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nowimjustastranger · 2 months ago

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Just a little gift for my bestie Phoenix, aka @flame-cat, because they were in a car accident recently. But thankfully they're okay! This was actually inspired by an outline for an interaction between the brothers that they shared with me privately, so enjoy 1.5k words worth of stangst y'all!

Ford scrubbed a hand over his face with a frustrated groan, fingers knocking his glasses askew. He couldn’t afford to have his body fail him now, not when he had an exam to study for. But what he wanted didn’t change the fact that his eyes had started to outright refuse to focus on the words in the textbook five minutes ago, an annoyingly persistent migraine pulsing behind his eyes.

To make matters worse, the landline rang. The shrill sound made the bothersome migraine go from a mild three all the way up to a solid eight on his tolerance scale, which made his temper flare. Ford snatched the handset off the cradle with a growl, reluctantly bringing it to his ear.

“Stanford Pines.” He bit out, adjusting his glasses with his free hand so they sat on his nose properly. When his prickly greeting didn’t garner a response outside of what sounded like labored breathing, Ford scowled. Great, it was his mystery caller again. Just what he needed on top of an already stressful day.

“I refuse to keep entertaining these prank calls, so if you call again I’ll be notifying–” Ford began in a stern tone, but he was interrupted by a familiar voice.

“Stanford.”

Stanley. That was Stanley. Why was his brother calling him at –Ford stole a glance at the clock– two in the afternoon? What could he possibly want? Well, whatever it was, he wouldn’t be getting it from Ford. He had already given up so much because of Stanley’s selfishness, he wasn’t about to give him the opportunity to worm his way back into Ford’s life–

“…Sixer?” Stanley asked, a breathless quality to his voice that brought Ford’s anger back down to a simmer. Why did Stanley sound like that? His breathing was short like he wasn’t taking full breaths, but there was still a measured quality to each inhale and exhale like he was breathing that way on purpose.

“How did you get this number?” Ford asked bluntly, bracing his elbow on his desk before letting his forehead drop into the palm of his hand, resigning himself to having this unexpected yet long overdue conversation with his estranged brother. Maybe Stanley had realized the error of his ways and called to apologize? Yeah right, fat fucking chance of that.

“Ma passed it along.” Stanley grunted, his tone laced with pain, and Ford could certainly relate. He didn’t want to be talking to Stanley any more than Stanley wanted to talk to him, which begged the question: why exactly did Stanley call him?

“Of course she did.” Ford grumbled, suddenly feeling every hour of lost sleep hitting him all at once. He was exhausted. He was tired of trying to fend Ma and her mission to reconnect him with his brother off, tired of walking on eggshells during his monthly calls home just to avoid saying the wrong thing and causing unnecessary drama, and he was tired of putting up with the part of him that still cared about his brother.

“I… I think my ribs are broken.” Stanley said quietly and Ford’s brain shrieked to a standstill, his grip momentarily going slack on the handset as he tried to process the implications of such an ominous statement, forcing him to fumble with it until he managed to press the receiver back against his ear.

“What?” Ford barked, tone incredulous and concerned in equal measure. He resolutely ignored the way that his hands trembled, his grip white-knuckle tight on the handset.

"My ribs. I think–” Stan cut himself off as his breath hitched, a pained hiss following shortly after. Ford found himself leaning forward, blankly staring into the middle distance as he strained his ears to hear every little shift in Stanley’s breathing, trying to assess his brother’s current state. “Nevermind. Shit. Not important right now.”

“Not impor– You can’t be serious, Stanley!?” Ford seethed, lurching out of his chair, uncaring as it tipped back and crashed to the floor as he began to pace. He made sure to stay within the range that the cord allowed him, but he simply couldn’t sit still when Stanley was hurt and possibly even suffering from a head wound considering that he wasn’t making any fucking sense–

“I’m fine. It’s fine. I just…” Stanley spoke in starts and stops, his breathing strained as he spoke through what sounded like clenched teeth. “I need…”

“What? What do you need? What happened?” Ford prompted with urgency, fingers curling and uncurling anxiously. He had to know. He couldn’t estimate the severity of Stanley’s injuries without more data, right now he was left with what his imagination could produce. He needed facts in order to combat the increasingly horrible scenarios that his mind was dredging up.

“Car crash.” Stan said on an exhale and Ford nodded even though his brother wouldn’t be able to see it, pinching the bridge of his nose as his useless brain fixated on those two words.

“What else hurts? Or is it just your ribs?” Ford asked tersely, moving back to his desk with a determined stride to grab a piece of paper at random along with the pen that he had tucked behind his ear earlier. He scribbled down Stanley’s comment about his potentially busted ribs and then let the pen hover as he waited for Stanley’s –hopefully detailed– analysis of his person.

“I dunno… stomach hurts. Kinda swollen.” Stanley mumbled, sucking in a sharp breath as he presumably prodded at the area in question.

“Lightheadedness? Nausea?” Ford pressed, his heart lurching into his throat as several injuries came to mind, internal bleeding being the most likely explanation. Stanley had already displayed textbook signs of internal bleeding, such as disorientation and shortness of breath.

“Both? Feelin’ a bit sluggish too.” Stanley admitted, the muted rustle of clothes indicating that he had adjusted.

“Is the cord long enough for you to sit down?” Ford asked, looking up when the door opened and Fiddleford stepped into the room. Ford frantically waved him over, writing a message for Fiddleford in the notebook before sidestepping so he could read it when he hurried over.

“I think so? Lemme just…” Stanley huffed, Ford splitting his attention between the sound of Stanley gingerly lowering himself to the ground and Fiddleford’s rapidly paling face as the man read through Ford’s notes of Stanley’s wellbeing.

“Stanley? Stanley, are you there?” Ford prompted when there was nothing but harsh breathing for several seconds, sharing a look with an equally rattled Fiddleford.

“Yeah… yeah ‘m here.” Stanley panted, his speech slurred, and Fiddleford hurried from the room to contact emergency services with a different phone. As soon as Ford got a location, he would relay the address to Fiddleford and then stay on the line with Stanley for as long as he could before the call cut out.

“Where exactly is ‘here’, Stanley? Where are you?” Ford asked, rapidly tapping his pen on the notebook just to have something to do since he couldn’t get his hands on his brother like he desperately wanted. He hated feeling so useless.

“Uh… outside a 7/11.” Stanley said weakly, his voice barely a whisper.

“Which 7/11?” Ford demanded, his eyes narrowing. Either Stanley was losing consciousness, or he was losing his grip on lucidity. Neither were ideal considering the circumstances. Ford didn’t have enough information to confidently deduce how hurt his brother was. These could be Stanley’s last moments and Ford was wasting his breath giving him the third degree instead of saying anything of value–

“Um… I dunno.” Stanley said with the vocal equivalent of a shrug and Ford suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to scream.

“An address, Stanley.” Ford clarified in a clipped tone, impatiently tapping his foot as emotions built up in his esophagus, bubbling up despite his best efforts to stuff them back down into their vault. This could be his last opportunity to say something. Anything. Ford couldn’t squander this rare chance, couldn’t let Stanley fade away without knowing that his big brother lo–

“I dunno, s-somewhere in New Mexico, I guess.” Stanley murmured, sounding a little less strained but just as tired. Sitting down had eased some of the stress that his body was under then. Good.

“Just stay there, Stanley. You hear me? Don’t move.” Ford said sternly, speaking slowly and clearly so Stanley’s muddled brain could register the words and damn well heed them. Ford knew that Fiddleford could triangulate Stanley’s position using the phone call, but he wasn’t going anywhere until the call ended.

“M’kay.” Stanley agreed, his voice so quiet that Ford wouldn’t have caught it if his entire focus hadn’t been on his brother. Ford ran a hand through his hair, gripping it at the roots and tugging as he stared down at the notebook, bloodshot eyes roaming over his messily scrawled notes.

“I’ll meet you at the nearest ho–” Ford assured, unceremoniously cut off when the line abruptly went dead. “–spital.”

Fuck.

“God fucking damnit!” Ford snarled, slamming the handset onto the cradle with excessive force before turning on his heel to sprint out of the room and track down Fiddleford. Then Ford would take over the call with emergency services while his roommate used his skills to locate Stanley, sending an ambulance to him.

College could wait, Ford’s brother needed him.

#gravity falls #writing #ford pines #stan pines #fiddleford mcgucket #stan and ford #stan twins #tw: car accident #tw: injury

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superblysubpar · 6 months ago

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<- part three | part five -> | series masterlist

chapter summary: Steve drives you to work all week.

the song: Smoke by Caroline Polachek

also for your listening pleasure: Do You Believe In Love by Huey Lewis & The News, We Are the Champions by Queen, and In Your Eyes by Peter Gabriel

6,475 words | please see masterlist for gen warnings / wearing steve’s clothing, but size isn’t mentioned / for the purposes of this fic, you drink coffee and you take it sweet / alcohol mentions/consumption - you are tipsy in this / brief descriptions of car accidents/injury with some blood/ slight descriptions of panic/anxiety happening to Steve | my blog is 18+

Hawkins, Indiana - Tuesday

You slam the alarm button down when it goes off on Tuesday morning, sitting on your bed, fully dressed, one hour too early.

Your knee bounces up and down, your teeth rip at the skin next to your thumb, and you stare at the clock, counting down, literally, to when your ride will be here.

Steve had offered, when he dropped you off last night, to pick you up all week. It was supposed to rain off and on till Friday, you shouldn’t have to bike so far, it was the least he could do all babbled out of him as you sat in his passenger seat still wearing his clothes.

What was the surprise, to both of you, is that you’d said yes to his offer.

He’d blinked at you, you blinked at him and he nodded, fingers fiddling with the radio dial as he murmured, “Cool, cool.”

You’d sat in his passenger seat in silence, both staring out the windshield at your apartment complex until Steve cleared his throat and looked at you with raised eyebrows.

“Oh!” You quickly snapped off the seatbelt and pushed the door open, pausing to look down at the clothes you had on and the wet ones in your hands. “Um, I’ll, I can change quick and-“

“No!”

He snapped his jaw closed and rubbed at his temple, blowing out a breath before he gestured, “I meant, like, don’t go to the trouble. It’s late, and, I’ll see you, and it’s fine, I don’t even wear those pants to sleep in because they’re too hot and-“

“Steve?” You interrupted, lips twitching against a smile.

“Yeah?” He replied limply.

“You’ve been spending too much time with Robin.”

“Tell me about it.”

He smiled. You smiled. Something was definitely wrong with your stomach and so, sure you were about to be sick in his car, you mumbled something about seeing him tomorrow and quickly closed the door, then climbed the stairs up to your front door.

Steve waited to back out of his parking spot until you were safely inside where he couldn’t see you fall backwards against the door with an exhale and you couldn’t see him rubbing his face at the exit of the complex mumbling the word ‘idiot’.

Which is what you felt like, when you woke up with the sunrise, still wearing Steve Harrington’s clothes.

And you were still feeling like it after you showered, scrubbing at your skin till it stung because you felt like you needed to wash off any evidence of the smell that clung to your body like it was supposed to. But somehow that didn’t stop you from spending longer on picking out an outfit, or taking more time to get ready. Reasoning with yourself that it was because you didn’t have to bike, that you woke up early, it’s nice to dress up and take care of yourself every once in awhile, it feels good to be put together for no one but yourself.

This is what you’re currently telling your reflection, avoiding eye contact with the sweatshirt as you stomp out of the room towards your kitchen.

But as you move down your hallway, something, or rather someone, outside the window catches your eye and you grab your bag and leave your apartment to figure out what he’s doing.

Steve’s crouched down next to your bike, large fingers working on something with the chain with a furrow between his eyebrows. He doesn’t hear you approaching, which is probably why he shoots up at the sound of your voice, the back of his head smacking right into the metal bike rack.

“Harring-“ his name cut off with a sharp empathetic wince as his eyes shut tight and his jaw pulses after he curses under his breath.

“Sorry,” you rub at your elbow, scuffing a converse on the ground as you squint at him, “Believe it or not, that wasn’t on purpose.”

Steve exhales what you think is supposed to be a laugh, as he blinks at the ground, “Yeah, I…”

His words get lost somewhere between his brain and his mouth somehow because all he can think now is:

Pretty.

The word makes his tongue feel too big for his mouth, like he needs to say it or it’ll just keep sitting there and he’ll suffocate as it swells. It’s not like he’s not thought that word around you before, he has. But the urge to say it hasn’t ever quite made him feel like this, like he’s gonna die.

“You…?” Your head tilts, eyes squinting to inspect him more, heartbeat thrumming faster as Steve stares at you intensely.

“Don’t,” Steve finishes, standing up slowly, your red helmet swinging in his fingers.

“You don’t?” The two of you blink at each other.

“Believe you,” Steve offers.

“Oh, right.”

You hate that you feel so warm under his stare, hate that you’re wondering if he likes your outfit. You hate-

“I, um,” Steve gestures to the bike, “I didn’t want you to feel like you had to say yes to me driving you. Since you, you know, hate me.”

“I don’t hate you.”

The words slip off of your tongue so easily, you bite down on it in fear that more lies will fall out.

The words to Steve are, however, exactly what he needed to hear to remember who the hell he is.

Steve grins, two freckles lifting as he asks, softly, fondly, “Yeah?”

“I,” you swallow, wondering if it’s possible that Steve Harrington possesses the power to erase ‘how to speak’ from your list of skills and abilities simply because he’s got nice eyes and smells good.

His grin settles, a smug smirk keeping his lips in a flat line before he whispers, “What’s the matter, baby? Cat got your tongue?”

Your eyes narrow, arms crossing over your Journey t-shirt as you snap, “I don’t hate you. I despise you.”

Steve’s gaze darts over your face, before golden iris’ are settling on yours. He takes a step closer, dangerously closing the gap between your bodies as he whispers, “Yeah? Well I detest you.”

His chest rises and falls, bumping your crossed arms, the toe of his Nike’s touching the tops of your converse. So close you can count freckles on his nose and see green in his eyes.

“Wow,” your words hushed, but dripping in sarcasm, “Another big brain word and it hasn’t even been a week. Would you like a prize?”

Steve’s eyes flash, his lips twist up as he leans in even closer, “Yeah,” murmured as the tip of his nose almost touches yours, mint toothpaste fanning over your lips, “I would.”

Your breath leaves your lungs, held somewhere so it can’t escape as his nose brushes the bridge of yours before it’s suddenly gone.

“Come on, we’re gonna be late,” spoken over his shoulder with a grin as he heads towards his car.

Steve faces his car again, biting the inside of his lip out of your sight as you close your eyes out of his.

Were you just going to let him kiss you?

Your legs feel wobbly as you make your way across the pavement towards the maroon car, and even more so when, nestled inside and buckled, Steve’s hand rests on the back of your seat as he says, “You look really pretty today, by the way.”

His forearm flexes in the corner of your eye as he looks over his shoulder to back out of the spot, spinning his steering wheel with the other hand effortlessly. The movement and skill makes your legs press together under your skirt, and you bite the inside of your cheek, adamant on ignoring what your body wants to tell you.

Steve fiddles with the radio dial as he comes to a stop sign.

“You know,” you bite, mad at yourself for falling for this, mad at him for starting it, just mad, “I haven’t forgotten that you have five days left to get me, of all people, to sleep with you. And as much as it pains me to say this, we’ve been in each others lives for quite awhile now, and I know you, Harrington. This isn’t working, it’s not going to work, and the fact that you think-“

He says your name roughly, tight, like the word burns his throat to say it. He leans over the console, ducking his head to catch your gaze causing a strand of hair to fall over his forehead.

“Have you ever thought, for one second, that maybe, just maybe, I’m not as much of an asshole as you think, but because I know you hate me, I’ve never even tried to give you a compliment because that’s just not what we do? Tell me, honestly, if I’d have told you that you looked pretty, before today, before this bet, you wouldn’t have bit my head off then too? Or, god forbid, would have believed me?”

His breath is sharp, his gaze pierces into you, making something in your chest spark and sizzle, it’s not unlike the swell of pride you get when you win, and it’s better.

It’s addicting.

A horn honks and Steve blinks, facing the windshield and moving the car forward again.

“I don’t hate you,” the words are a whisper, not as easily said as earlier.

“Right,” Steve clears his throat. He glances over at you with a small smile, then back at the road as he sighs, “Just despise.”

You hum a feeble agreement, and let Huey Lewis & The News fill the silence, asking if you believe in love.

Steve’s fingers tap along to the song, his lips part, every other word softly exhaled as he sings under his breath. Which makes it hard to convince yourself that his words were just words, they meant nothing, and yours weren’t true either.

Steve Harrington doesn’t think you’re pretty and you hate each other.

Despise.

Whatever.

Your hands rest in your lap, thumb catching on a loose thread in your skirt that you are indebted to now.

Not because Steve thinks you look pretty in it.

But, because, if you instead search for where the loose thread begins, that brain space cannot be occupied by trying to figure out other times Steve wanted to call you pretty, or how you would have reacted, or how there’s two coffees in his cupholders next to your elbow. Focusing perhaps on, how the snag happened in your skirt could even make it so you don’t think about how, somehow, the leather of the seats and the coffee in such a tight space only make his normal scent of something minty and woodsy better and-

“Before you ask, no it’s not poisoned, and no, this isn’t me trying to woo you or whatever.” He gestures to the coffee, as if he’s reading your mind, “Could you hand me mine? Think it’s the front one.”

You’re shocked to learn that one of them is for you, and even more so when he grabs the cup from you and sips, grimaces, then coughs.

“Ugh,” he licks his lips and holds it over to you, “That one was yours.”

You hand him the other cup, staring down at the one he handed back to you.

He bought you coffee and seemingly knows how you take it.

As he pulls into the Family Video lot, expertly avoiding the kids skating and running around in front of Palace Arcade already, he sighs.

“You know,” he puts the car in park and looks at you, “I don’t have cooties.”

Haven’t even thought of the fact that if you took a sip, your lips would be where his had been, your body warms at the ‘kiss through contact’ possibility like a thirteen year old girl with a crush, heartbeat erratic still from the gesture of getting you the coffee.

“Actually, I was wondering if you did in fact poison this, because you despise me.”

“Detest,” Steve offers quietly with a smile.

“Detest,” you agree.

“I took a sip of it though. How would it be poisoned?”

“Maybe you’re like Westley and built up some sort of tolerance to this particular poison.”

Steve stares at you, blinking in silence until finally he asks, “What?”

“The Princess Bride?” You unsnap your seatbelt as he starts to get out of the car, talking over the roof of it. “Harrington, you have to have seen The Princess Bride?”

Steve swings his keys on his finger as he follows you to the front door, squinting. Both of you loving to have something to discuss that feels like easily navigated territory again.

“Is that the one with Daisy?”

“Buttercup,” you correct immediately, stopping on the sidewalk to face him, “That’s our first movie today. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

“Fine,” Steve shrugs, but then nods to the cup in your hand, “If you take a sip and say thank you really sweetly.”

You scoff, “I don’t have to do shit, I’m the manager. And that was an if.”

Steve nods, holding his hand out. “Okay, then give me the coffee.”

“But...” you hesitate, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafting up to your nose.

He definitely knows your order.

“Thought you said no ifs, ands, or buts?” Steve grins.

Your lips scowl before you mutter, “Don’t be cute.”

“You think I’m cute?” He smiles wider than he has all morning, showing off perfect, dazzling teeth.

You roll your eyes and lift the cup to your lips. His eyes remain on yours, drinking you in just as much as you drink the coffee, gazes unwavering upon each other.

It’s hard to swallow the perfectly made to your specifications coffee when he whispers, “That’a girl. See, was that so hard? Now, what do we say?”

“Thank you,” you grit, but Steve’s hand stops yours from unlocking the door.

“That wasn’t very sweet…” he tsks, sing song lilt to his voice.

With his hand over yours on the handle, you sigh, focusing on getting to watch a favorite movie instead of the way it engulfs yours. Batting your eyelashes, you force out a cheery, “Thank you, Harrington.”

Steve smirks, shakes his head no. He leans in, just like he had at your apartment.

Just like when you almost let him kiss you.

“First name, honey.”

That sparking, sizzling, simmering feeling is happening in your chest again.

Steve’s breath in is yours out as you murmur, “Thank you, Ste-“

“Jesus Christ! Thank fuck you’re alive! I’ve been…”

Eddie’s shout drifts off as he jumps out of his van, his eyes darting between you and Steve who’s starting to stand up straighter, hand dropping from the top of yours.

You clear your throat as Eddie grins at you, then Steve, then you again as he steps closer.

Eddie’s gaze looks over your outfit and your cheeks warm as he hums, raising his eyebrows over bright brown eyes that see right through you.

“Well, don’t you look nice today.”

Hawkins, Indiana - Wednesday

He was already on thin ice, and now, you were planning to fully cut a hole in said ice and let him meet his demise in the cold, dark water beneath it.

Eddie doesn’t seem to care, as he winces with fake sympathy, and tosses an M&M in his mouth as you glare at him with your arms folded over your chest.

“What do you mean, you can’t take me anymore?”

He shrugs, but takes a step away from you, seemingly out of harms way.

Physical harms way at least.

“I have to go back into the shop, Wayne needs me. I’m really sorry, I’ll make it up to you?” He puts on a nice, big, Munson level show - hands folded in prayer, big pouty lips, and blinking sad doe eyes.

You stand in front of the counter, rubbing your temple from the fluorescent that’s been blinking all morning.

“I didn’t eat lunch, I didn’t pack a lunch, because you promised the diner, you made a big deal about tradition,” you start towards him, hangry and looking for vengeance.

Eddie quickly sidesteps around the corner, standing directly across from you as you both go in a circle around the main counter where Robin sits, typing at the computer.

“Beer, on me,” he pleads, quickening his pace, “Tomorrow. A whole pitcher, just for you. I won’t even make fun of you when you get a gutter ball every turn!”

“I don’t want beer, Munson! I want a strawberry shake and a damn cheeseburger!”

“I can take you.”

Steve’s quiet offer makes you freeze, Eddie grins and backs out quickly towards the front door, pointing, “What a wonderful idea Steve! I wish you both a lovely first date!”

“Eddie!” you shriek, stomping towards the door, but he’s gone.

The bell chimes as he dashes through it with a salute, Steve clears his throat while you stand frozen, staring at the closed glass doors.

After Eddie had found you yesterday, and thoroughly bothered you about your outfit, and what he didn’t interrupt, because there was nothing to interrupt, he’d shown up at your apartment with far too many questions and far too much of an opinion on your relationship with Steve Harrington.

Not a relationship. A friendship.

No.

A mutual understanding. A common ground. An agreement of ceasefire of your overt��hatred. A, maybe, slow ascent to friendship, one day, perhaps.

Which seemed to please the idiot who was betting against Steve winning, well into the night. So, he agreed to take you out to lunch the next day, honoring your tradition, yet assuring you that the conversation was in fact, not over.

Robin finally breaks the silence, calling your name, then, “You good?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, crossing your arms, “Just debating sleeping with Harrington so Eddie loses three hundred dollars.”

There’s a choking sound behind you, and you spin to see Steve’s mouth stuffed with Red Vines.

Your Red Vines.

“Are you kidding me? What did I say!”

You stomp towards him and he holds up his hands in surrender, talking around the candy, “Hey, remember me? Steve,” he swallows, backing away and tripping over his heels. “I’m the guy who brought you coffee two mornings in a row and has the ability to bring you to a delicious, cheesy burger, fast?”

You’re inches from him and he yelps, wincing before you even attack, then a shouted, “I’ll pay!”

Stopping in front of him, you snatch up the package of Red Vines and growl, “And a shake.”

Robin gapes at the two of you, then looks at Steve, “You brought her coffee? You never bring me coffee.”

Steve glares at her while he grabs the package of candy back and holds them high above your head, ignoring your protests.

“You can have these back when you learn to say please.”

“Can you pass the salt?” You speak around the fries in your mouth.

Steve sits across from you, eyebrows raised.

“Please,” you grumble.

You shake the salt over the basket sitting between the two of you after he hands it to you. The basket holding the fries he ordered immediately and flashed the waitress a smile and wink for so you got some food fast while you waited for burgers and shakes.

He watches your shoulders relax after a few bites, and decides he can attempt conversation, “Better?”

Your head nods, fingers covering your mouth full of food as you say, “Yeah. Thank you.”

Steve nods too, looking anywhere but you while you lick salt from your thumb or suck on the straw in your glass of coke.

“Glad I could help.” He risks stealing a fry for himself, his stomach grumbling in protest as it watches you eat and it gets nothing.

“Sorry,” you fiddle with the straw wrapper in your hands, shrugging, “I know I much more resembled a ravenous wild animal than a normal human being back there.”

“Glad you said it,” he mutters, ducking when you throw the folded straw wrapper at his face. He catches it, playing with it between his own hands, staring at the table. “You were pretty upset though, what’d you mean about tradition?”

You shove fries in your mouth, buying time to respond, wondering how much you should tell Steve.

“Um,” you cough into your fist, squinting out the window at the sky turning gloomy.

“It’s okay,” Steve waves it off, “I didn’t mean to pry. You don’t have to tell me.”

He shoves fries into his own mouth, right as the waitress brings two burgers over, sliding a strawberry shake onto the sticky tabletop. Steve’s chewing becomes frantic, holding up his hand and you’re saying the words before you can even register what you’re doing.

“Could he get some extra pickles please?”

“Of course, hon,” she sways off, delivering another shake at a different table while Steve blinks at you.

“What?” You avoid his intense gaze, looking at your burger as you lift it to your lips.

“Didn’t think you were paying that much attention to me,” he finally says, smiling at the waitress when she drops off a small container of pickles.

He looks at his burger, not you, so maybe that’s why it’s easier to keep talking about it.

“Kind of make it hard to not pay attention, Harrington.”

The pair of you sit in silence, chewing your burgers as rain starts to tap softly against the window, the red neon sign next to you flickering and making his yellow tshirt orange.

“Wish I knew you were watching sooner,” Steve looks up to find you already staring, “Wouldn’t have acted like such an idiot, maybe this would be a different story.”

Your heart thuds in your ears, too warm under the softness of his eyes.

“Acted?” You manage to push past your lips, tilting your head.

Steve smiles, and grabs for the shake, waiting for you to protest him putting a second straw into it. When you don’t, you surprise yourself by offering up, “It’s from the night we met.”

He blinks at you, wrinkle forming between his brows as he sucks on the straw between his lips. You look away from them as you clarify, “Eddie. The diner. It’s a tradition from the night we met.”

“Oh,” Steve nods, pushing the shake away and returning to his burger, adding another pickle.

“Yeah, I,” you close your eyes, then open them to look down at your food, blurting out, “Met him, after I threw that beer. In Brendan’s face. He took me to the diner, here, for pie, and I sort of spilled my guts to him.”

Steve’s jaw pulses, the furrow of his forehead only deepening as you explain, not lessening. He takes another bite of his burger, ketchup smearing against the side of his mouth, offering you a reprieve from staring at his lips as he speaks around his bite, “Got it. That’s when you guys started dating, right?”

You blink, lips parting but nothing comes out other than a shocked, “Ha!”

Steve looks up at the scoff, taking in your wrinkled nose and how your eyes stare at his lips as you laugh, “Eddie…Ed,” you giggle, “No.”

“You and…never?” Steve sits up straighter, eyes bouncing between your own.

“Not even a little bit,” you laugh, touching your lip, “You’ve got…”

Steve swipes at his lips while he asks, “But you said you spilled your guts, I just assumed after what that asshole said and did that Munson like comforted and you and…”

He trails off as you lean forward, rolling your eyes.

Your thumb swipes over the corner of his lip as you shrug, “Yeah, we bonded over assholes and crushing on people who’d never give us the time of day while sharing cherry pie. Best friends ever since.”

Steve’s heart thrums as your fingers linger on his jaw, before you sit back again.

And then you lick the ketchup off of your thumb.

He finally stumbles over the words, “I love pie.”

“Yeah?” You grin, grabbing the shake.

Steve nods, keeping eye contact as your cheeks hollow around the straw. But then he rolls his shoulders back and grabs the shake out from your lips and back across the table.

“Except cherry. You’re delusional for choosing that over lemon.”

“You’re delusional,” you yank the shake back towards you, “If you think you’re having any more of this.”

Steve leans over the table as you begin to sip the shake again, only to wrap his lips around the second straw, noses bumping as he tries to drink it faster than you at the same time.

Your feet are intertwined under the table as you push at his shoulder and he tugs on the glass, both of you making a slurping noise as you get to the bottom, then grabbing at your temples from brain freezes while laughing.

“I can’t stand you,” you push the glass towards the middle of the table.

“That’s better than detest, I’ll take it.”

Hawkins, Indiana - Thursday

Steve holds out the bag of popcorn to you, and you grin, taking some as you lean into him, a little tipsy, in the backseat of his car.

You, because you were last out to the car, and Steve, because he doesn’t do well in the front seat when Robin is driving.

Which is saying something, because Eddie isn’t doing so hot as it is.

“No, Buckley!”

“Give me a break, Eddie! It is super dark outside, and I’m a new driver, never attempted driving in the rain, and I don’t know wiper speed to rain droplet ratio!”

You snort, nose in the popcorn bag as your shoulders shake.

Steve shushes you, mumbling, “You’re kind of a menace tonight.”

“Eddie’s,” you hiccup, blinking up under heavy eyelashes at Steve’s profile, mesmerized by the freckles that dot it, “Fault. Got me all that beer.”

“No comments-” Robin begins to talk over her shoulder.

“Ba-ah-ah,” Steve points forward, stepping on an invisible brake in the backseat while Eddie grabs her chin and keeps it locked straight ahead.

“From the peanut gallery,” she finishes loudly.

“No peanuts back here,” you throw a piece at Eddie’s ear, “Just popcorn!”

Steve remains facing forward, watching intently as Eddie directs Robin on slick roads towards her house. “You didn’t have to drink it all.”

“Oh,” you sigh, sliding over to the window and pressing your forehead against the cool glass, “But I did, Harrington. For I am the champion of bowling night!”

He opens his mouth, but you sit up straight again, and press your finger to his lips, softly saying (but thinking you’re singing), “No time for losers.”

Steve smiles behind your finger, eyes soft and melting you a little.

Which you almost say out loud, but the song on the radio grabs your attention. You squeal, which makes Robin jump, which makes the car sway and Steve grab your shoulders, pushing you back on the seat as you yell, “Turn it up!”

“You’re such a loser,” Eddie grumbles, but does as you request.

Peter Gabriel’s In Your Eyes plays a little louder, but no one can tell, because you’re loudly singing over him.

Eddie rolls his eyes at the way Steve watches you, and Robin bites her lip, fighting back laughter as you shout, “You all love this song, don’t lie to me!”

You scream into your fist, dramatically singing, tossing your head, pointing at each of them.

“And all my instincts,” you take a deep breath and whip over to Steve, kneeling on the seat, “They return!”

You shove your fist into Eddie’s face, who pretends to bite it, refusing to sing. But finally melts at your pout, mumbling along with you, “Without my pride.” Robin happily joins in, in a high falsetto, when you whip your fake microphone over to her, “I reach out from the inside.”

As they all join in with you for the chorus, you fall backwards, laughing, catching Steve’s eyes.

You’d like to blame the beer, the cozy dark backseat, the way Steve smells, the rain, the fucking song. And while you can’t blame them for something that was inevitable, you can pretend that without this specific combination you never would have.

If you were sober, and In Your Eyes came on, you never would have touched the two freckles on Steve’s cheek, your fake microphone falling limp, palm flat against his chest.

If it weren’t dark, and he didn’t smell so good, you never would have let those same fingers drag down his jaw, only to linger on his lips.

And if it weren’t raining, and Robin hadn’t taken a second to look back in her mirror and say, “Holy shi-“

It never would have happened.

Eddie shouts, Robin screams, and something heavy and warm is on top of you as the car spins on the water that’s flooded the streets.

Your ears are ringing, muffled words lost in the sound, and you can’t move, something holds you down.

It takes a second to realize the car isn’t moving anymore, and there’s hands on your cheeks. When your eyes blink open, there’s golden hazel ones that remind you of a scared boy looking at you intently.

“Are you okay?” He gasps from on top of you where you’re both horizontal in the backseat now.

“I’m fine,” Robin says sarcastically from the front seat, “Thanks for-“ Eddie shushes her.

“Of course,” you grumble, hands that were clutched in Steve’s shirt loosening and pushing at him.

His hands shake on your cheeks, fingers touching a spot on your forehead that has you wincing and his chest moving up and down faster.

“Harrington,” you push at him more, his hand cups your cheek, eyes turning glassy as you insist, “I’m fine, get off.”

“Hey,” you shake his shoulder as stares at your forehead, breathing harder still, “Harrington, relax. We’re all fine.”

The side of his face flashes with red and blue, his heartbeat thuds against your chest as his breathing continues to ramp up. Your hands cup his jaw, thumbs delicately swiping over his cheeks.

“Steve. Look at me.”

His shoulders shake with a stuttered breath and then his hand quickly reaches forward, gently cupping the back of your head as the door behind you opens.

Someone speaks, but neither of you hear them, eyes remaining on each other as you whisper, “Take a deep breath, Steve. Please?”

You nod as he does, your hands loosening on his cheeks as he starts to let his weight hover over you instead of pushing you down.

A voice from behind you asks Steve to get out first. He’s held back as paramedics help you out of the car and lead you over to the back of the ambulance. Robin stands next to you and you shake your head, the words I’m so sorry easily able to read off of your lips and Robin stops them with her hand up.

Eddie stands next to him, watching, just as intently, and he clears his throat.

“That was…” he starts, looking at Steve, then back at you, now getting your forehead looked at. “Glad you were back there, man.”

Steve nods, numb, as he watches you wince and say, “I’m fine,” to the EMT stitching you up. His fingers graze down the bridge of his nose and his swipes underneath it, nodding when Eddie says he’s gonna go check on Robin.

Everyone is fine, save for your head injury. His car is fine, save for a ding on the back bumper.

Your side.

He saved you.

He protected you.

He was scared for you.

Your heartbeat picks up as your gaze on the wet asphalt beneath your scuffed sneakers catches bright Nike’s approaching.

“How’s the patient?”

Steve’s voice is soft, scared, not a thing like you’ve ever heard before.

Which is maybe why when you look up at him, nothing comes out of your parted lips.

Rain drips from the tip of Steve’s hair, curling around his ears, a droplet caught on his cupid’s bow, darkening the green shirt he wears.

The EMT stares down at you, waiting, then she smiles, staring at your forehead as she offers, “She’ll be okay. No concussion, probably a little sleepy from the pain meds she just took, but overall just a little dinged up. Nothing a little night of tender loving care from her boyfriend can’t fix.”

“Oh, no, I’m-“

“He’s not, we’re not-“

Steve and you talk at the same time, stopping when the other speaks.

“Oh, my mistake,” she hums. She looks down at you as she inspects her last stitch, smiling softly, “Well, maybe some tender loving care from a friend then. Can I count on you handsome? Get her home safely?”

Steve nods, cheeks pink as he waits for you to stand, his hand resting by your elbow just in case, then hovering near your lower back as he walks behind you towards his car.

“Dingus!” Robin shouts from Hopper’s truck.

Steve turns to look at her, and as he holds the door open for you, he leans down and murmurs, “I’ll be right back, you’re…you okay?”

“Mhm,” you nod, blinking from the pain of the movement.

Steve doesn’t look like he believes you, but nods, and closes your door softly, running over to the truck, squinting in the rain.

A soft tap hits the glass of your door and you jump, rolling the window down for Eddie, the boys swapping places without you realizing.

“Hey sweetheart, how you doing?” He folds his arms on the frame of the door, bent down to take a closer look at your head.

“I’m fine,” you answer without thinking.

Eddie’s lips twitch, fighting the urge for the joke, “Of course you are. You okay with Harrington taking you back? Hopper always can? Need me to stay over?”

You watch Robin grab Steve’s jaw, pushing and pulling him to inspect him while he rolls his eyes and pushes her off. A much more physical approach, but the same as Eddie’s nonetheless.

When you don’t say anything, he follows your gaze and sighs. “Yeah, you’re okay. Fucking hell, I gotta figure out where I’m getting three hundred dollars from, thanks a lot you Peter Gabriel loving dork.”

“Eddie, I-“ you protest and he waves his hand, smiling.

“Save it, you’re hook line and sunk for him. You have been since the day I met you, fine.”

He kisses your temple, opposite of your cut, and taps the hood of the car before jogging over to the truck, swapping with Steve again. But he pauses in the middle, grabbing Steve’s shoulder and pointing at the car, then pats him and jogs off again.

Once Steve is back in the car, you wait for him to drive, to say something, but he looks at you expectantly and then you realize-

Your seatbelt.

“Sorry,” you murmur, and then it’s silent.

No radio.

No talking.

Just the swish of rain on the pavement under spinning wheels. The rhythmic pit then pat of it hitting his windows, the slosh of the wipers back and forth. Steve’s breathing.

You don’t realize you’ve been soothed to sleep from it all, the combination of alcohol and adrenaline fading, until the car is coming to a complete stop, engine off, and your door is being opened.

Steve leans over you, unbuckling the seatbelt, whispering, “Come on, trouble.”

“Mmm,” you protest, eyelashes fluttering, head hitting the headrest with a frown. “Steve.”

“I know, just a few more minutes then you’ll be in bed, come on.”

His hands slide into yours, gently pulling you from the car, guiding you towards the stairs. Your lead filled eyelids blink with each step, as you mumble, “Keys.”

“I got ‘em, come on,” his hand presses to your lower back, then roams higher, pressing lightly when you sigh from the feeling.

A door opens, a hand wraps around your waist and a shoulder supports your head.

Steve blinks in the low light of your lamp that must be on a timer, taking in your space for the first time. He closes your door, keeping his hand on your waist to steady you as you sway while he bends down.

He watches you, as he unties a sneaker, patting your ankle as he quietly says, “Lift your leg up for me, honey.”

You do as you’re told, blinking down at the boy who gently removes your shoe, then the other as you rest your hands on his shoulders for balance.

“Steve,” you gulp around his name, blinking back tears.

He looks up at his name, frowning as he stands, large hands cradling your jaw as he tuts. “Hey, what’s the matter? What’re these for, huh?”

His thumbs swipe over your cheeks, catching big tears that spill over your lashes as you blubber, “I’m so so-sorry. Everyone could have been really hurt. I hate Peter Gabriel. I’ll ne-never listen to hi-him again.”

Steve laughs, and you frown, blinking at him through tears, “It-it’s not funny. Stop laughing at me.”

He clears his throat, nodding, “Right. It’s not funny.”

His lips twitch when you frown more, fingers curling around his wrists that still support your cheeks.

“Bedroom?” He asks softly.

“Harrington,” you sniffle, eyes rolling, “I hardly think this is the time to try to make a move.”

He shakes his head, “I meant so I can set you up before I leave, smartass.”

You point down the hallway, but then sigh, “Can you get me a glass of water.”

He raises his eyebrows at you expectantly.

“Please?” you pout your lips out.

Steve nods towards your bedroom, “Yeah, I can do that.”

He watches you wander down the hallway, and click on a light in your room, before he heads to your kitchen. As he fills the glass up, he takes the opportunity to glance around at pieces of you he’s not normally let in on. Wondering where certain trinkets are from and what they mean to you. He notices the large collection of vinyl. He grins at the stack of Family Video tapes that are clearly over the rental limit, even for employees.

And he’s ready to say something sassy to you about it, when he reaches your room, but you’re already laying in your bed, eyes closed and curled up on your side.

In his sweatshirt.

He sets the glass of water on the nightstand, then lifts your comforter, pulling it over bare legs exposed from small sleep shorts. He leaves a quick note about leaving your front door key in your mailbox.

Steve hesitates before clicking off the light, taking in your slow, even breaths, the shadows on your face, peaceful with sleep.

He kisses your cheek as he turns off the light, lips lingering against your skin for a moment longer than he probably should have.

“Goodnight, honey.”

AN: thanks for your patience in this chapter and the next! This chapter is actually what sparked the core of this whole series, and I’m excited to finally share it with you. It was originally being written in the winter, and the events of this chapter are heavily inspired by a moment that happened between my parents before they were married! My dad and mom were in the backseat of a car, an accident happened, and my dad had leaned over to protect my mom, and she says that's when she knew she was in love with him. Take that for this story however you'd like 🤭 So while it’s not exactly what happened anymore, the essence is still there and I hope you love it, it definitely holds a special place in my heart. Also, I simply can’t help myself from including The Princess Bride in all of my series it seems. Thanks for being here!

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