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Through Me Prequel - iii. justice

Summary: The world is of but men and beasts, and you cower to none.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x fem!reader, Eddie Munson x fem!reader, Steddie x fem!reader

WC: 8.5k

Warnings/Themes: cursing, criticism of religion (catholicism/xtiantiy mostly), religious themes, canon-typical violence, death, idolatry via smut, blasphemy, heretical notions, angst, occasional fluff (as a treat), Biblical & western literary canon and media references/allusions

A/N: This is the last of three prequels centering on the three main characters. This has been in the works since last July, oh my GOD!!! 👀 Thanks to my loves @jo-harrington @powderblueblood and @big-ope-vibes for letting me prattle on about this! 💜

Please do not interact if you aren't 18+.

Nota bene: Reblogging, commenting, and liking my work is always appreciated; reposting, however, is not. This (*) is a singal to check the footnote at the end!

Enjoy! 💜

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"How lonely to be something that nothing wants to kill."

— Jeremy Radin

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Wednesday, July 3, 1985

You are a weapon.

Salvation is an aptly named town, all things considered.

Unfortunate for this particular demon possessing the preacher, however.

After clearing the room, you inspect the various holy icons in the light streaming through the dirty window. A thrash and hiss from the man strapped to the bed as you happen upon a particular amulet tells you everything you need to know.

You step away from the window and onto the bed, kneeling over the preacher as his head rolls back, avoiding your gaze. Lowering yourself to speak directly to the demon in question, you greet, “Hi, I’m Constantine.”

A growl in response.

“I know, I know. My reputation precedes me.”

And press the amulet to his forehead, watching as it sizzles against the skin. Your free hand settles against his chest in an attempt to stabilize the man as the demon thrashes, screeches, and shakes in his body.

Muttering incantations under your breath as his wife looks on from the doorway with her Bible, thumbing worrying over the golden cross strung around her neck. You begin the prayer anew and wait for the mortal flesh to admit defeat, a human, after all, can only take so much. Finally, the body gives in and the thrashing subsides— the preacher unconscious for the time being.

Inspecting the lax body, you lean closer following the subtle movement of his breathing. The visible blue veins of his neck bulging slightly before the demonic form rears up from his throat with teeth bared.

Dropping the keyring of amulets from your hand, you land a punch directly to its gaping maw, regretting having left the gold knuckles in the impala. Shaking out your hand to alleviate the sting, you turn to the wife. “I need a mirror.”

She just stares at you, tears falling down her sunken face.

“A mirror,” You reiterate, “At least three feet high. Move! Go now!”

A few parishioners scurry off in search of a mirror. You jump from the bed and rifle through your bag by the door. Once you’ve grabbed a rope, you toss it on the bed.

“Sorry about the window,” You say to the wife as you grab a chair and break through the glass. Chunks of it fall to the ground from the second storey, a few grazing the trunk of the impala.

You string the rope through the far grate of the fire escape above and crawl back through the window, very much regretting parking so close to the scene today.

Some people return with the mirror after you’ve rotated the bed to face the now broken window. Straddling the prone preacher once more, you grab both ends of the rope and have them raise the mirror above the bed.

“Tie this onto the bottom of it.” You give one end of it to the woman to your left. Turning to your right, you give an older man the other end. “Loop this over the top, on my signal pull.”

He nods, doing as you ask and taking his position at the head of the bed, rope in hand.

To everyone else, “And whatever happens,” You lower your palm to cover the preacher’s eyes, the demon awake and glowering. “Don’t look.”

Palm covering the preacher’s eyes, you begin chanting in a litany of tongues— Latin, Hebrew, Enochian. The growling and thrashing begins anew, the demon not wanting to be ousted from its host. Everything is going according to plan when,

“Holy shit!”

A corner of the mirror comes falling toward you as a man backs away from the bedside, his hair rapidly graying and eventually turning white. His back hits the wall just as you secure the mirror with your arm, allowing the demon enough leverage to go for your throat.

Hand crushed to your windpipe, you let go of the mirror hoping it’ll hold as you grab the preacher’s wrist.

Clearly, no one can be bothered to follow directions anymore. And as much as you try to do your job without tapping into divine intuition, at times it can’t be helped.

Right now, for instance.

Shutting your eyes and taking a deep breath, you relax and allow yourself to sink into your true nature. It’s a risk, the full might of a celestial body against a mortal is no contest. And you’d hate to accidentally injure or, god forbid, kill the guy.

One hand on his wrist at your throat, the other pressing against his chest you open your eyes. The demon caterwauls for respite— the ethereal light burning against its skin, sizzling and crackling.

Using just enough of your power, you get a palm over his eyes again and maneuver the preacher so the demon could reveal itself. It’s invigorating, the thrum as it rushes through you— replenishing the depleted reserves of power in this finite form.

With a blink, divinity slips back to its slumber. Tucked neatly beneath the cage of your ribs, a warmth emanates from it, contented to be of use. But all too alluring, and you can’t become reliant on it.

Not again.

“Smile pretty, you ugly son of a bitch.” You say, taking your hand from his eyes and tilting to the side so the demon has a clear view of the mirror behind you.

It lurches from the man’s throat and lands with a thunk in the mirror’s reflection. The preacher, reeling from the remnants of possession, gazes into the reflection, eyes gone black and smiling widely.

You glance back, to see that the demon is stuck within the mirror. It hisses lowly in response. “Ugh,” With a roll of your eyes, you flip it off. “For your boss.”

Turning back to the man holding the rope, you say, “Pull it!”

He heaves with the effort; the mirror getting stuck against the window frame while the demon pounds at the glass containing it.

Shit.

Rising from the bed, you take the rope from him and give it a tug. When it doesn’t budge from its position, you walk and take the place of the man, placing one foot against the metal bedframe quickly followed by the other and leaning back.

As you tug against the rope while the trapped demon continues to punch its way out, you pull your body upward and climb your hands along it, nearly parallel to the floor at this point. The bed lurches against the floor with a metallic sounding groan.

The wood of the window frame begins to bow against the pressure. With one last forceful pull, it finally gives and sends the mirror careening through the window. Which lands you directly on the floor. You fall to your back with a thud, head knocking against the wooden planks.

The preacher’s wife rushes to the bedside, stepping on you in her haste. From your position on the ground, you listen for a sign that the demon has either escaped or the mirror has held it and shattered against the pavement.

Or your car.

You really hope it’s not your car.

There’s the sound of shattering glass from below, just as the preacher breathes in erratically and opens his eyes.

“Oh, John, you’re okay!” His wife sobs, “Thank God!”

You snort and slowly sit back up, rolling your sore neck and shoulders.

Right, thanks be to He.

Thursday, July 4, 1985

You are aching.

It’s what rouses you from sleep. Car pulled on to the shoulder of a county road somewhere between Salvation and Hawkins. Illinois, if you had to guess— farm land and cornfields as far as the eye could see.

You don’t feel pain, generally speaking, you don’t wound or scar. But none of that explains the chasm in your chest, like something cleaved it open and scooped out your guts. It makes you restless, skin itching as if it's been pulled too tight.

Sitting up, you don’t feel any better.

Back in the driver’s seat, you consult the crumpled map under the light from the dome lamp and decide to drive on what little rest you’d managed to get.

Not that you rest, per se. Recharge is more accurate.

After the engine turns over, you shift the car into gear and pull back onto the road as Creedence Clearwater Revival streams through the speakers.

One hand on the wheel as the other hangs from the window, catching the late night breeze. Heart squeezing inside the chamber of your chest. Hurt radiating from the fissure outward and flooding your veins.

Foot pressing more forcefully on the gas than you’d intended, car picking up speed on this lonely stretch of highway. If only you could just put your finger on it, what’s causing this uncomfortable and foreign sensation— you can taste it on the tip of your tongue, like ash and smoke.

A couple hours later, you turn on the familiar road driving past the ‘Welcome to Hawkins!’ sign. It takes you toward the new mall, awash with flashing red and blue lights.

“Oh, fuck.”

Taking a hard right you pull into the parking lot and kill the engine. Rifling through the glove box you finally find the gold badge you need and reach an arm into the backseat, searching for the slippery feel of a nylon jacket.

Slamming the car door and stowing the badge, you spot a familiar crop of curls hidden under a Camp Know Where hat.

“Henderson!”

He turns back immediately, eyes blowing wide at the sight of you. Hesitant to leave his post near an ambulance, you make your way toward him as you shrug on the jacket and pocket a walkie-talkie that had somehow wound up in your car.

“I knew you weren’t just a camp counselor,” He says with relief and hugs you tight, arms squeezing you around the waist.

Hand at the base of his head, feeling and looking for any injuries, you smile and pull him back to continue assessing. Satisfied that Dustin is safe, you crouch down to his level to ask, “Wanna tell me what you’re doing here?”

He doesn’t immediately respond. Casts his eyes to the pavement and kicks at some stray gravel, “Was just visiting Steve at work s’all…”

Your heart nearly leaps from your chest.

Steve.

Eyes cutting to the ambulance, you take a breath and school your features into something placid.

“Was he—”

“He’s fine, I think,” Dustin is quick to say, “At least, that’s what the paramedic said. Wouldn’t tell me more because I’m not family.” He glances to you again, concerned. “He took care of us, made sure we were safe.”

“That’s… good.” You sigh, scrub a hand down your face. “I’m glad kept you safe buddy.”

Slowly, you stand back up fingers grazing the gold badge at your hip. Running a hand through your hair, you address Dustin, “Does your mom know where you are?”

“Uh,” He flushes a deep pink. “Not exactly.”

“Right, come with me then.”

Weaving through the crowd of people assembled, you walk Dustin in front of you, hands on his shoulders, back to the ambulance. The paramedic leans against the side of it, looking toward the mall.

“Let me do the talking,” You say lowly. He nods and comes to a halt at the side of the vehicle.

A beleaguered paramedic greets you. “Kid, I told you already. You’re not fam—”

You cut him off in a brusque tone, flashing the badge at your hip. “Special Agent Constantine, FBI.”

That shuts him up.

“I understand you have one Steve Harrington in your care, is that correct?”

He nods, dumbly.

“And is it a habit of yours to linger at the scene of a crime when a patient in your care needs immediate medical attention?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I thought as much. You are going to take him,” You push Dustin forward, “And Mr. Harrington directly to the hospital.”

Dustin looks a little too smug at the dressing down you’re giving the paramedic.

“Once there, Dustin will be contacting his mother and you will see to it that Harrington receives the tests and treatment he requires.”

He nods and opens to the cab of the ambulance to let Dustin in.

Momentarily calm in the knowledge that Steve will be fine at the hospital, and that you’ll see him later, you quell the inferno raging in your chest. And dust your palms against your slacks in an effort to stop yourself from slipping into something more than human.

But just barely.

This fucking night.

You shut the door of the cab, arm leaning on the windowsill. “I’ll check on you at the hospital once I’m done here, alright?”

“He really is fine, you know,” Dustin says. “A little banged up, s’all.”

“I’m sure he is,” You agree. “Now—”

“Do you want me to give him a message?”

“Uh.”

“I know you went on that date,” He blurts out. “And Steve has been mumbling about this girl off and on so, I just put two and two together.”

“What?”

Dustin balks. “Oh,” He pauses in thought. “I just assumed it was about you.”

“Huh, okay.” You take a breath, try to give him a reassuring smile. “Tell Steve I had to go to work and I’ll try to not do anything stupid while he’s gone.”

Whatever Dustin was about to say is cut off as the engine to the ambulance turns over, red and blue lights flashing as it pulls out of the parking lot.

_

The badge does most of the talking, you’ve found, in situations such as this. After speaking with Hawkins PD and the United States military officers, you know that Starcourt served as a Russian cell for scientific experimentation and espionage. A fire broke out from an explosion in the subterranean bunker, and there was a carcass of some kind in the food court.

“We’re working to identify it now, Special Agent,” The officer reports, exhaustion evident in his voice. “But if you’d like to go in ahead of your team, we’d welcome the extra help.”

You nod, spying a familiar face in the crowd. Murray’s comforting a sobbing woman as the mall burns, but the expression on his face is reserved solely for you— confusion and disbelief, before it quickly devolves into blind fury.

“I’d be happy to help,” You say to the officer, “Let me alert the team and I’ll be back to suit up.”

Murray hasn’t left the bereaved woman yet. Blending in with the crowd, you grab the walkie from your back pocket and hold it against your mouth, as if you’re talking into it, and stand at his back.

“You’re not supposed to be here, kid,” He says over his shoulder.

“Finished up early, also? Not a kid,” You reply. “Rumor has it, I’m a world-class bad ass and good at my job.”

He snorts, “I’ll believe it when I see it.” His hand rubs soothing circles on the woman’s back, her sobs are beginning to subside from exhaustion more than alleviated grief. “But you still shouldn’t be here.”

“In your professional opinion? Or—”

“Your boss has made it crystal clear that you’re not to be involved.”

You pause, considering the information.

Jobs had dried up for the most part over the past few weeks, Murray would throw you a line every now and again, all easy and quick gigs, generally things deemed well below your pay grade. The recent exorcism being an exception.

With a lack of jobs, and no messages from on high, you’d been left to your own devices. Crashing with Steve or hanging out with Eddie and keeping an ear to the ground for any news of relics or artifacts.

“Well, I’m involved now.”

“Mmm,” He hums, arches a knowing eyebrow. “Didn’t say you were shacked up with Harrington either.”

You sigh, “Didn’t realize you were such a gossip.”

“Didn’t realize you were getting sloppy.”

The walkie in your hand crackles to life before you can hiss out a reply.

“Constantine, do you copy? Over.”

An apologetic shrug to Murray as you press the call button. “Yes, Dustin, I copy.”

The woman Murray’s been comforting lifts her head, “Constan— That’s her?”

You turn back, curious. “That’s me.”

Murray looks just as perplexed as you do. The woman sniffs, pulls back from where she’d been sobbing into his chest. “The kids— Steve, he said—”

But you never figure out what it was Steve had said, because the officer has flagged you down and waves you over to suit up and head in to the scene.

“Sorry ma’am, but I have to go.” Murray can surely smooth that over and just fill you in later.

You turn back toward the military tent and radio back to Dustin. “I’m about to head into the mall, buddy. I’ll let you know when I’m done.” You step into the tent, “Stay with Steve. Over.”

The hazmat suit is ready for you, another officer at the ready to assist. You shuck your FBI jacket onto a nearby chair.

“Don’t do it.”

You look to the walkie in your hand, shocked.

Because it’s not the rushed intonation of Dustin’s voice sounding through the speaker. It’s Steve. Not his usual pep and cadence, but him nonetheless.

“I’ll be fine,” You assure him, and you will be. You always are, but he doesn’t necessarily know that just yet.

Or at least he shouldn’t. You hadn’t had that conversation yet.

“C’mon angel,” He sounds tired, as if the act of speaking is beyond his capabilities.

“In and out, no problems,” You say, stepping into the suit at your feet. “I’ll be there in no time, promise.”

“... Okay. Be careful.”

You smile against the speaker, slipping a free arm into the suit. “I’ve seen worse, Steve. Over and out.”

Passing the walkie to another officer who places it with your jacket, you slip your other arm into the suit, duck your head as they place the SCBA over your face and zip you up.

A new radio has been supplied for you and the rest of the team going in. As you turn to leave the tent and enter the scene, Dustin’s voice comes through the walkie on the chair.

“I knew it!” He crows, “I knew you were his angel!”

“Dustin,” Steve scolds, words slurring, “Knock it off man, she’s working.”

_

Dustin and whom you can only presume to be Mrs. Henderson are slumped on the chairs in Steve’s room at the hospital, completely passed out. Tiptoeing in, mindful not to wake them, you perch at the foot of the bed.

Steve is sleeping, chest rising and falling with his steady breaths. The hum and beeping of the machines are the only sounds in the room. He looks awful, his left eye beaten black and swollen up with blood, hip lip split and bleeding. They’d cleaned him up and bandaged what they’d could, according to the attending nurse.

All that’s left to do was for him to heal and rest. The tests would come back tomorrow, there was a concern for head trauma— a concussion, but he should be discharged the next morning.

You thumb at the jewelry on your left hand, unused to the ornamentation. Figured the easiest con was to pass yourself off as newlyweds, allowing you to sign his discharge papers and take him home when the time came.

“That’s new,” He rasps, head lolling to the side as he looks at you. “Who’s the lucky man?”

You crack a smile, “Oh, just some guy. Don’t worry, he treats me real nice.”

“He better,” His hand falls to your leg, grasping your thigh. “If he knows what’s good for him.”

It’s new, this thing between the two of you. Too soon to put any sort of name to it, and this is certainly not the time, nor the place. His thumb traces patterns against your thigh, nail scraping against the fabric every so often. You remind Steve that he should be resting right now and he tells you the same.

“Counter offer,” He says when you won’t budge, “I’ll rest if you lay down with me.”

It’s easy to grant his request. Slow hands smooth away the hair from his forehead, slides the sheet off his damp shoulders, growing warm with perspiration. You have to be delicate. Don’t want to startle him any more than he already is.

“Glad you’re here.” He says, hooking one hand under your back and turning you over until his front touches yours. You place your chin on top of his head, press kisses to his hair. Your hand grips his in the dim light, letting him know that wherever you are, his words are reaching. He squeezes back gently, head settling against your chest.

A sniffle. A shudder. A shiver as goosebumps break across his arms. Steve’s not entirely awake anymore— eyes sliding back shut, sleep’s grip too strongly clamped down. It had been an exhausting few days— rigorous missions heavy on your mind and body, torture and drug-induced interrogations wreaking havoc on his.

A tug to pull the covers up, encasing his body inside the cocoon and kissing his brow. Tender. Sweet. Pouring what little claim you had to a soul into it. Not even a week with Steve, and it’s mended the cracks inside you, pieced you back together better than before.

It’s gone past midnight now. Somewhere inside the second hand of liminality— not quite sleep and not totally awake, the weight atop your chest leaves. Where it was once perched and heavy, crowding the breath inside your lungs, choking the peace from your brain.

“Everyone sleeps.”

He sounds worried— but you’re not quite sure. He sounds far away.

You lean closer and close your eyes. “Evil doesn’t sleep, Steve… And neither do I— or so they say.”

“Hush.” There’s no bite in his retort. Only a breath of a laugh.

You sigh, the weight of the week taking over suddenly now that he’s near. Something about him. Soothing. Soft fabric settles over your shoulders and wraps around your arms. Then, a hold. Secure. Safe.

Warm, like a fire. Tender, like a lover.

“C’mere, honey.” Deep. Low timbre and sonorous. It runs up your spine and beckons oblivion.

There is darkness and a soft touches. He’s blue and gold in the dim light, holding you by the hand. A stroke of a finger across your cheek. “Even angels rest.”

October 11 1985

The impala idles in the Hawkins High parking lot as you wait for Eddie. It’s a Hellfire night, so you’ve brought a well-worn paperback to pass the time. The van is out of commission currently, waiting for parts to come in at the body shop. And Steve’s working the closing shift tonight with Robin. Thumbing the pages, you turn to a dog-eared page and begin to read.

Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood

Clean from my hand? No, this my hand will rather

The multitudinous seas incarnadine,

Making the green one red.

“Psh, get in line buddy,” You scoff, so taken with Macbeth’s unraveling, that you didn’t even see the double doors of the school burst open, the Hellfire members streaming forth.

Eddie saunters over with Henderson, Wheeler, and Sinclair in tow, chain clinking against his thigh rhythmically. Head turning at the sound, your lip curls into a smile as he opens the door and slides in the passenger seat.

“Hi,” He greets, hand falling to rest against your thigh while the kids pile into the backseat. “D’you mind dropping the gremlins off? Already told ‘em not to touch anything back there.”

“Not at all.” You chirp, earning a quick squeeze to your leg. “Just, uh, buckle up, I guess.” You turn to glance back as you reverse from the parking spot, catching Henderson’s curious gaze falling to Eddie’s hand at your thigh. “And if you see anything rolling around back there, no you didn’t. Capiche?”

The three boys nod, eyes wide and darting to the floorboards.

Ignoring Dustin’s eyes burning into the back of your skull, for now, you elect to drop him off first. Sending him down the sidewalk to his house with a perfunctory wave, your lips pulled in a straight line. That could be a problem.

Mike and Lucas are relatively quiet in the backseat as you drive through the suburban neighborhood streets. They’re polite and grateful, mumbled thanks and goodbyes from each as they shut the door and fumble for house keys. You wait until each has entered the house and given Eddie a wave before maneuvering to Loch Nora.

“Dustin’s getting suspicious.”

Eddie’s fingers flex against your thigh, thumb rubbing circles against the warm denim. But he says nothing, just uncomfortably clears his throat and taps his foot in time with Metallica’s “Creeping Death.”

Your hands grip the steering wheel, turning from one sleepy street to the next. It’s route memory by now, navigating back to Steve’s. If pressed, you could probably find your way blindfolded and dropped at any point in Hawkins. You knew that Eddie and Steve kept their distance in your absence, both unsure of how to proceed without you there as a buffer.

They get on well enough, if a bit haltingly. The boys starting high school this year brought them into each other’s orbit, but your presence cemented it, a red string fit for three. Not that it was exactly discernable to the naked eye, more of a feeling than anything. A steadying pressure against your left ring finger, cording you to them and them to you.

And, subsequently, them to each other as well.

It’s not something you’d personally encountered before, but there were murmurs and vague mentions of it in the forgotten texts. Whimsical notions at the whims of pulp romance authors and film executives, the basis for any romance worth its salt.

You kill the engine after pulling into the driveway, hands finding his before he can bolt.

“Hey,” You say, finger curling under his chin to lift his gaze. “I know this… arrangement isn’t the easiest.”

And his eyes, so wide and wet, stare back at you skeptically. Lacing your fingers together, you open your mouth to continue.

“It’s uh,” Eddie interjects, worrying his lip between his teeth, “It’s not hard for just me.”

You blink in response.

“Steve and I,” He continues, “We talk about it. Not much, obviously.” He sighs glancing toward the front door. His palm is damp against yours, eyes dart from your gaze, narrowing as they settle on Harrington as he shuts the door and walks toward the impala.

He leans agains the door, forearm slung against rolled down window. “Hey, thought we were doing dinner.”

Glancing from Eddie to Steve you let out an indignant huff. “Change of plans,” You turn the key in the ignition and rev the engine. “Get in, loverboy.”

Clearly your attempt to protect Steve and Eddie had failed in disastrous fashion. Sure, you could blame a myriad of things, your ridiculous work schedule, for one. But at the end of the day, it all fell on you really. If you had just taken the time to talk to them, maybe some of this tension could’ve been avoided. Or at least resolved.

But no, you didn’t do any of that. So instead, it festered.

Leaving hurt feelings on all sides and an increasingly jealous set of boyfriends. Just fucking peachy.

Pulling into a clearing of the forest on the outskirts of town, you kill the engine and stomp out of the car, pine needles trampling under your boots. Fisting the lapels of your trenchcoat your chest heaves, mind racing to find the words and tone that could explain this mess away.

Two car doors thud in the distance, lowered voices in conversation as Eddie and Steve walk further into the clearing.

What is going on?

Don’t look at me, man. Fuck if I know.

The guys stop walking a few paces away, sharing confused looks and shrugs as you continue further on.

It would be as easy as a flick of the wrist, but still there was hesitation. You hadn’t slipped up in years, centuries at this point, and never of your own volition— the orders had come from on high.

To reveal yourself for what you truly were would be— well, there wouldn’t be any going back after this. No greeting St. Peter at the pearly gates or whatever schlock they spouted now.

Judging the distance safe enough, you turn on your heel, slowly, always slowly so as not to startle. It was like wading through molasses most of the time, but something you had grown used to in your time among them.

The mortals, that is.

Seeing them across the clearing you steel yourself for the fallout. And you know, for all the tales of your kind the world over, it never failed that one person would fail to heed the warnings.

In their hands, you’d left Steve and Eddie with torn scraps of cloth and instructions to cover their eyes until you said otherwise.

Dusk was quickly falling. The once overcast blue sky receded into remnants of seafoam green and teal. There was no breeze; the air felt thick and humid as it coated their lungs with each inhale. It was also silent - no crickets or birdsong accompanied the evening.

The air around you stills, the sounds of the clearing— birdsong, subtle wind, chirps and chitters from the edges of brush— all of that falls away.

You cough lightly to clear your throat. “Wrap the cloth around your eyes, secure it tightly,” you instruct, “Otherwise, the light will blind you.”

Eddie huffs in agitation, “What the fuck are you talking about?” The strip of cloth remains in his hand as he bristles, “Some of us have things to—”

“Eddie.” Steve’s voice is low in warning before he moves to wrap the cloth over his eyes.

The temperature plummets drastically as the wind begins to howl. You monitor the storm clouds now crackling with lightning and rolling through the sky at an uncomfortable pace. Taking a tense breath in, they pause inhaling the tangy scent and taste of newly forged metal - sharp and pure at the back of their throats.

And with that, you slough the mantle from your shoulders.

Their bodily response is both sedate and swift in coming. Temporal reality feels as if it is both being stretched agonizingly apart and contracting back together too quickly. A demanding rain begins to fall but the droplets evaporate before falling to the ground - all too hot and cloying but the air is somehow refreshing and cool.

Eddie is sick, vomit splashing onto the ground and just missing their feet. Steve feels an acrid bile rising its way up their throat and makes an effort to stifle it.

The crackling lightning intensifies, all of which is your doing, and through a cloudbreak a white burst of flame appears. A monstrosity, really, stories tall with a white-hot heat as it lands in the clearing. A swath of the field is scorched beneath the beaming tower of flame.

An energy reverberates throughout their chests - a constant buzzing hum that defies all reason. A sniffle emanates from Steve, the cloth around his eyes bleeds with the precipitation of his tears - why he is crying he could not say as he stumbles to his knees; a shortness of breath that Eddie hasn’t dealt with in years comes upon him as he staggers to the ground.

“BE NOT AFRAID.”

A buzz, a sound, a feeling, an innate knowledge.

What was once a furious beam of white-hot flame has transformed into a divine being: six pairs of wings, countless phosphorescent eyes, stories tall, bedecked in arrays of gold and billowing white. The voice - if you can call it that - is soft as a lover’s caress but harsh and cacophonous at the same time.

“YOU HAVE CALLED.”

Every blaspheme, exalted prayer, cursed assemblage of words, tear strewn plea; they had all been heard. The odds had been weighed. There had been agreement. And here was the answer.

“YOU HAVE BEEN DEEMED WORTHY OF AID.”

A boom of thunder and the apparition vanishes.

Eddie rips off the bandage from his eyes and glances up to find a winged body fallen right where you’d been standing, scorch marks in a charred circle around you. He rises quickly and breaks into a run, Steve not long behind. He drapes his jacket over your prone form. Mindful of the enormous dove gray wings, he scoops up your lax figure and turns.

Eddie, who can’t seem to stop the silent tears as they track down his face, is the first to speak, “W-was that an…” he trails off, not wanting to shatter the illusion.

Before he can step forward Steve stops him with a hand to his shoulder - holding him in place. “This isn’t possible,” he mutters before growing in confidence, “That literally should not happen.”

Steve sighs and claps Eddie on the shoulder, “Welcome to the club buddy, we’ve all seen things that shouldn’t happen.”

“Is she bleeding?” Eddie asks from the backseat, your head resting on his lap.

You’ve been out cold since the clearing, as silent as the grave.

It’s more than a little unnerving.

Steve takes charge because Eddie can’t string more than a sentence together before going silent in shock.

He’s driving the impala back to his house, taking the back roads and speeding as if he could outrun the devil. He takes a moment to glance back, eyes going from Eddie’s cow-eyed stare to your limp body and back again.

”I dunno, is she? Can you staunch the flow with something?”

Eddie grabs the black bandana from his back pocket and gently turns you on your side.

Dull splotches have seeped onto the backseat, four to be precise. Eddie gently dabs the fabric at the four open wounds seeping a golden fluid. He clears his throat and glances up to meet Steve’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

“Harrington, I think we have an issue.”

Steve hums in assent and punches down on the gas pedal.

A soft groan falls from your lips as Eddie sets you down on the couch in Steve’s living room. His bandana is covered in this golden fluid, which he can only assume is something akin to blood. Modesty be damned because the wings are proving to be quite the problem, you’re gently turned onto your stomach so they can inspect your wounds.

The first appears at the nape of the neck, followed by the sprouting of two wings, further down three identical wounds lie all equally spaced and of the same size. They’re minor enough to clean and bandage. “Ichor,” Eddie guesses, as Steve returns with the first-aid kit.

Steve takes a step forward, “Eddie, the wounds need to be attended to first,” he says cautiously.

Nodding to Steve Eddie moves to the side. Allowing him to get out the gauze and bandages. He places a tube of neosporin to the side as well. Together they attend to the wounds, applying the salve and bandages as best they can before sitting back on their heels.

Eddie swallows audibly.

”Got any beer, Harrington?”

Steve snorts and does one better. He claps a hand on Eddie’s shoulder before rising and disappearing into a room just off the entryway, only to return with two glasses and a bottle of bourbon.

”Atta boy,” Eddie says, taking the bottle and opening it. He ignores the crystal glasses and takes a pull before handing it off to Steve.

With a deep sigh, Eddie begins: “She said we had called; what does that mean?”

Steve takes a sip of bourbon and shrugs, “Prayers, I guess.”

Eddie sighs, “Okay, sure. And how are you the expert here?”

He shrugs, “I think I’ve known for a while…” He reclines slightly on the carpeted floor, “I’ve known her for a few years now, but I met her after Barb disappeared. She said she was a detective and asked me a few questions.” He takes another drink. “After she left, I had the worst headache of my life and slept the day away. Woke up with dried blood in my ears.”

The room stills with an uneasy quiet.

“In that… form, I guess, she doesn’t really have a voice as we understand it,” He shifts slightly and leans forward, “Well, they do and they don’t. When we heard her ‘speak’ what did you hear?”

Eddie sighs and grabs the bottle from Steve. “I-I’m not sure,” He relents. “I felt this thing, like a vibration in my chest but I also heard something. Kinda soft, but strong?”

As he explains, Steve nods. “Yes, that’s how it is for me,” He ignores the fact that Munson can hear you as he can, for now. “From what I can tell, humans have adverse reactions to encountering the divine. Crying isn’t uncommon. And you threw up. Their arrival also brings about a natural feeling of supplication: falling to your knees and stuff.”

Eddie remains quiet and stoic as they take turns passing the bottle back and forth.

“How did you know?” He asks softly, concentrating on the amber liquid, “I mean, you’ve known for how long?”

Steve shifts uncomfortably.

“He saw me meditating,” a familiar voice supplies, low and husky from disuse.

Eddie jumps off the floor, out of his skin nearly, wheezing out a “Jesus Christ,” under his breath and brings the back of his closed fist to his lips. He turns, unable to settle his eyes at where you currently laze on the couch.

Two pairs of eyes fall to the form who can now speak. “Well,” You acquiesce, “Meditating is an unfortunate word for what transpired, nearly gave Steve a panic attack I’m sure.”

He smiles and huffs a laugh. “So that’s what that was,” He says, taking a step toward you. “How you feelin’?”

Eddie, having taken in the fact that he’s in front of a bonafide heavenly body, averts his gaze and busies himself with another drink. “So you’re an…” He trails off again.

“An angel,” Steve affirms, eyes not leaving yours.

A cock of your head, “In a general sense, yes.” A roll of the shoulder, flutter of wings.

And with that admission, Eddie killed the rest of the bottle.

Be not afraid, indeed.

You lie low for the next few days, regaining your strength, readjusting to the advent of visible wings.

Eddie ran back home to grab a bag of clothes and to let Wayne know he’d be at Steve’s for the time being. Meanwhile, Steve had tried to warn off the kids and Robin from dropping by, and made up some excuse about having the flu.

Things were quiet.

Steve made sure you were comfortable upstairs and hovered around anxiously, while Eddie remained jumpy and kept his distance.

It hurt and you tried to be brave about it.

More often than they knew, you could overhear Steve’s furtive whispers to Eddie about how nothing had really changed all that much. You were still the same as you’d ever been.

”She could literally kill us, Steve.”

You crouched at the top of the stairs, hidden by the balcony rail as they talked downstairs.

”Don’t be like that man.”

”Like what?” Eddie laughs despite himself, “Realistic? God-fearing? Did you even pay attention in Sunday school?”

”Uh, not really no.”

Eddie sets something down on the table with a bit more force than he’d intended.

”When God wants something done, a punishment doled out or a message sent, d’you know who does His bidding?”

”Angels.”

”Right. And everyone knows the most famous of them all.”

”Are you—“ Steve stops short, seeing a streak of gray on the upper floor. “She’s not the Angel of Death, Eddie. For fuck’s sake!”

”Yeah?” He volleys back, incredulous. “And how are we supposed to know that?”

”Because we know her.” Steve rises from his chair and makes his way out of the room. “She would never do anything to hurt us.”

”How can you be so sure?”

”I just—“ Steve pauses on the staircase, head turned back to face Eddie, hand gripping the railing hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “I can’t explain it man, I just know.”

”Well I don’t.”

A flapping sound, like a whoosh of air distracts them.

Two pairs of eyes, one whiskey-warm, and the other flecked with glimmers of gold and green follow your bumbling footfalls up the stairs, and out of sight.

They turn to each other in the inky blue, and maybe it begins there.

Steve knocked softly on the door as it creaked open, leaving you little time to quell your tear-stained cheeks. Doing your best to wipe them away, you make room for him on the bed.

Sitting at your side, he wastes no time in winding an arm around your hips and pulling you into his lap. Your wings retract ever so slightly, relaxing bit by bit into his grasp.

”Hi,” Steve’s voice had dropped into a low whisper, his thumb worrying along your hip.

A tingle runs down your spine and fans out across your wings and making your body tremble.

”Miss me?”

Your head drops to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, you can feel the tendons flex as he swallows.

”Not just you.”

”Give it some time,” He sighs, “This is new for him.”

His hands fall to rest on your hips before sliding slowly to the small of your back. His fingers caress their way up and down your back.

Shivering, you sit up and rest your head against his. Steve’s lips brush against yours lightly.

“I can hide them.”

”The wings?”

”Yeah, just glamour them like I have been.”

”Honey,” He sighs, breath ghosting along your lips. “I don’t think that—“

”Then what will Steve?” A laugh escapes you. “What can I do to get him back?”

”Eddie didn’t leave,” Steve points out. “For all his… concerns, he’s still here. That has to mean something, right?”

You shift in his lap, his lips grazing along your neck.

”Besides,” He says, voice soft, hands inching up your spine. “They like me.”

He nips at your ear and you lurch forward in a shudder, wings arching as tension coils in your body.

In all your years, you’d never met anyone as unflappable as Steve.

He was consistent, reliable, and easygoing.

But he was also insatiable.

”Okay,” You acquiesce, “That may be true.”

Steve’s fingers brushed ever so lightly along the base of your wings, sending a shudder straight through you.

Emitting a low whimper you move to draw back, to distance yourself because it shouldn’t feel like this, so wildly arousing.

”C’mon angel,” He cajoles, “It’ll help you relax.”

”Yeah?”

He presses a kiss to your temple, fingers tracing gently along the delicate bones and plumage, “Promise.”

A warm heat was gathering in your pelvis from his ministrations. It felt odd to have someone touch a part of you that none other had before. Odd, but not unpleasant.

”We’ll go slow.” His fingers brushed a spot that sent your back into an arch, your hips flush against his own, a gasp falling from your mouth.

Just outside the door, in the shadow of the hallway, Eddie can smell it in the air. A musky salty tang wafting through the air and into his lungs that ignites the kindling of his want.

His eyes ran up and down taking in the scene. The flush of Steve’s face and the sweat beading along your skin, illuminated by a warm yellow glow from the lamp on the side table. Eddie looks at you with a curious expression on his face.

Steve spots him as Eddie enters the room and shuts the door with a soft click. You turn suddenly in his grasp only to see that Eddie has recovered from his former shock and trepidation.

He can see your bare back flanked by gray wings fluttering every so often as Steve drags his finger along them. He’s managed to sidle his way within arms reach, expression growing more intent with each step.

A thrilled shiver slides down your spine at his approach, and you fail to suppress it as Steve kisses you hungrily. Eddie tries to swallow the feeling away but it catches in his throat.

You’re straddling Steve’s thigh and moving against it in slow winding orbits. The underwear sitting at your hips does nothing to keep the arousal smeared between your legs at bay.

Steve only pulls back as you're nearly gasping for air, trailing hungry kisses down your neck and jaw. Eddie’s eyes drop to the gleam at Steve’s thigh, how your slickness catches the dim light.

He’d watched you go earlier, cursing his stupid mouth as Steve trailed after you, feeling guilty and shitty for upsetting you.

It wasn’t worth it, he’d decided not long after. Given a choice between having you or losing you, there was no contest— he’d choose you every time.

Eddie shucks his clothes as he crosses to the bed, dropping his shirt, belt, and pants off haphazardly. Each step feels impossible, like quicksand, but he pushes through the heaviness of the room.

Facing him, your face is a mask of confusion, pleasure, and elation. He can see the exact moment that you relax, slumping slightly against Steve as he holds you upright, one hand extended toward him.

”E-Eddie?” His name falls like a tumble from your kiss-bitten lips. There’s a split second of modesty when you realize the state you’re in and move to cover yourself before Steve distracts you by nipping at the curve of your shoulder.

”Figure it out?” He mumbles with a pointedly raised brow in Eddie’s direction.

In lieu of response, Eddie simply lets you tug him down onto the bed before settling at your right, hand curling around your waist. He’s already rock hard, in awe as he watches you arch and shudder under Steve’s hands, hips winding slow against his thigh.

Your brain is positively spinning. Between Steve’s mouth biting and sucking along your neck and Eddie’s hand guiding your hips, you’re about to lose it completely.

Eddie marvels at how lightly Steve works his fingers against your wings, brushing along the undersides of delicate bones and soft feathers. Tentatively, he brings his free hand to the wing closest to him, a single finger stroking downward.

Your eyes nearly cross at his touch and you make an undignified noise lurching toward Steve with such a force that he falls back on the mattress. He grips your hips and moves you from his leg as Eddie’s breath ghosts along your neck. You’re turned around to face him, Steve pressing your back to his chest, the wings trapped between you.

”Hi baby,” Eddie’s husky voice sails into your ear.

You feel so small between them, impossibly so. Vulnerable and exposed in your skin. Steve bites down on your shoulder, and you nearly forget your own name. Too invested in Eddie edging closer to you. His hand trails up your wing in such a way that sends a spasm through your entire body.

A low, throaty moan slips up and out of your mouth as you push yourself and grip his shoulders. He turns his head enough for your lips to brush, his breath fanning out against your skin. His nose brushes yours as your lips descend, his mouth falling open in a harsh gasp.

Kissing Eddie is like coming home.

Warm and sweet, slow like honey.

”You,” He says pulling away, eyes so blown they’re nearly black, “Are the best thing. You’re amazing.”

Steve’s hand squeezes at your hip as your head drops back against him. The tip of Eddie’s tongue traces up your sternum before dropping a kiss at the hollow of your throat.

”Stop,” you say, “That’s not—“

Steve shushes you with a kiss to the top of your spine. “Listen to him angel.”

Deft fingers brush back your hair beginning the frizz in the heat.

“I know this thing between us,” He glances to Steve and back to you, “It’s … unconventional.” Eddie’s finger traces your cheekbones lightly. “And we’re doing our level best not to fuck it all up.”

From behind you, Steve nods in agreeance. His jaw grazing the nape of your neck, fingers trailing at the sensitive underside of your wings.

”And there’s been something we’ve been meaning to tell you for a while now.”

Your fingers still along the band of his boxers, his stomach muscles contract in anticipation.

“We love you,” He whispers, lips kicking up in a smile. “Every single part.”

”And we’ve got you.” Steve adds with a squeeze to your hips.

”That is, if you’ll have us.”

The simple admission lights a fire in your chest as you surge toward Eddie, teeth clacking against his in your rush to get your mouth on him. Steve’s accompanying laughter is a comfort at your back, his hands a welcome anchor at your hips.

There’s a slight pressure at your ring finger, a soft hum in the air as a thin red thread, nearly imperceptible, stitches the three of you together— a fool, a hanged man, and justice.

Eddie’s not sure if he believes in God now, or ever really did, but he believes in this. Thinks that if he had to choose and do it all over again he would, every single time.

But that’s the funny thing about fate, isn’t it?

It’s a relief, knowing that it’s all come down to this.

The soft morning light falls against your skin, warmed with fading vestiges of the autumn sun. Crisp white sheets tangled beneath your legs, a smattering of skin exposed; it was sweet, this tender sensation of thrumming in his veins.

Eddie’s staring.

Committing this moment to memory for the rest of his days; your face bathed in shafts of light relaxed in slumber, body sated warm twisted in an impossible position. His finger traces the knobs of your spine, a gossamer touch barely perceptible; you snuffle briefly and sigh against the pillow.

Steve rouses not long after, a tanned forearm thrown haphazardly over your exposed hip and blinks blearily.

Outlining the faded marks against your back Eddie’s body curls closer to you— three waxing crescents in the golden haze of morning. Steve rubs his thumb against the jut of bone at your hip, he knows nothing of divinity, but he hopes it’s something akin to this: sun-warmed, sweet, and pliable.

A lot like you.

You’re half-asleep, or so it would seem. But you gaze at them now coquettishly from beneath your lashes, all mischief and love— peering at him like a sunbeam through stained glass. Glorious in your benevolence, full of color and life.

This is why they would return to you, time and time again.

Self-admittedly, they know nothing of piety or faith, but they do know this: the slow smile of your pretty lips, dextrous fingers falling from the sheets to reach for them, and the desire to slip beneath your skin to the heart knocking in your chest—

That is devotion.

Sacred.

Holy.

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