#write rae write

There’s a sharp clapping noise that sounds like thunder. A door slamming, Steve’s brain sluggishly supplies. It’s followed by shouting.

“Steve? Steve!” Eddie calls from somewhere on the street.

Steve’s heart feels like it’s going to fall out of his ass. His face is probably still blotchy and wet, his breathing hasn’t evened out yet and his eyes are still leaking like a goddamn faucet. He’s pathetic.

Can’t let Eddie see him like this…

He ducks behind a metal garbage bin, careful not to let anything but the bottom of his sneakers touch the sticky looking surfaces around him. It stinks, like rot.

“Steve?” Eddie’s voice echoes off of the alleyway walls. Steve claps a hand around his mouth to muffle out any of the pathetic sounds that seem determined to escape from him. So much of his body just does whatever the hell it feels like now. Out of Steve’s control, like everything else.

For a few, tense seconds, there’s silence. Eddie’s listening for him, maybe. Steve shuts his eyes and waits him out.

It feels like an eternity before he hears Eddie’s hurried, retreating footsteps, continuing his shouting for Steve. He sounds almost as panicked as Steve feels. Almost.

Steve gives a noisy, wet sniff and does one final scrub of his face before getting to his feet. He starts walking.

As he goes deeper into the alleyway, he thinks back on all the things he’s been wrong about. The fact that Eddie had some of his band t-shirts mixed in with Steve’s clothes… well, that was because they were both guys who wore about the same size, and Eddie left his shit everywhere. It’s no wonder some of his stuff got mixed into their laundry. And the times Eddie’s driven him places? That’s just… what friends do, Steve supposes. And all those times Eddie made Steve laugh? Made him feel like the center of the universe? Well, that’s just… Eddie. He must make everyone feel that way. It’s like his super power. But it isn’t romantic… It doesn’t mean anything more than Eddie being a magnetic person.

Steve is just so stupid. Painfully so.

He blinks as the sun hits him. He must’ve reached the other side of the alleyway.

Steve cups a hand over his eyes and grimaces. His migraine wasn’t backing down. He sighs. Time to head back.

Steve turns back into the alleyway he’d emerged from, only he’s about halfway through when he realizes the color of the buildings on either side of him are wrong. They’re brown on one side, painted green on the other. That isn’t right…

His heart jackrabbits in his chest, but he keeps walking forward. Maybe he’ll recognize the street once he’s back on the other side.

But when he gets there, it’s as unfamiliar to him as the alleyway. Steve turns, looking up and down the road to see if he could spot Eddie, or his van, or the Center. But there’s nothing.

And when someone shoulder checks him, Steve supposes he was sort of asking for it, standing in the middle of the sidewalk like that. He apologizes, but it’s too late. The person’s already out of range to hear him.

It’s as if everyone else is on fast forward while Steve’s stuck on pause. The world keeps moving along while all he seems to be able to do is watch it go by.

Why would he ever think someone as dynamic and spirited as Eddie would hitch his horse onto Steve’s busted up, barely mobile cart?

Stupid, stupid, stupid…

He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes and wills himself not to start blubbering again like a goddamn baby. His life is already one big, painful lesson in humility as it is, he doesn’t need to wallow in it.

Steve keeps walking. Figures he’ll spot something, or someone familiar to him eventually. The pounding in his head’s eased off to a dull ache, at least. Maybe there was something to this exercise and fresh air thing the doctors were always going on about, after all…

The thing is though, Steve doesn’t spot anything familiar. Not even vaguely so, and it’s not until the streetlights turn on that he realizes he’d spent the majority of the day wandering around the streets like some lost dog that managed to slip his leash.

It’s cold too, and all he’s got on is jeans and a polo. It’s October, isn’t it? No wonder he’s got goosebumps all up and down his arms.

Then, he finally spots something familiar; a phone booth. Steve breathes a sigh of relief. He’d just call his parents. They’d come pick him up.

He gets the booth and lifts the receiver before he blanks. A quarter. He’d need that. Duh, Harrington. So he hangs up the phone and pats his pockets until he finds a wallet, but all that’s inside of it are a couple of crisp bills. He’d need to break one.

Steve turns, scans the street until he spots a well lit, invitingly warm looking diner. The joint looks so damn cozy that he forgets to make sure the street is clear before he steps out into the middle of it.

Tires screech, harmonizing with the horn that’s blasting at him—Steve flinches, reaching up to cover his head and braces for impact.

To his great relief, the hit never comes. Which, thank fuck. He can’t afford anymore accidents. As it is Robin’s threatened to make him wear a helmet full-time.

Steve doesn’t listen to whatever the person yells at him, he just hurries to get the hell out of his way of the other moving vehicles.

“Smooth, Harrington. Real smooth.” He mutters to himself as he catches his breath.

He pushes the door to the diner open with shaking hands, but it’s blissfully peaceful inside, and he can actually feel his insides unclench as he stands inside of it.

“Sit anywhere, hun, I’ll be right with you.” A woman’s voice tells him. Steve nods and slips into the nearest booth overlooking the street. Watches the cars go by. There’s even a couple of cop cars, sirens blaring, lights flashing. Steve wonders briefly what sort of emergency they’re rushing off to when the waitress comes to his table.

“What can I get you, handsome?” She asks, cheery and warm like the rest of the diner.

“Uh…” Steve frowns, taking a few seconds to process the question, “nothing. I’m just waiting for my parents to come pick me up.”

The waitress taps the side of the notepad. “Well you gotta order something, hun, or you can’t stay here.”

Steve wants to stay here. It’s warm and smells fucking amazing, like “pancakes?”

She waitress smirks. “Yeah, we got those. You want a stack?”

“Yeah, please.” Steve smiles back, laughing along with the waitress like he’s in whatever joke that’s currently so amusing to her. “I’m starving.”

“You want some coffee too, to help you sober up, maybe?”

“Oh, I’m not drunk.” He huffs out a little self deprecating laugh, “I wish. No, I—uh, my meds, they’re the kind that you can’t mix with alcohol. Coffee too. Bummer, right? Yeah… But, uh, it is what it is, I guess—so…”

He can feel it. The way his mind so often wanders. He’s lost his train. His track. He frowns, eyes drifting towards the street again, watching the headlights zip by.

“…so just the pancakes then?” The waitress asks, jolting his train back onto its rails. His attention snaps back onto her.

“Yeah, pancakes. Sure.” Steve flashes her what he hopes is a charming smile.

She returns his smile and leaves him be, and he lets himself relax. Props his head up on a fist and watches life go on for everyone else but him.

He gets his pancakes, and some juice too that he doesn’t remember ordering, but hey, that’s nothing new. And damn, the pancakes taste even better than they smell. He needs to remember the name of this place so he can come back with everyone. What did the doctors say? Repeat something in your head over and over until it sticks. Repetition. Repetition, repetition, repetition…

It’s around the time his fork hits an empty plate that one of the police cars stops in front of the diner window, lights on, but the sirens are off now.

Hopper steps out.

Huh. That’s weird. Steve wonders what sort of emergency he’s here for.

When Hopper enters through the glass doors, the bell hung over the entry way rings out pleasantly. An angel getting their wings.

His eyes land on Steve and the older man sighs, shoulders falling. Relief, Steve recognizes. Hopper pulls the radio from his belt and says something into it before stomping over.

Then it clicks.

Oh. Steve’s the emergency.

He feels his face heat up. The handful of other patrons scattered across the diner are all looking at him.

“There you are.” Hopper sighs, gruff and exasperated.

Steve sinks into his seat, just a little. “Shit. I fucked up, didn’t I?”

“Just a little.” Hopper chuckles dryly. He takes off his hat and slips into the booth across from Steve, apparently not in any sort of hurry now that he’s found the runaway dog.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, a nervous tic he’s developed. “Sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be sorry. Just strangle Munson for me when you see him next, will ya?” Hopper drops his hat onto the table and waves the waitress down. He orders a coke.

Munson. Eddie.

The memory of how he made a total and utter fool of himself comes rushing back, slamming down onto him like one of those cartoon anvils. Jesus, how did he forget that..?

Suddenly the pancakes aren’t sitting so good in his gut. Feels like he’s gonna ralph.

“Was he freaked out? Eddie, I mean.” Steve asks, cautiously approaching the question. Did Eddie say anything about why…?

“Yeah, him and Robin both. Then the kids found out too—don’t ask me how. I suspect the curly-haired one has an illegal transmitter.” Hopper leans back in the booth as the waitress drops off his coke. He takes the straw out and drinks it right from the glass. Steve waits for him to finish, doesn’t say a word.

When Hopper puts the glass down, Steve just sits and watches the way the drops of condensation run down the cup, distorting around the fingerprints Hopper’s left. “Anyway, they’re all out on their bikes looking for you too.”

Hopper smiles fondly, like it’s something charming and not… pathetic. “You got a lot of people that care about you, kid.

Steve swallows around the lump in his throat, and nods. Tries for a grin, but it’s weak. Probably wouldn’t fool anyone, much less a cop. “Yeah, I’m a real lucky guy.”

Hopper looks like he wants to say something else, but he just takes a breath and nods. Steve’s grateful he doesn’t argue. Doesn’t think he has the energy in him right now to fend off the ‘but look how far you’ve come!’ ‘Your speaking’s gotten so much better!’ ‘It could be a whole heck of a lot worse!’ comments.

“What do you say we get you home? Unless you want dessert? My treat.” Hopper offers with a grin.

“No, I just want to go to sleep,” he says, before remembering his manners, “thanks, though.”

“Alright then.” Hopper glances down at the cleared plate of pancakes and the half finished coke before sliding out of the booth, followed by Steve. He takes out wallet, but Steve beats him to it. He tosses down a few bills, hoping it’s enough. Hopper doesn’t comment, so it must be.

The drive back to his and Robin’s apartment is a solemn one, but it’s strangely peaceful. Hopper’s got the heat on full blast due to Steve’s lack of coat, and the motion of the vehicle along with the darkened sky leaves Steve feeling wrung out in a way he hasn’t felt in a long time.

In fact, when they finally arrive, Hopper’s gotta shake his shoulder to wake him up.

“We’re here.” He rumbles out in his gruff baritone.

Steve lifts his head from his folded arm and looks up at the modest building. He wonders how far they live from the pancake diner. If they could walk there, sometime, him and Robin and Eddie.

But then Steve realizes he never got the name of it. He feels his insides sink. Another thing lost to him.

“Thanks, Hop,” Steve gives Hopper a nod and what he’s sure is a tired smile. “I’ll, uh—I’ll try not to run off again.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it.” Hopper says, diplomatically. “Let me walk you in.”

Steve cringes at the idea. He’s grateful for Hop and all he’s done—especially the part about not making him feel like a complete dummy—but he just wants this all to be over and for things to revert back to how they were. And at this point he’s so close he can taste it.

Steve busies his hands by undoing his seat belt. “No, it’s okay, really—“

Hopper looks like he’s about to argue but Robin damn near crashes out through the building’s illuminated front doors. She makes a b-line for Steve, who’s just barely gotten out of the cruiser.

She wraps her arms around him and doesn’t let go. “Steve! Holy shit, you scared me so bad. I’ve been out of my mind!”

Steve’s arms are trapped at an awkward angle, but he reaches around her as best he can, arms like flippers. “I’m okay. Seriously. Look, not even a scratch.”

She doesn’t laugh. Just squeezes him harder. Truthfully, Steve doesn’t know if he’s okay, but it’s what everyone always seems to want to hear from him, so he says it often.

“I’ve already killed Eddie like three times.” Robin murmurs into Steve’s chest, before finally pulling away. Her eyes are bloodshot, her nose stuffy, like she’s been crying.

“It’s not his fault, Rob.” Steve’s brows pinch together as he frowns, “is he…”

But when Steve looks up towards their building, he can see Eddie standing in the doorframe, his dark silhouette illuminated by the entry way lights. He’s still as a statue, holding open the door for them, arm extended out into the cold autumn night. Steve’s insides squirm.

“You got him from here, Buckley?” Hopper calls from his cruiser and Robin ducks to meet his eye before giving him a thumbs up. She loops her arm around his waist and they start towards their place—towards Eddie.

Before they reach him, Steve keeps his voice down as he asks, “Can I just go to bed? I don’t—I can’t talk about it right now.”

“Okay.” She nods, “I get it.”

But she doesn’t, not really.

Steve avoids eye contact with Eddie when they finally reach the building, and before he can say anything, Robin interrupts. “He’s going straight to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, okay.” Eddie says in a small voice. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even follow them back up to their apartment. Maybe Eddie’s even relieved he doesn’t need to confront it tonight. Maybe they won’t ever confront it… maybe he’s hoping Steve’s brain will take care of everything and make him forget. Make it like it never happened. Part of Steve wishes—

No. He doesn’t wish that. His brain’s already functioning at half capacity, he doesn’t want to thank it for fucking up, even if it might make Steve’s life easier.

Whatever Eddie’s expression is, Steve doesn’t look back to find out. He keeps his eyes on his feet, focusing on putting one step ahead of the other.

When they finally arrive at Steve’s matchbox sized bedroom, he doesn’t even bother changing into pajamas, or even out of his jeans for that matter. He just falls into his bed, pulls a pillow over his head and wills himself to let go of the day and surrender to the sweet pull of blissful unconsciousness.

🫣 Oops, I made it worse. But I promise the Eddie and Steve confrontation is in the next part! 🙏 This is tagged angst with a happy ending for a reason.

Tag List: (message me to add or remove yourself.)

Steve reaches up with a wobbly, IV-ridden hand to clumsily pat along his head, but instead of meeting messy hair, he meets a thick wad of bandages. He flinches when he hits an especially tender spot.

It’s not much but it’s enough to wake Eddie Munson up with a jolt, and a random jumble of words that sounded something like, “the dice have spoken!”, but Steve can’t be sure. Not with the sharp ringing still going off inside his skull.

“Steve? Steve! Oh thank fuck, Jesus H. Christ, you scared the ever loving shit out of me.” Eddie stood and grabbed at one of Steve’s shoulders, shaking him enough to elicit another wince.

“Oh, damn, sorry. I’m like a fucking bull in a china shop here, man. There’s way too much expensive, breakable shit here. I’m not used to it. I accidentally ripped your IV out the other day... Fuck. The nurses hate my guts.” Eddie chuckles, eyes wide and solely on Steve, talking like they were old friends or something.

But that can’t be right. Steve doesn’t remember saying more than two words to Eddie Munson during the entire time he knew he even existed, and even then it was just to discuss weed prices.

“For real though, talk to me Harrington, how you feelin’, hm? Loopy? Gonna yak again? Apparently they got you on the good stuff,” Eddie flicks a liquid filled bag hanging above Steve and shakes his head, “but they keep cutting you back. Dicks.”

Steve’s eyes try and follow Eddie’s erratic movements but his eyes ache the more he moves them. He blinks against the harsh fluorescents and tries to open his mouth. And thank God, Eddie Munson seems to take this as a sign and shut up.

“What happened?” Steve finally croaks.

One of Eddie’s brows jumps. “You don’t remember?”

Steve gives his head a small shake. Did Eddie hit him with his car or something? Is that why he’s sleeping at his bedside and talking to him like they’re buddies?

“You fell, Stevie.” Eddie makes a whistling noise and mimicks something falling with his hands, then makes a crashing sound when his hand lands on Steve’s bandaged head. “Like a coconut out of a tree. Landed right on that big ol’ melon of yours. There was blood everywhere. It scared the shit out of me and the kids. Especially when you wouldn’t wake up.”

Steve’s throat feels like sandpaper, but he manages to swallow, his throat clicking as he did, and gets out, “The kids?”

Eddie seems to notice, even before Steve can ask, and reaches for a water bottle with a straw already in it, and half chewed. Eddie’s own, no doubt. Against his better judgment, Steve accepts it when Eddie offers it to him. He was just so goddamn thirsty.

“Don’t worry, they’re all fine. They were just shaken up. I’ll radio the little gremlins and give ‘em the good news in a sec.” Eddie’s smile falters a little, seeming lost for words. Like he wants to say something, but can’t quite get it out.

Steve finishes swallowing his few, meager gulps of water before he asks, “What is it?”

“Don’t freak out—“ Eddie begins.

And, okay, that’s exactly the thing you tell someone before they freak the fuck out. Steve’s stomach is subject to a growing, sluggish panic. “What? Dude, tell me—“

“It’s your hair.” Eddie seems genuinely pained at having to deliver this crushing of a blow to Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington.

Steve can hear the beeping from the monitors he’s hooked up to begin to pick up speed as his heart begins racing. “My hair?”

“It’s okay! It’s okay, it’ll grow back! They just had to take a little bit off where the stitches went, you can hardest notice it—well, that’s a fucking lie, you could spot that landing strip from space—but I think if you part it to the other side it won’t look so… y’know.”

“No, dude, I don’t know.” Steve says, eyes wide, brows pinched.

“Like a drunk toddler took a pair of rusty kitchen shears to your mop.” Eddie says, huffing out a nervous sort of laugh.

Steve groans, half due to the bastardization that’s happened to his favorite feature, and half due to the migraine that’s looming on his horizon.

“You’re still pretty, Stevie, don’t worry.” Eddie grins, eyebrows raised, like he’s trying to be cute or something.

That weirdest part is, it’s kind of working.

Steve must have hit his head really, really hard.

The doctors eventually come in and perform all sorts of tests, and he tries his best to comply with them and jump through whatever hoops they make him jump through. He just wants to get the hell out of this hospital bed.

Unfortunately for him, Steve hadn’t exactly aced any of the tests.

In fact, he had failed most of them pretty fucking dismally. He couldn’t remember the date, who the president was, where he lived, couldn’t say the alphabet backwards… although, who the fuck can do that? He stands by that failing grade.

A couple of CAT scans later and it’s clear that Steve’s brain got smacked around a little more than they had originally thought.

Among a pile of other stuff, the thing that sticks out the most to Steve is his diagnosis of something called short term amnesia. They explain it like the past 2 to 3 years has just been wiped from his brain. The last clear thing he really remembers is getting the shit beat out of him by Billy, and then it all sort of gets jumbled. Fragmented. The doctors explain that this is pretty typical for head trauma patients.

He’s a head trauma patient, now.

It’s normal for memories of trauma to link, creating spiderwebs throughout your brain.

Which, that’s great. So when he gets beat up again, there’s always a chance his brain will try and erase his easy, happy years and revert back to a trauma default. Really helpful brain, thank you.

And the thing that sucks the most is that his years after the Billy beat down sound pretty great. Traumatizing, sure, but great. Once the Upside Down shit was locked up, with every scary nightmare fuel monster inside of it, life in Hawkins didn’t sound all that terrible.

He lived with Robin, who’s his best friend, (his ‘platonic soulmate’ even, as she explains it), he’s working a retail job, (also with Robin), and coaches the high school basketball team during the evenings. He’d even been talking with Hopper about joining the force.

Well, he was. Now he’s more or less useless, working full time at re-learning his life, along with a couple of fine motor skills that got glitchy after the fall.

And then there’s Eddie.

Eddie, who’s apparently also his best friend, only their soulmate link isn’t platonic at all.

The strange and weirdly exciting reality was that Steve Harrington had woken up from his 3-day medically induced coma with not only a full fledged relationship, but a boyfriend.

It’s a lot to digest, and part of him still doesn’t even know how to process it, but hearing the stories being told around him, seeing how Eddie is practically living in his and Robin’s two-bedroom apartment, and just… the way Eddie looks at him?

It’s with love—Steve can see it. Feel it. Eddie’s practically vibrating with it.

What’s even crazier is that when Steve looks at Eddie, he feels the exact same way.

It’s like looking at the stars. Steve’s heart skips a beat when those dark eyes of hit him, and Steve wants nothing more than to make Eddie smile—no, better than that, to make him laugh, just so he can watch Eddie’s adam’s apple bob up and down and hear that manic, unhinged cackle. It’s downright delightful. Steve loves being in relationships like this, where it’s all consuming.

Steve may not have the memories of falling in love with Eddie, but he has all the feelings.

No one talks about it with Steve, of course. Maybe they think it’s going to be too heavy for him to process that he’s into dudes now, but Steve isn’t a big dumb baby. Sure, he’s got a pretty severe brain injury, and yeah, alright, it takes him a minute to remember people’s names sometimes, and he has a harder time controlling his emotions, but he isn’t a complete invalid. Only a little bit of one. He’s working on it, dammit.

And Eddie is so painfully, frustratingly patient with him. He never pushes. He’s clearly letting Steve retrieve his memories before he makes a move, because despite his whole outward appearance, Eddie Munson is a goddamn gentleman. He never so much as reaches for Steve’s hands, but Steve can tell by the way their pinkies graze when they watch movies late at night that he wants to.

Steve can tell by the way Eddie teases him, the way he’s there with him through his recovery, that he doesn’t ever make Steve feel stupid when he asks the same questions over and over again, when he cries at the drop of a hat or when he gets sort of confused about the lay out of his apartment—he doesn’t care about that of that.

Because he’s in love with Steve. It’s so painfully romantic, it brings a painful lump to Steve’s throat every time he thinks too much about it.

The two of them are driving to one of Steve’s therapy sessions, Eddie in the driver's seat, Steve in the passengers, listening to a low racket of some kind of heavy metal music. Eddie always keeps the volume low now, for Steve.

He’s just been so intensely good about everything that Steve needs to try and do something good for Eddie in return. He needs Eddie to know that there’s a light at the end of this tunnel that they’re both currently lost in.

“I’m sorry about this, y’know.” Steve says when they finally pull up the building that has ‘Brain Injury Recover Center’ written on the front. So all the boys and girls with scrambled eggs for brains know where to converge.

“Don’t worry about it, man. I work the evening shifts, remember? My days are free.” Eddie explains, and Steve wonders if he’s had to be told this bit of information a couple of times now. Sometimes it takes a few times before something sticks to his brain now. His short term memory is still majorly flighty. But no, Steve remembers that Eddie bartends at a local bowling alley most evenings. He’s gone a few times. Not to bowl, of course—too much hand eye coordination involved—but just to hang out with Eddie. He’s pretty decent at Ms. Pac-Man though.

Steve shakes his head. He knows his mind must have wandered because there’s been a lull where no one’s spoken. Eddie never seems to care about that though. “I don’t mean about the drive. I was talking about… y’know.”

“Wha’dy’mean?” Eddie mumbles as he backs into his parking space, hand on the back of Steve’s headrest.

Steve sighs and decides to just come out and say it: “I mean having your boyfriend forget everything about you and your relationship. I just… that must be really tough.”

Everything in Eddie Munson comes to a jarring halt, hand frozen over where he’s turned to ignition off.

It’s sort of unnerving—Eddie is always moving, fidgeting. Damn near bouncing off the walls. But now it’s like someone hit the poor guy with a freeze ray gun.

Steve chuckles softly as he reaches out and touches Eddie’s arm, giving him a playful jostle, to loosen him up a little, “it’s okay, Eddie. I know. You don’t have to keep going easy on me. I’m gay! Or, bi-sexual. Whatever.” Steve shrugs, “see? Not falling apart. I can handle being in love with another dude. You don’t need to keep babying me.”

The side of Eddie’s mouth twitches into a downturned smile that he seems to be trying to hide.

“I know, I know. Not just any dude.” Steve rolls his eyes, a smile still firmly on his face. He takes Eddie’s hand from the steering wheel, and Eddie seems to watch it go in a detached sort of awe. Steve wonders if Eddie’s proud of him for being so cool with it all. “In love with you.”

“Steve, I don’t think—

“Wait, just let me finish.” Steve asks, and Eddie blinks and works on closing his mouth. Knows it’s important to let Steve get his thoughts out quickly, lest they be lost to the giant black hole inside of his beat-up brain now. “I know that I don’t remember any of the important stuff with us. Our first date, or our first kiss or, y’know, any of our other first firsts. So maybe it feels like you’re cheating on the old Steve with me? But… Eddie, I know it’s crazy but even though my brain forgot all of the specifics; my heart didn’t. I look at you, and it’s all there. I’m still so into you, dude. I can feel it, even though I don’t remember how I got here. I’m in l—“

“Steve! Stevestevesteve wait, holy shit—!” Eddie’s eyes snap up from his intense stare at the place where their hands are linked. “Steve—”

“Yeah?” Steve prompts when Eddie doesn’t seem to be able to find the words. He runs his thumb gently over Eddie’s knuckles. It feels so nice to finally be able to hold his hand again. They fit together so well, and Steve wonders briefly if it’s some kind of muscle memory.

Eddie opens his mouth a few more times before he remembers how to make the words come out.

“Steve. Buddy. We’re… we’re not dating.”

Steve’s face falls, and he can feel a lump form in his throat, but he keeps a firm hold of Eddie’s warm hand in his own. “Yeah, I know, I know. We haven’t had any time to be a couple. And it’s probably been torture for you, man. You’re so busy taking care of me and making sure I don’t freak out over everything that you’ve clearly been neglecting your own hierarchy of needs.”

Eddie raises a brow.

Steve chuckles, “Shut up. It’s a therapy term.”

Eddie laughs in his throat. “Steve, you gotta slow down and listen to me.”

He turns his shoulders so that he’s fully facing Steve while he reaches his free hand over and tugs at one of his earlobes. “Got your hearing ears on?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he nods just the same.

“We… we weren’t dating before your accident,” Eddie speaks slowly, his voice warm, gentle. “Hell, I didn’t even know you were, y’know, into dudes like that. Much less me.”

Something throbs dully behind Steve’s eyes. It’s the start of a migraine—the one that makes it hard to process much of anything. Steve squints, trying to make sense of what Eddie’s saying. “…you’re not my boyfriend?”

Eddie shakes his head very, very slowly. “No.”

Steve snatches his hand back like he’s only just now noticed how burning hot Eddie’s hand is.

He settles back in his seat, staring out the front window. The sounds from the outside world are muffled, and everything feels far away and sort of… Made up. Just like everything he’d imagined was going on between him and Eddie. Not real.

He feels painfully detached from reality. Unmoored. Maybe this was the disassociation thing the doctor mentioned might happen…

“Are you sure?” Steve asks, risking another glance over to Eddie, who hasn’t taken his eyes off him for a second.

“Pretty fuckin’ sure.” Eddie snorts.

“Oh, God. This is… I’m—sorry. I’m so stupid. Fuck, I gotta—“ Steve suddenly attacks the door handle with a clumsy fury that has his hand fumbling with the handle for way too long. Fucking busted up, bruised as fuck fucking brain-!

“Steve, it’s okay, dude,” Eddie says from behind Steve, but that’s easy for him to say; he didn’t just humiliate himself in front of his not-boyfriend, definitely-crush, possibly ex-friend—“Steve, wait!”

Jim watches Spock’s sorry attempt at roasting the ‘marsh melon’ for as long as he can possibly stand it. He slaps his hands to his knees and groans as he pushes himself up to his feet—a simple task that’s becoming irritatingly strenuous as the passage of time flows past him.

Spock quirks a brow as he watches Jim round the campfire before dropping down on the log next to him.

“Give me that,” Jim huffs as he snatches the stick from Spock’s hands. “The thing’s going to go stale before it roasts if you keep holding it that far away.”

Ever true to his unbothered Vulcan disposition, Spock allows the transference of power without protest and simply observes the task being performed.

How a guy goes through his entire life not knowing how to roast a damn marshmallow is beyond him. It’s downright criminal, is what it is. Poor guy’s never had a single normal childhood memory, as far as Jim can tell. He blames the parents.

A snicker emanates from the nearby log, currently occupied by Jim’s other pain in his neck.

“And what’re you laughing at over there?” Jim asks as he slowly rotates the stick for a nice, even roast.

Leonard McCoy is stretched out on his bedroll, boots kicked off, hands folded behind his head, looking entirely at home. He doesn’t so much as crack an eye open when he answers. “I was just thinkin’ how funny it is that you can’t help yourself.”

“Can’t help myself from what? Helping?” Jim asks, intentionally exaggerating his tone, unable to resist the urge to poke the bear.

Bones snorts as he clarifies, “from taking over, Commander.”

“Oh, please,” Jim murmurs. He elbows Spock and gives him a ‘can you believe this guy’ expression. The corners of Spock’s mouth turn down in a smile you’d only catch if you knew what to look for.

“It’s true.” McCoy shrugs and continues smoothly, as if he were simply stating a fact, “You’re a bossy son of a bitch. So what? It’s what makes you a half decent Captain.”

“Half decent?” Jim mutters, “gee, don’t strain yourself, Bones.”

“You asked, I answered!” McCoy barks, not shifting a muscle.

Jim waves a dismissive hand towards Bones and turns his attention back to the marshmellow at hand—and the Vulcan beside him, sitting in a comfortable silence, his hands neatly folded in front of him.

Jim sighs. “Well, I’m sorry if I over-stepped, Spock. I should have just let you struggle and fail and be forced to eat a cold, unmelted s’more. Would that have made you happy, Bones?”

“Ecstatic,” McCoy answers dryly.

Jim lets out an exaggerated guffaw into the otherwise silent night. The peepers stop their song for a few beats before resuming.

“Do not apologize,” comes the low, baritone rumble from his first officer, “I welcome the expertise.”

He sits up a little straighter, glancing over at Bones. “There. Y’see? He welcomes my expertise.”

“Yeah, well, he would…” mutters McCoy.

Jim makes a face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Jim, the marsh melon has caught fire,” Spock says tonelessly.

Jim curses as he pulls the now flaming mound of sugary confection from the pit, blowing it out immediately. Steam streams from its scorched black skin. The whole thing sends Bones into a fit of giggles. He always was an annoyingly happy drunk…

“It’s still good,” Jim attempts to reassure Spock, “it’s just… flambéd.”

Spock cocks a single brow. “Flambéd?”

Jim nods, “Yes, exactly. Now get a pair of graham crackers and some of that chocolate. Quick, before it cools off; this is all about timing, Spock. The chocolate goes on the bottom….”

With steady, precise movements, Spock follows Jim’s orders. “Alright now, pinch it together and I’ll slide the stick out. Aaaaand, that’s it! You’re done. Easy as that.”

Spock takes a long moment to examine what he’s left with, eyeing the s’more with an unreasonable amount of suspicion.

“It appears structurally unstable…” Spock looks from the s’more to Jim.

“It’s supposed to be. Hurry up and eat it, it’s only good while it’s still melty.”

Spock presses his lips together into a thin line and Jim can practically hear the wheels turning in that computer-like brain of his.

But, to his credit, he trusts Jim enough to lean forward and take a bite. The pressure from the crackers makes the marshmallow bulge out the sides, the burnt shell giving way to the stark white of its insides.

Jim only realizes that he’s leaning forward along with Spock when his back begins to ache, so he straightens up.

Spock eats as politely as he can, but the s’more is a different sort of beast than what he’s used to. Crumbs inevitably fall onto the front of his jacket and the tops of his thighs.

By the time he’s finished with his slow bites and deliberate chewing, he’s even got a bit of marshmallow stuck to the side of his cheek, near the corner of his mouth. A warm feeling of undeniable affection bubbles up in Jim’s chest over it.

For such a small, insignificant, thing it does some real heavy lifting. Prim and proper Mr. Spock, slumming it like the rest of ‘em, covered in the remains of his first s’more.

“Well, Spock? Was it all you hoped it would be?” Bones drawls from his side of the fire.

Spock nods, still trying in vain to rid himself of the lingering stickiness on his hands by rubbing them together. “Quite good. Preferable even to your beans, doctor.”

McCoy snorts before he returns to pretending to nap, humming some old country tune Jim almost recognizes.

The exchange has Jim grinning a grin that doesn’t seem to want to leave. This trip really was exactly what he needed—maybe what all three of them needed. Just to get away. Though, not from each other. Sure, the three of them spend most of their time bickering back and forth but it was like Bones said, there’s a mystery that seems to draw them together. Why fight against it?

Jim, being the good friend he is, knocks his elbow against Spock’s, garnering his attention. He points toward his own cheek, in the same spot where the smudge of marshmallow rested on Spock’s.

For a long moment, Spock doesn’t respond. A crease slowly forms between those sharp brows of his.

So Jim raises his brows and points again, patting his cheek with his index finger a few times in an effort to drive the point home.

Maybe he’s embarrassed, Jim thinks as Spock takes another moment to consider, head tilting to the side.

Now, there isn’t much that could surprise James T. Kirk. He’s been around the proverbial block in more ways than one, and had things go sideways for most of those times.

But, when instead of lifting his hand to scrub away the bit of marshmallow from his face like Jim expects him to, Spock does a thing that surprises even him:

he kisses him.

Right in the spot Jim had been pointing to on his cheek.

It’s a small, closed-mouth thing. Like the kind of kiss you’d give your grandmother. It lasts for no longer than a second, maybe two but…

As Spock pulls away Jim feels himself go the way of the lobster: red and steaming.

He hears his heart thundering in his ears, distorting the sounds of nature he’d previously been enjoying, his breath stuck somewhere between his mouth and lungs. All he can do is blink.

It takes an embarrassingly long time for his brain to catch up with what just happened. A misunderstanding of substantial proportions. One he doesn’t know how to correct without making a complete ass of himself and humiliating Spock in the process.

And, maybe… Jim rolls the thought around his head, mulling it over before he can look at it squarely in the eye.

Maybe he doesn’t entirely want to correct it.

In the corner of his vision, he catches the tail-end of what looks like some sort of silent exchange between Spock and Bones. But, like the traitor he is, Bones rolls over in his makeshift bed without even so much as a goodnight before he can hope to get an answer out of him.

Spock, meanwhile, busies himself with skewering another marshmallow onto his roasting stick. He proceeds to hold it at the ideal height from the fire, slowly rotating it. Exactly as Jim had shown him.

“Shall I flambé it this time as well, Jim?” Spock asks, voice even. Pleasant.

Jim opens his mouth, his brain hasn't quite recovered enough to formulate much of anything. A few strange noises spring forth before something nearing the English language follows.

“I… I suppose we could do it again,” Jim fumbles along, shrugging, “if you liked it.”

Spock takes his eye off the marshmallow and looks over at Jim. They maintain eye contact for a beat too long for it to be entirely casual.

Finally, Spock nods. “I liked it very much.”

Jim’s face breaks into a wide grin entirely beyond his control. He doesn’t fight it—he doubts it would do any good even if he tried.

They carry on into the night speaking in hushed voices as to not disturb the good Doctor’s apparent sleep. Their knees knock together on occasion, their shoulders brushing.

A few burnt marshmallows later and Jim even risks inching closer to Spock on the log they share, closing the small distance between them.

And Spock… Well, Spock doesn’t pull away.

And how did Eddie return the favor? By being a total bone head and losing Steve for the entire goddamn day! Not to mention a good chunk of the night. Jesus… It’s no wonder Robin’s still sore.

Now, in Eddie’s flimsy defense, Steve had thrown him for one hell of a loop. One that Eddie was still seeing double from. He’s still having trouble wrapping his head around what he’d heard; Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington, King of Hawkins High, being into Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson, the drug-dealing ne’er do well hailing from the Forest Hills trailer park. Forgive him for finding the threads a little difficult to tie together! He’s not exactly Steve’s usual fare.

But it had happened.

Things have fundamentally, metaphysically, allegorically and subatomically shifted between the two of them—there’s no getting away from that, no matter how long they try and dance around this.

Steve said he loved Eddie. Love.

That isn’t something you just move on from. At least, it isn’t something Eddie can move on from. Especially when he didn’t even get to say his piece!

The trouble is that Robin’s in all-out guard dog mode with Steve, keeping Eddie at arm's length even after a whole goddamn week goes by. Sure, she’d accepted his apology (albeit begrudgingly), but she isn’t exactly keen on letting Steve out of the house without her by his side—much less with Eddie. It would be kind of heartwarming if it weren’t so goddamn annoying.

Steve isn’t some damsel locked away in a tower, and Eddie wasn’t some knight in shining armor, planning to scale the side of a stone tower to avoid the sleeping, fire-breathing dragon…

But as Eddie stares up at the fire escape attached to the side of Steve and Robin’s brick apartment building… he'd be lying if he said he didn’t sort of feel a little shiny.

Part of Eddie can’t believe it’s really come to this, but… he just can’t stand the idea of wasting another goddamn night tossing and turning, going over and over Steve’s words in his mind. Thinking about the way Steve’s hand felt in his, the way his eyes went all soft when he told Eddie he—he loved him…

Jesus H. Christ, this is way beyond his skill set—he’s way out of fucking league here, but there’s nothing for it. Eddie needs to settle this, once and for all.

So, he takes his bandana from the back pocket of his jeans and presses the flat of it to his forehead while his hands make a tight knot in the back. He zips his leather jacket as high as it’ll go and gives his hands a shake to try and get the jitters out.

It’s not exactly a helmet and plates of armor, but it’ll have to do. Eddie takes a breath, steels himself, then climbs on top of a precariously stacked pile of milk crates that he’d crafted and leaps for the steel ladder. As soon as his feet leave the plastic tower, it collapses under him, clattering to the ground. Eddie knows he shouldn’t look back, but he sneaks a peak over his shoulder and… yep. He really shouldn’t’ve looked. He’s not that high up, but it’s enough that if he falls, he’d be feeling it tomorrow. Might even bust an ankle if he landed wrong.

He turns back to the task at hand; getting to Steve.

There’s a terrifying moment where he’s not sure if he can pull himself up, but somehow, he finds the strength to do just that. If only Coach D’Amour could see him now!

He grunts as he pulls himself up onto the platform, belly getting scratched against the grates as he goes. Eddie scrambles to get his legs underneath himself. Then, he stands, dusts himself off and takes the win, graceless as it was.

The fire escape is rickety and fucking loud as he takes the steps two at a time. It’s cold enough that even the quickest touch of the steel railings drains all the heat out of his fingers, so he just keeps them balled up, swinging at his sides. The wind is especially chilly up here too, something he hadn’t noticed on the ground, but now that he’s up a couple of floors there wasn’t anything for the wind to buff off except the side of the building and, well, Eddie.

By the time he reaches the third floor, his nose is running and no doubt red and irritated looking, and he’s woefully out of breath.

Kind of a pathetic knight, he thinks as he sniffs back the worst of it, wipes the underside of his nose on the sleeve of his jacket to get rid of what’s left.

The light in Steve’s room is on, reaching out to him through the lines of Steve’s shut blinds.

His hand is raised, wind-chapped knuckles knocking against the glass of his window before he can plan out what he’s going to say. He just wants to see Steve. Get eyes on him again. Work this out.

It’s a painful few seconds before Eddie can see movement from inside the window. He bounces on the balls of his feet as he impatiently waits for Steve to let him in. His breath fogs the window.

Then finally. Finally! The blinds are pulled up. He smiles and—

Oh Christ on a cross. That’s not Steve.

Eddie’s stomach damn near falls out of his ass as the woman on the other side of the glass screams, as shrill and high as if she were next to him.

And of course she’s in a fucking towel.

Eddie slaps one hand across his eyes and the other up in surrender, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Shit, Jesus, I—I’m not a pervert, I swear!”

Debatable, his brain supplies, entirely unhelpful in an emergency situation. But hey, what’s new?

“I was looking for my friend, not—Please stop screaming!” He screams.

“Eddie?” A familiar voice calls from below.

The hand on Eddie’s eyes lift and looks down through the metal grates under his boots. “Steve!”

Steve’s hanging half out his window, peering up at him with a bewildered expression on his face. “What’re you doing?”

Eddie holds his arms out like it should be obvious. “Seeing you!” He snaps.

Eddie’s attention is briefly yanked back to the scandalized looking woman in the window in front of him. “I’m—yeah, I’m gonna—” He backs away, and swings around the escape before thundering down the stairs, shouting another apology up in his shameful retreat.

Steve backs up in order to let Eddie in. He climbs in as gracelessly as ever, all knees and elbows, stiff from the cold. He slides the window shut behind him once he’s in, dropping the blinds for good measure.

He wonders if Hopper is getting a call about a long-haired, wild-eyed, deranged looking peeping Tom at this very moment.

“Smooth.” Steve says from behind him, an edge of playfulness.

When Eddie turns and finally gets a good look at Steve, who looks especially comfortable in his flannel sleep pants and worn sweater, hands on hips. “I was looking for you.”

“Yeah, I got that,” Steve snorts softly, “third floor, remember?”

“I counted! Ground floor, first floor, second floor, third floor.” Eddie says, using his hand to indicate his pattern of thought, moving it up a tick with each floor.

Steve scoffs, shaking his head. And even though Eddie knows Steve’s laughing at him, he can’t help that warm feeling that pours through him, filling him up. All his cracks and edges, sealed up with Steve’s effortless being.

“No.” Steve raises his own hand, mirroring Eddie’s. He begins notching as he explains, “ground floor, second floor, third floor. The ground is the first floor, dude.”

Eddie frowns. “What? Since when?”

Steve levels Eddie with a flat look. “Since like, the civil war, dude.”

Huh. Eddie frowns. Mulling over the new bit of information. That would’ve been nice to know.

“Why were you even doing out there in the first place? We have things called front doors. And, y’know, phones.” Steve crosses his arms across his chest, losing a bit of steam as the words left him. Like he’s realized exactly what Eddie being here, in his rooms, meant.

“I had to see you.” Eddie says, like it’s not the most obvious thing in the world, “Face to face, just me and you.”

“Can’t we just—I don’t know, pretend all of… that never happened? Hell, it might drop out of my head one of these days anyway. Lots of shit does.” Steve’s says, sounding so fucking defeated that it sends a sharp pain through Eddie’s chest.

“Hey,” Eddie makes a face, gets in Steve’s space, “don’t be a jerk to yourself.”

He ducks his head in an attempt to meet Steve’s downturned gaze, which he reluctantly returns. He’s got these big, warm eyes, the color of dark honey—the kind that are hard to look away from, so Eddie rarely does. He’a got a staring problem, he knows, but… damn. Can you really blame a guy?

A nerve in Steve’s jaw jumps when he clenches his teeth together, and salt pools begin forming along the rim of those familiar eyes. When he speaks, it’s stiff. Barely above a whisper. “I’m embarrassed, alright?”

“You don’t gotta be embarrassed, man.” Without thought, Eddie’s hands go to Steve’s arms, fingers hovering around his elbows. Eddie tilts his head again to try and keep eye contact again but Steve seems determined to avoid it.

“Easy for you to say.” Steve huffs, and sits down on the edge of his bed, slipping out of Eddie’s hold, arms still crossed over his chest. “You didn’t totally humiliate yourself in front of your—friend.”

The word, one in which Eddie holds in a most sacred of views, sounds distinctly hollow when Steve says it.

“Steve, listen to me, just for a sec, alright?” Eddie gets down to the floor, one knee buried in the carpet while the others bent out in front of him. “This is my fault.” He confesses, voice full of remorse.

Finally, Steve looks at him. His brows twitch together as he makes a face. “Bullshit.”

“No, it’s true! I—I didn’t mean to, but I’m not exactly big on the whole impulse control thing, as you know, and, thinking back on things I probably… I probably let a few things slip.” Eddie explains, his rings clinking together lightly as he gestures with his hands.

Steve, however, doesn’t look any less confused. He blinks. “What?”

Eddie lets his head fall forward in a moment of defeat as he attempts to gather up his fleeting thoughts. It’s like chasing wet, feral cats up there!

Still, he picks himself back up. For Steve.

“What I’m trying to say is…” Eddie puts his hands on Steve’s knees. Feels the warmth under the soft, worn flannel. The hard muscle. Alive, whole. He tightens his grip. “Steve, I’ve been crazy about you since the first time I ever saw you. Don’t roll your eyes—I’m serious! You sat in front of me in math one year and you forgot your pencil. We were having a test that day, and you asked me if you could borrow one of mine, so I let you have the one I was using. You chewed up the end of it, squashed the eraser to all hell, but then when you gave it back to me, you smiled, thanked me and said, ‘I owe you one.’ It—okay, yeah, so it sounds, like, really small, and probably pretty pathetic, but… I was totally starstruck, man.”

At some point in his little spiel, Steve had uncrossed his arms. So Eddie takes the opportunity to clumsily take Steve’s hands, his insides feeling like a kicked hornets nest. Buzzing. He swallows. “I still am.”

Steve keeps his mouth shut, but there’s a knot in him that’s loosening, Eddie can tell. He’s just gotta keep tugging. He squeezes Steve’s fingers.

“The feeling was cranked up a few hundred clicks because of all the, y’know, near death experiences we went through together. But you get it now, right? You get how this is all my fault?”

“Eddie, you don’t have to—” Steve starts, hands stiffening in Eddie’s hold. Slipping away. But Eddie holds firm, decides to just fucking say it. If Steve could, Eddie could too.

“I’m in love with you too.” He blurts out, and now that he’s said it out loud, it’s like there’s a dam that gets busted inside of him; he can’t stop the rush of words that follows the confession. “That’s what you were seeing. That’s what you were noticing. I thought I was being slick, just keeping it friendly or whatever. Flirting, yeah, but I didn’t think you’d ever actually reciprocate. Because, honestly man, I’m not really used to people taking me all that seriously. ‘Zany, pot-head Eddie, can’t trust anything that comes out of his crooked mouth!’”

Eddie shakes his head, scoffing at his own blind spots, “But… you saw right through that shit—right through me. You didn’t make it up in your head, Steve—you felt it. You were right.”

Steve’s got a funny look on his face, but he nods. A lock of hair falls over his forehead, but he doesn’t remove his hands from Eddie’s to fix it. “You love me?”

That’s like asking if the sun would rise tomorrow morning. Of course. Of course.

Eddie pulls one of Steve’s hands and flattens it onto his chest, over the leather.

“Every time my heart beats, it's your name it calls out, man.” Eddie says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth when he sees the red creep up on the apples of Steve’s cheeks. “D’you feel it?”

Steve gives a breathless chuckle, hesitating for a split second before he nods, playing along.

Electricity hums under Eddie’s skin, the resulting static snaps in the air around them. Eddie presses Steve’s hand against the wall of his chest a little harder, so that he can feel the pounding a bit better. Then Eddie whispers in time with the rhythm of his lovesick heart, giving it a voice, “Ste-vie, Ste-vie, Ste-vie…”

He keeps chanting until Steve’s grinning, eyes glued to their joined hands. It’s a fleeting thing, though. Eddie watches as that hard-won smile drops and a pinched look takes its place. “Even now? Eddie, I’m not—I don’t think I’m the same person I was before.”

“Are you kidding me? Especially now. In sickness and in health, right?” Somewhere in his brain an alarm sounds, but he doesn’t pause long enough to acknowledge exactly why, lest he lose momentum, “look, Steve, even if you are a little different from the guy you were in high school, you’re still you.”

A beat passes. “What if I never get better?”

“Steve, you will, the doctors said—”

“But what if I don’t? Jesus, Eddie, what if I get worse?” Steve’s voice had gone progressively more hushed as he spoke, as if he were so afraid of its possibility that even voicing it felt risky. Made it real, even in that small way. It’s something Steve’s thought about, Eddie realizes. Agonized over, even.

“Then I’m the lucky son of a bitch that gets to take care of you.” Eddie says, sure as shit. Truthfully, he can’t think of anything else he’d rather do, even if Steve hadn’t done a completely insane thing like falling in love with Eddie. His love isn’t conditional. “S’long as you’ll let me.” He tacks on.

It’s like a wall crumbling. Brick by brick, Eddie watches Steve’s resolve collapse. The rim of his eyes shine with unshed tears, his brow relaxes and his chin twitches. “You sure you want that?”

He scoffs, eyes wide. “It’s all I want.” He answers, quickly. A reflex. Who wouldn’t want to be with Steve Harrington? Eddie thought he was lucky just to be in the same fucking orbit as the guy, but now…

Now, as he watches a smile slowly spreads across Steve’s face—fucking Adonis incarnate—it feels like he won the goddamn lottery.

“Okay.” Steve utters, so softly that for a second Eddie thinks he’d imagined it.

“Okay?” Eddie asks, trying his damndest to keep from imploding. He’s fucking vibrating in his skin.

Instead of answering Eddie, Steve decides to clarify himself by leaning forward and pressing his mouth against Eddie’s.

Fireworks go off inside of Eddie, every inch of him. All lit up. Feels like he’s shining just as good as any knight.

One of Steve’s hands snake their way behind Eddie’s neck, pulling him closer, while the other remains held over Eddie’s jackrabbiting heart. Their lips part, and their kiss deepens. Eddie tries to keep up.

They eventually end up on Steve’s narrow twin bed laying side by side, legs entangled, kissing until their mouths go dry. Eddie swipes a calloused thumb over Steve’s cheek, savoring the feeling of the barely there stubble, the heat from the blush that never seems to subside.

They don’t speak for the rest of the night. Not even a ‘goodnight’ after Steve crawls over Eddie to flick off his bedside lamp, tugging the comforter up around their shoulders as he settles back into the safe harbor of Eddie’s arms. They don’t need words. Not tonight, anyway. Tonight, all they need to do is to rest.

Whatever comes after, they’ll deal with it together.

—

Tag List: (if you’d like to be added to a permanent tag list for all my Steddie fics, please comment/message me! ◡̈ thank you for reading, everyone!)

Captain’s Log, stardate 2268.04

[7 hours missing]

First officer Spock, acting commander.

I have taken command of the Enterprise after the sudden and unexplained disappearance of Captain Kirk. What began as a routine training scenario has escalated into a search and rescue operation.

The Captain had expressed an interest in joining the cadets on a tethered, open-space exercise. When he and the selected crew had ventured beyond the hull of the ship, a phenomenon of unknown origin occurred.

Without warning, we were struck by an undetected source, resulting in minor damages to our shields. Chief Engineer Scot is currently investigating whether the cause was a system failure of some sort. I, however, suspect a solar energy storm may have passed through the quadrant, though I cannot be sure at this time. And, admittedly, it does seem rather strange that we were unable to detect it beforehand if that were indeed the cause.

In any case, those outside the safety of the ship were more severely affected, though none have reported damages beyond moderate bruising.

According to witness accounts, Captain Kirk had ensured that each crew member returned to the safety of the ship before he followed behind them.

Only, he did not return to the ship.

The crew claimed that the Captain was directly behind them, but upon looking back, he was no longer there. The words ‘vanished without a trace’ was used multiple times, by multiple witnesses.

This particular part of their statement is frustratingly accurate—Captain Kirk has left no evidence behind. No body. No residual energy signatures. No warp trail.

Chief medical officer McCoy has expressed concern that the Captain may be deceased, but that is not possible.

We will remain in orbit and continue the search until I can be certain.

—

Captain’s Log, stardate 2269.12

[12 days missing]

We have plotted a course for the ninth planet from its primary star, with an arrival time of seventy-three hours, where we will continue our search for any trace of Captain Kirk.

It has been twelve days since his disappearance.

We have conducted thorough searches of three prior planets, to no avail, and enlisted the aid of a nearby starship, the U.S.S. Midway, to assist us in our efforts. They have deployed a new probe prototype that is capable of detecting signatures that our current instruments cannot. I await their findings.

The crew remains hopeful, though I can sense their growing doubt. Morale is dropping quicker for some than others.

I have no reason to doubt, however.

Though I am oathbound to silence at this time, I can say with utmost clarity that Captain Kirk remains alive. The evidence that I alone possess is irrefutable.

Our search continues.

—

Captain’s Log, stardate 2269.21

[21 days missing]

Though I remain serving as acting Captain of the Enterprise, there have been indications of mutiny.

An admittedly disappointing development.

I have never been particularly adept at cultivating loyalty amongst others—save, perhaps, the humans I interact with on a daily basis.

But even they are losing confidence in my ability to locate and retrieve Captain Kirk.

I had hoped that their loyalty to him would steel their nerves, but I suppose what I ask of them is… difficult. Particularly in the absence of my full disclosure.

It is with trepidation that I must now consider breaking Jim’s confidence in exchange for the continued support of the crew, along with that of the U.S.S. Midway.

But that time has not yet come.

For now, our search continues.

—

Captain’s Log, stardate 2270.03

[6 months missing]

I have acquired a new vessel.

It is of Vulcan design. Highly advanced. Configured for long-range space travel and capable of being piloted by a single individual. What it lacks in comfort, it compensates for in durability.

I have assigned her the name Tokmar; a reference to an ancient Vulcan ritual intended to bring lost ones home.

I am grateful to my father, from whom it was gifted to me. Though we have had our many differences over the years, he has been my sole support in my so-called ‘fall from grace’.

The mutiny aboard the Enterprise occurred shortly after I made the error of revealing to the crew the reason for my certainty that Captain Kirk is still alive.

Unfortunately, it served to only make matters worse.

Revealing that Jim and I had an established mating bond between us was meant to reassure them. Instead, it was taken as evidence of my being emotionally compromised.

They could not accept the truth; that I would have physically felt my bond with Jim severing in my body had he truly perished.

They concluded that my judgement was impaired, and therefore unable to perform my duties as acting Captain without biases.

The ordeal was… frustrating.

Admittedly, it can be difficult to convey the complexities of a mating bond to a group of humans who do not naturally form such connections. Especially when they had already made up their minds.

I will admit to feeling a particular bitterness towards the ones I had called my friends when I was forcibly removed from command and placed in the brig shortly thereafter.

The trial, at least, was not drawn out.

My father had argued in the tribunal that I had suffered a mental and psychological break after losing my mate, as Vulcan’s are sometimes known to do.

It was believable enough for the deciding entities to rule my actions as… an unfortunate incident within another unfortunate incident.

I am ‘honourably discharged’—though I fail to see what is so honourable about everything that has transpired. The spectacle of it all…

Perhaps I remain embittered.

My search for Jim, at least, has been able to resume.

Simply being in the same solar system once more is a sharp relief. Our bond had stretched so painfully thin while I stood trial light years away, making it difficult to function.

I find myself reaching through our bond with increasing frequency, as a sort of reassurance, perhaps.

It pulses—warm, intact and content. While Jim’s thoughts and emotions remain unavailable to me, his quiet and enduring presence is a sufficient comfort.

I can only hope that wherever he is, he knows I am searching for him.

—

Captain’s Log, stardate 2274.04

[5 years missing]

I have successfully launched an additional six probes, each on an independent course to the outer reaches of this system. They will remain a constant source of incoming data which will alert me should they detect anything unusual.

Additionally, I have begun development on an upgrade to allow future probes to enter stable orbit around the local planets where they will remain indefinitely. As this has previously been undiscovered country, it remains virtually uncharted.

Once, the opportunity to map unexplored worlds and potentially encounter new civilizations would have been of particular interest to me. But, now…

I fear I have lost much more than just my bondmate.

A solemn discovery on its own.

Still, I persist. The bond remains, and so too must my hopes.

—

Captains Log, stardate 2279.01

[10 years missing]

It has been over ten years since Jim was lost to me.

Illogical as it is, I find it particularly difficult to articulate the words aloud. As through lending it my voice might cause further sorrow. A foolish thought…

Perhaps it is one of the ramifications of a life lived in isolation. It is unhealthy for a Vulcan to be separated from their bondmate for such extended periods of time. It has historically been described by others as an empty, hollow feeling that drains you of your energy. I have found that I am, regrettably, no exception.

I can only hope Jim is not feeling the same strain. There are no records of how such a feeling might translate to the human experience.

Despite my constant fatigue, I find myself seeking meditation more often than true rest. During sleep, unable to fully suppress my intrusive thought patterns, which then turn into nightmares.

Scenarios where I am forced to witness my Jim die, and subsequently perceive the severance of our bond. Scenarios where I watch him suffering in the vast emptiness of space, cold and alone. In some instances, I imagine him lost on one of the many planets below, struggling to survive, without means of communication. Worse still are the scenarios where he believes I have abandoned him.

I wake in a deregulated, emotional panic. It is only after several moments of forcing myself to slow my breathing that I am able to turn my senses to our shared bond. Only then can I regain my composure.

Meditation carries no such risk.

I committed the grave error of sharing this information with my mother, who has begun contacting me with increasing frequency. Unlike my father, she lacks the innate skill natural-born Vulcans possess when it comes to the mind-meld technique. She is therefore unable to understand that my bond with Jim remains intact.

She has urged me many times to abandon my search and return home to Vulcan where I might properly mourn my loss.

She simply does not understand—my home is not on Vulcan.

It is with Jim.

I cannot cease my search for him. Not when I can feel him so clearly. What else could be more worthy of my time than to spend it in search of my mate? Simply put, there is no more logical use of my energy.

For all her years entrenched in Vulcan culture, she remains skeptical of many of the higher functions of our race.

But, I will endeavour to be more patient with her. Like my Jim, she is only human.

Perhaps I should strive to increase my physical durability sessions to induce exhaustion. This may lead to a deeper rem cycle, and bypass my higher brain functions.

As always, my search continues.

—

Captains log, stardate 2294.9

[25 years missing]

Much has transpired these past years.

Regrettably, none of it has resulted in finding Jim, nor any sign of him. Still, our mating bond remains as securely in place as the day it was formed, thus I remain ever hopeful.

No, my recent efforts have resulted in initiating first-contact with a previously isolated society within the system.

What’s more, they were on the cusp of achieving warp capabilities, so it was only logical for me to usher them forward into joining the Federation.

They call themselves the Zel'Thraxians, of the world Zel’Thraxia. They are an insectoid-species. Bipedal, oxygen-breathing, with an exoskeletal frame. Adapted to a harsh, desert-like climate—similar to Vulcan.

For the majority of their evolutionary development, they functioned within a hive-mind based-society, operating as little more than drones. This was until an environmental-shift occurred sometime in their history, one that encouraged independent thinking—a shift that fundamentally altered the trajectory of their species—a truly remarkable and highly cooperative one.

Translating their language, which consisted mostly of chittering clicks, was a challenge. One that became considerably less so after I requested the aid of my former colleague, Lieutenant Uhura.

Despite her retirement, she seemed quite eager to offer me her services, indicating that this might be a way for her to ‘make up’ for what happened twenty-five years ago.

I assured her that, as a Vulcan, I lack the ability to carry a grudge.

Her work was exemplary, as I expected. Communication was successfully established, and the subsequent developments will be public record.

She truly is a testament to the calibre of our former crew, and not for the first time I longed to return to that period of my life. I expressed as much to the Lieutenant, and she echoed them.

‘The time of my life’, she had said.

It is difficult to put into words what working alongside her again meant. I will not attempt it. But it has put something right in me, I believe.

Perhaps, as a Vulcan, I was unable to hold a grudge, but this does not account for the human half of me.

Or, it is possible that I have simply grown ‘soft’ in my advanced age.

Jim himself will be nearing sixty-one years of age. For a human, it is considered… older. An age at which one considers retirement—though, I cannot conceive of any age in which my Jim might consider slowing down.

I do not deny that I mourn the years lost between us. The chasm ever widens between him and I.

It serves only to sharpen my resolve in continuing on with my search—that I might ensure the latter half of his life is an enjoyable one.

My network of probes spans 78.3% of this galaxy. Every charted planetary body, both full-sized and dwarf planets alike, maintains an active beacon within its orbit. The work-load increases exponentially. Still, it is insufficient.

Blind spots remain.

The road that lies ahead of me remains clear. I will not stop until I am successful.

—

Captains log, stardate 2311.02

(42 years missing)

I have received word that my mother has passed.

A shuttle accident, my father informed me.

She… she was quite old for a human, though she maintained much of her health.

I have suffered losses before, of course. But it cannot be understated how keenly I feel her absence. A tether to my katra has been torn free of me—one I have known no life without.

…

I find myself fixating on Jim’s physical absence during this time.

His bond remains warm and steady, and indeed, a comfort…

But… perhaps it is the human side of me that longs for the physicality of comfort, rather than simply the intangible. The simple feeling of being touched—embraced…

The desire for it overwhelms me at times.

…

Perhaps I should… perhaps such things are not helpful to record.

It changes nothing.

I regret being unable to attend the ceremony and extinguish the coals of her life alongside my father, but my search for Jim remains my priority.

I will enter into a season of mourning. I know not when I will ever find the strength to leave it.

—

Captains log, stardate 2320.08

(51 years missing)

I have acquired additional assistance in my search.

The Zel’thraxians have taken well to space travel, and as a gesture of appreciation for my various technological contributions over the years, they have pledged one fully manned starship to aid me in my search for Jim.

From what I gather, it is mostly a ceremonial assignment. A pilgrimage, of sorts. It seems I have unintentionally become a figurehead of these people. A symbol of their progress.

The irony of it does not escape me. I, who have spent most of my life in pursuit of that which was lost to me, unable to pursue any other course besides the one before me, while the rest of the galaxy, including the Zel’thraxians, move ever onward. Past me.

They refer to me as Ambassador. I have not disputed the title, though it was never my intention to assume such a role. I am… humbled by the level of regard in which they hold me in.

I am quite certain Jim will, as he would say, ‘get a real kick out of it’, once I explain the situation to him.

…

Jim.

In the quiet moments when my thoughts inevitably turn to him, I feel…

I feel.

It is difficult to fully articulate the depth of my longing. It is an ache that never ceases. The most sacred part of me—a love I have sheltered within the harbour of my chest—never leaving me. It urges me forward, and yet, it is the source of my greatest pain.

When I find him… It will be worth the cost. Of this, I am certain.

I need only stay the course.

—

Captains Log, stardate 2345.8

(76 years missing)

My father has come to visit me.

I was aboard his cruiser for several hours before returning. I knew he had grown older, but it remained a shock to see the effects the years, and possibly grief, had on him.

I am quite certain he felt the same when he looked upon my own face.

My father spent many of our hours together trying to urge me to go with him, back to Vulcan, so that the elders might sever my connection to Jim.

It is, of course, out of the question. To stop now, after all of this time—to truly abandon Jim, condemning him to whatever treachery that keeps him from me… No. What he asks of me is unthinkable.

Jim is so deeply woven into my katra, that were he to be rooted out, I believe only an emptied out shell of myself would remain.

He has, however bluntly, given voice to an uncomfortable truth that I have avoided confronting for many years. Jim’s human life span is nearing its natural end; over a hundred and ten years old.

Though many modern humans live well beyond a century, I find it unlikely that he would have had access to the advancements in medical care necessary for such longevity, while lacking access to a device to signal for help.

And yet, against all odds, my mating bond remains intact, as robust as ever. My father confirmed as much. Though I know he was dissatisfied with my final decision, he said no more on the matter.

He provided me with several additional upgrades for my ship, along with the means to repair the malfunctioning probes. Perhaps more, if I get… creative.

Before he left, my father also presented me with the amulet that my mother often wore around her neck. The vibrant blue of the vokayan stone bears a striking resemblance to the colour of her eyes—a detail I had never noticed while she was alive.

The amulet now rests at my own neck.

Though I recognize the sentiment to be illogical, the weight of it grants an illusion that she is still with me. And perhaps she is. There are many things in the universe that remain unknown to me. Life after death remains one of them.

And as always, my search continues.

—

Captains Log, stardate 2367.09

(98 years missing)

Age has finally begun to catch up with me, it seems.

My hands in particular have slowed, and now exhibit a persistent tremor—one that is increasingly difficult to ignore. It is enough of a hindrance to impede my ability to keep up with the workload I am required to handle.

Additionally, I wake with aches throughout my body that never fully leave me, regardless of how thoroughly I stretch. The ship's narrow passages and various ladders I must climb between levels has also become increasingly taxing.

I find myself relying more and more on the auxiliary unit I built some years ago. It has been most efficient in performing repairs and keeping up with maintenance aboard the ship and the occasional damaged probe.

It does, unfortunately, have a tendency to get underfoot. But as long as it stays out of my path, I find I do not mind the background activity.

It is… enjoyable to have company aboard the ship, even if the unit is void of any personality programming.

When I served aboard the Enterprise, Jim and the others would often remark that I would make for a very fine computer. Perhaps to them, I was very much like this bot is to me.

Still, I would give most anything to relive those years.

Particularly the months in which Jim and I entered into our courtship, and subsequently our period of being bonded as mates.

I will not deny that the secrecy of it all was part of the thrill. From across the bridge I would feel the moment his eyes landed on me. Through our bond, I could feel how he yearned for me, and I, in turn, yearned for him.

How we would collapse into one another’s arms the moment the doors slid closed behind us. How he took special care to kiss me in my way—with his hands.

So much touching. Something I had always felt a distinct repulsion towards… but with my mate? I never wanted Jim to stop touching me. The exchange of emotion was like a stimulant that I could not seem to consume enough of. Even now, having lived far longer without it than with it, I feel I remain addicted to his touch.

My Jim is still out there. Still waiting for me. I feel him. Though the years pass us both by, that truth remains a constant.

I will never cease my search for him, so long as I remain able, and he remains missing.

—

Captain’s Log, stardate 2387.62

(119 years missing)

Another four probes have malfunctioned, with two going offline entirely. This was inevitable, given their age. The remaining two hundred and thirty-eight remain functional, reporting back to my ship at two-hour intervals with consistent efficiency.

I have delegated the maintenance and refittings of the malfunctioning units to the Zel’thraxian ship—aptly named the Tiberius. Their reports, written in their sharp and jagged scripts, are transmitted to me every twelve hours.

My system blankets the solar system, never sleeping. I have, as the saying goes, ‘left no stone unturned.’ Now it is a matter of maintaining the web, and responding accordingly.

On a separate matter, it has become clear to me that wherever Jim is, he must be suspended in some sort of limbo, where he is affected by time differently. As he has far surpassed the upper limits of the human life-span, this remains the only logical theory.

I can only hope that my health and physical abilities remain what they are. That my own life-span will prove adequate.

Perhaps I will speak to the Zel’thraxians on this matter. Though I am reluctant to impose further on these people’s goodwill, I suspect they would not need much convincing to pledge a continued search party for my Jim after I am no longer able.

Such morose thoughts to give voice to.

Ones I do not wish to dwell on for longer than need be, so I will end this here.

My search continues.

—

Something strikes the hull of the Tokmar. The vessel lurches nearly onto its side before the stabilizers compensate for it.

The force of the blow is nearly enough to throw Spock from his bed in a violent awakening. Thankfully, he managed to partially catch himself, grabbing hold of the rails he had installed some years ago for this very purpose. Still, his lower half crashes onto the floor, causing pain to radiate from the impacted area.

The auxiliary unit whirls behind him, emitting a series of rapid chirps.

“I am uninjured,” Spock says, voice strained, “resume your tasks.”

The bot complies, quieting only marginally as it zips away.

The emergency lights flash red, accompanied by various alarms sounding throughout the ship, converging in the cockpit. The place he needed to get to, and fast.

It takes Spock a frustratingly long time to line his now bruised limbs into a position where he can lift himself.

A series of further chirps sounds directly behind him as he slowly manages to get to his feet. Stubborn thing…

“I repeat, I am uninjured, thus do not require medical intervention,” Spock says, catching his breath, “go, I will not repeat myself a third time.”

It rolls away, though not as quickly as it ought to, bound for one of the sparking control panels along the hull.

Spock assesses the damage on his ship as well as his own person as he makes his way through the narrow corridors of the Tokmar, hands trailing along the bulkhead for support.

Life support remains operational, as does the propulsion system, which means he is not in any immediate danger, at least. He keeps the weight off the leg he had fallen on, but even when he puts pressure on it, it does not feel broken, only bruised. Spock counts himself fortunate.

As he carefully lowers himself down into the captain's chair he is greeted with a sprawling sea of blinking alerts. His probes have also suffered some damage, it seems.

He exhales slowly, feeling the weight of it. Not only will repairing the damage take time, it leaves vast stretches of space completely offline until such repairs are complete.

He quickly hails the Tiberius and confirms that they are functional and unharmed before setting to work.

One by one, Spock begins logging the errors, sorting them by priority. Most will simply require recalibration and reactivation, with only a few that seem entirely offline. Perhaps better as scrap than as a functioning unit.

He presses the alert button, prepared to receive one of the automated responses—when something else comes through.

“…in, Enterpr—…tain Kirk, come in, Enterprise. Do you—…”

Static overwhelms the feed, cutting it short.

For a fraction of a second, Spock is rendered paralyzed. Immediate doubt sparks in his mind—did he imagine it? Has he finally gone mad, as they all predicted he would?

The remaining fraction of time passes.

Then, Spock’s hands spring to life. He isolates the signal, then amplifies it.

He prays to ancient Vulcan deities he had never once put any faith in for a miracle—

Then the voice breaks through the static again, this time loud and clear.