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tickle-bugs · 2 years ago

Note

Ooooh ok yes I'm SO SO GLAD you love these two gorls as much as me!! As for a line of dialogue, I think it'd be real cute with Fearne like "can you *feel* me getting tickled?" to Imogen after she's gotten wrecked a bit!!

this is one of my favorite prompts I've ever recieved. hope i did it justice!!!

Summon Fey, 300gp

Imogen prides herself on control. She maintains her walls well, builds them higher when needed, and knows precisely when the risk of lowering her guard is worth it. But recently…lowering her guard has been nice. Not advisable or conducive to focus, but nice. Like the smell of a nice candle or the feel of a soft blanket, the distinct impressions of her friends’ minds are always hovering near.

“Imogen!” Her name has a mental sound with each of them. Laudna’s is a musical trill, like a bird. Ashton’s is rough but warm, with some semblance of a rumble. Orym is a breeze. Fearne is…well. Fearne is a lot of things, but right now she’s giggling. It’s a sweet, intoxicating sound, one that swirls through Imogen’s brain like watercolors.

“S-Save me!” Fearne squeals, curling reflexively and melting into her bedroll. Ashton isn’t letting her escape, it seems, intent on punishing her for something or other. She’s got something curled tight in her hands, but a cursory scan of her mind reveals only chaos.

Ashton and tickling weren’t words Imogen would have put anywhere near each other before recently, but they’ve proven to be quite the menace when they want to be.

“It looks like you’ve got that handled, Fearne,” Imogen snickers, turning back to her book. After a few more seconds, Ashton lets up. Fearne clops over, taking out the good reading light with her shadow.

“Imogen?” Fearne tilts her head. “Would you try something with me?”

“Uhm, depends on what we’re talkin’ about?” Imogen looks up.

“Just an experiment involving your--” Fearne waves her hands around her head and makes a ‘woo-woo’ sound. Imogen stifles a snort.

“If you tell me what we’re doin’, then sure. We’ve got a bit of time to kill.” Imogen shuts her book and stows it with the rest of her belongings.

“Oooh, that’s the thing. It will be so much more fun if it’s a surprise.” Fearne rocks on her hooves, her dress swaying around her. Imogen bites her lip. She trusts Fearne. She doesn’t, but she does. Fearne would lay down her life for her, as would any of them, but Fearne would also nick things she shouldn’t from any open pockets.

Fearne suddenly drops to sit next to Imogen, her dress poofing up around her. A circle of small wildflowers blooms around her.

“I would never lead you astray,” Fearne says seriously, taking Imogen’s hand in her own. “Not on purpose.”

Imogen regards her for a while, considers the low hum of others’ thoughts in her mind. Today’s a good day. Not much internal noise, just the noise she’s come to grow used to. It would be nice to preserve that--quiet is a rare privilege, after all. But Fearne is…very persuasive in her suggestive leaning and fluttering lashes.

“Fine. But only for a couple minutes.” Imogen sighs, closing her eyes. Fearne’s mind bubbles up against her own, jubilant and warm. Imogen presses further and they both shiver. Like a hook catching, they link, and thoughts pass from Fearne to Imogen easy as a sigh. Not the other way around, those walls rarely come down, but this…this will do. Enough to entertain a Fey.

Fearne beams.

“Of course. Juuust a couple of minutes.” Fearne pats Imogen’s hand. Mischief flares off of Fearne, circling the two of them. Imogen’s lips twitch in amusement.

“I can feel you scheming.” Imogen quirks an eyebrow. Fearne heaves a great big offended sigh, but love floods between them like sunbeams.

“I’ve never done anything wrong in my life,” Fearne hums, taking out a red coin purse and rifling through it. Imogen furrows her brow. Fearne’s coin purse is a velvety green, not red--

“Where the fuck is my--Fearne!” Ashton’s voice carries easily and so does their fondness. Fearne giggles and winks conspiratorially at Imogen before hiding the coin purse among her things. By the time Ashton stomps over, Fearne’s reclined against the flowers like the subject of a romantic painting.

“You’re somethin’ else, y’know that? Where’s my fuckin’ gold?” Ashton puts their hands on their hips.

“I dunno, where’d you leave it?” Fearne blinks at them innocently. They stare at each other intently. Fearne’s poker face is excellent, but her mind is doing grabby hands at Ashton. Imogen bites her lip to hide her smile.

Ashton unceremoniously drops into Fearne’s lap and starts tickling anywhere he can reach. Fearne squeals, a great resounding yes! Ricocheting through her mind and into Imogen’s. Fearne dissolves into airy giggles, grabbing at everything in reach except Ashton.

“C-Can you--Ahashton, wait--can you feel me getting tickled, Imogen?”

Imogen’s a little more focused on trying not to explode. She’s curled into herself as far as she can, eyes winched shut with effort. The more she thinks about the crawling little sparks bursting all across her torso, the more she feels the warm, solid weight of Ashton’s hands where they shouldn’t be. She tries not to think about it, but Fearne’s thoughts only seem to get louder.

“Well, that’s interesting.” Ashton grins, pinching experimentally at Fearne’s side. Imogen jolts with a squeak. She glares at Ashton. They grin back.

“Alright, Fearne. You’ve had your fun--” Imogen huffs, starting to reel her mind back in.

Ticklish starbursts flare along Imogen’s sides and she crumples. It’s not even--she’s not that ticklish, not really, but if Fearne thinks it tickles, then it becomes her reality. Fearne’s so tactile, too. Most of her thoughts are a jumbled mess, but she’s incredibly hyperfixated on sensation. When Ashton pokes or scribbles just so, it echoes through Fearne’s mind in a silly little feedback loop, even after he’s stopped.

Imogen has half a mind to accuse Fearne of thinking this way on purpose, making it worse like the sneaky Fey she is, but a garbled stream of ‘please’ and ‘tickles’ immediately disprove that theory. Soon, it’s hard to determine whose thoughts are whose amid the tumbling giddy panic from both of them.

Imogen has a terrifying realization about the power Fearne could wield with merely her thoughts. She thanks her lucky stars that this connection doesn’t go both ways.

Ashton’s hands get under Fearne’s arms and Imogen shouts, her laughter finally breaking free of her control. She flops around in the grass and downright cackles, clamping her arms tightly to her sides. She can feel the solid weight of their hands playing with her top rib. The gentle grating of sun-warm stone is absolutely insufferable.

“You okay over there, Blue?”

Oh, fuck them. She’s not even blue anymore.

“I know you’re not blue, dumbass.” Ashton chuckles, then their gaze snaps down to the Fey attempting to squirm away. “Stop moving.”

Imogen feels Fearne go breathless. And smirk.

“Fearne, don’t you dare!” Imogen shouts at her, clutching an arm to her torso. Fearne turns towards her, her hair cascading in pretty waves, and winks.

“Make me.” Fearne crosses her arms behind her head. Ashton smirks. They hover their fingers just above Fearne’s armpits, making her shiver with anticipatory giggles she doesn’t bother to hide.

Imogen catches the quiet mental ‘gotcha’ just a bit too late.

Ashton grips Fearne’s thigh and starts squeezing into the muscle. Fearne and Imogen shriek at equal volume, sending birds scattering out of the trees a little ways away. Fearne jackknifes into Ashton and wiggles from side to side, curled into their shoulder. Imogen drums her fists and heels into the ground. She’s already ticklish there, she doesn’t need help being ticklish there--

“Aw, fuck. Don’t die over there.” Ashton laughs, switching to doing this infuriating little pinchy thing all along Fearne’s stomach. Imogen screeches in harmony with Fearne. Apparently Fearne really likes this, despite the frantic little zings of ‘bad spot’ zipping through her mind, because she keeps thinking about it. Even as it happens. Imogen tries to get her bearings enough to communicate with Ashton, or maybe just beg for her life, but everything’s a bit staticky.

Tickles! Is what she manages in their general direction, wheezing up a storm. Through blurry eyes, she sees Ashton physically double over for a second. She mourns not hearing their laugh, but the little indignant huff sent mentally her way is more than enough.

“You’re contagious. Good to know.” Ashton narrows his eyes in Imogen’s direction, tickling up Fearne’s sides instead. Imogen would heave a sigh of relief, but she can hardly breathe for laughing.

“Aww. You should laugh more.” Fearne’s voice drifts through Imogen’s brain. If she could remember which way was up, she’d point an accusatory finger. She instead settles for hurling a flustered mass of feeling back towards Fearne. Ashton pinches right at the curve of her waist and Imogen, regrettably, snorts.

“A-Ashton, do that again!” Fearne giggles brightly.

“You are in no position to be making demands.” Yet they do as they’re told, mysteriously, hooking their fingers right into where Fearne is soft and solid. Another snort tumbles out of Imogen, then another. She can feel Fearne’s amusement lingering around the corners of her brain, like a child eavesdropping on an adjacent room.

“Cute.” Like a kiss to the forehead, it blooms in her mind. Imogen’s face burns.

Imogen feels Laudna before she sees her, as always, her presence clear among the fuzzy collision of minds. She blinks her big eyes down at Imogen before collapsing into the grass like a puppet free of strings.

“Imogen? Oh--” She scoops Imogen’s head into her lap. Imogen turns towards Laudna’s stomach to hide, but she tuts and turns her back.

“I never knew you were this ticklish.” Laudna turns her head a little too far to the side to observe. Imogen makes a high-pitched noise and waves her hands around. Laudna grins and pokes her, just once.

“I’m nohot!” Imogen buries her face in her hands again. Fearne giggles as if her life depends on it, but she does it in her head too. It would be exceptionally adorable if Imogen wasn’t wracked with those very same giggles, intent on dissolving into the earth.

“Imogen.” Laudna says her name like a prayer. “Look.”

Imogen peeks through her fingers. Around her, stones and leaves and flower petals float in lazy patterns. When she shivers her way through another laugh, so do they. She hides again with a squeak.

“You really are incredible.” Laudna beams. Imogen whines and curls up more. Laudna laughs at her, carding spindly fingers through her hair. Hiccups start to pepper her laughter as she finds her limit.

As Laudna holds her, Imogen finds herself once again. The walls come back up. Looking over at Fearne, though, still giggling in the grass, her heart flutters. Orym’s looming over her with more mischief than Imogen’s ever really seen from him. Without even meaning to she feels the giddy flare of playfulness that rockets off of Fearne.

“Did you have fun?” Laudna curls a lock of Imogen’s hair around her finger. Imogen squints up at her. She’s tired in her bones, in her brain, but she’s buzzing. It’s nice.

“Yeah. I think I did.” Imogen grins, reaching up to tweak Laudna’s nose. Laudna skitters her fingers under the straps of her utility holster, hooking ever-so-gently into her stomach, and Imogen snickers.

“T-These guys are rubbing off on you,” Imogen chides. Her nose scrunches as she giggles, fighting the urge to once again hide in her hands. Her entire being shivers, but she doesn’t resist.

“They are. But I could say the same for you.” Laudna brushes her hand against Imogen’s cheek with a smile. Imogen allows herself to come apart at the seams in Laudna’s loving hands.

#lesbians come get y'all juice #bug’s greatest hits #my fics #critical role #ticklish!imogen #imogen temult #ticklish!fearne #fearne calloway #ashton greymoore #laudna #imodna #imogen opening up little by little to her friends is something that can be so personal fr #god i miss bells hells #i gotta catch up on c3 #knismo fearne my beloved <3 she is into this i know it

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steviewashere · 1 year ago

Text

Let Me Make You Soup, Let Me Show You That I Care

(also on ao3)

wc: 4,149, Steddie Tags: Post Vecna, Post Canon, Post Season 4, Sick Steve Harrington, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting (Though Not Extreme, For I am Emetophobic), Eddie Munson Takes Care of Steve Harrington, Steve's Sucky ass Parents

(Also, I hope y'all don't mind me cross-posting some of my favorite one shots that I've put up on ao3. Figured I could push them to a bigger audience, especially those who don't use ao3).

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Steve gets sick often. Small colds, allergies, the dreaded flu. Maybe it doesn't help him that he's had so many concussions and injuries on top of that too. Left with debilitating migraines and aching sides and muscles that become overexerted too fast.

Safe to say, his immune system is now a pile of steaming dog shit.

He's become good at attempting to "take care" of himself. With his parents being absent nearly all the time, much of the recovery process and gentle care was left to Steve. His hands don't have the same soft and slim quality as his mother's did, though. Even if she doesn't make the effort to shove his hair from his sweaty forehead or massage vapor-rub onto his chest or squeeze his shoulders as he dry-heaves into the toilet. He can miss that.

It's also safe to say that Steve Harrington, best babysitter and lesbian protector, is absolutely terrible at asking for help. His idea is, Got myself into this mess, I can get myself out. His other idea is, I don't want to burden anybody; I've been that too many times.

He suspects that's why his parents aren't there now to tuck him into bed and check his temperature and read him a bedtime story. Even though, now, he's a nineteen year old "man." More like a bruised child trapped inside the buff body of an even more injured adult, left to his own devices and decisions.

Steve is miserable today. Woke up with a knocking headache, an itch at the bottom of his throat, tingly fingers, shivering limbs, and the need to massage his abdomen to elicit the vomit to come up sooner.

It's barely nine in the morning. Just cracked his eyes open. Which, are heavy with crust and too much sleep, yet not enough.

It's barely nine in the morning and all Steve wants to do is lay stiff on his mattress, a trusty tried and true trashcan on the floor, curtains closed, a heavy duvet draped over his legs, and the A/C set to sixty-eight degrees. That's what he does. Doesn't have the appetite for breakfast or water or Tylenol. He doesn't have the energy to lay on a towel on the bathroom floor, body curled around the base of the toilet bowl. And, he doesn't have the confidence to plead with somebody over the phone to "Take care of me, just this once and I'll repay you."

He's done that before to Tommy. The bastard never showed and Steve sobbed so hard at the thought of being left alone, that he hurled right onto the beige carpet of his bedroom. That's why the desk is stuffed into the corner. To cover what he couldn't even take care of.

Steve has decided to lay in bed today. Has already used the trashcan. Kicked off the duvet then whined then brought it back to his sweat drenched t-shirt hem, then said fuck this and ripped the shirt off his body.

The silk sheets against his rapidly heating body feels nice. Like laying on the kitchen floor, Steve surmises. And that makes him think of soup.

A hot bowl of chicken noodle soup. Something he's made himself countless times before. A recipe that his mom never perfected. It's just Campbell's, the instructions are on the label, yet it was never made correctly.

She'd do that. When her motherly instincts were at an all-time high. That had to be when he was probably five? Six? His mom would make a bowl of soup so warm and soothing that she would have to warn him about touching the ceramic. She would bring him a glass of orange juice and say, ever soft and comforting, "It'll help you. Mommy promises."

The juice would sting his throat and he would cough so hard she would start to worry about doing the Heimlich maneuver.

That's what his mother's "sick care" turned into. A glass of orange juice that only hurt, never helped, just made him think about swallowing glass.

Soup turned into a heat-until-lukewarm situation. Juice wasn't bought for him. His parents elected to buy "fancy juice" instead. Another descriptor for Mommy's self-healing alcohol problem, Steve began to substitute. He remembers the last time she ever made him anything or gave a shit about his weakened body.

Steve was eleven years old.

He eventually learned where to buy the Campbell's stuff. From Mevald's. Now he keeps a hefty supply in the back of his family's pantry. Ready for a day like this.

A day where at eleven, before noon, Steve has a sudden mouth watering appetite for measly chicken noodle soup.

He hefts his body into an upright position, feet planted onto the carpet, fingers white-knuckling the edge of the mattress, a quick glance thrown at the trashcan, and a heavy breath burrowed into the stale air. Right before he scoots to stand, he hears the telltale sound of Eddie knocking on his front door. A simple three pattern.

The rapping startles Steve slightly. He forgot that Eddie was supposed to come over. I'll have to send him away, he thinks solemnly.

"Coming!" Steve croaks to the bathroom floor. With whatever strength the knocking has given him, he tucks the trashcan under his right arm, creeps to the top of the stairs, and ever so carefully floats down them.

The can is set off to the side before he opens the door.

In the glow of the daylight, energized and cheery, is Eddie Munson. Wrapped in a leather jacket, hair tied up into a bun, jeans replaced with jorts, and a grin the size of the moon.

"Hey Stevie," he drawls as his lithe frame leans against the doorjamb.

"Hey man, listen..." Steve begins before being interrupted.

"Whoa, what's going on with you?" Eddie shoves into the house. His grin is set into a small frown and his eyes are glazed with concern instead of the excited energy equal to a golden retriever. "Did you get enough sleep last night? You could've called me if you had a nightmare."

That's something him and Eddie do. When one has a god awful nightmare about floating bodies and squelching flesh and sterile hospital walls, they call each other. Sometimes to just hear that the other is alive. Other times for a trip to one another's house. The phone calls could be Eddie recapping a campaign storyline or Steve bemoaning over a wretched, hag of an old woman that demanded a refund on an R rated movie her grandson finagled her into renting. Or just breathing. Steve's fond of the soft puffs of air that signal Eddie finally relaxed enough to go back to sleep.

"No, weirdly enough I slept way longer than I was supposed to. I'm just sick today. But, I'm fine. Or at least I will be, got a good grasp on this. Y'know, trashcan, soft bed, canned soup. Was actually coming down here to send you back home," Steve rushes out. He's out of breath and feels lightheaded. The headache has turned into a pulsating mess and his stomach churns violently. Before he can warn Eddie again to go out the front door and leave him be, Steve finds himself hunched over his trashcan at the bottom of the stairs, trembling with the force of his grip. One hand on the edge of said bin. The other, wrapping tendrils of hair around his fingers and pulling with enough force to surely rip out some of his luxurious hair. Which, really, is a sweaty disgusting mop today.

He feels the hand in his hair loosen. A smaller, slightly cold hand replacing it. But this time, the fingers work carefully to sweep back any loose strands. Another hand joins the mix. This one squeezes at his right shoulder.

Eddie is behind him, whispering and shushing, "You're alright. I got you, let it out." His cold skin feels amazing over Steve's damp forehead. And equally, his touches are soothing.

Steve coughs once, twice, spits the same amount, and then leans against Eddie with a heavy sigh. "Thanks," he mutters. He shutters at being oddly exposed. Now that he's realized his torso is bare and he probably looks as awful as he feels and now all of his guts are in a bin in front of him.

The bin gets shoved over to the left and Steve starts to get up from the hardwood floor. Eddie lifts him up and leans him against his side. "How about this? I'll make you something mild, get some water into you, and divvy up a couple Tylenol tablets. Your skin is hot and not in the sexy way," he chuckles.

They make their way to the living room. Steve is deposited onto the couch with a cushion shoved behind his back and the can placed appropriately at his feet, within arm's reach. Eddie adjusts his hair again, this time with the tie from his own hair, and leaves to the kitchen.

Steve is dazed. Hot all over. Itchy in some places. Runny nose, aching stomach, watering eyes, and throat so itchy he wants to dig his fingernails into the skin on his neck. This predicament almost makes him embarrassed, more ashamed than anything. He gets his ass handed to him annually and has to have people take care of him during the concussions, until he's given the okay to go home and grovel in silence. And he puts himself in situations he can't get himself out of. He's tired of it, he realizes. Feels the need to apologize to Eddie, make him cookies or something, promise to never make him do anything like this ever again.

When said man comes back into the room with three extra-strength Tylenol in his palm and a cold glass of tap water, Steve wants to cry. It's not until Eddie is setting everything down to pet at his hair and shush him again doe he notice, he is crying.

"Sorry," Steve's voice rasps. He takes a gasping breath before choking out another nasty, wet sob.

"Nothing to be sorry for. It's what your body has to do," Eddie coos.

"No, I'm sorry you have to take care of me," he breathes. That's tally number two for decisions Steve is making today. Some miserable, lonely, somewhat pathetic decisions.

Then, Eddie pulls back. His eyes are the size of saucers. And that small frown from earlier has turned into a deep-set, terribly worrying downturn. "You don't have to apologize for that. Not at all. You need help, I'm here for you. It's what we do, okay?" he murmurs. Steve cries some more at that. Choking on his tears, practically. Enough for Eddie to say, "Hey, breathe with me. I don't want you to make yourself sick again."

So they sit for a few minutes. Breathing. Steve keeps his eyes on Eddie's mouth, watching him count. And Eddie stares at his eyes. Trying to piece together all the little details about this version of Steve. The one not picking fights and towering over unlucky underclassmen and spitting venom instead of backing away when he's supposed to. This Steve that looks like a small, terrified, lonely little boy. Who feels the need to apologize for being a human being. Somebody that makes sure everybody is better off and happy and swooned over before taking an assessment of his own body, the injuries stitched into his side, and the possibility that someone also wants to make sure he's doing alright.

God, who is Steve Harrington, Eddie questions to himself.

Once the tears have subsided and breathing has been placed under control, Steve feels exhausted. Eddie seems to notice because he suggests, "Why don't you lay down for a while? Maybe snooze some while I make soup?"

Steve nods with slight hesitancy. "Can I—" he stutters, "Can I lay down in my room?" To Eddie, this is the quietest he's ever heard his friend. And that doesn't sit right with him. A man—bulky and toned, loud and sassy, bark with no bite—now sitting with his shoulders slumped, skin blotched in various shades of pink and red, breathing ragged, and looking at Eddie with terribly timid eyes. He's just a little boy, some part of Eddie whispers.

"Yeah man. 'Course you can. How 'bout you get yourself to bed, I'll follow behind with your can, give you your medicine, and leave the door open just in case you need something?" The nod Eddie gets back is so energetic, it's as if Steve wasn't sick to begin with. That part of him that's been whispering and wondering is now aching. All he wanted was to be looked after.

Where are your parents, Eddie wants to ask aloud. Who was here to take care of you, Eddie wants to dig.

In mere moments, Steve is tucked back into bed. The curtains are drawn to be almost completely closed. His door is left unlocked and gaping. There are soft snuffles drifting through the house. And Eddie finds himself in front of the Harrington's fancy electric stove.

Before he came back downstairs to cook, Steve whispered something about there being Campbell's in the pantry. "If you want to heat it up on the stove, that's what my mama did when I was really little. It's what I do now."

Eddie glances at the cans and makes a decision for Steve, He deserves better than a piss poor attempt. Homemade it is.

When he was little, Wayne used to make soup on sick days. Still does. During the recovery time when Eddie's sides were still sore with stitches and itchy with stretch, Wayne would bring him a bowl of soup and a tall glass of orange juice on a little tray. He makes a mean bowl of tomato. "Something my mamaw taught me and now I can show you," he had told Eddie.

As much of a bare wasteland as Steve's kitchen is—What does he eat, Eddie wonders—he manages to find all the ingredients necessary. After a couple cupboards are ripped open and some miscellaneous drawers sifted through, he finds himself stirring a simmering metal pot of something he hopes Steve can keep down.

Eddie wants to chastise Steve for even thinking about being sick alone. What a misery sentence. Was probably going to call Robin and say something about, "You don't need to worry. It's not bad. I'll just be out of work for a couple days." Then he would've trekked back upstairs, slow like molasses, and locked the door behind him. Would've laid in bed shivering and crying and barfing. Probably would have passed out by the time he was finally hungry.

Steve even apologized earlier for being taken care of. As if he was a burden. Made himself smaller and tighter and quieter, that's for sure. So Eddie won't do any form of chastising. That'd only make him disappear on himself more.

As the soup is being dished up with plain toast and a cup is being filled with pulpy orange juice, Eddie hears Steve startle awake upstairs. Goes from snoring almost as loud as Wayne in the winter to dry heaving, hard.

Eddie sets the made tray down onto the counter. He makes his way back to the front door and chucks his shoes to the side and hangs up his jacket. Then, tumbles upstairs just as Steve is breathing raspy again.

One. Two. Three knocks on the open bedroom door. And in the blink of an eye, Eddie is over at Steve's side. He's crying again. Nothing like the nauseous sobs from earlier, but sniffles and silent watery blinks.

Steve's hair is pushed back again. "What's goin' on Stevie? What happened?"

"N-nothing," he spits frantically into the air. Like a kid trying to hide a lollipop behind their back. A teenager caught with a lit cigarette in hand. The family dog with a sneaker in it's mouth being told to drop it.

"Okay. Okay, I won't push. But I brought you some soup and orange juice. It's not the best because there's so much pulp in it, but it'll do for now. Oh, and—" Eddie sings. He digs around in his jorts pockets for a small container. As he brandishes it just in Steve's line of sight, he says, "Found some vapor-rub in the medicine cabinet downstairs. Now it is a few months out of date, but that just means more will need to be appl—honey, what's goin' on?" he questions softly.

Steve's sniffles have turned into thin-lipped, eyes glazed and bloodshot, muffled sobs. He has a streak of snot dripping down on his upper lip and his chest keeps stuttering. Eventually, he chokes out, "You brought the soup to me."

And what a statement.

The sentence slaps Eddie across the face, causing his head to rear back. It confuses him, that's what it does. Obviously I brought him soup, what the fuck, he asks himself incredulously.

"Wha—of course. That's what you do when somebody is sick. You help 'em out, bring soup or crackers or whatever and make sure they're better," Eddie supplies as he wipes away the sweat and snot with his banana. There's a brief moment where the only sound is Steve crying. The room is dim and he seems more comfortable than when the door was initially answered.

Eddie thinks back to the apologizing. The making himself smaller and quieter. His hesitancy about wanting to sleep in his own bed. How his mom used to make soup. And the statement, "Got a good grasp on this." Pieces start to click, sirens sound off, door number three has opened and behind it is a shiny new car.

A horrifying realization. The easy solution to Eddie's childlike curiosity over where Steve's parents are. And that in itself makes him want to hurl into the trashcan or pull full force at his hair or sob.

His parents aren't here and haven't been in a long while, Eddie accuses.

"Oh, Stevie." He pets again at his drenched hair. "I'm not going anywhere, alright? You don't have to worry about that with me. Let me do what I need to do, but I'll be right here if you need anything."

"Okay," Steve whispers.

Within just a couple minutes, Eddie has Steve propped back up on a mountain of pillows. Some from the hall closet, the stale bedroom of his parents, and the ones from his own bed. He's changed the bag in the can with a call of, "It's alright, no big deal," after Steve's cry that Eddie didn't need to do that. A bedside lamp has been turned on. An ice cold wet rag has been situated over his neck. There's a thick layer of vapor-rub in his chest hair.

Then came the aforementioned lunch. It smells divine. As if God himself started a soup kitchen in the Harrington's desolate house. What's even better is that it's definitely not chicken noodle.

"I don't remember there being any cans of tomato in the pantry," Steve notes.

"Oh, well. I thought you deserved better than that crap. Made something Wayne usually serves up. Family recipe," he sings again.

"Oh," Steve breathes. His eyes feel wet again, but he fights every part of him that says to cry. He's done enough of that. "Y'know, you didn't have to," he says quietly.

Eddie makes the wounded sound of a shot dog. He finishes setting up the tray on the stiff mattress. Then, situates himself to sit on Steve's left, rubbing down his bare back. "I wanted to. That's all that matters. Now eat up before it gets cold."

And he does just that. The bowl is hot to the touch. Its contents still fresh from being boiled. Even the gulps of orange juice don't burn as bad as when he was little. Steve feels five years old again. He's anticipating the late afternoon lunch from his mom where she'll show him vapor-rub and a spoonful of Pepto-Bismol. In the living room, she's going to lay down, with him on top, and they'll watch reruns of his favorite cartoons. The curtains are closed and she hums lullabies as he drifts off to sleep.

Eddie rubs his back and hums songs and kisses his forehead gently. Which, Steve hasn't been given that amount of affection in a long while. And he honestly doesn't mind.

There's something that's been sitting between the two of them, a thing the size of a ten pound medicine ball. A word shaped like love and comfort. The space where Eddie shares stories about Uncle Wayne and his hibernation snoring when the temperatures drop and how he acquired every single mug on their wall. And in response, Steve listens and drips a couple droplets of how his mom would read Goodnight Moon and kiss him on his cheek or on summer days where they'd splash each other in the shallow depth of the pool. Before it became a graveyard. Or the loosely sketched outline of a mom and her child. His dad wasn't as close, but he'd play catch when Steve was still learning about baseball or share facts about his car that intrigued little eight year old Steve in a way no sport has ever done before. How he acquired the bowling pin from the one time his parents took him out for his birthday. The car painting being something his dad did in his spare time, not bought from some general store in the next town over.

Even in his sick state, Steve thinks about pecking Eddie on the lips. Wonders how smooth they are. If he uses chapstick. What flavor it could be. His mind supplies days in the future where they make soup for each other and shout about how excellent Hellfire was or Lucas' basketball game had been. Mornings shaped by soft snores and gentle touches and steaming cups of coffee. Nights wrapped around each other, cooing sweet nothings when the nightmares become bloody again, and sex that's slow and drawn out. Or the quiet moments where Steve needs a shoulder to cry on. And open arms so that Eddie is encased in comfort, even after everything.

At his final spoonful and dip of toasted crust, Steve whispers, "I love you." As treacherous as his mouth has been in the past, this final decision isn't as daunting as the rest from earlier today. Some part of Steve knew that it would come to a head and the words would spill from his lips like the soup on his chin.

Eddie hums beside him. He kisses Steve one. Two. Three times on the forehead. Then he sets the tray aside with all the empty dishes and the vapor-rub with three finger divots. He strips down to his boxers and a simple t-shirt. And he tucks Steve in as he scoots on top of the duvet to hold him.

"I love you, too," he responds. "And I'll be here when you get up. So get some rest and the next time you're awake, I'll go get some new orange juice and more ingredients for tomato soup and a container of unexpired Vick's."

Steve drifts off to sleep with his body curled around Eddie's side.

In the morning, the curtains are open and soft sunlight streaks in the bedroom. Eddie has left the house to do a quick grocery run, leaving behind a note of "Just lay back and relax. I brought the phone upstairs if you want to keep yourself entertained."

He calls Robin to muse aloud how excellent Eddie is. Their dance around each other now concluded over a simple bowl of soup. How nice it is to finally get the care he wish he had when his mom started to go away. Him kissing a guy before she could kiss a girl and her shriek off, "The next time I see you, I'm gonna give you the nastiest, biggest wet willy this world has ever seen. Trust in it, Steve Harrington."

The threat isn't an empty one, but it makes Steve chuckle anyway. Even though he still feels that encroaching violent twist of his stomach and a cough that could send him flat on his ass.

And when the phone call ends and Eddie is back inside with soup being made on the stove? Steve feels like maybe it's alright to rely on his true family when the time comes. He makes a promise to himself too that he'll learn how to make the best goddamned chicken noodle soup this world has ever tasted. All so that he can dote over Eddie the same. Make sure that he really knows just how much Steve loves him.

"I love you," Eddie breaths into his tussled hair later on the couch, where they're watching cartoons.

"Love you, too," Steve slurs as his body becomes heavier with sleep.

#stranger things #fanfiction #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #post canon #post season 4 #angst and hurt/comfort #sick steve harrington #sick fic

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