Summary: Pre-Hannibal series timeline. Basically enemies to friends to lovers between Will Graham and y/n. Y/n is a forensics crime scene investigator and Will just started working for the FBI.
*be warned this is also my first ever fanfic and I revised it twice 🤓🫶please leave any feedback on my writing lol it would be much appreciated
Warnings(?): burnt arm by coffee
Jack Crawford said he was a brilliant mind.
Y/n could see it clearly too: in the way he observed then absorbed crime scenes— from just standing there he would become them: killers— but was it really brilliance, she wondered.
Despite still being a fulltime professor, he started working with the FBI two months ago, specifically her forensics unit. Her, Beverly, Jack, Jimmy and Brian all used to be a team, but now, and ever since Will came along, her peers began to take his word as fact. Quickly, the unit was crawling with his input on M.O.’s, characterizations and even the killer's motives. And just like that, it felt like her words meant nothing to them.
It made her work feel meaningless, and she resented him for that feeling. One in which knowledge and experience were futile when in the ring against Will Graham’s neuroticism.
At first, she saw his work as aspirational, and she was excited to finally have someone better than Crawford to work alongside. She tried to get to know him—- befriend him—- in the first weeks. Simultaneously, she tried to keep up with him.
She found though, quickly, that he withheld himself from others. Not just eye-contact or engaging conversation, but also interest in getting to know others. Like he was a solitary creature.
Quicker than that she found that she could not compete.
Not against his exhausted eyes, his sunken face, constant paranoia and paralysis. He should have been the worst of them— the way he treats himself; Being two months in, he’s barely spoken a word to anyone on the team, much less gotten acquainted with anyone. He’s lashed out at Crawford, and once, she thought in a disturbing manner, she even found him lingering at a crime scene. He was too invested in his work— no. He was too invested in the minds of murderers.
She decided it was not brilliance that made him better than her, or anyone else, but utter torture that he put himself through to get into a killers head.
Will Graham was tortured and whether that made her pity him or hate him, she could not decide.
***
It was the end of observing another case. It was so cold that morning, you could see people's breath as they spoke.
Everyone in the unit was packing up the equipment— cameras, bags, samples—, Y/n had begun handing it over to one of her peers so that they could load it away in the truck.
“What else is there?” Y/n asked her colleagues, a gentle cloud of air emerging from her mouth.
“‘S still a sample missing— I think Will has it” They responded.
Of course he does, she thought. This one she only remembered because it was vital to the case. A sample she found: scraps of cloth, which, they could infer by looking at the crime scene, came from the killer. It looked like it had some sweat or blood on it, and would be a big break in the case.
She was proud to have found it.
She turned back, her intentions to find Will at the crime scene and get the sample back, but as she turned, Will came crashing into her and her jacket with coffee. It was still fresh, and the heat made her stop breathing for a moment. Her eyes went wide and she hurried to her car to replace her burning jacket.
“Ow! Shit” Her arm began to sting with the heat, and then, as she took her jacket off, it began to freeze instead as the coffee on it touched the cold winter air. As she ran to her car and peered in she realized she had no back-up jacket.
Only now did she notice Will beside her, glasses in hand and with panic in his eyes.
“Y/n I am so sorry!— I did not mean to—“ he stopped speaking when he realized how useless it was.
“Lemme go find you another jacket— I think I have one in my car,” and he ran off.
She got in her car and turned the heating on so she wouldn't freeze. Once inside, she could see him throw away the coffee and retrieve the jacket in a matter of minutes. He knocked on the glass and she slowly pulled the window down just enough where they could talk.
“Heres a jacket,” He said not looking into her eyes. She lowered the window just a little more and took it to immediately put it on. It smelled like him: kind of musky and weathered.
“Is your arm okay?” He asked then.
“It’s fine,” she responded. Her arm was bright red and would probably be left with some small blister marks after swelling went down. But he was too busy looking at his shoes to notice.
“Did you at least get the sample back to where it belongs?" She asked with a hint of resentment in her voice.
He paused and it seemed that his breathing did too. He looked at her quickly, then to the dumpster where he threw the coffee away.
“Shit—- y/n” his eyes went wide and he bolted to the dumpster, she assumed he had thrown away the sample. She got out of her car to help him look —- her work feeling more important now than her grudge—, they both began to throw trash onto the floor till she had found it.
One of the most vital samples they had found in the months working on the case —-sacrificed just so he could envision what went down at the crime scene—- was now covered in coffee and trash.
Her hard work was ruined in mere moments by Will.
She held it up with one hand, then two. Holding it to the light, and to his face, almost in awe. She had no words for him.
She put it back into the trash then began to walk to her car again.
“Y/n!” Will began to follow her. “You cant just do that—- you cant just throw it away!” As he caught up to her she could see him holding the sample. It looked wilted now. Unusable.
“It’s useless now, we don’t need it, Will.” She sighed and began to open her car door.
He closed it. She furrowed her brows and looked at his hand on her car, then at him.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” be said calmly, and in the most sincere voice she’d ever heard come out of him. It was remorseful and his face was depleted.
“But still it happened,,, it's unusable, Will. That doesn’t mean throwing it away is personal, it's just the job.”
“But I need you to know that I didn’t mean to spill coffee on your findings—- I need you to know it wasn’t personal.”
She paused for a moment. Looking into his eyes. The vibrant blue contrasting his gloomy expression.
It did feel personal. Every time his work trumped hers, it felt personal. She reached for her car door again, opening it again.
“It’s fine, it's not personal. I get it.” She now closed the door and started up the car. It would probably need some time to heat up.
“Good.”
“Good.”
Will now knew how she felt about him. He knew she couldn’t be changed.
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— summary: while lunching in the red keep’s gardens with the targaryens, ser duncan spots prince aerion behaving like a civilized man beside a kind, sun-bright lady. bewildered by the rare sight, poor dunk assumes she must be prince baelor’s daughter, patient and too compassionate—because surely no woman of sound mind would choose to spend time in aerion’s company on purpose.
— pairing: aerion targaryen x wife!reader
— word count: ~2.5k
— content: sunshine x grumpy!!, domestic fluff, humor, protective!aerion, himbo!dunk, romance, pda, poor dunk can't catch a break with these people, probably ooc!aerion.
⋆ . ۰˚ ౨ৎ ── series masterlist with different characters’ versions: here!
Ser Duncan had always known that princes were strange.
That, at least, was something he’d made peace with.
They were born strange, raised strange, and lived their lives in a world that did not much resemble the one the rest of them walked in. They spoke in courtesies that meant threats and in threats that meant nothing at all. They smiled when they were angry and grew angry when there was no cause he could see.
Still, he thought he understood them well enough—he’d been wrong all along.
He knows he is wrong because there he is, seated at a crystal big table amidst the gorgeous midday sun-drenched gardens of the Red Keep, ogling like a big oaf at Prince Aerion Targaryen—no, not at him, but at the lady sitting by his side, near the head of the table.
She is laughing, that is the first thing he is struck by. A melodious, gentle sound, like sweet honey. And then, the second thing that hits him is the sight of Aerion laughing with her as well, very quietly, with his head tilted towards her.
Hearing him laugh with genuine joy must be the most unnatural and eerie sound Duncan has ever heard.
Her hand rests casually on Aerion's forearm, intimately and so naturally, as if that's where it belongs. As if it's always belonged to touch him.
Dunk frowns and then he frowns even harder as his thoughts stumbled over themselves.
He keeps watching as she says something else—he can't hear what—and Aerion gives a slight tilt of his head, not in a scornful way, but in an expression of attention and delight.
Of course, Dunk has seen you before. You are no stranger to the Red Keep. You address the guards by name, thank the servants when they bring you things or offer assistance. Once, you even had smiled at Dunk himself, and he nearly tripped over his own feet when you did.
You are kind, gentle, and sweet. Everything Aerion is not, so Dunk naturally kept assuming you must be some cousin or sister or relative to the royal family.
Dunk just sits there, taller and clumsier than usual, and definitely feeling like a fish out of water among the majority of the Targaryens. He fiddles with his fingers in front of him, like that might stop him from saying something stupid, but it's already too late.
Next to him, Prince Aegon devours a fig with an expression of utter indulgentment; they went through this phase of confusion weeks ago and now seems to find it a source of amusement.
“Is something wrong, Ser?” asks Egg, his mouth partially full. “You’ve got that look on your face again.”
Dunk doesn't respond immediately. His eyes remain locked on the other side of the table, where the shade of the vines reaches upon you and your husband.
Aerion, who usually looks at everyone as if they were insects beneath his boot, is doing the most horrifying act: he is peeling an orange with the greatest of care. In one perfect spiral, he strips the peel and offers it to you along with a faint smile.
“She's Prince Baelor's daughter, right?,” Dunk asks cautiously, leaning toward Egg as far as he can without falling over. “A niece. Or maybe a distant cousin whom Aerion has kindly decided not to terrorize today for reasons of royal courtesy.”
Egg chokes a little on the piece of fig and bursts out in a dry laugh, which sounds more like a little bark. “My Uncle Baelor's daughter? Oh, Ser—”
At that very moment, your laughter fills the air at something Aerion whispers in your ear. The Prince allows himself another smile; not one of those malicious grimaces that Dunk knows so well, but a genuine, gentle one.
You place a hand on his cheek, caressing the edge of his jaw with a tenderness that makes Duncan's stomach churn with unbridled astonishment and revulsion.
“Come on, Ser, let's go meet her!” Egg suppresses a mischievous grin as he tugs on the sleeve of his tall friend's doublet, urging him to stand up as well. “I can see you like her. Let me introduce you, then.”
Dunk lets himself be led along, trying to remember every lesson in courtesy he never really learned, and as they reach the table, Aerion lifts his gaze. His eyes narrow with that characteristic coldness as he recognizes the knight, and all his gentle, carefree demeanor from mere seconds ago seems to vanish when he lays sight on Duncan.
“Ser Duncan,” Aerion drawls the name, his voice reverting to that harsh, extremely contemptuous intonation. “What a surprise. I didn’t know you were coming. It seems you're encroaching on my family's privacy a little more each day—”
“Prince Aerion,” Dunk greets him back dismissively, disregarding what the prince is saying to him, and not even bothering to listen to his passive-aggressive nonsense, since he is too concerned on gazing in awe at you. “My lady.”
“It's a pleasure to have you here.” You flash him a cheerful smile, glancing sideways to see Aerion's plump lips gaping in shock and offense at your side. “Ser...”
You pause for him to introduce himself, and he rushes to do so, inclining his head once more.
“Duncan, my lady,” the tall knight pronounces his name with more trepidation than pride. “At your service.”
Aerion frowns, his eyes squinting with growing annoyance. “Your service? What—”
“You are very kind, Ser Duncan,” you interrupt your prince, struggling to stifle a giggle at his expression of pure bewilderment. “Thank you for taking such good care of Aegon.”
“You don't have to thank me at all, my lady,” Dunk replies, his voice coming out softer. “Looking after Egg—Prince Aegon, is truly an honor. And seeing you here, being so patient... well, it just confirms what everyone at court says.”
You tilt your head curiously, as Aerion stares at him with cautious defiance.
“Oh? And what do they say, Ser Duncan?” you ask with a twinkle of amusement in your eyes.
“That you have a noble soul,” Duncan states with complete conviction, nodding to himself. “One can tell in a heartbeat that you are Prince Baelor's daughter”
And he carries on, even when Egg sneaks a kick to his shin, and the whole dining table drops silent, with everyone turning to look at him with expressions of either bafflement or disgust—in Maekar's case.
“He must be immensely proud to have such a kind and compassionate daughter. Only someone with his blood could have the strength to...“ His blue eyes glance at Aerion with barely concealed distaste, “Well, to spend the entire day entertaining your cousin Aerion and still keep a smile on your face. You are an exemplary cousin, my lady.”
Egg muffles out a strangled laugh and has to cover his mouth with both hands to keep from spitting it out.
Aerion, for his part, is not amused and remains petrified beside you. His lips part, uttering a gasp of outrage, and his violet eyes gleam with a fury that promises a death of agony.
“Daughter?” Aerion hisses, his voice rattling like a viper’s threat. “Did you call her my uncle Baelor’s daughter? And my cousin?”
You blink, glancing first at your husband, whose face is flushing through various hues of red, and then at the tall knight standing in front of you, who is frowning in innocent confusion.
“Ser Duncan...” you begin, trying to maintain your composure as the situation descends into absurdity. “I’m afraid your compass for kinship is a little... misguided.”
“Misgui—what?” babbles Dunk, batting his eyelashes as slowly as an ox that has just been struck on the snout.
Before your husband or you can answer, a soft, vibrant laugh comes from the head of the table. Prince Baelor is leaning back in his chair, attentive to the unfolding scene before him, in his usual courteous silence. His eyes now sparkle with genuine amusement.
“Gods be good, Ser Duncan,” says the King's Hand, his fingers absentmindedly twirling the wine glass he holds in his hand. “I appreciate your loyalty and your high regard for my character, but I fear you are attributing merits to me that I do not possess.”
“Prince Baelor is my uncle-in-law, by marriage, not by blood, Ser Duncan.” you clarify, reaching out to Aerion’s hand, that had been resting on your lap the moment Duncan had arrived at your side. “I am Aerion’s wife, not cousin.”
“W–wife?” Dunk repeats, his voice breaking with disbelief. “Aerion's? But, my lady, you're kind and beautiful and—”
“For five years, you bloody twit!” Aerion explodes, springing up from his seat now in defense of your honor and his own as well. The chair scrapes violently against the floor. “She’s been my wife for five years! My wife!”
You quickly rise to your feet as well, standing between your husband's fit of fury and Dunk's monumental state of embarrassment.
The difference in height is almost laughable: you attempting to calm a fuming Aerion, with Duncan looming over you both, appearing to wish the ground would open up and swallow him now that he has finally realized the mistake he has just made.
You bite your lower lip, battling to keep from laughing, knowing that would only further wound Aerion's pride.
“Calm down, my love,” you coax him gently, pressing both hands on his chest to push him back a step away from Duncan. “I’m sure Ser Duncan meant no harm.”
“He called you my cousin!” Aerion retorts, his burning gaze finally dropping from Dunk and focusing on you, relenting at the way you’re gazing at him, fearful of his anger.
His hands immediately curl around your waist, drawing you closer to him reassuringly and further away from the hapless hedge knight.
Dunk is as red as a tomato and his ears are turning crimson.
“Oh fuck— I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, my prince, my lady,” he blurts out, bowing his head apologetically over and over. “I didn't mean to... it's just that she's such a good person, and you're... well, you're...” His voice trails off the instant Egg kicks him again, without even trying to be subtle about it this time. “A thousand apologies to both of you for my clumsiness. Five years... Seven Hells, five years—”
“Cease your stammering, you simpleton!” a sharp voice growls from the other end of the table. “Have you no sense at all in that thick skull of yours?”
Prince Maekar is looking at Dunk with his characteristic loathing, there is a hint of fatigue in his eyes, as if being surrounded by such a load of idiocy is costing him years of his life.
“You've caused enough of a commotion with your lack of brains, Ser,” Maekar went on, glaring at his son Aerion to shut him up as well. “Sit down and keep your mouth shut before I decide that your penance for being a dimwit should be spending the rest of lunch standing next to the horses!”
Baelor breathes out another quiet snicker at his younger brother's interruption, visibly enjoying his nephew's humiliation.
Dunk straightens up at once, rigid as a plank, still pleading for your forgiveness under his shaky breath.
“There's no need to apologize, Ser Duncan,” you try to soothe him, leaning against your husband's chest.
Clinging to your body, Aerion glares at him with hateful, menacing eyes. “I won't forget this.”
“Aerion,” you call out in disapproval, pulling yourself back in his arms so you can face him, but he just keeps eyeing Duncan, who finally stumbles away from you two and back to his seat at the table.
You seize the moment to gently tug at your husban's hand, forcing him to sit back down as well. And he lets himself fall into the chair, still holding you in his arms, and pulling you onto his lap. And you let out a light, melodic laugh as he does, twisting a little in his arms to nuzzle your nose against his affectionately.
The garden eventually settles back into its rhythmic hum of clinking silverware and low conversation. The initial shock of Dunk’s blunder lingers only in the faint, lingering flush on his face as he focuses entirely on his plate, determined not to breathe in the wrong direction.
Aerion doesn't let you go. Even as he resumes eating with his free hand, his other arm remains firmly wrapped around your waist, his thumb tracing idle, possessive circles against over the fabric of your dress. He leans his head against yours appreciatively.
“He thought we were cousins even when we treated each other like this,” Aerion whispers into your ear after taking a bite of his slice of strawberry cake, his words still laced with indignation, although you can taste the sweetness of the pastry in his breath. “How could anyone be so—”
“Oh, hush,” you whisper, your eyes gazing at his with amusement and then you pick up the small silver spoon from the edge of his plate, scooping up a generous portion of the creamy pastry. “Now, stop pouting, my love. Open up for me.”
Aerion’s obeys you, naturally, leaning forward to take the sweet offering from your hand. He chews slowly, his violet softening eyes never leaving your face.
“Is it good?” you ask softly, wiping a tiny stray bit of cream from the corner of his mouth with your thumb and sucking on it to taste the flavor yourself.
“It’s tolerable,” Aerion purrs, and then kiss your lips tenderly, his mouth lingers close to yours as he pulls away, flashing you a mischievous look. “Hmm, that is far more delicious...”
While Duncan sits frozen—staring at his plate as if the roast swan might testify against him—the rest of the table barely bats an eye at the scene unfolding at his opposite side over the table.
For the Targaryens, such public displays of affection are a common occurrence, perhaps too common during family gatherings or outings or feasts.
Maekar, though still wearing a permanent scowl, simply reaches for the wine carafe, maneuvering his arm around Aerion’s sprawling form without a word. He’s seen his son go from a bloodthirsty terror to a purring housecat in your presence too many times to count. To Maekar, your lap-sitting and sweet-feeding is a necessary evil—a price he’s willing to pay for a quiet afternoon without Aerion setting something on fire.
“You see, Ser Duncan?” Prince Baelor calls out, his voice smooth and teeming with mirth as he watches you feed Aerion another spoonful of the cake, but loud enough to make the hedge knight jump in his seat. “The Prince is quite manageable when he is well-fed and well-loved. It is a pity we cannot bottle his lady wife’s influence and distribute it among the rest of the Realm.”
Your husband scoffs, though there's no real heat in it as he tries to steal another kiss between your spoonfuls, making you laugh.
Dunk, eventually looks at Aerion and then back at you. He still doesn't quite get it—how the most difficult prince in the Seven Kingdoms ended up with a woman who treats him like a pampered house cat—but as he watches you laugh again at something the prince whispers in your ear, he decides that maybe he doesn't need to understand.
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Maria Prymachenko, ‘This Is How I Dream About [Chornobyl] Reactor No. 4,’ 1988 (Collection of the National Museum of Ukrainian Folk Decorative Art, Kyiv)
Rest in Peace to Renee Good. ICE shooting an innocent 37 year old mother attempting to protect her neighbors is not an accident or an act of self defense, it is an act of terror designed to dissuade other people from stepping in, documenting ICE violence and reminding immigrants of their rights. Her son is now an orphan and the president of the United States is calling her a ‘professional agitator’ on social media.
The head of ICE is calling her a violent terrorist and claimed her attempt to back her car away was actually an effort to murder the ICE officers present.
There’s a reason that the Right have all rallied so quickly behind this narrative: it’s happened before, with ICE’s approval.
Renee is the ninth person to have been shot by ICE since last September; and in all of those shootings the victim was in a vehicle and the agents claimed that the vehicle was “a threat”/trying to “run them down.” One other shooting, that of Silverio Villegas Gonzalez, was also lethal.
This is pretty clearly a sanctioned tactic being used by ICE repeatedly with an eye towards using the vehicle-as-weapon excuse later.
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no one had to work today, which literally never happened, so of course they were all in your living room with a heap of board games and snacks they'd brought themselves, back to the future playing in the background as mike and lucas argued about mike cheating at monopoly and dustin, erica, steve, and jonathan passed around a bop it! way too nervously. nancy, el, and robin sat back against the couch, watching the movie as they waited to continue monopoly.
you'd run upstairs to put a couple things away, wanting to get the house cleaned up the best you could before an early morning shift tomorrow.
a few minutes later, steve wandered into the room, not bothering to shut the door even as he tugged his shirt over his head.
you looked up with an amused smile, raising your brows teasingly. "i mean, if you're not worried about them hearing, i'm not opposed."
he laughed, shaking his head as he tossed his damp shirt into the hamper, followed quickly by his jeans before he made his way to your dresser for a new set.
"in the chaos that is bop it," he started with a sigh, pulling out a simple gray tshirt and shoving the drawer shut, moving to grab a new pair of levis. "mike knocked his coke off the coffee table and straight into me."
"did it get on the carpet?" you asked, brows knitting as you glanced at him. you dropped the car magazine karen had sent over for him into his nightstand drawer, watching it fall on top of the few boxes and knickknacks he kept inside.
he buttoned his jeans, letting out a laugh as he shook his head. "of course that's your first question. no, all it got on was me."
you smiled, shutting his drawer and crossing to him as he turned to face you finally, hands coming to squeeze his arms. "i'm sorry that mike spilled his coke on you."
"it's okay," he sighed dramatically before chuckling and leaning down to kiss you gently. you leaned into it, smiling slight as his hands found your hips and squeezed a little too eagerly. when he pulled back, grinning, he glanced over your shoulder at his side table and noticed the top drawer was slightly open still. instantly, his smile dropped and his brows knitted. "did you go in my nightstand?"
you hummed in question as you looked over to it, nodding. "yeah. karen sent over that car magazine we were talking about with mike, so i just threw it in there for you to look at when you have time."
he let out a thin breath, eyes glued to the drawer as he nodded slowly. "okay, yeah. just, uh, next time you can leave it on top. don't put it in the drawer."
"what?" you asked, knitting your brows as he stepped away from you and pulled the drawer completely open. you stayed facing the wall for a moment, staring at it like it would have an answer to his weird request, and missing his movements behind you.
he pulled the magazine out, glancing at you quickly before grabbing a thin, cheap ring box and shoving it in his front pocket. you turned as he shoved the drawer closed, dropping the magazine on the top of the small desk with his glasses and chapstick.
you raised a brow as he turned back to you, his breath a little quick for your liking and asked, "why?"
"i just don't like keeping things in that drawer," he said quickly, shrugging with a lame smile. "and the things i do keep in there... maybe you shouldn't look in there. i mean, i hardly do, so you don't really need to be in there."
you snorted, a small smile pulling at your lips. "what? do you have playboys in there or something?"
he didn't. you knew that and he knew that, the drawer only littered with little boxes and lame trinkets that you hadn't cared to question. trinkets that you weren't sure needed to be hidden from you.
"no, just things," he said. he fumbled for a better answer, the disbelief on your face stressing him out even more. he shoved his hands in his pockets, fingers curling around the small box in an attempt to conceal it better. "personal things."
evidently, that wasn't the right answer.
you faltered, brows knitting slightly.
your mind was running too quick for your liking, going through the few things you'd caught sight of when you'd opened the drawer and struggling to come up with why they would be so personal.
and why he felt like he needed to hide them from you.
everything seemed normal, nothing peculiar, but that didn't mean that there was no hidden meaning or history behind them. things he didn't want to share.
you thought you shared everything.
"personal," you repeated slowly, nodding even though you didn't understand. your tone was a little ironic and very disbelieving as you abandoned the basket of clothes you'd come here to put away and moved towards the door. "right, of course."
steve's eyes widened and he followed you quickly down the hall. "woah! sweetheart, what just happened?"
"i don't know, it's personal," you answered, biting the inside of your lip as you hastily padded down the hall and towards the stairs.
a deep furrow drove itself between his brows as he grabbed your arm, "wait," but you just pulled away and started down the stairs. "baby-"
"it's fine," you said, waving him off. "i won't go in your nightstand. even if i've been in it a million times before-"
his eyes widened even more, speed picking up as he followed you. his feet hit the hardwood as you turned sharply towards the kitchen, voice raising slightly as he ran a hand through his hair. "wait, how many times? how recently?"
in the living room, the bop it game had ended abruptly in dustin's hands, his eyes following steve as he rounded the corner towards the kitchen.
"seriously?" erica exclaimed, hands falling to her sides as she stared at the flashing game.
jonathan followed dustin's gaze, sighing as he caught the tail end of steve's words. "just leave them be."
dustin's brows knitted and he dropped the game onto the carpet, standing and moving to the entryway to peek in on your little argument.
you were staring at steve incredulously, eyes wide and brows raised as you faced him from across the island. "how many times?" you repeated. "i don't know, steve, why does it matter? it's a nightstand drawer. i throw your things in there when you leave them on the counters, i'm not snooping."
"no, i know you're not snooping," he sighed, shaking his head. "it's just - if something needs to go in there from now on, just leave it on the top. please."
this made no sense to you.
there was plenty of space in the drawer, he always threw random things in it, and from what you'd seen, it didn't seem to be hiding some terrible thing. what had changed?
you frowned. "why?"
"why?" he echoed, brows raising. he breathed out a laugh, glancing away as the box in his pocket just grew heavier. he knew it wasn't nearly as big as normal ring boxes, that's what happened when the military put your town on lockdown, but with how much he could feel it against his thigh, he was shocked you hadn't noticed it by now. "can't you just trust me? just don't go in there."
you raised your brows at the accusation. "i trust you, steve, i just don't understand what about that damn drawer has changed in the last week."
well, it wasn't a week. it'd actually been sitting there for several weeks, untouched by steve and evidently unnoticed by you, but he wasn't willing to take that risk he'd apparently been taking every day again.
he sighed, shaking his head. his voice raised in frustration. "nothing's changed, okay?" he caught himself, blowing out a breath and lowering his tone again as he tried not to yell. "i just want that drawer shut."
neither of you noticed, but the entire party had gone silent in the living room. all they could hear was marty mcfly on the television, and you asking a loud, "why?"
when steve got frustrated, he yelled. they'd all heard their fair share of babysitter steve freaking out on them in the midst of a fight or a game or even just dinner. but, they'd never heard him even raise his voice at you.
he raised his voice. much louder than before.
his laugh that came before it was dry, disbelieving, and then he shouted.
"stop asking why! damn it, just keep the drawer shut!"
the entire house went still, breaths catching as steve's voice echoed in the quiet.
he was breathing a little too heavily, shoulders dropping in immediate regret as he realized what he'd just said.
well, more the way in which he'd said it.
"oh," robin muttered quietly, her eyes finding dustin's immediately. his widened dramatically, knuckles going white as he gripped the doorway. "oh no."
"what's happening?" el whispered, brows knitting in concern as she glanced between robin and nancy.
nancy didn't seem too affected, sure that in the next minute they would hear an apology, steve would give you a kiss, and all would go back to normal. so she just shrugged, looking back to the tv screen. "they're fighting."
"um, they don't do that," erica pointed out, looking around the room. "i mean, i know i'm not here all the time like you dorks are, but i've never seen them fight."
"we've only seen it like once," will told her, brows knitting as he pushed onto his knees to see past dustin into the kitchen where you were staring at steve with intensely raised brows and hands crossed over your chest. the boy winced, looking away.
lucas went to stand by dustin, concern evident in his furrowed brows as he nodded, agreeing with will. "and that was just because steve forgot to pick up ranch. it was over in two seconds."
mike snorted. "you remember that?"
"it was memorable," lucas defended lamely.
"this one will be too," dustin muttered, his frown deepening as he turned back to watch the chaos in the kitchen.
you let out a dry, incredulous laugh. "i thought you didn't like yelling, steve."
well, damn.
he ran a hand through his hair, faltering even as frustration continued to burn in his chest. he shook his head, sighing heavily. "i - i don't. i'm sorry, just... stay out of the drawer."
"because it's personal?" you said then, raising your brows again even as your voice evened out.
he nodded, sighing again. "yes. exactly."
your lips pulled into a thin line, eyes dashing away as you tried to level yourself. "i didn't realize we were pulling away now."
robin and dustin looked at each other again, eyes widening, and nancy finally looked away from the movie, her breath catching in surprise. "oh, shit."
steve was at a loss, his eyes wide and his hand twitching towards the box in his pocket. he reached his other hand towards you, voice even more strained and nervous than it had been before, "sweetheart-"
"no, it's fine, steve," you said quickly, shaking your head and rounding the island to pass him.
he didn't let you, hand catching your upper arm and holding you in place. he glanced over your head, spotting dustin and letting out an exhausted, frustrated sigh. "just wait here," he told you breathlessly, shaking his head.
you rolled your eyes, letting out a deep sigh. "i'm not going to raid your nightstand."
"no, shit," he sighed, shaking his head again and stepping in front of you. "that's not what i - no. raid the damn thing, i don't care. i got upset for no reason, and i see that now. give me one second, okay?"
"why?" you asked, still frustrated.
his eyes flicked past you and he nodded down to the living room where lucas and dustin were still standing in the entryway and the rest of the gang was still listening with wide eyes.
instantly, your cheeks went hot and you faltered, glancing away as your chest tightened. "shit."
he pressed a quick kiss to your forehead before stepping away. "i'm just gonna clear this up real fast, okay?"
"yeah," you breathed out, all too happy to step back until you were in the corner of the kitchen, out of sight from the party as steve rushed towards them.
he smacked dustin and lucas in the backs of their heads, pushing them back into the living room. "you ever hear about privacy?"
"you were being a little loud for that," mike pointed out, which only earned him a well-deserved glare from steve.
he turned back to dustin, shoving his hand in his pocket and dropping his voice to be almost imperceptible. "you don't lose this, alright?"
dustin's eyes widened, but he accepted the box as steve dropped it into his hand. "where do you want me to put it?"
the rest of the group, minus robin, stared at the box with knitted brows. it wasn't velvet or square or massive - just a thin red box with a large SH scrawled in metallic sharpie on the bottom.
lucas frowned, "what is that?"
he got ignored, steve still anxious and intense as he kept his eyes on dustin. the boy put it quickly into his vest pocket, zipping it shut for safe measure.
"put it in the center console of my car," he answered, running a hand through his hair. "but, only when i tell you to, which will probably be right before i do it. got that? can't have it ruining my relationship in the meantime."
"meantime?" erica echoed. "what the hell are you-?"
robin smacked a hand over her mouth, smiling lamely at steve as he shot them both an incredibly frustrated look, eyes wide and very pissed.
"go back to your games, okay?" he said, voice now at a normal volume as he backed out of the room. "we'll be back in a second and i want all of you to be normal."
will nodded quickly. "yeah, of course."
"sure," el agreed with a slow nod, still confused, but willing to comply.
jonathan and nancy just shot him a thin, supportive smile as he nodded, turning and leaving back to the kitchen.
immediately, they all turned to robin and dustin, brows raised in question.
steve pretended not to hear the violent whispers as he walked away.
you watched him with wide eyes, arms tight around your stomach as he walked back up to you. "did they hear that whole thing?"
he breathed out a light laugh, nodding as his arms wrapped cautiously around your middle. when you didn't push him back, he stepped closer, pulling you towards him just slightly. "yeah, they did," he answered quietly. then, he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "so, how about we just forget it and go back in there like nothing happened? it's alright."
you wanted to do that, you did, but his secrecy still bothered you.
"is it?" you asked gently, looking up at him with a slight knit in your brows. "steve... i don't like that you're pushing me away."
he furrowed his brows, shaking his head quickly. "i'm not pushing you away. this wasn't me pushing you away, okay? i could never. i'm, like, physically unable to do that."
you cracked a small, disbelieving smile, and he knew he had to come up with a better answer quick. he sighed, pulling you into his chest and resting his cheek on the top of your head. relief filled him when you didn't pull away, but instead wrapped your arms around his torso.
he wouldn't be able to give you a fake excuse if he had to look you in the eye.
"it's a control thing," he told you quietly. "there are very few things that i have that are mine anymore - and that's nothing against you at all. i much prefer that all of this is ours, seriously. i like having things be ours instead of just mine. mine is lonely."
he was starting to make some sort of sense to you, and maybe that was because a bit of truth was slipping into his overarching lie.
"but?" you asked, voice a mumble against his shirt.
he sighed. "but," he continued. "the things that are still just mine... i guess i'm a bit protective of them. like my nightstand, i guess. my car. my bat would probably fall into that category too."
"your bat?" you echoed with a laugh, pulling back to meet his eyes.
he shrugged, a smile finally settling on his lips as the tension eased between you both. "yeah, my bat. that's like my baby." you laughed again and he just pulled you that much closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "i'm sorry for freaking out like that. if it helps, you're also one of my things that i get protective over."
you snorted, squeezing his middle gently. "that helps." you paused, letting out a thin sigh. "i'm sorry for being a brat too. i guess i just got scared you didn't trust me. felt like you were pulling away."
he shook his head, running a hand over the back of your head and squeezing your waist with the other.
"never," he promised. "you and me? this is a forever sort of deal, whether you like it or not."
"just don't go into your nightstand," you joked lamely, peeking up at him with a small smile.
he shrugged, shaking his head. "nah. you can go into my nightstand. i'll stop being a freak." his smile grew slightly. "just don't steal my bat."
you laughed. "that's the dealbreaker?"
"that's it," he said, shaking his head again as he grinned at you. "you touch that bat, you're dead meat."
"oh, i'd like to see you try," you teased. "but, if i go into your nightstand?"
he shrugged. "it'll be fine. like you said, you're in there all the time anyways."
"i'll try to leave it alone," you promised, giving him a compromise that technically wasn't even needed anymore. his heart melted slightly, his hands running over your sides as his smile softening lovingly. you hummed. "maybe."
"maybe," he echoed, laughing as he kissed your forehead again. he tugged you into another hug, eyes catching on four eavesdropping fifteen year olds by the doorway as your arms went snug around his waist again. he glared, waving them away before telling you, "i love you."
you huffed a quiet laugh, "yeah, i love you too, harrington."
as dustin turned away, shooting everyone left in the living room a thumbs up, steve's eyes caught on the outline of his ringbox in his vest. his smile softened even more, hand running over your back as he imagined a day not too far off where he'd be able to echo the same thing back to you. word for word.
after another minute of just holding one another, he pulled you into the living room.
"how embarrassing of us," you mumbled quietly as you stepped out of the kitchen.
"it'll be fine," he promised with a teasing smile, dragging you the rest of the way to the living room.
they all looked up at you, bright, knowing smiles on their lips as robin chirped, "welcome back. finished cleaning?"
right. the basket of clean clothes upstairs that you'd abandoned in favor of arguing with your boyfriend.
"no," you admitted, letting go of steve's hand to fall on the couch next to her. "but, it's our day off. can i join monopoly, or should i wait until the next round?"
"mike is cheating anyways, so it doesn't really matter," lucas said, earning an instant objection and a smack to the arm.
noise filled the room again as the bop it! began to be passed in a circle, michael j fox screaming in the tv, and el secretly stealing her boyfriend's monopoly money as he argued with lucas.
you tossed steve a smile as he breathed out a laugh, accepting the bop it! and passing it quickly to jonathan, erica shrieking for them to move faster.
robin tapped your arm, nodding to the board with a smile. "your turn."
you nodded, glancing away and reaching for the dice as steve watched you, silently thankful that you hadn't noticed the box in dustin's vest quite yet.
