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loveshotzz · 11 months ago

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I guess it’s never really over

mechanic!steve harrington x fem!reader exes to lovers

chapter one -

Late arrivals and big asks

A broken down car, a party at Reefer Rick’s, and a bandaid that needs to be ripped off.

warnings: 18+ drinking, smoking, lots of tension, some king!steve angst in the form of a flashback.

wc: 10.1k

series masterlist | series playlist

June -

The air is sticky, thick with the kind of humidity only Indiana could have at 9:30 pm. An annoyed breath expands into your lungs as you lean against your car that refuses to do anything but sputter. Despite your irritation, your glossed lips twitch with the nostalgia that creeps into your heart because after all these years it still smells the same.

Crossing your arms, your eyes trail over the clear night sky not polluted with the kind of man-made smog that blankets the city and the stars shimmer like diamonds in its absence. The warmth of the overrun engine is still hot on your exposed calves, the light breeze making the bottom of your sundress dance across the tops of your thighs. White beams emerge, cutting through the dark at the top of the hill, followed by the roar only a tow truck can make, and this time, the smile you fought off before spreads wide across your face.

Robin.

Butterflies wake up in a frenzy deep in your gut, with nerves that twitch from your fingertips at the thought of finally getting to hug your best friend after months apart. You push off the side of your car as the truck approaches, eyes squinting to make out the second outline in the front cabin as it pulls over. You recognize the messy mane of hair that could only belong to Eddie Munson in the driver seat almost instantly and his dimple filled smile brings you back to memories you thought you’d long forgotten.

“Well, well, well, would you look at what the cat dragged in!” Robin sticks her head out of the window with a wide grin as the big tires slow to a stop in front of your car, “are my eyes deceiving me or is my best friend in the entire world actually in Hawkins, Indiana right now?”

The rasp in her voice sounds just like it does over the phone and despite the roll of your eyes, your cheeks hurt from how happy you are.

“Shut up, don’t act like you didn’t guilt me out here by saying the fate of your future depends on it.” Uncrossing your arms, you open them wide, “I made the ultimate sacrifice for you, so are you gonna hug me or not?”

Dramatic? Yes. But it works like a charm when she flings open the passenger door and charges at you in a mess of honey blond waves and freckles, almost tackling you with the force of her impact wrapping her arms around you.

Too distracted by Robin, you almost don’t notice the creak of the driver's side door or the filled out frame of the man that used to be a lanky teenage boy walking past as Eddie starts to attach your car to his truck. He’s taller than you remembered even bending down, and despite the navy blue coveralls, you can still see that his pale skin is littered with even more tattoos.

“I can’t believe my guilt trip worked!” Robin beams, finally letting you go, her whole body practically vibrating with excitement as she claps her ring clad hands together.

“I really can’t believe it either,” you laugh nervously, the reality of what it means to come back starting to set in after seeing just one familiar face, but this isn’t high school anymore and you’re definitely not the same person you were five years ago either.

“Thanks so much, Eddie,” you break the ice when he stands back up, and the sound of your voice has his big brown eyes warmed with gold light up just like his face when he turns his full attention onto you. Scruff filled dimples poking even bigger holes in his cheeks.

“It’s my pleasure, sweetheart, I almost didn’t believe Robin when she called me. I thought it was a prank.” He beckons you over with open arms, “now that I know it’s not, you have exactly 10 seconds to get over here and hug me before I change my mind.”

There’s zero hesitation about giving into his ‘demand’ and when your arms wrap around his waist, you’re brought back to afternoons in the woods behind the school with heavy lidded eyes and lopsided grins.

“Your own auto shop, huh?” You smile up at him, pulling away, “Eddie Munson, the business owner.”

He rolls his eyes but the pink tint that colors in his cheeks tells you he appreciates the praise.

“Yeah, something like that.” He chuckles, “Got a soft spot for that old man in the trailer park, couldn’t bring myself to leave.”

Your heart warms at the fondness that drips from his ton.

“Okay, as sweet as this little reunion is. You’re late, and we have a party to get to.” Robin interrupts snatching your keys out of your hand, dropping them in Eddie’s.

“A party?” You snap confused, and Eddie takes that as his queue to walk away with a knowing smirk.

“Yes, this is the summer of fun and reckless abandon, this is the last summer of our youth before we have to be adults. Do you understand me?” Her fingers are digging into your shoulders by the end of her rant, with the kind of look in her eyes that you’re absolutely going to have to revisit after a few weeks.

“This is the part where I remind you that I graduated college last year.”

Your best friend scoffs at you.

“Just humor me, okay? It’s your grand homecoming.” She pushes out her bottom lip, and makes her eyes big in a way she knows you can’t say no to.

“Fine.” You huff, making her finally let you go with the kind of pleased smirk that tells you she never thought she was going to lose to begin with.

“Great, it’s time to rip the bandaid off anyway.” Robin practically mumbles the last part turning on her heel to head back to the truck.

It takes a minute for her words to stick to your ears and their meaning to ring loud through your head, but when they do it feels like the air is stolen from your lungs.

“Rip what bandaid off, Robin?!”

It’s his name tightens in your chest but you refuse to say it, even after all this time it burns coming back up.

“Since you had to drive for so long, I’ll sit in the middle because I’m just that good of a friend, you know?” She winks with a shit eating grin before pulling herself up and disappearing inside the cab of the truck, ignoring your question, like she’s not asking you to do the one thing you said you’d never do.

See Steve Harrington again.

I tell myself, ‘draw the line.’

You wonder if Robin can feel the daggers you’re glaring into the back of her head as the two of you walk up the driveway to Rick’s house. Gravel crunching hard under your converse as you keep up with her black combat boots. She looks effortlessly cool in her high waisted jean shorts, and her oversized army green jacket covered in patches. You’d compliment her if you weren’t so mad.

“I can’t believe you guys still have parties here.” You scoff, making your sour attitude known, but your best friend ignores it with ease.

“I can’t believe you forgot to have fun. Don’t you live in the city?” Turning around with a smirk, she can’t help but laugh at the look on your face.

She stops abruptly, almost making you run into her leaving you both just close enough to the party to hear the bass of the music spilling through the cracks in the windows. The low chatter of people echoes through the trees that surround you and bounce off the lake not that far away. The thought of hearing the calm baritone of his voice mixed in makes your chest tight with the kind of nerves that dare you to high tail it and run.

“It’s been five years.” Robin’s playful demeanor breaks and becomes pleading with a kind of desperation you’ve never seen from her before. “He’s not the person you knew in high school, I need you to understand that. You think I’d call someone like that my best friend?”

“Hey!-“ You object at the title, and it makes her lips twitch despite serious lines that crease her face.

“Stop, you know what I mean,” her painted fingers grab onto yours, squeezing them lightly, “please, just give him a chance. I’m not asking you to get back together or even be friends, just get along enough not to kill each other this summer. I can’t choose between you. I won’t.”

The genuine love she has for Steve is apparent in the way her ocean blue eyes threaten to drown you in their sincerity, and you can’t find it in yourself to say no to her.

“Fine.” You accept your defeat in practically a whisper, but it makes your best friend squeal nonetheless. The giddiness from before coming back tenfold as she links arms with you, continuing your way up to the house.

It’s just a summer, right?

The crowd gets bigger as more people start to come into view, between groups smoking cigarettes outside, couples arguing by cars, others making out against them. The smell of beer gets more pungent with each step, the atmosphere a stark contrast to the way the moon glows against the peaceful waters behind the madness of the house.

Salt N Pepa’s ‘Push It’ plays loud enough for you to make out the words when you reach the front steps, walking through clouds of tobacco smoke to get to the unlocked door. The interior hasn’t changed at all since high school, the smell of stale lime and tequila stinging your nose. The bass of the music vibrates under your shoes as Robin unlinks her arms and you have to fight the urge to yank her back.

“Drinks or …Steve first?” She asks, her nerves about the situation finally showing themselves as she bites at her thumbnail.

“Absolutely drinks! Is that a trick question?” You half whisper, half yell, looking around as if saying his name out loud might summon him.

“Okay! Okay!” Robin hisses, grabbing your wrist, leading you towards the familiar path to Rick’s kitchen.

Suddenly you wonder what your makeup looks like after a long day of traveling in your car, your fingers tugging at the bottom of your dress before adjusting the front of it so it sits just right. You itch to grab your lip gloss that’s tucked into the side of your bra, but you don’t want to deal with the look you’d get if you went for it.

Rounding the corner to the living room, your heart sinks to the bottom of your stomach before you even have a chance to stop it when your eyes meet that messy head of chestnut hair, and a pair of hot pink nails tangled inside it.

“Oh - I - god dammit.” Robin groans, when you're met with number two on your list, making out with a pretty blond on the couch.

Despite the years and distance, there’s still a sting that you feel in the corners of your eyes. It’s not enough for any tears to fall, there’s none left for him anymore, but it’s enough for the anger you’ve clung to since the day he broke your heart to boil hot under your skin. It singes the wings of the butterflies that try to take flight when you see the way his frame has filled out, how he’s somehow grown more handsome than the last time you saw him.

Robin coughs, squeezing your wrist in reassurance.

“Hey, - uh, Steve.” The sound of his name catches his attention, long brown lashes fluttering open to reveal the deep coffee of his eyes that widen when they lock with yours for the first time in years.

His lips pull from the blond’s with a loud smack, leaving a small trail of glitter on the side of his mouth that he tries to wipe away quickly with his wrist. Black ink you’ve never seen before looks bold on his tanned skin that glows like it’s been freshly kissed by the sun.

His gaze wanders up and down your body like he’s unsure you’re actually real, and if it wasn’t for the obvious shock of your arrival and the way the color seems to drain from his face, you’d snap at him for the way it lingers over your curves.

“Um, Robin, what the fuck?” The sound of his voice makes your heart skip a beat, and again when his hand drags through his hair just how you remembered.

“Surprise?” She shrugs, wincing when he scoffs loudly and the warmth that went missing floods his cheeks, turning them bright red. The blond next to him eyes you up while she clutches harder to his waist, and you can’t stop the rise of your brows and the giggle that bubbles past your lips because of it.

Steve’s head snaps towards you, something softening the moss that hides in his eyes when he hears the noise despite the sarcasm that drips from it, and you really get to look at him for the first time since high school graduation.

God, you wish you could’ve had that drink.

The jawline that always drove you mad is sharper, peppered with the kind of hardly there stubble that tells you he’s only missed one shaving day. A problem he never used to have, and somehow, it makes him all that much more attractive.

His hair is a little messier than his carefully crafted look that used to take him a good forty five minutes every morning. It curls wildly at the ends now, tucking behind his ears and fanning along the nape of his freckled neck. It still looks as soft as you remember, though.

His shoulders are broader, stretching the white cotton of his shirt tight enough across his chest that you can see the outline of a thick patch of hair that had only just started growing when you knew him last. The dark wash of his jeans makes them look almost black, fitting snug over his thighs, cuffed at the bottoms framing the tops of his boots.

Why couldn’t Steve Harrington just peak in high school like he was supposed to?

“So yeah, this is awkward.” Your best friend laughs nervously, “We’re going to get a drink or three because this scenario is by far the worst case and not the way this was supposed to go in my head, but anyway, look who’s here for the summer! We’ll talk later!“

Robin grabs your wrist before Steve can respond, pulling you back into the party and away from your ex-boyfriend while the realization of the summer you’ve foolishly agreed to hits you all at once. It turns your body weightless as the two of you weave in and out of the crowd. It tightens in your chest, the music turning muffled hitting your ear drums. Suddenly, you're not the woman who crossed state lines to the one place she said she’d never come back to, happily living the lie that you’d actually forgotten about him to be a good friend.

You’re the girl who let him keep you a secret, and you hate him for it.

Sneakers hit the sticky tile floor that hasn’t changed since 1984, the harsh lighting of the kitchen makes you both squint. It’s calmer than the rest of the house, just a few groups lingering off in the corners, too deep in conversation to care about you and Robin. Letting go of a breath you didn’t know you were holding, your ears start to pop too, Eddie Money’s Take Me Home Tonight coming through crystal clear.

“The band-aid might have been violently ripped off, but hey, it’s ripped off nonetheless.” Robin shrugs, finding the half-drunk bottle of tequila on the counter. “I think we should count this as a win and take a shot to celebrate.”

“A win?! Are you kidding me?!” You hiss, completely bewildered.

“Yes a win - oh no.” Her blue eyes go wide at whatever’s behind you, but it doesn’t take you long to figure out when that familiar spice and cedar of his cologne hits your nose.

“Right so, who’s going to let me know what’s going on?”

His voice comes out close enough to send your lashes fluttering, mimicking your heart. The nerves you’d just gotten over threaten to come back tenfold, but you manage to swallow them down just like in high school, turning around.

“I think it’s obvious what’s going on, Steve,”

It’s not as hard to say his name as you thought it would be, but it is hard to stare at his face from this close. Specifically, the two moles that dot his cheek that you always used to kiss, or the ones on his neck that you hate still taunt you for more.

“I’m here for the summer.”

Steve Harrington had thought about this moment a lot, but Rick’s house was never the backdrop for it. His eyes take in the features you’ve not only grown into but somehow are even more beautiful than he remembers. Even if they’re twisted in a glare.

“I meant, why didn’t I know until right now?” He manages to get out with a shake of his head narrowing his eyes at Robin, who’s too busy trying to find clean shot glasses to notice.

“Why would you need to know?” You snap, making a nervous hand card through his hair

“Cause I’ve, uh, you know, I’ve asked about you a few times,” the last part comes out a little harsher, clearly directed at your best friend, who you know is actively ignoring you both now.

“Why? Why would you need to know anything about me?” Your hostility still shocks him even though he was expecting it. His eyebrows shoot up just like his hands in surrender. “Why didn’t you tell me, Robin?”

She groans loudly, slamming the tequila bottle down on the counter before turning around.

“You said you didn’t want to hear anything about him after you moved, why would I tell you he was asking about you?”

“Wait -“ Steve butts in this time, “seriously?”

“Oh my god, can you two shut the fuck up for a second and take these shots? You’re really putting a damper on the beginning of the best summer of our lives,” Robin snaps before waving a hand in front of three freshly poured shots.

It’s a struggle to tear your eyes from him, your body responding to his presence in a way that feels like it’s turning against you. It has you downing your shot in one quick motion before anyone else can even touch theirs.

“Wow, okay.” Robin deadpans before shaking her head, wasting no time in following your lead.

“So we’re not cheersing anymore? Isn’t that bad luck?” Steve mutters, shoulder brushing against yours as he leans forward to grab his shot, the slightest touch enough to engulf your skin into flames.

A whole summer? Fuck.

“Robin, pour another one.” You rush with pinched brows as you try to move past the bitter sting of the alcohol going down your throat, taking a step toward her and away from him, you add “and we’ll cheers.”

You refuse to meet his gaze when you say it, but you can feel the intensity of it on the side of your face, begging you to break.

“Rob’s, how are you guys getting home?” Steve finally breaks, giving up his quiet fight for now, and you hate the way his nickname for her softens your heart.

“Huh, that’s a good question, I hadn’t thought that far yet.” She admits, over pouring so tequila splashes against the countertop, looking up at him with a mischievous grin.

“Seriously–

“RECKLESS ABANDON STEVEY!” Cutting him off, she downs her shot in his disapproving face.

“You didn’t cheers again.” Steve sighs, hands finding his hips as you whine an irritated, “We needed to cheers!” At the same time.

Your eyes meet his finally, his knowing smirk twisting the corners of your lips despite yourself. You blame the tequila starting to warm the blood in your veins.

“Well, you need to take yours then if we’re doing another one ‘the proper’ way, or it’s not going to be even.” Robin points at your drink in a silent challenge.

You know how this game works.

“Fine.” You shrug, downing it with more ease than the last one.

“Oh my god. Stop! Do not pour another one before you answer my question, please!” Steve sounds exasperated, grabbing the bottle from her before she can disobey, “How are you getting home?”

You try not to focus on how much larger his already big hands are now, or how small the bottle looks wrapped up in his palm compared to your best friends. The second shot takes the edge off your nerves in a way that your shoulders relax. Leaning against the counter, you cross your arms, watching the two of them bicker, catching Steve’s wandering gaze on your exposed legs while he tries his best to keep his focus on Robin. It boosts your ego in a way that has the anger hiding just under the surface go from a boil to a slow simmer.

“I don’t know Harrington, do you know anybody with a car?” She wiggles two thick brows at him, the second shot making her blue eyes glassy, and her smile a little more goofy.

“Why’d I know you were going to say that? And why did I know you were going to do this?” Steve sighs, letting her snatch the bottle out of his hand.

“What? Bring her to the party?” Robin snorts pointing a thumb in your direction, making you gasp.

“Robin!”

“No! What? No. But don’t think,” Steve clears his throat looking at you awkwardly before finishing a little quieter, “don’t think we’re not going to talk about this later.”

“I can still hear you.” You remind him with a sarcastic smirk.

“Yeah, I know you can. Look, I’ll DD for you because obviously tonight is, uhh,” he gestures to you with cheeks that grow pinker by the second, “a big deal. But you gotta stop doing this to me, I need you to get your license you’re out of colleg-”

“Shots! Steve’s driving us home!” Robin whoops loudly, and an irritated Steve pinches the bridge of his nose before walking away.

Your eyes follow him out the door, shoulder blades flexing under cotton when he runs another hand through his hair before disappearing from sight. You try to push down the small pang of jealousy that makes a familiar home inside your chest remembering the blond girl waiting for him on the couch.

“Okay, okay,” Robin interrupts your inner struggle at the perfect time, sliding an overflowing shot over to you with a giggle that's contagious and it banishes Steve from your mind just like magic. “I’m not going to forget this time, promise.”

“I don’t think I can afford for you to forget again,” you smirk, raising your glass, tequila spilling over the tops of your fingers, “cheers!”

“Cheers!”

You both down them at the same speed, slamming the empty glasses back onto the countertop with laughter that bounces off the walls and threatens to drown out the music. And for a second you think maybe you can actually do this.

“I’m so happy you’re here!” She squeals, throwing her arms around your neck, doing a terrible job of holding her weight up. Grabbing onto her waist, you do your best to steady her, “Look I just want to say while he’s gone, I know this isn’t easy for you, okay? I know.”

She hiccups before pulling away slightly to look at you as she finishes,“But It means so much to me, and I just wanna say I’m proud of you. I mean, who knows, you’ve changed, he’s changed-”

“Nope, no, you’re done. Where’s the weed? I wanna smoke some weed.” You push Robin away, rolling your eyes at the loud laugh your reaction gets from her.

There’s a long summer ahead of you, but right now, all you need is to find a joint and try not to think about your ex in the next room.

With a few more shots and a couple of hits from a blunt you and Robin you’d stumbled upon being passed amongst a group outside, you start to really feel like you’re back home. Nostalgia hits you hard in the gut as you walk through the crowded living room hand in hand with your best friend, giggling and stumbling back to the kitchen on the hunt for some food.

“God, I’m so hungry!” Robin practically growls when you hit the harsh lighting again making you both hiss.

An empty bottle of tequila sits on the counter now and red solo cups litter the floor that weren’t there before, and a growing pile of bitten into limes cover the counters in a sticky mess. Alone and left to your own devices Robin begins to raid the cupboards, huffing when she finds nothing behind every door she aggressively yanks open.

“Why is his kitchen always so empty? Like? Do we just always miss the party?” You hiccup, tripping on a tile that’s coming out of the grout.

You catch yourself on the kitchen island in front of you, a loud laugh bubbling up from your chest, too drunk to focus on how gross the formica feels under your fingertips.

“There’s literally nothing to eat in here, not even like an old bag of stale chips.” She opens the first cabinet one last time before slamming it shut, officially giving up with a thump of her forehead against the wood. “This is why he’s always at the diner.”

“Wait, Rick actually lives here still?” Another hiccup, you foolishly lean your elbows on the counter, something you’ll regret in the morning as you stare at your best friend with a toothy smile, completely unaffected by the news about the missing food that seems to be ruining her entire mood.

“How can he sell weed and not have any food in his house? What happens when he gets the munchies?!” She throws her hands up, ignoring your question and answering it all at the same time. “I’m gonna find a bathroom, and then we’re gonna find Steve - don’t make that face, he’ll take us through a drive-thru.”

“Don’t be gone long, I don’t know anyone here!” You whine with a childish drunk stomp of your foot, still sporting that sour look she told you to wipe off. The carefree girl from moments before now gone in the blink of an eye.

“Literally like five minutes, I swear!” She promises, turning around with a smirk as she crosses her heart with a ring covered finger like you used to do as kids, easily earning the smile from you she was hoping for.

You watch her disappear into the party, staring after bouncing honey waves until they’re out of your sight.

Suddenly alone for the first time in hours, the kitchen feels quiet. The bass of the music is distant, and your thoughts are heavy just like your feet as your last shot of tequila settles with the rest. Your brain wanders to places that you thought you’d banished from the corners of your mind for years. It takes you to the pink fullness of his lips, and has you biting the bottom of yours. Then it’s the freckles that dot the bridge of his nose and explode across his cheeks, even leaving their mark on the bottom of his earlobe.

You’d found that one the night you’d tried to count them all. You never finished.

Then you remember the blond on the couch, and how her pink nails dug into the thick chestnut of his hair that you used to tug on when his kisses got to be too much. She turns into Nancy Wheeler and those stolen looks in the hallways at school, and suddenly, you hate him all over again.

“Jesus, you’re in here alone? Where’s Robin?” Steve’s voice makes you jump at the worst possible time, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scar-“

“Seriously?!” You snap, turning around with crossed arms. Leaning against the counter, you hope that you don’t seem as drunk as you are, but the way his lips twitch regardless of your attitude tells you that it’s not working. “She went to the bathroom and then was going to look for you.”

“So, it just makes sense for me to hang out here then, right?”Steve raises his hands in a silent plea for permission.

His big boots take heavy steps towards you, and just like on cue, has your body betraying you. The plush dough of your thighs pressing harder together each time he gets closer to closing the gap.

Cautiously taking the spot a few feet away from you, he keeps his hands up till he feels safe enough to shove them in his pockets. The spice of his cologne smells fresh, and you wonder if he sprayed it before walking in here. It overpowers everything else around you, invading your senses and committing itself to memory despite you.

“I um, I really hope this is okay to say,” he stammers watching the way one of your eyebrows arches up, and it doesn’t take long for his hand to escape from his pocket to run through his hair again, “but it’s, it’s good to see you. I m-missed you, Robin’s missed you.”

“Shouldn’t you be hanging out with your girlfriend?” You ignore him and tuck his words away to unpack another time with a sober mind.

“Cassie? She’s not my girlfriend.” He answers without any hesitation, something sparking alive inside the gold of his eyes that has one side of his mouth tugging up.

“Does she know that?”

“I’m pretty sure she does considering she left with another guy not that long ago.” He snorts, the confidence you’ve always known him to have finding its way back, and you don’t miss the way he scoots closer.

So you scoot back.

“Sucks to suck, Harrington.” You sigh, impressed with how well you’re playing off the victory lap you’re shamefully running in your head at the new information.

“There you are!” Robin rushes in, face flushed and out of breath, interrupting the moment you weren’t ready to have yet at the perfect time “Somehow I got roped into like a keg stand and I think it’s really time for us to go home guys.”

“Robin!”

“What?!”

She tries to shush you, but even you can see from across the room the way sweat starts to bead across her forehead, the blush in her cheeks going pale before she runs to the trash can. Steve pushes off the island without any hesitation, rushing to the other side of the kitchen, gathering her hair in his hands to hold it back.

“What were you thinking?” Steve scolds her in the softest way possible, rubbing her back as all the beer finds its way out of her body.

Those big eyes of his that you’re sure are going to haunt your dreams meet yours, and in that moment the room decides it wants to spin. You’re not sure if it’s the night of tequila with nothing but a weed chaser catching up to you or if it’s the onslaught of feelings you’ve successfully suppressed for the last five years coming back to seek their revenge. The deadly combination of both comes to a head the more you watch the gentle way Steve handles Robin and it makes you realize it’s time to go.

You manage to pull yourself together enough to help Steve get Robin in his car, heart almost stopping when you walk up to the same Maroon BMW he took your virginity in. It takes everything inside of you not to abort the mission, run to Robin’s apartment by figuring your way through the woods you used to play in, do anything but sit in those leather seats. But your best friend’s drunk rambles of how happy she is to have her ‘two amigos and how that it makes three now’ while professing her undying love for both of you has you putting on a brave face, and then your big girl pants when you have to sit in the front seat next to him.

It’s in perfect condition, just like the morning he pulled into the parking lot Junior year with it. Your stomach twists in the kind of knots that have you wrapping your arms around your waist. The smell of leather and pine pulling on the back of your throat, and all the memories that come with it. He keeps the radio low, and you can hardly make out the faint sounds of whatever late night talk show was on over the soft snores of a passed out Robin in the backseat.

“I thought you’d have a different car by now.” You grumble sinking further into your seat, keeping your eyes trained on the trees that zoom past your window.

“You’ll have to pry her from my cold, dead hands, honey.” Steve chuckles, relaxing a little more into his own, a big hand finding a new resting spot on the stick shift.

The endearment sends you reeling, the tequila making it hard to bite your tongue.

“Don’t call me that.” Quickly realizing that staring out the window does nothing to help your already dicey equilibrium, you decide to finally look at him, but you’re not sure if that’s any better.

‘What? Honey?” He asks, fully knowing the answer but egging you on just the same with a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

Narrowing your eyes, you turn fully in your seat doing your best to ignore the way the street lights bounce off his sharp features as you face him.

“What? So you just make out with girls that you’re not dating and get away with it?”

Steve snorts, licking his lips and meeting your angry gaze with an amused one.

“I am twenty-four and single.”

Scoffing at his answer, you pause to collect your words that keep getting tangled on the tip of your tongue from too many drinks and how the whites of his teeth start to show in a grin as he glances in the rearview mirror to check on Robin.

“You think you can do whatever you want don’t you?”

“No -“

“What? Because you didn’t peak in high school like you were supposed to, you somehow just got hotter, you think the rules don’t apply to you or something?”

“Good to know you still think I’m hot.” Steve’s face cracks into a smile, turning into an apartment complex you’re assuming is Robin’s.

“You’re the worst,” you try to deflect weakly, turning back in your seat with a huff.

“I definitely used to be,” he mumbles mostly to himself, putting the car in park, both of you jerking forward slightly. The sudden lack of movement makes Robin groan in the back, lashes fluttering open to look at her surroundings.

“Oh, thank god, I think I’m gonna be sick again.” Her throat sounds hoarse when she finally speaks, but it’s all she can manage before a dry heave has the boy next to you scrambling.

“Not in my car! Not in my car!” Steve’s quick to jump out of the driver's seat rushing to get your best friend out of the back, leaving you alone to fight with your seatbelt.

Frustrated, you blow a breath out from between your pressed lips tugging on the smooth material while your thumb smashes the release button. It doesn’t budge and the cedar starts to pick at your nerves. An angry noise squeaks from the back of your throat catching Steve’s attention who finally gets Robin on her feet. The spice of his cologne swallows you whole when he emerges back into the car. Leaning over the console he’s gentle when he pushes your hand away. You don’t protest his help this time, eyes tracing the gold chain that slips out from under his shirt. It shimmers everytime it swings from his neck when it hits the moonlight, clicking the button with ease, releasing you from your self imposed trap.

“Thanks,” you grumble, using a wobbling arm to open your door, clambering out less gracefully than you intended.

“Are you good to follow me? I don’t think Robin’s gonna make it up the steps on her own.” Closing the car door, he leans over the top of it, his eyes watching the way you maneuver around his car like you’re walking on thin ice.

“I’m fine,” you growl, right as you lose your footing catching yourself with an open palm on the hood of his trunk.

“Seriously, I can help I just have to take you both one at a -“

“Steve, I said I’m fine. I don’t need anything from you.” You interrupt and if you weren’t so focused on putting one foot in front of the other, you’d see the way the harshness of your words make him wince.

He stares at you for a minute longer before muttering a quiet ‘whatever’ scooping Robin up and tucking her into his side. You follow them at your own pace up the cement steps to the second floor, thankful that her apartment isn’t too far from the landing when you get to the top. Your legs start to feel like Jell-O waiting for him to unlock the door, the long drive from New York and the night finally catching up to you in a way that makes your eyelids heavy as Steve pushes open her front door.

“Bathroom! Bathroom!” Robin manages to get out when she and Steve cross the threshold first, a string of cuss words spilling out of his mouth as he tries to hurry her to the place she was begging to be taken to.

You use the full force of your weight with your back to the door, closing behind you with a loud slam. The navy blue couch in the middle of her living room begging you to sit down, an invitation your clumsy steps accept, leading you to the fluffy cushions. Collapsing onto them with a satisfied hum, you sink into the foam, lashes fluttering and eyelids getting heavier with each second that passes, and soon you find yourself giving in with a warm cheek pressed into the arm rest.

You don’t know how much time has passed when the feeling of your laces being tugged loose stirs you awake. Trying to focus with vision still blurry from sleep, Steve’s messy head of hair comes clear into your line of sight. Long fingers pull the white strings from the metal eyelets of your converse, a warm palm wrapping around your ankle that sends a shiver up your spine as he slowly wiggles your sneaker off your foot. The white tube socks that cover your feet make him smile with a thumb that dares to rub a small circle on your skin before dropping it to work on the other.

“Steve,” you manage to get out, voice still thick with sleep.

“I’m just tucking you in, that’s all hon- and then I’ll get out of your hair.” He clears his throat after the nickname that set you off earlier burns like acid dying on his tongue.

You grumble something unintelligible, rubbing the mascara off your eyes as he pulls your other shoe off the pad of his thumb doing the same thing to your other ankle making your toes curl. Both his hands find their way to your calves squeezing softly at the muscles before he starts to lift them up.

“Come on, let's get you laying on your side.” He coos, helping you adjust so you’re finally horizontal. You groan a little, reaching out for him on instinct, the softness of his touch making a very drunk you crave more.

“I’d love to cuddle but I think you’d actually kill me in the morning,” he laughs to himself knowing you won’t remember any of this when you wake up.

You make some more noises that he can’t figure out if they're supposed to be words or not as he drapes Robin’s thick throw blanket over you. Grabbing the material in your fists when you feel it, you pull it even closer, a low satisfied hum spilling from between your lips that still sparkle with leftover glitter from your gloss. He watches the way you curl into yourself, fingers twitching at his side to run his knuckles over your cheek.

“Steve,” his name comes out clear as day, kicking up his heart rate.

“Yeah?” He squats down next to your face, the warmth of your breath hitting his face while your eyebrows furrow in your sleepy state trying to get whatever you want to say out.

“You really broke my heart, you know that?”

Your words punch the air out of his lungs, just like your unexpected arrival. Something he’s fantasized about happening more times than he’d like to admit.

“Yeah, I know.” He sighs defeated, giving into his urges for comfort with knuckles that brush against the warmth of your skin, a familiar burn stings his eyes when you subconsciously lean into it.

You don’t say anything else to him, the furrow of your brows smoothing out as your face finally starts to relax under his touch. He watches the way your shoulders move with each deep breath that pulls you further into sleep and away from him.

He takes a selfish minute to stare at you uninterrupted, tracing your cheekbone one last time before he stands up to leave, he knows he won’t get any sleep, and the words you won’t remember saying are already haunting him like a bad dream.

“Do you really wanna love me like you say you do? Give it to me like you say you do? Cause it’s hard enough you gotta treat me like this, lonely enough to let you treat me like this. Do you really love me?”

Steve was late, glancing down at pink the digital watch on your wrist, fifteen minutes late. Five lockers down from his, you wait for him at what’s been your meeting spot for the last eight months. Far away enough from his locker that no one would suspect you waiting for the King of Hawkins himself, but close enough to the janitor's closet for him to steal you away from sight without anyone noticing for the forty-five minutes of study hall.

Hushed argumentative whispers catch your attention, nerves making your feet move from side to side unsure if you should abandon ship and just go and study for the final in your last period. Nancy Wheeler's eyes meet yours as she rounds the corner with her best friend Barb, the corners of her lips pulling up ever so slightly giving you a small wave which you return as she tries to ignore her friend.

“He’s just trying to get in your pants! Come on, you have to be smart enough to know that.” Barb points at the note Nancy is clutching in her hand so hard that the whites of her knuckles show.

“It’s not like that, I’m just tutoring him.” She argues but the blush that creeps across her cheeks and spreads down her neck gives her away.

I’m just tutoring him.

That simple sentence is enough for your world to tip off its axis, chest tightening at the realization of who they're arguing about. All the canceled plans the past few weeks with the excuse of extra tutoring starts to feel like a knife to the gut. Prince Charming rounds the corner holding and twists the handle with a bright flirtatious smile that used to be just for you, only now it’s flashed at the dainty brunette who melts under it because no one is immune to Steve Harrington.

It takes him a minute to see you, too wrapped up in Nancy who’s back is pressed to the lockers, caged in by Steve’s big hand splayed against the metal by her head. They’re too far to hear what he’s saying to her, but the confident way his teeth flash and the sweet giggle he earns from it tells you everything you need to know. Tears burn at the corners of your eyes, but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing them fall. Fists clenched at your sides, the blunt ends of your nails dig into your palms as you hold in the sob that threatens to give you away as you walk past them, meeting his guilty eyes before you round the corner.

The pounding in your head wakes you up before the sun that leaks through Robin’s small kitchen window. Your hangover rings in your ears with a vengeance, and has you letting out a pained groan. Everything after the joint you shared outside at the party is nothing but a blur, a scattered puzzle with pieces missing as you try and figure out how you ended up back home and tucked into the couch.

“Are you alive out there?” Robin’s voice calls out weakly from down the hall in her room.

“Barely,” you grumble, agitation kicking in from dehydration and the old wounds your dream decided to rip open.

“I’d say I’m never drinking again but we both know that’s a lie,” she says, muffled by what sounds like a pillow.

A giggle tries to escape, but it only makes you wince, clutching your forehead willing the pain to subside.

“How’d we even get home?” You croak, rubbing harshly at your eyes before attempting to sit up, covering them with a cupped palm as your surroundings get brighter.

“Steve,” Robin’s voice comes out right next to you, surprising you by appearing in the entryway.

Hearing his name out loud sends the kind of rage that scorches through your veins, it burns from your fingertips remembering the look on his face when you broke up a few weeks after that day in the hallway your dreams so sweetly reminded you of.

It was Pity.

Your best friend ignores your silence and the sour look on your face as you silently take a trip down memory lane while she shuffles into the living room wandering to the attached kitchen.

“How far is Eddie’s shop from here?” You grimace watching her chug from a carton of orange juice.

“Oh, super close. You can walk from here.” She answers, wiping her upper lip with the back of your hand, “they opened like two hours ago, I’m sure he’s already looked at your car.”

“I think I’m going to shower and go over, do you want to come with me?” Raising your hands above your head, you stretch your sore muscles as a yawn comes out in the middle of your question.

“I think I need to rot in bed for a little while longer before I go walk amongst the living, I promise I’m all yours after I don’t feel like a freaking crypt keeper.” Your yawn is contagious, giving you a view of all her perfectly straight teeth.

“I demand something greasy for lunch when I get back then.” You point at her finding your footing on the carpet, noticing your converse are tucked nice and neat against the couch next to you. The feeling of Steve’s knuckles is a ghost against your skin, details starting to come out clear from the murky waters.

Heat rushes to your cheek at the memory while your emotions start to go at war with each other over what to feel towards the man who tucked you and your best friend in last night, but also broke your heart in a way you don’t think you’ll ever quite forget.

“I’m on it boss, god, I wish Benny’s was still open.” Robin interrupts the inner struggle she’s oblivious to you having as she walks past you flinging herself on the couch you’d just won the battle of leaving “But I’ll think of something good, I promise.”

Just like your yawn, the smile she gives you is contagious despite the sharp pain you get in your head from moving too much and you both laugh wincing when it only gets worse.

Ibuprofen first, then your car.

Birds chirp loudly, mocking the headache that's turned into something more annoying than painful after a handful of ibuprofen. The sticky air is still suffocating even in a pair of black biker shorts and an oversized loose fitting tee, while the sun shines golden against the cerulean sky without a cloud in sight to hide you from its light.

The heat warming off its rays makes beads of sweat start to collect at the crown of your head and the nape of your neck, while the incline Eddie’s spinning auto body sign sits on top of threatens to take your breath away. Unwanted thoughts of Steve Harrington keep your pace quick, stewing over the last twenty-four hours and everything it’s unraveled.

The small parking lot is empty when you reach it, kicking small rocks with the toe of your sneaker as you cross it. The double garage doors are open, Metallica’s Seek and Destroy echoing loudly, tugging up the corners of your lips. Your Chevrolet Caprice is the only car semi-lifted in the air with a pair navy coverall-clad legs underneath it.

Opening your mouth, Eddie’s name dies on your tongue before you get a chance to shout it, clocking him and his wild curls sitting in the glass office inside. Those big brown eyes meet yours from across the way, a dimple filled grin lighting up his face waving excitedly from his chair before standing up.

“Glad to see you’re alive, princess.” He teases stepping out of his glass case, with coveralls that are gray today.

“Honestly, it’s a miracle,” you laugh, confused eyes darting to the large boots under your car that don’t seem to have any reaction to the sound of your voice.

“Oh, I heard all about your first night back home. In fact my shop opened thirty minutes late because of it,” he chuckles, crossing his arms over his chest as he leans against the open metal frame where the door should be. Faded bats that you remember when they were fresh dancing across his arm with his movements.

“Wait, what?” You ask, confusion pinching your brows together right as the mysterious pair of legs start pushing out whoever’s under your car.

“I didn’t get back to my place till almost four in the morning after getting you two home and in bed,” Steve emerges flashing you his million dollar smile as he sits up on the dolly, the sleeves of his own coveralls tied tight around his waist and hair wild like he’d just rolled out of bed, “I slept through my alarm.”

The immediate glare that hardens your face when you see him has Eddie's eyes light with obvious amusement.

“What are you doing here? And why are you touching my car?” You snap, trying to push the worries about what you look like deep under the irritation and the distraction that begs to steal your anger with his arms on full display like this. Or how the patch of chest hair that peeks out the top of it shines with sweat.

“I work here,” Steve snorts like it’s the most obvious conclusion, because, well, it is, “and I volunteered to look at it, Eddie’s got his hands full.”

That was a lie, he begged him.

“Since when do you know anything about cars?” Snorting, your attitude makes him roll his eyes, pushing himself off the ground.

It’s a struggle to hold his gaze when he stands at full height, biceps flexing with his movements practically daring you to look. He pulls out a faded maroon rag from his pocket and starts wiping off the fresh black from his hands that’s already stained under his nail beds. The hard bottoms of his work boots making their way across the cement floors of the garage.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me anymore, that’s what happens when someone leaves for five years.” Steve antagonizes, his lack of sleep leaving him with thin patience.

He stops just close enough for you to smell how the woodsy spice of his cologne mixes with the sweet bitterness of the oil that seems to find a way to leave its mark on every surface in here. Including him.

“I’m going to finish balancing the books, why don’t you tell her the good news first and then the bad,” Eddie pours ice over the tension that threatens to boil over before it can turn hostile, catching the way both of your nostrils flare and shoulders square up.

“Wait, there’s good news and bad news?” Your focus on Steve shifts as Eddie’s words sink in.

“Like I said, I’m going to finish balancing the books.” The metal head reminds you, giving a half salute with two fingers while simultaneously shooting a stern look to Steve who’s mouthing something behind you. “Your mechanic’s going to go over everything with you, we can talk about pricing when it’s all said and done.”

“Seriously?” You bluster as Eddie shrugs with the kind of nonchalance that sends you reeling before sitting back down, tuning the dial-up on the radio in his office. End of discussion.

“Look -“

“How do I even know that you know what you’re talking about?” You interrupt, making his full lips set into a straight line.

“Are you going to be like this the whole time?” Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose before crossing his arms, the tops of his shoulders moving with them.

A pleading expression softens his features instead of the hard combative one you were anticipating, and it helps your blood pressure return to normal. The realization hitting you that maybe skipping breakfast with a hangover probably wasn’t your smartest idea.

“N-no, sorry, I just feel like -“

“Shit? Yeah, I bet.” He chuckles, and your jaw clicks. Maybe if you count to three…

“Just tell me what’s wrong with my car, Steve.” It comes out clipped, but it's an improvement from your fingers twitching to rip that handsome head right off those shoulders that won’t stop trying to distract you.

“How about you tell me the last time you had your oil changed?” He counters, taking a few steps back to sit on the hood of the rusted baby blue Buick behind him.

“Uhh, I- I think,” All the blood rushes to your cheeks, warming your skin as you try to wrack your brain and not focus on the way his legs spread wide to keep his balance. “Maybe, like, six months ago.”

“Six months?!” The number must be worse than whatever Steve was preparing for when a dirty hand runs through his hair, “and then you drove it three states to get here?”

“Yeah, I - I mean, hearing you say it out loud,” you grimace thinking of all the weeks you ignored that flashing orange light on your dashboard.

“So then you shouldn’t be surprised when I tell you that your engine locked up.”

“Is this the bad news?”

“Kind of,”

“What do you mean kind of?”

“Look, the good news is that I can fix it, the bad news is that I have to order a few parts that could take up to three weeks to get here, then the job itself is going to take me probably another week.” He sighs standing up, starting back towards your car with you quick on his heels.

“That’s the whole summer!” You argue like it could possibly make a difference, frustration pricking at the corners of your eyes watching him pop open the hood.

“More like half of it, but hey, you’re lucky I can even get it running again without having to replace the whole thing.” He meets your gaze from under his lashes leaning over the engine, long nimble fingers unscrewing the cap where your oil should go.

“So what am I supposed to do? How am I supposed to get around?” You know that part isn’t his problem, this entire mess is your own doing but it doesn’t stop it coming out in a whine. You blame your hangover.

“You’re gonna be just fine, city girl,” Steve grins up at you before reaching even further under the hood, muscles flexing with him, “besides we both know I can’t say no to Robin.”

He pulls at a small tube that’s purpose is unknown to you but you keep eyes trained on his movements like you have an idea, anything to keep the focus off the gold chain that dangles from his neck.

“Or you.” The last part comes out so quiet, a focused look pinching his brows together as he continues his investigation.

“Me?”

He doesn’t look at you when he shrugs, pulling at something with a little more force that makes you both flinch.

“How much is this going to cost me, Steve?” Your defeat shows in your tone, as the question slips quietly from between your lips that you wish you’d have put gloss on now.

He grunts at the same time something pops against metal under his hands, muttering a string of curse words under his breath before standing back up wiping his palms on the white cotton of his tank top. Charcoal stains fill the small grooves in the fabric with each swipe of his hands, pulling the collar further down every time. It’s a losing battle not to look at his chest when every motion reveals more of the thick curls underneath.

Steve clears his throat, letting you know that you’ve been caught and it’s at this moment you wish you could walk in front of the moving truck that drives loudly past the shop, only exaggerating the silence that follows.

“Don’t stress about that today,” he smiles, letting you off the hook for now, something mischievous dancing in his eyes for another time. “Like Eddie said, we’ll figure it out.”

“Don’t stress about it?! Have you met me?” You huff, the money you’ve saved up for the summer starting to dwindle right before your eyes.

“I have actually,” Steve chuckles, stepping close enough for the tips of your shoes to touch his boots. He feels bold when you don’t make any attempt to move away like at the party or retreat when he closes the gap. A thumb and forefinger finding their way to your chin, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, “and you’re going to be fine, I promise.”

Your lips part on their own, the full force of his face from this close stealing the breath from your lungs. You can smell the coffee he had this morning and the mint from his toothpaste still lingering on his breath. The stubble that lines his sharp jaw is even more noticeable today, tapering off at the top of his neck making the cluster of moles that live there stand out even more. A pink tongue runs over his full bottom lip and it has your lashes fluttering against the tops of your cheeks.

“Now go get some food, grumpy,” his voice comes out low, a teasing edge to it that reminds you of what it’s like to have Steve Harrington flirt with you. “I’ll call when I get the parts, okay?”

It’s like detention junior year all over again as you turn into putty in his hand. Still too attractive for his own good, all you can do is nod while all the fight you had left inside you disappears as the pad of his thumb swipes soft against your heated skin just under your pouted lip before letting you go. He turns on his heel after that, walking back to the box of tools he has spread out over his workbench before adding,

“Do me a favor and tell Robin she owes me a new shirt.”

beta’d by @sweetsweetjellybean

🌻 chapter two

#my writing #steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x reader smut #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x y/n

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imfinereallyy · 8 months ago

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“Sing me to sleep.” Steve mumbles, head falling onto Eddie’s chest. They’re lying in the back of Hop’s old pickup truck; he had sold it to Eddie not long after the van finally gave out.

Steve is drawing circles on Eddie’s shirt, following the constellations up above. Hawkins isn’t good for much, but nothing really beats the clear night skies during an Indiana summer.

Eddie hums above him, not even bothering to laugh at Steve’s request. Instead, the small huff of air sounds almost endearing.

They haven’t really talked about it, this thing between them. How they have been slowly drifting closer and closer to each other as the months pass. It feels almost inevitable, the two of them. But not in a bad way—not like a car crash or a meteor falling into earth. No, Steve and Eddie are inevitable, like in the way the sun will always eventually rise; how it’s always there in the darkness waiting to shine. How even in days of grey, eventually, the rays will peak through.

Steve and Eddie are like the sun always rising because the only thing able to stop them is the end of time.

Maybe it is a twisted way of viewing being bound by love, but Steve doesn’t care. He thinks it makes sense for them—he thinks it’s kind of beautiful.

“What kind of song do you want to hear?” Eddie doesn’t tease him. His voice is soft against Steve’s ears as he plays carefully with the ends of Steve’s hair.

Steve ponders for a moment what he wants exactly. Something nice? Something soft? Something about love?

None of it sounds right.

But then Steve tilts his head up, away from the stars, to stare at the beautiful boy before him—his Eddie, who is like the sun.

“Something warm.”

A soft smile breaks across Eddie’s face as he leans down to brush his lips across Steve’s hairline.

Steve’s eyes flutter in anticipation, but a kiss never comes. Instead he gets something better, feeling the brush of hot air across his skin.

“For you, there'll be no more crying…” Eddie starts to sing. Steve’s eyes finally fall shut, no longer caring about the stars, only needing to listen to Eddie’s voice.

“For you, the sun will be shining

Because I feel that when I'm with you

It's alright, I know it's right.”

#just a lil good night writing #to ease my pain from what’s written in my drafts #Songbird by Fleetwood Mac #steddie #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #my writing #steve harrington centric

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rocknrollflames · 1 year ago

Photo

Both doing what they do best. Axl using his voice and Izzy using his hands. Love them Indiana boys on them Indiana nights.

#gnr #izzy stradlin #axl rose #guns n roses #they're both babies #them indiana boys on them indiana nights #strings and vocals #such a pair

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flowercrowngods · 11 months ago

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it's yearning steddie get high with the others and make out about it hours (smut-ish)

Eddie hates being reminded that making promises to himself, and only himself, is pretty much useless if the only person holding him accountable to stick to his promise is one Eddie fucking Munson. Because that guy can’t be trusted.

Especially not when it comes to Steve and his stupid perfect hair, his stupid perfect dimples, his preppy fucking everything, and — perhaps most importantly — the breathy note his voice gets when the boy replaces his beautiful piece of brain with Eddie’s finest weed.

Steve in all his sober glory is unbearable at best, sure, that’s old news. But high? When the pained frown he’s not even aware of until he complains about a headache smoothes out and the tension in his shoulders disappears? When his scars no longer pull at every movement and he can hold himself again in the way he used to before everything — broad movements with a clumsy little edge to them that have Eddie’s heartstrings play rope skipping with his sanity.

That. That’s it. That’s it for Eddie.

And it’s no surprise that it’s also what leaves him helpless in the face of Nancy hopefully suggesting they get high again tomorrow night; all of them. Offering Eddie the chance at getting to see that tension fall away again, and that pale smile be replaced with an easy, genuine, lingering one — dreamy and so fucking pretty.

Luring Eddie with the most beautiful insanity.

So he says yes, despite having promised himself that he wouldn’t. Not after what happened last time. With Steve all the way up in his space, brushing his hair behind his ear with wonderment, trailing his hand down that lock until he forgot what he was going to say. What he was going to do.

Forgetting, too, that Eddie was sober, because he wanted to watch Steve without getting caught — but Steve, all high and sweet and tactile, apparently decided to do the same. He looked. And touched. And smiled and breathed and stayed right there. Fingertips dancing around the frayed ends of Eddie’s hair.

Something shifted — first between them, then around them. And then between them again when Eddie stepped back and turned away, in desperate need of a cool drink to stave off the feeling of being caught, of being trapped, of being so fucking gone on the prettiest god-damn boy in all of Indiana. And of having said boy look at him like that.

They shouldn’t get high again. They shouldn’t.

But he knows it helps with the pain like their meds never do; he knows it helps Nance sleep better, breathe better, exist in this post-apocalyptic world that doesn’t even remember the apocalypse, whose only reminders lie in the scar tissue of some teenagers and some graves that nobody knows are empty.

He knows that if he says no, they’ll find someone else to provide; and he doesn’t like the thought of that. Not one bit.

So it’s not even the thought of Steve’s dazed little smile that gets him to agree, nodding at Nance with an easy smile, saying, “Sure, let’s do it.”

But it is the thought of Steve’s dazed little smile, his breathy voice, his tactile nature that comes out even more when he’s high out of his mind like he knows he’s floating and needs someone to anchor him, and the memory of that stolen little moment, that makes Eddie curse himself to all hells once Nancy’s blooming smile is out of sight and he’s free of judgment to kick the kitchen counter beside him with a hearty curse.

He can do it. He can. All he needs to do is not stay sober this time, take the edge off and get out of his head about all of this, because he’s actually far less likely to do anything stupid under the influence, and also not look at Steve All Eyes On Me Harrington.

Easy.

Right?

Totally.

Except, as it turns out, ignoring Steve is both easier and harder than Eddie expected. The thing is, he’s good at diving into any conversation with just about anyone, making it larger than it needs to be until everyone in the room will give him funny looks but still roll with it, because Eddie Munson is just Like That, right?

But Steve doesn’t give him funny looks. Oh, they’re far from fun. There’s something in there that reminds Eddie of a kicked puppy in those fleeting moments that he lets his eyes meet Steve’s, never letting them linger, never letting them take him in and hold him and bask in the sunlight that is stored in those… Those beautiful, beautiful eyes. And that pretty, pretty face.

A face that shouldn’t look so sad.

He wants to ask what’s wrong, ask him if it’s a bad pain day, ask him if he didn’t sleep last night either, or if something happened. But how is he supposed to ask, to let any words come out of his mouth, when Steve just won’t look away. When he’s looking at Eddie like that again, when the little something that has shifted between them suddenly becomes massive enough to steal all the air away from his lungs and make his arms tingle in a way that he knows will only get better if he gets to wrap them around Steve.

He can’t. So he doesn’t. He doesn’t ask. But he doesn’t look away either, and he knows he’s already lost. He knows he broke this promise he made to himself.

But it’s fine, maybe, if the slight twitch in the corners of Steve’s lips is anything to go by. Like he, too, wants to say something but can’t. Like he knows Eddie is the same. Like his heart is racing, too, and he tried not to look but they’re so stupid and looked anyway and now they can’t—

“Guys?” Robin interrupts their little moment, the bubble bursting with a loud snap of her fingers that makes Eddie physically flinch.

He looks at her, spooked to shit and gasping because he does not do well with sudden loud noises or the impromptu bursting of bubbles — not after everything that happened.

“Shit, sorry, oh my God!” Robin’s there immediately, reaching for his hand, Nancy laying hers on his shoulder, Jonathan making himself known with a gentle little, “You’re fine, man.”

Eddie regains his footing and breathes away the panic, thinking that maybe getting high today wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He hands Robin the baggie and stuffs his hands into his pockets, making himself a little smaller by muscle memory alone.

Steve’s hand comes to rest between his shoulder blades — reassuring and warm. Like a flower, Eddie rises to follow it. He catches Steve’s smile out of the corner of his eyes and wants to rest his face against it. Wants to feel it against his skin. Wants to feel it shift into something deeper. Something real.

God, he’s so hopeless.

Good thing that Robin’s got the blunt under control, because Eddie does not trust his hands right now.

They grab the snacks and drinks and head outside to where Steve and Robin laid out pillows and blankets on the lawn, framed with dimly glowing white Christmas lights that Robin insists upon whenever they do this. Makes it feel a little less fucked up for her. Like we’re doing this because we want to, and not because we need it to sleep or to cope with the pain or whatever, you know? Put pretty lights anywhere, and it’s a choice.

Eddie has to admit that she has a point there, but the truth is he’ll smoke anywhere, fairy lights or no. Although there’s something, a capital-s Something about watching Steve framed by a thousand little lights smoothing out the worry lines on that beautiful face and making him seem all the more angelic for it.

Eddie actually called him angel once — the first time they did it like this. Made Steve smile like nothing else Eddie’s said to him since. Or anyone else for that matter. If he were any better at feeling the ground beneath his feet and the air in his lungs, he’d call him that again. Make him smile like that again.

But the ground is shifting and air is always scarce these days, with Steve’s hands on his body so fleetingly, so accidentally leaving marks on scar tissue, making Eddie wish he could feel more of Steve’s warmth there.

Making him wish he could ask. Touch me higher. Lower. Longer. Make it last. Make it count. Let me feel it, just for a second. Let me feel it where they didn’t steal chunks of my skin and my soul and, apparently, my sanity.

Argyle is the first to spread out on the blankets with a hearty groan that leaves everyone with a fond smile, gathering around him in a semi circle of amusement. He makes grabby hands at Robin, or maybe at the unlit joints she’s safekeeping — but either way, she follows suit, cuddling up to Argyle and in turn making grabby hands at Steve, who does as he’s told and laughs in that gentle, melodic way that they so seldomly hear these days.

Steve’s eyes fall on Eddie then, but a surge of worry and panic overcomes him, half expecting Steve to follow Robbie’s and Argyle’s example and reach for Eddie next. Or not reach for him. Either way, Eddie doesn’t want to find out, his heart beating in his chest at the endless possibilities stowed away in his overactive imagination. Instead of waiting for Steve’s next move, he sits down right here at the opposite end of the blanket, reaching for one of the pillows so he can hug it to his chest and have something to hold on to, just to keep his hands busy.

“Just don’t crush the goods there, birdie,” he grins, watching Nancy and Johnathan find a place to sit, too. He scoots over to make room for them, moving further from Steve in the process and feeling the distance in his chest. It’s so stupid. Fucked up, really.

“Oh, the goods are plenty safe, my dude,” Argyle says, earning himself a giggly groan from Robin that sounds a lot like, Gross!

Jonathan throws a pillow in Argyle’s face, which he deftly catches with just as salacious a grin.

Eddie tunes them out for a moment as he catches Steve’s eyes boring into him. He cocks an eyebrow and inclines his head, silently asking him what’s up in way less magical a way than he has with Robin.

He doesn’t really expect Steve to react in any way other than maybe a shrug or a brief, reassuring smile that really has no meaning other than, I’m fine, except for all the ways you know I’m not.

But Steve doesn’t smile. And he doesn’t shrug. He keeps his eyes on Eddie and fucking pouts. Looks like he’s not even aware of it, his eyes a little glazed already, seeming far away. Far away and right here and looking so fucking sad about it. About the few feet between them and Eddie being all the way over there.

It’s a bit like the moment they shared earlier, with Steve looking so sad and Eddie wanting to do something about it. He couldn’t then. But now…

Eddie’s breath hitches a little as he mirrors Steve’s position, falling backwards and leaning on his elbows., never once dropping his eyes. Stretching out his legs until he can nudge Steve’s ankle with his foot. Watching as those eyes snap down to the briefest contact in surprise, watching as Steve looks caught. And watching, too, as his lips twitch and his foot slowly, incrementally moves closer to Eddie’s like he can’t help it. Like he needs to touch him. Always, always needs to touch him.

And Eddie can feel it there, so he doesn’t move away. He wants to hold his hand, wants to run his fingers through his hair and for Steve to do the same. He wants to breathe him in, wants to live in a Steve-filled world and feel welcomed in it.

But he can’t. Because they’re not like that. And because this moment is not like that. And Steve is… Well, he is like that, he’s pretty sure. But maybe not for Eddie. Maybe not like that.

Steve’s foot is warm against his, pristine white baseball socks so stark a contrast against Eddie’s; threadbare and black, with more holes than fabric these days. He can’t really help the wave of embarrassment that washes over him, or the urge to pull back his feet and hide them in his shoes again. Sacrifice the warmth for safety.

But then Steve seems to notice just a second after Eddie does, and he smiles. Huffs a little with it, like it just bubbles out of him. Eddie wants to lean across the blanket and chase it. Chase the fondness and keep it there forever.

And that’s another thing about Steve that is so very fucked up: he doesn’t let Eddie hide. He doesn’t let him trade warmth for security, because — smile in place — Steve slowly moves his feet along the side of Eddie’s like he’s playing fucking Connect the Dots with the holes in his socks. It’s ridiculous.

It’s ridiculous, and Eddie is helpless. He’s so gone, a hundred percent. He’s so fucked up over that silly boy and the way he smiles at the most lamest of things.

It’s not his fault that he leaves his feet where they are, the warmth of Steve’s slow, teasing touch shooting electricity up his legs that leaves him with goosebumps and a sudden case of uncomfortably tight jeans.

He’s glad there’s still a pillow in his lap. And he’s glad, too, that the night is dark enough, the fairy lights not bright enough, to reveal the flush rising to his cheeks as it feels like the bravest thing he’s ever done stay like this. To have Steve looking at him like this. Eyes hooded and intense. Like he sees right through Eddie. Like he likes what he sees.

With a dull click, Robin’s Zippo pulls him back to reality in what must be the gentlest of ways, and Eddie manages a smile as he watches her gently place the doobie between Steve’s lips before she lights it, one hand on his cheek. Their faces light up, leaving the rest of the world in the dark, and Eddie is struck with how good they are together.

There’s something in the way she lights the joint for him, some kind of love language from the girl who burnt down the hell dimension below them and left it in ashes, and the boy who held her hand through it.

She holds his eyes as the flame dies and something passes between them as Steve slowly closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Takes that first hit.

Eddie’s smile falters as he watches, the glowing cherry coming to life and lighting up Steve’s face, revealing that relaxed little smile on his lips as he holds it in for five, six, seven before exhaling around it in a slow, drawn-out way. He blows it in Robin’s face like he always does, and Robin laughs and shoves him back, like she always does.

And Eddie wants to trade her place. Like he always does. Eyes transfixed on Steve as he takes the next hit and pulls the joint from between his lips. Holding his breath again. And Eddie wants to be held like that. Wants to fill Steve’s lungs like that, wants to leave an aftertaste that is both sweeter and biting as he does to Steve what that first hit does to him. Leaving him all soft and gentle and so, so at ease, his eyes droopy and all those lines of pain and worry smoothed out by him. Eddie. On his lips. In his mouth. Fuck, anywhere, really. Everywhere.

He follows Steve on his exhale, his head getting a little dizzy with the lack of air, but still he is slow to breathe in again. It feels strangely intimate, watching him like this. Watching as that tension falls away and he hums a little around the bud — relaxed and relieved and appreciative. It feels like they’re the only people left in this town, in this state, maybe in the whole world.

Eddie wants to stay alone like this forever, chase Steve’s breath and wish it would hit his face like that, caress his cheeks until the air around them claims it and erases all traces of Steve; but not from Eddie’s skin. Never from his skin.

But they’re not alone. And Steve opens his eyes. And Eddie is caught.

Still he doesn’t move, doesn’t look away as Steve blows out the smoke, sweet and earthy in the air between them as it slowly finds its way to him across the blanket. He imagines that he can feel it as the smell grows stronger, imagines the smoke to feel warm against his cheek as he breathes it all in, holding those hazel eyes in the dark that refuse to look away from him.

It’s like that moment the other day in Steve’s kitchen when he was so close Eddie could smell all of him, frozen as he was, rooted to the spot — too scared to move and reveal himself, reveal all of himself, all the ugly truths and dreams. His wishes. His desires.

Why do you keep looking? Eddie wants to ask. What are you looking to find? Am I just an experiment to you, are you looking at yourself through my eyes? Say something. Anything.

But Steve doesn’t. He never does. Steve Harrington isn’t really the type to just say what’s on his mind, too used to Robin by his side to just read it all and react in her own way. Too used to Dustin, who’d do the talking for him. Too used to just letting his eyes, his arms, his posture convey his message.

Too used to people knowing him. Getting a good read on him. But not Eddie, because Eddie never learned how to fucking read people like Steve Harrington cast in pretty light and relaxation. Angry, he can read him no problem. When he’s pissed, when he’s annoyed, when he’s sad. Tense. Worried.

But not this. Never this. This intensity, this steady gaze resting only on him. He never looks at Robin like that, and he doesn’t fucking look at anyone else lately.

It’s driving Eddie insane.

It’s too much.

He snaps when Steve passes the joint back to Robin, and sits up to pull his feet back to himself, covering them with his hands to pretend the warmth is still there. Frowns at the holes in his socks, feeling more exposed than ever. He curls in on himself a little, pretending to be very fascinated with a little thread that’s come loose in the blanket beneath him while the others hold casual conversation around him.

This was a bad idea. He’s so fucked.

Part of him debates if he should leave, if he should just call it a day and bid them goodnight. The other part of him wants to just close the distance between him and Steve and settle in beside him so the weight of that gaze won’t fucking wear him down any more.

But knowing Steve, that wouldn’t work.

Knowing Steve, nothing works.

Feeling pathetic and small, Eddie lets himself fall to his side, hiding his face behind Nancy, whose hand comes to rest in his hair, combing through it just a little bit. Allowing him to collect himself. This isn’t new, and they don’t really question when Eddie just randomly lies down anywhere, or if he just stops talking all of a sudden.

It’s why they do this, after all. No judgment. No questions. Just the sweet, sweet release of Mary Jane.

It helps, having her hands in his hair like this, grounding him. It helps, finding no question or worry in her eyes as she looks down at him with a little smile — her way of including him in the conversation. He smiles back, just a little bit, and closes his eyes to better focus on her hand rather than the moment. She chuckles when he begins to purr, and then the smile stays a little longer.

After a while, when she offers him the joint, Eddie shifts to lie on his back and gazes up to find the clouds have cleared and revealed the night sky behind them. It’s pretty, the summer sky, and he takes a long drag trying to think of nothing else. A hot wave of smoke hits his lungs, and it tickles a bit just like it always does, but the urge to cough it back out has been gone for years. These days, his lungs allow the warm embrace of the smoke and allow him to hold his breath as long as he wants, feeling a pleasant buzz after the fifth drag. It’s the good stuff after all. Munson’s Finest.

He passes the joint back to Nancy, too comfortable to get up and pass it to anyone else, trusting her to do it without complaint. She does. She’s an angel like that. Puts her hand back in his hair and plays with his overgrown bangs a little while Eddie just stares up at the sky.

Steve’s talking, but the words don’t really translate. It doesn’t matter, though. Just hearing his voice is enough for Eddie to sort of drift into a pleasant sphere of nothingness, his chest tightening a little with it. Always, always tight when he hears that voice. Like his heart has grown three times its size and his ribcage didn’t get the memo that Eddie Munson is hopelessly, helplessly, endlessly gone for a boy who refuses to look away.

The thing is, Steve has always looked. Always. Even in the Upside Down. The first time, and the second. And then, the third. And Eddie wants it to mean something. Wants it to mean everything, or at least carry that possibility.

But there’s no way to find out. There’s only him and the stars and Nancy Wheeler’s hand in his hair after his life took several wrong turns that left him with more scar tissue than skin these days, and the horrible realisation that, after the world ended and rebuilt, he can fall in love. That he can want. That he can have these cravings that he’d always heard everyone else talk about, wondering if that was just another layer of freak to him, or if he was simply Like That.

They’re lonely realisations, he finds. Alienating, in a way. Because not only does he not know how to navigate Harrington, no, he’s a riddle even to himself right now.

All he knows is that he wants to touch. To hold. To kiss. To crawl into him, on top of him, beneath him, and pull his own name from those lips in tiny little gasps that have nothing in common with the frantic gasps of panic after their first stint with the hell dimension. He wants a do-over. He wants a chance. A real fucking chance to have all these smiles, all these looks mean something.

Arm outstretched, he reaches for the blunt again, taking it from whomever has it right now, aiming to shut off his brain a little more. Not to suppress it, but to shut it off. Even if that means he has to finish this thing. It’s fine. They have more. They always have more, because Jon and Argyle have an unreal fucking tolerance.

With a chuckle, Nancy bypasses his hand and puts the joint between his lips and ignores his indignant hum.

“Treat yourself”, she says, her voice wonderfully slow and lower in pitch. “I’ll be right back, yeah?”

“‘Kay.”

The warmth of her hand leaves his scalp, and with her body gone — getting up in way too swift a motion even for sober people — the night air seems a little colder. Eddie shivers a little, refusing to look at anyone, and just takes drag after drag, deciding he’ll finish this one. It’s his weed after all.

By the sounds of it, Robin is already lighting the next one. Good girl. Smart girl. Best fucking girl in the whole wide world.

Thick clouds of hot smoke waft through his lungs and all the way through his body up to his brain, leaving his arms and legs with a tingling feeling and his head with a pleasant buzz and tunes out most everything else around him. It’s great. It’s good. It’s wonderful.

It’s why he doesn’t realise that the air is warm again and a body shielding him from everyone else until there’s a hand in his hair again. He opens his eyes to snark at Wheeler, but—

It’s not Wheeler. It’s Steve. Knees pulled to his chest, chin resting on top as he smiles down at Eddie.

Neither of them says a word, but Eddie’s breath hitches. Stops, stutters. Just like his heart. And yet all he can do is stare up. Wonder if it’s real. Wonder if it’s real.

“Is this okay?” Steve whispers, fingers barely touching Eddie’s skin as he sort of plays with his hair.

After a beat or two, Eddie nods, careful not to move too much. Careful not to chase those fingers and all the things they could mean.

“Good.”

And then Steve pulls the joint from between Eddie’s lips, and Eddie wants to warn him because this one’s close to the end and bound to be stronger, but it doesn’t seem to faze Steve as he just sucks in the smoke like it’s the first lungful of air he gets after a long day stuck inside. Smiling around the bud as it dies between his lips, he presses it into the grass beside him, extinguishing the last of it.

He exhales, and Eddie can make out a tiny cloud of smoke against the night sky, watching as it wanders toward him. He waits for Steve to say something. There is what feels like intent in the movements of his hand, in the sudden appearance by his side, and in the way he— he fucking looks at him again. The sky is full of stars, the backyard full of fairy lights, and Steve Harrington is looking at him.

“You okay?” Eddie asks at last, breaking the silence, wondering if his voice always sounds so small, so quiet, so endlessly tiny. Wondering if Steve even heard.

But he did, because he smiles again. He did, because his hand stills. Touches Eddie’s skin. His scalp, his temple.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, looking from Eddie’s eyes to his own hand with something akin to wonder. Or marvel.

And Eddie shivers again when that hand travels down. Caressing his cheek, definitely with intent. Electricity shoots through his body again, and the intensity in Steve’s eyes leaves him with goosebumps. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. Barely even swallows as Steve bites his lip absently and moves on, trailing from Eddie’s cheek down to his...

He’s touching his lips, and Eddie doesn’t breathe. Steve runs his forefinger along Eddie’s bottom lip, and in another world would he open his mouth and nip on his fingers or gasp at the touch and be better at this, be so much better at everything. But in this one, he lies motionless as Steve just fucking… explores.

And his touch is so light, it’s so gentle, so sweet on the rough scar tissue, and yet so absent, it doesn’t have to mean anything. He could pull back his hands now and claim that Eddie had something there. He could pull back and live his life unchanged. Leave Eddie behind in this state of paralysis, changed irrevocably, and be safe.

But that’s not what Steve does.

Steve was never one to choose safety over bravery, and he has the scars to prove it now. The permanent stiffness of his back that barely lets him feel anything these days. The set in his jaw when he breathes through the pains phantom and real, the crease between his brows when the memory pains flare up.

But his back is hunched in comfort now rather than in pain, and his shoulders are at ease. His lips are lightly ajar around a barely-there smile, and the skin between his eyes is smooth. Eddie wants to reach out and trace it, wants to caress it in the hopes that it’ll stay smooth forever.

He’s so pretty. Golden light catching his skin in all the right ways, leaving him positively glowing with that look he gives Eddie. That look.

Eddie’s never felt so exposed. So vulnerable. Laid bare, ready for dissection and willing to be taken apart in the hopes of letting him find what he wants and take it. Rip it right out of his chest. Now that he has Steve’s hand on his skin in the lightest of touches that’s anything but fleeting, he knows he would let him take anything he wants. Knows he would be helpless to stop him.

Helpless in the face of that gaze that trails down to his lips now, if only to follow his fingers.

“Steve,” Eddie breathes, barely moving his mouth at all around that single syllable.

Golden hazel eyes flit back to his, and they widen a little. Like suddenly it’s Steve who’s caught.

What are you doing? Eddie wants to ask. What are we doing? Don’t stop. Never stop.

But words are for moments lighter than this one. Words are not meant for a world that’s changing.

Maybe that is why Steve puts his hand on Eddie’s chin, tipping it up and turning his face toward him in a gesture so tender it’s almost possessive. Electricity shoots through Eddie again and the air between them is sizzling with it, sizzling because Steve is moving, shifting, dipping his head, his hand coming to rest on Eddie’s throat to keep him from moving away — except there is no force in his touch, and Eddie could still run.

He could. He should, maybe. Like last time.

But he is suspended in time, chained to the ground by the weight of Steve’s gaze and the hand on his throat, and his heart is beating so hard, so fast, that he is sure Steve can feel it. Imagines that those fingers move to find his pulse. Imagines that they find their home there, imagines that they hear the tales of stolen hearts and desires that leave his blood rushing.

Imagines that Steve falters a little, hovering just above Eddie. Dreams of it all, dreams that this is real and that he can have this, just for tonight. He nods, and it’s a tiny little thing, far from enough to ruin this moment or wake him from his dream.

But then Steve captures his lips with such care that Eddie snaps back into his body and realises that this is no dream. Steve is kissing him. Hovers above him with one arm resting in the grass above Eddie’s head, his other hand pulling Eddie’s face towards himself and being oh so gentle about it.

A whimper escapes him when this new reality settles inside his body, leaving him reeling and pulled towards a world of possibilities as those lips, those warm lips, rest so indulgently against his.

No longer chained, Eddie carefully lifts a hand to Steve’s head, because Steve can feel him there, too, and because he doesn’t want this to end. Because he needs to touch. All night, all week, all this time he has needed to touch. To cradle. To hold.

To keep.

Steve hums, and those lips pull into a smile before closing around Eddie’s bottom lip. The first touch of Steve’s tongue has jolts of electricity and arousal zinging through Eddie’s body again, lingering this time and making a home in his legs that begin to tingle with want.

Eddie opens his mouth, tilting his head a little to get a better angle, and is rewarded with the careful, addictive touch of Steve’s tongue against his. It makes Steve smile again, just for a second — but long enough to make Eddie’s heart jump.

He chases those lips when they pull back, capturing them with a little hum as he realises he comes more and more unchained, regaining feeling and control over his body, his mind, his scared little heart. Steve doesn’t hesitate to reciprocate, pushing Eddie’s head down into the grass again with an urgency that Eddie is beginning to understand matches the hunger he’s feeling.

The hunger that is reserved only for Steve. It leaves him breathless, leaves him with the sudden need to gasp for air, but then Steve’s tongue is in his mouth again and maybe he doesn’t need to breathe ever again.

He loses himself in the wet slide of their tongues that feels so sensual it’s almost obscene, and all he can do is tangle his fingers in Steve’s hair and keep him right where he is while Eddie himself lies boneless, all the blood rushing down, down, down. Every nip of Steve’s teeth as he devours Eddie so entirely and yet so innocently, so sweetly, so carefully, and every time he sucks on his lips or his tongue results in another wave of intense arousal. And Eddie is stuck in the riptide of it.

It doesn’t take long for the first moan to break the silence, a gasped little thing, almost like an afterthought, and he’s not sure if that was him or Steve; but he doesn’t really care either way, because he’s so hard, he feels like he can come from just Steve sucking on his tongue alone.

And isn’t that an enticing thought.

“Steve,” he whispers, not entirely sure what he’s going to say, or if that’s really all he needs to say. All that’s left to say. Steve, Steve, Steve.

The only response he gets is a breathy little, “Fuck,” and it sounds like a revelation. Like an epiphany. And Eddie wants to hear it again, wants to swallow all the little noises and murmurs and everything Steve will give him.

“You’re so—“ Steve begins, interrupting himself with another deep, hungry kiss. “Fuck. You’re…”

“Yeah?” Eddie counters, breaking the kiss by pulling on Steve’s hair a little. “I’m what?”

Steve hesitates, panting breaths dancing over Eddie’s skin and he smells so fucking good. Eddie wants to lick the aftershave and perfume and sweat off his neck and keep the taste on his tongue for days. Dark, blown eyes wander over his face, and the hand that was on his throat comes up to rest on his cheek again in a gesture so gentle that it almost gives him whiplash. The hunger is gone — or, not gone, but unimportant now.

Steve smiles, hazy but genuine and so, so sweet, eyes zeroing in on Eddie’s no doubt swollen lips.

“Been wanting to do that forever.”

Eddie’s heart jumps, falters, falls. Just a little. Just the rest of the way. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Wanna kiss you forever.”

“Yeah, well,” Eddie breathes, voice barely there because his breath has well and truly been taken away, and this moment feels so fragile. So easily broken by quick movements or thoughts that are just a little too loud, just a little too soon. “‘M not gonna stop you.”

Steve’s eyes snap back to his, and there’s something in there that not even the weed could ease away. “Yeah?”

Eddie nods, frowning a little, wondering what makes him so unsure.

“Cool,” Steve says, and it’s almost nonchalant and definitely charming in that way he always is. Makes Eddie laugh a little, his other hand coming up to wipe a strand hair out of his eyes. “So…” He trails off.

“Hmm?”

“Wanna stay here? Or go inside, or…”

And then it’s not arousal that overcomes him but worry. And guilt. And a bit of fear, because that’s not what this is for him. Not like this. Not when they’re high, not for the first time.

He swallows, schooling his face to cooperate and not give it all away right now, not give away how helplessly gone he is for that boy and how he would do anything Steve wants, how he would take anything he can get and try to make it be enough. But instead of choosing the easy thing and betraying himself, he moves his hand from Steve’s hair to his cheek, melting at the way Steve leans into it, moving his face to press a kiss to Eddie’s palm.

“Steve,” he says, and his voice is shaky again. And small. So, so small. “That’s not what this is for me. I don’t… I wanna kiss you forever. And more. Much more. But not… I don’t—“

“Not while we’re high? Inebriated?” He says the word with a chuckle, referencing the way Robin will always use big words when she’s hammered. There’s a gentle sort of understanding on his face after the chuckle, though, and Eddie melts a little again. “Wanna do it right, hmm? Wanna treat me right and make sure I won’t regret it, angel?”

Eddie whimpers at the sudden use of that nickname, because he’s not, but he does. He didn’t realise until Steve said it how scared he was — is — that Steve will regret this. The kiss. And anything that might follow.

Not trusting his words right now, he can only nod, wondering if his eyes are as blown as Steve’s are. If Steve thinks he’s pretty, too.

“God, you’re unreal,” Steve whispers, coming down again to press a kiss to Eddie’s forehead, brushing them down to the tip of his nose. He leans into those kisses, tips his chin up to chase it, but Steve pulls away again, his thumb tracing the pout he leaves behind on Eddie’s lips.

“You’re one to talk,” Eddie grumbles, watching the delight on Steve’s face and deciding that he’s addicted now. Fuck the weed, fuck everything else. Steve can get him just as high.

Along with that thought, reality works its tendrils into Eddie’s consciousness again, and he looks around the backyard around them — but there’s only him and Steve out here on the blanket, framed as they are by the fairy lights.

“Hang on, where are the others?”

Steve huffs, his face shifting into an expression of fond amusement and gentle annoyance. “Last time I checked, Robin and Argyle were raiding the fridge, Nancy was lying on the living room carpet, marvelling at how soft it is, and Jonathan was just kinda spaced out on the couch with a bowl of chips. Don’t think they’re gonna come out here again in the next half hour or so.”

“How convenient,” Eddie grins, wondering just how obvious the two of them had been all this time. Wondering, too, if it can really be that easy. If he can have this. If they can; after everything they went through.

“Hmm,” Steve hums, his body shifting so he’s half lying on top of Eddie now, positively vanishing any and all thoughts Eddie could have spared anyone else. He would worry about the hard-on he’s sporting, but it becomes obvious very quickly that Steve has the same predicament. It’s enticing, feeling him against his thigh like that, and Eddie has half a mind to do something about that, especially when Steve keeps shifting against him. “So. Do you wanna make out some more before we light the next baggie? It’s fine if not. We can just… I don’t know, cuddle or something.”

“Steve,” Eddie says, pulling on his hair a little bit to underline his deadpan. “What about I wanna kiss you forever was unclear?”

“Hey, I said that first,” Steve retorts, digging his fingers into Eddie’s sides, making Eddie squeal and squirm right into his arms. “I also kissed you first,” he continues, sounding so damn smug about it. Eddie’s never wanted to kiss him more. “So I’m winning.”

“Hmm, I don’t know about that,” Eddie murmurs, pulling Steve all the way on top of him, his hands finding his way to those magnificent thighs, so firm underneath his grip. “‘M feeling pretty lucky right now.”

“You think you’re so smooth,” Steve hums, dipping his head to hover just above his lips.

“Is it working?”

“Unfortunately.”

They’re both laughing when their lips meet again, but that doesn’t deter them from kissing and tasting and swallowing moans like they’ll find new purpose in each other. Like they’ve already found it.

Just like Steve’s hand finds his, weaving their fingers together and pressing him further into the grass. Eddie holds on tight, not ready to let him go anytime soon, and marvelling at how sensitive his hand has become.

There is no urgency in the way Steve slowly begins to move against him, grinding their crotches together in slow, sensual motion like waves of the ocean gently lapping at the shore. Eddie meets him right where they both need it most, not once breaking their kiss even when it becomes open-mouthed panting and moaning that the other is trying to chase and swallow and keep only for himself.

“You feel so good,” Steve rumbles, catching Eddie’s tongue between his teeth and pulling a high-pitched whimper from him. “So fucking good, Eddie.”

“Don’t stop, Stevie, fuck.” He’s panting, his legs tingling with want and need and a weightlessness he’s never known before. “I know I said— We can stop. We can stop, we can, but— fuck, I’m close.”

“Yeah?” Steve taunts, and oh, there’s purpose now in the the way he’s lifting his chest off Eddie, putting his weight behind the way he’s grinding into him. “You gonna come in your pants, baby? While the others are still inside? Means you’re gonna do this with me again later, right? Try again when we’re not high, hmm?”

“Yes,” Eddie rushes to say, working his fingers into Steve’s belt loops to keep him from stopping. “God, yes, I wanna—“

“I’ve got you,” Steve says, kissing the words right out of his brain, chasing his own pleasure, too. “God, you’re so pretty. So fuckin’ pretty, Eddie. Wanna come with me?”

“Uh-huh,” Eddie can only nod and moan around all the words he wants to say, all those cheesy fucking words that leave him all the more vulnerable for how true they are. The tingly feeling builds in his legs, climbing to his core, and he wonders for a split second if Steve can really make him come like this — worries that somehow it’s not enough and that he’ll ruin this, that he’ll fuck it up and make it awkward between them because he doesn’t actually have any idea how his body works when someone else is taking the reins.

But then Steve kisses him like that again, sucking his tongue into his mouth, holding his hand and groaning when Eddie moves in just the right way, and the sizzling pleasure finally finds its release.

Eddie comes with a broken groan that Steve swallows greedily, panting into his mouth as, shortly after, his hips begin to stutter in their movements and he follows Eddie off the brink of this beautiful madness. Steve was always beautiful, there’s no question about that. But like this, face slack, kiss-swollen and spit-slick lips open around a silent moan as he grinds his trapped cock against Eddie’s, wrecked with aftershocks as his orgasm washes over him? He’s a fucking revelation that makes Eddie’s eyes roll into the back of his skull, over sensitive as he is and yet so helpless against Steve’s aborted little motions.

Getting high on weed doesn’t compare to getting high on Steve. It’s a high Eddie wants to chase forever, and he starts by wrapping his arms around Steve and pulling him down onto his chest again, just to hold him. Steve purrs as Eddie’s hand finds its way into his hair, combing it away from the sweaty skin it sticks to. He cages him with his legs, too, tingly as they remain on either side of Steve’s body.

It’s stupid, maybe, and a bit much, but he wants to keep Steve like this for a little longer. Putty in his hands, his weight on top of him grounding him after that high, and allowing them both to come down slowly.

“Man,” Steve says after a while, just letting that word hang in the air as he regains conscious thought.

Eddie hums, prompting him to say what’s on his mind even though he’s scared he won’t like what he’s about to hear. Still, it’s only fair to let Steve say what he wants.

“I like you so much.”

Eddie holds his breath as he waits for the but. For the regret. But none follows. That’s really all Steve’s saying; and soon Eddie can’t fight the wave of giddiness that overcomes him.

He hugs Steve a little tighter, not entirely ready yet to look him in the eyes and face this new reality they’ve kind of just created, needing to be a little scared for just a bit longer. But still he laughs, because scared is no longer all he’s feeling. There’s so much more now. So much more.

“I like you so much right back.”

Now it’s Steve who hums, shifting to lift his head and look at Eddie, but Eddie closes his eyes before Steve can catch them.

“Said it first again.” A hand lands on his cheek again, just above the ugly scars that Steve doesn’t seem afraid to touch. “So I win.”

And Eddie is looking now. Dares. If only to drive his point home when he says, “God, you’re so fucking lame.”

“Is it working?” Steve grins, and Eddie never stood a fucking chance.

“Unfortunately.”

@izzy2210 here you go darling hehehe 🤍

#steddie #steddie fic #steddie fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #the spicy six get high together #spicy six #yearning hours #yearning hours but make it smut #steddie smut #i like this one so much #high yearning makeout fic #this takes so many turns and i blame the flu for it actually #tone consistency?? don't know her #dio words

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godmadeaterribleerror · 3 months ago

Text

Chapter 22 - I Stayed In The Darkness With You

Series Masterlist

Author's Note: May I introduce everyone to my secret extra villain, bureaucratic incompetence! Chapter Title from Cosmic Love by Florence and the Machine.

Word Count: 24k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Sunglasses and text messages break the camels back. Usual warnings.

Tags: Soldier Boy/Supe!Female Reader, canon divergence, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, fluff, angst, pining

Read on A03!

Chapter 21 - Chapter 23

“Do you,” Ryan swallowed the food in his mouth, staring at the floor as he spoke. “Do you guys get nightmares?”

Ben didn’t know how to handle that question. He didn’t know how to handle most of Ryan’s questions that weren’t about Her or the more glamorous parts of Ben’s past. He could talk about Her for the rest of fucking time and never get tired, and it was pretty damn easy to mutter I did see Star Wars in theaters, was even at the premier of two of those shit-ass movies. Pussy characters, none of them can just get their fucking jobs done. Hero's journey bullshit, and shut your damn mouth Sunshine, you’re the one who told me about the hero's journey. Indiana Jones was a fuck ton better anyway.

He didn’t talk to anyone but Her about things like nightmares. Even She didn’t know the full extent of them, of the memories of gas and knives and sterilized needles that had plagued Ben’s sleep. Or how they’d turned to terrors of Homelander taking Her, of Ben roaring Her name into the dark and only hearing wordless screams in response, and of blood. Nightmares full of blood and fog that he’d woken up from choking on air while she was gone. Ben certainly didn’t tell Her about the nightmares where he touched her and she started clawing at his skin and sobbing, falling to the floor and not allowing Ben to pick her back up. Where she didn’t recognize him and just kept screaming.

He’d been waking up with Her screams still ringing in his ears, and hadn’t told her. He wouldn’t tell Her, because this was Ben’s fucking issue, and he’d deal with it his goddamn self. She had enough shit to deal with. She’d spent the past week working her damn ass off—combing through more and more of A-Train’s stupid fucking leads, listening to the media spout more and more bullshit lies about Her life, and training with Ben and Ryan—and her own nightmares had returned. After Ben had found Her in the shower, screaming and crying and fucking breaking apart in front of him, there hadn’t been a night were she hadn’t burst into flames and Ben hadn’t had to listen to the strangled, painful sounds that left her body. But she hadn’t stopped touching him. Linking her arm through Ben’s when they walked, pressing her thigh into his at the table and pulling his arm around her body. Running a hand through his hair before tugging his brow to hers when she crawled onto him in the dark. Holding Ben against her as the fire died out, letting him pull her back down until he was flat on his back and rubbing circles on her hips. Relaxing into his kisses on the top of her head and pressing her face into his neck as she fell back asleep.

Even now, sitting on the mat of the gym as they ate lunch with Ryan, she was touching Ben. She was leaning into his side as she sighed, watching Ryan carefully as she answered his question. Of course She’d know how to answer that question. She was fucking perfect.

“I do,” Her hand had wandered to Ben’s knee, tapping against him as she spoke. “Most of us do. I’d imagine it would be more worrying if we didn’t.”

Ryan blinked at her. “Worrying?“

“Well,” She frowned. “We’re exposed to a lot of fucked up situations. We make a lot of impossible, horrible decisions. Nightmares mean that we still care, that we’re still capable of remorse over our worse actions and haven’t given up on ourselves enough to just remain unaffected. We’re still able to feel something, even if that thing is fear.”

“But I don’t want to feel fear,” Ryan mumbled, still watching the ground. “I don’t want to be afraid of stuff anymore. My dad said that I shouldn’t be afraid of anything, that fear was a weakness.”

“Ryan,” She leaned a little further forward. “Can you look at me?”

When he listened, slowly looking up with a nervous expression, a small, sad smile crossed Her face.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Um, I don’t know.” Ryan glanced at Ben, and even though he didn’t know what the fuck She was getting at—he rarely did—he gave Ryan a sharp nod. It seemed to say what the kid had been looking for, because Ryan swallowed and continued. “My dad?”

“Fear really fucking sucks,” she whispered, and Ben’s fists tightened on his cheesesteak. “But it’s not bad. It doesn’t make you weak. We all get afraid, it’s your brain trying to tell you that you and the people you care about are in danger. And Homelander is dangerous. It’s smart to be afraid of him, Ryan, because then you’re not like him.”

“But I’ve hurt people, what if I am-“

“Homelander,” Her nails were burning on Ben’s skin. “Isn’t afraid of anything. Because he thinks he’s above fear, because he doesn’t care about anyone but himself. Just the fact that you’re afraid of Homelander tells me you’re nothing like him.”

“Are, are you afraid of anything?”

She nodded, heart picking up in her chest, and Ben moved his hand silently to her waist. Pulling Her closer without looking away from Ryan, keeping his face perfectly fucking neutral when she squeezed his knee and her breathing slowed.

“Homelander.” She took a heavy breath. “And heights.”

Ben hadn’t known that. He made a mental note to look up if you could take a boat to Rome.

Ryan nodded, looking at Ben with wide, nervous eyes. “Ben?”

He grunted, taking another bite of his cheesesteak as he waited for Ryan to continue.

“You don’t get afraid, right?”

Ben froze mid-chew. He wasn’t afraid of anything, and—if he was—it wasn’t any of Ryan’s goddamn business. It wasn’t like fear ever fucking affected him, or made him whine like a pussy, made him fucking cry like Ryan was about to-

He looked at Her. Completely fucking involuntarily, Ben looked at her and knew he was afraid of that. Afraid he’d fail her again. And maybe also gas. And small, closed spaces. Not Homelander himself—that pussy could eat Ben’s shit—but Homelander hurting Her. Hurting her in a way that made Ben lose her, taking her away where Ben couldn’t get her back. But that was a fear for Her. It was a service to Her, to share some of the weight she kept trying to carry alone. And of course Ben would be afraid of failing Her, he’d done it once and it had put her in fucking danger, so that didn’t count. Gas didn’t count either, gas had taken Ben’s who goddamn life away from him, anyone would be afraid of gas if they had half a goddamn brain. Closed spaces were a little fucking pathetic, but Ben would like to see any other pussy be kept in a box for forty years and not start to fucking hate it. But none of that was shit for Ryan to be all fucking sad about-

Ben felt Her whack his arm, and looked down to find her glaring at him. Stop being a giant fucking manchild and tell Ryan you’re afraid of something.

Ben scowled, but swallowed his food and looked back to Ryan. “Everyone’s afraid of shit, kid. As long as you’re not a fucking pathetic dickless pussy about it, you won’t be any less of a fucking man.”

Ryan nodded, something in his eyes a little lighter and a confusing fucking warm feeling inflating in Ben’s chest. “Thanks.”

“Don’t fucking-“

Her hand flew up to cover Ben’s mouth, and when he shot her a glare she just wrinkled her nose. If you ruin this nice moment, Pretty Boy, I’ll stab you.

Ben rolled his eyes, Shut the fuck up, and pulled Her hand away, kissing her knuckles before looking back to Ryan. “You done with that sandwich?”

“I’m, um, not really that hungry.“

“I’ll hold on to it for you, and you can put it in the fridge when you get home.” She pulled out from Ben’s side, reaching across the mat with her perfect fucking ass in the air to grab the rest of Ryan’s food. Ben couldn’t let himself stare at Her ass, or think about kicking Ryan out to fuck her into the floor, or sit with his legs crossed anymore. He had maybe a minute before he’d have to stand up, and he needed to get his shit together so he didn’t do it with a raging hard-on.

“You don’t have to-“

“If I don’t,” She leaned back into Ben, grinning at Ryan. “Grandpa will eat it when neither of us are looking. He’s like a dog, you can’t leave food out.”

“I am not a fucking dog-“

She sat up on her knees, giving Ben the prettiest fucking fake-pout and kissing his cheek before pulling back with a smile. A wide, bright smile where there wasn’t any pain hidden in her perfect, sharp eyes, and all Ben could bring himself to do was glare at her.

Brat.

Cunt. Go show Ryan how to punch stuff.

He kissed her once, soft and quick and so fucking simple—his hands in her hair and her body half on his lap—before pulling back to stand. Ryan scrambled up, following Ben silently to the far side of the mat, and She scooted back to the wall.

Over the week, they’d developed a habit of this shit. Ben trained Ryan for a few hours, while She sat off to the side and switched between watching them and working on the V leads. Then they’d eat lunch together, Ben and Ryan would go for another hour or so, and they’d walk Ryan back to Butcher before returning to their own apartment. It was a damn good routine, because Ryan was already a fuck ton better then when they’d started—he hit the target every time now, and had only crushed two metal plates on accident today—and She had used the time to build a fucking airtight case for the president to just give them some goddamn V.

She’d explained the whole thing to Ben twice. Once in their apartment and once during a meeting with the team. Ben didn’t remember any of the first time, because she’d looked so fucking hot—chewing her lip while she thought and glaring at the papers in front of her with sharp eyes—and he’d wanted to slam Her on top of those stupid papers and see if she could recite all that fucking smart shit with Ben buried deep inside her. He’d managed to remember the second one only because she’d said it was really important they all have a basic understanding of our argument, in case Singer decides to cold call.

“The first half,” She’d frowned at the papers as she sorted through them at the dining hall table. “Is mostly evidence of Homelander as a genuine threat to American stability, security, democracy, and like, fucking everything else. I think-”

“If Singer ain’t total fuckin brainless cunt, we shouldn’t need to show our bloody work-“

“It’s precautionary, Butcher.” She’d snapped. “And if you’d let me fucking finish, I was going to say that we could all just use personal experience for it. The second half is the important stuff. Copies of the document that says this would work, a vague outline of a plan to get the V in Homelander, a list of all the other avenues we’ve exhausted to get some V-“

“He’s not going to know I gave you guys those leads, right?” A-Train had cut Her off with frantic words. “If these get leaked or some shit, it can’t be traced back to me-“

“No,” She’d shaken her head. “We’re not saying how we got them, because that’s not important. He just needs to know that we’ve looked elsewhere, and there isn’t time to waste on continuing on wild goose chases. I’ve added hypotheticals about what could happen if we don’t act soon-“

Ben loved Her so goddamn much. He’d stopped paying attention, because he was losing his fucking mind about how much he loved her. She was so beautiful, and smart, and if everyone would just shut the fuck up and stop asking Her stupid questions Ben could get fucking lost in how perfect she was.

He’d gotten a boner. He’d been watching her talk all fucking focused and intense and pretty, and she’d grinned and bumped his shoulder with hers about something Ben couldn’t even fucking remember anymore, and he had completely given up on paying attention so he could get lost in a fantasy of bending Her over the table and fucking her until she whined and her eyes rolled back in her head.

It was becoming a fucking problem, how everywhere Ben looked was just another place he wanted to fuck her on or against, and how every word she said made him want to tell Her he loved her. He’d thought about it before, while she was gone, it was somehow worse when she was home. When she kept doing things that made him love Her more. Ben kept thinking he’d finally hit fucking capacity on how much he loved her—that loving her so much he’d move mountains and crack open the sky was the greatest type of love anyone was fucking capable of—and then She’d prove him wrong. She couldn’t just let Ben exist in goddamn peace, she had to make him and Ryan lunch everyday. She had to keep encouraging Ryan, and teasing Ben about wanting encouragement right before she’d tell him she thought he was an excellent teacher, even if he wouldn’t stop swearing at the child. She had to keep singing to herself while she moved around the apartment, and making everything around her so much fucking better than it had been before. She had to finally stop fucking apologizing, and kept curling into Ben’s body like it was the most natural thing in the fucking world. And it all made Ben feel like a fucking dumbass, because he kept being wrong. There was no limit to how much he loved Her, and every single thing she did would always make him want to just fuck her until she was happy and felt good.

But Ben wasn’t allowing himself to fuck Her. Not when he’d touched Her once and she’d shattered. They’d reached a silent agreement to not talk about the gun range and to keep kissing but never do more. Ben’s hands would wander down to her hips and her heart would pick up, so he wouldn’t go further. She’d kiss him and run fingers over his abdomen, but the moment Ben tensed in anticipation she’d freeze and drag them back to his chest. They hadn’t talked about it, but Ben knew she’d say I’m fine, and he’d insist that she wasn’t—people who are fine don’t fucking wake up in the middle of the night on fire—and she’d insist she was. They’d fight, and Ben didn’t want to fight with her. Not about something that fucking mattered like this, not when she kept kissing and smiling at him before—barely an hour later—something would suddenly shift and Her eyes would grow more and more hollow. He loved Her, and if they had a fight he’d probably yell that he fucking loved her to make her understand why it was killing him to watch Her be in pain that he wasn’t allowed to fix, and he’d lose Her. She wasn’t ready, and if Ben made this about how he loved her he’d lose her. He wouldn’t say it right, or well. He didn’t know how to talk about his goddamn feelings without sounding like a pathetic fucking pussy. He’d fuck it up and She wouldn’t understand that he loved Her so fucking much it could carve into the earth, and he’d lose Her.

She still looked at him with adoration. She still touched Ben like she wanted him, and sighed his name like it was important. But that was all she could give him right now, and Ben had to force himself to find a way to be okay with it. To let Her break and break in front of him, to keep her safe and pick up her pieces off the tile floors, then just kiss her until she gave a soft, happy sigh. To not grab her face and tell her that he loved Her. That he was so fucking worried about her because he loved her, and that he’d keep waiting. He’d wait and wait forever until she wanted him again. He’d take whatever she’d give him. He fucking loved Her, loved her in a way that would kill any other goddamn asshole to feel because it was fucking primal. It was real, raw, painful and indestructible love. Love where Ben would never be able to show it enough, never be able really make Her fucking understand how powerfully and zealously he loved her.

He could imagine it. Ben could indulge himself in these stupid fucking fantasies and drive himself mad as a punishment for being too fucking weak to know how to fix this. For being so much of a fucking pussy that the woman he loved kept breaking down and he could barely make it better, Ben started torturing himself with all the ways he’d could get this fucking right.

He’d roll Her over in their bed and kiss her breathless, before telling her that he loved Her and she was beautiful. Then he’d fuck her, gentle and long and goddamn romantic as shit, and she’d moan his name.

She’d give him one of her perfect, secret smiles over dinner and he’d tell Her in silence. Her pretty mouth would fall open, and she’d make a lame excuse to pull Ben back home. The door would barely close before she’d tackle him to the floor and ride him until she fell against his chest.

They’d be at a meeting, and Ben would just fucking yell it over the table. He’d roar I fucking love you, Sunshine, and the whole team would leave because Ben would already have her half-naked and in his lap.

Fuck, even now as She walked a pace ahead of him—smiling down at Ryan as he rambled about fucking homework and listening like She actually gave a shit, because she probably did—Ben wanted to grab Her and fuck her. He didn’t even need a wall or a bed, he’d just pick her up, rip off her pants, and slam himself into her until she felt good. But she’d fucking fall apart again after, and the pain of watching that was unspeakably worse than the ache of never touching her again.

But he would tell Her. Ben would keep fucking trying to make this better for Her, and when the shadows started to creep out of her eyes and Homelander could never fucking touch her again, Ben was going to fucking tell Her. He’d say Her name, and she’d look at him all pretty and concerned about if everything was okay, and he’d tell her. I love you. I love you so goddamn much, and it’s made me a pathetic fucking pussy, and I don’t give a fuck because I love you. You’re perfect and I love you. You’re my whole fucking world and I love you. I’ll wait for you to be ready for the rest of goddamn time, because I love you.

And she’d smile at him and say-

“Benjamin, if you don’t start walking I swear to god I’m going without you.”

They’d dropped off Ryan. Ben had given him another awkward hug before Ryan had turned to Her and they’d hugged as well. Then she’d smiled at Ben over Ryan’s head, making all of his thoughts devolve into perfect. Beautiful, perfect woman. He loved Her so fucking much, and when he told her that he was going to blow her perfect fucking mind with how fucking romantic it was, and he’d stopped paying attention.

She was walking back in the direction of the gym, and Ben frowned. “Where the fuck-“

“Mallory called a meeting, and we’re already late-“ She stopped tugging at Ben’s arm, giving him a flat look. “You forgot.”

He had forgotten. She’d told him when they’d sat down for lunch that they’d have to go straight to the dining hall after, because there were updates that apparently couldn’t just fucking wait for the daily briefing tomorrow morning. He’d nodded, taken his cheesesteak, and she’d kissed his cheek. That alone had melted his brain a little, but then she’d moved some hair out of his face and leaned against his side and Ben had started wondering if this would be it. If he lowered Her onto the gym mat and told her he loved her, it would work. If She’d pull him down to her mouth and let him kiss her until there was a dent on the floor, then mumble into his mouth that she loved him as well. That she understood, and if Ben wanted to fuck her when they got home she wouldn’t stop him.

In reality She was still glaring at him outside of Butcher’s apartment—perfect arms crossed and pretty eyes narrowed—and Ben had to act indignant. If he didn’t, she’d ask a lot of fucking questions and he’d shut her up by walking her backwards into the wall, telling her he loved her, and kissing her fucking stupid.

“Mallory calls a whole lot of fucking bullshit meeting, we don’t need to go to every single one-“

She snorted. “Yeah, we do. You just don’t want me to call you old.”

“I’m not fucking old. And I didn’t forget-“

“Ben.” She linked her arms through his, and Ben scowled at her goddamn beautiful face and bored, amused, perfect fucking voice. “You are very old. And we have to go to the meeting you forgot about, you fucking dinosaur.”

“Most of these stupid meetings are completely goddamn pointless,” Ben grumbled, even as he let her pull him down the hall. “Mallory thinks every single thing needs a whole hour to go over, and it’s never any actual fucking progress-“

“It might be, though.” She shrugged, grinning over her shoulder. “And if there is news, Kimiko will bring out the ice cream to celebrate. Don’t want to miss that.”

“We have our own ice cream, Sunshine.” He tugged Her arm just enough for her to fall back a pace, walking at his side so Ben could rest his arm over her shoulder. Keep her right against him, where she was fucking safe and smiling and there weren’t shadows across her perfect features. “We can just go the fuck home if you want ice cream.”

“We don’t have sprinkles. I want sprinkles.”

“Those things taste like fucking wax-“

“They are wax, Pretty Boy. They’re sugar wax.” Her hands had risen to hold Ben’s over her body, and he had to fucking pay attention and not spin her around, dance with her in the hall and dip her down all fucking romantic before whispering that he loved her. “I just want some colorful fucking sugar wax to go with my boring, old man vanilla ice cream.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “You fucking love my old man vanilla ice cream. You eat it just as much as me.”

He caught his own error, but she didn’t jump in with a smug voice and tell him as I. And when Ben frowned down at Her, she was watching him with that expression he didn’t understand. All adoration and want, with something burning behind her eyes, and her voice soft when she spoke.

“I do love your old man vanilla ice cream.” Her smile spread, and her eyes looked a little brighter. “But I’d love it more with sprinkles.”

Ben snorted, and kissed the top of her head. “Brat.”

“Dramatic fucking cunt,” she mumbled, and Ben would have to figure out where to buy sprinkles now. There wasn’t a fucking chance in hell he was asking Mallory for that shit, but he’d figure it out and maybe it would help keep her expression light and joyful.

Everyone seemed to have finally fucking accepted that She and Ben would never be on time, because the most shit they got for being ten minutes late—again—was Mallory shooting Ben a glower and a collection of sighs when they entered the dining hall.

“Now that we’re all here,” Mallory’s words were cold, and Ben pulled Her a little further into his side on the bench. “Let’s get started. William?”

Butcher grinned around the table, a smug smirk on his face. “You cunts ready to hear the first good news you’ve gotten in a year?”

“Good news?” Hughie frowned. “Did we find some V?”

“Guess again, lad.“

The French Prick leaned across the table. “Madame Sage has made an error?”

“Sage doesn’t make errors,” A-Train muttered. “It’s probably more about Vought, a lead or some shit.“

“Still ain’t it, mate. Anyone want to take a shot-“

“Butcher,” MM grunted, running a hand over his face. “Just fucking tell them, you asshole.”

“You really take all the bloody joy out of life, MM.” Butcher hands slid in his pockets, pretending not to see MM flip him off as he continued. “The one and only cunt in charge agreed to meet with us. Said he wants us in DC by tomorrow afternoon, gave us a fuckin travel fund and everything.”

“In DC?” She narrowed her eyes at Butcher, and Ben felt her tense under his arm. “That’s a four hour drive away, and we can’t all go-“

“Most of you won’t be going,” Mallory snapped. “You and A-Train are at a security risk if you leave the compound, William has to stay with Ryan, and Campbell has some work to do.”

Hughie blinked. “I do?”

“Ah, that may be my fault petite Hughie.” Frenchie shrugged. “I requested that the A-Train provide access to Vought’s supe files. I will need your aid in retrieving them through the computers.”

Hughie nodded slowly, looking back to Mallory. “Does that mean it’s just Annie and MM?”

“Blood good deduction, Lad, but you forgot about Soldier Boy.”

Everyone looked at Ben, and he froze as Her heartbeat picked up. “The fuck you mean he forgot.”

“You’re goin’ on a field trip, Gov.” Butcher winked. “I’ll pack you some applesauce for the road, and make sure you take a piss before you get in the car.”

She swallowed, glancing between Ben and Butcher, and her words were far too fucking soft. “How long will they be gone?”

“About a day,” Annie sighed. “We’re leaving around 7am tomorrow, and after the meeting with Singer we’re going to have to wait for a transportation clearance, which probably won’t come until morning.”

“Transportation clearance?” Hughie gave Annie a confused look. “Can’t you just take Butcher’s car?”

“Nope.” MM shook his head. “Sage has got records of Butcher’s car. We’re taking an FBSA escort there, and a CIA escort back.”

“But,” She was still so fucking quiet. “Why will you have to wait for morning?”

“Route approval,” MM muttered. “Bunch of fucking security shit, and the motherfuckers at the CIA move slow. Annie’s right, it’ll probably take us a day to get there, do the meeting, and get back.”

“Why the fuck do I have to go,” Ben hissed. This was a fucking stupid idea, he didn’t need to be there. He didn’t need to be anywhere without Her, and he sure as hell wasn’t fucking leaving her. “I’m not going to be doing the actual damn pitch, and Singer can eat my fucking balls if he thinks I’m going to brownnose him to get the V-“

“He specifically requested your presence, Gov.” Butcher shrugged. “Didn’t say why, but I’m sure it’s your sparkling fuckin personality.”

“Shut the fuck up you pussy, I’m not going anywhere-“

“Was it a condition?” She was looking between Butcher and MM, fingers tapping on the table. “Did Singer request Ben, or demand him?”

MM sighed. “Demand. We don’t bring Soldier Boy, they won’t let us in the door.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “You’ve got all the information for the pitch?”

Annie and MM started rattling off all the details She’d given them about the V, and her face was so fucking tired. She wasn’t looking at Ben, but her body was all but falling into his, her eyes were far away, and her breathing was fucking mechanical again.

He squeezed her shoulder, glaring down at Her until she glanced at him. I am not fucking going to DC.

Yes. You are. She gave him a small, empty smile. You have to, Ben. Please.

He shook his head. No. I am not fucking leaving you for a day just because Singer’s a fucking pussy who thinks he can make demands.

I’ll be okay, She pressed her knee to Ben’s, and he didn’t fucking believe her. It’s only a day, Pretty Boy. I’ll survive.

She would survive. She was strong as fucking hell, and she’d survive one goddamn day without Ben. It was him that wouldn’t make it one hour away without going fucking sick with worry that she was in danger, or alone, or breaking and he wasn’t there to help. I don’t give a fuck. I’m not fucking leaving.

If you don’t, we won’t get the V. She sighed. We have phones, Pretty Boy. You can text me, and I’m not going anywhere.

Ben scowled. Swear that if you need me home you’ll tell me.

She was giving him that look again. There was something fucking confused behind her gaze, like she hadn’t understood his words. But She nodded, Promise, and turned back to the table.

Ben was going to have to go. He had not fucking interest in going, but She was asking him to, so he would. This could get them a step closer to killing Homelander—to making Her fucking safe and Ben being able to say he loved her—so he would. He spent the rest of the meeting glowering at everyone and holding Her tighter, making sure she knew he was in no way a fucking fan of this bullshit, but didn’t keep arguing.

It would be fine. He’d survive one fucking day without Her. She’d be home and safe, and he wasn’t so fucking pathetic that he’d whine and moan like a pussy without her there. Then he’d come home and kiss Her, and beat Homelander’s fucking brains in, and find them the next boat to Rome.

After the meeting, they ate dinner with the team. It was tense, with everyone a little quieter than usual and focused mostly on their food, so Ben watched Her. He’d already memorized every single fucking thing about Her, but he never got tired of just watching her. She was so fucking beautiful, smiling at Ryan when he arrived, resting her head on Ben’s shoulder when she finished eating, signing with Kimiko about something that made her giggle—light and joyful, the best fucking sound in the world—and looking up at Ben when Kimiko turned back to Hughie.

Are you ready to go?

Ben had been ready to go for a damn hour, and he didn’t waste another fucking second before nodding, pulling Her up with him, and turning to the door.

She made a small sound of surprise, and Ben waited for her to be all fucking kind and polite—bidding the team goodnight and hugging Ryan—before tugging her back to his side and out into the hall.

“Are you okay?”

He frowned down at Her as they walked back to their apartment. “What.”

“I know you don’t want to go to DC, but-“

“I’ll fucking manage,” he grunted. He wouldn’t, this was going to be fucking horrible, but She didn’t need more shit to worry about. “And you’ll text me.”

“I will,” she mumbled, pressing Her face into Ben’s side and letting him guide their steps. “Thank you for doing this.”

Ben sighed. “Don’t.” It’s for you, Sunshine. I’d fucking do anything for you.

“But I am,” he could feel Her smile into his side. “Thank you.”

He didn’t push it. She was smiling, and he fucking loved Her, so Ben just opened the door to their apartment and sighed. “TV?”

She nodded, playing with the fabric of his shirt as they sat on the couch. “Your night to pick, Pretty Boy. Can I guess?”

“You’re fucking going to anyway-“

“It’s either the documentary about the Cuban Missile Crisis we didn’t finish, or the baseball game that’s on tonight.”

Ben frowned. “How the hell do you know about the game?”

“I pay attention,” she smiled up at him, and he was going to fucking explode. “I like to know if I’ll be spending the night listening to you lose your fucking mind over some balls.”

“They’re not just some balls, Sunshine, it’s a staple of fucking America-“

“With balls.”

Ben rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

“No,” she reached for the remote, passing it to him with a grin. “And, for the record, my personal vote is for the game. It’s Red Sox versus Phillies, and I want to see you cry when Boston beats your ass.”

Ben snorted, and flipped through channels until he landed on the game. “Brat.”

“Cunt,” She wrapped her arms around his torso, resting her head on his chest. “I,” she sighed. “I adore you, Benjamin.”

“I adore you too,” he muttered Her name, and she gave a small, content sound, relaxing further into his body. “You’re okay.”

She hummed, looking backwards with that strange fucking warmth in her eyes. “I’m okay.”

Ben kissed Her, soft and easy, and didn’t believe a goddamn word she was saying. They did this every fucking night, and he knew how it would end. He’d spend the whole time swallowing shouts of I love you, and she’d almost fall asleep against him. So fucking beautiful, so fucking tired, and Ben would keep trying to figure out how to just fix this shit. To find something he could say to Her that would make her tell him how to make this better. He couldn’t touch Her, she’d break. He couldn’t tell Her he loved her, this wasn’t about him. But She had to be happy, and Ben wasn’t going to fucking rest until he figured out how to make her totally and completely happy.

Here, in the glow of the TV, was a place she was happy. With Ben holding Her tight and tracing patterns on her skin, her face was peaceful and her heart was steady. He was pretty fucking sure she’d been happy, in the gun range. But then She’d broken, and Ben was never going to allow it to get any worse. She was still happy, most of the time, but she wasn’t touching him. Wasn’t trying to take more.

So he’d keep waiting until he got his fucking act together and figured out a way to tell her properly, or until She told him to touch her again. Until Ben knew how to make the happiness stay, and stop it from fleeing in the dark.

Ben felt a tug on his hand, and looked down to see her turning his fingers between her own, not meeting his eyes as she spoke. “Can you-“

He didn’t wait for Her to finish. She was quiet and nervous, and she looked so fucking exhausted, and the stupid game didn’t matter even a fraction as much as she did. Ben knew what she was asking, so he picked her up and carried her upstairs to the bathroom.

She was still crying in the shower. Steam would choke the room as she turned the water up to boil—She’d refused to let Ben fix the ceiling fan, so now the whole apartment grew humid every night—and Ben had been forced to hear Her heart race, hear the quiet, choking sobs shake her body, before he’d break into the bathroom and could hold Her until she was breathing again. After three nights in a row, he’d just started showering with her. Every night Ben set her down on the bathroom floor, stripped his clothes, and pulled her carefully with him into the water. She didn’t cry when they did it like this. When Ben stood a step back while she used all her fucking hair shit, and held Her against his bare chest when she looked at him with a silent plea to do so. When she was done, he helped dry her off, then carried her to bed. Set Her down carefully, go back to the bathroom to brush his teeth—keeping an ear on her heart as she shuffled around the room—and climb into bed himself. Nothing more. Not until She was ready, and Ben couldn’t break her by touching her.

He’d developed a daydream. Ben loved Her so fucking much he’d started to fantasize, late in the night when she was content and peaceful against him—before the fire and screaming began—about if she did love him. About a perfect world where She blinked her eyes open, sat up on Ben’s chest, and smiled down at him as she held his face and played with the hair of his beard. Where she leaned down and kissed him gently, murmured that she loved him, that she was Ben’s the same way he was Her’s, and he believed Her. He looked at the joy on her face, believed that she was okay, and did everything. He’d do everything for her, to her, with her. Everything she asked or needed or wanted, Ben would do.

In the daydream, it was what Ben wanted as well. In his head he’d grin at Her, flip her on her back, and take control. Make her feel so fucking good, make her moan and writhe under him, give Her one place in her life where she didn’t have to do any work. Then they’d kill Homelander together—maybe he’d just fucking drop dead the next morning—and leave this stupid fucking life forever. He’d carry Her to Rome, and buy her a house with the money they earned from her excellent fucking escort business, and fuck her on every surface available to him. He’d tell Her he loved her every other sentence, and she’d smile at him, and Ben would ask Her to marry him. He’d just walk into the room, grab her and say I love you, Sunshine, and you should marry me. I’ll fucking treat you like a Queen, because you’re perfect and I love you. She’d giggle, and tell him that he already did treat her like a queen—because he would, no matter what Ben’s whole life after this was going to be about fucking her like she deserved and making her happy—but still agree to marry him. They wouldn’t bother with the fucking dramatics of a wedding, it would be quick fucking work with the most goddamn romanic vows in history and then a kiss that quickly turned into Ben fucking his wife stupid. He’d make sure she smiled all the goddamn time, and then—at least in the fantasy—he’d fuck her full of babies. Homelander would be dead—fucking burned or dumped in the ocean or buried a thousand feet under—and She’d tell Ben she trusted him and loved him and wanted a family with him, so he’d give her that.

It would have to wait until after Homelander was dead. Ben knew Her, he knew she’d need a little more time to be ready for that, but—in this perfect world—she one day would be. In this perfect world She’d never be afraid again, and she’d cry about whatever normal people cried about, and Ben would make her feel safe enough to have a family. Ryan would visit them, that was obvious. Annie, Hughie, Kimiko, and MM would as well, because that would make Her feel even more loved. Even Butcher had somehow worked himself into this, and was at occasional dinners when they went back to New York to visit Violet. The only people that wouldn’t be allowed near them were Mallory and her mother.

It would be fucking perfect. She’d wake up next to him, and he’d surround Her with evidence of his love for her. He’d kiss her at every chance, and tell her he loved her wherever he could work it into the conversation. He’d let her boss him around all fucking day, and the moment the door closed behind them at night Ben would lock it and drag her into their bed. He’d fuck Her stupid, and she’d give him a blissful, happy smile, and that would be their whole fucking lives. Happy. Just fucking happy.

The most Ben indulged in these thoughts was when She was truly, fully passed out. When Her breathing was slow and her heartbeat was even, Ben would tell her in the dark. When he was certain she couldn’t hear, Ben would mutter to her all the ways he’d make her happy. How much he loved her, how she was so fucking beautiful and perfect and he’d never stop waiting for Her, because if there was even a goddamn chance his stupid fucking fantasy could be real he’d take it. She was worth waiting for. Ben loved Her, and one day he’d figure out how to make himself worthy of being loved by Her.

It’s how he spent every night now. Waiting for when she woke up in flames again, holding Her until she fell back under, and tracing his hands over her face until it was peaceful and all the tears were wiped away. Usually he’d fall asleep himself, savoring in the feel of Her body against his and the sound of her heartbeat, but tonight he couldn’t. Tonight all he managed to do was fucking watch Her in his arms, and try not to think about how he wouldn’t be at her side tomorrow night.

Then, as light began to leak through the windows, Ben’s phone rang.

It was an unknown number. She’d told him not to answer those, because if it’s not spam they’ll leave a voicemail, and if it is spam you’ll be telling them you’re an active number and you’ll get more calls. He didn’t fucking understand what that meant—She’d definitely tried to explain, and Ben had definitely gotten distracted by how her tits squished together when she crossed her arms—but She was always right about this shit, so Ben ignored it.

Barely thirty seconds passed before it rang again. Ben flipped the screen over, because there wasn’t a fucking chance in hell he was letting this wake Her up.

It rang a third time. And fourth. By the fifth, Ben was going to fucking smash his phone.

He couldn’t smash his phone. He was leaving in the morning, and if he smashed his phone he wouldn’t be able to text her.

On the sixth, Ben scooted carefully to sit against the headboard, made sure she was still comfortably asleep with Her head in his lap, and picked up the goddamn call.

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are,” he hissed, keeping a careful ear on her heartbeat against him. “But if you call me one more time I’ll fine you, cut off your fingers, and shove them up your fucking asshole.”

“Charming as always, Soldier Boy.” Stan Edgar's voice was clipped and bored, barely muffled by the static of the receiver. “But I don’t believe that’s a way to talk to an old friend.”

Ben froze, and the glass of the screen cracked in his grip. “How the fuck did you get my number.”

“I have my methods, but you shouldn’t concern yourself with them. I’d imagine you have bigger things to worry about.”

Ben glanced down at Her, daylight starting to dance across her face. He didn’t have time to entertain Edgar’s weird, underhanded fucking bullshit. “If you know I have other shit to worry about, why the fuck are you calling me.”

“I’d like to catch up. Surely, even within the chaos, you have enough time to pay me a visit.”

“I’m good. Too long a drive just to talk to an old fucking asshole.”

“As far as I recall,” Edgar hummed. “I am forty years your junior. And it is not only you I wish to see, so it is not your call alone to make.”

“If you don’t stop speaking in cryptic fucking bullshit-“

Edgar said Her name, and Ben's heart stopped. For a split second there was a ringing sound in his ears, and he couldn’t fucking breathe. He missed the rest of Edgars sentence.

There was a second of silence on the phone, and Edgar cleared his throat.

“Do you care to respond-“

“You’re not getting anywhere fucking near her,” Ben’s had, unconsciously, pulled Her closer. “I don’t care about our deal, she’s staying the fuck out of it.”

“Luckily, this is not within the confines of our deal. It is simply a request for some company, along with an invitation for a plus one.”

“I know how you fucking work shit, Edgar,” Ben watched Her shift slightly, and lowered his voice. “You can shove your request right up your tiny fucking dickhole, and swallow your own fucking cum when you beat your meat to get it back.”

Edgar chuckled. “I always forget how… poetic you are, Benjamin. In a better life, you were a mediocre reality television writer.”

“Call me Benjamin again, and I’ll drive upstate just to cut out your fucking tongue.” Nobody but Her was allowed to call him Benjamin. She always said it with some sort of unyielding care, no matter how angry her tone was. She said it right, in a way Ben hadn’t known was the correct way to say it until she’d grinned at him and said Benjamin, I give a shit about you. I adore you. I want you. Edgar said it like he was scolding a fucking child. Ben wasn’t a fucking child.

Edgar might have some sort of fucking chip in Ben’s brain, because his next words were amused, confident, and exactly what Ben had been thinking about. “Ah, I’d imagine that strikes a certain nerve, given the nature of your relationship with the only other person who addresses you as such.”

“You watch your fucking mouth-“

“It amuses me how oblivious you have grown to be. It may be the old age, but you have become downright unobservant.”

Ben scowled, and She rolled over against him, burying her face in his stomach. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re implying, Edgar, but if you called just to make pussy fucking request, then my answer is no and we’re done.”

“Is she with you?”

She hummed against Ben’s body, and he ran his free hand through her hair. “No.”

“I am afraid that I don’t believe you.”

“Then that’s real fucking shitty for you-“

“Ben.”

He froze, and looked down to find Her rubbing her eyes open, a fucking adorable frown on her face as she watched him. He didn’t know how to mute the call, so Ben held the phone high above his head and lowered his voice to hardly fucking audible. “Go back to sleep, Sunshine.”

She shook her head, slowly sitting up. “What time is it?”

“Early. Lie the hell down-“

“Who are you talking to?”

“We’re fucking talking-“

She gave him a flat look. “On the phone.”

He could lie. He could say it was Annie or Hughie or Ryan or Butcher, but she wouldn’t believe him—none of them called Ben, and only Ryan really texted him—and Ben had hit a very fucking annoying point where he was physically incapable of lying to Her. “Edgar. Go to bed.”

All the lingering sleep vanished from her eyes in a second, growing sharp in a way that would turn Ben on if this wasn’t so serious. “Why the fuck is Edgar calling you.”

“I’ll tell you in the morning-“

“Tell me now.”

He glared at Her. “You need rest-“

“Benjamin,” She hissed. “I am not going to get any rest while I know Stan Edgar is on the phone. Not when you still fucking owe him. Tell me what he wants, or I’ll grab the phone and ask him myself.”

“You can listen, and I’ll tell you-“ She started half climbing up Ben’s chest to try and grab the phone, and he snorted. “Fucking Christ woman, you know I could just sit on you and you’d have to wait.”

“You won’t though,” She muttered, trying to drag Ben’s arm down to where she could reach his hand. “Pussy.”

This was serious. This was really fucking serious, because Edgar was a genuine threat and now wanted Ben to walk Her right into his fucking lair. This was goddamn serious, because Ben wasn’t going to allow his shitty fucking decisions and deals that he’d made to protect Her in the first place put her in harms way.

It was incredibly fucking serious, and Ben need to get his head out of the gutter about how her hips were wiggling on his chest and her angry Benjamin, I’m going to kick your ass face was still beautiful. He needed to stop thinking about how she was the most amazing person he’d ever met, and about how much he loved Her, because it was making him fucking pathetic.

“If I give you the damn phone,” Ben grunted, and she paused to look down at him. “You have to put it on that speaker shit and calm the hell down.”

She nodded quickly, reaching her hand down to his eye level. “Deal.”

He was supposed to shake Her hand. She wanted Ben to shake her hand. But he was using one hand to hold the phone, and his other hand had developed a mind that was governed by Ben’s impulse of love Her, touch Her, take care of Her, and had wandered up to hold her steady on her waist. She hadn’t tried to move it—she was fucking leaning back into it—so there wasn’t a chance in fucking hell Ben was taking it away himself.

Ben handed her the phone, and tried not to act too fucking in love with Her as she slid down his body, holding his gaze the whole time. She hit a button on the screen, gave him a look that said you’re learning how to do this yourself later, Pretty Boy, and took a deep breath before she spoke.

“Edgar, why the fuck are you calling us at,” She glanced down at the phone. “6am?”

“So you are here,” Edgar’s voice was delighted. Ben wanted to smash the phone. “How delightful to speak to you again, it truly has been far too long.”

“And here I was, going to ask you to never fucking speak to me again.” She drawled. “I don’t think our relationship is as serious as you thought it was.”

“I’m wounded,” Edgar said Her name, and it sounded fucking wrong. “I thought we had a connection.”

“If by connection you mean you made me fight a bunch of man-eating sheep and I didn’t manage to kill you and make it look like an accident, then yeah. Sure.”

“Ouch,” Edgar chuckled. “I’d think you have much to thank me for. Would you have ever woken up our dear Benjamin without my advice?”

Ben could see the flash of anger in Her eyes. Whatever careful game she’d been playing with Edgar ended, even as her tone remained bored. “I like to think I’d gotten there myself eventually. Tell me why you’re calling.”

“As I was telling your companion, I’m inviting you both to lunch.”

She looked up at Ben with a frown. Lunch?

Pussy didn’t mention lunch. Said he wanted us to visit, and I wasn’t promised any fucking food.

Her nose wrinkled, you are shockingly literal sometimes, Pretty Boy, and her attention turned back to the phone. “Is this an invitation to lunch, or a you owe me lunch.”

There was a brief second of silence before Edgar answered. “Interesting. I didn’t expect you to be aware of our little arrangement.”

“That’s not an answer to my question.”

Edgar sighed through the speaker. “It is an invitation. There will be talk of the favor, but I’ve grown lonely. I think I’d enjoy the company.”

Ben scowled. “You can shove your company up your fucking ass-“

“Edgar,” She cut him off with a glare, and her voice was softer than Ben’s as she spoke, words slow and her brow drawn. “If you already have a favor picked out, why should we entertain you? Wouldn’t it be simpler to just tell us?”

She kept saying us. She kept talking about Ben as one with her, and if she didn’t stop soon he’d tell her he loved her right fucking now, with Edgar still on the phone.

“You are a truly phenomenal woman,” Edgar said Her name again, and Ben’s skin started to crawl. “There is not much that escapes you. I understand how Soldier Boy became so taken with you.”

“Yeah, I’m a real marvel of humanity.” Ben didn’t fucking love the way she said that, dry and monotone, like she fucking wasn’t. “Tell us what you want, Edgar.”

“Well, it helps if you think of this as a karmic act. If you are truly set on not making the short drive to speak in person, then I’ll cash in my IOU and that will be all. If you can find it in your heart and schedule to visit a lonely old man, then I might find myself in a better mood.”

She frowned. “A better mood? You want to be a little less of a cryptic bridge troll and a little more of a normal person?”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to see me in person to see the extent of my generosity.”

“You can keep your fucking riddles in the dark, pathetic fucking hole you crawled out of-“

“Can we have a few days?”

Ben stared at Her. What the fuck are you doing.

We need to run this past the team.

We don’t need to run fucking shit past them, because we’re not going.

She sighed. I think we should. He can’t hurt us, and he knows a lot. Whatever generosity he’s talking about might help us.

“I can wait a day or two, if it would aid you in coming to the correct conclusion-“

“Great,” She cut Edgar off. “Mallory will call you. Don’t call us again.” She paused, glaring at the phone. “Bitch.” And hung up.

“There’s not a chance in fucking hell-“

“Please think about it.” She dropped his phone, holding his face between her hands. “We can wait to talk to everyone about it until after you get back home. Just really think about it.”

His answer was no. There was not a single universe where Ben was going to agree to put Her in danger like that. For something so fucking pointless, when she couldn’t fucking sleep through the night without losing her goddamn mind. The more he thought about it the more Ben was certain that this was simple fucking no. He would deal with this himself, and she’d stay far, far the fuck away from its line of fire.

But She was so pretty. She was watching him with a sharp gaze, and there was hair across her eyes that Ben wanted to move away, and her hands on his cheeks and jaw were warm. They fit fucking perfectly on his face, because She fit fucking perfectly against every part of him. Ben loved Her, and it was really making him a goddamn pushover. But it was worth it. It was really fucking worth it, because when he grunted and gave her a small nod, Her whole face lit up and she leaned in to give him one, soft, gentle kiss.

Ben was tired. Later, when he knew he was going to have to justify this to himself, he was going to remind himself over and over that he was tired. He’d been up all night worrying about Her, and so nobody could say a fucking word about it because all his resolve had been poured into care for Her, and his decsion making had been bound to take a hit. Ben was fucking exhausted, and that’s why when She squirmed slightly on his lap and teased her tongue along his lips, Ben let his control snap and flipped her over.

They’d made out since the gun range. They never stopped making out, and Ben was pretty sure that—if work and food and breathing and all that other pointless shit weren’t obstacles—he’d been happy spending the rest of goddamn time making out with Her. Pulling her up to his side on the couch, leaning over her in the hall, tugging her between his legs at the table.

This wasn’t making out. This was fucking eating each other. Ben was bruising Her mouth, biting her lips and running his tongue along her teeth, letting how her hands clawed at his back and pulled at his hair spur him on. Letting himself push her deeper into the mattress, using a free hand to grab and squeeze her ass as she wrapped her legs around his torso. She made a high, whining sound that sent something electric through Ben’s blood, so he did it again and let himself groan when she started to grind up into him. His knee ended up shoved between her legs, and when her head threw back Ben trailed his mouth across her cheek and down her neck, leaving wet open kisses and dropping his hips onto hers in an attempt to not rut against Her. It was all mindless and hungry and so fucking natural. This was where Ben was supposed to be. Above Her, against her, touching her and caring for her and taking every moan in his ear as fucking testament to how this was love. He fucking loved Her, and there was even the tiniest goddamn chance she’d love him back he’d stay right fucking here.

He stopped because he had to. Because if he kept going and She kept making perfect, musical sounds, he’d tell Her. Ben had already risen back up to her face, letting her pull his tongue between her teeth and growling into her mouth, only a second away from just telling her. From muttering I fucking love you down her throat and letting her swallow the words with another whimper. So Ben had to pull away, let her heavy breath trade with his, and just fucking pull himself together. Ignore his less than helpful dick and heart trying to control his body and only hold her gently. Trace soft, light hands over the parts of her body he was allowed to touch, and tell her he loved her like that.

“Ben,” Her voice was a whisper, and when he opened his eyes hers were still closed. Her mouth was parted and swollen—he’d fucking done that, it was evidence of how much he fucking adored her—and her hands had stilled in his hair. She was so fucking beautiful, with the morning light on her face and her whole body relaxed, it might drive Ben insane. “I,” She took a long, unsteady breath. “I really, really adore you.”

He kissed Her again, and a long sound of content hummed from her chest. Ben moved up, kissing along the bridge of her nose, between her eyes, and on her brow. “I know,” he grunted against her skin. “MM and Annie will be able to handle Singer their fucking selves, it’s not like anyone’s going to like what I have to say-“

“Please don’t tell Singer to eat his balls or suck your dick.” Her voice was bored, but when she looked up at Ben there was a light behind her eyes that made his whole body relax. “It’s not very diplomatic.”

“I don’t give a fuck about diplomacy,” he muttered. “If Singer wasn’t such a fucking uptight pussy he’d just take our fucking word and give us the V.”

“And you can tell him that after we get the V. Until then you’re going to have to pretend to not want to kill him.” She paused, voice growing soft. “Please, Ben. Just try.”

He sighed, searching Her face for any excuse. Anything that he could point to and say here’s why I should fucking stay. Here’s a goddamn solid reason that I don’t have to fucking leave you. Something you won’t be able to argue with me about, something you won’t even try to argue with me about.

There was only one. And Ben wasn’t allowed to say it. He had to swallow his only plea of let me fucking stay and care for and love you because I’m going to go fucking mad with worry, because you’re not okay and I can’t help but fuck me if I’m not going to try and nod. He had to sit in the silence, still touching her, always touching her, and keep himself from giving more. Then he had to fucking stand up, and get ready. She made him shower—Ben made her keep the door open—and when he exited the bathroom she pushed past him with a large plastic bag in her hands.

“What the fuck are you-“

“You need toiletries,” She didn’t look over to Ben, still in the door, as she gathered his toothbrush and shampoo into the bag. “And I’m not letting you anywhere near hotel hair products.”

Ben turned to look back at the bed with a frown, and there was an open suitcase on the mattress full of half-folded clothing and his supe suit, a shirt and pair of pants set out for Ben to change into. When she came up to Ben's side, her voice was nervous. “I, um, you’re not good at packing. So-“

He grinned down at Her, reaching up to grab her chin and kiss her once, sweet and easy and fuck she felt perfect against him. One of Her hands reached up to grab Ben’s wrist and keep him there, and her feet shuffled to bring her further against him, tucking into his side. When Ben pulled back her eyes were wide, and there was a little of Ben’s saliva still on her lip. When his thumb moved to swipe it away, her heartbeat stuttered slightly, and Ben loved her.

“Where the fuck did you get a suitcase from?”

“My ass.”

He snorted, and a smile started to cross Her mouth. “Brat.”

“Cunt.”

Ben leaned down, careful not to drop his towel from around his waist as his hand moved to hold the back of her head. “Thank you, beautiful.”

“I couldn’t get your shield in there,” she whispered. “Why the fuck is it so heavy.”

He chuckled. “That’s kind of the damn point. And I can just fucking carry it, I think I’ll fucking live.”

She nodded slowly, gaze dropping down to Ben’s bare chest, and he felt his hand tense against her. She was fucking gaping at him, and her heart was getting faster, and fuck if she kept looking Ben with all that thirst and want he wouldn’t make it out the door-

“You should, uh, get dressed.” Her voice was breathless, and her grip on Ben’s wrist was growing tight. “You need to go soon.”

Ben kissed her nose, and stood up. He changed as she finished packing and put on the coffee—Ben ended up with a travel mug shoved into his hand—and they walked to the elevator with Her leaning into his side and Ben’s free arm over her shoulders.

They weren’t getting a send off. MM was waiting against the wall, flipping through a binder of Her plan with a backpack at his side, and Annie was nowhere in sight.

MM looked up when they stopped in the hall, giving Ben a short nod before turning to Her. “We’ll text you after the meeting. Shoot me a message if you need to add anything to this.” He tapped the binder, and she nodded.

“Where’s Annie-“

“Downstairs with transport. I was just waiting for Soldier Boy’s slow ass so we can get moving.”

Ben scowled. “It’s 7:55, we’re not even fucking late-“

“Doesn’t change that you’re the last motherfucker here.” MM shrugged, glancing back Her and saying her name a lot fucking nicer than he ever said Soldier Boy. “I can give you a minute, if you want-“

“Yes, please.” She moved in front of Ben, watching him carefully as she spoke. “Ready?”

“No.”

“Ben, please-“

“I’ll do this, but I’m not going to pretend I fucking want to-“ Ben cut himself off as she wrapped her arms around his torso, squeezing him with her face pressed against his body. Ben’s arms flew up without a thought, holding Her as close as he could, and he sat in the sound of her heartbeat.

“I’ll miss you,” She mumbled into his chest. “Be safe.”

“I haven’t left yet, I can still fucking stay-“

“No,” she sighed. “You can’t. But you’ll be home soon, and I’ll be here.”

“You’ll be here.” Ben was repeating it to remind himself. To make his body fucking listen to him, and use his goddamn sense to know that she’d be right fucking here when he got home. Still safe. Ben being gone for one fucking day wouldn’t put her in danger, she was a whole lot stronger than that. “Text me.”

She smiled against him. “You know how to text, grandpa?”

“If I don’t, you have no one to blame but your damn self, Sunshine.” Ben pulled back to look at Her, and his breath hitched a little when she smiled up at him. “I think I’ll fucking figure it out.”

“If not, you can always use text to speech-“

“He is not allowed to use text to speech,” MM snapped, having suddenly fucking appeared beside Ben. “I do not want to hear whatever horny shit this motherfucker is going to text you.”

Ben scowled. “I don’t even know what text to speech fucking is-“

“And you’re not going to learn.” MM glanced at Her. “We’ve got to go.”

She swallowed, and looked back to Ben. “Don’t kill Singer. Maybe yell at him a little, but don’t kill him. Try not to kill anyone, but if you have to don’t make a mess. I put a playlist on your phone for the drive, but if you get bored you can text me because I’m probably not going to do anything all day. Stick to my pitch, and stay safe, and be careful about what you say because I don’t really trust anyone but us. And come home, Ben, please come home as soon as you can-“

He kissed Her, long and gentle and careful, because he was starting to worry she might make herself pass out or get the bright fucking idea to come with them. “Your faith in me,” he muttered Her name, running a thumb over her cheekbone. “Is fucking astounding.”

“I do have faith in you, I’m just nervous, we need this-“

“I know,” he sighed. “I’m going to get the V, because we need it, and then I’ll fucking walk back to Jersey if I have to. I’d be faster than the damn car anyway.”

“Don’t do that,” She mumbled. “I don’t want to have to clean highway shit off your clothes.”

Ben snorted, and she smiled up at him. So fucking perfect.

I love you. Ben put it all over his face. He allowed all his adoration and affection and care for Her into his eyes, let his jaw relax and his mouth smile just enough to tell her. I fucking love you, Sunshine, and I’ll always come back. Nothing anyone does to me will ever make you lose me, because I’ll crawl out of any fucking hole or cave or lab or prison to get home to you. I love you.

She didn’t understand, because she was blinking wordlessly at him, but this was better than just fucking leaving. Ben kissed the top of her head, and—because he was fucking pathetic and wasn’t masochistic enough to resist it—brushed his lips against hers. He smiled down at Her in one last, desperate fucking bid to make her understand, and used all the fucking strength he had to pull away and follow MM into the elevator.

They weren’t taking the Pussy Mobile, because it had finally fucking kicked it after the Believe Expo and was rotting away in a government junkyard like it fucking deserved. Instead, Mallory had stuffed Annie, Ben, and MM into a goddamn minivan. Agent No-Gun was standing next to Annie when Ben and MM arrived in the garage, and was saying bunch of shit about routes and safety that Ben didn’t fucking hear, because he was throwing his shield suitcase in the back and climbing into the van. There wasn’t a goddamn chance he was going to be stuck in a middle seat, listening to Annie sigh or MM fucking fidget for the four hour ride.

To his surprise, nobody tried to stop Ben as he spread out across the back row. MM just glared at him and sat in the middle with a frown, and Annie gave him a small smile, leaning over her seat as Agent No-Gun turned on the engine.

Annie started to say a bunch of shit Ben didn’t hear—he was focused on his phone, trying to remember what the fuck a playlist was and how to access it—before mentioning Her name and making him look up with a frown.

“What the fuck are you saying?”

“Is she okay?” Annie sighed, watching Ben carefully. “She’s been a little, um, weird the past week. I’m not sure if the media is still getting to her, or something else that she doesn’t want to tell us about-“

“She’ll be okay,” Ben snapped. She wasn’t okay, but she would be. It might take a whole fucking lifetime, but Ben would stand with her the whole way. And he might not actively think of Annie as an annoying, whiny fucking bitch anymore, but she still didn’t get to know about the gun range, or the showers, or the nightmares. If She hadn’t told Annie about that shit, then Ben wouldn’t. His loyalty was with Her, and not a single goddamn place else. “I’m taking care of her.”

Annie’s voice was shockingly gentle. “I don’t think you’re not, Soldier Boy. I just wanted to know if I could help.”

Ben paused, narrowing his eyes at her. MM was still silent in his seat, and they had begun to pull out of the garage, but Annie’s eyes weren’t moving from Ben’s. Her heart was only a little above where it might usually be, and her face was genuine, so Ben grunted, “how the fuck would you help.”

Annie shrugged. “I’m asking you for a reason. You know her better than I do, I mean, you’re in love with her-“

MM slapped Annie on the shoulder, and her mouth snapped closed.

“How the fuck did you know that.” Ben hissed, body growing rigid. “I haven’t fucking told anyone-“

“Oh, you’re,” Annie blinked at him. “Sorry, I just thought you’d deny it.”

“How the fucking hell did you know-“

“It’s kind of obvious-“

“Annie,” MM grunted, glancing back at Ben. “We all fucking agreed-“

“The fuck are you talking about, you all agreed.” Ben paused, looking between Annie and MM’s tight expressions. “Who else fucking knows.”

“Hughie, Butcher-“

“Annie-“

“Come on.” Annie rolled her eyes. “Do you really want to be stuck in the car with him for four hours without answering his questions?”

MM scowled, but fell silent as Annie continued.

“Frenchie, Kimiko, and A-Train-“

“Fucking A-train-“

“He asked us what the hell was going on between you two.” MM muttered, shooting Annie a harsh look that made her sigh and nod. “And we told him.”

“Mallory doesn’t know,” Annie added. “But I think she’s guessed.”

Ben glared between them. “How.”

“You aren’t exactly subtle, asshole.” MM gave Ben another look he didn’t fucking understand. “We’d have to be fucking deaf and blind to miss it.”

“We kind of all put it together separately,” Annie’s face was weary, watching Ben like he might start ripping their heads off their bodies. It wasn’t a totally unfounded fear, not if they kept their observant shit up. “For me it was the meeting with Edgar. Hughie said he got it after Neuman.”

Ben’s head whipped to MM. “What the fuck told you.”

MM ran a hand over his face, still glaring at Ben. “When you made her call her sister.”

All that shit was fucking months ago. A goddamn lifetime had passed since all of it, and Ben had only figured it out himself after the Believe Expo. They said it was obvious, but She hadn’t seemed to get whatever memo that every other fucker on their team had. She’d have brought it up, She’d had talked to him about, because subtlety wasn’t exactly her greatest strength. She’d have told Ben if she knew.

“You pussies haven’t fucking-“

“Nobody’s told her,” MM was watching Ben carefully, and exchanged another fucking look with Annie. “That shit’s not our place.”

Ben had a lot of other fucking questions. Why nobody had decided to maybe fucking say something to Ben about this. How often they talked about it behind his goddamn back. How it wasn’t their fucking place, not by a mile, but while they were having this dumb as fuck conversation, what were their opinions on Her loving Ben-

Someone’s phone started ringing, cutting Ben from his thoughts.

“It’s Mallory,” MM muttered, giving Ben one last look. “Don’t be a fucking ass about this. We’ve observed something, against our will I might add, and she doesn’t know. That’s it.”

MM picked up—Malloy was an impatient bitch who had to ask about an ETA she could pass on to Singer—and Annie looked like she was going to say something. Her mouth opened and closed like a damn fish twice, before just shaking her head and turning back to her seat.

Ben’s phone buzzed in his hand before he could force Annie to contiune, and if his smile made him look like a fucking idiot when he saw Her face on his lockscreen, he looked downright moronic when he read the banner on the display.

When he’d gotten his phone, She’d entered her name into it. Just her name. No extra bullshit or annotations like the others, just her damn name. Ben hadn’t fucking stood for it. He’d tried to model his excellent revision after the other contacts, but the way to type a semi-colon was apparently a fucking secret that Ben wasn’t allowed to know, so he’d had to improvise. He’d deleted her name—you could wipe his memory and replace his brain, but some part of Ben would always fucking know her name, so he didn’t a fucking phone to tell him—and done the nickname and instructions.

2 messages from Sunshine, take care of.

Ben grinned, looking around the minivan to ensure nobody saw how fucking stupid he looked—although it might not matter anymore, since they were all apparently fucking invasive dickwads—and opened the messages.

You forgot your coffee.

There was a photo, a half-blurry picture of the mug She’d given Ben on their table. He wasn’t sure when it had left his hand between their apartment and the elevator, but it clearly wasn’t there now.

wut the fuckk am i sopossed to do abut it now

Ben turned his phone over, and it was a few seconds before it buzzed again.

Are you going to make any effort to spell?

He swallowed a chuckle. no

Please?

I can just not text you. That option is very much on the table.

u textd me firs

Ben paused, then added, i havnt beeen gon a fuckinh hour

Her response was immediate and Ben wasn’t sure how she typed so fucking fast. Shut up, or I’ll dye all your clothing pink and tape over all your baseball games while you’re gone.

do nut do that i havnet fuckingg watched thwm

If you make a modicum of an attempt to type in a way I can decipher, I won’t.

Ben rolled his eyes, and typed a little slower. whats a modicum. is it jizz

No, you horny ass. It means a small amount.

like modicome

That’s the exact same word, you just can’t fucking spell.

brat

You love it, cunt. And I don’t know why you even record the games, we can just stream them.

i dont trust the stream to be fucking right

Right??? About what?

game. its the principl Sunshine.

It’s a stupid principle. An old man principle. There was a pause, three tiny bubbles popping in and out of Ben’s screen, and then How’s the ride going? Has anyone killed anyone else?

Ben looked up at MM and Annie, still facing forward. no

Who’s driving?

lady suit

Ben didn’t get a response for almost a minute, and he’d just started to glare at the display when her message came through.

Do you mean Agent Cortez? The one you stole the gun from?

yes

That’s it?

u dont need two peopl to drive

I meant is that it for security.

apperently

Apparently.

shit the fuck up

Gross.

Ben snorted, and decided that this could be enough. He was happy to spend four hours in this horrible fucking minivan, because She’d still be talking to him. Her voice had stopped following him around a few days after she’d gotten home—he hadn’t heard it in over a week—but he’d had the real Her at his side. The Her he could touch and tease and grin at, and who would match everything he threw at her in stride. The Her he was allowed to look at and think I fucking love you. He might not be able to touch Her like this—through the phone and over text—but he could still imagine her bright smile with every message and pretend she was at his side, telling him about her day. About how since Ben wasn’t home to train Ryan, they were going to eat lunch together in the apartment. About how she was cleaning out the fridge—asking if he wanted another two tubs of strawberry cream cheese, because they were down to one and he tore through them in a day—and whatever TV show she was watching without him. She rarely took more than a minute to respond, and Ben never fucking looked away from his phone, so the hours passed easily.

He hadn’t even noticed they’d parked until the doors of the car opened, and it grew suspiciously quiet as MM and Annie left their seats.

“Soldier Boy?” Annie poked her head back inside, and Ben nearly threw a headrest at her on instinct. “We’re here.”

Ben looked outside the door with a frown. He’d been to the White House, and this wasn’t fucking it. This was a loading dock. “Where the hell is here.”

“Hotel,” MM called from somewhere behind Annie. “We’ve got an hour until the actual meeting, and I am not fucking leaving my clothing in the car. You better start hauling ass, or we’ll leave you in the car.”

Ben rolled his eyes, but grabbed his phone, climbed over the middle row and out past Annie, and grabbed his suitcase before following Agent Cortez through a gray door and up too goddamn many flights of stairs for there not to be a fucking elevator.

He got his own room. It had a nice rug, and a bunch of fucking shit paintings, and a large bed that Ben would not fucking be sleeping in. The sheets were too cool, and there wasn’t an imprint of Her body on one side or the smell of her shampoo on the pillows, so Ben would maybe sit on it, but that would be the extent of its function. He didn’t bother to take his shit fully out the suitcase—tossing his current clothing on the bed in exchange for his supe suit—but did plug his phone in with the stupid little white wire, reading the last text She’d sent.

Ryan wants to know your opinion on Frankenstein, if you’ve read it.

i had to read it in shcool. was ok. He paused, looking around the hotel room. we got to the hotel. fucking pussy singer is making us wait a hour.

Are you settled? Did you get to eat on the way? If not you should ask MM, he’ll probably have a plan for food.

As if he’d been fucking summoned, MM walked through the previously fucking locked door of Ben’s room.

“How the fuck did you get in-“

MM raised his hand, displaying a key card. “You settled? We want to go now, Singer might be able to see us early.”

Ben scowled. “Why do you get to just fucking walk in to my goddamn room.”

“Because I’m your fucking CO, and a hell of a lot more trustworthy. You’re only here because Singer’s nostalgic or some shit.”

“I’d go back right fucking now if you pussies don’t want me-“

“Nope.” MM looked around the room, frowning at the open suitcase before turning back to Ben. “You look fucking settled. Let’s go.”

Ben glanced back at his phone, sent her a quick text that they were going to the meeting, grabbed his shield, and followed MM back to the shitty fucking minivan.

Singer did not get them in early. They’d arrived at the White House—it looked the exact fucking same since Ben had been here last, expect with a fuck ton more computers—been sat in a random ass room with a table and paper cups of dogshit coffee, and waited for five goddamn hours. Right as Ben started to seriously consider standing up and just fucking finding Singer—they’d shoot him, he’d live, and everyone could go the fuck home—a lady in a gray skirt walked through the door and gestured for them to follow her. The did, into a room that looked the exact fucking same as the one they’d just fucking been in. The only difference was the five men and women in black suits and sunglasses, lining the walls around President Singer.

“Mr. President, Marvin Milk, Annie January, and,” the woman glanced at Ben with nervous eyes. “Soldier Boy are here.”

“I can see that Millie.” Singer sighed, gesturing to the chairs across the table. “You three sit the hell down, you’re makin me feel like a jackass.”

MM nodded, and dropped across from Singer with Annie to one side and Ben—after receiving a sharp glare—to the other.

“It’s good to see you again, Sir.” MM clasped his hands on the table, leaning forwards. “Thank you for meeting with us-“

“Don’t thank me yet.” Singer looked between them, eyes landing on Ben. “Soldier Boy, you look about how I expected.”

Ben scowled. “Why the fuck were we waiting for five hours.”

MM and Annie glared at him, MM’s mouth opening to probably tell Ben to shut the fuck up, but Singer chuckled.

“You should be lucky I’m entertaining this shit at all. Grace told me what you want, and I’ve got a few questions first.”

Annie nodded. “What do you need to know?”

Singer said Her full name, and Ben’s fists curled on the table. “She’s been making some risky fuckin gamble. Riskier than waking him,” Singer nodded to Ben. “Up. You willing to place all your bets on her willingness to play with fire?”

Ben shouldn’t talk. She’d told him to be diplomatic, and if he opened his mouth he’d tell Singer to shove his dick in his mouth and eat Ben’s fucking asshole. So MM got to answer.

“It’s all paid off before,” MM’s words were short. Neutral. “She’s the one who got Neuman out of your hair, and kept your constituents from going full fucking team Homelander.”

Singer hummed. “And what about the FBSA incident? I heard about how she got away from the tower, I’ve seen the footage of all those agents dropping down screamin. You think she’s stable enough to get back in the game?”

“She’s gotten a,” Annie paused, frowning. “Handle on her powers. She’s not a danger to anyone, and she’s doing a lot of work.”

“That wasn’t my question.” Singer leaned back in his chair, flipping his phone in his hands. “She’s managed to make a real mess of the public. We need to get some sort of direction with where to take this. Get her back in front of a camera, on the record about those Homelander accusations.” Singer shot Annie a look. “And next time, I’d like to be kept in the loop before you pull a stunt like that.”

“It was the fucking truth.” Ben’s words were hissed through teeth, and he channeled all his vulgar threats at Singer into a violent glare. “And until you actually fucking pay us, we don’t need to tell you shit.”

Singer narrowed his eyes at Ben. “She needs to fix what she broke-“

“She doesn’t need to do a goddamn thing. You put a camera in her face, I’ll break it.”

The suits around Singer were tensing, hands dropping to their guns, but Singer just shook his head. “You know, I’ve heard the rumors about you two. Didn’t think they were entirely true, sorta wanted to see for myself, but I also didn’t think I’d spend my career cleaning up media messes.”

“With all due respect, sir, Soldier Boy’s not wrong.” MM let out a long breath. “She’s not a threat, but I wouldn’t put her back into the public eye yet. There’s no telling what Sage and Homelander have ready for that, and she just underwent some real fucked up shit. She’s the reason we’ve got Homelander in a stall, it’s not fucking worth the risk of sending her right back into that motherfuckers arm for some good press.”

Ben wasn’t going to let Homelander anywhere fucking near Her, but didn’t get chance to shout that before Singer was sighing, rubbing his chin as he spoke.

“I’m willin to keep her on the bench for now, but I ain’t sure we’re going to be able to hold Homelander off much longer. I got guys in congress saying they want him as my VP replacement, and I can’t keep kickin that can down the road.”

“That’s what we’re here to talk about.” Annie glanced at MM, waiting for his small nod to continue. “I understand Mallory told you what we’re here to request, and we wouldn’t be asking if we didn’t think it would work.”

“Mr. President, you know as well as we do that Homelander’s a threat to democracy.” MM’s words were careful, slow. “All we need is one shot. Just one vial of V, and we can finish this shit for good.”

Singer scoffed. “You people keep sayin this will be our shot. That French Asshole’s weapon against Neuman was supposed to be our shot. Edgar’s farm up in Maine was supposed to be out shot. Soldier Boy was supposed to be our shot. But Homelander’s still fuckin running around. What makes this shot any different.”

“We’ve got the receipts to prove the V will put him under-“

“I’ve seen all your documents, Starlight.” Singer dismissed Annie with a hand, gaze falling to Ben. “Why ain’t you able to finish this, huh? Just fire at the laser eyed asshole, get it over with?”

“I’d like to see you do this fucking better-“

“Sir,” MM interrupted Ben with a glare, and Ben rolled his eyes. “This is a delicate situation. The V is the easiest way to get it done without any unnecessary death or destruction. It’s all we’re asking for.”

“You think I can just snap my fingers and make it appear?” Singer snorted. “It ain’t that simple. That V is fuckin miles underground, and you’re lucky I’m even saying we have it. On the record, it was destroyed three damn years ago. There’s not a chance we’re just givin you some-“

“How fucking stupid are you,” Ben drawled, deciding to fully ignore the glowers and sneers of everyone in the room, or the clicks of guns. “That you think we’d give fuck about your records or obstacles. You want Homelander out of the picture to keep your cushy fucking pussy job, this is the damn way to do it. Either that, or you can try and hold that star-spangled dickfuck down yourself while I take the shot.”

The room was silent, and Ben could fucking feel Annie and MM’s glares. Singer himself didn’t look too pleased, and Ben didn’t even bother to try and give a fuck. Not when Singer took a long breath, glancing down at his phone, and relented.

“I’ll need approval from my defense secretary,” Singer muttered, still glaring at Ben. “And some sort of collateral if you idjits can’t do your fucking jobs again.”

“Your whole fucking country is collateral, you pussy headed motherfucker.” Ben stood up, grabbing his shield from beside his seat. “We’ll do our job, you do yours and get us that fucking V.”

Ben marched out of the room, and waited just long enough for Annie and MM to scramble after him before following their previous path back to the minivan.

Nobody yelled at him about Singer. But it seemed less about Ben’s anger paying off, and more about a general distaste for the whole fucking situation. For how much of a bureaucratic ass Singer was being, not just doing what it took to kill Homelander. How all those pussies had to do was give them the V, far away from the actual fucking fight.

The ride back to the hotel was tense—Ben didn’t see why they couldn’t just fucking go home, but when he said as much all he got was a grunt about security from MM—and it was dark outside by the time they returned. When they got upstairs, Ben slammed his door with a mutter of night to Annie and MM, and dropped his shield on the floor with thoughtless clang as he stripped down.

He’d left his phone on the bed. It had made for a boring fucking five hours—he’d never fucking tell Her, but he’d read a book Annie had pulled from fucking nowhere in an attempt to entertain himself—and Ben turned on the screen the moment he crossed over to the mattress, reading 4 messages from Sunshine, take care of and swiping them open.

Good luck with Singer.

Try not to kill him.

Please tell me how it goes.

Make sure you get dinner.

Ben hadn’t eaten dinner. He’d get on MM’s ass about that later, after he texted her back.

singer is alive and talkig to cabnet for v

Her response was almost immediate. Oh, thank fuck. I’m proud of you, I really didn’t want to go on the lam.

why would u be a lamb

ON the lam, Pretty Boy. It means running from the law.

the fuck would make u run from the law

Because people aren’t just going to let you kill the president. There would be consequences.

Ben grinned at his phone. youd run from the governemnt for me

Don’t get too fucking smug. I’d beat your ass for MAKING me run from the government first.

but u wouldd

I would. Did you eat?

did u fucking eat

I did. I had dinner with everyone. It was hotdog night.

u saved me a dog

Nope. We have hotdogs in the fridge, you can microwave one when you get home.

youre so fuckigg mean to me sunshine

Fuck you. Just for that, I’m eating all the brownies Kimiko gave us.

whyd she give us brownies

Technically, she gave ME brownies. I was going to share, but you’re being an asshole.

brat

Cunt. Did YOU eat?

Ben paused, and sighed to nobody. i will

That’s a no.

i didnt fucking say no i said i will

But you didn’t.

shut the fuck up

Go eat.

you cant fukcig make me

Please eat, Ben. You need to just as much as I.

why

Because you’re a human person. Even with the V, human people need food.

ill eat the brownies when i get home

If you don’t promise me you’re going to go eat right now, there won’t be any brownies when you get home. I’ll give them to Butcher.

u woulndt

Wanna bet?

Ben scowled. i dont want to eat i want to talk

I’m going to bed, Pretty Boy. It’s late.

its ten

And I’m exhausted, we were up early and it’s been a long day.

what happpend

Worried about Edgar and Singer. Media is full of bitches.

ur oaky. Ben paused, starting to type out becaus ill come home right-

Her message came through. I’m fine. Promise me you’ll eat.

Ben glared at the phone, because he didn’t fucking believe her, but still deleted his offer and typed whatever

Ben.

swear it

Thank you. There was a beat, and then a second message. I miss you. Thank you for doing this.

i miss u ass well

Another beat. I miss your ass as well.

Ben snorted. He fucking loved Her. go sleep sunshine

I’ll see you tomorrow?

u will or ill fucking run to jersey

Just steal a car. I know you can.

i thought I wasnt supposed too

I’ll make an exception. Whatever gets you home.

ill be home toomorow. godnight beuaitufl

Ben put his phone down, fully dressing before walking down the hall to bang on MM’s door.

MM was glaring with bleary eyes when it swung open. “The hell you want?”

“Where the fuck do I get food.”

“Call hotel services, dumbass.” MM paused before closing the door, watching Ben with a tired, cautious expression. “You weren’t total fucking shit with Singer. And Mallory says they’ll have us on the road by 7am tomorrow. Be ready.”

The door closed, and Ben returned to his room to figure out how the fuck to call hotel services. It took him a whole damn hour, but Ben got shrimp, ice cream, and a real nice fucking robe that the CIA would be paying for. He picked up his phone, frowned at the banner of Message from Sunshine, take care of, and opened it up.

He thought he hadn’t read it right at first. He blinked a few times—he’d gotten wine as well because nobody appreciated him asking for coke—and crushed his phone in his hand when the words clicked. When they hit him with the force of a train.

Goodnight, Benjamin. I love you.

————————

You can’t sleep. You’d texted Ben goodnight two hours ago—you think, your brain is a little slow from exhaustion—but it’s too quiet, too cold, too dark to do anything but stare at the ceiling and drown in your own thoughts. Too lonely to do anything but worry and worry and worry about everything, and try not to cry.

You’re so tired. You’re home, you should just feel safe and easy and happy, but you’re just fucking exhausted. Your joy is still real when you smile at Ryan, and talk to Annie, and laugh with Kimiko. All your love is still so strong and eternal, circling your head and bringing your every thought back to Ben. It’s painful, how much you love him. How you can’t stop breaking, or wanting him, or missing him. He’s been gone for barely twelve hours, and you miss him. Your eyes are drooping, and your brain is foggy, and all you can do is miss him.

The exhaustion is all in your head. It’s all stemmed from the stress of what if Singer says no to the V. Ben said he was running it past his “cabnet”, but what if they say no. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep fighting Homelander forever, it��s going to kill you. This needs to be over, it needs to be over now, you can’t fucking do this anymore. You’re not strong enough to do this anymore.

Weak.

You’re home. What matters is that you’re home. You can’t feel anyone—it’s been a week of the pills, one in the morning and one in the night, hidden from Ben because you’re still not ready to tell him—or sleep a night without blood haunting your dream, or spend an hour without glancing at your phone and seeing another story about your life.

People are still putting together your “relationship” with Ben. You’d told Annie everything—at least, everything that wasn’t how Ben made you moan and how you loved him so much it made you a little bit of an idiot—and she’d relayed it all as instructed. You woke Ben up to kill Homelander. You became friends with him, and you made each other promises about never going back. You lived together, and had a complicated relationship. You’d chosen the words carefully, ignoring Butcher’s eye roll and Annie’s sigh, and reminded everyone that this was technically Annie’s point of view. This was what she could’ve observed without your input, and what she’d say. And now, all across the internet, more and more timelines and breakdowns of the Anomaly and Soldier Boy’s relationship are popping up. A lot of them are paired with timelines of you and Homelander.

All of them make you feel sick. Even if they buy Annie’s words and denounce Homelander, they still say things you don’t want to hear. You’re obsessive. In love with Soldier Boy. Soldier Boy’s in love with you. It’s a toxic relationship. You killed people for him. He was killing people for you. It was unrequited on your side. Unrequited on his side. It’s a great American love story. It’s star crossed. He’s probably going insane without you. You didn’t love him enough to go back to him. You’re not worthy of him. Even with Starlight’s claims about your powers being far greater than Vought let on, you’re still weak. Weaker than Soldier Boy. Weaker than Homelander. Your greatest advantage is your feminine allure, because you’re a whore, and you’re weak.

You’re so fucking tired.

Homelander had avoided a direct response to the stories about you and Ben. Sage had entirely denounced Annie’s claim within two days, calling them all blanket lies and propaganda meant to manipulate the public, but Homelander had just agreed. Said they were looking for you, trying to recover you, that he loved you and missed you and would kill whoever had taken you from him.

You keep having nightmares about that as well. Where the blood is splattered across your skin, and Homelander is holding Ben’s heart in gloved hands—red, maybe covered in blood, you can’t tell—and you lose him forever. You burn and burn and burn, and sometimes Homelander dies, but Ben always dies. You always lose him, and have to live for the rest of time with a hole in your head and a heart that doesn’t really beat right anymore.

When you wake up, Ben is always there. Holding you and rubbing soothing patterns onto your skin, muttering words of comfort into your skin and surrounding you with his warmth and the smell of pine. It always calms you down, seals up another crack in your body as you believe him just a little more every time. You’re home, and that’s what matters. You’re here, in Ben’s arms, and everything is going to be okay. You’re still broken, but he’s staying, and you’re all that matters.

Ben won’t touch you, but you’re going to be okay. He keeps tensing and pulling away whenever you try to give him more, but he’s still here. Still holding you in the shower, still kissing you and staying at your side, but not touching you.

You wish you could feel him. You wish you could understand why he won’t touch you. Being afraid that the hunger in him had simply had a quiet, wilting death when he saw how broken you were, and now he gives a shit about you—adores you—but doesn’t want you. He doesn’t love you, he hasn’t loved you, but now he doesn’t want you either. You don’t want to make him do anything, not if he doesn’t want to, not while he’s staying, but you wish he would just touch you.

He won’t. You’re weak and broken, and even as you’re healing you’re just so tired. You can’t control yourself, can’t finish this, and you’re fucking tired. You’re not strong, unconquerable, and zealous with anger like Ben, or Butcher, or Kimiko. But you’re not forgiving and determined like Hughie and Annie and MM. You can’t give them anything like Frenchie or A-Train, and you’re not innocent like Ryan. You’re guilty of blood sticking across your body, but you’re too tired to do anything about it, and you don’t have it in you to kill Homelander with your bare hands, but you don’t have the patience or resilience to wait longer.

You need this to be over. Homelander dying won’t set that thing still flailing in your gut back into place, or stop the nightmares forever, but you’ll stop looking for him in shadows and being a little afraid of the open sky. You’ll be able to make yourself strong enough to tell Ben you love him, and force yourself to be okay when he says no.

You’ve spent the whole day missing him. Everything keeps rounding back to how you miss him. How the bed is too big without Ben snoring on top of you, and how the sheets and pillows smell like him, and how there’s still an indent of his body on his side of the mattress. You’d led a normal day while he was gone, doing laundry and texting him and trying not to be too pathetic about how much you love him. Spending the day with Ryan and talking about Ben like a normal person, trying to clean a little and not letting your hands linger on his coffee mug or shirt, watching TV and not looking at the empty space next to you.

Trying to focus on dinner, and not worry about Singer, or why the meeting was taking so long.

“Why did they have to go to DC?” Ryan had asked you over the table, speaking through a mouthful of relish and ketchup and mustard and every other condiment in the dining hall. “Couldn’t Singer have, maybe, uh, called-“

“Ryan,” Butcher had grunted. “Chew and swallow. She ain’t goin nowhere.”

Ryan’s eyes had widened, and he’d given Butcher an apologetic look as he closed his mouth.

“I don’t know,” you’d answered, poking at your hotdog with a finger. “Singer probably wanted some evidence that we cared about this enough to make the trip. It’s not too far, and we need the V, so it’s not worth arguing about.”

“I thought, um,” Ryan had coughed slightly—he’d swallowed a little too fast—and given you a nervous frown. “I thought you got V. Hughie mentioned you were still at the tower for V. To, um, kill my dad.”

“Hughie, lad, the fuckin hell did we say about keepin it on the low-“

“I’m sorry!” Hughie had shrunken from Butcher’s glare, face growing red. “I just mentioned it, and Soldier Boy said it first-“

You’d frowned. “Ben said what?”

“He said you wouldn’t want to lie to Ryan, and he’s the one mentioned that the V would help us kill Homelander-“

“I’m not upset about it!” Ryan had jumped in as Butcher’s glare at Hughie became lethal. “I was just curious, don’t be mad at Hughie or Ben-“

“It’s okay, Ryan.” You’d sighed. It was only 7pm, too early to have a bloodbath in the dining hall. “I’m not mad. Butcher might be mad, but he’s a little bitch baby.”

“Fuckin watch it, Love-“

You’d ignored Butcher, and watched Ryan carefully as you spoke. “I was at the tower for V. But I couldn’t find the right kind, so now we need to look somewhere else.”

“The right kind?” Ryan had frowned. “What, um, what kind was there?”

“The V Ben and I have,” you’d explained with a sigh. “I don’t know what it would do to a normal supe, but it’s essentially useless in any format on Homelander.”

“You did not happen to keep it when you returned, non?” Frenchie had leaned around the table, looking at you hopefully, and you’d shaken your head.

“It got destroyed on my way back. It’s gone.”

You’d been lying. The V was still in your underwear drawer, hidden next to the suppressants and taunting you in the silence. Ben’s phantom was gone, his Thing in your chest gone with your empathy, and it was just you and thoughts of weak. You miss Ben, and you’re weak, and you need this to be over. ‘

Homelander has to die. He hasn’t earned taking up your life like this. Your life is supposed to be you and Ben, warm and safe. You keep trying to get lost in a fantasy on Ben’s hand in yours, living in a house in Rome where there’s grass outside and sunlight all around you. Laughing with him and kissing him and never thinking about Homelander again. Giving him everything you have—even if he never loves you—and just being happy. No more gods. No more wars. No more blood or dirt on your hands or under your nails. No more impossible, difficult fucking choices. Just you and Ben, together, with him grinning down at you and peace everywhere in the world.

You’re exhausted. You can’t sleep. You need this to be over. And after another few hours, it makes you sit up and cross the room, makes you open the drawer and take out the V. The small vial turns over in your hands, the text of Project Anomaly, Trial 6 slightly faded, and the green liquid within it completely useless to finish this.

Your feet carry you downstairs, and down the silent halls with the vial still in your hands. They take you to the dining hall—a few generators and appliances casting it in a low ligh— and over to the table. There are almost twenty in the whole room, but everyone had come to a silent agreement that this was the table. Where you eat with everyone, where Ben presses his thigh to yours, and where plans are made.

You have a plan. It’s not a good plan—Ben would hate it, but he’s in DC and can’t stop you—and yet it’s all you can think about in the dark. Ending this. Really, properly ending this.

It takes a little while. Thirty or forty minutes of humming into the empty room and letting pine and strawberries and vanilla fill the room with an invisible warmth, waiting to see if your guess was correct.

Then the door swings open, and Butcher freezes in the hall as your eyes meet.

“The bloody fuck are you doin’ here-”

“We need to talk.”

Butcher scowled, stepping into the dining hall but not moving across to the table. “We ain’t got shit to talk about-“

“Yes,” you sigh. “We do. Please just sit down, Butcher. It won’t take long.”

He looks you up and down, huffs, and stalks over to the bench, dropping across from you with a glare. “How’d the fuckin hell you know to find me here.”

“Ben said you don’t really sleep,” you shrug. “He said you always have terrible bags under your eyes, and your heart goes a little too fast, so his bet was, and I quote, ‘the fucking pussy is either on a bunch of drugs he’s not sharing with me, or he’s sleeping less then I do’. And I guessed you wouldn’t want to wake up Ryan, so I took a gamble. And I was right.”

“I ain’t able to believe I backed you up on wakin him when you gave your fuckin pitch.” Butcher mutters. “Shoulda killed it in the first month when you got all fuckin chummy with the cunt.”

“Yeah, I’m sure our friendship is really hard for you-“

“I don’t give a flyin fuck about your friendship,” Butcher snaps. “I’m pissed with myself for lettin it get this far, losin my teammate to being in fuckin love with Soldier Boy.”

Your mouth falls open, and you can hear the blood in your ears. “I, um, I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Save it.” Butcher rolls his eyes, giving you a bored look. “We all fuckin know, you make disgustin heart eyes at him every damn day. I’m just sayin, you twats start makin mini-supes, I am not takin responsibility for them killin their nannies.”

“What do you mean we all know?”

“All the Boys,” Butcher shrugs. “A-Train confirmed it-“

“He wasn’t supposed to say anything-“

“We already fuckin knew. And nobody’s told Soldier Boy, so keep your bloody head on your shoulders.”

You sigh, shaking your head. “He, he still doesn’t-“

“Nah, he’s a fuckin idiot. You both are fuckin idiots.”

“Hey-“

Butcher drawls your name, giving you a flat look. “I put it together at Tek Knight. We all been gettin it for far too fuckin long, and you’re real bloody stupid for someone who can fuckin feel people’s emotions.”

“I’m taking the suppressants,” you snap. “Specifically so I don’t make Ben feel what I do.” You take a long breath. “I can’t force him to love me. It’s not my call you make.”

“I don’t give a fuckin dick or tit about what you’re doin it for,” Butcher gives you a long, strange look. A frown without cruelty or bitterness, like he’s trying to figure something out. “Just don’t get all fuckin piney over him when it’s your own fault he don’t know.”

You scowl, and swallow a sneer of he doesn’t know because I can’t lose him. I love Ben more than should be physically possible, and he’s too important for me to be selfish and manipulative to make him love me. You came here for a reason, and you’re too tired to fight—really, properly yell and shout and swear at—Butcher. So you shake your head, glancing down at the V in your lap, and look back up at Butcher. “Can we please just talk about why I’m here?”

Butcher shrugs. “Floor’s all fuckin yours.”

“I,” you take a deep, heavy breath to slow your heart, and force yourself to meet Butcher’s eyes. “I want you to do it.”

“Do fuckin what-“

“I want you to kill Homelander.”

Butcher stares at you for a second, for once at a loss for words. “The bloody hell would make you want that.”

“It has to be you,” you mutter, fingers tapping faster and faster on the table. “This has to be over, and it has to be you. Ben is going to blast him, and you’re going to shoot him. Right in the head, with a normal, boring gun. He doesn’t get to have me burn him alive, have Ben or Kimiko bash his head in, or have Annie send him flying and break his spine. He doesn’t get a good death. He doesn’t get to be a martyr, or a legend. He’s going to die like a fucking person.”

“I ain’t-“

“Butcher,” you whisper, and don’t bother to hide the exhaustion and pain from your voice. You need him to do this. Butcher is a piece of shit, and has given you hell since you’ve met him, and he needs to be the one to kill Homelander. He’s the only one who might understand this. Understand why Homelander shouldn’t be killed in a way that matters. That Homelander doesn’t fucking deserve that. “I want you to do this. I want Homelander to realize he’s lost, that we beat him, and then I want you to kill him, and for this horrible fucking shit to be over.” You choke slightly. “I just want this to be over.”

You think he’s going to try and resist you. You think Butcher is going to choose to be generous at the worst possible moment, and tell you that the killing blow is yours. That you’ve suffered the most at Homelander’s hands, and should get to watch the light leave his eyes. But you don’t want to. You’re past revenge and fury and blood. You’re just tired. All you really want now is to burn in Ben’s arms, to bury your head in his chest and burn and burn and burn until you’re not afraid anymore. Until the heat has fused all your cracks back together, and Homelander’s never able to hurt you again.

But he doesn’t. Butcher just nods once, eyes never leaving yours, and grunts, “you got a deal. That it?”

“One more thing.” You hold up the V, glowing slightly in the soft light of the breaching morning. If Butcher is surprised you have it, you don’t see it on his face. “This is the V in me. The V in Ben.” You place it on the table in front of Butcher, watching him carefully. “You can use it on yourself, and become the thing you’ve loathed for years. You can use it on me, and I think it might kill me. If it does, Ben will kill you. You can use it on Ben, and make him stronger. You can do whatever the fuck you want with it, as long as you do it. As long as you, Butcher, just you, make the choice and live with the fucking consequences.”

You stand up, and leave Butcher silently in the dining hall. You’ve said what you need, and Ben will be home soon. You’ll be able to fall into his arms and sleep. Until then, you’ll just have to make yourself busy.

There’s the laundry you forgot to fold last night. Ben’s underwear and socks that you’d left in the dryer, because he’d texted you about the meeting and the relief of it going well had slammed a wall of exhaustion into your brain. You dump everything in a basket, and carry it upstairs. It’s boring, but it’s better than just waiting.

Your phone is face up on your bed when you enter the bedroom, and it lights up with a text as you close the door.

Annie January: Arm Wrestling Champion

We’re headed back, ETA around 10.

Soldier Boy broke his phone somehow btw.

And the meeting went well, just in case he didn’t get a chance to tell you.

You text back a thumbs up—you’re honestly shocked it took this long for Ben to break his phone—and leave the phone face up on the bed as you fold laundry. You manage to kill fifteen minutes with this, because while Ben has a truly abysmal amount of clothing, your brain is moving tragically slow from a lack of sleep.

Coffee. You need coffee. It will kill another five minutes, and you might actually manage to stay awake until Ben comes home. You can put on the coffee, and make a sandwich, and hum to yourself as you drink, just to practice making lights and shadows bend around you. Ten minutes.

Ben doesn’t fold his clothing. When you return upstairs and open his drawers, that much is obvious. Pants and shirts have been tossed mindlessly into drawers, and underwear and socks are mixed together without thought.

That’s another thing to do. Fold Ben’s clothing. Simple and tedious, keeping you awake and your mind on your hands instead of clinging to the silence. The feeling of you, just you, the only one to blame for how cold and tired you are, not strong enough to get through this alone, but you are alone, and you’re so tired-

Clothes. Fold all of Ben’s clothes. Take them out of the drawers—pants and shirts first, they take up the most space and the least time—fold them, and return them. Then you can pair the socks and organize his underwear, and-

You pause, frowning at the almost empty drawer. There’s three stray socks, a pair of boxers, and sunglasses. They’re not your sunglasses, they’re green and don’t have the little Soldier Boy symbols on the ear pieces, but they’re the same style. Your sunglasses had broken anyway, and these might just be Ben’s, but they’d been hidden. Ben didn’t hide his things. His razor was on the bathroom counter, his shoes were scattered around downstairs, and his mug was at the front of the cabinet. Sometimes he just left it out, because he’d fucking be using it tomorrow anyway.

And, even if Ben did hide things, an underwear drawer was an incredibly odd place for sunglasses. You’d just dismiss it as the glasses falling in the drawer, but they look carefully placed, wrapped in the boxers like they shouldn’t be seen.

They’re just sunglasses. Sunglasses that look just like the ones that had been broken when Homelander took you-

Far in the back of your head, something starts to ring in your brain. Nobody had told you that your sunglasses had broken. You hadn’t seen them since you’d gotten home, but that could’ve just been a coincidence. Sage could’ve gotten rid of them in the tower, or Ben could’ve lost them somewhere in the months where you’d been gone, but they’d been broken. Ben’s phantom had told you they’d been broken in the fight with Homelander, and you’d told him that you’d liked those sunglasses because they reminded you of him.

These ones looked the exact same as the broken once, save for the colors. Simplistic black frames—no patterns or symbols—and a dark shade of green that matched the Soldier Boy suit. Almost exactly the same hue, a slightly darker shade.

You have a theory. A weak, flimsy theory that makes you carefully place the sunglasses back in the drawer and run downstairs to your computer. It’s not really based on anything, all your evidence is speculative—Ben’s allowed to be a weirdo who hides sunglasses in his underwear drawer—but you have to check. Just so you don’t go insane, you have to check.

Between you and Ben, there’s only the one Jane Smith email account. Which means there’s one amazon account, and you can check the purchase date of the sunglasses. It takes a second—your hands have changed from going too slow to going too fast and losing efficiency in your frantic movements—but you find the receipt, and the date. Late May, nine days after the Believe Expo, which means four days before your escape. When you’d started testing your empathy on the Deep.

The same day you’d talked to Ben’s phantom about the sunglasses.

It could be a coincidence. It’s technically possible that it’s a complete, total coincidence that doesn’t mean anything, let alone what you think it might mean. What your brain is starting to draw together. That, towards the end at least, whenever you spoke to Ben’s phantom, his Thing would grow stronger. That you’d been able to feel him there, feel that extra sense in your body that told you Ben. Ben is near you. He’s across the bridge or in the bathroom or down the hall start to go haywire when you were alone in Homelander’s apartment. Where Ben couldn’t have possibly been.

You’d just missed him. You’d just driven yourself insane the torture of being trapped at Vought and the sickness of missing Ben, and the longer you were gone the more you’d needed that small escape of Ben’s voice in your head. Telling you that you would come home. That there wasn’t another option, because you were coming home because you were strong and you’d fucking get through this.

But you’d missed Ben yesterday. Geographically he’d been even further than when you’d been at Vought, and you hadn’t heard his phantom. It had grown silent, gone with his imprint in your chest. The imprint that was bombed with empathy, that grew back with it as well. The imprint that had appeared after the Believe Expo, after you’d seen Ben, held him and had your every thought reduced back to its natural pattern when he touched you. Had everything be Ben. Ben, I love you.

The phantom had grown stronger after that. Louder, more persistent, full of stranger conversations and rattling Ben’s Thing inside you when it spoke. But it had just been from missing him. You’d see him and it had made you miss him all the more. Ben’s Thing in your chest might be the empathy, but the phantom was just an echo of your love. A result of how he’d become a vital part of you, how you loved and loved him, loved talking to him and laughing with him and hearing his voice say Brat and Sunshine and fucking breathe and shut the fuck up and I love you-

The phantom had told you he loved you. The phantom had been incredibly persistent about how Ben loved you. Which was evidence that it isn’t what it might be. Ben doesn’t love you. Ben doesn’t love you. Ben doesn’t love you. Ben doesn’t love you.

It doesn’t feel like a real sentence anymore. It’s running around in your head—Ben doesn’t love you, he doesn’t, he just doesn’t, Ben doesn’t love you—and it doesn’t feel right. It’s a fact—it doesn’t need to feel right, it just is—but now it’s become only noises that make your heart contract and your own love wail. You love him. You love Ben so, so much, and all it’s done is drive you mad. You just want him to love you, and the phantom is made of your want and love, so it indulged you and told you Ben loved you.

He doesn’t.

Unless this is what you think it might be, Ben doesn’t love you. If it is what you think it is, then-

You have to know. You have to know now, whoever is driving him home needs to drive faster because you might be wrong, but you might be right. And no matter which one it is, you need to know right fucking now.

There’s about two and a half hours until Ben opens the door. You spend most of that time making a list. Writing down every conversation you’ve had with the phantom, just to be sure. To go in prepared, and know what you’re looking for. You fold the socks and underwear when you’re done—twenty minutes—and decide to leave the sunglasses in the drawer. No leading questions, no steering Ben towards the possible truth. Thy hypothetical truth, that’s going to make you sound insane if you say it aloud, but that’s feeling less and less implausible as you’re forced to wait.

You don’t feel Ben when he comes home. You’re going over the list, rehearsing in your head, and you hear him. Even through the compound’s soundproof walls, you hear Ben stomping down the hall, stopping outside your door, and banging on it.

He’s shouting your name. Not yelling, shouting. Over and over again, until you stand up and let him in.

Ben almost falls on top of you, and there’s something wild in his eyes. His hair is messy, there’s slight bags under his eyes, and his jaw is clenched so tight you’re worried his teeth are going to break. He’s scanning you up and down, one hand gripping your arm like you might vanish, feet planted apart and body towering over yours like he’s ready to defend you from something.

“Hi,” you whisper, and Ben’s voice is hoarse when he speaks.

“We need to fucking talk.”

You swallow. “Yeah, we do. But I’m first.”

“The fucking hell you are, I need to-“

“Ben.” Your voice is firmer than even you’ve heard it, and Ben freezes. You’d feel bad, but this is important. Ben’s home, and—as much as you want to figure out why he looks like a feral animal—you need to know if you’re right. “I’m first. Sit down.”

He scowls, but follows you to the table and drops in his usual chair, glaring up at you. “You get seven minutes, then it’s my fucking turn.”

You nod, grab the list—crinkling it between your hands with a slow, grounding breath—and start at the top. “What food do you want on your birthday?”

“Is that what’s so goddamn important-“

“Answer the question, please.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter, my birthday was last month-“

You have to push past that. Later, after you figure this out, you’ll have time to yell at Ben about his birthday and why you weren’t made aware of it. Right now, you’re on a time limit. “Benjamin, if you don’t answer the fucking question-“

“I don’t know, fucking burgers! Burgers and cake! Are you done, can I fucking talk-“

That wasn’t as helpful as you’d hoped. Burgers and cake is an incredibly predictable answer for Ben to have, so you push on. “No. How many states can you name?”

“I don’t fucking know, I don’t keep track of that shit. I’m not like you and Ryan, it’s not all fucking fifty, but I can name a damn few-“

You’ve never told him you can name all fifty. Not to his face. “What does manifest destiny mean?”

Ben scoffs. “Are you giving me a fucking pop quiz-“

“Benjamin-“

“It’s the fucking nationalistic belief that Americans had the right to go west, and should exert the means to do it. Is that it? Can I say my goddamn thing-”

You have to glance at the paper to be sure, but that’s practically word for word what you’d written. What you’d told Ben’s phantom. “What type of porn does the Deep watch?”

“Tentacle, you’re the one who fucking told me-“ Ben pauses, his eyes narrowing. “Why the fuck are you asking me all these damn questions.”

It takes a long, heavy breath to get the last question out. “Have you been having nightmares again?”

“Some. Why the fuck does it matter, we both have nightmares-“

“What have they been about?”

Ben doesn’t answer immediately. His jaw ticks, and his eyes on yours start to peel you apart. “Blood. Fuck ton of blood and smoke.”

There’s more. There’s something Ben’s leaving out, but right now you don’t care. You’re past being subtle, or thinking about anything but you’re right. You’re almost definitely right, and there’s only one last question to ask.

“Why are there sunglasses in your underwear drawer?”

His scowl deepens. “Why the goddamn hell were you in my underwear drawer-“

“I was folding laundry. Why.”

“Gift.” He grunts. “For you. Replacing the old ones.”

You feel a little lightheaded. “What, what happened to the old ones?”

“Broke when Homelander took you.” Ben pauses, and you think his gaze might be burning into your skin. “If you don’t start making some fucking sense about what you want-“

“While I was gone,” the words start to vomit out of you, frantic and uncertain. “Did you ever, I don’t know, hear me? Hear my voice, talking to you? Or, I don’t know, feel me, when I wasn’t there? Like there’s no way I could’ve been there, logistically, but you were still hearing me-“

Ben snaps your name. “Maybe I did, but I fucking missed you. It’s not some big goddamn news story, and since you’ve been back I haven’t heard shit-“

“Why did you get kicked out of the dining hall?”

“What the fuck are you-“

“Benjamin.” You take a long, deep breath. “Last week, why did MM kick you out of the dining hall?”

“I told you already, I got hard and he’s a fucking uptight pussy-“

“What made you hard?”

Ben goes completely rigid in his seat. “Don’t fucking worry about-“

“Were you thinking about me? About how you’d want to fuck me?”

“How in goddamn hell-“

“Because I was thinking about it,” you whisper, forcing yourself to hold Ben’s gaze. “That morning, before you got home, I thinking about how you’d fuck me. You said you’d prep me, then missionary, then from behind, then I’d ride you, and you told me condoms don’t work on supe jizz. You told me-“

“What the fuck do you mean I told you.”

“Your voice told me. In my head, I was talking to you. I’ve been talking to you. In the tower,” you swallow. “I’d talked to you all the time. In my head. And I-“

Ben grunts your name. “Whatever you’re trying to say, say it.”

“I think I can read your mind!” The words sound stupid when you say them. You sound fucking crazy, but you’re right. “Or like, speak to you through your brain? I was doing it for a while, then it got really weird after the Believe Expo, and I think it’s because you put something in me-“

“Put something in you-“

“I don’t fucking know, Ben! I’m not a scientist, I just know that there’s been this thing in my chest, right here,” you jab a finger at the area near your heart, and Ben’s eyes widen. “And it feels like you, and it’s gone right now because the empathy is gone, but-“

“What the fuck do you mean the empathy is gone.” Ben’s words are low, and his glare is searing right through you. “It’s part of you, it can’t just up and fuck off-“

“I, um,” your nails start to dig into your arm as you hug your body, the list balled up in your hand. “I’ve been taking a suppressant. A pill. It, um, kills the empathy, so I can’t use it.”

“A suppressant.” Ben stands, eyes never leaving yours, voice rising to a shout. “Are you fucking insane?”

“I’m fine, it’s-“

“You’re not fucking fine! Nothing about this is fucking fine, that’s a part of your goddamn body! You might as well be chopping your fucking arm off-“

“My arm would grow back, just like this-“

“It would still fucking hurt you! Why the fucking hell would you do something so fucking stupid, why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me-“

“I’m fine!” You scream, and smoke begins to rise from your fingers. “I fucking fine, Ben! This is helping me! I just, I can’t fucking control it, I don’t know how-“

“I would’ve fucking helped you!” He takes a step forwards, glare rooting you in place. “I’d do what the fuck you needed to help you control it, but you didn’t fucking trust me-“

“Of course I trust you!” Ben. Ben, I love you. “I fucking trust you with my life, but this isn’t about you-“

“Then why wouldn’t you fucking tell me, I’d have told you it was fucking stupid and insane, because this is fucking stupid and insane-“

“Because I’m fine-“

“You’re not fucking fine!” Ben roars your name, and you swallow. “You’re keep waking up fucking screaming, and you can’t fucking shower alone, you’re not fucking fine, stop saying you’re fine-“

“I am!” You shake your head frantically, gaze dropping to his chest. You can’t look him in the eyes right now, you’ll break. “I’m really fine, I’m just tired-“

“Because you haven’t slept a goddamn night peacefully in a fucking week!” Ben’s voice is strained, like he’s in physical pain. “Did it occur to you, even fucking once, that maybe cutting off your arm over and fucking over would hurt you?”

“I don’t care!” Your voice is losing its anger. You’re just so fucking tired, you don’t want to fight, you want to start crying, collapse, just fucking rest. “I don’t care if it’s hurting me! I deserve it! I’m hurting everyone else-“

“Are you fucking stupid-“

“No!” You can’t really hear anything over the blood pounding in your ears, over the cold starting to climb into your lungs. It’s hard to breathe. “I’m hurting people, Ben! I’m broken and afraid and weak, I can’t control myself because I’m weak and I can’t make you weak as well-“

“You are not weak-“

“I am! I’m weak! I can’t just get fucking control over my own body, and I’m so tired, and I can’t fucking do this anymore! I can’t keep fighting Homelander and being useless. I’m not like you, I’m not strong enough to do this-“

Ben’s still a few feet away, but when he says your name it rolls through your body. Pushes past the cold and grabs your insides, forces your eyes to his. He looks like something is hurting him, the wild glint in his eyes now tangled in with something bright and furious and hot. “You are not fucking weak. You’re the furthest goddamn thing from weak. You’re fucking alive. You fucking survived. You did something idiotic and so fucking selfless and goddamn impossible, and you lived. You are fucked up and perfect and the strongest fucking person in the world.”

The snapped off thing in your gut starts to wrap around your heart. “Then why won’t you touch me?”

He pauses, mouth open and closing once before he grunts through teeth, “what the fuck are you talking about.”

“You won’t touch me, Ben.” You’re done screaming. You’re choking on something, and every word is strangled and soft. “You stopped touching me after the shower. If you don’t want me, you can just tell me-“

“Of course I fucking want you, stop being insane-“

“Then why-“

“I touched you and you fucking broke,” he snaps. He’s done yelling as well, but somehow this hurts more. Ben’s voice is low and heavy, and it’s dropping something into your lungs. “I touched you once, and you goddamn fell apart. You keep saying you’re fucking fine, that Homelander didn’t do anything, but I touched you and it hurt you-“

“You didn’t hurt me,” you breathe out, and the world is blurry. “You couldn’t hurt me, Ben. You could never hurt me. I just, I can’t feel you and I hate it. It’s horrible, but I want you to touch me. Please,” everything is far away. Your tongue, your head, your thoughts and throat and mouth are all second to Ben, across the room. So close, not close enough, never close enough. He could never be close enough, and he still doesn’t understand. “I, please, I want you to touch me, Ben. I’ve never wanted anything more that I want you, I’ve never loved anyone more than I love you-“

You don’t hear your own words until after. You don’t register what you’ve said until Ben’s closed the space between you in one step, until he’s grabbed your face with firm hands, until his mouth is crashing onto yours and it’s all Ben. Ben, I love you.

He’s everywhere. He tastes like coffee and salt, and his touch is desperate. He’s falling onto you, groaning into your mouth when your lips part, invading your mouth with his tongue and teeth and spit, angling your head back to give you more. Your hands fly to his wrists, trying to make sure he’s real. You can’t feel him, but his pulse is heavy under your grip, and he’s so warm, and even as he bites your lower lip his hands are careful and gentle on your face. You’d said it, you said it for Ben to hear, and his touch is still reverent. He’s still holding you like you’re holy, confusing every part of your body as he deepens to kiss into something almost brutal—unrelenting and fervorish, devouring and starved with swallows of every sound that leaves you and his tongue in your throat—but his hands on your face remains adoring and gentle. Fingers tangling in your hair, a thumb tracing over your cheek while the other drops to carefully tilt your head back further.

When he pulls back, Ben’s forehead falls to yours, and you’re both silent. Trading ragged breaths and he traces over your swollen mouth with a light touch and his eyes, and you watch him. When Ben’s eyes finally meet yours they’re blown out and almost feral.

“Don’t take the fucking meds again,” he mutters, gaze stripping you apart before he adds, “please.”

You’d missed this morning’s pill. Thirteen hours would be up soon. And Ben is real and sounds like he’s pleading, so it’s easy to give in. “I won’t.”

Ben nods, and pulls back. “You need to sleep,” he holds your gaze, even as he draws back up to his full height. “You’re tired.”

This is the worst possible time for your body to listen to Ben more than it listens to you, but the world starts to fuzz with exhaustion, even as you protest. “Ben, we need to talk-“

“We will. After you get some goddamn sleep.”

“It’s only eleven-“

“Did you sleep last night?”

You wrinkle your nose at him. “Did you fucking sleep, Benjamin?”

“No. So I want some rest, and I’m not doing it without you next to me.”

“But-“

“Trust me,” he grunts. “Just fucking trust me. We will talk about it, I fucking swear, but you need to rest first.”

You take a long breath, and nod. Ben doesn’t wait for you to open your mouth before he’s picking you up, marching up the stairs and into the bedroom, laying you carefully on the mattress before climbing over you and tugging you into his chest. Sleep is crawling into your head—the warmth of Ben and the steady rise and fall of his chest making your head quiet and everything easy—but it’s still too bright to close your eyes, so you roll over and bury your head in Ben’s body.

“What was your thing?” You mumble into his skin, still just a little too wired from the fight to fall under. “We didn’t get to it before I, um…”

Ben’s chuckle makes your whole body grow loose. “You texted me.”

You frown. “I texted you all day, Pretty Boy-“

“You texted me that you love me.” He mutters, and a hand starts to run through your hair, soothing your brain and keeping you against him as your face flushes.

“Oh.” You try to pull yourself closer to his body, hoping you can fully hide the soft nerves in your voice. “I, um, I was tired. I must’ve typed it and, uh, sent it without thinking.”

“Did,” he pauses, voice low and tense. “Did you mean it.”

“Both times?”

He snorts, and you smile against him. “Yeah, both fucking times.”

“Yes,” your voice is a breath, words muffled against him, but you know Ben hears because his hands on your skin freeze. “When, in our heads, when you said it-“

“I meant it.” He mutters. “I’ll always fucking mean it.”

You nod, hands curling into his shirt. “Okay. Good.”

“How long until that stupid fucking pill-“

“Soon,” you whisper. “I don’t know why we can’t just-“

Ben grunts your name, his hand on your back starting to rub small circles that drag you further down. “Trust me. Get some sleep.”

He’s lucky you love him. If you didn’t, you’d get a little closer to murdering him every time your body elects to override your brain for Ben’s words. But he says sleep, everything fades into pine and warmth, the sound of Ben’s heartbeat near your head lulling you easily into sleep.

Blood. So much blood. All there is in the world is blood, filling up your lungs and overwhelming your heart. You don’t know where it’s coming from—don’t know how to stop it—and it’s sweeping over you like a hurricane. Blood on your hands, in your throat, metal on your tongue and red in your vision. You can’t breathe, and you’re screaming for Ben but there’s a smoke far, far above you that’s keeping him away. You can hear him roaring your name, see his figure somewhere around you in the liminal world you’ve been trapped in, but when he reaches for you the blood drags you further down. No matter how much you struggle and flail and scream, it’s just blood.

Blood, parting away as something cold and blue starts to walk towards you. Grabs you by the neck and yanks you up to watch it. Evil and cruel and no. No. No no no-

You’re screaming when you wake up. There’s something around you—not the blood, this is warm and safe and right—but you can’t really hear what the deep sounds echoing through your head are trying to tell you. It hurts, it all hurts. Your head is cracking open, your heart is aching, your mouth feels like sandpaper, your muscles are sore and your skin is itching and your blood is trying to leave your body because this hurts, this is all so painfully cold save for the pounding of something warm in your chest. Something grounding you and keeping all the fear and screams of unfair, so fucking unfair in your body. It’s full of ardor and it’s bloody, but not the blood that chokes you. Blood that feels like yours. That feels devoted and sharp and furious, that’s made of adoration and hunger and love.

It’s everything. This thing is powerful and focused and wrathful, aimed and attuned to every single part of you. It’s making the world sharper, and everything feels like it has a purpose. There’s nothing that doesn’t exist to aid what the thing serves, and everything glows when the thing is fed. It’s starving, it will never not be starving, it will only grow more and more hungry, but the hunger isn’t fed by taking. It’s fed by giving, by working and worshiping and caring for something perfect. All that matters is the perfect thing—it fits so well with the beat of the powerful thing—because it infects everything with light. Nothing is ever dark when the perfect thing is tended to, and it’s not easy to tend to, but it’s fucking worth it. The powertful thing lives in your chest, and it’s not yours, but it belongs there. It’s content and happy there, and it riots when you make a small sound. A set of words that you don’t really understand right now, but you need to say. Everything is still coming back to you as your blood returns into your body, but you need to keep saying the words.

The ringing in your ears finally fades, and you can make them out.

Ben. Ben, I love you.

“I love you too, Sunshine.” A deep voice—it might be the only one in the world that matters—rolls from the warmth around you into your chest. “Sleep.”

It’s Ben. Ben’s around you, holding you like you’re sacred, and you’re still so tired, but you can feel him. His Thing is alive in your chest, and you know what it is. Ben’s love. Raw and obvious and everything. Burning in you, with you, for you. Ben loves you.

“Ben,“ you mumbled, and his Thing hums. “I’m-“

If you say sorry, I’m not fucking you in the morning.

Rude.

You love it.

I do. You sigh against his skin. I love you.

I love you as well. Ben’s voice, inside your body and everywhere around you, is right. This is right. Ben loves you, and you love him, and nothing has ever made more sense.

And, right before you tuck yourself further into his chest, right before you fall back into peaceful, restful, safe sleep, you can breathe.

End Note: We have officially completed the slow burn. I welcome you to the rest of the story: a goddamn wildfire. They’re about to fuck so nasty, you guys don’t even know. Call them Tinashe the way they’re about to freak.

Thank you for reading!! If you like this story, reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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