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humble-althemist · 6 years

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10-3, Please...

Written for week one of @flippyspoon ‘s Harringrove Playing-card Prompt Challenge. The cards I drew gave me the prompt: humor with Ray Ban’s or a walkie talkie, at the Wheelers’s house with Nancy.

I may have thrown in more characters than just Nancy, which I'm pretty sure in retrospect we weren't really supposed to do (whoops!) but I promise I'll make up for it later. ;)

"Thank you for doing this, Steve. I know it's kind of ruining your night..." Nancy looks lovely with her apologetic smile, but Steve's heart only hurts just a little at the thought that she's dressed for Jonathan now and not for him. He's moved on. They both have.

"No, it's fine. I love watching these kids," Steve assures her with a lazy smile.

"You sure? On the phone it sounded like you were with someone. Someone special?"

Steve shrugs and looks away, hiding a little blush.

"Who is she?" Nancy asks. "Is it serious?"

He tries not to be offended by the relief in Nancy's voice. Like she's been worried all this time that he was just going to pine over her forever.

"It's nothing, Nance," he laughs tightly. "Go meet Jonathan or I won't be the only one missing a date."

"Okay," Nancy agrees with one last apologetic smile, stepping out the front door. "Thanks again, Steve. The boys are in the basement playing their game, so I'd give it a couple hours before you go down. Last time I went in there I nearly got a dice to the head."

Steve chokes on a laugh and nods.

"I'll find a way to occupy myself. Been a while since I hung out with your stuffed animals, anyway," he teases.

"Steve!" but she's laughing as she turns and waves, getting into Jonathan's waiting car.

Steve and Jonathan exchange a nod, and then they're gone.

Ignoring Nancy's advice, Steve makes a beeline for the basement. Just to check in.

"Hey guys, how ya--"

"We're in the middle of a campaign, Steve!" Dustin yells.

"I take the diamond out of my bag of holding and give it to Will!" Lucas tells Mike urgently.

Steve frowns around at the nightmare mess of a room. Karen and Ted have only been out of town for two days and the Party's basement hangout has already become like something from the Upside Down.

"Steve!" Dustin snaps him out of it.

"What do you want?" Mike asks.

"Just letting you guys know I'm here. Need another wizard or something? I could pick up some... cards... or whatever," Steve tries.

Dustin's pitying smile is enough to tell him he's way off the mark.

"The game is already started, man," Lucas shakes his head. "We'd have to make a whole new character for you."

"And that would take hours," Will agrees.

"The orc army grows restless..." Mike warns the group, returning them to the land of the game.

The other boys are quickly reimmursed in the desperation of their situation, and Steve's presence is forgotten.

He returns upstairs, a little relieved to not be needed in the musky darkness of that room but still more than a little lonely. Nancy was right. Tonight Steve had been planning to have Billy over. He'd been really looking forward to it too. But instead he was here now. "Watching" the boys while Nancy and Jonathan had a night of their own.

He doesn't mean to, but before he knows where his feet are taking him Steve finds himself in Nancy's bedroom. It's weird to enter from the door rather than the window, he realizes, and weirder still is how different it looks since the last time he snuck in.

But Steve hardly has time to admire Jonathan's photographs before a crackle of static from the room next door distracts him.

There's another burst, this time louder, and Steve goes back into the hall.

"Hello?" he calls softly. "Guys?"

Mike's room is empty though. The sound is coming from his unattended walkie talkie.

"Harrington, come in. Over."

That's Billy's voice. What the hell?

Steve glances around him and picks up the walkie. He fumbles with the buttons for a moment before hitting the one labeled "talk."

"Billy?" he hisses.

There's a deep, crackled laugh from the other end that, even ruined by static, sends a thrill up Steve's spine.

"You have to hold the button the whole time you talk, loser. And then let it go after, so I can talk back. Over."

"Do I have to say 'over' at the end of every sentence like a dork, too?" Steve teases.

"You might say it like a dork. I say it like someone who knows proper radio code. Over."

Steve makes a point to let Billy hear him laugh at that.

"You're so cute when you get defensive, Hargrove," he says. "Over."

"Fuck you. Over."

Steve smiles.

"I wish," he agrees. "Instead of sitting around next door to my ex's bedroom while the kids yell at each other about wizard hats and quick-sand pits downstairs without me."

That sounds more miserable than flirty. Shit.

"Aww are your little friends excluding you? Over." He can hear the smirk in Billy's voice, but it's not mean-spirited.

"Least it means they've abandoned their radios," Steve points out. "Although I'm not convinced this is better than a phone conversation. You have heard of telephones in that wolf's den you live in, haven't you?"

"Papa wolf would rip this cub apart if he picked up the other line and heard any given sentence of the filth that comes out of your pretty mouth, Harrington," Billy replies quickly. "Trust me. This is better. Over."

"What about Max?" Steve worries. "Isn't she gonna come looking for her thing? Over?"

"Sleepover with the Police chief's new kid. Elle or whatever." Steve might be imagining it, but he thinks he can hear the rustling of sheets as Billy settles more comfortably. "We've got the air waves to ourselves tonight, sweetheart. Over."

Steve can't help but snort.

"Are you about to do what I think you’re about to do? Jesus, Bill. You really will get it on anywhere, won't you? Even over radio waves. I feel like we need code-names for this. Over."

"First you abandon me to go watch your kids, then you make fun of my recovery plan? You really are a shit boyfriend, babe. Oh and our code-names are King and Princess. I think you can figure out who's who. Over."

"You're shitting me," Steve laughs. "You want me to call you Princess?"

"Of course I'm shitting you," Billy snorts. "But if those were our code-names I'd be King. Obviously. Over."

"Wait what? Since when?"

"Since I dethroned you at that Halloween party, Princess, keep up. Over."

Steve groans.

"Okay well can I at least be Queen? I don't like the relationship implications of being Princess to your King, Bill. Really limits the things I can do to you with my mouth. Over."

"Not a chance. Then any time I said your name I'd be thinking about Freddie Mercury. Shoot me but I'd rather have you. Over."

"You're so romantic. I guess Prince is out then too, huh?" Steve smirks.

"Absolutely. Face it, Princess, the name fits. Over."

Steve thinks for a moment. Perhaps Princess isn't so bad...

"You know code names are useless when we just heard you decide what your code names were gonna be, right?" Lucas's cynical voice crackles over the speaker so clearly Steve nearly drops the walkie.

"Yeah. And we know their voices," Will agrees, speaking from farther away from the walkie they must have downstairs.

Silence reigns.

Steve's face must be burning.

"Oh and congratulations, guys, you sound real happy." That's Dustin. He sounds just about as mortified as Steve feels, but somehow genuinely not disgusted or pissed off.

Steve beams in spite of himself.

"We aren't gonna be done with this campaign for a few hours anyway, so uh... Billy, if you wanna come over--" Mike is cut off by arguing and the walkie going silent as the other kids take it from him. Steve's heart is in his throat as he waits for it go make sound again.

Finally it does.

"As long as you promise not to beat anyone up," Mike clarifies. "You can... come over if you want, Billy. We'll make lots of noise when we're coming upstairs."

"Just, for the love of god leave our radios out of this, y'all Kings. Okay?" Lucas gets on again.

"Yes, sir. Jesus. Sorry, guys," Steve grits his teeth. And then after a thought: "Over and out."

"Now you do sound like a dork, Harrington," Billy's voice laughs even through the awkwardness. "Any self respecting radio user knows it's just 'Out.' And yeah, sorry guys. Return to your quest and uh... I'll take you up on those loud noises. Stevie, I'll see you in a bit. Out."

This is on my ao3 @womenseemwicked too, if you wanna leave me comments or see other stuff I write.

Fun fact: 10-3 is Indiana Police radio code for "Stop Transmitting."

#harringrove playing cards #stranger things #harringrove #billy hargrove/steve harrington #humor #babysitting #fluff #established relationship #accidental coming out #fics

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planetsam · 6 years

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yooo for a stranger things prompt: can you pls write about el actually having depression and/or anxiety. i feel like after all the shit she’s been through she would have some sort of mental illness. and pls include mike finding out she has it and being there for her. keep doing you boo, your writing is amazing

[WARNING: there are references to self-harm. It’s not explicit but the implication is there so please read at your own discretion. This could quasi be a follow-up to this prompt HERE]

The scar is ugly.

Eleven knows all about ugly things in the world. She’s been told she’s one of them for most of her life. Her tattoo is flat on her skin at least. This is a raised line that sticks out puffy from her skin. She looks like a doll that’s been hastily sewn up. Which, incidentally is kind of how she feels. It itches too, even with the cream that Hopper dabs on it.

It doesn’t itch as bad as her lip though.

Those are the ugliest stitches, ones that make her glad Mike was in school when they put them in. Even though Hopper let her squeeze his hand it’s not the same. Worse is the doctor who says she has to see him a few times a week. She thinks it’s for something else too, something to maybe make her safer, but that isn’t much help. They say things like trauma and moving past it. El knows they don’t understand. But she doesn’t understand why she can’t get past what happened when she made noise, she knows things aren’t the same. Her body doesn’t.

“You ready?“Hopper asks through the door and she nods.

"Yes,” she says, tugging on her get well present and her Eggo colored jacket. This time will be different. She’ll show them this time she’s stronger. “Lets go.”

Two hours later, Dr. Owens snips the thread and looks at her with a mix of guilt and frustration. Eleven prods her new stitches and her swollen lip. It’s numb. She wishes that it was possible to put that numbness everywhere but it’s not.

“We’re going to have to talk about a plastic surgeon,” he tells Hopper who gives him a look that makes El think he’s gonna get punched.

“Talk to me,” Hopper says, as they drive, “how come you keep biting it through?”

She looks down, plucking at her blue bracelet. She wonders if Sara had any bad habits. Probably nothing as bad as what she does. She wonders if this will work the opposite. If being too strong is going to get her punished this time. Maybe life is just supposed to always hurt and she should accept it. Maybe that’s what growing up is.

“Hey, hey you gotta stop,” Hopper says and Eleven drops her hand from the bracelet, “no, not that, you–damn it,” he swears and blood drips to the back of her hand from her chin. They’re almost home. Hopper stops the car to look at her. But the idea of him touching her is suddenly unbearable and she shoves the door open, “Jane—“ The door slams behind her and locks as she takes off, half blinded by tears.

She just wants to go home.

Why can’t anyone understand that? Why can’t she understand that? She wants to be home but home was the lab for so long. In some ways the cabin feels equally like a prison. But anywhere is better than the rain that’s beginning to fall, so she hurries home, covering her mouth with her hand because her stitches aren’t supposed to get wet. Even if she’s messed them up again, she can at least do something right. She comes around the side of the cabin, intent only on getting inside.

“El?”

She jumps, lashing out and pinning the intruder but it’s only Mike. His head thumps against the wood and she gasps, dropping her hold on him. She claps her hand over her mouth. Now the stitches are wet, she’s thrown Mike and Mike is here. She got his hat wet too. She’s not sure which of them is the thing that breaks her, they all feel like threads of an old sweater that’s being pulled. It all unravels.

“Mike,” she sobs his name when he catches her, pulling her into the warmth of his raincoat. He pulls the wet hat off her head and pulls her against his chest. She’s bleeding and wet and her nose is running but he cuddles her close, holding her tight, tight, tight. She just keeps repeating his name.

“Let’s go inside, okay?” He says over her sobs, “can you tell me how to unlock the door?”

She unlocks it with a wave of her hand, all the bolts sliding back at once. Mike guides her inside and shuts it behind them. She’s still crying. She doesn’t know how he manages to get out of his raincoat and get her out of her wet jacket, all while holding her, but he does. He never loses contact. He guides her into her room and helps her swap out her wet jeans for a pair of sweat pants. Somehow they’re then in the kitchen and there’s a piece of ice pressed up against her lip.

“Your fingers—“ she begins but he shakes his head.

“Don’t worry about them, I’ll switch hands when they get cold.”

She accepts the logic of that more easily from him than from anyone else. Her sobs slow, eventually the tears are less too until finally she’s just sitting there occasionally hiccuping.

“Do you feel better?” Mike asks, “sometimes it feels better to cry.”

“A little,” she says.

He sets the ice aside and looks at her face. Eleven looks down, remembering the row of stitches but Mike guides her chin up, looking at her lip a little closer. She fights between wanting to look pretty and wanting to trust he knows what he’s doing. His thumb brushes the edge of the stitches.

“They’re still together,” he says, “I think.”

She nods and looks down very hard at the ground. She’s been embarrassed before, but it hits her like a wave now. Mike has trusted her beyond anyone else and she trusts him. His opinion is more important than Dr. Owens or Hoppers or even Papa’s. Mike’s the only one who has never made her feel used. Or like she was only good for her powers. She prods the stitches with the tip of her tongue and Mike cups her cheek, easing her lip out. He drops his hand when she stops and when she does it again, he touches her hand. His eyebrows furrow together the third time she tries it.

“Is it itchy?” He asks. She shakes her head.

“I can’t feel it,” she says. He tilts his head to the side, “I just want to see,” she says lamely.

“Oh,” he says, “you’re testing boundaries.”

“Testing boundaries?” She repeats.

“Yeah, you’re acting out to see if you can get away with it,” she tilts her head to the side, “my parents made me see a shrink last year when I started acting out.”

“You acted out?” she asks, suddenly more interested, “why?”

“I guess I wanted to see if you’d come back,” he says, going pink at the cheeks, “if you were watching and I was in trouble I thought maybe you’d—“ he trails off, shifting his weight like he’s uncomfortable, “it’s dumb.”

She covers his hand.

“Not dumb,” she says firmly and then points at her lip, “dumb.”

“No way,” he says, turning towards her, “that’s not dumb.”

“It’s dumb,” she says, drawing her knees up though she keeps their hands together, “I couldn’t go to the hospital.”

“But you did,” he says emphatically, “something bad happened there, lots of people don’t like those places,” he trails off, then perks up, “I couldn’t go into the room where you disappeared,” he offers, “I still don’t like that room, even though you’re back.”

The news surprises her and then she immediately feels silly for being surprised. Of course Mike would feel that way. She doesn’t regret saving him, the monster was the thing that made the room bad, but she imagines him going into class and not being able to focus. Not being able to sit still. Wanting to run, like she wants to run every time she smells the bottle of antiseptic that Hopper takes out to clean her scar.

“Is it better?” She asks, “now that I’m back?”

“Everything’s better,” he promises her, “but I still don’t—I still don’t like the room, you know?”

She nods, looking down at her knees. The feeling is slowly starting to prick at her bottom lip. It’s not a good one. She picks up the ice and presses it to the swell, trying to take the feeling away. Mike looks at her, concerned and she tries to smile before quickly rethinking that. Instead she wraps their fingers together. He tightens his hand on hers.

“How’s your lip feel?” He asks.

“It’s starting to hurt,” she says, blinking hard. Mike’s fingers tighten on hers, like he understands this isn’t easy for her to say. “It felt better to hurt first,” she says, “I don’t know how to stop.”

Mike looks at her and El isn’t sure she’ll ever be used to being seen. Not like that. Carefully he loops an arm around her shoulders and she nuzzles into the crook of his neck. Her lip is cold but he’s warm. With equal care he hooks his arm under her knees and pulls them over his legs, so she’s tucked around him. It feels like another unraveling but a good one this time. One that makes her sigh and shift closer.

“Mike?” She asks and he makes a noise to let her know he’s heard her, “do you still see the therapist?” She asks.

“I don’t need to,” he dismisses, “you’re back now.”

She nods against his shoulder.

“Mike?” She says again and she can almost hear him smile, “can you do something for me?”

“Yeah,” he says, “anything.”

He’s regretting that promise, Eleven can see it in his face and the way his fingers tighten on her hand. But she’s made up her mind. When his heel drags, there’s a nudge at his back that makes him turn from there to her. She looks at him innocently and he swallows tightly. She gives his hand a warm squeeze, the kind that always makes her feel better when he does it. Mike presses his lips together and steps with her into the building.

“This is–kind of unorthodox,” Dr. Owens voices at the assembled group.

“That’s funny,” Mrs. Wheeler says, “I was going to say the same thing about child experimentation.”

“Doc,” Hopper says, “could we try? Like one of those, uh, group things?”

“What did you think it was going to be?” Mrs. Wheeler demands, “couples therapy?”

“No, what?! No!” Hopper says looking at them.

“Because the age of consent–”

“I know what the god damn age of consent is!”

“Okay, okay,” Dr. Owens says, “lets try. Could you two wait–out there? Separately?”

Eleven watches the exchange with a raised eyebrow, but she’s far more intent on trying different things to make Mike feel better. Hand squeezing isn’t working. Using her powers isn’t either. She flips his hand over and starts to draw out patterns with her finger and that gets his attention more. When she starts to write out letters, his body finally starts to relax as she draws his focus. His weight starts to press into her side and she’s so pleased with herself that she doesn’t realize Dr. Owens is watching them both intently.

“So,” he says when she looks up at him, “whose idea was this?”

“Mine,” Eleven says.

“Mr. Wheeler?” He prods, “is there something you want to add?”

“Not to you,” he says through gritted teeth.

Eleven swallows uneasily, not liking the look on Mike’s face. He glances at her, then back to the doctor then back to her. Something softens in his gaze but that doesn’t make her feel better. She knows that Mike would do anything for her, but they are different. They need others. She doesn’t know how to convey that though, it all just seems to tangle in the back of her throat.

“El,” he begins.

“Why don’t you like him?” She asks.

“Me? Why do you like him?” Mike questions. Eleven shifts, not liking the way he’s looking, “he lied about Will. He lied about you.”

“I know.”

“So why do you want to talk to him?” He asks.

His voice is hard but he’s taken her hand again, he’s drawing circles on the back of it with his thumb. It’s very, very confusing. There are things that she knows don’t make sense to her that seem to make sense to everyone else. She wishes that she could catch up. She licks her lips and looks down.

“He called Papa bad,” she says, “he helped me before, maybe he can help now.”

“We don’t need him,” Mike protest and El shakes her head.

“We need help,” she says.

Mike wants to run, she can see it. But he doesn’t want to leave her. She could stop him but she doesn’t want to fight. So what happens is that he tugs her out of the room, but she drags her heels and the distance between their bodies, even with their hands grasped tightly together, feels horrible. Mike isn’t mad at her, but he is mad. Eleven can’t seem to connect those two things. She wants to pull him back in but she can’t.

“Mike!” She says his name loudly but he barely slows, “Mike! Stop!”

There’s a tug and the world seems to get sucked away. Mike freezes and Eleven realizes that she’s done something—something bad. She’s pulled them both into a place he shouldn’t be. The water is still all around them, the black nothingness which has always been something deep, something equal parts foreboding and comforting, suddenly seems to land firmly on the former side of it. She stares at him, willing him not to fade away like he’s done before, while at the same time wishing that he would so she’d know he’s safe somewhere—somewhere else.

She shoves back violently, pushes as hard as she can and sends them both tumbling away from each other. They wind up on the ground, the real ground this time. It’s hard underneath her hip. Worse is the bright lick of pain that goes on her side this time. Her fingers tighten in her sweater and Mike’s on his feet instantly, scrambling over to her even though he’s shaking just as badly as she is. When he lifts up her sweater she shakes her head frantically, almost biting her lip in the process until he cups her cheek, reminding her not to. It feels like everything is being pulled away from her, anything that was comforting, and all she can do is lunge forward and bury her face in Mike’s chest.

“We need help,” she repeats, desperate to make him understand. He shudders and holds her closer to him. But he doesn’t argue. How can he with what just happened? It’s only going to get worse, she knows that. He knows it, “please.”

“Okay, okay,” he says messily.

Eleven has spent most of her life feeling like she’s too old, too young or somehow both simultaneously. But always, always wrong. She doesn’t feel that in this moment though, but she’s too afraid to wonder whether or not there’s a way to make it last forever. What if they get stuck. Mike can’t even promise that things will be okay because they don’t know. When they both get to their feet, neither of them are steady. But if Mike puts her just right and she leans in the correct way, they can move.

“I’m sorry,” she begins and he shakes his head.

“Don’t be,” he says. She looks at him doubtfully and he grips her shoulder, “promise, okay?” He says and she finds stability in his words.

“Promise.”

#mileven #mike x eleven #mike wheeler #jane hopper #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #prompts

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