#Sam was too predictable an answer | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

samkerrworshipper · 2 years ago

Text

togetherness

matilda’s x reader

this one’s a long one so rip

also pls keep sending request lol i need ideas

your a rookie on the squad, struggling to find your footing in a team that you don’t think you fit into. what happens when a certain conflict arises between you and one of your teammates?

angst, little bit of fluff, 5k+ words

I couldn’t really give you a timeline on when I started to space out, when I started to check out. I knew chronologically it would have had to be a few weeks ago, after the world cup had started, just after my whole life had become a shit storm. It was a process, checking out of your own life, it took time, I think that’s why I couldn’t tell you the one moment that I started to, because there wasn’t an exact moment. Slowly the days just all start to smudge into one big mess, you can’t tell people what day it is anymore or when your last meal was. Which sounds stupid, because those are just mundane things. When you check out of life though those things stop mattering, for me I either sleep obtusely or I don’t sleep at all, I don’t eat, I forget how to look after myself. I try to be discreet about it for as long as I can, but eventually people catch on, especially when you are playing professional sport, because you are surrounded by doctors and athletes that know the signs of burnout.

At around two weeks, I think, I could tell my team was catching onto my behaviour. I was a mess, I came to breakfast in the morning with puffy red eyes from crying at night, I didn’t really talk to anyone unless I had to, I was always tired, I kept to myself a little bit too much. It was a matter of time until I was approached, probably told off for having a shitty attitude. I had predicted that, expected it. What I hadn’t expected was to be pretty much cornered in my locker before training by our team captain, Sam Kerr.

As one of the youngest on the team it was safe to say that I was pretty much terrified of our skipper. Not that Sam was a scary person, she was lovely, considerate to a fault. But she was terrifying in a sense that we all knew heading into the world cup she had one ambition and that was to win at home, at all costs. That’s a little bit intimidating, especially when you know that she is prepared to hand you your ass on a silver platter if you do absolutely anything to jeopardise that ambition.

I’d been sitting in my cubby, lacing my cleats up. Both of my airpods in, hoodie on, tracksuit on, puffer jacket hood on. If I didn’t scream unapproachable I don’t know what did. I’d been sitting there a little bit too long I think, staring at my shoe lace for a little bit long, long enough for someone to point me out to Sam. I’d gotten the fright of my life when Sam’s hand had very gently connected with my shoulder. I’d flinched back almost immediately, before turning around and realising where the contact had come from. Sam looked a little bit offended by my sudden reaction to her touch, but the concern left her facial expression fairly quickly.

“Are you okay kid?”

I hated that question. Three words that drove me insane. I don’t think anyone ever answered that question honestly, because it was so blunt. How were you supposed to honestly answer a person you didn’t trust with the answer to the question.

I pulled my airpods out of my ears purely out of respect, even though I could hear Sam perfectly clear.

“Fine, Cap.”

I thought my words would have been enough of an indicator that I didn’t want to talk to her but she’d taken it as an invitation instead to sit down on the bench beside me.

“You don’t look fine.”

I bit the inside of my cheek, hard enough to draw blood, and focused on completing the task of lacing up my cleats.

“Well I am.”

My answers were short and snappy, closed off. They didn’t leave room for imagination or interpretation. I was a blunt person, I spoke bluntly, I reacted to things bluntly. I’d always been that way and I was pretty sure I’d never change.

“Do you want to talk about it? Because I’m here for you.”

I gulped and finished tying up my first cleat, moving on to pulling the second one over my sock covered left foot. I always put the left one on first, it had become routine for me, that was how I’d tied them before I’d won my first game and I’d stuck with it, it was a superstition that I’d never been able to break and I didn’t see why I should break it now.

“I don’t have anything I need to talk to you about.”

My voice was betraying me, my voice and my eyes. I knew Sam would pick up on my aversion to looking at her in the eyes. I could blame it on focusing on tying up my shoes but she was also sitting directly above them and every time I lifted my eyes I just happened to focus on the wall behind her instead.

“Doesn’t seem that way, Ellie told me that she’s heard you crying in your ensuite at night, she says you don’t sleep very much, which I think your under eyes are enough supporting evidence.”

I let my eyes drift over to Ellie, she was standing on the complete opposite side of the locker rooms, talking anxiously to Kyra and Hailey. As soon as she looked up and met my eyes I could tell that Sam’s approach to me had been driven by her, the anxious look in her eyes was enough of a giveaway.

“Ellie doesn’t know what she’s talking about, the girl talks in her sleep most of the time or she’s on the phone to her girlfriend, I don’t think she’d be able to recall my night time activities.”

I focused back in on my cleats, knotting them furiously with my hands that I had now realised were shaking.

“She seemed to have a pretty good idea, we’ve all seen you’ve been checked out recently. I get if you don’t want to talk about it now around the girls. You seem to be having a bad day. So how about you get yourself through training and then you and I have a chat in private?”

It was phrased as a question but nothing about how she’d said the words came out as a proposition, it was an order. I would have tried to object but I knew it would be useless, Sam had made her mind up and once Sam had made up her mind there was no changing it.

“Sounds good skipper.”

My voice was nothing but dripping with sarcasm, it was my only way of pushing out my very clear distaste with the idea of having to talk to Sam after training. As soon as Sam stood up and I’d checked that both of my cleats were on properly I marched right over to Ellie, pulling her away from the conversation she was in and back over to my locker.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are but telling on me to cap isn’t going to get you fucking brownie points with me, we aren’t friends Ellie, we’re not sleepover buddies. I am working tooth and nail here to be fucking respected and I just got a proper emotional dressing down from Kerr that was pretty much just her telling me that I needed to get my act together. If that doesn’t scream out not fucking respected than I don’t know what does.”

I watched all of the colour drain from Ellie’s face as she slowly became far more uncomfortable in the conversation. She wasn’t backing down though.

“I don’t know what fucking planet you are on y/n/n but we are just looking out for you. I hear you at night in the bathroom, sobbing and balling your eyes out. That doesn’t scream out okay to me. Sam wasn’t giving you a dressing down she was asking you if you were fucking okay, something that we’ve all wanted to do for a few weeks now, we were just all scared to because we thought you were going to rip our heads off, like you are doing to me right now. I would be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about you right now because how you’ve been behaving as of late isn’t fucking normal and anybody in there right mind would be worried about you.”

Ellie and I’s argument had escalated enough that I could tell most of the locker room's attention had fallen to our heated conversation, neither of us were ready to back down though and that much was evident in how strong both of our glares at each other held.

“Fuck you, you aren’t the person who gets to decide whether or not I’m okay or not. So what if I’ve been keeping to myself? Maybe I needed some down time away from this fucking extroverted team that never gives me a fucking break.”

It was a personal dig, one that I had said far too loudly in a crowded room of girls that I actually really loved, it had been like word vomit though, getting thrown out in me and Ellie’s fight.

“That’s not fair and you know it, all anybody here has done is be nice to you and you’ve been a fucking dick to everyone for the last few weeks, it’s not normal. You were so happy at training camp but ever since we’ve gotten here you’ve lost your shit and it’s fucking pathetic because we are your team and family and you should trust us more than anybody else but you don’t you don’t give two shits about anybody here besides yourself and we can all see it. It’s embarrassing having your represent us in your current condition. Your a wreck. You didn’t deserve to be brought up from the under 20’s. Maybe if you spent less time in our bathroom at nighttime crying about how hard your sorry ass life was you’d realise there are people and things on earth that are more fucking important than you are.”

Ellie’s words had taken the air out of my lungs, it wasn’t what I’d expected and even her facial expression reflected that she was a little bit taken aback by her own words. They were personal, really personal. I blinked a few times, trying to get a footing in the conversation but I couldn’t, because what was I supposed to say to a person accusing me of being a selfish heartless team mate? Me and Ellie stood stock still, just staring at each other, both of us obviously waiting for the other to keep talking but neither of us could.

“Ellie Madison Carpenter, out on the field, right now.”

Steph’s voice echoed against the walls of the changerooms, everyone else was standing completely silent and still in the room. I looked around the locker rooms, aware that literally everyone besides Sam who had left the locker rooms after her talk to me had just heard Ellie’s speech. I was too shocked to do anything besides plaster my hand against my mouth and run directly into the bathroom that connected to the change rooms. I did my best to not let any tears fall until I’d locked the disabled bathroom door behind me and I’d slid down onto the floor. Was that actually what the team thought of me? That I was a selfish, useless, coldhearted bitch who was just here for herself? Ellie’s words had hurt my heart and soul, because I didn’t play for myself, I hadn’t ever.

I consciously could hear the frantic knocking on the bathroom door but my subconscious was doing its best to tune it out.

“Y/n, open the door, please.”

“Fucking Ellie, that kid has no fucking filter.”

“How are we supposed to explain to Cap that she locked herself in the bathroom?”

“Fuck we were supposed to be on the field five minutes ago, Tony is going to have a field day giving us fucking suicide sprints.”

Those were a few of the sentences that I made out through the door. They were enough to tell me that I needed to get my shit together, because one thing I couldn’t handle on top of the team thinking I was all of those things was the team thinking I was the fucking emotional mess that everyone seemed to think I was. So after letting whatever tears I had left fall, I flushed the toilet, in an attempt to try and disguise the sound of me furiously washing the redness off of my face then I walked towards the door, took a deep breath and unlocked it. Hailey and Macka were both waiting outside and were very clearly surprised by my exit from the bathroom.

“Alanna, don’t worry about getting skip, she’s out.”

I bit the inside of my mouth again, satisfied with the irony taste of my own blood filling my mouth.

“Sorry, just feeling a little bit sick.”

It was very clear none of them believed my excuse. I tried to push past them though, trying my hardest to avoid whatever awkward confrontation that I was apparently bound to, because both Ras and Mackenzie stopped me before I could take a step.

“Y/n. What Ellie said wasn’t true and it’s okay for you to feel emotions about that, she let the heat of the moment get to her.”

I gulped, swallowing the mixture of blood and sweat that was resonating in my mouth.

“I told you, I feel sick. I don’t give a shit what Ellie has to say, she’s very welcome to her own opinions, this is a free country, she has an issue I’d rather her say it to my face.”

My words were faulty, untrustworthy, like ice that was slowly cracking.

“You are allowed to be upset at her for saying that about you, it was mean and she was trying to get to you. It’s okay for you to have emotions about that.��

I pursed my lips, I hated confrontation. Confrontation was terrifying.

“I told you I just felt sick, I still do. I need to go talk to Tony, can I leave or am I being held hostage until I talk about emotions that I don’t have or feel right now?”

Hayley and Mackenzie both looked between each other, trying to think up another plan of attack but clearly not finding anything telepathically between themselves.

“You are free to go, we’re here for you if you need to talk.”

I rolled my eyes at the two of them.

“Thanks, I’ll keep a mental note next time I need a therapist to talk about my nonexistent selfish feelings with.”

The sarcasm rolled off of my tongue too easily as I walked out of the locker rooms and into the tunnel, slowly making my way out onto the field. It was night training, so the ground was cold and the bright white fluorescent lights were blaring down across the pitch. I looked out across the ground, the girls had already started running whatever drills they’d been instructed to start with which led me to ask myself the question of how long had I actually locked myself in that bathroom for?

I made my way straight over to Tony who was looking at me in that way he tended to when he was thinking about something.

“Ms y/l/n.”

He smiled at me, a little bit too kindly for my liking.

“Coach, I’m feeling a bit sick, I think I might have eaten something funny this morning, probably that granola that looked like it had been sitting out for a little bit to long, I think I should probably just rest for tonight, unless you want a granola vomit mess to deal with.”

Tony’s eyes studied me, my body language, silently assessing my every move.

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with what happened between you and Ms Carpenter?”

Fuck, that was me exposed. I looked down to my cleats, by default, because I couldn’t look into his eyes knowing that he knew I was lying straight to his face.

“She approached me, told me that she’d said some things to a teammate before coming out for warm ups that she was sorry for, that I should sit her out for a game because of it. Wouldn’t tell me who she’d spoken to, which made me think it must have been pretty serious.”

I gulped anxiously, fuck. Fuck Ellie for making this whole night a flaming hot pile of shit.

“It wasn’t anything bad, I feel sick, it’s got nothing to do with Ellie, I’m a big girl, I can handle my own problems, she shouldn’t sit out for a week, we need her.”

I let my eyes cross the field, to where Ellie was, her whole complexion had paled dramatically and she looked like she’d just been on a really high rollercoaster.

“We also need to look out for the safety of our players. I'm going to ask you this once and I want you to tell me the complete truth. Did Ellie personally attack you in the change rooms before training tonight? Don’t lie to me, I’ll ask one of your team mates if you do and I don’t want to hear that their answers were any different to yours.”

I bit down hard on my mouth tissue, there was a part of me that wanted to lie for Ellie, even though it would probably land us in more trouble, there was also a part of me that wanted to hand her in, even though in my eyes she hadn’t really done anything wrong, she’d said her peace.

“We were both giving it to each other, she gave as much as she got. I deserve to sit out a week just as much as she does if we’re referencing words said to each other, we were both rude, we got stuck up in the heat of the moment. I promise you, with every bone in my body that it won’t ever happen again, I swear to you.”

One thing that my brother told me when we were growing up was how to effectively lie. There was an art to the practice of lying. The first rule was body language, everyone had a tell, it was about identifying yours and then figuring out how to stop it or disguise it. For example, my youngest brother would always tap his left foot when he was lying. Rule number two is eye contact. You need to make some, but not so much that it’s creepy. People can tell when you refuse to make eye contact with them, so you need to occasionally. Third is your voice, it needs to be steady, your pitch and tone need to be consistent, one of the easiest tells is a raised voice when you lie. The fourth rule is physical change, this one is probably the hardest, because there isn’t anything you can do to stop yourself if you get clammy hands when you are lying, you just have to disguise it. The fifth and final rule is words, you need to use enough that your sentences are coherent but don’t over-sell yourself, summarise what needs to be said, instead of reading off a whole backstory.

I’d broken number five and two whilst talking to Tony and I could tell that he was picking up on it. He looked between me and the field before calling over one of my teammates.

“Mary, can I have you for a second.”

I gulped down the lump that was forming in the back of my throat when Fowler finished off the drill she was doing and ran over to the sideline to stand beside the coach and I.

“What can I do for you, coach?”

He smiled at her, I’d very quickly noticed that Mary was one of his favourites, rightfully so. She was a hard worker but she was also kind, Matilda’s captain material for the future.

“Can you give me a run down of what happened in the lockers before training between Ellie and y/n, from my understanding there was a small altercation, but both of them aren’t telling me the whole story and I don’t have time for beating around the bush.”

I looked at Mary, silently praying for her to downplay it, maybe she hadn’t heard much of it. She was the one to pick if you wanted an honest answer, she couldn’t lie for the life of her, I knew that much. She bit her lip subtly, thinking thoroughly before she said anything.

“None of us heard how it started, we all knew that y/n/n was the one to drag Ellie over to her locker after Cap spoke to her. They were arguing, it seemed harmless. Until Ellie was yelling in y/n/n’s face.”

Tony nodded at her inquisitively, clearly very invested in what she had to say.

“Did you hear what Ms Carpenter was saying to Ms y/l/n?”

I gulped, shaking my head as subtly as I could at Mary, this whole encounter was a headache.

“Look, it’s not really something I’m comfortable with repeating.”

I knew Mary was trying to be helpful but I also knew that statement was going to backfire on her because it made the whole situation sound a lot worse than it was.

“Mary, if you don’t tell me I will get someone else too, please don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

Mary herself gulped anxiously, her eyes frantically darting between Tony and myself. I nodded at her, clearly seeing her distress and just giving her the permission to say her peace, because apparently it was going to get said anyways.

“She was yelling at y/n/n about how y/n/n was selfish and didn’t give a shit about anybody beside herself. I heard her using something about y/n crying in their bathroom at night against her, saying that she was too worried or self obsessed to care about anyone else on the team. I wasn’t close enough though to tell you exactly what either of them said. I was on the other side of the room, Steph was the closest, if you want information I’d be asking her, not me.”

I could feel my hands shaking in my pockets, this whole situation was giving me anxiety.

“Okay then, thank you, can you go fetch Steph for me, just tell her to come over here.”

Mary nodded at coach, before sending me a silent sorry smile before running back out onto the pitch.

Coach pointed to the bench that was on the sidelines a few feet behind us, silently motioning for me to follow him and take a seat down on it.

“Based on what I’ve just been told, I think that Ellie should sit out for a week, her behaviour towards you was unacceptable and she needs to understand there are repercussions for those kinds of situations. Y/n I know that you’ve struggled to find your footing in the team, I’ve seen you struggling with your mental health. I’m here for you if you ever need to talk about it or if you need help. If those struggles mean that you need to separate yourself from the team then that is what you do, regardless of the decisions you make you are a valued member on this team and you don’t deserve to be verbally assaulted because Ellie has a problem with you.”

I pursed my lips, I didn’t think I’d been verbally assaulted, if anything I’d started it.

“Coach, I started it with Ellie. She didn’t even mean what she said, we need her this week, it’s an important game that we can’t afford to have her miss. I don’t want to be the reason we lose this week just because me and Ellie had a minor altercation, it was nothing.”

I couldn’t ignore the deep frown on his face, it was a mixture of concern and disappointment and it went straight to my heart.

“Coach? Mary said you need to speak to me?”

Both of our heads snapped up at the sudden sound of Steph’s voice. She was standing about a foot away from us, her brow furrowed in my direction.

“Steph, yes, I’m just having some trouble understanding the altercation that went down before warm ups with Ms Carpenter and Ms y/l/n. Ms y/l/n is trying to take the whole blame for it and I don’t really believe the whole story that she’s giving me, so if you could please give me some insight it would be much appreciated, as I am taking this very seriously.”

Steph’s eyes went straight to mine, she was my fellow Arsenal team mate, probably the only person on our Matilda’s squad who I could actually call my friend. She was frowning at me deeply, trying to study my facial expression.

“Y/l/n started it, she pulled Ellie up after having a chat with skipper, but from what I heard she was more just annoyed that Ellie had told skipper about some of her more concerning habits. Ellie was mad about being pulled up on it, typical Ellie fashion she took it to heart and she made it personal. I do recall her calling saying something along the lines of if y/n spent less time in their bathroom at nighttime crying about how ‘hard’ her sorry ass life was then she’d realise there were people and things on earth that are more fucking important than you she was, Ellie also made a lot of comments about y/n/n being a selfish person who didn’t give a shit about any of the people around her. Y/n/n might have technically started it but in her defence she didn’t say anything personal or wrong to Ellie, she was just voicing her annoyance about Ellie telling on her to Sam, Ellie was trying to voice her concerns over Y/n/n but it came out wrong and she was trying to make light of a situation that was not hers to talk about in a public space, it was unprofessional and distasteful behaviour from both of them but Ellie was the one who escalated it and made it worse. All y/n really did was tell Ellie to leave her alone and stop pushing, when Ellie did push too far y/n rushed to the bathroom and locked herself in there. Ellie’s behaviour was unacceptable to say the least and I’ve told her, I’m sure Sam will as well once I talk to her about it. I’ve told Ellie she has to apologise to y/n/n and that kind of behaviour won’t be tolerated towards anybody let alone her own teammate.”

Steph’s rundown of the situation was more factual and foolproof then any of the other versions Gustavsson had received and I knew that he was going to believe everything she’d told him.

“Okay, thank you, I really appreciate your transparency on the situation. I made the right call making you interim captain whilst Sam was out. That’s all I should need for now, feel free to go back to what you were doing, I’ll be out there in a minute.”

Once Steph was out of earshot Tony turned to me, clearly a little bit taken aback by all of the information he’d just absorbed.

“You are going to sit out tonight, call it sickness or whatever you please. I want you to stay and watch though, you should be here and you deserve to be here. I’m going to talk to Ellie after training, and just because you don’t seem to want her sitting out I’ll see how remorseful she is and make my roster decision for this weekend based off of that. I know she’s your teammate and you feel like you are taking one for the team by enabling her behaviour towards you and maybe it was a one off, just a heat in the moment thing as you called it. Maybe it wasn’t though, I’m not going to take chances. I want you to think about your own actions as well, think about how you could have dealt with that situation more effectively. Once training’s over you are going to head back to the hotel with the girls and you are going to spend time with them, proper bonding time.”

I nodded at coach, I didn’t have it in me to argue with him.

“Coach, I’m rooming with her.”

It was my main concern, not that Ellie scared me, I’d pretty much ignored her the whole tournament, not that she spent a lot of time in our room anyways, she spent all of her free time until curfew in other teammates rooms.

“Talk to Kerr about it, get her to switch them around, I’m sure it’s not that difficult. Switch rooms, relax for the night, get some sleep, be back here tomorrow. I don’t care whether or not you feel up to training, just be here. This team is your family and whether or not it feels like it they care a lot about you, they are here to support you if you let them. Sometimes you just need to take the leap of faith.”

I nodded at coach. He was a gentle soul, a good one. He reached over to me, offering me a hug and I took it, letting him wrap his arms around my shoulders. It was nice, it didn’t last long but it felt nice. Once he was done giving me a hug he stood up and followed Steph out onto the field.

I found myself gravitating to a spot directly on the sideline, where our team manager was stationed. She didn’t ask any questions as I sat down on the frosty grass beside her station, I was grateful for that much. I hadn’t talked to her much but she seemed lovely and in the very little interactions I had had with her she had gone above and beyond to make me comfortable in whatever we were doing.

I spent my training, sitting on the grass, watching the team as they ran through a few drills and plays before moving into a full scrimmage. I kept my body tucked in, my knees to my chest, my puffer jacket and hoodie wrapped tightly around my legs and torso to pull my knees even further into my chest. It was a blessing that they’d designed waterproof sweatpants, because I would have probably had a cold and wet ass if they hadn’t. Somewhere along the way our team manager offered me a packet of gummy bears and I couldn’t find it in me to decline her offer, so I snacked on the gelatinous pieces of sugar whilst I watched the training slowly come to an end.

They finished with PK’s and then concluded the session. I stayed seated in my little spot, I hoped that no one had spotted me and maybe if I waited for everyone to slip off the field and into the locker rooms I would just be able to hop onto the bus without being detected. My plan pretty much backfired immediately when a certain captain beelined directly towards me, clearly I hadn’t gone unnoticed to her. I grimaced as she got closer to my spot, my spot that my head had deemed as a safe spot from the rest of my teammates.

Sam didn’t even acknowledge me to begin with, instead turning her attention to our team manager, making pretty common conversation with her. She spoke to her for a few minutes, it was afternoon tea talk, just bullshit. Sam’s specialty. Eventually when she finished up she looked down at me, an eyebrow raised. She motioned for me to stand up and follow her, so stupidly, like a puppy, I did. My muscles were cold and I’d be lying if I said that getting up from the ground hadn’t been a little bit harder than I’d predicted. I managed though and caught up to Sam, following after her as she walked back down the tunnel but instead of turning into the locker rooms we kept walking down the corridor until we came to the video review room. It was pretty much just a conference room, one big room with a bunch of tables and chairs that we used to scout and review our own games. Sam closed the blinds to the room, so no bye passers could see in and turned the lights on.

She seated herself at one of the tables, gesturing for me to do the same, so I did. The first thing Sam did was pull out her phone and start typing something or another before looking up at me.

“Steph told me about what happened between you and Ellie.”

I gulped, biting my lip as I tried my hardest to maintain my eye contact with Sam, I wasn’t going to break, not again. I watched as Sam’s finger made its way to her mouth and she bit down on her nail in a questioning kind of way that I couldn’t explain even if I tried.

“I started it, I was pissed off at her for ratting on me to you.”

My honesty would be appreciated, I knew that Sam valued honesty above anything else.

“I don’t really care who started it, I care about togetherness, you know that. This team needs one thing, cohesion. I don’t care who started it, I care about who the problem was and in that situation it was Ellie, she said things that she had no business saying, with the intention of hurting you. That’s enough to tell me that in that situation she was prepared to jeopardise our team just so she could tear down one of our own. I’ve recommended to Tony that she sits out this week. He told me you were apprehensive about it, I wanted to know why.”

There was a simple answer, and a more complex answer, a part of me knew which one Sam wanted.

“Short answer, Ellie is a crucial part of our team, we need her. Long answer, I don’t think she did anything wrong.”

Sam looked up at me, a little bit shocked.

“Look y/n, it’s clear there's been a lot on your mind recently. A lot that you clearly aren’t prepared to share, and that's okay. I saw on the sideline tonight, you looked like you were mentally in a different place, like you were really worried thinking about something and you’ve been like that for a few weeks. I know that you have trust issues, that you are finding it hard to slot into this team because you are scared to be vulnerable. I am here for you, I won’t judge you, I will help you with whatever you need help with, because I can tell there is something and until you do seek out help for it it is only going to destroy you further.”

Sam’s words receded in me, because she was so right that I couldn’t even try to deny it.

“Am I a selfish player and teammate?”

The words felt so raw coming out of my throat, it was something that Ellie had said that had stuck with me.

“No, I can honestly tell you you aren’t. You play football with so much grace and kindness that sometimes it drives me up the wall watching you help up your opponents who have tripped over. You aren’t a selfish person either, you are more reserved, that doesn’t make you selfish, it just makes you self aware, there is a big difference.”

I nodded at Sam, not sure what else there was for me to do. Her words were full of so much wisdom, so much insight. I still couldn’t find it in me to believe them fully though, my self deprecating brain not welcome to accepting any kind of form of praise.

“Look, change is hard. You are young, inexperienced. Staying somewhere that you’ve outgrown though is only going to destroy you. I know this is a big jump, I wouldn’t have reccomended for you to be here though if I didn’t think it was the right fit. You are a world class player, and a genuinely good person. When you smile, it lights up a room. Your laugh is contagious. It’s clear that you’ve never been cared for properly, never let yourself. You have a family now though y/n. You have people that you can go to when you are having a bad day, people that are going to love you no matter what. Use that, take advantage of it. A team doesn’t function without trust.”

There was something about Sams words that told me she actually understood what I was going through, she was dancing on a line of relating to me and giving me advice, the line was a little bit blurred though.

“Do you trust me?”

I let Sam’s words hang in the air for a few seconds, it took me a little while to formulate a reponse.

“I don’t trust anyone, not even myself.”

Sam’s eyes, those brown orbs spoke to me, more than any words ever could to me.

“You don’t think people care for you.”

“Why would people care for me?”

There was so much insecurity behind the words, years of it all built up.

“I care, I’ll always care. Everyone should have somebody to care for them.”

“You have to care, your my captain.”

It was the last bit of defiance leaving my body, the last of my barriers being used.

“Partly, yes. It’s sort of my job. But I save it for the ones who need it and you seem to be in need.”

I rolled my eyes, another defence mechanism that I used to deflect, to avoid my emotions.

“I don’t need help.”

“Maybe not, but when you’re born in a burning house you think the whole world is on fire until someone shows you it isn’t.”

I didn’t fully understand her cryptic but I got the general idea.

“You implying I was born in a burning house?”

Sam’s head tilted, like she wasn’t denying my statement but also didn’t agree with it fully.

“I’m implying that you are here for a reason. That we are all here for different reasons, different driving factors. The difference between you and some of the other girls is that you are letting your past define you, when it doesn’t. The best part of being here is that when you are out on the pitch nobody cares about anything else, nobody could care less about what’s happened in your personal life. Use that, use that to be happy, to find your motivation. Trust me? Let me show you that this team isn’t just a group of girls, it can be your family if you want it to be.”

I looked at Sam flatly trying to figure out how serious she was, when he face didn’t falter I realised how serious she was and that scared me a little bit. I didn’t know if I was ready for that, ready for a family, ready to feel loved and appreciated. It wasn’t soemthing I’d ever really experienced.

“Y’know that it shouldn’t seem remarkable to you that people who love and care for you actually want to treat you well.”

Those words were the straw that broke my back. I couldn’t help but feel the tears well up in my eyes.

“y/n,” Sam’s voice drew my eyes up to her own “You are allowed to cry.”

I shook my head at her, bringing the sleeve of my jumper up to my eyes to rub at the tears escaping my eyes.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you though?”

It was the amount of questioning behind her face that threw me off, I knew she didn’t believe me but the amount of concern laced into her facial expression hit some place in my heart I didn’t know I had.

“You know that it’s okay to not be fine all the time. You are allowed to have feelings, to feel things other than numb. Look, feeling hurts. Life is pain, life is suffering. Being alive hurts, it’s horror and it sucks. But you are alive and it’s spectacular and brilliant because instead of just living you are alive.”

I continued rubbing at my eyes, trying my best to stop any of the tears running down my face.

“I’ll think about it cap, I think it’s about time for me to head back to the hotel.”

Before I could get up and completely leave the room Sam got in her final words.

“There are poeple around that would miss you y/n/n, people who would be gutted if anything ever happened to you. Just think about that.”

#woso #marry me rn #sam kerr #woso community #sam kerr x reader #matildas #matildas x reader #angst #little bit of fluff #auswnt #ellie carpenter #tony gustavsson #steph catley #wrote this instead of sleeping #all nighter #i’m crying #i’m so tired

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mintyys-blog · 2 months ago

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avengers x reader: avengers Tower Shenanigans

WARNINGS: none

Living in Avengers Tower was… an experience. Between super soldiers, a billionaire with too much time on his hands, and a god who spoke like he walked out of a Shakespeare play, there was never a dull moment.

Your day started with Sam and Bucky fighting over the last piece of toast. Again.

“I had it first, Barnes,” Sam said, holding the plate just out of reach.

“You took it from my plate,” Bucky shot back, narrowing his eyes.

“I don’t see your name on it.”

“I don’t see your name on it either,” you pointed out, sipping your coffee.

Bucky turned to you. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I’m on the side of whoever doesn’t drag me into this nonsense.”

Right then, Steve entered, looking as fresh as a man from the 1940s could. “Are you two seriously fighting over toast?”

“Yes,” they answered at the same time.

Steve sighed, took the toast, and ate it in one bite. Sam and Bucky stared in horror.

“This is why I don’t live here full-time,” Rhodey muttered as he walked past.

Tony, being Tony, had decided that a normal lunch was too boring. Instead, he made it interesting.

“I call it the ‘Ultimate Spicy Challenge,’” Tony announced, grinning like a mad scientist. “One of these wings is coated in a sauce so hot it made Thor cry.”

Thor scoffed. “A falsehood. I merely shed a single tear.”

“Because your mouth was on fire,” Clint reminded him.

You eyed the plate of wings. “So we’re just eating them and hoping for the best?”

“Basically,” Tony said.

Peter, who was visiting, hesitated. “Uh, Mr. Stark, I have school tomorrow. I can’t die today.”

“Relax, Underoos. If you die, I’ll bring you back. Probably.”

Predictably, chaos ensued. Sam took a bite, turned red, and ran out of the kitchen. Bucky, trying to act tough, ate a whole wing and instantly regretted his life choices. Steve, in an act of reckless 1940s bravado, ate two and had to be forcibly stopped before he drank milk straight from the carton.

Meanwhile, you and Natasha just watched, unimpressed. “Men,” Natasha muttered, shaking her head.

Movie nights in the Tower were never peaceful. Choosing a movie was a battle in itself.

“I vote Star Wars,” Peter said enthusiastically.

“No,” Bucky said immediately.

“Why not?”

“Last time we watched it, Tony wouldn’t stop comparing me to Darth Vader.”

“To be fair, you do have a metal arm,” you said.

Bucky glared at you. “Traitor.”

“I vote The Notebook,” Wanda said.

A chorus of groans followed.

“No way,” Clint said. “I am not watching that again.”

“You cried last time,” Natasha pointed out.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

In the end, you compromised with an action movie. But halfway through, Thor got too excited, flung Mjolnir in celebration, and shattered the TV.

Silence.

Thor cleared his throat. “Fear not, friends. I shall replace it at once.”

Tony sighed. “Yeah, yeah, put it on Asgard’s tab.”

“Does Asgard even have a tab?” you asked.

Thor grinned. “No, but Stark does.”

And that was just another day at Avengers Tower.

#avengers #x reader #reader insert #the avengers #x female reader #james bucky buchanan barnes #steve rogers #averagers x reader #captain america #spider man #natasha romanov #tony stark #war machine #peter parker #sam wilson #thor of asgard #thor

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rosepetalsinwinter · 1 year ago

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Five Years That Felt Like a Millennium (2) — Bucky Barnes

Pairing: tfatws!bucky x reader

Word count: 7,579

Summary: Baby Girl isn't doing too well after seeing Quentin.

Warnings: illusions and mention of violence, abuse, manipulation, and cheating, self-deprecation, fluff, flirting, angst

Note: I apologize for my absence. The response to the first part has been unbelievable! Thank you all so much. I hope I can do it justice.

Ao3│Wattpad│Ko-fi

Main Masterlist │Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3

Happy Reading! 💜

Bucky didn't know a person could cry so much. Surely, the body must have surpassed a threshold ages ago for maximum fluid expulsion, but it seemed unlikely. Tears ran unbidden down Baby Girl's face, soaking into her white camisole, still wet from the lake. At least her body no longer wracked with sobs, which was a small accomplishment, he supposed.

He filled a glass with cold water. "Here, drink this."

Baby Girl's movements were almost mechanical as she took measured sips, slowly draining the glass. She stared at her reflection in the crystal, then abruptly stood, making Bucky hastily step back. Barefoot and half-dressed, she made for the front door.

Bucky blocked her path. "Where are you going?"

She went around him and reached for the handle, but Bucky intercepted her just in time, pulling her by the wrist. Her eyes were unfocused and wild, darting this way and that. "Hey!" She froze. "Hey," he said again, softer and with considerably less force. "What's going on in that smart brain of yours, huh? What are you thinking?"

"I need to find Quentin," she gulped. "I need to apologize to him. I need to make things right before he—"

She choked on her words, but Bucky knew her enough by now to predict what she would say next. "Before he what? Before he hurts Sam?"

Her face crumpled. "Maybe if I get down on my knees and beg, he'll forgive me, and things can go back to the way they used to be."

Bucky felt his previous anger return. Quentin Beck was a goddamn asshole because, in the span of a few minutes, he had managed to turn a bright and bubbly soul into an inconsolable mess.

"Is that really what you want?" he asked. "You want things to go back to the way they used to be?" Bucky already knew Baby Girl's answer, but he felt it was imperative for her to acknowledge out loud.

"No," she croaked. "Not really, but I don't have a choice. Quentin will hurt Sam and his family."

Bucky wiped the fresh tears from her face, letting his hands linger on her cheeks. "And what about you? He's hurting you. Are you not Sam's family?"

Baby girl began crying anew. Bucky carried her to the couch and held her close, letting her tears run down his bare skin. They sat like that until her breathing eventually evened, and her eyes drooped close. Bucky didn't dare move. Baby Girl was cradled in his arms and against his neck, legs stretched on the couch.

His eyes began to close, sleep slowly taking over, and he was going to let it. They both needed rest after the day's events, but sleep wasn't in his fortune. Bucky's phone buzzed in his pocket, and he startled awake, awkwardly maneuvering around to retrieve it without disturbing Baby Girl.

It was Sam. Bucky glanced down at the sleeping form in his arms. Dried tears painted her face, her eyes were puffy, and her nose red. Bucky's heart lurched in his chest, and he made a hasty decision—promise be damned, Bucky would fix this for her.

He answered the call. "Hey, Sam." And told him everything .

"Sam?" Bucky asked, after Sam had been quiet too long.

Sam sounded wretched with grief. "I knew something was wrong. I just never imagined..."

Bucky sighed, already anticipating the blame game. A family trait, he considered. "It's not your fault. Quentin Beck is to blame, and he will pay for his actions, I promise you." Though Bucky couldn't see him, he imagined Sam nodding his frustration. "Do you think you could get in contact with Congressman Lockhart?"

"Congressman Lock—why?"

"He owes me a favour," said Bucky, not mentioning that he had saved Lockhart's life. "How much are you willing to bet that Lockhart has met Quentin Beck before, and that Beck has probably left a less-than-savoury impression on the Congressman?"

"I don't understand."

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Sam."

Sam was impressed. "I'll ask Torres to get us in contact."

Bucky smirked, feeling a satisfaction spread over him at the thought of Quentin Beck rotting in a jail cell. "You do that. When do you think you'll be back?"

Baby Girl shifted in his arms, and Bucky softened his voice. "Day after tomorrow? Alright, keep me updated." He ended the call.

"Who was that?" came a groggy voice. Baby Girl's eyes were closed, and she was in the process of waking up.

"Sam," Bucky answered, adjusting her in his arms. "His business is taking longer than usual. He and Sarah will be back in a few days.

Baby Girl pushed away from Bucky, sat up next to him, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyes trailed to his chest and widened in mortification. "Shit, I'm so sorry. I drooled all over you."

When she reached over to wipe him clean, he grabbed her wrist. "Why do you make it a habit to apologize for things out of your control?"

She suddenly jerked away from him, putting ample space between them. "I can hardly help how I feel. If I feel sorry, I apologize."

"Well, don't." Bucky stretched his legs, groaning at the relief. "I'm a grown man," he teased, wiping his chest with the back of his hand. "I can handle a little drool."

Baby girl looked down at her palms, forlorn and despondent. "I'm a mess," she muttered.

"Yes, you are," Bucky responded quietly. She jerked her head in surprise, expecting him to dispute her. But she didn't need his false reassurances any longer. Bucky wanted the full weight of her circumstances bearing down on her so she might escape from the haze of melancholy and finally fight back.

Bucky looked out the window at the setting sun. It cast a beautiful golden glow over the two of them. "You should change into something comfortable," he told her. "There's a lot to talk about."

"Quentin was in one of my electives at school." Baby Girl was freshly showered and changed, wearing Bucky's sweats because she was out of clean clothes. They were enormous on her frame, which suited her well.

Bucky had also changed and was sitting across from her on the kitchen table, a warm cup of tea in his hands. It was something floral with a bitter note. He took his plain while she drowned hers in honey.

"Abnormal Psychology," she continued, "which is ironic because I diagnosed him with narcissism a few years into our relationship. I never told him, obviously. It wouldn't have ended well."

The conversation—long overdue—produced a painful pit in Bucky's stomach. He recognized it as suppressed rage, slowly building in potency and power. Bucky took a large sip of his tea, letting it burn his tongue so he might focus on anything other than the need to punch Beck's face.

"I tripped over his bag. He helped me up; apologized, and asked me to dinner."

Bucky couldn't help how bitter he sounded. "And you said yes."

She looked at him with dead eyes. "I wish I had. Then my life wouldn't have turned into a Shakespearean tragedy."

"That seems a bit bleak," Bucky snorted.

"But isn't it?" she implored. "Bleak? He was my first serious boyfriend; I moved in with him after two weeks and quit my job after a month. He didn't say 'I love you' until I threatened to leave him when I found out he was cheating. I pretended to look the other way when I found another girl's bra in our bed. I laughed when I saw lipstick stains on his collar. I gave him my virginity on my birthday, the day after I found out he cheated on me again. If that isn't bleak, if that isn't a tragedy, then what is? Perhaps it's the fact that I made excuses for him the first time he hit me. I told myself he was aiming for the wall, and I got in the way of his fist, but let's be honest, I was deluding myself."

Baby girl took a deep breath and dug her nails into the table. Her previous sorrow was replaced with unbridled anger. "I recognized all the signs. I knew he was using me—manipulating me! He even said so himself. We were at a party, and his friend said I was 'quite something.' Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean! Quentin said, 'She is, isn't she? But I gotta tell you, I'm not with her for that brain of hers.' I was standing right next to him! He and his friends undressed me with their eyes, and I just stood there and smiled!"

Bucky felt his rage simmering—at Beck, at the situation, at her . "Why are you blaming yourself? It's not your fault!"

Baby Girl pushed away from the table and paced around. "Don't!" she shouted. "Nothing you say will make this okay, Bucky. Nothing you say will make what I did okay!"

Bucky stood up as well, breathing heavily. He had known her less than a week but already felt burning concern on her behalf. "And what did you do?"

"Nothing!" she screamed, and her shrill voice echoed throughout the empty house. "I did nothing! Quentin threatened Sam, then once Sam blipped, he threatened Sarah and the boys, and I knew it wasn't a bluff because he had the connections to back him up. I knew, because I'm the one who helped him get those connections in the first place!"

Bucky sucked in a quick breath. "What connections?" Baby Girl had calmed somewhat after her brief yet brutal rant, and she sat down at the table, sipping her tea.

"What connections!" Bucky almost shouted.

Baby Girl startled. "I don't know! Businessmen, stockbrokers, a lot of Wall Street types. They paid attention to him when he had a pretty girl on his arm."

"Was that all?" Bucky probed.

Baby Girl shook her head. "There were a lot of government officials, too. I told you, remember? FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, Senators, UN spokespersons, congressmen, federal court judges—"

"Repeat that."

"Federal court—"

"No!" Bucky interrupted again. "What you said before."

"Congressmen?" Baby Girl huffed in annoyance. "I don't understand why that stood out to you the most. Are federal court judges not impressive enough for you, Bucky?"

Bucky ignored her snark and sat across from her. "Do you happen to know a Congressman Lockhart?"

Baby Girl paused before taking a sip from her cup. "Surprisingly, yes. Mr. Lockhart left a lasting impression when he didn't try looking down my dress every few minutes or shoving his hand up my leg."

"That's disgusting," he frowned.

"That's life," Baby Girl retorted. "Trust me, I had it better than most women."

Bucky shook his head, hating how she downplayed her struggles. "That's not okay."

Baby Girl scoffed without heat. "Like things were so much better in the forties. Right, Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky ignored any feelings the utterance of his title from her lips brought forth. "I didn't stand for that then, and I don't stand for it now."

Thankfully, she seemed to have mercy on him and let the topic slide. "He didn't seem to like Quentin much; Lockhart. He asked me a lot of questions, and I think he got suspicious when I couldn't answer anything."

"Like what?"

"Like what I do for work, my interests, how I met Quentin. I couldn't tell him anything without revealing how abusive Quentin was. He especially didn't like it when he found out I was Sam Wilson's adopted kid sister."

Bucky was intrigued. "What did he say?"

"Nothing. He ignored Quentin for the rest of the event, but right before it ended, he pulled me aside and..." she trailed off.

"What?" Bucky encouraged her.

Baby Girl looked at him with shame and guilt swimming in her irises. "Congressman Lockhart told me I was making a mistake. He told me Quentin was using me because of my relation to Sam Wilson. He told me men like Quentin were rotten to the core, and I should run the other way and never look back." She gulped. "I should've listened to him."

Bucky shook his head. "You made a decision. You couldn't have known."

She didn't hear him, seemingly playing the scene in her mind. "Then the strangest thing happened. Congressman Lockhart called a few days later to meet about the project Quentin had proposed. Quentin was ecstatic, as you can imagine. He was overly sweet with me that day." Her brows puckered in confusion. "But I never understood... Why warn me away from Quentin only to cozy up to him later?"

Bucky leaned back in his chair, thinking everything over, connecting the dots. "Congressman Lockhart is a good man," he said. "A good and clever man."

Baby Girl narrowed her eyes. "How do you know him anyway? What does he have to do with anything?"

Bucky hesitated. He didn't want to get her hopes up if his plan didn't work, but he also couldn't watch her beat herself up any longer. This girl, this beautiful and feisty girl, had Bucky wrapped around her fingers since she wrapped her arms around his waist that day on his bike. This girl, who laughed and cried and smiled and was never afraid to voice her opinion. This girl, who looked at Bucky with admiration in her eyes, who looked at his metal arm with gentle curiosity and without any of the disgust or malice he was used to. Who kept her questions light and discrete so as not to unsettle him. This girl, this beautiful and feisty girl, who made Bucky smile.

He would do anything for her. Even if it meant keeping his scheme a secret.

Bucky hesitated, not wanting to lie to her, but finding he had little choice. "I have a plan," he said. "To get rid of Quentin Beck for good."

And Bucky was presented, for the first time since their swim in the lake, a genuine and awe-filled smile, directed entirely at him.

"Lemonade?"

Bucky swam toward the deck, hoisting himself from the lake. Baby Girl was sitting on the edge, letting her bare feet skim the cool water. "You take such good care of me," Bucky teased. He gave a playful shake of his head, sending droplets of water her way.

Baby Girl shrieked and raised her hands to cover her face. "You ass!"

With a chuckle, Bucky leaned back on his elbow, reaching for the drink.

"And to think I brought you sustenance!" Baby Girl pushed a plate of fruit toward him.

Bucky picked up a fruit with a deep purple flesh and examined it with suspicion. "Is this alien food? It looks like something you might find in Asgard."

Baby Girl stared in awe. "You've been to Asgard?"

Bucky was still looking at the teardrop-shaped product. "Not yet," he declared confidently and bit into the flesh. Bucky paused a moment, staring at Baby Girl before taking a larger bite. "What the fuck? Why is it so good?"

Baby Girl laughed. "What, you've never had a fig before?" She grabbed one for herself and showed him a better way to eat it. "You pinch it at the top. Split it open. Fold it over, and voila!" She popped it in her mouth, groaning as flavour burst across her tongue.

"I thought it was some weird kind of plum!" Bucky exclaimed, grabbing another.

"Nope, just a fig."

"Just a fig, she says," Bucky teased. "And what's this?" He threw a shiny orange fruit in the air, catching it just before it smacked Baby Girl in the face.

She took it from him with an unconvincing frown. " This —is a persimmon. You know it's ripe when it's ready to burst. I like to pinch the skin like this—" she demonstrated by making an incision with her teeth, "and suck the flesh." Baby Girl moaned in delight. "I missed this."

Bucky intensely observed her, paying close attention to a drop of persimmon juice on her lip.

"What? Is there something on my face?"

Bucky reached over to wipe the juice with his thumb. "You're a mess," he said hoarsely. Then, he brought his thumb to his mouth and licked it off as she watched him. "It's sweet."

She stared at him, soft lips parted and breaths uneven. "Did you think it would be sour?"

Bucky shrugged and picked up one for himself, following Baby Girl's instructions and getting a proper taste. When he was halfway through his fruit and Baby Girl was still gawking at him, Bucky realized he had taken the flirting a bit too far.

Satisfaction crackled in his muscles, and he twitched out a smirk. It was only a small accomplishment that he had retained some of his frivolous ways, but he was still proud. "What else do you have for me?" he inquired loudly, effectively diverting her.

Baby Girl quickly composed herself, dropping the rest of her persimmon onto the fruit plate. "Watermelon and grapes."

"Does the watermelon change colours, and do the grapes taste like cotton candy?"

"Change colours—No!" Baby Girl gawped. "You have a strong imagination." She suddenly turned thoughtful. "I was thinking of grabbing the cotton candy grapes, though. But they're too sweet for me."

It was Bucky's turn to gawp. "I was being sarcastic. Do cotton candy grapes really exist?"

Baby Girl smiled. "They've been around a while. I'll get you some next time."

Bucky reclined on his elbow, resting his head in his hand. "Next time. I like the sound of that." He caught her eye and asked her the burning question. "So, you've decided to stay?"

Baby Girl pushed the empty glasses and fruit tray away, lying back on the deck. From this angle, with Bucky hovering over her, the sun didn't burn her eyes. She smiled a sad smile. "I don't really have a choice, do I?"

"You always have a choice," Bucky replied fervently. "We would never keep you against your will."

Baby Girl shook her head. "That's not what I meant. Quentin will always find me. He's possessive of his things."

"You're not a thing . And he doesn't deserve you."

"Maybe I deserve him."

Bucky looked into her bright eyes, thinly veiled with tears. He understood the feeling of helplessness—the intense guilt that followed. Even now, after being pardoned and making amends, Bucky couldn't stop guilt from seizing him in the dark hours of the night, when he was most vulnerable and exposed.

He often looked around and wondered if he deserved the life he had been given, this second chance that none of his victims had the fortune of. On more of a surface level, Bucky understood he was as much a victim as any other. A prisoner in his own body. He, and he alone, knew the struggle he had put up for almost twenty years before finally succumbing.

Bucky looked into her bright eyes, thinly veiled with tears, and saw himself reflected in them. He saw himself as a younger man—a better man—waging a war against invisible demons, and he understood. Trauma left its presence in various ways, and the evidence of it was scattered all across her vulnerable physique.

Bucky reached for a strand of her hair. "Sometimes, the hardest prison to escape from is the one we build in our own minds."

Baby Girl turned her head to look up at the sky. "That sounds like something you'd hear at the therapist's."

"And I'm giving it out for free," Bucky smiled.

They both said nothing for a short while, enjoying the sun, and soaking each other's company.

"He used to tell me I was beautiful every day." Her brows creased. "Well, not exactly. He never called me beautiful. He called me hot, and sexy, and fire—" she suddenly scoffed. "I hated that. 'You look fire.' One day, even that stopped. I remember thinking he didn't love me anymore because that's what attracted him in the first place."

Bucky played with her hair, letting her say what she needed to.

"Objectively, I know I'm attractive. I was told often enough by his friends. But I haven't felt pretty in a long time. And it disgusts me that I needed his validation to feel good about myself." Baby Girl took a deep breath, shaking slightly from the overload of emotions. "Sorry."

Making sure she was looking at him, Bucky leaned his head down and kissed the corner of her mouth. Her skin was soft and warm, and he lingered a moment longer than necessary. "You're beautiful," he murmured, savouring her sweet scent. "Absolutely gorgeous."

Baby Girl stiffened under him, eyes widened with surprise, soft lips parted in exhale. She blinked furiously, grabbing her necklace in a white-knuckled grip—a dainty gold crescent moon with black detailing. "I feel very hot," she croaked.

Indeed, Bucky could hear her heart furiously pumping blood through her veins due to his risky kiss. He bent down and placed another, dangerously closer to her lips than the previous. "Let's cool you down then," he smirked, grabbing her around the waist and launching both of them into the lake.

He lost his hold on her as they submerged in the cool water. Bucky kicked off the bottom and broke the surface, looking around for her. Baby Girl emerged a moment later, mascara lines running down her cheeks and brows creased in a furious frown.

She wiped her face and scoffed, "You absolute ass!" When Bucky laughed at her, she splashed him with a large swell of water, which went into his mouth. He choked and sputtered between laughter, welcoming her gentle abuse with a large smile.

"You said you were hot," he rationalized. "I only wanted to cool you down."

Baby Girl intensified her attack, wading closer until she was on top of him, attempting to submerge his head. "You idiot!" she yelled. "My clothes are all wet!"

"Pity," Bucky sputtered, trying to grab hold of her, but she was relentless in her assault, flailing her limbs in reckless abandon.

"Die!" she shrieked, managing to clamber on top of him. She wrapped her legs around his neck and pushed him under, painfully pulling at his roots in the process.

All this time, Bucky could've easily subdued her. But where was the fun in that? When her legs tightened a smidge too much, and Bucky could no longer breathe, he finally put an end to their little game. He clasped his hand around her ankle and gave a gentle pull. Baby Girl fell from his shoulders with a dramatic scream, and realizing she had far surpassed his patience, began to swim away.

Bucky grabbed her ankle once more, keeping her in place. "You brat," he hissed. "I'll teach you a lesson."

Her panicked laughter brought a large smile to his face. Seeing her happy because of him; after the horrible week she'd had, filled Bucky with indescribable pride.

"No!" she giggled. "No more. I'm tired." In fact, she had stopped swimming and was struggling to stay afloat.

Bucky lifted her into his arms, ignoring her feeble protests. "That's enough games for today," he announced, carrying her dripping body inside.

After drying themselves and changing, they settled in the kitchen for dinner. Baby Girl sat on the island with her head resting on her arms, watching Bucky cook.

"Where did you learn that?" she asked when he expertly chopped onions without looking.

Bucky shrugged. "My Ma taught me the basics when I was little. She said cooking was a survival skill."

The girl smiled. "Smart woman."

"That she was," he sighed. "I learned some more in the army. Then, after I was pardoned, I found all this time on my hands and all these cuisines I wanted to try. YouTube is very handy for that."

"That it is." She walked to his side, watching him saute shrimp for the pasta. "You sure you don't want me to help?"

"Yeah, you sit your pretty ass down and relax."

"Yes, Chef!" Baby Girl saluted, not bothering to sit. She exclaimed in delight when Bucky flipped the pan one-handed.

"Wanna see something cool?" he smirked, grabbing a bottle of Cognac from the pantry. "Step back."

Baby Girl shuffled back, and Bucky poured some Cognac into the saucepan. He was so focused on the task that he didn't notice Baby Girl inch closer. Bucky tilted the pan, letting it catch fire, and a beautiful flame blazed powerfully in front of him. He turned, wanting to see her reaction.

She stepped away with a shout, arms raised to protect her face. The flame fizzled away as quickly as it had ignited, but she was still shaking in fear. She fell against the island counter, sliding to her knees.

Bucky turned off the stove and sank next to her, grabbing her arms. "What's wrong?" he worried. "Are you hurt?"

Eyes shut tight, she shook her head, but she was still trembling. "I'm okay."

Bucky didn't believe her. He lifted her up and set her on the counter, sliding between her spread legs. "Hey," he soothed. "What happened just now?"

She shook her head, eyes still closed. "I don't know, I—" Baby Girl exhaled shakily, trying to calm down. "I wasn't expecting—I thought. I'm scared of fire," she eventually admitted.

Bucky frowned. He vividly remembered the night of the bonfire, where she chased AJ and Cass around the large fire. There was no hint of fear on her face that night, no discomfort or hesitancy. He told her as such.

"I don't know. I think it's because the bonfire was out in the open. It was controlled and didn't feel as dangerous. But indoor fires..." She left the next part unsaid, but Bucky understood.

His flambé trick took her by surprise at such close proximity. For a moment, she was transported to her childhood home to relive that fateful night. Bucky hugged her tight, soothing her with kind words of affirmation. "You're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you."

She clutched tightly onto him, burying her face in his neck, breathing heavily into his ears. "Sometimes I think I was supposed to die that night," she whimpered, making Bucky freeze. "I was supposed to die in that house with my family. But I didn't. I'm scared the past will catch up with me one day to finish what it started."

Bucky held on to her tighter.

"I'm scared I'll find myself in that house again, and no one will be there to push me out the window."

"That won't happen," he promised. "I won't let it."

She briefly said nothing, and Bucky worried he hadn't done enough to reassure her.

"Have you seen the house?" she suddenly asked.

"No," replied Bucky, running his hands through her hair. "But Sam told me it was nearby."

Baby Girl hummed. "It's on the far side of the lake, covered by trees. We shared the lake with the Wilsons. Did you know the house is still there? What's left of it anyway. They fixed the damaged parts and put it up for sale. I found out two years ago."

Bucky pulled away from her, meeting her gaze. "It's been up that long?"

"Longer," she replied. "It went up for sale six years ago, but no one will buy it. Who wants to live in a house where an entire family died?"

Bucky wanted to correct her. "You're not dead," he wanted to shout. "You're not at fault. You deserve so much."

"If I had the money..." she shook her head and dismissed the thought.

Would she buy the house if she could? he wondered. The home where she grew up and created happy memories with her siblings.

Bucky thought about his house in Brooklyn Heights, which had been turned into a poor excuse of a strip mall. The house where he had sleepovers with Steve. Where Rebecca hosted her friends, and Bucky hid underneath her bed to try and scare them. Where he snuck in his prom date, Dorothy, through his bedroom window when his parents were out of town. The time he and Steve were playing baseball on the street, and Steve hit the ball straight through the front window.

Would he buy that house if he could? If it hadn't been bulldozed? He decided he would. He had the desire, and he sure as hell had the money.

"There's no point in dwelling on the past," he parroted. Occasionally, his new therapist offered advice that Bucky kept close to his heart. "You're alive to see another day. Make the most of it."

Baby Girl smiled softly. "You always know just what to say," she teased. "I will."

Bucky was consoled by her steady heartbeat and easy manner. "It's a god-given talent," he shrugged, instantly rewarded by soft giggles and an unenthusiastic shove at his chest.

Once the adrenaline from the scare dissipated, Bucky finally noticed their proximity. Her thighs were bracketing his, and his arms were caging her body. Their breaths mingled in the air between them.

"You're very modest," Baby Girl croaked, jerking away.

Bucky hastily turned to the stove, turning it on and resuming making dinner. "With good reason," he replied, clearing his throat.

He chastised himself while the shrimps finished cooking. Baby Girl had just gotten out of an abusive relationship. Now was not the time to be sweet on her—hovering so close he could smell her shampoo and the scent of her skin.

Wait. Was she out of an abusive relationship? Baby Girl had emphasized that she was only with Quentin because he threatened Sam, Sarah, and the boys. Except, that was no longer an issue as a plan was underway. Bucky knew it, Sam knew it, but did Quentin? Did Quentin assume that his dismissal from the Wilson Residence a few days prior was a fluke? If Quentin returned thinking he could whisk her away as if she owed him anything, he would be sorely mistaken. Bucky would make sure of it.

But where did that leave them? There was obvious attraction—though Bucky was unsure if it was appropriate to act on, considering the circumstances—and they were legal adults, but the path forward felt very unclear. While Baby Girl hadn't shown any unpleasant reactions to Bucky's past, she hadn't particularly reassured him either that it did not bother her. Was it fair to her to be caught up in his mess, along with her own?

So many questions, and yet the answers felt out of reach. Bucky turned around. Baby girl was sitting on the kitchen table, and she gave Bucky a smile that answered at least one question.

Did she trust him? Her smile said, "Yes. Yes, she did."

Another day passed like all the others. Had it really been over a week since she arrived in Louisiana? Sam and Sarah were still away on "business," and the boys were still at their sleepover—ridiculous really—she knew it was summer break, but there had to be a limit. She and Bucky were still alone together.

Bucky. His name made her burn with embarrassment. Lately, anything and everything related to him made her temperature rise a few degrees. His smile, his presence, his proximity . His hands holding her tight to his chest. Embarrassment always closely followed such thoughts, though for reasons that deeply ashamed her because never, in the entirety of her relationship with Quentin, did she feel like this. Beautiful, and desired, and wanted, and free . Happy.

She had invested around six to seven years in her on-again, off-again relationship with Quentin Beck and never managed to blush as furiously as she did in the presence of Bucky Barnes. The White Wolf. War hero. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

While most girls gushed over Captain America in high school, Baby Girl cut out pictures of his best friend from her textbook and plastered them inside her locker. It was a stupid girl crush, one she quickly outgrew as she matured into a young woman. However, the fascination remained. During the past week, this fascination had transformed from a small, barely there spark to a blazing fire. The gruesome analogy was not lost on her, yet it was the only way to vividly describe her deepening feelings.

Bucky Barnes had lit her heart on fire. And that terrified her. Not because she was afraid of men after her relationship with Quentin, and not because of Bucky's unfortunate past, but because of her unfortunate reality. What did she have to offer a man like Bucky Barnes? She had nothing. No job, no prospects, no backbone with which to confidently regard the world. She had spent six years with an abusive man, and she could have left at any moment—could have gathered the courage to trust her brother Sam to take care of all of them. She hadn't taken the opportunity when presented with it, and there was this man, who hadn't been given any semblance of reprieve, and he was stronger for it.

So, no. While there was obvious attraction between them both, she was not sure it was appropriate to act on. She could never deserve the likes of him.

The path ahead was unclear, but somehow she knew he would be there to guide her. And when he chucked her into the lake that evening, laughing loudly at her temper, she smiled back, hoping her face screamed, "I trust you. I do."

After an uneventful dinner, Bucky sheepishly announced he had to leave. "I forgot I promised Carlos I'd help with his car."

She raised an unimpressed brow, fixing him with a stern look. He had promised to take her shopping for a new phone, and while she wasn't looking forward to a ride on his death trap, she really wanted her games back. "I didn't know you were a mechanic along with being a war hero."

"I'm not a war hero," he responded mechanically.

The words burst from her lips. "If it weren't for you," she snapped, "Doctor Zola would've been on his merry way to design new techniques to destroy the human race. You stopped him. If that's not heroic, I don't know what is."

"I'm not a war hero," Bucky said again after getting over the initial shock at her outburst.

"But you're a mechanic?"

"I'm not that either," he huffed. "Mr. Thurow needs me to tow his car."

"Excuse me?"

"The company overcharges and always ends up damaging the vehicle. He asked me for a favour."

"Do we have a tow truck?" she asked.

Bucky raised his left hand. "I have a metal arm," he pointed out. "And super strength. I can easily tow a car."

Baby Girl was speechless. "How long will you be?"

Bucky checked his watch. "An hour? Less, if I manage to not get roped into game night."

"Game night? It's a weekday."

"Every night's a game night at the Thurow's," Bucky responded seriously. "We'll get your phone first thing tomorrow morning."

"Promise?" she asked his retreating figure.

"Promise," he replied. "Lock the door, alright? And keep the blinds down."

"Alright, Dad," she retorted, but he had already left.

Baby Girl took a deep breath. This was the first time she had been alone in weeks. She sat down on the couch and closed her eyes. A minute passed, then two, then three. Five minutes later, she opened her eyes and saw only thirty seconds had passed. She groaned from boredom and flopped over the armrest. She was loath to admit that she dearly missed Bucky. There was something in his air and manner of walking that brought peace to her inner turmoil.

She sighed, resorting to cleaning the kitchen, which was not dirty in the least. In the middle of her furiously scrubbing the countertop with a sponge, the landline chimed annoyingly from the other room. "Hello," she answered, twirling the cord with her pinky. "Who's this?"

"Baby Girl!" the jolly voice on the other line bellowed. "I was hoping you'd pick up."

"Sam!" The two talked, catching up on the past few days. It turned out Sam was in Washington. "How's Sarah?" she asked. "Is she enjoying her time away from the boys? They're lovely, but they can be a nuisance."

Sam grumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

"What?"

"She's on a date," he groaned. "Look, I'm happy for her. But I didn't need to see her exchanging spit with a stranger."

"Poor you," she giggled. "And lucky Sarah! Wowza!"

Sam laughed on the other line. "It's great to hear you happy after so long."

"Hmm," Baby Girl hummed, feeling momentarily guilty. "By the way, I thought you and Sarah were going to New Orleans. What are you doing in Washington?"

"He didn't tell you," Sam said with surprise. "I thought he would."

"Tell me what?"

"I know about Quentin," Sam sighed. "I know you're still dating him."

Her breath got stuck in her throat. "He told you?" she asked in disbelief.

"Don't be mad at him," Sam pleaded. "I made him tell me."

There was shuffling on the other end. A loud sniffle.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry you felt like Quentin was the only one you could count on."

"What exactly did Bucky say?" Baby Girl questioned, thinking Sam was too calm about the situation.

"He said Quentin was blackmailing you to stay with him."

Baby Girl sighed. "Is that all? Did he say anything else?"

"Like what?"

"Like... nothing." She realized Bucky had not disclosed any of the more sensitive subject matter. Not the abuse, nor Quentin's impromptu visit. "It's nothing. I'm sorry I kept this from you."

Sam sighed heavily on the other line. "That's in the past. We can only move forward from here on out."

Baby Girl nodded even though Sam couldn't see her. "You have a good friend," she told him. "Bucky's doing a lot to help. He came up with the plan to distract Quentin with "bigger fish," as he put it. Quentin will forget all about me if he finds something more worthwhile. But I'm sure you know all about that."

"He said what? That's not what we planned!" Sam exclaimed. He swore under his breath. "I need to take this call. It's Congress—I'll tell you soon, alright? I'll call you right back."

"Sure," she said, slightly flustered. "I'll be waiting."

Sam ended the call, and she put the receiver down. The second she did, the landline immediately started ringing.

"What took you so long?" she joked with a laugh. "I've been waiting hours for your call."

"You have? I knew you missed me."

Baby Girl felt her heart drop to her stomach. The voice on the other line was not quite as deep, or quite as warm. It was low and raspy, eliciting goosebumps across her arms and bad memories across her skin.

She made to end the call, but his shrill warning stopped her. "You don't want to do that," Quentin hissed.

"What do you want?" she managed to ask between ragged breaths.

"Straight to the point, I see. You've really changed."

"Fuck you!" she seethed. "I asked you a question." She was surprised by her resolve, and so was he.

"What, you're swearing now? That's not the girl I know."

Her body was trembling with adrenaline. "Tell me what you want, or I'll end the call."

She could feel his anger through the line. "I want to talk to you in person."

"Over your dead body!" she yelled.

Quentin was oddly calm with his response. "No, not over mine."

It was so obviously a bait—one she couldn't help but fall for. "What do you mean?"

"It's a shame," he sighed, "that I'm meeting them for the first time under such shit circumstances. They're cute kids. Would've loved New York."

Time seemed to stop.

"Have you boys ever seen the Statue of Liberty? I'll take you once your Aunt comes back home. We can all go together."

There was a muffled noise, then the slam of a door shutting close. It felt like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over Baby Girl. Her muscles tightened painfully, and she collapsed onto the couch.

"No," she whispered.

Quentin laughed on the other end. "Cat got your tongue?"

Baby Girl closed her eyes, feeling tears of frustration well in the corners. This is why she kept her distance. This is why she wanted to go back to Quentin and back to New York. But she let herself hope in Bucky's presence, let herself believe that she could have a family while keeping her freedom. "You monster," she hissed. "Don't you dare touch them." But there wasn't any heat behind her words, only the bitter taste of defeat.

He tasted it too, and oh, how he reveled in it! Quentin laughed again, low and menacing. "I told you I wouldn't let you leave so easily. Meet me in person if you want to see your dear nephews again. And don't you dare tell anyone," he hissed. "This is between you and me."

Baby Girl ignored his warning and reached into her back pocket to grab her phone and tell Bucky. But her hand came back empty. She didn't have a phone; she didn't even have Bucky's number. And did she really want to risk the boys' lives by going behind Quentin's back? He didn't want them anyway, he only wanted her.

With tears burning her eyes and a fire blazing in her chest, Baby Girl asked, "Where do you want to meet?"

On the other end, Quentin smiled, knowing he had won.

Bucky reached into his back pocket and grabbed his phone. He scrolled through his contacts, realizing too late that he didn't have her number. His face fell, and he sighed deep and slow, garnering the attention of the room. Carlos Thurow had invited some friends for a game of poker and forced Bucky to play a round with them. That was four rounds ago.

"What's got you so down, Sergeant?" Carlos teased. "There a girl waiting for you at home?" The men laughed and cheered, barraging Bucky with questions.

He found himself smiling, and finished his beer in one swig. "I do, actually," he said, grabbing his jacket and walking to the door. "I should get going."

The men cheered him on, and Bucky left feeling light and tingly. It wasn't from the alcohol—Bucky couldn't get drunk anymore—it was her. His Baby Girl.

The walk to Sam's was warm. The stars were out, the sky clear, and the wind blew gently, ruffling the trees around him. Bucky took a deep breath, smelling the ocean air and the earthy trees, listening to the faint sounds of crickets chirping and owls hooting. A night had never been sweeter.

Once at the house, Bucky lightened his footsteps and creeped onto the porch, feeling mischievous and wanting to spook Baby Girl. The living room light was on, and he could see the television playing silently through the thin curtain. Bucky placed a hand on the door, frowning when it creeped open at the slightest touch.

Didn't he tell her to lock the door? And to leave it completely open? Delacroix was a small community inhabited by kind and lawful people, but there was a crazy ex on the loose. He expected Baby Girl to be more careful than that.

Bucky decided he would give her a proper scare for her carelessness and slipped through the entryway. He sneaked into the living room, arms raised like in the movies, and—

She wasn't there. Bucky quickly scanned his surroundings. TV playing, couch pushed askew, the landline dangling from its cord, the edge of the carpet flipped over as if someone had run over it. Bucky rushed to check the rest of the house, the bedrooms, the washroom—he even checked the lake. Nothing.

He went back to the living room, senses dialed to the maximum. There was no sign of a forced entry, and though a scuffle was apparent, there were no prints or marks that indicated there had been another person. Unless they covered their tracks. But then why leave the carpet overturned, the couch askew? Why make it obvious something had happened?

Perhaps Bucky was overthinking, and Baby Girl had run to the store to grab something. She had already proved herself to be impulsive and clumsy. It wouldn't be a huge stretch to believe she forgot to lock the door behind her in a hurry.

Except, she wouldn't have left without her wallet. Bucky bent down to grab her purse from under the coffee table, feeling dread engulf him at the sight. Palms sticky and breaths uneven, he looked around the room once more. This time, he noticed something he hadn't before, a hastily scribbled note peeking out from under the landline.

Bucky snatched the note, careful not to crease it.

"I'm sorry," it began. "I had no choice. He has the boys."

Bucky's mind began to race with questions. Most namely, "Where?"

It was then that his senses picked up on something new. The faint scent of smoke. Bucky dropped the note and ran out the back, scanning the horizon. There, on the opposite side of the lake, a thick column of smoke billowed from behind the treeline. The beginnings of a large fire. Baby Girl's house was set ablaze, glowing brightly in the dark. Bucky's heart dropped to his stomach, and he ran.

Note: So... I lied. There will need to be another part.

Ao3│Wattpad│Ko-fi

Main Masterlist │Part 1 — Part 2 — Part 3

Comments and Reblogs are appreciated!! 💜

@astrophileous @buckylovinglokivariant @casa-boiardi @crazyunsexycool @dancer3205 @dascarypicklerawr @drakelover78 @hallecarey1 @kandis-mom @marantha @marvelatthetwilight @marvelouslyunstable @ria132love @spookyparadisesheep @sunnyhummingbee @traderjoesmints

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes oneshot #tfatws!bucky x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #tfatws!bucky #marvel #fytflam fic #rosepetalsinwinter

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deadwerewolfgirlfriend · 13 days ago

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Supernatural season 1 + the first half of the major arcana (explanations below the cut)

0. The Fool: Sam

Kind of self-explanatory. Sam is the Hero at the start of his journey, knowing nothing yet. The Fool upright represents innocence, youth, and new beginnings. This is him at the end of 1.01 Pilot where he lays down in bed to see Jess burning on the ceiling.

1. The Magician: Dean

The Magician upright means that you have all the skills necessary to be successful. It's a time in your life when you have power. About other people, it can mean someone who impresses you or someone you can learn from. It also means someone crafty and intelligent, who's creative and able to utilize the resources at hand to accomplish their goals. For the Sam-centric storyline of season 1, Dean is that someone. He's a major part of pulling Sam back into hunting. I chose this scene from 1.02 for him just because I watched the episode recently and I think he's adorable here -- and in stark contrast to how he appears in later seasons.

2. The High Priestess: Jess

Upright, the High Priestess represents personal clarity and wisdom. Reversed, she represents ambiguity, a disconnect with the inner self, and secrets not yet uncovered. Jess's relationship with Sam in 1.01 Pilot is one based on only partial understanding; she doesn't know about hunting or monsters or who he is (and at this point neither does he). Her death only complicates things. Sam doesn't know why, and his journey is driven by the need to avenge her and Mary's death and to find answers.

3. The Empress: Mary

Opinions are divided on whether The Empress symbolizes femininity and sensuality or femininity and maternal energy. In some interpretations The Empress can represent the mother and The Emperor the father. The Empress upright represents fertility, in this case motherhood, and also beauty and nurturing. Upright the card encourages the querent to trust themselves and to listen to their intuition. This scene is from 1.09 Home when Mary's spirit appears to save Sam from another ghost and to apologize to him, though he doesn't yet know why.

The Emperor represents authority, foundation, law and order. All things associated with the father. Reversed, he represents someone who is too controlling and inflexible, unable to see another point of view. He is purely logical and devoid of human instinct. In John's case, the boys see their father as a rigid, austere authority figure who seems to always have the answers, but at the same time is leading them on a wild goose chase, sending them on case after case as they try to find him. He's obsessed with avenging Mary's death, but he has moments where he breaks the mold, surprising the boys when he's able to be tolerant of Sam's powers, when he admits that they're right, when he "wastes" a bullet from the Colt to kill a vampire that's about to kill Sam in this scene in 1.20 Dead Man's Blood. And yet he remains predictable: Dean knows that Azazel is possessing his father in 1.22 because John wouldn't be proud of him.

5. The Heirophant: Missouri

The Heirophant upright represents spiritual wisdom in the self, and a mentor or guide in others to focus the Hero on their journey. Missouri is a tangible example to the boys that Sam's power doesn't necessarily make him evil, an idea that the Winchesters are all concerned about for more than just the first season. In 1.09 Home, she's hiding John from them at his request, surprised that even with Sam's powers as strong as they are, he couldn't sense his father there. I chose this specific scene because of the visual of the Heirophant fading from John to Missouri: John is their teacher, but Missouri has just as valuable a lesson for them to learn.

6. The Lovers: Sam and Dean

Not Wincest. If you feel strongly that it is about Wincest to you and want to engage with this edit as such, do ya thang, but it's not my intention as the creator. Rather than necessarily romantic or sexual relationships, the Lovers are about harmony, choice, and accountability. The Hero, halfway through his journey, is no longer innocent, and the consequences of his choices are his own. Reversed, the Lovers represent disharmony, dishonesty, unhealthy relationships, and an inability to find balance. In 1.16 Shadow the boys have finally found their father, but just as they escape from Meg and the Daevas, Dean realizes that John needs to stay away from them for their own safety, while Sam, even despite his issues with John, objects. The brothers are on different wavelengths here, and the camerawork in this specific scene reflects how they're experiencing the story on totally different planes.

7. The Chariot: Baby

This one is also self-explanatory. The Chariot represents forward movement, and carries the Hero on his journey. The car being a character unto itself is not only a slice of Americana but a manifestation of the unspoken main character of the show, which is the relationship between the brothers. This scene from 1.01 Pilot literally represents the start of the journey.

8. Strength: Sam

The Strength card is what it says on the label, both physical and emotional strength, and all the traits that go hand in hand: bravery, courage, facing fear of the unknown and being gentle with the self.

However, Strength has an interesting history. In old versions of the deck, Strength is represented by Heracles beating two lions into submission, from the Greek stories of his Twelve Labors. When tarot became a thing more close to what we know now in 14th century Italy, the animal and the beast were symbols of the Devil (put a pin in this part of the journey until season 4). In that time the thing to do was to beat the devil (put a pin in that until season 13), a violent display of man triumphing over nature. Later, Heracles became an unnamed female figure, and the two lions became one. Instead of man vs. nature, the card became taming the lion, acceptance of the beast and acceptance of parts of the self which are unpleasant or horrifying.

In 1.05 Bloody Mary, Sam has been keeping a secret from Dean that he saw visions of Jess's death before it happened. He uses that secret to lure out the titular monster so that she can be defeated. Though he wars with his own nature, he comes to accept it as something he can use to achieve his goals.

9. The Hermit: Azazel in the nursery

Well, he's literally hiding from them. But the Hermit also represents the Hero succumbing to parts of their life yet unconfronted along their journey. Reversed, he represents an individual isolated from the outside world, a recluse. He can also represent that the Hero isn't taking the time to self-reflect, constantly pushing but not considering the self. The Hermit can be a person but also the issue of the Hero hitting a wall and realizing their journey is far from over. Azazel is a force to be reckoned with for the first two seasons and the Winchesters all experience tunnel vision when it comes to hunting him down. In this scene in 1.21 Salvation he disappears from the nursery before Sam can shoot him, then reappears in the flames in the window seemingly to taunt them. For as much as the brothers have learned and done, there's still more left to the story.

10. Wheel of Fortune: Azazel as John

The Wheel is the perpetual motion of life. It has no agenda or intent, it just is, and while it does not literally represent death, it does represent the death of the life previously lived and the constant metamorphosis of the Hero. While it is often taken to mean a good future when upright and bad luck when reversed, the Wheel is not that simple. It forces the Hero to make choices, good or bad, and reap the consequences, much like Azazel in 1.22 Devil's Trap forces the brothers each to choose between letting him go to save their father, or killing him while he's possessing John. It's a central feature of Supernatural that when the heroes finally confront the villains, they and the audience realize that they were always going to end up here. For that reason I chose to display it as a card that exists both upright and reversed. The Wheel of Fortune, simply, is.

#spn #supernatural #spnedit #my edits #supernaturaledit #supernatural edit #spn edit #sam winchester #dean winchester #john winchester #missouri moseley #jessica moore #if you didn't read the explanation for the card choices: this isn't a wincest edit learn about tarot #if you don't care and slash or want to rb this as wincest idc live your truth #I don't know why the wheel cards don't sync up but idc I'll kms if I spend any more time hemming and hawing about this edit #lowkey ended up hating this despite learning a lot and spending so many hours on it but fuck it I'm posting it anyway

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dean-winchester-is-a-warrior · 10 months ago

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Things Learned and Unlearned Ch. 5

Series Summary: Y/N has spent her life trying to outrun her mother's reputation. When she meets the rich and successful playboy, Dean Winchester, how quickly can he get her to stop running?

Pairings/Characters: Dean Winchester x Y/N, Sam Winchester, Jessica Winchester, Lucy Winchester (OC)

Warnings: Each chapter will have it's own warnings, but there will be smut, seduction, virgin!reader, playboy!dean, Edwardian era BS attitudes surrounding sex and women. (Technically it's set in 1900 and the Edwardian era started in 1901, but you get it.) Angst, Fluff, all the good stuff that regularly pops up in my series. 😁

Chapter Warnings: Here be smut. 😊 Light oral (m receiving), handjob, conversations about sex.

Word Count: 3,751

A/N: Here's Ch. 6. I so appreciate all the love and support you're all giving this series. Hope you enjoy the latest installment. ❤️

Series Master List || Main Master List || Tag List

Dean watched Y/N's chest rise and fall and felt the warm air escape from her slightly parted lips onto his shoulder where her head lay. Her lashes lay fanned against cheeks - cheeks that seemed pale, as though she wasn't getting enough rest. He let her sleep longer than he wanted; she seemed to need it and it allowed him time to study her features and imprint them in his memory.

He'd be gone tomorrow, at noon. He had no idea when he would get back here. He never visited more than once a year at most. His family's business was very demanding and time consuming, and he needed to be in New York to run it. But as he brushed his finger down Y/N's cheek, he suddenly wished he could stay longer…much longer.

Or even better, he wished Y/N would reconsider his offer to be his mistress. Then he could come to see her several times a week, maybe more if she was amenable. He didn't want to upset her though, in their last hours together, so he decided to keep that hope to himself.

He was grateful, when she stirred and her eyes opened. There weren't many hours left.

She was clearly confused as she opened her eyes and didn't recognize where she was right away. When she looked at him though, he could see memory dawn, and chuckled at the predictable blush that bloomed in her cheeks.

She sat up slightly, pulling the sheet up higher to cover herself. "How long have I been sleeping? What time is it?"

"You've only been out about an hour. It's nearly two o'clock." He said, tucking her hair behind her ear.

She ducked her head. "I should go. I shouldn't have stayed."

He ran his knuckles down her bare arm. "Is that what you really want?"

She looked up at him and hesitated before answering. "No, it isn't."

"What do you want?" He asked, desire flooding his gaze.

A million emotions crossed her face, too quick for him to read them properly.

"I have a question."

He nodded.

"How long does it take to know if I'll have a baby?"

Dean frowned. "What?"

"Well, I know women carry babies for 9 months, but how long before I can tell if I'm with child?"

Dean's frown deepened. "No time at all. I can tell you right now. You're not with child."

Her eyes widened. "How can you tell?" She looked down at herself, looking under the sheet at her stomach as though looking for a message there.

Dean shook his head in disbelief. "Because we didn't do what we'd need to in order to make a baby."

Her head snapped up to look at him. "What do you mean?"

He took a deep breath. "Y/N, what do you think has to happen to make a baby?"

She blushed harder. "A man and woman take off their clothes and lay in bed and the man does something and hopefully a baby comes. At least, usually it's hopeful when the man and woman are married."

Dean put his hand to his mouth, and studied her. How had she gotten to the age of twenty-six without knowing the basic biological necessities of procreating?

Y/N turned to face him more fully. "So, do you mean, that what you did to me," her skin was on fire, "that wasn't the marriage act?"

"The what?"

"The marriage act. I only know a little from friends at school. That's what they said had to happen to make a baby, and Mrs. Oliver called it the marriage act. Is that not what it's called?"

Dean pushed a hand through his hair and tried not to laugh. "Well, we're not married, so it wouldn't make sense to call it that. But no, what we did was not the marriage act, and no babies will result from it."

Y/N looked distinctly relieved for a moment before looking puzzled again. "So, if we didn't participate in the marriage act, does that mean…am I still chaste?"

Dean didn't think chaste described her screaming release of an hour ago, but he didn't want to embarrass her, so he just nodded. "Yes, you remain a virgin. That's why I did it that way."

"There are other ways to do it?" The question seemed to pop out of Y/N's mouth before she could stop it because she clapped a hand over her mouth and ducked her head again. "I'm sorry, what a question to ask."

But Dean answered anyway. "Yes, there are many, many other ways of making love."

In spite of her fiery blush, Y/N asked, "Is that what you call it? Making love?"

"Well, there are a lot of other things it's called too, but that's one."

Y/N nodded and then grabbed hold of his hand.

"Dean, could you teach me about making love?" She must have been startled by the heat and desire he knew flooded his expression because she quickly amended her statement. "I mean, could you tell me about making love? I have no one else I could ever ask, and I'd like to know."

Dean had no idea what to say. He was quiet for a minute and Y/N shook her head. "I'm sorry, that's a horrible question to ask. I'm sorry."

"No, Y/N, don't be sorry. There's nothing to be sorry for, I just…" he paused for a moment, "…I've just never talked about it with a woman."

"So, you don't talk when you're making love." It was a statement and she sounded like she was taking notes.

"Well, I mean, yes, you talk, but not…" He shoved a hand through his hair. "…usually the conversation isn't so…it's just a different kind of talking."

Her expression was innocent and questioning and he cleared his throat, determined to answer the questions she had.

"Alright so, I don't know how well I'll be able to answer all your questions, but I'll try. Go ahead." He braced himself.

Only two bright patches of red showed in her cheeks when she asked again, "How are babies made?"

Dean took a deep breath. "Well, men have a…" he cleared his throat and started over. "Women have…" he raked his hand through his hair again. This was a very strange conversation to be having. He realized he needed more information.

"Y/N, what do you know? I mean do you know what a man looks like?" he asked. "I mean, the parts you don't usually see." He amended.

She gestured to his torso. "Just what's in front of me." She said, smiling shyly.

"So, you've never seen a naked man, not even in a painting? Or a sculpture?"

She looked away, and gave a small shrug. "There weren't a lot of paintings or sculptures like that at my school."

He grinned. "I guess not. But since you've been out of school?"

She looked at him again. "I haven't exactly gone looking for them."

He chuckled. "Fair enough."

Her face brightened. "Oh, I did see a painting of a naked cherub once."

Dean couldn't help it, he burst out laughing. She smiled and looked sheepish.

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, really. I just can't imagine many men would want a woman to believe they resembled a naked cherub."

She rewarded him with one of her adorable wide grins. "No, I imagine not." She reached up and ran a hand from his shoulder down to his elbow, her grin melting away into a look of hunger. "And I can't imagine anything that looks less like a cherub."

She studied his body for a moment and her gaze alone made his already hard cock feel close to bursting. She pulled her hand away and tucked the sheet more firmly around her. Dean tried to force his body under control.

"So," she said, trying to bring them back on track, "you were saying?"

"Right." He cleared his throat. It seemed very dry all of a sudden. "So, men have a…uh…a kind of…um…" He looked at her face, and came up with the best word he could to describe it. "They have a shaft."

Y/N's face was quizzical. He continued. "And women have…well, I mean you know what your own body looks like." Her face looked confused now. "I mean, you know what…I mean, surely you've looked at yourself."

Comprehension flooded her expression along with a lot of embarrassment. "No, of course not. I mean, not really." She was acutely embarrassed and she wouldn't look him in the eye. "I mean, of course I've never looked, it's…well, it's sinful!" She exclaimed, as though he was mad for not realizing that.

It made him very sad to hear her say such a thing and he took her chin in his hand to force her to focus on him. "Y/N, it's your own body. It is literally the body God created for you, how on earth could it be sinful to look at it?"

While she tried to absorb his words, he decided to just tell her straight. "So, men have a shaft and women have an opening into their body. It's the opening that babies come out of," he paused, "and I suppose the opening where they're put in as well. Men have a um…a seed that comes from their shaft and they put their shaft into the woman's body and plant their seed. A baby grows from there."

He wasn't sure that was the best explanation, especially because Y/N looked slightly horrified.

She opened and closed her mouth several times before managing to speak. "So, if I want a baby, I have to let a man stick a shaft into a hole in my body." Her face was scrunched up and full of disgust. He had to admit that when it was summed up that way it did not sound very pleasant. He decided that if he didn't want to leave her completely terrified he should clarify things a little.

"I know it sounds very…mechanical and cold, but it's not when it's happening." He moved closer to her on the bed and cupped her cheek. "It's just like earlier, when I touched you and tasted you, it's the same kind of heat." He bent his head and kissed her slow, and sweet. She responded immediately, trying to deepen the kiss. But he pulled away; he wasn't trying to start her desire up all over again. "See, not cold or mechanical."

She raised a hand to her mouth and shook her head, a little sadly he thought. "No, not cold." She smiled softly.

She looked into his eyes. "Can I…" she paused for a moment. "Could I see it? See you, I mean?"

His blood started pumping overtime and he shifted away from her again. "I don't know if that's a good idea."

Her face was suddenly flooded with red and she shook her head quickly. "No, of course not. I'm sorry, Dean. What a horrible thing to ask for, I'm…sorry…" she trailed off in embarrassment and Dean wanted to kick himself.

He grabbed her hand with both of his and brought it to his chest. "Please look at me." When she did, he continued, "You have nothing to apologize for, Y/N. When it is me and you, together like this, I promise you that there is nothing you could ask, nothing you could ask for, and nothing you could tell me that is wrong, or sinful, or terrible. The space between us here," he pressed his hand to the sheet that covered her chest before bringing his hand back to press against his own chest. "…this space is sacred. It's magic. There's nothing that can't be said."

She blushed but she nodded. "Alright."

Suddenly her expression became quizzical, and she was staring at his pants. "Why aren't you naked? You kept your pants on. You said not to hide, but you're hiding. Why?"

He sighed and chuckled lightly. He let go of her hand. "For the same reason I said that it wasn't a good idea for you to…look at me. Because I'm doing everything I can to control myself, and that might be too much."

"Control yourself?"

"It's better if I have a kind of barrier between me and you. My…um…shaft…" he shook his head over the absurdity of this conversation and the fact that it was making him so incredibly hard. "Let's just say it's very sensitive."

Y/N thought about his words for a moment. "So, you're still aching. You didn't…come apart, like me?"

Her expression was worried and she bit her bottom lip, a gesture that made him think his pants might not actually make much of a difference for very long.

"No, I didn't." He said succinctly.

"Well, that hardly seems fair."

He smiled a strained smile. "It's fine. I'm fine."

She frowned at him. "So, you don't…I see…you don't ache for me the way I ache for you. It's different? Like the difference between me kissing you and you kissing me? You don't need me to fix it for you?"

She looked sad and Dean swore softly. "Y/N, you have no idea how much I ache, how desperate I am to have you touch me, kiss me, fix me. But I'm trying to abide by your wishes. I'm trying to keep you a virgin, and there's only so much torment a man can take. If you look at me and touch me, I'm going to spill my seed, and I am trying to spare you that."

She looked like she was trying to work something out. "And if you spill your seed, I wouldn't be a virgin anymore and I might have a baby?"

He took a deep breath and swallowed. "No, only if I was inside you." With every word of this conversation, his pants felt tighter, and he felt closer to bursting.

Y/N shrugged. "Then why can't I help you feel better, the way you helped me?"

Dean tried to come up with an explanation, but all he could manage was to shake his head as his body screamed for release.

Y/N moved closer to him and reached for the button on his pants. He grabbed her wrist quickly to stop her. They sat like that a moment, before Y/N whispered. "Don't hide yourself from me."

Her words and the look of desire and heat that flooded her gaze tore down the last of Dean's control, and he sagged back against the pillows, dropping her wrist.

She shifted so that she was sitting on her knees beside him and reached for his top button again. She undid it and pulled down his pants and underwear at once. He lifted his hips to help her and soon his cock was springing free of the confinement that had tortured him for hours.

Y/N gasped and sat back on her heels. She stared with wide eyes before blurting. "That's supposed to fit inside me? It's too big!"

Dean groaned and laughed at the same time, so it sounded a little like he was coughing. "Damn, you do wonders for a man's confidence." He grinned at her wickedly. "But trust me, it fits."

She stared at him a while longer before leaning forward again and reaching to run her fingers through the line of hair on his stomach. Unlike the last time, he didn't stop her, allowing himself to revel in the sweet torment.

He watched her reach out her hand timidly and touch the head of his shaft with a fingertip. He sucked in a breath from the jolt of fire her touch brought. She pulled back, and looked into his face. "I'm sorry! Did that hurt?"

He shook his head and his voice was very strained. "No, but yes. Sorry that doesn't make sense."

But Y/N nodded and her smile was a little naughty. "Yes, it does. It might not have a couple of hours ago, but it does now. Do you want me to continue?" She seemed to be asking a question to which she already knew the answer.

Y/N looked at Dean, his face taut, his muscles tense, and she knew two things; this was the most beautiful man she would ever see, and she had the power to bring Dean the same kind of fiery torment and blissful release he'd given her.

She reached out to stroke him again.

His hands balled into fists and a guttural sound issued from his lips.

She leaned down and placed a kiss on the very tip of his shaft. His body shuddered and a tiny amount of liquid seeped from the end. She rubbed the liquid into his skin with her forefinger. "Is this your seed?" she asked, still interested in learning. Dean only grunted, but she took it as an affirmative.

She continued to run her fingers up and down the silky smooth skin that covered the ramrod hardness under her hand. Dean's breath came hard and fast. She was having fun exploring, placing a kiss here and there along the length.

After a few minutes, Dean pushed himself up on his one elbow, moving so that he laid sideways. He took hold of Y/N's hand and showed her how to wrap it around his shaft and move it up and down. Gently at first, and harder and faster as the heat and fire in his gaze built and built. She knew he must be getting close because his body was bucking under her hand just as hers had, instinctively thrusting. The action made something primal in her begin to ache again.

Finally she saw white liquid begin to spurt out of his body before he rolled himself into the sheet and buried his ragged shout into the pillow.

As his body continued to spasm, she ran her hand up and down his hip and over his backside which was round and firm. After his breathing returned to something resembling normal, he rolled onto his back again and Y/N took the chance to lie down across his chest. Her sheet was long gone, but she didn't care. She simply allowed herself to enjoy the amazing feeling of Dean's warm, smooth skin against her own.

She laid her hands on top of each other in the middle of his chest and propped her chin on them, so she could see his face. His eyes were closed and his face was completely relaxed. She drank up the sight of him like this.

He opened his eyes and she stared, drowning in his mossy green eyes. It suddenly occurred to her that this may be one of the last times she would ever look into his magnificent eyes and she felt tears spring up.

Dean frowned and caught a tear on his thumb as it fell. "Hey, what is this?"

She shook her head and smiled slightly. "Oh, it's nothing. I just wish I hadn't waited so long to do this. We could have days. Now we have only hours." She looked at the clock on his bedside. "And not many of those. You're leaving in less than eight hours, and I have to leave your room very soon."

Dean stared at her for a long time before speaking. "Y/N, the last thing I want to do is upset you or make you angry again. But…" he hesitated and in his hesitation, Y/N knew what he was going to say. "Come with me."

Y/N wasn’t insulted this time, and she wasn’t angry, because she knew now how desperately she wanted to do it. She knew what he was really asking of her. He wasn't trying to defile her or make her into something dirty. He was asking her to come and spend the nights with him like this. And she'd spend time with him, letting his sharp, and occasionally silly humor fill her days, she'd go out to parties with him, let him spoil her with jewels and expensive things.

She wanted so badly to say yes. But into the beautiful pictures in her imagination came the blinding knowledge that she'd have to say goodbye to all her other dreams.

She'd never find a compatible husband, or live in a pretty, respectable little cottage, and she'd never have children. She would never allow children to live the shame of her choices. She knew just how it felt to be ostracized and stared at as though you were vermin. She could never put a child through that.

She sat up and pulled the sheet around her again, moving to the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry, Dean. I just can't."

He sighed. "Why not?"

She looked over her shoulder at him and decided she could give him the truth, plain and simple. "My mother was a kept woman, and I've spent my life trying not to repeat her mistakes, trying to pull myself as far away from her life as possible. I can't simply ignore a lifetime of dreams and hopes."

Dean looked like he wanted to argue and tried to start a sentence several times. But finally he sighed deeply and fell back onto the pillows.

"Fine. I understand."

Tears came again and Y/N knew she had to go now or she might never leave his bed. She got up and picked her nightgown up off the floor.

Dean sat up again. "Wait, why are you leaving now? We have at least another hour before you need to sneak back."

He grabbed her hand as her head emerged from her nightgown and it fell to cover her completely. "Don't go yet."

But she shook her head. "I can't Dean, I…" she swallowed. "If I'm ever going to leave, I have to leave now."

She pulled out his grasp and moved toward the door. Dean pulled his pants up over his hips and followed her. As she reached the door she turned back and smiled at him, tears still falling.

She reached up, placing her palm against his cheek. He took in a quick breath and raised his chin. She felt a muscle jumping in his jaw.

"Thank you, Dean."

He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on her forehead.

"You're welcome, Y/N."

She took one long last look into his eyes before she ran out the door, terrified of what she was leaving behind with him.

Tag Lists:

Jensen RPF and Any/All Characters:

@lyarr24

@lacilou

@deans-spinster-witch

@globetrotter28

@suckitands33

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Any/All Fics Regardless of Character or Fandom:

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Everything Incl. Fan Edits:

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#dean winchester #dean x y/n #dean winchester smut #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester au #dean x reader #dean winchester fan fic #dean winchester fan fic series #dean winchester au fan fic series

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limpwristssavelives · 11 days ago

Text

i’ve seen a lot of people say this season isn’t as good as the others, that it’s boring or too drawn out. but i think the way this season is building tension is masterful. we already know that it ends in a big explosion of conflict with a shooting. and yes, compared to other seasons not as much conflict has happened so far. but i think this season will be like a tsunami, it’s the tideless beach before the big wave hits and all the characters are just standing there, unaware and avoiding confronting each other.

this season is all about confrontation. hear no evil, see no evil, and speak no evil. everyone is ignoring dealing with each others issues. the whole ratliff family is ignoring their dads obvious distress and declining mental state. it’s pretty obvious that he took the lorazepam, isn’t sleeping, and has mentally checked out. yet his wife won’t acknowledge it in any meaningful way besides some words of encouragement that have the exact opposite effect because of his current situation. the mom laughs off all of saxon’s misogyny and alpha male bullshit that comes out of his mouth. lochlan let’s saxon walk all over him, he’ll drink the gross protein shakes and let saxon use him to try and get with girls. saxon is going to avoid that lochlan kissed him while he was very intoxicated. piper is one of the few characters that actually confronted a situation by telling her parents that she plans on living in thailand at a monastery. she confronts her mothers expectations for her and stands her ground that she is in fact a buddhist. addressing that everything she wants goes against everything that they want for her.

the lady friend group all talk shit about each other behind their backs and all of them know it. next episode we’ll probably see jacklyn and kate talk about how laurie was topless and throwing herself at the russians. when in fact laurie was emulating youthfulness the most, which is what jacklyn wanted. yet she sought it out in the form of taking valentin for herself. she’s always pitting herself against and competing with other women for her own validation. kate knows they think she’s a republican and look down on her for it. laurie sees through jacklyn’s bullshit and constant pursuit of youth. i predict that their friendships will all inevitably blow up in their faces but at the end they will remain cordial with each other. always faking niceties and pretending like there’s no issue.

rick very prominently refuses to acknowledge any of his issues. he plans on (presumably) killing the man who killed his father as a last ditch attempt at redemption. he completely ignores all of chelsea’s efforts to help him and be emotionally available with her. chelsea also doesn’t seem to be as avoidant as a lot of the other characters. she confronts rick about his issues. she’s a romantic who looks past rick’s shady past and wants to fix him. she does ignore greg’s obvious shadiness as well, but believes chloe and her are in the same boat, boyfriend wise. rick’s conversation with his friend frank (sam rockwell) was very interesting. frank told him that he was avoiding confronting parts of himself his whole life but has finally found enlightenment. he was avoiding the truth by trying to fuck his way to the answer. but when he did confront it he was able to shed his destructive lifestyle and become happier. will rick learn from this story and make different choices? he’s not planning on making it out of this revenge plan. he’s given up and will probably go quietly when caught. he’s avoiding the future and the present trying to right wrongs of the past.

belinda is not an avoidant character. she immediately confronted greg when she recognized him. she confronted the hotel manager when she found out that greg was “probably” responsible for tanya’s death in italy. yet the hotel manager chooses to ignore the situation that obviously puts his guests at risk. in favor of not disrupting an obviously shady relationship the hotel has with greg, who is not a guest but allowed to hang around. he directly dismisses belinda’s fear and is upset that she didn’t jump at the opportunity that a rich white guy was interested in her. he will always defend the rich white patrons over anyone else. he doesn’t care if shady shit is going on. this will inevitably end horribly and it will all be his fault. belinda then tells pornchai who tries to reassure her but doesn’t give any actual solutions. he saves her from a lizard but doesn’t seem to put much thought into the immediate danger she might face.

gaitok is probably the most prominent example of being avoidant. he constantly leaves his post to walk and talk with mook, who deflects his feelings for her. she seems to want to be friends even though he’s telling her he wants a relationship. she’s avoids confronting his feeling and directing turning him down. gaitok thinks that if he becomes the type of man she likes she will then accept his proposals. when mr ratliff steals the gun he left out he can’t even bring himself to directly confront him about it. he tells him “you have something of mine” but mr ratliff denies it and gaitok lets him walk away. i will say that considering the hotel managers reaction to belinda’s information on greg, he will always take the guests side in conflicts. if mr ratliff were to say anything, gaitok would fired regardless if anyone finds out about the gun. also confronting an obviously mentally unstable shady business guy who stole a gun is probably not the best idea, so i kinda get it. but ultimately, what will he do to make this right? how will his avoidance of conflict shape the series?

#the white lotus #white lotus #text post #my post

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zepskies · 2 years ago

Note

Hey could I please request headcanons for how Dean would react to reader texting him "she's busy" as a joke, yk kind of like

Dean: Hey baby

Reader: She's busy

I really hope this makes sense and isn't so confusing 😭😭

Ooh I think I know what you mean. 😏

Pairing: Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Word Count: 850

Imagine: Texting Dean when he's on a hunt.

Once again, Dean sighed while he waited on his brother.

They were stopped at a 7-Eleven gas station after a hunt, but Dean had long ago filled up Baby's tank. Sam was inside, grabbing a few snacks for the road tomorrow. Supposedly.

Dean fished out his phone from his pocket and texted him.

Hey, Driving Miss Daisy. You good in there?

A couple of minutes later, Sam responded.

Yeah, just getting a few things.

Dean rolled his eyes. Right.

For half an hour? What, you taking a shit or something?

Sam's response was testy, just as Dean predicted.

Dean, give me a minute. Jesus.

Dean sighed, with a roll of his eyes. He scrolled back into his texts and found your name. He was a couple of states over from Lebanon, but still within the same timezone. You should still be awake back at the bunker.

He decided he wanted to hear your voice, let you know that he and Sam were going to catch one more night of rest here at the motel before they made the long drive back home.

But...you didn't answer when he called.

Weird. You were typically a night owl, either watching something or plugging away at your laptop. He tried texting you instead.

Hey, baby. You up?

He eventually saw the three gray dots pop up. You were typing...

She's busy.

Dean frowned. What the hell?

Had you invited someone over? Like Jody or Donna?

But neither of them would've replied like that...so he texted back.

Stop messing around.

Dean tried calling you again, but it went directly to voicemail this time. In came another text from "you."

She'll call you back, dude.

Dean's jaw ticked with annoyance. And despite himself, unease began to creep in and churn his stomach.

What the fuck is this?

She's in the shower. I'll tell her to call you back, no worries.

All right. WHO is this?

Ooh, are you the boyfriend? Yikes lol.

A deep, slow breath made it through Dean's nose. He closed his eyes, counted to ten, reminded himself that he did, in fact, love you.

Then he responded.

Babe, if you don't call me in the next 30 seconds, there's gonna be hell to pay when I get home.

Dean checked his watch and actually counted. About ten seconds passed before his phone rang with an incoming call...from you. He answered.

"Promise?" came your teasing voice. When it ended on a giggle, Dean rolled his eyes and rested his head back on the seat. He blew out a frustrated breath.

"Oh, trust and believe. You're gonna fuckin' get it this time," he said, though his lips curved on a reluctant smirk. You full on laughed at him then.

"You make it too easy," you replied.

He knew this. It wasn't the first time you'd teased him, and he knew it wouldn't be the last.

Still, he couldn't help being a bit irritated this time.

"You know, how would you like it if I did that to you?" he asked. "Wouldn't be so fucking funny then, would it?"

"...Okay. You're right. I'm sorry, baby," came your more contrite voice. But he could still hear your smile. Could imagine the way you might soothe a hand along his arm, if you were here.

"How about I make it up to you?" you offered.

That worked a slow smirk onto his face. "Yeah? What did you have in mind?"

For the next few minutes, you purred into his ear about all the things you'd been thinking of while he was gone. Daydreaming about the talents of his hands, lips, and tongue.

In particular, you reminded him about a certain birthday wish that he still hadn't claimed from a couple weeks ago, when he and Sam got wind of this hunt.

Two weeks really was too damn long, in your opinion. (He agreed with you.)

Now with a half-straining bulge in his jeans, Dean licked his lips and tightened his hand on the leather wheel of the car.

"All right. Sounds like a plan to me, sweetheart," he said, deceptively breezy. As if you'd just told him you planned to make tacos for dinner.

"When are you getting home?" you asked.

He heard the tone of your voice, like black silk. It sent a tendril of heat down his spine, raising the hairs on his forearms.

"Tonight," Dean said. Deeper, a note of gravel in his words. "I'll see you tonight."

"Good." Once again, he heard the smile in your voice. "I love you."

He sighed, and raised a hand to card through his hair.

"Love you too...even though you play too fucking much," he muttered the latter bit.

Your laughter once again reached his ears, reluctantly making him smile.

He hung up with you just before Sam finally opened the passenger seat door and climbed in with two hefty grocery bags. Did he do a whole damn shopping spree in there?

...Whatever. Dean shook his head and started the car.

"Change of plan," he said. "We're heading home."

"What? Thought we were gonna catch a few hours of sleep. It's a long drive, Dean," Sam said, earning his brother's gaze.

"Yeah, well, you'll live," Dean snarked. A more devious grin spread across his face. "I've got a date."

And she's about to get punished.

The Impala's tires screeched as Dean pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main road.

AN: Ha! This one was fun. 😘 Thanks for the prompt!

Dean Winchester Imagines

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Dean W. Tag List:

@hobby27 @kazsrm67 @letheatheodore @agothwithheavysetmakeup @jacklesbrainworms @foxyjwls007 @wincastifer @iamsapphine @vanillawhiskeyflavoredkisses @roseblue373 @this-is-me19 @emily-winchester @spnexploration @deans-spinster-witch @deans-baby-momma @iprobablyshipit91

@melancholictearz @nic-kolas @sleepyqueerenergy @wayward-lost-and-never-found @thewritersaddictions @just-levyy @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @deanwanddamons @antisocialcorrupt @lacilou @adoringanakin @theonlymaninthesky @teehxk @midnightmadwoman @brianochka @branj19

@agalliasi @venicesem @chriszgirl92 @lyarr24 @ladysparkles78 @solariklees @xsophianicolex @deansbbyx @candy-coated-misery0731 @curlycarley @sarahgracej @bagpussjocken @ultrahviolentart @chernayawidow @beskarfilms @mimaria420

#dean winchester #dean winchester imagine #texting Dean #and teasing Dean #sam winchester #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female reader #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fic #spn #supernatural #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester smut #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural x reader #supernatural x you #zepskies writes

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hiramaris · 1 year ago

Text

Kiss It Off Me

CHAPTER 4

Chapter Summary:

“Thank you.” She couldn’t stop smiling, not if she can’t help it. “It’s really sweet of you to do all this.” “No problem. I like it when you smile. Happiness looks good in you.”

Pairings: Haley x Fem!farmer

Disclaimer: I do not own Stardew Valley or any of the related characters. Stardew Valley is created by and owned by ConcernedApe. This fanfiction is intended for entertainment only. I am not making any profit from this story. All rights of the original Stardew Valley story belong to ConcernedApe.

Warning: Swearing, mentions of neglect

Y/n, I’m not really good at writing a note or apologizing in general. I just… feel bad about how our introduction to one another went downhill which I know is my fault. I know it's kind of rude, too to take someone's photo without their consent so, here you go. It's not the best photo but it's not, like, the worse either. And you look like you're in one with nature so the photographer in me couldn't help but to take the shot. Anyway, if you have time away from your farm, you can drop by at 2 Willow Lane in the morning or whatever so I can make it up to you somehow. It’s cool if you don’t want to if you’re, like, really mad still. P.S I don’t wake up until 8. Need my beauty sleep! - Haley <3

Spring 10

"Earlier, I was getting my mail."

Haley's chewing came to a halt as George began to speak. How odd. George wasn’t one to talk during meals. She knew this because there was never a time she missed mandatory weekly meals with the Mullners.

Nonetheless, she leaned a bit closer to hear him.

"I couldn't because of my...” he trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. “Anyway, Pam's kid tried to help me, and I ended up shouting at her." "My goodness, George!” Gran Evelyn gasped softly, placing a hand over her heart. “Why did you do that to poor Penny?" "I— she pushed my wheelchair and touched my mail.” He averted his gaze, looking everywhere but at the three pairs of eyes focused on him. If Haley didn’t know him any better, he almost looked embarrassed rather than angry. “I... I didn't like it when people act like I'm so nimble." Granny shook her head in sympathy. "Still, honey... She's just trying to help." "I know, I know," George grumbled, stabbing his fork into a fried mushroom. "The new farmer even pointed it out to me." He looked up, his eyes boring into his wife. "I apologized anyway. It was just a bad day, and I happened to project my anger onto her."

At the mention of the new farmer, Haley perked up. Not to sound obsessed or anything or like she has been counting at all, but it had been almost two days since she had caught a whiff of that familiar scent of dirt and freshly cut grass that you seemed to radiate even from a mile away. If Emily’s going to twist her arm behind her back, then maybe she’ll be able to get Haley to admit that she’s the one doing the avoiding right now.

The fact that it was Haley herself who wrote a note for you to come by to make up for her rude behavior, and then when you did drop by immediately a day after, Haley would make sure she had plenty of excuses to not meet you at the door and have Emily answer on her behalf. It’s been days and she’s running out of reasons to tell Emily why she couldn’t meet her visitor, and it wouldn’t take a genius to know who’s avoiding whom.

How could she not though?

How can someone recover from a situation like that which was probably scraped off from a romantic script of a movie because it’s too predictable, and cringe?

How can you look at someone ever again knowing you had seen that face in mere inches, breath tingling the cheeks and then act like you weren’t fazed by it all?

Most importantly, how do you act after that? Apparently, it didn’t seem like a problem for you as you were so busy hustling and bustling in and out of the farm and into the town. And if you weren't busy doing your chores, then you were always dragged down by Sam’s little brother to their little class arrangement with Penny and often found you hanging out with them by the big tree just outside Haley’s home which is why she knows not because she’s actively searching for you, duh.

Okay, maybe you did try to approach her, and Haley's acting like the two of you had a one-night stand by avoiding you like the plague. Could you blame her, though?

If it wasn't embarrassing enough, she even accused you of trying to buy her friendship with the daily gifts you gave her, accompanied by that annoyingly cheerful smile that seemed permanently sculpted on your face.

What am I even supposed to think in that situation? Even Alex, her best friend for years, wasn’t consistent with giving her gifts. The doofus often forgets special occasions, but that's a separate issue altogether.

To her, you’re really just an enigma.

And she can’t help but be drawn to the mysterious, goody-two-shoes persona you’re sporting.

She shook her head when she realized she’d been zoning out longer than she warranted. Evelyn is still giving George a piece of her mind for what he did. Haley’s so sure he’s regretting his decision by now opening this topic to his wife.

However, it was clear to Haley who was in the wrong here.

"If I may put in my two cents...?" she interjected, unable to hold back.

Alex raised a curious brow at her but remained silent. Granny, on the other hand, nodded encouragingly. "Go ahead, deary."

"I think George's reaction was valid," Haley began slowly, choosing her words carefully. "Penny touched your wheelchair and mail without consent, regardless of her good intentions, George." And as an afterthought, she added, a hint of annoyance creeping into her voice, "And the new farmer agreed with her? She should have known better."

"Look at you, Hay. Queen of consent!" Alex teased, a smirk playing on his lips. "I love a girl who knows her boundaries."

Of course, the doofus would choose this time to speak.

"Haha," she rolled her eyes at a smirking Alex. He sure knows what buttons to push. "Asking consent is a bare minimum, you goof. You should practice it more often." "Hey!" "Hng," George grumbled inaudibly. "Little Miss Farmer did say that."

"Say what, dear?" "That Pam's kid should have asked me first.” George clarified. “But I should have handled it a little better, too. Can't say that she's wrong."

Despite his use of tone, he didn’t sound too upset. More like he’s in between of unable to believe that someone has the courage to stand up to him and tell him he’s wrong and still respect him as an elder, or being mad at this new farmer for sticking up her nose somewhere it doesn’t belong.

Either way, a George that isn’t grumpy is a win-win. So, they all will probably take it as it is.

"I'm glad you thought so too, dear." See? Even Granny thinks so, too. It’s better to have a plate full of her infamous cookies (and leek if you’re George) than to have a grumpy George on your plate. "Here, have some sauté leek."

George's face brightens up considerably. "I thought we don't have anymore from the pantry?"

"Miss Y/n dropped some earlier. Said to help cook your favorite dish. Isn’t she a sweetheart?”

"Hmm... I guess she's really something else then."

"I told you so, dear."

"Agree!" Alex raises a thumbs up. "She even knows how to play grid ball! She's new yet she's already better than the men here combined."

"That's lovely, deary. I hope she also influences you to read those books I gave you. I heard she's infatuated with books as Miss Penny does." "Yes, granny," Alex grumbled against his spoon.

Spring 12

She didn’t expect to see you so soon.

It’s not like she wants to avoid you forever. Ugh.

Why is this so difficult?

Her whole Spring routine is now in shambles because of you and your inability to dress nice, spreading your nasty farmer smell and being all happy smiles around children, elders, and women like some sort of Casanova and it’s infuriating!

“Hay?” Emily’s voice calling out from the kitchen stops her from her silent stewing. Haley was about to get up from her seat when Emily's voice continued, "did you clean the cushions like I told you yesterday?"

Her expression immediately turned sour, “I just cleaned them last week!”

The clanging from the kitchen stops, and the thudding of footsteps came closer. In an instant, Emily was standing in front of her with her spatula in hand.

“Yes, that’s last week. What about this week then?”

Haley rose to her feet, indignant. No freaking way she’s cleaning them again. “I always clean under the cushions and you damn well know it!" She jutted a perfectly manicured finger in Emily's direction. "It's YOUR turn this week!"

Emily scoffed at that. “You’re being childish, Haley. I do the vast majority of work in this house, and you know it.”

Haley rolled her eyes, feeling frustrated that Emily always played the responsible one. Just because she had a job outside the house, she acted like she was the only one doing anything. Haley does, too! She cooks, washes the dishes, does her own laundry, and cleans the house! But of course, Emily isn’t around enough to see all that because she has work and she’s busy thinking Haley’s lazy ass is just lounging in the house doing nothing all day!

“But that’s not the point!” Haley crossed her arms, a flash of irritation on her face. She wasn't going to let Emily get away with this. “We agreed to have schedules specifically for this and you’re not following it!”

Emily's eyes flickered with frustration. “Would it kill you to do them now? I had a rough shift yesterday.”

"You can't just pass off your responsibilities onto me every time you had a tough day at work. We made a schedule for a reason."

"I know, I know. But I just need a break today." Emily sighed heavily, her shoulders slumping.

The truth sets out then. She had a rough night and she passes the job onto Haley and made her feel guilty for it. Never mind that they agreed to have alternate schedules to do this specific job to avoid arguments yet here they are.

“Absolutely no—”

“Hello?”

Of fucking course, the farmer chooses that time to knock on their door.

Emily must have noticed the alarmed look written clearly on her face, making her smirk.

Oh, boy.

“Come in, Y/n/n! Haley’s up already.”

“Good mor—” You did a double take seeing a clearly upset Haley and an equally pissed Emily. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes,” Haley admitted bluntly, crossing her arms. A flash of recognition passed her eyes when she thought of an idea. A good one that’s for sure. “Since you’re a hard worker and all, I bet you’ll understand my point of view here.”

“Haley,” Emily warned. Haley ignores her, deciding to shift her attention to the newcomer.

You tilt your head in confusion. “What’s going on?”

Emily sighs in exasperation, before offering you a kind smile. “I’m really sorry to involve you in this, Y/n/n. Haley,” she shot her a dirty look, “is complaining because I asked her to clean the cushions—”

“— which you should be doing because it’s your schedule, not mine yet you’re shifting the blame to me.” Haley finishes for her. She turns to you, further proving her point. “It’s important to mention that I already cleaned them last week.”

“Haley…”

“Shut it, Em. I want to hear what she has to say. What’s the verdict?”

Haley may seem cool outside but she’s actually hoping for you to side her on this one. She knew she was on the right side. If you were to side with Emily, then that’s like a double edge of crap in some way and Haley refuses to bleed in front of you two.

You were silent for a good second, chewing your lips, deep in thought. Your eyes flicked back and forth between the sisters.

“Haley,” you prompted, voice slow and measured. Haley already knew at this point whom you sided with. “Why not have this be your one weekly job?”

Not that it’s important but it stings.

Haley turns to retreat to her room, but you must have noticed the look of utter disappointment on her face. You grabbed Haley's hand in panic, halting her in her tracks. The blonde couldn't help but freeze at the sudden touch. "W-wait. I’m not siding on anyone," You quickly clarified, hoping to diffuse the tension.

Haley raised a skeptical eyebrow, not entirely convinced. "Sure," she replied flatly.

“I just thought it would be the best course of action, so you don’t have to argue over it again. If you took this job, Emily won’t bother you again with cleaning the bathroom every two days. Isn’t that right, Em?”

“Yeah!” Emily agrees immediately. “Wait, what?”

Haley turns and finds you smiling down at her, clearly amused at Emily’s reaction. “doesn’t that sound more appealing?”

It does. She hates cleaning the bathroom with great passion, more so than cleaning under the cushions. If this also means it could possibly reduce Emily’s daily nagging, then your idea doesn’t seem the worst plan ever.

“Alright, you win.” Haley tried so hard to keep a straight face when she saw that stupid smile emerging again. “I guess this can be my job every week. Then there won’t be any reason to argue over it.”

Emily eyes her a bit at her sudden compliance with everything before turning back to you with an almost appreciative look. “Thanks, Y/n/n. That was a great solution.”

“Heh,” you must have noticed Haley’s eyes burning at your conjoined hands. With a timid chuckle, you retreated your hand back as you scratched your nape almost shyly. “It’s no problem, really.”

“Why don’t you stay for breakfast?” Emily suggested. “I’m almost finished cooking anyway.”

“It’s okay, thanks! But I don’t really want to impose.”

“Nonsense! I’m sure my sister won’t mind you joining us. Right, Hay?” Emily raises an equally blue eyebrow at her sister, who seemed to be in a daze.

“Your hands are rough and warm.”

“Huh?”

Your confusion snapped her out of her trance. She meets your eyes for a brief moment before glancing away. “I mean— what I meant to say was,” she sputtered pathetically. “Yeah, you can join us for breakfast.” She forces out a smile, hoping Yoba will answer her prayer one more time.

“Good!” Emily beamed. “Then I’ll get on with it. Haley, please keep our guest occupied.”

“You sure?” You asked one more time, probably noticing the grimace obviously etched on her face.

“Of course.”

“Hmm. Okay, then how about we clean these cushions now? So, you won’t have to clean them later?”

“Eh? It’s fine. I can do that later.”

“I insist. Two pairs of hands are better than one, y’know?”

“Ugh. Of course, you’ll say some dorky crap like that. Yoba, fine you can help.”

You can only laugh at her antics before moving to lift the couch.

Spring 14

She used to like her birthdays.

At least that’s what she likes to think.

What she allows herself to think.

And what she likes others to think.

It’s easier to blend into the stereotypes rather than oppose them and still get judged after.

Haley’s been called names already, all too many to even mention.

Spoiled.

Arrogant.

Self-centered and conceited.

If they are harsh enough, sometimes they’ll call her a dumb bitch.

As harsh as they are, Haley learned over the years to desensitize herself to them. Why allow yourself to be hurt by the same thing over and over again?

Her parents raised her and Emily in this big house back in Zuzu City. It was big, enormous even but empty. Can you call it home when no one cares enough to stick around? When all there ever was were big parties, and holidays spent with strangers she barely talked to, raised like the perfect little girl that she is, given with just as empty praises and gifts just as thoughtless.

Haley is practically the epitome of class and luxury. The living embodiment of perfection. Perfect face, perfect body, and oh-so-perfect stats. She’s smart (street smart or preferably photography smart if there’s one or whatever), rich and famous. Most importantly, she’s popular and has a reputation to protect.

Everything that Emily probably isn’t. Yet she’s the one happier.

She’s the one who moved on while Haley remains still where their parents left them.

How could they be gone though if, in the first place, they were never present? Where were they when Haley won her first photography contest? Did they know the photo was Emily sewing her first design? Haley doesn’t think so.

They are not abusive though. In terms of needs, they never wasted seconds to tend them in the most grandiose and luxurious ways as possible— the newest phone, latest camera, expensive make-up, and all available seasonal designer clothes. Good but not great either. Haley can say they are just plainly emotionally unavailable. They weren’t ready at all to be parents. They were too young when they had Emily.

Early twenties were not even that young, but it was a stage of exploring the world and what it could still possibly offer them. They can’t have all that with children in tow. So, when the opportunity arises, they took it without hesitations. After all, both their children are fully capable on their own.

But Haley needed someone. She needed a father. She needed her mother. Hell, she needed her sister. She needed someone warm, a nicer, wiser person. Someone to cry to, to talk to, to laugh to.

She calls out but the house is empty.

So, tell me. How can I be childish when I’m forced to grow up because everyone already is?

Haley hated them with passion. The crumpled piece of letter in her hand was obvious enough to what extent she does.

Another birthday card.

No hugs and kisses.

No cake.

No parents.

Some birthday this is.

She lets out a dry chuckle. It seems Emily had forgotten about her day. She had taken off at dawn's first light without even a second thought. While Alex? She doesn’t expect him to remember. At least not until later than noon. The idiot, really.

“Thought I’d find you here.” Haley didn’t have to look up to see who it was, but she did anyway. There you are with your blinding smile again. Beads of sweat can be seen forming on the side of your forehead just below a small cut that seemed to be healing well already. Your clothes are lightly butchered, a sign you were up and about on your farm yet the sight of you lifted her spirit a little.

“Done with your chores?” she asked as you sat down next to her. Weirdly enough, the smell of dirt doesn't seem sore on the nose anymore, and Haley starts to wonder why.

It was a pleasantly warm Sunday. Usually, the kids will be playing here and Haley's glad she get to enjoy a quiet time in the park even for a little time.

You hummed. “Woke up extra early to finish them all.”

“Why? You have plans?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Naw, had to run some errands so I can give you this,” You turned to your rucksack that Haley failed to notice once again. It was bulging. Haley could only catch sight of the color brown before you successfully hid it behind your back. “Give me your hands.”

Haley narrowed her eyes. “You’re not going to prank me, are you?”

“What? No, of course not!”

“Is it a bug? You know I hate them.”

“Just do it, Hay.”

Surprised at the sudden usage of the nickname, Haley finally complied. She desperately hopes the sunlight would hide the tinge of redness starting to form on her cheeks.

Carefully, you placed a coconut on her open palms. It was plump and perfectly shaped as if it had been carefully chosen just for her. It was even wrapped poorly with a red ribbon that is a bit wrinkly and crinkled on the edges which must be because of how it was forcefully shoved in her bag. But Haley didn't find it in herself to mind. Not when you're looking at her like that as you hold your gift.

“Happy birthday, Haley,” you greeted warmly.

Haley blinked, her eyes started to water, her insides warming up in all ways possible. But she didn’t dare cry.

"I... I love coconuts." Haley looked up. Her own lips betrayed her as they curled up in the widest grin she ever had. “How did you know?”

“Well...” You scratched the back of your head, your cheeks turning a light shade of pink. “Remember when you treated my cut the other day? You made me choose between a sunflower band-aid or a coconut one. So, I kinda assumed they were your favorites.”

“B-but how? You can’t possibly summon a coconut tree at will, or even had the time to go to Calico desert.”

You laughed at that. “It was pure luck, Hay. I just talked to the traveling merchant the other day and she said she had a couple of ones in stock. But she warned me I had to buy one early today or else she’ll run out just before noon.”

“Thank you.” She couldn’t stop smiling, not if she can’t help it. “It’s really sweet of you to do all this.”

“No problem. I like it when you smile. Happiness looks good in you.”

Happiness looks good on you, too.

****

A/n: I hoped I did Haley's heart event justice because she deserved soooo much better. I refuse to believe her mean girl façade is because she's plain mean. My girl is better than that.

Anyway, sorry for the super late update. You know, the usual, due to school stuff and it just so happens senior year is the busiest year of all. Had to make sure I'm complying with all the needed requirements so I can graduate this year.

Thank you, guys, for your patience. Love y'all but I love my wife more <3

#stardew valley #stardew haley #stardew farmer #stardew fanfic #haley x reader #haley x farmer

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superblysubpar · 1 year ago

Text

masterlist | the music

19.7k words | Sorry freaks, no smut this chapter - but the series is 18+ and so is my blog so skedaddle on out of here if you're not!

A/N: I have a really long one here - so I'll just say thank you once again and that I love you. Also, another special thank you to @sweetsweetjellybean and @loveshotzz💛💛

chapter warnings: very brief mention of religion (but not reader participating or believing in one in particular) | small mention/description of reader's maternal death and cancer symptoms | teeny tiny spoiler for the ending to the movie 'when harry met sally' | use of dialogue from the movie 'My Best Friends Wedding'

Why do we want to believe in things like fate or destiny - divine intervention? Why do some put their faith in religions with blind following? Why do we look to the stars in moments of despair, when we’re desperate for hope, when we’re lost?

We seek out answers from something we can’t see but we want to believe in. Whether it’s a fortune cookie in your take out, a penny head’s up on the sidewalk, a community of like minded souls coming together for prayer or worship, or a horoscope you read on your morning Instagram scroll - the reasons have to be the same for choosing to believe, for the hope that starts to rise in you for the promise these things try to offer.

We look for solutions to problems. We need reason. We need purpose. We need to feel like we’re not alone. We need confirmation that it’s all gonna work out even though nothing can really guarantee that.

When you look up at the stars that work hard to shine through clouds and a full moon, your chest rises with air trying to fill your lungs and you wonder if they’re up there. Your eyes blink up at that indigo sky, searching. Steve sits next to you and Leigh waves, whispering their hellos. His hand rests next to yours on the plaid blanket, he clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. It’s all too stiff, too on edge, and you hate it. That attempted deep breath is unsuccessful, lungs deflating as it catches in your throat, and your thoughts wander back to the stars again. They wander to him, and them, and seek answers.

What if they are up there, watching, like it’s one of those movies your mom was always putting on and your dad and you boo’d at from your spot playing cards. When he walked in with her with that on her finger, your mom would have gasped, she would have paused the movie, she would have yelled at you and your dad about the plot. She would have thrown popcorn at the TV and declared there’s something going on, he couldn’t, no way - there was no way. She’d have calmed herself down, rationalized there was still time left, gone to the pantry for more chocolate, kissed the top of your head and your dad’s cheek as she passed. By the end of the film, her prediction would have been right, she’d be crying and sighing at the couple who got their happy ending.

So could Steve declare his feelings for you here in a dramatic scene? Tell you it was all a big misunderstanding - that he’s sorry, that it was a rocky road but being together is worth fighting for? Could you leave here, hand in hand, as a top forty song plays and the credits roll?

Of course not.

Because this isn’t a rom com your mom would have loved. Life is not a movie full of soul-mates and cosmic connections. People like your parents are the exception to the rule. The couples who make it work - the ones who don’t let the trials of life take their love away like Allie and Noah, Kate and Sam, or Westley and Buttercup, are fictional characters. They’re stories to escape into when the despairing reality of yours is too much to read or write anymore. It’s exactly why you don’t like most movies or stories like theirs. Because eventually, the movies end, the credits do roll, and you have to face real life once again. Love like that doesn’t exist off the big screen, and you’re just kidding yourself when you fall into their traps.

Knowing this simple fact of reality doesn’t stop the hope though.

That painful, aching hope that clings to your skin like honey when you can feel the heat from his arm even through the sleeve of your sweater - like your bodies burn hotter when closer together - too close to the sun. It feeds the hope that your brain tries to squash away but your heart thuds harder for. The what if, what if, what if replacing each beat of it. Hope that makes you want to cry out ‘please let this just be a bad dream’ to the universe. Hope that tries, but can’t escape the gnawing pit in your stomach that’s growing wider, threatening to swallow you whole. Hope that makes you wonder why this can’t be a story - why can’t you just be the grandson, yelling at his grandfather that he can’t be telling it properly? Someone is getting the story wrong. He can’t be marrying her, you’re just sure of it. Screaming at him, at someone, to please, just get it right.

You wonder if someone were watching, would they be feeling the despair you are? Is this the moment? That scene in the movies is always the gut punch - for the audience and the character. It’s meant to hurt, make you hold your breath. Made to be dramatic - yell at the screen, break your heart, make the character in the action get back up and fight. They’re moments made to ignite that hope - but really, it’s the double tap - coming right after the feeling catches flame, that’s made to shatter you completely.

The moment that extinguishes the what if for all it’s worth. When the audience’s heart's already breaking for the grandson, only for the grandfather to ask who says life is fair? Where is that written? When the knife is entering your chest, but the mask falls and the killer turns out to be someone you thought you could trust. When you’re untethered in space only for your last moment of consciousness to be watching a friend cut the cord. The person who sucker punched you is now kicking you when you’re weak, taking it one step too far, leaving you crumpled on the mat. It’s all enough to make that fight, that urge to be angry instead of scared or hurt, disappear. It’s enough to knock you down so hard, you can’t possibly get back up - the hope is extinguished, and the story seemingly over.

Robin squeals quietly, pulling Leigh’s hand across you to admire the ring, knocking Steve on the shoulder and saying something about the Dingus doing good. Your gaze flits down to the brown sugar and apple donuts in your lap, convinced you’re about to get sick right on top of them. Not because he’s marrying her, but because instead of being angry with him, you feel like you’ve been squashed, you’re hurt, you’re betrayed. Despite your better judgment, despite the past several years, you’ve let a man make you some pathetic, sad, heartbroken, and weak version of yourself.

When Leigh’s hand retreats from Robin’s, lifting and curling a piece of hair behind her ear, diamond sparkling in the moonlight as she smiles over at Steve, your story’s end is written, and you need to accept it if you ever want some semblance of normalcy to return. You can’t lose him and them. But when Steve’s pinky brushes yours and you look over, his eyes resemble the broken beer bottle from the football game all those weeks ago. Shattered emerald and amber, cutting you to shreds with each shard of glass as he murmurs, “Can I tal-“

“I’ll be right back!” You whisper-shout, cutting him off and squeezing Robin’s shoulder as you get up.

She yanks on your wrist, halting your attempt at an exit. Her eyes narrow as she interrogates, “Where are you going?”

Swallowing harshly as her blue eyes peer directly into your soul. She can probably smell the desire to run on you. Remembering your vow that Steve won’t take them away from you, a not quite a lie falls from your lips as you gesture to the concession food trucks, “You don’t have those cinnamon roasted almonds. They were my mom’s favorite and the smell is driving me crazy. Promise that’s all.”

“I swear to god, if you don’t come back, I will literally come stand outside your window on the sidewalk and scream-sing Monster Mash until someone calls the cops and I’ll drag you down with me.”

Her eyes blink, features incredibly serious despite the amusing threat. Your laugh mixes with Leigh’s and you ignore the shared moment, tugging your wrist free. “Would expect nothing less Robin.”

She motions she’s watching you, fingers to her eyes then yours, lips twitching in the corners before she turns back to the screen.

Your feet feel heavy as they drag through the damp grass, and come to a stop to wait in line. It shouldn’t be a surprise after ordering when you hear his voice behind you. It floats through the air, soft, barely audible over the popping kettle corn, “I really didn’t know you’d be here. I wouldn’t have…” he sighs, settling on restating, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Your shoulders fall and your eyes stay focused on the truck. You’ve had time, since that night on the sidewalk, but your hurt still sits fresh under your layer of armor - tender like an open wound you need to keep protected. Your palms slide further under the sleeves of your sweater, clinging to the garment like the shield you’re willing it to be - you don’t want to fight with him anymore, no matter how hurt and angry you are.

So the tone you respond with aches to sound indifferent, if not a tad harsh, reminding him you’re mad and pretending there isn’t any spark of hope within you still. It’s over, it has to be over, and all it ever was to him was something to kill time - fun and no strings exactly what you wanted. So your words are really just a reminder to yourself, another layer of the wall you need to keep up around him, “It’s fine Steve. Would have been nice to get a head’s up,” your shoulders shrug, “But, well, that’s probably too generous for the girl you were just fucking while waiting for the one, right?”

The people next to you clear their throats and you can’t find it in yourself to care, to be embarrassed.

Steve moves in front of you, his face filling your vision. He shaved - no more scruff you like. His jeans are dark again, with fresh, new creases, and a light blue sweater pulls across his chest and shoulders. He’s picture perfect, his polished uniform in place.

He shakes his head, eyes bouncing between yours as he asks, “Is that really all it was?”

Your shoulders shrug again, because it’s easier. It’s easier to try to deny, to ignore the flutter the question causes in your stomach. Easier to bite back the words that try to form on your tongue. Because of course that’s not all it was, at least not to you. You wouldn’t feel the way you do right now if that were true. But what’s the point in telling him that though? What happens? Can you forgive each other for the words said, that, no matter how true, can’t be taken back? Things like this only end in heartbreak - because what happens if you tell him how you were starting to feel - does that change anything for him? And even if it did, that means a broken engagement, it means complicated truths coming out, it means attempts at forgiveness. And even after all of that, life won’t give you a guarantee. There is no promise of zero fights, of nothing bad ever happening. There is no happily ever after where the possibility of a break up, of losing everyone you’ve grown to care for deeply, doesn’t exist.

So yes, it’s easier to not say any of that, because you know. This isn’t how life works. This isn’t a movie. No one is immune to life’s misfortunes. These sorts of open-ended questions and complicated emotions that come from his simple ask are unmeasurable and unreliable. Wondering and giving into those feelings only open you up to be used as a target for someone else’s shooting practice. You’ve known this, but you allowed yourself to forget, hating it was Steve who had to remind you.

Which is why you look away from his eyes as you say, “I believe that is what was established a few weeks ago at that party Steve. You were there, remember? You were dressed as a pirate.”

His head drops, hands running through his perfectly styled hair as he laughs, breath shaky, like the laugh is covering up any feeling in his voice. “So, that’s it? We’re just gonna act like none of it happened? You don’t wanna talk. You run away every time we get a chance to do so, a beer in my face and-“

Your hand rising in the air cuts him off, his mouth clamps shut as you make eye contact with him. “You deserved that and I’m not apologizing for it.”

He takes a step closer to you, his hand reaching towards you, then back into his hair, second guessing himself. “I’m not asking you to, and I’m not apologizing for what I said either.” Steve swallows, hands on his hips as he looks at the ground then back up at you, “What I said wasn’t a lie.”

He breathes out the next words, both of you staring at each other with the weight of what he says hanging in the air between you.

“You couldn’t tell me.”

Your hands shake from the confrontation, from his request you left unanswered that night. The emotions that still want to bubble over, the time apart did nothing to cool either of you down. That what if, what if, what if that replaced your heartbeat grows louder, but your brain only shuts it down harder. If you hurt now, how will it feel if you keep feeding the flame only for him to extinguish it again?

The beat of your heart and those hopeful words thud in your ears as your head shakes and your voice tries not to, barely audible as the words leave your lips, “I don’t want to do this anymore Steve. We’re just going in circles. You’re getting married. You didn’t tell me. Can you look me in the eye and tell me you were really my friend while you were clearly getting engaged this whole time?”

Blue light flashes from the screen, catching the corner of your eye and illuminating his, their gaze bouncing over your face. Your bodies move closer like they can’t help it, like they know they won’t be this way again. Steve’s tongue darts over his bottom lip before his breath blows out, your name a whisper on it. The way he says your name with that look in his eyes, chests almost touching, it’s easy for your head to tilt with familiarity. Your breath out is his breath in, and it’s even easier to forget the last time you were this close. Sounds other than his harsh swallow and your heartbeat fade away. Time freezes, just a little, and the air pulses with a tangible possibility of hope.

A shrill classic horror movie scream shatters the bubble. Your name is called, you blink, and take a step away. Guilt washes over you as you see your friends staring intently at the movie you’d practically forgotten you were there for. Leigh and Robin talk quietly and your eyelids flutter as you will whatever wants to escape down your cheeks away.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore Steve. I just want to go hang out with my friends. I need this to be over. Can it please be over?” You stare intently at the ground, one single tear slipping past your lashes. It feels like it rolls down your cheek for an hour before Steve finally answers.

“Okay,” he quietly agrees.

Your head nods once and you brush past him, barely choking out a whispered ‘by the way congratulations’ as you grab your snack. Hand swiping at the stray tear as you make your way back to the blanket slowly.

When you sit back down, Leigh’s typing on her phone. She squeezes Robin’s hand before whispering a goodbye to everyone. She jogs over to Steve, cocking her head at him. He pushes his hands through his hair again, giving her a short smile. He runs his thumb and forefinger down the bridge of his nose, swiping under it with the back of his hand. His other extends towards her as she reaches him, fingers lacing together as they walk out.

Robin’s shoulder nudges yours and your head turns to find her with eyebrows pinched together. She leans in and quietly asks, “Is he okay? Did he say something about leaving to you?”

Your head shakes, and you extend the bag to her with a tight smile. You will just keep lying to her. Steve and you will move on, and maybe, one day in the distant future, you’ll be able to tell her. It’ll all work out.

She mirrors your sad smile, the wrinkles in her forehead deepening as she takes a small handful and turns her attention back to the movie. Or she tries, but you watch as her eyes glance down to her phone every few minutes, until it lights up with his name and she quickly starts typing a response.

It’ll all be fine.

“Said ‘I’m fine’ but it wasn’t true. I don’t want to keep secrets just to keep you…”

The pop song playing overhead makes your teeth grind, your skin itch, it pries at your armor. It clangs its melody like fists on the metal plates around your heart, screaming to let it in.

Fuck Taylor Swift and her poetically relevant lyrics.

You’re fine.

“Mommy, why is that lady wearing pajamas?”

“Well, sometimes people, um, well maybe they’re sad or-“

“Not sad,” you call over your shoulder, but spin as you decide to face the stranger. The poor, unsuspecting stranger who is unprepared for the wrath of a person wearing blue, fuzzy pajama bottoms with ducks all over them, yellow smiley slippers, and holding several pints of Cherry Garcia in her arms. “Could just be sick. Or lazy. Could be a lot of different things, but sad is not one of them, and it’s rude to assume there’s any reason at all. I could just have wanted to stay comfy today, you don’t know!”

It’s almost laughable, if it wasn’t so humiliating or awkward. A practically audible record scratch kind of moment. Conversations of several other customers quiet then stop altogether. Eyes blink at you in concern and pity under too harsh of fluorescent lights, surrounded by neon advertisements and packaging trying to convince you the world isn’t shit as long as there’s junk food. The poppy beat overhead seems to play even louder, yet a pin could drop and people from another state would hear it.

The mother’s hand runs through the small child’s hair next to them as she stammers an apology, “I really…I’m sorry, I just-“

“No, no, I’m so sorry. It’s fine…I…” You close your eyes and turn back around, mortified beyond a depth you ever thought possible. The pints of ice cream tumble onto the sticky counter-top, lottery tickets beneath it staring up at you and mocking ‘hey wanna test your luck even more?’. Your hand flies up into the face of the cashier as you grumble, “Not a word, Keith.”

The employee you’ve come to know on your late night and early morning snack runs snorts. His mouth closes, slurping his Mountain Dew through a straw as he rings up the ice cream. His lips leave the red plastic, squeaking it against the lid harshly, about to tell you the price you already know, when a bottle of wine is placed on the counter with a low thunk. A leather clad arm extends across your vision, a second bottle landing beside it. A deep and familiar voice from behind your shoulder calls out, “These too. But definitely not because she’s sad.”

Turning, you find Eddie just as you knew you would, his brown eyes the same as they have been since you met. Full of warmth that’s contagious, except now something darkens them, they’re colder. Reminiscent of how they looked in a bathroom that feels like you were in it ten years ago instead of a month. They’re kind, but they’re hurt, confused, and most importantly - disappointed.

“Right,” you clear your throat and look away from them. Embarrassed, but adamant in your denial of the purchase and your appearance having any connotation with the emotion they all think you’re feeling. “These are not sad items.”

Despite the look in his eyes, Eddie’s lips twitch in a fight of a smile. He looks over your outfit and the hint of amusement disappears. His mouth turns down in a grimace. He faces Keith, hand waving across your form, “Right. Sad people don’t wear duckie pj’s to the store to buy ice cream and wine, they just don’t. People who ignore their friends though, they might…”

Honestly, the call out is nicer than what you deserve. You hadn’t dared to miss a text or call from Robin again, but all other group contact had gone unreciprocated for two weeks - convincing yourself it was easier for everyone that way. Biting the inside of your cheek, your eyes blink up at him apologetically, hopeful you can fix a small part of the mess you’ve made still. “Yeah. But if a person,” your hands wave as you speak, “Who isn’t sad,” you quickly tack on before continuing, “Did ignore their friends, it was probably for a good reason and she probably feels really bad about it and-“

“Jesus Christ, pay for your sad shit and get out,” Keith groans, snapping his fingers and then waggling them for payment.

Eddie mashes his lips together, a genuine smile threatening to break as he hands over a bill. He salutes as he grabs the bag of items. “Keep the change, dude.”

“See you tomorrow, new shipment of Ben and Jerry’s at nine A.M!” Keith calls to your retreating forms. Eddie and you turn in tandem, flipping him off.

“Mommy, what did that mean?”

Eddie snorts, his laugh finally bubbling out of him as you hide your eyes under one of your hands. The door swings closed behind you as the brisk November air does little to cool off your embarrassment.

His laughter trails off in a sigh and yours in a groan. When you peek at him from behind your fingers, you hold your breath as they fall to your side. Eddie’s eyes seem to poke and prod at you with their gaze, like you’re a frog laying open on a table for dissection. Like he already knows what he’s about to find, but he’s giving you an opportunity to just say it before he makes the first cut.

Gesturing towards the bag in his hand, your eyes drop to the ground as you clear your throat. “Thank you, you didn’t have to pay. And I really am sorry for going radio silent. I’ll get better at that.”

When he doesn’t respond right away, you risk a glance up. His brows are furrowed, meeting under parted bangs, brown eyes glued to your pajama pants. Eddie nods slowly, tucking his tongue into his cheek before clicking it against the roof of his mouth. Rocking back on his heels, the plastic bag swings at his side. “Sure. What are friends for?”

His eyes meet yours again finally, and as your lips part, he keeps going, his voice a little crisper than it’s been to you before. “Cause, we are friends. Right?”

Head nodding as your brows bunch together from the tone delivering the question. That and his gaze makes something under your skin itch, your feet restless against the pavement like a horse before a race.

Hesitation heavy in your words as you respond, “Yeah, of course…listen, I have to get back but-“

“Great,” he spins on his heel, heading down the sidewalk like he was waiting for those exact words to leave your mouth, “I’ll walk with you, sad girl.”

Blinking at his abrupt interruption, hand still raised to take the bag from him, it takes you several seconds for his words to register. He’s already halfway to the corner, your apartment just around it and you have to take a quick few jogs to catch up with his long strides as you call out, “I’m not sad.”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie nods, flicking a zippo in his hand, converse scuffing against the sidewalk as he kicks a pebble, “And I’m the King of England.”

Tired of his tone and demeanor you didn’t invite or ask for - you don’t need this. Eyes rolling as you huff past him, your shoulder bumping his harshly as you do. Eddie scoffs, but falls back into step close behind you, not letting you get away. “Quite the attitude to have with the friend who just bought your sad girl treat, even threw in the wine.”

Your shoulders hunch at his words, eyebrows pulling together and face growing hot as you fiddle with the first key to the apartment building. “Well, I didn’t ask you to buy it and if you only did to just rub it in my face you’re not really my friend. And I didn’t ask you to come here.”

Eddie’s hand lands on the door above your shoulder as you push it open, arm blocking you from entering. “Quit the tough girl act, you’re not fooling anyone.”

Your skin burns at his accusation, hands balling into fists at your sides. “I’m not trying to fool anyone, Eddie, or do anything. I literally don’t know what you’re talk-“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, you can keep trying to sell this shit to everyone else, but I’m not buying.” He points inside, “Let’s go.”

Face feeling hotter than when you were six and scolded in public, you stomp through the entryway, each step echoing across the old tile. As you turn to head up the stairs, if only to get away from his all seeing eyes, the realization of what your apartment looks like and how extremely not ready it is for guests has you pausing mid stride.

When your gaze makes contact with his again, Eddie simply makes a statement. Flat, disappointed, and no question in his tone, “It’s worse than I think isn’t it.”

Before you can argue, before you can tell him to leave, the keys in your hand are snatched by swift fingers, and Eddie’s long legs are jumping up the stairs, skipping over several steps and disappearing around the landing. Chasing after him, the thundering of both of your feet is dulled by the faded and dingy carpet and the shriek of his name leaving your lips.

Watching as he pushes the key into the lock, turning the knob, you sprint down the hallway. Your body barrels into his, but it’s too late. Eddie falters from your weight crashing into him, but he remains upright, although slightly hunched, as your body clings to his, trying to drag him down. The door swings open and he winces, and you drop to the ground, defeated.

For the first time in a few days, you take in the state of your living space from an outside perspective. You watch as Eddie reviews it all for the first time - the take out on your counter, the empty beer bottles pushing the lid of the recycling up. The stack of Double O Seven DVDs on the coffee table. The couch covered in blankets because you’ve been sleeping there, your bed still sitting free of sheets in the other room. The bag of chips and the tub of frosting. It’s not a pretty picture.

Eddie suddenly crouches, hands grabbing at you and you push him away shrieking, crawling into your apartment and away from him. Both of you swat at each other, hair flying in faces and grunting like you’re siblings fighting over the remote.

“Go-get off! What the hell is your problem! Eddie!”

He manages to grab your phone out of your sweatshirt pocket and you leap towards him, arms over his shoulders, you reach for the phone, and he holds himself up on his knees, arm extending it away from you. He manages to tilt it just right to get your face to unlock it and you growl, thumping on his bicep as he shoves you off. He presses the familiar green icon on your home screen while you accuse, “What is your deal? What the fuck are you-“

Eddie groans, holding up the screen displaying the last song you’d been listening to and getting to his feet. He points towards your bedroom. “Go put on some jeans. No more sad girl music. No more cheese out of the can. Field trip. Let’s go.”

Your hand holding a slipper that had fallen off in the scuffle points towards the open door, any neighbors paying attention getting a hell of a show. Your scowl meets his frown. “Um, you can go. Don’t basically break into my home and insult Britney and Easy Cheese in the same sentence asshole. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

Eddie raises his eyebrows, they disappear under his bangs and he looks at you as if you’re the child you’re determined to act like. He sighs, voice dripping in drama as he heads into your kitchen, “I really didn’t want to do this, but you’ve left me with no other choice.” He spins the cheap metal cap off of one of the bottles of wine theatrically, flicking the cap onto the counter before turning the bottle upside down as he stares at you. “I’d get going. The ice cream is next.”

Your eyes roll as you scoff, “You’re not gonna do shit to the Ben and Jerry’s, you and I both know it.”

He starts on the second bottle, both ringed hands holding tight to each, red liquid splashing the sides of the sink. “I will literally drag you back out of here in your sad girl jammies to a very public place. I’m generously giving you the opportunity to avoid that embarrassment, but if you insist…”

Eddie sets the bottles down in the sink, stepping over to you in two strides, hands on your waist as he moves like he could toss you over his shoulder.

Your hands push at his chest. “Fucking fine! Give me a few minutes.” You start towards your room but spin sharply on your socked heel, one foot still in a slipper that skids as your finger points in his face. “Touch my ice cream and see what happens.”

He snorts, crossing his arms. “Big, tough words coming from a girl with chocolate frosting on her chest and ducks on her ass.”

You turn away from him, slamming the door on his call of, “If you ever want to see your precious Ben and Jerry’s again, you’ll be back out here in five minutes!”

When you make eye contact with the chocolate stain in the mirror, you have to suppress your groan.

Eddie’s Jeep tires crunch over gravel before coming to a stop in a homemade parking lot. Tan dust kicked up and floating through the air partially obscures where he’s taken you.

The entire twenty minute drive had been enveloped in stilted silence. He had managed to dump one of the pints while you changed, claiming to have thought you weren’t coming back out, and now he was on the receiving end of one of your finest silent treatments. His hand flexes on the gear, moving the car into park. As his jaw clenches while yanking the keys out of the ignition, you start to rethink your silence. There’s a part of you that wants, maybe needs, to run back to your apartment, lock the door, and never speak to him again. But there’s another part, far larger, and riddled with guilt, that made you follow him.

Staring out the window at the dilapidated bar, your voice feels scratchy from the lack of talking as you push out, “What are we doing-” Eddie’s driver’s door slams, and the end of your question falls into the empty car, flat, as you blink at his back walking away from you, “Here.”

As Eddie makes his way to the building, you hoist yourself out of the Jeep and begin to follow despite the cold shoulder. You’re willing to appease him and participate in whatever this field trip is if it means you can somehow get the apology you definitely owe him out - try to make things right for the mess you’ve pulled him into.

A faint and familiar sound echoes in the quiet and practically empty parking lot. The distinct whip of a ball and the ting and harsh smack of metal meeting it, mix with the crunch of rocks under your rubber soles. Behind the tired and washed out brick building, chain link fencing rises, hinting further to what the sounds are and where they’re coming from. The large red letters above the doorway spell out “Murray’s” in distinct vintage lettering, hollowed out with unlit bulbs reminiscent of an old theater’s marquee lights. You pause beneath the sign, stealing a deep breath because something tells you Eddie has officially pinned you to the table, and the first inevitable cut of the dissection is imminent. Your fingers curl around the gray, metal door’s industrial handle and pull, and you step inside.

Billie Holiday’s voice croons from somewhere deeper in the building. Voice and music crackling and staticky, like it’s playing off a real vinyl. The urge to find out why Eddie’s brought you to a place seemingly stuck in the past draws you deeper down the dimly lit hallway. Rich, red paint on the walls partially covered by framed photographs line the entire space. Black and white film prints of American icons, with individual golden lamps lighting up each from their spots attached to the frames. Your feet carry you past Elvis, Jackie Robinson, then Marilyn, and Michael Jackson before you enter a spacious and circular room.

Red vinyl booths line the curve on one side, small round tables meant for two lit by glowing lamps scattered across the floor. A stage and space for what appears to be a dancefloor sit opposite of you, nestled between the booths and a bar running across the opposite curve. Speckled and worn mirrors behind the bar reflect the wide range of liquor bottles and the different glassware in a variety of shapes and colors, clearly thrifted antiques, hanging above them. Eddie leans against the bar talking to an older man, neither of whom spare a glance in your direction.

This room’s photographs on the walls are covers of Life and Time, clippings from other renowned news outlets - all famous headlines like when man went to the moon and the JFK assassination, the Cubs winning the world series, spanning all the way to current events. As you spin, you see the vintage photo booth, much older than the one you and Steve took photographs in at Replay, and you push the memory away, focusing on the bulletin board next to it instead.

The flier for Corroded Coffin has your attention as the song crackles on it’s end notes, the next from the album playing softly. Billie’s voice sings the familiar lyrics of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ and your heart drops into your stomach, palms sweating profusely. Why the hell are you here? Why this song? Why, why, why.

“Ouch. Who broke your heart?”

The unfamiliar voice asks the same question Eddie had asked you back in September, and this time you’re even more unprepared for it. Your head whips to the side, gaze looking over your shoulders that hunch. Your body turns to face them head on, but your arms cross in defense. The man Eddie had been chatting with now has his focus solely on you. Wire rimmed glasses frame eyes that stare intently at you as he wipes down a glass. His balding head of hair and the confidence he carries, along with the way he tosses the rag over his shoulder before leaning on the bar, has you feeling like you’ve suddenly entered a sitcom.

Eddie continues to ignore you, one foot resting on the metal of stool as his ringed fingers crack peanuts. He avoids your gaze as you turn your frown on the man who seemed to have read your mind. You keep your voice as neutral as you can when you ask, “Excuse me?”

“Written all over your face, kid.” The nameless man, but you have a hunch the name of the establishment and him are one in the same, winces with his words. He pulls down three amber colored, short glasses, then a bottle of vodka. Before you can argue, he keeps going as he pours, “Well, maybe you’re not in love. Not yet anyway,” he muses to himself, “Or maybe he is and you don’t know how to let the poor sap down?”

His eyes lift from the glasses of alcohol to yours and he squints. Pausing before pouring the third glass, humming, “Wait, no, well…maybe.” Keeping his eyes on you as he tips back one of the generous shots before he breathes out with finality, “No.”

Eddie smirks into his own shot, as the man snaps in his face, but technically commands, “Name.”

Your mouth opens to stop this nonsense and analysis you absolutely didn’t ask for, but Eddie beats you to it. Eyebrows raised, mouth pursed as he offers up, “Steve.”

The man behind the bar hovers the liquor bottle above the now empty glass, blinking wide behind his frames. He sets the bottle down, pressing his palms to the bar top. Scoffing with an incredulous tone, “You’re kidding.”

“Excuse me!” You try to interrupt, but the man shakes his hands, ignoring your objection.

“We’ll deal with that little slip in the simulation some other time,” pushing the third glass down the bar towards you as he continues, “So, Steve,” he laughs a little, licking his bottom lip, “Right. So he loves us, maybe, but perhaps it is us who loves Steve? Mm, tragic, because he doesn’t reciprocate? Or are we too scared to tell him how we feel?”

Your shoulders are up to your ears now, arms wrapping around yourself even tighter, trying to make whatever see-through, vulnerable shield this man can penetrate more resilient. Your gaze is harsh on the side of Eddie’s face, death stare glaring and attempting to burn his cheek with only your eyes as you ask again, “What are we doing here?”

“The cosmic question, isn’t it?” The bartender muses, pouring another glass for himself. He raises his eyebrows at Eddie in a silent question who shakes his head no.

“I’m leaving.” You start to turn towards the door, but Eddie’s call behind you makes you freeze.

“Have fun walking back then!”

Your hands go to your pockets, searching, even though you know they’re empty. When you look at him, you see your phone in his fingers and his brown eyes that have turned to stone. “Yeah, I still have this. So either you can participate in the field trip, or you can walk all the way back home to your sad girl cave.”

“I’ll just have him call me a cab.” Gesturing to the nameless man with your solution.

“Murray,” he offers with a toothy grin and head nod, confirming your assumption.

Eddie laughs, cold, tossing a peanut shell on the bar, “Yeah? And pay for it how?”

You’ve been very, very, dumb, because it’s only now you realize the empty pockets would also mean you don’t have your wallet. Your eyes close in defeat.

When you open them, Eddie is staring at you and it feels an awful lot like that scalpel is resting just over your heart, waiting for any final words.

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you as he says, “I’ll take those quarters now.”

Murray rolls a tube across the bar to him, eyes darting back and forth between you two like he is watching a ping pong match.

Eddie grabs the roll, storming past you and down a different hallway, out the back door of the bar. The chipping black paint flutters as the door swings closed, a slam as it meets the frame making you flinch. The final notes of ‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ finish and you release a shaky breath.

“And I suppose I’m to follow him and his mysterious quarters?”

Murray’s lips twitch and he raises his hands in surrender. Your sigh and step towards the door has him dropping his hands though, nudging the still full glass of vodka towards you. Figuring it’s his way of telling you to clean and sterilize the wound before the prodding at it begins, you take a step closer. Hesitating slightly, your finger wraps around the amber glass, a deep breath leaves you as you tip it to your lips.

He nods his head towards you and raises his own glass, and as the liquid flows into your mouth, he toasts, “To Steve.”

The liquor sits on your tongue longer than you’d like it to as you glare at him. Swallowing it down, you blame the harsh burn in your throat for the prickle that’s forming behind your eyes.

Spinning on your heel to follow Eddie, Murray’s voice calls out quietly, making you pause.

“I’d tell him sooner, rather than later.”

Looking over your shoulder, he puts the glasses in a bin underneath the bar, not looking back at you as he quietly adds, “In my experience, there’s always space to dive deeper into the story. Things are often not what they appear to be. And well,” he chuckles to himself, “Harrington’s got a lot more going on under all that hair than meets the eye I think.” Your brows furrow as Murray looks up at you, patting his hand over his heart with a smirk on his lips, “And I’m not talking about the stuff on top of his head.”

Normally, the joke about Steve’s chest hair would have your lips twitch into a smile, a roll of your eyes, but instead, his words float through the air until they arrive in your gut, sitting heavy and dragging you down. They try to ignite that hope again, but you know it’s no use in letting it light anymore.

Your feet push forward, stomping down the hallway without a word back. As the door swings closed behind you, your eyes blink, adjusting to the harsh sunlight you’d forgotten was shining outside. The sounds from earlier now connecting to what’s before you. Several enclosed batting cages sit just beyond a wooden and covered back patio of the bar. There’s two older men with their bags of gear sitting at their feet. Each drinking a beer at a small wooden table, rubbing their shoulders. Eddie is inside one of the cages. His leather jacket hung on the fence, a blue helmet squishing down his curls. The white cotton of his baseball tee stretches over his flexing back muscles as he swings at a ball released by the machine.

As your feet scuff against the deck and then the gravel, you take another deep breath, mouth opening to just blurt out some sort of apology to him. Eddie stops the machine with a harsh smack to a button on the side of the cage. He comes out the door, holding the helmet and bat out to you, chest moving up and down with each ragged breath. He offers a closed lip smile as he says, “Your turn.”

“Eddie, I really don’t…” you trail off until you settle on just asking, “Why?”

“Would you just do it?” He frowns, tone annoyed as he extends his arms towards you further.

Eyebrows raised in anticipation he nods once as you take the items with a huff and stomp into the cage. As you place the helmet onto your head, and stare down the machine, you exhale and press the button. It whirs back to life as your hands wrap around the bat and you step up to the metaphorical plate, Eddie’s voice calling from over your shoulder as you do.

“So, wanna tell me why you’re sad? Talk about anything Murray said?”

Your fingers curl tighter around the grip, shoulders going up in defense again. Your jaw clenches before you grit out, “For the last time Eddie, I’m not sad. I’m fine.”

Eddie snorts behind you as you swing at the first ball released, missing.

Strike one.

“Sure, figured that’d be your answer. So,” he sighs heavily and you hear the fence rattle like he’s kicking it, “Why’re you avoiding us again then?”

You knew this topic couldn’t be dodged forever. It’s true, you’d been pulling away again since Halloween, and getting the save the date was the nail in your friendship’s coffin. As the wedding looms in the not so distant future, it’s easier to pull away from him, from all of them, because you know that they were and always will be Steve’s friends first. Intentions of not letting Steve keep them from you seem futile now, when you know the history and depth of friendship you’re up against. You’re not gonna say that to Eddie though, so as the next pitch is released, you swing and stammer out a pathetic lie.

“I-I’m not.” The ball makes contact, causing your forearms to vibrate from the bad swing. Your grip tightens so the bat doesn’t fall from your fingers as the ball pops up and behind you, rattling the fence.

“Well that’s a load of crap. Wanna know what I think?” Eddie yells, not pausing for you to refute and sarcastically continuing, “Great, I’m overjoyed to tell you.”

Your heel digs into the gravel and your eyes narrow on the whirring machine, waiting for him to sink the scalpel into you, defenseless - trapped from running away from him, stuck in this cage with nowhere to go to avoid what he’s about to tell you.

“I think you are sad. I think Murray was right and you don’t wanna admit it to him, to anyone, and especially not yourself. Instead of an easy fix of talking about it, you wanna sit in your pity and throw a party.” Eddie’s voice takes on a dramatic, high pitched imitation of you as the next ball is released and you swing, “I’m Y/N! Woe is me! I’m all alone! Nobody loves me!”

You miss the ball again, shoulders hunching in, desperate to make yourself smaller with each of the words that he shouts at your back. Turning to look over your shoulder, you glare at him.

Strike two.

Eddie leans against the fence, glaring right back at you with his eyebrows raised as you hiss, “You’re being an asshole.”

“Yeah? At least I’m an asshole who’s got friends,” he gestures towards you, “You clearly think you don’t.” You twist your toe in the gravel deeper, returning your focus to the machine and taking a deep breath as he keeps going. “I’ll have Murray pour you some more vodka and you can sit here and think about how your life is horrible. Truly tragic.”

Your eyes narrow from his bored tone, lifting your chin and elbow, adamant to ignore him.

“You have nothing and no one.”

Another exhale, your chest rises and falls with a deep inhale and your shoulders relax. Straining to hear the hint of the ball being released instead of Eddie yelling at you.

“Maybe you’ll get a cat one day, but ultimately you’re gonna die alone!”

SMACK.

Your bat meets the ball and it soars to the end of the cage and you spin on him. Face hot, your emotions bubbling and ready to explode. Anger mingling with adrenaline coursing through your veins from the hit, amping up how the words fall out of you in an angry cry.

“Yeah! I am Eddie! And that’s what I want! So fucking lay off!”

“Why?”

“Because it’s easier!”

When he yells right back, without pausing, asking you for a reason, the excuse falls out of you easily. Your mouth closes immediately after the words tumble out in your scream, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as Eddie’s narrow. He shakes his head, volume lowering only slightly.

“Nah, that’s just fucking running. And take it from someone who ran for a long time, it feels easy, but it’s the furthest thing from. Eventually, you are going to get tired, and your problems will be right on your heels.

Facing the machine again so you don’t have to look into his eyes any longer, you shake your head no at him, letting a ball hit the end of your bat, popping forward limply as you try to speak with confidence.

“I’m not running from problems Eddie, I’m just…it’s easier to be the one who does the leaving than to be the one who’s left, okay?”

The words float through the air, unable to be taken back, and their weight makes something in your chest squeeze and constrict.

“That’s some next-level, glass half empty, pessimistic, depressing shit. And who the hell said anyone was going anywhere? You’re refusing to see that if you looked back for one second from the door you’ve been half out since you got here, that nobody else even has their shoes on.”

The squeezing in your chest only intensifies, his cut getting deeper as he searches for answers, and your bat hesitates halfway through your swing, sending a ball straight up into the air above you. You breathlessly ask, “What?”

Eddie waits until you look over your shoulder at him, emphasizing each word. “Nobody’s leaving you.”

His words hit you harder than your bat has hit any of the balls. It feels like one was pitched right into your gut, expelling all the air from your lungs and causing the tears that have been right behind your eyes to well up hard and fast. You spin to avoid his gaze again and square up for another pitch.

Eddie doesn’t know that it’s not a promise anyone can make - life doesn’t care.

Your head shakes, tears brimming on your lash line as you argue, “You can’t know that Eddie, not really. It’s better this way.”

SMACK.

A tear slips over your bottom lashes, trailing down your cheek as the bat makes good contact again and Eddie digs the scalpel in for his final cut. “Fine. Believe that. But you need to admit that you’re slamming the door on our faces and pretending like no one is still standing on the other side, knocking and asking to be let back in.”

The machine whirls, it wooshes with the release of a ball as another tear, and then another falls. Your vision progressively grows fuzzy, the world around you blurring as you swing again and his voice washes over you.

“Did you know that Nancy is a freak just like you, and I’m sure she’d be happy to split some Cherry Garcia any time? God help you both for liking such a disgusting flavor.”

You let the tears fall openly, but silently, as you swing harder this time. The weight in your stomach - the knots that have been forming since the very first lie was told - twist and tug harder.

“I know you’re not stupid enough to think I wouldn’t come have a beer with you, or take you to Target to get some new sheets or food that doesn’t have the Frito-Lay logo plastered on it.”

Another ball pops up and behind you as you clear your throat. Refusing to believe what he’s saying, you wonder if he can see the tears hitting the tan gravel beneath you and darkening it like drops of rain.

“And Robin! She’d love to watch Double O Seven with you. You should hear her Sean Connery impression. It’s terrible.” Eddie laughs a little and you twist the toe of your converse into the gravel, covering up a dark spot.

“But no. Instead of any of that, you just gave up. You didn’t give any of us a chance. Steve Harrinngton’s dumb ass is the only thing to blame for all your loneliness, sadness, and problems. So keep ignoring the footsteps running behind you and the knocking, or open the fucking door.”

You want to believe Eddie, you really do. But what happens when you come to rely on someone, need the support to lean on, and they’re gone?

Your head shakes harder, a sob stuck in your throat as you barely murmur, “Eddie, I can’t.”

His voice is softer than it has been all day as he asks, “Can’t or won’t?”

More tears fall past your lashes. The last ball is pitched and you choke out, “I’m sorry.”

You don’t attempt to swing at this one and it hits the fence behind you. The machine whirs one final time then stops.

“Yeah, me too.”

Heavy, suffocating, disappointment lingers in the air around you.

It takes several minutes, even more tears falling quietly, for you to remove the helmet from your head and drop both it and the bat on the ground with a clang. When you turn around, swiping at your cheeks, Eddie isn’t there.

Each drag of your feet inside is an active fight. Limbs heavy, heart even more so, because you know what awaits you inside before it’s confirmed.

Murray looks up from a keg he’s tapping and simply nods to the end of the bar. Your phone and wallet sit there and you know the Jeep and Eddie will be gone when you push out the door crying.

You’ve somehow done the leaving and were left this time.

Strike three.

It’s literally a symptom, or as some like to claim - stage - of grief.

Denial.

We lie all the time. We tell lies to spare or protect feelings, and more importantly, we lie to ourselves, instead of facing truths head on.

Because it’s easier to lie - to avoid, to shut something down, or deny its existence when it’s too hard to look at directly. Which is interesting. Why has there not been some sort of evolutionary transformation from this reaction? And really, the longer you wait to face something, the harder the truth is going to hit you. The time you give a truth to sit untold, unacknowledged, it only grows larger. That truth takes hearty roots, and your avoidance in the form of lies, whether to yourself or others, or both, only allows it to spread more rapidly.

Eventually, you will have to stop lying, to stop running, and that truth will have grown in strength. It has sprouted new truths or problems because your lies only fed it the fertilizer it needed to do so, and now it’s suddenly not the one thing you have to face anymore, but the multiple harder truths.

Which may be why you’re still outside, staring up at Nancy’s brownstone, where all of your friends, or well, the people you hope are still your friends are-

“Out of the bike lane!”

You jump forward onto the sidewalk just in time for a man in bright yellow spandex to zoom past you shouting some sort of curse as you clutch the dessert in your hands tighter.

Grateful you had a firm handle on it to begin with, it's one of the few family heirlooms you held onto along with the recipe it’s holding. Hoping to gain some sort of courage from deep within it, like your mom can offer you some through the dish, you make your way up the brick steps.

The only reason you're here, the only reason you’re facing this day the way you’re feeling just so happens to be the one to open the door before you can even ring the bell.

The door is flung open and her bright blue eyes fight to sparkle behind squinted eyelids that are almost shut she’s smiling so wide at you.

“Happy Friendsgiving!” Robin shouts louder than she needs to and holds her arms out in a dramatic greeting. She’s covered from fingertips to elbows in thick, orange goo, her clearly thrifted oversize old man sweater sleeves pushed up to her shoulders. You smile your first genuine smile in weeks as she goes to hug you and you both pause, rethinking it.

“Fall in a pumpkin?” You quip as you balance the dessert in your hand to shrug off one arm of your coat.

Robin wiggles her fingers and hands spirit and jazz style with a beam that shows off her dimple as she corrects, “Sweet potato casserole.”

“You fell in a sweet potato casserole?” Following her deeper into Nancy’s, you take in a long breath, the tight chest you’ve had since Eddie left you at Murray’s loosening with each word exchanged between you and her. But knowing you have to face him, Nancy, Steve and her, and continue to pretend nothing is wrong while around Robin, has the constricting pressure around your heart returning quickly.

Robin rolls her eyes, turning and walking backwards and making a face at you. She huffs as she turns back around, “No. Steve is making his famous mac and cheese and apparently I was annoying him, can you believe it? So him and Nance put me on mashing duty to keep me busy like a toddler.”

“You said it, not me!” Steve calls, his wine glass stopping before his lips when he makes eye contact with you.

Weeks of not seeing each other after the way you left things was going to be hard, you knew that. But you really weren’t prepared for how he looks today, or how it would affect you.

He’s got a burnt orange, almost brown, thick sweater on with light wash jeans. You’re sure both are from the section of his closet you stumbled upon months ago. That part holding his clothes he doesn’t wear often for whatever reason. He looks comfortable, casual, content. Down to the tube socks on his feet and the worn brown leather of the band of his watch. Your chest aches a little as you wonder if it’s Leigh that’s gotten him to relax into this version of himself. Even his hair, longer than a few weeks ago, is different than you’ve seen from him. Far messier than usual - like it hasn’t seen products or been styled lately, and several days of facial hair evident on his jaw. He looks like a version of Steve designed to torture you - a Steve who you’ve only gotten glimpses of and you miss before you’ve even really met.

“Hi,” he says quietly, smiling closed-lipped at you.

“Hi,” you offer with your own hesitant smile. Your fingers fiddle with the tinfoil over the edge of the dessert from your spot where you linger in the doorway.

“How are you? Do you…wine?” Steve stammers over his questions, cheeks turning pink. He spins and starts pouring you some without waiting for your answer. It gives you a small bit of relief that he’s as anxious as you are, neither of you knowing what comes next. Do you ever return to normal? And what is normal for you and Steve?

“Sure, yeah, good. You?”

Steve nods his head too quickly, spinning to face you again with the wine. “Good, yeah, thanks.”

“Good.”

“Yeah.”

Steve blinks at you, hazel eyes bright under the soft glow of Nancy’s pendant lighting hanging above her island. As you stare at each other, unsaid words float in the air, it was silly to think it could ever just be over with him. You miss entering a room and not sharing this awkward, palpable, tension - when it was a smile or joke exchanged instead of forced greetings, a warmth and joy felt instead of dread.

You hate that you don’t hate him.

You hate that there’s this horrible ache in your chest, like words want to tumble out but you physically can’t say them - why can’t you both just apologize? Why can’t that save the date be ripped to shreds? Why can’t it all work out?

“You two are acting weird.”

Robin’s voice bursts whatever bubble you were both in, and you clear your throat, looking down. Steve’s fingers adjust on the wine glass and he shakes his head.

Steve stammers, “N-no, we’re g-”

“Good?” Robin questions, eyebrows raised, “Yeah I gathered that.”

Before either of you can say anything in response, Nancy’s voice calls from the front door, “Crisis averted! I found a bag!”

Her brown curls bounce against her cheeks as she jogs into the kitchen. Dressed up in black suede boots and flared jeans, her tan peacoat left open showing off a silky black blouse. She pauses, mid stride, bag of marshmallows held aloft and her smile faltering as her gaze darts around the room.

Feeling warm under Robin’s sudden perceptiveness, you’re grateful when Nancy springs into action, relieving the awkward tension.

“Geez Robin, did any sweet potato end up in the dish? I left you alone with them for twenty minutes.”

Robin’s lips twitch slightly, eyes finally leaving Steve’s as she looks down at her hands, flexing her fingers, the orange goo becoming stiff and hard on her skin.

Nancy gives you a look, her eyes narrowed in a question but smiles when Robin looks back up. She places the marshmallows on the counter and grabs her hand. “Well, Y/N, can finish up.” She directs her next words to you, head nodding to a pan on the counter, “Put those marshmallows on top and stick it in the oven. Steve, your cheese isn’t gonna grate itself. And you,” Nancy tugs Robin out of the kitchen, smiling sweetly at her, “Are gonna come get cleaned up with me.”

Robin’s entire face turns pink, freckles standing out on her skin, from the way Nancy stares at her intently, like no one else exists. You look down, hiding your smile when Robin coughs, sputtering out something that you’re sure is supposed to be a yes. She eagerly nods and Steve huffs loudly, which makes her turn to glare over her shoulder at him, but it quickly turns into a smile as you call out, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!” to their retreating forms.

Their footsteps fade and Steve reaches out with one hand, looking at the dessert as he asks, “I can grab that from you?”

As the door to her bedroom clicks closed, you breathe out an exhale, unsure of how much longer you can keep it all up. His eyes are warm as his fingers brush the dish and you pull it back from his reach a bit, whispering, “It’s really fragile.”

Steve’s eyes bounce over your face, setting the wine down, both hands reaching for the dessert as he promises, quiet and sure, “I got it.”

Your fingertips graze each other as he takes it, and the electricity of just one more touch from him is enough kindling for the hope to spark. The heat from his stare has your cheeks warming and his turning pink. Steve’s lips twitch slightly in the corners as he glances down at the dish, then back up at you.

“So, this just from Mariano’s then?”

Your eyes roll hard at his assumption, scoffing as you turn to rip open the bag of marshmallows and keep your back to him. “You would ask if it was from there instead of Jewel.”

Steve knocks the faucet off from washing his hands, shaking them into the sink and flinging water across the stainless steel before drying them. He sucks his teeth with a wince as he turns to the counter, his shoulder next to yours. “Yeah, okay that’s fair.”

You laugh quietly, popping a marshmallow in your mouth in between placing them haphazardly across the orange mixture. Steve sighs next to you and gestures to the dish. “See, this is why I asked. No way you baked something. Didn’t think you could do anything in the kitchen except keep your take out menus impeccably organized.”

“Impeccably huh? That your word of the day on the calendar Robin got you?” You toss another marshmallow in your mouth with a smirk.

“Actually, no today’s word was assiduous.”

The veins in his hands flex as he grates the cheese, and he gives you a look as he says the word with confidence and emphasis, eyebrows raised.

You stall, taking a sip of your wine and hiding your smile in the glass before asking, “What, am I supposed to be impressed or something?”

He dumps the cheese into the pot and turns to you, cocking his head, tongue in his cheek before he frowns. “You’re not?”

Steve’s lips twitch, his facade breaking easily and you both laugh. Your shoulders relax further and so do his. Why does it have to be so easy with him, yet so hard?

“Actually, I think it will be you who’s impressed,” you start, making the marshmallows a little more purposeful and pretty for his sake.

“Oh yeah?”

You hum, nodding, “I made that pie from scratch.”

“No you didn’t.”

Looking up, you see him shaking his head. He makes eye contact with you and he shrugs, adamant, “Nope. No way.”

Your hands land on your hips as your tone turns indignant. “Yes I did! I made the crust from scratch, cold butter into flour and everything. Rolled it out, doctored up the filling in a pan on the stove. Brown sugar, the works.”

His hand stops on the second block of cheese, eyes narrowing at you as he questions, “Really?”

A laugh leaves you from the tone of his suspicion as you slide the pan holding Robin’s dish into the oven. “You sound like my dad when my mom made it the first time.”

Steve doesn’t say anything and your lip tugs between your teeth as you remember the moment between your parents. Maybe it’s the holiday, maybe you’re just tired, maybe it’s the few sips of alcohol that let the story fall out of you so easily.

“She was really awful at cooking,” you laugh, taking a sip of wine and waving your hand in the air, “I mean like, awful. She could serve you a grilled cheese that was somehow burnt but the cheese was cold? She got better, but anyways, I really don’t know why she thought she’d be any better at baking…”

Steve’s eyes meet yours briefly as he takes his own sip of wine and you look away, grabbing some of the cheese and deciding to help as you keep talking.

“I don’t remember how she decided to do this, but my dad was out of town for work, and she wanted to make him something special, and to her that was a pie, I guess? But she was adamant that it be from scratch. Made and baked with love. And so we did. We went and got all of the ingredients, and we destroyed the kitchen, but it was the most fun I’ve ever had with her. We listened to Dolly Parton and drank wine all day, totally got flour and butter everywhere, I told her about classes, and the guy I was seeing…”

Your eyes drift off the counter, remembering it was right before you knew she was sick and your chin trembles as a watery laugh leaves you, “And then my dad got home. Oh my god, his face. He, he…” you blink away tears as you start laughing harder, “He just dropped his duffle bag on the ground and shook his head looking around in shock and my mom yelled ‘We made you a pie!’ and my dad just raised his eyebrows and said ‘Sure looks like you made somethin’.”

The last words come out shaky and it isn’t until you feel a pressure on top of one of your hands that you realize you had been grating the cheese down to almost nothing, stealing it from him. Glancing up through blurry vision, tears continue to fall down your cheeks as Steve quietly asks, “But it was good?”

You snort, more tears leaving you as you shake your head no. “It was inedible,” you laugh harder, “Like raw, but somehow dry and clumpy, so bad.”

Steve squeezes your hand, eyebrows furrowing together as his confusion settles deeper in his face and he starts cautiously, “So…you…made an inedible pie for us tonight?”

Your head shakes more and you take a deep breath, laughter and tears slowing. “No, after that, she, um…” closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and push out, “She needed to keep her hands working…”

When you open your eyes again, Steve’s staring intently at you, waiting. You wonder why he can wait patiently for this story, look at you like he’d wait an eternity for you to tell him the ending, but he couldn’t wait for you. But, would you have wanted him to? When you’re certain that the potential of losing him, all of them, completely, isn’t worth the risk. Would he have waited forever for you to change your mind?

Your voice breaks as you finish, “Her chemo…she started to get neuropathy, and making the crust and keeping her hands and brain busy helped. So she kept practicing until it was perfect. And now it’s one of the last things I have from her. The dish too, we went and searched for the right one…” Fingers of your free hand form quotation marks as you roll your eyes with a laugh, remembering her ridiculous insistence on it and the day of estate sales and thrift stores.

It’s silent as the unsaid ending washes over you both, the importance - the weight - of the dessert and the story. The immediate need to take it all back rises up in you hard, wishing you could put the entire thing back inside yourself and rewind the last few minutes. The vulnerability leaves you cracked open and exposed to him and you’re not sure you can handle his reaction.

“I’m sorry,” your brows furrow, “I don’t know why I just…”

Steve’s fingers wrap around yours tighter and he squeezes. Your eyes meet the moss and honey you want to avoid because you’re sure they’re looking at you with that look. The pitying one, the one that everyone gets before they tell you a sorry that doesn’t help.

But Steve’s eyes shine with something stronger - admiration and amusement as he winces, “So, see, that story tells me that your mom practiced and practiced to make a perfect pie not you and-”

Your hand smacks at his chest lightheartedly, laughing around a protest. Steve holds his hands up in surrender, “Hey, hey, okay!”

Both of your laughter subsides and he smiles, a genuine smile, one side of his lips twisted up as he looks at the pie then you. “I’m sure it’s great. I’m excited to try it. Thank you for telling me that…I wish I could have met…”

As he trails off, your fingers brush against his on the counter, your bodies shift closer, letting the story and laughter pull you into each other’s gravity once more. Maybe it doesn’t have to be hard - there’s a reason you can fall so easily back into each other. A reason you can offer up a story you normally keep close if he’s the one listening, a reason you can forgive. There has to be a reason your body wants to be closer to his, a reason you want to feel his lips on yours again. Maybe there are cosmic connections, unexplainable phenomena of the universe, fate and destiny and invisible strings.

Hope flourishes inside of you, it catches on every bounce of his eyes over your face, the way his finger nudges against yours just like they did in that car ride to a lake so many weeks ago. It sparks and drifts into the air, it floats around you like embers from an actual fire as he breathes your name out and your body takes one step closer, making you chest to chest. One easy tilt of your head, one bend from his and maybe it’d all be okay again.

The doorbell rings, making both of you jump apart. The reality of the situation hits you, like someone dumped an entire bucket of water over the hope as Steve looks toward the door and frowns. You keep letting yourself end up in this position and eventually it’s going to hurt so much you’ll never be able to come back from it.

You’re not his, he’s not yours, and it’s too late. Another girl calls him baby, he calls her honey, and they go on and have the life you were certain you never wanted - all because you can’t let him in the way he wanted you to. This isn’t a movie, there is no rewind, there is no pause, and it’s time to move on.

“I’ll go get that, you have cheese to…uh…”

“Y/N, wait-”

You’re already out of the kitchen, speed walking to the front door. Dreading the girl you’re certain is on the other side, you start to pull your shoes back on. Maybe you could slip out with an excuse and leave. Your destiny isn’t Steve, it’s to always run, to always be alone.

The door swings open and you look up from your crouched position, one shoe on. Eddie is standing in the doorway, holding a bag of Hawaiian Rolls and looking at you, eyebrows raised in wait.

He holds open the door and gestures outside as he asks, “Should I leave this open?”

Your stomach swoops, thinking of the chance he’s giving you, the opportunity to do what you want, no questions asked. But your heartbeat thuds loudly in your ears at the opposite side of the coin - the other chance he’s giving you.

A deep breath is exhaled as you shakily ask, “That depends…are you still knocking?”

Eddie shrugs. “Maybe. Only one way to really find out right?”

Nodding once, you stand. A limped step over to the door with one shoe on, and you close it. Your palm rests flat against the wood as you take another calming breath. The sounds of the others in the kitchen are muffled as you turn around and look up at Eddie. You kick off the shoe, take a step forward, and mime opening a door.

Letting a tear slip past your lash line, you shrug, standing in the metaphorical open doorway and hold your breath.

He smiles, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Thank god, my arm was getting really tired.”

Another watery laugh starts to escape you and you wrap your arms around him in a hug. “I’m sorry. For everything, for dragging you into all of this and for leading you on and…and…”

He extends his fingers, counting his points as he sighs, “You forgot for being stubborn, for not asking me to be the Inigo to your Buttercup, for-”

“I’m sorry.” You force every ounce of meaning behind the words as you squeeze his waist tighter and he finally meets your hug, long arms wrapping around you.

“We’re all good sweetheart, don’t sweat it.” He pats your shoulder and takes a step back, cocking his head, “But that’s not all…” he taps his finger to your forehead, “What else is going on up there? Why were you leaving?”

“Y/N, please don’t…” Steve trails off as he comes into the entryway. You duck your head and sniff quietly, hoping there’s no evidence of your tears that escaped and break away as Steve clears his throat. “So-sorry. I thought you were…nevermind.”

Steve turns quickly on his heel, back towards the kitchen where the sounds of Robin and Nancy arguing about something echo louder down the hall. Eddie sighs, rolling his eyes at Steve’s back, and gestures for you to go before him, quietly whispering, “We’ll chat later about that.”

“Why does it smell like that? What did you put in it?” Nancy is bent down, looking at the dish you placed in the oven. Her hair is damp, curls weighed down against her cheeks, but her sleek outfit is back on, sans coat, sleeves rolled up.

Robin’s hair has a towel twirled on top of it, though she’s otherwise back in her jeans and sweater, her hands on her hips. “I don’t know! I did exactly what you said!”

“What’s going on?” Eddie asks, tossing the bread onto the counter.

“You don’t smell that?” Nancy shakes her head, hand held out to the air in exasperation.

Steve’s back is to you as he dumps cooked noodles into his pot of melted cheese and Eddie shakes his head no. Your nose starts to wrinkle though the longer you sit in the space.

Your hands raise, “I swear I just put the marshmallows on.”

It takes Nancy gagging on a bite she tries to eat of the casserole and Steve going through his spices next to his pot to realize Robin used paprika instead of cinnamon. A lot of paprika.

She throws her hands up in the air as she storms out to the deck, where you’ve all decided it’d be better to eat, bundled up from the cold, than inside trapped with the smell. “You know what, I never asked to cook anything so eat you’ll eat your paprika sweet potatoes and like it!”

As everyone sits at the table, Eddie looks around and asks, “Shouldn’t we wait for one more?”

“What?” Steve asks him, tone a little sharp, sitting down in the seat across from you.

“Your fiance? Isn’t she coming?” Eddie prods, meeting Steve’s cold attitude with an equal sting and rolled back shoulders.

“I’m sure she was earlier,” Robin mumbles into her wine glass, “Ow.” She glares at Steve who kicks her under the table.

Nancy rolls her eyes as Steve shakes his head no, clearing his throat, “She’s…we haven’t…she’s with her family already.”

Robin sighs from her spot next to you and your eyes meet Steve’s before jumping down to your plate. The pressure around your heart squeezes even tighter - maybe it was only easy with him because she’s not here, and that is not always going to be the case. Your fingers itch, neck rolling from the tension. You want to get up and walk away, but Eddie’s knee nudges yours and your shoulders relax slightly.

Nancy raises her glass, changing the subject, “Okay, before we dig in, I want to say that I’m very grateful for you all, and here’s to many more years of Friendsgiving.” She smiles at Robin when she uses the name.

Robin beams, holding her glass up too, “Here, here! Now everyone take two scoops of the potatoes.”

Glasses clink and laughter shared, it's easy for you to believe Nancy. Easy with Steve smiling across from you and Eddie and Robin bickering about the food next to you, with her not there, to believe that you’ll be a part of their stories. Maybe -

“So, Dingus, it’s time to spill all the details about Leigh.” Robin leans forward on the table, her eyebrows raised as Steve’s glass pauses halfway to his mouth. “We don’t know anything and you’re getting married in like five months.”

Nancy and Eddie’s bites and glasses also freeze, not so discreet looks at you from both of them. Nancy finishes swallowing and shakes her head, “Robin, we know enough! Let Steve-”

“No we don’t! I don’t know how you met, or if she’s moved in, and how he proposed and why on earth he didn’t tell his best friend! I have him cornered finally and you’re all gonna help me. Don’t act like you guys don’t want to know either!”

“Robin,” Steve starts licking his lips as he looks at her then you, “Can we not do this right now?”

“Time’s up bub,” Robin frowns, shaking her head, “I promise we like her, she’s cool. But you’ve been dodging the questions and me for weeks now. Start with the easy one, how’d you meet?”

Steve looks at you like he’s in physical pain and you look down at the liquid in your wine glass, swirling the red wine around as you wait for the story that is sure to kill you. You wish he’d just rip the band-aid off, get it over with.

“We, uh, met through my parents.” Steve swallows a large gulp of wine.

Your head whips up at the comment and Steve stares at you, frowning before he looks up at the sky.

Robin’s brows furrow as she asks, “Your parents?” Equally shocked as you are. It isn’t a secret that Steve and his parents aren’t always on the same page.

Steve rubs at his forehead, closing his eyes before he sets the wine glass down. He straightens, rolling his shoulders back, “Okay, it’s all going to come out anyways so…our parents set us up. It’s been arranged for awhile, we didn’t really date or anything, we’re getting married because that’s what we do. She’s from a good family and I’m from a good family, it makes sense. For business and life and…that’s it.”

The table is silent as Steve’s lips twist, waiting for someone to say something.

Your heartbeat isn’t loud in your ears, your stomach doesn’t swoop - it’s like all noise has left the planet. It’s like someone actually hit pause as his explanation and the last few months catch up with each other in your brain until they meet in a loud explosion. It’s an actual glass shattering sound effect. Heartbreak and hope and disbelief and anger swell inside of you like a wave ready to devour anyone who was stupid enough to enter the unpredictable ocean.

It’s surprising to everyone, including yourself, when you’re the one to break the silence. The question leaves you so quietly, you weren’t even certain you asked it out loud until he looked at you.

“So you’re not in love with her?”

As Steve stares at you, the table floats away, it’s just you and him. His mouth parts, but no response falls from it. You stand abruptly, chair scraping against the wood deck harshly as you push back, muttering something about needing to put the dessert into the oven. Your stomach that’s been twisted into knots for months feels like someone pulled one loose thread and it’s unraveling inside of you. A box of bouncy balls released, an unpredictable canon of confetti, trapeze artists, butterflies, boulders, and a deep ocean swallowing you. All of it, finally coming together and creating catastrophe.

It’s like every single moment you’ve been angry with him is turned up to eleven, but so is every look and touch. Every single one feels like a lie, a slap to your face - he was just using you because he was indecisive, scared, afraid to give up his single life. Steve Harrington was just like every other man. Your entire last few months swirl around inside your brain, replaying every moment, every emotion like a favorite movie. But it’s like someone took that film and told you every single thing wrong with it. Like they pointed out how everything you loved was just covering up the real and horrible plot - bright lights and pretty sets to convince everyone they had a good time, when in reality it was cheaply made and not worth it.

Your hands shake as you start to rip at the foil covering the pie, and his voice calls out behind you, “Please let me answer that question. Please let me explain.”

A scoff leaves you, eyes closing as you bite back, “It’s fine Steve. Clearly I was just some placeholder for you the whole time.”

“Placeholder?”

You spin, hands in the air as you search for words to make him see how much this hurts you. “Yeah, yes. Some, I don’t know. Last hurrah!”

“What?” The word comes out sharp, like he truly doesn’t understand what you’re saying. His cheeks are pink, his hair blown from the wind outside, eyes wide and blinking at you like you’re crazy.

“You heard me! I was just some fun fuck before you sealed the deal on your spoiled brat fate.”

Steve’s mouth falls open, then quickly closes, taking a step closer, hands clenched into fists as his brows furrow. His jaw tightens with each word, “I’m not a spoiled brat!”

Another scoff, a cold laugh as you wave your hand again. “Oh please Steve! You used me to bide your time and prolong the inevitable! You were just avoiding looking at the contract you signed!”

Steve stands over you, both of your chests rising and falling in time, the air inside the kitchen warmer from the oven being on all day and your words shouted at each other - the sparks leaping from your bodies and engulfing each other.

“I didn’t use you! You offered! It was all your idea! I’m so sick of this-”

You shove at his chest and he grabs your wrists, as you mock him, voice dripping with fake pity, “Oh, poor Steve Harrington. I have to get married and say goodbye to my single life, but let me use this girl-”

“This isn’t about me, I have to make decisions that affect my whole family, I can’t just say no! And what was I supposed to do? The person I want doesn’t want me!” HIs voice cracks as he drops your hands, fire cracking and sizzling between you both. His admission, the chance to tell him he’s wrong, that you do want him, makes your heart beat turn rapid, like it’s actually trying to punch its way out of your body.

You shake your head, pushing down the flames of hope threatening to burn you alive, pushing him away. “You saw an opportunity to postpone but not fully deny. It’s fine Steve, I get it. It was the safe option.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Grabbing the pie, you sob, “Security. Money. You couldn’t say no to them. And then when I offered to fuck you no strings attached? Man,” you scoff out another laugh around your tears, “You probably thought you won the lottery, huh?”

Steve grabs for the pie, his eyes wet as he shakes his head. Voice hoarse as he argues, “You’re so unbelievably wrong. I couldn’t fucking wait for you to maybe, hopefully, open up one day! I have to move on! And it’s not like she’s a bad person, and I don’t know why we’re arguing about this again, because clearly you’re with Eddie.”

You tug harder on the dish but Steve doesn’t release as you cry out, “Oh! No! Don’t even try that! Eddie and I aren’t together and we never were! You’re using that as an excuse! Tell me Steve. Tell me you love her, that you want to marry her.”

“I-”

“Is that what your future looks like? Huh? Ten years down the road, it’s her? That’s what you imagined and not your parents?”

“Y/N, it’s not that simple!”

“It is! What do you want, Steve?”

You need him to tell you and he needs you to tell him and neither of you will - because you’re scared, stubborn. Two suns burning too hot and close together, and it was inevitable for it to end this way. You both stood on the edge of that cliff and saw the end you’d meet and you jumped anyway. Was it worth it?

“I can’t believe you two.”

This is the moment.

It wasn’t when he showed up at the football game with her. It wasn’t the party. It wasn’t the engagement.

It’s the look Robin is giving you both from her spot in the doorway. It’s the pie and the glass dish hitting the floor in shards of sapphire blue and orange peaches. It’s Steve and you both turning to her, shaking your heads no, saying her name in the same pleading way.

Her bright blue eyes turn to glass as she chokes around a tearful laugh, “I knew, I knew you both were hiding something, I just…why? Why couldn’t you just tell me?”

Nancy reaches for Robin’s wrist, “Robin, they didn’t mean to…”

Robin recoils, swiping at her cheeks. She looks at Nancy, then at Steve whose head falls, his hands in his hair. Eddie looks down too when Robin turns to him and she steps back again. “Everyone knew, huh? You all have been lying to me this entire time? Why? I don’t…” She shakes her head again and runs past you both, down the hall and slams the door.

Steve starts to go after her when a small frame stands in front of him like she’s twice his size, hand pressing to his chest. Fury burns in Nancy’s eyes as she blocks the hallway. Her voice low and far more angry than you’ve heard it be before. “I think you’ve done enough.”

“Nance, come on, that’s not fair,” Steve steps forward again and when she stops him with two hands now, his voice turns sharper, “Don’t act like you’re the only one who cares about her.”

“Yeah, well you’ve got a funny way of showing it Steve.” Nancy looks at you, “I think you should leave. All of you.”

Eddie grabs your elbow, speaking quietly, “I can drive you home.”

Steve laughs, “Oh, I’m sure you can.”

“Steve,” you start and he interrupts you, hands running down his face.

“No. It’s fine. It’s all my fault right? I’m the only one in the wrong?” He pushes past you, shoulder hitting Eddie’s hard and the door slamming even more so behind him. Pictures rattle against the wall, Nancy and her family's smiling faces tilted in their frame. The world turned off its axis.

It’s Nancy’s quiet knock from down the hall, Robin’s shouted ‘leave her alone’ and Eddie’s sigh of ‘fucking, christ’. It’s that there you stand, the door closed behind him, the mess you made, literally, surrounding you.

This, the consequences of all of your actions - is the double tap.

You let the mess build, you let the avoided truths take deeper roots and spread lies to cover them up. All because you wanted the hope to stay - you wanted it both ways - despite telling yourself different, despite lying to yourself for months.

Now, it’s too late. You’re just a girl who isn’t in a rom com with a happy ending. You’re alone, and the hope that maybe you wouldn’t be for once isn’t just gone, it’s ripped from your fingers.

The book is closed. The knife drips in the killer’s hand as the victim’s chest stops heaving. The spacesuit floats through a noiseless and lifeless galaxy. The body doesn’t get up from the mats and a silence falls over the crowd.

“Fuck!”

Your hands smack the steering wheel, a sob leaving you as your forehead falls against it.

You’ve been driving around for hours, hopeless. Your heart hasn’t stopped its erratic and hard beats since you ran out of Nancy’s. Somehow your body still courses with adrenaline, fight or flight still at war inside of yourself. Every time you think about the look Robin had on her face, every time you think about how much you hurt her, or how you may not see her again, you feel real, visceral, pain and panic. Your hands start shaking, the crying starts its cycle over from scratch, and you have to pull over until the snot sobbing stage settles into a calm, sort of silent cry.

This is a mess, and it’s your mess. Despite wanting to put all of the blame on Steve, you simply can’t run from this truth anymore. It was you who came up with the plan. Steve was hesitant immediately, bringing Robin’s thoughts up right away. It was you who came up with the Red Hot Ranch code, who kept going. It was you who called it off and started it up again despite knowing how it would all inevitably end. It feels like you pushed Steve off the cliff and thought it was okay because you were diving after him.

As you stare out the windshield, you know you have to stop running. Eddie’s words ring through the air.

Open the fucking door. Nobody’s leaving you.

You have to at least try, right? You have to apologize to her, to tell her it was all your fault so if she at least doesn’t forgive you, maybe you can offer a crack in the door to her forgiveness for the others. The others who simply got caught up in your lies, tripping over the tangled knot of roots they took.

You’re certain Robin and you met how and when you did not by chance, the universe gave you each other for a reason. You’re certain that there are soul mates, they’re just not in the form you always suspect. And you’re certain that if you don’t try to make things right, you’ll be miserable and truly alone for the rest of your life.

Robin once told you that she was there, and that she would be there when you were ready and you hope the offer still stands. Maybe you can’t make everything right, you can’t rewind, but you have to at least try to make the ending bearable.

When you turn the key in the ignition though, your car sputters. Your face twists into an expression of disbelief, only deepening when it does it again and your mouth falls open in shock when it suddenly starts to rain, mixing with snow that melts immediately on the ground. You laugh, looking out the windshield at the bleak and miserable sky, washing out the city in a dull gray.

“Of fucking course,” you mumble under your breath. Getting out of the car, you sigh as you lock it. You shield your eyes as you stare up at the sky and laugh, “You’re real funny. Great joke.”

Maybe it was a sign from the universe that you needed to really work for it, maybe it was bad karma, maybe you really deserved it, maybe it was even supposed to be a blessing - washing away the past to clear the slate for the future.

Regardless of reason, you don’t take the train, and you make the slow and wet walk back to where you came from.

The buzzer for her place rings with no answer. You know that she’s home because the light is on, and you intercepted her take out.

“Buckley I’ll keep buzzing, your egg rolls are getting cold!”

When she doesn’t answer again, you sigh, pressing your wet forehead to the cold brick and hold it down again, pulling out the big guns. “Okay, Robin, I, listen. I am so sorry. And if you want to hate me and never see me again, that’s totally fine, I understand. Because honestly, I am…I am scum for lying to you. I am pond scum. I’m lower than pond scum. I am the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.”

You release the buzzer and when there still isn’t a click of her responding your chin trembles. Maybe you really did fuck it up that badly and there is no coming back from this. It was silly of you to think she’d ever forgive you, especially when she has Steve. You’re about to set the food down and buzz again to tell her you’ll leave when the front door opens.

“You’re lower actually.”

A sob leaves you as Robin stands in the doorway, arms crossed over her favorite Hawkins Band sweatshirt. The fuzzy lime green socks with banjos on them that you got her for her birthday on her feet.

You nod, swiping at your tears with a free hand. “You’re right. Lower than the fungus. I’m the pus that infects the mucus that cruds up the fungus that feeds on the pond scum.”

Robin’s lips twitch, but she rolls her eyes before they look at the ground. “Quoting Julia Roberts is really unfair. You know how much of a sucker I am for her. Cheap shot.”

A crack in the tightness in your chest starts to pry open as you whisper, “I almost bought roses and had this plan to blare classical music from my car but it broke down and…well, here I am anyways, asking for forgiveness and a chance to explain.”

She raises her eyebrows, waiting, and your chin trembles as your voice shakes, “Robin I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to lie to you about it all for so long. And there were so many times I wanted to tell you. I was selfish and wrong and scared I would lose you - that you’d pick his side and shut me out - but I’m here trying now…please don’t hate me forever. And don’t hate Steve. He did nothing wrong. Or Nancy, or Eddie. It was all me and I’m so, so, so, sorry, please let me explain everything and give me another chance to be even half the amazing friend that you are.”

It’s silent, for what feels like forever, until her eyes meet yours. Shining from tears and her nose wiggles as she sniffles, “You were going to Pretty Woman me?”

You nod, tears roll down your cheeks and mingle with the rain that coats them.

Robin sighs, choking on her own tears as she laughs, “You just get me.”

She engulfs you in a hug and both of you cry into each other’s shoulders as she says, “I’m still mad you all lied. You’re not off the hook. I think giving me limitless veto power for movie nights is extremely fair and nonnegotiable.”

Your body feels lighter than it has in months as your arm tightens around her as you agree with a teary laugh, whispering another apology while silently vowing to never let her go. It doesn’t matter what happens next, because at least you have her, and you know you always will.

Robin trips on a heel as she emerges from her closet. Tilting your head at the dress she holds up, your nose scrunches as you shake your head no.

She sighs, throwing it on the no pile and groans, “Ugh! This is hopeless!”

As she flops onto her bed with a huff, you laugh and swap places with her, “No, no, come on. Tell me again.”

Robin sits up, staring at her dresser with a furrow forming under her bangs. “I want to look professional, put together, but not like it’s an interview, you know? I want them to take me seriously, but I want to look like me. Ergo, I am doomed.”

Your fingers trail over her clothes, eyes searching again after they roll. “Ergo, you’ve been facetiming Dustin too much.”

A black dress catches your eyes, velvet and cinched at the waist. Pulling it from her closet you hold it up. “What about this? I’ve never seen you wear it. Is it new?”

Her head tilts, “Huh. I forgot I bought that for…” she trails off and looks at you with a sad smile. “Right. Yeah, you don’t think it’s too low cut?”

You shake your head no, taking a deep breath at her change of subject, thoughts drifting to if she bought it for the wedding or something related to it. Maybe you could ask, but you’ve sort of had a non-verbal agreement to not discuss Steve the last month and it’s been working. After explaining everything to her, including how you felt about him getting married, your complicated feelings, it just felt easier to not discuss anything relating to him.

“Throw a nice necklace on, you’ll be perfect babe,” you make an a-okay symbol with your fingers, “The Wheeler’s aren’t gonna know what hit em.” You smile and look at the clock on her nightstand, handing the dress out to her, “Get to it though, or you’ll be late.”

Robin makes no move to get up, holding the dress in her hands and staring at it.

She shakes her head no. “I can’t do this.”

Sitting next to her, the bed bounces lightly and you grab her hand. “You absolutely can do this. It’s just meeting the parents and siblings, all of whom you’ve met already.”

“But not as her girlfriend. When I met them she wasn’t even out. What if they hate me? What if I spill something? What if I order the wrong wine?”

Laughing, you hold her panicking face in your hands, taking a deep breath to encourage her to do so too. “Robin. Breathe.”

She does, her exhale shaky and you smile, head tilting as you let her face go, fixing a curl you smooshed. “You really love her don’t you.”

It’s not a question, but Robin answers anyway. She nods vehemently, words tumbling out of her like she can’t help it. “God so much it’s scary. But also not? I want to spend every second with her. I want to tell her about every dumb little thought that pops into my head and I want to hear what she ate for lunch every day. I want to wake up and fall asleep next to her and that’s insane! How can you love a person like that so quickly? Like everything in your body is screaming for it? It’s…it’s that kind of love I’ve only heard about before? That kind of love…” she trails off, maroon polished fingers covering her smile before she keeps going, “It’s easier than breathing. It is breathing, you know?”

As she says the words that prick at something inside of you, prodding on thoughts you’d locked away, her skin pales, looking like she’s going to be sick. “Oh my god I really can’t do this. I can’t-”

“Robin. One step at a time. Change your outfit, you can do that right?”

She laughs, head falling to your shoulder, a sing-song lilt to her voice, “We’ve been here before.”

“Yeah and look at what happened.”

Robin sits up, biting her lip, nodding once and standing. “Right.”

As she changes, you assess her jewelry box. Your eyes roam over the mirror of her vanity, smiling at the pictures. You pause at the one of her and Steve that’s new to you. He has his tongue out, her arm around him and your fingers touch the corner, an ache in your chest wondering what they were doing and what stories they’ll have from the day.

“Have you talked to him?”

Her question startles you and your shoulders lift. Clearing your throat, you hold the necklace out to her. “No, um, I haven’t. He’s good?”

Robin starts to hook the necklace as she hums, “I think so. It’s hard to tell some days.” She hesitates, her face pinched into a familiar look to you, the one that looks like she’s physically holding words in, a true test for her. She bends down to buckle her heels as she asks, “Is it always going to be this way? Avoiding talking about each other? Seeing each other?”

“No, I don’t think so. I just need some time. I’ll be okay.” Shrugging with a smile, you grab your purse and coat.

Robin’s blue eyes sparkle under shimmering gold eyeshadow and she tilts her head, a smile forming on her lips as she nods, confident in her words, “You will be. One step at a time.”

“Cute,” you muse, and take a step back. You twirl your fingers for her to spin and she rolls her eyes but obliges. The black velvet dress cuts off at her calves, hugging her curves in a sexy but modest way and the gold pendant on her necklace matches the blocky old-fashioned heels. You yell out, “Ow-ow!”

Robin laughs, waving you off and grabs her phone. “Okay picture!”

“Ew, Robin no! You look so good and I am literally in my sweatshirt with the mustard stain on it.”

She shushes you, “Tough tater tots toots.”

She pulls you in as you laugh, both of you easily falling into a goofy pose as she snaps a selfie. She nods her approval and grabs her coat, “Oh yeah, that one’s definitely going on the board.” She clicks her phone closed and you both head towards the stairwell.

As you step out of her apartment building, Nancy is getting out of an Uber, an emerald peacoat wrapped around her and she stops, eyes only on Robin.

“Hi,” she whispers, smiling, “Wow. You’re so beautiful.”

Robin’s face turns as red as her nails and you duck your head. “Well, I think that’s my cue to leave. Have a good night,” you squeeze Nancy’s hand, “Tell your brother and El hey from me?”

She squeezes it back, confirming she will, and holds the door open for Robin, then jogs around to the other side and you have to smile at her lack of wanting to scoot across the seat or maybe it’s just her old fashioned, secret romantic side coming out.

As you start to walk away, you hear your name and spin back around, Robin is leaning out of the window, smiling wide as she asks, “Benny’s tomorrow? 10?”

“I expect a full report!” You cross your arms over your chest, fore and middle fingers crossed in a good luck to her that she mirrors as the car drives away.

The walk to the train from there is short, your car still out of commission, and you pop your airpods in, debating how your evening will go. Eddie is already home for Christmas with his uncle in Indiana, Robin and Nancy together tonight, and Steve…

Before them, an evening alone like this never would have bothered you. Eating what you wanted to eat, watching what you wanted to watch - you got good at being alone, enjoying it actually. Now, there’s a funny little feeling that pulls at a thread inside of you, trying to unravel the work you’ve done.

As you wait for the train, pulling your winter hat tighter over your ears, you watch a couple come up the stairs. They have shopping bags in their hands, dressed in warm, wool coats. Giggly, pink cheeks, gloved hands clinging to each other. They sit just down from where you stand against the railing when you get on, huddled together as they look at a map on his phone, and you wonder what their story is - where they were, where they’re going, and if they love each other. It seems like they do, and you wonder if it’s the kind of love Robin explained.

How can anyone love like that aside from fictional people in the movies? How can you love someone so deeply and intensely, without fear of it being ripped away?

But maybe people do fear it being ripped away, and they love regardless. Fear doesn’t make love disappear, it makes it stronger. Because what if that person is gone one day? What if you never told them how you felt? What if you never even got the chance to see if you could love like that? Isn’t it better to try than never know?

As you look out the train doors, the sky is turning a soft pink and purple. The sun is setting over the city in one of those perfect nights, slow, like each color being revealed is a purposeful brushstroke, hand painted. A sign.

Sunsets. Steve. A good song. Steve. Your friends. Steve. Your family. Steve.

Easier than breathing.

An undeniable, unavoidable, unforgiving wave of heartbreak rolls over you. But it’s not alone, it’s hope, it’s questions and answers, it’s relief and clarity and you know what you have to do.

You unlock your phone, a desperation and need to get all of it out now, fueling each press of your thumbs to the screen. Maybe the story is wrong, but you’re the main character, narrator, and author and you can change it if you just put in the work to do so. Tears begin to fall down your cheeks, and you let them, unashamed, finally free of the place you’ve kept them locked away. Pressing send on the message, you hold your breath, hoping she’s not already too preoccupied with Nancy.

The train doors open and you rush down the stairs. Each step slams against the sidewalk, sending shocks up your spine, cold air filling your lungs as each stride brings you closer to him, but not fast enough. You have to try to change the story, you have to tell him.

But when his location is just out of your reach, when you see him, you slow down.

Steve stands beneath the gold twinkling lightbulbs of the old brick theater, the white marquee sign displaying the title ‘When Harry Met Sally’. He has a black beanie on, hair sticking out and curling slightly. A dark gray peacoat flutters against the back of his thighs in the wind, open to reveal the yellow sweater he has on and your feet come to a skidding stop. His phone is pressed to his ear as he looks up from where he was scuffing his Nike against the sidewalk and makes eye contact with you.

Your heart beat has thoroughly been replaced again as your hands start to shake, each slow step to him stretched out and lingering, lasting for what feels like minutes instead of seconds.

What if. What if. What if.

The phone slips, hand falling to his side. His brows furrow just under his hat and you want to reach forward and brush the worry away with your thumb. His greeting leaves him quietly, a puff of his breath and the word floating in the air just a few feet from you.

“Hi.”

Gesturing with a trembling hand to the sign above that you can no longer see, fully under the gold lights, you blurt out, “Did you know that it came out in 89’? So technically it’s a bad 80s rom com. I was wrong.”

Steve shakes his head, the twinkle of the lights highlighting the brown in his eyes, warm and sweet and deeply confused as he starts, “What are you-”

“I was wrong about a lot of things, Steve. And I know I’m late in saying that. I know I’m late for a lot more, but I think it’s better to say it late, to say it now, than to never tell you and wonder for the rest of my life.”

Steve’s lips part, your name a whisper on them, but you take a deep inhale and prepare to get it all out fast and without fear of needing a breath akin to the way Robin speaks, just so you can leave yourself open and vulnerable despite knowing that it could, and most likely will, hurt.

“I’m sorry if Leigh is inside or she’s gonna be here soon, but I have to tell you. I…Steve I’m sorry. I wanted to be friends with benefits because I was selfish. You were right. I wanted it both ways. At first, you were just this guy who was hot and funny and knew what he was doing and I didn’t want to lose that. But then, then I got to know you and that’s when it got complicated, because I really didn’t want to lose you then.” You swallow as Steve freezes in front of you, no longer stepping towards you and his shoulders hunch like he’s holding his breath as you keep going.

“I wanted you, but I was scared to commit, scared that if I did commit, I’d lose you all anyways. And I still am scared. Terrified,” you laugh a little as tears start to roll down your cheeks, “But I think being scared is worth it if I’m doing it with you. Because…” Inhaling, you take a step closer as Steve blinks at you, willing the words to keep coming.

“Because I think we could be something special if we gave it a real chance. And I think that we can’t know what’s going to happen, maybe it all blows up in our faces, but at least we tried and we’ll know and we won’t spend our lives wondering what if.” Tears blur your vision as you leave it all out there, words that feel like they’ve wanted to tumble out of you forever just keep coming, faster and faster, your hands gesturing wildly with each one, stepping closer and closer to him.

“And I want to try so badly Steve. I want to hold your hand in public and go on dates and tease you and make memories with you and I think we could fall in love, I think I was already starting to. Like real love. Like that undeniable, scary, kind of love, and I’m sorry you’ll have to wait for me to get there to say it, but if you give it a chance…I think we’re worth the wait. I don’t care that I’m saying all of this too late, I don’t care that you’re getting married because at least I said it and if you wanna stand up there and say I do to her in May then that’s fine, I can move on, maybe, I think, because at least I’ll know I tried and-”

“Woah, woah, woah.”

Steve grabs your shaking hands, interrupting you. Cedar and mint hit your nose as you inhale, his cologne lingering on his scarf. His adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. One hand leaves yours, fingers curling under your chin as he murmurs, “I’m not getting married.”

“You’re…” you hiccup a laugh through your tears, “What?”

He tilts his head and clears his throat, repeating it as his thumb brushes a tear from your cheek, fingers squeezing your hand. “I’m not getting married.”

“You’re not getting married,” you repeat it again, quieter, letting the words sink in.

Steve shakes his head no, the back of his knuckles brushing more tears from your cheek as he lets out a shaky breath. “I called it off the day after…after everything.”

“Oh,” you swallow, eyes blinking up at him under wet lashes as the reality of the extremely vulnerable words you practically just shouted at him sit unreciprocated still, unable to be taken back.

Steve’s lips twitch on the right, like he’s fighting a smile, eyebrows furrowed deeper as he sighs, “Yeah. Quit my job too.”

“What? Steve, why, what-”

His fingers trace your jaw as he shakes his head again, rolling his eyes but the smile fighting on his lips wins. “This girl that drives me crazy basically quoted The Notebook scene at me and I decided I’d rather have the life I wanted, have her, or have nothing at all. But I didn’t think she felt the same way, and I wasn’t going to push her again.”

You smile, a laugh bubbling out of you as you shake your head, “You’re crazy about me?”

Steve laughs, his hat bumping yours as your foreheads touch. You drop his hand, both of yours pressing to the soft yellow material against his chest. His breath warm against your cheek as you ask, “So what happens now?”

He pulls away, forehead leaving yours and creating a small space between the two of you, you already want closed again. The lights make the green almost disappear from his eyes, golden, sunshine pulling you in and making you beg for more of it to light you up, a tether, your gravity, just like they’ve always been.

Steve clears his throat, hands reaching up to cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing over the apples of them as he declares, “Well, rule number one, we tell Robin.”

“Deal,” you tilt your head, playing his game. Your hands slowly crawl up his chest, wrapping around his neck, playing with the collar of the coat as you throw out, “Pet names?”

Steve nods dramatically, pinching his eyes closed, “Oh yeah. So many.” He leans in, nose tracing up the line of yours slowly, foreheads knocking together as the tips of your shoes meet. “I’m gonna call you babe and honey loudly at the grocery store for no reason other than I can.”

“Yeah?” Your top lip hits his with the lift of your smile and question.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Steve’s hands cup the back of your head, tilting you open for him as he ducks down, mouth hovering above yours as he speaks like you’re the only two people in the world.

“But right now? Right now I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Which bad 90s rom com you steal that one out of, Harrington?” You whisper against his lips.

Steve smiles, gaze tracing the curve of your lips then meeting yours as he takes a deep breath.

“You liked it.”

And maybe the marquee lights twinkle above you a little brighter as you finally meet in a kiss. Maybe snowflakes start drifting down from the clouds lazily, covering everything in a fresh start right at the moment his hands wrap around your waist and pull you impossibly closer, your back arching from the passion of his kiss. Maybe a terrible top forty song blares out of someone’s car as it drives past, your foot popping off the pavement a little when he pulls away for a breath only to lean and kiss you deeper and slower.

The universe can’t guarantee anything for you and Steve, but it is giving you a chance. There is nothing, not even love, that can keep away the inevitable struggle, heartbreak, or loss life will be sure to throw at you. Which is scary, but doing it together, his hand in yours, makes it less so. Yes, it won’t always be easy, but the hard work you’ll both put in when it isn’t, means it’s real. There is no one other than yourselves who can decide if your relationship could be like the movies. The two of you are the only ones that can calculate if there’s still time for a happy ending in your story. Only Steve and you can be certain that the fear of heartbreak or pain is worth taking the risk, because if you don’t, if you let the chance slip away, you’ll never know if one day you could have called it love.

WCIL Taglist: @loveshotzz @myobmaya @sweetsweetjellybean @pastel-pillows @littlesubbyflower @johnricharddeacy @freezaz123 @selfdeprecatingnerd @big-ope-vibes @manda-panda-monium @hellkaisersangel @yogizzz @soulmatecashton @happytimeunicorns @mandyjo8719 @lunarxeclipse @buckleylips @beckkthewreck @differentdeputyfishpaper @supardupar @micheledawn1975 @imjuststeddietrashatthispoint @sagelittleplace @totally-bogus-timelady @steves-babysitter @fallinginlovewithqueue @aftermidnightwriting @omgshesinsane @pootcullen @definitionwanderlust @nostalgiafool @palmtreesx3 @scoopshxrrington @live-the-fangirl-life @eddiesguitarskills @mannstarkey @keepingitlokiii @silkholland @redbarn1995

#we'll call it love #modern!steve harrington #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington series #steve harrinton fic #stranger things fanfic

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