#unconnected and various ships for those worried or wondering

[formosusiniquis]

not over dramatic (knows what she wants)

Steve Harrington/Barb Holland WC: 2899 | M | Tags/Themes: Transfem!Steve Harrington, Butch!Barb, Femme!Steve, Second First Meetings, Identity Confusion/Reveal, 90's fic AO3

Barb really feels like she should be able to count her time barbacking as practicum hours. She does more therapy here while she’s slinging dry martinis and fruity cocktails to sobbing drag queens and pissed off femmes than she does at her internship. It’s usually the same problems: parental issues of all kinds and relationship problems that need more than she can offer while she’s got a bottle of vermouth in her hand and someone down the counter waving her down like she doesn’t have two working eyes.

And right now her eyes are working hard to stay in her head. 

The square frames Barb has favored since high school putting in work to disguise the way they’ve widened as she walks through the door. Brunette with legs for days, her straight hair hangs down so it flirts with her middle back swinging back and forth with every move of her head. She’s towering over the girls who are walking in at the same time as her, hell she’s towering over some of the guys slipping into the bar. But the heels she has on make the legs disappearing into the forest green dress she’s wearing look even longer; makes the peach of her ass look even nicer.

It’s stereotypical of her, but she’s always had a thing for femmes.

Young and repressed she used to take that love and try to emulate it. Took the crush she had on Nancy Wheeler and turned it into a wardrobe of pink high-necked blouses, ruffles that made her skin itch and loathe the shape of herself. Two years where she could barely stand to look at herself in the mirror until she transferred out half-way through her Sophomore year.

Butch and happy now, she keeps her hair impossibly shorter than she used to. The softness in her middle something she’s come to appreciate now that it isn’t covered in taffeta.

Now she appreciates those girls who prefer the swish of a skirt around their calves. She really appreciates how easy those are to push up, to get under.

The brunette is just as stunning when she turns to face the bar. Big, dark eyes and a sharp frown that’s even more obvious with the dark lipstick. Beauty marks dot her face and her neck and as the woman sweeps her hands under her skirt before settling carefully on a stool across from Barb she’s struck by the thought that she’s seen this woman before.

An almost regular?

“Shot of tequila and whatever cider you have that doesn’t taste like shit, please.”

Not a regular, almost of otherwise. The husk on her voice is something Barb would remember. Something she plans to remember later.

“Rough night?”

Hers has been slow, and she could go for a little barside therapy. Kali can handle anyone who might come up while Barb is otherwise engaged, she can use the tips to go visit that ex-mormon she’s been flirting with through the post.

And the way that the woman across from her rolls her eyes, downing the shot like it’s continued existence is just one more of her problems is endlessly attractive.

“I have one rule and it’s never go on a first date on a Friday night, but here I am,” she gestures down at herself and Barb is only human. Her eyes flit down to the cleavage that’s been pushed up to the edge of a sweetheart neckline. “I mean my hair is straight because he said he prefers it. And who am I that I’m making changes to my hair for some guy just because I’m trying to make my mother happy.”

She has something to say about that, and it’s not just wanting to make sure the woman across from her realizes she’s abandoned her date to visit a gay bar. But Gorgeous keeps going. “I took him to Eden because I’m not totally crazy and he shows up in jeans.”

Jeans aren’t her usual go-to first date outfit, even if it has been a little while, but something about the woman across from her brings out the urge to tease. The perfect put-together air that she has even after what sounds like a miserable first date makes Barb want to make her squirm.

“You don’t like jeans? They’re a staple of American fashion.”

The glare leveled across the bar makes her shiver, anticipatory. She loves a good fight.

“They weren’t good jeans, they were baggy, ‘I just left work at my dad’s used car dealership and I couldn’t be bothered to do anything but toss on the button-up I keep in the trunk’ jeans. Ugly, they don’t do anything for the body.” It’s a very specific image she’s conjured, but Barb has to admit she has a certain way with words. 

“And he doesn’t even dance when we’re there!” She huffs out a breath strong enough that it ruffles her hair and she’s looking to Barb like she’s waiting for her to reassert something she already knows.

“So your second date’s planned for Olive Garden?”

That makes her laugh, loud and a little goofy compared to the rest of her polished image. It’s kind of enchanting. Like every emotion she has is designed to be endearing when it graces her face. 

Perfect almond-shaped nails pick at the label of the cider that Barb had set down in front of her. “No, he doesn’t have what it takes.”

“What it takes?” The challenge is so evident, so bold that she can’t help but imagine what it might mean.

“Oh yeah, we’re leaving the planet and only the best can come.”

It’s so strange compared to the rest of the conversation, the facade that Barb tries to keep up cracks. She’s laughing as she asks, “Where are you going?”

“Back to my homeland, Transexual, Transylvania.” There’s a gleam in her eye and something extra to her smile. Part dare, part fear even here in what should be a safe place.

“You hitch a ride with Magenta and Riff Raff?”

Her tongue peeks out through her teeth as her smile turns more sincere. “Robin says I have to stop making that joke, but I can always tell who the best people are when I do.”

“So what does that make me?” Barb leans a little closer, propping her elbow on the bar beside the bottle that the woman is letting sweat on the counter.

She can see the way her throat works, a gentle swallow just before she bites her lip. “Still deciding.”

“Have you decided if I can get your name to go along with your story of the worst first date since Blind Date?”

“Kim Basinger fan?”

“I like a beautiful woman.”

Her brows arch, coy and teasing. She lets a finger on one hand trail up the neck of her bottle, tracing along the water droplets that have formed on it. The other reaches up to fuss with her hair. 

“Steph Buckley.” Then like an afterthought, “I can’t believe I wasted the time straightening my hair. It doesn’t even look good straight.”

It’s stupid. Absolutely, idiotically stupid that that’s what connects the final dots for Barb. The moles, the name, and the hair. Hell, they aren’t even that far from Hawkins -- an hour south, give or take.

She has a choice to make, but does she? Has she not been sold since this beautiful woman sat down across from her? 

Leaning in a little closer, the bar biting into her chest just a little. She uses her knee to nudge the bottle of tequila out of the well and closer to her hand. Pours a generous shot into the glass Steph had left empty, holding her eye the whole time. She’s showing off, a little.

And she’s close enough to see the way that thrills Steph. The way it makes her dark eyes darker. Her tongue flicking out to wet just the corner of her lips, instinct stopped before it could smudge her makeup.

“Well, Steph,” she says, letting the feeling of it roll around in her mouth. “Do you want advice, commiseration, or company?”

“Do I have to choose just one?”

“Between advice or commiseration, yes. The company is free of charge.”

“How generous,” her voice dips lower. Dark and flirtatious. Barb hopes it stays that way if Steph realizes just who she is. If she hasn’t already.

Though there’s always the chance that Barb didn’t have the impact on her life, that a high school Steph had on hers.

“Which will it be?”

“If the company is included, I’ll take the advice. I could go for a perspective that isn’t Robin’s, I can already predict what she’ll say.”

For a fleeting second she wonders if that’s Robin Buckley, and decides that’s a question for later.

“I’d say you're smarter than you let people think you are.”

Steph's smile turns sharp, smug, tilts toward the right. Barb can see that confident junior that asked out her best friend leaning against the lockers already sure the answer was yes, the one she had been so jealous of.

Well, Nancy Wheeler, eat your heart out.

Barb goes on, it’s easy. “I think you're exactly as beautiful as you already know you are.”

Steph’s smile remains, even as she starts to blush, the red spreading across her cheeks visible even with the dimmed lighting of the bar. “If my therapist offered advice like this I might go more often.”

“I start with a compliment so you know I can be nice before I get mean.”

“What if I like it when people are mean to me?”

“My advice,” Barb says, she feels her brow raise high asking for her if Steph is actually ready to listen. Whether they're dark enough to be seen or high enough to be visible over the frames of her glasses is up for debate, but Steph settles her head in her hands and bats her eyes like the brat Barb has always sort of suspected she'd be.

“My advice is to stop dating bland men with no personality just to make your mom happy, that's the same thing I've been telling girls since high school,” she can't help but slip the topic in, curiosity like her cat clawing carefully at the dangling wire of her bedside lamp waiting to see what will happen. 

When Steph's face doesn't change she adds, “Maybe that's harder when you're just happy she's accepted you're a woman.” Her guilty eyes trail over Steph, unable to stop looking at how woman she is. “But even when you stormed in here you knew you weren't being over-dramatic for knowing what you want.”

Steph is leaned impossibly closer over the bar top. The neckline of her dress threatening to offer Barb the best show of the night, lips parted she doesn't stop herself from licking them this time. Her eyes track down Barb, they take their time savoring and when they lock with hers they're hungry.

“And if I said I do know what I want, Doctor…”

“Holland, Barb Holland.”

Any embarrassment she might feel at the Connery-esque introduction is mollified by Steph's reaction. Subtle, but she thinks it's the first real reaction she's gotten from Steph that wasn't perfectly controlled or practiced beforehand. Eyes widened, body frozen, Barb is a little gratified that her name has made an impression that she was remembered.

It takes Steph a second, before she decides how she wants to respond, relaxing like the last February snow melting from the yard. “Well, I can't complain too much about my mother's taste. If she didn't like bland men with no personality I wouldn't be here. Plus the last exciting man with personality I dated decided he'd been called to run a commune in the wilderness of Greenland. And I like to think I had some personality before my tits grew in.”

Barb takes both digs with the grace they're deserved. It's not the first time she's been rapped on the knuckles for forgetting some people really do like both, no societal compulsion required.

“They've certainly not done your ego any favors.” Barb comments, uncertain for the first time in the evening how this comment will go over.

But Steph seems to relish in it. “They're my second best feature. First best tonight, I can't believe you're seeing me for the first time with my hair straight.” The hand that isn’t supporting her head on the bar reaches up to fuss with her hair, fluffing it at the root like that would make it look the way she wanted it to.

Barb does, much to the chagrin of her high school self, find the vanity charming. She also disagrees with Steph’s self-determined best features, it’s been less than an hour and she can name three things she likes better.

“I put Kim Bassinger to shame,” she says. Her smile, wide and toothy, is nothing like Barb remembers from high school and rates far above her hair and tits.

“Is she good enough to leave the planet with you?”

Steph makes a show of considering it. Chin still cradled in her hand, her dark nails tapping a quick rhythm against her cheek.

“I don’t think so.”

“No?”

“I get jealous,” she admits, looking up through her lashes. The brat flirting at the surface again makes Barb’s fingers itch, but she isn’t going to touch until she’s sure of what is happening here -- and then she’ll still wait until she’s begged. “You’re right, I do know what I want.”

Straightening up, Barb lets herself be back on display for Steph. Feels less welcome eyes on her and waves away Kali’s judgemental stare. 

“Should I let you get back to work?” Steph asks, amused and something else. Something she doesn’t like, yes there’s concern but Barb is surprised by how much she wants what she remembers Nancy getting. She wants the woman across from her to demand her time, her attention. 

Barb wants to give it to her.

“It can wait.” She rushes, maybe too quickly to assure. “As your present therapist, I’d like to follow this case to completion.”

Steph’s smile turns sly, wide and thrilled. Her down-turned eyes are hooded and sparkling. “I love completing.”

They’re reaching the part of the conversation where a choice is going to have to be made. The tone has been flirty but what that translates to is up for Steph to decide. 

Will she be fine with one night tangled in the sheets or in the store room behind them? (Barb has always liked a girl with an ass, likes something to hold onto when they’re riding her strap and she hasn’t forgotten how Steph filled out the dress she’s wearing.) 

Or is this the prelude to something more, something that puts an end to bad first dates for the both of them? (She remembers Steph as a romantic, before Barb had had to put Hawkins High behind her. Notes shoved in lockers and daisies stolen from the ag greenhouse left on the desk of Nancy’s third period.)

“Is that what you want?” Barb asks.

Ducking her head, Steph sips at the shot that Barb had poured barely making a dent in its contents before looking back up. She’s biting at her lip, apparently having given up on keeping her makeup completely pristine. Taking a big breath, nails tapping at the counter in front of her, Steph finally says, “Saturday is a good night for a first date. Much better than Friday.”

“I agree,” Barb says, meanly. They’ve been here long enough she can see the choice Steph has made, she wants to hear her say it though.

It’s a thrill being rewarded with a leveled glare, Steph’s face flushed and a fake frown plastered across her face.

“If I leave my number,” she says slowly, picking out every word with a deliberateness that speaks to both the brat Barb is excited to get to play with and a lived experience she’d like to learn more about. “If that were something I even wanted to do. Would I get a call? Or would I learn that I’m someone who’s been harassing a person in the customer service industry for the last 20 minutes?”

It feels a little daring, reaching across the bartop for the first time that night. Something about it is a little affirming, a little euphoric, as she’s the dashing one this time reaching across that artificial boundary that is keeping them separate. Taking Steph’s hand, touching it for the first time, makes things feel real. Her nails make her fingers look long, Barb catalogs the old calluses she can feel and how they differ from the soft places.

Left hand reaching into the apron around her waist, she grabs one of the pens she always keeps there, and brings it up to her mouth to uncap it. It’s more than a little disgusting, but completely worth it for the way Steph’s lips part into a little oh.

It’s hard not to wonder if this is the first time Steph has experienced a bit of butch charm. Decides quickly it’s better not to think about.

Seven numbers tuck themselves neatly into the palm of Steph’s hand. If Steph is jealous maybe she’s possessive. Barb can’t deny how much she likes the way it looks.

“I’m free Saturday, and I promise I won’t wear jeans.”