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hookaroo · 8 months

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Laden of the Torn (15 of 25)

AO3 link Catch up on tumblr: One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Tagging @priscilla9993 @cocohook38 @killian-whump <3

***

If Killian had ever believed in karma or some sort of universal justice, the events of the past decade should have fully driven all such notions from his head. And yet, as he was surrounded by unfriendly simians wielding a variety of menacing weaponry a few days later, he found himself appealing to whatever spark of faith still lingered within. Risking his own life to save the child of a creature he barely knew--and a non-human one, at that--what act could be more worthy of a breakthrough in his own daughter’s predicament, however small? This time, surely?

He spread his arms slowly to highlight the lack of weapons. On the advice of Favor, he avoided meeting anyone’s gaze directly as he took stock of the Less warriors. They did not appear substantially different from their First counterparts: a wide variety of shapes and colors, generally sized somewhere between a cat and an average dog. Most with long, expressive tails but some without. The dozen-or-so monkeys watched him with caution but did not appear intimidated by his height.

Focusing on the razor-crested walls in the background, Killian addressed no one in particular with the words he’d been coached to say.

“Will the honorable Less Clan permit a lone member of the Torn entrance to your lands and an audience with Chief Lack?”

The reaction was mixed. Some shook their weapons and bared their fangs with hoots and hisses; others looked offended, derisive, or even mildly amused. A voice from off to Killian’s left rang above the others, and he turned to identify the speaker.

“You use our false name, assigned by our enemies, so it is no surprise you emerge from their cursed territory. Why should the Prime entertain an emissary sent by the Last?”

This Less warrior--or was it Prime? Gods, as if things weren’t confusing enough without each tribe having separate, derogatory names for each other--was one of the bigger animals Killian had seen of either group, with bronze fur and skin, markedly hunched shoulders, and canines the length of a man’s finger. If troop numbers weren’t enough to intimidate a trespasser, this creature alone might do the trick. Killian continued to avoid direct eye contact as he carefully crafted his reply.

“Your rivals… the Last… have indeed given me authority to negotiate on their behalf. I am entirely impartial in the matter and wish only to resolve the issue so I may be on my way.”

The toothy one looked to a comrade, who had been edging closer, peering intently at Killian’s truncated arm. This second Less warrior was less conspicuous, though its remarkable protruding nose gave it a face worthy of a double-take. Killian caught a curious glint in its eyes before it turned away and said,

“Lack will wish to see this Torn fool, regardless of any negotiations that may take place.”

Murmurs of assent came from every direction, and it seemed that this was enough of a majority to not require any further discussion. With far less chaos than the First had displayed, the ring of Less monkeys tightened to become an efficient escort, most at Killian’s back or flanks, weapons at the ready, with only two smaller members up front to lead the way. Pointed sticks prodded Killian into a faster march than he would have preferred, given the labyrinth of blades to navigate. At least he no longer had the ball and chain dragging along behind him, threatening to trip him with every step. Wryly, Killian wondered if the Less/Prime had the same affinity for insect-mediated wound care as their First/Last cousins. Hoping he would not need to find out, he picked his way deeper into hostile territory.

***

Chief Lack, leader of the Less Clan, would tower over Favor if the two stood side by side. But his most striking feature was the apparent inspiration for his name, and what Killian had taken to be idle chatter suddenly made a lot more sense. In fact, he wouldn't have been surprised to learn that Blackbeard had somehow heard about this detail and schemed to use the knowledge to his full advantage.

The intimidating ape loped through the clearing on three legs, holding his handless left forearm tucked against his chest. His shoulders and upper arms were thicker than even Killian's were, and covered in long orange hair that rippled with every movement. He had a wide, flat face with the most human-looking eyes Killian had seen yet, and he was using them to peer intently at the alien in their midst as he chewed casually on a woody green stalk in his mouth.

Lack reached a smooth stone shelf in the center of everything and clambered on top. He sat heavily, eyes still judging Killian, and plucked the plant from between his teeth.

“It is not often I meet a creature similarly tested by the gods,” rumbled Lack, gripping the stalk with his feet and beginning to strip away the tough outer fibers with his single hand. Killian could not help but envy the way his flexible toes made up for the lack of five fingers. “Have you been challenged since birth, or did your affliction begin later?”

Killian answered with practiced patience. “My hand was taken by an enemy, quite a long time ago now.”

“That's more we have in common, then.” Lack bit off a piece of the tender inner shoot and chewed pensively as his gaze continued to bore into Killian. His eyes lingered on the empty wrist held casually at Killian’s side. “How many Warrior Ants?”

Killian released a breath of mirthless laughter. “Far too many.” He nodded at the ape’s corresponding limb. “And you?”

Accurate or not, the translator potion injected a note of bitter humor in Lack’s reply. “More than we had available. A mistake we vowed never to repeat.”

“I'm sorry,” Killian winced, entirely genuine despite the reason for the confrontation. “I can imagine what that must have been like.”

With a lazy flick of his limber toes, Lack dropped a length of emerald husk to the ground. “Indeed. I believe you are one of the few who truly can. But it appears we are both doing quite well now.” He took another mouthful of plant matter. “Let that fact provide the answer to your inevitable question. I allow both ally and enemy to name me by my weakness because it highlights my strength. I can lead just as effectively without a hand, and thus my foes are intimidated and my clan proud to serve under Chief Lack.”

“Oh, is that the inspiration for the name? Here I was, thinking it must describe the state of your heart. Given your willingness to enslave a child.”

Killian risked derailing the so-far civil conversation with his sarcastic reproach, but he needed Lack to know he was not afraid of him. The big clan leader did not immediately react to the accusation.

“What do your people call you?”

“For a long time, I was called Hook. For many of the same reasons as you just mentioned. And as a bonus, it let everyone know exactly the sort of danger they would be facing should they be foolish enough to cross me.”

Lack did not appear impressed by the veiled threat. He took his time scraping the last of the pulp from the stalk, then tossed the empty husk to the ground. Idly scratching at the back of his neck, he bared his teeth in a threatening grin.

“So, Hook-with-no-hook, I would guess by your coloration that you are among the elders of your species. For one possessed of so much life experience, you are surprisingly foolish to involve yourself in affairs you could not possibly understand.”

“It all seems quite clear to me,” snarled Killian. “It doesn’t take a sage to recognize evil.”

Some of the onlookers bristled at the statement, but Lack remained as cool as ever.

“Typical Torn arrogance. Your morals do not apply here. And you have no right to judge us based on Torn standards.”

Killian was in no mood for a philosophical debate. “The bottom line is, I am here on behalf of Favor to retrieve the princess; my reasons for doing so don’t really matter.”

“They do if we can persuade you to see our side and give up your impossible quest.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.” Killian kept his tone light, but his eyes were hard. “As it turns out, I have a soft spot for children who have been separated from their parents.”

“The child belongs to us now. It has been preordained. If you insist on becoming involved, you will regret it.”

“I have a long list of regrets. I guarantee this won’t be one of them.” Killian sighed and stretched his neck, feeling the pull of ant jaws where deeply embedded fishhooks had torn his flesh. Not a great starting condition for a duel. “How does this work, then; do I officially declare my intentions, or…?”

“Suppose we save ourselves some trouble? Whatever paltry sum the Last have offered you as a reward, we can easily triple it if you will forget this whole thing and be on your way. As the superior and soon-to-be ruling clan, it goes without saying that we have access to treasures well beyond that of our rivals.”

“Not interested. And if you’re truly serious about not wasting time, you’ll accept the fact that my mind is made up.”

Lack pulled a burr from his matted arm hair before responding,

“You are declaring yourself to be the official champion of the Last?”

“Aye,” confirmed Killian.

“Very well. Then allow me to introduce you to the champion of the Prime Clan. Notch of the Prime, step forward and greet your opponent.”

Predictably, it was the saber-toothed monkey who swaggered out of the crowd to face off with Killian. He was not the biggest of the warriors, but with those fangs, he would never truly be unarmed. Unsurprising, then, that he would be their top choice for champion.

“I believe our paths crossed on my way here.” Killian continued to survey his opponent, trying to avoid focusing on the obvious teeth and look for other details, strengths or weaknesses he should be aware of. By simian standards, Notch appeared well-nourished, muscular, and in his prime. Any scars he may carry were concealed by sleek, tawny fur. He had a slender tail that would help with balance and possibly entangling limbs, but Killian wasn't too concerned about its potential to be a weapon. The claws on the monkey's fingers and toes did not seem long enough to inflict any serious damage. As long as Killian managed to avoid the dagger-like teeth, he should be able to overpower the lighter creature in a wrestling match.

“Well then. Shall we get this over with?”

Notch fixed him with a murderous stare. “Only if you are prepared to suffer a quick defeat.”

“And then... let me guess: I become the main course at your victory celebration.”

“The victor chooses his prize,” sneered Lack, and Killian thought he saw a hungry glint in the eyes of the Less audience. He smirked right back at them.

“Just making sure of the stakes. Good to know exactly what it is I will be depriving you of when I win.”

Bluster for bluster. Total confidence meets utter fearlessness. Show the enemy no uncertainty while attempting to inspire doubt in them... a routine so very familiar.

“Quake? You checked him thoroughly for weapons?”

Positioned just beside the stone platform, the black-haired ape that had also served as an escort stood leaning on his knuckles, alert and menacing. He was smaller than only Lack himself, and Killian thanked the gods that he wasn't about to face him in battle instead of Notch. He would be far less confident in his chances against that mass of solid muscle.

“Yes, Chief Lack. He was unarmed and carried only this map.” He produced the worn parchment from beneath his hind foot and handed it to his chieftain. Lack gave it a cursory glance and then tossed it aside scornfully.

“Soon to be pitifully outdated.”

Killian was watching Notch warily in case he decided to try and take him by surprise. But he addressed Lack as he tried to conserve his adrenaline for the battle's onset.

“I have your word? You will surrender the princess to me if I defeat your champion?”

Lack bared his teeth. “As I said before, the victor determines the prize.”

“Before your gods?” persisted Killian, and Lack inclined his head.

“The gods are always watching.”

The evasive answer had to be good enough, for not a heartbeat went by before Lack grunted,

“You may proceed.”

Notch was on Killian like a furry cannonball, and despite his attempts at preparation, he was immediately gasping for breath as forty pounds of fury knocked the wind out of his lungs. He struck out blindly at his attacker, but the monkey was remarkably agile and avoided all but a glancing blow as he rappelled over to Killian's other side. Killian saw teeth flashing toward his face and ducked, again lashing out with both arms and trying to catch hold of the slippery beast. Long fangs slashed his temple as they flew past. His wrist connected with fur-covered muscle, changing its trajectory only slightly as a flailing tail whipped around his upper arm and secured Notch to his target. With some quick and effortless acrobatics, Notch swung himself over to Killian's opposite shoulder and immediately zeroed in on his face again, intent on either blinding him or ripping out his throat with those impressive canines. Killian's only hope was to catch hold of his adversary and use his greater mass to pin him, or as a last resort, try and break his neck.

Killian managed to seize a grasping back paw, and he yanked downwards with as much force as he could muster. Notch squeaked in pain but dug his front claws into Killian's chest, raking long scratches down his ribs as he tried to retain his grip. He sank his fangs into the muscle of Killian’s upper thigh, dangerously close to the vital blood vessels located there. Instinctively, before the fiery pain had even had time to register, Killian snatched at the monkey’s scruff, using his stump to pummel the creature's face as he searched desperately for the hinge that would force the jaw open. Elusive as ever, Notch abruptly released his hold, twisted out of Killian’s grip, and launched himself away.

Surrounding the combatants, the spectators remained mostly quiet, riveted by the battle but showing little in the way of reaction or support for their champion. The silence was a bit unnerving for Killian, who was accustomed to the reactions of his vocal supporters--or detractors, as the case may be. This complete stillness was rare.

Killian had time for one deep breath, and then Notch was scaling him once again, dodging an off-balance kick from a wounded leg. Switching tactics, the clever monkey did not ascend in a straight line, but leapt in zig-zag patterns, sometimes dropping by a foot or two before springing upward again in a new direction. He was unbelievably fast, and with no hope of anticipating his next move, Killian was forced to rely on pure chance to allow him to grab a hold. He had been trying to keep his left arm elevated, a small barrier for the climber and meager protection for his targeted throat. But Notch began nipping at his legs and torso, quick bites that broke the skin just as often as merely bruising, and he was forced to return to ineffective clubbing as a deterrent.

Now throbbing and bleeding in a dozen places, a frustrated Killian dropped to his knees to make himself a smaller target. Notch's fur slipped through his fingers yet again, but as the monkey springboarded off his legs straight for his face, Killian succeeded in snagging a miniature hand. His momentum shifted, Notch still successfully whipped his tail upward and wrapped it tightly around Killian's neck. At the same time, the enraged animal released an ear-splitting screech, lunging for the trapped paw. Killian pulled with his right arm and pushed with his left, hoping to dislodge the tail squeezing his throat. But then those savage fangs were tearing into his hand, grinding at the bones at the base of his thumb, gnawing viciously. With an agonized snarl, Killian again focused his efforts on the powerful jaws damaging his hand. He'd lost his grip on Notch's paw, which was currently clutching his wrist along with its counterpart, and no matter how hard he struck him, his attacker was latched firmly, determined and impervious to any pain by the high of bloodlust.

White-hot, cramping anguish radiated up Killian's arm, past his elbow, and he gritted his teeth, burying terrifying mental images of life without a functional thumb. In desperation, he flung himself forward onto his elbows, banging Notch's head against the packed earth. The little bugger only clamped down harder, his tail squeezing with all of his strength. Beginning to feel lightheaded from the relentless assault on his hand, Killian growled and muscled his left forearm into the scant space between his other arm and the monkey wrapped around it. Even if he could not tear his tormentor free, he was finally in a position to use his weight against him. Killian wriggled his arm forward, pressing down on the monkey's chest, seeking his throat. Notch thrashed and clawed, struggling to breathe even as his fangs dug stubbornly deeper. With one final heave of effort, Killian's stump pounded against Notch’s chin. He felt the vibration lance through his thoroughly mauled hand.

Killian's breath hissed through his teeth as he leaned down harder. He could feel the grip around his neck beginning to slacken, Notch’s struggles becoming more feeble, although his teeth continued to grind away spitefully. Finally, just when Killian began to worry he might lose consciousness before the monkey did, Notch twitched once and then went limp. His tail slithered down to the dirt, his limbs lost their grip, and even the tension in his ferocious jaws drained away, giving Killian a bit more confidence that his opponent was not merely faking. He still had to wriggle the four knife-like teeth out of his flesh, though, and no amount of quiet cursing made that process any easier.

The unnatural silence persisted as Killian sat back and attempted to catch his breath. His pounding heartbeat throbbed within his wounded hand. Blood trickled from each of the punctures and dripped off of his trembling fingers. Gingerly, Killian slipped his hand beneath his other arm, momentarily closing his eyes against the surging pain.

“Bring the princess,” he snarled. He heard nothing, and when he opened his eyes it was to find Lack holding up a commanding fist. The clan leader gestured toward the motionless form of Notch, and Killian could not read his expression. Two of the Less warriors slunk forward, keeping a cautious eye on Killian as they approached their fallen comrade.

“I didn't kill him.” Killian's voice held that edge of overexertion, post-battle fatigue and general done-with-everything-and-everyone prickliness. “But I heard no mention of ‘fight to the death,’ and I'm the clear victor here.”

“You are indeed,” confirmed Lack, much to Killian's relief. Had Lack indicated otherwise, he would have done what was necessary, but he would not have relished the task. He allowed the Less minions to drag Notch away for recovery.

“So bring me my prize.”

Lack shifted his position, never losing his casual demeanor. Though his expression was still hard to interpret, Killian did not like the devious glint in his eyes. “Let's discuss this prize of yours.”

“What is there to discuss? You know exactly what it is I want.”

“Yes, but I don't think you understand what it is you are asking for.”

Killian grimaced as invisible fangs continued to gleefully gnaw away at the bones and cartilage in his hand. “Seems straightforward enough to me. I defeated your champion. Now I’m taking Princess Puzzle back to her family.”

“One champion,” said Lack. “One prize.”

Killian's hand felt like it was about to explode. “Aye. And I'm only asking for one.”

Lack extended his pointer finger. “The princess’ freedom.” He paused dramatically, then held up a second finger. “Your freedom.”

He made a show of pretending to count the two digits, while Killian’s nausea grew at an alarming rate.

“Just in case hand signals do not properly translate, this means ‘two’ in the language of the clan.”

Killian lacked the energy for rage.

“Damn you,” he sighed. “I knew there would be something slimy about all of this. I wonder if your gods approve of your treachery.”

“There is nothing treacherous about it. I am merely listing your options. You can choose to let the princess go free, but then you are obligated to stay a prisoner. And a Last princess wandering alone in Prime territory… I believe the gods would call that fair game.” Pleased with himself, Lack leaned back on his hand and stump. “Of course, you are welcome to wage another battle. Should you defeat our second champion, you would be entitled to two prizes.”

At his leader’s side, Quake straightened almost imperceptibly, looking dangerously eager, confirming his rank. Going up against him would be a gamble at the best of times; chancing it now would be guaranteed suicide. Killian felt hollow, left with only the emotions he knew best: helplessness and failure. He’d been a fool to expect any other outcome.

“Can I take some time to decide?” he gritted out. “I’m not fit for combat right now anyway. Surely the Prime Clan has that much honor.”

Lack did not even hesitate. “We will allow you one night to recover. In the morning, you will make your final decision.” He shot a glance at a creature somewhere behind Killian. “Go with Patch. She will dress your wounds.”

Killian caught the hazy outline of a monkey sauntering toward him before he turned his attention back to the smug face of Chief Lack. “Let me see the princess. Please. If I return empty-handed tomorrow… I could at least tell her father she’s okay.”

It would be a very small consolation. But better than nothing. And he knew that for a fact.

Lack watched him for a moment. Perhaps he saw something haunted in Killian’s expression. Or maybe he was just confident that this impudent visitor had no chance of derailing their glorious future, and felt generous as a result. “Fine. After you’ve been tended to, I will send escorts.” He made an eerily humanlike smirk. “You can tell her father that she will be well cared for. After all, she has a very important purpose to fulfill.”

Despite everything, that statement was enough to make Killian bristle, and he came close to lurching to his feet and tackling the ginger giant right then. But even the very beginnings of tension in his arm reminded him why that would have been so extraordinarily foolhardy. He squashed his fury, saving it for later, just in case. And then his violent imaginings were interrupted by a paw on his elbow, and he decided to deprive Lack of the outburst he was likely expecting. Without a word, he struggled to his feet and turned his back on the pedestalled evil.

#ouat fanfiction #laden of the torn #wish hook #rescue mission #taunts #fighting match #animal bites #hand injuries #blood #tricked #hollow victory #hopelessness

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sp0o0kylights · 10 months

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Part One / Part Two (You are Here) / Part Three

A03

Hopper had undersold Harrington's condition.

Wayne hadn't expected anything pretty, but the face that turned to them as they walked through the door almost had him freezing in place.

Black eye, bruised chin, split lip.

More and more bruises, some faded and some very new, trailing down the kids neck.

The rest was hidden by his preppy little polo shirt, but Wayne didn't doubt that there were more.

Harrington tried to stand when they entered the room and the way he moved--entirely unbalanced, clearly in a lot of pain--made Wayne think the only thing the kid really needed was a hospital.

Because Steve Harrington hadn't just been beaten.

He'd been tortured--and very recently strangled.

(Abruptly, Wayne realized that Hopper had implied the boy had been in the mall fire--just as much as he implied the mall fire was anything but.

He also hadn't stated how Harrington had escaped the Suites trying to break into his house.)

"Sit down." Hopper commanded, and Wayne expected Harrington to do anything but listen.

Say something cocky, or act the part of a demanding little shit maybe, despite the condition he was in.

Instead the kid just sighed in relief and dropped like a stone, right back into the chair.

Hopper came around his desk, talking all the while. "Steve, this is Wayne. Wayne, Steve."

"Hello Sir." Steve croaked politely. His voice was wrecked, no doubt from the necklace of finger shaped bruises around his neck.

"You're going to stay with him for a while, and you're gonna pay him for the privilege." Hopper informed him, as he began digging around his desk. "Money, chores, whatever Wayne wants."

Wayne held his gaze as Steve turned to appraise him.

Would Harrington pitch a fit?

Would he look at Wayne's work clothes, streaked with dirt and sweat, with the name of the warehouse embroidered in the corner and crinkle up his nose, just like his daddy did?

Hopper didn't lie, but a part of Wayne wanted to see just how different this Harrington was. If the respectful demeanor was an act done for Hopper.

Or perhaps, Hopper had mentioned Steve's father for a reason, instead of his mother. Did he adopt her ice-like approach to life?

Micro managing and long-held grudges were Stella Harrington’s game, and she excelled at it.

Steve however, did nothing of the sort, instead settling with the situation in a way that reminded Wayne far too strongly of the men and women who'd come home from war.

"Okay." The kid said simply, after a long moment of consideration. He turned back to Hopper. "But we need to tell the rest of the Par--"

Here he cut a look back to Wayne, correcting himself. "the kids. I don't want them showing up at my house trying to find me and freaking out."

"They wouldn't--" Jim paused, fingers freezing from the rummaging they'd been doing. "they absolutely would, goddammit." He muttered darkly.

"I'll tell the kids. The only thing I want you doing right now is laying low. I need to get a hold of Owens, but it's gonna take time to do that, and more time to fix this, so as of right now, Harrington? You're on vacation." He pointed sternly, as if Steve might argue.

The kid looked too tired and messed up to bother trying.

"I mean it. You're out of the country, where is anybody's guess. No one's seen you and no one better be seeing you, got it?" His voice held firm, and Wayne had to blink because the tone here wasn't one of a police chief warning a teenager--but of a father talking to his son.

He knew, because his own voice did that now. Took on a worried tone that masqueraded as something more like annoyance and seriousness.

"Yes, Sir." Harrington said, remaining weirdly compliant. "Consider me gone."

A hand came up to briefly press above one eye, and Wayne wondered if the kid had been looked over, or if they had just crammed him into Hopper's office without offering so much as a tissue box.

How many painkillers did they have back at the house? Wayne usually kept a good bottle around, but Steve was going to need more than that…

He found himself once again cataloging Steve's wounds, this time comparing them to the medicine cabinet he had at home.

"I expect you to be a damn good house guest, you hear me?" Hopper continued, trying to cut a menacing figure. He finally found what he was looking for; pulling out a large, padded envelope.

He handed it over to Harrington, who took it without looking, shoving it into the duffle bag he'd had sitting at his feet.

There was a smudge of red on the handle of said bag, that matched perfectly up to a shittily done wrap on Steve's right hand.

Wayne mentally added 'buy more bandages' to his list.

Steve nodded at Hopper again. "Yes, Sir."

Jim’s eyes narrowed. "Quite that, you know I hate that."

The briefest glimmer of mischief crossed Harrington's face. "Sorry, Sir. Won't happen again, Sir."

'Ahh.' Wayne thought. 'So there's a teenager in there after all.'

Jim rolled his eyes. "Get out of my office."

"Thanks Hop." Harrington said, finally dropping that odd obedience, a hint of a smile on his battered face.

He stood, and Wayne had to stop himself from offering an arm out as Steve reached for his bag and limped towards him.

He paused right before he left Hopper's office, hand on the doorframe.

"You'll check up on Robin too, right?" He asked, and for the first time his tone took on something more alive--and filled with worry. "And Dustin? Erica?"

"Dustin and his mom are finally taking me up on my suggestion to see their family in Florida for a while, and the Sinclairs are taking a sabbatical from Hawkins. I'm working on the Buckley's." Hopper drummed his fingers on the desk. "So far, no one else besides you and El have been targeted, and we're going to keep it that way."

Steve let out a breath, and while Wayne could tell the worry hadn't left him, he could almost physically see Steve force himself to put it away.

Another act that was far beyond the kid's years.

A different officer popped up as they walked down the hall towards the exit, waving his hand madly. "Harrington! Chief says you forgot this!" He barked.

(Or tried to anyway. Callahan wasn’t the most aggressive of officers and frankly, never would be.)

A slim sports bag was held in his hands, and Steve nearly tripped over his own feet when he tried to turn and claim it.

"I'll get it." Wayne said, knowing his tone sounded gruff.

No use for it. He could either sound gruff or sound sad, and Wayne knew better than to start off the relationship with yet another hurt young man by acting sad.

Pity wasn't gonna win him any favors here.

He took the bag, slinging it over his shoulder, uncaring of the wince on Harrington's face until something sharp poked at his shoulder.

Several somethings, in fact.

"What the hell do you got in this thing?" He asked once they hit the parking lot, voice low as he escorted Steve to his truck.

"Just a baseball bat, sir." Steve said, in the exact same tone Eddie used every time he thought he was bein’ slick.

Considering the thing in the bag could have passed for a baseball bat if not for the sharp pokey bits, it wasn’t a bad attempt. Steve just hadn’t accounted for the fact that Wayne lived with Eddie.

An unfair advantage, really.

‘Least there can’t be any baby racoons in the damn bag.’ Wayne thought idly.

Went on to gently put the bat in the backseat, watching as the kid struggled to lift himself into the truck.

"You can drop that, I take too being called Sir about as well as Hop does." He said, keeping his tone nice and calm, hoping to ease into calling Steve out on his lie.

Fussed with a few dials on the stereo, giving Steve an excuse to take his time before starting the engine and taking the long way home.

Wayne wanted to talk a little-- without the chance of Ed’s interrupting.

"Son,” He started off. “I was born in the morning, but not this morning. I'm hoping to make the next few weeks as easy as I can for both of us, and I can't do that if you're starting off with a lie."

Steve blinked, turning to face him in a matter that was too fast for his injuries. He didn't bother hiding the hurt it caused him, but his voice stayed even as he spoke.

"What do you mean Si--Wayne."

"Nice catch.” Wayne said. “We’ll get you there yet.”

It was a trick he'd learned with Eddie--little tidbits of praise went a long way when it came to gaining trust.

Especially with kids who hadn't ever been given much.

Harrington seemed smart to it, or perhaps was just hesitant to speak in general because he remained quiet, not offering up any info. No further lies, but nothing towards the truth, neither.

Which was fine. Wayne didn’t think a little pushing would hurt.

"That bat of yours was digging into my shoulder like a bee swarm." Wayne continued, when it became clear Steve wasn't talking. "I'm more a fan of football than baseball, but last I checked they hadn't changed the design of a bat."

"What teams?" Steve asked, perking up a touch. "Of football. Which ones are yours?"

Wayne could ignore it of course, or demand Steve give him an answer to the question he asked.

He did neither. "I’m liking the Colts since they got moved here. You?"

"Green Bay Packers, though I like the Colts too--that trade in 84’ was crazy." Steve said. After a second he proved that answering instead of pushing was the right move because he added; "What did Hopper tell you? About…" He trailed off, making a gesture Wayne didn't bother trying to interpret.

"He said some things. I've guessed a few others." Wayne admitted. Cut a little look out of the corner of his eye as he came to a stop sign. "I know the feds are real interested in you after Starcourt."

Steve took that in, hands tightening on the handle.

"It really is a baseball bat." He said, a little fast and with the tiniest hint of that challenge Wayne had been looking for. "It just also has nails hammered into one end."

Wayne took that in with one nice, slow blink.

"A bat with nails in it." He said, and it made a hell of a lot of sense compared to the sensation he'd felt carrying the case. "You use it against anyone?"

"Some of the feds." Steve admitted, and even with his eyes on the road Wayne could tell he was being stared at.

Judged.

Not in the way one expected a rich kid to judge, but in the way Eddie had, those first few months he'd lived here. The times when he'd push, just a little, to see what Wayne's reaction would be.

Eddie hadn't done it in a damn long time, but Wayne recognized the behavior nonetheless.

"Anybody else?" He asked.

"Nobody human." Steve replied.

"Alright." Wayne said, and made a mental note to drop all questions related to that.

He didn't need to know, definitely didn't want to know, and had a feeling if he did know he'd find himself being watched by the same spooks after Steve.

"I've got a few deck boxes that lock on my porch. Think you'd be agreeable to leaving the bat in one?"

Steve paused, hand clenching tighter around the strap of his duffel bag. "If you gave me a key so I could get it in an emergency, I'd be happy to."

He tried to sound calm, even a little charming in that sort of upper-class businessman sort of way, but the fear bled through.

The kid wasn't happy separating from the bat, and given it sounded like it might have saved his life recently, Wayne understood the hesitation.

With an internal apology to Eddie, he promptly threw his nephew under the proverbial bus. "I've got my nephew at home and he'd be far too interested in it, is all. Blades and weapons and such tend to attract him, and I don't need to be rushing anyone to the ER."

All of which were very true facts (one Wayne learned the time he'd allowed Eddie to bring a sword home, only for him to nearly cut his own nose off winging the thing around) but he figured it might make Steve more amenable to separating from it.

Sure enough, some of the tenseness bled out of Steve's shoulders. "Yeah that's fair."

The truck hit a few potholes as they finally turned into the trailer park, and the kid hissed, a quiet sound.

Judging by the uncomfortable wince, and hands clenched into his jeans something painwise was giving him trouble.

"When was the last time you took a pain pill?" Wayne asked, doing his best to weave around the other holes that dotted the gravel roads.

Steve blinked. "Uh…"

"You take any today son?"

Steve his head.

"Didn't have time to grab it." He said, offering a sad look to his pack.

Course he hadn't.

"Let's get you inside then and get you some." Wayne said with a sigh. Thankfully Eddie's van wasn't here--Wayne was fairly certain he had band practice today but knowing him it could be a million other things.

Just meant he had to acclimate Steve as fast as he could, to try and get the poor guy settled before Ed’s came in.

He just hoped life and lady luck would work with him, for once.

#hands on knees #this is gonna have more than three parts fffffff #FAIR WARNING I do jump between Wayne and Eddie’s pov in this.#Everything Ive written so far while in parts for tumblr would basically be chapter 1 on A03 #Eddies POV change would be chapter two #Ugh Im gonna have to put this on A03. Dammit brain.#also I updated this very fast for me #no one get excited Idk the brain is doing #steddie #beat to shit Steve Harrington #wayne pov #outsider pov #wayne as a BAMF #I tried to get to the part where Eddie shows up but it just got too long for a tumblr post #pre steddie #wayne and Hopper both as psuedo parents to Steve #tw injuries #0o0 fanfics #stranger things

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