#penny00dreadful

He doesn’t apologize, for how she found him; what she saw, or who. She’s unexpectedly, but undeniably and expansively proud, in the face of it.

She clears her throat, still a little stuck in the molasses-slow fog of…this. All this.

All this unexpected living.

“You’re…” she swallows, blinks, wills away the clinging fingers of the trance still lingering in her eyes, on her mind; she needs to see her son—

“You’re being safe?”

Steve’s jaw drops a little, and it’s so…defined. He’s…he’s a man now, and he’s staring at her like he doesn’t trust her, not entirely, both of which break her heart a little, one way or the other.

But he looks like he distrusts her, but doesn’t want to. Like she may have hope of salvaging something.

Like he’s found something—more likely someone—that he values deeper, cherishes closer, to be wary of anything that could bring harm to them.

That…that also breaks her heart. That she’s something to be wary of, in service of the people her Steve loves.

“Why is that your first question?”

Steve asks…too blank. She’s mourned that sin of her husband’s, privately above most others—the way he’d slowly and carefully worn Steve down to fit the mold he liked best, not the shape Steve blossomed into all on his own.

The way Steve juts his hips and crosses his arms as he leans against the doorframe—so unlike Richard would have tolerated—and does it well balanced and worn-in; she wants to believe this version of Steve has taken root, has become his honest everyday self. That he’s left that limiting mold behind.

But he’s asked her a question, and is eyeing her—rightly—in anticipation of answer.

Which he deserves. And she’ll give him in honesty—not least because she really was both lucky, to have drawn out having to catch her son in the act this long, and so much more unlucky, that she’s likely been able to cheat the whole affair this long largely because she wasn’t there for the possibility, before now.

“Any questions about whether it’s serious, or how you feel about him, are irrelevant,” she tells him, keeps her tone open and warm but doubles down on both when Steve’s eyes narrow; seek out any hint of insincerity, or likely more often necessary to target, and far worse: of judgement.

“Not just because it’s not my business, so long as you’re happy,” and she means that truly; with her entire heart she means that, even if Steve doesn’t see it, or hasn’t had enough chance to know her heart enough to recognize it—her heart for him, her own boy’s happiness as her most fervent wish—but she makes her voice warmer still, expansively open from there to continue on; “but more because you’ve already more answered them.”

Steve looks at her, still so blank, blank but…somehow not the same as before. How blankness can change is beyond Diane’s ability to put into words but she doesn’t need to, really; she sees something softer, something with more forward possibilities in this blankness.

And Diane Harrington would never, could never be accused of not finding opportunities to encourage the best case scenario.

The result where maybe her son can look at her without suspicion.

“I’ve been down here almost half an hour, Steve,” she makes sure to call him by the name he’d always told his parents he preferred, and to do so without fanfare, without making a point of anything less; she’d always bristled when Richard used his full name as a rule against his wishes.

His eyes still widen, a little, when she says it like it’s a given. She should have fought Richard harder on the little things; the little things that meant everything.

Their son’s sense of himself.

But to the point, which she owes him, and so much more:

“You didn’t come rushing to explain.” It’s the most important thing, because she can read people well, wouldn’t be successful outside her marriage otherwise, just a housewife making dinner—and she thinks her son has the same gift, just maybe aimed differently, and maybe exponentially expanded, if the hints around the house are things she guessing at correctly—and she’s so impressed with how no part of Steve is apologetic. Is even hinting a considering trying to distance himself from what she walked in on. Not even for the sake of defiance—more as a matter of course: and it’s impressive to witness. How tall he stands when she’s still the threat, much as it pains her.

But because she can read people, she sees that he doesn’t see the reasons she sussed out so quick and clear, despite all the other haziness.

“You’re not embarrassed, or ashamed,” and he isn’t, at all, and she hopes she sounds nothing like expecting he should be; prays she sounds half as overjoyed as she is that this is the man he’s grown into—

“So I assume you spent that time taking care of him,” she leans in a little, tips her head forward and tries her damnedest to project that joy, for him, for what she thinks he’s found, for what she sees in his eyes, eyes she doesn’t entirely recognize anymore—her fault, again, her fault—but she can see it in anyone: love.

Her boy is in love.

And even if she couldn’t read it off him—

“And a mother may never want to see her child in such a state,” and Steve shifts, a little uncomfortable even as Diane bites her lip against a smile at how it reminds her of him as a tiny boy; “but I heard you, not just the noises but the words, before,” and she leaves it there, because they’d both know those words well enough, the love you, love you so much, would die for you, again and again, you’re my whole heart and soul, you fit just right, you’re made for me, we’re forever, we are always, I love you—

And certainly, people do say wild things in passion. But…odd as the circumstances? And as badly as she’s fumbled for the task of motherhood over the years?

Call it a mother’s intuition, nonetheless.

“So,” she claps her hands a little, finally, but more on the way to folding them, leaning her chin on the platform they make: “those questions wouldn’t be needed anyway.”

Steve doesn’t say anything; she doesn’t like that. But then, she’s not sure what she’s hoping he would say, what would even suit the moment.

She thinks she just wants to hear him speak some more.

And besides, she’s given him his answer. She…maybe she isn’t entitled, but she would still like to know for her own peace of mind:

“But you are being safe?”

It’s dangerous these days, after all.

“We are,” he answers, quicker than she expects, and it’s more a relief than she expects, too—and she’d expected it like walking back from a cliff’s edge, but still it’s more. He nods, and she accepts that that’s all she’ll get, and she doesn’t truly believe she deserves more but: something.

Something in him, things she doesn’t know and couldn’t begin to see; or else maybe something in how she looks to him, in her face, in whatever her expression gives away—he says more, he gives her little gems of who he’s become:

“He’s my first, like that,” and he lifts his chin, defensive; or no. Not that.

Defending.

And he takes the posture of it like it’s second nature; easy as breathing. She hates that there must be a reason to it, one bigger than just her absence—or Richard’s even limited presence.

She feels a need to know, and yet an equal-opposing need not to press this thing, to reawaken that initial cause. She isn’t a threat.

She needs to listen, for now. Soak up his words.

“And Hawkins is,” his one hand reaches to gesture broadly, in a world-weary way she doesn’t expect until she sees it; that’s so far beyond his years—before he tucks that hand back into the protective cross of both arms over his chest. “He didn’t have the opportunity, before, with here being…here. So.”

The words are clipped. But they’re…they’re words. Firm. Real.

Her boy is nowhere to be found in any of it, save as the foundation for this commanding force, this presence of a man, a shining, radiatingly good man, standing in front of her.

He is nothing like his father. It’s everything that she hoped could come of their absence—despite it.

Because of it.

“Good, that’s good,” she exhales, nodding to herself—her son, safe, grown, protecting himself and his lover, maybe his beloved, from the ills this life might set upon them, this good man—

Then she revisits her words and feels herself blanch a bit.

“Not good that this town is,” she gestures, and realizes: that’s what Steve had done, for the exact same thing, in the exact same way; “but,” she looks to him, beseeching a little, but his lips are quirked the slightest bit, his shoulders that little bit more relaxed against the wood.

“I got it.”

Diane nods, sniffs, and then sighs. It’s not…it’s late. She is exhausted.

And she doesn’t know how to talk to her own son.

“Noticing my absence isn’t his strongest suit,” she jumps at the easiest topic to follow on with because it’s probably obvious, but: she needs to make sure Steve knows that Richard’s not here, and not immediately on his way. Things would have looked very different, had he opened Steve’s door.

“That said, he may or may not be here soon. But in case—” she glances meaningfully to the stairs. They can’t continue to keep the door unlocked, at the very least.

“Of course,” Steve says, solemn while simultaneously appalled that she’d imply he’d even risk it, tone tightening a little. “Tonight was going to be the last time we, here, given I thought you’d be back next week.”

It’s not censure. But it feels like it should be. Or wants to be. Because…

Because Steve is the man of the house now, isn’t he? No matter whose name is on the deed. This is his domain. He’s kept it as to quickly enough be reverted for neither of his parents to notice, if they stuck to their schedules, if Diane hadn’t acted impulsively, too fed up with her husband’s indiscretions—but even if he keeps it hideable, this is Steve’s house.

Diane finds himself wanting to know all about the ways, and the whys for all the changes she sees. And all that she hasn’t, yet.

“You’ve grown so much,” she says, so soft, eyes prickling; “I’m sorry I’ve missed it.”

It’s not enough. The words are so far beyond insufficient.

“Me too,” Steve says and again: not a censure. But it should be.

It wants to be.

But the fact that it’s not maybe means he wants to meet in the middle. Maybe he’ll listen if she shows she means it, if she demonstrates how she cares, even if it hasn’t been enough—it’s never been wholly absent. It’s never been nothing.

“You never pick up the phone.”

She does not actually mean to say that, at all, and certainly not like it tumbles out: juvenile almost. Petulant.

God, but the day’s catching up to her. She’s usually so much more composed than this. More polished.

But then: this? This is her son.

Steve’s as taken aback as he rightly should be, and she knows she’s mistepped when he balks a little, when his tone hardens like he’s…like he’s very well practiced at scolding wayward children.

“Excuse me?”

Very good at scolding wayward children, somehow. She has no idea where the skillset came from but damn it all, she wants to learn. She wants to know if it’s connected to the assignments and drawings on the refrigerator. She wants to know if the scrunchies aren’t from ex-girlfriends but kids he cares about, and how they came to be under his protection, his unwavering care.

His narrowed gaze—more pertinent in the now—as she herself sits more like the wayward child.

But she’s begun the point, and it’s not in her nature to fail finishing what she starts.

“When so many terrible things have happened,” she says, voice low as her mind flickers through the devastating headlines of the past few years; “when I call to check, once I hear what’s happened, and it’s always reported with such a delay, it’s unconscionable,” she’s even called the mayor’s office about that, she shouldn’t have to see her son’s whereabouts in flames weeks later when she checks, because she does check. Because Steve doesn’t tell them, and contrary to some of her missteps: she worries.

She constantly worries because she is a mother, and she will worry until she’s quiet in her grave: she will worry until her dying breath about her son.

The fact that their town seems to court the apocalypse in regular intervals now certainly doesn’t help, but she’d worry either way.

“But I call, to see if you need,” she starts, and is a little surprised by how tight her throat is, how much feeling’s overcoming her.

But only a little surprised, if she’s wholly honest.

She takes a deeper breath, and starts again.

“I call, no one answers. The tape in the machine’s been full for over a year.”

She knows. Because the line just rings, plays the horrible out-of-space message—and Steve’s own line never had a machine. All she gets is endless ringingwhile her heart pounds every time for the fear that it’s not just because the tape’s full.

“I,” Steve starts to say, then clamps his mouth shut, but his eyes dart to the machine, or no: next to it. A…what looks like a carphone, maybe, for the size, but it’s more a metal block, really, with knobs and buttons and lights and—

Maybe whatever it is, is how the people Steve knows would need him can get in contact with him. An overgrown pager she doesn’t have the number to.

She understands it, maybe even deserves it.

That does nothing to dull the sting.

“I have learned to call the police chief,” she says, dropping it conversationally when she hopes the gravity of going that far will convey some of how serious she takes all this, feels all of this; “someone must have a dire grudge against the man, I was told one time that he was murdered!”

She absolutely does not expect the snort that escapes Steve, at that.

“You could say that,” he murmurs, a twisted, almost crazed sort of smile spreading for a few seconds. She’s never seen that look on her son, and it doesn’t last long enough to examine before he turns more serious, takes the conversation in his hands without direct prompting, which Diane will gladly call progress.

“I didn’t know you called Hop.”

Hop?

“And his wife, as necessary,” she huffs a little, set on conveying her determination to at least get some confirmation of life about her first-and-only child. “I didn’t know you were on friendly terms with local law enforcement.”

She’s not sure if that’s a net positive or negative, but the smile—maniacal as it’d leaned—at least suggeststhe former.

“He’s,” Steve’s smile is softer now, more…normal. Genuine. “He’s a lot like family. Joyce too.”

Diane aches to know how it happened to be that way. Hurts to presume part of it was because Steve’s own blood wasn’t in the picture enough. But—

“I knew Joyce Byers, when we first moved back here,” she says softly, her own genuine smile curling her lips; “I remember her as a tough woman. Resolute,” she recalls her pregnant and pushing a stroller, never stopping on her way through for groceries; “but always observant, especially of what others needed. Always kind.”

Steve’s face is unreadable, but what she can make out is the affection in it. Some things must not change in this town, then.

Enough about the past, though.

“Back to your gentleman upstairs,” Diane raises an eyebrow, but makes sure it’s a soft thing. A welcoming thing. “You are serious, yes?”

She doesn’t even have to try to sound soft or welcoming, with the words. Because she hopes very much that her son wouldn’t risk what he is for casual; she hopes even more that she’s right about reading love in him.

“I think,” Steve finally says after a long, thoughtful pause—he always had been careful with his words when they most mattered. “I think if ‘the one’ even exists?” he looks at her then; meets her eyes and oh yes.

She saw true, when she saw love.

“It’s him.” And the way Steve says it, so certain, almost makes her want to cry.

“And if it doesn’t exist,” he adds on with a shrug, like reality is relative, just semantics; “he’s it, anyway.”

She doesn’t fight the tear that drops to run down to her smile as she stands, approaches Steve cautiously—wants to hug him, hold him; isn’t sure if she’s allowed.

He doesn’t come to her. But he doesn’t move away.

“You’ll leave here?” she reaches for his hand and he reaches back. Her heart beats a little extra hard for it.

He nods. Her baby.

“When the kids graduate.”

Which makes no sense, but would explain so many of the bits and pieces she’s already picked out around the kitchen. He’s…he’s made a family.

In the absence of the one he was born in; even just looking at the trailings of it, she can tell it’s a more vibrant one.

She’s failed him, in so many ways, and yet he stillbecame this.

“Do you know where you’ll go?” she asks, her voice only a little choked.

“Not yet,” and his voice goes gentle, tender in response—he was always a softhearted child, and Richard tried to train it from him as a weakness. The man reaching for her other hand, and squeezing both in reassurance—he is anything but weak.

“We have other people to think about staying close to,” he adds, something settled and easy in the way he says it, something Diane doesn’t even think she knows or can claim at her age now, vibrant and unshakeable in her beautiful boy as he rubs his thumbs over her knuckles; “at least close enough,” he tags on, a little joke in it that she doesn’t understand, but relishes anyway to see it at all.

She may not be able to take much credit for the person her son has become, this pillar stood before her, giving simple solace where he scarcely owes her—but she still bore him from her body, she still loves him in the cells of her. She is…

It is not hyperbole to say that she’s a little in awe.

“Before you decide on the right home, the one that fits you perfectly,” she starts, ready to list off the top considerations for house hunting and finding a good neighborhood, open and accepting in all the right ways, to guide her boy as true as she can with all that she knows, but he cuts her off with a laugh, first.

His laugh is different than how she remembers it last. Freer but also somehow hard-earned. Like he was as a child, but bruised from the journey back.

Stronger for it. Worth more, but more than slightly soul-crushing, nonetheless.

“Mom,” and his voice is so warm, she may cry more for it; “he’s my home. He’s the right, perfect fit,” and he’s so earnest, so settled in that truth that she feels buoyed for it just the same by proximity. “All the rest is just,” he huffs, rolls his eyes and flicks his hand: dismissive.

Everything else is window dressing, or less than.

And she lets go of his hands then to reach for him, takes the chance and fears she was foolish when he hesitates for a second but then he gives, he hugs her back.

This man in her arms is so much more than she could have raised, even if she’d been here every moment. It’s humbling.

But it’s also beautiful.

She doesn’t want to let him go, now that she has him, but she’s reminded starkly in that moment that she couldn’t have raised him—and Richard would have crushed him by force, even if he didn’t recognize it. Her husband isn’t a wholesalely bad man, but he is a horrifyingly careless one. Wasn’t always, but has certainly gotten worse with age.

She needs to act before he gets here; in case he gets here.

Just in case.

She kisses the side of Strve’s cheek—without her heels she’s not a small woman, but she’s smaller than him—and goes to where she dropped her purse on the counter, suitcases still near the door. Her checkbook is always at the bottom, so she pulls it out, flips it open, glances at the balance ledger and confirms she can write this immediately without issue.

In the note section she writes, after pulling it free form the carbon copy:

for the perfect fit

“Then you, and your perfect fit,” she says with a smile, rounding back to where she left Steve standing, watching; “you deserve the most amazing setting for your story to unfold upon,” she hands him the check and kisses his forehead this time, now in reach as he looks down to read what he holds: “and nothing less.”

She keeps her hands on his shoulders as his jaw drops:

“Mom, this is way too,” he tries to protest, and looks honest about it—he never was so concerned with the money. Not like his father.

But they have it, whether he shares the obsession. They have it. Which means Diane can share it with him regardless.

“It’s the most I can give just now, with it drawing from the account that’s only mine,” she explains, a little apologetic, because while Steve seems to think the number extravagant, it’s less than a drop in the bucket. “I know it’s not much, but if you plan to stay here, at least for awhile, I will get you the rest as quickly as I can,” she promises him, she promises; “your trust, the money from your grandfather,” she pauses, worries her lip.

“I can’t guarantee your father won’t write you out of the will if he finds out,” she doesn’t have to say whathe’d need to find out, for that; “but as long as I’mhere, I will do what I can.”

And she means that, with all her heart. And she doesn’t mean only money. They’ve traded primarily in dollars for so long, it’s the quickest way to act, the easiest form of support but…she may be out of practice.

But she doesn’t just mean money.

“You don’t have to,” Steve starts again, sounds resigned but she doesn’t want him to even land there in accepting what’s rightfully his, and beyond that, something on,y just close to what he’s due and deserves.

“Very little of what I’ve done in life was what I had to,” she draws him close again, now, wraps arms around him; “and too much of what I’ve done was less than what I had to,” and she holds to him fiercely even before his own arms return the embrace.

“I did not do right by you, my petite étoile,” she murmurs; she always called him that. She doesn’t speak French, doesn’t even know if she pronounces it right, but she’s fairly certain he was conceived on her honeymoon, in Paris. It was her own treasured little name for him as he grew in her, as she felt him and spoke to him in her womb, as close to her heart then as he’s always stayed.

“Let me do this,” she hisses a little too desperate; or maybe not even close to desperate enough; “I’m sorry it’s so late.”

She hears Steve’s throat click around how he swallows, how he nods, doesn’t say anything.

She finds another wild and vibrant emotion to associate with her son for it: respect. Such…suchrespect.

“I’m so proud of you,” she says as if it can even scratch the surface of what feels like meeting a whole new person, in some ways, and then the boy who curled up against her when he was sick, who was soft before he was formed into doubting all that he was at his heart. “I barely know you, and it breaks my heart, but it’s my own doing,” and it is. It is her own doing.

She’s the reason she’s only just meeting Steve, a man now, with his whole heart on display like a challenge, like a warning—brazen and full enough to stand formidable. Magnificent.

“Yet I can see you’re not my little étoile anymore,” she kisses his cheek again once, twice, shaking a little with so much feeling she knew she’d buried inside for a very long time but didn’t…didn’t think it was this much.

“You,” she pulls back only enough to look him in the eyes, frame his cheeks in her palms as she declares with all that shaking feeling in her:

“You’re a full-grown sun, soleil courageux,” and she doesn’t speak French. Not a lick. Probably says it wrong.

But that cannot matter more than meaning it wholly, and then some.

“And if you find it in you to give me the chance,” she heaves a shuddery breath; “to have the privilege to truly know my brave, brave son,” she strokes back and forth over his cheekbones, cherishing him; “and where he’s put his lion’s heart?”

Because whether he grants her this or not: she needs him to know. She needs him to know that she understands that to learn her son is to learn is love. To meet Steve is to meet the man waiting in his bed.

And she wants to know both, more than anything in the world.

“And either way, wherever you land,” because she needs him to know this part too—she is not his father. Her love and her commitment is not conditional. “You’ll know where to find me,” she kisses the side of his head one more time and whispers fierce there:

“I’ll come however far I need.”

She will. She’ll trek the globe on foot if she has to. She’s wasted so much time already, she’s—

“I love you, mom.”

And with those words, those heart-swelling words, she’s pulling him back to her chest and he lets her, falls into her for the first time in so long after saying those words for the first time in so very long—

“Oh darling,” she breathes, nothing short of tearful; “I may not have shown it as I should have, or even as I wanted to in my heart of hearts,” and her heart of hearts is beating riotous in her chest, and all she can do is clutch her little star, her courageous sun all the closer to it so he knows.

“But I hope you never doubted that I loved you more than life,” and life has given her many more blessings than trials, but none among them could ever compare to her baby boy, could not even hope to try; “that allmy love in this world is fixed on you,” and it’s true—her family is mostly gone now, none close left on her side, and her husband, well.

Even if they’d all been there, with her marriage in its fullest bloom: as soon as she found she was pregnant, it was all peripheral. There was love as she knew it, and then the moment when love split into two things: her child, and then all the rest.

The rest landing kind of…kind of like window dressing.

“If you were ever unsure,” she says, hesitant because she fears the answer, the truth; steadfast because this is an opportunity to make it right, or at the least to start to: “please know now, the best I can still manage,” she tips her head to Steve’s shoulder, breathes him in like she used to—he doesn’t smell the same as a baby in her arms, of course, but there’s…there’s something there she would recognize anywhere.

“You were the love that pulled me through some very dark times, my brilliant star,” she whispers, getting teary again, lord, she hasn’t shed this many tears in years. “I love you.”

“Stevie?”

They both turn, though Steve’s slow, calmer. Diane recognizes the hair on the boy in the archway first from just the moments she’d caught them—and then the eyes.

Only slightly less terrified than before, here and now.

“Sorry, to interrupt,” the man pulls a thick bunch of hair across his mouth; “I just didn’t want you to be…”

And his eyes land on Steve, and Diane recognizes that kind of look: protective. Assessing. Making sure Steve’s okay.

Maybe her son wasn’t the only one on the lookout for threats to his love.

“Ah,” she says, looking at the boy—she doesn’t even know his name yet, but she already feels a fondness in him as she cups Steve’s cheeks again, but still looks the other, fearful boy square-on even as she speaks to Steve knowingly, but loud enough the whole room can hear:

“You found a courageous heart to match your own, hmm?”

And Steve huffs, a smile stretching his lips like he can’t help it and wouldn’t dream of wanting to, and when he reaches for the boy, that boy answers exactly the same. For love.

The perfect fit.

She offers an open arm herself, should he want to take it, suddenly overcome with a maternal instinct she hasn’t felt so strong before, for the doubling of its targets.

But before he can accept it or reject, before he’s close enough yet to decide either way, or even close enough to take the outstretched hand Steve’s beckoning him with; before any of that she whispers into Steve’s ear:

“Please tell me you’re teaching him to condition that hair. Those curls could be devastating with the proper routine.”

And when Steve catches his beloved hand, it's on a crest of laughter.

Diane has the clear feeling now that it’s not the first time this house has seen such unbridled joy, such unsheltered care in the way two hands slide into one another—has a feeling this is more routine than otherwise, but Diane hasn’t seen it. Not in a…a very long time.

It’s wondrous. It’s…

Steve’s done an incredible job with the place. He’s built an incredible life.

“Mom?” Steve shakes her back to the moment; he’s watching her, careful again but this time also hopeful. It’s a potent mix. He glances to the boy now tucked against his side, now melting into his space—she never had that with Richard.

Real love. That’s all she could have hoped for, for a boy who was born with the biggest heart for the world that she’d ever known.

One that’s only appeared to get bigger, once it was free to, and safe to, if the way her son locks eyes and gently guides his perfect fit to turn into a hand on his cheek; to let him hold, and soothe, to reassure and promise: safety.

And forever.

“This is Eddie,” Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie as he says it, and those eyes say all anyone could ever need to know: love.

Love, love, and more love to bursting.

“Eddie,” Diane says soft but with a glowing kind of joy, gratitude that Steve could have found someone who moves to make clear the way they’re suited to the genes in them.

“I’m sorry I barged into your home,” she says, because she knows what she’s seen and she meant what she felt: this is Steve’s house. And Eddie and Steve belong to each other. “But it’s an absolute privilege to meet you.”

It’s the right thing to say, if the dimples hiding behind the fear mean what she’d suspect, and then the skepticism softens into unmitigated trust in Eddie’s expression at Steve’s side: it’s the way those dimples pop in the end as Eddie looks at her and takes her hand, too, that makes it clear as day.

Granted: she always was good at reading people.

1: Gareth // 2: Mrs. Harrington // 3: Wayne // 4: Chrissy // 5: ??? // +1: ???

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