LiLuLo12

~~~

Of all the things the Mark of Cain had done to Dean, the one thing it hadn’t done was make him less observant. But God, you wish it had. You wish he wasn’t noticing the dark circles under your eyes, or the times you fell asleep for a few seconds in the middle of case briefings or interviews with witnesses. You wish he wasn’t noticing how your instincts had become slower, how your quips had become infrequent and soft, and how you struggled at times to form even the simplest of thoughts.

You also wish the Mark of Cain had made him care less. It was a terrible thing to wish for, but you needed him to care less about you, so you could care more about him. Everyday, Dean asked you what was wrong. Everyday, he begged you to let him in. Everyday, he did everything he could to make your day easier, even if you wouldn’t tell him what exactly was making it harder.

Truly, you wanted nothing more than to open up to him, to shed all the secrecy and just be a normal couple again. But little by little, Dean was losing himself to the Mark, and you’d promised yourself you’d always save him. Right now, that meant keeping him at arm’s length so you could do what you needed to do.

It had been a couple weeks since he’d asked—no, demanded, ordered—you and Sam to stop searching for a cure for the Mark. Of course, you and Sam had never even considered doing that, but for the sake of placating the already testy Dean, you’d told him you would. And as far as he knew, you had stopped looking. It was the best possible outcome for your secret research, but Dean, as he was wont to do, was blaming himself for the decline in your health.

He’d asked if he’d been talking or lashing out in his sleep, he’d asked if you still wanted to be with him, he’d begged you to not worry about him if this was what it was doing to you. You’d assured him every time that it was nothing he was doing, that you’d never want to be with anyone else, and that you would always worry about him, Mark or not. You did everything you could to reassure him, because he deserved to have at least one weight taken off his shoulders, but he was Dean, so of course he wouldn’t stop worrying either. 

But you couldn’t stop what you were doing. You wouldn’t. You’d been up all night, every night, slipping out from Dean’s arms once he’d fallen asleep to sneak away to the library. Almost manically, you’d been making your way through the Men of Letters books and archives, hoping to find something that would free the man you loved from his curse. Your search had so far been fruitless, but you were confident you could solve this. Or maybe you were just desperate. You couldn’t lose Dean to months of demonhood again. You couldn’t lose him, period. So you’d keep going. However long it took.

You were at it again tonight, hitting the library around midnight once Dean finally gave in to unconsciousness. He’d been up later that night, fussing over you after he found you unconscious in the workout room, curled up in the corner as you slumbered. You hadn’t remembered falling asleep, only waking up to Dean and Sam over you, the former cupping your cheeks and begging you to wake up. In Dean’s eyes there’d been agonized concern, and in Sam’s there’d been concern as well, but also knowing, and disapproval.

He was aware of what you were doing, and he liked it no more than Dean would, but he was also aware that if he told on you, you could tell on him right back. So he’d kept his mouth shut, and Dean had carried you to your shared room, where you’d been forced to remain the rest of the day as he doted on you. You wouldn’t mind such pampering normally, but there was no rest to be had when Dean’s life and soul were at risk. So when Dean finally settled and began snoring softly with you tucked into his chest, you took the opportunity to return to the library.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t beyond exhausted as you grabbed the book from the 1850s that you’d gotten about halfway through. You felt the weariness down to your bone marrow, a heavy feeling that made every step you took dragging and slow. You wanted so badly to return to bed, even just for one night, but you knew that if you got out of your habit now, if you allowed yourself to relish in the comfort of Dean’s sleepy embrace again, you wouldn’t be able to talk yourself back into more all-nighters. So, armed with three cans of your favorite energy drink and a ferocious devotion to the man you loved, you fought through your tiredness and read on.

~~~

Dean didn’t usually wake up in the middle of the night. Though he usually only slept four to six hours any given night, he never woke up before it was time for him to rise for good for the day. But he’d roused that night, though only a little bit at first, coming out of sleep just enough to be able to sense that something wasn’t right. The space around him felt too empty, too cold, too harsh. That small gut instinct was enough to jerk him awake, sending him shooting up into a sitting position as he checked the room wildly.

He didn’t have to search for his answer for long, however, because he always looked to where you should be first. In truth, his body knew even before his mind could catch up, because he felt the hollowness of your body missing against his. His eyes confirmed it as they adjusted to the darkness, finding your side of the bed empty. 

His first thought was that you’d simply gotten up to go to the bathroom, but when his hands ran over the sheets where you should be laying, they responded to his touch with the coldness of a long absence. No more than a second after feeling that was Dean out of bed, his pace hurried as he ran first to the kitchen, hoping you were taking a long midnight snack. When he found that room empty as well, the panic really set in, and he all but sprinted down the halls to the main area of the bunker, worried that he would find some sign of a break-in, or perhaps more heart-wrenchingly, that you’d left the bunker of your own accord.

That you’d left him.

Dean had never had the highest self-esteem. Maybe it was a product of living on the road as he had, never really being significant—at least not for many people to remember him—anywhere he went. Maybe it was his dad’s harshness and constant criticism of how he hunted, how he looked after Sammy, how he did much of anything.

But now, with the Mark of Cain making someone he himself wouldn’t even want to be around, he woke up everyday feeling it was only a matter of time until everyone saw him as no longer being worth their time or energy. He felt like the luckiest son of a bitch when he still found you in the kitchen every morning, nursing your own cup of coffee while you waited to hand him his.

But maybe this was the day that it all changed. Maybe yesterday morning’s coffee had been the last you’d give him. Maybe you, in all your goodness and light and joy and optimism, had finally realized you were never meant to live in the shadows with hunters. With him. Maybe you’d realized that you could do so much better than Dean, that you could find a nice, safe man who made an actual salary and could give you a home, a life, a family. Someone who would see that you’re struggling and actually know what to do. 

You’d been falling apart in front of him. Dean would have to be blind not to see it. Falling asleep everywhere, barely able to think, a shell of yourself. He’d asked you a million times, and you’d reassured him just as many that it wasn’t the case, but he knew it was because of him. You wouldn’t tell him exactly why, or how to fix it, but he knew. And maybe the truth was that there was no fixing it, not while you’re with him. Maybe you’d finally accepted that, and left for a better life. The selfish bastard in him prayed to everything out there that that wasn’t the case. If he didn’t have you, there was no hope left for him at all.

Coming into the main room, he looked first towards the door, worried that he’d see it wide open. When all was as it should be there, he looked towards the library, and felt a tidal wave of relief wash over him so strongly it nearly knocked him off his feet. You were hunched over one of the library tables, head resting on a thick book laying open. In front of you was an empty energy drink can tipped on its side. Clearly you’d been trying to stay up all night, but had failed miserably, even with the excessive caffeine.

With a sigh, Dean strode over to you and stroked gently down the back of your head to wake you up. When that didn’t work, he bent down to kiss the cheek that wasn’t pressed to the pages of your book, and whispered your name in your ear. You stirred then, groaning as you lifted your head. Dean smiled at the sight of you squinting at him with bleary eyes, trying to make sense of what was in front of you and around you.

“What time is it?” you asked, voice raspy. 

“Past your bedtime,” he remarked. “What’re you doin’, sweetheart?”

~~~

At first, when Dean had woken you, you’d forgotten where you were and what you’d been doing. You’d been dreaming about Hawai’i—you and Dean had never been, of course, because you couldn’t afford it in a million years, but in your dream, you were on a beach together, kissing in the water as the waves rolled past you.

Returning to reality was thus, as one could expect, jarring. At least Dean was there, you’d thought as you’d blinked up at him. Then you felt the book page still stuck to your cheek, and remembered everything, and realized Dean was there.

You jolted, which didn’t bode well for keeping Dean’s suspicions low and your secret safe. You hoped he’d take it as you readjusting to being awake, but then he asked what you were doing, and you took too long to answer, and his gaze slid to the book in front of you.

The words were too small for him to read from where he was, but then his eyes found your notebook, scrawled with writing about the Mark of Cain. You watched Dean’s face with baited breath as he took everything in, and saw the fond amusement give way to disappointment, concern, and anger. 

“I thought I made myself clear, baby,” he spoke with a frown, his voice low and restrained. “You promised me you’d stop.”

With a sigh, you responded, “Would you stop if it was me?” Dean didn’t answer, but his silence was more than enough. “Don’t ask me to do something you couldn’t.”

“This is different.”

“How?”

“I’m guessing this isn’t your first all-nighter. Or your third. Or your fifth.” It was your turn to give him his answer wordlessly. Dean nodded, features pulled taut with frustration. “Right. So I ask you to stop, and instead you start killing yourself.”

“I’m not-“

“I found you unconscious in the gym today,” Dean snapped, voice rising in volume. “You wouldn’t wake up, baby; I was two seconds away from taking you to the hospital.”

“It’s not that bad-“

“Don’t.” Dean’s eyes were on fire. “Don’t try to downplay this. You’ve been half of yourself, and less with every passing day. And I’ve been asking you, again and again, begging you, to tell me what’s wrong, to let me help, but you just kept telling me you were fine. Kept lying to me, when I have perfectly functioning eyes. This is exactly what I didn’t want, why I told you to stop: you and Sam would drive yourselves into an early grave for a lost cause!”

Those last two words had you rocketing up from your seat, eyes blazing and mouth open to protest with everything you had, because you would never let Dean talk about himself like that if you were there to do something about it. No part of you was ready to be on your feet, however, and especially not so quickly.

You swayed like a dead tree in a storm, destined to fall and fall hard. Dean was faster though, and caught you before you could topple, pulling you into his chest. As if you weighed nothing at all, he set you back down in the seat, turned it to face him, and crouched before you, hands gentle but immoveable on your thighs to keep you from trying to rise again.

“What could have possibly made you think I’d want you doing this to yourself for my sake?” he asked, voice much gentler and quieter now as his eyes ran over you with the sweetest worry.

“You’d do the same for me.”

“I know I would, but this isn’t about what I’d do for you. I’m the one with the Mark, sweetheart, it should be my say how we go about this.”

“I’m not going to listen to someone who calls himself a lost cause,” you murmured, voice trembling under the weight of your emotions. Your gaze dropped to your lap as you focused on your fiddling hands to try to keep yourself from crying. “I love you, Dean, and I’m not going to live without you. Not ever. So if this is what I have to do, this is what I’m going to do.”

“Sweetheart, look at me.” When you refused to, Dean took gentle hold of your chin and tilted your head so that you had no choice but to meet his eyes. “When did I ever say I was leaving you behind? Hm? I’m not going anywhere without you.”

You sniffed. “You already did. You were gone for months, Dean, and I didn’t know what to do. It didn’t feel like there was anything I could do. But I can do something now. I can help you now. So I’m sorry, but I’m not gonna stop.”

“But who helps you? Who helps you, when you’re running yourself into the ground and you won’t tell me anything? Me, whose job it is specifically to take care of you?”

“And I can’t take care of y-“

Before you could finish your sentence, Dean’s hand was covering your mouth, his eyes finally glinting with amusement rather than agitation. “Stop arguing like a five-year-old and listen to me.” With your speech taken away from you, all you could do was roll your eyes. “This ends now. I’m not letting you destroy yourself.”

You pried Dean’s hand away from your mouth in earnest. “You’re giving up on yourself, Dean. Nothing is going to destroy me more than losing you.”

“Do I ever get to finish a thought?”

Despite the seriousness of the moment, you couldn’t help the mischievous smirk that tugged at your lips. “No.”

It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes as he continued, “I promise I won’t give up on myself. I’ll keep fighting, and we’ll keep looking for a cure, but…we do it together. We’re a team. You and me against everything, right? I won’t go it alone, and neither will you. Deal?”

It was the easiest thing you’d ever agreed to. “Deal, Winchester.”

Dean smiled softly as his hand cupped your cheek and brought your lips to his for a sweet kiss. It was chaste, but you felt every ounce of love and devotion behind it. After a few moments, he pulled away and rested his forehead against yours. “Now…you’re going to bed, and I’m sleeping on top of you so you don’t try anything.”

You scoffed, but it was closer to a laugh than anything else. “Did I not just agree to your terms?”

“Yes, but you’re stubborn. Can’t be too careful.”     

Someone’s already put flowers out. Pink hydrangeas and stargazer lilies in a wide bowl on the kitchen island, petals plump and deliberate, like they were chosen for how well they photograph. Steve pauses there longer than he needs to, one hand still on his duffel strap, the other resting uselessly against the counter.

This was where they came when Hawkins shut down.

He doesn’t think it like an accusation. It’s just a fact that sits strangely in his chest. They’d been on the coast when the quake hit, and when the quarantine followed, it had made sense to stay. The beach house was safer. Easier. They wired him money. Checked in when they remembered.

They waited it out in sun and space and safety, while Steve stayed behind in a town that felt like it was trapped in amber.

He shakes the thought off and moves further into the house.

Every room faces the water. That’s the first thing he notices. The ocean is everywhere - framed in glass, reflected in mirrors, humming low and constant through open doors and windows. Steve sets his bag down in the room his mother had told him to take - not a primary suite, not one of the rooms with balconies, just a nice guest room at the back with a partial view and someone else’s throw blanket folded at the foot of the bed.

Afterthought-adjacent.

He exhales, slow, steady, and rolls his shoulders. It’s fine. He’s used to this feeling - like he’s stepped into a life that was already in motion, like his presence doesn’t disrupt anything, just fills in a gap.

Outside, the deck creaks softly as the wind moves through it. Steve wanders out barefoot, a beer taken from the fridge cool in his palm, and leans his forearms on the railing. The beach stretches out before him, pristine and empty, sand as smooth as untouched paper. For the rest of the week it’ll be loud with cousins and laughter and the clink of glasses, but for now it’s just him and the sea and the low ache of something he hasn’t quite named.

He thinks, briefly, about leaving early.

About doing the polite thing, the expected thing. Showing up for the big party, smiling, staying just long enough to be counted, and then heading home.

Then he thinks about you.

About the way you’d looked at him over coffee when he asked - careful, curious, kind. About how you’d said yes without making him explain himself. About how you’d laughed and said, “Well. I’ve never been to the Outer Banks.”

Steve lets himself smile at that.

You’ll be here tomorrow.

Steve pictures it easily - you flying in once your installation is finished, apologising for being late even though he’d never once suggested you should cancel. He’d shut that down immediately. He wasn’t about to ask you to bend your work and life around his parents’ idea of a perfect week.

He’s here early because they wanted him here early. The three of them together in the house first, before the noise and the arrivals and the performance of it all. A unit. A picture that still makes sense if you don’t look too closely.

The thought of you stepping into it - into this place where everything feels perfect, and he never does - steadies him in a way he didn’t expect. Like he’s bringing something vivid into a space that’s always felt faintly pastel.

The ocean rolls in below, patient and endless. He could take or leave the beach house, but the water - the sound of it, the smell, the way it keeps its own time - makes everything else easier to bear. It reminds him that not everything is arranged for show.

Steve straightens, drains the last of his beer, and heads back inside to open windows, to make space.

This time, he thinks, he won’t be the only one who came because he had to.

****************

He hears the car before he sees it.

Gravel under tyres, unhurried. The sound carries easily through the open house. He’s in the kitchen, rinsing out a glass he already knows belongs in a particular cupboard. He dries it carefully, sets it back exactly where he found it, and waits.

The front door opens.

Annabeth Harrington comes in first, sunglasses still on despite the cool shade indoors, her pale linen dress untouched by the car. She pauses just long enough to take in the space - the counters, the flowers, the light - not checking for mess so much as confirming order. The kitchen is as it should be.

“Steven,” she says, leaning in to brush his cheek. It’s an air-kiss - proximity without weight - affection observed at a polite distance. Her expensive perfume wraps around him in a way her arms never do.

“Hi, Mom.”

Annabeth sets her bag down and slips out of her sandals. “We were tied up all day,” she says lightly. “Lunch ran long.”

Steve nods. It doesn’t occur to him to ask where they were. He already knows - a lunch club, a committee, a gallery thing, people who’ve folded this place into their lives the way he never would.

She looks at him properly then, her gaze taking inventory the way it always has - clothes, posture, the faint tiredness he hasn’t quite shaken yet.

“That job of yours… you must be exhausted,” she says. Not unkind. Just observational.

“I’m fine. School’s good, the kids are great.”

Danny follows a step behind, already mid-thought. He looks sun-browned and settled, like a man who’s grown into the life he chose and stopped questioning it years ago. Semi-retired now, technically. A word that seems to apply more to his calendar than his posture. Authority clings to him the way the salt air does - invisible, assumed, never needing to announce itself. Steve’s pretty sure he’s never relaxed a day in his life.

He moves through the house and into the kitchen with quiet certainty, opening doors without looking, crossing rooms as though they were extensions of himself. This place fits him.

“How was the drive from Norfolk?” he asks Steve, drawing open the sliding doors to the deck, his eyes drifting away from his son and out toward the water.

Steve nods anyway. “Yeah. Had to wait at the desk for the car, traffic was bad getting out. You know how it is.”

Danny hums, satisfied, thoughts already elsewhere - even as Annabeth glides in beside him with a glass of wine poured and ready for him.

“Still doesn’t get old,” he says, looking out across the ocean like it’s putting on a show just for him.

****************

Annabeth and Danny move through the house together without thinking about it.

They don’t touch much - not demonstratively - but they’re aligned in smaller ways: the way Danny steps aside just as Annabeth reaches for the wine, the way she answers questions he hasn’t quite finished asking. They’ve been calibrated to each other for decades, finishing each other's sentences, their movements smoothed down to efficiency.

High school sweethearts, everyone always says it like it explains everything. The Harringtons. A story people like to believe in.

To the outside world, they’re flawless. Successful. Enduring. The kind of couple people gesture toward at dinners and say that’s how you do it. Steve has heard it his entire life.

He knows better - not in a bitter way, just in the way you know something when you’ve grown up inside it.

There have been others. Always discreet. Always managed. His father’s absences explained away as work, his mother’s tennis schedule stretching longer and longer into the afternoons. None of it dramatic enough to fracture the image. None of it ever spoken aloud.

What holds them together isn’t fidelity so much as agreement.

They chose each other early. They chose the life. They chose the look of it. And they’ve never once invited Steve into that choice - not purposefully.

Watching them now, settled and seamless in a house that fits them perfectly, Steve feels the familiar distance settle in. Not sharp. Not new. Just established.

They are a pair.

He has always been adjacent.

Dinner is easy and well-practised. Annabeth pours the wine. Danny talks about the anniversary plans, who’s flying in when, how full the house will be over the week. Names are dropped into conversation that Steve half-remembers from childhood dinners where he’d been told to sit up straighter, speak more clearly, smile more.

“And you’re in the back room? White curtains?” Danny asks, casual, as if confirming a seating arrangement.

“Yeah, the - “

“Good. That room’s quiet.”

Annabeth nods, already moving on. “Your friend arrives tomorrow, you said?”

“Girlfriend. Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Well,” she says, a small smile settling into place, “that’ll be nice. I’m assuming the two of you will share?”

He’d been expecting it - his mother’s particular brand of curiosity, gossip-gathering disguised as vagueness. He has his lines rehearsed.

“There’s no reason not to. We’re together, so.”

“Mmm. Yes, you did mention that.”

Not warmth. Not dismissal. Just accommodation.

“What did you say she does again?” Danny says, rejoining the conversation after having drifted out of it minutes before.

“Windows, Dad. Stained glass conservation, it’s -”

“Stained glass, huh?” Danny cuts in, thoughtful rather than dismissive. “That’s not something I’d imagine Hawkins has much call for. Does she get a lot of work?”

Annabeth answers before Steve can finish.

“She keeps busy,” she says smoothly, as if this is information she’s already filed away. “It’s very specialised. Churches, art, restoration projects - isn’t that what you said, Steven?”

Danny nods, satisfied with the shape of the answer. “Makes sense,” he says. “Hard to scale something like that.”

Steve feels the familiar impulse - the old one - to smooth it over, to translate, to make it sound more impressive than it needs to be.

He doesn’t.

“She’s good at it,” he says instead, steady. “People seek her out.”

Annabeth glances at him then, just briefly. Not surprised. Not displeased. Simply noting the correction.

“Well,” she says lightly, “that’s fortunate.”

The conversation moves on.

Steve stays where he is, the words still warm in his mouth. He hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t explained. He hadn’t asked them to understand.

He’d just said it like it was true.

And for the first time all evening, that feels like it’s enough.

****************

After dinner, the house fractures neatly.

Annabeth heads upstairs, already mid-conversation on the cordless, her voice carrying faintly down the hall as she settles into one of the bedrooms to talk through schedules and arrivals. There are lists to be confirmed, timings to adjust - the quiet competence of someone who has always managed the order of things from a distance.

Danny disappears into his study off the living room, door closing softly behind him. Steve catches a glimpse of spreadsheets spread across the desk, reports faxed over earlier in the day, the low murmur of calculation resuming as easily as breath.

No one assigns Steve anything.

He’s done well enough. Said the right things. Filled his place at the table without much disruption.

So he takes another beer and steps out onto the deck instead.

The evening air is warm, the boards still holding the day’s heat. Beyond the railing, the ocean moves steadily, unconcerned, its rhythm unbroken by the house behind him. Steve leans his forearms against the wood again and lets the sound of it wash over him, shoulders loosening now that there’s no one left to perform for.

For a moment, it’s just him and the water - and the quiet relief of being finished.

He stays on the deck until the sky darkens properly, the house behind him settling into its evening rhythms. Doors close. Footsteps fade. Somewhere upstairs, his mother’s voice drops into the measured cadence she uses when she’s coordinating things that matter.

He lets it go.

He’s done what was required of him today. Shown up. Answered questions. Taken up the right amount of space without colouring over the lines. There’s a quiet satisfaction in that.

Tomorrow, at least, he won’t have to do it alone.

He thinks about you then, not in any charged or complicated way, just appreciatively. You didn’t hesitate when he asked. You didn’t tease him or overthink it or turn it into a performance. You’d listened, nodded once, and said, Yeah, alright. I can do that.

Robin would have, too. She had, once.

His mouth twitches as the memory resurfaces - his grandmother’s ninetieth birthday, the careful fiction of that trip unravelling in real time when someone had stumbled across Robin kissing his cousin Lucy in a quiet corner of the house. The sharp intake of breath. The pause before the whispers started. The room watching.

His mother’s expression - appalled, not by the kiss, but by Steve’s deception and the way it had collapsed so publicly.

The lie hadn’t just cracked. It had imploded.

Lucy had guessed immediately, of course. Known Robin wasn’t his girlfriend. Known what Steve had been doing, and why. She hadn’t meant to ruin things for him - she’d sworn that later, earnest and miserable - but intent didn’t matter once the damage was done.

The Buckley bridge is thoroughly burned now. The Harringtons remember. Annabeth, especially.

Which makes this - you - different.

You don’t play at it. You don’t improvise chaos into the margins. You don’t clock the deception and file it away like a secret you might use later. You just show up. Do what you said you would. Make space for him without asking for anything in return.

Steady. Sensible. On his side.

Steve lets the thought settle, warm and grounding, and turns his attention back to the deck - the light, the noise, the movement of it all - carrying that quiet certainty with him like something he didn’t realise he’d been missing until it was there.

The thought of having someone else in the house - someone who knows how to read a room, who won’t need translating, who can exchange a look with him across a table and know exactly what it means - makes his tension drop for the first time all day.

An ally. That’s all.

And right now, that feels like exactly what he needs.

Steve finishes his beer and heads inside, locking up the way he was shown, moving quietly through the house like a guest who understands the rules. Upstairs, he leaves the bedroom window wide open and lets the sound of the ocean pour inside.

Tomorrow will be busy. Loud. Harrington-heavy.

Tomorrow, at least, he’ll have backup.

****************

Steve positions himself with his right shoulder angled toward the speakers above the gate.

It’s habit now, ingrained enough that he doesn’t think about it - a quiet adjustment so the announcements come through cleanly, so he doesn’t have to ask anyone to repeat themselves. The airport is loud in a diffuse way, sound bouncing off glass and tile and bodies, and he lets his left side deafness drown the majority of it out.

He’s early. Of course he is.

He leans back against a railing, legs crossed at the ankle, a coffee cooling in his hand. His glasses sit easy on his nose - they always do - the world crisp and manageable through the familiar frames. He doesn’t think about them much anymore. They’re just part of him now, like the way he tilts his head to listen, like the scar on his belly that pulls faintly when he turns too fast.

What’s different is everything else.

The shirt is linen, soft with wear, unbuttoned lower than he’d ever risk back in Hawkins, sunglasses hanging at the join. The sleeves are pushed up, the collar open enough that the thin silver chain at his throat catches the light when he shifts, glinting against the dark thatch of hair there. Beige cargo shorts skim his knees, comfortable sneakers planted easy on the polished floor. He looks… loose. Not careless - just a little more free.

Beach Steve, Robin calls it.

He’d dressed this way without thinking, and only realised it standing here, unobserved. This version of him makes his mother purse her lips and say something about his posture. He knows she’s already threatened to task Maggie - who comes in to clean three times a week - to raid his suitcase and starch everything in sight while he’s out. He doesn’t let that thought linger for too long.

Steve scans the arrivals board, then the crowd, attention sharpening as the doors slide open and passengers begin to spill through. He straightens a fraction, alert now.

There.

You come through with your bag slung over your arm, hair escaping whatever effort you’d made earlier, eyes already searching. When they land on him, your face shifts - not surprise, not assessment. Recognition. Relief.

Your gaze flicks over him, quick and instinctive, and he sees the exact moment you register it: not the glasses - you’ve seen those a hundred times - but the looseness of him. The open collar. The ease in his stance. The fact that he looks like he belongs to the light and heat pouring in behind him.

You smile before you reach him.

“Hey, you,” you smile, wrapping him in a one-armed hug with your bag caught between you.

“Hey,” he squeezes back, easy.

You start apologising immediately, because of course you do - late flight, tight connection, something about baggage. He cuts you off gently, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” he says. “You made it.”

You pause, looking at him again, slower this time.

“You look… relaxed,” you say. “Is that a beach-house thing, or an airport miracle?”

Steve snorts softly. “Give it ten minutes in the traffic out of here, then we’ll see.”

You laugh, and something in his chest settles - uncomplicated, familiar.

He takes your bag without asking and falls into step beside you as you head toward the exit. When you talk, he angles himself toward you automatically, right side open, listening. You don’t comment on that either - you never do.

Outside, the doors slide open and warm air rushes in, salt-thick and bright. Steve blinks into the sun, swapping his glasses over, adjusting easily.

An ally, he reminds himself.

But walking beside you, shoulders loose, shirt open to the breeze, he realises something else, too - something small, but real.

This version of him feels easier to be.

And for the first time since he arrived, he doesn’t feel like he’s about to put armour back on.

****************

The car Steve hired for the week smells faintly of sunscreen, coffee, and the generic pine air freshener swinging from the rear view. The radio’s tuned to the local pop station and he’s already singing along under his breath - every word of Waterfalls, no hesitation - before the realisation catches up with him.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose against his thigh, the windows cracked to let the heat bleed off. You sit angled toward him, knees tucked up slightly, bag at your feet, already halfway into problem-solving mode.

“Okay,” you say. “Let’s get our story straight.”

He grins, tapping his fingers on the wheel. “Knew this was coming.”

“You invited me to impersonate your long-term girlfriend in front of your parents and extended family for a week,” you remind him mildly. “I’m absolutely allowed to mind-map.”

“Please don’t actually make one.”

Your smile is infectious. “No promises.”

You start with the basics. How long you’ve been together. Where you met. Who asked who out. Steve answers when he can, shrugs when he can’t, lets you fill in the gaps with a confidence that suggests you’ve done this kind of narrative stitching before.

“Farmers’ market,” you say. “You were enamoured with my baubles - that part’s true enough,” you add with a smirk.

“Yeah.”

“And we didn’t date straight away,” you add. “Friends first. Slow burn.”

Steve snorts, eyes still on the road. The corner of his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. “My mom will hate that. She wants me married off by thirty.”

“Tick tock, Harrington.”

The line settles between you, easy and companionable, the road stretching out ahead in a long, sun-bleached ribbon. The radio murmurs on, something forgettable now, and Steve adjusts his grip on the wheel as the conversation naturally shifts gears.

You talk about boundaries next. What’s believable. What’s comfortable.

“No pet names,” he says immediately, too quick. “I’ll end up insulting you.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” you agree without hesitation. “That would raise questions.”

“Minimal PDA,” he adds. “My parents get weird.”

You consider that, eyes flicking briefly to the road, then back to him. “Define minimal, and define weird.”

He gestures vaguely with his free hand, already regretting this. “Weird - I’ve mentioned mom’s marriage plans. PDA? You know. Standing close. Occasional arm.”

You blink at him. “Occasional arm?”

Steve glances over, wary.

“Jesus, Steve,” you continue, deadpan. “Maybe I should throw in a flash of ankle and really scandalise you.”

He laughs, despite himself. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” you say, still amused. “I’m just trying to picture how Victorian we’re aiming for.”

He shakes his head, jaw tight but smiling. “Just - normal. Nothing showy. No tongue at dinner.”

You hum, thoughtful, and then reach over and take his free hand, experimentally.

Steve glances down. Your fingers slide between his, interlacing easily, decisively.

He stiffens. “Oh. No. That’s -”

“Not a fan of interlinked?” you ask, openly entertained now.

“I just - ” He tries to extricate himself, failing because you tighten your grip. “I prefer folded. Like this.”

He demonstrates, turning his palm up so your hand rests on top of his, contained, tidy, fingers separate but together.

You stare at it for a beat, then at him. “That looks like we’re about to thank the Lord for what we’re about to receive.”

“It looks respectful.”

“It sorta looks like you’re escorting me to my execution.”

“Okay, but -”

“Nope,” you say, already rethreading your fingers through his. “Interlinked reads as more affectionate. We’re madly in love, Steve. We’ll go with that.”

Steve exhales, long and suffering, but he doesn’t pull away again. His thumb shifts despite himself, settling against the side of your hand, grip loosening as the argument resolves itself in your favour.

“You’re going to win all of these, aren’t you?”

“Aw look at you, you’re learning!”

He shakes his head, breaking into a bright grin despite himself.

The road hums beneath the tyres, the afternoon stretching ahead of you, and for the first time since he asked you to do this ridiculous, generous thing, Steve thinks he might actually be looking forward to the week.

Your joined hands rest easily between you, no longer a point of debate.

He keeps driving.

You keep holding on.

By the time the house comes into view, the sun slanting low over the drive, the plan is mostly settled. You’re aligned. Coordinated. A team.

Steve feels… ready.

****************

The house is much louder than Steve expected it to be.

He hears it long before he opens the door - voices overlapping, laughter spilling out through the open windows, the low clink of glass on stone. Cars crowd the drive at slightly careless angles, already claiming space. A cork pops, followed by a cheer when the bottle overflows.

Welcome drinks, then.

Steve slows without meaning to, the guest set of keys warm in his hand. For a split second, he considers the mechanics of it - who’ll see him first, whether his mother is already in host mode, whether his grandmother will comment on the pounds she’s sure he’s gained since the last time she saw him, like it’s a record she’s been keeping.

Then you squeeze his hand.

Not tight. Not urgent. Just there.

You feel it too - the noise, the shift in atmosphere - and you tilt your head toward the house, mouth quirking.

“Looks like we’re fashionably late,” you murmur.

“They’re early, actually,” he says, automatically.

You smile at that. “Of course they are. Shall we?”

You step inside together.

The entrance hall and kitchen are buzzing, the details clicking into place - the counters, the island flowers, the view of the water framed through glass. He knows it by sight rather than feel. But it’s different now. Messier. Alive.

His grandmother sits at the head of the island, a glass of something pale and bubbly in her hand, silver hair immaculate, posture relaxed in the way that only comes with age and authority. Aunt Juliane - whom Steve hasn’t seen since a long-past funeral - leans against the counter, mid-story, while Uncle Rick nods along dutifully beside her. Their daughter, Lucy, watches everything with the kind of sharp curiosity that makes Steve feel briefly catalogued, her champagne still untouched.

Conversation stutters as Steve feels the shift of attention turn toward them.

Annabeth turns first.

“Steven,” she says brightly, already moving forward - and then, seamlessly, “And here she is - ”

Air-kisses. Floral perfume. Steve barely has time to register it before it’s happening.

You step in before he can fill the silence.

“Hi, Mrs Harrington,” you say, smiling easily. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you!”

Steve senses it then - the smallest adjustment. The way his mother stills, just for a beat, reassessing.

Something shifts.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

Annabeth’s smile sharpens into something warm and practiced as she takes you in - your posture, your clothes, the fact that you’re still holding Steve’s hand. She reaches out, touches your arm lightly.

“We’re so glad you could make it,” she says. “Steven’s told us all about you.”

Steve resists the urge to laugh.

His grandmother turns next, her gaze assessing but kind. “Well,” she says, lifting her glass, “it’s about time.”

You laugh, just a little, like you’ve been let in on the joke.

Introductions blur together after that. Names, relationships, questions asked out of politeness rather than curiosity. Someone presses a drink into your hand. Someone else asks how your flight was. Steve answers when needed, fills in gaps, but mostly he watches.

He’s struck by how easily you settle into it.

You read the room the way he never quite learned to - gauging who needs eye contact, who prefers distance, when to speak and when to let silence do the work. You turn your body toward him without clinging, keep your hand in his without making a show of it. When his aunt asks what you do, you answer simply, confidently, without dressing it up or sanding it down.

Steve notices his mother listening - not interrupting, not correcting, just filing things away. He catches his father hovering near the deck doors, gaze drifting back more than once, noticing the way Steve stands less hunched than usual, shoulders loose, presence steady.

He feels it, the quiet surprise of being observed without being appraised - and realises, distantly, that he’s not doing anything different at all. He’s just not doing it alone.

Around them, the house keeps filling in. Voices rise and overlap, greetings called across rooms, someone laughing too loudly from the deck. More Harringtons filter through the kitchen - a hand claps Steve on the shoulder in passing, a name he half-recognises called from behind him, a stranger introduced as family. The air grows warm with bodies and perfume and wine.

Lucy catches his eye at one point, eyebrow lifting, mouth twitching like she’s spotted something interesting. Steve ignores her.

The drinks keep coming. The noise swells. Someone turns music on - low, inoffensive. The house hums with it all, a careful chaos layered over its usual polish.

After a while, Steve leans toward you.

“We should drop our bags,” he says under his breath. “Before the martinis come out.”

“Ah,” you say. “Pre-cocktail escape window. Lead on.”

No one stops you as you slip out of the kitchen and up the stairs, conversation folding back in behind you like you were never the point.

Only when the door to the bedroom closes behind you does Steve let out the breath he’s been holding.

He smiles at you, tired but genuine.

“See?” he says quietly. “Survivable.”

He has no idea what’s waiting for him in the wardrobe.

The room is immaculate.

Not hotel-clean - intentional. His suitcase is gone. His duffel, too. In their place: the wardrobe door stands open, revealing his clothes hanging in neat, starched rows. Shirts pressed crisp enough to hold shape on their own. T-shirts folded with military precision in the drawers. Even his underwear, stacked neatly with frightening technique.

Steve closes his eyes briefly.

“Please tell me this is a joke,” he says.

You step in beside him, taking it in with open fascination. “Wow.”

“Maggie,” he mutters. “She’s been in my things.”

“She’s very thorough.”

“She’s starched my casual wear.”

You pick up one of his shirts, rubbing the fabric between your fingers. “This could stand up on its own.”

“My mother hates a wrinkle,” he says flatly.

You glance at him, then at the room, then back again.

“And she didn’t tell you?”

“She… threatened,” he says, like this is a known phase in a longer process.

“Just… took the liberty?”

“Always does.”

You don’t joke this time. You set the shirt back carefully, then turn to him.

“Well,” you say gently, “at least we know where we stand. And, where your shirts stand.”

Steve exhales, slow and resigned. “Yeah.”

He looks around his room - their room, now - and feels the old instinct rise. Adjust. Conform. Put the right version of himself back on.

Then you drop your bag onto the bed with a thump and start rummaging through it, letting your belongings fall where they may.

“Okay,” you say briskly. “Rule number one: if she touches my clothes, I riot.”

That gets a laugh out of him before he can stop it.

And standing there, in a room that’s been curated without his consent, with someone who’s very much here by choice, Steve realises something important.

This week might be survivable after all.