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23victoria · 6 months ago

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𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢, 𝚂𝚎𝚝, 𝚂𝚞𝚣𝚞𝚔𝚊 ❀

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

𝚏𝟷 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚍 𝚡 𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚜!𝚏𝚎𝚖!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

✿ 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 𝟸.𝟾𝚔

✾ 𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: 𝚢/𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚞𝚣𝚞𝚔𝚊! 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎...𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?!

❁ 𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚕

✿ 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎: 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝟷 𝚏𝚒𝚌! 𝚑𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚎𝚗𝚓𝚘𝚢! 𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎, 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚐!! ꨄ

𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝟸

𝚏𝟷 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

The Suzuka Circuit buzzes with pre-race excitement. The paddock is alive with energy as teams make their final preparations, engineers tweaking last-minute details, and drivers mentally preparing for the grueling race ahead. You walk through the paddock with your helmet in one hand, exchanging smiles and nods with familiar faces. The Japanese fans are enthusiastic, their cheers a constant backdrop to the chaotic scene.

You spot Charles near the Ferrari garage, chatting animatedly with his mechanics. He sees you and waves, a friendly smile spreading across his face. "Hey, Y/N! Ready for today?"

"Always," you reply, matching his grin. "You better watch out on Turn 1. I’m coming for you."

Charles chuckles, shaking his head. "We'll see about that. Good luck out there."

As you continue down the paddock, you bump into Lando and Oscar, both engaged in a heated debate over something. "Y/N, settle this for us," Lando calls out. "Chocolate ice cream or vanilla ice cream? Which one is better?"

You laugh, shaking your head. "Oh that’s easy! The obvious answer is cookies and cream!"

Oscar stares blankly at you while Lando’s mouth drops. "I know you are lying right now, be so for real Y/N." Lando says.

You walk away laughing, making your way to the Mercedes garage. The mechanics are busy with final checks on your car, and you take a moment to absorb the atmosphere. This is your sanctuary, your battleground. As you step inside, you’re greeted by George Russell, who gives you a friendly pat on the back.

"Nervous?" he asks, his eyes searching yours.

"A bit," you admit. "But it’s a good kind of nervous. It keeps me sharp."

George nods, understanding. "Just remember, you’ve got the skills. Trust yourself."

You give him a grateful smile before heading towards the Sky Sports interview area. The familiar setup greets you, and the interviewer, Rachel Brookes, waves you over.

"Y/N, it’s great to see you," Rachel says, microphone in hand. "The fans are excited, and so are we. How are you feeling about today’s race?"

"I'm excited," you say, the adrenaline already starting to course through your veins. "Suzuka is one of my favorite tracks. The fans here are incredible, so supportive and passionate. It’s an honor to race in Japan."

Rachel nods, smiling. "You’ve had a strong season so far. What’s your strategy going into this race?"

"To stay focused and keep pushing," you reply. "Every race is a new challenge, but I’ve got a great team behind me. We’re ready to give it everything."

"And how does it feel to have so much support, both from the fans and your fellow drivers?"

"It means the world to me," you say earnestly. "The fans' energy is infectious, and it really drives me to do my best. As for the drivers, we might be competitors on the track, but off it, there's a lot of mutual respect. It's like a big, sometimes dysfunctional, family."

Rachel laughs. "Well, we wish you the best of luck, Y/N!"

You thank her and make your way back to the garage, the race now imminent. Your race engineer, Amaria, is waiting for you by the car. Her calm demeanor is always a source of comfort.

"How are we feeling?" she asks, her eyes scanning your face for any signs of doubt.

"Nervous," you admit again, this time more to yourself than anyone else. "But ready. I want this win, Amaria. I really do."

Amaria nods, her expression serious but encouraging. "You’ve got this, Y/N. You’re one of the best drivers out there. Trust your instincts, trust your skills. We believe in you."

You take a deep breath, the weight of her words grounding you. "Thanks, Amaria. That means a lot."

She smiles, handing you your helmet. "Now, let’s go win this race."

You climb into the car, the familiar feeling of the seat and the controls a comforting presence. The world outside the cockpit fades away, leaving only you and the machine. You put on your helmet, securing it in place, and perform your final checks.

Amaria’s voice comes through the radio, calm and steady. "All systems are go. Remember, stay focused. You’ve got this."

"Copy that," you respond, gripping the steering wheel. The nervous energy has transformed into a fierce determination. You’re ready.

The lights go out, and the roar of engines fills the air. The formation lap begins, and you navigate the twists and turns, feeling the car respond to your every command. The nerves are still there, but they’re now a part of the thrill, a part of the drive.

You line up on the grid, heart pounding, every muscle tensed in anticipation. This is it.

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

The roar of the engines surrounds you as you race through the circuit, the familiar grip of the steering wheel steady in your hands. Lap 28 is in full swing, and you're driving your heart out for the win. You hear the crackle of the radio in your ear, your race engineer giving you updates, but your focus is ahead. The track is slick from a recent shower, and the competition is fierce.

You see Ocon in the Alpine ahead, and you're pushing hard, determined to overtake into P5. Albon is close by in the Williams, equally determined to overtake your position as well. It's a dance of danger and skill, every movement calculated, every second crucial.

Then, it happens. In an instant, the world tilts on its axis. Ocon’s car clips yours, sending you into a spin. Everything slows down as the car flips and flips and flips, the ground and sky exchanging places repeatedly. Sky. Gravel. Sky. Gravel. Sky. Gravel. The violent motion is sickening, disorienting. You can hear the crunch of metal, the shatter of glass, and the scream of tires.

The barrier looms too quickly, and then you're crashing through it, the fence crumpling under the force. You're thrown into a building, the car smashing against the structure with a bone-rattling impact. The world goes black.

The pit lane erupts in chaos. Over the radio, a distressed voice calls for a red flag. The race comes to an abrupt halt, safety cars deployed immediately.

"Red flag, red flag. All drivers return to the pits. Safety car on track."

In the Mercedes garage, the engineers and mechanics freeze. George’s eyes widen in horror as he pulls into the pit lane, the scene replaying in his mind. Amaria is calling out for Y/N, but there is no response.

In the Ferrari garage, Lewis’s face pales as he listens to the radio, his heart sinking with every passing second. Charles Leclerc feels a cold dread in his chest. He can’t stop replaying the image of your car tumbling, the wreckage of what once was a powerful machine. His thoughts are a whirlwind, concern for you overpowering everything else.

"Who was it?" Lando Norris's voice crackles over the radio, fear palpable in his tone.

"It’s Y/N," someone replies. The pit falls silent, the gravity of the situation settling in.

Verstappen stares at the monitors, the usual competitive fire in his eyes extinguished by worry. His jaw clenches from frustration and helplessness. He knows the risks and accepts them, but it doesn’t make this any easier.

Oscar pulls into the pit, ripping his helmet off. "Is she okay?" he demands, but no one has answers. The tension is unbearable.

As the safety crews work frantically, cutting through the mangled metal to reach you, an eerie silence blankets the paddock. Minutes feel like hours. The world watches and waits, breaths held, hearts aching.

Lewis paces, unable to sit still. “Come on, Y/N. Be okay,” he mutters under his breath, his mind racing through the years of knowing you, racing alongside you. He can't lose a teammate, a friend, like this.

George sits in the car, head bowed, fingers clenched around the steering wheel. He blinks rapidly, fighting back tears. The sight of your crumpled car, the uncertainty of your fate, it's too much to bear.

Back in the Ferrari garage, Charles slumps against the wall, his mind is all over the place. He has enough scars from this circuit already, he can’t add more, he needs you to be okay. He was drifting back to the moments you shared. The camaraderie, the rivalry, the mutual respect. “She’s strong. She’ll pull through,” he whispers to himself, trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

Oscar and Lando exchange glances, both young, both terrified. It’s a stark reminder of the dangers they face every time they get behind the wheel. Their usual banter is replaced with a solemn silence, each lost in their thoughts, prayers for your safety.

The medical team finally extracts you from the wreckage, carefully placing you on a stretcher. The sight of your limp body, the blood, it’s almost too much to bear. You’re airlifted to the nearest hospital, the severity of your injuries still unknown.

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

The air in the paddock is thick, filled with tension, anger, and worry. Max stands near the Red Bull garage, his jaw clenched, his eyes scanning the sea of people for a familiar face. His voice, sharp and commanding, cuts through the chaos.

"Where is he? Where the fuck is Ocon?" Max's words echo with a mixture of anger and frustration, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

Lando Norris and Oscar Piastri hear the yelling, their own frustration boiling over as they join Max's side. "Yeah, where is he?" Lando demands, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Doesn't he know how to drive? Look at the damage he caused out there, to Y/N."

Oscar nods in agreement, his expression mirroring their shared outrage. "It's fucking ridiculous," he adds, his voice rising with indignation. "He's a danger to everyone on the damn track."

As they push through the crowd, their eyes searching for any sign of Ocon, a commotion erupts from the direction of the Alpine garage. Lewis’s voice rises and echos through the pit lane, a voice of anger and frustration. George shouts joining him, a chorus of fury that pierces the chaos.

Max, Lando, and Oscar run to the garage, the yelling and commotion driving them forward. They reach the Alpine garage just as Lewis and George break free from the grasp of the engineers and mechanics, their eyes locked on Ocon with unbridled fury.

"Let me go! Let me go! I’m going to beat his fucking ass.” Lewis's voice reverberates through the paddock, his muscles straining against the hands that hold him back.

George's shouts match Lewis's, “You bloody fucking idiot.” he angrily says as he tries to grab Ocons’ shirt.

Lewis somehow manages to escape their grasp and lunges towards Ocon. Arm pulled back with a tight fist and powerful swing, he punches Ocon in the face, the force of the blow causing him to lose his balance and fall to the ground.

The scene is chaotic, a whirlwind of shouting and struggling bodies as engineers and officials rush to intervene. Max, Lando, and Oscar push forward, their own anger fueling their desire to confront Ocon.

But before they can reach him, security arrives, their presence a barrier between the drivers and their target. Strong arms grab hold of Max, Lando, and Oscar, pulling them back as they struggle against the restraint.

"Let us go! You fucker! Come here! You’re a fucking piece of shit!" Max's voice is fierce, his eyes burning with intensity.

Lando and Oscar echo his sentiments, their shouts blending into a chorus of defiance. “You bitch, if she dies it’s on you! You hear me! You don’t deserve to be a driver! How could you be so fucking reckless?!” they say as they try to get to Ocon. But their efforts are in vain as security tightens their grip, guiding them away from the Alpine garage.

Ocon is escorted away, the tension in the paddock reaches a boiling point. The drivers are told to return to their garages, the promise of further confrontation hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

Lewis, George, Max, Lando, and Oscar exchange frustrated glances as they are escorted back to their garages, their desire and anger to get to Ocon are outweighed only by their shared worry for Y/N.

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

Hours pass in agonizing silence. The race, ultimately canceled. Updates on your condition are scarce, and the paddock is gripped with fear. Every beep of a phone, every whisper, sends a jolt through the waiting crowd.

Finally, news comes through. You’re in surgery, your condition is critical but stable. The relief is palpable, but the worry remains. It’s a waiting game now.

Lewis and George sit side by side in the hospital waiting room, their faces etched with worry. They care for you so much, your smile and energy lighting up any room you walk into. They’ve been through so much together, and the thought of losing you is unbearable. They talk in hushed tones, sharing stories about you, trying to keep the fear at bay.

Max arrives, his usual confident stride replaced with uncertainty. He offers a nod to Lewis and George, joining them in their vigil. There’s a silent understanding between them, a shared grief and hope.

Charles walks in, his face a mask of concern. He sits across from the others, his mind still replaying the crash. He remembers you on the stretcher, lying so still, and his heart aches.

Oscar and Lando arrive together, the youngest of the group, their faces pale and drawn. They sit quietly, their presence a testament to the bond forged on and off the track.

Hours stretch on, the waiting room is filled with an oppressive silence. The doctors come and go, their expressions guarded. Every minute feels like an eternity.

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

Amaria your race engineer enters, her face is grave but kind, understanding the emotional toll this night has taken on everyone.

“Hey,” she begins softly, “I know how much you care about Y/N and how difficult this is, but the nurses informed us that it’s past visiting hours. As much as we want to stay the hospital staff needs to do their work, and you need to rest. Her parents are on a flight here right now, they should be here by morning. The FIA decided we will have a meeting first thing in the morning to update you all on her condition.”

There are murmurs of protest, but they are weak, born more out of exhaustion and helplessness than actual defiance. The drivers know she’s right, but leaving feels like abandoning you.

Lewis stands first, setting the example. “We’ll be there bright and early,” he promises, his voice firm.

The others slowly rise, their reluctance palpable. As they file out, each offers a lingering glance back towards the surgical doors, hoping for the best.

Charles stops by Amaria. “Please, make sure we know the moment there’s any change,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

Amaria nods. “I will. Try to get some rest. She’s in good hands.”

Charles nods, smiling weakly, “You too Amaria.”

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

The atmosphere is heavy as all the drivers sit in the room waiting for news on your condition. You can see the tiredness and weariness on their face. Even though they were told to get some rest it’s obvious none of them could.

Finally, Toto and Amaria walk in. “She’s out of surgery. She’s stable, but it’s going to be a long recovery.”

The room exhales as one. Relief floods in, but the road ahead is daunting. You’re strong, a fighter, and they all know you’ll pull through. But the scars, both physical and emotional, will take time to heal.

Lewis reaches out, squeezing George’s shoulder. “Thank you, Lord. She’s okay,” he says, more to himself than anyone else.

Max nods, his eyes brightening a little. “Yeah, she is.”

Charles leans back into his seat, his eyes closed, tears escaping as he says, “She's okay, she's really okay. She's alive.”

Oscar and Lando exchange a watery glance, a silent exchange of relief passing between them.

You're okay.

𝙿𝙰𝚁𝚃 𝟸

∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱⋰✾ ❁ ✿ ∴⋱ ✾ ❁ ✿

#ꨄ࿎victoria’s writings!࿎ꨄ #formula 1 x reader #vicki ♛ recs ⇢✍︎♥︎#formula one x reader #formula 1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 grid #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x you #f1 one shot

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wynnyfryd · 1 year ago

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Trailer park Steve AU part 24

part 1 | part 23 | ao3

cw: alcohol, throwing up, brief reference to canonical character death

"Oh, my god!" Robin barks, nearly throwing herself off-balance again with the force of her laugh. "This is too good, man. You truly cannot escape your babysitting duties."

"Can I help you?" Max seethes.

Help him? Help him? "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" She gestures to the guy she's holding onto, some fluffy-haired kid with a cut-off vest covered in safety pins that Steve sort of vaguely recognizes as one of Eddie's friends. Oh, shit. Is Eddie here finally? Has he seen him?

"Wait, where's Lucas?" Steve asks.

"Who cares?" she bites back.

The guy gives a nervous chuckle and loosens his grip on her waist. "Uh-h. Did you say babysitter?"

"He's not actually, Jesus. I'm fourteen; I don't need a babysitter. And he was just leaving, anyway, right?"

Her glare feels like a slap. Girl's got daggers in her eyes, holy shit. It's like she's hoping some of El's powers magically transferred to her; like she's picturing him flying ten feet into the air and landing with a splat on the far side of the concrete, and he doesn't need this. He did not come out tonight to be bullied by a teenager. "Okay, that's it, I'm taking—"

"—me to the punch bowl!" Robin interrupts, putting her hands on Steve's chest to stop him from grabbing Max and hauling her back to the car.

"Robin, what—?"

"Yep!" She shoves him hard, pushing him to the edge of the dance floor. "Silly me, just dying of thirst, ha ha. Okay, cool, see you both later!"

—

"What the hell was that?" Steve demands when they're safely on the far side of the pavilion.

"An intervention."

Oh, my god. May he never hear the word 'intervention' again in his life.

"Un-ruffle your Mother Hen feathers for two seconds and think, would you? One: it would look really, really, seriously weird for you to be seen dragging a dead jock's kid sister kicking and screaming to your car."

A dead jock’s kid sister. Jesus, tipsy Robin has no tact.

"Two: you said we were going to go out and have fun and get, and I quote, 'very drunk.' Take your babysitter hat off for one night. She's a high schooler, and this is a high school party."

"Yeah, I know," he sulks. Doesn't need the reminder that he's technically past the age limit.

"Okay, so then let her have fun! It's not like you weren't out drinking and smoking by her age."

'I'm always so right about everything. I'm, like, cosmically correct.' Goddammit. Steve needs another drink. "I just don't want her to do anything dumb and get hurt."

"She won't. We can just, like, keep an eye on her from a distance, right? Let her come to us if she needs anything."

"So we should just act like your parents?" Steve snorts.

"My parents are amazing, thank you!"

"Your mom offered me mushroom tea once."

"Like I said: amazing."

Steve huffs a laugh, flips his hair out of his eyes and snags a handful of tortilla chips. "Okay," he says around a crunchy bite, "so what's the third thing?"

"Third thing?" Robin asks. She’s not even looking at him anymore, her eyes eager and distracted as she scans the crowd.

"You're biting your lip weird, there's clearly a third thing."

She turns to him, and the smile springs free from its containment, spreading all over her flushed, ecstatic face. "Vickie just showed up."

—

Steve’s hammered.

Whoops.

Didn’t mean to do it; feels a little bad about it as he tips his head up to the sky and all the stars go raining in bright streaks across his vision. Reminds him of the ceiling at Starcourt, nauseous and spinning under a swirl of bright fluorescence. He hopes Rob’s flirting is going well.

He meant to get politely drunk.

A socially appropriate amount.

But then Robin ran off to flirt with Vickie, and Steve was doing his best to just lay low, steer clear of Max and maybe find a way to casually run into Eddie if he could find him, when he spotted the girl he went on that disaster of a date with instead and realized his options were either: stay there by the beer coolers while she came over with her new date and subjected him to the most painful small talk of his life, or retreat to the dark edges of the party with as much booze as he could carry, so.

He's slumped on top of a picnic bench downwind of the bonfire, bad ear ringing, belly full to bursting, trying to remember when one beer became… more than one beer.

Five?

Six, maybe?

Fuck.

“‘M gonna puke,” he confesses to the splintered wood beneath his feet; to the pine bough overhead, the smoky fire at his back.

“Wow,” someone says, an amused lilt to their tone, and Steve knows that voice, he—

Oh, no.

Ohhhh, no.

Now? Really?

Steve whips his head around, opens his mouth to ask ‘Eddie?’ and barfs all over his shoes.

—

part 25

tag list part 1 below the cut, let me know if you want me to add you tomorrow (21+ only, please confirm your age if you're asking to be tagged)

@a-little-unsteddie @ahsokatanoss @aliea82 @alyelf @anne-bennett-cosplayer @aol19 @awolfstudio @bambibiest @bananahoneycomb @bookbinderbitch @bronwenmarie @cheonsazu @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @courtjestermunson @cuips-not-cute @dauntlessdiva @dawners @dontwasteyourchances @eddie-munsons-missing-nipple @eriquin @estrellami-1 @fandomfix8 @gregre369 @griefabyss69 @grtwdsmwhr @hallucinatedjosten @hellion-child @hiimlevi @honoragreyskull @hotluncheddie @jackiemonroe5512 @kas-eddie-munson @kingelyx @lifeisacrisis @littlebluejane @marvel-ous-m @melonmochi @messrs-weasley @milklechee @mrsjellymunson @mugloversonly @munsonslure @nburkhardt @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notsopersonalcharlie @novelnovella @nuggies4life @phoenixtheone @questionablequeeries @runninriot

#trailer park steve au #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #steddie fic #robin buckley #max mayfield #gareth stranger things #vickie stranger things #my writing #my fic

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sept-stobin-extravaganza · 4 months ago

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Taking place from September 1st to 30th, artists and writers will have the opportunity to share their Stobin creations and works.

There will be no minimum or maximum word count, we just ask that after 1000k you add a 'read more,' to your post. Please rate your works accordingly and use warnings at the top of your post if you believe your content could be triggering to some users. When posting make sure to write the prompt of the day at the top of your post and tag @sept-stobin-extravaganza so your post can be added to the queue. Expect to see a '🍦' commented in the replies of your post, that's when you'll know it's been added to the queue. After receiving a '🍦' in your replies please add your works to the Ao3 Collection. Same goes for artists.

But most importantly, get creative and have fun!

Please no AI.

If you have any questions or concerns please feel free to send a message @sept-stobin-extravaganza or @little-annie

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sapphicstevents · 19 days ago

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Time to spread some holiday cheer... 🎁💜

Hi friends! 💜

We're proud to present our first fic exchange event! Sign-ups are open NOW until Nov. 28th! Assignments will be sent out by Dec. 2nd.

Fill out your femslash wishlist to participate! 🎁

Feel free to reach out with any questions or concerns regarding this event:

Send us an ask!

Email us at [email protected]

Or dm a moderator @maraschinobomb , @mirandaranda

We can't wait to exchange some fanfic fun with you! 💜❄️

#sapphic stranger things #sapphic stranger things event #fic exchange #holiday exchange #stranger things event #sapphic fiction #femslash #robin buckley #vickie stranger things #nancy wheeler #chrissy cunningham #carol perkins #rovickie #ronance #buckingham #bubblescoops #pompompistol #exchange event

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cillianmesoftlyyy · 4 months ago

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I Can Fix That... Pt 4 | Jonathan Crane x fem!character

summary: Crane plans to return to Gotham with the young detective. Their relationship has changed from enemies to lovers, to partners in crime and it strains their ability to trust one another. Will their relationship be able to stand the pressure of Gotham's crime community? And will Crane stay sane enough to protect her?

warnings: recalls back to drugging and violence, fighting, guns, physical violence, betrayal, trust issues.

word count: 6368k

Bury a Friend- Billie Eilish 🎶

More parts to come!

Recap if needed ( I did lol):

Detective Y/N Y/L/N was one of Gotham’s finest until she overstayed her welcome in Dr. Jonathan Crane’s lab one night. After a lesson on fear and desire, Dr. Crane couldn’t let her go and introduced her to his partner in crime, Ra’s al Ghul. After being with Crane, the young detective could no longer deny the insatiable criminal desire brewing in her and decided to join the men of the League of Shadows. When she and Crane are betrayed by al Ghul, Crane falls back on his backup plan and they escape to his childhood home outside of Gotham city. A night alone together with the ghosts of his past come back to haunt them but bring them even closer together. Secrets are exposed and bonds are cemented as Crane reveals to the young detective her true identity. Learning that she was the daughter of the Arkhams who founded Arkham Asylum but were murdered by Thomas Wayne, she adopts the name her parents gave her when she was born and becomes Matilda Y/N Arkham. She learns that Crane has his own ties to the Wayne family, bringing them even closer together. And piecing her past together gives her the confidence she needed to be her own person and leave her original naiveté behind. She emerges from this conversation as Lady Arkham and agrees to return to Gotham with Crane.

Her eyes snapped to his as he explained his strategy, his face dangerously close.

“Ra’s failed. It's all over the news now. Batman swooped in and saved the day,” he pursed his lips. “I even got an honorable mention. ‘Dr. Jonathan Crane of Arkham Asylum escapes Gotham during mass hysteria, his whereabouts unknown!’” He donned a commercial accent of a newspaper man and went back to his desk, pulling out a pair of silver-rimmed glasses, a backup that he kept in his desk in Crane House. When he put them on she couldn’t mistake him for anyone else any longer, he was the infamous Dr. Jonathan Crane.

“Any news on Ra’s? What happened to him?” She folded her arms across her chest and puffed a strand of hair out of her face.

“They believe he went down with the high speed rail as it carried the micro-wave emitter into a different sector of the city but who knows?” He smiled and shrugged, a hint of his old Scarecrow mannerisms came back into play as he talked. The slip in sanity or just the cool, steely composure that Crane usually donned was exciting, she felt that rush again like the night at Arkham when he had been drugged. He was the Scarecrow again even without the toxin. “They know me, of course, but you,” he pointed down at her chest, his finger brushing her sternum, “they have no idea what you’ve done.”

“Does that mean we’re going back to Gotham city, Scarecrow?”

“Yes, it does.” He nodded and paced the room for a moment, his forehead now creased in concentration.

“Then what do you need me to do?” She smiled and perched on the edge of the desk, crossing her legs and leaning forward to listen. He stopped in front of her and cleared his throat, changing characters.

“You will return to Gotham and stumble into the hospital, dazed and bewildered, still feeling the effects of the fear toxin. You will be treated and Sgt. Gordon will hear that you have turned up and change your missing person status to found,” he talked as if he were teaching a class. She recrossed her legs and he gave her a warning glance, ‘wait until he was finished,’ it said. “I will get the folders of your birth certificate and evidence to you once you leave the hospital and after a few days, you will show them to Sgt. Gordon. When he asks why and how you were able to find this information-”

“I’ll tell him that I discovered the cold case while helping the city restore their records after the chaos.”

“And by some miracle, you uncovered the truth after a little extra digging.”

“But what if Gordon doesn’t want to dig up old controversies? What if he still has a soft spot for the Waynes?”

“If he does, take the records to the hospital and get a DNA test and run it alongside the medical records the hospital had at your birth, it's all there.” He gestured to the folder beside her and cleaned the panel of glass in his glasses before restoring them to his face.

“And that will rightfully reestablish me as Matilda Y/N Arkham.”

“Heir to the Arkham fortune- Arkham Asylum, which finds itself in need of a new director, one with a solid, law-abiding reputation.”

“And a good name.” She added. “Though I like yours better.” She flirted and he chuckled.

“Then you can have it,” he cocked his head, “but only if you do this well.”

She couldn’t tell if he was joking or not but it turned her on nonetheless.

“That sounds manipulative to me.”

“You’d know if I was manipulating you,” he smirked darkly.

“And that sounds like gaslighting.”

“No, it's a lesson on basic psychology,” he licked his lips, “Now pay attention,” he scolded her and she forced herself to be quiet as Crane continued with his plan.

“When you become Arkham’s newest director, our work will finally begin. I have some people I want you to meet but the time will come for that and first, we need to focus on getting you back to Gotham.” He smiled with a wild look in his eye and she shivered… Scarecrow.

“Is it safe to fly back? Won’t people see us” Matilda looked down at the watch on her wrist. They both knew that it wasn’t dark enough outside to return unnoticed.

“We aren’t going to fly back.”

“Then how…” she trailed off. Crane crossed his arms across his chest and leaned against the large desk behind them. His crazed face ignited a strange excitement in her and suddenly, she knew exactly what he had in mind. The sewer lines.

“Because we dried up the main waterline in Gotham, we’ll be able to travel through the empty sewers… back into Gotham.” He smirked haughtily and launched himself off of the table with the subtle quickness of a cat.

“He was right,” Matilda smiled. Crane cocked his head to the side but before he could ask her what she meant, she answered him.

“Ra’s. He called you a criminal mastermind that night in your apartment.”

Crane rolled his eyes and laughed tightly, “I hope that was the only thing he was right about.”

“What do you mean?” She furrowed her brow. Crane looked back at her and shrugged his narrow shoulders slightly. His eyes traveled down her body and then back up.

“It all comes down to trust, detective.”

She lowered her head and nodded at her feet. She didn’t know how to respond to something like that. The topic of trust had come up countless times over the past few days and yet, could they ever really trust each other? She thought so. Crane noticed her change in behavior and clicked his tongue affectionately. “Ra’s didn’t know anything about trust. The man couldn’t even trust himself. I’ll admit, I didn’t trust you in the beginning, not even until last night, but right now in this very moment, I realize how much I’ve relied on you over the past few days. You are my sole reason for survival and I understand that now.”

Matilda smiled and kissed Crane sharply across the mouth. Her teeth caught his bottom lip and he encouraged her by pulling her face closer to his. His fingers were pressed so harshly against her cheek that he could nearly trace the lines of teeth in her jaw. They broke apart and rested their foreheads together, exchanging breath.

“Are you ready to earn your new title, Lady Arkham?” Crane smirked and handed her the file from his desk.

“I’ve already earned it, doctor.”

She didn’t pack a bag, that wouldn’t make sense in case she was busted by Gordon on her way back into the city. Instead, she changed into what she had worn the day before: black slacks and a navy sweater. She fastened her gun back into its holster around her waist and looped her police badge around her neck. The collar of the sweater managed to hide the thin necklace of bruises from where Crane had choked her while under the influence of his own fear serum.

In her moments alone, Matilda mulled over her recent revelations. Never once could she have guessed that her parents were actually the Arkhams and in charge of Gotham’s most notorious asylum before they had been murdered. Thomas Wayne had taken everything from her and done the same to Crane. The Waynes would take and take and take until the entire city was desperate, damaged, and deplorable. Thomas Wayne had made the city like this, a place where someone needed to be the hero, and what had his son become? Bruce Wayne was a socialite and the golden boy of Wall Street locker-room talk. Who needed a real hero when a spoiled, chauvinist jerk could use haughty architecture to distract the masses?

She would avenge her parents one way or another and she didn’t even need Crane’s help to do it. Ever since he’d introduced her to his fear serum, it had unlocked a part of her psychosis that complimented his criminal genius too well to be a coincidence. He’d seen this part of her since the very beginning, in his eyes, she’d already proven herself, she’d already become Lady Arkham. The cruel find each other and the vengeful do too. Gone were the days when she questioned the morals of Crane’s methods, now she would join him in resetting the precedent. Together, they would make a new Gotham… or tear it apart. She hadn’t decided yet. Fuck it.

Crane wore all black, turning himself into a shadow or the hard edge of black onyx. He slipped a pistol into his front pocket and slipped his scarecrow mask into a safe place along the lining of his jacket. There were dark lines beneath his eyes and a twitch in his smile: both symptoms that his sanity was starting to slip. Ra’s had betrayed him but looking on the bright side (as if), it had provided a new perspective. He could turn his attention to a more important foe, the one Gotham called Batman.

“I know you’re there,” Crane called out, interrupting his own thoughts.

Matilda stepped out from behind the cracked door. Crane was fixing his jacket in the mirror and brushed off his chest.

“Why do you still feel the need to spy on me, detective?”

“Call it a kind of kink, whatever you want, but it's an instinct at this point. Years in the Gotham police department makes you into a great eavesdropper if you want to stay informed.”

“I’m not one to judge by any means, darling, but lurking in the shadows? How… unsettling.” Crane clucked his tongue in mock-pity.

“Do you have a diagnosis, doctor?” She leaned against the doorframe with her hands at the small of her back.

“I’d have to do an examination.” Crane met her at the door and brushed his pointer finger against the edge of her jaw.

“Kinky-”

Crane rolled his eyes and switched off the light in his room, having to reach over her shoulder to do so.

“Oh… you have no idea, detective,” Crane’s dark whisper greeted her in the dark room as he pressed his body against hers. He took her hands from behind her back and pushed them up above her head. His tone became serious as he addressed her.

“You’re a smart girl, detective so I’m sure you’ve already surmised how important this is. Do as I say and we’ll both get back into Gotham alive, alright?” His voice was curt, like a stern warning but his lips were occupied, whispering across her cheek but never kissing her. “I’d like you better alive.” He added and pulled her through his bedroom door into the bright hallway.

“Then keep me alive.” She retorted and blinked away the brightness of the room. She could hear Crane’s quiet chuckle behind her as she raced ahead.

They left out the grand front door. She paused to look back at the large and beautiful house behind them, its windows dark and uninviting. She hoped she’d be back.

“What did you tell Hobbs that we were leaving? Does he know?” She hurried to keep up with Crane who was already a few paces ahead. He paused to chuckle and shake his head, his dark hair shifting in place.

“Your concern for others is touching, truly. They know but they don’t know everything. They know what I want them to.”

“Do you think we’ll come back here?” She asked as they maneuvered through the high grass. Brambles snapped against their pants and she struggled to keep herself from slipping on rocks hidden in the dark ridges of Gotham’s countryside. Crane stopped in his tracks and turned to her abruptly, his eyes reflecting the light of the gibbous moon.

“Would you like that?” He raised an eyebrow. The house had offered him no comfort before, only bad memories and nightmares, but with the girl, maybe he could learn to live with the ghosts of his past. But could it be possible? Did she like Crane House even after seeing its cold interior and brittle bones? She came to a stop and tried to catch her breath.

“I would, yes,” she nodded and glanced back at the house, its outline barely visible without the interior lights. “I think the house is the key to understanding Dr. Jonathan Crane…” she smiled and fixed a strand of gelled hair out of Crane's pale face.

“But do you mean it?” Crane caught her hand and held it, his heart was pounding. Honestly, it was embarrassing. She’d never seen him so desperate before. A piece of him was down on his knees before her, begging for commitment and affirmation. Even the toughest of men will break before a good woman. Matilda gave Crane a small smile and nodded.

“I do.”

Crane released a short breath and cleared his throat. She bit her lip to keep from giggling. Had she flustered the great Dr. Crane?

“Well in that case. I want you to come back and live with me after this is all over.” Crane told her calmly, not asking.

They passed the hill with the scarecrow but Crane didn’t even notice. Matilda looked over at his pace face, glowing in the offcast light. He was a villain, he was not bred to be trusted. Could she live with someone that she’d always question his loyalty? That didn’t seem like a very healthy relationship but honestly, that wasn’t the worst of their problems. Remember the lab table? The dubious consent? Whatever, she could change him.

iii

They approached the mouth of the sewer offshoot in cautious silence. Crane pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose but the beads of sweat dripping from his hairline acted against him. The tunnel was dark and ominous like a large open mouth ready to close at any sign of movement. Crane pulled a long flashlight from his jacket and shone it into the mouth of the tunnel. The light barely pilfered the massive darkness, making Matilda shake her head in disbelief.

“Why do I feel like this is a very bad idea?” She whispered with a wary smile. Crane chuckled darkly and lowered his light slightly, illuminated the ground.

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of the dark, detective?” His smirk was unmistakable even in the dark. She felt old pangs of annoyance rise inside her from dealing with the old Crane back in Gotham as a detective. She sighed curtly and pulled the gun from her holster.

“Not scared, just careful.”

“Well you can stop being careful now, darling. You’re playing with the big boys now.”

“Shut it, Crane.” She shushed him and aimed into the tunnel with her gun. They slowly walked into the open sewer system and left Gotham’s countryside (and pleasantry) behind them. They tried to dampen the sound of their footsteps by treading softly but the acoustics betrayed their every move.

“While we’re down here, I should tell you a little about my friends,” Crane broke the silence with a lowered voice. Matilda could just make out his silhouette in the flashlight’s glare.

“You have friends?” She deadpanned back and Crane sighed, shaking his head.

“Don’t push it detective, I’m the one who knows the way to Gotham. You’d be lost down here without me.”

“Don’t give yourself too much credit.”

“You’re feisty today… I like it,” Crane broke into a large, devilish grin and laughed despite himself.

They continued down the series of dry, empty passageways until they reached a large rotunda. The light from the flashlight was useless in lighting the whole room but it didn’t matter because Crane switched off the light, dropping them into sudden darkness.

“What the fuck?” She whispered but Crane didn’t respond. She could hear him walking away but the darkness and echoes disoriented her and she couldn’t tell which direction he had gone.

“Crane,” she hissed but still no response came. And one more reason why she couldn’t fully trust the man/criminal mastermind. She imagined for a moment that he was actually leaving her in the dark. Why would he go through all of that just to abandon her down here? That is to say unless there was a reason why they were there in that specific room. Matilda shook as she raised the pistol once again to her eye level and waited for any sign of danger. She’d prepared for this in the police academy. She’d graduated first in her class. Some hide-in-the-dark game wasn’t going to distract her from her talent as a police officer in Gotham. Whatever the hell was about to happen, she was ready.

She felt it before she knew what hit her.

A fist slammed into her gut, knocking her off-balance. She regained control quickly and stabilized herself, panting. The size of the hand was larger than Crane’s. Someone else was with them in the dark. She anticipated his next move which came from the side, so she ducked and used the opportunity to kick her opponent wherever she could. A grunt told her that she had been successful in landing her blow. She rolled to the side and barely avoided a kick to her ribs, nearly squealing in surprise. The gun was swept out of her hand and she could hear it skid across the crude concrete floor. It was too far away now, she’d have to fight with her fists. When she jumped to her feet, she danced around in the dark, quick on the balls of her feet to outrun whoever her attacker was.

“This isn’t a fair fight, you know.” She growled out. She was met with frustrating silence. Where the hell was Crane? She could smell the body beside her so she threw a punch and yelled out when her knuckles came into contact with ribbed steel. It felt like a machine of some sorts but it was connected to the thing she was fighting. Shaking out her wounded hand she tried to duck the next punch but it still caught her in the shoulder. Anger was welling up inside her as she tried to dance around her opponent. She was ready to fucking kill whoever this person was. There was no way she’d die in a sewer so soon after she’d learned about her true identity. That wasn’t going to happen, not to her.

She screamed as she punched the figure beside her, striking a bare chest and knocking the man back. She followed him as he moved backwards, landing punches against muscle and an armor-like material. He shoved her backwards with impressive strength and she fell to the ground, cringing.

When she stood, she sensed a flurry of movement and braved a blind punch. It landed but the body was different.

“You must be kidding me, there are two of you fuckers?” She hissed and landed a second punch where she believed a jaw would be. She missed, and as her fist sailed through the air, a well-placed kick hit her between her hip and her last rib. She screamed out in pain and lashed out, punching the figure. The figure coughed from the blow but quickly recovered. In his defenseless moment, she grabbed the man’s shoulders and raised her knee to his groin, striking him with a swift movement. Unlike most men, the attacker merely hissed and cursed beneath his breath. She knew the sound of that voice.

“Jonathan?” She whispered in disbelief.

“You really need to stop using that mint shampoo. I can tell exactly where you are, even in the dark.” His voice was strained as he was obviously still coping from the pain.

“Oh yeah? Then why didn’t you see that coming? Hurts, doesn’t it?” She growled and raised her fist to punch him but his hand stopped her. She could feel his body inches from hers, a familiar chemistry sparking between them.

“Why are you doing this?” She whispered, his hand still grasped around her raised fist. Crane sighed and drew in a long breath. She could nearly feel him shrug his shoulders before answering.

“You need to learn how to fight anyone when forced too… even me, darling.” Crane pushed her back and smiled as she fell back. “It may surprise you to hear but hand-to-hand combat is one of my many talents. Now get up and punch me harder.”

She could hear the condensation in his unmistakable voice. She rolled to the side before crouching. Crane tried to kick her but she had already moved, giving her an opportunity to elbow a tender place on his back. He cursed and swung around hitting her jaw. She covered her mouth before she could scream out in pain and alarm. Was he trying to kill her now?

“Fuck you,” she spat and launched herself onto him, knocking him flat on his back on the floor. She was trying to hold down his arms as he smirked.

“You already have, remember?”

His sentence caught her off guard, giving him the last opportunity he needed to shove her off.

“If you’d turn on the fucking lights we could fight properly, you bastard,” her lip curled up as she spoke. She wiped sweat from her forehead and tried to catch her breath.

“Good point,” a man with a strange accent grunted somewhere beside her. In the next second, large industrial lamps suspended from the tall ceiling were turned on, blinding her after so long in the dark. She tried to look around for the man but her eyes couldn’t adjust fast enough in the sudden light. She scrambled to her feet and shaded her eyes.

Before her she saw a man of unbelievable size. He was tall and grotesquely jacked, muscles straining against his skin. On his face he wore a dark machine with ribbed metal cables fitted to the front and connected to a tank in the center of his chest. His head was shaved, a pity really, and he wore little more than a tank top and heavy cargo pants. The large man shifted his dark goggles off of his eyes and sighed deeply.

“You were right, Crane. She’s got potential.”

“That’s my girl,” Crane walked out from behind her, replacing his glasses onto his face and rolled his sleeves back down. She was still breathing heavily as she looked between the two men.

“You both need some serious couple’s therapy,” the other man observed and laughed quietly to himself. His laugh was deep and unsettling. She didn’t laugh back. Instead, she wiped a layer of blood from her lip and spat a wad of bloody saliva on the ground.

“I appreciate the concern,” she quipped sarcastically to the stranger and turned to Crane, “ but what the hell was that? If you wanted to fight me why not do it in the light?”

Crane nodded, acknowledging her point and smiled slowly.

“I can answer that,” the man interjected before Crane could respond, “Your boyfriend here has been working with me for a few years now. He contacted me to inform me about a young woman who could fill one of the recently-made-available roles in our organization. However, before I could formally meet you, I wanted to see what kind of potential you had.”

“You also needed to be able to attack me if required. Personal relationships are dangerous in our line of work, which is why we cut the lights. We didn’t want you to be able to see me.”

“This is insane,” she ran her hands over her face, still fuming. She didn’t even know who this other man was. What the hell was Crane thinking?

“I know,” Crane smiled widely, his plump lips pulled back into a manic grin, “and wasn’t it fun?”

Matilda peeked through her fingers at Crane and then moved her gaze to look at the terrifying man beside him.

“Oh I’m sorry, where are my manners? I should introduce myself.” The man slipped his hands beneath the straps of his tank top, supporting the weight of what appeared to be a respirator. “My name is Bane.”

“Matilda… Arkham,” she managed to reply.

“There’s a few more people you need to meet before you go back into Gotham.” Crane cupped her injured cheek and wiped the remaining blood from her chin with his thumb gently. “Remember what I said? Hmmm?”

She looked at him with narrowed, pissed-off eyes. What kind of game was he playing now? Crane chuckled when she didn’t answer and reached behind his back. He withdrew her gun and pressed the handle into her sternum, between her breasts.

“You’re playing with the big boys now,” he whispered against her ear.

What had she gotten herself into?

They escorted her into a different room inside the network of underground tunnels. Much to her surprise, they had converted many of the abandoned tunnels into hideouts for members of The League of Shadows. As they entered the next room, she saw half a dozen other men in various styles of dress and disguises. She was the only woman, and even though she hated Crane at that moment, she stuck close to him.

“Don’t be scared, darling. They’re my friends.”

“I know, that’s why I’m worried,” she growled but still stayed close by his side. He chuckled quietly and placed a protective hand on her lower back.

“You’ll be fine.” His voice feathered against her neck, warming the core in her navel. They really did need couples therapy.

“Ah my friends!” Crane smiled darkly and extended his free hand to show her off to the semi-circle of criminals around them. “Welcome the newest member of the League… Lady Arkham.”

The title on his lips sounded so perfect. She was Lady Arkham.

The men in the room nodded.

“She used to be one of Gotham’s ‘finest’ and now, she’s one of its worst,” Crane’s grip tightened around her waist. “She’ll be going back into the city tonight and working undercover for our cause. She’s our best and most important weapon. No one knows who she is… yet.”

“But that is going to change,” Bane’s loud voice boomed beside them. “Soon everyone will know who she is and what kind of people she represents. Her collaboration with the police and important officials in the city is crucial to the sanctity of our plan for Gotham. That being said, she will hold her own just like any one of us, but her survival is necessary… for the meantime at least,” he cleared his throat.

“Thank you for that vote of confidence. I’m just here for vengeance,” she addressed them all with a curt voice and small shrug.

“Oh, but darling, aren’t we all?” Crane smirked and gestured to the criminals in front of them. “You question our motives so let’s make it very clear. We’re all here for vengeance. Anything else is just a lie.”

“Then what’s the plan that I’ve already been added to?” She raised her eyebrow. Bane sighed loudly, his respirator acting as a microphone.

“You don’t need to know that yet, all that matters now is that we have big plans for Gotham and all of your old colleagues.”

Matilda smiled slowly and nearly started to laugh. She hated the bastards down at the police station, the ones who never believed her, supported her, or even paid attention to her. For all the men that treated her like she was a worthless addition to their force, she’d make them pay. That sounded good to her.

“I think she likes that idea,” Crane smirked and trailed his hand up her back to a lock of hair. He tugged it gently but she felt it and was comforted by the gesture.

“Good, then let’s get on with the introductions shall we?” Bane announced and gestured for Crane to begin, “Dr. Crane?”

Crane nodded his head, his expression returning to a serious state of business. He let go of her and paced slowly down the line of men.

“You’ve probably heard of most of these names from your time in Gotham, detective, but now you finally get the chance to meet them. This is the remaining roster of members after Ra’s unfortunate passing,” his lip curled and his nose scrunched as he spoke.

“The Penguin, Two-Face, Killer Croc, two of Bane’s men, and of course, the Joker.”

Hearing the Joker’s name came as a shock to the detective. She’d been hearing his name for months. Robberies in the era had been connected to the mysterious criminal nicknamed the Joker after the playing card he always left behind. But what startled her the most was the man called Two-Face. It wasn’t his appearance but his face which was so recognizable.

“Harvey Dent…” she heard herself whisper. Two-Face grinned and placed a hand in mock-admiration to his chest.

“Aw, you still recognize me?” His voice was too hard to be kind but she still nodded and swallowed slowly.

“Of course. You were supposed to be Gotham’s ‘White knight,’ it's saving grace.”

“And who says I’m not? I plan on saving Gotham in my own way, not like Batman.”

Crane looked between Matilda and Harvey Dent, a sour expression tugging at his face. He really needed to work on his jealousy problem. Seeing Dent speak to the girl was almost more than he could handle.

“We’re going back into Gotham tonight. Police Chief Gordon needs to see that she’s alive. Once he does, the plan begins. Understood?” Crane addressed the crowd of criminals who all nodded, except for Dent.

“Pity, I had plans to kill Gordon’s family tonight,” Dent clucked, his half-burned lips pursed. Crane kept his expression straight and unchanging.

“Try not to let your personal needs interfere with our work, Dent.”

“Sure thing, doc.” Dent hissed back and flipped a coin, “damn,” he whispered when he checked the face against his palm. Crane didn’t bother to ask what he was flipping for and nodded at Bane who opened up a path for them to leave. Crane walked ahead of her and practically pulled her from the underground chamber and into the next one.

“I was flipping to see whether or not I should have gone out with the girl.”

When they had turned the corner and were back on their way into the city she spoke up. “What happened to him?”

Crane didn’t look over as he answered, his jaw clenched tightly in anger.

“He lost his fiancee in a fire that was intentionally set.”

“By whom?” She interjected.

Crane paused for a moment and sighed through his nose, “the Joker.”

“The Joker tried to kill Dent?”

“It’s a long story.”

“When did this all happen?” She pushed, an eyebrow raised. “He’s Harvey Dent, I should have heard about something like this.”

“Your department covered it up because Gordon was involved. He was the one that picked up his fiancee and took her to the place where she died.”

“Surely he didn’t know…”

“Look,” Crane shoved her against the wall, his face inches from hers as they both panted from the startling action, “you need to decide here and now which side you’re on. The faster you realize that the people you used to know are just as corrupt as we are, the faster you can realize your potential with us… with me.”

“It’s not that fucking easy, Crane.” She whispered harshly and struggled in his strong grip.

“Isn’t it? Tell me where your trust lies.”

“Well it certainly doesn’t lie with you anymore,” she freed her hands and shoved Crane away from her body, “you fucking attacked me and you let Bane attack me. I mean look at me! I’m bleeding, Crane. You did this to me,” she pointed at her busted lip. “How can I trust a man who changes so quickly, who doesn’t let me in, who doesn’t tell me things like this.”

“You were the top of your class in the police academy, you could fight anyone you wanted to. You were made to be one of us, you can’t deny that. This is what life is like in the League, you can’t trust anyone… but me. You can and need to trust me.”

Matilda shook her head, tears filling her eyes. “No,” she whispered and fought away Crane’s hands as he tried to catch her.

“Look at me, detective. Look at me,” Crane caught her harshly in his arms and held her again against the wall. His tone was gentle though his hands holding her against the wall were rough. Slowly, she looked down at his face, half hidden in shadows. His brow was furrowed as he licked his lips and spoke.

“I only did what I had to do, detective. I would never have done anything else to seriously hurt you. I took your gun so Bane couldn’t use it, he still tried however. I hit you where it would hurt but where you could still take it because I need you to be here with me. If I wanted to kill you, detective, I would have done it the day I met you. You mean too much to me now.”

Crane cupped her face not-so-softly in his hands and turned her face up to his, pressing his mouth to her ear.

“Listen to me, Miss Arkham…” he hissed against her cold skin, “I love you.”

He couldn’t believe that the words were leaving his mouth as he spoke them. Every chemical compound in his body was screaming against it. Bonds were broken and reactions triggered as he confessed. Finally admitting his love for her both relieved and frightened him. It would no longer be just him, now he had a woman that he loved who required his protection, love, intelligence… But it was all true, everything he said and felt. He loved her.

Her heart leapt at his words like an electrical impulse flaring to new life. She had never expected him to say those words, the man who’d never loved before. When she looked into his eyes, she could tell that he was telling the truth because for the second time, she witnessed fear in them. When he pulled away she touched her nose to his and looked up into his sterile, silver-blue eyes, her feet finally touching the ground.

“Are love and trust the same thing?” She asked breathlessly and Crane clenched his jaw and pursed his lips.

“They have to be.”

They stared at each other in the yellowish light of the gas lamps suspended like flashlights above their heads. Crane’s black suit jacket and blood stained shirt looked so out of place in the tunnels. She could only imagine what she looked like in her slacks and a ruined blue sweater. The disloyal detective and the (actually) criminal psychiatrist, a match made in whatever the hell Gotham was - - heaven or hell?

“So where does your trust lie, Matilda?” Crane whispered, breaking the silence. She took a deep breath, not breaking eye-contact, and tilted her head to the side. She looked stunning in the yellow light, even with her lip busted and her jaw bruised. He could feel deep bruises developing on his own body and felt a sense of pride that she’d been the one to do that to him. She was the only one who could truly hurt him.

“With you, Crane, and no one else.”

With a breath of relief, Crane stepped closer. Their lips were millimeters apart as Crane cupped the back of her head with his hands and pressed against her hip with the other hand. She exhaled shakily before Crane finally kissed her, gently at first. Their eyes closed and their mouths molded together into that familiar space where everything else faded away. Crane pushed his tongue into her mouth and she moaned softly in return, melting into the cement behind her. They twisted their lips against each other as they moved their heads, wanting to taste every part of one another. He pulled her into his chest and she grabbed the back of his jacket to steady herself. His kiss hardened as she bit his lip harder than she needed to, a small act of revenge and affection. He knew that she knew that he wouldn’t be able to hold back if they kept going the way they were for much longer. Even with a pair of slacks in the way, he’d take her if given the chance and enough pent of desire to fuel it. Drawing up all the strength he could to pull back, Crane broke the kiss and met her eyes once again.

“Gotham awaits, detective. Let’s get you home.”

...

end of Pt 4 :)

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rogueddie · 5 months ago

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Volunteering at a summer camp, the last thing any of the young adults expect is new romances. But, thanks to Steves encouragement, Robin finally makes a move on Vickie- and it works! And, with how happy the two are together... and how completely unsubtle they are... Nancy uses it to give her courage to finally make a move on Chrissy.

#stranger things #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #chrissy cunningham #vickie stranger things #rovickie #wheelingham #longficidea #moodboard #abandoned mini bang fic my beloved </3

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jonathanbyersphd · 8 months ago

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College AU where Mike was supposed to room with Dustin but shenanigans ensue and he ends up rooming with Will and they do not get along. Will thinks Mike is messy, Mike Hates Will's music but they're both trying to make the best of it. (Don't worry they're going to kiss kiss fall in love)

Meanwhile, Max lives with Dustin and Lucas because the school messed up and thought she was a boy. And the three of them are getting into absolute hijinks while trying to hide the fact that Max shouldn't be in that room.

AND IN THE BACKGROUND, Nancy is the editor of the school paper and has been in a secret relationship with Jonathan for like two years so they could avoid nepotism allegations.

But wait where's El? You ask. Simple she's in the other dorm with a similar name wondering why her roommate never showed up and rushing the sorority Chrissy's in. (Or she's living in Jonathan and Argyle's apartment and in on the nepo baby secret)

#anyways idk where this came from #(the depths of my brain)#BTW Max Lucas and Dustin are very much giving Rachel Jack and Eric from BMW #also Steve Robin and Vickie have an off campus apartment #Steve is having a MISERABLE time as a barista #Jonathan as Nancy's little nepo baby is very important to me #stranger things #st au ideas #st fic ideas #byler #jancy #mike wheeler #will byers #lucas sinclair #max mayfield #dustin henderson #jonathan byers #nancy wheeler #el hopper byers

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curiositydooropened · 1 year ago

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Wildfire • Ember

When Hawkins opened up and slowly slipped into the Ether, you were there on the front lines. Now, nearly two years later, after the tragic loss of your best friend, you're left without a partner and a rage building inside you like a wildfire. When you're given the option to retire or partner with your rival, Steve Harrington, you struggle to put aside your differences for the sake of the world.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 11,315

Warnings: enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slooooowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter Two: Spark

---

THEN

March 1988

A strong forearm caught your waist, ripping you backward and back to reality. The ringing in your ears faded to the crackle of fire, the roar of an engine, the gut wrenching wails of heartache. You resisted the force at your ribs, rooted to your spot, slack jaw tightened, hands clenched into fists, but they were stronger. You were lifted off your feet, kicking, clawing at the air, desperate to reach the figure thirty feet in front of you. Your best friend lay there, pale skin to asphalt, shock of red hair caked in mud, a pattern of thick black veins across freckled features. Your nostrils filled with the acrid stench of charred flesh. Your mouth tasted of blood and ash and bile.

“She’s gone,” Harrington’s voice roared in your ear, chest pressed to your back as he wrestled you toward the Getaway. “We’ve gotta get out of here. We can’t risk infection. Let’s go!” He loosened his grip to hoist himself into the truck bed, extending a hand to help you up.

You had every reason to stay, every reason to hold her head in your lap and scream and sob and apologize for what happened to her, for what you did to her.

Harrington yelled your name, drawing your attention back to him. His skin was stained black around the edges, coated in grime and oil slick with sweat. His jaw was clenched, hand still extended, and you noticed the flash of his eyes into the bed behind him.

Wheeler was there, and Byers, both staring at you wide-eyed, jaws clenched. Wheeler’s hair had never been bushier. The circles beneath Byers’s eyes never deeper. And in their arms, Robin buried her face and muffled her sobs in the crook of an elbow, blue eyes flooded, tear stains streaked through ash and char across freckled cheeks and down her chest.

What had you done?

You swallowed.

Then, Robin reached a hand out, beckoning, commanding, begging for you to get in the truck. Her fingers trembled.

Something deep, something hidden, subconscious, compelled you to grip Harrington’s forearm and allow him to hoist you into the truck bed, and with two slams of Byers’s fist to the roof, you were off, nearly teetering off the side as you found your seat on a wheel well. Fingers found your palm, wet, and you glanced up to gape at Robin, throat filling with too much emotion to make sound. But she held your gaze, those soulful blue eyes locked on yours so you couldn’t look away, couldn’t watch the figure of your best friend’s lifeless form fade into the horizon.

—

FIVE MONTHS LATER

August 1988

The smoke from Hopper’s cigarette wafted passed the bottle brush mustache and receding hairline until it hit the yellowed ceiling of his office and permeated the room in a thick fog. The smell, acrid and unfiltered, reminded you of your paternal grandmother’s kitchen, and it mixed with the spice of sweat from the boy perched beside you.

Harrington sat too far forward, broad shoulders hunched, apparently fresh from the gym. You spotted the wet patch staining his t-shirt between his shoulder blades and under his arms. Beneath an elbow, his hairy thigh bounced at an unrelenting pace. You thought his sneakers might rub a hole through the linoleum flooring, clear to the Upside Down.

It took everything in your power not to slam a hand down to his knee to stop the anxious movements, your own hands clamming with sweat. You restrained, remaining poised, stoic, as you peered over Harrington’s shoulder while he rubbernecked the paperwork Hopper leafed through.

A photograph had been paper clipped to the inside cover of a forest green envelope. Two faces, pinched in stifled laughter, stared back at you, bright-eyed and bushy tailed. You recognized yourself and your best friend, full of innocence and zest and life. Hop’s meaty fingers slammed the folder shut. You swallowed.

“What’s going on, Hop?” Harrington finally vocalized, his voice a little strained.

Hopper didn’t acknowledge him, merely stared right through the younger man to make eye contact with you, steely blue with a hint of mischief you’d maybe once appreciated. Now it made your blood run cold. “You passed your psych eval. Flying colors.”

You could feel your heart in your chest, taste the smoke on your tongue.

Harrington’s movements stopped in your periphery.

Hopper leaned back in his seat, the metal groaning beneath his frame, and he scattered a few ashes into a full-to-the-brim ashtray. “And, as I’m sure you’ve heard, Buckley retired last week.”

Your heartbeat halted. You wet dry lips, ventured a glance Harrington’s direction.

He rolled his eyes, looked away, caught. A scoff spilled from his mouth.

You hadn’t known. You hadn’t spoken to Robin in months. How could you, after what you’d done?

Hopper continued before you could respond. “So I’ve called you here with good news.” Again, mischief. The man seemed as jolly as ole Saint Nick, downright chipper. “You’re going back out there, kid.”

You’d been asking for months, begging on bended knee, desperate for a taste of that sickly sweet air, for ash in your lungs and sweat on your brow. You’d worked your ass off for months, and yet the news, matched with the look on his face and Harrington’s presence bittered the taste of relief in your mouth.

Again, the commander spoke before you could open your mouth to respond, his words strained through smoke blown upward. “The two of you need to log a hundred training hours starting tomorrow. After that you’ll be trialed, and you’ll undergo a double psych eval. You know the drill.”

As his words set in, with the curl of his upper lip, your words finally burst forth, spilling from your before you could hold them back. “Are you fucking insane?”

Slow on the uptake, Harrington’s arms swung out in front of you, and droplets of sweat from his temples splattered against your cheek with the velocity of his head shake. “No, no way. Absolutely not.”

Hopper sighed, sitting upright again to punch out the butt of his cigarette. He shuffled the papers on his desk once more, tossing them onto a nearby filing cabinet with a hearty thwack. “Knock it off.” A meaty finger pointed directly into Harrington’s face, and the boy merely gaped at it, all sass, no action. “You two will do this because I know how bad you want back out there.”

“Besides,” Hopper made eye contact with you again, over Harrington’s shoulder, and the mischief had burned to pity, “no one else has gone through the shit that the two of you have been through.”

It hurt too much to look at him, eyes bleary and throat lumped, so instead you stared at the back of Harrington’s head, where his hair stuck up at odd angles, where it met the collar of his t-shirt. A part of you, small, wondered what exactly he’d been through, if he’d held Robin while she wept, if he cried too. A much bigger part of you tasted the anguish as it burned in your lungs. You blinked away the emotion and tried to swallow back the disdain. He’d never understand, never know what you’d been through.

“The good news is, you’ve got a hundred hours to learn to like each other. I want you closer than the fucking Sinclairs. You hear me?” Hopper broke the tension with another groan of his chair while he reached to another stack of file folders in a little metal inbox. “Bad news is, we’ve got northbound spread and my two best Scorchers have been out for months.”

You glanced at the map behind Hopper’s head, black spreading north to the lakes, vines creeping ever closer to Chicago, Green Bay, too far. No one was safe.

“We’ve all got work to do. So get the hell out of my office,” the receiver of his phone rang when he picked it up, pressing the plastic to his cheek while he began punching numbers.

Harrington was up first, an exaggerated sigh falling from his lips while his slender frame made for the door. His jaw and fists tensed, brows furrowed, and he glanced at you before eliciting an eye roll that would make Wheeler envious. He turned the handle and the smoke escaped from the top of the door in a pool above the bounce of his hair.

You matched his sigh, peeling yourself from the vinyl chair backing to exit the office. You caught a few of Hopper’s grumblings over the phone in snippets before he called your name. When you turned on your heel, he held the phone between large hands and kept a crease between his brow.

“I know you can do this,” he nodded, “Munson said - “ He was cut off by the voice on the phone and waved you off before he could finish his thought.

He’d said enough to get your blood pumping. You grit your teeth and exited, ready to make a B-line from Hop’s office to the War Room to enact revenge on one Edward Munson.

Only, one meathead stood between you and the stairwell, hands poised on hips, lips upturned into the bitchiest snarl you’d seen since junior high.

“What?” You barked, no longer having time for him when you had flatter asses to chew. You slipped past him, barely, into the well, the slap of your sneakers echoing up and down tens of floors.

“I work out in the afternoons,” Harrington responded, long legs keeping pace.

“Yeah, no shit,” you gestured to his get-up, sweat stain on his tee now dried to a normal shade of blue.

“So, sparring mats at 2?”

You halted your mission at the floor you needed and barred him from exiting before you. The heavy door swung closed against your hip, and you crossed your arms over your chest with a snort. “No, no way. I run in the mornings and then do weight training. We’ll spar at 5.”

“Absolutely not,” Harrington offered a sour laugh.

“Scorchers drop at 4.” You hoped he didn’t notice your confidence falter. It’d been so long, months, you didn’t know if they’d changed it without you, accommodated others.

“Fine,” he seethed. “Can you swim?”

You rolled your eyes. “Relevance? No water in the Upside Down.”

“Seventy percent of the gates are in bodies of water. If we get stuck on the other side, our best way out is up.”

You hated that he had a point, hated the ice that filled your stomach at the thought, hated the way your mind flashed back to that place, that time, wondering if there were any gates you missed.

“So we should split our hours evenly between the gym, swimming, and scorch.”

Your mouth went dry, considering the heft of a fuel pack, the trigger beneath your forefinger, the acrid smell of burned flesh, the screams.

You stumbled back against the door, but the steel didn’t sway under your weight. Harrington’s oversized hand was holding it closed, his face inches from yours, dark eyes observing your features with scrutiny.

“How’d you pass your psych eval?”

You blinked back at him, chill ever-present at the base of your neck. “Excuse me?”

He stared down at you like he could see her too, like he felt her lingering thirty feet behind him, fire red hair and a crooked smile - uncanny. His nostrils flared like he smelled her too, hair on fire, skin bubbling.

You felt frozen against the steel door, stuck under his gaze, avoiding eye contact with the nightmare over his shoulder, the expanse of grey and red just beyond.

“Nevermind,” he sighed, releasing the door and giving you a few feet of space.

You stumbled when the door swung wide, but caught your footing along with your breath to watch him run two hands over his face, scrubbing at tired eyes.

“Mats at 5.” He clenched his fists and made his way up a few steps, presumably headed back to his dorm.

“Fine,” you shot back, hating the rasp in your voice, the saliva filling your mouth.

He halted his movements, wrapping his knuckles against a metal railing before turning back to face you. “Do me a favor? Tell Munson I’m busy tonight.”

You wanted to retort, say something childish about not being a messenger pigeon, but the words stopped at your tonsils when you saw Harrington glance once more down the corridor, down to where you’d seen her, Vicki, mouth agape, hand outstretched, before he clambered up the staircase, leaving you all alone.

—

Munson hadn’t been in the War Room, but you’d managed to distract yourself by listening to a strategy lecture being bounced off a bunch of trainees. You’d disguised yourself well-enough to be called upon to offer a few ideas, and were pleased when the instructor awarded you with praise.

High from your distraction and the news that you’d be out there again, fighting, burning, doing what you were meant to do, you’d almost forgotten about Eddie entirely until you’d punched your meal card for dinner and found his in your cargo pocket.

“Have you seen Munson?” You asked the girl manning the machine, and she glanced around the room with pursed lips. With a sigh, you punched his card and loaded both arms with tonight’s slop and two cold beer cans.

You took the climb to the dorms two-at-a-time and wrapped your knuckles against the cold steel of his door until you heard a muffled commotion on the other side.

“Eddie, it’s me!” You called, shifting the weight on the orange dinner trays to be easier to hold in two hands. You heard the buzz and waited for the door to swing open before you allowed yourself to step inside, placing both trays on a rickety card table that had been set up just inside.

“Sweetheart, to what do I owe this honor?” Your friend’s walker squeaked against linoleum at his approach, and you looked up to see that Cheshire grin spread across pale features.

“Brought you dinner,” you gestured to the stew and steamed vegetables partitioned on a styrofoam plate. “We got mystery meat and I hope that’s corn, and your favorite: sawdust mashed potatoes.”

He laughed that familiar, boisterous laugh, and shook the hair from his eyes. “As delicious as that sounds… I’m going out with Steve.”

The mention of his name sent reality spilling back into your mind. You bit back the initial sting of betrayal and moved to fill yourself a glass of water from Munson’s room sink. The countertop was piled with dirty mugs, cigarettes, nudie mags. You waited to chug an entire cup’s worth of water before you responded. “Harrington’s busy.”

“How do you know?” He asked, voice thick with the cafeteria food you knew he couldn’t resist.

“He told me.” You explained, crossing back to pull out his chair for him.

Eddie didn’t move. He just stared at you, hands gripping the handles of his walker, brown gravy on the corner of his mouth. A mouthful went down with a gulp, and he blinked back at you.

“Had a meeting with Hopper today.” You elaborated, helping Munson from his walker to his chair, carrying his weight with ease.

“If you poisoned me, they’ll know it’s you,” he pointed out, poking through the sludge with a spork. “You have a track record.”

“Fuck off,” you growled, joining him at the table.

He held his hands up in surrender, a bit of corn careening your direction. “Okay, too soon. I’m sorry.” He snickered anyway.

You poked at your own meal, annoyed that you couldn’t stay mad at him, despite his betrayal. He was all you had left, the only one that understood.

“So Hopper demanded you two kiss and make up,” Eddie reached across the table to crack the tabs off each of your beer cans. “And then what happened? Don’t spare the gory details.” He clinked the two cans together, and slurped the bubbles loudly from the top of his own.

You picked yours up with a sigh, adjusting the tab to align with the printing on the aluminum. “Nothing yet. We’re sparring first thing tomorrow.”

“Ooooh, can I watch?” He cackled.

“Absolutely not.” You took a sip, the bubbles tingling your nose with a sense of nostalgia for what once was. You remembered early mornings at the mats, dripping with sweat, pinned and pinning, Munson taking bets left and right. You’d pinned them all: Wheeler, Byers, Harrington, Buckley. You took another drink.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when Eddie touched you, a hand to your forearm, calloused fingertips and sad brown eyes. God, you hated that look.

“How long have you known about Robin?” Your voice came out a croak, sounds your mouth hadn’t made in months.

He turned back to his meal, shrugged broad shoulders. The downturn of his lips gave it away. He’d known for months. “I didn’t think she was serious.”

The betrayal stung. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It wasn’t my place.” He shot you a pointed look, sass that rivaled Harrington’s. “You should have heard it from her.”

You weren’t here for a lecture. You snapped back, spooning yourself some potatoes. “But it was your place to tell Hopper to pair me with Harrington? When you know what I’ve been through with him?”

Eddie slammed his can so hard against the table bubbles fizzed from the top.

You startled, dropping your spork back to your plate. Gravy dribbled across your chest, up your forearm.

“You’re the one who wanted to go back out there,” he pointed an accusatory finger your direction. “Your lucky I didn’t tell Hopper to bench your ass.”

You scoffed, licking beefy juice from your fingertips before standing to retrieve a roll of paper towels. “Like that’d stop me.”

“Yeah,” Eddie laughed wryly. “I know it wouldn’t, and since I can’t get my legs working enough to come after you, I had to find the next best person.”

You looked up at him from the mess you were mopping and noticed the fondness in those big brown eyes, the crease carving itself beneath pepper speckled bangs.

“I mean, think about it. Roles reversed, who would you partner me with?”

Although you’d never admit it aloud, Harrington was the most capable fighter in your motley crew, second only to yourself. He was a tactical master, and his heart was unmatched. He worked with speed and precision, efficiency, and you’d never seen another person go that cold in the face of the evil you’d seen.

“Besides, haven’t you two already fucked? Just stir up some of that old sexual tension and make peace with each other.”

You smacked him with your spork as hard as you could, just over his left eye, and he swatted your arm away with a voracious laugh. You fought back the warmth spreading up your throat and to your ears, drowning more memories in a gulp of beer before they could surface fully.

“Speaking of fucking,” Eddie changed the subject, eyebrows waggled beneath his curtain bangs. “I talked to Sandra today.”

You smiled into your sweet corn, the gentle buzz of relief settling over your shoulders. “Don’t you talk to Sandra every day?”

“Well, sure,” And Eddie Munson proceeded to tell you about the exciting escapades with him and one of America’s Finest.

And although you chewed, and laughed, and swatted at his arm, you couldn’t help but feel the tug of nostalgia just behind your molars. The memories that fizzled their way to the surface, of girls touching and laughing and nose-to-nose, cheek-to-cheek. Of dares. Of too much beer and too little pizza. Of arm-wrestles turned to leg wrestles, turned to sparring matches on dorm room floors. Of the freckles that lined faces and moles that cast a constellation across cheekbones and collar bones. Of breathless laughs and wandering touches. Of heat like wildfire, that fanned your skin and spread. Spread like vines and decay and smoke and ash.

—

Harrington beefed up, shoulders impossibly square, chest broad, centered on the balls of sneakered feet. And alongside the wall of muscles, he’d grown relentless. You swung again, and again, and again, huffs of disdain escaping your lips with each stuttered breath, and your fists were caught, forearms blocked, shoulders checked. He worked lithely, without effort, all defense, prepared, like he’d been studying, but not just the fight, studying you.

You’d sparred before, sure, dozens of times over the past two years, and you’d always managed to pin him. Your fights would end in cackles from onlookers and sweat wiped from his upper lip. You’d pull him upright with a grin on your face and pride fluttering beneath your ribcage.

Now, all mercy had been removed, any friendliness left his dark eyes cold. His jaw flexed, arms crossed over his chest while he waited for you to take a drink of water, quenching the dryness at your throat. He even dared that signature Harrington eye roll, which had the water dribbling from the corners of your mouth and down your throat, a soothing damp.

“What?” You snapped, chest heaving, plastic water bottle crunched beneath your fingertips as you sprayed more into the back of your throat.

“I didn’t say anything,” he responded, arms still crossed.

You swished before your swallow and set your bottle next to the oversized cushion of the grey vinyl mats. The floor had already been sneaker-marked and sweat stained. You bounced on the balls of your feet, trying to bring feeling back into the numbness of your wrists and knuckles.

Harrington readied himself, squared his stance, but remained limp. Honestly, he looked a little bored.

You grit your teeth and rounded to the right.

He mirrored you, arms up, patient.

You took a deep breath through your nostrils and released with a right hook.

He dodged, caught your wrist, shoved you to the other side of the mat.

You stumbled, caught yourself, took another deep breath, steadied yourself.

“Again,” he called you, gesturing for you to go again, to come at him, arm’s swinging wildly without making purchase for the thousandth time.

You were exhausted. You’d been exhausted for months, but memories crept along dorm walls the night before, and that familiar face smiled back at you from the far corner, ever-present, watching, waiting. You hadn’t sparred since then, hadn’t struck another human, hadn’t found purchase. Not since then.

You shook it off, rounded to the left. “What’s the matter, Harrington?” Your voice brought some life back into his eyes, interest piqued. Yes, this was better, this was safe. “Scared to hit a girl?”

You swung left, and he dodged, but you felt the hairs on his cheek prickle your wrist. You swung right, but he’d predicted it, catching both wrists and pulling them up and over your head.

His face was inches from yours, glistening with sweat and rough with stubble. The bags under his eyes were more prominent from this distance, and you wondered if he’d slept at all himself. “I want you on the offense before I even consider teaching you defensive moves.” He shoved you back again, readying his stance. “Again.”

“Teaching me?” You balked, resting your hands on your hips to catch the breath that had slipped away. “I seem to recall pinning your ass on the regular.”

He grimaced at that, upper lip upturned in disgust, and he shrugged, gesturing to the ground between you. “Feels like you’ve lost your touch.”

You swung wide, angry, fist flying through the air toward his chest.

He caught your forearm. “Looks like I can still count on you to be hot headed.”

“Shut up,” you snapped, stepping back into a ready position. You hated that he was right, hated how he always managed to find his way under your skin.

“Take a breath,” he took a step to your left. You countered. “Anticipate me anticipating you.”

You kicked out, knowing he’d expect another swing, but he caught your calf at his waist and held it there, pushing you backwards until you’d nearly lost balance, hopping on one leg.

“No,” he grit his teeth. “Come on. You’re being predictable.”

“Let go of me,” you wrestled your ankle from his grasp, nearly falling on your ass in the process.

“I know your moves,” he explained, voice unnervingly even. “You’re a one-trick pony.”

You released a grunt, threw elbows at his opposite side, and he managed to grab you around the ribcage, holding you tight to him, your back to his front, two feet off the ground as you struggled under a vice grip. You struggled, wind nearly knocked out of you.

“We aren’t moving on until you can take me down.”

“Fuck off,” you gasped.

He released you.

You stumbled back to your water bottle, taking a few breaths until the blur left the peripheries of your vision. You gulped between gasps, trying to strategize, trying to ignore the heated emotion prickling at your throat, behind your eyes. You couldn’t look at him, feeling like a child scolded by a school teacher, and what gave him the right?

“Did she use it against you?” His voice came softer than before, just behind your left ear. You could barely hear it over the rushing of your pulse in your skull.

You swished, swallowed, took a moment for his words to sunk in before you turned to face him. “What?”

“Your predictability. Did she use it against you?” Harrington stood with arms crossed over his chest again, the shield he bore.

Your mind flashed to that night, flames fanned your face, all encompassing heat, structure engulfed around you. You’d gone for a hit, frantic, not in your right mind, panic icing your veins, and she’d caught your fist, just as your new partner had. Vicki’s eyes were just as cold, just as dark, a black void where your friend used to be.

You swallowed, blinked back tears, and tried to ignore the figure growing in the corner of your mind. Harrington came back into focus, arms folded, shoulders square, sweat staining the collar of his t-shirt a dark grey.

With steady breaths, you crossed the mat to him until you were close enough to make out the pulse in his throat, a steady beat beneath a chiseled jaw. He stared down his nose at you, contempt across features you’d once swooned over.

You felt the emotion start to well, blinked back anything that threatened, avoided his frigid gaze for half a moment, and when you glanced back, you noticed the most minute indication that he’d softened. His shoulders relaxed, chin tilted downward to look at your properly, and you remembered that everyone has a weakness.

You sucked in your cheeks and willed a single tear to fall, just one, a hot bead that mixed with sweat as it streaked down the plane of your nose and rested, salty on the bow of your upper lip.

Harrington’s eyes were wide, brown, soft. His nostril flared, in pity or disgust, it didn’t matter which. You’d hooked him.

You turned your back to him, allowed your shoulders to shake with your exhale.

A sound of indignation fell from his lips, a warm breath cast upon the small hairs on your neck that sent goosebumps down your spine, and then you felt it. The softest of touches to your wrist, fingertips to calm your pulse points.

You took the opportunity, grappled his forearm and sent him flying over your left shoulder until a large body hit the mat with a satisfying thud. While Harrington gasped to earn his breath back, you pinned his shoulder beneath the toe of your sneaker, holding him to the mat. You wiped the tear from your nose with the damp collar of your t-shirt and stared down at him.

“You’re a fucking psychopath,” he spat, shoving your foot from his chest to sit upright.

With a sigh, you grabbed your water bottle and retreated, shoes scuffing the linoleum. “Same time, same place tomorrow, Harrington. Bring your A game. ‘We aren’t moving on until you can take me down.’” You mocked him as you sauntered off to the showers.

You paused momentarily when passing the double doors that exited the gymnasium into a gravel parking lot. Rusted vehicles were cast in the tangerine light of golden hour. And just beyond, under the cover of dense woods, you swore you could make out Vicki’s proud smile, engulfed in flame.

—

“How are things with Mr. Harrington?” Linda asked as though she knew the answer, and Hell, she probably did.

You were sure the exhaustion dulled your features, if not the dark circles under your eyes then the bruises that skated your arms and legs. One shone in browns and yellows on your temple from where you’d taken an accidental elbow. You’d been lectured for that for not ‘watching your space’. That man was lucky you hadn’t throttled him right there on the mat, pulse echoing against your skull.

“Fine,” you lied through your teeth, something you’d grown accustomed to in this cramped office.

Linda, the government appointed therapist, walked from houseplant to houseplant, watering until they’d overgrown the room like vines in an alternate dimension. Blinking fluorescents cast green across the walls, painting her pale skin, making you feel more sick than you felt when you entered on a weekly basis. It used to be three times a week, but you were let off on good behavior.

“How did you feel when you learned that Ms. Buckley retired?”

Your stomach churned, sickly green, and you shifted in the uncomfortable metal chair. It creaked beneath you. “I’m happy for her,” you maintained your voice, swallowed back a waver. “She weighed her options and chose a path that feels right for her.”

Linda hummed from overtop a spider plant, seemingly satisfied with your answer.

You settled in your seat.

“Did it make you question whether or not you’d chosen the right path for yourself?”

The fluorescents buzzed, and you squeezed your eyes closed, pinching the junction of your nose. Your temple began to throb again, and the muscles of your shoulders tightened. You were so tired, run-through, up too early all to get your ass kicked and up all night, contemplating whether or not you made the right choice.

“No one would fault you for wanting a little peace of your own. It’s not cowardly to want space from the things haunting you.”

The monotone of her voice was like nails down a chalkboard.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “I won’t find peace as long as the Ether’s still spreading.” A mantra you’d repeated time and time again, face pressed into a pillowcase to avoid the screams of horror plaguing your mind, to shield your eyes from the dense, damp expanse of forest.

“Yes, there’s no doubt you’re dedicated to your cause.” Her tone seemed clipped, almost as if she’d picked up some of Harrington’s sass in their sessions. She set her tiny watering can atop a large wooden desk and moved to sit in the rickety chair across from you. “I just think it’s healthy for you to consider a contingency plan. What would you do if it all ended tomorrow? You’re on the sparring mats and they announce it’s done, they’ve got him, the Gates are closed. Then what?”

You stared back at her, green blurring your vision as you mulled over her question. You’d never actually considered it, never thought what you might do should the fighting cease, should the fuel in your tank run out and you’d have to put away your worries altogether.

“What do you think Vicki would want you to do?”

That stung. Each time her name was said aloud felt like a slice, death by a thousand cuts. You closed your eyes again, tried to will away the nausea, the smell of charred flesh, the screams.

You took a deep, calming breath and imagined a simpler time, soft hands massaging the worry from your scalp, thighs around your shoulders as you pressed tired muscles into the cushions of a threadbare couch. Sweet laughter echoed around you, the wafted smell of popcorn, truths shared under the flashes of a television screen.

Linda’s timer beeped, an alert that your hour was up. She let out a sigh as you bolted upright from your chair. “Think about it this week and get back to me.”

“Unless it all ends tomorrow,” you promised, flashing a grin that you know exposed too much enthusiasm.

She muttered something under her breath that sounded an awful lot like, “we can only hope.” Before she stood to usher you outside. “Have a good rest of your day.” She chimed, always the most chipper exchange of your interactions.

You saluted and B-lined for the stairwell, in desperate need of a meal and an ice pack for the knot between your shoulder blades.

—

The dorm hallways were eery at night, the hustle and bustle of young adults silenced, lights out. Occasionally, a bluish glow would leak from beneath doors, but otherwise the halls were lit only by glowing red EXIT signs and the circle of your torch. You snuck past the common area on tiptoe, terrified of waking the occasional trainee who had fallen asleep during movie night, not interested in asking questions. You skirted around a corner instead, to the stairwell, and began your descent on the balls of your sneakered feet.

Your backpack slumped against a sore back with each step, full of supplies you weren’t even sure you’d needed, scrounged up from a supply closet Eddie snuck you in to loot.

In your hurry downward, you took a wrong turn, exiting the stairwell too early, and stumbled upon too many offices with dust on desktops and upturned chairs. The stillness of this floor reminded you of there and then, everything twisted with vines, particles peppering the air.

Nearly tripping yourself backwards, you kept one eye on your reflection in the glass, and made your way back to the stairwell to continue your run, a little more blind, a little more panicked. Two, three, four floors down you saw an indicator. The exit door was propped open on a brick. The window at a eye level exposed a long, pitch black hallway, and the very end sparkled in a pale blue glow.

You swung the door open and ran, no longer minding the slap of your feet against the flooring, only wanting to be somewhere light, somewhere where you knew you wouldn’t be alone. You almost skid through double doors, humidity smacking you in the face, and you managed to stop inches from where the floor opened up, dark water rippled against aquamarine tiled walls.

“You’re late,” a voice startled you, and you teetered further on the edge, turning to shine your flashlight directly into Harrington’s eyes. He grimaced, shadowing his face with his hand. His hair was already wet, throat beaded in water, droplets dampened and discoloring a red t-shirt.

You clicked off the torch and let your arm fall to your side, your eyes adjusting to the darkness. The only illumination was from the depths of the pool, recessed lighting that glowed cyan. “It’s dark in here.” You voiced your grievance, shrugging your backpack off your shoulder and toeing out of your shoes. The tiles were frigid beneath the balls of your feet.

“It’s dark out there.” He explained and rounded the oversized pool to grab a handful of items from his own rucksack. “Are you ready or do you need to…?” He gestured to you, voice echoing off the rippled water, even soft.

You managed a few steadying breaths. You weren’t nervous, per se, but a certain anxiety fluttered beneath your ribcage. You hadn’t swam in years, not since summers spent at Hawkins Pool with Vicki. You thought she’d dragged you down there to gawk at Harrington in all his glory, red trunks and tank top and whistle and sun kissed skin. She admitted later it was Heather Holloway she’d always had her eye on. The memory of squirted sunscreen and the quench of lemonade on your tongue had your fists clenched.

The splash of something heavy cutting the surface startled you back to reality, and your eyes scanned the wake to see what it was. Your heart raced in your chest.

“We’re going to start with the shallow end,” Harrington explained, shifting your attention back to him. You watched as nimble fingers began undoing the buckle of his watch. He toed out of his sneakers.

“I can swim,” you retorted, self-defense growing second-nature between the two of you.

He ignored you, tugging at the back of his collar to pull his t-shirt up and over his head. That soft patch of hair from his navel to the hem of his shorts stood on end beside the gnarled roots of scars that brought your own battle wounds to shame.

He stepped to the edge of the pool, upcast in pearly blues, and dove in. The arch of his lithe frame was perfect in silhouette, minimizing the splash and the ripple as he went in fingertips first to break the surface. You watched the shape of him approach before his head broke through, hair in his eyes, mouth agape to refill his lungs. He scrubbed chlorine from his eyes and pushed wet hair back out of his eyes.

“I dropped a brick at the shallow end, and you need to retrieve it,” he said, sidling up to the pool’s edge at your feet. “This isn’t about whether or not you can swim. You need to be able to get all the way to the Gate and all the way back up from it. This is about form and breath work.”

His voice was the softest you’d heard it, patient. It was the way he talked to the kids, without the snark and the sass of someone pretending to be irritated with them. It was unnerving.

“Can you dive?” He asked, combing his fingers through his hair to keep the front bits at bay, cowlick at the front fighting against him.

“Yes,” you snapped, although no, you weren’t sure you ever really had. Maybe at swim lessons in the third grade, but how in the Hell were you supposed to remember the basics now?

You took a step to the edge before remembering your clothes. You hadn’t brought extras, and you weren’t keen on sneaking back to your dorm sopping wet. With an sigh, you released the button from the fly of your pants, pausing the moment you realized Harrington was watching. “Do you mind?”

“Sorry,” he mumbled and turned his back.

You hated the static that prickled the stubble on your legs as you pushed your shorts down broad hips and thighs. You hated that it clung to the water’s edge, buzzed in your ears, fanned your chest with warmth as you lifted your tank top from over your head. You hated the lump your felt in your throat, exposed in underpants and a sport’s bra, not having owned a bathing suit in four years.

“Okay,” you managed, voice thick, ready for the cool plunge to your heated skin.

Harrington turned back to face you but kept his gaze at ground level, slapping a wide palm to the tiled edge. “Step all the way up here, toes over the edge. Remember you want your thighs to power you, but you need your fingertips to break the surface first. Arms over your ears. Don’t stop until you can touch the bottom.” He spouted instructions too fast, moving to the side to give you room to position yourself for your dive. “The brick’s on the far end. Once you’ve gotten it, kick until you’ve reached the surface. Your lungs won’t let you go anywhere but up.”

You couldn’t really hear him anyway, not over the buzzing of pool filters and the rapid heat rate in your ear. He made some minor adjustments to your stance, but you were on autopilot. And when you thought you heard the word ‘go’, you dove in.

You felt a little awkward, but determined, the third grader in you stiffening. The water hit warmer than you anticipated, the stale underground air keeping everything tepid. When you were submerged, you kicked, lungs straining in a held breath. The faint pool light shined behind your eyelids, too anxious to open your eyes to the blur and sting of chlorine. You just ventured for the bottom, the plaster and tile that you knew would come.

Only it didn’t. You kept kicking, and it was as if the bottom had fallen out, as if the world was swallowed whole, and panic fluttered once more at your chest. You opened your eyes, searching for a bottom, but everything felt too far. Then, a black shape entered your periphery, long, hulking, slender like a vine. Releasing bubbles, a startled scream exiting your lips, you kicked for the top, the sides, seeing the sparkle of the surface and begging for relief for the ache in your chest.

Oxygen filled you, damp and sputtering at the moment your fingertips reached the lip. Panic stricken, you clung to the wall, knees scraping against plaster as you gasped for deeper breaths.

“That was good,” Harrington called from somewhere behind you.

You peered into the dark mist against the sting of your eyelashes. You released a shaky exhale. “I didn’t get it.”

“I know, but your survival instinct kicked in. That’s important.”

You felt uneasy about his comforting words, tones you hadn’t heard spill from his lips in almost a year. You rubbed at bleary eyes.

“Come to the center and tread,” he commanded, softness replaced with the sass you were used to on the mats. “No walls in a lake.”

You grit your teeth and pushed off from the wall.

Harrington had you tread water until your muscles burned, until that familiar hatred for one another stung in your chest and bit in exchanged words, at least then you felt more comfortable. You managed to dive properly a handful of times, making it farther and farther across the pool which each go until you’d retrieved the brick without coming up for air. He took it from your proud hand and tossed it to the deep end.

Your lungs burned and your thighs ached, and he timed your held breath from the side of the pool, feet dangled in the water, broad shoulders slumped. You felt the heat of competition, the dopamine of getting better and better each time. Your final try, brick dumped beside him to scrape against the cold flooring, you wiped water from your eyes and had to fight back the smirk of success you felt itching at the corners of your mouth.

Harrington sighed and slid into the water beside you, bobbing with his head just above the surface. He was close, too close, and you could just make out the freckles across the bridge of his nose in the blue light, the scar etched into his lower lip.

“I’m going to pull you down.”

You blinked back at him, seriousness in his voice tickling your nerves. “What?”

“There are things in those Gates that will try to latch onto you, to pull you into them. I’m going to pull you down, and I need you to fight me off.”

You knew he spoke from experience, you’d heard stories of the things he’d done. The idea of a large, black vine sent a chill down your spine, any competitive adrenaline replaced with cold, exhaustion, fear.

“Go tread water.” He nodded back to the center of the pool, the expanse at which you’d finally warmed up to, a challenge you’d taken so lightly turned stone cold.

You did as he asked, pushing off from the wall until you found yourself in the center once more, legs kicking and arms pushing at the water around you, keeping you afloat. Your muscles ached with fatigue. Your entire being did, eyelids weighed by the sticky atmosphere.

Harrington’s head dunked and a chill shot through you.

You weren’t sure if it was fear, the underlying unease you’d felt around him for almost a year now, that rivalry that turned whispered truths into snapped remarks. Maybe it was this unknown, this fear that he knew who you were, knew what you’d done, and now he’d convinced you to relinquish control. You gulped, glanced around, continued to tread. You could make out the shadow of him, just below the surface, streamlined and agile.

You thought of him enacting revenge, on pulling you down and holding you in his vice grip. Hell, you’d do it if you were him. You’d thought about it already, imagined the swift crush of lungs as you held yourself beneath the surface.

A creak sounded in the far corner of the room, and your eyes snapped to the double doors. They swung slightly, fog from the pool seeping through the cracks where tile met linoleum floors. You swam forward to catch a better view. You thought you saw a light just down the hall, the flash of red and orange, the crackle of lightning.

You wanted to call out, but panic had settled too deep into your bones, and all at once a thick hand had found the meat of your thigh and you were being dragged downward, down, down, down. You gasped a deep breath, but couldn’t take your eyes from the swinging double doors, from the face that stared back at you from behind a window, wide-eyed in terror, just before you were submerged entirely.

The vine had a vice grip around you, and when you kicked, your opposite ankle was also grappled. You squirmed and fought, not-enough air choking at your lungs. Your toes felt the breadth of something wide, a chest, and you tried to push off of it, but down, down, down you went. Your arms struggled toward the surface. Familiar flames fanned the shoreline in oranges and golds, the smell of acrid smoke filling your nostrils, burning your lungs, blearing your eyes.

You fought and fought, but she was staring back at you, that sickening smile on her face, and you knew you’d fought long enough. It was time to let go. You had no other choice.

Your back hit something hard, a crack that jolted the water from your lungs. You sputtered, eyesight dark around the edges, coughing in an attempt to expel whatever remained. You rolled on your side, hair strewn in tendrils beneath your mouth, body numb, mind numb. You weren’t sure where you were, only that it was freezing, and your muscles all began to spasm in an attempt to warm up.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” A familiar voice called out, garbled under the thunder of your pulse in your skull.

You willed your eyes to open, to focus on the sparkling water beneath you, the cyan lights. Harrington’s face was inches from your own, eyes dark, a crease between thick brows.

“Fuck!” He ran a hand down wet features, and you tried to regain any semblance of what had happened before he’d tossed you like a rag doll onto the side of the pool. He swam to the nearest ladder and pulled himself out.

You rolled onto your back, stuttered breath gathering momentum again, and stared at the dark ceiling of the indoor pool. You were here, and you were training, and… You glanced sideways at the double doors. They were still, hall dark just beyond. You lifted a weak hand.

Harrington crouched at your side, pressing a wide palm to the curve of your throat, forefinger finding your pulse. He clicked the fingers of his other hand in front of your eyes, trying to get you to focus.

Annoyed, you swatted him away and tried to sit up.

“Will you slow down? You hit your head.” He spat, pinning your shoulder gently to the tiled floor.

You did feel a pulse where his hand reached to cup your skull, and you reached back with shaky fingertips. The wetness was warmer there, knotted into the hair near the crown. You pulled your hand back to see your fingertips smudged with crimson. You winced.

“Shit,” Harrington stood to procure something from across the room, his red t-shirt, and he shoved the material under your head, applying pressure to stop the bleeding. It just made the dull throb worse. “Can you talk?”

His fingertips found your pulse again, large palm splayed out across your collarbone, honeyed eyes searching your own. His body was warm, ribcage pressed against your hip, and you wanted to curl into him, your teeth chattering.

“‘M cold,” you croaked, the sound producing another fit of coughs that burned like hellfire at your chest, rocketing you nearly into his nose.

He grabbed your wrist and placed your hand firmly to the t-shirt soaking your blood and stood to pull something from his bag on the floor.

Your coughs sent you sideways again, spewing more liquid onto the ground beside your head. The tiles had begun to swirl with blood.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” His grip on your shoulder rolled you back to make eye contact. The room clouded around him, and you squinted, feeling your eyelids grow heavy. “Shit. Don’t fall asleep on me.”

Your body rattled. It took too long to process that he had wrapped you in a towel and was trying to warm your arms with the friction of his hands. Exhaustion crept into your bones, a slip of warm darkness that you could find in his embrace, safety.

“Whoa, stay awake. Come on, let’s get you up. We have to take you to the Med Bay.”

Your head throbbed as he pulled you upright, and you winced, pressure loosening on your skull. You groaned and tried to think through the fog, although exhaustion fought to win.

Strong hands wedged themselves beneath your armpits and hoisted you upright, and you struggled to get your legs to carry your weight beneath you, but they did. Your body obeyed as your head throbbed, and you felt a trickle of warmth cascade down your spine while Harrington scrambled to grab the rest of your belongings.

You stared back at the double doors, wincing as your torch lit up, light reflecting off of their insulated windows. “There’s someone out there.” You croaked, swaying on weak knees.

“It’s just the flashlight,” your partner snapped from beside you, one arm gripping your bicep, the other placing the ice cold metal of your flashlight into your weak hands. “Hold this.” His other hand met the t-shirt at the back of your skull to keep pressure.

“No,” you swallowed, throat raw, coughs emitting with each attempt to speak. “I saw them. I panicked.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he scoffed, leading you slowly out of the room and into the black hallway beyond. “Hopper’s going to fucking murder me.”

You shined your light toward the stairwell, crisp white against a grey background. You saw no movement, heard nothing but the soft patter of your feet against the floor.

“Nope, elevator. I’m not carrying you up fifteen flights of stairs.” Harrington steered you the opposite direction, toward a massive elevator on the North side of the building. It was old. The pulley system too loud against the thundering in your skull once the doors pulled themselves open.

You allowed him to lead into the square box, eyes wincing against the overhead lighting. You let him hold you upright against the railing on the back wall, relaxed easily into his hold, one hand catching on his forearm.

He leaned forward to press a button, and just as the door slid closed, you saw a face, glowing blue in the light from the pool, eyes dark and smile menacing.

—

For the first time in two years, you’d managed to fall asleep the moment your head hit the pillow, and what would have been the best night of sleep in your life involved a nurse coming in at every hour to wake you from your slumber. Your body ached, and your eyelids were heavy, and with every soft prod, you wished you had the strength to lift your fist and strike at the woman with brute force.

You were released after twenty-four hours, lactic acid stiffening your joints and ten times crankier than before, and you limped from the med bay up the stairs to your dorm for some peace and quiet.

Each dorm unit contained a bed, a closet, a sink and countertop, an aluminum table and chairs. Some people had couches, others managed lazy boys and a television set. Your new room had been kept at a minimum: bedding stark white, trash can piled in the corner, belongings shoved into a green duffle bag in the corner. The only bit of personality was tucked away beneath the covers of a photo album on top of your bedside table. You hadn’t opened it in months.

You shrugged out of your military issue clothes, peering at your reflection in the mirror above the sink. Your body, though stronger than you’d ever looked, was covered in bruises and scars. A long burn mark painted your left side, puckered skin. With a sigh, you pulled a tank top and sleep shorts from your duffle and stepped in, considering a shower when you’ve woken up.

You crawled from the foot of your bed to the pillow, sheets just as scratchy as those in the medical ward, but the mattress was far squishier. Your muscles begged for the rest, too stiff around the shoulders and thighs. You sighed and buried your face into the pillow, the throb in your skull only slightly subsided.

Then, you heard a knock at the door.

The red numbers of your alarm clock indicated you’d slept for three hours. The ruckus in the hall indicated everyone had finished their breakfast. You groaned and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, grabbing your second pillow to shove over your head, blocking the sun pouring in from an overhead window and the squeak of sneakers outside.

Knuckles wrapped a little harder. Your name was called along another few words muffled under the fluff of your pillow.

“Go away!” You called into the abyss, and something in the back of your mind reminded you of the gruff man with the oversized mustache. You groaned and rolled, painstakingly, out of bed.

The knocking returned, and you limped as fast as you could, calling over their yells for you to hurry up. You grit your teeth past the pain in the back of your head and swung the door open to expose Eddie Munson, hair pulled back into a ponytail, grin etched across sunken features. “Morning, Sunshine!”

You had half a mind to slam the door back in his face.

However, he raised his hand, shaking some poppy seeds off an everything bagel, and your stomach growled in response.

You snatched the bagel from his hand and stepped aside to let him stumble in, walker almost too wide for the doorways.

“Rumor has it Harrington carried you into the Med Bay in your underpants,” he said loudly before you had a chance to shut the door.

You caught the snicker of trainees, and you shot them death glares before slamming the heavy panel into it’s place.

“Glad to see you two made up.” He pulled a cup of cream cheese from his pocket, and it clattered on your table beside a plastic knife. You helped him sit, both of your legs shaky on the descent. The table teetered under his weight, but he managed to remain upright in his chair. “Did he have to pound a concussion into you though?”

You rolled your eyes, tried not to imagine a world in which his teasing could be factual, and shoved your thumb into the seam of your bagel to open it. “As much as I hate to pop your little fantasy bubbles, Edward, that’s about the farthest from what actually happened.” You seated yourself across from him and popped the top of the cream cheese container to start your spread.

“So tell me what actually happened.” Eddie said, voice eerily even, “Because overhearing a total stranger say something about your best friend being held over night in medical is not how I wanted yesterday to go.”

You looked up from your spread and into big, brown eyes. Eddie Munson was known for his jokes, his pleasant demeanor, his incredible ability to strategize. He wasn’t known for his temper, but you’d seen it a handful of times, patience tested, that burn behind his eyes.

You shirked under his stare, sealed the lid back on an empty container, took too big of a bite. You wedged the creamy goodness into one cheek, licking the corner of your lip to respond, hoping to sound more nonchalant than you felt. “It really wasn’t a big deal. We were training in the pool.”

“This place has a pool?” He leaned forward, brows creased, arms folded across a slender frame.

You shrugged, swallowed. “Yeah, lower levels. Anyway, we were underwater, and…” You thought for a moment about what happened, everything blurred under the waves, the pressure in your chest, Harrington’s large hands gripping your thigh, the face staring back at you from the doorway.

“And what? You went bonk?” Eddie snapped.

You blinked back to him and shrugged. The taste of garlic had turned to ash in your mouth. You tossed the remnants onto the tabletop and wiped poppyseeds off on bare thighs. They rolled onto the chair, the ground around you.

“You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?” His voice was quiet now, and when you snapped to meet his gaze, he was staring at the scrapes in the linoleum tabletop, knife wounds that had peeled through styrofoam. “Because I get it, you know? I’ve been there, too. After all those people I hurt…” He trailed off.

You reached across to grip his knuckles in your hand, pulling him to look at you. “Eddie, that wasn’t you. That was him. We all know it.”

“And what happened to Vicki wasn’t on you.” He responded, nostrils flared, strong hand gripping your own.

You swallowed back the lump growing in your throat. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” you said, and you wondered if you’d meant hitting your head in the pool or getting lost in the woods, getting Vicki flayed, pulling the trigger, watching the flames dance, hearing the screams.

You thought of the face above the water, the glow beyond the doors, this fear building in your chest like an ember of something you couldn’t put your finger on, this dull pulse you felt when everything else went away. You looked at your friend, dark hair and dark eyes and made a choice. “Eddie,” your voice shook. “I can still see her.”

He squeezed your hand, nodded. “That’s normal. It’s a trauma response, I think, like a phantom limb.” He patted his thigh, and you recalled the mechanics of a prosthetic ankle beneath the hem of his pant leg. “What did Linda tell you?”

You picked up your bagel again and tore it into halves. “I haven’t told Linda.”

Eddie breathed your name like a warning. “What do you mean you haven’t told Linda?”

You dropped your bagel again and buried your face in your hands. The back of your head had begun to throb, and your eyes ached and crusted with sleep. “Eddie, come on. I had to get back out there, and you know I wouldn’t have passed my psych eval if the shrink knew I was hallucinating on a regular basis.”

“Jesus fucking Christ…”

“Eddie, you can’t tell anyone,” you reached out to grip his hand again. “Please, please. I’m sixty hours from reassignment. I just got a new partner.”

“Does he know?”

You scoffed, tried to mask your eye roll by throwing your entire head back into a stretch. The pounding on your head increased, and you had to cradle your head in your hands once more.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Why have you now dragged me into this?” Eddie hissed, and when you peered through your fingers, you saw his stance mirrored yours, hands in his hair, annoyance stretched across thin features.

And you debated keeping it from him, hiding that fear that had fanned the flames in the back of your mind for months now, but it was surfacing, each day coming closer and closer to having you by the throat. “Because I saw something else at the pool, someone else was there with us,” you let out a ragged breath. “And I don’t think it was…” Your throat caught on her name. “Her.”

His expression dropped, and you watched his Adam’s apple bob in his throat. He glanced around your dorm room, crossing his arms over his chest before he looked back at you. “What are you talking about?” His voice trembled.

You shrugged, shook hair from your eyes. “I don’t know, Ed. There was someone else down there. I saw the door swing open. I could see a face staring back at me from over the surface. There was someone in that room, and when I came to, they were gone.”

“Did Steve see them?” Your friend frowned, leaned toward your once more.

As if on cue, a loud knock wrapped at your bedroom door. You both startled upright, your heart beat racing in your chest. “Who is it?” You called, hands gripped the tabletop to stop them from shaking.

“Steve,” came the short response, muffled through the thick door.

“Steve who?” Eddie joked, lifting himself from his chair with some difficulty, any worry or hurt erased from the expression on his face. You hurried to help him before using one hand to open the door.

“Sorry, I can come back,” Harrington’s features were etched in that signature scowl, dressed in uniform, bright orange breakfast tray loaded under one arm.

“No, no,” Eddie waved him off. “I was just leaving. You can have her.” He leaned to press his lips to the shell of your ear before whispering, “we’ll finish this later.”

You squirmed under the heat of his breath, and Harrington stepped aside to let Eddie through and into the hallway.

“Be gentle with her this time, will ya?” Eddie’s mouth split into a grin.

Your eyes nearly rolled back into your skull, and you flipped him the bird. “Fuck right off.”

Once your best friend had cackled his way down the hall, sneakers and walker squeaking, and a familiar, anxious buzz had settled into your bones, you gestured for Harrington to enter your little apartment. You closed the door behind him and felt suddenly self conscious of the trash piling up and over the can, the dishes dirty in the sink, the cream cheese smeared across your tabletop.

“You should be resting,” he chided, sliding the orange tray onto the table beside your breakfast.

“Eddie brought me food,” you explained, as though you needed an excuse.

“A bagel isn’t food. You need protein and electrolytes, vitamins.”

You glanced at the plate he brought: bacon and eggs, roasted potatoes, a glass of milk, a small orange. “Thanks, Dad.” You rolled your eyes and crossed your arm over your chest, suddenly aware of the breeze against your bare thighs, the pebbling of your nipples beneath a thin tank top. You swallowed.

“How’s your head?” He asked after a long moment’s pause, vowels stilted like he’d forgotten how to be nice to you. You suppose you both had. It’d been so long.

You swallowed back an innuendo, shrugged, reached to itch at the bruised skin around the scab. “She said it just a minor concussion. Should be good to get back to work by Monday.” You felt yourself shift on uncomfortable feet, the air buzzing with that odd static you felt in the pool.

Harrington nodded, hands shoved into the pockets of his tactical pants, rocking on the balls of his feet.

You felt sick, knowing it’d come to this, that you’d been brought to awkward conversations and niceties. You used to be close, dangerously close. You used to be able to reach out and touch him, to push that stray hair out of his eyes. You used to make jokes, to laugh. You released a scoff, shook the memories from your pounding head. “Look, we don’t have to do this.”

He looked up at you then, jaw clenched, broad chest steadily rising and falling.

“You don’t have to pretend to care about me. They partnered us up because we both want to get back out there. We have sixty hours of training left. The rest of the time doesn’t need to be spent together. You can be my drill sergeant and after training, we go our separate ways.” You confirmed, crossing to your duffle bag to retrieve a sweatshirt. You shoved it aggressively over your head and put your arms through, sick of feeling scrutinized under his gaze.

“Drill sergeant?” He seethed, rounding the table to meet you near the foot of your bed.

“Oh come on, Harrington,” you rolled your eyes. “You’ve been chewing my ass like fucking beef jerky since we left Hopper’s office. You’re acting like you’re training me for the Olympics, and I’m letting you, by the way, because it’s easier to keep the peace and take your bullshit than argue with you.”

“Oh, right,” he scoffed. “You’ve been ‘keeping the peace’. Please, explain to me the fight-back I get on everything I say. Enlighten me, princess.”

“Don’t call me that,” you shoved at his chest.

He didn’t budge. “Push through me.” He instructed.

You grit your teeth and did as he asked. The heels of your hands made contact and had him stumbling back a good five feet.

He caught himself on your chair. It creaked under his weight. “Good.”

“Shut up,” you stood at full height, clenched your fists at your sides, ready to swing.

“Did you ever consider that I’ve been bossing you around because I don’t know if I can trust - ” He swallowed, broad chest heavy, eyes scanning your features.

“What?” You narrowed your eyes, fear crawling up your esophagus, burning in your throat.

“…you.”

All of your fears confirmed, that you couldn’t be trusted, that it was all your fault Vicki got lost, all your fault she was flayed, all your fault you couldn’t handle her, couldn’t take her, all your fault she died. All your fault your friends abandoned you. All your fault you lost him, too.

Flames fanned your skin. Your eyes glazed over, your hands trembled. You tried to reason with him, with yourself. “I didn’t mean for… any of it. I didn’t ask for it to happen.”

“But it did.” His tone was dark, low, unyielding.

You glanced back at him in time to see his hand run through his hair.

He released his shoulders in a deep breath. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we’re better on the field than off. I was really just coming to see when you’d be ready to get back on your feet.” He wrapped his knuckles against the tabletop.

You shivered under his frigid monotone.

“We should start with Scorch on Monday. I think we’re supposed to get a heatwave, so let’s try for the evening again.” He was commanding, cold, walking to your bedroom door.

“Okay,” you managed. Your neck ached from the whiplash of the encounter, of the last week of your life, the last year.

“Get some rest.” He said before exited, a command.

When the door clicked closed, you let out a yell of frustration, swatted at a nearby chair until it tipped to the ground, clanging loudly as the metal bounced.

---

Chapter Two: Spark

[A/N: I've honestly been working on this fic for so long. It's my baby. I've grown too attached. And I honestly cannot wait to share it with the world. Thanks so much for reading xo]

#stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington fic #steve harrington wip #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington angst #steve harrington enemies to lovers #eddie munson #robin x vickie #stranger things fic

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