#steve pinington | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

darlingdaisyfarm · 23 days ago

Text

⸝⸝ american dream ˚.

he says he's a businessman, but his pockets are full of fake cash

author note: i actually started writing this as a one-shot fic and wanted to end it in filthy smut, but i got a little bit inspired during the process....... now honestly, i love the idea. it’s not that canon-compliant, but who cares?? also, i’m not from america, so sorry if anything here sounds dumb aghgh :( i dont really know if i should develop it into smth serious or just leave it like that, so idk if it's chapter one or just one shot but im anyways leaving tags for the whole idea i have in mind. i would be glad to see ur opinions on this

tags for the whole fic: Stan Pines x reader (Steve Pinington because he's hot), conman Stanley Pines, enemies to forced travel companions, enemies to lovers, comedy i guess?, supposed to be slow burn but im bad at writing it, gritty realism, homelessness and survival, lots of crime, sexual tension, eventual smut, dirty talk, mutual destruction, partners in crime, morally questionable characters, fake identities and passports, au i guess? because Stan’s stanmobile is broken

All that was left in his palms was next to nothing, a couple of crumpled bills and loose change rattling with every movement. His hands were dirty, rough, calloused from heavy bags, cracked from the cold, knuckles rubbed raw from arguments he lost. And that damn bruise under his eye was still warm and throbbing, reminding of how easy it is to fuck up your last dollar if you say the wrong thing.

The storm hadn’t let up, and he had no choice. Up ahead, a neon sign flickered in the darkness, seconds away from burning out. “low prices, lower standards!” if he had a choice, he would've kept walking, but Stanley never had choices.

The door let out an obnoxious creak when he pushed it open. Behind the counter sat some guy in a wrinkled tank top and, hearing someone step in, he lazily lifted his gaze, looked at the person in front of him up and down, dirty, drenched, exhausted, before sluggishly sliding a key across the counter.

“Fifteen bucks.”

Stan didn’t even bother arguing, he already knew the room would be awful. Could tell by the smell in the lobby, the peeling paint on the walls and the stains nobody had even tried to scrub out. So he dumped the money on the counter, swiped the key, and moved down the hall, careful not to touch the walls.

The room was worse than he expected. Long, packed with metal beds, at least ten of them, maybe more. The mattresses all varying levels of fucked-up, one even had a spring jutting out like a rusty knife. In the corner, a bathroom, if you could even call it that. The faucet leaked constantly, and the toilet. . . yeah, best not to think about the smell coming from there.

But Stanley wasn’t the type to be picky. He’d been through too much to start acting delicate now.

He dropped his suitcase beside one of the beds and, sitting down, rubbed his tired face with both hands. Accidentally, his fingers brushed against the bruise, sending a sharp pang of pain through his skin. He hissed. It hurt, but in a way, it felt good. At least it meant he could still feel something.

The storm outside picked up even harder.

Stanley knew all he had to do was make it through the night. Just one more night in a long string of nights he wouldn't remember. If sleep came, it would be short and restless. His stomach grumbled, but he’d long since learned to ignore hunger.

And yet, there was something ironic about all this. Here he was, Stanley Pines, the free spirit, a boy with attitude, as his mother used to say. Once a promising athlete, as that one family friend had called him, ruffling his brown hair. And now he was just a washed-up liar, spending his last few bucks on a bed in a room where someone had probably died. Fate had one hell of a sense of humor.

He leaned back, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere in the next room, a tv blared some ad promising happiness a better life in three easy steps.

Yeah, if only life was that easy.

But Stan had stopped believing in easy a long time ago. He didn’t believe in simple ways out. All he had were his fists, wits, and his ability to get back up every time life knocked him down.

And he'd get up after this night too.

Tomorrow he’d hit the streets again, try to scrounge up some cash, tell himself that tomorrow would be easier.

He already knew it was a lie.

But sometimes, a lie is the only thing that keeps you moving.

In his dreams, Stanley was happy. No debts, no street fights, no counting pennies, no that one goddamn night when dad threw him out like some unwanted troublemaking mutt. Just him and a giant, disgustingly delicious burger. Meat dripping with fat, cheese stretching in long strings, sauce dripping onto his fingers. Stan tore into it, starving. Oh, god, ohh fuck. The best burger of his life. And bacon. Crispy, salty bacon.

Stan remembers bacon and coffee in the mornings, remembers a warm kitchen, the smell of fresh bread. And toffee peanuts, sticky and sweet, caramel-flavored, tasting like childhood.

Somewhere something clattered. Close enough that it shouldn't have been here.

Stan jolted awake so fast he almost rolled off the shitty, creaky bed. His heart hammered against his ribs and his mind latched onto one thought. Cops, fucking cops. He barely had time to say his mental goodbyes, to his brother, his mother, and—

In the doorway stood someone drenched, exhausted, with an oversized duffel slung over one shoulder. Dirty rainwater dripped from their boots and ran in slow rivulets down their face.

“Oh, shit, sorry. Didn’t know someone else was in this piece of— uh, shitty place.”

Stanley blinked. Looked around, still trying to process what the hell was happening. He had just been in heaven, his greasy, cholesterol-filled heaven, and now—

Now some random stranger from the streets had just stumbled right into his shitty motel room.

“I just closed my eyes!” Stan mumbled.

You threw your bag on the floor and scoffed, shaking the rain off your sleeves. “right, sorry for disturbing your precious sleep, your highness.”

“Oh, you better be sorry! I was dreamin’ about a burger. The juiciest, fattest, most delicious burger. And bacon. Bacon, man! Do you even know how long it’s been since i had bacon? And toffee peanuts! goddamn caramel melting in my mouth like—”

“Jeez, calm down, okay? man, you need therapy.”

“I need a damn burger!”

You smirked, shrugging off your soaked jacket. Water dripped onto the wooden floor, which was already sticky from years, no, decades, of dirt.

“Well, i don’t have a burger. But i do have a half-eaten snickers somewhere in my bag. Interested?”

Stanley looked at you like you had just offered him a brick instead of food.

“You think a snickers can replace bacon?”

“No? But it’s got peanuts. That’s protein. Protein is good for you.”

“You don’t get it, do you? It’s not just food, it’s nostalgia! It’s my damn childhood! It's waking up to the smell of bacon in the kitchen, my mom humming some old tune, me stealing a piece before my brother—“ he cut himself off, grimaced, and flopped back onto the bed. “forget it.”

You finally looked at him properly and only now noticed that he looked like he’d been through hell. “Rough night?”

“Rough life.”

You both went quiet. The storm outside raged on, shaking the flimsy motel walls under the force of the wind.

“So,” you finally said, rolling your shoulders, “we’re roommates now?”

Stanley snorted. “Seems like it. Welcome to hell, buddy.”

You flopped onto one of the empty beds, and the moment you did, the loudest creak imaginable ripped through the room, making both you and Stan clap your hands over your ears. Using your foot, you pulled your heavy-ass duffel bag closer, which created yet another horrible sound. You rolled your eyes and started wringing out your sleeves, water trickling in thin streams down onto the ancient, mildew-scented carpet.

“Jesus, what the hell is this weather? it’s like god himself wants me to suffer.”

Stanley, still grimacing, lazily turned toward you. “tell me about it. This place ain’t much better either. I think the walls are moldy.”

You eyed the peeling wallpaper, noticing the unsettling dark substance oozing out of the corner. God, you didn’t even wanna know what the hell that was.

“Yeah, well. Beats sleeping outside.” you said nervously.

Stan chuckled but didn’t argue. He watched as you fussed with your wet clothes for a few seconds before finally speaking up again, in the most pathetic tone imaginable. “Uh, so. . . you said somethin’ about a snickers?”

You looked up, and your heart almost burst, because this grown-ass man with a black eye and a permanent scowl was looking at you with the saddest, most puppy-eyed expression known to mankind. You felt like you had personally caused every single one of his problems. What a goddamn actor.

“Oh my god,” you pressed a hand to your forehead. “Fine. Knock yourself out. Bag’s on the floor.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Practically leaping off the bed, he snatched up your bag and started digging through it, clearly on the hunt for the promised candy bar.

“Jesus, what do you even keep in here? bricks? dead bodies?”

“Yeah, first one to ask gets to be the next one in there.”

Stan snickered but kept rummaging. Finally, he pulled out the snickers, unwrapped it, and—

“Oh—oh my godd—” your eyes widened at the unexpected, borderline obscene sounds.

He literally moaned when the chocolate hit his tongue, tilting his head back, eyes shut in pure bliss. You stared at him in absolute disgust.

“Dude. Ew.”

“You don’t get it,” he groaned, taking another bite. “it’s been weeks since i had chocolate. Weeks! I was startin’ to forget what joy tasted like!”

“Yeah, that was a good one. I wanted to steal a twix too, but almost got caught.”

Stan froze mid-bite, eyebrows shooting up in pleasant surprise. “Wait. You’re tellin’ me, you steal too?”

You smirked, holding out your hands. “Duh. What, you think i have money for this crap?”

“Holy shit. We’re like, the same.” he shook his head, still in shock. “man. all this time i thought i was some kind of lone wolf, strugglin’ through life, hustlin’ my way through this shitty world. Turns out i got a partner in crime?”

“Ehh, sorry to break it to ya, but you ain't that special.”

Stan scoffed, finishing the candy bar. Although he clearly remembered when he kept rummaging through your bag, his hand suddenly stilled and he found something. Something that made his eyebrows climb higher and higher. He didn’t say anything. And neither did you. Stanley was good at pretending everything was okay.

You kept wringing out your soaked clothes, searching your bag for something dry, while Stanley swallowed the last bite of his snickers like it was the last chocolate bar he’d ever eat in his life. And, honestly, judging by the way he looked, that might just be true.

He was watching you until finally, his curiosity got the better of him. “So. Who the hell are you, anyway?”

You didn’t even look up, still rummaging through your things.

“Somebody who gave you food.”

Your answer made his mouth twitch into a grin, and he nodded. “Yeah, well, that’s a good start. Sharin’ food is a sacred bond, y’know.”

“Uh-huh. Sacred.”

“But seriously,” he rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow, “you steal, you crash in shitty motels, you carry. . . whatever the hell that was in your bag, what’s your deal?”

You shrugged lazily. “No deal. Just life.”

Truthfully, your head was killing you, and all you wanted was for him to shut up. But he clearly wasn’t planning on it. You winced, rubbing your temples. “jesus, you talk a lot.”

“Aaand yet, you answer everythin’. Means you don’t mind.”

You squinted at him. “No, i’m just too tired to tell you to shut up.”

He snorted. “Yeah, sure. Keep tellin’ yourself that, buddy.”

You rolled your eyes, peeled off another layer of your damp clothes, and hung it over the back of the bed. Then, without stopping your rummaging, you nodded toward his face.

“What’s with the bruise?”

He immediately pulled a smug expression. “you should see the other guy.”

You kept digging through your stuff, barely paying attention to his cheap bravado. Yeah, yeah. Seen it, heard it, met plenty like that.

“Hmm. And the truth?”

Stan scoffed, but when he realised you hadn’t even acknowledged his first joke, he made a deeply offended face. “Wow. You weren’t even listenin’ to me?”

“Nope.”

He huffed and waved a hand. “Eh, whatever. Owed some guy money, didn’t have it, got this instead.”

“Fair trade.”

“You’d think, huh? So where you from, anyway?”

You kept rifling through your things, but your voice turned colder. “Not from any state.”

Stan raised a brow. “Oh. so you’re not even from the U.S.?”

“Documents, visas, all that crap. Long story.” you nodded.

He dragged out a slow “huh.” and fell quiet for a moment. Then, as if he suddenly remembered that conversations were supposed to go both ways, he said, “new jersey.”

“Huh?” you squinted.

“Where i’m from. new jersey.”

You made a mental note. Oh, great. An american. Then you glanced at him again. . . Grimy, exhausted, full of problems, broke as hell. The perfect representation of the american dream. . .?

You had no energy left for this conversation. You’d had your fill of socializing for today, just like you’d had your fill of adventures. That snickers bar had cost you enough. So you decided not to reply, just shrugged and turned away.

Your wet shirt was clinging to your skin, and it was getting unbearable. So you started taking it off, not particularly caring that someone else was in the room. There were bigger concerns.

You turned your back to Stanley as the fabric hit the floor with a soft thud, exposing your spine.

Stan froze, just staring. his gaze dragged down your back, and then he just kept staring.

Directly. At. You.

You felt it prickling at the back of your neck.

Silence. Way too long of a silence. Long enough to make you frown as you slowly turned your head.

“Dude.”

He immediately looked away.

“What? i ain’t lookin’.”

“Bullshit. You were literally staring.”

He grimaced, turning away harder. “Yeah, well. Not my fault. You’re the one strippin’ in the middle of the damn room.”

You rolled your eyes. “Gosh, it’s a back. Grow up.”

Stan muttered something under his breath, yanked his blanket higher, and grumbled, “Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Just warn a guy next time.”

You finally pulled on a dry shirt and flopped back onto the cot, exhaling. The rain was still hammering against the window, the wind howled, and the ceiling creaked ominously.

You glanced over at Stan, who was already curling up, about to knock out. “Wait.”

He cracked one eye open, barely awake. “hm?”

“Never asked. What’s your name?”

That made him blink. And immediately Stan started thinking. Of course, he should lie. He always lied. Threw out fake names like poker cards. Steve Pinington. Stetson Pinefield. Hell, maybe John from Alaska? No, Stan, that's too dumb.

He squinted at you through the dark room, until he finally said. “Call me Steve.”

“Steve?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Steve.”

You rolled your eyes. “Right. And i’m the queen of england.”

“Holy shit. Pleasure to meetcha, your majesty.” Stan stuck out a hand like he was about to shake yours.

But you swatted it away. “Okay, Steve. Whatever.” then you gave him your name.

“Well,” Stan tested your name on his tongue, stretching, folding his arms behind his head, “This been a real thrill, but i’d really like to—“

“Is that your car outside?”

He froze. “What?”

“The shitty, beat-up thing that looks like it’s been in five accidents and somehow survived.”

He pushed himself up on an elbow. “Hey! That’s my baby you’re talkin’ about.”

“Why didn’t you just stay there, then?”

He groaned dramatically and flopped back down. “Ugh. Somethin’s busted. Gotta fix it. But i need a real good mechanic, and guess what? I got no money.”

“So you’re tellin’ me that thing is just. . . sitting there, useless?”

He sighed. “Not useless. just— okay, yeah, maybe a little useless. but it’ll run! probably. Just needs a little love. and, y’know. Not to blow up in the process.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “so you’re afraid your car might explode.”

“Eh. Fifty-fifty chance.”

you nodded again. “Solid odds.”

“Right?”

You both finally settled in, pulling the blankets higher, and before long, you were both out cold.

But you weren’t given much time to sleep. A sharp, hysterical scream shook the motel walls, and you flinched, jerking from the suddenness of it.

“Where is he?!” the door burst open with a crash, and a man stormed into the room. The same guy who took the payment for the room. What the fuck? You hadn’t even processed what was happening before he jabbed a finger at you.

“WHERE IS HE, BITCH?!”

You panicked, looking around. And only then did you notice. Steve was gone. That fucking bastard just. . . disappeared.

You swallowed, feeling your throat dry, trying to wrap your head around it, and just as you were about to ask what the hell was going on, the man took a step toward you, his face twisting with rage.

“YOU FUCKERS SCAMMED ME!!”

“Huh?”

“HE PAID ME WITH COUNTERFEIT MONEY, THAT LYING PIECE OF SHIT!!!”

You didn’t even have time to react before he grabbed your arm, squeezing so hard it hurt.

“AND YOU, BITCH, YOU’RE IN ON IT TOO, HUH?!!

Counterfeit money? That dumbass gave him counterfeit money?

“I’ve never even seen him before in my life!”

“DON’T LIE TO ME, WHORE!!!” he shook you.

What the fuck. What the actual fuck!

“L-listen, man, i have nothing to do with this, okay? i didn’t even know he—“

“SHUT UP!!!” he raised his hand, and you realized he was actually about to hit you. And this shit, this fucking bullshit, was not even your fault. All you could do was grab your bag, sending a snickers wrapper tumbling to the floor, and bolt for the window like crazy.

“STOP, YOU BITCH!!”

However you were already climbing over the windowsill, jumping, falling, crashing into the mud. Pain shot up your ankle, but you couldn’t stop.

His voice roared behind you, “I’LL FIND YOU!!!”

But you were already sprinting down the wet road with that disgusting cold rain slamming into your face, mud clinging to your boots.

You were fucked. You were alone. On the street. In a foreign country. With no money.

And all thanks to that fucking bastard.

That’s how you end up on the street again, with a fucking bag, dirty boots, and realisation that the world is just a giant piece of shit you’re now neck-deep in. Rain’s pouring down and you can’t even remember what it feels like to be dry. Your hair’s soaked, clothes clinging to your skin, and your stomach is damn empty, a hollow ache that’s turned into this dull, throbbing pain gnawing at your insides. And the funniest fucking part? None of this is your fault. But does that matter? No. The guy at the motel is probably already calling the cops, waving around those fake bills, and now you’re not just homeless, you’re probably a wanted criminal.

Fantastic.

No money, no food, no Steve, no fucking anything. But no time for existential bullshit, you gotta get the fuck out of here, and quick. But how the fuck are you supposed to leave when you’re broke as shit? Bus tickets cost money. Taxis cost money. Even hitchhiking isn’t an option unless you wanna roll the dice on getting murdered in some psycho’s trunk.

You walk. And walk. And fucking walk.

And it’s humiliating, the way your stomach growls loud enough for people to hear, the way your soaked clothes cling to you, the way you have to press yourself against buildings just to shield from the wind. Your last meal was half a snickers bar and now even that feels like some luxurious memory from a past life.

You need money. And fast.

So you do what desperate people do, you start looking for work. Not a real one, obviously, because legally, you don’t even exist. So you walk into the first rundown diner you see, a place so grimy it’s a miracle the health inspectors haven’t shut it down yet. The guy behind the counter, fat, greasy, way too friendly with hamburgers, doesn’t ask questions. Just tosses you a filthy apron and says your shift starts now.

You carry plates and wipe sticky tables. Put up with customers who act like you’re not even a person, just part of the furniture. Some leave tips and others leave disgusting looks, but you pretend none of it matters.

Until you spill a drink on some guy, who said very nasty and dirty things to you and the manager, who’s been drinking all day in his office, just decides he doesn’t like you. Either way, you’re out on the street before you can even say “go fuck yourself.”

Fine. Fuck them.

Next, you try cleaning. Sounds easy enough, right? Just wipe shit, take out trash, don’t ask questions. But the people. Oh god, the people.

One guy stares too long. Another asks if you “do more than just clean.” You hear something in the next room that sounds exactly like a body being dragged across the floor, and before they can assign you your first shift, you’re already bolting out the backdoor, deciding you’d rather starve than end up as another missing poster.

So you adapt and start lying. The first lie is awkward, stumbling, barely convincing.

You become a lost tourist, a poor, helpless tourist with tears in their eyes. “i need to get home, but i got robbed, could you please help?” some people believe you, some don’t, but sometimes a few bucks land in your palm.

Actually pretending to be a lost tourist works. Not always, not on everyone, but enough to get you through a night. Enough to buy something cheap from a gas station. Enough to keep you from completely breaking.

But you’re still homeless, from time to time sleeping under bridges, curled up in your too-thin jacket, cursing Steve every time you hear a car pass because he’s probably in his fucking shitty car right now, dry and warm, while you’re here turning into a human popsicle.

Every night, you promise yourself if you ever see him again, you’re gonna punch him. Right in the jaw.

But then one day, you watch some lady on the street doing tarot readings. Honestly, she's dramatic as hell, but you see the way people eat it up. How badly they want to believe the bullshit she’s spinning.

And that’s when it hits you. You don’t need luck to survive. You just need a better lie.

So you become a psychic, not a real one, obviously. But you pick up quick because you watch, listen and learn.

You sit out on the street, put on a knowing expression, grab the hand of the first idiot who stops, and start spewing bullshit about “long fate lines,” “hidden symbols,” and “a rich soulmate just around the corner.” And people eat it up.

God, they’ll believe anything if it means hearing their future is bright. And you don’t blame them because you wish you could believe it too.

“Oh, i see a great love in your future!”

“Yes, you’ll be rich one day, just wait!”

“Your life is about to change in a big way!”

So the money starts coming in. Not much, but more than before. More than the waitress job and more than begging. For the first time in forever, you don’t feel like you’re at rock bottom.

And soon you’ve got enough to get the hell out of this cursed city.

Here you are, trying to catch a bus, because if you stay here even one more day, you’re either gonna get arrested for illegal stay, or get eaten alive by the homeless, or worst of all found by the people who were supposed to make sure you never crossed the border in the first place. Okay, last chance, last hope. Standing on the roadside, you're scanning the cars, forcing a practiced smile, as if you’re not freezing your ass off and your legs aren’t burning from exhaustion.

The bus finally arrives, late as always, Because yeah, why would anything ever be convenient for you? The city is already deep asleep, leaving the streets empty, and that silence unsettles you. You’ve always hated silence. Especially this one that makes you glance over your shoulder and wonder if you should even get on this bus at all. But you don’t have a choice so you throw the money at the driver before he can say anything, drag yourself to the back, where you can sprawl out by the window and maybe catch a few minutes of sleep. You’re already hauling your heavy-ass bag, dreaming about collapsing into a seat, when you see—

WHAT

That bastard, slouched in the corner, legs widely spread, brown hair is even messier than before, his gaze lazy, but the second he spots you, his eyes widen just a little.

You stop and stare. So does he.

“You. fucking. asshole.” you throw your bag onto the seat beside him, the sound echoing through the empty bus, but you don’t give a single shit.

“Hey, what the fuck, lady?” Steve or whatever the hell his name was raises his hands, as if he has no idea what’s happening, as if he’s genuinely fucking clueless about why you’re yelling at him.

“Oh, don’t you fucking “lady” me. You left me, you piece of shit.”

“Listen, doll, it's not like I—“

“Oh my fucking god, don’t ”doll” me either, you goddamn motherfucker.”

You hate the fact that he acts like this is funny. But he's not dumb, he knows you’re ready to kill him.

“I did what I had to do, you know! you should be grateful I didn’t wake you up.”

“Grateful?” you laugh, because at this point, it’s not even anger, it’s pure, unhinged hysteria. Grateful? Fucking seriously? “that motel guy was about to fucking kill me!”

“Well, did he?”

“No? but that’s NOT the point!”

Stan rolls his eyes. You can literally see him gearing up for some dumbass excuse.

“Ohh, come on, sweetheart, i knew you’d make it. You don’t look like someone who’d die that easily!”

You feel your face burning with rage. “Oh, oh, fuck you. Fuck you so much. you know what? I should've stolen your damn car.”

“Oh, you should've?” he smirks. “please, id love to see you try.”

You narrow your eyes. “next time I will.”

“Sure, good luck with that.”

You're aware that he looks you up and down, soaked, pissed off, hair a mess, but alive. And the bastard has the audacity to look. . . pleased?

“Anyway. nice seeing you again. Name’s Bill, by the way.”

You snap your head up. “wasn’t you Steve?”

He freezes. Then grimaces because he just realized he played himself. “. . .Yeah, well. i have many names.

“And no brain cells. But oh my fucking god. Was that even your real name?”

He leans back against the seat, already bored of this conversation.

“Who even gives a shit about real names, huh? names are just a concept.”

“A concept?”

“Yeah, you know, just labels people put on you. But they don’t mean shit. you can be whoever the fuck you want. Today I’m Bill. Yesterday I was Steve. Who knows what I'll be tomorrow?”

You press a hand to your forehead. “You are literally the dumbest person I have ever met in my life. I can't believe i—“

“Aww, thank you.” Stan interrupts you.

“That wasn’t a fucking compliment.”

“I’ll take it anyway.”

You exhale. No, seriously, you’re too fucking tired for this.

“You know what, fuck it. I don’t even care anymore. I’m sitting here, and if you open your mouth again, I swear I’ll strangle you.”

You're so cute when mad. That makes Stan grin. “ohhh, so we’re traveling together now?”

“No.” you're wrinkling your forehead.

“Sounds like we are!”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The bus rattles down the highway, lights flashing past the windows, and you're doing your best to ignore the fact that you’re stuck in the same goddamn vehicle as this absolute idiot. Unfortunately, he’s here, sitting right next to you, breathing the same air, and worst of all, he’s enjoying it. It's obvious by the way he smirks and sits all sprawled out like this is his personal limousine and you’re just some random hitchhiker who happened to stumble into his kingdom.

You take a deep breath. You need to calm down. Just count to ten, breathe and—

“Man, you are so mad. I literally feel the steam coming out of your ears. Are you always like this, or is it just me?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “it’s just you.”

“Oh, I feel so special now.”

You clench your fists. God, he’s such a dick. But something about his words sticks with you, that moment when you mentioned his car, and then the question pops into your head.

“Wait a second. Didn’t you have a car?”

Stan blinks, then makes the most pitiful face you’ve ever seen. “Oh, my baby. . .“

“Your what?” you immediately frown.

“My car! My precious, my one and only. . .”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

He sighs dramatically, placing a hand over his chest looking like he's talking about a dead relative. “I had to sell her.”

“What?”

Stan nods, staring out the window like some tragic movie character. Oh shit here we go, you think.

“Yeah. . . she’s gone now. Sold her to some guy named Bud.”

“You sold your damn car?”

“Had no choice, sweetheart.”

You stare at him, unable to process this information. “and what the hell did you do to end up in a situation where you had to sell your fucking car?”

He shrugs, way too casual about the whole thing. “oh, you know. fucked up. I'm a screw up after all.”

You stare at him, waiting for an actual explanation, but he just keeps grinning that lazy grin like this whole conversation is just a fun little game for him. And that pisses you off even more.

“You are literally the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Stan snorts. “Oh, come on. Don’t act like you’re sad about it. Or what, were you hoping to move in? live in MY car?”

“NO, you idiot! but I was hoping you’d stay the fuck away from me instead of sitting here, ruining my life even more!”

He leans too close, invading your personal space, grinning. “Bold of you to assume I would even let you touch my baby.”

“Are you kidding me, you idi—“

Stan throws his head back, laughing loudly, and it’s the worst sound you’ve ever heard. “Oh man, you are so easy to piss off. I love it.”

“I hate you. Shut up.”

“I know. And no, i wont.”

You roll your eyes, turning away, deciding you’re done wasting your energy on this asshole. But your stomach has other plans as it growls too loudly, and suddenly you remember that the last time you had a proper meal was. . . well. Way too long ago. You dig through your bag and pull out real food. Warm, actual food. Not a goddamn snickers like last time, but something that smells so good your mouth starts watering.

You still remember the motel. You remember this asshole munching on YOUR snickers and moaning like he was in heaven, knowing damn well you had nothing to eat.

You pick up a piece, put it in your mouth, close your eyes and—

“Mmmhmm.”

Stan’s head snaps toward you immediately.

“What the hell are you doing.”

You open your eyes, smirking, and take another bite. “just enjoying my food.”

He squints at you. “you’re fucking with me.”

“Am I?” you close your eyes again, letting out an exaggerated sigh. “Mmhh. God, this is so good.”

“Okay, stop.”

“Stop what? enjoying my food? Oh, no, no, no. I should savor it.” you take another bite, chewing as slowly as possible, staring right at him.

He’s getting nervous. And his stomach starts growling too.

“So what, not even gonna share?” Stan looks at you, demonstrating you his puppy brown eyes.

Without breaking eye contact, you put another piece in your mouth, chewing as slow as humanly possible.

“Why the fuck would I share with the person who got me almost killed?”

He gasps, clutching his chest like you just stabbed him. “oh, please! it’s not like I ever needed your help!”

And with that, he yanks open his suitcase, clearly expecting something great, warm, tasty and instead. . .

Nothing. Well, except for some sad, rip-off band-aids.

He stares at them, slowly closing the suitcase. “man, life sucks.”

Finally, the bus screeches to a stop, tires rattling against the old asphalt, and you’re not even sure whether to be relieved or not. Sure, you got out of that place, the one you definitely shouldn’t have stayed in, but now you’re here, some other godforsaken place you don’t even know what to do with. But that’s not a problem anymore. At least you know what comes next. Unlike some people with fake names.

You stand, grab your heavy duffel bag, and Stan does the same with his suitcase. The entire ride, he didn’t shut up for even a second, but now that you’re outside, he’s way too quiet.

You steal a glance at him, he's standing there, gripping his suitcase like a little lost child, brushing his thick fingers over his mustache, scanning the darkness as if he's looking for something.

And it bothers you a little. Not because you worry about him. Just because Steve never gets this quiet for no reason. But you don’t care.

Honestly, it’s even better this way.

You adjust the strap of your bag and start walking. Slow, but determined. You don’t need this idiot. You don’t trust him, not after what he did, and not after he screwed you over. Yeah, maybe you’re no saint, but at least you never betrayed him the way he betrayed you.

And now, when he’s in even deeper shit than you are, why the hell should you stay?

But of course, he just has to open his damn mouth.

“So what? You just leave?”

You stop, exhaling sharply. “um, what do you expect me to do? take your hand and lead you like a lost puppy?”

“I mean, that would be nice.” he smiles awkwardly.

You roll your eyes and turn, meeting his sad gaze. “look, Steve if that's even your name, you got me in enough shit already. The last thing i need is you making it worse.”

He scoffs, rolling his eyes right back at you.

“Oh please. Don’t act like you weren’t already knee-deep in trouble before me.”

“Yeah, but at least i was handling it! Unlike some people.”

Stan narrows his eyes at your answer. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, at least i still have my business. I still got people to scam. What do you have? Failed cons and a car you had to sell to some guy named Bud?” you smirk, shaking your head.

His face twists in mock offense. “Hey, Bud was a great guy! very talkative! he even gave me some advice—“

“I do not care.”

“Man, you’re so heartless.” Stan sighs.

“And you’re a liability.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but then he just stops. You see it hit him, even if he tries to play it off. Stan hates losing, hates to realise that someone else is better than him at at least one thing he thought he was good at, scamming. And right now you’re doing better.

He could say it’s not a competition, but for him, it always is. And that feeling, that he’s falling behind, pisses him off more than anything.

But when Stan blinks, shaking the thought off, he notices he’s standing alone.

You’re already gone and that makes him curse under his breath, glancing around, but you’re nowhere in sight.

“Well, shit.” he stands there, alone in the dark, and for the first time in a long time, he has no idea what to do.

But he has money. Shit, at least he has that. Thanks, Bud.

Stan glances around, thinking this place feels too dark and too empty so it makes him uncomfortable. He needs to get somewhere with people. Somewhere with a motel or at least a spot to crash for the night.

He walks, humming under his breath. Whatever, he doesn't need you, he doesn't need anyone. He's free spirited Stanley damn Pines, right, ma?

He turns the corner and something heavy slams against his head. Stanley doesn’t even get the chance to curse before he stumbles forward, collapsing onto the pavement with a dull thud and everything goes black.

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