#Probably not

[hatsbuckets]

Ghoap, except it's Soap hauling Ghost.

This started as a small idea and spiraled, based on many people's recent need for Ghost to get taken care of by Soap. This is my midnight o'clock take. WC: longer than I meant to for one sitting, oops. Tw: Canon typical violence, probably some medical inaccuracies

Everything went to shit in seconds.

The C4 wasn’t supposed to blow yet. The plan was simple—sweep the compound, secure the intel, get out. But somehow, somewhere, Soap had fucked it up and the timing went off.

And now the entire fucking building was coming down around them.

Soap barely had time to turn before the blast hit.

A wall of heat and force slammed into him from behind, a deafening roar swallowing the world whole. His ears rang, vision whiting out as he was thrown forward, weightless for half a second before the ground came up to meet him—

Hard.

Everything spun. The sharp sting of concrete scraped against his arms, his ribs aching from the impact. He tried to push himself up, but his limbs weren’t working right, his head a mess of static.

A hand on his vest, gripping tight moved him. "On your feet, Johnny," a voice gritted out, rough and commanding.

Soap barely registered Ghost hauling him up, dragging him onto shaking legs just as another explosion ripped through the hallway behind them.

"Move!" Ghost barked, shoving Soap forward just as debris rained down where they’d been seconds ago.

Soap’s body acted on instinct, legs pumping despite the roaring in his skull. His head still rang like a church bell, but there was no time to think, no time to breathe—just run.

They bolted down the corridor, the walls trembling, the ceiling cracking apart. Smoke burned in Soap’s lungs, dust clogging the air as they weaved past fallen beams and crumbling debris. The sharp staccato of gunfire still echoed through the compound, but the screams had faded—either their team was already clear, or everyone else was dead.

The exit was up ahead. Not far.

Soap stumbled, boots slipping on the dust-coated floor. He felt himself tilting, his balance still fucked from the blast.

Ghost caught him. Again. A strong grip yanked him upright before he could hit the ground.

Soap barely had time to get his bearings before Ghost grabbed the back of his vest and shoved him forward, harder.

"Go, Johnny!"

Soap didn’t argue.

They burst through the exit just as another blast ripped through the structure, sending out a shockwave that nearly knocked them both off their feet. Heat licked at their backs, fire crawling up what was left of the building.

But they were out.

They kept running—across the open dirt lot, through the perimeter, straight into the dense treeline beyond. The night swallowed them whole, the branches tearing at their gear, the distant shouts of surviving hostiles echoing behind them.

They ran until their lungs burned, until the gunfire faded, until all that was left was the sound of their own ragged breathing.

They didn’t stop running.

Not when the gunfire faded behind them. Not when the compound’s burning wreckage was just a distant glow against the night sky, sending plumes of smoke curling into the stars. Not when their lungs burned, their legs screamed, and their bodies protested every step.

Because stopping wasn’t an option. Plan brunt to hell, there was no safe house waiting for them, no extraction team inbound, and no fuckin comms, Soap realized two kilometers ago. Just acres of land, endless trees, rocky hills, and God knows how much more ground to cover before they could even think about resting.

Soap’s boots thudded against the dirt, every step harder than the last. The terrain was uneven, riddled with loose stones and gnarled roots, but he forced his legs to move, to keep up with the silent force of nature ahead of him.

Ghost was still running, his stride unrelenting, his breath low and measured. He hadn’t said a word since they’d started moving, hadn’t glanced back once.

Soap barely noticed the signs at first.

The way Ghost’s steps were just a fraction too heavy. The way his shoulders were set too stiff, his posture tightening instead of loosening now that they had some distance. The way his breath was coming just a little too fast.

Then the run slowed into a jog, slowed into a trot, slowed into a walk.

The silence between them stretched, punctuated only by their footsteps and the rustling of the wind through the trees.

Soap flexed his fingers, trying to shake some life back into them. His whole body ached, exhaustion gnawing at the edges of his awareness. He was tired—dead tired—but something about the way Ghost was moving was off.

Soap turned his head, about to say something.

Ghost’s foot caught on a loose rock. His balance wavered.

Soap frowned, slowing. "Ghost—?"

Ghost didn’t answer. He swayed again. And then, just like that his knees buckled.

Soap lunged, catching him just as he collapsed.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—" Soap gritted his teeth, stumbling under Ghost’s weight. Jesus, he was heavy.

For a terrifying second, Soap thought they were both going down, but he braced himself, digging his boots into the dirt as he lowered them both to the ground. Ghost’s full weight sagged against him, dead weight, his head tipping forward as his breath hitched unevenly.

Soap’s pulse spiked.

"Ghost—hey!" Soap shifted, gripping Ghost’s arms, shaking him. "Come on, Lt., look at me!"

Ghost made a sound, weak and breathy, but it wasn’t a real response. His fingers twitched like he wanted to grab onto something, but they slipped away, his body slumping further against Soap’s hold.

Soap’s chest squeezed tight. This was bad. Ghost hadn’t just run himself to exhaustion—he was crashing.

Soap’s hands moved on autopilot, yanking at the straps of Ghost’s vest, trying to get a look at the damage. His fingers shook, fumbling at the buckles. Got it open with a yank.

Ghost flinched violently, a harsh, guttural noise ripping from his throat as his whole body seized up.

Soap froze.

Ghost’s back arched off the ground, his hands twitching at his sides like he was trying to push away pain that wasn’t stopping.

Then, slowly—too slowly—he slumped back against the dirt, his breath shuddering out of him in uneven gasps.

Soap’s stomach twisted. "Shit—Ghost—"

Ghost’s breath hitched, his body trembling hard now.

Soap barely took a second to look—didn’t need to. His hands pressed down hard against Ghost’s ribs, against the wound that should’ve killed him half a forest ago.

And Ghost groaned. It was a soft, choked noise, barely a sound, but it was wrong. Ghost didn’t make noises like that.

Soap’s hands faltered.

"Jesus, mate…" His voice wavered, but his hands stayed firm. "You were running like this?"

Ghost let out something that was almost a chuckle, but it was too weak, too breathless to be anything real. "Didn’t notice," he murmured.

Soap gritted his teeth. "Yeah? That why you’re shakin’ like a leaf?" He pressed harder, ignoring the full-body flinch it pulled from Ghost. "What, were you just gonna stitch yourself up with barbed wire when you got somewhere safe?"

Ghost let out a weak, broken chuckle. "Only if I had to."

Soap swallowed hard, forcing his hands to stay steady.

"Yeah, well... stupid," he muttered, voice tight. "Hold still and let me fix you up before you bleed out in the middle of nowhere."

Ghost let out a slow, shaky exhale, his body flinching slightly inward as another wave of pain hit him. His hand grabbed Soap's wrist quick, tight.

"Johnny—"

Soap winced, his heart slamming against his ribs. "I know, I know, Si. Just—stay with me."

Ghost’s breath stuttered.

Then, softer, "'s fuckin' cold."

"That’s ‘cause you’re leakin’ all over the damn place, ya big baby." His voice was tight, trying for light but coming up short. "We fix that, yeah?"

Ghost didn’t respond.

Soap’s chest tightened. "Oi—Simon." His hands pressed harder, blood already coating his fingers. "Eyes on me."

A sharp, shaky inhale. Then Ghost’s head tipped just slightly, like it took everything in him to listen.

Soap’s throat felt like it was closing up. "Stay awake, Lt.," he murmured, voice low, steady. "You die on me, and I swear on my gran’s grave, I’ll bring you back just to kick your arse."

Ghost let out something between a huff and a pained laugh, barely there. "Noted," he whispered.

Soap worked faster, his hands moving, even though his mind was screaming at him. He silently thanked Price for forcing them all to attend the emergency field medicine training a few weeks ago.

By the time the wound was helped best it could be, by the time Ghost was bandaged up, pressing every ounce of warmth he could into him, Ghost was still breathing.

It was shaky, weaker, but steady.

Soap sat back, exhaling sharply. "Jesus," he muttered.

Ghost hummed low, barely awake. "Told you…"

Soap side-eyed him. "Told me what? That you’re a stubborn bastard?"

Ghost made a sound that might’ve been agreement. Or just exhaustion.

"Shoulda lightened tha' las' 'splosive."

Soap sighed, rubbing a bloody hand down his face. "You shoulda told me you were bleedin' out. You ever do this again," he muttered, voice quieter now, "and I swear to God—"

Ghost’s head tilted slightly toward him. "…You’ll what?"

Soap stared at him. At the barely-there smirk under the mask. At the way even now, even after all this, Ghost was still Ghost.

Soap shook his head.

"I dunno," he admitted. "Just don’t do it again, yeah?"

A pause. Then, so soft Soap almost didn’t hear it—

"Aye."

Soap swallowed hard. They still had a way to go.

...

Ghost was too heavy for Soap to carry outright, but that didn’t stop him from trying.

Soap gritted his teeth, hauling Ghost up as best he could, slinging one of Ghost’s arms over his shoulders and bracing a hand around his waist. Ghost was barely holding himself upright, his legs dragging more than walking, his breath a thin, uneven rasp in Soap’s ear.

Soap’s knees burned, his muscles screamed with every step, but stopping wasn’t an option. They had to get somewhere. Somewhere else. Anywhere. He tightened his grip, forcing them forward, half dragging, half lifting Ghost across the uneven ground.

"We’re almost there," Soap muttered, though he had no fucking clue if that was true. "Just stay with me, Lt."

Ghost made a low sound—somewhere between a grunt and a breathless chuckle. "Dunno if…you noticed, Johnny," he murmured, voice so faint that Soap barely heard him over the wind, "but I don’t 'ave much of a choice."

Soap huffed. "Aye, well. Just makin’ sure you don’t get any ideas about quittin’ on me."

Ghost exhaled sharply—not quite a laugh, but close.

Soap risked a glance at his comm, his hand fumbling at the radio clipped to his vest. He’d been checking for hours, but it was always the same. Static, nothing, silence.

His throat was dry. He tried anyway.

"Bravo 0-7, this is Soap, do you copy?" His own voice was raw, barely above a rasp, but steady. He was not going to let it shake, no matter how bad this was getting.

Ghost stumbled again, and Soap nearly went down with him.

"Shit—" He tightened his grip, adjusting his hold, all but hauling Ghost upright again.

Ghost let out a sharp, ragged breath, but didn’t complain.

Soap grimaced, pressing the comm again. "Bravo 0-7, this is Soap. Ghost is down. We are mobile, but barely. If anyone can hear me, I need—"

A burst of static.

Soap held his breath.

Then—

"Soap."

Soap staggered mid-step, his breath catching.

Price.

"Jesus fuckin’ Christ, finally—" Soap almost laughed, relief crashing through him so hard he felt weak. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself back into focus. "Ghost is hit bad, Cap. We’re a few clicks west of the facility, still moving, but he’s barely on his feet."

"I know. I’ve got you on GPS, went dark there for a bit in a valley." Price’s voice was steady, solid, the sound of it something Soap could hold onto. "You’re close, Soap. There’s an abandoned town just ahead—old mining site, should be about a click out. You make it there, and I’ll take care of the rest."

Soap exhaled hard, his grip tightening on Ghost.

"You hear that, Ghost?" he muttered, adjusting his hold. "We just gotta make it a little further. You with me?"

Ghost’s head lolled slightly, his masked face turned toward Soap.

"Not goin’ anywhere," he mumbled.

Soap let out a sharp breath, half a laugh. "Good. ‘Cause I didn’t fancy carrying your heavy arse the rest of the way."

Ghost didn’t answer.

Soap’s stomach twisted.

He risked another glance down, trying to assess—but the darkness made it impossible to see how bad it was. He could feel the warmth of Ghost against his side, could hear the way Ghost’s breathing was getting worse, thinner, fading in and out.

Soap’s jaw locked.

"Price, we need exfil fast. I don’t know how long he’s gonna last."

"I know. Just keep moving. I’ve got you."

Soap clenched his jaw, nodded to himself. Right. Keep moving. The town wasn’t far now. Soap set his teeth, tightened his grip on Ghost, and kept walking.

...

Every step was harder than the last. Soap’s knees felt like lead, his arms aching from keeping Ghost upright. His muscles screamed, his head pounded, and his vision blurred at the edges, but he kept moving. One more step.

And another.

The abandoned town finally came into view—a collection of crumbling structures, rusted-out vehicles, and shattered windows, the remnants of a long-dead mining site. The place was eerie, bathed in the faint silver glow of the moon, but to Soap it was a lifeline.

Ghost’s legs buckled again, and Soap nearly lost his footing trying to keep them both upright.

"Almost there, Lt.," he gritted out, adjusting his grip, his fingers digging into Ghost’s gear as he hauled him forward. "Just a little further, Simon. You with me?"

Ghost’s head tilted sideways slightly, his breathing shallow, sluggish, but, "Still here," he murmured.

Soap let out a sharp breath. "Atta man. Price would kill me if I had to leave you."

Ghost let out a breathy, half-there chuckle, but it barely held any strength. Soap didn’t let himself dwell on that.

They made it into the town, staggering between the ruins of buildings that had been abandoned for decades. Soap’s boots crunched against broken asphalt, his own breath ragged, the wind howling through empty streets. It was quiet. Silent. No voices. No distant gunfire. No sound of enemy vehicles chasing them down.

Just nothing.

For a long moment, Soap’s heart pounded in his ears, the quiet so thick it felt suffocating. He felt like he was holding Ghost above water, like the second he stopped, the second he let go—

He didn’t let himself finish the thought.

Instead, he took another step forward, Ghost’s weight pressing heavily into him, his pulse a sluggish, uneven thing beneath Soap’s grip.

Then a distant thump. Faint at first. Then stronger. Then closer. Soap’s head snapped up, his heart hammering as the deep, unmistakable whump-whump-whump of rotor blades filled the night.

A helicopter. Soap exhaled so hard it was nearly a sob.

A gust of wind kicked up dust and loose debris, the chopper swooping in low over the town, sending the dry earth swirling. Soap tightened his grip on Ghost, adjusting his stance as the aircraft’s floodlights swept over them, illuminating them in a harsh, artificial glow.

The second the wheels touched down, the side door slammed open and two figures came barreling out.

"Soap!"

Gaz was the first one off the bird, his rifle slung across his chest, moving like a damn bullet straight toward them.

Price was right behind him, his boots hitting the dirt hard, his face set in grim determination.

Soap barely had time to brace himself before Gaz reached him, sliding under Ghost’s other arm without hesitation, taking some of the weight off Soap’s straining shoulders.

"Fucking hell, Tav." Gaz’s voice was tight, his hands gripping Ghost’s gear as he adjusted his stance. "How long has he been like this?"

"Too long," Soap gritted out, his legs nearly giving out in relief now that someone else was helping. "We had to run, got a little out of sorts. He pushed through it ‘til he couldn’t anymore."

Price stepped in next, his face dark with something close to fury as he took one good look at Ghost, at the sluggish way his head lolled, at the blood still soaking through his bandages.

Price swore under his breath, then reached out, gripping Ghost’s jaw gently but firmly, tilting his face toward him.

"Ghost," he barked, low and sharp.

Ghost made a faint noise, barely a sound, but his eyes didn’t fully open.

Price’s grip tightened. "Look at me, Simon."

Ghost’s eyes slit open just a fraction. Just enough to see.

Price exhaled, his jaw clenching, but when he spoke again, his voice was gentle. "That’s it," he murmured.

Ghost’s head tilted slightly toward him, his breathing still too shallow, but still, "Not goin’ anywhere, sir," he mumbled.

Price huffed, a wry, tight breath of laughter, shaking his head. "Damn right, you’re not."

He slipped in under Ghost, taking Soap's spot. Soap damn near collapsed right there.

"Come on," Gaz said, adjusting his grip. "Let’s get the hell out of here."

Soap nodded sharply, ignoring the way his own exhaustion was creeping in, pushing it down. "Aye. Let’s move."

With Gaz supporting one side and Price on the other, they hauled Ghost toward the bird, Soap achingly climbing in behind them, Nik's hand shooting out, pulling Soap in.

Soap didn't bother sitting up in a seat as Nik closed the door.

Thanks for reading. midnight am blurb turned fic... should I continue?

[parasuchus]

whaaaat i'm not in intermediate algebra right now whaaat are you even talking about (prof is so slow i have time for many jons. this is a worthy investment of tuition)

[steelsartcorner]

my pen has still not been confiscated so it’s halsin’s turn in the ongoing turn-everything-into-Hades fever dream

others: the dark urge (OC); minthara (bg3), karlach (bg3), shadowheart (bg3), gale (bg3), lae'zel (bg3), astarion (bg3), wyll (bg3), kotallo (horizon)

[batbusiness-schooldropout]

Bruce: Connor Kent, the only reason I haven't become your step-father and ground you for your insubordination is because that would make Lex Luthor my in-law somehow, and my heart can't handle that.

Tim: Uh B? Kon and I are-

Bruce: Don't say it. I'm still pretending that you wouldn't hurt me this way

Connor: I feel about 50% offended

Tim: Well, you're 50% Luthor, so that makes sense

[cupcakedieabetes]

DPXDC prompt: Greatest Treasure

In Gotham, there was a new rogue named Box Ghost who had been stealing random things. But, as his name suggests, the random things he stole all were boxes or box shaped. He stole from stores and pharmacies as long as they had a box shape. They were all random, and it didn't matter what inside of the boxes.

To name a few, he stole food that was packed in boxes, packaged furniture, toys, clothes, shipment, diapers, blankets, fishing gear, books, bags, jewelries, etc.

Then, there came the rumors. Despite all the boxes, he had a box that he loved the most. "The Greatest Treasure".

It became a man hunt soon after as many speculated it may be expensive things inside, maybe gold bars since that's box shaped.

As people (not only rogues bc normal people also need money, duh), they started frantically searching for "The Greatest Treasure".

It was too chaotic and the bats knew that they had to act quickly. Time was against them and it was running quickly as practically EVERY gothamites were searching for it.

Idk who manages to find it, maybe a rogue, maybe one of the bats, but they managed to trick Box Ghost from being away from the box he was guarding.

He was guarding it so desperately that it made them wonder what exactly was in the box that made him go bat shit.

Inside the box were two children, one older and the other an infant, sleeping peacefully next to each other, covered in blankets and toys.

Oh

______________________________________________________________

Box Ghost had to flee Amity Park alone. In his arms were 2 vulnerable children. One is his own daughter and the other is a de-aged Phantom. His wife stayed behind to give him more time.

The GIW had been capturing anyone that was 'infected' with ectoplasm. As Amity Park was full of it, a lot of people were, of course, exposed to it.

Maddie and Jack, after discovering that their son was kidnapped by the GIW otw home from school, they pretended they were on the GIW's side.

As soon as they located their son and had a chance, they broke out and freed everyone who was captured there—well, anyone who was still existing.

Box Ghost, Lunch Lady, and Box Lunch were some of the few there and were surprised when they were handed an infant version of Phantom.

There was absolutely no time for any explanation for that, so as the Fentons helped fend off the enemies, Box Ghost and Lunch Lady were both carrying a child in their arms.

They had to get separated from the Fentons as they sacrificed themselves for the sake of their now-infant son.

But, they were ambushed once more by the white agents. Lunch Lady, carrying their daughter, shoved her at him and told him to run.

Box Ghost tried to refuse, but she yelled at him so fiercely. Full of love and tears, but she would do anything for their family.

She turned into a large meat monster to be a better target and to keep eyes away from her fleeing husband, roaring at anyone and fighting against them as best as she could as a distraction.

Box Ghost fled. He had two children to protect now. His daughter was clinging to him tightly while shutting her eyes. Phantom still sleeping, dressed in rags and covered in stitches.

He didn't know where his friends were, but he had no time to think about that. He had two children to care for, so he needed to prioritise a place to run to.

The only place he knew with enough ambient ectoplasm was Gotham. It may take him some time to get there, but he needs to get to safety.

When he stole in Gotham, he may have kept stealing anything that was box-shaped, but many things are in box-shaped containers now, and he couldn't let anyone know what he was stealing. So, what he stole may have been random, but some were needed, and some were distractions. He couldn't let anyone go after his 'Greatest Treasure'.

______________________________________________________________

Prompt:

[keferon]

Let the Prowlapocalypse begin or something ahahah

[amelia-yap]

internal screeching

[definitey-not-fruity]

can someone please go see how joel smallishbeans is doing rn

[an-internet-introvert]

Kneeing on main

[croudjay]

Bedrock duo but they're lazy in space or whatever

Disclaimer: I didn't draw the background, it's from Bee and Puppycat's official art (I was too lazy to draw backgrounds)

[ashthewaterghoul]

As someone with dissociative issues, I cannot shut up about how much I love Copia’s dissociation in RHRN.

Just that flat-out refusal to accept the horrible facts of life (in this case Sister dying). His mind trying to manifest the reality he wishes for, and the confusion as he slowly sees what’s actually happening again.

The way how confused he is when he’s suddenly changed into his black robes.

The hazy way he sees reality and his own imagination blending (Sister being tended to by a doctor while he tries to ignore it).

The. Fucking. Balloon. Sequence.

Copia wants away from his problems, so his mind flies him away until he literally crashes back into reality.

The balloon was great way to show it bc I know when my issues start, it does feel like I’m floating, like I’m in a different realm to the rest of the world.

I love it all and how it was done. Tobias Forge, you are a GENIUS.

[bluebellowl]

Some elemental action! I started with Ingo and thought Emmet needed one like it too.

I‘ve been seeing a lot of art with Ingo wielding fire like Chandelure and Emmet producing electricity like Eelektross, and wanted to try that out too.

[fyeaheddiemunson]

[i-only-ever-asked-questions]

Updated! A few days ago the contract Crowley signs in S1 came up on discord. Being the crazy person that I am, I set on the quest of finding out what it actually says. I couldn't make out everything, especially at the end where Crowley's hand and the sparks obscure the lines but I made out most of it (transcript below the break).

One of the things I like the most is that the contract specifically says "Anthony Crowley of Mayfair, London." In the book, Hastur tells Crowley not to use that name: "No. Not A. J. Crowley. Your real name.” Crowley nodded mournfully, and drew a complex, wiggly sigil on the paper. It glowed redly in the gloom, just for a moment, and then faded."

Interesting things:

The contract is referred to as "the Agreement" - HA!

The contract is between Hastur and Ligur ("the Customer") and Crowley ("the Service Provider"). Not with Hell itself or with Satan.

The contract never actually says what "the Service" is nor does it say how much Crowley is supposed to be paid (so is it just delivering the baby to the convent, or all the upbringing too?)

There is a part that says Hastur and Ligur will pay the costs when the operation is done. But later on it also says that Crowley will not be reimbursed for his own expenses. Talk about being shortchanged!

Hastur and Ligur will NOT provide any help

Crowley must contribute to a retirement plan (Superannuation) for himself and his employees if he has any (how thoughtful)

And lastly, I learned the UK has Superannuations and it is not just an Australian thing! (go figure! the things GO teaches me)

So here you have it. A contract from Hell! literally If anyone can make out the words I couldn't or finds an error, please let me know and I'll update this one.

Full transcript:

[Line covered by clip and Ligur’s fingers] (the "Agreement")

BETWEEN

HASTUR AND LIGUR of HELL (the "Customer")

AND

ANTHONY J CROWLEY of MAYFAIR LONDON (the "Service Provider")

BACKGROUND a. The Costumer is of the opinion that the Service Provider has the necessary qualifications experience and abilities to provide services for the Customer. The Costumer will pay the Service Provider per project agreed. Each project has its own costs and the Service Provider agrees to inform the Customer what are the costs involved when setting the operation and the Costumer agrees to pay the total amount when the project is delivered. b. The Compensation will be payable upon completion of the Services. The Service Provider is responsible for paying any Superannuation Guarantee contributions that may be required in relation to the work performed by the Service Provider or by the employees of the Service Provider under this Agreement c. The above Compensation includes all applicable sales tax, and dues as required by law

Provision of Extras a. The Customer will not provide any resources, assistance or extra for use by the Service Provider in providing the Services Reimbursement of Expenses b. The Service Provider will not be reimbursed for expenses incurred by the Service Provider in connection with providing the Services of this Agreement. Independence of Services c. In providing the Sevices under the Agreement it is expressly agreed that the Service Provider is acting as an independent contractor and not as an employee. The Service Provider and the Customer acknowledge that the Agreement does not create a partnership or joint venture between them, and is exclusively a contract for service

Notes a. All suits, requests, demands or other communication required or permitted by the terms of this Agreement by will be given in writing and delivered to the Parties of the Agreement as follows

ANTHONY J CROWLEY of MAYFAIR LONDON

HASTUR AND LIGUR of HELL

and each [Illegible words due to Crowley’s hand] notify the other.

[ILLEGIBLE WORD]

ANTHONY J CROWLEY

[estrellami-1]

If I Should Stay

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

He’s staring at him.

Steve Harrington is staring at Eddie Munson.

The thing is, people don’t just stare at Eddie. Not for any reason that means anything good for Eddie. So when, completely unprompted, the fucking King of Hawkins High walks up to Eddie and says, “I need to talk to you,” Eddie thinks he’s entirely justified in the squeak he lets out.

“You? Talk? To me?” Wow. Great job, brain.

“Please,” Harrington whispers, and Eddie thinks desperately this must be some kind of joke, except he’s good at reading people, and he knows the desperation in Harrington’s eyes.

“Okay,” he says, stammers. “Um. There- there’s, behind the school, a, uh-”

“Table,” Harrington nods. “That works. Just…” he sighs, rakes a hand through his hair. “Leave the lunchbox at home.”

Eddie’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Then what the fuck do you want with me, dude?”

“I can’t explain. Not here, not now. Just. Please. After school, okay?”

Eddie looks at him. Really looks, studies his face, understands the lines by his eyes, the tightness of his mouth. His heart thumps as he realizes. He’s scared. “Okay,” he says, and means it.

Eddie’s a man of his word, so after school he makes his way to the table, pausing when it comes into view. Harrington’s already there, sitting with his head in his hands. Eddie calls out from a couple of paces away. “You sure you don’t want anything from the lunchbox?”

Harrington jumps, hands up, eyes round. Relaxes a little when he sees Eddie. “No. I- I’m good. I can’t, actually.”

Eddie frowns. “What, like, a sports thing? No one’s gotta know, dude, I’ve never been busted, I can keep a secret.”

Steve gives him a half-smile. “No. It’s- it’s not a sports thing. Just… sit down? And promise to listen?”

“Okay,” Eddie says, because he knows how comforting it can be to just have someone there, and he’s not a dick; clearly Harrington’s going through something. Though why he approached Eddie, of all people, he doesn’t know.

“Okay,” Harrington repeats back, taking a breath before starting. “If I were to tell you I’m from the future, a future in which we know each other, how would you ask me to prove it?”

Eddie blinks. He was ready for a lot of things, but not time travel. “Um. I dunno, man, I haven’t really thought about it.”

He takes another deep breath. “Can I try?”

“To- to prove you’re from the future?”

“Yeah.”

Eddie laughs, a little hysterically. “Man, where the fuck do I get the strain you’re on?”

He blinks. “What?”

Eddie gestures at him. “Come on, man, you have to admit you’re not really making sense here.”

Harrington sighs. Takes another breath. Says, “You live with your uncle Wayne. Your father taught you to hot wire cars when you were nine. You listen to Dio and Metallica and Ozzy Osbourne but your favorite song is I Will Always Love You, by Dolly Parton, because it was your mom’s favorite. The guitar pick you wear around your neck was hers. She taught you guitar. You love The Hobbit. Stop me when I’ve said enough.”

Eddie’s never been more scared in his life. “Listen, man, I dunno where you heard all that-”

“Eddie,” he says, implores, and digs something out of his pocket. Opens his hand to reveal a ring.

A ring Eddie already has on his finger.

“What the fuck,” Eddie whispers. Grabs for the ring before he can tell himself it’s a bad idea. Examines it, sees the dent from where his finger had gotten smashed in a door.

His hands start shaking.

“I’m from 1987,” Steve Harrington says, sure as anything. “And I’m trying to stop something terrible.”

“And what would that be?” Eddie asks, feeling strangely detached from the whole thing.

“Your death,” Steve Harrington says, still sure as anything.

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