#car towing Hoppers Crossing

[amirycashforcars]

Rev Up the Road: Car Removal in Hoppers Crossing

Do you have an unwanted Hoppers Crossing car? An automobile removal service can quickly and efficiently remove garbage and damaged or unwanted cars. Properly throwing away old automobiles frees up space and helps you and the environment. This blog will explain how to remove your automobile and why it's advantageous for car owners.

 Freeing Up Space and Reducing Clutter

 One of the first perks you'll notice is that taking out a car gives you more space. After you get rid of an old, useless car, your driveway or garage will have more space. This space could be used for new vehicles, storage, or a cleaner, more organised yard. Car removal hoppers crossing clutter makes your house seem cleaner and more practical.

 Posted cars are unsightly and block roads or spaces that may be better used. Getting rid of cars brings out the best in your home. Whether you need to create space for a new project or park another car, losing the automobile is a simple method to improve your space.

 Car Care for the Environment

 Ignoring outdated automobile disposal can harm the environment. Oil, petrol, and antifreeze from vehicles and trucks pollute the environment.  Responsible automobile removal ensures thorough scrapping and safe disposal or reuse of parts. Most firms reduce waste and use eco-friendly methods.

 Moving junk in Car Removal Tarneit that cares about the earth will recycle metal, plastic, rubber, and glass. You may employ these resources to produce new items, reducing raw material usage and environmental impact. Hiring a professional to remove your automobile solves an issue on your property and improves the environment.

 Quick and Convenient Process

 Most people must realize how quickly and efficiently selling an old car is. Professional Car Removal Tarneit services try to make the process as simple as possible. They will come right to you after you call and schedule a time to pick up your things. You save time and effort by having the automobile checked out and gone in a few hours.

 Convenience is a primary reason people choose automobile removal services. A professional agency handles everything from legal paperwork to towing the automobile. The procedure usually takes one Day to use your space immediately.

 Getting Value from an Old Vehicle

 Car removal hoppers crossing is inoperable, it can still be valuable. Many Hoppers Crossing vehicle removal firms give cash for automobiles in any condition. Use a car you'd generally park to make some extra cash. Scrap metal, pieces, and materials salvaged or reused give the automobile worth.

 Additionally, some moving companies pay cash for cars. Selling an unwanted automobile might make you Money and free up space. This extra Money may help many people buy new automobile or household items, making the procedure even more helpful.

 Conclusion

Hoppers Crossing make it easy and quick to eliminate old cars that aren't being used. It removes clutter and waste and ensures that your vehicle is thrown away in an eco-friendly way. Fast and straightforward services make selling your automobile easier than ever. Everything works out in the end, and you may even make some Money. Remove your car if it's taking up space. This choice is simple and will benefit both you and the planet. Amiry car removal service is best for car removal.

[muertawrites]

Imagine Jason giving Eddie shit for having his hair pulled back into a bun and the shit eating grin he would give Jason as he says “ladies love looking at a pretty face when you go down your poor girl if you don’t know that”

Side note you single handed feed my perv Eddie addiction so thank you for doing the lords work

(ur welcome for perv!eddie <3 he exists bc of perv!muerta lmao. also i took some liberties and aged everyone up bc i'm grown and love to self indulge. and i also made it hopper!reader bc it's my party and i'll cry if i want to)

18+ minors don't look

You don't mind still living with your family. Your little siblings are cool, your dad doesn't charge you rent (which is important when you're saving money to move across the country), and your stepmom makes a kickass casserole.

The only thing that sucks is living across the street from Jason Carver, the dickhead jock from your high school years who moved in a few months ago with his newlywed bride. They aren't bad neighbors, and his wife is actually very nice (which makes you feel sorry for her, having to be married to that monster), you just fucking hate him. He used to call you fat and write rude graffiti about you in bathroom stalls, and he once felt you up in the crush to leave the gym after a pep rally.

Not to mention the time he rallied an angry mob to try and lynch your boyfriend.

The same boyfriend who's still very much alive, leaned over the front of your car with his hair knotted at the nape of his neck, trying to figure out why you can't start your engine. You lean against the driver's side door and just gaze at him, admiring the sheen of sweat that sticks his fringe to his brow and the poke of his tongue between his lips, the furrow of concentration on his face.

God, he's sexy. And god, you can't wait to get out of Hawkins and have him all to yourself.

"You're eyefucking me again," Eddie drawls, leaning into the car to poke at something.

"And you hate it so much you wore a crop top to stop me," you tease.

He smirks, glancing up at you through his lashes.

"We're gonna have to tow it to the shop," he announces, pulling his bandana from his back pocket to wipe his hands clean of grease. "Don't have the right tools here."

You groan, rolling back onto the door.

"That's gonna seriously cut into our moving budget," you whine. "Can't you just use duct tape or something?"

Eddie chuckles as he strolls to your side, wrapping an arm around your shoulders to pull you in for a kiss.

"The owner of Smith's Towing owes me a favor," he tells you. "I'll see if I can call it in. And you know you can always pay me in head..."

You giggle, taking his face in your hands as he leans in for another kiss, tongue swiping at your lower lip. You're just about to start sucking serious face, maybe even grope him through his jeans, when your friendly neighborhood psychopath takes it upon himself to ruin the mood.

"I'm surprised she lets you kiss her looking like that, Munson," Jason jeers from across the street, having just come back from a run. "You look like a fuckin' pussy in that getup."

Eddie sneers, grumbling under his breath before putting on his best "fuck you, too" smile and raising his middle finger at him, tucking you in close to his hip.

"I'm surprised your wife lets you kiss her with that nasty ass mouth," you quip back. "Bet you taste real bitter."

If there's one thing you'll never not enjoy, it's Jason Carver seething over the fact that you, a little helpless woman, always have the wits to shut him up.

"My wife wouldn't be caught dead with a man like that," he spits. "If you can even call him that, with his hair like that."

"What, your wife didn't tell you?" Eddie chimes in. "Women like to see your face when you eat them out. That poor girl probably hasn't had an orgasm in her life. Least not from you."

Jason's on him in a flash, crossing the pavement in a matter of three strides and grabbing Eddie by the collar of his shirt. You're between them before either can throw a punch, grabbing a wrench from Eddie's open tool kit and holding it to Jason's face.

"Knock it off, jackasses," you snap. "You're grown fucking men. Get a grip."

Eddie relaxes, holding up his hands and taking a step back. Jason spits onto the sidewalk, also moving away.

"Listen to your whore, Munson," he mutters. "Too weak to keep the little bitch in line."

Eddie snaps. He pushes past you before you have time to react, taking Jason by the throat and landing a blow to the man's cheek. The rings on his fingers hit like brass knuckles. You manage to get a hold of him before he can do much damage, Eddie spitting in Jason's face as you haul him backward.

"You talk about her like that again and it's your life, Carver," Eddie growls. "You hear me? I'll rip you to fucking shreds."

The threat is so serious it startles even you.

Jason wipes the blood from his face onto his sleeve, eyes wide with terror as he scuttles up his driveway and through his front door. Eddie stretches his fingers, knuckles raw from the force of his punches.

"Way to not look like a murderer, Eddie," you deadpan.

"That fucker already thinks I am," he hisses. "Might as well scare him off. He speaks to you like that again, I'll kill him. And your dad'll help me hide the body."

You want to argue but you can't. Jim Hopper would hide a body if it were the body of a man who insulted you.

[cheaptowtrucks]

Cheap Tow Truck is one of the affordable car towing services provides in Melton. We provide fast, friendly, and cheap car towing, tow truck service, auction towing, roadside breakdowns, machine towing, interstate towing services in Sunshine, Hoppers Crossing, Werribee, Altona North, and Derrimut at affordable costs. Call now on 0404 112 227

[twistnet]

mistakes [ jim hopper ]

⋯ SUMMARY ; waking up in a strangers bed is nerve-racking, especially when that stranger turns out to be the chief of police, jim hopper

⋯ PROMPT ; [ bed ] my muse wakes up in the same bed as your muse with little recollection of the night before

⋯ WARNINGS ; female!reader, mentions of nudity, sexual actions, + mature language

the aching feeling in your legs was what had awoken you. mind filing through the previous nights events in hopes of coming up with way you were feeling sore, but nothing came.

you had quickly chalked it up to drinking too much, the hangover making itself known as a pounding ache started behind your eyes. groaning, you turned pulling the blankets from your form, only realizing seconds later that you are completely bare.

confusion set in as you surveyed the room, eyes trailing the line of clothes that littered the floor starting just past the doorframe. catching bits of clothing that most definitely weren’t yours. line of sight moving to the blankets that covered you, realizing now that they were, in fact, not the ones you had on your mattress.

fear shooting down your spine as you finally looked to your side, seeing another wrapped in the bedding beside you. still asleep and snoring. curiosity got the better of you as you sat up on your knees, peering over the lump to see the person’s face. gasping when you saw it was none other than jim hopper.

you sat back, sneaking out of the bed as best you could as you gathered up your clothing from the floor. attempting to dress without making too much noise. you could sneak out, forget that you had ever woken up in his bed and go on about your normal life. as if you couldn’t remember anything, there was the chance he couldn’t either.

you had just slipped back on your shoes, grabbing your jacket from the floor to leave just as his bedside alarm went off. you froze, looking over in shock as he grumbled to himself, hand slamming the snooze button to cut the sound off.

his eyes opened, blinking away the sleep as he moved into a seated position. he frowned, pulling the blankets up just enough to see that he was naked underneath. looking up he found you, still frozen and hastily dressed, “what the hell are you doing here?” he questioned, anger settling behind his tone as his face hardened. you sighed, tugging your jacket closer to your body, “do you remember anything from last night?” you asked softly, watching as he shook his head -- remembering next to nothing from the night before.

“i think we... i’m gonna go.” quickly grabbed the rest of your items, rushing to the front door as you fished around for your keys with the hopes that maybe your drunk ass had driven here. all hopes diminished the minute you stepped out into the cold morning weather, your car nowhere in sights.

you sighed, zipping your jacket up tighter as you walked down the dirt driveway and started your walk into town. fingers crossed that it hadn’t been towed yet and you could just go home and forget about this whole event. you made it about halfway to the city when a car had pulled up beside you. hopper’s police bronco squeaking to a stop as he rolled the window down, “get in the truck.” he yelled, a serious expression forming across his face as he spoke, hardening slightly when you shook your head, “i’m fine.”

“get in the dam truck before you freeze to death!” your grumbled, sending a harsh glare in his direction as you got into the truck, slamming the door closed. you quickly rolled the window back up, relishing in the warmth from the heater as the truck started moving again.

the ride was eerily silent as you pulled into town, neither of you wanting to speak about the situation you were both in. so, when he had pulled into the parking spot next to your car, you had uttered a quick thanks before attempting to exit the vehicle quickly. your actions halted by the door latch locking, your head snapping over to jim, “we need to talk.”

you scoffed, “what is there to talk about, jim? we don’t remember anything. might as well keep it that way.” he cursed, banging his fist against the center console as he turned to fully face you, “i get that, but we need to make sure we are on the same page!” he shouted, clicking the door locked away when you had forced the latch up, “same page of what?” you shouted back, face furrowing, knowing this really wasn’t the best way to be handling things.

“what this is.” he gestured between the two of you, “is this a one-time thing, that we forget and never speak of again?” he questioned, making sure he was reading the situation right before anything was set in stone, “why? do you not want it to be a one-time thing or something? cause i feel like you wouldn’t ask unless you wanted it to.” it was amusing to watch him grumble to himself, as heaven above, you managed to get jim hopper to show any other emotion besides anger and apathy. 

“how about we get dinner, and we figure out what this is? maybe a day might give us time to remember what happened last night.” you offered as he started to flounder, smiling to yourself as he nodded. the door unlocked with a click and you got out of the truck and headed for your car, “see you tonight jim.” he nodded, waiting as you got into your car and only leaving once you had backed out of the spot and headed home.

regardless of whether he remembered the night before or not, deep down he was happy that it was you he had spent the night with.

blog navigation ⇢ [ stranger things masterlist ]

[jokenotfunny]

fighting words pt. 1

eddie x platonic! experiment! reader + steve x platonic!experiment! reader

instead of sev using her powers on the people that wrong her, she just starts beating their asses. sometimes

the in-betweens series :

takes place between seasons 2 and 3 before season 3

age 14 ; december 19, 1984 (so steve is still a senior and sev is still in middle school)

a/n : also no eddie in this chapter but he will be in the next one !

- steve's life was going great.

- well everyone's life was going great, it was christmas break after all.

- but steve's life specifically was going really great!

- he didn't have to be in school for two weeks, mr. harrington was stuck three states over due to severe weather conditions and would likely not be home until christmas eve, and he didn't have to see nancy and jonathan all cozied up at school if he was in the comfort of his own house!

- and! his mom was home! downstairs making his favorite seasonal lunch while his grandparents (visiting for the holidays) were in the living room watching outdated christmas movies.

- so yeah. steve was having a pretty damn good christmas break so far.

- but wait- "where's sev?" he sat up abruptly in his bed remembering that you were no longer also watching out dated christmas movies with your grandparents

- he quickly relaxed when he remembered how a few hours ago you ran into his room adorned in your favorite winter coat, a hat and matching gloves, and some fancy boots mrs. harrington had bought you to match her own, with lucas and max in tow (when did they get there?) telling him you'd see him later.

- claiming that you guys were going into town with the others because mike and will found a, quote dustin, "big ass hill for sledding"

- so after a scolding from dustin over your walkie to hurry your asses, because apparently he along with mike and will were outside waiting for you, you all left.

- leaving steve to himself in the comfort of his bed, on this wonderful snowy afternoon.

- he was in such a good mood actually, that he even promised to take you all to the drive-in for some new christmas movie coming out.

- he'd probably come to regret it later when he realized how much money he'd have to spend on all of you but for now in his relaxed, blissful state, he couldn't come to care.

- his large bubble of peace being popped however, when he heard his grandmother hollering for him to come downstairs.

"what's wrong gram?" he asked confusedly, when he was met with her standing at the bottom of the stairs, phone in hand with her arms crossed.

"the chief of police is asking to speak with you, are you involved with gang violence?" she asked in a concerned yet stern tone.

- steve had to restrain himself from laughing at his grandmother's constant concern of gang violence

"no grandma, hopper usually calls to check in about y/n," he calmed her as he took the phone from her and gently nudged her back towards the dining room where his mother was waiting to continue their chess game. "and hawkins isn't like chicago mom, there are no gangs." he heard his mom joke to her, before turning his attention to the phone.

"hey, hop what's up?" he chirped leaning against the wall.

"yeah, no time for casualties harrington, i need you and your parents up here." hopper grumbled in that way, that you know he's pinching his nose in frustration.

" it's just my mom and grandparents, but why?"

"because your sister beat the dog-shit out of this boy and his mother's threatening to sue." he seethed on the other end of the phone.

and that's how steve found himself quickly parking his car behind his mother's and walking through the doors of the police station confusedly trailing behind her seething self , the clacking of her heels echoing through the building..

- they both walked into to see you being verbally torn apart by some woman standing over you, who steve deducted to be the boy in question's mother, while hopper was too busy going back and forth with the boy's father to stop her.

- you didn't seem to phased by the woman's screaming or her proximity however, as you just blankly stared at the woman.

"hey! what the hell do you think you're doing screaming in my daughter's face like that!" screamed mrs. harrington, who marched between you and the woman,

"oh i should've known this she-devil was your child." the woman seethed.

- steve, who decided to stay out of his mother's way, quickly spotted the other kids and went over to them, not missing the ice pack mike was holding to his head.

"henderson, the hell happened man?"

"oh steve, it was amazing you should've been there!"

- everyone began talking at once.

- and it was truly a mess

will was explaining what happened urgently

dustin was animatedly acting out the action of someone falling? or flying steve couldn't tell.

max and lucas were seemingly acting out the part where you were beating up the kid

and mike was angrily ranting about his head injury and gesturing towards a kid who steve hadn't noticed before now, that was sitting across from them looking- well. terrible.

- both of the kids eyes were black, his nose was huge and purple and his lips were swollen.

"okay, alright, before you all tell me- properly and one at a time,"he pointed at them sternly. " she didn't.. you know..." he looked around before wiggling his fingers in the air, looking a them knowingly.

"no and that's what made it even cooler!" dustin emphasized before telling the story.

your pov : flashback to an hour ago at the hill

- you and the others were having the time of your lives

you and mike were racing max and lucas going down the hill on your sleds while will and rob (who i still haven't properly introduced other than his crush on sev i'm sorry 😭🤫🤫!!) were throwing snowballs at you guys on your way down.

- you had noticed a few other kids showed up, but didn't pay any mind to them

- you and max were making your way back up the hill, with mike farther up the hill then you guys when it happened

- one of the new kids who showed up had stopped to talk to mike, and it would have looked like casual conversation if you didn't know mike as well as you did

- his shoulders were tense, he was stepping back from the kid so slowly that the kid didn't notice, nor did mike notice how close to the beginning of the hill he was.

- and then it happened

- the kid shoved mike so hard he tripped backwards and started rolling down the hill

- you would have laughed if he had just fell on his own, but the fact is you had seen this other boy at school before, seen him making fun of mike. you asked mike if he wanted you to deal with him, but he said, and quote, "i can fight my own battles." where you just rolled your eyes with a scoff.

- while your friends all ran up to mike to see if he was okay, you continued your trek up the hill, now with a vengeful march going to confront the kid.

- before you made it to him however you glanced back at your friends and found them huddling over him, while he held his head and blood rand down the side of it. as nice as the snow made hill look, underneath still lied the elements of nature and mike hit his head on a rock on the way down.

- and from there it was honestly a blur for you, you remembered getting to the boy and shoving him to the ground, then punching him in the nose, then next thing you know you were being driven to the sheriff's department, and some woman came in and started yelling at you.

and now back to the present with your mother arguing with the woman

"we have christmas pictures tomorrow, how the hell am i supposed to let him take them like that?!" the boy's mother screeched.

"oh fuck your christmas pictures! your son assaulted a boy and could have killed him and that's what you care about?!" your mother exclaimed. " you should be happy mrs. wheeler isn't pressing charges!" she gestured to mrs. wheeler who came out of the office to fuss over mike's head once again.

"we aren't pressing charges.." the boy's father interjected sternly

"what?! this girl, mangled our son's face, and you don't want to press charges?"

"sue, he's gotten to big for his britches and needed a life lesson. he gets away with so much shit and no consequences because of you, and he needed a reality check." he exclaimed glaring at his son and wife before turning to mrs. wheeler and mrs. harrington.

"i'm so sorry about this whole situation, my boy should have never put his hands on yours, and i'm happy your daughter put my boy in his place. this won't happen again." he said pleadingly.

"the cut's not too big, it's just a little scratch so michael should be fine." mrs. wheeler sighed sharing an understanding look with your mom.

" alright then, is it fine for the rest of us to leave hopper?" your mother asked, as the boy you got into it with's family left the station, quietly arguing about the decision made.

"i don't care." he said waving his hand flippantly. "i don't want to see you in here again harrington." he sternly pointed at you, making you nod, before walking back into his office.

- everyine started making their way to the doors, minus your mom and brother, the last thing you three heard before your friends left the building was-

"son of a bitch, i wanted mrs. harrington to kick that lady with her pointy heels."

- she laughed as she started to gently guide you out of the building.

"you are't angry?" you asked confusedly, at the calm look on her face.

"of course not honey, you defended your friend when he couldn't defend himself, and for that i'm very proud of you." she smiled, not paying attention to the look on your face at the reference to mike being your "friend". "and that bitch sue arlington needed another reality check that my kids are better than hers anyways." she flipped her hair, before walking ahead of you and steve and getting to the car, while she glared at the woman from across the parking lot.

- before steve could even think of what to say, you had started to speak.

"i'm sorry. "he raised his eyebrows confusedly "i know that i'm not supposed to hurt people...but he hurt mike. and then there was blood and i didn't realize what i was doing until it was already done, and-"

"sev, sev calm down it's okay." he calmed you down. "it's like what mom said, you were just defending mike from a bully, nobody's mad at you." steve said.

"that lady was, she yelled at me." you said, as you two looked over at the family that was still in the parking lot.

- the two parents, sue and allen, bickering while the son looked over at you in fear as you glared at him.

"ah screw 'em. they suck anyway." he waved them off, before looking over to the pitiful pouts on you and your friends faces because of the day being ruined. "hey you go stand with them, i'll be right back 'kay?" he sighed before walking towards your mother's car and speaking to her through the window.

"so what happened? are you in trouble? are we in trouble? we didn't even do anything why would we be in trouble?" a bunch of overlapping voices asked once you walked over. you simply shook your head looking over to where your brother was having a conversation with you two's mother.

"no, none of us are in trouble, he just told me to wait here with you guys..." you trailed off as steve jogged over, your mom waving at you guys as she pulled out of the parking lot.

"do any of your parents know about what happened an hour ago?" he asked off-handedly.

"hopper said he was going to call them but i think he got distracted by your mom almost beating that lady up." dustin shrugged.

"but i'm sure they'll know before the end of the day because my mom loves to gossip." mike rolled his eyes., the rest of them groaning in agreement.

"okay well, before you guys have to face the eventual music... you still wanna see that movie at the drive-in?" he asked, chuckling to himself at the quick change of mood in the kids, as you all piled into his car, excitedly chattering about the movie. if he noticed the silent conversation and mouth of a "thank you" from mike and a silent "anytime" from you, he didn't mention it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: that took me TOO long. also i’m not on hiatus i promise. just between school and work i have no time to do ANYTHING.

a/n 2: also a rare mikesev moment that’s not them at each other’s throats???? crazy ik

taglist : @tuffluuhv @reasontobebeautiful @sadbitchfangirl @ohthatsalittlegay @uselessbutinteresting @creativedogs @howlerwolfmax @kik51199 @spookyscarydinosaur @kenzi-woycehoski

@peachycupotea

[pappydaddy]

Oblivious (r.b.)

A/N: Another request down! This one is another Robin request. It's a bit longer than the last one I posted, but it's a bit dry unfortunately. I tried to make it like my other longer fics, but I just felt like this is was meant to be this length. I threw in a funny scene in the end. Anywho, I hope you like it lovely anon💛, I really tried to do your request justice (I loved it btw).

P.S: Not proofread yet. I'm gonna go over all my fics in these upcoming fics to proofread and I will do this fic then

TV Show/Movie: Stranger Things

Pairing: Robin Buckley x Fem!Byers!Reader

Stranger Things/Robin Taglist: N/A

Requested

Warnings: Fluff, a parent being obvious, getting caught getting hot and heavy the backseat. Pretty short in length.

Note: Not proofread yet. I'm gonna go over all my fics in these upcoming fics to proofread and I will do this fic then

masterlist | taglist | wips | navigation - my gif -

The cool night breeze rolled in through Y/N Byers’ open window as she and Robin laid in her bed. Late Summer nights spent in bed with her girlfriend were Y/N’s favourite. Having their legs tangled together, their arms holding each other close as they lightly traced random shapes on each other. It was true bliss in her eyes. “You think your mom is back with the movie yet?” Robin broke the comfortable silence with a whisper. Y/N shrugged, pulling her hand away from where it was playing with Robin’s short hair.

“We would have heard her car so probably not,” She answered, shifting as she propped her elbow up. Robin automatically rolled onto her back, gazing up at Y/N with big blue eyes that sparkled in the silver moonlight, the sounds of frogs and crickets filling the silent room again as they enjoyed the company of each other. “Steve is probably taking forever to lock up the store and she’s probably waiting for him to leave so we don’t start without him.” She hypothesized, looking down at Robin again.

Robin hummed, nodding as she pictured Steve fumbling around with his keys, trying each one to figure out which one locked the store door. “He can never remember which key goes to what. We should get him a label maker so he can label them.” She suggested making Y/N snort out a laugh, flopping on her back, untangling themselves from each other completely.

“Are we really going to be that couple that gives friends stationary for presents,” She asked, lulled her head to the side to gaze at Robin who shrugged, pulling a face that asked her why they couldn’t be. “Because those couples are the boring couple that never get invited to any parties people actually want to have fun at.” She answered Robin’s silent question.”

“Fair point.” Robin agreed just as Y/N’s bedroom door opened. The two girls pulled themselves up, looking at the door as Joyce popped her head in.

“Sorry to interrupt girls night, but Steve is here with the movies and I got the snacks, come on out to the living room.” She told them, leaving the door open as she disappeared down the hall, getting Jonathan from his room. Silently, the girls rolled off Y/N’s bed and shuffled out into the living room, being greeted by Steve and Will placing bowls of chips and popcorn on the coffee table that already had a display of soda and water sitting on it.

“Hey, Dingus,” Robin greets Steve as she brushed past him to sit on the couch. “Will.” She nodded at the younger boy, slapping hands with him in a greeting as he sat beside her.

“Hi, Robin.” Steve breathed out, taking a seat in the armchair, cracking open a can of soda, taking a drink. Y/N stepped over his sprawled-out legs, plunking herself down on the other side of Robin, her feet kicking up to rest on her lap comfortably.

“Where are the other kids?” Y/N wondered, looking over her shoulder at Steve as he sat his open soda down, popping a piece of popcorn in his mouth.

“Dustin is sick, Max is busy being grounded, Lucas is sulking being Max is grounded, and Mike is at a family dinner with his grandparents,” Steve listed off the location of each kid easily. Making Robin laugh. “What?” Steve asked with furrowed brows as he grabbed a chip, crunching on it instantly before wiping his hands on his jeans, bouncing his knee.

“Oh nothing, it’s just that you’re such a mom.” Robin made fun of him, her hands resting on Y/N’s ankles as Joyce walked back in with Jonathan in tow looking like he just woke up from a nap, the pair sitting on the other couch.

“So, Steve,” Joyce started, reaching for two sodas, handing one to Jonathan. Robin reached over, collecting three and placed them in her lap. “What movie is first?” She asked as Y/N and Will each plucked a can from Robin’s lap, opening them at the same time, both cans hissing loudly.

“Have no idea, let Will pick-”

“Rawhead Rex!” Will interrupted excitedly, shocking Joyce since she obviously hadn’t picked that one up.

“Wiliam Byers, did you pick that up without me knowing?”

“No, please, I don’t like scary movies!” Joyce and Y/N said at the same time.

“Which is exactly why I didn’t pick any scary movies, mister.” Joyce told Will in a semi-scolding manner.

“Don’t worry, Y/N, I’ll protect you from the scary movie.” Robin looked over at her, her tone somewhat teasingly. Joyce cooed at this, tilting her head slightly.

“Aw, you two are so cute together,” She sighed longingly. “Wish I had had someone like that in high school.”

____

“I’m heading out for a date mom,” Y/N announced as she walked down the hall from her room, slinging her purse over her shoulder. Joyce opened her bedroom door, popping her head out just as Y/N was about to walk past, scarring her daughter. “Jesus mom,” She exclaimed, her hand flying to her chest as her heart tried to calm down. “You scared me! I thought you were in the kitchen!”

“Sorry dear,” She apologized, opening her door all the way and stepping out of her room all dressed up. Y/N furrowed her brows at her mom’s appearance. She was awfully dressy for a night home alone. Parting her lips as she followed her mother into the living room, she went to say something but Joyce interrupted. “You said you were going on a date, but I don’t see a car.” She pointed out as she looked out the window.

“I’m actually driving tonight.” Y/N explained before opening her mouth the ask her mother about her plans for the night.

“How progressive,” Joyce smiled, turning to face her daughter again, clasping her hands together. “I love a good feminist moment, you have fun on your date and tell me all about it when you get home.”

“So I can have the car,” Y/N asked tentatively. She had assumed that her mother would take the night to relax as this would be the first night in years she has to be home alone. Joyce nodded, looking at her daughter oddly as she tossed the car keys towards her from the bowl by the door. “You don’t have plans? You seem like you do.” Y/N pressed, not wanting to ruin her mother’s plans.

“Oh, I do have plans, I have a date.” Joyce confirmed as if it was nothing. Y/N sputtered, taken aback by this information and how nonchalantly her mother just disclosed it. She watched her mother walk into the kitchen as if it was any other day.

“If you have a date then you need the car, I’ll figure out how to work around not having a car right now-” Y/N rushed into the kitchen behind her, holding the keys out to Joyce who shook her head, pushing her hand away and cutting her off.

“No, I don’t need the car, he’s picking me up here, you go on your date with the car and have fun!” Joyce told her, grabbing Y/N’s shoulders and forcing her to turn around.

“But, this is your first date since Bob died. Do you want me to stay home in case you need to bail? What if something goes wrong and you can’t reach me or Hopper? What if this guy is secretly a mad scientist connected to the Upside Down? What if he’s just a horrible person-” Y/N rambled, fighting against her mother’s hold as she pushed her towards the door.

“Trust me, Y/N,” Joyce started, opening the front door as Y/N continued to ramble off scenarios that could possibly go wrong. “None of that is going to be an issue. I know this guy, you know this guy. He is perfectly safe and I will be fine. Besides, this isn’t even our first date.”

“Mom-” She tried to say something but was cut off by her own mother all but pushing her out of the house. She let out a shriek, stumbling along the porch.

“Go on your date, Y/N and don’t come back until your date is finished.” Joyce warned, closing and locking the front door. Her face was glaring at Y/N through one of the small windows at the top of their door, almost daring her not to go on the date. Huffing, Y/N turned on her heel and headed off to the car.

____

Joyce’s mysterious date had been pushed into the back of Y/N’s mind the second she saw Robin open her front door. Now, it wasn’t even a thought in her head, all her mind could focus on was the way she felt as Robin’s lips traced down her neck, pecking and sucking as they went. Airy moans left her mouth as she squirmed under her girlfriend, her nearly bare back rubbing against the cold backseat of the car. “Oh god-” She whimpered as Robin’s lips travelled lower, dancing dangerously along the cup of her bra, her fingertips just barely slipping under the underwire. “Oh god!” She gasped when her eyes fluttered open after seeing the flash of red and blue hues on her eyelids.

“Am I making you feel good, baby?” Robin pulled her lips from Y/N breast, looking up at her flirtatiously thinking her exclamation was from pleasure, not fear. Her face fell when she noted the wideness of Y/N’s eyes and flashing lights reflecting off her glistening face.

“That’s fucking Hopper,” Y/N hissed as they both scrambled to sit up, Y/N’s arms crossed over her bra-clad chest. They both tried to squint through the fogged-up back windshield, seeing two figures getting out of the car, the beam of a flashlight clicking on. “Shit, where is my shirt?” She panicked, looking around until Robin threw it at her.

“Duck,” Robin pushed Y/N and herself down as the beam of the flashlight swept over the back window. Grunting, Y/N tried to wiggle around and pull the shirt over her head as Robin watched the beam of light. “He’s looking in the woods, let’s crawl out the front seats!” Robin ushered her, letting her crawl over the console first.

“Something tells me we’re not gonna make it to the front seat,” Y/N trailed off as her eyes squinted at the brightness of the flashlight pointed right at her through the driver’s side window. “Hi, Hop,” She smiled, waving awkwardly. In response, Hopper simply pulled the backseat door open, revealing Joyce standing there, looking confused. “Mom, what are you doing here? I thought you were out on a date?” Y/N froze, her knee digging uncomfortably into the middle console.

“I am on my date, we were heading to the restaurant after the movie when we saw the car looking abandoned.” Joyce explained.

“Your date was with Hopper? You’re dating Hopper?” Y/N asked, shocked as she crawled out of the backseat, Robin following closely.

“You didn’t know that?” Robin asked her as if it was obvious.

“No!”

“Your date was with Robin?” Joyce ignored the two girls, her brows furrowed.

“You didn’t know they were dating?” Hopper looked at Joyce as he pointed his finger at the pair.

“No idea.” Joyce shook her head.

“You two are really oblivious. Everyone knew both of these things,” Hopper informed them with a laugh, earning two glares from Y/N and Joyce. “Well, anyway, we’ve got a reservation-”

“Wait,” Joyce interrupted him. “I thought you guys were just friends-” Joyce pointed to Y/N and Robin who both shrugged sheepishly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She asked her daughter, slightly embarrassed for not realizing and a bit let down that she didn’t tell her.

“I thought you knew.”

“Well, now that I do know, I want to get to know Robin as your girlfriend so would you guys like to accompany us to our dinner reservations?” Joyce asked, her eyes wide as she hoped her daughter would say yes. She always knew that she liked girls, but she had no idea they were dating.

“Only if I get to drill Hopper with questions to make sure he’s good enough for you.” Y/N playfully glared at Hopper, narrowing her eyes at him.

“Deal.” Joyce nodded firmly.

[avengers-age-of-fanfics]

just for you, honeybee (1/?)

pairing: bucky barnes x female!reader, steve rogers x reader (platonic!)

word count: 3,172

warnings: a few curse words, bucky being cute, steve being awkward but also a great friend

authors note: hello! this is my first ever post on this account and the first chapter to a new series! im not sure how many chapters this is going to be as i got inspiration to write it a few days ago but im hoping to keep up with it. also, once TFATWS ends, i intend to do a series based on that as well! anywho, i hope you enjoy this and please leave feedback/lmk what i can do to improve! thank u :)

summary: dating back to 1943, you, james barnes, and steve rogers were best friends, including bucky being your boyfriend. when you get a notice that bucky died in the war, you make it your mission to find closure for yourself and protect steve as he is the only remaining piece of bucky you have left. once you are offered the super soldier serum, you and steve must make your way through world war 2 - and the unknown future hardships to come.

James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes laid across from you on your bed, eyes softly glancing over your features as your hand grazed over his cheek and jawline. You chuckled to yourself, “looking a bit scruffy, Buck.”

He hummed, eyes now fluttering closed at your touch, “thought you liked it, doll.”

With a quick kiss to his lips, you nodded, “oh I do, don’t worry – no reason not to, really.”

Bucky let out a soft laugh before he ran a hand over your cheek, “I gotta get goin’ soon, doll. ‘Uniforms at Becca’s.”

With a sigh, you rolled onto your back and stretched, “she’s a saint, you know, washing and steaming your uniform for you.”

Bucky nodded in agreement with you, “that I do know, honeybee. I’ll meet you at Stevie’s, yeah?”

As you got out of your shared bed, you looked back at Bucky, “of course! Gotta see you off before you go put your life on the line, no big deal.” Bucky quickly dropped the conversation immediately after, understanding how you're feeling.

You weren’t mad at Bucky for joining the army – you couldn’t be, it wasn’t his fault. He was drafted and you knew that if he could stay, he would; and you knew you were being slightly immature about him leaving. You just wanted more time with him. So many people you knew had received letters that their loved ones hadn’t come back, that they had died in battle. It wasn’t fair, but when was life perfectly balanced?

By the time you got changed and got yourself cleaned up, Bucky was straightening out his shirt before he turned towards you, eyes hesitant. You walked to him, buttoning up his final buttons before you ran your hands over his shirt, “I’ll see you soon, Buck, okay?”

Bucky ran his tongue over his lips, “I know, honeybee. Try to keep Steve out of trouble for the time being, okay?”

You laughed, “I’ll certainly try my best – now get outta here!” With a smack to his ass, Bucky gave you one last kiss before he headed out the door to see his sister, Rebecca. You had asked her to iron Bucky’s uniform before he got sent off to war, wanting him to look his best – but you were sure he would look handsome in anything.

Looking in the mirror, you straightened out your favorite belted Peter Pan collar dress, fit with a pair of white heels; only the best for your Buck. You had begged him multiple times to let you register to become a nurse, in the slight chance of being close to him, but he always responded with the same answer: “I want to make sure I have someone to come home to, doll.”

You’d never tell him, but your heart warmed every time he said that.

Doing one more look-over, you smiled to yourself, grabbing your purse as you headed out the door. Steve’s apartment was only a few blocks away from your own, and honestly, you wanted to spend more time with him before Bucky left. The two were inseparable, and you knew Steve was going to struggle with Bucky being gone – that, and the unknowing if he’ll come back.

With sharp and prideful steps, you made your way across the street, saying hello to familiar faces and grabbing a newspaper from Grover, a vendor along the streets of Brooklyn. He stopped you before you headed off, “heard your boy’s goin’ off to war, y/n. How ya doin’?”

With a soft chuckle, you glanced down at the newspapers in your hands – one for you, Steve, and Bucky while he was on the train. You looked back at Grover, “I could be better, if I’m being honest. But I know he’s doing a good thing, so my silly feelings shouldn’t hold him back, Grove.”

Grover grumbled with a roll of his eyes, “you and your selflessness, just like ya ma. I’m telling yous, y/n, that boy loves you to the moon and back. Ain’t nothing he wouldn’t do for ya; if you asked him to stay, he’d go and fake his death to make sure you two go runnin’ off into the sunset together.”

With a laugh, you pushed the tears back, “and I love him too, Grove – but I can’t ask him to just not go. That just isn’t how it is, you know?”

Grover nodded, “yeah, kid, I know. . .Now get lost, I got customers to deliver these too.”

You glanced down at the stack of newspapers, “I’m headed over to Steve’s, anyone near his you gotta drop them off to?”

The vendor let out a hum and rested his head in his palm, “hmm, I think just Richie and Betty Davis right next to Rogers’ place. They get two, you good carryin’ an extra bundle?”

You gave Grover a look as he held up his hands, “just as fierce as ya mama, too – and being Barnes’ girl, probably the wrong question to ask.”

With a laugh, you held out your stack of papers, “pile them on, Gro. I’ll see you later, alright?” The vendor nodded and shoo’ed you away as you continued your journey to Steve’s apartment. Once you arrived, you left two newspapers on his neighbor’s doorstep, knocking once as you crossed back over to Steve’s.

As the Davis’ door opened, you knocked on Steve’s, already hearing rustling inside. Betty was at her door, “y/n? That you, sweetheart?”

With a turn, you greeted Mrs. Davis with a smile, “hi Mrs. Davis, how are you? How are the kids?”

The woman smiled back, “’mm, they’re good – always askin’ when the next batch of those delicious brownies are coming!”

You laughed and noticed Steve had opened the door, small statute waiting until you were done talking with Betty, “I’ll drop them by the next time I get to bakin’, Mrs. Davis. I’ll see you!” You waved to her, as did Steve, as he stepped aside to let you in.

Steve looked at the newspapers, then back at you, “you look great, y/n. . . Looks like I’ll be tellin’ Buck to shut his mouth when he sees you.”

You chuckled, “’cus he’ll catch flies or the obscenities he’ll be sayin’?”

Steve let out a laugh, “both, definitely both.”

Now that you both were in the safehouse of his apartment, you finally got a good look at your little army-hopper. He spotted a new black eye and a small cut on his cheek, yet he still looked as if he could go again if he wanted to. You nodded towards him, “where’d you get into a scuffle at this time?”

He shifted his feet until he let out a sigh, “behind a theatre. They were showin’ commercials for the army and some guy just started saying stuff.”

With a bite of your cheek, you sat down on one of his chairs, “so you had to fight him?”

“Just gotta be one of the good guys in the neighborhood, y/n.”

“I know, Stevie.”

An hour had passed and, in the meantime, you and Steve enjoyed some tea and tried to complete your own crossword puzzles. A small conversation had taken place between the two of you, talking about plans once Bucky was off fighting the war. You had talked about Steve moving in with you, but he was always so stubborn, wanting to prove that he could live on his own. You never thought that he couldn’t, but it could be a money saver.

One more glance at the clock, you figured it would be almost time for Bucky to show up. And, just like that, a knock was heard from the door and you smiled, getting up to answer it as Steve stayed back, grumbling at the pieces of paper in his hands. Opening the door, you saw your James Buchanan Barnes standing tall and proud in his new uniform.

Bucky whistled, glancing over your outfit as you did the same to him, “you look gorgeous, honeybee – even though I told you to not dress up.”

He stepped inside the apartment as you crossed your arms, “I mean, Steve agrees that this is kind of a big deal, so I think a nice dress will suffice.”

Steve and Bucky clasped hands and Bucky nudged his shoulder, “thought you were supposed to be a good influence on my girl, Steve.”

The smaller man shrugged, “kind of is a big deal.”

Bucky shuffled his feet, “yeah, well, I don’t want it to be. Let’s just go to the future and then see me off, alright?” The three of you stood in silence, light tension hanging in the air. With a sigh, you grabbed your purse, “well, off we go! C’mon now, boys.”

Bucky, you, and Steve headed to New York World’s Fair, hooked arms leading towards Howard Stark’s Expo. With bright lights, fireworks, and amazing technology surrounding you, your eyes failed to see Bucky staring at you with so much adoration. He never wanted to leave you – he’d stay if he could – but he had been drafted. All he wanted to do was stay in Brooklyn with you and Steve, and just never leave your arms. Hell, really, wherever you went, he went.

But that wasn’t the case in this scenario.

With a hand on your waist, Bucky looked up at Stark’s presentation of his repulsor technology with a flying car, head shaking in disbelief. While his car may have only hovered for a few seconds, the idea of not even needing to touch the ground to drive absolutely boggled your mind. During the presentation, Steve glanced up at you two and silently snuck off, hoping you didn’t notice his absence for too long. But he knew you and how observant and protective you were.

However, once you glanced around after a few minutes and found Steve in front of an army poster within the United States Armed Services Recruitment center. Squeezing Bucky’s hand, you slightly pulled him towards where Steve was, trying his best to fit his head within the frame.

With a slight push of his shoulder, Bucky nodded his head towards the Expo, “come on, we’re goin’ dancing – and hopefully find yourself a girl.”

Steve shook his head, “you – uh – you go ahead, I’ll catch up later.” He looked around, trying to divert the conversation between him and his best friend.

“Steve,” you started, “please? Just this one night?”

Bucky held your hand as he looked back at Steve, “you’re really gonna do this again?”

“I just – guys, it’s a fair, I’ll try my luck,” he started, looking between you both.

Beside you, you felt Bucky grow agitated, “that’s who, Steve from Ohio?”

“Bucky,” you said, squeezing his hand once more, “let him try one more, okay? We can go dancing and Steve will catch up later. If he doesn’t, I’ll hang his head on my wall like a prize.”

The boys let out a chuckle as Steve continued, “one last time, alright? I promise I’ll come later on – Mac’s, right?”

You nodded your head as Bucky sighed beside you, “don’t think you got to prove anything, Steve.” A small pause came over the three of you as Bucky continued, “don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”

You started to walk back with Bucky, letting go of his hand as he continued his conversation with Steve as he let out a small laugh, “how can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” You held up a finger at Steve, “you better mean that about himself, Rogers.”

Steve held up his hands, “yes ma’am! And Bucky –“

Bucky turned around once more to his best friend, “don’t win the war until I get there.” With a mock salute, Bucky dragged you back towards the Expo as you waved back at Steve, making sure he’d meet you at the bar before your boyfriend was shipped off.

With a sigh, Bucky wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close as he kissed your head, “that punk is gonna get himself in all loads of trouble, honeybee.”

You held his hand that was around your shoulder, “I’ll keep Stevie in his place. Seriously, Buck, try not to worry about him.”

“I just,” Bucky gripped your hand, “I don’t wanna come back to nothing, you know? Steve’s my best friend and if he somehow gets himself killed here or in the war, I don’t know what I’d do.”

You pulled Bucky to a stop, putting your hands on his cheeks, “James, look at me, please.” With soft eyes, Bucky looked into yours, “I promise you, Steve is going to be okay – he won’t do anything stupid, at least without me. We’re going to be okay, and you will, too. . .’cus if you aren’t, I may go and kill Hitler myself.”

Bucky chuckled, “I don’t doubt that for a minute, sweetheart. I love you, you know that, right?”

You leaned up, kissing Bucky softly before pulling back, hands tight on your waist, “I love you too. Now C’mon, I wanna go to Mac’s and celebrate my newfound freedom.”

Bucky groaned and pulled you even closer, “maybe I should tell Steve to keep an eye on you.”

With a mock salute of your own, you giggled at your boyfriend, “aye, sir, my new mission is to protect Steven Grant Rogers from being an idiot!”

Bucky couldn’t help but laugh, “toughest job in this whole war, honeybee.”

As the night continued on, Steve actually showed up to Mac’s and had a new look in his eyes.

‘Hmm,’ you thought to yourself, ‘looks like I gotta ask him about something later.’

Steve, you, and Bucky didn’t drink, but instead enjoyed each other’s company before Buck was shipped off; this really only included Bucky and Steve making fun of each other and you keeping the boys in line. Laughs and a few smacks on the head filled the atmosphere, but you knew it wouldn't last long.

By the time it was nearing close to Bucky’s train departure, the three of you took to the streets and headed to the train station, silence enveloping you. Bucky’s hand was wrapped tightly around yours as you dreaded this goodbye, even if you had high hopes he’d return to you and Steve.

At the sight of the train and fellow troops heading into their cabins, Bucky turned to Steve, “you take care of yourself, alright punk? I don’t want any letters from my girl telling me that you’ve been actin’ out.”

Steve shoved his shoulder, “you’re acting like I’m 12 years old again. I’ll be fine, Buck.”

Bucky nodded, but looked to his best friend, “and Steve?”

Steve held his breath but let go, “yeah, Bucky?”

“Please take care of her.”

Steve glanced back at where you stood, picking your nails as your anxiety was pricking at your skin. He nodded, “I will.”

Bucky let out a sigh of relief, “thank you, pal. I love her, so make sure she doesn’t do anything stupid either, okay?” Steve nodded in response.

Bucky then headed over to where you were standing, his eyes raking over your beautiful dress, your heels, and most importantly, your face. He did not want to forget a single thing about you or your features – he wanted them committed to memory. With a gentle hand, Bucky tilted your chin up towards him, “you alright, honeybee?”

You nodded, too afraid to use your voice as tears flooded your eyes. Trying to dry them up anyway, you nodded once more, unable to look at Bucky. He sighed, “c’mere, sweet girl, I got you.”

With no hesitation, you fell into Bucky’s arms, tears threatening to fall as you felt his hands rest upon your back and your head. You sniffled, “I’m going – I’m going to miss you so much, Jamie – so, so much.”

Bucky kissed your head, “I’m gonna miss you too, sweetheart. Don’t you dare think that I won’t for a second. You’ll be the first thing on my mind every second of the day.”

You breathed, “can living through this war be the first thing on your mind? And maybe completing a crossword puzzle?"

Bucky let out a small laugh but held you tighter, “just for you, honeybee.” Pulling back, he wiped away stray tears that threatened to fall from your eyes, a soft smile on his face. “You’re gonna be alright, and I’ll be comin’ home to you in no time.”

You nodded, a few tears slipping free from your eyes as you looked up at Bucky, thumbs rubbing over his cheeks and light stubble. You slowly traced over his lips, his nose, and his eyebrows, committing everything about him to memory. With a small smile, you leaned up, catching him in a kiss once more, “stay safe, you hear me? And take this damn thing with you - maybe you'll complete it." With gentle hands, you handed him the newspaper you had gotten today.

He carefully took the newspaper from you, already hoping the crossword puzzle would be easy this time around. Then, Bucky pecked your lips before he headed towards the train, “gotta come back for my best girl. I love you!”

As he stepped onto the train and hung out the window of a cabin, he continued yelling, “I love you, y/n l/n! I love you!”

You cried, a bright smile on his face, “I love you too, James Buchanan Barnes!” Blowing kisses towards him, both you and Steve watched as the train slowly started to pull away, seeing him mindlessly hand his ticket to the worker, not bothering to tear his eyes away from you or his best friend.

“I love you!” he shouted once more, all before his train sped up, leaving you and Steve behind on the platform.

Wiping your eyes and your nose with a cloth, you cleared your throat and turned to Steve, “gah, sorry. Let’s uhm – do you want to head back to my place?”

Steve nodded towards you, “yeah, yeah that sounds good. You alright?” He hooked your arm with his as you headed out of the station, continuing to wipe your eyes. “Yeah,” you started, “I’m okay. I knew this was coming. . . I guess I just hated the whole ‘saying goodbye,’ you know?”

Your best friend rubbed the back of his neck, “I get it, y/n, but he’ll come back – he has a reason to, and that’s you.”

Your heart fluttered, and tears welled up in your eyes once more. With a quick sniffle, you reached into your purse and grabbed your key, unlocking your door to your apartment. Once inside, you quickly got to making tea for you and Steve, something to get your minds off of your missing puzzle piece.

Once tea was made and you both were sitting in your living room, you turned to him, “tell me, Stevie. Please.”

Steve looked at you, a confused look etched upon his face, “tell you what?”

You leaned back into your chair, picking at your nails once more, “what happened at the recruitment office? I’ve known you long enough to see that there’s something you’re not telling me, there’s something in your eyes, Stevie, so please, just tell me.”

Steve seemed shocked that you were able to read him like that, but was defeated. With a sigh, he turned and reached into his handbag, pulling out a file, “there was this Doctor there, Doctor Erskine, who uh – he approved me for the army, y/n. But it’s for an experiment, something they call a super-soldier experiment, I’m not sure. But, I’m going – I leave in a couple days.”

How is your world falling apart this quickly?

[stevesnailbat]

fear of the (un)known | steve harrington

chapter four : keep your distance

summary: Grace, or 007 as she had been called, finally escaped Hawkins Lab after seventeen long years. But, freedom is a lot harder than she thought it would be to maintain.

warnings: angst, mentions of death kinda?

word count: 2.3K

After delving into Steve’s mind by accident, Grace decided that it’d be best to keep her distance from him. She didn’t want him to know that she had done it, it felt wrong to her to intrude on his thoughts like that. Along with keeping the accidental mind-reading a secret, she was dealing with the fact that he had called her so beautiful. It was on her mind constantly, but she didn’t want him to fall for her—she’d hurt him and she knew it. The only problem with distancing herself was that he had begun to come around more than before.

Of course, Steve did his typical duties as chauffeur and babysitter for the kids, but now he’d make a point to come inside when dropping El off. He’d always talk to her, but he noted her distant stare as she’d reply. She didn’t dare to look at him anymore, like she was afraid that she might be compelled to read him again. Steve hadn’t stopped thinking about that night since it happened, his thoughts wandered to what was actually happening when he came into the house every time he saw her. He wanted answers, but he knew it’d might be impossible to get them.

There were only special places that Hop would let El go before Grace came, and those rules applied to Grace once she inhabited the cabin. The difference between the girls was that Grace never asked to leave. She had only bad memories of what she’d been through outside, she wanted to stay in the cabin forever. She felt safe, it was in her comfort zone.

Snow had finally started to fall in Hawkins and El was downright ecstatic about it. She wanted to leave the cabin and play in it so badly, but Hop would tell her no every time.

“You’re not going out there alone!” he snapped one day at breakfast, making Grace flinch at his booming voice. “No supervision, no leaving this house. Got it?”

“Grace can come.” El suggested and Grace nearly dropped her fork out of shock at the girl’s words.

“Still no. You two are not safe on your own, you know that.” he responded, eyes narrowed as El wracked her brain for ideas.

“Steve?” El interjected, knowing he would be less likely to say no if he would come.

“I’m assuming that means you want your friends to come over too, isn’t that right?” he asked, El smiled at him hopefully and nodded. “We’ll see.”

Grace knew what ‘we’ll see’ in Hopper terms meant, she knew El would get her way. From what El had told her, Hop had loosened his reins slightly after she closed the gate. It was still dangerous for them to go most places, but at least he’d let her leave the cabin now. Soon enough, a few phone calls were made and Steve was pulling into the driveway with a car full of the young teens.

Seeing that amount of people come to the house made Grace’s fear shoot through the roof. She hadn’t been around more than three people since she left the lab, she had no idea if she could trust any of them. El saw Grace sitting on the couch tapping her foot and chewing her lip, she could tell she was afraid. Grace nearly bolted off the couch when she felt the hand on her shoulder, but calmed when she saw it was just El.

“Friends, the Party.” El said simply, pointing to the kids outside as they piled out of the car. “You can trust them.”

“Do they all know about everything you’ve been through?” she asked, and El nodded.

Steve was opening the cabin door and piling in with the five kids in tow before either girl could say anything else. Everything happened very quickly after that moment, they all introduced themselves to Grace and were talking over each other as they tried to ask about her powers. She could barely think to fit a word in, let alone comprehend what they were all saying to her.

“I’m a telepath.” Grace said calmly, watching the way each of the kid’s faces lit up. “And I can control people’s minds.”

“No shit.” the boy named Dustin said, a dumbfounded expression on his face. “Would you show us?”

“Alright shitheads! Quit asking her so many questions. I’m sure she doesn’t want to use them right now. Let’s go, the sun will set if we don’t get out soon.” Steve called, earning a collective groan from the kids as they worked to put on their cold clothes again. “You coming with, Grace?”

“I—I don’t think I can.” she said, shaking her head quickly. “I don’t have a coat or anything.”

“Extra.” El said, pointing to the clothes sitting in the recliner next to her. “Please?”

El was too sweet for Grace to tell her no, honestly. Begrudgingly, Grace put the winter gear on and followed the group out the door. She fell behind everyone as they walked through the woods, becoming hyper-aware of everything around them. Steve noticed her concerned expression and slow walking soon after they started. Mike and Dustin knew where they were going, they could lead the way.

“Are you doing alright back here?” Steve asked, giving her a small, sheepish smile as he approached her.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” she said softly, shrugging her shoulders.

“Have you had anything happen since that night?” Steve asked abruptly, like he couldn’t stop his curiosity; it seemed inappropriate to blurt out, but he couldn't stop himself. “I’m sorry, I mean like, are you feeling better now? No more bad nights?”

She only shook her head in response. She knew exactly what he was talking about, he was asking if she’d damn near ruined herself again. Thankfully, she hadn’t had any episodes of terror since that night, but the thought of it still ran through her mind all the time. Steve was so perplexed about the situation, but she could tell he was catching onto something and she didn’t like it. She didn’t want him to know that she knew what he’d thought about her, so she’d keep that part tucked away for herself.

Most of the walk was quiet after that, and they eventually made it to where they were walking. There was a creek covered in ice and snow, but that seemed to excite the kids. They all ran towards it and left Steve and Grace to watch them run around. Grace found a fallen tree next to the creek to sit on and Steve followed suit, giving her the distance she wanted.

“What—What happened, exactly? On that night, I mean.” Steve questioned, still stuck on the last time they had spoken. “You don’t have to tell me, I guess I was just curious—“

“Brenner designed me to be a killing machine.” she stated bluntly, wanting to get straight to the point staring at the trees across the creek. “If I’m not using my powers at all, wether it’s to hurt someone or just read someone’s thoughts, I’ll start to self-destruct.”

“You were destroying yourself?” he questioned, she nodded slowly as she avoided his gaze.

“I’m trying to fight the urges, but it’s hard. I can’t be alone really, it’s dangerous. I—I honestly don’t know what would’ve happened if I would’ve been there by myself for much longer.” she said, shuddering at the thought of forcing herself into insanity. “It usually goes away if I use them just once, though.”

“So you did use them?” he asked, eyebrows quirking up as he saw her pained expression.

“I—I didn’t mean to. It just happened.” she said softly, looking up at him finally with guilt in her eyes.

It took seeing the sadness she was holding for Steve to realize what she meant. The guilt was eating her alive damn near as much as the itch to use her powers was now. She had read into his mind, but he was unsure of when she did and what she’d heard. Grace looked like she was on the verge of breaking down at this point, she was afraid that he’d be upset.

“Hey, I’m not mad about this, alright? It wasn’t like you did it on purpose. I was the first one you saw, and you didn’t want to drive yourself insane.” Steve said reassuringly. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

“I’m sorry. For—For scaring you and El like that.” she said meekly.

“Don’t be sorry, Grace.” he assured her, smiling over at her. “What was I thinking anyways? I’m sure it was chaotic.”

“It was right when I realized you were even in the room with me, when I read your mind. You were really freaked out—you kept telling yourself to be calm because you didn’t want El to get scared.” she said with a bitter laugh, lips quirking up into a weak smile. “I’m glad you were there to freak out, because I was on the verge of something more.”

Steve scoffed at the thought of how scared he was, but knew she wasn’t telling the whole truth. He knew what he’d thought that night, and he knew that she’d heard exactly what he was thinking. If she could remember everything else, that definitely would have stuck with her. But he didn’t press on, he didn’t want to force her to talk about it.

Truthfully, Grace knew that he had some sort of crush on her and that she had developed something similar. Him calling her so beautiful had stuck in her mind and she wished she could hold onto the feeling forever. It was painful to think about, really. She knew that she’d have to do something about it, that she’d end up hurting him if she didn’t make the crush go away.

“Y’know, I meant what I said about helping you. We all want to help, I can teach you how to read like you wanted. I don’t mind, I want to help if I can.” Steve offered, smiling at her once more as he saw a look of sadness cross her face.

“Thank you, Steve.” she replied.

“And I’m sorry if I was an ass to you when you showed up that one day, I didn’t know what to expect. Especially after fighting those monsters from hell a couple days before.” he admitted, shrugging casually. “I’m glad you’re here and safe, Grace.”

She faked a smile as she looked up at him, a pang of sadness and guilt rushing through her. He was glad she was here, he wanted to know her better. She was a hidden gem that he discovered at the time he needed it most. Steve knew she’d be tough to break through, but he’d put in the work if he had to.

They hadn’t known each other for too long, but she knew his intentions were pure. Grace saw the determination that Steve held, she knew she’d have to break it somehow. She knew she couldn’t let him fall in love with her, she was unlovable and dangerous and he deserved better than someone who’d only cause him pain. Steve couldn’t understand that she was a monster, but she’d make him understand soon enough.

“Hey, get your asses up!” Dustin called to Steve and Grace, packing a snowball in his gloved hands. “We’re having an intense battle over here and need some assistance!”

The kids were throwing snowballs at each other and screaming back and forth about what the others were doing. It was entertaining to watch, but Grace was hesitant to join. El and Max coaxed her out, saying that they could kick they boy’s asses. They spent nearly an hour packing and throwing snow while hiding behind trees and making tactical plans. There wasn’t really a point to the game, besides hitting as many people as they could. It felt nice, for a moment, Grace was able to forget about the real world and just have fun.

The Party made her feel welcomed, like she wasn’t some freak or some monster like they did at the lab. She had just met them, but knew that she could trust them and they’d understand her struggles better than anyone else would.

It was sunset by the time they came in, but the kids were still hesitant to leave. Coming inside afterwards seemed like the worst part, honestly; they wanted to stay out there forever. They were cold and wet, but none of them seemed to mind too much. Steve looked to Grace every once in a while, seeing the genuine smile fade from her lips as they got back inside. She was brought back to reality and Steve could tell she was hesitant about something.

“You alright?” Steve asked her as she sat at the kitchen table while the Party chatted in the kitchen, he sat down next to her with a concern-laced smile.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.” she lied, shaking her head assuringly.

The smile Steve gave her was so genuine that it hurt her, really. He seemed so invested in everything she said, like she was the most interesting person he knew. Honestly? He kinda thought she was, too. Grace tried to ignore the way he looked at her, to save herself from falling deeper into the hole that was her crush on Steve Harrington. She knew she’d have to hurt him in one way or another to keep him safe from herself.

She knew she’d eventually resort to driving him away in a way that he’d never know about, a way that would spare him the pain of heartache that she’d soon feel.

tags: @sourapplebaby @harringtown @jxnehxpper @hystericalmedicine @charmed-asylum @queenofthehairharrington @a-magey @lemonypink @daddystevee @karasong @heart-eye-harrington @batbatsupermanme @used-avocado @letscici @igotmadskills @mikariell95 @anerroroccurrrrred

[harringtonandbuckley]

jailhouse rock

robin buckley x reader

request: can you do something with #5 and #96? 

5: “I’m not here to make friends.”

96: “It’s Christmas, don’t be mad at me.”

It was a cold afternoon on Christmas day. Your careful planning and precision of the day ahead was one of high honor. You had made it a point to wrap your family’s gifts that morning to ensure everything was accounted for, but you completely overestimated how much paper it would take. Sure, you planned everything to a ‘T,’ but you never imagined that your downfall would be running out of wrapping paper. So, to your dismay, Robin had graciously offered to run to the store and pick some up.

Robin left your house at 12:30. It was now 2:58. Not only did you have to be at your parent’s house at 4:00, you also had to finishing wrapping the gifts, and, most importantly, prepare Robin for meeting the rest of your family. It was your first major holiday together, and your parents had insisted on her coming over. 

Now, the faster the time passed, you began to panic and wonder if Robin had just left to avoid going with you today. Seriously, how long does it take for one person to buy wrapping paper? You began to pace your living room, trying to create logical solutions as to why she hasn’t come back. Maybe her car broke down. Maybe the line at the store was ridiculously long. Maybe she drove through the main stretch of town and just kept going.

Finally, you gave in. You went to your phone and dialed a familiar number: Steve. The line was ringing, and for some reason, you had some feeling of hope. That ended quickly when the line went to voicemail. You left a quick message, nothing too concerning, just letting him know you had to ask him a question. You hung up and rested your forehead against the wall. What the fuck.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by the phone ringing. Figuring it was Steve calling back, you answered. “Thank god you called me, I’m worried sick.”

“How did you know I was going to call?”

“Robin?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Listen I-”

“Where the hell are you?” You figured you sounded a little bit too harsh judging by her scoff on the other end.

“I need you to promise me something before I start to talk.”

“Why?”

“Y/N, please?”

“Okay.”

“It’s Christmas, don’t be mad at me.”

“Rob-”

“I’m kind of in a jam and I need you to come and get me.”

“So why am I going to be mad.”

“Well, I may or may not be, um, kind of sort of in jail?”

“Are you being serious?”

“Y/N, can you just please come and get me?”

“You’re in jail?”

“Yeah, it’s a long story but I just need you to come and get me. That simple.”

“It’s not that simple when you are making your phone call from prison! Jesus, Robin!”

“I’m not here to make friends. You’re acting like I came here on purpose.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

-------------------------------------

Your drive to the police station was full of nothing but anger and many, many expletives. You left your house at 3:20, and you probably wouldn’t get there for another ten minutes. Time was ticking away.

Finally, you arrived. With a huff, you got out of your car and stalked to the front doors. You were greeted instantly with Chief Hopper, a scowl on his face. 

“Please tell me you’re,” he looked down at his palm, “Y/N and here to pick up Harrington and Buckley.”

“I’m sorry, what?” You blinked and crossed your arms over your chest.

“Harrington and Buckley? They said some girl was coming to pick them up.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Just wasn’t expecting the ‘Harrington�� part.”

“Well, if it wasn’t you before, it is now,” Hopper put his face in his hands and sighed. “They’re absolute pain in the asses. I can’t take it anymore.”

“What the hell did they do?” You finally asked.

“Public disturbance. They can give you the details. Give me a sec and I’ll go grab them.”

You sat down in the lobby, fire coursing through your veins. Not only did Robin get arrested on Christmas day, she was with Steve? Once again: What the fuck.

Not more than one minute later, Hopper appeared around the corner with Steve and Robin in tow. “Have a Merry Christmas, and I hope to never see any of you again any time soon.”

-------------------

The car ride home was mostly in silence. You made Robin and Steve sit in the backseat. “Steve, what are your holiday plans?”

“Um, just uh, planning on watching a movie or something?” 

“Well, not anymore. You’re coming with me and helping me wrap those god damn gifts and you’re coming with to my parent’s.”

“O-Okay.”

You looked around, making sure no cars were around, and you swerved to the side of the road. 

“Jesus Christ!”

“Care to explain to me why you two were arrested for public disturbance?”

“Well, I was at the store to buy your wrapping paper, and Steve was also there.”

“Keep going.”

“Some guy was being a douche and Robin told him off, he got all in her face, and I punched him.” Steve added, raising his fist proudly in the air. You ran a hand through your hair and sighed.

“That’s all?”

“I may or may not have called him some choice words.” Robin mumbled. 

You nodded and turned your eyes to the road. You checked your watch. 3:55.

“You two are going to be the death of me, I swear to god.” You got back on the road and continued to drive. 

“Can I add one more thing?” Robin cleared her throat and stretched over to the front of the car, placing a quick peck on your cheek.

“If you must.”

“It was absolutely nothing like Jailhouse Rock.”

[vloggerparker]

what’s love? || s.h

↬ pairing(s): Steve Harrington x Hopper!reader

↬ genre/warnings: kinda angsty, fluff.

↬ word count: 2.8k

↬ synopsis: Steve’s been acting differently lately -jealous, distant, irritable- and (Y/n) doesn’t know why. it isn’t until Steve consults the Chief of Police, (Y/n)’s father, that he lets her know what’s wrong.

↬ a/n: for @melxoxo23 who said “jealous steve and the readers dad, hop, is the one that makes him feel all better. :) please and thank you.” I realized halfway through that I kinda strayed away from your initial request, so sorry about that :c but I hope you enjoy nonetheless!!

(Y/n)’s hands slapped the steering wheel in tune to the heavy bass blaring from every angle of the car, the music so loud she couldn’t even formulate a proper thought and all she knew in the moment was song lyrics. Mike, Dustin and Lucas all bounced in place in the backseat, music filling them from head to toe. Steve was in the passenger seat watching the chaos unravel as he tapped his foot to the rhythm, one corner of his mouth upturned in a facsimile of a smirk. His heart cried as he watched her drive, head bopping to the song. Moments like these are the only times he gets to stare at her until his heart’s content, and she’s so immersed in what she’s doing that she doesn’t even realize his literal heart eyes as he watches her from the passenger side.

“Tell Ms. Byers and the boys I say hi!” she calls out to the boys that file out the backseat of her car.

Lucas bobbed his head, hand readily laid on the car door to slam it shut as he says, “sure thing, (Y/n), thanks for the ride. We’ll see ya’ later!”

“And tell Jonathan he needs to bring his butt back here so we can hang out!” she added just before Lucas could close the door.

Lucas swung the door back open. “Okay!” he shouted, nodding his head wider, emphasizing his understanding.

(Y/n) laughed to herself as Lucas hurriedly shut the door before she could get another word to him. The boys waved their goodbyes as the car pulled off, and a terrible silence filled the car as soon as it was just her and Steve alone. She thought to turn the radio back on, but it felt like her hands were glued to the wheel, too tense to make a move.

(Y/n) thought it was pitiful how jealousy controlled Steve Harrington’s life, so lost in the torment his brain was in. Sometimes it was so severe that the rational Steve Harrington would switch offline and suddenly his liberal opinions were gone, and his ability for empathy and emotional generosity were gone, too.

The relationship hadn’t always been this complicated and Steve hadn’t always been so jealous. In fact, it all started very recently with their first real fight. (Y/n) made a new friend, Buddy, a cop-in-training while at the police station. He was funny, sweet, charming, but he was no Steve Harrington. Except her boyfriend failed to see how (Y/n), the living embodiment of perfection, wouldn’t fall for the sweet-mouthed Buddy. Dustin tried reasoning, but by then Steve had waved it off with the decision that he was over it. After that first occurrence, petty arguments had seemingly manifested from nothing, things that they never argued over, whether that be pizza toppings or what movie they should see that evening.

“Oh no,” she whispered to herself as the car sputtered, “no, no, no, no, please!” she begged all in vain as the car emitted a low and inarticulate sound, rolling to a stop and (Y/n) was forced to pull over onto the side of the road. “Damnit.” she cursed softly, resting her head against the wheel.

Steve sighed dramatically and slid out the car, going to investigate the sudden break down. He stopped at the front of the car, rolling up his sleeves as he tried the hood, only to feel a resistance when he realized it was locked. His eyes flickered to the front windshield to meet (Y/n)’s through the glass, and when she shrugged he rolled his eyes. “Sugar, pop the hood.”

(Y/n) complied, ignoring the flutter in her chest hearing the cutesy pet name, something she hadn’t heard much of in the past few days. As soon as he flipped the lid and she could no longer see him through the window, she emerged from the car and met him outside. “So, we’re alone now. You mind telling me what’s bothering you?”

Steve always did his best to never yell at (Y/n) or even raise his voice in the slightest, but (Y/n) would take the screaming and shouting over the silent treatment, at least then she would know how he was feeling. Silent Steve is impossible to read, like a book written in an entirely different language, he was foreign.

“There’s nothing wrong,” he looked down at her, one eyebrow quirked up quizzically. For a moment she thought she was getting through to him, that he was finally going to speak to her, but instead he slams the hood of the car shut without breaking eye contact and tells her, “the car. There’s nothing wrong with it. Did you… did you fake that?”

“I mean,” she starts, but presses her lips together to stop herself from saying anything more. Steve rolls his eyes for the uptenth time knowing his accusation was called correctly. (Y/n) puffed her cheeks out and folded her arms across her chest. “Are you being like this because you’re jealous over Buddy again? I don’t know how many times I have-”

“Just stop.” a breathy laugh fell into sync with his words, but it wasn’t the sweet sound she was accustomed to. It was forced and caustic, like he wanted (Y/n) to know he was annoyed with her. “I’m not mad at you and I don’t care about Buddy.”

She didn’t wait a second to reply as she said, “well, have you always been this negative? If there’s something wrong, talk to me.”

Steve ignored her practical begging, brushing straight passed her as he slid into the driver’s seat with (Y/n) in tow. She was standing in the doorway, hand on her hip as she exasperated, “Steve, we’re stuck here so why don’t you just take a deep breath and tell me what’s wrong. You’ve been using me as an emotional punching bag for the past week and if you don’t just tell me what’s wrong then I’m-,” she halted, taking a deep breath through her nose, “just tell me what’s wrong.”

He outstretched his hand to her expectantly, “cough ‘em up.”

“What? These?” she teased, dangling the keys tantalizingly, closing her fist around them just before Steve can take them from her. “No, no. You can have the keys when you decide to tell me what’s wrong.”

Steve stepped out of the car all while making eye contact, and for a moment he looks so intimidatingly breathtaking that she thinks to just give him the keys. His hands came up to cup her face and before she can make a remark, his lips are on hers and he’s kissing her feverously.

He pulled away seconds later with a cocky grin as he slid back into the car, and (Y/n)’s jaw is hanging gaunt as he sticks the key in the ignition and the car grumbled awake. He hikes a thumb over his shoulder to the passenger seat, smile ever present. “Guess not. Get in.”

* * *

There’s a series of knocks on Hopper’s front door and immediately he was up and alert, relaxing only when he familiarized himself within his own living room. Reading the clock hanging on the wall let’s him know it’s just past midnight, and he can’t help but wonder who the hell is showing up at his house in the middle of the night unannounced.

When Steve impulsively jumped in his car in the middle of the night to drive to the Hopper residence and beg for (Y/n)’s forgiveness, he didn’t stop to think if Hopper was awake or that he would be the one to answer the door. So, when the door swung open just a minute after he knocked, he wasn’t expecting to see the Chief of Police standing opposite to him.

Steve’s mind switched offline, and Hopper could practically see the sparks flying in his brain as it tried desperately to connect the dots and formulate a sentence, but instead caused a short circuit. “Hi H-Hopper, I mean- Sir- Chief,” he blabbered anxiously as the Chief stare back, expression resolutely stoic. “I mean Chief Hopper. I was wondering if (Y/n) was home to talk?”

Hopper crossed his arms across his chest, leaning his weight onto the doorframe. “You want to speak to my daughter and you thought the best time to do it was now?” his eyes swiveled back as he nodded. “She’s in, but I was told she doesn’t want to speak to you. Told me to kick your ass to the curb if ya’ showed up.”

Steve’s nervous stare averted down to his mud streaked converse as he shrugged. “Yeah, well, I deserve that.” he brought his attention back to the Chief’s unrelenting stare. “Are you going to, though? Send me on my way, I mean?” he asked, and right about now it felt like he was digging his own grave.

There was an excruciatingly long pause where Hopper scrutinized the young adult, and Steve’s never felt so uncomfortable under someone’s gaze. To say Jim Hopper might be overprotective of his daughters would be a misconception, because Jim Hopper was absolutely, undoubtedly, unquestionably overprotective of his daughters. El and (Y/n) were his life, and for Steve to think Hopper would so graciously forgive him after essentially breaking (Y/n)’s heart was stupid.

Hopper opened the door wider and took a step inside, wordlessly inviting him in. Well, call Steve Harrington stupid. “She’s in her bedroom. You know where it’s at.”

Steve nodded gratefully to her father before entering through the door, and it’s like he’s home again taking in all of the familiarities of the place he’s visited too many times to count. The Chief was right, Steve knew exactly where he was going, and just as the oak framed door came into sight, he froze. He debates for a minute before turning back around, finding Hopper on the living room couch with a can of beer.

“She not let you in?” he puzzled, almost feeling sorry for him.

“Well, I- uh, didn’t knock.” he took a step further into the living room, taking the open spot on the couch. “I… Do you mind if I vent to you about something? I mean, it’s a little weird, and you don’t have to say yes, but-”

Hopper set his can of beer down as he said, “what’s up, kid?”

“I think I try too hard. How I look, what I do, what I’m saying.” Steve mumbled. “I’ve been so hard on (Y/n) these past few days because I feel so self conscious about our relationship. Insecure. I keep lashing out over the small things, and getting jealous over guys I know she doesn’t want. I just- I don’t mean to, but-”

“So you need to work on some things? So what?” Hopper shook his head, resting a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Listen, Harrington, if there’s anything you should know about my daughter is she, like me, doesn’t stick up for bullshit. You either lay it all out or get the hell out because she values honesty. She’ll give the damn shirt on her back if you asked for it, but you gotta earn that from her. And don’t make her regret it, because then you’ll have to face me.”

“I just…” Steve tries, but he just can’t seem to find the right words. Hopper doesn’t mind though, doesn’t rush him or insult him, just listens. “What’s love? When did you know, like, for sure that you were in love?”

There was a pause where Hopper was at a loss for words, his brain conjuring no thoughts other than registering his initial shock to the straightforward question. Steve saw the way the chief’s face washed blank, knowing he’d struck something in his mind that not even Hopper himself hadn’t considered a thought.

Finally, the chief answers him. “It’s that first taste of coffee in the morning or the smell of dirt after it rains. It’s joy, where you know it’s safe and secure.”

“Love is just really, I mean really, knowing someone and wanting a life with them in it, because a life without them sounds terrifying enough to wake you out of your sleep. It’s happiness. It’s when their happiness equals yours, so much that you’d rather them be without you if it makes them happy. It’s enjoying the arguments because at least you know they care. That even when they’re annoying, you wouldn’t trade the moment for any other. Love is just… knowing, and being sure that you know you want to spend the rest of your life with someone.”

There’s knocking on (Y/n)’s bedroom door as she groaned, rolling out of the comforts of bed only to be greeted with the surprise of Steve at her door. For a moment there’s a smile on her face just before she’s reliving the day before all over again and erupting with anger. She turns back into the room and Steve followed. Now they’re standing face-to-face in the middle of her room at midnight, both just staring before she cuts through the silence. “What?”

“I came over because we need to talk… about us.”

(Y/n) can already feel her chest tighten at his words, and she grabbed the hem of her shirt to squeeze. It happened to be an old basketball jersey, a gift from Steve. The urge to cry amplified as she watched him fiddle with his thumbs nervously, and she knows what he’s going to say before he can even say it.

He nods, encouraging himself to just say it. “So, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking-”

“That’s dangerous.”

“Forget it.” he threw his hands up as he spun around to leave.

(Y/n) hastily swiped the tears from her eyes and folded her arms across her chest. “We both know what you’re about to do, so why don’t you just do it so I can go back to bed.” she told him, a mischievous tear sliding down her face just to dribble off her chin.

Steve’s expression is tense as he turns around, storming right up to here until there’s space barley left between the both of them, and with every breath they take, there chests touch. “You wanna know what’s wrong?” he huffs. “It’s that. You’re stubborn, hard-headed, and you’re so passionate about everything that you’ll argue with me over what’s better: chocolate or vanilla? I don’t even care! They’re just ice cream flavors! But I do it because even though you press nerves in me I never thought possible, I want to spend every irritable moment with you. I’ll argue with you over ice cream flavors from dawn until dusk as long as it’s with you.”

“What’re you saying, Steve?”

“I’m saying that I love you. I love you, (Y/n).”

“Then why, why did you push me away? I tried relentlessly to fix things, to talk to you, get you to open up, but you were being so distant that I thought you wanted to break up with me.”

Steve shrugged loosely, unsure of himself. “I thought that you were getting tired of me so I tried distancing myself. Hearing about all the fun you and Buddy were having because I was too busy made it seem like you two were better off together. You work the same job, he’s funny, your type, and he could keep you safe better than I ever could. Hell, I mean, we could’ve died a hundred times over between fighting weird alien dogs with baseball bats and getting interrogated by Russians in an underground secret base.”

“It sounds like you’re naming reasons why I should date you.” she gave him an easy smile, something contagious to wipe the worrisome look from his face, and it worked. “Steve, I wouldn’t care if I died because I would die knowing I got to love and be loved the most amazing man on earth. I don’t want Buddy or anyone else. I want you. I want the adventure, the pain, the ups and downs- all of you. If you’re ever insecure and doubting yourself, please just talk to me. Don’t push me away because one day you’ll end up losing me.”

“Someday, right? Not today?”

“No, not today.”

The gesture was simple enough- a hug, affectionate in the states of body, brain, heart and soul. She’s all there for him, every part of her, and he’s there for her, every part of him. The room was somehow made warmer, and for the first time in days, though it’s at his expense, (Y/n) feels carefree.

She pulled away with a smile that seemed so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that an unexpected warmth spreads through him. “You are so strange, Harrington,” she giggles, “but I love you for it. I love you. Bunk over?”

“Well, I can’t say no to that.”

↬ a/n: if you liked this, you should check out my other Steve fics on my masterlist!

[amirycashforcars]

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[biillyhargroves]

oooo can we get a part two to the fic thing where billy can't sleep bc he has night terror things about demodogs? bc that was superb!

ohhhh boy you most certainly can my sweet friend!!!

you’re a canary, i’m a coal minepart i: “do you have room for one more troubled soul?”part iii: too tired to be fighting(fic requests open)

“Walk me through this again.”

Joyce Byers is pacing the length of her living room- back and forth and back and forth and back and forth. Her hands are on her hips and her eyes are downturned as she scuffs her sneakers against the floorboards. She bites her lip, thinking hard. 

Steve arriving at the Wheelers with Billy in tow had caused something of a commotion. The kids all scrambled outside, Max rushing to Steve’s car and demanding to know what the hell was going on. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked. “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do anything!” Steve said, exasperated, and he launched into everything that Billy had told him. He told them that Billy hadn’t been sleeping, that he’d been having nightmares, that he was seeing demogorgons in his sleep. 

“But,” Max said, “he’s never seen one before.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked.

“You drove us home, dumbass! He was out. He didn’t see anything.”

“So how does he know what they look like?” Steve demanded. “How is he seeing them now? If he hasn’t seen them for real, how is he dreaming about them, huh? Answer that.”

“You think he’s tapped in?” Dustin asked. “That he’s seeing-”

“-something real, yeah,” Steve finished. “I mean, how else does this make sense?”

“You’re sure he was talking about a demogorgon?” Mike asked.

“He described the fucking demodogs,” Steve said. “And he’s scared shitless.”

“Billy?” Max said, brows raised. “Scared?”

“Yeah,” Steve said. “I had to force it out of him, okay? He doesn’t even want to talk about it. And he thinks it’s just, like, nightmares, right? It’s just nightmares to him and he’s terrified.”

Nancy and Jonathan and come home then, the latter dropping the former off after a date, and they wore concerned looks as they approached the group and Steve caught them up, too. Nancy face fell more and more as Steve when on, and she frowned as she ducked toward the passenger window of Steve’s car to get a better look at Billy, still asleep inside. 

“We have to do something,” she said, determination edging each word. “Don’t we?”

“If this is real?” Jonathan said. “Yeah.”

“Can you do anything?” Max asked, her attention now on El, who had been silently watching Billy while the others talked. She looks at Max with wide eyes, and then looks to Steve, who watches her expectantly. She fiddles with her sleeves.

“I can try,” she said. “But not here.”

And so the decision had been made. It was too late for Dustin and Lucas rode home to collect their walkies, and Mike retreated inside promising to man his- they agreed it wouldn’t be fair to crowd Billy, but that communication should stay open for backup calls. Max slid into the back of Steve’s car, and they followed Jonathan, Nancy, Will, and El to the Byers’ house. Once during the drive, Billy had stirred, and Steve fought to keep him calm as he trailed after Jonathan’s taillights. 

“You okay?” Steve asked once Billy was asleep again and when he caught Max’s worried eyes in the rearview mirror. He thinks he saw tears welling in them, but she blinked too quickly for him to be sure. 

“I just…” She trailed off, and then sighed. “It’s nothing.”

And now they are at the Byers, Billy settled on the couch after some very careful maneuvering by Steve (with some help from less-than-thrilled Chief Hopper, whose date night meal with the woman of the house sits abandoned on the dining room table - there had been some slight protests from a groggy Billy, who had settled again with some quiet reassurances from Steve and Max alike). 

Steve sits one arm of the couch and Max on the other, twin pillars guarding Billy as he sleeps. Hopper leans against the wall, watching Joyce as she paces the length of the living room for the umpteenth time. Jonathan, Nancy, are all crowded in the doorway, and El hovers nearby, her eyes on Billy. 

“He’s seeing demogorgons,” Steve says, “in his sleep.”

“And you’re absolutely sure he’s never seen one before?” Hopper asks.

“We’re sure,” Max says. “Never.”

“What does that mean?” Nancy asks. Her arms are crossed over her chest and her jaw is set. She is nervous, but she is fighting to hide it. She leans against Jonathan, who leans into her as well, and she fiddles with her necklace as she talks. “It has to mean something.”

Joyce is about to say something when a noise from the couch draws everyone’s attention. Across the room, El stiffens as Billy groans and rolls onto his side, his arms curling protectively over his middle, his hair falling over his face. Steve, too, tenses, and he drops to a knee beside the couch. 

“Wait,” El says. Steve stills, and he looks to El as she approaches the couch with careful steps. “Don’t wake him up. Not yet.”

“You sure you want to try this, kid?” Hopper asks. He, too, is now on alert. 

“I want to try,” El tells him. Steve moves out of the way. Max lingers on the couch, hovering near Billy’s head, as El lowers herself beside him. “I need-” El starts, and Will is already in motion, digging through El’s backpack until he finds the blindfold she keeps just in case. He pulls her portable radio out also, a Christmas gift from Hopper, He hands it to her and she thanks him before securing it around her head. He turns on the radio, always set to static, and sets it on the coffee table. 

The room goes quiet. 

El takes Billy’s hand. Billy whines, perhaps even whimpers, and attempts to pull away, but El keeps a tight grip. She exhales slowly. Billy’s eyelids flutter. El’s brow creases. Billy writhes, attempting to roll over but held by El’s tiny hand. El’s breathing quickens. 

“What is it?” Max says, voice pitched. 

“Can you see something?” Steve asks.

“Back off her,” Hopper says at the same El says, “I see them.”

Her voice is small and strained. She sounds like she’s trying to keep her cool, and judging by the way Billy is squirming, his breath growing ragged, Steve things she’s mimicking his energy. Steve’s own heartbeat quickens and he hovers over El, desperate to help but unsure of what to do. Before he can decide, Billy wakes violently. He startles first, then he throws himself upright, throwing El away as he does. She gasps and tumbles backwards, caught quickly by Max and Nancy and Jonathan and Will come from her other side, attempting to put distance between El and Billy. Hopper and Joyce drop to their knees, each of them fussing over El as she tugs off her blindfold and stares, wide-eyed, at Billy. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” Steve says, the only one to move toward Billy. Max watches him, watches both of them, but Billy seems unaware of her and of Steve as he attempts to right himself. His hair is hanging over his eyes, and his eyes are trained on Eleven. “Billy,” Steve says. “Hey, come on, you with us?”

“Billy?” Max tries, and this time Billy looks at her. He stares at her for a moment before turning to Steve, brow creased in something like frustration and something like betrayal and something like fear. 

“You…” he starts, but no words come after. 

“Hey,” Jonathan says. Billy’s head snaps toward him, and as she slowly realizes how many people are in the room he sinks into the couch cushions and leans toward Steve. “You can take him into my bedroom. Give him some space.”

“What the fuck is going on?” Billy asks. Steve looks at everyone- at Will and at Jonathan, Nancy and El, Hopper and Joyce and finally Max.

“We have to tell him,” Max says.

“Tell me what?” Billy demands. When he is answered with a lengthly silence he repeats his question louder and with more force. “God damn it, tell me what?”

“They’re real,” El says. Billy’s eyes land on her for a second time and this time there is recognition there. Steve can feel anger rising with him, but when he speaks in is mixed with confusion and perhaps a bit of desperation. 

“You were-” he starts, and El nods. She was there. She saw it, too. 

She tells him, “They’re real.”

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[paulhudd]

Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt. Four: Ha! Ha! Said the Clown

Odin’s Inn, Brodir, Co. Wicklow; Sunday, May 2nd 1991

Malky gave the big chauffeur a sideways look, crossed his arms, casually leant on the door post and refused to shake the extended hand.

Gorringe wasn’t offended, just mildly surprised. He looked at his unshaken hand and frowned. He ummed & ahhed, looked left and right and spoke hesitantly, rubbing his neck as if about to ask a contention question, “Erm... see, the boss sent me ‘ere wiv a proposition... ‘E instructed me to... that is...” he paused, stepped up so that they were face-to-face and pleaded for relief with beseeching eyes, “Lissen mate, can I use your lavvy? I’ve been on the road fer ovah-an-hour ‘n that last cuppa I ‘ad before I left the ‘ahse is abaht to bust me bladdah!”

It was an old salesman’s ploy and Malky knew it, and the chauffeur knew he knew it, nevertheless he cringed and gritted his teeth, “No messin’ guv - I’m this close to pissin’ me strides!” He seemed genuinely stricken, so after a second or two’s deliberation, Malky decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and stood aside, issuing a caution as he dashed by, “Straight in-and-out, mind. And don’t use the urinals – they’re not plumbed-in yet – use one of the stalls! OK?”

Gorringe already halfway there, “I don’t care if it’s a bucket -- I gotta go!”

Just as the door to the gents closed, Zindy walked through from the kitchen, “Who is it? Sales rep? Reporter?” she asked, wiping her oil-blackened hands with a rag, her elfin face smeared with black smuts. Malky was still at the door, looking out at the darkened windows of the Rolls, “... no, he’s somebody’s chauffeur. You should see the car he’s driving.”

Zindy lifted the waiter hatch and struggled through, “Ooow, I’ve been bent over too long, I’m all stiffened-up!” she groaned, clutching the small of her back with both hands so that her swollen tummy popped out of her denim shirt revealing an oily palm-print on the ivory-white skin of her bump. Malky closed the door, “There’s quite a draught – you can look out through the window.”

“For God’s sake a bit of sea air will do me good!”

Malky tapped her butt, “Aye, because you’re doin’ bloody auto-repairs on the kitchen table and the place stinks to high-heaven of gloss, varnish, engine oil and Swarfega! That child o’ mine must be gettin’ high on the fumes!”

Zindy made yakety-yak signs with her hand and said “I’m trying to save us some money, it’d cost us a bomb to take that van to a mechanic.”

“... because you’ve fallen out with all the local mechanics, haven’t you?” he chided ironically, “There isn’t a garage within a 30-mile-radius who’ll touch it, is there? Anyway, it’s a false economy. It’ll breakdown in the middle of nowhere and you’ll have to ring one of the garages for a tow-truck and the whole shebang will cost us three times as much as it would if we’d gone to a garage in the first place -– that’s not factoring-in the chance of an accident - or you gettin’ stranded high and dry – then whoosh – your waters break!”

“Jeezus Christ! You’re startin’ to scare me!” she cried.

“It’s a possibility -- like what if you breakdown and you fall getting out of the van -- or somebody comes round the corner too fast and hits you or something leaks in the engine and it goes up in a ball of flames...?”

“Why dontcha just swaddle me in bubble-wrap, pack me in polystyrene, stick me in an air-conditioned coffin and feed me through a tube til September! Oh I say, tally-ho, chaps,” she’d seen the stranger’s car, “a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, no less,” she said, appreciatively, looking out of the window, “who comes to a place like this in a car like that?”

Meanwhile, Brooster was listening at the parlour door, “What’s goin’ on?” a voice whispered behind him, making him jump and almost fall over. It was Sammy, the silver-bearded, blood-spattered ghost of the inn’s elderly barman, crouching behind him with his hands on his knees. Brooster looked him in the eye and asked him with a thought: Why are you creeping about and whispering when only I can see and hear you?

Sammy stood up, stroked his beard and mused aloud, “Aye, I s’pose that’s true... Well then – I’ll just do this!” He walked through the wall, into the occupied cubicle, looked the urinator up-and-down and shouted to the old dog, “It’s a chauffeur. Big bloke. Ex-army – British army – he has a regimental pin. Big dick, if you’re interested in that sort of thing.”

Broo wasn't at all impressed by the resident phantom’s crude behaviour – one of these days the stupid old fool will walk in on a Sensitive and scare the life out of them (actually, that eventuality would be fortuitous – because escape from This Life and Ascent into The Next requires a death within the parameters of the haunting and in the three years since Sammy had been shot and killed by Barry McKee, the only candidate so far had been an elderly deep-sea fisherman suffering with angina and a bad case of hay-fever who died two days later after a particularly violent sneeze –- at home in his own bed. Sammy whined as he opined: “Why couldn't the auld eejit have snuffed-it here?! Some people have no manners at all! At this rate, I’ll have to wait for Malky to croak - and he’s got another ten years in him at least!”).

The chauffeur exited the gents and convened with Zindy and Malky. Zindy was friendly and bright and offered him a cup of tea; Malky was cagey and glum. But that’s Malky. Sammy, reclining on the couch to watch the movie, actually made an insightful comment, “He’s an Englishman and Zindy misses the company of Englishmen. She’ll bend his ear for an hour and then he’ll be off back to whoever he drives for: probably some auld oul’ banker or one of those rich pop stars who've been buying houses over here lately.” He pointed at the remote, “C’mon, turn the sound on. I love the old black and white fillums!”

The old dog was paying him no heed. He was enjoying familiar feelings of excitement and trepidation, that tingle in his pelt that told him the visitor was significant and he should prepare himself for important news. And sure enough, the chauffeur didn’t thank his hosts for the use of the amenities and return to his vehicle, he was taken to the kitchen for a cup of tea and a chat!

Sammy was still harping on, “Dog?! D’ya hear me? Hit the button that turns the sound back on!”

Oblivious, Brooster snuck down the hall, took-up position at the kitchen door and listened.

Sammy shouted from the parlour, “Ach, c’mon, you know I can’t press the buttons...?” Broo ignored him and harkened to the conversation around the kitchen table.

Once Gorringe had completed his ablutions and emerged from the gents refreshed, Zindy introduced herself and took him into the kitchen for a cuppa. They hadn't had much company lately and this was the first Englishman she’d met in ages so she was chatty and vivacious. Malky was characteristically sniffy and suspicious. He wouldn't sit down and slowly paced the floor by the backdoor and let Zindy do all the talking. She began by apologising for the engine parts on the kitchen table, told him to park his arse and have a Mikado. He took a biscuit, but kept well back from the table lest oil, paint or any other petroleum-based-product come into contact with his immaculate whistle, “Is that a Lancashire accent I ‘ear?” he asked, with a wry smile.

Zindy grinned, “Aye - Salford! ‘Ow can you tell?” she said, ironically.

“Heh-heh, two of me best mates is from Salford! Salts of the erf, they is, diamonds to a man. We ‘ad a couple of tours in Cyprus in the late fifties and then they was sent to... umm,” he suddenly stopped talking. He realised he was in the Republic of Ireland talking to a pair of total strangers about old friends serving in an occupying force and quickly changed the subject. He beheld her swollen belly and asked, sheepishly, “Ahem, ‘ow many mumphs ‘ave you got before the big day then, sweet’eart?”

“I’m due in late July or early August,” she replied, she replied, “Just wait til I’m at full-term, I’ll look like a two-legged Space Hopper in a pink-wig!”

Malky lost patience, coughed theatrically, walked forward and put an end to the sparkling repartee, “So, Mr Gorringe, what can we do for you?”

The chauffeur put up a hand and waived the formalities, “Oh, call me ‘Erbie, please, Mr Calvert. Nobody calls me Gorringe ‘cept the boss when ‘e’s in a bad mood. Everybody else calls me ‘Erbie.”

Malky sighed, “Then, what can we do for your boss, H-erbie?”

“Malky! - don’t be so rude!” Zindy snapped.

Herbie shook his head, “Nah, ‘e’s got every right to be wary, sweet’eart. I’m beatin’ arahnd the bush, as it were, I really should explain meself,” his face took on a pained expression of someone who knew that what he was going to say next would either elicit gales of laughter or get him forcibly ejected from the premises forthwith; he carefully set down his teacup, laced his fingers on his lap and spoke without looking at his hosts, “Well, y’see, my boss, see... ‘e’s not a superstitious man by nay-cha but, ‘e’s got it into ‘is ‘ead...” he sighed heavily, looked up at Malky and bit the bullet, “Look – ‘e thinks the ahse ‘as been invaded by ‘a poltergeist’ and ‘e wants a consultation. Y’know, whether you can confirm or deny, that sort of thing.”

Malky’s heart sank. He threw up his hands and whined, “Fer cryin’ out loud! Another crank! A rich crank, but a crank nonetheless!”

[In the aftermath of the Barry McKee case, there had been numerous requests for newspaper interviews, TV documentaries and even a book deal with movie-options that would have set them up for the rest of their lives, but Malky had rejected them all out-of-hand. Zindy was slightly exasperated but mostly impressed by his innate integrity and refusal to exploit his adventures - then sometimes she wished he had his price, just enough to afford a decent refit. But he doggedly kept to his Code and slowly-but-surely, the phone stopped ringing, people stopped arriving at the door and they settled into what was, in Malky’s case, blissful isolation in a place he loved as a child; for Zindy, it represented normality and domesticity, something she needed after years of living in the fast lane.]

She was too taken with their visitor to dismiss the offer out of hand, “Wait til you ‘ear what Herbie ‘as to say before you go on a rant, Mr Sour-Balls!”

Malky leaned against the fridge and crossed his arms, “He can say what he likes but it won’t make a ha’penny’s worth o’ difference. We live by a Code remember?”

“’Code?’” Herbie looked from one to the other.

Zindy harrumphed and rhymed-off Malky’s charter to their bemused visitor, “Malky’s Code: he won’t have anything to do with the supernatural stuff... he won’t have anything to do with the media... he won’t write a book even though he’s been offered a lotta money...”

Malky: “-- and with good reason! Once you make contact -– you let them in! They’ll be writing begging letters, making pilgrimages to our door!”

Herbie, slightly embarrassed that he’d caused trouble in paradise, assured them, “You come very ‘ighly recommended, y’know – by the Gardai commissioner ‘isself, no less...”

Malky’s jaw dropped, “What?!” he gasped.

“Oh gawd, I knew this would be a nightmare...” Herbie muttered under his breath, grimacing like a man tiptoeing through a minefield wearing a blindfold; he elaborated in an apologetic tone, “... a couple o’ weeks ago, the boss was at one of them grand-banquet dos they ‘ave in Dublin City where the top-nobs can ‘obnob -- y’know the sort o’ fing, VIPs, the politicians an’-all-that-lot. Well, the commissioner was seated next to the boss and they got talkin’ about strange cases and your name came up, an’ when ‘e mentioned that Barry McKee business a few years ago, the boss wuz all ears 'n ‘e got the commissioner to get your address...?”

Malky was furious, “The Barry McKee case was as weird as they come, but it wasn't anythin’ to do with the supernatural -- it was to do with the fact that he’s a schizo who liked to kill little girls.”

Herbie raised his eyebrows, “So all that tawk abaht ‘im bein’ possessed is just bollocks?”

“Well, he thought he was possessed, he heard voices...” Zindy was about to elaborate when Malky shot her a what-the-hell-look.  She took umbrage, “So what did happen, Malcolm? Why don’t you explain it?”

“You should know -- you were there -– we nearly died!” Malky snapped back.

“Yeah -- but who ‘elped us?! ‘Ow did the dog find them bodies in the woods? Who told 'im where to go?!”

Sensing trouble in paradise, Herbie reached into his inside-pocket and took out a large brown leather wallet, “Look, I tell you wot, if it makes it any easier,” he pulled out a folded slip of paper and set it on the table so that it stood like a little greetings-card, “the boss gimme this blank cheque ‘n awforised me to offer ya 7 grand to come up to the ‘ahse and ‘ave-a-butcher’s. If you can get rid of the spook, he’ll give you anovver free grand. That’s 10 grand! More, if ‘e’s really pleased! ‘Is pockets are deep, believe me.”

“Something strange in your neighbourhood? Who you gonna call...?” Malky sang.  

“I don’t think even the Ghostbusters would get 10 grand for one night’s work?!” gasped Zindy, £-signs in her eyes.

Heartened that the hostess seemed keen, Herbie went for the hard-sell, “7 grand just to ‘ave a shufti, 10 grand if you get rid of it. What would money like that mean to you two?” he said, looking at Zindy’s bump.

Malky saw his better-half look around the kitchen, read her mind and reminded her with a wagging finger, “Don’t start...!”

Zindy wagged straight back, “The Code of Silence made sense in the beginnin’ when we wuz inundated with whackos, weirdoes ‘n’ wankers of every stripe – before we ‘ad money trouble and baby on t’way!”

Malky pointed and laughed sardonically, “Did you just say that? Who the hell are you?!”

The chauffeur turned to Malky and spoke softly, “Lissen Mr C -- I fink the old man’s barkin’ up the wrong tree too, but ‘e’s at his wit’s end – ‘e finks there’s an ‘evil spirit’ out to get ‘im! Now, I ain't seen anythin’ myself, just the aftermaff - but ‘e says fings fly across the room, y’know, ornaments ‘itting the wall, books falling from shelves, that sort of fing. E’s afraid to go rahnd the ‘ouse on ‘is own. If it goes on for much longer, ‘e’s likely to ‘ave a stroke or ‘eart attack, the poor old git.”

“Who is 'e?” Zindy and Malky asked, in perfect harmony.

Herbie paused for a second then said: “Oliver Laphen.”

“Ollie Laphen?! ‘The Quare Geg’?!” cried Malky; amazed and delighted, he duly eschewed his standoffishness, pulled out a chair and sat down at the table.

“The old movie star? The hellraiser?” asked Zindy, only slightly impressed.

“Yip, that Ollie Laphen,” said Herbie, sheepishly, as if confessing a cardinal sin.

“My God. Ollie Laphen! That takes me back a-ways...” Malky enthused, whimsically, looking up, as if viewing the memory in a thought balloon hovering just above his head, “...in Belfast in the late 50s when me ‘n me younger brother Dessie were kids, we used to see his films at the Roy Rogers’ Movie Club at the Curzon on Saturday mornings and we loved the ‘Laffin Boy’ shorts he made in the early 30s when he was still called ‘Ollie Laffin’. Jeez, we must’ve seen them all at least 10 times each...!”

Zindy left Malky to wander down Memory Lane and got down to business, “And ‘’e’s willing to pay Malky 7 grand just to look round ‘is ‘aunted ‘ouse?!”

Herbie smiled and nodded.

Although mightily tempted, Malky still wasn't moved, “Nah – it smacks of exploitation. I’m not goin’ to take advantage of an old man who’s probably in the primary stages of senility... Oh, sorry, Herbie...”

The chauffeur shrugged and nodded, “You’re singin’ to the choir guv.  That’s what us lot reckoned, too - but in every ovver respect he’s fine. ‘E’s cantankerous and narky like ‘e always is, but ‘is memory’s fine - e’s workin’ on a one-man-show and ‘e don’t even ‘ave to look at the book. ‘E reads all ‘is contracts – even the small print - ‘e writes ‘is memoirs... If it is senility, then this poltergeist fing is the only symptom.” He winked, “Tell-you-wot -- why dontcha meet ‘im ‘n’ see for y’self.”

Malky had to smile. It was like being coerced by an aging Artful Dodger. He now knew how the big chauffeur had kept a job for so many years: Herbert Gorringe has made a career out of getting the boss exactly what he wants, by hook or by crook.

“Lissen, if you fink it’s all a loada ol’ cobblahs, you can tell ‘im so - take the money - and I’ll drive you ‘ome. No ‘assle. No one will ever know. Mr Laphen certainly won’t be tellin’. You know ‘ow much ‘e ‘ates the press.”

Zindy looked at Malky and batted her eyelids, “No one will ever know and you’ll have a great story to tell our kids.”

“Oh – you’re not coming?” said Malky, with a raised eyebrow.

Zindy indicated the engine parts on the table, “No time, lover –- we need the van back on the road by mornin’ cos I ‘ave to go to Arklow and pick-up the grocery order and fetch more paint from the DIY store. Incidentally, I’ll be ‘using’ t’credit card - you know the one I mean -– the one we owe £3,400 on?”

“My God woman, have you no shame?!” said Malky, semi-seriously, shaking his head with exasperation.

Herbie held up the cheque and flicked it with a finger, “A lotta lolly for a few hours’ work, my friends.”

“C’mon, Malk. Like ‘Erbie says, the ol' boy’s loaded and it’s only one night...?”

Malky stared at his paint-spattered hands and had a rethink: you’ll to get away from the smell of varnish and gloss, meet the great Ollie Laphen and have a look round his house...  “Well... I suppose one night wouldn't be so bad... ?”

Deal sealed, Herbie sighed with relief, got to his feet and shook Malky’s hand. Malky looked at Zindy and shook his head, “You know you’ll never hear the end of this, dontcha?”

Zindy grinned, “Careful Ollie Laphen’s poltergeist don’t drop summat ‘eavy on yer ‘ead, chook!”

Malky held his sides and pretended to cry tears of laughter.

“Oh yeah - one other fing,” said Herbie, looking around, “The commissioner-bloke told us that you usually work wiv a free-legged German shepherd...?”

Right on cue, the beast in question nosed the door open and sauntered into the room, someone call?

[Broo and Malky had a semi-telepathic link; they couldn't communicate directly, but over the years following the Barry McKee saga, they’d developed an intuitive sense of what the other was thinking.]

Malky glared, you heard all that didn’t you?

The old dog grunted, I can hear the rats building a nest three-doors-down, you twit - of course I heard. And I must say, it’s about time we had a case...

“It’ll be a bit of a lark, won’t it?” chirped Zindy, putting Malky’s toothbrush and shaving kit into his overnight bag. She gave the once over and shook her head, “you’re a walkin’ disaster. Things wrinkled as soon as you put them on.” She lifted the comb and tried to do something with his hair.

Her other-half still hadn't warmed to the idea, “Lark? It’ll be no laughing matter for me, wandering around some creaky, chilly stately-home all night with that grumpy hound at me heel.”

Broo growled back.

She stooped slightly and pointed the comb at the old dog, “Now listen – Broo – you be patient w’ ‘im and remember that ‘e ‘ates all this kinda spooky stuff,” she turned back to her man, “and Mal, you remember that Broo is old and crotchety and prone to snarkiness.”

How dare you madam! I’ll have you know my intellectual capacity is at its peak! The father of your child is the one with questionable mental faculties, not me!

Standing on tiptoe, Zindy cupped Malky’s cheeks and gave him one of her pep-talks, “Listen, chook... take a look round, if you don’t find anythin’ or it looks like a set up, or it don’t feel right -- whatever -- I’ll understand if you don’t take the money, OK?”

Malky was confused, “Then why....?”

She put a finger on his lips, “I’d appreciate a little time on me own, OK? Nothing sinister, just some time to meself. We've been in each other’s pockets day-and-night for 2 year now, so tonight -- for one night only -- I’m gonna finish workin’ on the soddin’ van, ‘ave a bath, write a coupla letters and get an early night. Meanwhile, you get to spend the night in a luxurious mansion in the company of yer boyhood hero.”

She wants a break from you, and who can blame her.

Malky shot the dog a reproachful glance, then smiled when he turned back to his better-half, “You don’t need to explain, Zin. You've got what’s commonly known as Calvert Fatigue.”

She pushed him out onto the landing, “Now fook off. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Broo surveyed the stray cats lined long the parapet of the old burned-out cinema. They had gathered to watch the Rolls roll by, just like they had at the time of the McKee affair: further confirmation, to him at least, that this journey was significant. He resolved to pay attention to every detail and use all his powers... to get to the bottom... of (yawn)... whatever....zzzzzzz He was asleep within 10 minutes. Malky looked over his shoulder and scowled. Lazy sod.

Herbie took the scenic route and drove slowly. The hedgerows bustled-by lackadaisically, the dry-stone-walls refused to become a grey-white blur as £400,000 worth of Rolls Royce shook ‘n’ shimmied along bumpy country lanes and pot-holey side-roads at a leisurely 32mph. He was enjoying the view of the misty Wicklow mountains, and despite the nip in the breeze and the baleful skies, he wound down his window and leaned out to take the air -- which reeked of compost and slurry, but which was entirely to his taste -- “Aaaaah! Smell that?! Laaave this cahntryside, I do! Y’know, at least once a day, I stop what I’m doin’ ‘n give fanks that we landed back ‘ere and not blahdy Swizzer-land. Swizzer-land,” he sneered. “I ‘ate blahdy Swizzer-land. The boss wuz a tax-exile for a while y’see...” He went on to list the many shortcomings of the Swiss in his bouncy cockney twang. Malky repressed the overwhelming urge to shout for Christ’s sake shut-up and step on it! and tuned him out. There he was, on his way to do something he didn’t want to do for people he didn’t want to know in a place he didn’t want to be, and the longer it took to get there the more the prospect bothered him. Bloody cheek, that Gardai Commissioner handing my name & number out to all-and-sundry – I should sue! ... Bloody hocus-pocus and hoodoo-voodoo... but as usual, money talks and principles go out the window... money, money, money... she’ll be setting up a Supernatural Detective Agency next... She’ll be advertising it in the paper...

Seemingly oblivious to the ennui emanating from the fidgety heap of grumpiness beside him, Herbie continued to natter away about getting acclimatised to the snail’s-pace of pastoral Irish life after so many years spent in the fraught, hustle-&-bustle of Hollywood: “They’re as nice-as-ninepence to ya just so long as yer putting bums on seats and bags of lolly in the bank – if not - they’ll drop ya like ‘ot potatah! Fankfully, the boss is always bankable – you put ‘is name on a marquee and you’s guaranteed a profit! ‘E still ‘as a core fanbase of millions who’ll come to everyfink ‘e’s in!”

Malky grunted a hollow, listless “Oh really?”

Unfazed, Herbie whispered in Malky’s ear: “Lissen, mate, if you wanna take the edge-off - ‘ave a drop of Irish. The boss keeps a flask in the glove-compartment for emergencies.”

Malky was caught off-guard and answered in an embarrassed stutter, “Er, no thanks, I don’t drink...”

“‘Recovering alcoholic’, are ya?” Herbie asked.

Although wholly nonplussed by the man’s audacity, Malky replied without raising his voice, “Let’s just say I had a problem at one time and leave it at that, shall we?”

But Herbie continued to pry, “Don’t take this the wrong way, pal, but you have the look of a man who’s no stranger to --”

“Oi! Enough!” Malky barked (Brooster woke up with a start), “Keep yer eyes on the road, Jeeves! Just cuz yer boss is willin’ to pay 7 grand for my services doesn’t give ye the right to dig into me personal life!”

Herbie was visibly taken aback by this unexpected tirade; he pulled down the peak of his cap so that it covered his eyes, straightened up in his seat, took the car up to a steady 40, and after a brief pause, spoke in a more professional tone, “I wuz only makin’ conversation, sir. If I’ve offended you in any way, I ‘umbly apologise and beg yer pardon, sir.”

“Forget it.” Malky turned away and looked out of the window.

A minute or two passed, and as the little surge of adrenalin dissipated, so the embarrassment sank in and he decided to restart the conversation, “Did I hear you tell Zindy you were in the army?”

Still somewhat narked, the chauffeur kept his eyes on the road and gave his name rank and number with the clipped diction of a well-drilled soldier, “Queen’s Royal Irish Fusiliers, 17 years: Corporal Herbert Valentino Gorringe 2063 reporting for duty, sah.”

Malky smiled, “Valentino?”

Herbie made a face, “It was that or Rudolph. My ol’ mum was a big fan. She was in-con-sole-able when ‘e died, grieved fer days, apparently.”

Where was another protracted pause, until Malky said, “I used to meet a lot of Tommies in Belfast in the early days of the Troubles. Seen a good few murdered, too. Bad times.”

The chauffeur turned slightly so that he could look Malky in the eye, “You wasn't chucking the ol’ Molotovs, was ya? You ain’t an ex-IRA man or anyfink like that, ‘is ya?!” Au contraire. Malky told him he was an ex-RUC policeman. Herbie was very interested, visibly relieved and wholly amazed, “Really? If you don’t mind me saying so - you don’t strike me as the type...?”

“My ambition was to be a detective, but I never made it out of uniform. I quit after my partner was gunned down right beside me and I went off the rails a bit and... Well, y’know...” Malky’s voice trailed off.

Herbie shook his head, “Gunned down right beside you? That’s rough that is.”

“But surely you’ve had near-death experiences yourself, Herbie, especially after 17 years in the army...?”

“Well, I wuz too young to serve in the war. I turned 17 the day after VE day. I didn’t join-up til the September of 46. And I never did no tour of duty in Norvern Ireland neevah, I was mostly overseas in Cyprus and the Middle East. We was part of a UN peace-keeping force tryin’ to keep the tribes apart: Jews, Muslims, Christians – not to mention the Greeks and the Turks! Bit like Belfast, but wiv loadsa sun, sand and bearded blokes in pyjamas wiv machine guns. Mind you, I saw the aftermaff of a lotta bombs, I saw fousands killed in genocides... terrible, ‘orrible it was... But I never really saw battle, just ‘minor skirmishes’. Luck, I suppose. It was during a tour of Norf Africa in 64 when I first met the boss!”

“Really,” asked Malky, suddenly interested, “you met oul’ Ollie while you were still in the army? You've been with him that long?”

Herbie was back on his favourite subject and relishing the opportunity to impart his favourite anecdote to a captive audience: “Oh yeah, it was me firtiefth birthday and I was on a day’s leave, so me and a couple of the lads went to Casablanca to paint the tahn several shades of crimson... and after a bit of a pub crawl rahnd the Kasbahs, I got separated from me mates, and while I was lookin’ fer ‘em, I strolls into this dark little tavern and sittin’ there in a corner was Oliver Laphen! Would you Adam ‘n’ Eve it?! ‘E was supposed to shootin’ an adventure movie wiv David Niven about archaeologists in World War Two called Diamonds in the Dust –- but he was skivin’-off cuz he’d ‘ad a row with the director and ‘e was layin’-low -- he didn’t wanna ‘ang round the ‘otel, so ‘e’s ‘iding-out in this dark little Kasbah, trying to be inconspicuous – wearin’ a black wig, big black shades, a kaftan and a fez - but I knew ‘im the minute I set eyes on ‘im! See, our CO was a big fan. He ‘ad all the reels of the comic shawts from the late 30s and some of the feature films the boss made for Paramahnt in the 40s – he used to get ‘em sent ovah and screen ‘em for the lads on a Satur’ay night! Anyway - there ‘e is, in the flesh, so-to-speak! Oliver Laphen! Jolly Ollie! So I go over an’ I say, ‘Can I ‘ave your autograwph Mr Laphen, sah?’ and at first ‘e‘s fumin’ – ‘e goes-off-on-one! Then ‘e calms dahn and says to me – ‘’ow the eff did you know it was me?!’ and I say ‘It’s the way you’re ‘olding your drink!’ Cuz ‘e’s always had this way of curling back ‘is little finger as if ‘e’s drinkin’ from the finest choy-nah. E ‘as these delicate li’l ‘ands, see...”

As he watched the chauffeur get more-and-more animated, Malky came to understand how a sensible, seemingly-well-balanced ex-squaddie like Herbert Valentino Gorringe could forsake marriage, family and blissful conformity just to spend his life at the beck-and-call of -- if popular opinion had it right -- a detestable, despotic, volatile, cranky little egomaniac like Oliver Laphen. Well, now he knew. Herbie wasn't just a fan – he was in love with the man. The pair’s long-term relationship had outlasted all of ‘The Quare Geg’s’ marriages put together. No wonder the story was related with such gusto and attention to detail, it was, after all, an epic romance.

“.... any’ow, at 400 hours, I ‘ad to get back to base, but before I go ‘e takes me to one side an’ ‘e says – ‘’Erbie, if you quit the army ‘n become my chauffeur and personal bodyguard, I’ll guarantee you a 50 knicker a week for starters, bed-‘n’-board - all the skirt you can ‘andle – plus -- you’ll get to see the world without ‘avin’ to worry abaht gettin’ yer ‘ead blown orf!’ So I laugh ‘n’ say I’ll fink about it. I fanked him for the best night of my life and we say ta-ra. I go back to camp finking it wuz all the blustah and idle boasts of a booze-‘ahnd and forgot abaht it.  But it didn’t stop ‘im. When ‘e asked for the fird and final time, I quit and I’ve been at ‘is beck-‘n’-call ever since.”

“Was it worth it, Herbie?” Malky asked.

The chauffeur thought long and hard about the question before answering. When he did, his voice was more mature and thoughtful, “E can be an ‘andful sometimes, but artistic people is prone to temperament, it’s ‘ow they’s able to do the fings they do. But I’ve learned ‘ow to balance it aht. I’ve been all over the world, visited all the major cities ‘n’ ‘istorical places... I’ve met a lotta Very Important People – besides movie stars an’ showbiz folk, there’s been world leaders, presidents, kings and queens, writers, top sportsmen – so whenever people awsk ‘’ow do you put up wiv ‘im?’ I say ‘take a look at me passport, me photos and me bank accahnt, moosh - there’s ‘ow!’” He turned to Malky and told him earnestly, “See, I’ve gotta lotta great memories. I’ve seen ‘istory bein’ made. I’ve supped Earl Grey wiv Picasso and knocked back bourbon wiv Dean ‘n’ Frank. I’ve made an omelette fer Einstein an’ cocktails for Noel Coward. I’ve played cards wiv Kate Hepburn for two straight days - and lost. No matter what the ol’ boy gets up to, I wouldn't trade those memories for the world.... Umm...” Something crossed his mind. When he spoke again, it was in a more tentative tone, “Look, before we get to the ‘ahse, I’d better mention the incident on Friday night wot started ‘im off.”

“Why? What happened on Friday night?” asked Malky, a little disconcerted.

“I was away visitin’ a lady-friend in Dublin, an’ apparently all the lights went aht and the ‘uge grandfavver clock in the lobby fell over and smashed on the floor -– the boss was frightened outta his wits -- fought it was burglars – so ‘e pressed one of the panic buttons and Charlie, our ‘ead of security, drove up to the ’ahse right away. But the power-cut musta shorted-aht the alarm system cuz ‘is swipe-card wouldn't work and the master key wouldn't turn in the lock! So, finkin’ ‘e’s under siege, the ol’ man pressed the button that calls the Old Bill, but by the time they got there, Charlie ‘ad managed to get in ‘n’ calm the old man down. Then the lights come on again – not just the lights that wuz on when the power went aht – but every single light in the ‘ole ahse including the bedrooms, bathrooms, the ballroom -- everywhere. By this stage, the boss is goin’ mental. Really, really scared.

“When I got back I got a right bollockin’ as if it was all my fault – like I ‘ad the temerity to ‘ave a night off! Any'ow, me ‘n’ Charlie searched that ahse from top to bottom; the cops  ‘n’ the security lads looked round the grounds, but we come up empty... there wuz nothin’ up iv the fuse-box, no sign of tamperin’ or anyfink dodgy.”

“Would the grandfather clock be easy to topple?” said Malky.

“Well, it’s set into the wall ‘n’ it’s solid, antique Bavarian pine, 9 foot tall wiv a ruddy great bell in it; it’s got a solid gold pendulum and it weighs around a two-and-an-‘alf ton, I couldn’t pull it dahn on me own.” Gorringe coughed then said, “And that’s the ovver fing... the boss’ been back on the bottle ever since, and if you know anyfink about the boss, you’ll know that ‘e’s a bit... volatile when ‘e’s on the sawse. So, ignore any strange behaviour, if y’know what I mean.”

Malky was a trifle miffed at being apprised of these tidings so late in the day; he was about to ask if there was anything else he should know when Herbie suddenly brightened and declared, “And ‘ere we are, my beauties! My little ‘ome-from-‘ome!”

Herbie slowed the limo to a funereal crawl as they entered a particularly picturesque little village, “Ahhh, ‘ave you ever been a little place like this before?” he asked, with a little smirk that hinted at a rhetorical question.

Malky honestly confessed, “No. I’m sure I’d remember if I had.”

“You wouldn’t ‘ave. This ‘ere is a protected community, see. Only a few people know about it.”

It was beautiful, rows of whitewashed thatched cottages with black gloss doors, all flowers beds and hanging baskets with a little square with a little roundabout in the centre, bedecked with a floral clock depicting the flag of St George (?); aside from the copious vegetation, there was very little sign of life and almost no sign of the 20th century. “What’s it called?”

“Bogmire. Pretty lousy name for such a laavly little ‘amlet, innit?”

If it wasn't for the faded & peeling Coca Cola sign stuck to the inside of the window of the post office-cum-newsagent and an old bicycle leaning against the bench outside a ramshackle little country pub (the Black Water Rat), they could be back in Tudor England. Malky made appreciative noises.

“It’s like a little oasis from bygone days, innit? You feel as if you’ve slipped frew a time-warp – eh?! But the funny thing is – it ain't Irish! See, most of the people ‘oo live ‘ere are descended from English peasant stock! Most of ‘em is originally from the wilds o’ Cornwall! The Duke of Roxborough brought ‘em ovah to build Pagham ‘Ahse ‘n ‘e built these ‘ere cottages for ‘em – and believe it or not, they lasted through the rebellion cos of a pact between the Irish rebels and the Roxborough family ‘n they’ve been ‘ere ever since. When ‘e bought the ahse the only proviso wuz that we keep the staff and let the Supplicants – that’s their religion, that is – live ‘n’ work on the estate.” Herbie went on to tell of the locals’ strange customs and bizarre lifestyle in a disbelieving tone, “... and they've been doin’ it fer 200 years straight!”

Malky looked around, “And this is all part of the estate?”

“Yep, it came with the ahse!”

This didn’t surprise Malky one bit. For an Irish ex-pat, the old man wasn't renowned for his patriotism; in fact, he was a close friend of Princess Margaret and during the height of the Troubles in the 70s he was renowned for making disparaging noises about the Republican movement in Ireland from the safety of his Bel Air mansion (when Lord Mountbatten was murdered by the IRA he told a NBC TV news reporter that the terrorists in question were ‘like a bunch of weasels attacking a lion’ and that Britain should ‘string ‘em up’), he was frequent visitor to the Whitehouse when the Republicans were in office, and was often mooted to be an anonymous sponsor of various right-of-centre US politicos -- he backed Nixon over Kennedy, was close to Ronnie Reagan since his  days as chairman of Screen Actors Guild, and was a frequent house guest of George Bush senior -- all of which made him a potential target for disgruntled boyos on both sides of the pond. It made sense that he’d want to live out his twilight years in a little slice of England transplanted into the heart of the Irish countryside, it suited his style: contrary to the end.

Herbie pulled-up outside a dainty little general store called The Peppermint Poke. The window was full of candy jars and pastries neatly arranged on little lacy paper doilies, “Dora oo runs the Poke is an Outsider, meanin’ she’s married to one of the Supplicants so she’s allowed to run a shop. None of ‘em is allowed to ‘ave a shop or make profit from their work, so the outsiders tend to do them fings, like business transactions and that. The local garda sergeant is an outsider, too -- he lives in that li’l cottage ovah there.” he pointed to one of the gleaming residences across the square...” Herbie opened the door, “I’m just gonna go in and get the Sunday papers ‘n’ a tube of Polos... I’ll only be a sec.”

Malky wound down his window to inhale the compliment of delicious odours to accompany the view: flowers, mown lawns and more flowers, “very restful. Then he heard a rumble outside the car -- a motorcycle had pulled up alongside and its rider, wearing a helmet with a dark visor, was looking through the driver’s-side-window. What’s this? Malky shrank back in his seat....The rider casually unzipped his black leather jacket and reached inside – for a second Malky flinched -- but instead of a weapon, he produced a video camera. Malky knew a maverick paparazzo when he saw one and immediately flew into a rage – he lunged out of the open widow, shook his fist and yelled, “Piss-off ya bastard! Get that f**kin’ thing outta my face or I’ll put my foot in yer arse!”

The shouting roused Broo from his slumbers. He saw the motorcyclist, heard Malky screaming and instinctively barked loudly and forcefully -- until he sensed that the stranger posed no threat and Malky appeared to be overreacting. He stopped barking, gave himself a shake and tried to get his bearings. The cameraman was quite small, dressed in biker’s leathers like Zindy’s biker chums, but these were more expensive and unsullied by general wear-&-tear. Then, as the bleariness subsided and his eyes refocused, Broo saw something that both startled and alarmed him. At first he thought it was the motorcycle’s exhaust fumes, then he realised the figure was shrouded in what he could only describe as a purplish-halo -- whatever it was, it was unlike any aura he’d ever seen before.

Malky was fit to be tied, “I’m not gonna tell you again, friend! If you don’t fuck aff immediately I’m gonna come out there and stick that camera where the sun don’t shine!!”

“That’s a take!” The biker cried, packing away his camera, “Thank you sir! Have a nice day!” he said and roared off, leaving a cloud of blue smoke in his wake. “Bloody paps – see – this is what happens when you do somebody a favour,” grumbled Malky.

Broo was still drinking in the atmosphere and looking for anomalies. Having been in places like this all over Ireland, the old dog had noted that each dainty village and township they visited had its own peculiar little ripples of the past shining through the present. On his travels he’d heard the echoes of ancient battles in the silence of the first light of dawn; he’d seen the children of ancient tribes playing on a busy motorway at noon; he’d seen 16th century Spanish galleons off the coast at Cork -– but Bogmire was a spiritual desert: there was absolutely nothing to sense or feel beyond the here and now. It was clearly old, spotless and brightly painted, but utterly devoid of soul. And that smell... beneath the floral scents and peat smoke, lay an ever-present stench that marred the otherwise wholesomeness of the place. Even for a dog that usually salivated at the stink of putrid flesh, it was hard to stomach. Most unusual...

Just then they heard the little tinkle of a bell and Herbie emerged from the shop with a bundle of newspapers under his arm and a Polo mint in his cheek; he got back in and offered one to Malky, “Did I ‘ear a mo’orbike?” he asked, “I was chattin' to Dora and I could've swawn I ‘eard a rumblin’ sahnd...?”

“Just a guy askin’ for directions,” said Malky, “so I told him where to go...”  

At that very moment, 3000 miles away, in the kitchen of a townhouse in North York, Toronto, Canada, the man of the house appeared in the kitchen doorway, barefoot in his pyjama bottoms, unshaven, hands deep in the pockets of his bedraggled dressing gown. 

“Emil! What the f**k?! Go get dressed – we’re late as it is!” shouted Fran, ever the fiery redhead, dressed to the nines in her Sunday-best, rifling through her purse in search of her car keys, “I told you to get ready an hour ago!” They were supposed to be going to her niece’s christening and they were running 10 minutes late. She looked under the cushions in the lounge; she looked in and under the couch; she checked every pocket in the coat rack. “Where the f**k are they?!!”

Emil watched her, his arms hanging by his sides, and said, “I’m not going. I have the shits.” 

Did I just say that? What the f**k?!

Fran, currently poking through the trash in the pedal-bin with the salad-tongs, threw her head back and mocked him in an ironic voice, “Hah! I knew it! Mom warned me – ‘he won’t go – he doesn’t even own a suit’! Well, it suits me – I don’t have to watch you get drunk and throw up in the swimming pool or make a pass at a waitress... Owww-ouch!” she’d cut her knuckle on the edge of a jagged tuna can, “F**k this!” she kicked the bin and ran to the sink to rinse it, screaming, “F**K! F**K! WHERE THE F**K ARE MY F**KING KEYS!!”

He knew exactly where they were. They were in his pocket. He was holding them in the palm of his hand; but for some strange reason he didn’t hand them over. It wasn't that he didn’t want to, it was because he couldn't. And no matter how hard he tried to communicate, his body wouldn't respond; he let her go on searching and said nothing.

She went to the knick-knack drawer in the welsh-dresser, rummaged around in the back and eventually emerged triumphant, “Ah - hah! The spare! I knew I’d put it somewhere!!” She had one last look in the mirror to check her mascara and top-up her lip gloss, “... If you go out make sure you turn on the alarm.... and if you go back to bed - don’t f**king smoke! That’s a new quilt and I don’t want it looking like somebody’s used it for target practice!” She strode down the hall to the front door; a few seconds later she came stomping back, madder than ever “You f**king asshole! You've done it again!! You've boxed me in! I can’t get my car out!” 

Emil remained silent. 

“Emil!” She approached him and looked up into his dull, blue eyes, “EMIL! You have to move your car! Are you listening to me?!

He stood and stared.

“Emil!”

“See you later, legislator,” he said, without smiling. It was a catchphrase he used when they said goodbye on the doorstep in those early days when they first moved in together; but here & now it just sounded weird. She gave him a sideways look, “Are you stoned?”

“Take my car.” He dangled his keys on his pinkie.

She grimaced at the smell of his breath, glowered and said, “Listen... I don’t know what the hell you’re on or what you are trying to pull, but my mother will be frothing at the mouth -– I was supposed to pick her 15 minutes ago -– this is a crisis!”

He dangled his keys.

She drew herself up and bawled in his face, “GET OUT THERE AND MOVE YOUR F**KING CAR!”

He jangled his keys.

She slammed her key down on the table and snatched his in one frighteningly limber move, “RIGHT! – I’m calling your bluff, asshole – I’m taking your beloved Porsche! You can take my Volvo -- I wonder what all those cutesy little students of yours will think when they see the delectable Dr Labatt driving through campus in a busted-up soccer-mom-mobile?!”

Emil stared back, unblinking and blank, and said, “I’ll miss you, Fran. You’re alright.”  

“F**k you, asshole!” She thrust the finger in his face and stormed out.

The slamming door was the last thing Emil heard before the darkness descended...

A few miles from Bogmire, along a road that was little more than a narrow lane, they arrived at a long, narrow lane lined on one side by yew trees concealing a tall, ivy-covered, red-brick wall that contained the entrance to Pagham House (or Paggum Ahse, as Herbie called it, making it sound like a particularly nasty proctological affliction), the stately-home of Oliver Laphen. Herbie reached into the inside pocket of his tunic and produced a small remote-control which he used to open a pair of inconspicuous but heavily fortified, solid iron gates, “As you can imagine, the boss is fanatical about security,” he pointed to the CCTV cameras perched atop the pillars either side of the gate, “this place ‘as got more cameras than Fort Knox.”

Inside of course, it was different story entirely: acres of well-tended lawns as smooth as billiard-table-baizes; vast flower beds moistened by a huge sprinkler system; topiary styled to resemble the figures in the Ascent of Man leading to the entrance of an extensive privet-maze; an enormous, ornate white-marble fountain with alabaster cherubs pissing into the air. It was all very tastefully ostentatious.

Like most of the world, his knowledge of Oliver Laphen was based on sensational gossip-columns he’d read in tatty magazines in various waiting-rooms over the years and the odd interview on Parkinson. Because Laphen was such an intensely private man, there were no official biographies and he used the services of an extremely litigious LA law firm to stymie any scandalous tomes that might shed light on the mystery he’d carefully nurtured over the years – a tantalising question: where did this fiery, working class, comic genius come from? The more reclusive he became, the more public interest increased, the more speculative the press became about his private life, the more outrageous the rumours -– the more tickets he sold. His career was indestructible. Not that everything was rosy on the home front. Enigmas, especially rich, volatile enigmas, are pap magnets; a good picture will fetch upwards of $10,000 so he was tabloid fodder from the day he stepped into the limelight. Editors from LA to Tokyo dispatched an army of dedicated investigative journalists to Dublin where they pored over thousands of files in public records offices in an attempt to trace the Laphen family line, but they always drew a blank: Jolly Ollie’s pedigree remained a tantalising mystery. He was certainly an Irishman by birth but refused to say anything about his childhood other than he was ‘educated by sadistic nuns’; he never talked about any parents or siblings and nobody knew where in Ireland he was from -- his accent was hard to pinpoint and changed as often as his anecdotes, the most famous of which was the story of his emigration to America when he allegedly stowed-away on a liner bound for New York at the age of 13 in 1929. After evading processing at Ellis Island he hitched his way across the States east to west and landed in Hollywood, where, according to (his) legend, he slept on the beach and did whatever work he could find during the day. At night he’d ‘hone his art’ performing slapstick in vaudeville, readying himself for stardom; two years later, at the age of 16, he was discovered by the celebrated ‘King Of Comedy’ Max Sennett. The talkies were the new big thing, and at a time when most silent stars were finding it impossible to ‘sound funny’, Ollie’s cartoonish Irish accent was a godsend and Sennett gave him his own series of 15 minute shorts. As Laphen retold this story over the subsequent decades, the narrative was wont to evolve until the embellishments rendered it wholly unreliable.

In the mid-30s when he traded under the moniker Ollie Laffin, he was happy to mug and gurn for the downmarket rags and Pathé News presentations; then, when he got ‘serious’ in the late-40s/early-50s, he stopped playing the fool and became a semi-reclusive thesp. The post-war world was a different place: screwball comedy and slapstick was old hat and Ollie was too canny to go down with the ship. When he returned to movies in ‘46 he went under the name of Oliver Laphen, stopped doing interviews and avoided all ‘that red carpet bollox’, preferring to leave the PR to his co-stars and directors who’d either guardedly sing his praises or proffer equivocal comments that were actually thinly-veiled digs, such as: ‘[working with] Mr Laphen was an experience I’ll never forget... but I’m trying.’ (Lauren Bacall) ‘He brings a piece of himself to every role and playing the villain comes so naturally [to him]...’ (David Niven), but one vox-pop in particular had stuck in in Malky’s mind: "He kept us mere mortals waiting for 4 hours before gracing us with His Presence, we went $4 million over-budget, 4 producers suffered a collective nervous breakdown and 2 of the crew died from heatstroke, but when you hire [Oliver Laphen], you get the best and some studios are prepared to set aside a few million to ‘feed the beast’.” Regardless of what his fellow-travellers thought of him, and how big a pain in the arse he was, Ollie Laphen = Box Office Gold.

“There she is!” cried Herbie, like an enthusiastic tour guide. The Rolls had rounded a bend in the driveway and Malky got his first glimpse of Pagham House.

“Jeez –- house is too small a word, Herbie! This makes Windsor Castle look like a B&B!” said Malky, when confronted by the huge, sandstone edifice of palatial proportions, with rows of latticed gothic windows, draped with thick beards of ivy.

The chauffeur chuckled, “Impressive, eh? It used to belong to the 10th Duke of Roxborough til ‘e fell on ‘ard-times ‘n the boss made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. We rent it aht when we’re ahtta town. It’s very popular wiv the Arabs ‘n the Chinese. It’s got 30 rooms, swimming pool, gym, ballroom, sauna -- it even has its own church -- the works!” They pulled into a gravel forecourt and parked at the foot of a huge white marble staircase leading up to a tastefully-weathered, balustrade-lined terrace. But Malky’s attention was drawn to another vehicle parked to the right of the steps: namely, the same Harley-Davison touring bike he’d seen in the village, and sitting on the steps was the mysterious rider/cameraman filming them as they drew up!

Malky was furious all over again, “What’s he doing here?”

“More to the point, ‘ow the ‘ell did ‘e get in?!” said Herbie, slowly unclipping his seat belt and opening his door, “I’ll ‘andle this...” Herbie got out, straightened his cap and walked toward the diminutive figure, “Can I ‘elp you, mate...?” Malky heard him ask, and then he and Broo watched as the biker promptly stopped filming, jumped down and met the burly chauffeur head-on -- he took off his helmet, grinned, opened his arms and the two embraced like they were very pleased to see each other.

“Uncle Herb – you look great!” trilled a cherub-cheeked, heavily-freckled, copper-headed American kid in his mid-20s, brimming with childlike-enthusiasm, speaking quickly and excitedly, “Listen - we’re gonna be shooting in July! I’m here to scout for locations and do the final negotiations...!” The lad stopped short when he noticed Malky trudging across the gravel.

“Sorry, Mr Calvert sir, I got a bit distracted then,” said Herbie, putting a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “This ‘ere’s Kristof Katz, Mr Laphen’s grandson. Kris – this-‘ere is Mr Malcolm Calvert ‘oo’s come to... erm... sort out a little... plumbing problem...”

The young Master Katz took off a leather gauntlet, shook Malky’s hand, chattering incessantly, “Very pleased to meet you sir, I’m very sorry for the candid camera incident, but when I saw the car I thought my grandfather was inside and I wanted to catch him unawares but I caught you unawares and once you started to rant I couldn’t resist capturing that intense anger! I guess it’s the habit of lifetime -- Herb here will tell ya -- I’ve hadda movie-camera in my mitt since I was old enough to lift one – isn’t that right Uncle Herb? I’m a total geek!”

Malky gaped at him as if he’d arrived from another planet.

“Yer caffeinated up-to the-eyeballs again!” said Herbie, playfully clipping him round the ear and scolding him like a naughty schoolboy, “jet-lagged, ridin’ rahnd windin’ cahntry roads on a bleedin’ two-wheeled deff-trap?! Are y’ off your trolley, boy?! You coulda been killed -- there’s farm vehicles on these-‘ere roads, you coulda turned an ‘airpin bend an’ wahnd-up in the blades of a combine ‘arvester or summink!!”

Kris apologised for his over-enthusiasm and slowed down, “... anyhow, pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Calvert,” he turned and pointed behind him, “welcome to Ollie Towers, The Laphen House -- Xanadu -- whatever you wanna call it.”

Now that he was up close, Malky saw the family resemblance; the lad was short, around 5’ 5”, the same steely-blue peepers and winsome dimples that had graced millions-upon-millions of magazine covers since 1930. Malky felt compelled to comment, “I must say, you are the spitting image of your granddad.”

Herbie was gushing again, “Not only that -- but he’s in’erited his talent too! Kris is a movie director!” he tweaked the lad’s cheek and pretended to punch his jaw.

Kris went all aw-shucks and kicked at the gravel with the toe of a leather boot, “Well, I’m about to direct my first full-length feature. I’m very excited. It’s been in development hell for 3 or 4 years and now it’s finally in pre-production.”  

“’E’s like a son to me!” Herbie put an arm around Kris’ shoulders, tweaked his cheek again and beamed, “when he was a nipper ‘is mum used to leave ‘im wif me on those days when she was... erm... uvverwise occupied...”

Kris, utterly unfazed, merrily took up the slack and filled in the blanks, “What Herb won’t tell you is my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen - had a lotta ‘substance abuse issues’ at the time, Mr Calvert. She used to unload me onto Herbie for weeks on end when she went on a jag [Now that the lad had mentioned it, Malky recalled reading something about one of Laphen’s daughters getting arrested for possession in the late 60s. In fact, from what he could remember, all 8 of the Quare Geg’s children had ‘issues’ of one kind or another]. Thankfully she’s been clean and sober for the past 6 years and now she’s counselling other women with similar issues...” he squeezed the hand dangling on his shoulder, “So I have this man to thank for givin’ me a relatively normal childhood! We used to play on the film sets in the studios when gramps was making a movie - that’s where I got my training!”

Herbie blushed, “Ach, it wasn't ideal, but where else was I gonna take ya? You know your granddad always ‘as to ‘ave me arahnd to fetch and carry for ‘im. And watchin’ a film get made is like watchin’ paint dry, if you awsk me - it’s a wonder it didn’t put you off movies for life!”

They were distracted by the sound of paws hitting gravel. The old dog had finally exited the Rolls but didn’t join them; he kept close to the car and watched from a distance. “Whassup wiv the pooch, ‘e’s gawn a bit shy, ‘in ‘e?” asked Herbie.

Malky called out to him: “What’s the matter with you, Hopalong? What has you all cagey, huh? Come over here and say hello!”

“Aww, look, he’s only got three legs,” crooned Kris, in a childishly sympathetic voice. Broo whimpered as he watched the glowing boy walk toward him, stooped and spoke softly as if addressing a bashful toddler, “You don’t have to be afraid of me, boy, I wouldn't hurt a fly! No I wouldn't...” he reached out

Broo recoiled and whimpered: Get off me, you idiot... you’re killing me!

But Kris carried on, unaware of the old dog’s distress, “Easy, boy, I won’t hurt you...”

AARGH!!

Kris cuddled him, stroked his back and made silly noises, “Eh? Who’s a handsome fella, then? You must quite the VIP, huh? A German Shepherd who’s so important he gets to ride around in the back of a limousine...?”

Mercifully, he was rudely interrupted by a loud voice from above, “Where the f**k have you been, Gorringe?!”

The boy stopped petting and turned away – Broo (unseen) wobbled for a second then keeled over.

There was an elderly man in a gaping, black silk kimono, electric-blue satin boxer-shorts, and bright green unlaced baseball boots standing at the top of steps; he pointed at Kris with an accusing finger, “and what-the-f**k’s that wee ginger gobshite doing on my property?!”

Malky looked up and regarded their prospective client. His collar length grey hair was thinning and unruly as if he’d just got out of bed, his heavily lined face clenched in distaste; but underneath the grizzled exterior and the bizarre attire, was none other the Quare Geg Himself: the fun-loving Ollie Laphen, former Crown Prince of Comedy! Looking at him now, though, it seemed there was little to laugh about, but you wouldn't know it to hear his grandson.

“Gramps! How-the-hell are you?! It’s me, Kris!” The boy put the helmet on the seat of the Harley and joyfully bounded-up the steps two-at-a-time, “so goo-ood to see you, dude...” he embraced the frail, bristly figure - who immediately pushed him away. “Gitcher filthy hands affa me, ye wee shite!! I’m not senile yet -- I know damn-well who you are!” Laphen put his fists on his hips and sneered in a high-pitched whine, “Whaddya want from me this time? Money, is it? Well, you can feck-off back to La-La Land - this bank is closed! Go and ask that crooked auld kike of a father o’ yours – oh yeah, I forgot – he’s back in the bankruptcy courts -- yet-again -- after yet-another one of his half-assed business-deals went tits-up in the water – still - why break the habit of a lifetime, huh? Once a loser, always a loser!” he stuck his little pug nose in the air, stuck out his chin and tied the belt of his silk kimono, like a superannuated prize-fighter squaring-up at a weigh-in. 

Doing his best to suppress a fit of giggles, Kris reassured him in a sober tone, “S’OK gramps, don’t have a cow, man. I don’t need any of your filthy lucre, after all -- we've got a backer! And for the record –- I’ve never asked you for anything in my life, you old goat -- and you know it!”

Laphen stepped closer, “Why are you here then?”

“To see you you...” said Kris, smirking.

Laphen went nose-to-nose with his grandson and growled, “So, you don’t need me?! Well! You've seen me! Now piss off!”

Kris put a hand on the old man’s shoulder and smiled, warmly, “C'mon, we’d better get you inside, it’s quite chilly out here and we wouldn't want you catching cold, now, would we?”

The old man swatted the hand away like a particularly stubborn piece of lint, “Stop treatin’ me like a feckin’ invalid! I’m perfectly capable of walkin’ unaided – I’m not in a feckin’ wheelchair yet!” in the same breath, he broke away, looked down at Herbie, pointed at Malky and barked, “Is this the guy?”

“Yessah!” Herbie replied, standing to attention, as if addressed by a superior officer, “this is Mr Malcolm Calvert, the, erm... consultant from Brodir.”

“Well – don’t just stand there like a spare cock at a hen-night! Bring him in!”

With that, Laphen stomped back to the house with Kris walking alongside him, chatting incessantly despite the cold shoulder.

As Herbie fetched his overnight bag from the trunk of the Rolls, Malky watched them walk off and commented, “Chirpy little git, isn't he?”  

Herbie slammed the lid shut and explained in a low voice, “Don’t let the ol’ Scrooge act give ya the wrong impression, Mr C. Kris is the apple of the old man’s eye - ‘e dotes on that boy. This is the way they speak to each uvvah. There’s no real malice intended so it’s best if you just let ‘em get on wiv it. Neevah wants to admit that it’s all a big contest to see who’ll crack first –- it usually ends in ‘uge laughs all-round. Only fing is the old man’s been ‘ittin’ the bottle again. I’m afraid ‘e’ll end-up sayin’ somefink really ‘urtful to the boy and ‘e might never come back. Kris is the only grandchild ‘oo ever comes to visit, see -- so for all of our sakes -- I ‘ope they chill-aht 'n have a civilised conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Malky grunted, distractedly. The more he heard, the stronger the temptation to hand back the cheque and book a taxi back to Brodir, but he was so hungry now he had no choice but to reserve judgement until after dinner.

As they climbed the steps he suddenly realised they’d forgotten someone; he looked back and saw that his trusty companion was finding it hard to drag himself up, “Och, c’mon Broo, they’re not as steep as the stairs at the inn -- and you manage to climb those when you fancy a drink from the bog!” said Malky, turning away.

Broo could barely stand, let alone climb a flight of steps. When the young leatherman approached to indulge in a spot of light-petting and the strange, purplish halo enveloped him, Broo was instantly numbed -- he felt a sensation akin to sinking into a vat of virulent, viscous quicksand; a toxic vapour overwhelmed his senses -– and when the boy eventually let go, the dread feeling went with him. Alas, the men were too busy to notice him collapse in a heap, having been distracted by the sudden appearance of an angry old man who smelled of cigarettes, alcohol and bathsalts. Then something strange happened: when the younger man climbed the steps -- the aura around him grew more transparent –- by the time he embraced the old man - it had evaporated completely! One second it was there, the next – nothing. This was most perplexing. And if his senses were to be believed, aside from a few passing crows, there were none of the usual creatures one would find on an estate as big as this. Just like the village, there was no livestock or wildlife in the vicinity at all. Not only that, but as his head cleared, he realised that something else was missing: there’s no sign of anything Other in the ether either, and that bothered him most of all. The sky was darkening for dusk, the shadows were lengthening and the sun was low, so why are there no apparitions in the Golden Hour? Where was the shimmering residual energy of past events that can only be glimpsed through the rays of twilight? In a land such as this, historically ravaged by epidemics, tribal violence, famine and murderous invaders, there should be at least a few ghostly children playing in the fields... And yet, there’s nothing. If the Barry McKee case had taught him anything at all, it was to Beware Spiritual Vacuums. Bad things happen in Spiritual Vacuums.

... at that very moment (12:56 US Eastern Time), approximately 3600 miles away, at a checkpoint at the Canadian/United States’ border, on the Peace Bridge at Fort Erie, between Ontario and Buffalo, New York State...

“Sir? Sir... hello...

“Sir?!

“Wind down the window, sir!”

Somewhere... off in the distance Emil heard a man’s voice and a clicking sound. Metal on glass...

It wasn't like waking up, more like someone switching on a light. He was sitting in Fran’s Volvo, at what appeared to be the US/Canadian border!

“Sir, would you please wind down your window?” the muffled voice barked “SIR?!”

In his peripheral vision, Emil discerned a uniformed figure peering through the window. A US border patrol guard?! Holy shit?! What the f**k is going on?! 

But the inner-turmoil, dislocation and downright terror didn’t register on his face: on the outside, he was deadpan, ice-cool and composed. The inner-Emil watched his own hand reach out and push the button that wound down the window; he felt the crisp breeze buffet his face and arms as the glass descended.  If this is a dream, it’s very vivid. The guard stooped, leaned-in and sniffed the inside of the car. The outer-Emil remained unfazed, but when he caught a glimpse of himself in the wing-mirror, he soon realised why the guard was so suspicious.

He appeared to be wearing an unbelted towelling bathrobe, pyjama pants and his XXL Jimi Hendrix tee-shirt -- the ensemble he wore when he was slouching around the apartment... Shit -- you gotta be kidding me -- no briefs?! He desperately wanted to grab the hem of the gown and tuck the tails between his legs, but his arms refused to budge!

The certainties: it was daylight; he was at the border. I’m driving my wife’s 1979 Volvo estate dressed like an extra from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest! This has to be a dream! I’m gonna wake up at any minute...

Meanwhile, somewhat surprised that he couldn't smell any liquor, the guard returned to the business in hand, “May I see your passport, sir?!” he asked, acidly, in a thick New England accent. He was leaning on the roof now, the midday-sun gleaming off the chrome-plated badge on his cap; despite the dazzling flashes, Emil’s eyes refused to blink. The Inner-Emil wanted to grab his tie and shout: Stop me! I’m out of my mind! but his lips remained firmly zipped; his body remained still. For all-intents-and-purposes, he was a puppet with no mind of his own.

So who’s pulling the strings?

The guard was getting impatient; he pointed at the passenger seat, and snapped, “Your passport, sir!!

Emil’s outer voice said “Passport?”

The guard pointed, “It’s there. Right beside you, sir.”

His head turned to the right and he found himself looking down at the passenger seat; sure-enough, sitting atop an array of various official papers, was his passport. He saw his hand reach out, pick it up and hand it over. Maintaining eye-contact, the guard took the little booklet, ceremoniously shook it open and read it with a disdainful look. Emil had taken many acid trips and tried every psychedelic he could get his mitts on, but this was unlike anything he’d ever experienced in his voyages through the Doors of Perception. So what does that leave? Sleepwalking? He tried to make the fingers of his left hand pinch his thigh... but nothing.

“What brings you to the US, Mr Labatt?”

Emil heard himself say, “Doctor Labatt. I’m on my way to visit an elderly relative, if you must know. She’s very ill. Dying. It’s an emergency.”

What?!

“... Are you planning to drive all the way, Dr Labatt?” the guard asked, doubtfully.

The inner-Emil wanted to cry out: I don’t wanna drive anywhere! I don’t know why I’m here or what I’m doing! Please call my wife, Frances – she’ll come and get me!! In fact – arrest me! Take me into custody right now!!

Instead he heard his outer voice reply, dryly, “Yes, officer. Driving all the way.”

The guard handed back the passport, sighed heavily and asked pointedly, “Dr Labatt, have you been imbibing today? Narcotics, alcohol, have you taken any prescription drugs that might affect your ability to drive?”

This could work to his advantage: if I’m cheeky enough they might arrest me on suspicion of DUI! Alas, the invisible ventriloquist kept the voice calm and answered succinctly, “I most certainly have not been imbibing, officer. I’m a well-respected forensic scientist and a senior lecturer at the University of Toronto. I’m on my way to Baltimore to see an elderly relative with a terminal illness. It’s matter of some urgency. I need to get on.”

Baltimore?!

The guard handed back the passport and enquired, brusquely, “Carrying any foodstuffs, livestock including pets, liquor or sundries that may be considered contraband by the United States of America?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, would you mind popping the trunk, sir?”

Emil didn’t stir.

“Sir... pop the trunk?”

“This is my wife’s car and I don’t know where the trunk popper is.”

‘Trunk popper’?! Listen to me! Arrest me, you fool! I’m frickin’ nuts!!

Shaking his head, the guard reached in and groped under the wheel; “There she is,” and tugged the lever.

While the guard searched the trunk, the Inner-Emil tried to think logically: Could I have been inadvertently poisoned at the lab? Unlikely, he was very careful about sterilisation and wore a mask at all times... Have I ingested something in the course of my work... a fungus...? A spoor that causes one to act out in some way...? But he was ignoring the obvious: there was a taste in his mouth -- a taste that was as familiar as it was bitter and earthy that usually preceded the bouts of sickness. In fact, it had been happening ever since he’d got back from the dig in Kildare 2 years ago when they discovered the bog mummies (he’d abandoned the annual expeditions after his little fling with Niamh). Lately, he’d been prone to intermittent lapses in consciousness and bouts of short-term memory-loss. He’d find himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror for hours on end. Fran thought he was smoking too much weed, but not even strongest strain of mary jane could induce blackouts like this, and nothing would leave a taste in his mouth this bad.

The trunk slammed shut. The guard returned, “Everything seems to be in order, Dr Labatt...” he leaned on the roof and spoke close, “Listen doc, if I was you I’d stop at the first motel I came to and I’d get myself a couple of hours sleep. Then I’d have a shower and a change of clothes and I’d drive the rest of the way feeling wide awake ‘n refreshed. I wouldn't want to fall asleep at the wheel and maybe kill myself or some innocent folk who were unlucky enough to be travellin’ the same road. Whaddya say to that, doc?”

An uneasy silence followed. The inner-Emil waited for his body to respond but nothing came: his eyes remained unblinking, his mouth stayed shut. He prayed that this was a turning point -- that he’d do something so outrageous they’d have to take him in -- but it never came. Finally, the guard sighed and patted the roof with the flat of his hand, “Welcome to the United States, doctor.”

Before the lights went out, Emil heard his voice reply with a curt, “Thank you. Have a nice day.” He felt his right hand release the handbrake; he felt his foot gently depress the accelerator. He watched as the Volvo taxied through the checkpoint; he paid the toll and ventured onto the open road... that was the last thing he remembered before the darkness descended again...

Malahide, Dublin: The Somerville family were going to Mass.

“Put on yer seat-belt, Cate, luv. You don’t have to sit in the baby-seat but you still have to strap yerself in,” said Somerville, getting into the driver’s seat.

In the back, Cate turned to her younger sister, “See, Cathy – he called it a ‘baby’ seat!’”

“Mommeeeeeeee!” Cathy wailed.

Pat got into the passenger seat and took control: “Ssshhhh, Cathy.... Cate don’t tease Cathy! You’ll start her off -- then baby Clare will start!” She playfully slapped her husband’s shoulder, “That’s your fault, daddy! It’s a CAR seat not a BABY seat, silly -– it even says so on the little label ‘Car Seat’ –- so-there, Miss smarty-pants-Caitlin -- you were wrong!”

“Daddy said it not me.”

“It was a slip of the tongue, Pat.”

“He didn’t mean to say it, Cathy. I’ll never hear the feckin end of this... will you be more careful what you say!”

“I’m not a baby I’m 4 and 4 months! I have to sit in it cuz I’m too wee for the seat belt!”

“That’s right! You tell ‘em Cathy! It’s a seat for small people, not babies! Cathy’s very sensitive and unassertive and I’m trying to build her confidence!”

“Daddy, what’s ‘police brutality’?” asked Cate, apropos of nothing.

“Where did you hear about ‘police brutality’?” said Somerville, looking at her in the rear-view mirror.

“One of the older girls shouted it when Sister Marie dragged her into the bogs to wash her face.”

“Toilets, Ladies, loo or lavatory, please, Cate, dear. What are bogs?” said Pat, sternly.

“Sorry mommy: ‘Bogs are Irish swamps...’” Cate sang, rolling her eyes.

Herbie led the way through the huge front door into a huge, cavernous sandstone vestibule lit by a quartet of gothic, arched windows, not unlike the narthex of a Christian church, but cluttered with precisely the sort of tone-lowering kitschy bric-a-brac that one would expect a working-class-boy-made-good to put on display -- as much a screw you to visiting nobs & snobs as it was a totem to his wealth and wilful nature, to wit: a suit of armour wearing an American Indian headdress, a deep-sea diving-suit with a stuffed monkey’s head in the helmet; a pair of large Persian vases filled with strange umbrellas. One item in particular gave Malky cause for pause: standing to the left of the adjoining Gothic archway, stood a life-sized waxwork of the Master of Mirth himself, fashioned and dressed to represent his ‘hey-day’ in the 30s; this waxen Laphen was the youthful, joyful Jolly Ollie Laffin, grinning that trademark  squidgy-grin, complete with pinchable dimples, the rash of freckles across the bridge of his little pug-nose, the glassy sky-blue eyes gleaming like sapphires – you couldn't help but smile. Malky couldn't help but remark, “Whatever happened to that sweet li’l guy, eh?”

The burly chauffeur didn’t take the bait and doggedly maintained his chummy, sunny disposition, providing information with the patter of a well-informed tour-guide, “That used to reside in the foy-yer at Madame Toussauds in Lahndahn! They replaced it wiv a more recent model in the 70s an’ the boss brought the originals back ‘ere when he bought the ahse. This one was done in ’38, just after his first full-length feature: Ollie and Molly Strike Oil!” Herbie moved to the right of the connecting archway and unconsciously adopted an almost identical pose to the grinning effigy on the left, “This way, Mr Calvert. I’ll take you to yer room and you can freshen up ‘n that ‘n we can tawk about the ‘situation’ over dinnah.”

As they walked through a slate-floored lobby lit by muted spotlights, it was more of the same: a veritable Ollie Laphen museum exhibit; an autobiography laid out chronologically -- from glass-cases containing newspaper columns, magazine covers and PR stills from the slapstick days of the 1930s -- to the chin-stroking thesp (a framed headline in The Irish News: ‘Laphen’s Lear is a masterclass!’). The dark, wood-panelled walls were lined with framed photographs of Ollie pressing flesh and embracing some of the greatest movie-makers, movers-and-shakers of the past 60 years: FDR, Bogart, Monroe, Gable, Jackie O, Bing, Hope, Groucho, Einstein, Fidel, Vidal, Hitchcock, Wayne, JFK, Johnson, Nixon, Kissinger, Elvis, the Dalai Lama, the Beatles, the Queen of England and various royals – as far as the 20th century is concerned, Ollie is the OED definition of ubiquitous. As they passed through the connecting archway, Malky got quite a jolt - enough to stop him dead in his tracks. Dead being the appropriate word, for in the shadows of the dimly lit reception hall stood a menagerie of dead things ready to attack -- lions, bears, tigers, panthers -- feral, snarling, glassy-eyed, posed in a stance of attack; ugly birds-of-prey hung on wires from the rafters, talons bared, poised to swoop; and to be certain that arachnophobes didn’t feel excluded, there were a few tarantulas strategically attached to various pillars and posts.

Malky gaped and gasped, “Wow! Did Ollie kill all these himself?!”

This time Herbie did seem a wee bit uncomfortable, “Nah, ‘e commissioned ‘em from a taxi-dermist’s in Sarf Africa where they can get you anything...” He sniffed and shook his head, “I ‘ate it too, to tell the troof – I never come frew ‘ere if I can avoid it. It’s the old man’s sense off ooma, see – he likes to lull visi’ors into a false sense of security then - aargh! They get the shock of their lives,” he reached behind a curtain and threw a switch -- the animals’ eyes shone bright red and and roared in their respective voices. “The boss ‘ates animals, see –- he got rid of all the livestock ‘cept for stables when ‘e bought the ahse. ‘E ‘ates ‘orses most of all. ‘E got thrown by a donkey when ‘e was doin’ a cameo in Around the World in Eighty Days in ’55 or ’56 –- ‘e walked orf the set and refused to ‘ave anyfink to do with animals evah again! Animals and kids. If he could get ridda the crows he’d be ‘appy.”

Broo found the menagerie obscene and growled accordingly.

Their attention was briefly diverted by shouting in a room somewhere further in: “... Will you quit naggin’ me – ye’re worse than a feckin wife!”

“NO! I won’t stop til you see sense! If I don’t say it – who will!?! You’re cracking up!! You’re a delusional... egomaniacal narcissist! You’re like Stalin without the people-skills...!”

Herbie quickly ushered his guests into the lobby and closed a connecting door turning the voices into incoherent murmurs, but Malky had heard enough. Herbie’s stoic exterior slipped, he got jittery and muttered something about an ‘Inquisition’ under his breath. Malky was about to ask what he meant when he quickened his step and led the way through another archway that led to a lobby at the foot of a huge white marble staircase cleft with a dark scarlet runner. On the bottom step stood the other waxwork of Ollie dressed as a tramp holding the Oscar statuette for his role as a shady boxing promoter in the movie Knuckledusters. In an alcove in the rear wall to the left of the staircase stood an imposing, but badly-damaged grandfather clock; the glass insets covering the face and pendulum case were smashed, the hour-hand hung limp on the wheel and part of the ornate, intricately hand-carved casing was cracked down one side.

Herbie stood next to his guest, looked up at it and said, “Big f**ker, innit?”

Malky was inclined to agree that it was highly unlikely that such a huge piece of solid timber could be toppled so easily by a man as old and small as Ollie.

The bickering voices were making Herbie very uncomfortable, there was a pained expression on his big, weather-beaten face. As they climbed the staircase, he said, “Look, Mr Calvert... I don’t know ’ow to say this... what I mean to say is.... you might ‘ear certain fings whilst you is ‘ere... and I don’t like ‘avin’ to ask... but we’d be grateful if you would sign, for the want of a better phrase, a gag order.”

Malky shook his head, “Like I said, Herbie, I hate the press as much as ‘oul Ollie, but I don’t feel comfortable signing that sort of thing. Cuz if there is anythin’ iffy goin’ on – I’m not sayin’ there is – but should we detect signs of chicanery or skulduggery in the course of our ‘investigation’ -- like, say, we uncover a plot to get the ol’ bugger certified and bleed him dry or rewrite his will -- a gagging order could severely hinder an official investigation, and, when all’s said and done, I’m on the side of law and order.” He held up his right hand, “But if it makes you feel any better – as far as petty gossip and scandal-mongering is concerned -- my lips are sealed,” he turned, looked down at Broo and added, glumly, “... can’t speak for the dog, though...”

Broo grunted, still too stupefied to take anything in.  

In light of such an earnest assurance, Herbie relaxed a little and explained, “Um well, the ‘Inquisition’ I mentioned refers to some recent sackin’s in the last week or two. ‘E’s fired a coupla security guards, the assistant gardener and the young gal who ‘elps out wiv the ‘ahsework on Tuesdays ‘n Fursdays!”

“Why did he sack them?”

“Cos somebody leaked some gossip to an American tabloid ‘n it could only ‘ave come from the staff, so ‘e hadda clear-aht.” Herbie took a deep breath and spoke in a half-whisper, “So you can see how bad it is ‘ere. It’s got to the point where the only people ‘e trusts is me and the ‘ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes - and ‘e only trusts ‘er cuz she’s from the village and they believes all this ’aunted ‘ouse bollox.”

Again they were distracted; this time it was the jingle of unbuckled buckles and the stomp of motorcycle-boot-heels on the chequered tiles below, “Uncle Herb! Is it true? He’s sacked Scanlon?!” Kris shouted from the hall, clearly incensed. The three turned and looked down; Herbie maintained eye contact but didn’t answer; his uneasy silence said it all. “He has?! Shit! Where did he go?”

Herbie lowered his head, looked at his shoes and said, “Nobody knows. He packed up ‘n walked aht wivvaht a word ‘n we’ve ‘eard nuffink since.”

The lad stamped his foot and punched his thighs with his fists in a sudden fit of anger and disbelief, pacing back and forth at the bottom of the stairs, as the implications hit him one by one, “This is such bullshit, Uncle Herb -- I was working with Scanlon -- he was helping me with the movie -- what did he do?!”

Herbie’s head dropped, “Look Kris, yer grandpaw’s been ‘avin’ a bit of bovver lately and...”

“And where’s the cat? Don’t tell me he’s fired him too?!”

“He ran away.”

“Huh?! Fey Ray ran away? I not friggin’ surprised! The entire estate is a no go area for anything with more than two legs!” yelled Kris, without realising how odd it sounded, and stomped off in a huff; a few seconds later they heard him shouting at the old man in another room.

“Do ever stop and think: ‘hey, maybe I’m the problem?’ – cuz unless you straighten-out you’re gonna die a very lonely old man...” “Ach, blow it out yer arse, ye ginger shite-hawk...!”

A door slammed and the squabbling voices became muffled and unintelligible again. Herbie put a hand to his brow and groaned to himself, “Kris, son, you couldn't-a picked a worse time to pay us a surprise visit...”

“Who was Scanlon? The butler?” asked Malky.

“No, groundskeeper, but he might as well’ve been,” Herbie replied, unhappily, “’E did all the odd-jobs arahnd the ahse. Lifetime’s service – gone - jus-like-that - phfft! Kris an’ ‘im wuz thick as thieves too. ‘E knew all the stories about this place. Kris used to sit up for hours on end listenin’ to ‘im but Scanlon and the boss never really got along – Scanlon came wiv the ahse, see, just like all the servants – but ‘e wuz a bit of a law onto ‘isself. When we checked, we found ‘irregularities’ in our finances. The boss confronted him, he couldn’t answer, ‘n that was that.”

They reached the second landing and the old retainer ushered them along a long corridor with row-upon-row of sky-blue doors with ornate brass name plates, the panelling in-between bedecked with gold and silver discs, “Were all these recorded by Ollie?” asked Malky, genuinely impressed.

Herbie, pleased to have a diversion, nodded and cheerfully slipped back into tour-guide mode, “Oh, people forget ‘e was a great crooner. In the 50s he recorded loadsa LPs and they wuz big ‘its all ovah the world - not-so-much in the US or Britain - but ‘ere in Ireland ‘n France ‘n’ Germany.  Can’t walk dahn the street in Japan. We go over to Tokyo every now-‘n’-then and ‘e records all these TV commercials for ‘em. Liquor, potato chips, candy bars, mostly. ‘Big bucks for a load of ol’ bollox!’ ‘e says.”

“I know how that feels,” muttered Malky, thumbing the cheque in his pocket.

Herbie opened a door with an engraved plate bearing the legend The Wonderland Suite and put the case on an ottoman by the door. The room was weirdly magnificent, in an oversized, child’s playbox type-way. The floor was a chessboard, there were huge cushions in the shape of chess pieces scattered around the floor; the walls were decorated with blow ups of Tenniel’s drawings of Alice in Wonderland characters; an emperor-sized four-poster swathed in white satin sheets patterned with black diamonds; and a large, white tallboy with outsized, bright red knobs and drawers that were shaped to look warped and uneven, like a prop from a kids’ cartoon. “’Ere’s the TV,” he said, opening the doors of a huge white sideboard to reveal a 38” screen, “If you wanna take a walk round before dinnah -– go ‘ead, nowhere’s off limits -– oh, part of the east-wing’s locked-up, but I can get the keys from the safe and take you down later. There’s some PJs ‘n wot-not in the dresser drawer and fresh towels in the en suite. There’s the phone,” he pointed at an ornate, art deco phone, “just dial 9 for an outside line.”

Astonished by his surroundings, Malky could only gaze and nod his head.

Herbie clicked his heels and stood to attention, “There’s plenty of ‘ot-wa’ah if you wanna ‘ave a showah and a shave or wot-evah. Dinnah will be served at 8pm sharp (it was presently 5:50pm), I’ll bang the gong. In the meantime, make yerself at ‘ome 'n I’ll see you at 8,” said Herbie, brightly, closing the door behind him.

Malky sat down on the edge of the bed and examined a brass plated console next to the headboard; he pressed the first button: the curtains closed; he pressed the second: the curtains opened; he pressed a third and the lights either side of the bed came on; he pressed the fourth and the drape across the canopy over the bed rolled back to reveal a full-size, horizontal mirror. “Bit sordid for a room that looks like a nursery,” Malky opined, flopping down and looking up at his reflection, “God, I’m getting old. Remind me to close that curtain before I go to bed – if I wake up and see meself in the morning I’m likely to scare meself to death.” He kicked off his shoes and writhed in the welcoming sea of satiny-softness, like a Labrador pup in an unfurled toilet roll, “Oh, I just wanna sleeeeep... wake me up in September when the baby’s born...”

Broo growled quietly, that’s right, you have a nice relaxing catnap while your tiny, put-upon wife labours over a hot engine just so that she can get that wretched old banger of a van back on the road in order to buy provisions and decorating materials to build a nest for you and your unborn progeny.

Malky sat up, “Hmm. maybe I should ring her. This is our first night apart since we moved in together. I’d better give her a progress report.” He rolled over, picked up the art-deco phone and called the inn.

“Well, what’s Ollie’s house like?! Is it dead grand or what? I wanna know everything!”

He gave her a detailed description of the house so far, right up to and including the mirror in the canopy over the bed, “... the stories are true, though -- Jolly Ollie is one grouchy oul’ shite. I don’t think I’ve ever met such an obnoxious old git in all me life.” he said, shaking his head. “Zindy, what the hell am I doing here? This isn't me.”

Zindy had obviously been thinking about it too, “Listen luvver, this ain’t a justification or an excuse, but both of us know that there’s certain things we can’t explain away with logic. I mean, look what ‘appened with Barry McKee? Just put yer Sherlock hat on and look at it from a detective’s perspective; treat it as a sorta murder-mystery weekend. What about Broo? He should be able to let you know if there’s anything spooky about the place?”

“I dunno, he seems a bit drowsy, like he’s half-asleep,” said Malky, giving the old dog a cursory glance.

Of course I’m sluggish, you oaf -- this place is sucking the life out of me! Can’t you tell?!

But the semi-telepathic link remained infuriatingly out of order, “It was a long drive. He’s probably knackered.” Then, much to Broo’s chagrin, they forgot about him and exchanged love yous, miss yous and take cares before hanging up.

“Have you noticed somethin’?” said Malky, rhetorically, going to the en-suite and turning on the light; he looked around, “Hmmm,” he opened the bathroom cabinet: the mirror was on the inside of the door. “Whilst me ‘n Zindy were talking, it suddenly occurred to me -– there isn't a mirror to be seen around the house -- even the one above this bed is covered by a curtain.” Malky nodded, “It’s ironic, isn't it: the big Alice in Wonderland freak who doesn’t have Looking Glass –- an egotist who treats you to a personalised autobiographical stroll through his glory days but doesn’t like to look at his own reflection? I find that somewhat strange...”

5 minutes ago: Zindy put the receiver back in its cradle, sat back and winced, “Settle down, kiddo,” she said, patting the elongated face of Jimi Hendrix stretched across her bump, “I still have a gearbox to sort out before we ‘ave a nice bath ‘n go to bed.” She sat at the kitchen table, radio tuned to a classic rock station (Malky listened to nothing but BBC Radio 4) and sang along to Deep Purple’s Child in Time, wailing like a banshee as she screwed and unscrewed oily nuts and rusty bolts: très cathartic. She felt a little guilty, but surely she was entitled to a night on her own. She looked down at the bump: I mean the two of us. I’ll never be alone again

Zara ‘Zindy’ Lindsay, you see, was an accident; everybody told her so.

Ever since she could understand rudimentary English, her aunts and her mother would mention it regularly - usually after something burned down or yet another little boy’s mother had arrived at the door complaining that she was demanding dinner-money with menaces. When she was old enough to understand the mechanics of human reproduction (hard not to when you live on a farm), they’d tell her she was the result of a drunken one-night-stand with a Spanish scout master (visiting Burnley on an exchange-visit) that no one had seen or heard from since. Fortunately for Dory, the Lindsays were/are a well-to-do family with links to the cotton trade that go as far back as the 17th century, so they had the wealth and power to cover it up. After a secret birth, mother Dory and baby Zara were spirited away to a remote farmhouse in the heart of the Lancashire countryside under the care of a pair of huge, lumbering maiden-aunts. Unlike the petite and genteel Dory, Maggie and Lottie were tall, mannish land-girls with no time for molly-coddles and sentimentality -- what’s more they didn’t care what their niece got up to so long as she didn’t burn the place down or leave a gate open (she could drive a tractor by the age of 6). When she was 7, Dory married and moved out, but Zindy didn’t like her new stepdad and he didn’t like her (a snooty, middle-aged bank manager who read the FT and went to Mass twice a week). She preferred Dory’s long-term boyfriend Tam Horsham who drove the Mother’s Pride bread van; but he was too common, apparently, “He eats his dinner off a tray and smokes in the bath!” said Dory, tartly, when asked if Zindy should start calling him dad. So, after numerous tantrums, she was allowed to stay at the farm and enjoy the relative freedom of life with the ‘Looney Lindsay Sisters’ (as the locals called them). Then puberty hit, so did a lifelong passion: motorbikes. She found a broken down old ‘39 Triumph Tiger in the barn and with some help from Lottie (“It belonged to an old boyfriend who left it here in ’42 when he went to war... but he never came back for it so I assumed the worst.”) she cleaned it up and replaced the missing parts. It took 8 months of scouring scrapyards and hard labour, but she managed to restore it to its former glory. She was in the Gazette! ‘Tearaway Tomboy Triumphs!!’ Consequently, she met dozens of motorcycle enthusiasts and a lot of them just happened to be Hell’s Angels. That’s when she first got that weakness in her knees. Big, fat, hairy men. Her pals were aghast. It could've been a father-daddy complex or just a weird perversion, but she could get enough of grizzled, over-weight geezers most girls would cross the road to avoid.

In spite of her aggressive side, she was quite the artist and spent hours quietly painting and sketching the scenery behind her great-aunts’ farm. According to her second year teacher in her annual report (Zindy refused to go to boarding school and went to the local comprehensive): ‘She has shown a flair for art and is very intelligent – when she wants to work, which isn't often ... for the most part she is headstrong, opinionated, brusque and quick to temper; a girl who sees life as a big adventure ... it may be a symptom of her diminutive stature that she feels she has to be brash and contrary, but if she continues in this fashion she may face expulsion....’

Zindy just couldn't be tamed. She was up before the magistrate on a regular basis, mostly for driving without a licence or brawling with boys twice her size. On her 18th she stood on a table in the Flat Iron pub in front of her closest friends and allies and vowed never to settle down to a life of domesticity, to forsake motherhood and be a free spirit for the rest of her life. Three weeks later, she moved in with a recently divorced woodwork teacher 17 years her senior. He proposed (‘wanna shack-up?’) and she couldn't say no. So began her lifelong ‘thing’ for older men – the daddy syndrome, probably.

The cohabitation with the woodwork teacher was as passionate as it was incendiary – he turned out to be a secret drinker – there were vodka bottles hidden all over the flat; she tried to keep up for a while, but all they did was fight. Things came to a head with the couple spending a night in the cells of Bottle Street nick. The desk sergeant told her he was a lost cause – “He’s dried-out 3 times -– and he’s still the same mess he was when I first started in here 15 years ago! My advice lady – run as fast as them wee legs can take ya – find a fit young man with a good job!” She took this advice to heart, and a in a few months she met a recently widowed sculptor at a Henry Moore exhibition –- this time 40 years her senior; tall, with long grey hair who dressed like Tom Wolfe -– and got swept up in a whirlwind romance. ‘Whirlwind’ in the sense that the trail of destruction they left behind: various foodstuffs were hurled, crockery was smashed, household utensils took flight and embedded themselves in walls. Zindy loved it. She loved him. Alas, his kids, two of which were older than her, did not approve and weren’t shy about letting her know. It was grist for Zindy’s mill; it only strengthened her resolve. She thrived in adversity; she lived to Fight the Good Fight and persevered with the relationship without a thought for the toll it was taking on the poor man’s heart. Of course, like most Spring/Winter love affairs it ended with a lonely vigil in a draughty hospital corridor listening to the impassive beep of medical machinery whilst his own flesh & blood hold his hand as he drifts over. Previously estranged siblings now united in their grief against a common enemy: “The stupid bitch is still sitting out in t’corridor.” “She’s only after ‘is money.” “She looks about 9, makes you wonder...?” She heard every word, approached and told them in no uncertain terms she didn’t want or need his money – all she wanted was to organise the funeral in accordance with his last wishes. They told her his last wishes were enshrined in his last will & testament, not word of mouth, and while they were on the subject, he hadn't left her anything. They told her he was never done talking trash about her behind her back, telling them how he didn’t trust her; that she was a little gold-digger. Meanwhile he was telling Zindy how ungrateful and spiteful his children were and how they’d never done a day’s work in their lives! She had to stand there and listen as they sneered and talked about the stranger with whom she’d spent the last 2 years. It turned out he was a compulsive liar. His wives were all basket-cases by the time he’d finished messing with their minds. All told, the heart condition came as a result of the stress of numerous love affairs and having to remember what lie he told to whom.

Zindy swore to herself that she’d never have anything to do with men ever again! She cut her hair short, dyed it blue and foreswore make-up, skirts and blouses, bought a motorbike and toured Europe with a chapter of Hell’s Angels who treated her like one of the boys. The vow was broken 5 years later when she accompanied her new pals to the Isle of Man for the TT and met a biker from Wicklow. Robert ‘Raspo’ Canning was a built like a brick-shithouse with a long plaited (usually purple, sometimes blue) beard and intense stare (hence the moniker; Raspo: short for Rasputin). He was a nightmare in a studded leather jacket but Zindy was besotted with him. Despite his hulking size, expanding waistline and intimidating manner, he was smarter than the average bear. He read science fiction and knew a lot about astronomy. They used to ride up to Donegal, sit on the cliffs and he would teach her the consolations. She was hooked.

While she was there, one of her great-aunts died and Raspo took her back to Salford for the funeral. She inherited £30,000. Then Barry McKee, one of the gang of bikers from Brodir, happened to mention that his father was selling a seaside pub and she was very interested. She could run a business - she used to do the sculptor’s book-keeping and worked behind a bar in Germany for a few weeks; plus, Brodir might’ve been a rundown town, but it was a Mecca for bikers from all over Europe -- trade would be brisk –- she couldn't see what could possibly go wrong!

But you don’t know anybody until you live with them for a while.

At first, Raspo enjoyed playing host and worked behind the bar, but he had other business interests and that was OK – she preferred running things on her own – it was her name on the licence, her responsibility. She never asked about his business, she didn’t want to know, but she assumed he was a small time dealer: grass and tabs. Then one day he said, “Oh Zin, I’m off to Dublin to do bouncer for a boxin’ match at the National Stadium!” he kissed her goodbye, got on his trusty Triumph and off he went to bounce in Dublin. She found out later that he was off to collect a sizeable debt owed to him for a delivery of coke. When the debtor wasn't forthcoming, Raspo lost his temper and took it out of his hide with a crowbar. This information came courtesy of DS Phil Somerville, who also informed her that her beloved Raspo wasn't just peddling grass, he was dealing in all the a-listed narcotics, not to mention a little sideline in video piracy. She had to sit and listen while Somerville listed her lover’s shady dealings with various Dublin-based organised crime syndicates and proscribed terrorist militias when he tried to coerce her into turning tout and aid in the apprehension Raspo’s subordinates/associates/friends etc. She flatly refused. Raspo was sent down for 7 years, but 8 months later, to shave a few years off his sentence, he did what she refused to do: he shopped most of his former associates including some regulars, and - boom – the bulk of her clientele has declared her persona non grata and boycotted the inn. Somerville told her it was her own fault; she knew what Raspo was and chose to ignore it. He was right. A psychologist would say that it was indicative of a subconscious desire not to commit to a long-term relationship... Whatever, she was alone again, naturally.

Then along came Malky and his spooky three-legged German shepherd and their notorious pursuit of the evil Barry McKee. It was a thrill-a-minute-life-or-death roller coaster ride but it nearly killed them. She took a bullet to the shoulder; Malky had a heart attack and almost bled to death (the irony: Somerville saved Malky’s life after destroying hers). And here she was, back in another hospital corridor listening to bleeping machines. Just when she thought history was repeating itself, his old broken heart kept beating, “and it’s been beating for you ever since,” he said, in an uncharacteristic show of mawkish affection. 

Good ol’ Malky. He made her laugh. He was a good man and he made her feel good. They had conversations that lasted all night. OK, so he has a psychic three-legged dog who complains about the noise when I play me records, but that only makes it more fun. To put it simply, life was good. She was painting again; he’d made her a studio in the attic. (He never told what he was doing up there and she didn’t ask; he just hammered and sawed and cursed whilst she went about her business. In the end he’d put a ribbon across the door for the grand unveiling. He’d widened the skylight to let in more light and built a little podium for her still-life subjects. She accepted the keys like a gushing thesp before bursting into real tears. And although , he was hard work at times - he was sometimes taciturn and prone to moodiness – he was a good, kind man.

Then, wonder-of-wonders, she gets pregnant and her instinct, much to her surprise, is to keep it. Malky acted as if he wasn't overly keen, but she knew that deep-down he was delighted; he just felt unworthy and old.

And here we are. 2 years later and things couldn't be better. We’re broke but we ain't bust. We’re just about keepin’ our heads above water...

She went to the bar and looked out of the big window at the dirty, litter laden, windswept promenade. The council were meeting on Thursday; word on the wind had it that property developers were looking at the town with a view to redevelopment, so things were looking up. That’s good, ain't it? Lots of meetings with property developers and councilmen: all very ‘establishment’.

So 22 years later, what would she say to the silly girl standing on the table telling the world she’ll be a wild-child forever? Is she where she wants to be, where she has to be, or where she needs to be...?

Sammy couldn't read her mind but felt her doubts as if they were his own. It must be something to do with Malky. He hoped that it wasn't anything serious. Malky had grown on him. The old dog was a godsend, somebody to talk to who can see you, hear you... not that he ever feckin’ listens! But what if the auld dog died? Sammy shuddered at the thought: There would be no watching TV until 4 in the morning for a start. It was tough being a ghost. And although he knew Zindy couldn't see him, he still felt a little self-conscious about his appearance; as the old dog says: “the bloody-bullet-hole-ridden-apron makes you look like a psychopath (ghosts are stuck with what they wore when they died -- the last image The Light captures before their Soul passes), so he was discreet. He sat on the bin in the dark corner by the stove and watched from what he considered to be a reasonable distance. He’d been a bachelor all his life, he’d never met a woman he could live with, but Zindy was closest thing he’d ever had to a daughter – this, despite the fact that she was a headstrong, blue-haired English girl who dressed like a boy and swore like a docker. When she bought the inn, he thought she’d only last a few weeks, and yet, thank God, here we are. 

There were very few advantages in existing between Worlds, besides the walking through walls and not having to eat or sleep or all that malarkey, his senses were heightened and attuned to the Oneness of All Living Things (well, that’s how the dog put it) –- which meant he was able to see the little glow in Zindy’s belly. It was nothing more than an amber glimmer throbbing with the minute pulsebeat of a budding Soul, but it radiated an energy that brought a ripple of warmth to his Essence. Sometimes, when she was sleeping he’d stand close – not too close – and look into her womb. Oh, but it was a joyous sight to behold, “Look at the miracle begin again,” he whispered, to no one in particular.

Zindy climbed up onto the draining board to close the window above the sink -– Sammy was jumping up and down, pulling at his silver beard, “Are ye mad woman?! Get down o’ that w’ ye!” Thankfully she performed the exercise without incident, but he still hadn't settled; as she went about preparing her evening meal, he paced the floor behind her, fussing, wagging his finger, “Look at that floor! There’s engine oil down there! Ye’ll slip ‘n’ go on yer hoop! You’d better buck-up yer ideas, lady – that’s a chile in there – not a bag o’ chips!”

“Oh, I’d love a bag o’ chips,” she said, apropos of nothing.

Sammy stood by the cooker as she toiled over the sizzling pan and talked to her unborn baby, “Your silly daddy doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hates all this spooky stuff... He hates anything that brings the world to his door -- God knows what he’ll be like when the inn’s open for business...” Whether she was consoling a restless foetus or trying to convince herself, she didn’t know. She stopped stirring and stared as she contemplated her certain future.

The old ghost saw the doubt in her eyes and fought Malky’s case from his corner, “He’s a decent sort who won’t let you down –- you have to grow up sometime, missy! Stop moonin’ about and think like a mammy!”

No, let’s make no bones about, she was getting bored. It isn't good when life gets too predictable, when routine becomes rut. She needn't worry; things were about to get very strange indeed...

St Cedric’s Institution for the Criminally Insane (SCICI): Rossington watched the sundown from his office window, a very large brandy in one hand, a cigarette in the other. It had been a bad day. The news from the board had been direct with no room for interpretation. His time had run out. The victims’ families’ petitions and writing campaigns had fulfilled their purpose, the pressure to do something had forced their hand. He had to give up Barry McKee to the authorities so an independent assessment of his condition could be made. He’d explored every legal avenue to keep him at SCICI, but there was nothing more he could do. The mob has spoken.

He was angry and frustrated, but mostly angry. He finished his brandy, carelessly stubbed out the cigarette, left his office and made for the sick bay in the high security wing. He walked quickly and purposely, collected the swipe cards from the nurses’ station and marched on, swiping through the sophisticated system of doors, along the corridors and across the walkway that led to the security ward and the room of SCICI’s most infamous inmate. Then, just as he swiped the lock, he had a moment of inspiration. He turned and walked to the staff toilet at the end of the corridor, to the mirror above the wash-hand basin; using his penknife to unscrew the frame, he carefully prised the hexagonal glass from the wall, put it under his arm and took it to McKee’s room.

“Hello, Barry,” he said, quietly closing the door behind him and turning on the lights. The sudden blaze of brightness didn’t faze McKee. Hooked up to the machines that kept him alive, long haired and bearded, he continued to stare unblinkingly at the ceiling, like a stricken biblical prophet transfixed by a vision of hell.

“I must apologise, it’s been quite a while since I visited. I’ve been busy with other patients and projects, not to mention running this establishment, you know how it is. I’ve kept abreast of your progress, though... what there is of it.” Rossington slowly crossed the floor, talking in a casual manner as he approached the bed, “Anyway, I’ll get straight to the point: I’ve received some bad news regarding your case and I thought you should to be the first to hear it.” He sat in the chair by the bed and put the mirror on his lap, “They've decided to take you off my hands, Barry. They say I’ve had enough time to prove you’re worth keeping alive. They say it would be mercy: ‘it’s cruelty not to let nature take its course’. No doubt they’re under pressure from the families of the victims, not to mention that bastard Somerville. Whatever, you’re doomed, and there’s nothing I can do to save you.”

As always, McKee remained silent and seemingly insensible.

“You've shown no significant progress since that business with Niamh and Oona 2 years ago.” He tore off the latest print-out from the EEG and indicated the flat lines across the graph, “See, nothing like the flurry of activity we recorded during those instances in 1989. Why’s that, eh?” He scrunched the page into a ball and threw it into the corner. “It all stopped when I took away the mirrors and had you moved you to this room, didn’t it? Niamh and Oona lost their connection and have exhibited no psychic abilities since. It’s no coincidence, is it, Barry?”

He stood up and held the mirror over McKee’s face, “I know you use mirrors to reach out other telepaths and psychics,” he said, looking deep into McKee’s unseeing eyes, “so I’m having them re-installed, and you can do whatever is you do. Good or evil, I don’t care anymore. I just need results, Barry. I need something to show for my work. If not, I’ll hand you over to the authorities and they’ll perform what will be, for all intents and purposes, a public execution...”

To Be Continued Next Month...

[tooearlyforthis]

Partners in Crime | part one

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Hopper!Reader

Synopsis: (5.5k wc) With Y/n’s love letters anonymously sent out, she struggles to deal with the fallout and the boys who got them.

Warnings: language, fluff, heavily inspired by To All the Boys I've Loved Before by Jenny Han.

masterlist || series masterlist || steve harrington taglist

Ahh part one is out y'all! I'm so excited for you guys to read this. Let me know if you want to be added to my taglist for this series!

This was not happening. Why did this have to happen? She had such a good streak; no accidents since the fender bender of ‘84. But of course, some idiot in a ford capri came out of nowhere, slamming into the side of her car. 

At least time this wasn’t her fault. That asshole was blasting music and didn’t care to see where he turned. He didn’t even stay around for the aftermath, driving off before she could get a good look at the license plate. The nearest gas station was over two miles away, but with no car phone, it was her only option. 

Pushing her car as much as she could to the side of the road and out of traffic, Y/n Hopper began her trek.

Robin Buckley, her long time friend, was waiting for her at Starcourt Mall. They were going to get food, talk; a normal afternoon of laughs and shopping. But now, it would have to wait. 

She could imagine how pissed off her father would be. After years of begging him for a car, she finally got one. Granted, it was a run down piece of shit - but it was her piece of shit and she wouldn’t have had it any other way.

Finally making it to the end of the block, she felt a light shinning from behind. It casted her in a silhouette on the pavement below. Blocking the glare with her arm, she turned around to see a bmw pull up next to her. 

Leaning his arm out the window, Steve Harrington stared down at her. He had this look on his face - somewhere between the line of laughing and pity.

“Is that car back there yours?” He asked, a hint of mockery in his voice. 

Already annoyed, she asked, “What’s it to you?” 

Despite fighting monsters together for the past few years, they were not friends. At least, they weren’t friends now. Back in middle school, she would have even called him her closest friend. But then douche bags came a long and pulled not him, but their entire friend group apart.

“Do you need a ride? I can call a tow truck,” he asked, bringing her back to reality.

The last thing she wanted to do right now was spend her afternoon with Steve Harrington. But then again, it was better than walking. 

“Fine,” she said, walking over to his passenger side door. 

Pulling on the already unlocked handle, she climbed inside. Sitting crossed armed, she watched as he called the tow truck with his luxury car phone. Of course he had a phone in his car - she forgot how rich his family actually was. 

He looked different from the last time she saw him. His eyes were sunken, a bad posture and too many cuts on his hand for a normal teen. Putting the phone down, he directed his attention back to her. Y/n quickly subverted his gaze, forgetting how awkward things had become between them.

Sure, they could talk when the occasional monster came to town, or when they were will mutual friends. But it was hard to bond with a person when death was looming over their shoulders. Plus, he started dating Nancy Wheeler - another ex-friend from the same group in middle school. 

It felt weird to be around the couple, especially since Steve and Y/n had shared a first kiss. She never forgot that embarrassing game of spin the bottle years before. 

She had such a crush on his after that, going as far to even right him a letter. God, the letters, how could she forget?

“Where were you heading?” he asked, pulling into her neighborhood. 

Startled by the question after so much silence, she stuttered. “U-uh, Starcourt. I was meeting Robin.”

“Oh, I could have dropped you off there.”

“No it’s fine,” she protested. “She’s probably gone anyways and I trust her driving less than mine.”

That got a chuckle out of him. “Yeah that’s smart.” Robin was the only thing besides the kids that still tied her to the Harrington boy. They worked together and even became kind of friends but Y/n tried her best to avoid him. “Though I do have to say you’re car looked pretty bad back there. What did you do, flip it on its head?”

She rolled her eyes. “It wasn��t that bad! No, some guy came out of nowhere and ran the stop sign.”

“Dang.”

“Yeah…” she replied, letting the car fall quiet as they pulled up to her house. Before getting out, she turned back to him one last time. “Well, thanks I guess.”

“Anytime, Hopper,” he replied with a smirk.

Before she knew it, he was driving off down the road and their yearly encounter had came and went. Now she had to deal with the with the wrath that was her father Jim Hopper. 

He took it better than she thought. No yelling, no stern talks, only concern that she was safe. 

“I’ll get your car tomorrow from Frank and we’ll take it down to the shop,” he said, placing the last plate on the kitchen table.

Y/n asked, “You sure you’re not mad?”

“No, honey. I mean, that guy came out of nowhere right?” She nodded. “Then there was nothing you could have done. Go get El, dinners almost ready.”

Nodding, she walked down the hall knocking on her sister’s door. It opened on its own to reveal Eleven sitting on her bed reading a comic Max Mayfield had given her. She smiled when she saw her sister in the doorway.

“Dinner’s ready, come on,” Y/n said, making El immediately stand up. Tonight was breakfast for dinner which meant only one thing - waffles. “I’ll meet you there let me go take my shoes off.”

Watching as her sister ran off to help get glasses for the table, she went to her own room. She kicked off her shoes toward the closet, deciding to hang up her jacket as well. As she prepared herself for dinner, Y/n let her mind wander back to the encounter with Steve. More specifically, the letter she wrote him.

She never sent any of her letters, but found that putting all her emotions onto one page helped her deal with it. 

When she was little, Y/n watched her mother and father argue to no end. Well, there was an ending - divorce. She saw what it did to them, bringing out the worst in each other. So when the day came when she finally had a crush on a boy, she decided to write him a love letter. 

Love letters were the cheesiest thing she could have chosen but it got the job done. It let her pour her heart out without consequences - no rejecetion, no dissapointment. Thinking back to those letters, she reached under her bed. There she grabbed an old shoe box she store them. 

There were five letters - five people that at one point in her life had her heart and they didn’t even know it.

“Y/n ,” El said, peeking her head into the room. “Dinner is getting cold.”

Y/n whipped her head out fast, shoving the box under her bed. “Right, yeah." She stood up quickly. “I’m coming.”

No one knew about the letters, not even Robin. And she intended for it to stay that way. 

To say the week had gone bad was an understatement. A not so great essay and a shitty chemistry lab led to Y/n getting to school early with Robin. 

The school was always so quiet in the mornings. It was the most peaceful it could get before sweaty, hormonal teenagers filled the hall. Plus, her car was still in the shop which meant she had to catch an early ride with her dad anyways. 

“I bet it wasn’t that bad,” Robin said as they pushed open the doors to the school.

“Oh it was, trust me,” she replied. “Thanks for meeting again to go the library I really appreciate it.”

“Don’t sweat it. I need to work on math homework anyways.”

They thought the hall was empty, but turning the corner proved they were so very wrong. The clicking of boots echoed as Y/n made eye contact with the one person she tried desperately to avoid. 

Billy Hargrove, in all his mullet glory, sauntered down the hall toward them. When he saw Y/n , a smirk formed on his face, finishing with a wink. Y/n froze in the hall, grabbing on to Robin's arm to stop her as well.

“What are you-“ Robin tried to ask but Y/n interrupted her.

“Let’s go the long way,” she said, dragon her friend to continue straight instead of passing her former hookup.

If you told Y/n at the start of school that she had hooked up with Billy Hargrove, she would have laughed in your face. But, if you told her that after the fact, she caught feelings for him - she would have said the apocalypse was more likely.

When Billy had first moved into town, he was all anyone could talk about. Y/n had ran into in at her arcade job where he was dropping off his little sister. And well, you say that she left work early that day. 

But of course, being the hopeless romantic she was, she developed a crush on Billy Hargrove. She didn’t know why. The way he walked, the way he could hold command of a room... All she knew was he wasn’t a girlfriend type of guy and she needed to get rid of her feeling fast.  

In the bottom of that shoe box under her bed another love letter sat addressed to him.

“Y/n did you hear anything I said?” Robin asked, pulling her out of her thoughts. 

“No, sorry could you repeat?”

Rolling her eyes as they entered the library, she fell into a whisper. “I heard that Steve and Nancy broke up.”

Y/n 's head whipped to face her. “Really?”

“Yeah. She dumped him for Jonathan Byers.”

She withheld a gasp. Jonathan was another friend from the ex group in middle school. She never wold have imagined Nancy to go after him. “Damn, I didn’t expect that.”

“Right! Like, I don’t know Jonathan that well but I mean, come on! Steve has changed his douche bag ways, I can see it at work.”

Y/n nodded along as she took out her notebook, getting lost in her head once more. The day began to blend together. One minute she was studying with Robin in the library, the next, running side by side in gym class.

Running was not her first choice when it came to sports. She was fast and could make the track team if she tried. But Y/n never felt very athletically inclined.  She was happy, however, that she got to share the class with her friend. 

Robin was going on about something her crush said earlier that week but Y/n couldn’t bring her attention to it. Instead, focused on a voice calling her name from behind.

Stopping, she pulled Robin off the track in an attempt to not get trampled by other students. They watched as Steve Harrington ran up to them.

“There you are Hopper,” he said, finally catching up. He took a moment to catch his breath. “Can we talk for a second?”

Why would Steve Harrington want to talk to her? 

“Uh sure?” she said.

He glanced over at Robin who stared at him with crossed arms. “Alone?”

Y/n looked over at her friend, who stood with crossed arms. “Wow,” Robin said, dripping with sarcasm. “Okay, Harrington.”

“I’ll meet you afterward?” Y/n asked.

“No, I get it. I’m being replaced.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Don’t get annoyed with me dingus! Stack the tapes at work correctly and maybe you have a say in this.”

Robin took off again down the track as another wave of students passed them. Y/n turned her attention back to the boy in front of her, shifting her weight back and forth. 

“What do you want, Steve?” she asked, confused at what he had to say to her. 

“Listen, I just-“ he paused, trying to find the right words to say. “I don’t like you like that.”

She scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“I mean, Nance and I just broke up and I’m not looking to get into anything serious. And for your information, I do not always take the last slice of pizza. But, you wouldn’t know that cause we haven’t hung out since middle school. Unless you count fighting inter-dimensional monsters.”

“No, I mean why are you telling me this-“ She froze mid-sentence, looking down at his hand. He was gripping a letter - her letter, the one she wrote to him so many years ago when her crush got too overwhelming. “Where -where did you get that?”

He looked down at the letter. “It came in the mail yesterday… also, I didn’t mean to steal your first kiss. I mean, it was mine too and I thought it was like okay since it was a game-“

“Don’t worry about it-“ She didn’t let him finish snatching the letter from his hand. He looked up at her shocked. “It’s all in the past.”

He tried to call out to her as she ran past him, making a b-line to the girls locker room. It wasn’t until she was sat inside that she gave herself a moment to take it all in. Steve had her note, her note. Why did he have it? Who sent it out because it certainly wasn’t her. And steal her first kiss? She couldn’t even remember what she wrote. 

Taking the letter out, she began to read:

Steve Harrington,

I refuse to call you just "Harrington" because it sounds cooler and you know it. There is something so smug about you that it makes everyone fall in love with you, even me. 

Did you know that after you kissed me I had a crush on you? You’re tall now, taller than everyone but even back then when you were short, people didn’t care. That was - still is the effect you have on people and it worked on me. 

But you probably knew that right? Because everyone is in love with Steve Harrington. Well, I’m not - or at least I’m not anymore. 

So here are some of your worst qualities, ones I used to convince myself you were merely a passing thought:

You snore. How do I know that? One time I slept at your house after Jonathan Byers' birthday party. I stayed up all night because of how loud you were and I never forgot that. 

You always take the last slice of pizza. Never asking if anyone else wants it, just taking. And I think that’s rude. 

It’s like how you took my first kiss. I wanted it to be with someone special, someone that bore their heart to me and I the same. But instead, you came along with that stupid bottle and that stupid game. You stole the one thing I was looking forward to most about growing up - Love. 

You had my love for a while, most of seventh and eight grade. But then Tommy and Carol came along, you became a douche bag, and our friend group split up - all because of you.

You were the glue that held together our group did you know that? You’re charm, your presence… After you left, none of us hung out again but no one cared. Because you’re Steve Harrington and no one can stay mad at Steve Harrington. No one can resist falling in love with Steve Harrington. 

Well I can. I can happily say I am immune to you Steve. For the first time in my life I can say that your Harrington charm will never work on me again. 

Y/n Hopper 

Did she really write all that? It sounds like she’s obsessed with him - but then again she remembered how intense that crush was. For weeks she couldn’t even bare to look at him…

Wait.

If Steve got a letter did that mean that the others were out too? School couldn't wait, she needed to get home now. With a totaled car and a dad that was still working, Y/n opted to run home. She ran and ran until she could see her street. She ran until she was inside crouching under bed for her shoe box - the shoe box that was now gone. 

Standing up, she went ballistic. She teared at every corner, every inch of her room in search for that box but it was no where to be found. Sighing, she sat on her floor in defeat. She pulled her knees to her chest and closed her eyes, wishing that it was a nightmare. That all those letters weren’t sent out. But as her eyes fluttered back open, she was still on her floor; letters delivered to all the boys she loved before. 

Y/n's new plan was to avoid Billy Hargrove. It seemed easy enough at first, until she got out of her dad car and he was standing in front of the school. Wishing her dad at good day at work, she rushed to the side entrance of the school. It wasn't until Robin spotted her that she looked up.

“Woah, Y/n,” Robin called out. “Are you okay? You look flushed.”

“I’m fine,” she replied plainly. “Not feeling to great uh, I have to get some stuff from my locker I’ll see you in class!”

She walked away without waiting for a response finally sighing as her locker door opened. She stuck her face inside as she took a deep breath. She didn’t have any classes with him so she should be okay until lunch. Just get to lunch and everything would be okay. 

Feeling well enough to head to class, she shut her locker door. Standing behind it was Billy Hargrove. She yelped in surprise, almost dropping a textbook. Looked like there was no avoiding him now.

He was leaning against the lockers, playing the her letter in his hands. Smirking, he looked up at her. 

“You love me, Hopper?” he asked in a playful tone. Even though it was upbeat she could sense the condensing tone beneath it. 

“Billy-“

He interrupted her. “I mean, we hookup once and I get a love letter? It’s pathetic. I mean, sweet but, still pathetic.”

“I wrote that a while ago you were never meant to see it.” She reached out to grab the letter but he pulled back to quickly.

“Woah, there sweetheart. I think I'll hold on to this. This is something the people need to see!"

Y/n felt her heart drop in her chest. He was going to release the letter? Letter everyone know that she once loved him? It was bad enough Billy saw the love letter she wrote but the entire school? It was too embarrassing. 

“I-I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Y/n said, forcing herself to hold her head high. Was confidence was the way to shut him down?

Billy met her gaze, straightening up to meet her an inch from her own face. “And why would that be?”

“Because…” She had to think of something anything to get him off her back. “My boyfriend wouldn’t like that so much,” she blurted out.

Billy’s gaze faltered as he took a step back. “You’re boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I mean, wouldn’t want to get beat up over an old letter right?” she said, crossing her arms. She tried hiding the cracks in her voice, keeps a calm composure and begging he bought it - it looked like he kind of did.

“And who is this mystery boyfriend I should be so afraid of?"

Y/n didn’t know what to do. She frantically looked around the halls for someone. Anyone she could pull aside to get Billy off her back. There was one person, no, she couldn’t. But then again it might have been her only choice.

Without thinking it through anymore, Y/n grabbed hold of Steve Harrington's shirt. She yanked him to her and planted a kiss on his lips. The force of her pull made them stumble back into her locker.  He put his hands on either side to break his fall, leaning into the kiss more. 

Slowly, she pulled away. Opening her eyes, she hoped that his would remain close but they weren’t. They were staring down at her wide-eyed, wondering why in the world this was happening. 

Y/n looked over to see Billy scoffing. He turned, stomping down the hall away from them, the grip on her letter a little tighter than before. She felt a small wave of relief wash over her, until she remembered who she dragged into this mess. 

Steve was still in shock as Y/n pushed him back, wiping her lips and avoiding his gaze. He went to open his mouth but she beat him to it. 

“Thanks!” she exclaimed before walking off, giving him no further explanation. 

Well, that was one way to get Billy Hargrove off your back. 

It wasn’t until lunch rolled around that Y/n's heart finally returned to a steady pace. Holy shit, she kissed Steve Harrington. 

It wasn’t the first time of course, but now both of them had some experienced. Was it bad that she kind of liked it? No, she shouldn’t think about that, but, it didn’t hurt to go find him. After all, she did jump him in the hall. 

Both of them had gym next but Y/n found herself unable to focus on whatever sport they were playing this week. Making up and excuse of "menstrual problems," she headed for the girls locker room. 

It was going to be empty and she need time to think. What do you say to your former friend after sending a love letter and kissing them?

Hey, sorry you’re a douche bag but a bigger douche bag is gonna expose me in front of the school.

No, that was right. She had to think of something quick as the door opened, girls walking back in to change into normal clothes. 

She opted to wait for him outside the boys locker room and lucky for her, he was the last one to come out. Better last than first - she did not want to have this conversation with people around. As the hall emptied and Steve emerged, she was quick to catch his gaze. 

“Oh no,” he started, deciding to take on a playful tone. “Should I cover my mouth?”

Rolling her eyes, she lightly hit his arm. “Oh my god- I’m sorry about that.”

“Does you kissing me have anything to do with the letter? Cause I already told you I'm not into you that way. Nance and I just broke up-“

“No,” she interrupted him. “I mean, it does have to do with the letters but- just- I don’t like you like that either.”

“Wait letters? Plural?”

Y/n hid her face in her hands, trying to think of the best way to explain her situation. “I use to write letters to get my feelings out okay? I had no intention of every sending that to you.”

He nodded, taking in what she said. “So who were the other letters to?”

“What?”

“Well you obviously kissed me to get away from one of them. So, who was it?” Y/n felt herself stumbling over her words. She didn’t owe him anymore than an apology. “Hopper?”

“If I tell you will you get off my back?”

“Maybe,” he said with a smirk, leaning against a locker. 

“Fine, Billy Hargrove.”

Steve stood back up straight as the name left her mouth. “Hargrove? Really?”

“We hooked up a while ago and-“

“You hooked up with the guy?!”

“It wasn’t my proudest moment!” she protested, feeling the urge to defend herself. “I wrote him a letter and he threatened to show the entire school so I told him I had a boyfriend that wouldn’t like that. You happened to be walking down the hall and I knew he wouldn’t mess with you after what happened at the Byer’s with Max…” 

She could see a ping of jealousy when she mention Jonathan’s last name. Maybe he wasn’t too fond over Nancy’s new boyfriend - despite all of them being friends at one point. 

“I’m sorry,” she apologized again.

“No, it’s okay. I get it, Hargrove’s a prick.”

“Yeah…” Silence took over the conversation and Y/n didn’t want anything else to do with him. 

“What are you gonna tell him now?”

Y/n looked up at him confused. What else could she tell Billy but he wasn’t her boyfriend?  It seemed like a stupid question. 

“I don’t know, I’ll make something up…”

She waved one last goodbye to Steve before taking off, wanting to be done with the conversation.

Y/n had almost gone the rest of the day without thinking of Steve Harrington. That was, until her best friend reminded her of what had happened. 

She picked up the phone with a simple, “Hello?”

“Did you really kiss Steve Harrington?” Robin asked on the other side of the line, not bothering for formalities. 

Y/n looked back at Eleven and Mike Wheeler who were sitting watching a movie on the couch. She hoped they couldn’t hear her friend through the phone. 

“Yeah, I did,” she responded simply.

“Oh my god why?”

Robin didn’t know about the letters, nor did Y/n want her to. “It was a heat of the moment thing,” she replied, opting not to confess the real reason. Thankfully, the door sounded before her friend could reply. “I gotta go Mrs. Wheeler is here to pick up Mike.”

“Wait but-“

“I’ll see you at school!”

She hung up the phone, fixing her hair for a moment before answering the door. It always took a long time for Mike to actually leave their house but she was thankful that he was out quick this time. 

Falling back on her bed, she heard a subtle knock against her open door. She looked up, using her arms as support from behind her.

“What’s up El?” she asked her sister hovering in the doorway.

El shook her head. “Nothing.”

She sat up fully now, wondering what was wrong with her sister. “Well, it can’t be nothing. C’mon, what’s wrong.”

“Nothing's wrong. I just…. I’ve been thinking.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been thinking…about what?”

El paused her a moment, looking down at the floor as she tried to find the right words. “I have Mike,” she began. “And I love him. I love spending time with him, watching movies…why don’t you have someone?”

“Where’s this coming from?” Y/n asked confused. Since when did her sister care about her love life?

Eleven walked into her room, taking a seat next to her on the bed. “You’re always at home. Babysitting.”

“I hang out with Robin.”

“That’s one person. You need someone. Someone like Mike to make you happy.”

“A boyfriend?” El nodded. “I don’t need a boyfriend hun, I’m perfectly happy here with you…go get ready for bed, dad will be home soon.”

El gave a weak nod before going off to do her night routine. Sighing, Y/n let herself fall back on her bed once more. Maybe El was right. Maybe she did need someone in her life that wasn’t family or a best friend. Maybe if she had a boyfriend, she wouldn’t have kissed Steve, and Billy wouldn’t be a pain in her ass…

Y/n was thankful she checked the mail before leaving. Two of the letters that got out were sitting on the counter - a "return to sender" label stamped over them. A tiny weight felt like it was taken off her chest. 

There were three now. Three people received letters and that seemed more manageable than five.

With her sprit up a little more than yesterday, she was quickly reminded of the situation she was in. She cursed herself for not seeing Billy Hargrove as he strutted up to her in the library. She jumped back in surprise when he approached her. 

“Hey sweet cheeks,” he smirked, leaning against the shelf she was looking at.

She rolled her eyes. “What do you want?”

“Just wondering how things were going with Harrington.”

Shit. He was testing her, calling her on her bullshit. She couldn’t say they were still together and it felt like she had no other option than to tell the truth. 

“Not to good,” she admitted. “We broke up, he’s still in love with Nancy Wheeler.”

“Really? Cause I saw Harrington earlier at basketball and he said he really liked you. Blushed even.”

That caught her off guard. “What?”

“Who knew you would have the former King of Hawkins High drooling over you. I gotta admit Hopper, I was shocked - didn’t know you were his type.”

Why would he say that? What game was he playing?

“I gotta go I actually planned to meet him before first period,” she mumbled out, walking away from him.

She didn’t have plans of course, but as the first bell rang, she knew that she would have to face him. Steve sat a few rows over from her in Chemistry so passing a note to him felt like the best approach. 

Why did you tell Billy we were dating? She wrote on a ripped off piece of paper, sliding it over to him.

She watched as he furrowed his brows. It was clear his mind was racing but she couldn’t quite get a read on him. After a few moments, he scribbled something and tossed the paper back.

Stay behind after class. 

Looking up at him, she caught his eyes for only a moment before turning back to the board. Y/n couldn’t focus on anything for the rest of class, trying to sneak glances over at him. 

What was he thinking? What plan was he concocting in his head? She raced over to him as the bell rang, students filing out of the classroom for lunch. 

“So?” she asked, not wanting to wait any longer. 

Steve looked around the room as he slung his bag over his shoulder. “Wanna go for a walk?”

Nodding, she followed him. They trekked out to the field that laid between the running track and the school. She figured they were taking the long way to get to the parking lot. 

“Are we gonna talk about it now or continue to walk in silence?” she asked. 

“Let me- just give me a minute,” he replied, staring down at the grass beneath them. It only took a moment more before he continued. “You don’t deserve Billy’s wrath for a few old letters you wrote.”

“I already told him we broke up though, that you’re still in love with Nancy.”

He whipped his head toward her. “What? I’m not still in love with Nance.” She raised an eyebrow in skepticism. “Our breakup was mutual.” 

“Sure,” she said sarcastically. “Everyone knows that you’ll be back together in no time. Especially because you were her first time.”

“How do you know that?”

“Ex friends talk, especially when you call them assholes.”

“Shit,” he cursed to himself. “Tommy and Carol?”

Y/n nodded. “They blabbed to the whole school the weekend after you ditched them."

Finally reaching the parking lot, Y/n could see Steve’s car a few feet away. Where was this conversation going to go?

“What if we let people, Billy and Nance included, think we’re dating?” he asked, reaching to unlock the door to his car.

Y/n stopped behind him confused. “What? Why would we do that?”

“Cause Billy’s made it clear he’ll go photo copy that letter and spread it around the minute he knows I won’t kick his ass.”

“Okay… but what’s in it for you? You wouldn’t be doing this out of the kindness of your heart would you?”

She asked the question, knowing the answer already. Steve Harrington was never the type to do something without it benefiting him. 

He rolled his eyes and answered, “Okay so maybe the breakup wasn’t mutual.” He looked up from the car, meeting her gaze. “If she thinks we’re together it will send a message to Nancy that I’ve moved on.”

Y/n crossed her arms. “I don’t like you like that, Steve.”

“That’s the point. We don’t actually have to date, just make people think we are.”

“I don’t know…” she said hesitantly. She didn’t want to be his real or fake girlfriend - it all seemed just a little too weird.

“I mean,” he started, leaning against the open car door. “Billy definitely thought we were together at basketball this morning. I could see his stupid face getting red.”

Y/n gritted her teeth. He was right, why did he have to be right? She had less than a year left at Hawkins High, why have Billy make it miserable?

Reaching out her hand, she said, “Alright, Steve. You’ve got yourself a deal."

part two || part three || part four

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Series Taglist: @sigh-mon-says @johnricharddeacy @totally-bogus-timelady @in-this-minute @steveharringtonisfit @dukesmebby @pricelessemotion

[lollercakesff]

closer

posted: ao3 for: @starmaammke because it was late for her teeth wordcount: 2,837 warnings: smut?

It’s sweltering. He thinks he sees the paint melting off the road sign as he drives across town with El in tow, the windows down and the air conditioning barely keeping the sweat from his eyes.

“Are we almost there?” El asks from beside him, her curly hair extra frizzy in the humidity. He can’t help but notice that her cheeks are red, her perpetual paleness nowhere to be found on this hot summer day.

“Almost. Although it’s not going to get much better once we’re outside of the truck, you know that right?” He chuckles as she rolls her eyes, a palm swiping over her face.

“Yeah - but Mike said they would have a slipper or something we could play on. It’s water and soap? Like the dishes?”

“You mean a slip and slide?” His mind conjures up the commercial from the TV, flashes of broken limbs making him swallow back his retort as she nods.

“I think so. He says it’s fun,” she says with a shrug. He turns the final corner to the Wheeler’s and watches out of the corner of his eye as she sits up and practically vibrates in her seat.

“You nervous?” He asks as he pulls up to the curb, another car filling the block of vehicles parked along the road. El looks up at him with a wide smile, eyes bright as she shakes her head. “Good - if ever you want to leave, just let me know. We can go anytime, okay?”

“I know - you’ve told me a hundred times,” she replies and climbs out of the truck. Together they head towards the house, the music and smoke from the BBQ welcoming them through the fenced gate.

They’re barely inside before The Party is swarming El and dragging her further into the yard, disappearing from view and leaving him holding his six pack of beer alone at the entrance.

“Hey stranger,” a voice calls from the corner, Karen Wheeler’s hand shooting into the air as she sits in the shade. Squinting through his sunglasses, he tries to make out the other faces at the table before stepping over to join them, a smile breaking through when he notices Joyce in the corner. “I’m so glad you guys could make it!” Karen exclaims and pulls him in for a one-armed hug.

“Anything for the kid,” he mumbles and catches Joyce’s eye over Karen’s shoulder. Joyce smiles back at him and takes a sip of her beer, arms crossed on the table. Pulling back he looks around at the decor and Ted Wheeler leaning over the grill, nodding his head towards the man. “Guess I should go hangout with the cooks, right?”

“God no - sit down Chief, join us!” Karen crows before pulling out a chair and pushing him into it. Beside him Joyce snorts around her bottle, glancing up at him from between her lashes as her friend cracks off a beer and sets it down in front of him. “I’m going to put these in a cooler - you two need to catch up!”

Hopper groans and takes a gulp of the cold liquid courage, leaning back in his seat to look at the woman at his side. “What?” He says with a laugh, lifting his can to her for a cheers.

“Nothing - just you’re looking mighty uncomfortable today Hop,” she replies and sits back in her own chair, an arm still crossed over her chest. He takes in the sight of her in her summer dress, a lightness about her that wasn’t there a month ago.

“Well, I mean, Karen - “ he stutters, desperate to find anything to respond with.

“Don’t worry about it, I’m just kidding. Maybe I’m a bit tipsy.” For a moment he thinks that’s it, that’s why she’s glowing, but a small part of him sees through that and notices the way her smile reaches her eyes in a way it hasn’t in a long time.

“You look good, Joyce,” he says lowly, just loud enough for her to hear. The blush that comes to her cheeks has nothing to do with the heat and the realization makes him lean back in his chair, his heart racing in his chest.

“Thanks. Why don’t you get me another drink? I don’t think Karen’s coming back to give me a refill.” She nods to where Karen is now fully engulfed in a conversation with the other women of the neighbourhood, her attention drawn elsewhere. Hopper takes the instruction and retrieves another beer, sliding his chair closer so that his arm bumps Joyce’s when he sits down.

“You’re welcome,” he grumbles before popping the cap with his keys. They spend the next hour drinking and cracking jokes, the familiarity and ease of the moment not lost on either of them. Though others stop by the table and greet them, neither of them pay much attention to the newcomers before deviating back to their antics of heckling and cajoling.

Eventually, it’s Hopper’s hand that moves from where it’s wrapped around his drink to rest next to hers on the table. The slip is subtle, barely noticeable, but when Joyce’s fingers brush against his it makes a lump form in his throat. He plays with it for a moment, his pinky finger sliding over her knuckle, before he catches her eye and slides her hand into his.

They don’t say a thing before letting their joined palms hang between them under the table, an invisible link that settles their jokes into quiet shared words. The conversation turns to a walk down memory lane and Joyce leans into it, her head resting on Hopper’s shoulder as the afternoon sun starts to lower in the sky.

“You two look pretty comfy over here,” Karen hisses as she places a tray of watermelon on the table. Joyce sits up slowly, awkwardly pulling away from the contact and carefully straightening her dress.

“Sorry - did you need a hand?” Joyce offers, getting to her feet and stepping behind Hopper’s chair. Her hand finds its way to his shoulder, the heat of it unmissable as Karen looks between the two of them.

“Me? Nah - Ted’s setting up the fireworks and I’m just getting dessert out. You guys sit down, you’ve already got the best seats in the house,” Karen adds with a wink before disappearing back into the house.

Hopper seizes the moment and grabs Joyce’s hand from his shoulder, bringing it to his lips for the briefest of kisses. When his eyes slide up to meet hers he can see the hesitation in her gaze, the uncertainty of her movements as she looks back down at him.

“Is it too soon?” She whispers just for him, her brow furrowed as she holds onto his hand tightly.

He knows why she’s hesitating. Bob died less than a year ago and here he was, making a move on her at a party for their kids. It was shameful. Pathetic.

“Joyce,” he starts, getting to his feet so that he’s towering over her with the sun setting behind them. It was unstoppable. Probably fate.

“I’m allowed to be happy,” she says more to herself than to him, a stray palm coming to rest on his chest. He lets her work up to it, lets her look up at him in her own time and when she does it’s like a punch to his chest. “I’m allowed this,” Joyce admits before lifting up on her toes, just high enough for him to lean over and press his lips to hers.

The kiss is brief, chaste, and it nearly bowls him over. He wants to drag her closer and hold her to him but behind them he can hear Will’s shouts of excitement and El’s questions, a reminder of where they are and the very public moment of affection they were sharing in the Wheeler’s backyard.

“Can we go somewhere?” Joyce asks when he pulls away, his hands gripping her elbows and keeping her close. He lets his breathing settle before looking around them, thankful that the eyes are drawn to the activities in the grass and not the two figures lurking near the house. A quick nod and he’s pulling her through the gate, abandoning their drinks and leading her into the front yard with a wide smile across his face.

Alone in street, they pull each other down the empty roadway as the sun starts to set and the shadows grow long. They barely reach his truck before he’s pressing her up against it, his hands gripping her hips and his mouth meeting hers. She sighs into him, moans at his insistence and mewls as she grants him entry.

“We can’t - not in the street!” She laughs as he nips down her neck, a hand slipping under the strap of her dress.

“Not in the street? I don’t remember you ever being opposed to it before,” he chuckles and shifts back up to meet her eyes. The light from earlier is shining through, her youthful smile as bright as it was when they were foolish and carefree.

“Hop,” she chastises, gripping his collar and pulling him back down to her. She kisses him once. Twice. Then leans back and drops a hand to her side, a smirk on her lips as the back door of his truck pops open. “Come on,” she hisses, shifting her hips until he lifts her onto the bench. He holds her there for a moment, stepping between her legs.

“You sure?” He rasps as his hands slide under her dress and up her thighs. “We don’t have to, we can just stay here, make out a little then go back and catch the fireworks.”

Her eyes close and he thinks for a hot flash of a second that she’s going to change her mind, his body tightening ahead of the rejection. But then she looks down at him, a hand coming to his chin as her thumb brushes across his skin. “I’m sure. But I feel compelled to tell you now that I miss the beard,” she says with a sigh, tilting her head as she watches him.

His smile widens before he turns and nips her finger, drawing it between his lips playfully. “I know - but it was just too hot. Besides, don’t I remind you of Magnum?”

Scoffing, she wraps her arms around his neck and shakes her head, a laugh falling from her. “God - that is not something to strive for.” Joyce laughs and then lets go, leaning back and releasing his neck so that she can stretch her arms out along the bench. “But I mean, I seem to remember that you were Magnum before the mustache... Am I wrong?”

Hopper groans and looks around him, lifting her legs and pushing them back so that he can climb in after her and shut the door with a snap. “You’re killing me,” he grunts, propping himself off of her as much as he can. The humidity of the day hovers around them, thick and heavy as they share the small space.

“It’s so fucking hot- “ She starts and he cuts her off, stealing her breath as he swoops in for a kiss that curls her toes. They struggle to find a comfortable spot as their mouths explore, eventually shifting until she’s astride him and their clothes are pushed aside and exposing as much skin as they can.

“I went for a check-up two weeks ago… Doc says I’m clean,” he mumbles as Joyce grinds against him, the move making him grow harder with every passing second. He half expects her to not hear him as she bites her lip and runs her hands into her mess of hair.

“Good - not that I’ve doubted you but I’ve got the rest taken care of,” she sighs, dropping her hands to his chest and looking down at him with hooded eyes. The moment stretches out between them, gazes locked as his hands slowly work up her arms and into her hair. He holds her above him, thumb brushing along her cheekbone as he stares up at her with a newfound wonder.

“Are we doing this? Like, really doing this?” He asks slowly, careful not to blow out that spark but needing to know. God, he needed to know where they stood. There’s a slow nod, a slip of her smile before she buries her face in his neck. “Hey - Joy, no, talk to me,” he soothes, panic bubbling in his chest.

His heart races as she breathes heavily against him, her body vibrating with each inhale. The fear of alienating her, of breaking the careful friendship that they’ve developed over the last year outweighs everything, especially the thought of going back to the party with blue-balls. He’d walk into a million parties eternally uncomfortable as long as she continued to shine next to him.

“You’re starting to freak me out here,” he admits with a tense laugh, a hand curling in her hair and holding her to him. If she was going to burrow in, he was open and ready. She was already inside his heart - had been for years - and he would cling to it for as long as he could.

“Don’t - Hopper,” she laughs and hiccups, drawing back and slapping his chest with her hands. Her eyes aren’t red-rimmed like he expected, but wide and filled with mirth as she looks down at him with a soft smile. “I needed a minute to be sure this was real.”

“It’s definitely real. I know last time we weren’t - it wasn’t right. But now… Joyce,” he sighs and pulls her down for a kiss, watching every second as she hovers above him. The moment seems to crack and shatter and her lips find his, breathless as she presses in.

A flurry of bumps and loose limbs fill the space as they work together to shift and align, his belt undone and her hands on his hips. “I don’t want to stop, okay? This is me telling you that this is real - that this is - “

She doesn’t get to finish her sentence before he’s reaching up for her and shaking his head, a shushing noise mixed between his laughter. Joyce takes the hint and reaches a hand into his pants that traces along the edge of him, a smile on her lips as she meets her mouth with his. He groans at the contact and closes his eyes, his hips rising as her palm wraps around his length.

“Jesus,” he hisses, desperate for the feel of her. When she eventually pulls him free his hips jerk up to her abruptly, his body betraying the cool demeanor he’s trying to convey.

“Don’t worry, I feel the same way,” she breathes knowingly into his ear before pulling the lobe with her teeth. The old playful Joyce appears as his hands slide under her dress and cup her breasts, a thumb and forefinger tweaking her nipples and eliciting small mewls from her chest.

There’s no hesitation in her movements as she lifts up and slides her panties aside, hovering over him as his ministrations pause and their breathing stops. Slowly, she sinks down and lets him stretch her, holding him inside her as long as she can before she has to move.

It turns and shifts after that and soon she’s riding him with tiny cries, a hand guiding her hips and another on her breast. Thrust after thrust he pushes up into her, trying and fighting to get closer as the heat twists through the truck and brings sweat to their skin. Every kiss and every breath is mixed with a hint of salt, telling as he wrestles to bring her ever closer.

“You feel - “ she moans, moving quicker as silent words spill from her. Hopper takes the hint and drops his hand to her center, his fingers finding her nub and working it furiously. “Oh god,” she keens and scratches her nails into his chest.

Somehow he manages to pull himself up until his lips can drag her nipple into his mouth, the motions with his hands and tongue combine and make her hips buck until she’s coming apart around him. Her body tenses as her mouth forms a silent ‘O’, the sound of fireworks from the yard perfectly timed as his own body fights and fails to stave off his own release. He comes with a grunt, filling her as his hands grasp at her exposed skin and light fills the sky outside the truck.

With cooling skin and evened breathing, Hopper feels himself slip from her warmth as he resettles her dress straps on her shoulders. “Should we get back to the party to watch the fireworks?” He asks as she smiles lazily down at him, her torso leaning against the seatback.

“One more minute?” She sighs and spreads out across his chest, her hair curling in his face.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he replies softly. And he means it.