When You Wish Upon A Star...

“Everything will be fine, honey,” you try to reassure him once more, reaching out to place your hand on his thigh and giving it a soothing squeeze, which he takes more as a 'you'll have to be strong and endure this, you got yourself into this.'

Steve grabs your hand as he focuses on the road ahead and lifts it to his mouth, pressing a loving kiss on your knuckles. Then he brings your joined hands back to you, placing them on your growing belly.

Your cute little bump is now visible, and it's at the point where everyone can tell that you're definitely pregnant.

“Will he notice?” Steve bites his lower lip, visibly agitated.

“He’ll definitely notice, daddy,” you reply with a giggle, intertwining your fingers over his on your five-month baby bump.

Steve beams at the title, the nerves momentarily eclipsed by pride. 

“God,” he exhales with a goofy smile. “Don't say that, it makes me so happy and horny.”

“Steve,” you call out disapprovingly, even the way you say it is so mom-like that it drives him crazy, with that unforgettable smile curving your lips covered in that cute lip gloss he loves.

“I'm just joking—I'm nervous,” he shrugs and shakes his head. “I just… I really want him to be happy for us.”

You turn your body toward him as much as the seatbelt—and your baby bump— allows, studying his face, the crease between his brows, the way his jaw tightens when he’s nervous. You’ve seen Steve face monsters, literal ones, without flinching. But this? This matters in a way Demogorgons never did.

“He loves you,” you say gently. “He always has. You’re not stealing anything from him. You’re just… joining the family.”

That gets his attention. He looks at you fully now, sunglasses pushed down his nose so you can see his eyes, glossy and sincere.

“What if he thinks we rushed things?” he blurts out. “Or that I’m not ready? Or that I’m gonna screw this up somehow? I mean, my dad was—he is kind of a jerk to me. I don't want Dustin to think that I—”

“Steve, baby, you are already an amazing husband,” you say, voice steady and warm. “And you’re going to be an incredible dad. Dustin knows you. He’s not going to think any of those things. We're family.”

“Family,” he repeats, tasting the word. Then he swallows and nods, like he’s committing it to memory. “Yeah. Okay. Family.”

The massive tires of the Winnebago crunch against the gravel of the university parking lot. Steve kills the engine, but his hands remain white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He takes a deep breath, looking at you with a mix of terror and excitement.

Steve gets out of the driver's seat, adjusting his sunglasses with that characteristic confidence of his, although his smile suggests that he is more nervous than usual. He walks around the vehicle and opens the passenger door with exaggerated delicacy.

“Careful, sweetheart. Slowly,” he reminds you, offering you his hand as if you were made of porcelain.

“Steve, I'm just pregnant, I haven't broken my leg,” you chuckle, holding his hand and stepping down from the motorhome.

“Hey, you're carrying a national treasure, so you have to be careful, baby” he answers in an affectionate tone, giving you a quick kiss on the forehead before turning toward the big building of the Purdue University.

Not a minute goes by before Dustin runs up through the crowd of college students, carrying a huge backpack and a huge smile lighting up his face, so happy to see you two after months of phone calls, letters, and postcards.

“Hey, buddy—oh! ” Steve greets him, hugging Dustin with joy, and Dustin hugs him back tightly, giggling in delight.

“Harrington, you're here!” the young man exclaims excitedly, “You're both here.”

His eyes wander from the huge camper behind you both and finally come to focus on you. His eyebrows furrow for a second, momentarily confused by the extra volume in your midsection, until the realization finally sinks in. 

And his mouth drops open, dumbfounded, stammering your name.

“Oh shit, is that... a baby?” His voice rises three pitches. “Is there a baby in there?!”

You can't hide your excitement and open your arms, fully revealing your pregnancy state. “Surprise, Dusty! You're going to be an uncle.”

Dustin drops his backpack, which hits the ground with a thud.

“Oh shit! Are you kidding me?!” he lunges toward you, carefully wrapping you in a hug that avoids putting pressure on your belly but transmits all his emotion.

His hands tremble slightly as he gestures toward your cute bump.

“May I...?” he requests with sparkling eyes.

You nod gently and Steve draws closer to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and looking at Dustin with a huge smile, his lips trembling with happiness.

Dustin places a hand on your bump with near-religious reverence. Right then, you feel a little kick, as if the baby is greeting his favourite —and only—uncle.

“Oh my God! It moved!” Dustin leaps back, half scared, half euphoric. “My niece or nephew just communicated with me via tactile vibration!” he chirps enthusiastically. “That’s a sign of high intelligence, definitely a Henderson trait!"

Steve finds himself relaxed at last, realizing that Dustin isn't upset, but rather the opposite, beaming with happiness for the baby. 

He lets out a huff of laughter, “I'm pretty sure all babies do that, buddy.”

You laugh as well, leaning back into Steve’s chest and admiring the scene with soft eyes. “We wanted to tell you in person.”

Dustin looks back at you, his face softening. “I can't believe it. This is going to be the best road trip ever! I already have a list of books we need to read to the bump. Starting with The Hobbit, obviously."

Steve rolls his eyes but pulls you both closer. “Alright, Uncle Genius. Load your gear. The passenger VIP is getting hungry, and we have a long drive ahead.”

As Dustin climbs into the camper, already rambling about "prenatal brain stimulation" and the specific frequency of music he’s going to play for the baby, Steve pauses at the door. 

He turns back to you, his sunglasses pushed up onto his head, revealing eyes that are shimmering with tears he’d never admit to.

“We did it,” he whispers, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “He’s happy.”

“I told you he would be,” you say against his mouth.

season one:

chapter one: the vanishing of will byers

chapter two: the weirdo on maple street

chapter three: holly, jolly

chapter four: the body

chapter five: the flea and the acrobat

chapter six: the monster

chapter seven: the bathtub

chapter eight: the upside down

season two:

chapter one: madmax

chapter two: trick or treat, freak

chapter three: the pollywog

chapter four: will the wise

chapter five: dig dug

chapter six: the spy

chapter seven: the lost sister

chapter eight: the mind flayer (part one)

chapter eight: the mind flayer (part two)

chapter nine: the gate

season three:

chapter one: suzie, do you copy?

chapter two: the mall rats

chapter three: the case of the missing lifeguard

chapter four: the sauna test

chapter five: the flayed

chapter six: e pluribus unum

chapter seven: the bite

chapter eight: the battle of starcourt

chapter nine: the epilogue

season four:

chapter one: the hellfire club

chapter two: vecna's curse

chapter three: the monster and the superhero

chapter four: dear billy

chapter five: the nina project

chapter six: the dive

chapter seven: the massacre at hawkins lab

chapter eight: papa

chapter nine: the piggyback

chapter ten: the epilogue

season five:

chapter one: the crawl

chapter two: the vanishing of holly wheeler

chapter three: the turnbow trap

chapter four: the sorcerer

chapter five: shock jock

chapter six: escape from camazotz

chapter seven: the bridge

the two-year foster clock was ticking down. last month, shannon’s voice over the phone echoed in your head about a family in california who was ready to meet and adopt her, but you couldn’t let her go. not after everything and the anxiety about her being gone had clawed at you for days, with a constant strangle around your chest harder than the fractured rib.

sending her away would destroy you, and her. hawkins was her home now which had the radio station with robin, science fairs with dustin, basketball in the driveway with lucas. abandoning her to strangers across the country would echo every loss she’d already endured with her parents, and the “accident” cover story.

you were keeping her, and adopting her.

the money for college, for DC, for escaping this cursed town... it could wait. she was your family and steve’s too.

you’d make it work, somehow.

soon eleven finally lifted the plate free with a final clang, crashing to the side. with that, a sea of red glowed up from the ground, pulsing like a heartbeat with the air shimmering with heat and that sickly sweet rot from below.

mr. clarke... your old middle school science teacher, dragged into this madness by murray’s and erica's “persuasive” speech.. stood frozen beside you with his wire-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose, mouth agape.

“holy mother of—” he stammered, eyes wide as saucers.

murray chuckled from behind, slinging a backpack over his shoulder, “you coming, snookums?”

clarke blinked, face paling further as the rumbling from the gate grew louder with a low, guttural vibration that shook the floor, “we’re… going in there?”

you smirked, since laughing would pull at your ribs, “it’s not as bad as it looks.”

that was a lie. the upside down was hell and it was cold, toxic, and full of things that wanted to rip you apart. you stepped forward anyway with you heart pounding and the red glow reflecting in your eyes like blood.

robin and vickie went first, with vickie clutching a flashlight like it would run away if she let go. you followed, and the descent was like falling into a wound with vines slithering along the edges, red mist curling up to meet you, and the air turning thick and cold midway down.

your boots hit the ground with a wet squelch because of the upside down dirt, always damp, always alive underfoot. the world inverted around you with the hawkins lab’s underbelly twisted into something nightmarish. the ceilings were dripping with black ichor, the walls were pulsing with veiny growths that glowed faintly purple. the sky above was that endless storm with dark clouds roiling, and red lightning forking silently.

“nancy! holly!” mike yelled into the blue-gray wind, voice desperate for any response.

“jodie! steve?” you called, the words tearing out of you despite the stab in your side. you winced, hand flying to your ribs, but kept moving.

vickie coughed, waving a hand in front of her face, “is this shit safe to breathe?”

“unclear,” robin said flatly, scanning the shadows.

“well... um... i got a sore throat after the first time i was under here,” you added, forcing a smile, “but hey, builds character.”

vickie’s eyes widened, with anxiety going deeper into her face. she clutched robin’s arm tighter, flashlight beam jittering across the ground.

“mike? mike!” a voice yelled from the distance. it was faint and distorted by the wind before it got closer with flashlights waving ahead... dustin.

your group broke into a run, pain be damned as your ribs screamed with every jolt. the beams converged and soon dustin, steve, nancy, jonathan emerging from a cluster of twisted trees with their faces smeared with ash and weird goo.

“jesus, it’s so good to see you guys,” mike said, voice breaking.

dustin threw himself into mike’s arms, the two boys hugging tightly yet quick. you scanned the group with nancy hugging joyce, jonathan clasping hopper’s shoulder.

there were no small figures, though. no curls, and no jodie, and no holly.

your smile died as steve’s face which was defeated, haunted, and worse than nancy’s or jonathan’s... told you everything. you walked forward, past your group, the pain in your side fading under the crush of dread.

“steve?” you mumbled, hands reaching for his arms, gripping gently.

steve couldn’t meet your eyes as he stared at the ground, ashamed, broken.

“where is she?” you whispered, “where’s the girls?”

steve finally looked up, shaking his head as his eyes which are usually so warm, and so steady with you were shattered, twinkling with unshed tears.

“she was here, y/n,” he mumbled, “she was here.."

your mouth went agape, "what?"

"something had a hold of her, but you couldn’t see anything. she was just… right there. now she’s gone.... it was him, it had to be.” steve said, with the defeat on his face clear.

your eyes widened with horror blooming cold and loud in your chest, “I don't... I don't get it?”

nancy stepped closer, and her face was more pale than usual, “we were on the floor below the roof and we heard screams... we ran up and we looked up and saw jodie floating and terrified. she was screaming for us.... for steve. she reached for him, but… something pulled her away and up into the sky like vecna had her on a string.”

jonathan nodded grimly, “holly too. we saw her shadow above but it was the same thing, like the two of them were gone before we could do anything.”

you looked back at steve and searched his face as moisture started building in your eyes, “she was… screaming?”

steve’s voice cracked, “my name.... over and over. I tried, y/n. I reached but she was too high and she got yanked away like the clouds swallowed her.”

the words punched through you since your little girl, terrified, alone, calling for steve, couldn't be reached. failure crashed over you again and it was heavier than the rib pain, than anything else.

mike’s walkie crackled suddenly and lucas’s voice was frantic.

“mike, do you copy? is jodie okay? is holly okay? mike? mike do you copy?”

however, the boy's voice was static in your ears since the white noise drowning everything. she was so close and now so far and gone again.

tears blurred your vision, “we have to get her back,” you whispered, “now.”

steve pulled you into his arms and it was so gentle, being mindful of your ribs. “we will,” he said, voice convincing despite the break in it, “i swear. we’ll get them back.”

later, the van ride back to wsqk was suffocating in its silence. the only sounds were the low rumble of the engine, the occasional crackle of gravel under tires, and the wind whistling through a cracked window that no one bothered to close.

nancy sat being the driver's seat in the back, with her arms crossed tight and staring straight ahead like she could will the road to move faster.

jonathan was beside her, head against the glass, eyes distant and nearly broken from something deeper than just the events happening right now.

in the middle in the backseat, dustin fidgeted with a walkie and started turning knobs that weren’t there, all while you sat in the passenger seat as steve drives another car that was not lost in the upside down... all while your ribs scream with every pothole.

he drove with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white and jaw locked so tight you could see the muscle jump.

steve’s face was a mask of quiet devastation with his mouth set in a line that hadn’t softened since the roof. he kept glancing at you right and there, like he needed to confirm you were still there and still breathing, and still with him.

the relief of having you out of the hospital warred with the fresh horror of jodie’s scream still went through his head like a radio rewinding. he’d reached for her and she’d reached for him, yet she’d been yanked away anyway.

you stared out the passenger window, watching the dark shapes of hawkins blur past with abandoned houses, rift-scarred streets, and the occasional federal barricade lit by floodlights.

rage burned low and constant in your chest, hotter than the pain in your side. it wasn’t just steve leaving the hospital without you, it was everything piling up at once, a landslide you couldn’t outrun.

first, your mind replayed your parents’ car crash at fourteen. imagining the screaming sirens, hospital smells, and the sudden silence where their voices used to be.

next, the russians at starcourt with the truth serum burning your veins, steve’s blood on your hands, and the mall collapsing in fire and smoke.

after that, it was vecna’s curse and lucas' description of max’s bones snapping, with her lifeless body later in his arms, and the way you’d frozen when steve looked at nancy like she was still his future.

now it is jodie screaming everyone's name, steve’s name, reaching for safety that wasn’t there.

every breath pulled at the fracture in your third left rib, a sharp pinch that made your vision spot black at the edges. you welcomed it since the pain was grounding.

pain meant you were still here, and still fighting.

the van lurched to a stop in the wsqk parking lot. nancy and jonathan were out before the engine fully cut with their boots hitting gravel, moving toward the building like they could outrun their own fear. dustin scrambled after them as steve killed the ignition.

the sudden quiet, afterward, was deafening as he turned to you.

“y/n.”

you didn’t respond at first since your gaze was fixed on the heat vent by the passenger window, watching the faint ripple of warm air. your pupils were blown wide, breath shallow, with your mind miles away replaying jodie’s possible scream, imagining the way her small hand had reached for steve, and the way the sky had swallowed her.

“y/n,” he said again, softer.

you turned slowly and the movement made your ribs flare as steve’s face swam into focus... exhausted, heartbroken, terrified.

“we will get her back,” he said, reaching across the console to take your hand. steve's fingers were cold as he squeezed gently, “i promise.”

you stared at your joined hands with his thumb brushed over your knuckles... once, then twice... like he was reminding himself you were real.

he smiled before he turned to reach for the door handle, at that time is when you blurted three words out.

“i’m adopting her.”

the words came out quiet, but they landed like a gunshot.

steve froze, hand on the handle. slowly, he turned back to you.

“yeah…” he said, “i figured that.”

you blinked, all while confused, “you… figured?”

he nodded, settling back into the driver’s seat, with his shoulders relaxing for the first time in days, “the day shannon called about that family in california… you were anxious for weeks and pacing, never sleeping. you kept looking at her like she might disappear if you blinked. and after everything—” he gestured vaguely around the place, like explaining now's events, “—everyone knew we weren’t just gonna let her go... not after two years and not after she became ours.”

your throat tightened, “but… do you think it’s a good thing? now it’s not two years anymore. it’s… the rest of our lives.”

steve looked at you, and he really looked and his eyes were soft, tired, yet certain.

“yeah,” he said, “I know, but we’re good people. nowadays, at least.” a small, crooked smile tugged at his mouth, “she’ll be okay with us.”

he reached across, hand cupping your cheek.

you leaned into it, with your eyes closing for a second as his thumb brushed away a tear you hadn’t realized was falling.

“besides,” he murmured, “jodie’s technically our first out of six nuggets.”

a laugh burst out of you... short, surprised, and painful since your ribs protested, but the sound felt like release.

“there’s my girl,” steve said, smile widening.

he leaned over the console and kissed your temple before he got out of the van. you watched him round the hood, open your door, offer his hand.

you took it.

inside wsqk, the environment was full with urgency and coffee. the main room had been turned into a makeshift command center with maps pinned to every wall, radios crackling, and glass windows covered in dustin’s frantic handwriting.

joyce sat at the center, briefing the group and hopper leaned against the window in the back, arms crossed as robin near vickie. everyone else was sat on a couch, and you were sitting beside steve on your left and murray on your right.

“what’s the plan?”

eleven sat beside her sister and her eyes were distant, with blood dried under her nose. she’d just come from saving her sister, and the red glow still lingered on her exposed arm skin like sunburn.

dustin exhaled, “so the upside down isn’t a world,” he said, “it’s a tunnel... like a bridge to another world. we are calling that other world the abyss.”

your stomach dropped.

“jodie and holly is in there,” dustin said quietly, “with the others.”

you stared at him, “how do you know?”

“will felt it,” dustin said, “when he connected. it’s… different and colder. vecna’s not hiding in the upside down since he’s in the abyss while building something.”

nancy spoke up despite the exhaustion etched into her face, “that’s why every crawl led to dead ends....”

eleven nodded, “and that is why i can’t find him in the bath.”

you shook your head, hand pressing harder against your ribs, “so all this time, vecna’s been hiding in the sky, like the sky in the upside down?”

joyce nodded, “that explains the floating. the way jodie and holly were pulled up. he’s not just taking them. he’s collecting them.”

“for what?” hopper growled, angry at the idea of something happening to childern.

will spoke softly from the couch, “the same reason he took me. kids’ minds are weaker., and more malleable. he used me to amplify his reach. now he’s doing it again, with them.”

you sighed deeply, and steve’s hand tightened on your back as a result of that.

“amplify his abilities?” hopper asked, “to do what?”

max, finally awake, and finally here sat in her wheelchair with her voice rough, “to move worlds.”

the room went still.

“holly told me,” max said, “henry... he told the kids they were going to help him move worlds. he wants to use jodie like he used will by being another sorcerer, all because she’s been through harder things. because she’s… gifted, he says.”

the word hit like a slap to your heart. jodie is gifted, and vecna wanted that.

you stood up from the couch and turned away with a hand over your mouth, trying to breathe through the pain in your side, in your chest, in your head.

steve followed you into the hallway as you speed walked, “y/n—”

you spun on him, tears spilling over.

“jodie,” you choked out.

he pulled you into his arms, careful of your ribs, and you collapsed against his chest, sobbing.

“i need to get her back,” you whispered, “we have no other choice.”

steve nodded against your hair, “yeah. her, holly, the others. we’re getting them all back, y/n. we just need to all talk about it, okay?”

you clung to him, shaking.

“i’m sorry,” you mumbled, “for everything and for doubting you, and for pushing you away.”

“stop,” he said softly, “we’re past that, babe. we’re here, and we are together.”

after another minute, he guided you back into the main room and will was standing now, marker in hand, drawing on the window with squiggly lines representing rifts, a larger shape for the abyss.

you sat on the arm of the couch beside steve with your ribs throbbing, and hands slightly shaking.

will spoke quietly, “henry wants to merge his world with ours. he wasn’t licking his wounds in the abyss. he was creating rifts.” he drew connecting lines between hawkins and the abyss, “he’s weakening the boundary like he weakened hawkins. when the abyss and hawkins collide—”

he pressed his hands together.

“—they become one.”

steve leaned forward, “so how long do we have? instantly? or…?”

mike answered, “we better hope it takes time because if will’s right, we have to get two thousand feet in the air, find our way into the abyss, free holly and jodie and the others, and kill vecna all before the merge finishes.”

lucas nodded grimly, "and if my calculations are correct… he’s moving worlds tonight.”

the room went dead silent.

as some people complained about hating lucas' theory, you stood up... too fast and pain flared white-hot. you gasped, hand flying to your side.

“then what are we waiting for?” you said, voice raw as steve reached his arm up, helping you stand more balanced.

hopper scoffed, “you know i hate all of this... but at least we know what we’re up against.”

after steve came up with a beautiful plan in another room, joyce looked around the room seeing exhausted faces, bruised bodies, and terrified eyes.

“we gear up,” she said, “we move at dawn.”

you nodded once before then you walked out of the room, going into one of the closets and finding a backup outfit, one you've always kept here at the radio station incase of emergencies. all dark clothing, perfect.

afterwards, you move into the hallway bathroom and you locked the door. shortly after, you stripped off your jeans and dark green sweater and stood in your bra and underwear, staring at your reflection in the mirror in front of the sink.

the bruise on your left side was massive, it was a deep purple spreading across your ribcage like spilled ink, yellowing at the edges.

you touched it lightly and pain flared which caused you to hiss.

after seeing the big bruise, and feeling the pain that followed, you wondered, for one terrible second, if this was your last night alive.

vecna didn’t lose, not really. every time you've encountered an upside down monster in the last few years something always went horribly wrong.

but... but for jodie, for the shy girl you’d raised into someone bright and brave, you’d do anything.

shaking your head, trying to push your thoughts aside, you pulled on black windbreaker nylon pants, a black long-sleeve shirt, and a dark green camouflage army jacket you kept here for emergencies.

afterwards, you had on your brown military boots laced tight.

you looked at yourself again and you were bruised and terrified... but ready.

opening the bathroom door, you stepped back into the war room to see everyone was moving by loading weapons, checking batteries, and taping knives to bats.

steve looked up when you walked in and his eyes softened.

“you okay?” he asked quietly.

you nodded, “we’re getting her back,” you said.

he crossed the room at that moment, and pulled you into a careful hug.

“yeah,” he whispered against your hair, “we are.”

the journey through the gate at the mac-z had you clenching your teeth the whole way, with one hand pressed to your side the whole time pretending like the fractured rib wasn’t screaming louder than the monsters that could be around, or the military men.

adrenaline had dulled the worst of it for a while, but now crammed into murray’s van hurtling through the inverted hawkins streets, the pain was back with teeth and harsher words.

the van lurched over a cracked road and you knocked hard into steve’s side. thankfully, he caught you instantly with arm around your waist, careful not to squeeze but the jolt still sent a white-hot spike through your left ribcage.

“jesus christ,” he exhaled, voice tight with worry.

you hissed through your teeth, hand flying to your side, “'m sorry.”

hopper’s voice boomed from the front, “everybody alright? everyone okay? y/n?”

steve’s grip tightened protectively, “y/n, babe—”

you shook your head, forcing a tight smile as you slid down to sit on the van floor between his knees, hands braced on the metal walls for balance.

“i just get motion sickness too. i’ll be fine.”

it wasn’t a complete lie since the van’s erratic swerving and murray’s maniacal driving were making your stomach churn, but everyone knew the real culprit. pity flickered across their faces since robin, holding onto a support bar for dear life, gave you a look that said she wasn’t buying it.

lucas, pressed against the opposite wall, winced in sympathy.

“i kind of thought that was supposed to be the easy part,” robin called over the engine noise, voice shaking from the ride.

“it was,” lucas muttered.

you closed your eyes for a second, trying to breathe through the pain. it was shallow and slow as the van’s motion rocked you forward and back with each jolt tugging at the fracture like someone twisting a knife. thankfully closing your eyes helped a little since the darkness behind your lids was quieter than the chaos around you.

when you opened them again, your gaze landed on eleven.

she stood across from you, staring straight ahead at kali on the other side of the van in front of her. both sisters radiated that eerie calm they got before using their powers... eyes glassy, expressions focused.

however, there was something else in the look they shared. a silent agreement like a willingness to burn themselves out if it meant ending this.

your eyebrows furrowed and the dread coiled tighter in your gut.

before you could day anything, he van finally screeched to a halt and murray killed the engine.

the sudden silence was deafening before the side door slid open with murray’s grinning face appeared, backlit by the red glow of the upside down sky.

“come on, fellas. a whole dimension is about to come falling down on our heads.”

his cheer was forced and you knew that because his eyes were too wide, and his smile too sharp. he was terrified, you all were as he helped hopper down first, then kali, then eleven.

steve jumped out next, turning immediately to offer you his hands and you took them, easing yourself down as carefully as possible. the impact still jarred your ribs but you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from gasping. steve’s arm slid around your waist instantly, steadying you as robin climbed out last.

murray clapped steve on the shoulder, “you’re driving the others, kid. I'm staying here—I gotta help hopper with the bomb.”

steve nodded once as you and robin squeezed into the passenger seat together. there wasn’t enough room, so you ended up half on her lap, legs awkwardly folded, one arm around her shoulders for balance as steve finally hopes into the driver's seat.

robin snorted softly, “this isn’t weird, right?”

you managed a weak smile, “not unless you make it weird.”

steve slid behind the wheel, shaking his head as he started the engine.

“okay, don’t do that with my girlfriend, rob.”

you smirked despite everything, “do what, steve?”

he glanced over, fighting his own smile at you, “let’s save the teasing until after all of this shit is over. deal?”

you and robin nodded in unison, serious now as the humor was drained away as quickly as it had come.

the van lurched forward again, and murray’s reckless driving replaced by steve’s careful but urgent pace. the upside down’s hawkins unfolded around you with treets cracked open like wounds, buildings sagging under vines, and the sky churning with red lightning that never struck. wsqk’s radio tower rose ahead and it was two thousand feet of twisted metal wrapped in black tendrils, with platforms jutting out at intervals like broken ribs.

steve parked at the base and the group piled out once you slid open the back door.

soon, everyone gathered as lucas stared up, “no sign of an evil moving planet.”

you exhaled shakily, following his gaze as the tower loomed impossibly tall, vines pulsing faintly, with wind howling through the girders.

climbing that, with a broken rib, was going to be torture.

jonathan stepped forward.

“well, that’s good. ‘cause this is gonna take some time.”

you sighed, looking from steve on your left to nancy on your right.

jonathan continued, “alright, we should split up. let’s use both ladders.” he looked at you specifically, “do not rush. pace yourselves.”

you straightened as much as your ribs allowed.

“that’s why i’m going last.”

steve turned sharply, “no. I'm going directly after you.”

you shook your head, “steve, i’m going to slow the group down if anybody goes after me. i’ll be fine being last... i promise.”

he searched your face and saw the stubborn set of your jaw, and the desperation in your eyes. finally, he nodded, reluctant.

jonathan added, “there are platforms along the way, y/n. use them to rest, okay?”

you nodded, silently lying through your teeth. you had no intention of stopping and not when jodie was up there somewhere, waiting.

“alright,” you said anyway.

the group split with half to one ladder, half to the other. you watched them start the climb with robin first, then dustin and lucas, mike and will, nancy and jonathan.

steve stayed at the bottom with you, hand on your lower back.

“you sure that you'll be okay climbing this?” he asked quietly.

you looked up at him, and you really looked since your pupils lined up with his. steve's face was pale, and his eyes shadowed.

“i’m sure,” you said, “she needs you.. and she needs me too.”

steve nodded once before he leaned in, kissing your forehead which was soft, and it lingered as he turned around, and started climbing.

he stopped after the ninth step, looking down to watch you starting to climb. after the twentieth step, each rung started to feel like agony. your left arm pulled at the fracture every time you reached up with your boots slipped on vine-slick metal.

wind tore at your jacket, howling through the girders like a chorus of screams. halfway up the first section your vision grayed at the edges. you stopped, only for a second to cling to the ladder, breathing through your teeth.

you could hear the others above you with grunts of effort, occasional curses, and the clang of boots on platforms.

you kept going, mostly using mental strength rather than physical strength.

every rung was slick with the upside down’s perpetual damp, cold and oily goo under your palms. on the way to the second platform, you clenched your teeth so hard your jaw ached since you refused to let the pain slow you down.

steve climbed just ahead of you now, four rungs above since he went a little slower to make sure that you were okay. he never went more than that. he’d insisted on going last on his ladder so he could keep you in sight, but you went last instead.

every few platforms he paused, boots planted wide on the grated metal, turning to look down at you. your man's face was streaked with sweat and ash, hair plastered to his forehead thanks to his hat with eyes full with worry that never quite left.

“y/n,” he called over the wind after the third platform, “you okay?”

you were maybe fifty feet off the ground... already higher than you’d ever wanted to be with cracked bones but you forced your voice steady.

“keep going, hun, i’m fine.”

he hesitated, hand gripping the rung above him, “you’re breathing funny.”

“i’m always breathing funny when i’m climbing a two-thousand-foot death trap with a busted rib,” you shot back, trying for humor. it came out thinner than you meant, “just keep moving, harrington. i’m right behind you.”

he studied you for another beat and saw the way your left arm trembled slightly when you reached, also the way your jaw locked every time you pulled yourself up.

steve nodded once, which was reluctant, “alright. but you yell if you need to stop.”

“i won’t need to stop.”

he exhaled sharply through his nose which was half frustration, and half fear, before he resumed climbing. you followed, slower than him but steady.

one rung, then another.

the pain was constant now, and it was a deep ache that radiated from your side into your shoulder, your neck, your skull. each breath felt like inhaling broken glass, but you refused to let it show. not when jodie was somewhere above you terrified, and maybe hurt. the thought of her alone in that abyss drove you upward, one agonizing step at a time.

the platforms helped a little since every hundred feet or so there was a small grated landing, just wide enough for two people to stand side by side. steve waited on each one, leaning against the railing, watching you haul yourself over the edge.

on the fourth platform he crouched immediately, reaching down to help you up the last few rungs. your boyfriend's hands closed around your forearms which were gentle, and careful not to pull too hard.

“easy,” he murmured as you stepped onto the metal, “lean on me if you need to.”

you shook your head, though your legs trembled under you, “i’m good.”

steve didn’t believe you since he could see the sweat on your forehead wasn’t just from exertion. steve can see the way your left hand kept drifting to your side but he didn’t push since he knew it would upset you. instead he stayed close, with his shoulder brushing yours, giving you something solid to lean against without making it obvious.

“we’re making decent time,” he said quietly, “you’re doing better than i thought.”

“liar,” you muttered, managing a weak smile, “i’m slowing you down.”

“you’re not.” he looked up the tower which was still impossibly tall, with platforms disappearing into the red haze, “you’re keeping up. that’s more than most people could do with a busted rib.”

you didn’t answer and just breathed through the next wave of pain, with your eyes fixed on the next set of rungs.

he waited until your breathing steadied, then asked again, softer.

“still okay?”

you nodded, “keep going.”

he studied you a moment longer and saw the stubborn set of your jaw, the way you refused to lean on him even though you wanted to... then turned back to the ladder.

“alright,” he said, “forty more to the next platform. then we rest.”

“no rest,” you said automatically, “we don’t have time.”

he didn’t argue and just started climbing again, slower than before so you could match his pace.

soon, your vision tunneled at the edges with black spots dancing like demobats but you kept moving because stopping meant admitting you couldn’t do this and you had to for jodie.

for the girl who’d once been too scared to leave her bedroom, who now drew pictures of stars and called you her "younger mom” to her friends when she thought you weren’t listening.

you reached the next platform... the fifth or sixth, with legs shaking and sweat stinging your eyes. steve was already there, turning back to help you over the edge.

this time you let him as his hands closed around your wrists. he pulled you up slowly, yet easily and carefully, until you were standing on the grated metal beside him. the wind tore at your jacket, howling through the girders.

steve didn’t let go right away. he kept one arm around your waist, letting you lean into him while you caught your breath.

“you’re shaking,” he said quietly.

“cold,” you lied.

he didn’t call you on it since just held you tighter, chin resting lightly on top of your head.

“we’re way more than halfway,” he murmured, “you’re doing it.”

you closed your eyes for a second, letting yourself feel his heartbeat against your back, “i know.”

he kissed your temple, and it was quick before he then stepped back to the ladder.

“ready?”

you nodded.

soon, everyone reached the very top and you were panting by the time your feet touched the metal surface. steve rubbed your back, staying to the right side as you turned your head, stretching out whatever tension muscles you may have.

however, you drop to one knee with your chest heaving. for a split second the others freeze with their eyes wide, thinking the pain from your ribs finally buckled you but you force yourself upright again, slow, deliberate.

it wasn’t the break, you were just bone-tired with every muscle screaming from the climb. your side still throbbed, sharp and hot with every breath, but you shove the feeling down deep.

in your head you repeat it like a mantra that if you focus on it, it gets worse. so you don’t focus on it.

everything up here drowns in red. the sky bleeds crimson with the clouds boil like open wounds, and lightning cracking so close the thunder feels like it’s inside your skull.

you tilt your head back, squinting through the haze and searching for the tear, the place where the other world should be pressing down.

soon you see ragged splits in the “roof” above you, glowing faintly with the edges fraying like torn fabric. the upside down’s false sky is lowering, inch by inch, straight toward the radio tower’s antenna.

your stomach lurches since if that world collides with the needle, the whole structure collapses, and you’re all dead and someone else seems to notice it too.

“no no no, guys—it’s not lining up,” lucas says, voice pitching high as he stares upward, one hand shielding his eyes.

“what do you mean it’s not lining up?” steve asks, stepping closer, with his confusion turning into alarm.

“look! the weather needle, the antenna! it’s not gonna hit one of the holes in the rift. it’s off. it’s way off!”

you crane your neck beside dustin and steve, horror crawling up your throat. the massive spire of the tower is perfectly centered under the descending tear, but the glowing gaps above aren’t aligning. the antenna will smash straight into solid other-world ground instead of slipping through like it’s supposed to.

“shit,” steve breathes.

“the tower’s gonna come down if the abyss hits the needle,” you say, the words tumbling out too fast with your voice cracking.

your feet shuffle backward instinctively toward the ladder, toward escape, toward anything but being crushed here.

“y/n,” robin says quickly, with her hand clamping onto your shoulder, anchoring you before you can bolt.

“great. that’s just great,” steve mutters, still staring up, oblivious to how close you came to running.

dustin’s already on the walkie, voice shaking.

“hey, chief, we’re gonna need el to stop this planet on the sooner side, please!”

you nod uselessly since hopper can’t see you, and can’t hear the frantic beat of your heart... but you still nod anyway.

“how soon?” hopper’s gruff voice crackles back.

“like… thirty seconds?” dustin guesses, eyes flicking between the rift and the walkie like he’s bargaining with time itself.

“robin, i’m scared,” you whisper, barely audible over the rising wind.

“me too,” she admits, fingers tightening on your shoulder. she doesn’t let go of you as the rift drops faster now, and it is too fast. you grab robin’s wrist with one hand, white-knuckling the railing with the other. the metal groans under your grip as your pulse explodes in your ears.

“hopper, what is going on!?” dustin nearly screams into the walkie.

“i don’t know! i gave her the signal, I can’t talk to her right now!”

your lungs seize and the air feels thinner, and tighter. fuck, you cannot die here and not on this cursed tower, not in this red-soaked hell, not when the kids are waiting, when jodie’s waiting, and when you promised you’d come back.

“we’re about to be squished by a moving planet, hopper!” dustin yells.

you look up again and the descending world is close enough now that you can see faint outlines of the ground crashing down. your eyes find steve’s at the same instant his find yours with pure terror mirrored back.

you lunge toward him, closing the gap just as the antenna kisses the underside of the other world and metal screams.

the tower shudders violently then lurches sideways like a ship taking a wave. everyone screams as your lungs burn white-hot as you cling to the railing, to steve, to anything.

the violent sway rips you apart from him for a heartbeat.

you spin, reaching blindly before his entire body flys off of the edge.

“steve!”

the scream tears out of you, animal like as it shreds the vocal cords inside of your throat. you lunge toward the drop, feet sliding on the grated platform as robin’s arms hook around your waist, yanking you back just as your fingers hit the lip.

steve’s fingers scrabble on the metal, then nothing.

you see flashes behind your eyes at this moment. scoops ahoy, the stupid hats you wore, the way he leaned over the counter and asked for your number like it was the easiest thing in the world even though his hands were shaking.

everything was perfect, down to the late nights of him training you how to swing a bat properly while you taught him how to shoot a gun. steve was your bestfriend at first, since the two of you would laugh at anything until your sides hurt when he kept missing shots on purpose just to make you stay longer.

the first date at the theater with his arm slung around you, pretending to watch the screen while he traced slow circles on your shoulder.

steve confessed his feelings for you outside of hawkins high after dark, rain soaking through your clothes with the both of you finally saying the words out loud like you’d been holding them too long.

afterwards you had the russians, and the bunker then jodie showing up in your lives like she’d always belonged there, with tiny hands reaching for both of you at once.

now, he was almost gone. one second away from falling into nothing, and from leaving you and jodie and every stupid, beautiful, terrifying thing you built together. the fear tastes like metal in your mouth and it claws up your throat and you can’t swallow it down.

you’re still screaming and shaking as terror and ache from the amount of tears blurs everything. robin holds you back from the edge with every ounce of strength she has.

suddenly, jonathan dives and catches steve's wrist in both hands from over the edge. the man's muscles strain, with veins bulging in in his neck as he hauls.

steve dangles, legs kicking empty air with the red sky swirling behind him as onathan grunts, then pulls harder, and finally drags steve’s chest over the railing.

steve collapses onto the platform, gasping realizing that he is alive but your heart is still hammering like it’s trying to escape your ribs, and the tower keeps shaking beneath you all.

you’re already moving before your brain catches up, stumbling forward with tears blurring everything. robin’s grip on your arm loosens only when she sees you’re not running to the edge anymore.

if he had fallen, if jonathan hadn’t lunged, if—

steve pushes himself up on one elbow, eyes finding yours instantly.

“i’m okay,” he rasps, voice rough from panic, “baby, i’m okay.”

you crash into him anyway, burying your face against his shoulder as your fingers twist in his shirt like you can anchor him to the tower through sheer force. he smells like sweat and upside-down ash and him, and the sob that rips out of you is ugly.

“you idiot,” you choke against his neck, “you absolute fucking idiot.”

your man's arms wrap around you hard, with one hand cradling the back of your head. “i’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs into your hair, “i promised, remember?”

you pull back just enough to look at him with dirt streaked across his cheek, and his pupils blown wide with adrenaline. your hands frame his face and you kiss him like you’re trying to prove he’s real, like if you stop he might disappear again.

he kisses you back just as desperate, fingers digging into your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s no space left for fear.

when you finally break apart, three seconds later, you’re both breathing like you’ve run miles. he rests his forehead against yours, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

“you thought i was leaving you that early,” he says, half-laugh, half-wrecked.

you smack his chest weakly, “shut up, harrington. you nearly died.”

he laughs and it is shaky, and breathless before he leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead.

“never. i’m not leaving you or jodie behind.”

the walkie crackles with lucas’s voice, bright and triumphant.

“the abyss stopped! el got the bastard! el got the damn bastard!”

the relief hits you like a wave, he is right. the abyss had to stop because of eleven. she is with jodie right now.

you turn with your arms still tangled with steve, and robin barrels into you next, arms tight around your shoulders.

“we’re gonna get jodie home!” she yells, voice cracking with joy.

you laugh through the tears, hugging her back, “we are, rob.”

the hug is a quick few seconds and quieter, just for robin you add, “by the way, steve and i are adopting jodie.”

robin's eyes go wide, then soft, and she squeezes you harder. the rest of the group hears you, and they erupted in cheers, whoops, with dustin’s fist pumping the air. jodie is so loved, and hearing it out loud, up here on this cursed tower with the red sky pressing down, makes something warm bloom in your chest despite everything happening to you.

you wipe your face, glance up at the rift hanging above you like a wound in the world.

"who's going up first?" you ask, curiosity filling your eyes.

everyone goes quiet, with their eyes on you as they hesitate to move. when you realize and understand their looks, you knew that you were going first.

“okay,” you say, small smile tugging your mouth, “so i guess it’s me.”

steve and jonathan are already moving, kneeling, offering their hands.

“we’re gonna help you, sweetheart,” steve says, voice steady now.

you step into their grip, right foot on jonathan’s palms, left on steve’s. you look down at him one last time as he gives you that small, reassuring nod, the one that’s gotten you through every nightmare since 1985.

“on three,” he says.

you don’t wait for three since you push off, and they launch you upward into the slime and the red glow and the unknown.

the push from steve and jonathan the second you shift your weight feels coordinated as you’re launching upward before the rift swallows you in an instant.

it’s cold and thick, like plunging through gelatin made of motor oil. slime coats your skin, your hair, and your clothes as it clings and pulls and makes every inch of you feel violated.

your stomach lurches as the red haze of the upside down vanishes and the world flips to a softer, sickly orange that seeps into your vision like spilled sunset.

gravity feels wrong for a heartbeat, it is lighter, then heavier again before then you’re tumbling out the other side.

you hit sandy ground hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. the impact jars your broken ribs as pain flares white-hot along your side, but you grit your teeth and roll onto your hands and knees instead of curling up.

a low grunt escapes you as you force yourself upright, with the shotgun you had on your back that entire time already sliding off your shoulder into your grip.

the barrel feels reassuringly heavy, even though you've had it during the climb.

for a few seconds you just breathe careful breaths through your mouth because the air here is bone-dry and tastes like dust and rust and something faintly metallic. you blink against the orange light as the landscape stretches out in distorted dunes that ripple like they’re breathing, rocks that look half-melted, and a horizon that bends in ways horizons aren’t supposed to.

it’s a desert, but wrong like someone took a photo of the sahara and stretched it over a dune-like state.

you’re the first human here, voluntarily. the thought lands heavy in your chest with pride and terror twisting together.

soon, there is a grunt behind you and you spin, shotgun halfway raised, only to see nancy drop through the rift next.

she lands in a crouch, more graceful than you managed, and immediately snatches her own rifle from where it’s slung across her back like yours was.

the woman's curly hair is already coated in that same glistening slime as yours and she wipes a streak from her cheek with the back of her hand and grimaces.

your eyes meet with no words at first... just a long, silent look that says everything. this place is fucked, the air is too dry and the light is too wrong.

nancy breaks the silence first, with her voice low and a little breathless.

“does this officially make us the first space travelers?”

you can’t help it since a small, tired smile tugs at your mouth. you nod once.

“interdimensional space travelers.”

she lets out a short, surprised giggle and the sound almost foreign in this dead place. thankfully, it loosens something in your chest just enough to breathe a little easier.

one by one the others come through with lucas first after nancy, afterwards robin, jonathan, dustin yelling the whole way up like he’s on a carnival ride, then steve, will, and joyce last with a grunt that sounds more annoyed than afraid.

they all hit the sand, curse, shake off the slime, then check weapons. for a long minute no one speaks. everyone just stands there, turning slow circles, taking in the endless tan desert that isn’t quite a desert.

jodie is somewhere in this world, the other kids are too.

the group starts moving... slow at first with their weapons up as eyes scan every shifting dune. you fall into step beside steve without thinking.

after ten minutes of walking, he nudges your shoulder gently with his.

“how’re you feeling?” steve's voice is soft, but his eyes are sharp and scanning your face, and your posture like he’s cataloging every place you might be hurting.

you shake your head, “a little weird, honestly.”

he glances at your side, “your side still hurts after all of that?”

you scoff, but it comes out weaker than you mean it to.

“it burns, honestly.”

he shifts closer until your arms brush with every step. you catch sight of jonathan walking just off to your left, maybe three feet away close enough to hear, yet far enough to give you space.

noticing you looking at jonathan, steve’s voice drops lower.

“do you promise to go to the hospital, and stay there for as long as you have to, after all of this?”

you look up at him and see the worry carved into his face, with the love sitting right beside it. you notice the way he’s holding himself like he’s ready to carry you the rest of the way if he has to.

you nod slowly, “once jodie’s back in our world, safe,” you say, “she needs to go to the hospital too.”

steve’s mouth quirks, “that makes sense.... but look at you being so maternal already.”

you roll your eyes, but the smile is real this time, “says you. you’re overprotective about the both of us.”

he nods, looking down at the sand for a second, “yeah but i wasn’t protective enough to keep her out of this situation.”

the guilt in his voice hits you like a slap.

you stop walking, turn to face him fully.

“it wasn’t your fault, steve. if anything… all of this is my fault.”

you keep going before he can interrupt, “i mean… if i didn’t let that one petty moment distract me nearly two years ago, vecna wouldn’t have gotten this far, and max would’ve never been stuck in her trance.”

you think you’re making sense and you think the logic holds but lucas stops ahead of you, and turns around fast.

“y/n, you need to stop being so hard on yourself.”

steve echoes him instantly, “i agree.”

you open your mouth to argue, but lucas cuts you off, stepping closer. “none of us blame you for any of this. nobody... because it was not your fault. okay? max doesn’t hate you, either. she knows it wasn’t your fault.”

lucas words land solid, they were so nice and honest that it shocks you.

you stare at him for a beat with your throat tight like you wanted to cry, before close the distance and pull lucas into a quick hug. he hugs back just as hard before letting go and turning to keep walking.

you linger there a second, alone in the middle of the group.

you almost drift back toward steve but you turn and notice that he’s fallen into step with jonathan now, heads close, talking low. it was surprising, and you catch yourself smiling at the sight of them together.

soon after walking again, robin’s beside you and she is matching your pace like she timed it perfectly.

“lucas is right,” she says quietly, “you need to stop being so hard on yourself.”

you try, “i don’t think i am, though.”

she scoffs and it is loud and dramatic, “you’re fighting for the sake of humanity with a broken ribcage. i think that is a little hard on yourself.”

she smirks as you roll your eyes, but when she lifts her arm you duck under it without hesitation, wrapping both arms around her middle and squeezing tight. she hugs you back just as strong, chin resting on your head for a second.

when you pull apart from robin, the group has stopped ahead and you look up seeing a massive shape looming in the distance. it is spider-like, with too many legs, and too many joints with its body segmented and gleaming under the orange sky.

the dunes around it are brighter, the air itself shifting from dusty haze to thick, burning amber.

“holy fuck,” you mutter.

will’s voice, small, cuts through.

“that’s it. the kids are in there.”

you glance at him and his face is pale with his eyes fixed on the thing. after you turn back to the creature. jodie is in there and your heart kicks hard against your broken ribs.

“then what are we waiting for?”

your hands tighten on the shotgun and you don’t wait for anyone else. you break into a run, with sand kicking up behind you as nancy falls in beside you instantly, rifle at the ready, matching your stride.

behind you, the rest of the group follows a heartbeat later with footsteps pounding, shouts overlapping, and weapons clicking into place. the orange sky pulses ahead like a heartbeat, and you run straight toward it.

in henry’s mind, jodie runs barefoot across cracked red desert sand, with her small hand locked tight in holly’s. the cave stretches endless around them since this is the place henry was supposed to fear, but he got right in anyway, and now jodie feels every step he takes echoing in her chest like a second heartbeat.

she’s terrified, but she keeps moving, pulling holly faster as all of the kids run away.

back in the abyss, will drops to his knees in the sand, hands pressing flat against the ground as if he can feel the tremor through his palms. you look down at him alongside joyce, with your heart slamming against your broken ribs.

will's face is pale, and distant.

“he’s inside,” will whispers, “he found the kids.”

the ground under your feet shudders. ahead, the mind flayer stirs. its legs, long and jointed like nightmare scaffolding, lift slow from the sky then slam down. each impact sends shockwaves rippling through the dunes.

the creature creaks, metal-bone grinding against itself as you flick the safety off your shotgun with a sharp click, finger hovering near the trigger.

dustin’s voice cracks through the dry air, “run!”

everyone spins and bolts the opposite way. your lungs scream with every breath feels like inhaling fire, ribs grinding bone on bone but you push anyway. the legs smash down around you, close enough that the wind from one hit knocks you sideways.

you stumble, dodge a plume of sand and dust, then another leg comes down too fast. pain explodes white-hot through your side as you fall hard, knees and palms slamming into the ground.

the next leg rises above you, shadow swallowing the orange light, ready to spear straight through you and a scream rip from you before Steve dives full body, crashing into you and rolling you both away.

the leg slams down inches from where your head was, cratering the sand.

he hauls you up fast, “babe, come on, come on—”

adrenaline floods in like ice water, numbing the fire in your ribs as you run again, matching pace with Nancy now with your shotgun bouncing in your arms. the monster roars overhead, hot foul wind blasting your face.

you cover your mouth, eyes watering as its legs sweep in a cage around the group, trapping you all as you spin.

the mind flayer rears up, mouth splitting wide, roaring straight into your faces. the smell hits like death and sulfur as you rip the shotgun around, and the jam shells in.

before you can fire, a boulder the size of a car hurtles from the side and smashes into the creature’s face. it screeches, reeling back as rock and slime rain down. the ground cracks and crumbles as you look to your right, and far ahead eleven stands in the distance with blood trickling from her nose.

mike watches her with pure pride, with his chest heaving as she sprints forward from afar, ducking under the flayer’s legs, then launches herself straight into its chest.

the monster howls, body convulsing.

“she’s hurting it!” lucas yells.

“how?” mike asks, stunned.

you shake your head, “no! she’s fighting vecna. we need to help—now!”

no one hesitates anymore since nancy volunteers herself as bait, drawing its attention as you pair with robin, steve with dustin, lucas with mike, and joyce stays with will.

you run hard toward a jagged cliffside, shotgun ready but you notice that jonathan freezes for a second when nancy darts past, mind flayer lunging after her.

“no, jonathan, no!” you grab his sleeve, “there’s nothing we can do—come on, please!”

he snaps out of it, turns, and runs with you and robin.

it works since eleven drives vecna back. after a long fight, and from the help of the group... vecna's body impales on one of the flayer’s own spears, pinned, bleeding black.

the monster’s chest splits open, a wet gaping wound.

once you noticed that the mind flayer was dead, meaning vecna was too, you don’t wait for another second before sprinting straight inside of the thing.

the interior is dying, with the walls of the flayer slowly throbbing, and slime dripping is from the ceiling in thick ropes.

you scan the supernatural sight with your heart in your throat.

“jodie!?”

you whip your lead to the left, and there on a caved platform of fused goo and flesh, a small shape lies cocooned in goo. right away, you notice the messy braids, and the familiar striped shirt now soaked through with her green overalls. your eyes widen, seeing the tentacle pulsing in her mouth.

dropping the shotgun, you sprint and tear at the slime with bare hands. it rips like wet paper, even though it was tough. the flesh opens with strength you didn’t know you had.

you peel the covering away, and yank the tentacle free as jodie’s body slumps forward into your arms.

she was too heavy for your pained state, and steve reaches you in the next second, catching you both before you collapse with the unconscious girl.

he sinks to his knees, pulls you onto his lap so jodie lies across yours.

“jodie! jodie!”

you’re shaking, panting, tears already falling.

“jodie, please—”

after five seconds, she coughs and it is hard, wet, violent. at the same time, her soft eyes flutter open with goo clinging to her lashes, and her cheeks, but it’s her alive.

“y/n? steve?” her voice is small, cracked, like she’s not sure this isn’t another trick from mr. whatsit.

“it’s us,” you sob-laugh, “it’s us, jodie, it’s us!”

steve’s voice breaks, “hey, kid.”

she stares, processing, then her face crumples.

jodie throws herself into you, arms locking around your neck as the three of you cling together crying messily while covered in slime. there is relief as the others work to free the rest of the kids around you.

the nine year old's sobs start soft against your shirt, then grow sharper and harder.

those cries start to feel different, and you notice the shift in her body. she goes from being relieved and relaxed to getting tense, with her tiny fingers digging into your back like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go even a little.

you pull back just enough to look at her and steve’s eyes meet yours over her head, worried.

“hey, baby,” you whisper, brushing slime-soaked hair from her face, “we’re here, and you’re okay.”

she jerks back suddenly, eyes wide and frantic, darting between your face and steve’s like she’s waiting for the trap to spring.

“you are.. b-but are you… are you letting me leave now? are you giving me back?”

your heart stutters, almost shocked at the outburst, “huh? what? no—no, jodie, what—”

“don’t lie!” her voice cracks high, almost like a scream as she scrambles half out of your lap, knees digging into the slime-slick floor, but her hands stay fisted in your shirt like lifelines, “you saw the papers! you both saw them! two years—that’s all it was supposed to be! two years and then they take me somewhere else to strangers who don’t even know me! next week! it’s next week and you’re gonna let them!”

tears pour down her face faster than you can wipe them, mixing with the goo until her cheeks shine. jodie's whole body trembles violently as your hands shake with her.

“jodie—” steve starts, reaching for her, but she flinches like the touch might burn.

“please,” she chokes out with her voice splintering, "please don’t send me away. i’ll be so good, I swear! i won’t talk back, i won’t ask for anything, i’ll clean my room every day, i’ll never complain about bedtime again—just don’t make me go! i can’t… i can’t do another house with another set of people who look at me like i’m broken or temporary or… or wrong. you two... you made me feel like I mattered and wanted me! I love the movie nights with popcorn fights, and I love when steve lets me sit on his shoulders at the fair. y/n I love when you sing me to sleep when the nightmares came back… i thought maybe, maybe this time it was real but being in here all alone... it felt like when my parents died.... like i was nothing again and forgotten. please. i’m begging you. don’t let them take me! adopt me! keep me. forever. i don’t want anyone else. i only want you! please, please, please—”

jodie's words dissolve into wrenching sobs that shake her so hard you feel them in your own chest. she’s curled in on herself now, forehead pressed to your collarbone, fists so tight in your shirt the fabric twists.

“don’t abandon me,” she whispers, over and over, barely audible, “don’t abandon me like everyone else would.... i can’t… i can’t lose you too…”

steve’s eyes are streaming, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumps in his cheek. he wraps both arms around her from behind, cocooning her between the two of you.

“jodie. look at me.”

she doesn’t at first since she is too scared... but he waits, patient even through his own tears.

finally she lifts her head, face blotchy and terrified.

“we are not sending you anywhere,” he says, voice super low and soft, “we are not giving you back. we are not letting anyone take you. you hear me? you’re ours. you’ve been ours since the day you walked through our door with that little backpack and those big scared eyes. we already decided. we’re adopting you. legally and permanently. forever. there is no more two-year limits and no more foster anything. just us. just family. you’re never leaving. never.”

you nod, cupping her face with both hands, thumbs stroking through the mess on her cheeks.

“he’s right, baby. we’re keeping you for good. you’re our daughter now. no one else gets to have you. no one else gets to love you the way we do. you’re stuck with those movie nights, bad singing, and thunderstorms under the blankets, all of the things you love... forever.”

jodie's breath hitches, eyes searching yours like she’s looking for the lie that has to be there.

“you promise? you really promise? no tricks? no… no one coming to take me next week?”

“i swear on everything,” you say with your own voice breaking, “no one’s coming. we’re signing the papers and we’re making it official. you’re staying since you’re home with us.”

the relief hits her like a physical blow as her face crumples again, but this time the sobs are different.

it is deep, cleansing, like something massive is finally cracking open and letting light in. she throws herself forward, burying her face in the crook of steve’s neck, arms wrapping around him so tight her knuckles go white.

“forever, stevie?” she mumbles into his shirt, voice muffled and small.

“forever,” steve whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. he rocks her gently, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back.

you stroke her slime-covered braids, gentle and steady with tears slipping down your own face as you watch her shoulders slowly stop shaking.

steve looks up at you over her head, eyes red-rimmed but shining with something unbreakable. he mouths the words silently.

i love you both.

you smile through the mess, through the tears, through the ache still burning in your ribs, and mouth back.

i love you both, too.

series masterlist

author's note: thank you so much for tuning into this series, it means the world to me and any reposts and like is highly appreciated <3 again, thank you

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season one: ⟡ chapter one ⟡ chapter two ⟡ chapter three ⟡ chapter four ⟡ chapter five

season two: ⟡ chapter six ⟡ chapter seven ⟡ chapter eight ⟡ chapter nine ⟡ chapter ten ⟡ chapter eleven

season three: ⟡ chapter twelve ⟡ chapter thirteen ⟡ chapter fourteen ⟡ chapter fifteen ⟡ chapter sixteen ⟡ chapter seventeen

season four:

SEASON ONE:

the vanishing of will byers the weirdo on maple street holly, jolly the body the flea and the acrobat the monster the bathtub the upside down

SEASON TWO:

madmax trick or treat, freak the pollywog will the wise dig dug the spy the lost sister the mind flayer the gate

SEASON THREE:

suzie, do you copy? the mall rats the case of the missing lifeguard the sauna test the flayed e pluribus unum the bite the battle of starcourt

SEASON FOUR:

the hellfire club vecna's curse the monster and the superhero dear billy the nina project the dive the massacre at hawkins lab papa the piggyback

SEASON FIVE:

n/a

my masterlist

season one:

the prologue

in progress!

season two:

coming soon!

season three:

coming soon!

season four:

coming soon!

season five:

coming soon!

𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐋

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐥 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟎}

• Fresh Start (coming soon)

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟏

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟏 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏}

• The Vanishing of Will Byers

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟐 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐}

• The Weirdo on Maple Street

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟑 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑}

• Holly, Jolly

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟒 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒}

• The Body

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟓 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟓}

• The Flea and the Acrobat

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟔 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟔}

• The Monster

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟕 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟕}

• The Bathtub

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟏 𝐄𝟖 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟖}

• The Upside Down

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟐

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟏 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟗}

• Madmax

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟐 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎}

• Trick or Treat, Freak

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟑 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏}

• The Pollywog

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟒 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐}

• Will the Wise

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟓 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑}

• Dig Dug

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟔 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟒}

• The Spy

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟕 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟓}

• The Lost Sister

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟖 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟔}

• The Mind Flayer

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟐 𝐄𝟗 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟕}

• The Gate

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟑

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟏 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟖}

• Suzie, Do You Copy?

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟐 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟗}

• The Mall Rats

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟑 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎}

• The Case of the Missing Lifeguard

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟒 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟏}

• The Sauna Test

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟓 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟐}

• The Flayed

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟔 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟑}

• E Pluribus Unum

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟕 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟒}

• The Bite

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟑 𝐄𝟖 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟓}

• The Battle of Starcourt

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟒

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟏 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟔}

• The Hellfire Club

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟐 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟕}

• Vecna's Curse

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟑 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟖}

• The Monster and the Superhero

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟒 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟗}

• Dear Billy

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟓 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟎}

• The Nina Project

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟔 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟏}

• The Dive

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟕 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟐}

• The Massacre at Hawkins Lab

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟖 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟑}

• Papa

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟒 𝐄𝟗 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟒}

• The Piggyback

𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝟓

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟏 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟓}

• The Crawl

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟐 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟔}

• The Vanishing of Holly Wheeler

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟑 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟕}

• The Turnbow Trap

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟒 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟖}

• Sorcerer

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟓 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟗}

• Shock Jock

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟔 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟎}

• Escape from Camazotz

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟕 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟏}

• The Bridge

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ 𝐒𝟓 𝐄𝟖 {𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟒𝟐}

• The Rightside Up

You were content to watch his clumsy movements while you sprawled on a raggedy picnic blanket, underneath the shade of a pine tree. It was the typical, weekend date spot that the two of you frequented, for it allotted far more privacy than the courtyard or other areas surrounding the school.

You could tell that Neville was murmuring to himself as he focused, and as always, when he was focused he was never paying attention to where exactly he was walking. With one misstep, his sneakers slipped and it was a miracle that he picked himself up in time, for he had come close to teetering down a wet slope of mud into the frigid water of the Black Lake. His eyes shot to yours immediately once he straightened, and a nervous smile overtook his features as you began to giggle at his misfortune. Even from a distance, you could tell that the tips of his ears were flushing into a nasty shade of red, which quickly coursed down his cheeks until it reached his neck. He shyly beckoned you over, his heart thumping in his chest as you pulled yourself to your feet in order to stand at his side. The hairclips that you had clipped his shaggy, overgrown bangs back with were slightly crooked, and he politely shifted his head as soon as your hand shot up to fix them. He could read every movement that you made, for he was so terribly infatuated with every part of your being. 

He cleared his throat after a moment of silence, the touch of your gentle fingers sending his heart into a frenzy. “I thought this… well, it’s only a non-magical plant, but I was sure it would grow around the lake. See, it’s in this muggle book…”

You shifted forward, your shoulder brushing against his as he pointed down at the letters and detailed drawings on the pages. He was looking for pondweeds, and despite the droll subject of his search, he spoke so passionately about the plant that it made your heart flutter. You could not help but observe his mouth as he talked, your eyes lingering on his perpetually chapped but surprisingly soft lips. You spent a moment too long imagining pressing your lips against his, because as soon as you had snapped out of your trance he had stopped talking completely. His hand scratched his cheek while he blinked down at you.

“Is there something on my face?” He inquired softly, closing his book and tucking it into his side. He was used to people’s disinterest when it came to Herbology, but the plain ignorance of his words hurt a lot more when it came from you. He craved your acceptance. 

You were quick to quell his worries, however. 

“No, Neville, I was watching you because you’re just so pretty.”

“Oh.” He straightened up, his cheeks growing pinker as you pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. You could read his emotions as if he were mere words on a page, for he conveyed all that he felt through his quiet mannerisms and the infinitesimal shifts in his features. 

“I got distracted by you, and I’m sorry. I’ll listen this time,” You quickly added, your hand curling around his bicep and offering a reassuring squeeze. His face was liable to burn off from how horribly red it had grown, for he knew in that moment that he was wholly infatuated by you. He bit back a smile as he ducked his head, his hands immediately moving to thumb open the pages of his book once more.

You don’t know how long he ranted to you, but you were content to listen to his sweet ramblings and the terrible jokes he occasionally added; he liked to awkwardly humor you in order to see the beautiful smile upon your face and to hear the sweet sounds of your laughter. It was a clear reassurance that, yes, you were dating him, and you did love him and wish to talk to him. There was nothing he valued more than security with you. 

Somehow, between the last debrief and the next recon drop, a grill appeared in the Watchtower's rooftop patio, along with several folding chairs, a cooler full of Avengers-branded soda, and one slightly charred volleyball. You suspect Val had something to do with it. Some psychological team-building exercise disguised as a cookout. 

Either way, you’re here.

She’s maybe seven months old, squishy-cheeked and furrow-browed, in a tiny Sentry onesie. Her hair is an indecisive wisp of something light brown, fine and floaty like thistle down, and her eyes—heavy-lidded, contemplative—regard you as though you’re a particularly uninspiring segment of the Discovery Channel.

“She’s—uh,” you say, because your brain’s buffering. “Hi?”

“Hey,” you say again, dumbly.

Next to you, Bucky lowers his beer so slowly it’s like watching a magic trick. He blinks once, then again, like he’s not sure you’re real or the baby is. Possibly both.

“What—why—did you steal a baby?” he asks.

“She was just handed to me.”

You shift, trying to get comfortable. She’s a solid little thing, warm like a fresh loaf of bread, and her hand is currently fisting your collar with alarming purpose. Your shirt stretches under the assault.

Bucky’s still staring. You can feel it—like a sunlamp trained directly at your temple. His mouth is parted slightly. One finger taps against the side of his bottle, rhythmically, unconsciously.

“She’s fine,” you say. “I’m holding her fine, right?”

“Yeah. No, yeah. You look—good.”

You glance at him. His eyes snap up to yours, then away again, like they touched something they weren’t supposed to. The tips of his ears are pink.

You almost say something—tease him, maybe—but the baby chooses that moment to yawn, a full-body, jaw-cracking affair. She snuggles closer into your chest, small cheek pressing into the fabric of your shirt, and suddenly it’s less funny.

Bucky tilts his head, unreadable. “She trusts you already.”

“She’s a baby,” you say, trying to shrug it off. “She trusts anyone with a pulse.”

“No. She knows,” he says, like it’s a settled fact. His gaze lingers on the place where her fingers clutch your shirt, and then—slowly—drifts back to your face.

You feel that look all the way down your spine.

The barbecue hums around you—low, uneven, weirdly domestic for a group like this. Someone’s burned the corn on the grill again (probably Walker, judging by the smoke and the defensive muttering). Yelena’s holding court by the picnic table, sunglasses perched on her head, force-feeding Bob the world’s most questionable potato salad and narrating it like a cooking show. Alexei’s seated in a folding chair two sizes too small, already shirtless and red-faced, beer in hand, yelling something about meat science. Ava is off to the side, calmly reading the nutrition label on a bag of marshmallows like it might be a coded message.

But you and Bucky are caught in this little bubble. A stillness between the beats. The baby, breathing softly. Bucky, watching you like the moment means something more than he’s prepared to admit.

She shifts in your arms. Grunts. You adjust your hold, and Bucky makes a small, strangled noise.

“She good?” you ask.

“She’s—she’s got a strong neck,” he says, as though that’s a compliment. Then, after a second. “You’re really good with her.”

“You’ve seen me hold her for thirty seconds.”

“Still.”

You hold his gaze a beat longer than you should. It’s soft, something unguarded in it. You remember, vaguely, hearing Steve say once that Bucky used to watch people the way most men look at stars. Like there was something miraculous in the simple fact of their existence.

You think maybe you’re beginning to understand what he meant.

“She wants you,” you say, mostly to break the tension. The baby is reaching now, hands grasping toward the collar of Bucky’s henley like she’s on a tiny mission.

He stiffens. “She what?”

“She’s targeting you. Consider it payback for all that glaring you did at the diaper bag earlier.”

“I wasn’t glaring,” he says. “I was…assessing.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Well, she’s assessing you back. Here. Take her.”

You don’t give him a choice. You carefully shift the baby into his arms, and despite all his protesting, he takes her like he’s afraid she’ll break—gently, like someone handed him a fragile truth.

For a moment, he just stands there—awkward, tense, unsure. His left arm, the vibranium one, catches the light in hard, gleaming lines.  But then she sighs, her head lolls toward his shoulder, and his body reacts before his mind does—he cradles her closer, shifts to support her neck, leans in slightly like he’s listening to her breathe.

A hush settles around you.

“She’s warm,” he murmurs.

“That’s a good sign. You’d know if she was cold. Babies are very vocal about injustice.”

His eyes don’t leave the baby’s face. Those eyes—stormcloud blue, too old for his face, always a little wary—are softened now. They flick across her tiny features like he’s reading scripture. Absorbed. He sways just slightly, unconsciously, like some long-dormant instinct is waking up in his bones. “She’s got little eyelashes,” he says, like it’s the strangest thing he’s ever seen.

“She’ll grow into them,” you say softly. “It happens.”

He’s silent a long time. The baby squeaks in her sleep and tugs at the collar of his shirt.

“She’s… safe,” he says, the word delicate on his tongue. “You can feel it, can’t you? Like the whole world isn’t so bad. Just—quiet, for once.”

Your chest aches.

He glances at you then, and for a split second, he looks completely vulnerable. Like there’s something perched just behind his teeth that he doesn’t know how to say.

You step closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough for proximity to pass as intimacy.

“Bucky.”

He doesn’t look away from you.

“I think you’d be good at it,” you say quietly. “The whole dad thing.”

You watch the thought settle on him—slow and heavy, like snowfall. He blinks, once. Breathes in, shallow. His jaw shifts, like he might say something and doesn’t. And then—

“I’d want you there,” he says.

It’s not casual. Not joking. Just... real. A plain sentence, stripped of armor.

You freeze. The baby exhales against your collarbone like she’s aware of the moment and giving it space. Bucky, for his part, looks like he’s just handed you something delicate and possibly flammable.

“Oh,” you say, brilliant as ever.

And he nods. That’s it. A small thing. But he looks weirdly shell-shocked by the admission, like he’d surprised himself saying it aloud. Like he hadn’t even meant to. His smile comes after, slow and stunned and slightly lopsided—almost sheepish, as if he's staring straight at the sun and can’t quite believe it’s warm.

Then her parent’s voice breaks through, all cheerful gratitude. “Hey—thanks! I just needed a sec.”

You watch Bucky blink back into the moment, his hands reluctant as they ease from the baby’s back. He doesn’t quite give her up at first. His fingers linger on the edge of her onesie like they’re memorizing the feel of it. When he does let go, it’s too slow to be casual.

Just like that, the baby’s gone. The space she took up in your arms feels heavier now that it’s empty.

You glance sideways. So does he. But you don’t quite meet in the middle.

Instead, you reach for a napkin and hand it over wordlessly. He accepts it like it’s a diplomatic gesture, dabbing at the drool spot on his shoulder with a sort of distraction.

“She liked you,” you offer, voice quieter than you meant it to be.

His lips quirk. A ghost of a grin. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a silence after that—longer than it needs to be. Not uncomfortable, just... spacious. Like it’s waiting for someone to step into it. Neither of you do.

Then Bucky clears his throat. “Wanna go in on a pack of bibs?”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs, suddenly preoccupied with smoothing the napkin along his leg. “Just—you know. For next time.”

You almost laugh. You want to. But something in your chest goes soft instead.

“Yeah,” you say. “Sure. Next time.”

.

Everyone else calls you “the new Avengers.” Valentina prefers to call you just "the Avengers," like saying it with enough fake reverence will make people forget it started as a Hail Mary branding ploy and ended with supernatural darkness swallowing half of New York.

You still call it the Thunderbolts in your head. Not out of loyalty. Just because it fits better.

Technically, you weren’t supposed to be on the roster. Neither was Bucky. He was busy playing congressman—pressed suits, policy meetings, public appearances where he looked like he’d rather be fighting a bear. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the job, but it was penance, or progress, or both, depending on who you asked. You’d been benched too, in a less official capacity. Tactical reassignment, they said, which is just HR speak for “we don’t know what to do with you yet.”

But then Bob Reynolds cracked in half like a cosmic wishbone. And everything went sideways.

They needed people who could navigate pocket dimensions without losing their minds. People who wouldn’t balk at the Void whispering their worst memories back to them in surround sound. People who could get in and out of a childhood bedroom that wasn't theirs, and still say the right thing.

You and Bucky, for better or worse, fit the bill.

Yelena vouched for you. You’d worked a few ops together—low-profile, high-risk, the kind of assignments that didn’t end up in press releases. Bucky came with his own résumé, mostly consisting of grim nods and trauma credentials.

So now you’re here. In a Watchtower with folding chairs and lunchboxes with your face on them. With a new badge and a code name you didn’t pick. With Bob, whose grip on sanity is improving in inches. With Ava, who can barely look at light too long without phasing through it. With Alexei, who’s taken to shirtless speeches and the New Avengers merch like a religion. With Walker, who somehow thinks this is a promotion.

And Bucky.

You don’t talk about what you are.

There’s no label. No neat little term to slot yourselves under, no status update or whispered confession over pillowcases. No one’s dared to say the word “relationship,” and yet you’ve brushed your teeth side by side, curled instinctively toward each other in sleep, passed cups of coffee back and forth like currency. You’ve learned each other’s silences. Memorized the geography of old scars. He knows how you like your eggs. You know when his silence means don’t ask and when it means please.

It’s not nothing. It never was.

You’re just not telling the others. Not because you’re ashamed—god, no—but because it’s yours. And because once the world knows something, it stops being sacred. It becomes strategy. Becomes leverage. People like Valentina will smile too wide and call it a liability. Alexei will make a crass joke. Walker will ask for details.

It’s easier this way. Quieter. Unnamed, it can’t be ruined.

And besides—you don’t even know what to call it. What to call him, when it’s three a.m. and he’s tucked behind you in bed, breath warm against your neck, arm slung around your waist like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. 

Bucky’s not a man who rushes things. He moves slow, careful, like he’s learned the cost of wanting too much. And you—you’ve never let someone all the way in without already picturing the exit wound.

But moments like earlier—when he held that baby like she was breakable and looked at you like you were the answer to a question he hadn’t meant to ask—they’re getting harder to ignore.

You don’t think about it. Not actively.

You just… catalog. Silently. Carefully. Like a squirrel with emotional acorns.

.

It’s past midnight when you find him again in the kitchen.

You knew he’d be here. You always do.

There’s leftover risotto on the stove and a mostly full bottle of red wine on the counter. He’s sitting at the tiny table like it’s a church pew—hunched a little, fork in hand, bare feet braced on the cold tile floor. His hoodie is soft with age, sleeves shoved up to his elbows, and the vibranium arm glints under the light. His hair’s still damp from the shower.

He looks up when you pad in—doesn’t startle, doesn’t flinch. Just finds you with those soft, sleep-starved eyes like he’s been waiting for you. “You’re up.”

“So are you,” you say, sliding into the chair across from him. “Could smell garlic from my room.”

“I put more cheese in it this time,” he says, with the quiet pride of a man who’s learned domesticity through stubborn practice and YouTube videos.

You reach for the wine, pouring yourself half a glass. The silence between you is familiar. Easy. It’s the kind that grows roots.

“Bad dream?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says.

You nod. You don’t ask about it.

Instead, “You always this good at risotto?”

“First one was basically wallpaper paste,” he admits. “Sam said it was fine. His sister actually cried.”

You snort, half-choked on your sip. “Cried?”

“She got emotional. Said she saw God in a grain of arborio.”

You’re still grinning when he pushes the pot toward you with a silent offer. You help yourself, spooning some into a mismatched bowl. It’s warm. Comforting. Rich with butter and—yeah, definitely more cheese.

This—this is your favorite version of him. Not the soldier. Not the team lead or the briefing-room strategist. Just Bucky. Tired and soft-eyed in the kitchen, humming low when he stirs a pot. Still, in a way that feels rare and deliberate.

You think about the baby again from earlier. About the way he looked at her. How his whole body went still, but his eyes went soft, like he’s seeing something he misses but can’t remember.

You stir your wine with a finger. Casual. Not casual at all.

“I’ve been thinking,” you start, mostly just to fill the space. “Weird day, huh?”

His brow ticks up, a silent question.

“That baby,” you say. “She just… latched on. Like I was made of Velcro.”

There’s a beat.

“She liked you,” he says. Quietly. Not teasing. Just honest.

You huff a small laugh, not quite hearing the undertone. “She drooled on me. That’s practically a proposal.”

But he doesn’t smile.

He’s looking at you the same way he looked at the baby—still, like something cracked open and never quite resealed. You miss it entirely. Instead, you sip your wine and stretch your legs beneath the table, toes brushing his. “But, I mean, you held her like a pro. Natural instincts, huh?”

His gaze lingers on you for a moment more before dropping to his bowl. He stirs it slowly, the motion absent.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

That surprises you, but he keeps going.

He smiles a little, faint and crooked. “Back when I was just some punk from Brooklyn. Thought I’d get married. Have a couple kids. A porch swing. You know. The American Dream.”

“What changed?” you ask, voice gentler than you meant.

He shrugs. “Everything. Time. Who I became.”

You nod slowly. Try not to let your chest cave in.

“Rebecca used to say I’d be a good dad,” he adds. “She said I was good with her dolls.”

“Your sister?”

He nods. There’s a glow in his eyes now—faint, faraway. “She was eight years younger. I helped raise her, after my ma got sick. Used to walk her to school, do her hair. She liked braids. I wasn’t good at ‘em, but I tried.”

You try to picture it—Bucky, hair slicked back, hands clumsy with a brush, coaxing bows into place on a giggling child’s head.

Your lips twitch. “Braids?”

“Bad ones.” He finally glances at you, mouth quirking faintly. “She called ‘em ‘buckle braids.’ Said they looked like seatbelts.”

You laugh, unexpected. He ducks his head, a little embarrassed, but you miss the way his eyes stay on you too long.

“She’s still alive, isn’t she?” you ask softly.

He nods. “We talk. It’s… complicated. A lotta years between us now.”

There’s another pause.

You don’t fill it. You just watch him, lit gold by the stovetop light, swirling his water like it’s something stronger. He looks far away in that moment—not guarded, not distracted, just... elsewhere. Like his mind is somewhere quieter, and he’s trying to remember how it felt to live there.

He looks like a man trying to remember a life that feels more like a dream.

You think about the look on his face earlier, when that baby yawned and curled into your chest. How he’d watched like he couldn’t quite breathe. Like he’d seen something he wanted and couldn’t name. And yeah—okay—it tugged at something in you too, sure. But not like it did to him. He’s still in it. Still holding on to the ghost of that moment with both hands, even now.

You look at him—soft in a hoodie and bathed in golden light, cheeks pink from wine and warmth and maybe something else—and your chest twists with something slow and awful. The kind of ache that leaves no bruise.

And still. You push your bowl toward him and say, “Okay, fine. I’ll admit it. This is good.”

He snorts, low. “Told you. Not totally helpless.”

“Mm,” you hum. “Jury’s still out.”

But your smile lingers, even as your heart doesn’t know where to settle.

You don’t talk about babies again. Not directly.

But when you both stand to rinse the dishes, you brush past him and say, “For the record… I bet you’d nail braids now.”

And his ears go pink.

You pretend not to see. Because if you do—if you look too closely—you might not be able to keep pretending you don’t know what all of this means.

.

“I want ten of my babies. Obviously.” Ava dips a fry into mustard with the kind of grim determination usually reserved for defusing bombs. “Different thing.”

You’re all at the diner again. It started as a joke—something Walker demanded once after a particularly grim mission, swearing by the restorative power of bacon and drip coffee—and somehow, it stuck. Now it’s tradition: post-debrief pancakes, a rotating cast of bruises and black eyes crowding into a corner booth that’s definitely too small. No one’s sure when it became sacred, but no one skips it, either.

The baby talk started again—somehow inevitably—because of the mission. 

A standard evac turned sideways. Smoke, rubble, a collapsed stairwell. Someone heard crying. Alexei went full Terminator through a wall. And when the dust cleared, there he was—coughing soot and holding a six-month-old like it was a live grenade. The baby didn’t even cry. Just blinked and drooled and grabbed Alexei’s nose like he owed him money.

It should’ve been a footnote in the mission report. It turned into a full-on debate about parental instincts, fight-or-flight hormones, and who would actually survive trying to raise a baby while doing this job.

From there, it was only a matter of time before Ava declared her hypothetical soccer team of spawn with a kind of detached confidence that suggested she’d already drawn up the chore wheel.

You nod slowly, as if that’s a normal sentence to hear over diner food at 9 a.m. on a Thursday. “Different thing,” you echo, like that explains anything.

There’s a pause filled only with the faint sizzle of a kitchen grill and the shriek of someone’s child two booths over. You’re content to let the silence stretch, to keep spooning eggs into your mouth like a sane person, until John leans back. His arm stretches across the vinyl booth with the exaggerated flair of a man who thinks he’s charming. He tilts his head toward you like he’s about to ask for a kiss, and then drops the bomb.

“What about you? Ever think about having kids?”

Your fork pauses mid-scramble. You blink. Once, then again, slower. The question isn’t new—it’s just never been aimed quite so directly at your throat before.

And somewhere in your mind, like a coin dropping into a well, you hear Bucky’s voice again.

“I used to think I’d have a bunch.”

The memory curls in your chest like a secret.

“Sure,” you say finally, and it comes out like a shrug in sentence form. “Sounds like fun. You know. In a nightmarish, identity-altering kind of way.”

John grins like you’ve handed him a gift. “Hey, I know a guy if you’re interested.”

“Oh?" you deadpan, already regretting it.

“Banked some before deployment, real clean record, full medical—”

There’s a sound beside you. Ceramic on laminate. Not a crash—more of a punctuation mark. You glance over.

Bucky’s hand rests on his coffee cup like he’s trying to stop it from shivering apart. The cup’s rim taps against the table once, sharp and accidental. His face doesn’t move. Doesn’t look at you, or at John. He stares into the coffee like it’s a black hole that might finally suck him in, if he just glares hard enough.

Walker doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to, which is maybe worse.

You shift slightly, angle your body just enough to catch Bucky’s profile. Not his eyes—he’s not giving you that. But you see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his thumb presses against the handle like it’s either that or throwing the cup against the wall. He breathes, slow and heavy, like he’s counting to ten. Like ten isn’t enough.

And you—idiot that you are—you feel it too. That low, aching pull at the thought of him with that baby. How natural he’d been. How soft his voice had gone. And how, for one weird, echoing second, you’d let yourself imagine it. Not just him with a child. But him with yours.

(It’s a thought you shouldn't let live, but it does anyway—burrows in, sharp and hungry. He’d be such a good father. Steady hands, steady voice, a tenderness in him that most people never get to see. You’d watched it spark to life like muscle memory, something old and unforgotten. 

And then, because your brain is a traitor, the thought tilts—what it would feel like to give him that. To give him that child. Not some hypothetical future, not a vague maybe someday. You. Him. 

That kind of closeness. That kind of permanence. 

The weight of him over you, inside you, something rough and reverent and completely undoing. It knocks the air from your lungs before you can even feel it coming. 

You imagine his voice rough and low—you’d look so fuckin’ good like this, he’d murmur, hands spreading over your stomach, already possessive. Full of me. Mine. You imagine his mouth, soft and reverent between your thighs, saying let me make you a mom, like it’s the last sane thought in his head.

And you—well, now you're sitting in a diner booth trying to pretend you didn’t just think the words “let me make you a mom” while someone’s child screams three feet away. You’re not proud. You are, in fact, actively praying for death. Or coffee. Whichever comes first.

So you do what you do best. You pivot.)

“Anyway,” you say, louder now, aiming your voice like a dart at Walker’s oblivious skull. Making sure your voice is light enough to convey that there isn't a world that it would ever happen with him. “Let me know if your guy offers a bulk discount. I’ll take two or three. Maybe four if they come pre-housebroken.”

John laughs. “First five are free. They just start billing you in sleep and soul erosion.”

Bucky finally moves. Not much. Just enough to slide the cup an inch back toward the middle of his placemat, like maybe now it’s safe. Like maybe no one noticed.

You’d like to kick John under the table. Just enough to shut him up. Just enough to let Bucky breathe.

Instead, you swirl your fork through yolk and wait for someone else to speak. Hope to someone out there that this whole baby thing will be put to rest.

.

But that day was just the start.

You don’t know if something cracked open in the universe or if Bucky secretly bartered a piece of his soul to a baby-loving deity in exchange for emotional clarity, but suddenly—it’s like the planet has been overrun. Babies. Everywhere. Strollers, carriers, those ridiculous kangaroo pouches. Toddlers with juice mustaches and light-up shoes. Infants in tiny sunglasses.

Worse, you’re always with him when it happens.

It starts innocently enough. You’re on stakeout. The intel turns out to be garbage—no targets, no movement, just an empty building and a guy who might’ve been Hydra or might’ve just been bad at directions. You’re about to call it when Bucky… stops walking.

No explanation. Just freezes on the sidewalk.

You turn, squinting. “What? You see something?”

And then you hear it. A laugh. Tiny. High-pitched. Pure. You scan the street and there it is: a baby in a stroller, arms flailing with chaotic joy, pink beanie slipping sideways on her round little head. Her mom is pushing her like it’s just a Tuesday. But Bucky—he crouches. Hands on his knees. Watching like he’s stumbled across the Ark of the Covenant.

“That’s a good laugh,” he mutters, almost reverently. “That’s… like a top-tier laugh.”

You blink. “You ranking baby laughs now?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching. Like the baby might do it again. Like he’s rooting for her.

You nudge him with your elbow. “Want me to get you a ringtone?”

He says nothing. His silence is telling.

Then it escalates.

Buenos Aires. Late afternoon. The heat’s syrupy, everything sunstruck and slightly too bright. You’re waiting for the decryption key to finish running—loitering under a chipped awning while the team fans out down the block, pretending to be tourists. You’re halfway through a warm soda and reading something in Spanish when Bucky drifts up beside you.

You don’t look at him. You’ve learned not to. He does this thing sometimes—leans in close enough for his shoulder to brush yours, says nothing at all, and just exists like a slow-burn fire you’re pretending not to feel.

This time, it’s worse. He gestures toward a store window. Shoes. Not just any shoes—tiny tactical boots, scaled down like someone was kitting out the junior division of the Avengers. Rugged soles, reinforced stitching, little laces that look too delicate for real fieldwork but too precise to be anything but serious gear. They’re absurd. They’re perfect.

“You think they make those in toddler size 5?”

You turn. Slowly. Give him the full weight of your skepticism. “Planning to outfit your own baby militia?”

He shrugs. Casual. Easy. Too easy. “Just wondering. Hypothetically.”

But then his eyes flick toward you—just for a beat. Like he’s measuring something. Like he’s waiting for a reaction you don’t know you’re giving.

You keep walking. Pretend not to feel your heart skip unevenly.

And it becomes a pattern. A weird, creeping, almost endearing pattern. You’re raiding safehouses, rerouting encrypted intel, shaking a tail in Prague, and somehow Bucky is the one lingering in front of vending machines, pointing at squeezable yogurt pouches like they’re alien tech.

“These have the little resealable caps,” he says, deadpan. “For babies, I think. Smart.”

You blink. “You want one?”

“No,” he says, looking thoughtful. “Just—clever design. Kid-friendly.”

You stare. He shrugs. Again. It’s becoming suspicious. Too real.

.

Later, it’s dark. Safehouse. Everyone asleep or pretending to be. You and Bucky are curled in the guest room that’s technically yours but hasn’t been solo occupancy in weeks. 

He’s already touching you before your brain catches up. Warm fingers ghosting under your shirt, calloused and rough, sliding over your ribs like he’s taking inventory of your soft places. You’re breathing shallowly before he even kisses you, your body already recognizing this as surrender.

There was a time when you thought Bucky would be a gentleman.

Reserved. Polite. Old-world chivalry repackaged in tactical black. You’d imagined he was probably hesitant in bed, at first. Careful. The type to ask twice, maybe three times, before putting his hands anywhere remotely close to where you’d actually want them. You thought he’d kiss softly. Whisper his affections like prayer. You thought—foolishly—that his stillness was quiet.

It’s not.

It’s restraint. Caged hunger. A man constantly one flick away from wrecking you completely.

Because Bucky doesn’t fuck like a soldier. Or a hero. He fucks like a man starved. Like he’s spent entire decades in lockdown with nothing but the memory of heat, and you’re the only warmth he’s ever wanted. He’s filthy in the way that makes your ears ring. Filthy in the way he moans your name when he’s too far gone to realize he’s saying it out loud.

Filthy in the way he says please.

That’s the worst part. The please.

Please kiss me, sweetheart. Please, let me stay in a little longer. Please, don’t stop. Please, I’ll be good. Please, have my ki—You gasp. He hasn't said that last part. You can't entertain that.

“Remember that time in Bolivia?” he murmurs, more statement than question, voice a gruff rasp against your throat. “When I fucked you against the wall and I had to put my hand against your mouth, because—Jesus—because you were being too loud?”

You tried to open your mouth. You usually have some sort of witty remark. But tonight his hand is trembling a little, and your chest’s too full of ache to joke.

"We can't do that here, sweetheart. I need you to stay quiet for me. Can you do that without my help?"

It’s always like this—a little desperate, a little unhinged. Like you both know it can’t mean what it means and keep doing it anyway. A nightly game of chicken with the truth.

Your legs spread, obscene, filthy, and soaked—giving him just the right view. He ducks down underneath in a flash, tongue swiping out before he does so, the pink flesh needy and hungry. The flutter of his eyelashes as he takes you in and wraps your legs around his face.

And when he pushes his tongue inside you, it’s slow. Not teasing. Not lazy. Just deliberate. Like he’s trying to stay—inside you, with you, in the moment.

Your hands are in his hair, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, and then—midway through a breath, a moan, a whisper of his name—his hand slides up.

Spreads across your stomach.

Not rough. Not possessive.

Settled.

Just—there.

Like he’s holding a thought.

His thumb traces one slow arc across your skin. Then another. Circling your navel like he’s drawing a map. Or casting a spell. You don’t even register it until his breath stutters.

You freeze—just for a second—but he doesn’t stop moving. Doesn’t stop looking at you, either. You look down and his eyes are dark, wide, wrecked. Like he’s trying to rein it in. Like he’s already failing.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, half-strangled, pulling away from your cunt long enough for you to see the long, shimmering streak that connects his mouth to you. “You’d—fuck, you’d look so perfect like this.”

You blink down at him, too far gone to process. “Like what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you—like he wants to say it. Like the words are climbing up his throat and he’s fighting to keep them down. He presses a kiss to your thigh instead, then to your core, mouth hot and desperate.

“Sorry,” he breathes. “I just—”

You’re not stupid.

But you are, maybe, willfully stupid. Denial’s easier than everything else. Safer. You pull his head closer instead, scratch at his hair, drag him deeper into your legs feels like you're trying to climb out of your own skin.

Come inside me, come inside me, the thought, intrusive and loud and irrational, echoes in your head, even as he wrenches your first orgasm of the night from you. You watch as he licks up the remnants from between your legs, then the way his tongue darts out to catch the streaks around his stubble.

And you think, with a sense of finality, that you're fucking doomed.

.

It doesn’t help that the rest of the team is starting to notice. Yelena’s not subtle—she’s taken to raising her brows whenever you and Bucky so much as walk in the same direction. Alexei hums under his breath sometimes, low and vaguely ominous, usually something about “strong bloodlines” or “resilient genetics,” just loud enough to make your skin prickle. Even Val, smug and sharp-eyed, had that moment last week where she looked between the two of you, then at the empty supply room, and muttered, “Better not be rearranging furniture in there.”

The thing is—you and him have always been subtle. Always toeing the line but never stepping over.

Except now, lately, that subtlety is starting to unravel. Not in big ways, but in increments. A slip of tone. A lingering look. The way he doesn’t bother disguising the softness in his voice when he says your name. It’s like he’s decided—quietly, firmly, permanently—that you’re it. And he’s just waiting for you to catch up.

It’s in the little things.

He starts carrying gum in his pocket “in case someone’s kid gets antsy on a flight.” He asks if the noise-canceling headphones in your shared gear bag might work for toddlers. He watches you when you pick up a fallen pacifier at a rest stop, eyes going all soft at your hands, like he’s imprinting something in his head he doesn’t quite understand.

Then, during a recon op, he nudges you awake after you dozed off in the back of a surveillance van. “You sleep like a baby,” he says quietly.

You think he means it as a compliment, but your heart flips and your brain short-circuits, and you spend the rest of the mission wondering if he’s trying to tell you something or if you’re going insane.

(You do not, in fact, sleep like a baby. You drooled on the armrest. He said nothing.)

Weeks pass. Missions blur. The baby sightings continue like clockwork. You start to brace for them. For Bucky’s inevitable sighs. For the way his expression slips into something almost wistful.

You’re trained to read microexpressions. He should know this. You see it—the way his jaw softens, the way his shoulders fall just enough to say I want this. Not now, maybe. But someday.

And more terrifying: the way he keeps looking at you. Like you’re part of that someday.

And God—how could he?

How could he look at you like that?

You’re good at the quiet things. The watching, the stitching-up. The banter. The fight, when you have to. But you’ve never known what it means to build something that doesn’t involve exit strategies or a go-bag tucked under the bed.

Bucky… he deserves someone solid. Someone who’s not half a shadow. Who’d instinctively know how to hold a baby without second-guessing. Who’d have a laugh that sounded like Sunday mornings, and hands that were always warm. Someone who could braid a child’s hair without worrying they’d pull too hard. Someone kind. Someone permanent.

Not someone like you.

You’re not sure if he even sees the difference. You’re not sure if he knows he’s dreaming with his eyes open when he looks at you like that.

But you do.

You just pretend it doesn’t mean anything. Because if it does—if he’s looking at you like he already knows, like he’s already chosen—

Well.

You’re not ready for that kind of fallout.

Not yet.

.

The worst—by far—is the petting zoo in Nebraska.

You’re there under completely fabricated cover identities. Something about an eco-terrorist cell operating out of an adjacent farm-to-table cheese shop. You’ve both got sunglasses and fake names and those little earwig communicators that make you feel like you’re in Mission Impossible. You’re trying to be inconspicuous.

But then you pass the small animal enclosure.

There’s a toddler up ahead, perched on her dad’s shoulders like a giggling parrot. She squeals—delighted—at the sight of the baby goats, then gets lowered gently down so she can feed them through the fence. Her little fingers curl around the bars, one of the goats licks her hand, and she lets out a laugh so pure and shrill and untouched by the horrors of modern living that it actually makes your chest hurt.

You don’t even register it at first—just the absence of footsteps beside you. Then you glance back.

He’s standing there, completely still, like he’s been struck by divine intervention. Like that baby goat and that toddler just rewired something deep in his old brain. His expression is unguarded in a way that makes your stomach tilt. Soft and stunned.

He doesn't even pretend to be focused on the mission anymore.

And then—then—he turns to you. The most serious he's ever been. Eyes locked on yours.

“Do you think ours would like goats?”

You nearly choke on your lemonade. Actually choke. You cough once, twice, like your lungs are trying to escape your body. “What?”

And it’s not just the question—it’s the way he says it. Our kid. Not flippant. Not ironic. Not followed by a wink or a smirk or even a shy smile. Just fact. 

“I said,” he repeats, casually, clearly, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, “hypothetically, would our kid be into goats.”

You just stare at him. You’ve stopped trying to be cool about this. The number of times he’s said our baby with absolute, unsettling conviction has reached what can only be described as a statistically significant trend.

“I don’t know, Bucky,” you say, rubbing your temples. “I think most hypothetical babies are goat neutral until proven otherwise.”

He hums. Actually hums, like he’s storing that away. “Makes sense. We'll have to test it early. Build a baseline.”

“Stop,” you say, pointing a finger at him like that might restore order to the universe. “You’re not serious.”

His eyes flick to yours. And there’s no twinkle there. No smile. Just this steady, almost stubborn kind of affection—so open it knocks the wind out of you.

"You said I’d be good at it,” he says, voice low, so only you can hear. “The whole dad thing.”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again like a very confused fish. Because you remember saying it. You remember the patio, the way the baby curled into his chest. The kitchen, the risotto, the late hour and the way he’d talked about braiding Rebecca’s hair. You remember the quiet ache in your chest, the one that’s back now, curling tighter.

And you don’t know what the hell to say. You really don’t. Because he’s looking at you like he’s already imagined the whole damn life and decided it was worth every scar. Like he’s already picked out the parts of himself he wants to give a kid—the kindness, the patience, the rebuilt softness—and buried the rest.

So you make a joke. Mask it. Swallow the quake in your throat and reach for levity like it’s body armor.

“Well, if the goat thing doesn’t work out, we can always try hamsters,” you say. “Low stakes. Contained mess. Give Yelena's little guy a friend.”

The goat bleats behind you. Bucky doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like he's still waiting for an answer—a real answer—that you're not sure how to give.

You move on. .

It finally breaks in a Target.

Of course it does.

You’re on a supply run for the team. Technically, this is all mission prep and there's assistants for things like this—med supplies, energy bars, razors, weird thermal socks Yelena swears by—but somehow, somewhere between the bottled water and the electrolyte tablets, you and Bucky wander into the wrong aisle.

Not wrong like “accidental.” Wrong like fate’s playing dirty.

Now you’re standing in front of an endcap display you definitely didn’t mean to find, and there it is. Tucked between pastel swaddles and soft-textured washcloths, like a landmine in the wrong aisle—a tiny cotton baby hat, pale blue with little stitched ears.

It’s nothing. Just a hat.

But Bucky’s staring at it like it cracked his ribs open.

“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer. “You okay?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just reaches out and picks it up. Turns it over in his hands slowly, like it’s something fragile. Like it might vanish if he isn’t careful. His thumb brushes over the tag. He squints at it like he’s trying to make sense of the fibers. His jaw’s set hard, but there’s something in the line of his shoulders—something tired.

“Bucky,” you say again, gentler this time.

He doesn’t look at you. “Did you know their heads are soft?” His voice is quiet. Almost reverent. “Babies. Their skulls don’t even come together for a while. You have to be real careful.”

You blink. “Have you… been reading about this?”

He swallows, shrugs. “I don't know. I just—I see stuff. I look it up.” He sets the hat down too fast. It doesn’t bounce. It just flattens there on the shelf like it’s watching him back.

You don’t speak. Neither does he. You just stand there for a second, like the air’s been drained from the aisle.

There’s a baby crying somewhere in another aisle—high-pitched and sputtering. A lull, then a hiccuping wail. A mother murmurs something gentle in response. The sound floats over the shelves and then disappears.

Eventually, you both walk.

Wordless. Past rows of seasonal candy wrapped in rustling orange plastic. Discount school supplies. Travel-sized deodorant and decorative lint rollers. Your cart is still half full, but you don’t look at it. Your eyes keep tracking him instead. His steps are slower than usual, like each one is being dragged out of him. His shoulders slope in that particular way you’ve started to recognize—like he’s still holding that hat in his mind, careful and afraid.

The automatic doors swish open and spill you into the afternoon like you’ve been exiled.

Outside, the parking lot’s too bright. The sun glares off windshields and the pavement radiates that late-summer kind of heat—baked rubber and exhaust fumes and burnt asphalt. A shopping cart wheel squeals in the distance, sharp and whiny. The plastic Target bags crackle like they’re judging you.

You lean against the car. It’s hot through your shirt. The silence settles again—heavier now. Thicker. Like it’s pressing into your ribcage and asking for something neither of you are sure you’re ready to give.

You look at him. Not just glance—look.

He’s standing with his back half-turned, metal hand flexing and unflexing at his side, like he’s trying to let something out but doesn’t trust what’ll happen if he does. His vibranium arm glints in the sunlight—charcoal black veined with gold, all matte finish and unforgiving elegance. It doesn’t belong here, not really. Not in this mundane little parking lot, not against a backdrop of SUVs and clearance bins.

But neither does he.

You let the silence stretch a little longer. Let the heat sweat on your back, the wind tousle your hair, the tension between you wind tighter like thread pulled taut.

Then, finally, like you’re testing a live wire. “What’re you thinking about?”

He breathes in slow. Shaky.

And then, finally, he speaks—voice soft, too soft for someone built to survive war. “Do you have any guesses?”

That’s new.

You blink. Look down at your shoes. Your reflection warps in the car door.

“I don’t want to guess wrong,” you say. Even though you know fully well.

He huffs something between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not bitter. Just… tired. Then he gestures loosely, not at anything in particular. Just out. Broadly. Helplessly.

“We keep running into this,” he says, quieter now. “Not just here. Everywhere. At the grocery store. On recon. That billboard downtown with the giggling baby and the diaper brand we’ll never have enough time to run and grab from the store. That kid last week with the tiny shoes, remember that one?”

You do. You remember too well.

“There was this moment,” he continues, voice cracking, not looking at you yet, “when I saw that kid—and I thought, he’s going to walk into your arms someday. And I realized—I already want that."

He’s pacing now, one hand on his hip, the other dragging through his hair like he’s trying to pull something out of his skull. The sleeve of his hoodie is shoved up to the elbow. His dog tags are visible. His metal hand flexes open and closed like he needs something to grab onto.

“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He laughs, breathless and small. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. Who the hell am I to want something like that?”

“Bucky…” You trail off. Because he deserves it. He deserved all of it and you want to give him everything.

“But this? You?” he says again, shaking his head like he still can’t believe he has to say it out loud. “This isn’t hollow. This is wanting. Real wanting. Not some half-dead echo of need or distraction or—God—forgiveness. I don’t want you because I think you’re gonna fix something in me. Or because I think this’ll be easy. I want you because it’s you.”

His eyes find yours again—steady, burning.

“Because when I think about a future without you in it, it feels wrong. Like my bones know it. Like every damn instinct I’ve got wants to drag me back to wherever you are and just—stay.”

Your throat tightens. He presses on.

“And don’t get it twisted—I see you. I see the way you move through missions. The way you think six steps ahead, the way you take hits like they’re nothing and still check on everyone else first. You’re not some fragile thing I wanna put behind glass. You’re steel. You’re tougher than half the people I’ve fought beside. You don’t need anyone. Hell, you don’t need me.”

He steps forward. Lowers his voice.

“But I want to be needed by you. I want to be the guy who gets to hold you when the world’s too loud. I want us. A home. A baby—maybe two. One of ‘em likes goats. I don't know. Maybe we argue about preschool names and you yell at me for lettin’ them eat cereal off the floor. You're person I want to be a disaster in front of at 3 a.m. because our hypothetical child won’t sleep unless you sing that dumb Fleetwood Mac song—” 

“Fleetwood Mac isn’t dumb.” 

“See? That’s exactly the tone you’d use,” he says, as if that proves a point. 

You blink hard. Your chest aches in that quiet, painful way reserved for things that are almost too good to believe.

“And I’ve been trying to be subtle,” he says, a rough laugh in his throat. “Pointing at strollers like a moron. Buying those damn pouches with the resealable caps. I kept hopin’ maybe you’d see it. Maybe you’d say somethin’ first. I didn’t wanna scare you off. I know what we’ve been through. What you’ve been through.”

He looks down for a second, then back at you—gentle now, gentler than you’ve ever seen him.

“But I’ll wait. As long as you need. I’m not going anywhere. And if you’re scared? Good. Me too. Means we’re not makin’ this decision with our eyes closed. But don’t pretend it’s not real. Don’t tell me I’m imagining this, because I know what this feels like. I’ve spent too long not feeling anything to mistake this for anything else.”

His vibranium hand curls into a loose fist at his side. Not clenched. Just steady. Anchored.

“I want this. With you. All of it. Even the hard parts. Especially those. I want the missions and the night shifts and the baby who won’t stop crying and the mess and the fear and the way you look at me like I might still be good. I want all of that, and I want it with you.”

And there it is again—that feeling like your ribs are about to crack open from the pressure of it all. From the weight of being seen this clearly. This completely.

You step closer, close enough now that the heat from him leaks into your skin. You stare up at him, eyes burning.

“You really want all that with me?”

He nods. “More than I’ve ever wanted anything.”

“And you’re really not afraid I’ll mess it up?”

His smile is small, pained—like he’s trying to hold it together with fraying thread. “You’ll mess it up. So will I. We’ll accidentally teach them to swear. Maybe we let Alexei babysit and they come back speaking fluent Russian and craving vodka. I’ll still want you. Even when we’re sleep-deprived and overwhelmed and knee-deep in goldfish crackers. Especially then.”

Your voice cracks open without warning. Raw. Bare.

“Bucky—what the hell am I supposed to say to top that?”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says softly, hand cupping your cheek with the kind of conviction that makes your knees go weak. “Just… don’t walk away. Don’t—God, please—don’t say no. Not to this. Not to me.”

You nuzzle closer into his hand. Slowly. Your voice, when it comes, is paper thin. “You really think I’d say no to goat-loving, minivan driving Bucky Barnes?”

His mouth twitches. “You making fun of me?”

You smile. You’re shaking a little. “Only a little.”

He laughs, and it’s a real one—wet around the edges, but honest.

And that—God. That lands like a sucker punch.

You take a breath. Step closer. Your heart is a drumbeat in your ears but your voice—your voice is iron and sunrise. “Okay. Let’s say, hypothetically, we make our first one now. What then?”

Bucky’s entire body stills.

Like he’s been hit center mass—not by a bullet, but by possibility. Like your words cracked open a vault somewhere deep in him and he’s still trying to process what came out. His breath hitches. His brows lift just slightly. You can almost see it—each implication of what you just said unfurling in real time: first one, meaning more than one. Meaning permanence. Meaning forever.

His eyes go wide—like, really wide. Like he’s just been handed the Infinity Gauntlet and told to babysit it. His mouth opens, then closes again. Then opens. A soft, stunned “Now?” escapes.

You nod. Slowly. “Yes. Now.”

And it’s like a switch flips. Whatever gears were turning in his head just snap into place, and then he’s grabbing you—gently, desperately—and kissing you like he hasn't kissed you thousands of times before. It’s all hands and breath and something that tastes like joy, wild and uncontainable. You laugh into it, half-giddy, half-overwhelmed, and then someone leans out of a passing minivan and honks.

You both jump. Bucky flips the guy off without looking. “Keep driving, asshole!”

You’re laughing so hard your ribs hurt, and you have to clutch his arm just to stay upright. He looks at you like you’ve personally realigned his entire future.

Then it’s a race. You barely make it through the parking lot without tripping over yourselves, bumping shoulders and brushing hands and laughing like lunatics. Bucky opens the car door for you like he’s being timed for a rescue op, and the moment your ass hits the passenger seat, his hand is on your thigh—firm, possessive, fingers warm even through the denim.

He doesn’t even pretend to drive normally. The car peels out like you’re being chased, tires screeching as he swerves onto the freeway with all the caution of a man on fire.

His other hand clenches the wheel, knuckles pale. “You sure you’re not gonna regret it?” he asks, voice low, like it’s been scraped out of him. Like he’s terrified this is a dream and one wrong word will wake him up.

You glance over. He’s flushed down to his collar, eyes flicking from the road to your face and back like he can’t decide which is more dangerous. You’re smiling so wide it hurts your cheeks.

“If you keep asking questions like that,” you murmur, “I might pull you over and climb on top of you right here.”

He chokes. Visibly swerves. “You—you’re not joking.”

“I am, Bucky. We're at a fucking Target.”

He lets out a groan like it physically pains him. “You’re evil.”

You lean your head back against the seat, breathless with laughter. But then you glance sideways and—yeah. That look on his face? That’s love. That’s a man about to commit several felonies in your name.

“I’m gonna treat you so fuckin’ good,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Gonna make you feel safe and spoiled and full of me. Gonna worship you every damn night. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, suddenly a little breathless. His grip on your thigh tightens, just for a second.

His foot presses harder on the gas.

The car hums like it’s picking up on the tension. Bucky’s jaw is set, eyes dark, every red light a personal affront to his timeline. At one point he actually mutters “no” at a yellow light and runs it anyway. Another person flips both of you off until they squint and see who's in the car. Bucky doesn’t blink.

When the Watchtower finally comes into view, he exhales like he’s just crossed a finish line. The tires screech again as he parks, but you barely register it. Because the second the engine cuts, he turns to you, all flushed cheeks and unholy devotion, and whispers, “Upstairs. Now.”

And then—

He lifts you like it’s muscle memory, like your body belongs there, bracketed against him. Your legs wrap around his waist. Somehow, some way, he finds the bedroom with barely a glance, kicks the door shut behind him, and lays you down like you’re breakable.

Not fragile. Important.

He hovers above you for a beat, breath uneven, gaze raking over your face like it’s the first time he’s really let himself look. Like he’s memorizing this—just in case the world tilts sideways again.

He bends down, his voice rasping against your mouth. “You still sure about this?”

You pull him back to you by the waistband of his jeans. “I said I wanted all of it.  The house. The minivans. The goats. I meant it.”

Something in him loosens. Not all the way, not yet—but enough to soften his edges. He exhales through his nose and kisses you like it’s a vow, mouth warm and open and aching. His hands find your thighs, settle there like they’ve always known the shape of you. Thumbs brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself on your skin.

You kiss him back with everything you’ve got, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt—and when you tug, it’s not subtle.

And you tug at his shirt again. “Bucky—”

“No, just—let me—” He peels it off over his head in one fluid motion, and fuck. You’ve seen him shirtless before. Dozens of times. Training sessions. Medical checks. Casual Sundays in sweatpants.

But not with the full breadth of him laid bare, chest heaving, dog tags glinting faintly in the low light. Thick, ropey muscle, that deep ridge where his hip cuts in and disappears under the waistband of his jeans. He’s massive. Bigger than you can ever brace for. Every inch of him looks carved from the kind of strength that short-circuits your higher brain function.

And it hits you, all at once, how strong he really is.

Not just tactical, not just capable—but superhuman. The kind of strength that could lift a car or crush a man’s throat or pick you up like you weigh nothing. You’ve felt it before—in combat, in sparring, in those accidental brushes where he’d catch your wrist or hoist you clear of an explosion.

You’re trying to keep it together—you are—but then he grins. That slow, crooked, devastating thing like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice gone husky with amusement.

You shoot back, “So are you.”

“Yeah,” he says, and steps in, close enough that his chest brushes yours, heat radiating off him like a furnace. “Difference is, I’m about to do something about it.”

Your mouth goes dry. Your brain attempts a witty reply and fails spectacularly. So you shove at his shoulder with mock offense, and he grabs your wrists—gently, easily—and pins them to the mattress above your head.

Oh.

It’s nothing. No pressure, no real force. But it reminds you. Reminds you exactly what he’s capable of. How easily he could break you. How carefully he never has.

“Could hold you like this forever,” he murmurs. “You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”

You squirm beneath him, flushed and wrecked and undone.

“You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he breathes, dragging his nose down your throat. “I could carry you around all day. Pick you up, fuck you against a wall, against a table, hell, the fridge, if I wanted.”

You gasp, and his grip tightens—just enough to feel it.

"I need to get you ready first," He pulls back slightly, meets your eyes. “That okay?”

You nod. Hard. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

His stubble rubs along your neck, your collarbones, until he pauses at your chest, nuzzling one of your nipples with his eyes closed—reverent. His tongue darts out, sucking and pulling at the sensitive muscle, more for his sake than for yours. 

There's a graze of his teeth—then, his other hand comes to meet your other breast, ever the multi-tasker. He murmurs your name, once, twice, the sound vibrating low against your skin.

You don't know how long he stays like that, in that blissful purgatory, his leg, between your legs, just barely giving you the stimulation you need, until his mouth, his beautiful, beautiful mouth, gets faster, more greedy, and the leg you're grinding against pushes deeper against you—

"Come for me, sweetheart."

It's like fucking fireworks. You cum with a groan, eyes closed shut, whining low and deep and overwhelmed.

When you come to, vision returning to you in hazes, you look at him through fluttering lashes, the way he strokes his cock in front of you. Painfully hard, red, and weeping, but it's his words that make you short-circuit next.

“You’re gonna let me put a baby in you, huh?”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you before you can answer—deep and consuming and hungry—and when he pulls back, there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Something molten. Something fierce.

“Been thinkin’ about something else too,” he confesses, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “You, round with my kid. All soft and happy. Maybe bossin’ me around with that look you get when you’re pretending not to care.”

The words stick—and it's all the warning you get before he's slotting his cock in between your cunt, slipping inside of you.

His hand settles on your stomach, low and possessive. He presses his palm there like he’s already claiming it. Like he’s asking permission to fill it. You can feel it, the pressure delicious, as his thrusts get messier, less controlled. The room's filled with the sound of it, groaning and snapping and skin slapping together.

“I’ll be good,” he says, voice cracking. “I’ll be so good. You’ll never have to lift a finger. I’ll make breakfast. I’ll learn lullabies. I’ll paint the damn nursery if you want me to.”

You moan, high and helpless. “Keep talking.”

He thrusts—deep, slow, intentional. “I’ll hold your hand through the appointments. Rub your back when it hurts. Run to the store at 3 a.m. for pickles, or chocolate, or whatever the hell you need—”

Then, his hand–the metal one—moves between you, lower and lower until his thumb's hovering right over your clit, pinching and squeezing and rolling it, and you have to fight every cell inside of you not to cum right then and there, even while he's looking at you and saying everything so, so goddamn perfectly.

You clench around him, once, twice, like a vice grip that's desperate for him to feel just the way he makes you feel.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “You’re so—fuck, I just wanna—” He shakes his head, then mutters against your collarbone, “Don't do that, not yet, I'll cum."

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” you whisper. "I just wanna–oh god—show you how thankful I am."

His hips rock against yours. 

“You wanna thank me?” he pants, jaw trembling as he fights to hold on. “Then do it with an ultrasound. Let me hear it. Let me see it.”

You whimper, wrecked by the words alone.

“Say it,” he demands, but softer now. Frantic and obsessed. “Tell me you want it too. Tell me you want to keep me forever.”

“I do,” you gasp. “I do—God, Bucky, I do—”

Then he shifts, pushing himself deeper inside, and one brutal thrust later, raking his hands across your abdomen, you gasp. Shuddering, shaking like a leaf, finishing in his arms so hard that you nearly twist out of his grasp.

Seconds later, Bucky spills into you, and you can feel the precise moment he throbs inside you, warmth filling you up, up, up, and you can fill the drip of his cum spilling out from the sheer volume of it. You've never felt so full.

When you try to get up, he stops you with a gentle pull against your waist. He buries his face in your neck. “Needy to stay still,” he growls, words slurred, “make sure it takes.”

And who were you to say no to that?

You're tangled up in him, hours later. Or maybe minutes. Time’s a blur. The sheets are kicked halfway down the bed, your leg slung over his hip, the air still thick with heat and something heavier. Sweeter. Like gravity finally decided to show up and drag you straight into the future.

Bucky’s arm is around your waist, metal plates cool against your damp skin, the weight of him grounding. He’s curled slightly, head bowed like he can’t stop looking at you. His fingers draw slow, absent circles on your belly—like the thought never left him. Like it’s only just beginning.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

And then, quietly, “You okay?”

You nod, not trusting your voice. Your heart’s still hammering like a warning bell and a love song. “You?”

He huffs a laugh into your shoulder. Presses a kiss there. Then another, softer. His voice is hoarse when he finally answers. “I’ve never been this okay.”

There’s a pause. You don’t fill it. You just watch as his thumb drags slow and soft across your stomach again, like he’s memorizing the shape of possibility.

“I can see it,” he murmurs. “Not just a kid. Our kid. One that frowns like you and kicks like me. One who’s smart, and stubborn, and throws food at Walker's head during holidays.”

You snort softly. “You think we’d raise a kid that obnoxious?”

His grin is lazy and real, eyes bright with something so big it makes your chest ache. “I hope so.”

You stare at the ceiling for a beat. Let the words sink in. Let the idea grow legs.

Then you roll closer, press your palm over the hand that’s still stroking your belly.

You whisper it this time. Fragile. Hopeful. “You think this’ll do it?”

Bucky shudders—actually shudders—and shifts to kiss your jaw, your cheek, your mouth like it’s a prayer.