𝑾𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒚 𝑾𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏.
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wc- 3.2k
an- first chapter kinda nervous, I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!! ⋆˚꩜｡
1. Black Magic Woman
If his nose wasn't blocked by the streaming blood that trickled down his face, Steve would have noticed the smell of the petrichor in the air. His sneakers skidded on the dewy grass as he stumbled away from the party, moaning in pain as he sank to the sidewalk, not caring about the way it was slightly damp, the rainwater seeping into his jeans. He grimaced as he lifted his hand to his eyebrow, his fingers coming away wet with blood. “Fuck.” He muttered under his breath as he hung his head between his knees, running his hands through his hair as he stared at the curb. The wind whipped around his ears, whispers on the breeze reminding him of every dumb decision he made that led him to this moment, alone on the sidewalk as the party continued behind him. Cheers and music echoed out into the night, the distinct noise of someone, most likely Billy, being encouraged to drink, as if celebration was in order.
He was so caught up in the sound of the party, the throbbing behind his eye, his hands absent mindedly tugging at his hair, that he missed the soft padding of feet. Bare, wet, twirling on the gravel as they hopped over snails and slugs retreating to the safety of the grass after the storm. He didn't notice the smell of sage, or the breeze lifting twirling skirts, damp hair sticking to bare shoulders. You noticed him though. You always noticed. The lake had been kind to you tonight, the moon reflecting off the water enough for you to read, the rosemary bush had been thriving, sprigs perfect to harvest, and the frogs had serenaded you with melodic croaks that were tuned perfectly to the wind. Even the rain had settled so perfectly in your vial, blessed by the full moon and filled to the brim.
You stopped about two feet away from Steve Harrington’s hunched silhouette. His knuckles were white, pulling at the strands of his hair as blood dripped from his nose onto the ground below, diluting the rainwater with red droplets. Your hair fell from your shoulder and your head tilted as you studied him, curled in on himself almost defeatedly, your hands ran down the strap of your shoulder bag grazing over badges and pins. Your eyes moved over to the house behind him, the music still thumping, lights still pulsing, voices still cheering. Your gaze drifted along the treeline, back to Steve who finally lifted his head. “Hi Steve.”
“Jesus-” He startled at the sight of you, wincing as he tried to lift his eyebrows, momentarily forgetting his injuries before lifting his hand to the cut again. “How long have you been standing there?” He muttered, almost as if he didn’t actually want an answer, embarrassed to have been seen in such a vulnerable state. He straightened his posture, his eyes flicked behind him towards the party before returning to you. You noticed the words he didn’t say, and shrugged, your eyes lifting to the flickering street lamp as a moth danced under the bulb. “You heading home?” He asked, avoiding the conversation about the nature of his injuries before it even started.
“Mhm.” You hummed, grabbing your bag with both hands and tilting your head slightly. He looked rough. Not just physically, but like something was weighing heavily on his shoulders. “I have a salve that would help that.” You gestured at the gash on his eyebrow and the cut on his lip with another tilt of your head, swinging on your heels on the gravel, feeling the crumbled stone on the soles of your feet. Steve looked at you, his good eyebrow furrowed as if you were speaking another language to him. “Ointment.” You clarified and he nodded slowly, his eyes closing.
“Yeah. I knew that.” He muttered, flexing his bruised knuckles as he looked down at his hands. He exhaled slowly for a long moment before looking back up at you. “Aren’t you gonna ask me what happened?” He scoffed, running his hand through his hair again as he squinted up at you, as if he were bracing for another hit.
You shrugged, stepping closer and extending your hand towards him, his eyes caught the shine of your bracelets and rings in the moonlight, the jingle of them clinking together sounding pleasant to his ears. “It’s at home.” You said. He hesitantly reached up, his warm, calloused hand wrapping around yours, the metal of your jewellery cool against his skin. He used your hand to steady himself as he stood from the sidewalk, letting go and dusting off his jeans when he was up, watching as your hand retreated back around the strap of your bag. He gestured for you to lead the way.
You stepped beside him, keeping your eyes fixed down on the gravel to make sure that you avoided any bugs seeking refuge from the wet paving. Steve followed your eyes down, and focused on your bare feet, the way that you walked as if the simple act of walking home were a dance. His eyes moved up over your dark purple skirt, your black top that hung off your shoulder and flared out at the sleeves, the way your hair was slightly damp from being caught out in the rain, and waved as it stuck to your shoulder. “Don’t you have shoes?” He asked suddenly, the words coming out before he could even register that he’d spoken.
“They're in my bag.” You said, stepping over a snail before glancing up at his face, his messed hair, and slightly swollen eye. “I like feeling the earth on my feet.” You explained. The music from the party faded behind you with every step you took away from it, the bass turning into distant pulses. His hand came to cradle his ribs as they protested his movement, his eyes watching the softness in your steps as you avoided the bugs. The night air was cool against his skin and the walk, slow as it was, was doing him good. It forced him to breathe, to not stew in the mess that he’d left behind at the party. Your bare feet glided over the grass like you belonged out here more than indoors.
“Collecting flowers?” He asked, gesturing at the sprigs of lavender and wild clovers peeking out of the top of your bag. “Or is it part of… y’know… witch stuff?” There was no mockery in his voice, as if he was genuinely curious. The tips of your fingers brush the flowers in your bag on instinct when he mentions them.
“It depends.” You shrug. “Sometimes I dry them out for decoration, sometimes I press them to make bookmarks. Sometimes I like having flowers in my room.” Your hands folded in front of your stomach, your fingertips gently tracing your rings as you look up at the moon. Steve followed your gaze, looking up at the half-hidden moon, hazy behind the clouds. Something about the quiet between you made it feel like he was walking through a dream rather than a suburban sidewalk. He watched you as you spoke again, his eyes tracing your profile. “I do use them for specific things. Lavender for luck, rosemary by the garden gate.” You said, stepping over another snail before dragging your eyes away from the moon to look at Steve again. “These are for bookmarks.” You smiled softly.
“I could use some of that.” He scoffed, returning your smile. “The luck, I mean. Ran outta that a long time ago.” He winced as he repositioned his hand on his ribs. “Hargrove.” He hissed, following you through your garden gate, past the bush of rosemary you’d talked about. The garden was lush, full of herbs, orange and purple flowers, and various types of shrubbery, the scent managed to permeate through the dried blood that crusted his nostrils, filling his lungs with the freshest air he remembers ever breathing. The house itself was a small brick cottage, the thatched roof damp from the earlier rain. Overgrown vines wrapped around the windows like a frame, spreading across the bricks, climbing up the chimney. The windows were dark, and the handmade wind chimes knocked together in the breeze. Steve followed you up the uneven stone steps, and watched as you turned the lock with a hefty clunk, before the door swung open with a creak.
You flicked on the light, and Steve was transported into a fairytale. Your kitchen was lined with painted tiles, muted purples and teals, dried flowers and herbs hung from the wooden beams that ran along the ceiling. Plants and herbs were potted in jars, cracked terracotta pots, old cans and mugs, they lined various handmade shelves and cluttered the window ledge. The string lights around the cabinet flickered on as Steve closed the door behind him, taking in the mis-matched furniture and the smell of incense and wax candles burning. He hesitated in the middle of the kitchen as you moved past him, gliding through the space easily as you dropped your bag onto the table and opened up the cabinets. His hands awkwardly shoved into his pockets as he took in the warmth of the surroundings, the hanging string of garlic, the used, tea-stained mugs, the framed photos and magnet-filled fridge. The kind of house that feels like a home.
Steve had been to a lot of houses, a lot of big, clean houses for parties, house showings that his dad dragged him along to. But none of them had ever felt this real. He watched as you pulled a box from the cabinet and gestured at one of the chairs. He lowered himself into it with a quiet grunt, finally releasing his ribs as he relaxed back against the chair. The adrenaline from the fight had long worn off, giving his bruises and aches time to settle in. You filled a bowl with water and rang out a muslin cloth under the tap before taking them both to the table and he managed a weak smile. “You’ve done this before?” He asked, not doubting your skill, but surprised that anyone so gentle could be used to patching up wounds like his.
You set the bowl and the jar of salve down onto the table before dipping the cloth into the warm water, wringing it out and reaching to gently tilt his face so that you can examine the cut above his eyebrow. “Yeah.” You say softly, but not elaborating further, his skin was warm to your fingertips as you angled his face right. “I just have to clean it first. It shouldn’t hurt.” You said in that same soft tone before lifting the cloth to wipe away the dried blood from around his eyebrow. Your hand stayed steady on his jaw, keeping his face tilted at the right angle for you as you clean off the cloth, then bring it back in to clean more of his face. He held still under your touch, more still than he thought himself capable given how much his body ached. Your hands were gentle and precise, the warmth of the cloth stung faintly, but you were right, it didn't hurt. He watched you, the way your hair fell forward over one shoulder as you leaned in, the way your fingers barely trembled from focus rather than nerves. There was no judgement in your eyes, no “well what did you expect?” like his father would’ve said.
“You don’t have to be careful with me.” He muttered after a moment, his voice rougher than before, not because he wanted to rush you, but because something in him wanted you to know that you didn't have to extend this kindness to him. “I can take it.” He exhaled in amusement. You leaned back, wringing out the cloth again before tucking your hair behind your ears to keep it out of your face. You noticed a small cut on the bridge of his nose as you lifted the cloth again, wiping the trail of dried blood away from under his nose.
“Just because you can take it doesn’t mean you need to.” You said gently, your eyes focused on his nose, wiping the blood from his lip. He went still at your words, like they’d struck him harder than he thought. His jaw relaxed under your touch, the tightness in his shoulders eased a fraction. He didn't pull away, not even when you brushed over the split in his lip where the pain was the sharpest.
“You’re good at that.” He murmured, his voice low as he closed his eyes to let you work. “Making people feel like they don't have to be tough around you.” He let out a slow breath through his nose as you leaned back to wring out the cloth again, his eyes opening and meeting yours as you opened the salve jar, the smell of the wax and chamomile filling the room. “Thanks.”
You let out an amused exhale as your eyes focus on the split in his lip. “You won't be thanking me in a minute.” You said, your eyes flicking between his cuts as you dip your fingers into the water, cleaning them off before scooping some of the salve out. “It’ll really sting for a minute, but it’ll dull quickly.” You leaned forward, your finger hovering just above his lip. “Ready?”
Steve let out a long slow breath, like he was bracing himself again. “Yeah.” He said, his voice steady but his eyes squeezing shut in anticipation. “Hit me.” He leaned forward slightly, his hands resting on his knees, his fingers flexing as if searching for something to ground him. But he kept still, and trusted you.
When you touched the salve to his lip, the sting hit fast and sharp, he flinched hard enough that his whole body tensed, and his breath caught in a short gasp. “Jesus Christ-” He muttered as his jaw clenches, but then the pain faded just as quickly as it came, the burn melting into numbness. He let out a shaky laugh after a second and blinked rapidly as his eyes watered from the initial shock. “Thats brutal.” He smiled as best as he could, his eyes flicking between yours. “But it's working… Maybe you really are magic.”
You smiled slightly, scooping more of the salve onto your finger. “Yeah, it’s nasty for a second.” You said, leaning in to apply some to the cut above his eyebrow. You waited for him to nod, indicating he was ready before slathering the salve onto the cut, and then lean back to wipe off your hands. Your face scrunched as he winced again, his foot stamping rhythmically against the floor before the numbness set in again. “It’s not magic. Just the earth doing what she was made to.” You screwed the top of the jar back on and extended it towards him. He took the jar carefully, the ceramic warmed by your hands. “Twice a day should be fine. Take it with you.” You said before picking up the bowl, and pouring the blood stained water down the sink.
He watched you clean up, the way you moved like every motion had meaning, nothing was rushed, and for once, he didn't feel the need to fill the silence with jokes, or bravado. Instead, his voice was quiet, and calm. “I’m glad I ran into you tonight.” He watched as you finished cleaning up the bowl, and leaned back against the sink with your arms folded. “I mean… not ran into, that would’ve hurt a lot more. But… you know what I mean.” He pushed himself up slowly from the chair, testing his balance. “Thanks for not letting me bleed out on Tina’s lawn.” He added with a little smile, his fingers running along the edge of the table.
“Any time.” You said, watching as he nodded, and moved the chair back underneath the table, moving its position until he was satisfied. You smiled again as he looked back up, and followed him to the door, the creak seeming louder as you pulled it open this time. Steve stepped out onto the porch as you leaned against the doorframe. “Look after yourself… Goodnight Steve.”
He paused on the porch steps, his hand resting against the railing as he turned to look back at you. The night air was still cool, the moon hanging low beneath scattered clouds. Fireflies blinked lazily in the garden. He looked at you for longer than he meant to, the way your presence made him feel like he didn't have to be anything other than what he was, bruised, tired… and strangely seen. “Night.” He said softly. “Yeah… I will.” He hesitated before adding, “I'll try." Then he started down the path towards the sidewalk, one hand still lightly pressing against his ribs, but each step seemed lighter than before you’d found him.
You closed and locked the door once he was out of sight, moving to tidy up the kitchen, clearing the jars and boxes away before setting the kettle on the stove to boil. Once it was ready, you poured the water over your tea leaves in your favourite mug, grabbed your bag, and headed up to your bedroom. You sipped your tea as you arranged the flowers you had collected by the lake in the right formations, pressing them between the pages of the biggest book you owned, humming softly to yourself as you worked. Later, once your tea was gone, your teeth and face clean and you were snuggled into your homemade blanket, you dreamed of cleaning dried blood off of the soft skin of someone who deserved better.
Across town, Steve had taken the longer way home, the stars seeming closer than before as he reached his house. The big one with empty windows and quiet rooms, he didn’t go inside, not straight away. Instead, he sat on the front steps for a long while, staring up at the sky. His dad wouldn’t be home until morning, if at all. The pool light glowed faintly blue through the trees, casting rippling reflections that reminded him of swimming as a kid, before things got complicated. Before popularity became an armour, and fights stopped being just about basketball games.
He pulled out the salve again, just to look at it in his palm, and let out a soft laugh under his breath. Magic. You’d said no, but maybe that wasn't quite true. Maybe magic was just kindness disguised as herbs and chamomile, but damn if it didn't heal better than anything else ever had.
Eventually, he stood up stiffly, and went inside, quietly locking the door behind him like someone might care if he did or not. Upstairs, he stripped off his shirt, grimacing at the fresh bruises blooming along his side, and carefully applied more of the salve before sliding into bed. He fell asleep fast, even with the pain searing through his ribs. In his dreams, he saw dew-covered grass beneath bare feet, laughter that sounded like wind chimes and a voice saying softly:
“Just because you can take it doesn't mean you need to.”
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