slightly on his own kitchen table at six thirty in the morning.

Your heart did that stupid fluttering thing again.

You were so screwed.

“Steve,” you said softly, walking over and putting a hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Wake up.”

He jerked awake with a sharp inhale, his hand immediately going for the bat before his eyes were even fully open.

“Whoa, whoa!” You stepped back, hands up. “It’s just me!”

Steve blinked rapidly, trying to orient himself, his chest heaving. Then recognition dawned, and his whole body sagged. “Shit. Sorry. I—sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I could’ve hit you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I could’ve—”

“Steve.” You moved closer again, keeping your voice gentle. “It’s okay. You didn’t. I’m fine.”

He dragged a hand down his face, and when he looked up at you, he looked so tired. Bone-deep, exhausted tired. “What time is it?”

“Early. Six thirty-ish.”

“Why are you awake?”

“Why are you asleep at the kitchen table?”

He looked around like he was just now realizing where he was. “I was… I was checking the perimeter. Must’ve sat down for a second.”

“Steve, you can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” You gestured at him, at the bat, at the whole situation. “Not sleeping. Staying up all night checking doors and windows. Running yourself into the ground.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You just tried to hit me with a bat.”

“I didn’t actually—”

“Steve.”

He went quiet, jaw working like he was trying to find the right words and coming up empty.

You pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. “When’s the last time you actually slept? Like, really slept. More than a couple hours.”

“I sleep.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I sleep enough.”

“Also not an answer.”

He was quiet for a long moment, staring at his hands on the table. Then, so quietly you almost missed it: “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t sleep. Not really. I try, and I just…” He made a frustrated gesture. “I see it all again. The tunnels, the Russians, the—everything. And then I’m awake and I can’t stop thinking about what if something happens while I’m sleeping? What if something gets in and I don’t wake up in time? What if—”

He cut himself off, his hand curling into a fist on the table.

You reached out slowly, carefully, and put your hand over his. “Nothing’s going to happen.”

“You don’t know that.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But Steve—you can’t protect everyone all the time. You can’t stay awake forever.”

“I can try.”

“You’re going to kill yourself trying.”

The words came out harsher than you meant them to, but they were true and you both knew it.

Steve’s jaw tightened. “I’m not going to—”

“You fell asleep at the kitchen table. With a nail bat. After checking the doors three times.” You squeezed his hand. “Steve, that’s not sustainable. That’s not… you can’t live like this.”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“Let someone else help. Let me help.”

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and his eyes were so raw it hurt. “You’re already helping. You’re here. That’s—that’s more than—”

His voice cracked, and he looked away quickly, like he was embarrassed.

“Hey.” You waited until he looked back. “You don’t have to do this alone. You know that, right? You’re not—we’re in this together. All of us. Me, Robin, the kids. You’re not the only one who’s responsible for keeping everyone safe.”

“Feels like I am sometimes.”

“Well, you’re not. And I’m not gonna let you burn out because you think you have to be some kind of solo superhero.” You stood up, tugging on his hand. “Come on.”

“What—where are we going?”

“You’re going to bed. Your actual bed. Not the couch, not the kitchen table. Your bed.”

“I can’t just—”

“You absolutely can. The kids are asleep. I’m awake. I’ll keep watch.”

He started to protest, then stopped, something shifting in his expression. “You’ll stay?”

“I’ll stay.”

“And if something—”

“Then I’ll wake you up. But nothing’s going to happen, Steve. It’s Sunday morning in Hawkins. The most dangerous thing happening right now is Dustin’s snoring.”

That got a small smile out of him. Tiny, but there.

“Okay,” he said finally. “Okay, but just for a couple hours.”

“However long you need.”

“A couple hours,” he insisted.

“Sure, Steve. A couple hours.”

You both knew that was a lie, but he let you pull him to his feet anyway.

Steve’s bedroom was on the second floor, down a hallway lined with family photos that looked staged and impersonal. His room was surprisingly normal—a double bed with navy blue sheets that were actually made, a desk with homework he’d probably never finished scattered across it, a dresser with cologne and loose change on top. Posters on the walls: a couple of bands, a sports car, a Risky Business poster that made you snort.

“Don’t,” Steve said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re thinking it really loud.”

“I’m just thinking that you have very interesting taste in movies.”

“Everyone loves that movie.”

“Everyone loves that scene from that movie. There’s a difference.”

He was too tired to argue, which was probably for the best. He just kicked off his shoes and collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, face-first into the pillow.

“You’re not even going to get under the covers?” you asked.

“Too much effort,” came his muffled response.

You rolled your eyes, grabbed the blanket from the foot of the bed, and threw it over him. He made a sound that might’ve been “thanks” or might’ve been just general exhaustion.

“I’m setting an alarm,” he mumbled. “Two hours.”

“You’re not setting an alarm.”

“Yes I am.”

“Steve, you can barely move.”

“’M fine…” His words were already slurring. “Just… couple hours…”

You sat down on the edge of the bed, and his hand found yours in that automatic way that was becoming familiar. His fingers threaded through yours, holding on even as his breathing started to even out.

“Stay?” he asked, barely conscious now.

“I’m staying.”

“Good. That’s… that’s good…”

And then he was out.

Like actually, completely unconscious in the way only truly exhausted people can be. His face relaxed, the tension finally bleeding out of his shoulders, his hand still holding yours but looser now.

You should’ve left. Should’ve gone back downstairs, kept an eye on the kids, let Steve sleep without you sitting here like some kind of creepy sentinel.

But you stayed.

Because he’d asked you to. Because he looked so peaceful like this, more peaceful than you’d seen him in weeks. Because some part of you needed to make sure he was okay, even though you knew that was ridiculous.

So you sat on the edge of Steve Harrington’s bed, holding his hand, watching the morning light creep through his window, and thought about how completely and utterly screwed you were.

You meant to stay for just a few minutes.

You really did.

But Steve’s bed was comfortable, and his hand was warm in yours, and you were so tired, and it had been such a long few weeks, and before you knew it you were listing sideways, then lying down on top of the covers next to him, and then—

You woke up to whispering.

Very loud, very obvious whispering that was clearly meant to be quiet but was failing spectacularly.

“Oh my god.”

“Dustin, shut up—”

“Are they—they’re totally—”

“If you wake them up, I’m going to kill you.”

“Max, we need photographic evidence—”

Your eyes flew open.

Five kids were standing in Steve’s bedroom doorway, various expressions of delight, shock, and smugness on their faces. Dustin had a camera. Max was grinning like the Cheshire cat. Lucas looked vaguely uncomfortable. Mike seemed caught between amusement and horror. El just looked pleased.

It took you a second to remember where you were.

Steve’s bed. You were in Steve’s bed. Still on top of the covers, still fully clothed, but definitely, undeniably in Steve’s bed.

And Steve—

Steve was pressed against your back, one arm slung over your waist, his face buried in your hair, still completely dead to the world.

You’d fallen asleep.

You’d both fallen asleep.

Cuddling.

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

The camera flashed.

“DUSTIN!”

Steve jerked awake with a startled “What—” and immediately tried to sit up, which just resulted in him rolling off the bed and landing on the floor with a solid thud.

“Ow. Fuck. What—” He was blinking rapidly, hair sticking up in every direction, looking completely disoriented. Then he saw the kids. “What the hell are you all doing in my room?”

“Bearing witness,” Dustin said solemnly.

“Witnessing what?”

“Your feelings,” Max said, like it was obvious.

Steve looked at you, still lying on his bed. You looked back at Steve, currently on his floor. Both of you were blushing so hard you probably looked sunburned.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Steve tried.

“It looks like you two were cuddling,” Lucas said.

“We weren’t—we were just—she was—”

“I was making sure he slept,” you said, finally finding your voice and sitting up. “That’s it. He hasn’t been sleeping, so I made sure he actually slept for once.”

“By cuddling,” Dustin said.

“By staying in the room—”

“While cuddling.”

“We weren’t cuddling!”

“You literally had your arm around her, Steve,” Mike pointed out.

Steve opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I was asleep! I didn’t know—I wasn’t consciously—”

“So you unconsciously cuddled,” Max said. “That’s actually even better. That means it’s instinct.”

“Oh my god,” you said, dropping your face into your hands.

“Oh my god,” Steve echoed, still on the floor.

El stepped forward from the group, and everyone went quiet. When El wanted to say something, people listened.

She looked at Steve, then at you, then back at Steve.

“It’s okay,” she said simply. “We already knew.”

“Knew what?” Steve asked warily.

“That you like each other.”

“We don’t—” you started.

“You do,” El said, with the kind of certainty only El could have. “It’s obvious. You’re always together. You look at each other a lot. Steve makes you coffee the way you like it without asking. You fixed his jacket collar on Tuesday. Mike does the same thing with me.”

Mike’s face went red. “El—”

“It’s nice,” El continued, ignoring him. “You should just tell each other.”

The room went silent.

You were pretty sure you’d stopped breathing.

Steve was staring at El like she’d just announced she could read minds—which, honestly, maybe she could. You wouldn’t put it past her at this point.

“I—” Steve started, then seemed to lose all his words.

You weren’t doing much better. Your brain had just completely shut down. Blue-screened. Error 404, thoughts not found.

Dustin cleared his throat. “So, uh, just to confirm for the records: are you two dating or…?”

“No!” you and Steve said simultaneously.

“But you want to be,” Max said. It wasn’t a question.

More silence.

Lucas whispered to Dustin: “I think we broke them.”

“Okay!” you said, suddenly finding the ability to move again and standing up from the bed. “Okay, this has been a delightful morning ambush, but I think it’s time for everyone to go back downstairs. Now.”

“But—” Dustin started.

“Now, Henderson.”

“Fine, but this conversation isn’t over!” he said as Max physically dragged him out of the room.

Lucas and Mike followed, Mike still looking embarrassed but unable to hide his smile. El was the last to leave, pausing in the doorway to look back at both of you.

“It’s okay to be happy,” she said quietly. “You both deserve that.”

And then she was gone, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Leaving you and Steve alone.

In his bedroom.

After you’d been caught cuddling.

After El had basically announced to everyone that you had feelings for each other.

“So,” Steve said from the floor.

“So,” you echoed.

“That happened.”

“Yep.”

“El might be psychic.”

“That would explain a lot, actually.”

He laughed—sharp and surprised—and then pushed himself to his feet, running a hand through his already disastrous hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—I was asleep, I didn’t know I—”

“Steve, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, you were just trying to help and I made it weird—”

“You didn’t make it weird.”

“I literally cuddled you in my sleep!”

“Unconscious cuddling doesn’t count!”

“How does unconscious cuddling not count?!”

“Because—” You stopped, took a breath. This was ridiculous. This whole thing was ridiculous. “Because I didn’t mind.”

Steve froze. “You… didn’t?”

“No. I didn’t.” Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could hear it. “Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Mind. Would you have minded? If you’d been awake?”

He stared at you for a long moment, and you watched his expression shift through about seven different emotions before landing on something that looked like determination.

“No,” he said finally. “I wouldn’t have minded.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Okay,” you said.

“Okay?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

You were standing in the middle of Steve’s bedroom, the morning sun streaming through the window, kids probably eavesdropping on the other side of the door, having the most awkward conversation of your entire life.

And somehow, it was perfect.

“So,” Steve said, taking a step closer. “El thinks we like each other.”

“Apparently.”

“And that we should tell each other.”

“That’s what she said.”

“And you didn’t disagree with her.”

Your mouth went dry. “Neither did you.”

He took another step closer, and suddenly he was right there, close enough that you could see the flecks of green in his eyes again, close enough that you could count the moles on his neck, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he said, voice low and rough and honest.

Your breath caught. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. But I also really don’t want our first kiss to happen right after I fell off a bed and got ambushed by teenagers, so—”

You kissed him.

Just leaned up and closed the distance and pressed your mouth to his, cutting off his rambling in the best possible way.

For half a second, he froze, surprised. Then he made this small sound in the back of his throat and kissed you back, his hands coming up to cup your face, gentle and sure and perfect.

It was soft. Careful. A little bit awkward because all first kisses were a little bit awkward, but also somehow exactly right.

When you pulled back, Steve’s eyes were still closed, his lips curved into a smile.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, that was—”

“Yeah.”

“We should probably—”

“Yeah.”

“But later, right? We can talk about this later?”

“Definitely later.”

His smile widened, and then he kissed you again, quick and sweet, before stepping back. “Okay. Okay, cool. That happened.”

“It did.”

“And you’re—you’re okay with that?”

“Steve, I literally just kissed you. Yes, I’m okay with that.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay.” He was grinning like an idiot now, and it was possibly the cutest thing you’d ever seen. “We should probably go deal with the kids before they break something.”