Mess that you wanted

The only thing I'm actively acknowledging about s5 is Steve and his chainsaw let that boy go feral!

(also that henley, i lowkey want that henley)

The next time Eddie comes over, he's lounging on Steve's bed when Steve comes out of the bathroom and says "Oh, I finally got some new underwear, by the way. Since you thought the others were so lame."

When Eddie looks over he falls off the bed because Steve is standing in the doorway, wearing nothing but a pair of white, lace panties. Steve grins and watches Eddie scramble to right himself.

"They're still tight and white," Steve says as his hands slide down to rub over his hips, "but I think they're much better than the other ones, don't you?"

Eddie isn't able to say anything in response because his eyes are locked onto Steve's crotch, on that beautiful panty-wrapped dick, but he somehow manages to nod.

Steve tuts and motions for him to come closer. "You can't see them properly from over there, silly. Come get a better look."

Stella is a few months old, red-faced and furious at the concept of waiting.

Steve, hardly 19 years old with his hair sticking up in twelve directions, squints at the microwave like it personally offended him.

“Okay, Stell,” he whispers, moving with intense seriousness. “Daddy is currently scooping formula. This is called leveling the scoop. We do not want a heaping scoop. We are not baking cookies. This is science.”

He narrated everything he did. It was an old habit from growing up in a big house with empty rooms, he learnt quite young that talking about anything, even the mundane things, stopped the silence from becoming suffocating.

Stella makes that pre-cry inhale. The warning siren.

“I hear you. I respect your feedback,” he continues quickly. “But if I rush, we get clumps. And clumps are the enemy. We don’t like clumps.”

He shakes the bottle with theatrical precision.

“Now we shake. Gently. Like a bartender. Which I am not. Because I have a child. You are the bar. I serve milk.”

She grabs a fistful of his hair.

“Okay! Yes! That’s my scalp! I understand you are… what is the word… hangry. That is when we are hungry and angry. It is valid. But violence is not the answer.”

He leans down so she can see the bottle.

“milks almost ready. The milk is your friend. Daddy is also your friend. Daddy is doing his best.”

he isn't just narrating because some parenting book told him to. He was narrating the same reason he was narrating making Mac n cheese when he was ten: because he was scared.

Scared of doing it wrong.

Scared of silence.

Scared of being nineteen and responsible for this tiny, furious human.

So he filled the room with his voice.

When he changed her nappy:

“Now we are committing a diaper intervention. This is a hostile environment. Daddy is going in.”

When he folded laundry:

“These are tiny socks. Why are they so small? Where are you even going?”

When she finally calmed down, bottle in her mouth, blinking up at him like he’d just solved world hunger, he’d soften.

“You’re doing great,” he’d murmur, brushing her hair back. “You’re so small, but you’re doing great.”

He was just trying his best.

Weeks later came another late night.

Stella is maybe four months now.

He’s moving slower. Quieter. Formula scoop. Shake. Test on wrist. Efficient. Silent.

He’s conserving energy. Words feel expensive after an 11 hour close-open shift.

Stella, however, has noticed a change in programming

She’s in his arms, staring up at him. Waiting.

He adjusts the bottle. Says nothing.

Her eyebrows knit together. Tiny betrayal.

A warning whimper.

He blinks down at her. “What?”

He keeps rocking. Still quiet.

Her face crumples like he just cancelled Christmas.

The cry starts, not a hungry-cry, Not a pain-cry.

An panicked, confused cry.

The “something is wrong with my universe” cry.

Steve freezes. “No no no no, you were fine a second ago. Stell. Stell.”

He checks the bottle. Checks her diaper with a panicked little pat. “You’re dry. You’re fed. You’re… small.”

The crying escalates.

because he’s desperate he mutters, half to himself, half to her “Okay, we’re okay, you're okay, shhh it's okay, I'm here.”

She hiccups.

Stops.

Big wet eyes locked on his mouth.

He stares.

“…I'm here, I'm always here” he continues slowly.

Silence.

She relaxes. Tiny hand loosens from his shirt.

Steve’s brain takes a full five seconds to process this.

He leans closer, suspicious.

“Are you telling me,” he says carefully, “that I need to provide commentary?”

Her eyes track his lips like he’s the BBC.

He gasps softly. “Wait. You like when I talk to you?”

Her foot kicks.

He lets out a quiet, exhausted laugh.

The kind that’s half disbelief, half awe.

“You don’t even know what I’m saying. I could be explaining anything, taxes, hair products, reason number 336 why your aunt robin is annoying.”

She makes a small pleased noise.

He looks at her like she just unlocked a secret level. “You think I’m funny?"

She makes another noise.

Steve smiled softly, bouncing her, narrating ever step.