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areiacannaid · 8 months

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Declination

What if Halt joined Morgarath instead of the Rangers? A small AU based off of this prompt/story idea from @nilswolf8.

Link to read on AO3

“I could use a man like you in my ranks.” Morgarath said, finally getting to the point behind the clandestine nighttime meeting he had summoned Halt to.

“I can’t say I care much for the idea of being used.” Halt replied, truth cutting through the sarcastic way he had phrased it.

“Merely an expression,” Morgarath assured with a wave of his hand. “Regardless, I would value someone with talents like yours. And there’s much that I could offer you in return for your services.”

And, now that the offer was out in the open, Halt allowed himself to consider it.

When he had first come to Araluen, he’d had a vague idea of joining the Rangers. That was how he had been trained, and their high, influential, position in Araluen was no secret. He’d been interested in seeing what he could gain by working his way up to the top of such an organization. Although he had always preferred to work in the shadows, power promised a sense of control and protection in a way nothing else could manage. Halt had spotted his opportunity when he met, and saved, Crowely in that tavern. But the Rangers were not the seat of power they had once been and the tides of war were shifting.

Which left his choice between Crowley and Morgarath. He knew enough to guess that Crowley might be the safer person—but, in the end, it really wasn’t about people.

Halt had learned long ago there was no such thing as love or loyalty. People only ever used others for as long as they had something to gain, and then simply discarded them when that use had run its course. All that really mattered was how much one could extract from those connections before they invariably died.

The choice really came down to what could be attained in the end, and what path offered the greatest chance for survival.

Halt had no real sense of connection to the Rangers. That had ended the day his old life had, deep within the cool blackness of the river that had nearly claimed his life.

A sharp memory of pain caused him to reach a hand towards his chest. The passage of time had done nothing to temper his memory of that day, and he doubted it ever would. He’d been reborn from the water that had been intended as his grave. He’d clawed his way to the bank, gasping for breath, water stained red and pink with the blood his injuries dripping around him. His mouth had been seared with the ash of desperate but unheeded words—the last time he had ever called for mercy or help.

His fingers brushed against the twisted scar tissue beneath his clothes, but felt no sensation save for the numbness of severed nerve endings. It was a blank nothingness that matched the cavernous feeling that had settled deep inside his chest since that day. He didn’t know if he even remembered anymore what it truly felt like to feel.

Everyone he'd ever thought he’d loved had either tried to kill him, or had left him to die. So, connections and sentiment meant nothing to him.

In the end it really was an easy choice. Morgarath simply had more to offer than the Ranger’s ever could. He had the greater odds for victory and therefore promised a greater chance of survival and a greater chance of potential gain. It was the smarter, more logical option. And he’d be lying if he said he was unsympathetic to anyone daring to rebel against a vitiated King and bring an end to the corrupt nobility he so despised.

“Well, what do you say?” Morgarath’s sibilant voice broke the grip of his revelry.

“I’d say we should talk terms,” Halt said.

Morgarath smiled, eyes bright with a calculating light. “Let's hear them then.”

He listened as Halt stated his counter offers, reasonable terms for spoils and a higher more autonomous position on Morgarath’s ranks.

“Prove your worth to me and you will have all that you asked for,” Morgarath said, holding out his hand to signal his agreement.

Halt took the offered hand.

~x~X~x~

Halt stood in the wreckage of a burning village, the place where the last vestiges of the King’s army had fled after their crushing defeat at Hackham Heath. The King and several of his knights had escaped—but they had been the only ones to do so.

Halt’s strategy, combined with Morgarath’s Wargal army, had decimated the King’s forces. They had chased the last of them here to this village; a place they had tried, and failed, to find refuge and defensive footing.

The broken remnants of the King’s army had not been enough to defend this small village from the massive force of Wargals Morgarath had sent. That was clear enough from the carnage around him. The bodies of Wargals, soldiers, and villagers lay intermingled where they had fallen: the unavoidable price of war.

Halt inhaled the sharp smoke from the fires burning around him, his bow at full draw and leveled at the last standing soldier—if a child could really be called an enemy soldier.

The boy, no more than twelve years old at the most if Halt had to guess, stood defiantly, sword held defensively in front of him, eyes shining with wild determination. Before his feet sprawled the unmoving bodies of Wargals and even a few men that he had slain. Behind him, clinging desperately to his legs was a younger boy, probably no older than five if he had to guess, and very likely the last survivor of the villagers that had once called this place home. His large brown eyes were blown wide in pain and primal terror.

“Why haven’t you released your arrow?” Morgarath’s sneer came from behind him. “He is the enemy. One less of them breathing is all the better for us. Or is his age too much for your scruples, Halt?”

“It isn’t that,” Halt said blandly. “It’s that killing him would be a waste. I saw him before when I reconnoitered the King’s army camp. He’s the son of Sir David; the newly appointed Battlemaster to the King. I figured he'd be worth more to you alive as leverage.”

“Indeed?” A vicious gleam came to life in Morgarath’s eyes even as his lips curled in a cruel smile. “Then size him and kill the village boy.”

Halt saw the older boy’s eyes widen at that callous order, flashing for the first time with fear and, just as quickly, calculation hastily covered.

He brandished his sword as the soldier’s closed in.

“If I’m worth something to you alive then so is he,” he addressed Morgarath, indicating the younger boy with a tilt of his head. “He’s my brother. If it’s ransom you want, my father would pay for us both.”

“Your brother?” Morgarath challenged scathingly.

“Illegitimate, but yes. My father fell in love with his mother when he was last stationed near this village,” he explained hastily.

As Halt watched the boy, he found himself feeling an unexpected measure of interest towards him. He was skilled in combat, seemed more intelligent than the average knight, and was quick on his feet.

He was also a liar.

The young village boy was not any blood relation of his despite his story, Halt was certain. His tells were minor ones, but they were there. He was merely trying to protect the younger boy from death, though Halt couldn’t piece together a motive as to why—he couldn’t fathom what the boy possibly stood to gain from it.

Every word had been a falsehood. But the greed in Morgarath’s expression showed plainly that he hadn’t caught it. He seemed far more interested in the added leverage of a potential scandal. Halt, for his part, said nothing. It wasn't his responsibility to keep Morgarath from being manipulated by a child. That was something the Warlord should be able to do for himself.

“Take them both,” Morgarath ordered.

Halt shrugged. It didn’t matter much to him either way.

~x~X~x~

“Perhaps you could tell me why it is that your father doesn’t value your life enough to agree to my demands?” Morgarath’s raging carried almost as loudly through the dungeon passages as the anguished sounds of screaming did.

It had been over a month since the capture of the two boys, since the Battle of Hackham Heath where King Duncan had escaped with his a few of his knights and commanders. The King had holed up in a fortress in the far north, with eighteen fiefs still under his command. Morgarath’s ploy to use Sir David’s son, or rather ‘sons’, as leverage had not met with the success he wanted.

Having received a less than favorable response to his ransom and blackmail demands, Morgarath had flown into a rage and decided to vent it on the object of his anger. Halt’s mouth turned down faintly at the uselessness of it all. Like all emotions, rage was ultimately pointless and would fix things as little as torturing a child for the decision of their parents. Which was to say, not at all.

Morgarath would have been better served to lower the conditions he set for the boys’ safe return. Halt had always known that no knight with the barest trace of loyalty or duty to his King would have agreed to such concessions—even if he did profess to love his son. The life of two boys weighed against the safety of what little remained of Duncan’s kingdom was a clear logical choice.

Halt rounded the corner, stepping past the guards there. They did nothing to stop him as he’d become a more than familiar figure.

“Were you just that much of a disappointment to him or does he just not care?” Morgarath demanded of the Battlemaster’s son.

Halt entered the cell silently, watching as Morgarath lunged at the helpless knight’s son, watched as the youngest boy strained against the chains holding him, tears streaming down his face as he screamed desperately, despite his obvious exhaustion, for Morgarath to stop. For his part, the knight’s son was far past the point of words, past even the point of screaming anymore. He did not answer the furious warlord. The lack of response only seemed to infuriate Morgarath more.

“Maybe my demand wasn’t taken seriously enough. Maybe I’ll start chopping off pieces to send to him. Maybe then he will listen! Maybe then he will start to care!”

As he said it, he drew and raised his sword, edge down for a cutting stroke at the boy beneath him. The boy’s eyes, though barely conscious and filled with pain, still glistened defiantly. Brave and defiant, just as the younger one was.

Halt felt something unidentifiable stirring in his chest at about the same time he felt the idea, which had been stirring in the back of his mind ever since he’d predicted the failure of Morgarath’s ransom scheme, solidify into clear purpose.

“Hold a moment, if you would, Lord Morgarath,” Halt said calmly, but loud enough to be heard as he stepped forwards.

“You had better have a good reason for interrupting me,” Morgarath hissed venomously, stopping his blade mid-swing by only the barest frenzied grip of his self-control.

“I do. Before you damage him irreparably," Halt said, gesturing toward the downed boy with an inclination of his head. “I have a proposition. Why don’t you give both boys to me?”

“For what purpose?” Morgarath asked.

The rasp in his voice and the clenching of his fingers told Halt that he was only seconds away from losing his temper entirely. Halt knew he needed to be concise and quick if he wanted to be successful.

“The way I see it, if their father already refused the deal, it's unlikely there is anything you can do that would cause him to suddenly value his children more than his duty or position. But they can still be useful to us. The King still has many Rangers left at his disposal and they even now give him a greater advantage in this war. I figured that you could use a similar advantage. What if I could train for you, your own force of assassins with the skills of the Rangers? We could rival and surpass Duncan in every aspect. These two,” he indicated the boys, “could be the start to it. I see potential in them already.”

“And if you are wrong about them?” Morgarath asked, though Halt could see that he was already growing interested in the idea, the familiar hungry gleam was back in his gaze.

“Then,” Halt shrugged, “you can finish what you started.”

Morgarath seemed to think a moment before sheathing his sword.

“If you want them, take them,” he said dismissively, words languid. “They are no longer of any use to me.”

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astrummorte · 20 days

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sometimes i forget that aryin has similar religious trauma to me, and then they give me the line out of nowhere of

"When the doors shut and all the windows lock, there's no one to pray to in the darkness of your childhood home."

#♡. aryin.about ⁄ ⁄ discovering the patterns of my soul .#♡. aryin.thoughts ⁄ ⁄ what a terrible burden a heart must be .#abuse implied tw #abuse tw #child abuse implied tw #child abuse tw #religious trauma tw

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girlyteengirl16 · 8 months

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yes ofc i’m normal and can be trust around sharp objects

#tw sh destructive behaviour #tw sh implied #tw selfhate #trauma #mentally unstable #tw depressing stuff #mental abuse #i wanna kms #childhood neglect #mentally tired #child neglect #i want to be okay #tw depressing thoughts

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chronicsymptomsyndrome · 4 months

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Nobody is “too young” to be cynical or jaded or hate their life. There is no appropriate age for that. If someone is experiencing that at any age, their mental health is at risk. Doesn’t matter how young they are, or how easy their life seems. Just because existential dread didn’t hit you until later in life, doesn’t mean everyone else gets to be so lucky.

“You think life sucks now? Just wait until you’re grown” okay grandpa what if they don’t make it to adulthood? What if it gets worse until they only see one way out and they take it? Stop being dismissive. Stop forcing your problems onto young people and start taking them seriously about things. Period.

(Inspired by this post)

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mousebone-s · 5 months

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It’s not my fault / It’s my own fault

I’m not human at all / I have no heart

(Lyrics from Sleep Party People - I’m Not Human at All)

#tw implied abuse #tw child abuse #undertale #utdr #chara dreemurr #chara #digital art #my art #chara undertale #undertale chara #tw bruises

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unclewaynemunson · 1 year

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'No no no Steve wait, don't throw that a...way.' The end of the sentence died on Eddie's tongue as the leftover lasagna, basically in slow-motion, tumbled out of the dish and into the bin. Eddie could almost hear a funeral march start to play over the dull thud and the sound of crushing eggshells.

'Fuck,' he said, emphatically.

'That was barely half a portion,' Steve remarked with a careless shrug while putting the empty dish back on the kitchen counter.

And Eddie groaned, tried to count to ten in his head but didn't even make it to two.

'I was gonna have that for lunch, man, add a slice of bread and an apple and I'd have a decent meal!'

There must have been something in his voice that told Steve that he wasn't just being overly dramatic but genuinely annoyed, because his face dropped and he shot a quick glance at the dish, as if that would magically summon the lasagna back into it, untouched by gross eggshells and coffee dregs.

'Seriously, that was perfectly good food, why would you throw that away?!'

'I can buy you lunch tomorrow?' Steve suggested sheepishly.

And, well, that hit a sore spot.

'That's not the fucking point!' Eddie exclaimed in frustration. 'I'm not your charity case or some shit, I can take care of my own meals – as long as you don't throw my food away!'

And again, it was like Eddie saw it happen in slow-motion: Steve flinched, took a stumbling step backwards, created as much distance between himself and Eddie as possible in the trailer’s tiny kitchen by bumping his back against the counter; something crossed his face that Eddie had never seen there before. And... shit.

All his frustration dissolved right on the spot and he immediately took another step away from Steve, even though everything inside of him wanted to cross that distance and hold him. He raised his hands in the air, cautious not to move too sudden.

'Steve, I'm not mad at you,' he said, forcing himself to sound as calm as possible despite his heart beating like crazy. 'I got annoyed, sure, but – it's okay. We're okay. You're okay. I didn't wanna hurt you, I promise.'

Steve swallowed, let his eyes dart everywhere except at Eddie's face while he tightly crossed his arms in front of his chest. The fear seemed to have disappeared from his face, replaced by something else; something expertly concealed within seconds. Anyone less well-versed than Eddie in the craft of noticing every little detail about Steve Harrington wouldn't notice; but Eddie did.

'You wanna talk about what happened there?' he asked, hesitant.

Steve didn't answer right away, his eyes still frantically darting around the trailer and his lower lip sucked between his teeth.

'What do you mean?' he finally said.

'Can I come closer?' Eddie asked. He felt like it would be so much easier to have this conversation if he could touch Steve; if he could smell him and have him in his orbit.

Steve nodded; Eddie sighed a breath of a relief and crossed the distance between them to rest his hands against Steve's sides; not quite an embrace, but something grounding for both of them nonetheless.

'I kinda recognized that look in your eyes, I guess,' Eddie quietly admitted. 'And the way you flinched. Like you were scared I was gonna do something bad.'

'I know you wouldn't –'

'I know,' Eddie was quick to reassure him. There was a beat of silence and Eddie wondered how much he should push. But he knew that he needed this conversation to happen, that it would keep gnawing at both of them if they didn't talk about it now.

'It's because of your dad, isn't it?'

Steve nodded, still looking slightly past Eddie.

'I'm sorry.' Eddie exhaled sharply, trying to keep his emotions under control; he knew that aimless anger at Steve's father wouldn't get them anywhere; not here, not right now. 'I mean, I knew he was bad, but I had no idea that it was... like that.'

He could hear Steve breathe out while he stared at some point just above Eddie's head.

'Sometimes I think all that crap is behind me now,' Steve quietly started to explain. 'But then something like this happens and it – it just catches me by surprise, is all. Like I'll never completely be free of the fear.'

Eddie nodded. 'Uncle Wayne, he... He looks a lot like my father - even though he's nothing like him. Took me years to fully trust him. He makes sure to never raise his voice, but still, sometimes when I see him make a sudden movement from the corner of my eyes, I just... freeze. Like it's some kind of instinct that’ll always stay with me.'

Steve finally looked Eddie in his eyes again, stunned and a little bit shocked.

'Your dad, too?'

Eddie nodded. 'Mhm.'

And wordlessly, Steve pulled him closer, until Eddie was enveloped in his warm arms and their chests were pressed against each other. Eddie let his eyes fall shut, breathed in Steve's familiar scent while he nestled his face in the crook of his neck and tightened his own grip around Steve's back.

They stayed like that for minutes, maybe even a whole eternity.

'Should we make rules?' Steve finally asked, in a hesitant voice and without pulling away from their embrace.

'What kind of rules?'

'Like, things to make sure that this doesn't – that we won't get scared. I know we can't promise not to fight, but...' He trailed off; Eddie could feel him shrug his shoulders.

He started slowly stroking one hand up and down over Steve's back. 'What was the thing that got you afraid, earlier?'

'Your loud voice – and the way you stepped into my space, I guess.'

'Okay.' Eddie nodded. 'So no yelling, and we try to keep our distance when shit goes sour. Sound good?'

Steve hummed against Eddie’s neck. 'Yeah. And for you? You mentioned the sudden movements, with Wayne?'

'Yeah, no sudden movements would help,' Eddie admitted.

'Okay, I can do that.'

Eddie squeezed Steve tighter. 'Thank you.'

Steve huffed. 'You're the one who started this conversation; I should be thanking you.'

Eddie lifted his face to press a gentle kiss against Steve's cheek, and another one at the corner of his lips.

'I'm sorry for startling you.'

'That's okay, you couldn't know.'

'Can you stop doing that, please?’ Eddie said with a chuckle. ‘Let me say thank you, let me apologize. Let me take care of you.'

Steve chuckled too; never before had Eddie been so grateful to hear that sound. 'I'll try.'

'You wanna stay the night?'

Steve shuffled, pulled back a little bit so that Eddie could see his face; there was a frown between his eyebrows.

'I'm not sure if I'm in the mood, after, you know...'

'Hey,' Eddie said, softly. 'You can stay the night for other reasons, too, you know. To have some comfort. To fall asleep together. To let me make sure that you're doing alright.'

'You sure?'

'Hell yes.'

Steve's head dropped down to Eddie's shoulder again, and Eddie lifted his hand to comb through his hair.

'Yeah, I'll stay.'

#don't mind me rambling about stranger things #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #not sure if / how i should tw this so please lemme know if i should!#stranger things #fruity ficlet #tw implied abuse #tw implied child abuse

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qcoded · 1 month

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Redrew a panel of Makima and Denji w/ these two :P aghhh the blood on their clothes looks a bit weird 😭

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nerves-nebula · 10 months

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start | Prev | Next

pages 41-43

it’s donnies turn to be an asshole and little leo has a little baby breakdown about it. hahhhh ok im gonna go play wizard101 until like 6 AM or something.

#nnstuff #nnart #teenage mutant neglected turtles #neglected art #sa tw #csa tw #victim blaming #implied csa tw #implied sa tw #child abuse tw #rape tw #tmnt comic #incest tw #Leo memory comic

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l-herz · 3 months

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Do we want to talk about the implications of how the teachers (or at least a teacher) at Hudol were literally physically abusive??? And how Adaine and Aelwyn talked about it so casually??Glad we got the Abernant Sisters out of there cause holy shit

#dimension 20 #d20 spoilers #fhjy spoilers #fantasy high #fantasy high junior year #dimension 20 fantasy high #tw child abuse #implied child abuse #more accurately

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fastcardotmp3 · 1 year

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thinking about Max and the Munson's living across the way from each other post s3 again, but maybe specifically Max living across the way from Wayne post s3.

Wayne Munson knows what a kid looks like when they hide behind well practiced and carefully crafted defense mechanisms, after all, and he recognizes a kid with too much responsibility on their shoulders.

He sees this teenage girl with the pigtails and the hard eyes who doesn't answer the door when her friends come to call even though Wayne saw her sitting on the porch twenty minutes ago; who is always the one bringing groceries home on foot even when her mom's car is there; whose bedroom light is too frequently on when Wayne gets home before the sun even has the chance to think about rising.

And he's not gonna overstep about it, he has no intention of making this girl uncomfortable because he is a stranger to her and he knows how both he and Eddie look on a first glance, wouldn't blame her for not being entirely trusting, but he keeps an eye out for her anyway.

Tells Eddie too-- "She's home alone a lot, you make sure no one tries takin' advantage, hear?"-- even if Eddie is mostly preoccupied with his own shit most of the time, because if Wayne can recognize a kid hiding, a kid carrying too much around on that skateboard of hers, then Eddie certainly can too.

"You adopting another stray, old man?" is Eddie's response, but he glances out through the blinds at the trailer across the way with a heaviness to his shoulders in understanding at the sight of that girl sitting on the porch with her headphones on and a school book in her lap that she's decidedly not paying any attention.

"Something like that," Wayne claps him on the shoulder, squeezes as he passes by, but he doesn't think anything will really come of it.

There's not much they can do except keep an eye out, carry the Mayfields' paper up to the porch on rainy days so it won't get soggy and unreadable, offer a wave and a kind word and a reminder that "if your Mama ain't home and you need something, you just give us a knock," despite the brush off he gets every time.

And then one night-- one morning really, before the sun is about to rise-- Wayne pulls up at home after his shift to find Eddie standing out in the snow, odd enough in and of itself made odder by the fact he isn't alone.

"--don't know what you think you're gonna accomplish here at four in the goddamned morning, Harrington, but--"

"I mean, that doesn't feel like any of your business."

"You're parked outside my home, yeah it's my business," Eddie gestures broadly at the unfamiliar BMW the two of them are standing next to as Wayne clambers out of his own truck on tired legs and overworked shoulders.

He needs a hot shower, a good, long sleep.

But Eddie is getting in this other kid's face and it's--

"I'm parked outside that home," Harrington, big coat and gloves but thin pajama pants poking out underneath it all, points at the Mayfield trailer with exhausted exasperation and something tinged with a bit more urgency too, "and I don't know you, man, nothing I do is any of your business--"

"Steve come in-- do you have visual yet, over?"

"Jesus Christ," Harrington reaches into the front seat of his car, yanks out a radio that has Wayne's eyebrows shooting up even as he approaches them, the impatient and anxious shift of Eddie's untied sneakers in the December slush. "Gimme a minute," he says into the walkie-talkie, "I told you I'd call when I did."

"Yeah, but it only takes you ten minutes to drive to her place and--"

Harrington shoves the antenna down and shuts the thing off, just as Wayne finally stops beside his nephew with a hand at his elbow.

"Everything alright here, boys?"

Wayne knows his kid, is the thing, so he knows the protective tension in the cross of those arms, the furrow of his brow, knows that Eddie is maybe seeing himself in Max Mayfield a little too fully on this night, dragged out of his bed by god only knows what to argue with a Harrington in the brisk wind of winter.

And Wayne knows his kid, so he recognizes the work of his jaw when he's about to burst out into a spiel to make himself the target instead of whoever he's put behind him this time around, but he doesn't get the chance to start before he's being interrupted.

"Steve, why are you harassing my neighbors."

Flat and unimpressed but shaky around the edges like she's not quite getting enough air, the orange glow of the light inside her trailer spilling out past her into the blue of night as Steve Harrington's legs all but give out with a breath of--

"Oh, thank god," he shuts the door to his car behind him as he takes a few steps closer to him, Eddie trailing like he's ready to literally put his body between them instead of just figuratively, "are you okay?"

"I'm not the one driving around town in the middle of the night, what are you doing here?" she crosses her arms, doesn't leave the cracked doorway at the top of the steps and Harrington doesn't try to climb them either.

And then it's a quick, well-punctuated punch of a conversation in which Wayne feels like he's missing about half the facts, standing by nonetheless.

"Lucas walkied."

"I told him I was fine."

"You called him at three A.M. and hung up on him without explanation," Steve points out surprisingly levelly.

"Yeah. After I told him I was fine."

"Max."

"I thought I wanted to talk about it and changed my mind."

"You know he'd listen."

"I can't-- you know I can't--"

"Yes you can."

"Not about him. Not to Lucas."

"To me, then," Steve throws his hands up in exasperation, and Wayne can feel something crackling in the air.

It's the same thing that had been there the first handful of times Eddie had picked a fight with Wayne after he first moved to Hawkins, looking for the line, looking for how far he could go before it all went to shit again.

Wayne knows this girl, even if he doesn't know her, because years ago he'd brought a boy with a buzzcut for a visit and he'd never left.

Which is maybe why he speaks up even though he knows how that boy would've reacted.

"If you need something, kiddo..."

"I need everyone to leave me alone," she snaps, striding out all the way onto the porch, only the bravado of it falters when the door slams shut behind her and she all but jumps out of her skin. "Fuck. God, shit, that door--"

She opens it again, yanks it nearly off its hinges just to slam it once more like she's trying to break the thing.

And now she's definitely not getting enough air. Now she's--

"Max, hey, alright--"

"Buddy, I dunno--"

"Back off, Munson, this is really not your business," Harrington shoves past Eddie and strides up the steps as Max slumps down onto the top one, arms wrapped around herself and Eddie looks ready to fight but Wayne just.

He doesn't know Steve Harrington, doesn't even really know his family beyond the way of small towns and knowing names and the neighborhoods in which they reside, but he knows a kid in distress leaning towards safety even if they don't believe they deserve it and Max Mayfield is leaning towards him.

Not Wayne, not Eddie, but this kid with the walkie-talkie and-- is he wearing two different shoes?

Wayne waits the compulsory moment to see Max really fall apart, right there into the fabric of Steve's coat as she keeps her hands tucked under her arms but catches her breath with that one point of contact-- forehead to shoulder-- as Steve speaks gently, words getting caught in the wind. As she stutters out rattling feelings right back.

"The door slammed when she left for work and I-- thought he was-- back again-- I thought-- and I shouldn't've-- not Lucas-- not for, for this--"

Wayne crosses the distance between him and Eddie, hand on his shoulder dragging him out of his own head, wherever it is he goes when his gaze goes glassy and tired like it does now in the gray glow of this place as the snow starts up again.

"You did good," Wayne murmurs, tugging Eddie back towards their own home, just across the way. "Good job, Ed, she's gonna be okay."

"She's..." Eddie clears his throat, looks so much younger than he is for a moment.

"Being looked after," Wayne says with a certainty he wouldn't have felt about the matter a day ago, Eddie following him listlessly back up the steps to the unlocked front door. "You did good."

"I didn't do anything," Eddie frowns, the pink of his cheeks and his nose practically glowing once they're inside.

"You showed her you've got her back," Wayne tells him without room for argument, pulling off his winter coat and moving to heat up water on the stove even as Eddie peeks through the curtains again, seemingly unable to accept that nothing bad is going to happen tonight.

Wayne can't be sure what put him in this state of mind, how he even got alerted to Harrington's arrival in the first place, but he knows he'll find his way back to solid ground soon enough.

Hot tea and warm clothes, when Wayne pulls Eddie away from the window, he catches sight of Steve speaking into the walkie with one hand and holding Max to rest against his shoulder with the other.

He'll make sure they get out of the cold before he goes to bed, but for now he has his own kid to sit with in the ghosts of past hauntings brought back to life for the night.

"We gotta keep an eye out for her," Eddie mutters as he accepts the mug Wayne hands him, feet tucked up under a blanket on the couch.

Wayne sits down next to him and props his tired feet up on the coffee table with a heavy breath.

"We will," he says, because he knows there's no discouraging Eddie now.

The kid learned his habit for picking up strays from somewhere, after all.

#dot post #dot fic #this was a three sentence thought that turned into 'oh wait I have feelings to share' so whoops #eddie munson #wayne munson #max mayfield #steve harrington #tw implied child abuse #I entered this fandom having feelings about max and eddie bonding and here I remain

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