#friends i've written 2 submissions for a zine

[robthegoodfellow]

I'm rereading Sideways and listen; I would kill to know what Slick said to Steve when he went up to the bar on his own.

This got WAY more brewing in my head than expected, so here! Have some Sam/Auntie Slick POV. One day I will commission art of my beloved butch.

🍺

The Harrington kid got up to use the gents and Sam, stacking glasses, let out a snort. Blondie hated to see him go, but sure did love to watch him leave. 

Her not-really-nephew was beelining for the booth, having snagged cans of pop from the minifridge—shameless freeloader.

She kept an eye on them as she poured Phil another—his last pint of the night if she didn’t want to catch an earful from his missus—and saw Blondie crane around like a man hunted, a wary cast at the bar. Smirking, she closed out the tab. Least he knows to tread careful.

When Harrington, Jr., strode up, plunked himself on a stool, she was honestly intrigued. Her last run-in with the family who owned half the town had been a few years back, when they’d made a play for the Hideout—for that whole block of storefronts—but Sam owned the building and the land, refused to sell.

For a couple different reasons, most important being that sitting her ass on a cushy mound of cash would spell disaster for her sobriety—she knew enough about herself to know that for certain—and the most sentimental being that the Hideout had been in the family for generations. Her daddy would rise from the dead and give her the kind of ghostly tongue-lashing that left you a gibbering mess in the corner, and she’d deserve it, selling out like that.

The Harringtons weren’t the type to take no for an answer, though���turned some screws to make her roll, made business a nightmare—but instead of showing her belly, she’d gone to Hop and they’d backed off.

“What’s their endgame?” she wondered, when he’d come by for a drink and a debrief. “They just gobbling up whatever can make them an easy buck, or—?”

Hop raised brows loaded with meaning, peering into his amber ale. 

“They’re shady,” she deduced.

He wouldn’t say—not until he went bottoms up, smacked his lips. “All I know is there’s a reason they spend so little time at home.”

“What about their kid?” she asked, wiping up with a rag. “What’s his name—Stuart? Isn’t he still in grade school?”

“It’s Steve,” Hop corrected, waved a dismissive hand as he donned his hat. “Freshman. Think he’s probably better off not seeing them much.”

“So it’s good I didn’t sell,” Sam stated, and Hop nodded.

“Anything that throws a wrench in their way.”

And now, here he was, in the flesh: Steve Harrington, heir to the Harrington fortune, lone occupant of the country estate.

In the flesh in what was definitely Blondie’s leather jacket. How cute.

“Ah—hi, there,” said Steve, quirking a hopeful smile.

Sam gave him the same flat stare she’d gifted his boy. Just to see what happened.

Nothing. Nothing is what happened, except the corner of his mouth twitched, suppressing some private amusement. He cleared his throat, hands clasped like a salesman about to offer a real bargain. “I heard you have a one beer policy for certain customers.”

She flicked a glance over his shoulder, where Blondie and Wayward Edward were hunched, in cahoots. 

“Where’s he from? Mr. California.”

Steve blinked. “Ah—California?” Dramatic shrug when she cut him a look she’d developed that was essentially an eye roll without the eye roll. “I met him literally a couple days ago. Your guess is as good as mine.”

Her guess was significantly better than his. “SoCal,” she decided. “I’d bet on it.”

“How much?” His grin held a mild challenge, and Sam decided she liked this kid. Somehow. 

“Ten.”

“You’re on,” he said, holding out his hand. They shook.

As she drew him the same beer as Blondie, she found herself suddenly torn between opposing instincts: one, to mind her damn business and not say another word; or two, butt into this kid’s life the same way she had the last kid. California kid.

Didn’t know why she was leaning toward the second. Other than Eddie and his little troupe, Sam had very happily remained uninvolved and uninvested in the existence of young people. So what was itching at her to sit these idiots down and firmly tell them what was what? Hell, she’d already given one of them a portion of the birds and the bees speech she’d bumbled through years ago with the not-really-nephew.

Wayne still owed her for that, come to think of it. But if he weren’t up to it, who would?

Maybe that was it. Who else was gonna tell these baby gays how to safely cross the street? Certainly not their folks, not their teachers. All they had was poor schmucks who had been baby gays themselves—who could pass on the fruits of their trial and error so maybe the newbies could err on the side of caution.

“You thought through what’ll happen if it gets out?” she asked, neutral undertone, sliding him the glass. “What you two are doing?”

He went completely still, staring, and Sam creaked her rusty gears enough to approximate a face that read chill out, you’re fine. 

Finally, Steve shrugged, far less dramatic. “I got some money they can’t touch—once I’m twenty-one. Dead grandparents.”

So—safe even if he were disowned.

“We’re in Indiana,” she reminded him. “There’s a lot worse that can happen than losing your piggy bank.”

Steve huffed, so cynical it could cut stone. “Oh, I know. I know.”

This kid kept surprising her left and right. She squinted, took in the flinty steel of his gaze, the set mouth that hinted at a past requiring far more of a stiff upper lip than you’d expect from a pampered prince.

“You do.” She made a fist, tapped it on worn wood sticky from a spill. “Then watch out for each other, huh?” Jerked her chin at the far booth—now git. “Enjoy the beer.”

Steve marched off with his spoils. 

Slid in next to Blondie until their arms were flush.