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setaripendragon · 1 year ago

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Cress - Part 5

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 I think this was probably my favourite part to write, honestly. I did so much unnecessary research into Constantine's family tree to make the timeline make sense. I now have the entire Constantine lineage plotted out in a notebook somewhere. I'm probably never going to use it for anything, but I have it! =D John Constantine does not want to deal with this shit.

John is not having a great day. He’d started it hungover, and then his ex had dropped the spawn off round at his apartment because she had some emergency come up, so he’d been forced to turn down a job of his own. Which was not ideal, given his finances were not in the best of states. Then he’d panicked because Joanna was getting into all his magical tomes and cursed shit, and getting his daughter cursed would just be the rotten cherry on top of the already shitty cake of his life.

So having the doorbell ring out of the fucking blue right when he’s trying to convince the spawn to lie down for a fucking nap is perfectly in line with how this day is going. That is to say; bad. It makes him want to lie face-down on the floor and never get up again. “Right,” he tells Joanna. “You stay there, I’ll be right back.” He says it out of wishful thinking more than any real expectation of her doing what she’d told. She is, after all, his daughter.

He goes and opens the door – because he might as well get the next awful thing over and done with – to find some random bloke on his doorstep. He’s wearing a smart dove grey blazer over a t-shirt and fancy jeans, which makes him look like both a rich businessman and an asshole. It does not endear him to John at all. Neither does the fact that he’s actually kind of handsome when John looks past the rich asshole clothes. “Wot?” he asks, very flatly.

“Uh, are you Constantine?” the guy asks, which is not good. People who ask for him by just his last name are always looking for some kind of magic shit, and John is trying not to do too much magic shit around Joanna. It’s dangerous, for one thing, and also he’d rather his daughter didn’t follow him into this shit line of work.

“Not today,” John says flatly, but then adds, “come back next week,” because he can’t turn the fucker away entirely. He needs the money. Even if rich twats and magic are never a good combo. He’d suggest tomorrow, except Dani didn’t say how long this supposed ‘emergency’ of hers is supposed to last. Better to make it a week.

The man on his doorstep sighs like the delay of a mere week is enough of a disappointment to crush the air from his lungs, his eyes falling closed and shoulders slumping in tired resignation. John’s stupid fucking bleeding heart decides now is a good time to remind him it exists. And he’d been doing such a good job at forgetting it was there, too. “Oh, fucking fine,” he huffs, crossing his arms and leaning against the jamb. “What is it?”

“I’m looking for someone,” the man begins hesitantly, like he’s not sure how best to go on.

John narrows his eyes. “Someone that don’t wanna be found?” he challenges darkly. “Cause I’m gonna need a lot more convincing before I agree to that, mate.”

The man shakes his head quickly. “No, he’s a friend. He missed a date last week, and- Well, I’ve had reason to wonder if he might be in trouble, these last couple of years, and this was the last straw. I just want to make sure he’s okay, that’s all.”

Well… Finding people with magic is generally pretty easy these days, what with most everyone forgetting magic is even a thing that might need to be guarded against. And it’s not usually dangerous to do a quick bit of scrying. At least, not unless you’re trying to peek in on Hell or the Fae Courts or something. So it should be okay to just get this done quick and get paid, even with Joanna in the house.

“I charge an hourly rate plus the cost of any components used in the requested spells, plus hazard pay if whatever you want doing results in potential loss of life or limb,” John informs the guy as a warning, even as he steps back to hold the door open wider; an invitation, just not a verbal one. Just in case.

He crosses the threshold without missing a beat, and none of John’s wards go off, so he’s not possessed or in any kind of magical disguise. Good enough. John herds him into the living room, ignoring the bland reassurances spilling out of the guy’s mouth that money isn’t a problem. As if John hasn’t figured that out for himself, thanks.

Joanna peeks over the back of the couch at them. John raises his eyes to the heavens. “I told you to stay in bed,” he chides. “It’s nap time.”

“No it’s not. It’s work time,” she corrects officiously. “I can help!”

“Sure you can,” John agrees, crouching down in front of the couch to look up at Joanna very seriously. She looks back, wide-eyed and triumphant. “You can help by going and having a nap so you’re not cranky later.”

Joanna scowls fiercely. “I’m not a baby,” she insists.

“No, you’re not. Don’t see what that’s got to do with having a nap. God knows I’d much rather be napping than working, and I’m all grown up and everything.”

“Then you go nap,” Joanna suggests slyly, “and I can do the magic.”

“Not a chance, squirt,” John informs her. “Go on, get. If you’re good and actually get some sleep, I’ll let you see one of the magic books at bedtime, alright? Just one!” he interjects before she can try to wheedle for more.

“Fine,” Joanna sighs, sliding off the couch to stomp back off to the bedroom.

John rolls his eyes again and shoves back to his feet, biting back a groan as his back complains at him. He’s only thirty, for god’s sake, and yet he feels so fucking old. “So, who are we looking for?” John asks as he drops unceremoniously into his favourite armchair, refusing to allow his customer any room to comment on the scene he just saw.

The bloke sits down on the newly vacated couch with a grimace. At first, John thinks he’s just being snotty about the ratty old couch, but then he says “I was hoping you’d be able to tell me,” in a very sheepish sort of voice, and he realises it’s in answer to the question.

“You don’t know your friend’s name?” he demands. Suddenly, he finds himself wondering exactly how much of that sob story the guy spun back on the doorstep was a lie specifically designed to get him through the door.

“He never told me!” the bloke protests, making a very good show of wounded innocence. “And after the fifth time we met up, it seemed a little rude to ask again.”

To be fair, John has admittedly gotten himself caught in a trap like that a time or two, so it’s not entirely implausible. He’s still not sure he believes it, but… God, he just wants this over and done with so he can get paid, and then maybe go have a nap right alongside Joanna. “Alright. Do you have a photo?” he asks.

The guy shakes his head.

“Some clothes of his?”

He shakes his head harder.

“Anything that’s been on his person?”

He hesitates, thinking, before shaking his head again.

“A lock of hair?”

That one wins him a snort and a very droll look.

“Do you have anything I can try to track him with?” John demands, at the very end of his rope and about two seconds away from being entirely done with this farce.

“I was hoping you would,” this fucking guy replies.

Yeah, John’s done. He stands up, and this fucking guy has the nerve to raise his hands in a placating gesture. “What the fuck is your game?”

“No game,” this fucking guy assures him. “I just assumed that, since you’re in the same business as ol’ Lady Jo, you might have some family stories of him. Maybe some family heirloom he gave her for that job he asked her to do? I honestly don’t know, but I’m grasping at straws here, and you’re the best lead I’ve got.”

“Old Lady Jo?” John echoes, not liking where this is going.

His fucking customer gives him a wary look. “You didn’t know your ancestor liked to muck about with the supernatural, too? She made a bit of a name for herself in the late seventeen hundreds.”

John had known that, actually. It was old stories about her, the ones his dad had passed down to him, that had inspired him to start playing with magic in the first place. And even though sometimes he regretted it more than anything, he’d still apparently had enough awe left in his heart to name his daughter after her.

But most of those stories had been set in the eighteen hundreds. The only one he could think of that was supposed to be that early in her life was the one about how she’d won a boon that set her on her course to make the Constantine name one to remember in the world of the occult.

“You’re looking for the Sandman?” John demands incredulously.

“The-” his customer begins, his eyes going very wide in a look of dawning, and faintly outraged, comprehension.

John snorts before he can help himself. “Jesus, you’re clueless,” he mutters, dropping back down into his chair reluctantly. To his surprise, his customer laughs at the comment instead of getting offended. It wins him a little bit of John’s good will back, but he can hardly dwell on it, because he’s coming to an unfortunate set of realisations of his own. He’s re-examining their whole conversation through this new lens of family history coming back to haunt him, and going cold right down to his fucking bones as the pieces click into place.

After all, it’s mid-July right now and the story of how Lady Joanna met the Sandman said that she’d ambushed him at a meeting with his immortal not-Jewish friend at the beginning of July every century. Hells, it’s the right year, too. And this man called the Sandman friend, and said he’d just recently missed a date, and knew about the job he’d tasked John’s ancestor with.“Jesus fucking Christ, I’m clueless,” he breathes in genuine horror at his own carelessness. “You’re him, aren’t you? The Wandering Jew.”

The asshole rolls his eyes. “I’m not-”

“-Jewish,” John finishes for him. “I know, but it’s not like you’ve introduced yourself, either. This time or the last.”

That gets a blink, and then a burst of startled laughter. “Oh, I’m picking up his bad habits now. Sorry. I’m Robert. Gadling, originally, but it’s Golding right now. My friends call me Hob.” He leans forwards to offer John a hand, which he shakes with a distant sense that this might just be the most normal weird thing to ever happen to him. It’s very surreal. “So, back to the issue at hand; can you find him? I mean, ‘the Sandman’ is more of a title than a name, isn’t it? Would that be enough?”

John can only stare at him helplessly. Gadling – should probably think of him as Golding, he probably wouldn’t appreciate his cover being blown by a careless word – stares back, desperate enough that John’s silence doesn’t even deter him. It’s a bit tragic. This blessed fucking idiot really doesn’t fucking know. The Dream Lord’s infamous immortal companion really is just as clueless as your average mortal moron.

“Mate,” John says, with emphasis enough to make Golding’s face fall. “Everyone’s been looking for the bloody Sandman. No one’s had any fucking luck for the last seventy years. What do you think the sleepy sickness is?”

Golding goes pale.

“Seventy years…?” he breathes in horror.

John nods, feeling pretty bad for the guy who’s just figuring all this out now, instead of having grown up with these facts like John did. Every Constantine from his grandfather down to his daughter knows that the sleepy sickness coincided with the disappearance of the Sandman.

“Fuck. Fuck!” Golding swears, punching the arm of the couch, before pressing that fist to his lips to stifle any further cursing. John personally thinks he’d feel a lot better if he just yelled for a bit, but he does appreciate the restraint, given there’s a – hopefully – sleeping kid in the bedroom just down the hall. Then he drops his hand and fixes John with a look that makes him want to stay very still until the threat passes.

John swallows hard and tries to wait it out, the hard calculations he can see going on behind Golding’s eyes. “Don’t make me regret this, Constantine,” he says direly. John doesn’t answer, because he can’t fucking know if he’s going to regret it, but he’s sure as fuck going to try not to get on this guy’s bad side. Golding is fucking immortal, after all, but John certainly fucking isn’t. “You said,” Golding begins, voice measured and cold, “that you could use a lock of hair to track someone.”

“You implied you didn’t have one,” John replies, just as measured.

“How about blood?”

John stares at this man. “You have the Sandman’s blood?” There’s no way, no possible way that he took it, right? So it had to be a gift. And here John had been thinking the Sandman hadn’t given Golding his name as a matter of trust. Clearly fucking not.

“After a fashion.”

John doesn’t have to be a genius to put that one together. After a fashion. After a fucking fashion. No wonder Golding opened with a fucking threat. John swallows hard and reaches out, fumbling blindly across the side-table for a pack of fags. He really rather desperately needs a smoke right now.

Because if word got out that this man has the Sandman’s fucking child in his keeping… John doesn’t want to think about it. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he is doing. It would be a fucking bloodbath. Occultists, magicians, exorcists, the ones with bad intentions and the ones with good – arguably worse, in John’s opinion, the sanctimonious fuckers – they’d all want a piece of this kid. It’s horrifying to think about, and it’s not the worst of it. At least, not for John personally.

Golding saw Joanna.

It doesn’t need to be fucking said that if John puts Golding’s… Ward? Kid? Adoptee? If he puts this kid in danger, Golding would pay him back measure for measure. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he breathes, hands trembling as he fails and fails to get his lighter to spark. “Fuck,” he swears, hands dropping. Golding reaches out slowly, gently takes the lighter from his lax, still shaking fingers, and sparks a flame for him.

John fatalistically accepts the help and leans forward to light his fag. He takes a deep drag as he sits back again. “You… you have the-” he tries, but he can’t actually bring himself to say it out loud.

“Yes,” Golding says flatly, turning John’s lighter over and over. “Can you find him?”

John breathes out a cloud of smoke. “I can fucking well try.”

#The Sandman #Hob Gadling #John Constantine #Joanna Constantine #kid fic #next gen oc #Hob is NOT HAPPY about having to tell anyone about Cress #John is NOT HAPPY to be TOLD about Cress #No one is happy in this chapter #Except the author >w>

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solarmorrigan · 10 months ago

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Hands Where I Can See Them, Part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

The only thing Eddie is dreading as much as Steve’s return for his things is Wayne’s inevitable question about where Steve is at all.

After all, Steve has practically been living with them for weeks – something that Eddie may not have allowed himself to consider the significance of, but which Wayne cannot have failed to notice. Though Steve had (apparently) felt the need to do things around the trailer to stay in Wayne’s good graces, he really didn’t have to worry about it; Wayne likes him, and he’ll be asking sooner or later just where Steve has gone.

‘Sooner’ comes two nights after Eddie royally fucks things over. It’s Wayne’s night off, and there’s really no avoiding him; their new trailer is bigger than the last, but it’s still close quarters, and Eddie gets caught when he passes through the living room to get a drink from the kitchen.

“Noticed Steve isn’t here tonight,” Wayne says, blunt as hell, because he doesn’t see the point in doing things any other way.

“Nope,” Eddie says shortly, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it from the tap.

“Wasn’t here last night, either,” Wayne goes on.

“He was not,” Eddie confirms.

“Wasn’t here when I got in yesterday morning,” Wayne says.

“You are a veritable font of observation tonight,” Eddie says, only a little snarky.

Wayne shrugs. “Hard not to notice when he’s here nine days out of ten, then suddenly up and disappears,” he says. He pauses a moment before adding, “Stuff’s gone from the bathroom, too.”

Eddie occupies himself with slowly swallowing down half his glass of water before he answers. “Yeah.”

“Don’t suppose he’s going on a trip,” Wayne doesn’t quite ask, and Eddie lets out a bitter sort of laugh.

“Loving the optimism from you, but no, not… not so much.”

There are a few beats of silence, and then Wayne lets out a slow sigh. Eddie knows him well enough to understand the sound of it – he’s just decided to get involved.

“You two have a fight?”

“Something like that,” Eddie mutters.

“Well that’s vague as hell, son. You have a fight, or didn’t you?” Wayne prods.

Slowly, Eddie shakes his head. “No, I– I don’t think so. I think it was all me,” he says, finally looking up from his glass and meeting Wayne’s questioning gaze. “I fucked up, Wayne.”

There’s no immediate judgement coming from Wayne, no suspicion or scorn, not even a shake of the head and some variation of “Of course you did.” There’s only a measured sort of curiosity in his stare, the same way it’s been since Eddie was a kid and Wayne was trying to figure him out; it’s sort of comforting in its familiarity, in its neutrality.

“You wanna tell me about it?” Wayne asks.

Eddie knows that if he says no, Wayne will let it go. He might keep sending curious and worried looks Eddie’s way, he might ask a few more prodding questions over the next few days, but he won’t make Eddie say anything he doesn’t want to. And Eddie doesn’t really want to – but he thinks that maybe he needs to.

“If… you had to define mine and Steve’s relationship, what would you say?” Eddie asks after a moment.

Wayne cocks an eyebrow at him. “I’d say that feels like a trick question.”

Eddie lets out a little huff of a laugh. “It’s not, I swear. I’m seriously curious,” he says. “There are no wrong answers – go.”

“Well,” Wayne says, still eyeing Eddie consideringly, “I don’t know if you kids put labels on things these days or what, but from the outside, I’d say you’re dating. I’d say that boy is fully in love with you and that you’re at least halfway to loving him back.”

“Right.” Eddie gives a jerky nod. “Seems like that’s what pretty much everyone thinks.”

“But that’s not what’s going on,” Wayne takes a guess.

“Well, that depends on your perspective,” Eddie says, a little high and tight.

“Well, the only perspectives worth a damn here’re yours’n Steve’s,” Wayne shoots back. “So what would those be?”

Eddie drains the last of his water, turning away to put the glass in the sink. “Steve… shares your perspective. Or, uh– he did. But I… I didn’t realize he was so serious. I thought we were just kind of messing around.”

The silence from behind Eddie is so thick that he can’t help but finally turn around and meet Wayne’s gaze again.

“That’s a hell of a blind spot, Ed,” Wayne says simply, and Eddie folds in on himself a bit, crossing his arms over his chest. His main defense has always been to become larger than life – to make big gestures and even bigger speeches, but everything about this situation makes him feel like nothing so much as small.

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

“So, what, you figured out how serious he was and thought you didn’t want that?” Wayne asks, and Eddie hunches a little further in on himself.

“Nope. No, that– would’ve been better, actually. If that’s what happened. But that’s not what happened, because did I mention I fucked up? Because I seriously fucked up.” Eddie’s rambling is stemmed by an expectant look from Wayne. “It’s just – the other night, when the guys were over, we got to talking about it. The whole… me and Steve thing. As in, they thought me and Steve were a thing. And they asked me about it. While Steve was out of the room. And then he, uh. Hm.” Eddie rubs a hand nervously over his chin. “He walked back in when I was in the middle of telling them that he's just a friend and that we’re just having fun. And that’s… when I found out how serious he was.”

“Eddie…”

“I know. I know!” Eddie doesn’t even have to look at Wayne to catch the disappointment coming off of him, so he doesn’t. He scrubs hands over his face and then just leaves him there, telling the rest of the story to his palms. “He was so fucking upset, Wayne, I think– I think I actually made him cry? And the only reason he hasn’t been here to get the rest of his stuff out of the trailer yet is because he was down with a migraine the next day. Like, I hurt him so badly I made him physically ill. So I didn’t just fuck up, but I’m actually a horrible human being and should probably spend the rest of my days living in isolation so I don’t ruin anyone else’s life.”

Wayne is silent for so long that Eddie is eventually forced to peek out from behind his fingers.

“You’re not gonna tell me how bad I fucked up?” Eddie asks, still a bit muffled.

“Seems like you have that covered already,” Wayne says, then he holds up one arm in offer, nodding towards the empty spot beside him on the couch. “C’mere.”

He doesn’t need to ask Eddie twice. No matter how old he gets, Eddie doesn’t think a genuine hug from his uncle will ever stop being comforting, and regardless of whether or not he thinks he actually deserves it right now, he’s going to take it. He crashes down onto the couch and leans heavily into Wayne’s side, sighing as Wayne wraps his arm around his shoulders.

“You’re not a bad person, Ed. You made a mistake, s’all,” Wayne says, and Eddie scoffs.

“Pretty big fucking mistake,” he mutters.

“Yep, that was a doozy. You hurt someone you care about, and you might not be able to fix it all the way. But that doesn’t make you terrible. Makes you human.” Wayne gives Eddie a comforting squeeze. “And Steve ain’t a bad person, either. He’ll know you mean it when you tell him you’re sorry.”

“Yeah,” Eddie says quietly.

“You think about what you’re gonna do when he does show to get the rest of his stuff?” Wayne asks.

“Besides grovel?” Eddie shoots back.

“I mean, what’re you gonna grovel for?”

Eddie lets out a long breath. “I… I know I might not be able to fix it, but I just – I want the chance to try. I’m hoping he’ll just give me that chance.” Eddie pauses for a moment, choked by the dread of the thought that Steve might not give him that chance. “Things don’t have to go back to the way they were, but I at least want him to know that even if I’m shit at showing it, I do care.”

“Sounds like a decent place to start,” Wayne says.

“Think so?” Eddie asks.

“Mm.”

“Well… I hope Steve thinks so, too.”

Wayne gives his shoulders another squeeze and says nothing more, but he doesn’t really have to. He’s already settled Eddie’s nerves more than he’d thought possible; just this is more than enough.

Now Eddie just has to try to hold onto the feeling long enough to talk to Steve.

It turns out, Eddie doesn’t have to hold onto the feeling for very long at all; the very next morning—two days after Robin had read Eddie the riot act and left him to begin tentatively planning—another knock comes at the door.

It’s ten in the morning – not as early as Eddie had expected, but early enough that he’s not long out of bed when he opens the door to find Steve on the other side.

In contrast to Eddie’s sweatpants and t-shirt, Steve looks like he’s trying very hard to look like he’s alright. His polo is clean and tucked in, the collar is straight, his hair is as perfectly styled as ever – but there’s still something off. There are dark circles under his eyes, stark against a paler than normal complexion, and none of the ease or contentment that Eddie has grown used to shines from his face. He feels a little like he wants to mourn its absence.

“Hey,” Steve says, nodding in greeting.

“Hey,” Eddie says back, because for all his thoughts and planning, he hadn’t really considered how to start this encounter.

“I came to get my shit out of your way,” Steve says, and Eddie frowns.

It’s not in my way, he wants to say. You’re not in my way. Leave your stuff. Stay.

“Uh. Yeah, sure,” Eddie says instead, stepping aside to let Steve in.

Steve is carrying a cardboard box, but doesn’t seem to have anything or anyone else in tow. For as spread throughout Eddie’s life as Steve has become, he wonders if all of him will fit into that one box.

“Kinda surprised you didn’t bring Buckley to help pack,” Eddie says, glancing back out the screen door, as if Robin might appear out of nowhere.

“Just dropped her off at work,” Steve says. “I figured she probably already had… words for you when she picked up my meds, and I didn’t think any of us needed an encore.”

“I don’t know,” Eddie says quietly. “The stuff she said got me thinking.”

In the process of grabbing a jacket he’d left behind off one of the hooks by the door, Steve only glances back at Eddie. “I’m sure she had a lot to say,” he says, carefully neutral.

“Yeah. She, uh – definitely did. Can we talk?” Eddie asks.

Steve sighs. “Eddie…”

“Just hear me out, please. Then I’ll get out of your way and let you pack in peace, I promise,” Eddie says.

“We don’t– have to talk about it,” Steve says, turning back to face Eddie. “Look, I’m sorry for putting my weird expectations on you. I was reading into stuff that wasn’t there, and I made assumptions instead of just talking to you, and that’s on me. So I’m gonna just – get out of your hair, and you won’t have to deal with my stupid, delusional bullshit anymore.”

“No, that’s not– Steve–” Eddie reaches out for Steve as he tries to brush past on his way to the bedroom, where most of his belongings are. He gets a hand around Steve’s bicep and, though Steve doesn’t jerk away this time, he goes stiff and still beneath Eddie’s touch, prompting Eddie to let go.

It hurts; even though Eddie’s done it to himself, the reaction still hurts. He’s always reached for Steve in the past, always had his hands on him, and Steve had always welcomed him, even before they’d started sleeping together. Now, Eddie takes a step back, forcing himself to give Steve some space.

“That’s not what I want to say at all,” he says. “I mean – I would’ve liked if we’d talked about it, because then I would’ve known, and I could’ve appreciated what it was – what we were doing.”

Steve turns back to face Eddie, his gaze snapping straight to him with equal suspicion and confusion. “What?”

“Steve, you weren’t reading into things that weren’t there, you’re not– you’re not stupid or delusional, I was just – I was sending you mixed signals,” Eddie says. “I was so wrapped up in thinking that I knew what was going on, that I didn’t look at what I really had, and I’m sorry. But if I knew, if I’d just gotten my head out of my ass, you have to believe that in a heartbeat, I would have–”

“Don’t,” Steve cuts in sharply.

“Steve–”

“I don’t need whatever this is, Eddie,” Steve snaps. “You don’t need to have pity on your pathetic ex-whatever I am to you, okay? It’s okay, just– just let it go.”

“This isn’t pity,” Eddie insists with an incredulous little laugh. “It’s fucking not, I swear! This is me saying that I fucked up and I hurt you and I want to make it up to you. I haven’t done anything to deserve it, but I want the chance to show you how sorry I am and how much you mean to me– in whatever capacity you’ll let me.”

“Whatever capacity?” Steve stares at him, brows furrowed.

“Whatever you’ll be comfortable with. As a friend, or… as more, if that bridge hasn’t burned,” Eddie says.

“What, so now I’m relationship material?” Steve asks, pointed.

Eddie winces. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have said any of that, and if I could go back in time and slap myself upside the head before I let any of that shit out and hurt you with it, I would. I know that… I know I didn’t pay enough attention to you, but I also wasn’t paying very much attention to how I was feeling,” he says. “Because honestly? I’m kind of a moron, Steve. I’ve never had sex with someone I really liked, with someone who was anything like a friend, and when I started wanting to be around you all the time, and always wanting you within reach, and when every little thing started to remind me of you, I just thought… yeah, this is what friends-with-benefits feels like. Y’know, like a fucking idiot.”

Steve doesn’t laugh. “I don’t know if I can trust you on that,” he says softly, and that’s fair.

It hurts, but it’s fair.

“Then let me earn your trust back. Please, Steve, just… give me the chance,” Eddie implores, doesn’t even care that he’s basically begging – Eddie doesn’t beg, but for Steve, he’ll make an exception. For Steve, he thinks he’ll do just about anything.

Pursing his lips, Steve looks at the floor beside Eddie’s feet for a long moment, and Eddie gives him the time to sort his thoughts out.

“I want to say yes. Part of me just wants to accept your apology and pretend that none of this happened. Just keep going the way we were,” he says. “But I can’t keep doing that – ignoring shit. I just… can’t.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Eddie says. “I don’t want things to be like they were before, I want – I want to be better. I want to do better.”

“How?” Steve asks, both challenging and curious.

“I want to do it right. I want to show you how much I appreciate you, and how much you mean to me. I want to treat you like you deserve to be treated,” Eddie insists. “And if that’s just by being the best friend I can be, then that’s what I’ll do, but I would love—love—if you’d let me romance you.”

That briefly breaks through Steve’s stony façade, and he lets out a huff of a laugh. “Romance me?”

“Shit, yeah. Flowers and chocolates and candle-lit dates – the whole nine yards,” Eddie says with a slow grin. “All the things you’ve given other people but that no one has ever given you.”

“I…” Steve starts, his own humor fading quickly. “I don’t know.”

It’s better than an outright ‘no.’

“That’s okay,” Eddie promises. “You don’t have to know right now. I can wait. I’m a patient kinda guy.”

(That’s an absolute lie, and they both know it, but Eddie will find all the patience in the world if Steve needs time to think.)

Slowly, Steve nods. “I think… Just, give it a couple of weeks, okay? Really think about it, and if this – if I’m something you still want by then, come talk to me again,” he says. “Alright?”

“Yeah.” Eddie nods rapidly. “As much time as you want. I’m not going to up and change my mind. Two weeks, I’ll ask again.”

Steve shrugs, taking a step back towards the bedroom.

“I will,” Eddie promises – not defensive, but certain. He can wait two weeks. He can wait as long as Steve needs him to. Maybe he can take the time to get his shit together.

He does care about Steve. He does pay attention – and he’s going to prove it.

But in the meantime, the only thing Steve has asked for is space, so Eddie gives it to him. He retreats to the kitchen to let Steve pack up in peace, trying hard not to feel bereft at the thought of the gaps Steve will be leaving behind.

If he’s lucky—if he’s very, very lucky—it won’t be forever.

Part 5

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#steddie #eddie & wayne #eddie munson #wayne munson #steve harrington #stranger things #eddiesteve #solar wrote #I write wayne once a year so here's my annual allotted amount I guess #listen you know I love hurt/comfort and I love happy endings but one thing you should never expect from me is consistent chapter lengths #things happen as they happen!

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