#wcbh

Steve Harrington was late for work. Again. 

It wasn’t because he’d spilled coffee on his way out the door, or because he’d forgotten to set his alarm, or because his Beemer wouldn’t start, or any of the other excuses he’d provided over the last three weeks. 

And every single one of them was a lie, just as today’s excuse would be. 

He bounded through the glass doors of The Hawkins Post building, waving a quick hello to the receptionist on his way in. 

“Mr. Harrington,” Rose said, her blue-gray eyes widening in concern, “your lip is bleeding.”

Steve stopped in his tracks, silently cursing himself as he swiped his tongue over his lower lip. He did his best to feign shock when the familiar taste of metal filled his mouth.  

“Allergies must be making my lips chapped,” he said with a half-hearted chuckle. 

Rose’s brows pinched together. “Do allergies cause chapped lips?” She asked, using a pencil eraser to scratch above her ear. 

“Oh, yeah. I mean, m-mine do,” Steve stammered. “Must be some weird genetic thing or something.” He dashed towards his office before the older woman could question him further. 

Weird genetic thing. An absolutely bizarre explanation that was somehow more believable than the truth: Steve’s actual weird genetics gave him the strength of one thousand men, the speed of a bullet shot from a gun, and heat vision that could melt the polar ice caps. 

Just to name a few. 

And the cut on his lip had come from a monster that had escaped containment, breaching the gap between worlds. Steve had fought them before, but the large creature who had stumbled out of Lover’s Lake was flanked by two smaller yet equally-strong comrades. 

And when one of the smaller creatures shrieked beside Steve’s ear, slimy saliva dripping from its petal-like skin, the leader seized the opportunity to dig its claws into Steve’s face. 

If he hadn’t been trying to get to work, he would have taken more time to heal himself. But the sting from the scratch was nothing compared to the searing pain he’d felt when the third monster flailed its long arms and knocked him to the ground, so that injury took priority. 

Now, Steve adjusted his tie and kept his head down as he hurried past Mr. Holloway’s office. After the morning’s chaos, the last thing he needed was to be scolded for his tardiness. 

Tom Holloway’s door squeaked open just before Steve could turn into his own office. He cringed, knowing his guilt would be even more obvious if he ignored his boss. 

“Morning, Mr. Holloway.” Steve managed a small, nervous smile, trying to ignore the twinge of discomfort at the corner of his mouth. 

But Mr. Holloway’s smile was far more genuine. “How many times have I told you: Call me Tom?” He clapped a strong hand on Steve’s back and gave him a little shake. “Do me a favor, kid—ask your dad if we can push back our golf game to noon tomorrow. I’ve gotta get a cavity filled in the morning.”

Steve exhaled, hoping his relief wasn't too evident. “Of course. I’ll let him know.”

His boss left without a thank you; not that Steve expected one. He only got this job at The Hawkins Post because his father and Mr. Holloway were friends. Steve had a feeling that he’d still be serving ice cream to whining children or rewinding hundreds of hours of movies if it wasn’t for this family connection. 

He plopped down at his desk, flicking open his notepad to his most recent interview with Colts quarterback Jeff George. 

“Jeez, Harrington. What the hell happened to you?”

There was never a moment of peace with Eddie Munson around. He pushed his swivel chair from behind his own desk and careened into Steve. His grin never left his face. 

“Nothing,” Steve mumbled, instinctively bringing his hand over his mouth. 

But Eddie wouldn’t relent. “Did you get into a fight? Henderson told me you used to get beat up a lot in high school—” 

“Eddie!” Nancy Wheeler snapped. She kept a pencil tucked behind her ear. “I can’t concentrate with you yapping!” 

Jonathan Byers was never one to speak up, but he put his arm around Nancy in solidarity. His camera dangled from a strap around his neck. 

Eddie rolled his eyes and wheeled himself back over to his comic sketches. “Every party has a pooper…” he muttered. 

Steve mouthed a thank you to Nancy, but she was already poring over a draft, furiously editing and revising like her life depended on it. 

Probably one of mine, Steve thought. It’s not like English had been his best subject in school; he pulled solid Cs and stumbled towards graduation without a semblance of a plan. This gig at the newspaper was his first and last chance to have a meaningful career. 

The fact that it paid enough so that he could move into his own place didn’t hurt, either. 

And then there was another perk of the job—one that Steve tried and failed to ignore. But your cubicle was empty, your chair facing away from the desk. 

“Looking for your girlfriend?” 

Flames of embarrassment nipped at Steve’s face; he was almost certain that the tips of his ears were turning scarlet. It took every ounce of willpower not to smack the Cheshire Cat grin off of Eddie’s face. 

“Not my girlfriend,” he huffed. “You’re the only one here in a secret relationship.”

Eddie scoffed, crossing his tattoo-covered arms over his chest. Despite the Post’s business-casual dress code, he somehow always got away with wearing old band t-shirts. 

“Speaking of that.” He thumbed an unfolded sheet of paper that he’d tucked beneath his own scrapped articles. “Chrissy sent me another one today. This one was under my windshield wiper.”

Steve’s brows pinched together as he read the note. 

can’t w8 2 see you again

“Sounds like a stalker,” Steve quipped. “What’s with the random numbers this time?”

“Dunno.” Eddie shrugged. “Maybe it’s so Henry can’t figure it out.”

Steve didn’t bother to point out that anyone with two brain cells could crack that code; doing so would require him to continue talking to Eddie about his love life. 

There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to get him through that discussion. 

Luckily, Eddie took the hint. “Well, your not-girlfriend is talking to the Boss Man right now.”

Sure enough, Steve could hear your voice coming from Mr. Holloway’s office, even with the door closed. He couldn’t help but creep closer, hoping to catch snippets of the conversation. 

“…and there was another one today,” you were saying, “but no one’s talking about it. We’re just acting like it doesn’t exist.”

Mr. Holloway let out an irritated sigh. “I have it on good authority that the mayor has it under control. We don’t want to interfere with—”

“I’m not asking to interfere! But the people of Hawkins deserve to know the truth.”

“Do you know the truth?” Mr. Holloway’s question was met with a heavy silence. “Listen, kid; I’m not trying to turn my newspaper into some trashy gossip rag. If people want to read about monsters or alien invasions, they can pick up the Enquirer.”

Steve clenched his fists, but shamefully stayed rooted to where he was standing. He’d fought off some otherworldly creature not even two hours earlier, but his courage failed him now. 

That wasn’t quite true. Steve wasn’t afraid of defending you. If Mr. Holloway fired him, he’d just trudge back to Family Video and beg Keith for his old job back. 

No, Steve was afraid that if he stepped into the office and saw the anguish that was no doubt written all over your face, he’d beat Mr. Holloway until his face was unrecognizable. 

And he’d promised himself that he’d never use his strength in such a way. That slope was too slippery. The fine line between ‘hero’ and ‘villain’ would become fuzzy once he exerted his powers without a reasonable threat. 

Mr. Holloway lowered his voice and continued. “Our job is to keep the status quo. Write about picking pumpkins at Merrill Wright’s farm or whatever bullshit, fou-fou musical the community center is putting on. That’s what Hawkins needs to read about.”

You grumbled a resigned “yes, sir,” and Steve scrambled back to his desk before you could catch him eavesdropping. 

If journalism or being a superhero don’t work out, maybe I can pursue a career as a spy, Steve thought wryly. He was already no stranger to hiding and concealing his identity. 

Kid. 

The word prickled beneath your skin, barking at you to remind your arrogant boss that you were a grown woman. A woman with a degree in journalism, who would like to use that degree to write more than just fluff pieces. 

Not that much of anything ever happened in Hawkins, but there were certainly more pressing stories than Halloween celebrations. 

“Asshole,” you muttered under your breath. Your fingernails left crescent-shaped marks where they’d bit into your palms. 

You plastered a smile on your face before rejoining your coworkers. It didn’t take long for the smile to become real once you saw Steve. 

Steve looked up from his work, hiking his wire-framed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Hey, Cronkite.”

Your heart surged at his nickname for you. “Hey, Harrington.”

Steve practically flung himself across the office, his chair skidding on the carpet as he pushed from his cubicle to yours. 

You arched an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

“You sighed.”

“I what?”

“Sighed,” Steve repeated. “Like…” he let out a long, melancholy breath. 

Did you sigh? You hadn’t even noticed. Apparently, Steve had. 

You shrugged, trying to play off your residual frustration. “Meeting with Holloway. Y’know how it is.”

Except he wouldn’t know how it is, because simply having the Harrington name made Steve the office’s golden boy. 

Steve knew it, too, which was why his response was, “Want me to talk to him?”

You couldn’t shake your head fast enough. The only thing more embarrassing than being shut down by Holloway—again—was sending Steve in to fight your battles for you. 

“It’s fine,” you assured him. “I mean, it’s not fine, because there’s something weird going on, and he wants me to focus on—”

“Wait.” Steve’s eyebrows disappear beneath his hair. “What do you mean, ‘weird?’”

You froze, your eyes shifting around the room. No one else was paying attention to your conversation, so you let your guard down enough to whisper, “have you seen, like…” you paused, carefully selecting your words, “...creatures around here?”

You felt ridiculous as soon as you said it. Creatures? You expected Steve to laugh and spend the rest of the day claiming to have seen Bigfoot in the woods or the Loch Ness Monster swimming around Lovers Lake.

Instead, he lowered his own voice. “What kinds of creatures?”

“Like, not animals. But not people, either. They walk like people, but they,” you swallowed, trying to ignore how absurd you sounded, “they have these weird faces, but I didn’t see any eyes. Just these–”

“Petals.” Steve finished for you. “They look like flower petals with teeth.”

“Yes!” You slammed your palm down on the desk, wincing at the unintentional attention it drew. When the rest of the office went back to their work, you continued. “And this morning, there was a guy fighting one of them.”

Steve flinched, but he collected himself before speaking again. “A guy?”

“Yeah.” You nodded, thinking back to that morning. It felt like a fever dream. Bright yellow beams emanated from the man’s eyes, forcing the creature to cower back, before he pummeled it to the ground. “Steve, this is gonna sound insane, but I swear the guy…flew away afterwards.”

If Steve was shocked, he hid it well. “And Holloway won’t let you report on it?”

You shook your head. “Honestly, I thought he would call me crazy, but he just brushed me off and told me to ‘keep the status quo.’”

A fire ignited behind Steve’s hazel eyes for half a second; if you’d blinked, you would have missed it. “Fuck it,” he grumbled, ripping an empty page out of your notepad. He scribbled something down before handing it back to you. “Meet me here at seven o’clock tonight. I…I know the guy who you saw today. He’ll tell you everything.”

“How do you–” You stopped when Steve gave you a sharp look. Sure enough, Holloway was stalking out of his office, furiously waving an empty coffee mug at a beleaguered intern. 

Before you could interrogate Steve any further, he’d already tucked himself into his own cubicle.

The rest of your questions would have to wait until tonight.

What the hell am I doing?

Steve paced around his apartment, keeping his eyes on the intercom like he could stop it from buzzing if he stared at it hard enough.

She’s gonna show up and it’s just gonna be you. And then what? You’re gonna say that the guy didn’t show up and look like an idiot? Or like you invited your female coworker to your place, where it will be just the two of you? Great plan, Harrington.

There was another option: Tell the truth. But that posed its own problems, like trusting you to keep his secret–and to believe him in the first place.

Why had he even opened his big mouth? 

He knew exactly why, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it. Instead, he convinced himself that it was a favor for a friend–no, a colleague–who deserved a chance to prove their misogynistic boss wrong.

When the intercom buzzed, Steve nearly jumped out of his skin. “U-Uh, yeah?”

“It’s me!” You chirped. Your enthusiasm curdled in his stomach. He was going to have to let you down. 

With lead fingers, Steve buzzed you in. He’d decided that his friend had just called and said that he wouldn’t be able to make it. Why? Oh, he’s sick. A little under the weather, but he should be back to fighting those pesky monsters in no time. 

How long would it take you to get up the four flights of stairs to his apartment? Surely he could think of a more solid excuse before you—

Knock knock. 

Steve squeezed his eyes shut and swore under his breath before opening the door. As always, you were prepared, already unpacking the messenger bag that was strapped across your body. He reached out in a futile attempt to help you juggle your pencil, notepad, and tape recorder, but you didn’t notice. 

There were only so many pleasantries you two could exchange—your place is nice; here, let me take your jacket—before you questioned when the mystery hero would show up. 

“He can’t make it,” Steve offered sheepishly. “He, uh, he got sick. Food poisoning. Could barely hang up the phone before he had to run to the bathroom.”

You wrinkled your nose. “I hope he feels better.” Your hands fell to your sides in defeat. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at work tomorrow?”

All Steve had to say was “yes.” Maybe throw in a “get home safe.” Instead, he found himself saying:

“I can answer some questions for you. Like, as his friend, or whatever.” 

The disappointment that had briefly flickered behind your eyes vanished. “Yeah, absolutely. I mean, if you have time.”

Steve forced out a nervous laugh. “I’ve got nothing but time.” He patted the back of a plush sofa chair. “Have a seat. I can handle whatever you throw at me.”

The smile on your face was genuine, and Steve felt himself relax into his own chair as he sat across from you. He polished the lenses of his glasses on his white button-down shirt and rested his forearms on his thighs. “Take it away, Cronkite.”

“Okay.” The cassette’s wheels began spinning. “Mr. Harrington, do you understand that everything you say is considered ‘on the record?’”

He ignored the way his stomach flipped when you addressed him formally. “Of course.”

“Great. So,” you took a deep breath, “would be too forward to ask you who your friend is?”

Steve nodded. 

“I’ll need a verbal response, Mr. Harrington.”

Right. Steve had become so accustomed to being the interviewer that he’d forgotten the interviewee’s protocol. “Yes, that would definitely be too forward.” 

“I figured.” That damn smile again. You made it nearly impossible for him to focus on the questions with that smile. “In that case, I’m wondering what your friend is battling. Because these aren’t the usual coyotes that we might find around Hawkins, are they?” 

Steve shook his head before remembering to give his answer aloud. “No, they definitely are not.” He raked a hand through his wavy hair. “We don’t know their exact species, but he refers to them as, uh, monsters.”

Your eyebrows shot upwards. “Monsters? That sounds ominous.” You glanced at your list of prepared questions. “How did you–he, sorry–get involved in protecting the town from these ‘monsters?’”

“He’s the only one who can.”

Your impatient finger jabbed the pause button, and the reels came to a halt. “Steve,” you bemoaned, “no vague answers. Please.”

“Right.” He sat back in his chair with a soft thud. The easiest way to go about this was to tell the true story in the third person and omit some details. 

Steve watched your eyes widen as he spoke, detailing how his friend, at eight years old, tagged along with his father, who was a real estate developer working on a project for Hawkins National Lab. How his friend wandered off while the adults discussed business, ignoring the STAFF ONLY and BIOHAZARD signs plastered on one particular door. How his friend had been exposed to all sorts of radioactivity by the time anyone found him, and how that exposure had left him with superhuman abilities.

“Like what?” You cringed at the casual delivery. “I mean, what are these superhuman abilities?”

“Well, for one, he’s insanely strong. Like, if this building started to fall, he’d be able to hold it up long enough for everyone to get out. Flying, of course, he can fly.” Steve scratched at the back of his neck and kept his eyes on a speck of lint on his pants. “And he can shoot laser beams from his eyes, which is useful because the monsters hate fire–”

The sound of your pencil slamming onto the paper startled him. When he looked up at you again, his heart nervously thumped at the rage written across your tightened jaw.

But when you spoke, your words were laced with more hurt than anger.

“Is this a joke?” Your voice shook. “Is this funny to you?”

The cassette reels kept spinning, though you made no attempt to stop the tape.

“Let me get this straight,” you continued, shoving your papers back into your bag. “You invited me here under false pretenses–”

“It wasn’t false!”

His rebuttal went unheard. “And then you give me some bullshit story about a guy, who conveniently happens to be sick, with these crazy powers that he got from a science lab?”

“I know.” Without thinking, Steve reached for your hands, immediately feeling the loss when you pulled back. “I know how it sounds. But you’ve gotta trust me, Cronkite. You saw that monster–”

“I don’t know what I saw,” you snapped. “It could’ve just been a…a bear.”

Steve crossed his arms and poorly stifled an eyeroll. “A bear whose face opens up?”

Why was he fighting you so hard on this? Why couldn’t he just pretend that he’d been playing a prank? Sure, you’d be furious at him, but his secret would be safe. 

“Maybe it was deformed!”

“Look,” Steve hissed through clenched teeth. “I know what you saw. You know what you saw. So just…just sit down, and you can ask me anything you–”

“Help!”

Steve swiveled towards the shriek at neck-breaking speed. He unlatched his window to see Doris Driscoll standing on the sidewalk, clutching an empty leash. 

Ten paces in front of her, clutching a fluffy white bundle in its claws, was one of the largest monsters Steve had ever seen. 

“Help! It’s got my Misty!”

“What’s going on?” Steve hadn’t even realized you were at his side until you spoke. “Steve, what–”

“Stay here, Cronkite.” He grasped your shoulders and looked you square in the eyes when you opened your mouth to protest, effectively silencing you. “Stay here! Do you understand me?”

All you managed was a trembling nod. He’d never spoken to you like that before, and he suspected he’d scared you.

Good. Better to have you scared and safe in his apartment than unafraid and at the mercy of whatever was hunting outside.

“Stay here,” he repeated, “and lock the window as soon as I leave. Don’t open it again until I knock. Got it?”

“Y-Yes.”

If you hadn’t been there to witness what happened next, you never would have believed it.

You’d been so sure that Steve was messing with you, so wrapped up in your own fury, that you could hardly register what was going on. 

The man who had just been sitting before you, nervously picking at his fingernails and begging you to believe his wild story, now stood tall and alert. He rolled his shoulders back, never once stopping to consider his next actions. It was as though he was on autopilot, like he had done this many times before. 

Steve moved in a blur. He was in his work clothes in one moment; in the next, he was wearing a dark blue suit. It was too thick to be spandex, but too form-fitting and rigid to be cotton, and it clung to his every muscle. A red “S” was emblazoned on the chest, seated in the center of a yellow diamond. His glasses were nowhere to be found, and a red cape flowed behind him as he jumped out of the open window.

No, not jumped. Flew.

With his arms stretched out in front of him, Steve Harrington flew out of his living room window into the inky black night.

And right towards the open mouth of a monster.

Marcus is tired. The kind of tired that builds slowly, the feeling cresting higher and higher until it’s pulsing behind his eyes. The kind of tired that leaves him irritable and anxious, and ready to take it out on anyone or anything. His head is pounding, his body aching from the physical exertion of standing his ground for far too long. It had been what felt like hours of runaround from the chief of police; a semi-regular occurrence that he had grown far too accustomed to. The room was stuffy, the blinds pulled closed and the door shut tight, locking them in with the stale air and cigarette smoke. He fights the urge to tug at his tie, refusing to give the bullheaded ass sitting across from him the satisfaction.

Being leader of the Heroics came with quite a few headaches but the bureaucratic anxieties that came along with dealing with the local law enforcement was one of the biggest thorns in his side. 

“Sir, the Heroics have always done our best to keep the lines of communication with your precinct open. But in order to achieve that, you’ll have to meet us in the middle.”

Chief Baldwin chuckles, the sound demeaning in more ways than one. He leans back in his chair, his heels making a heavy thud as they hit his desk. “As in break protocol? Skirt the rules? Allow vigilantes free reign in my precinct and my city?” 

“I don’t see how my asking for a few unredacted case files is–”

“Forget it, Moreno!” He grins, making a show of picking up the very file Marcus had asked for. “You can go through the proper legal channels and you’ll take what I give you. Now get the hell out of my sight.” 

Marcus turns where he stands and storms out, making sure to slam the door as hard as he can, the bland, generic art hanging on the wall rattling on impact. For a moment he doesn’t move, chest heaving and fists clenching, wishing he had something (or someone) to take this simmering rage out on. Just as he’s about to start walking again, intent on completing his righteous tantrum with a moniker of dignity, a soothing voice hits his ear with the smallest of peace offerings. 

“Coffee?”

He turns to see Baldwin’s secretary staring at him from her desk, a stack of paper sitting in front of her, her pen poised above a signature line. His frown shifts, the tension melting from his shoulders as his head jerks out a nod and he falls into the seat beside her desk, the chair squeaking beneath the weight of him. 

She doesn’t say anything else, instead gripping his shoulder once before standing and stepping away. He watches her from the corner of his eye, her movements precise as she pours him a cup of dark liquid. She tears open two sugars, adding them along with a splash of cream before finally setting the navy blue mug down in front of him. She pours her own, a chipped white mug with a worn-away police badge on the front, and returns to her seat, turning her quiet gaze in Marcus’s direction. 

“You can say it,” she prompts, brown eyes watching him over the rim of her mug, the slightest hint of a smile curling along the corner of her lips.

“Your boss is a jerk.”

She doesn’t respond, but her smile shifts just a smidge wider. She takes a generous sip, humming as if she actually enjoys the taste of it. She sets her coffee to the side, and pushes up the sleeves of her cream-colored blouse, turning back to her stack of papers with renewed intent, jotting something down across the top of the page.

“The two of you have been doing this dance for years now. I’d think you’d be used to it.”

Marcus grumbles into his own coffee, refusing to respond, knowing full well how good of a point she’s making. Amy Oliver has, after all, had a front row seat to every argument between the Heroic and the chief of police from day one. She knew the pattern just as well as Marcus did, and after every instance of door slamming and name calling she was always there to help in her own way. She was one of the few people in the building who brought a smile to his face and he found that even when he knew there would be trouble, Marcus always looked forward to sitting at her desk and sipping her terrible coffee. 

“Might be time to just end these little visits. Not like they get me anywhere.”

“Don’t joke,” she gasps, her over the top pout more than comical. “What would I do for entertainment around here without the two of you having your little pissing matches? My job?”

He rolls his eyes, but her smile is contagious, and before he can stop himself, he’s hiding his own behind his mug. 

“Perish the thought.”

“The audacity,” she murmurs mostly to herself, checking another box with a bit too much flourish, her ponytail swinging from the effort. “How was your weekend? Did Missy end up going out with what’s his name? The one who’s death you’ve been daydreaming about?”

Marcus feels his smile slip at the change in topic, but Amy doesn’t miss a single beat. “She did! I love this! How did Marcus Moreno, leader of the Heroics, handle his baby girl going out on a date?” 

“I’ll have you know I handled it great.”

The admission seems to finally have her full attention. She drops her pen and leans forward on her elbows, the tips of her fingers just grazing the tops of his thighs. 

“Define ‘great’?” 

Marcus swallows hard, ignoring the heat swirling deep in his belly, even as he feels himself lean, just barely, into her phantom touch. Amy, for her part, takes his silence in stride, reading between the lines of everything he doesn’t say.

“Let me guess? Sharpening those silly swords at the kitchen table when he came to pick her up? A stern reminder of curfew while also demonstrating superhuman strength? A text or two under the guise of ‘checking in’?”

He barks out a laugh at how keen her eye really is. “Alright, you got me! I may have leaned a little hard into the protective dad thing.”

“And I bet Missy was still home by curfew.”

“A few minutes early, actually. Not sure why I worry so much.”

Her hand is on his knee before he even has a chance to register the feeling, another comforting squeeze, there and gone faster than he can pull air into his lungs. “Because you’re a dad.”

He coughs and takes another sip of coffee, an action meant only to help slow his racing heart, and leans further back in his chair.

“How was your weekend?”

“Oh, big Saturday night. My mom sent Harris Candy Land. So, naturally we had to play it 5,000 times in a row.”

Marcus feels his chest fill with a different kind of warmth, picturing Amy and her 7 year old daughter going toe to toe over the same board game he and Missy would play night after night. She could downplay it all she wanted, but he knows that when given the chance to spend quality time with her daughter, Amy would play as many repetitive games as there were stars in the sky. 

“You wouldn’t believe how many times she beat me, Marcus! I swear! This weekend I’m pulling out Monolopy and letting her taste my wrath.”

“Big words,” he teases, admiring the way her cheeks heat up beneath his own gentle ribbing.

When their snickers finally start to subside Marcus moves to refill both their mugs while Amy continues to work. She thanks him, easily splitting her focus in a way he’s always been jealous of. She checks a few more boxes and signs one paper after another, all the while never letting her bright eyes and impish grin stray from his attention. She doesn’t falter, even in the throes of her gentle teasing, and Marcus wishes he could spend the rest of his day sitting across from her.

And then, as if she can read his mind, “Can you stay for lunch today?”

“No,” he sighs, hating the taste of the word more than the shit Amy calls coffee. “I have to get back. The rest of the team will be waiting for me.” He takes one final sip of coffee before standing, knocking his fist against her desk in lieu of goodbye. 

“Okay, well, can you toss these files in the shredder for me on the way out the door? I have to get a presentation set up for a briefing, and I’m already behind.”

“Of course,” Marcus agrees, accepting the stack of papers that she had been carefully chipping away at since he walked in this morning.  

“Thanks, handsome,” Amy quips, turning back to the computer screen, the click of her mouse following him as he goes. When he gets to the shredder he stops and tosses one single piece of paper away, taking care to fold the rest in half before sliding them into the breast pocket of his jacket. Once outside, he walks quickly to his car, only stopping briefly to send a quick text.

M: Thank you 

A: For what?

She always was a pro at playing dumb.

It would have been easy to mistake Amy as a wallflower, her eyes always pointed down, her lips seemingly sealed tight, fetching coffee and filing paperwork with zero complaints. She knew the precinct better than anyone, and though every cop in the building would rather die than admit it, she was the reason that place made any difference.

It certainly wouldn’t be the first time a secretary was underestimated. 

But it wasn’t long before she proved that very notion wrong, finding Marcus after his very first argument with Baldwin, pushing a crumpled piece of paper into his hand along with a crappy cup of station coffee. When he smoothed it open later that day, it was to find a list of suspects, hastily scribbled in Amy’s beautifully looped cursive. 

Neither of them mentioned it again, but the tips kept coming, subtle and not so subtle alike. Case files meant for the shredder that never made it, heavy boxes carried to the evidence locker under the guise of a favor, and one hilarious time when a phone number had been penciled into five down on a Monday morning crossword puzzle. Each one had helped him avoid the legislative tape wrapped securely around police work, and Marcus was eternally grateful for all she did to help him and the other Heroics. 

Even if he couldn’t tell a single soul.

M: Next time I’m around, lunch is on me.

Marcus tries not to think about how it’ll probably be a few weeks before he shows his face around the precinct again, especially considering the confidential information he had just been handed. It always felt prudent to keep a low profile after these run-ins with Baldwin. He picks up his pace, anxious to get back to Heroics headquarters and begin parsing through the case report tucked out of sight, his detective skills already thrumming to life with the potential of new puzzle pieces.

It’s another helpful distraction from the lingering memory of her comforting grip around his shoulder, the hint of her smile over the rim of a chipped coffee mug, the teasing lilt of sweet adorations that he knows don’t mean a thing.

-------------

Amy takes care to keep her eyes forward, watching Marcus over the top of her computer monitor, only catching a glimpse of his hands as he tosses away some of the pieces of paper she had handed him, and pocketing the rest. The transition is seamless, and she can’t help but swell with pride as the Heroic disappears completely from view, the front door of the precinct swinging shut behind him.

Her concentration is broken by another stack of papers hitting the corner of her desk. From the sound of the dull thud it gives, she already knows the rest of her afternoon is now spoken for. But, she reasons, at least it should help the hours tick by just a little bit faster. 

“I swear. That Moreno. He just doesn’t know when to call it quits.”

She casts an eye over her shoulder at her boss, refusing to feel any sort of shame for being caught staring. It was hardly the first time she had let her eyes linger on the width of his shoulders or the cut of his jaw, unable to deny how handsome the man is. She was only human after all.

Today had been just like any other, Marcus’s righteous fury boiling away to reveal his tender heart, joking along with her as he slowly relaxed back into himself. Amy could feel the heat making a home in her cheeks, unable to look away from his plush lips as they formed around a laugh or the stretch of his skin as he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. But for all her stolen glances and coy flirting, she knew she could never bear to ask for more, not willing to risk the precious friendship they’d built together over the years. 

“You could try playing ball with the Heroics every once and a while.”

“He’s a bleeding heart, Oliver. Walking around with superpowers and worrying about petty police business. Best not to get too hung up on him.”

A bleeding heart is one way to put it. 

A good man is another. 

A rare find in a world full of men and women alike who were anything but. Amy had had her fair share of experience with those, Harris’s dad the best example she could conjure up. But it hardly mattered. He was gone and she and Harris were better off for it. 

And if given the choice she’d gladly take Marcus’s bleeding heart over the man who walked out when there were two lines on the stick instead of one. 

Derek stares down at her, dark eyes nearly piercing where they pin her in place. For the briefest of moments, white hot panic slices through her heart and she worries he’d seen the case report Marcus had slipped out of sight. But then he’s turning away, reaching for the coffee pot that lives behind her desk, pouring the last dregs of dark liquid into his cup. 

“But we’re all on the same side. Right? Derek?”

Amy watches the older man for a minute longer, doing her best to listen to the steady beat of his silence for any lingering secrets. But Derek Baldwin has always been best at keeping things close to the vest, and his true feelings towards the Heroics were no exception. He taps two fingers on the stack of papers, his movement firm, his orders concise. 

“Finish these up and then you can head out for the night.”

“Sir?”

“Take the afternoon. See your kid. You’ve earned it.”

Amy can’t help but smirk, ducking her head and pulling the papers close, anxious to finish up and head home. 

If only he knew the whole truth. 

Earned it doesn’t even begin to cover it. 

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>>> Chapter Two