#post s2
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(Okay I saw a post about a premise similar to this but I cannot find it for the life of me. Anyway I loved it so much that I had to write a version of it myself. A post s2 AU!) Now with Part Two
Steve was never exactly the most perceptive person in the world.
He missed all of the signals that Nancy had given him, every sign that had pointed to their failing relationship. He hadn’t seen the moments that proved she was right about everything going on in their town either. Steve overlooked important details in his college applications, and took shots in basketball that almost always missed. He even sometimes walked right into walls these days, because his spacial awareness had kinda been shot since Billy smashed a plate over his head fifteen days ago.
A lot of that could be forgiven, but, this…
Well this was a little bit obtuse, even for him.
“You know you’re sitting at our table, right, King Steve?”
Steve looked up from his Tuna Surprise, resisting the urge to flinch at both the blinding light from the windows in the cafeteria and the nickname he hated so much. Eddie Munson stared back, carrying a lunch tray in one hand and his signature metal lunch box in the other.
“Your humble court is awaiting you on the haves side of this blessed cookery. This side is where the dweebs and the nerds parlay. A single place we get a reprieve from the endless bombardment of the average” Munson continued, flinging his arms to and fro, gesturing to the group of teens behind him who were staring at Steve like he was dirt under the bottom of their shoes.
He hadn’t understood the majority of what Eddie had just said to him, but those looks were enough to give Steve the gist. He was not welcome here.
“Sorry,” He muttered, grabbing his tray and sliding it to the other end of the table. He took a deep breath the second he was alone again, letting the tension melt away from his body as he collapsed back in his seat.
Even though he was no longer welcome to sit at his old table, Steve probably could have gone and eaten in the library with Nancy and Jonathan. They had awkwardly invited him to join them a few times since everything had gone down, but he always said no.
It was better this way. Better to be alone. Better to not have to watch the two of them try and hide how much happier they were now that they could be together. They deserved that happiness, Nancy deserved that happiness, and Steve refused to be the one to make her try and stifle any of that.
He had hurt her enough already.
“What happened to your face?”
Once again Eddie dragged Steve out of his thoughts. He was standing over Steve’s head, nearly hovering on top of him, watching Steve like he was trying to work him out. Like Steve was a particularly complex puzzle that he could solve just with his eyes.
Nancy had always looked at him that way. Steve had hated it when it was her, and he hated it even more coming from Munson now.
“Got into a fight,” Steve grunted, stabbing at his shitty cafeteria food and hoping that his abrasiveness would be enough to get Munson to leave him alone.
He wasn’t exactly sure what he could say now that they had all signed another round of NDAs, but he was pretty sure even talking about this was toeing the line. It was safer all around to get Eddie to go away as quickly as possible.
It wouldn’t be all that hard. Usually all it took were a few well placed bitchy comments to get people to see the picture and give up on him. The only group of people who hadn’t been perturbed by Steve’s spikiness was the kids. They had shown up at his house pretty much daily since the gate had closed, and had even taken to begging on him for rides to and from school.
Dustin in particular seemed determined to stay latched onto him like a barnacle, but Steve found that he didn’t really mind their clinginess.
It was nice to be needed, even if it was only a group of pre-teen smartasses.
“With who?” Eddie asked, leaning his hip on the table next to Steve and crossing his arms over his chest, “Cause Billy Hargrove is telling everyone he can that he beat your ass for messing with his sister,”
“I would never do something like that,” Steve shot back instantly, feeling the fading bruises on his face twinge as his jaw clenched in fury. He couldn’t help the words spilling out of his mouth, unable to stop them, “Billy’s a racist jackass who tried to put his hands on one of my fucking kids,”
Shit.
“There is…so many confusing parts of that sentence,” Eddie stated, blinking in shock.
“Whatever,” Steve murmured, biting his cheek to stop himself from saying anything more and hunching his shoulders up around his ears. They weren’t exactly his kids, per say, but Steve was invested in keeping them safe now. The idea of doing anything to hurt any of them was painful, and the thought of Billy spreading that kind of rumor made bile rise up in his throat.
Fuck Billy. Fuck this. Fuck his life honestly.
“Look, Munson, I’m really not in the mood right now,” Steve sighed, hating how weary he sounded. It would have been better to fight his way out of this. Steve was crappy at fighting though, and there wasn’t much spirit left in him. Not after two weeks of perpetual stress and tension.
“Harrington-”
“I moved down, I’m not in your way, isn’t that good enough?” Steve bit out, halfway to just grabbing his tray and throwing it in the trash. He was barely eating anyway, might as well go to the gym to shoot some hoops instead of sitting here being interrogated by drug dealing extraordinaire, Eddie goddamn Munson.
Couldn’t he just let Steve eat in peace? Everything else was already so goddamn difficult these days. Could Steve at least manage to eat a mediocre meal without the entire world demanding something from him?
By the grace of whatever god was potentially out there, Eddie took the hint, pushing off of his resting place and stalking back over to his group of weirdos on the other side. Steve let his eyes slip shut and dragged in a heavy breath, utterly exhausted.
He was contemplating skipping the rest of the day and going home to sleep when a blue plastic tray identical to the one in front of him bumped his right hand
“What are you doing?” Steve wondered aloud, raising his eyebrows and fixing Eddie with a confused look as he sat down right next to Steve and began to dig into his meal.
“Eating lunch alone sucks?” Eddie offered, shoveling Tuna Surprise into his mouth and shuddering, pushing the rest of the disgusting concoction to the far side of his tray, “Plus I’m hoping that if I get in your good graces you’ll give me your pudding cup,”
Steve stared at him for a few more moments, waiting for whatever prank was about to be pulled. But Eddie didn’t budge, continuing to eat around his main dish with strange efficiency and ignoring Steve’s gaze.
“Go nuts,” He finally said, offering the plastic container over to Eddie who grabbed it and gave Steve a big smile
“Mazel Tov, Eddie said, hoisting the pudding aloft and tearing into it, “So, you have children?”
“I- I babysit,” Steve stammered out, completely perplexed by the strange set of circumstances that was playing out in front of him. Eddie paused with his spoon midair in front of him.
“You babysit,” He repeated, turning his head towards Steve. The younger teen nodded and Eddie hummed. He put his pudding down and licked his spoon clean. When he was done, he hefted it aloft, bringing it down on the back of his right hand with a smack that echoed all around the cafeteria.
“Ouch!” Eddie yelped, flapping his hand around in the air to try and get rid of the sting. Steve looked frantically to and fro as the rest of the room stared at them, whispering behind their hands.
“Why would you-”
“Had to make sure I wasn’t dreaming,” Eddie explained, interrupting Steve’s furious whisper with a breathless little laugh, “Because I just heard the words ‘I babysit’ come out of King Steve’s mouth,”
“Would you cut it out with the King stuff?” Steve snapped, beginning to lose his appetite, “It’s been a while since I was King of anything, and it was a stupid fucking idea to begin with,”
There was a beat of awkward silence as Eddie gave him another one of those soul searching looks.
“What are you doing Thursday afternoon?” He finally asked when he found whatever he was looking to find. Steve startled, dropping his fork.
What kind of question was that?
Was Munson asking him on some sort of date?!
“I’m…benched from basketball ‘cause of my concussion. So nothing, I guess,” Steve said cautiously, carefully picking his words and trying to avoid the spike of hurt that shot along his chest as he said them.
It wasn’t much, but basketball was one of the only things Steve really thought he was genuinely good at. Not having it was kind of pure torture.
Almost as bad as not having Nancy in his life anymore.
“In that case, come to Hellfire,” Eddie offered, glancing at the clock on the wall and grabbing both of their trays. Steve scrambled to grab his backpack, hefting it onto one shoulder and jogging to keep up with Eddie.
“What?”
“Hellfire?” Eddie repeated, dumping their trash into the bin and stacking the trays next to it, “It’s the club I run,”
“What is it?” Steve asked, curious but unwilling to commit just yet. There was still a part of him that was kind of convinced all of this was some elaborate ruse to fuck with him.
But before Eddie could say anything the bell chimed all around them. The rest of the student population moved as one, and the sound in the lunchroom immediately went from dull roar to cacophonous mess. Steve’s left ear started to ring again, and he winced, shying away from the sudden noise.
“You’ll have to come and see,” Eddie said, waggling his eyebrows, completely ignorant to Steve’s pain. He turned on his heel, raising a hand in a wave behind him as he loped towards the rest of his friend group.
“Thursday after school! In the drama room, don’t be late!”
#Steve harrington#Eddie munson#steddie#steddie ficlet#Steddie au#Steve joins hellfire au#post s2#st#stranger things#stranger things ficlet#Nancy wheeler#post stancy breakup#Liam speaks up#Writing(withacapitalW)
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jock on jock violence (past steve/tommy)
“Just leave people alone, Tommy,” Harrington says lowly. Dangerously. Harrington’s always been dangerous, in the way that straight, entitled jocks have always been dangerous to Eddie, but sometimes Eddie thinks he dropped the crown to pick up a sword. There’s something sharper about him now, something that wasn’t there before Halloween. Different from the fake smiles and shifty eyes after the Byers kid went missing. Not that Eddie’s been looking.
“Leave them alone?” Hagan demands. “Like how you left me alone?” And wow, is he delusional? Did he just completely forget about his girlfriend, Hargrove, and the entire fucking basketball team?
“Not everything is about you! Seriously, man? You’re just gonna twist what I’m saying like that?” Harrington snaps, and oh, Eddie doesn’t want to be here for this. If the former king and his old lackey duke it out, he does not want to get caught in the crossfire. “Jesus, grow up. Sorry I got sick of being a total dick.”
“Oh, yeah, now you’re just sucking Byers’s—“
“You want to go there? Do you really wanna go there, Tommy?”
Shit, Eddie should not be here for this.
“Shut your fucking mouth,” Hagan says, suddenly panicked.
“I thought you liked my mouth.”
Eddie has to practically stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from sputtering.
“What the fuck, man,” Hagan hisses. Eddie knows he’s looking around, even though no one’s in the bathroom except them and Eddie. And Eddie’s never going to breathe a fucking word of this to anyone, on account of not wanting his face rearranged ten times over. “What, are you some kind of fag now? Is that what you’re telling me?”
Harrington almost sounds bored when he replies. “You would know, wouldn’t you?”
“I told you to watch your mouth.”
“You gonna shut me up?”
“What has gotten into you?” Hagan finally asks the million dollar question. Harrington’s acting like he’s got a fucking death wish. “One minute we’re calling out Byers for being a creep, and the next you’re dumping me like it’s nothing. And now you’re suddenly best buds? Even after he stole your girlfriend twice? You know how pathetic that is, right? What, do you share her or something? The slut putting out—“
There’s a rustle of clothes, and then a thud, like something—someone getting slammed into a wall.
“Don’t talk about Nancy like that,” Harrington growls. “This isn’t about her.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No, man, it’s about you being a total asshole, and I’m telling you to leave people the fuck alone.”
“Or what?” Hagan almost sounds amused, over obvious nerves. He’s not even trying to escape the hold he’s in. “I’m stronger than you, and we both know it. You’ve still got a concussion, don’t you? Hargrove told me he beat your face in.”
“Hargrove this, Hargrove that. You sound like you’ve got a crush or something. You suck him like you sucked me?”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“You can’t win this fight, Steve.”
“I don’t need to. Mutually assured destruction, asshole. You stop hurting people, and I won’t tell the entire town about us.”
Oh shit. Oh shit. Harrington sounds serious. It almost makes him sick to his stomach, even as a hysterical laugh tries to bubble out. Who woulda guessed that the former king of Hawkins High had enough guts to paint himself as a queer to their conservative, stick in the mud town?
That is, if Hagan doesn’t fucking kill him first.
“You wouldn’t.” Hagan sounds panicked now, and for good fucking reason. He’s been on the “right” end of what happens to their kind of freaks for years. How quickly would the vultures turn on him? They descended on Harrington pretty damn quick.
“Wanna bet?”
“You do that, you lose everything. Peace, daddy’s money, your precious sports scholarships…”
“I’m not going to college,” Harrington says. “Look in my eyes, Hagan. Do I look like I’m bluffing? I’ve got nothing to lose.”
Eddie has to keep in a scoff at that. If there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that there’s always something to lose with shit like this. Namely your life.
This is fucked. This is so fucked. Eddie wants out of this stall, Jesus H. Christ. He’d take Mrs. Smith’s class anyday over knowing one wrong move will end with two jocks beating his fucking face in for hearing something he wasn’t supposed to hear. Or potentially having to jump in to try and save Harrington’s stupid fucking mug.
There’s a long pause that does absolutely nothing for Eddie’s nerves, before Hagan finally spits out, “Fine.”
“What was that?”
“Fine.”
“Good man,” Harrington says, as if they’re discussing some kind of business deal and not outing themselves in front of God and Mrs. Jenkins and everyone. “Now get the fuck outta here, Tommy.”
Rustling, quick footsteps, and then the door opens and shuts without a word.
Silence.
Eddie sighs in relief.
“Hello?” Harrington asks, voice on edge.
Shit.
His stall door swings open, and there he is, in all his fallen kingly glory. Bruise over one eye, scowl on his face, and dangerous set to his shoulders that Eddie knows all too well.
“Uhh, hi?” Eddie squeaks. He’s still sitting like fucking Gollum, feet on the toilet, unlit cigarette in hand. He drops it, and neither of them look away from each other as it rolls behind the toilet bowl.
Excellent first impression, really.
“What the fuck, man?” Harrington asks. “Were you just listening to that?”
“Look,” Eddie says quickly. “In my defense, I was here first. Also, if he saw me, Hagan was definitely going to beat me up. Except, uh, you’re definitely going to kick my ass anyway for hearing that, so I probably should just cut my losses and accept death at this point.”
Harrington doesn’t seem to know what to say to this, mouth opening and closing slowly.
“Also, for the record?” Eddie says. “I won’t say anything. I know you have, like, zero reason to trust me, but I’m really good at secrets, dude, like you wouldn’t believe. I haven’t even told Jeff that Gareth—anyways, secrets? What secrets? I didn’t hear anything. Cross my heart and hope to die.”
He gets a scathing look in return. “If you tell anyone—“
“Wait, wait, wait! You said something about mutually assured destruction, right? I get it. I get it, Harrington, fuck, you know I do. Who would believe me if I blabbed, anyway? Who are they gonna believe, the King or the Freak?”
Harrington sighs, but he must see the truth in what Eddie said because he moves away from the stall. Takes a wad of paper towels and starts running them under the sink.
It emboldens Eddie enough to follow him. “I mean, really, they’d probably just call it wishful thinking or something. Plus, I’m pretty sure most of the school would rather die than talk to me, so, like, you’re safe, man. I’ve already blacked it out in my memory, it’s gone.”
It seems like Harrington has tuned him out, pressing the wet paper towels to his forehead and eye. That’s good, because Eddie doesn’t even know what he’s saying anymore.
“Also, for the record? That was badass. I don’t think I’d have the guts to do that, even if the entire town kind of knows about me anyway. Which, wow, you were really good at hiding it. Hagan I kind of suspected, given the giant fucking boner he had for you, but you—“
“Do you ever shut up?”
Eddie’s mouth shuts with a click. Harrington sighs again and pinches his nose, looking almost like a mother trying to herd her seven rambunctious children into the minivan. His hands are shaking.
“You okay, man?” Eddie finally asks quietly.
Harrington doesn’t say anything, just presses the paper towels over both eyes, like he’s trying to stave something off. Oh, shit, is he…
“Are you…crying?”
“What? No,” Harrington says, obviously lying. “It’s the light, I get headaches. Concussion.”
“Right.”
“Look, can we just forget this ever happened?”
“Already forgotten,” he promises. “But, uh, for the record? That was really brave of you, man.”
“I wouldn’t have gone through with it.”
“That actually kind of surprises me, because I could not tell from your voice. You sounded like you were ready to march up to The Post then and there and spill all Hagan’s dirty little secrets. All ‘I’ve got nothing to lose,’ and shit.” He pitches his voice lower, in a mimic of some action movie hero or something.
Harrington finally laughs, and something in Eddie thrills at it. “I pulled that outta my ass,” he admits. “I knew he would believe it, ‘cause to him I already did lose everything. My friends, my girlfriend, my…” he waves his hand around, “my status, or whatever. And a few screws, probably.”
“Well I can attest to the screws, because I think you might be actually insane. You cornered him in an empty bathroom without checking to see if it was actually empty and threatened to out him to the entire town? I thought I was going to have to save your life, Jesus shit. Don’t fucking do that, do you have a death wish or something?”
“I did check,” Harrington snaps. “I looked under the stalls, and none of the doors were locked. Who the hell sits on a toilet like that anyway? You looked like one of those ugly stone fuckers, the ones they put on buildings and shit.”
Eddie bursts out laughing, too incredulous to be offended. “You mean gargoyles?”
“Whatever. Besides, Hagan won’t kill me. He’s too much of a coward.”
“I hate to break it to you, Harrington, but cowards are dangerous too.”
“Not Tommy’s kind of coward” Harrington says. “Not to me.” He wonders about the surety in his voice. Does he think Hagan still has feelings for him? Ex-boyfriends can be the worst kind of assholes. Hell hath no fury like a man scorned. Harrington gives him a look, like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. “He’s a bully and an asshole, but he doesn’t have the guts,” he insists. “He’s no Hargrove.”
Eddie sneers. “Hargrove. The guy’s a fucking psycho.”
“Tell me about it,” Harrington says dryly. He finally looks at Eddie, eyes him up and down. Eddie could take him, honestly, he’s scrappy and Hagan wasn’t lying when he said everyone knows Harrington can’t win a fight. Pair that with the concussion he’s sporting, and it’d probably take a love tap to take him down. But he doesn’t want to.
“You’re probably better off without Hagan anyway,” he offers helpfully. It doesn’t work, just makes Harrington look like a kicked puppy, damaged and sad and cold. It makes Eddie want to take him in as one of his little lost sheep, honestly, which is an impulse he pushes far, far down. Abdicated or not, a king is no fit for a freak’s friend. Even if he and Byers have been pretty friendly.
“I know,” he says. “But he was still my friend, you know? Like, the first one I ever had. Maybe that’s why it took me so long to realize.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that. There’s an awkward silence, where Harrington turns his focus back to the mirror. Eddie clears his throat and tries to lighten the mood. “So, you and Byers…”
The look he receives could make the Demogorgon shake in his boots. “Don’t you have a class to fail or something? You should probably go to that before—”
The bell interrupts Harrington perfectly, and he snaps his mouth shut. Eddie snorts.
“Think it’s a little late for that, but I know a dismissal when I see one. See you around, Harrington.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Hey, remember—“
“I know,” he calls behind him, striding for the door. “Mutually assured destruction!”
Leaving the bathroom feels like being reborn a whole new man. He swears the air is cleaner than it ever was before he went in. His last glance behind himself shows Harrington looking in the mirror, no sign of moving as the door shuts.
As he’s walking to his next class, he spies Wheeler and Byers huddled together, whispering. They look worried.
They both startle when he speaks. “If you’re looking for Harrington,” he says quietly, stopping next to them, “check the smoke bathroom, by the band hall. I think he’s still in there.”
Wheeler’s brows furrow, but Byers gives him a nod, already moving. Eddie moves along as Wheeler shoots him a quick look of gratitude before following, books hugged to her chest.
Eddie doesn’t know what’s going on between the three of them, but he kind of wants to now, especially considering Harrington’s non-answer when he asked. He doubts Wheeler is a cover-up, not after her and Harrington’s breakup and the quiet, lovey-dovey honeymoon phase she and Byers seem to be having. The one that kind of seems to tear Harrington to pieces sometimes, even as he sits with them and walks to class with them and even hangs out with them outside of school, if Jeff really saw the three of them at the diner together last week. Maybe Steve Harrington’s a secret masochist.
Then he remembers the bruise yellowing around his eye, the weird tension he has with the guy who beat him up last year. The way he damn near begged Hagan to beat his ass in the bathroom. Not so secret, then.
Whatever. It’s none of Eddie’s business. He’s gonna soil his reputation if he keeps focusing on Hawkins royalty like this. Never mind the way Harrington’s soiled his own reputation enough. So what if King Steve isn’t king anymore? He’s still just another pretty face.
A pretty face, with nice arms and big eyes and thighs. And he’s queer, and doesn’t seem like the kind of closeted that would have the usual jock shove him away after getting a blowie. Shit.
His lungs itch for the cigarette he never got to smoke. Too bad the bathroom is occupied.
#eddie munson#steve harrington#tommy hagan#post s2#jock on jock violence au#stommy#onesided steddie#implied stoncy#this is the closest i ever came to finishing something if i ever write a beginning it's going on ao3#we stay billy bashing 💪#are tommy and billy fucking? up to interpretation#i fully believe eddie would crouch on the toilet to smoke like a fucking gremlin#stranger things fanfic
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#good omens#ineffable husbands#good omens poem#good omens poetry#supreme archangel aziraphale#crowley#aziraphale#good omens s2#post s2#good omens s3#good omens season 3#ineffable divorce#ineffable spouses#aziraphale x crowley#go2#original poem#marcela writes#my own tag still scares me. i am so shy about writing! but i also really wanted to post this so. closing my eyes and hitting send#i'm always happy to hear criticism btw i just need to calm down ahaha
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A Delayed Reunion (part 1 of 3)
(first (you're here!)) (next page) (last page)
Finally! After working on this in my free time for what feels like forever, Part 1 is done! In case it wasn't obvious, this is my take on their needed emotional conversation after all the world-saving business in s3 is done. I started on this shortly after s2 came out cause I had waaayyy too many emotions about the ending.
This comic will be exploring how I personally interpreted everything that was said (and not said) between them in those dreaded last 15 minutes of episode 6. And don't you worry, it will come to a happy ending. I couldn't bear to leave these two angsting, my heart couldn't take it.
(p.s: I don't know if art taglists are really a thing on this website anymore, but if you'd like to be tagged in the next parts of this comic please let me know! It would mean a lot to know people are looking forward to seeing this get updated <3)
#art#my art#ana's art#good omens#crowley#aziraphale#ineffable husbands#good omens fanart#crowley/aziraphale#good omens comic#aziracrow#good omens 2#a delayed reunion#post s2#post s3 even#ineffable husbands fanart
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imagine Crowley and Lucifer bonding over ducks and shared experiences of 'sauntering vaguely downwards'
while Aziraphale and Alastor debate radio vs books and talk about their 'bad boys'
#imagine#Crossover#Good omens#gomens#crowley#crowley and aziraphale#Aziraphale#Aziracrow#Possible Qpr RadioAziracrow#Alastor#The radio demon#hellaverse#hazbin hotel#post s2#Post S1
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Ciggies and queen
#good omens#good omens art#crowley#anthony j crowley#muriel#good omens muriel#post s2#ineffable divorce#art#drawing#digital art#my art#fanart
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Good Omens Fic Rec: A Guarantee and Not a Promise
But, God, it’s hard. It’s hard to be humble. It’s hard to stand here and remember that nothing is promised, that what he and Crowley have may be broken irrevocably. He just can’t seem to make himself believe it, not when Crowley’s love feels just the same as it always has.
Length: 16,724 words
AO3 Rating: Explicit / Spice Level 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
Best for: At Home, After Dark, Romance
Triggers: None
Read it here, fic by voluptatiscausa
*Minor Spoilers* This is a story that I read way before I started this blog up. Even though I knew what was coming, it still made my heart race with it's tender but oh so hungry sensuality like it was the first time. This story is beautiful. It starts with Aziraphale and Crowley reuniting after s2, we don't spend any time speculating on what happened and why they're safe now, they just are. I will again say that I love that about this fandom. I love skipping whatever s3 might be and just getting to their ever afters. But ever after doesn't come immediately. Aziraphale needs to earn back trust, show that he's in it for good and isn't going to leave again.
Those first chapters of them slowly allowing touch and intimacy are absolutely captivating to me. It's established early that Aziraphale can feel Crowley's love, but we find out that Crowley can feel Aziraphale's lust. Back and forth they go, letting each other drink up those emotions. It can be heartbreakingly loving one moment, and desperate desire the next. It feels like foreplay for them, but also for us. It doesn't let us take, we go at Crowley's pace. We get what we are given, and though we want more, we have to wait. By Chapter 3, you'll be as keyed up as they are. And finally we get to indulge. It's the kind of smut that almost makes you want to cry, it's not just sex, they worship each other.
Just excellent all around. Beautiful prose, and paced perfectly. Slow but sensual. At home, after dark (or morning in my case) read. And make sure that your door dasher doesn't show up in the middle of reading this. Trust me, that was such a tease and the worst timing to stop for cold hashbrowns.
Read it here, fic by voluptatiscausa
#good omens#good omens fanfiction#good omens fanfic#fanfic rec#aziracrow#good omens fic rec#aziraphale x crowley#A Guarantee and Not a Promise#voluptatiscausa#short#five flames#post s2#after dark#at home#south downs cottage#romance#faves of the blog
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hope they're gonna become besties in s3 or in the time waiting for Aziraphale to come back😭
#my art#good omens#muriel#crowley#gos2#post s2#alchool#aziracrow#depressed crowley#good omens fanart#good omens 2#digital art#ineffable divorce
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Can I shamelessly recommend my own fic “Burning at the Centre of Time” on ao3 (username The_Infamous_Jack)? It’s a post-season 2 fic involving Crowley and Aziraphale fighting against the Second Coming together, but Aziraphale is a Fallen Angel after the Metatron decided to damn him to Hell. Part of Aziraphale’s punishment also involves his voice being taken away from him, so he and Crowley communicate through sign language.
It’s currently a WIP but all the tags have been listed and (if things go well) it will have regular updates! Thank you for all the work this blog does, the fandom really appreciates it <3
Of course you can, my dear. I do hope you are proud of your achievements!
Burning at the Centre of Time by The_Infamous_Jack [Rated T, 33K in progress]
It’s been a few months since Crowley last saw Aziraphale, and in that time he has distracted himself from their last meeting (and first kiss) with teaching Muriel about Earth and discovering accidental glimpses of their own religious trauma. Meanwhile, Crowley is unaware of what Aziraphale has been put through by the Metatron back up in Heaven, but revelations will hit him the day of the Second Coming when he finally comes face to face with his angel once more.
The problem is… Crowley doesn’t even know if this is the same angel. The same angel he had once danced with in 1941 to the new Vera Lynn song, the angel who had once burnt himself with Hellfire just to heal Crowley’s own wounds back in the Middle Ages. The fierce determination has stayed the same, but has his soul been replaced with an icy coldness borne from months of working under the Metatron’s thumb? And are the two going to be able to save the world for a second time when the author has decided to interpret “they aren’t talking” in a more literal sense than was ever intended?
-Mod AB
#good omens#crowley#aziraphale#Good Omens fanfic#Good Omens fanfiction#Good Omens fic recs#Post S2#mind the tags#Mod AB#fallen angel aziraphale
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They're Not Talking
Rated E, 2.6k
Crowley and Aziraphale still meet to try to stop the Second Coming, but they’re not talking, not the way they once did. Words aren’t the only way to communicate all the things that are left unsaid.
You slowly put your hand against mine, our fingertips touching, separated by wood and sin and sacrament.
I imagine us leaning forward, our lips meeting, kissing open mouthed, surrounded by the heady scent of incense.
I keep my eyes on you, willing you to offer your mouth to me. There is a quiver in your bottom lip, a softness to your jaw as if you’re about to tip towards me, seeking a blessing from my tongue.
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#good omens fanfiction#ineffable husbands#good omens#good omens fic#they’re not talking#good omens fanfic#some angst and feels#blame it on Neil#post s2
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Taproot - (1/25)
To celebrate finally finishing this monster of a fic after 4 goddamned years, I'm going to be posting the full chapters here on Tumblr, serialized like in the olden days, to make it easier to digest a bit at a time. Expect an installment once a week. This is a sequel to Wellspring, and is a post-S2 AU with, at this point, established Trephacard--plus some historical flashbacks, family drama, bloody showdowns, and a lot of secrets waiting in the wings. And feels. All the feels. If you like those things--or, for reasons I cannot disclose at this time, dear old Leon Belmont--consider giving this one a spin.
Summary from Ao3:
Taproot (n): The oldest, most central root; that from which all else arises.
Every family has its roots, diving down into the shadowy, secretive earth--and there's no such thing as a bloodless inheritance.
🎵 Music pairing: The Old Ways - Loreena McKennitt
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Go to part: one | two | three | four | five | six
Sunrise over the Black Sea—golden light spilling into the water like its own sort of glowing, glittering liquid, diffusing through the brine and illuminating it in hues of orange and amber and violet-pink—is one of the most beautiful sights the natural world has to offer. There are other striking sunrises to be had, and other bodies of water prone to making a person feel overwhelmingly small, but nowhere else do the two combine into such a spectacle, delighting the eyes even as it harrows the soul.
At least, nowhere else that Sypha has been, and she has been a lot of places.
She twists the end of her walking stick into the damp sand and gravel. This means that she’s close; she can tell by the particular mineral-laden smell of the salt and the angle of the light that she’s still a bit north of Enisala, but not by very far. There’s no shame in having arrived at the sea slightly off from her target. The only truly accurate navigation is by the stars—and the lingering presence of the night creatures and the winter’s bitter chill have had her travelling mostly with the sun.
Overhead, the keening cries of shorebirds as they dip and weave, coming in low to gather at the waterline, to pick over the tide pools and sandbars. The breakers beat the rocky shore, relentless. There’s a stark beauty to the place, to the way life struggles forward despite its days being filled only with further struggle. Tenacity. Tenacity, she understands, and all the spoils it brings.
This would be a lovely place to bring Adrian and Trevor to, she thinks; let them see this dawn, let the three of them roughhouse in the waves and drink sweet fruit wine in the sun and make love in the cool, damp sand once twilight settles in, all softness and blue-black shadows and the murmur of the tide. When the weather is warmer. When the sea is greener than it is grey, and the wind coming off of it doesn’t threaten to peel the skin from her face and hands. When they feel safe, leaving the castle unguarded for a while.
That time is, with certainty, not yet now. But she’s working on it. She’s still not gotten used to travelling alone, honestly hopes she won’t ever have to, but sometimes needs must. And that’s the entire point of this, of having to be away from them for so long.
She misses them—misses her family, too, but that’s an old ache that she’s grown accustomed to. Missing Adrian and Trevor is a different kind of hurt, sharp and fresh, made worse by knowing how badly they’re missing her in return. When she was growing up, travelling constantly on journeys measured in seasons, a month had felt like nothing. Now, it feels like an eternity.
There’s no snow and ice out here, this close to the water; there never is, in her experience, until you get to the deep, deep north. The sand is wet and the coarse stone crushed into it grinds under her staff. It’s blunt and thick, as writing implements go, and there’s no way to get any detail—and anyway, she’s no artist.
She still leaves a chunky, lopsided heart in the sand, as if marking the spot to return to later—as if the waves won’t wash it away mere hours after she’s left this place.
The sun is high overhead by the time the crumbling stone fortress of Enisala comes into view on the horizon. It feels wonderful, even if winter sun never warms one through the same way summer sun does; she drops her hood to bask in it, shifting her pack on her shoulders.
The ruins themselves are all beige-grey rock, the sky even more devoid of color, stormy and brooding. As she gets closer, though, she can see little pops of color all around the perimeter of the old fortress—blanket-draped caravans, colorful paper lanterns, artifacts of every culture the trains have come into contact with over the past year. Anything to make the space lively.
This place has always felt oddly significant to her—with its ruins that no one will claim ownership over, that seem to belong only to themselves, like slumbering giants from the birth of the world. Really, anywhere on the eastern edge of a landmass would do, for the Speakers’ winter solstice celebrations. But this is where her family group has always come, and so she knows she will find them here. For a week on either side of the solstice, many trains gather here in the sprawl of the mysterious ruins, and they eat and dance and share stories, all the stories of the year before, and Sypha knows she has a few that will make even the elders jealous.
She smiles to herself, framing the narrative in her head as she sets off down the narrow, meandering path to the gathering below.
“Sypha!” a familiar voice calls out, along with the clatter of scattered and dropped firewood; she’s barely made the edge of camp, is still lost in thought, but that voice would snap her out of just about anything.
“Kiri,” she oofs out, as the woman barrels into her, catching her up in a crushing embrace that’s more robes than anything else—layers and layers of them, to keep out the damp chill. Sypha hugs back just as hard; she’d been expecting her family and the others, the ones she’d watched leave Greşit all those months ago and then had to say farewell to again late in the spring. She hadn’t been expecting Kiri, Kiri who knows all her secrets and remembers what she looked like when she was young enough to go about with her hair unshorn, who she spent more time with growing up than she did her own family—throwing rocks into rivers and climbing trees and playing rough games with the boys. Testing every limit, challenging every rule, pushing for every wild dream.
Kiri, who’d been away from their clan for at least three years now, off studying the healing arts with the Ottoman scholars in the east when their own collective knowledge had proved insufficient for her. Three years that now feel like nothing—and isn’t it odd, how the friends of childhood are so often forgotten when the demands of adult life catch up, but the body never forgets what it’s like to hold them?
“I’m so glad you made it,” Kiri says, her face buried in Sypha’s hair. “My first Solstice back with our people and you weren’t here! I was getting worried.”
“What, did you think I would miss it?” Sypha asks, faux indignation through her own laughter. “Never.”
“Well, I’ve been told that you have your hunter, now,” Kiri says, pulling away, a sudden swell of distance blooming between them. No wonder—too often, Speakers who marry outside the tribe never quite find their way back. She and Trevor hadn’t been that to each other the last time she’d seen her family, had just been circling ever closer without quite making contact, but fair assumptions could be, and often were, made. “And your sleeping soldier?”
“Mm, yes,” Sypha says; it’s been a long time since she’s thought of Adrian that way, though he’s never stopped fighting for them. “But this is important, being here. And seeing everyone again! How have your studies been?”
Kiri’s eyes flash with excitement, bright against the wind-bitten redness of her cheeks; her skittishness evaporates in an instant. “It is incredible, Sypha! The things they know, in the south—the things they’ve kept track of, that others have forgotten. There is a book one man there has written on how to repair a person as if they were a torn garment or a broken wagon. It’s remarkable.” Adrian probably has a copy of that, somewhere in his mother’s medical library—if not, she’ll have to remember to track one down. “I understand why we do not record our stories, but after three years there, I wonder if we are foolish to not record knowledge itself? Raw knowledge I mean, the kind that is hard to frame in the context of a story.”
My people are idiots, she remembers saying, during that
interminable stay in the Belmont hold; she’s usually more inclined to be generous, but there’d been an infectious kind of frustration and cynicism they’d all been fighting, after a certain point.
“I’ve wondered that, too,” she says now, far more diplomatic; the journey has done her outlook a lot of good. “About an entirely different body of knowledge! Not something that would be as useful as the medicine you’re learning, but yes—if having something written down can save a life, how can that be wrong?”
“Don’t let the elders hear you say that!” Kiri admonishes, laughing.
Sypha blows a dismissive breath through her nose. “I am sure they already think I’m a terrible member of our tribe, just for raising a hand against the enemies of humanity. I cannot imagine their opinion of me can get much worse.”
Kiri throws an arm over her shoulder, pulls her in. “It’s not that bad,” she says, trying to be encouraging, but there's a tension there. “Our Sypha, the warrior of Wallachia. But I always knew you were destined for something special.”
Sypha frowns in thought, takes a few steps in silence. Did you? She wants to ask, and she wants to ask, Why?
Destined. Destiny is too large an idea, is the sort of thing that hovers around other people, people with remarkable families, with mysterious pasts. Sypha is a magician like any other Speaker magician; her father was the same, and his mother before him, and there is nothing unusual about any of it. These things run in families, and magic users are common, and sure, she'd gotten herself sucked up into an epic story because of it, but it could as easily have been another.
Couldn't it have?
Would another scholar of magic have done just as good a job? Would another magician have melded into the team as well as she did, have communicated in battle so effortlessly, have picked up the slack the other two dropped and protected them when they needed it? Could just any magician have snatched Dracula’s castle out of the aether like it was a feather on the breeze?
Would another Speaker have tossed aside the principles of a lifetime to stand up and fight, or is there really something dark and burning in her that sets her aside?
If there is, is that a good thing or a bad thing? Is that even the question to be asking?
“...how does it feel, to fulfill a prophecy?” Kiri asks, as they start to make their way toward the rest of the camp. It’s clear from the suddenly uncomfortable undercurrent in her voice that she’s not talking about the whole killing Dracula part; that story, her family has already heard, and it’s surely made the rounds. No—she’s talking about the rest of the prophecy. The part that’d had Sypha so uneasy clambering down into the catacombs and so defensive when she awoke there in the face of a hunter; the part that she’d like to believe any random magician would not have been able to fulfill.
“Strangely?” Sypha says, pitching her voice low. “Like I did have a choice in the matter.”
“Truly? You did not feel fate’s hand pushing the issue?” A pause, a few scuffing steps in the snow. Then, carefully: “Or another hand entirely?”
And oh, Sypha understands why her old friend is concerned, understands all too well given the way the world has sometimes treated their people. How non-Speaker men have often regarded them—worldly and experienced and incapable of ever saying no, as if rejection of the church’s self-loathing, oppressive morality somehow made them into succubi. But the implication is so absurd in context that she still laughs, conspiratorial. “No. My God. I had to push them. I thought I was going to go crazy.”
A smile then, more genuine. The tension drains out of the arm across Sypha’s shoulders. “What kind of heroic warriors are they, if they’re not fighting for the hand of maiden fair?”
“In what world, I wonder, would I be considered a fair maiden?” Sypha asks, smiling despite herself. Her robes are ragged with wear, her hair recently chopped short again, her feet swathed in cloth bandages beneath her sandals to keep out the cold. Fair indeed. But she knows that society outside of their caravans frames the world in certain ways. “And they were fighting with me, not for me.”
“Still. Most would expect some sort of reward for saving the world—even if only from fate.”
Sypha shakes her head, remembering that sunrise through the castle doors, the way they’d all started drifting apart before she’d pulled them back together. Those first few hours of having no idea what to even do with themselves, in this tomorrow that they hadn’t expected to see. “We were all shocked to still be alive, in the end. I imagine that would be reward enough for anyone.”
Kiri looks to her feet, swallows. They walk in silence for a moment. It had, perhaps, been unfair to go into such dark territory—to invoke how close they’d all come to dying that night. But these are the stakes Sypha has gotten used to, the way she’s become accustomed to thinking of the world. Speakers don’t fight; they are always in danger from those who don’t understand them, but that is a danger that brings itself to one’s door. The memory of choosing to walk across an enemy’s threshold, certain she would not ever cross it again, is uniquely hers.
“If you met them,” she says, gently bringing the topic back around, “you would understand. They honestly are good men. They understand what trust and respect are.” And they have enough baggage to fill an entire wagon, between them both, but that’s not for her to say. She’s not so dense as to think that they’d been dragging their feet just to frustrate her. “They do respect me, and I had to do nothing extraordinary to earn it—only what I’m truly capable of. We are equals.”
“Enough so that they trusted you to make this journey alone,” says a voice from her other side, mild and gentle, and Sypha turns without thinking, throwing herself into her grandfather’s arms.
“My angel,” he says, stroking her hair, and as it always does, the endearment makes her heart clench up a little around something—something hard and painful, like a rock in her chest, that she has never understood.
She huffs a laugh against his robes, pushes through it. “It was more a matter of whether I trusted them to survive a month without me.” Kiri laughs then, and her grandfather does too, and it warms her to know, with this kind of certainty, just how lucky she really is.
“…and it was in this way that the houses were joined, the scorched land of one family and the usurped fortress of their oldest enemy, and from the ashes of tragedy and loss and centuries of discord arose the hope of an unexpected and brilliant future.”
A long silence, broken up by the crackle of logs in the fire, by the quiet rustle of voices from elsewhere in the camp. There’s no need to pronounce the end of a story here, not if one is half decent at telling it; Sypha knows that they are just letting it sink in.
“A remarkable story, more so even than the first telling, which we have all heard,” one of the elders says, one she isn’t familiar with. In front of the old woman’s feet, a pair of young children are still staring raptly at Sypha. The elder’s voice is warm, pleased. “It will be quite a thing to add to our memory stores. And quite a thing to know that one of our own played a role, in such a difficult time for our country.”
“One of ours, one of Dracula’s, and one of their own that they threw out,” says a young man a few places to Sypha’s left; his voice carries the twist of a smile. “I wonder how the church must feel, in the face of such irony.”
And oh, that’s a thought that has given Sypha much satisfaction over the last year—to be a fly on the wall when the heads of the church met to discuss what had happened!—but the old woman frowns. “I imagine they feel as though they nearly caused the extinction of all human life in Wallachia,” she says, a touch sharp. “Perhaps that is enough?”
One of the children at her feet giggles, a Look who’s in trouble kind of sound, and the man ducks his head. But he’s not in trouble. That isn’t how they do things. “Pardon me, Elder,” he says, “but I disagree. That they made a horrible mistake is knowledge that can fade or be downplayed over time. That they were saved by the very people they ostracized and cast out—that carries weight that cannot so easily be shrugged off. Even if we cannot share this with the rest of the people of Wallachia, that lesson should at least be preserved.”
Because it is about hubris as much as it is about blame, she can remember saying, after that first meeting they’d had with Acasă’s strange new church. Blame can be washed away with a convincing enough apology, and hubris will make the same mistakes over and over again. Both must be undermined if any progress is to be made.
It had been a hard sell. Adrian tends to want to place blame if only to have something to aim all of his anger and sadness at, now that he’s allowed himself to start navigating them; Trevor only wants the world to feel more just than it is. But in the end she’d brought them around: more needs to be done than to just rub the church’s nose in the mess it’d made.
Which is why they’d agreed, in the end, for her to finally tell the story in its entirety—nothing masked or obfuscated, no details left aside. Only for her people’s ears; a closed telling, a rarely invoked practice used when the full story needs preserving but would put the participants in danger, should it get out into the general populace. The people of Acasă are just now starting to truly accept Trevor for who he is; tolerating a witch and a vampire is a bit much to expect of them, just yet.
“For whatever it’s worth,” she says now, “as a participant in the story? I agree. How this was ended, and by who, is just as important as who started it in the first place. There are lessons in both of those things."
The elder regards her for a long moment, thoughtful. Then nods, just a tiny dip of her face into the firelight. “Very well. This story will sit alongside the previous version. The nature of Wallachia’s saviors is to be preserved, as a means of emphasizing the church’s shortsightedness and the need for it to not repeat that mistake.”
Sypha nods deeply, a long and slow dip of her head nearly to her knees. “My thanks, Elder. May your tribe live happily and well, in the coming year.”
“And yours.”
The crowd disperses, some going to hear or tell other stories, some retiring to their caravans for the evening meal. One figure stays nearby, hunched over a nearby fire, close enough to have heard her telling but not actually part of the group receiving it. In the fading light, the shape is just that: a shape, a silhouette, blue-black against the blue-white of the snow, limned in the cold violet light of sunset. They have a branch in their hands, are stripping it of its side-shoots methodically, tossing them one by one into the fire.
It’s a silhouette Sypha would know anywhere.
“What stories have you to tell,” Sypha asks, settling down alongside her, the ritualistic question feeling strange in her mouth, “since this time last year?”
Kiri huffs a laugh. “None as exciting as yours. You’re a hard act to follow, Sypha.”
“You seemed excited about all the knowledge you’d gained, earlier.”
Twist, pull, snap. “That’s nothing, compared to having a grand destiny.”
“I still say that destiny is too strong a word. We basically fell down a hole.”
“Directly into the vault of Greşit’s sleeping soldier. At precisely the time the three of you were most needed. That sounds like kismet to me.”
Sypha can’t help but laugh, remembering. “It felt more like incredible clumsiness, from where I was standing.”
“Falling.”
“From where I was falling, yes.”
A stretch of quiet, then, broken only by the crackling of the fire.
“So,” Kiri says after a while, tossing an entire handful of twigs into the flames. There’s a smile on her face but the firelight has turned it bitter, all shadows and edges. “Your soldier is a vampire.”
“Dhampir, really,” Sypha corrects, kneejerk. For so long, it’d been Trevor she was correcting, then after a while, Adrian himself; she’s used to being quick on the draw with it, because either of them saying vampire had generally been a sign of badness brewing.
Kiri breaks another few twigs free from the branch, twists them in her fingers. “I don’t know what that means.”
Right. Of course she doesn’t. “It means his mother was human.”
“Oh,” Kiri says, seemingly still not sure what to do with this information. “I knew that, I guess. From the story itself. I didn’t realize the distinction mattered.”
“Yes, it… it matters. A great deal. I do not think a true vampire would have ever sided with humanity.”
"Still. I wonder if I would have been able to guess, had we met in the summer instead of the winter."
Sypha plucks at the scarf around her neck, the wool scratchy but warm, dyed in a hundred vibrant colors. It’d come from the market in Acasă, knitted by an old blind woman, and had been a gift—gratitude for the work they’d done securing the town against the demon attacks. They had saved her son’s entire family, and gone home that night and celebrated it, a battle with no casualties save the demons themselves. She’s wearing it because of the cold, but she knows what Kiri is asking. "Perhaps."
A huff of breath. “So much for your gentle warriors.”
“You would probably be surprised,” Sypha says with a shrug, not even bothering to take offense on Adrian’s behalf, because she can tell this isn’t what Kiri’s actually upset about. Some people compare words to weapons, and it’s truer than they know; you can dodge and feint and mislead with them as well as you can with steel. “But that isn’t—Kiri. What’s going on?”
For a long moment, no reply. The fire cracks and pops, splitting the wood apart in a spattering of sparks. Kiri throws the whole branch into it like a spear, a hard burst of frustration.
“Taerna married, this summer,” she finally says, the words quiet.
That stops Sypha cold, her fingers poised in mid-reach for a branch of her own. She curls them back up around the empty air, feels the nails bite into her palm. “She always said she would wait for you.”
“Why should she have bothered? We were only friends.”
“You were more than that.”
“She married,” Kiri repeats, short, face tightening as if to hold something inside. “Like all of my friends and sisters did. Marriage and children and… it’s all anyone does. We had plans. We were going to, to travel, and she was going to hunt our food and I was going to heal people and we were going to see the world together. But this is the only life anyone seems to care about.”
And even you’re going down that path, Sypha can hear, unsaid. You and your prophecy, your exiled hunter and your inhuman soldier.
Sypha closes her eyes, takes a breath. “She cares about you.”
“She also cares about her hound.”
“She loves you,” Sypha says, insistent.
Kiri laughs, bitter, tears threatening. It’s like watching an old dam crumble, flawless limestone threading through with cracks and stress fractures, and then: an outrushing of things held back for far too long. “Not enough,” she says, curling forward over herself, arms tight around her belly. “Not more than she loved the idea of having a child. Not enough to be with me.”
“Oh, Kiri. I’m sorry,” Sypha says, threading an arm over her shoulders, pulling her in. “I’m sorry.”
“Do yours love you?” Kiri asks after a moment, muffled by the layers of robes. “Enough to change the world, to defy everything for you?”
Sypha thinks about Trevor punching Dracula in a ridiculous, suicidal attempt to keep him away from her, thinks about Adrian in her garden, enduring the sun to make her happy—about a castle and a watchtower and the ending of the story she’d told, and her grasp on her friend tightens. “They do. And each other.”
A laugh into her shoulder, rough and wet. “I’ve always thought it would be terrible, to be involved in a prophecy,” she says, barely audible. “I never thought I’d be so jealous.”
There’s a stream that runs past the ruins, a narrow but swift-moving current that cuts through the ground here like a knife. It leads into the tough, gnarled pines and firs that grow this close to the sea, into these dark and uninviting woods that are nevertheless filled with a thousand secret places.
Sypha follows it, as she always has, year after year.
Things are different, this year.
She finds them by the water, bundled up and talking quietly. There’s a fire burning, but it’s been banked and allowed to subside down to embers, giving off heat but very little light. In the heavily filtered winter moonlight, they look like faery folk—Arn with his delicate, dignified features, Lily with the luminescent white bone beads threaded into hair the color of pitch, both of them beautiful and earnest.
They look up when she steps closer, their faces dark, shadowed. Painfully anxious.
She sits down on the ground, near to them, facing them. She is just as filled with anxiety. She has never done this, has no idea how to approach it—she knows they are not being blindsided like Kiri was, knows they have had time to adjust to the idea of this, but all she can see is her old friend’s face, broken up in grief over a friend-love she—and everyone else—had thought was something more. For once in her life, Sypha cannot find the words.
Then Lily smiles, the brilliant, passionate smile Sypha remembers, and holds out her hands, and Sypha lets herself fall into the woman’s arms, nearabout crushing her in the embrace.
“It’s all right,” she whispers, against Sypha’s ear. “You’ve found your loves. It was always bound to happen to one of us.”
Sypha nods against her, feeling the tears welling up. Turns to embrace Arn, the familiarity of his touch painful in this context, in knowing what she has to do.
“Are you set to marry?” Arn asks, quiet, solemn.
Sypha shakes her head. “I haven’t brought up the subject yet. There are a lot of complications—no human establishment would ever welcome us. But...”
“But you would like to.”
“Yes.”
“Will you come back to us then, for the ceremony?” Lily asks, and her voice sounds like the fear of paths diverging, not knowing if they will ever converge again. “Or even just to visit? You know there are none here who wouldn’t welcome all of you—or if there are…”
“Lily will convince them to change their minds,” Arn finishes for her, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.
Sypha closes her eyes, takes Lily’s hand. “Of course. I could not stay away for long. And you can always visit us—we’ll have a lot of space, once we rebuild.”
Visiting, seeing old friends: it’s not the same, won’t ever be the same. And sometimes things change, and people change and what they are to each other changes. But these two were always dear friends first and foremost, and that will never—can never—be any different. She gathers them both into her arms, and it’s a sweet, comfortable place to be.
“Please tell me,” Arn whispers into her hair after another long moment, “that Belmont at least bathes regularly, now?”
And like that, the seriousness of the night vanishes, goes up like a twist of smoke into the black. Sypha laughs, and keeps laughing, until it turns to tears again and she can’t sort out which she’s feeling more of.
“Yes,” she says, with a little hiccup of sob-laughter. “He does. He fights the darkness and protects the innocent—like he was born for. And washes the monster blood off, after.”
“Good,” Arn says, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “We could tell from the beginning, that he was capable of being more than he was pretending to be.”
A long measure of silence, only the water rushing past, too swift to freeze even in the heart of winter.
“Will you let us give you a proper farewell?” Lily asks, hesitant. “Do they know—”
“They know,” Sypha says, biting her lip. “I talked with them about it before I left. They don’t mind.” As long as it’s a farewell, she hears Trevor saying, laughter in his voice even as he’d tried to be serious about this. And not a ‘till next time’.
Adrian had just been quiet, and had smiled softly in that way that is always disarming to her, and had simply said that traditions, and closure, are important. For everyone involved.
“Do you want this from us?” Lily asks. “Whether they mind is not the only question.”
It’s secluded in the little copse of trees, even the starlight blocked by the arching branches thick with green needles, and warm from the banked fire. Sypha nods, and reaches out with both hands, palms up in invitation. They each press a kiss to her open hands, and they hold her and she holds them, all of them swathed in the shadows of this secret place. She lets them say goodbye to this part of their collective lives, lets them put their hands and their mouths on her and push her to giddy exhaustion—one last gift from her youth, and one that will have to hold her over through the winter chill until these two weeks are out and she can begin to make her way home.
When they wander back to camp late that night, appetites sated and tension shaken away, things are different between them, always will be different, now—but that’s all right, in the end. Change, like liquor in a wound, can sting, but it is sometimes the only thing that makes the blood run truly clean.
The next day passes quickly and well. She gives her grandfather the gifts that Adrian and Trevor had sent along with her; scouring the castle library, Adrian had found a rare volume of supposedly true stories from the far east that he thought the tribe would appreciate having to add to their memory stores, and Trevor, feeling some cabin fever in all of the early season snow they’ve gotten, has taken up carving—which is to say, he isn’t very good at it yet, may never really be. But the two simplistic figures he’s sent are easily recognizable as rough caricatures of priests, one missing a finger and one missing an eye. In memory of the day we all met! he’d said, performative, trying to disguise the sentimentality as tactless humor.
Her grandfather laughs to himself as he holds the figures up, and she can tell he’s trying hard to mask how entertained he is; violence is so anathema to their people and yet, somehow, this particular act of violence never seems to have unsettled him. Context, she supposes; Trevor had been acting specifically to save his life, and he could have done far worse.
She wanders the camp, looks at all of the lovely exotic decorations, and plays with the children, an odd pang in her heart as she watches their innocent games. She helps prepare lunch, lighting the fires for the ones doing the cooking, chopping vegetables and kneading dough for flatbread, and she goes into the woods with Kiri to gather more firewood—they will need a lot of it, tonight.
They don’t talk, while they gather. It’s not awkward, just an understanding that the space between them needs some quiet, needs time to breathe.
She visits with the others in her family, with the surrogate aunts and uncles that are not actually related to her by blood, with the childhood playmates and the mentors, and with Taerna and her husband, a man from another tribe who’d chosen to join hers
instead of the other way around, had chosen to take her name. He seems sweet enough, and Taerna seems happy, if a little haunted around the edges of her eyes. Everyone she asks says that yes, of course they will be there, tonight.
Last night had been for stories, and tomorrow will be as well. But tonight is for celebration. All things in equal measure.
Hours in, Sypha drops onto one of the logs around the edges of the clearing; she slumps forward with a happy groan, reaching to rub the knots and strings out of her calves. Her walking muscles are conditioned like no others, but dancing muscles are a different story. It’s a good ache, though, like that burn in the cheeks that comes from too much smiling, too much laughter. She feels overheated from the exertion and the fire, no matter the chill in the air, and she unwinds the scarf, loosens the top layer of her robes to let the air move through.
Between where she sits and where the fire burns, silhouettes move, a chaotic display of human joy and beauty. They have no structured dances, really, though longtime partners often grow into each other’s steps. She can smell warm food nearby, bread and stew and hot mead, sees all of her family and friends and the strangers that come here as well, all her people, all dressed as she is, and wonders again: could any of them, the ones with magic at least, have done what she did?
She stares into the fire, remembers the feel of the castle’s engine between her fingers, the way she’d felt reality bending and brittle fracturing around her, so much more power at her disposal in that moment than she’d ever brought to bear conjuring fire or ice—and she thinks that no, maybe not. She’s met other magicians; she’s not sure any of them have ever trapped an eldritch monstrosity or blown apart an Enochian ward or—or done the things she’s come here to learn how to do. The things her father and her grandmother could do.
Later. Later, when the Nasaii tribe arrives. They should be here by morning. She will learn what she needs to, and she will go home, and she will be able to protect that home more thoroughly than she ever has before.
In the meantime, she watches the dancers, contemplates getting some stew, contemplates whether her legs will fall off if she tries—watches Arn and Lily together on the far side of the clearing, twisting in a tight curl that makes Lily’s hair lift, the fire lighting up her bone beads and glinting in Arn’s eyes. Watches the children imitating the adults, the youngest pairing off with their siblings, stumbling all over each other. Watches strong, tough Taerna with her husband, insisting on leading him, as much as anyone can lead in this sort of dance.
Watches the elder she’d told her story to last night, sitting across the fire from her, watching Sypha right back with a gentle smile that says Don’t worry, that says You will be with them soon.
And there’s nothing inherently romantic about these dances on the solstice—friends dance with friends, parents with children, and many dance alone—but she remembers being young and everything being about those early, tentative relationships, remembers that there was a thrill in getting the chance to dance with those people she called heart-mates, or to be asked to dance by someone she wished to be that close to.
So she can’t help but smile when she sees Taerna whisper something to her husband and break away from him, sidling hesitantly up to where Kiri sits. She’s poking at the dirt with a crooked, bare stick, and her sandals haven’t touched the dance ring—are clean of the dust and soot that coats the ground here, the
remains of a hundred years of bonfires.
Taerna holds out a hand, uncertain.
It won’t solve all of the problems, won’t make Kiri’s love hurt less or magically mend things between them. But there’s something of healing in Kiri’s eyes as she reaches up to take that hand, leaves the stick behind in the dirt, lets herself be pulled up and into the ring of dancers, the two of them falling into each other’s space with an ease that says We belong here, that says Even if we must change, there is still us, that says You will never be a stranger in these arms.
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How to Rehabilitate a Jock Pt 20
Part Nineteen Part One Link to ao3
A huge thank you to so many people but it's especially @thefreakandthehair for betaing, being the best, and generally encouraging all of my nuttiness. Also a big shout out to Bowie ( don't remember your Tumblr my lovely!!) for doublechecking some sensititvity reading for me. Y'all rock!!!
Jeff had the decency to wait until Frank was safely in his house before he called Eddie out on his shit.
“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Jeff sighed the second the door closed behind Frank, leaving only the snow, Eddie’s headlights, and two best friends about to have an incredibly awkward conversation.
“Driving you dicks home?” Eddie tried, hoping that he could fool Jeff into not having the uncomfortable conversation that was already beginning. He kicked the van into reverse, throwing a hand casually over Jeff’s seat as he turned and began to maneuver his way back to the road.
“Eddie.”
It wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything really. Just his name, nothing more, nothing less, but it was Jeff’s tone.
That voice, the voice he always used when he was trying to cut through Gareth and Eddie’s bullshit. Corroded Coffin had lasted all these years because of balance. Frank was their rock, steady and sure; Eddie and Gareth were the stream, bouncing and playing and whirling around in a daze; but Jeff was the earth around them. Jeff was everything, and Eddie might be their leader, but Jeff was the one that held everything together.
And he was the only one who could get Eddie to drop the act with just one word.
“Honestly, dude? I have no fucking idea what I’m doing,” Eddie sighed, slightly curling in on himself as he focused on the road. The snow was only mildly awful at the moment, but winter in Indiana could turn on a dime and Eddie wasn’t looking to run his van off the road just because Jeff was grilling him about his stupid little completely non-existent crush.
“Well, what do you want from him?” Jeff asked, dragging the first word slowly out as he thought about what he wanted to say. Sometimes the other members of Hellfire would do things like that— talk slow or choose words carefully, just to try and avoid Eddie’s sparky temper.
Unfortunately for him, Eddie was already worked up about this particular topic.
“Great question!” Eddie snapped, going to throw his hands up before choosing to be wise and hold the wheel steady. A small squall was beginning to form around them, and his visibility was starting to cut to next to none.
“Okay, okay,” Jeff said, placating to Eddie’s need to be a bit of an asshat, “So what happened between you and Steve that’s got Gareth so pressed?”
If it was any other person in the car with him, Eddie might have been able to fake it. Even Frank might have fallen for a lie about Gareth’s hatred of jocks and conformity and how Steve was just a representation of that.
But it was Jeff. Jeff, who was their Earth, who knew that Gareth’s grudge wouldn’t have lasted this long if it wasn’t motivated by protectiveness. That the only reason Gareth wouldn’t have started to warm up even a little bit was his need to make sure his people were safe.
Few things in life were assured, but death, taxes, and Gareth Winston’s need to protect his own were all a given.
“Steve probably doesn’t even remember, so it doesn’t matter,” Eddie muttered, evading the question just as he narrowly evaded a pothole that seemed to appear out of thin air on the road in front of them. The storm was picking back up again, and this was not the conversation to be having right at this moment.
“Well, do you want him to fuck you?” Jeff asked bluntly, cutting through the fat and straight to the juicy meat of the problem.
“Jeff!” Eddie blurted out, a nervous burst of laughter escaping along with his name. He took the risk of looking away from the road for a few seconds to give the other boy a wild-eyed look, but Jeff seemed unphased, cool as a cucumber as a lion’s smile began to curl on his face.
“Do you want to fuck him?”
Unbidden, a dozen images flashed through Eddie’s head. Steve in his bed. Steve shirtless. Steve underneath him with his hair splayed out on the pillows, wrists trapped in gleaming silver cuffs as he begged so pretty for—
No.
No no no no no no NO.
“Dude!” Eddie groaned, turning away from the road again to shout at Jeff.
And then it happened.
Jeff’s shit-eating grin disappeared, his eyes growing to the size of dinner plates as he shouted a wordless warning cry and Eddie had less than a second to turn back to the road, slamming his foot on the brake and throwing his arm out to protect Jeff from the inevitable crash.
There was something on the road in front of them. The snow made it impossible to see beyond the shape, but, whatever it was, it was massive. Huge, and hulking, with a dark shadow that sent a chill down Eddie’s spine, and he was sure his van wouldn’t survive the impact.
But no impact came.
His tires skidded, the van turned half a quarter, but no collision, no smashing glass, no pain. Just twin panting from him and Jeff, and an empty road all around them.
“What was that?” Jeff whispered when he was able to form words again.
“A deer, I guess,” Eddie murmured back, not really feeling all that sure of his answer. He had never seen a deer like that, but he also hadn’t really seen anything. His wild imagination wanted to run with it, but there was no point. Whatever it was, it was gone, and that’s what mattered.
He leaned back against his seat, his heart still racing as he patted Jeff’s chest twice, slightly assured when he could feel Jeff’s heart pounding through his shirt as well.
“Sorry.”
“Shouldn’t’ve distracted you,” Jeff mumbled, lacing his fingers together to hide how badly they were shaking.
“Hey, not your fault,” Eddie said, knowing how Jeff’s anxiety tended to latch to any blame it could when it got tripped like this. Eddie tested the van, carefully pulling back onto the right side of the road. They stayed quiet as Eddie turned them towards Jeff’s house, driving at a turtle’s pace with both hands on the wheel.
“I want to help him,” Eddie offered into the silence, eyes firm on the road. “If I can.”
When Jeff didn’t immediately respond, Eddie thought that was the end of the conversation, but as they approached Jeff’s neighborhood, the boy next to him spoke up again.
“Steve needs the help. Something’s really wrong with him, Eds.”
“You’re turning over to Gareth’s side?” Eddie joked, the words thin and frail and instantly disappearing the second he put them in the air.
“No,” Jeff replied, no veil of humor over his words. “There’s something wrong with him like there’s something wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Eddie said on instinct, hating the bitter scoff Jeff gave. He pulled up to a stop sign and put the van all the way in park, turning in his seat and giving Jeff his full attention
“Look at me.” Eddie ordered, waiting until Jeff’s dark eyes met his own in the dim light of the streetlamp before speaking again.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Jeff. Nothing.” He said, making sure that there was zero wiggle room in his voice.
Because there wasn’t, and Eddie hated that his best friend thought there was. There was something wrong with Hawkins, with the country they lived in, with the world. There was something wrong with a species that somehow made color a defining factor in a person’s worth, but there was not, and never would be, anything wrong with who Jeff was.
“Fine, then something wrong happened to both of us,” Jeff amended, a ghost of a smile crossing his face at Eddie’s insistence. “Either way, just be careful with him,”
“Aren’t you supposed to be giving Steve the shovel talk? Not the other way around?” Eddie joked, putting the van back in gear and turning onto Jeff’s street.
“When you get him, I’ll give him the talk,” Jeff promised, crossing his heart as he did.
When, not if. Just one word instead of the other, but a flush of warmth flooded Eddie from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. There wasn’t a chance in hell that Jeff was right to use the word ‘when’, because Eddie’s chances were not even ‘if’, but he loved the positivity.
“Have a good night, man,” Jeff said as they pulled into his driveway, holding out a hand for a quick shake as he unbuckled his seatbelt.
“Hey,” Eddie called, grabbing the edge of Jeff’s coat as he stepped out of the van. “Us freaks stick together. Always.”
It was a little reminder, just a hint of a conversation they had over a year ago, but judging by the way Jeff’s eyes softened and his shoulders lowered, he knew exactly what Eddie was reminding him of.
“Always,” Jeff echoed, squeezing Eddie’s wrist once before he hurried towards his darkened house and slipped inside. Eddie waited till the porch light turned off before sighing heavily, resting his head against the steering wheel for a moment before reversing again.
Back to the lion’s den.
The house was dark as Eddie quietly let himself back in, but the glow of the pool and the embers of the fire crackling in the fireplace gave just enough light to see the aftermath of the party. It wasn’t half as bad as some of the messes Eddie had seen from Steve’s previous parties, but it was still pretty messy. There would be a lot of cleanup coming tomorrow, and Eddie’s heart ached when he thought about Steve spending Christmas Eve alone cleaning up his house.
Damn this boy. Eddie didn’t even celebrate Christmas, and here he was worrying over Steve about being alone for it.
Maybe Wayne wouldn’t mind having one more person over for dinner. Usually it was just the two of them, but Wayne loved his strays almost as much as Eddie did, and Steve was an easy guy to care about.
Eddie would ask him tomorrow morning. Call before anyone woke up and see what Wayne said. Then he would offer to help clean and ask Steve when it was just the two of them. After all, no one should be alone on the holidays.
Eddie was so lost in his thoughts, that he almost missed the sound of an angel singing somewhere up above.
Are you lonesome tonight?
Do you miss me tonight?
Are you sorry we drifted apart?
But no, there was no missing that voice. Eddie was a connoisseur of music, but he already knew that almost any other song was ruined for him. He was the cat caught by the canary instead of the other way around, lost in the sound of a voice he hadn’t heard in years. It was deeper now, fuller, grown almost into a man from the boy he had been the last time Eddie heard him sing.
Does your memory stray to a bright summer day
When I kissed you and called you sweetheart?
He climbed the stairs slowly, drawn like a moth to a flame, knowing it would burn, but needing to be close anyway.
Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and bare?
Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?
Outside the room now, Eddie could see it all while still staying hidden. Steve was sitting on the floor, his head leaned back against the bed that was filled to the bursting with his sleeping children.
His entire self was on display for Eddie, not just his body, but his soul and his mind, a gift being given without knowing, and Eddie was too selfish not to take it.
Is your heart filled with pain?
Shall I come back again?
This was the boy Gareth couldn’t see, but the one Eddie couldn’t stop looking for. A boy who knew their first memory together. Without a doubt. Who had never forgotten, no matter how much Eddie tried to convince himself he had.
There was no other reason to pick this song.
Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?
And without permission Eddie was thrust into a memory.
Despite it only being his sophomore year, Eddie was more than used to getting detention. In the two years since he had moved to Hawkins, Eddie had earned his ‘problem child’ status at least twice over. This particular afternoon, he was stuck sitting at a graffitied desk in the detention room because he dared to argue when his teacher told him that it was valid to not believe in evolution when it went against your religious beliefs.
Evolution. The base of all humanity.
She was wrong, but she was the one with all the power, so Eddie was the one in trouble.
Still it could’ve been worse. Wayne had given him the van for his fifteenth birthday, so he wasn’t stuck waiting on the steps for a ride home after missing the bus. It wasn’t technically legal, but Hopper tended to look the other way as long as Eddie continued to give him discounts on ‘merchandise’.
All Eddie had to do was wait out the clock. Mr. Whiter had already fallen asleep at the desk up front and at six, Eddie would be free. Maybe he could even stop at Benny’s. The man always gave him extra fries to bring home to Wayne, and Eddie was making good money now that Rick was in the slammer. He was the last dealer left in town, so things were looking up.
Well things would be looking up, except the kid next to him refused to stop sniffling.
Eddie muffled an irritated sigh, sliding his eyes over to take stock of the boy sitting across the way. Clearly a freshman, and obviously his first time in detention. He was looking around the room with wide-eyed horror, slightly terrified of every single thing he saw, and obviously trying to brush tears away from his bruised cheek and busted lip.
Normally, Eddie would just tell him to shut up. That detention was barely anything to have to deal with in the grand scheme of things, but he had seen the fight that landed the kid in detention, and it had been bad enough to warrant some misery.
One second he and another boy (obviously a friend given how upset the kid was) were laughing by his locker, and the next second they were exchanging blows. It had been bad, taking three teachers to separate them, and somehow this kid had gotten in trouble for the whole thing!
But Eddie had seen the start, and it was the other twerp that had thrown the first punch. Yet somehow, he was already on the bus home and this schmuck was stuck in detention with the Freak of Hawkins High
The unjustness gnawed at Eddie’s soul, and the longer the kid sat there doing nothing but brush at his already dry cheeks, the harder it was to ignore him.
Fuck it. There were worse ways to spend an afternoon.
Eddie grabbed his notebook, slamming it open to a fresh page and dragging his favorite purple pen across the paper, taking a cursory glance at Mr. Whiter’s snoring form before sliding his chair over to the other boy.
“Hi!” Eddie said, throwing a big smile in the kids direction and hoping that would grease the wheels a little. Eddie knew how intimidating he could look to the rest of the world, and he liked it that way, but it sometimes made it hard to make friends.
Sure enough, the kid startled the second Eddie spoke, looking at him the way a deer looks at the hunter right before they hear the death shot. He didn’t seem like the type to just outright tell Eddie to fuck off, but he did look massively uncomfortable with Eddie invading his space.
Oh well, what was the worst that could happen?
“Wanna kill some time?” Eddie offered, holding up his notebook before placing it down on the desk in front of them. A tic tac toe board sat in the middle of the page, and a scorecard was up in the top corner with the word ‘Eddie' on one side and the words ‘Random Kid 'on the other.
A barely there smile glanced across the kids face as he looked down at the page, and then those big brown eyes were on him. Eddie waited patiently, forcing his body to stay still which was actually a pretty herculean task— not that this kid knew. He had the worm on the hook and the line in the water, and now he was just waiting for the curious fish to bite.
Whatever the kid was looking for, he must’ve found it because that same soft, shy smile was gifted to Eddie as he leaned down, rooting around in his backpack for his own pen. When he found the one he was looking for, he carefully crossed over Eddie’s purple writing, replacing ‘Random Kid’ with just one word instead.
“Well, Steve, let’s hope your tic-tac-toe powers are better than your fighting skills,” Eddie joked, pleased when instead of getting mad, Steve’s cheeks darkened in a pretty little blush, and he simply ducked his head with a soft protest and an embarrassed smile.
They played a few rounds in relative silence, the occasional quiet groan or cheer when one or the other managed to clinch a victory. It was nice, a little boring, but far preferable to what they had been doing before.
And then Steve’s pen died.
It was a slow death, long and drawn out with some furious scribbling to try and get one last juice for the squeeze.
“Here, man, just take mine. I’ve got a spare somewhere,” Eddie offered, not even thinking twice as he gave away his favorite pen, even though he never let anyone borrow that pen. Wayne had gotten it for him on a day trip to Indianapolis for his birthday, just a tiny trinket to commemorate the day, and Eddie loved it to death.
There was no way Steve could have known that, and yet he was looking at the pen like it was a live snake.
“Why are you being so nice to me?” Steve asked, his eyes narrowing as he looked down at the clearly treasured object in front of him.
Eddie looked up at the other boy, furrowing his brow.
“Why not?” Eddie said with a shrug, going back to his notebook with a plain black pen. He was scratching out another tic-tac-toe board to add to the dozens that were already on the page, but paused when he saw Steve wasn’t picking up his own pen.
“People aren’t just nice,” Steve insisted, giving Eddie an unexpectedly guarded look. “They always want something…so what do you want from me?”
“I want to make this afternoon a little less unbearable, I want to fight the system, and I want to make you feel better.” Eddie offered, quirking his head to the side and picking up his favorite purple pen to offer once more to the other boy, “Isn’t that enough?”
They stared at each other for a long second, until Steve’s face broke into an incredulous smile and he ducked his head down.
“You’re really weird,” he said with a soft laugh, taking the pen. It was a lovely sound, like birds singing in the morning, or the first soft strum of a guitar as practice began.
Eddie needed to hear it again.
From there they were off, talking about everything and anything. Eddie shared about all of the ridiculous reasons he had gotten detention over the years, and Steve explained that the other punk from the fight was Tommy, apparently his best friend for his entire life. They had lived next to each other since Steve had moved to Hawkins as a kid, and had done every single thing together. The reason Tommy had started the fight was Steve had told him he wasn’t sure he wanted to go to basketball try-outs tomorrow.
“It’s not that I don’t like it, I just want to try some other stuff too you know?” Steve said, looking up from their game to catch Eddie’s eye, “We’re in high school now, so it’s the time to try something new, isn’t it?”
“Sure it is!” Eddie agreed eagerly, holding himself back from going on a diatribe about the laundry basket devils that ran the school and instead talking about all of the clubs he was in. He couldn’t really see Steve enjoying Marching Band or Creative Writing, but Drama might be a good fit, or maybe Art.
“You could even join the new club I’m trying to start if you wanted,” Eddie offered, trying to stay casual but practically vibrating at the thought of having someone else to show Higgins that Hellfire was worthy of a place at the table.
“A new club?” Steve asked.
“Yea, it’s gonna be great,” Eddie started, taking a deep breath to start his long rant about the joys of dungeons and dragons, “So it’s called—”
“Alright boys,” a nasally voice droned from the front of the room. “Time to pack it up.”
Both boys jumped at Mr. Whiter’s interruption, and Eddie rolled his eyes, frustrated at being stopped right as he had started to get to the good stuff. The geometry teacher either didn’t notice or didn’t care, too eager to get back to his own home to do whatever geometry teachers did when they weren’t at school.
If Eddie had to guess, it was probably fucking their wives with compasses while reciting geometric formulas as foreplay. That seemed right.
“And don’t let me catch you in here again, Mr. Harrington. I would hope your parents had taught you better,” Mr. Whiter said as they trudged past him. His blank potato looking face was only showing the barest hints of disappointment, but that was still enough to make Steve cringe away.
“Yes sir,” he whispered, all joy from the last hour they had spent together vanishing in an instant.
“What? No warning for me Mr. Whiter?” Eddie inquired, batting his eyes and trying to take the attention away from Steve.
“I don’t particularly like wasting my breath on hopeless cases, Mr. Munson,” Whiter droned, half raising one brow, as if shocked that Eddie would even bother to ask for an admonishment. “Try to get your homework done tonight, will you? I’d hate to add another zero to my gradebook,”
Hot shame rushed down Eddie’s spine, replaced quickly by a lightning fury that made his lips loose and his logic take a quick hike.
“Well, I don’t particularly like making promises I can’t keep, sorry Tighty-Whiteys!” Eddie declared, grabbing Steve’s hand and dragging him away before they could get in any trouble because of Eddie’s big fat mouth.
“Jesus H Christ, that guys a dick!” Eddie shouted, both boys laughing breathlessly as they burst through the doors of the school.
“You gonna do the homework?” Steve said through his giggles.
“Now? Hell no!” Eddie swore, cackling as he did and jumping up onto the low wall next to the school. “Gotta fight the system however you can, Stevie. Trust me. Listen to your elders.”
“Whatever you say,” Steve said, continuing to laugh at Eddie’s antics. He idly looked around the parking lot, his mood starting to darken as he looked again, searching the parking lot again, but Eddie wasn’t exactly sure what for.
Then Steve sighed, plopping down on the curb and wrapping his arms around his knees resting his chin on top of them and rapidly blinking.
“What’re you doin’?” Eddie asked with concern, shocked at Steve’s sudden turn and hopping down from his spot on the wall.
“My parents aren’t here,” Steve muttered glumly, staring out at the empty lot instead of looking at Eddie as he sat on the curb next to Steve. “The school called after the fight, and they knew when I was getting out, but my dad’s probably going to make me wait ‘till after dinner or something.”
It wasn’t exactly the most damning thing to say in the world, Eddie could think of a dozen things that his dad had done to him that were worse, but the thought of making his own son wait for hours in the cold and dark still made something in his stomach squirm. He could never imagine Wayne doing anything like that to him.
Steve curled up even tighter around himself, completely unaware of Eddie’s internal struggle.
“God, I bet they’re so pissed.” Steve whispered into his knees. “And now my dad’s going to have to come get me, and he’s going to be even madder about that—”
“Why don’t I give you a ride home?” Eddie offered in an instant, shocking even himself with the boldness of the offer. He had just met the kid only an hour ago, but Steve’s genuine nature touched something in him, and there was a magnetic pull to want to help him that Eddie couldn’t quite explain just yet. “Then at least they won’t be mad at you about needing a ride, right?”
It would make more sense for Steve to say no, to try and play it off, but instead he was giving Eddie a watery smile and a look of gratitude as he nodded, starting to stand.
Eddie had never really worried about what the van looked like, but as they walked towards where it was, Eddie jogged ahead, trying to throw the multitudes of wrappers and junk into the back where Steve wouldn’t see. Luckily for him, the younger boy seemed enraptured by the simple fact that Eddie had a car at all.
“I want something cool like a Beemer or a truck, but my mom doesn’t want me to get a car ‘till I’m 18,” Steve said idly, pausing and furrowing his brow as he did, “She’s really weird about me driving for some reason.”
Hopefully, she wouldn’t feel too weird about a random guy giving her kid a ride home in a kidnapper van.
“Pick a tape for us to listen to,” Eddie offered as he climbed into the driver's seat, fighting with his seatbelt as Steve perused his choices. Unfortunately, Steve quickly skipped over all of the metal that Eddie had at the front of the pack, but soon familiar notes began to sing, and Eddie’s shoulders relaxed as he recognized the song.
“Ahhhh, The King. A good choice,” Eddie commented as Elvis’s voice began to croon out into the air between them.
“Who could hate this song?” Steve asked rhetorically, a wry grin on his face as the tune began to take shape.
“I always loved that nickname,” Steve said off handedly, staring out the window at the rows of corn, “King.”
“You should steal it then,” Eddie said automatically. Sure, Steve was a kid right now, but Eddie could see it in his eyes. A few years, a couple more inches, and that kid would have the world eating out of his palm. That sweet nature, that funny little humor, ‘King’ wasn’t too hard to imagine when it came to Steve.
“Maybe,” Steve replied, drawing out the word with a tone that showed that he wasn’t sure about that. He gave Eddie a few more directions, and they got closer and closer to their time being done together. A strange desperation started to make Eddie’s heart race, like he could feel the two of them pulling back into their roles, backing away from whatever they had this afternoon.
“It’s got a good ring to it. King Steve,” Eddie pushed, pausing and making the turn into Loch Nora before he put his heart on the line.
“Why don’t you blow off basketball try-outs tomorrow? Come to my club I’m starting instead. You can meet my friends.”
It was a chance, a choice. Steve could make the right one, and be one of them, or he could get sucked into Hawkins and all of it’s hell hole small town bullshit. Eddie was giving him an out.
“That sounds really fun,” Steve said in a small voice, a secret smile shared between them before it was ruined by a shout from the house in front of them.
“Steven!”
It was a woman’s voice, and Steve’s entire body stiffened. No more smiles, no more relaxing, Steve was a rod of pure steel, with a blank unaffected face. A man and a woman, Steve’s mother and father presumably, were standing on the porch together, twin faces of disappointed gravity that stole all of the air out of the van.
“Well, wish me luck,” Steve laughed without humor, his fingers worrying over the straps of his backpack as he started to unbuckle his seatbelt.
“See you tomorrow?” Eddie asked, already knowing in his stomach that he wouldn’t.
“Tomorrow,” Steve said, the word so thin and frail now.
And he was gone. Out of the car, and most definitely out of Eddie’s life. But if he was losing this like he seemed to lose everything, Eddie wanted to at least say a proper goodbye.
“See you later Alligator!” Eddie shouted through the window. Steve turned back, haloed by the setting sun, looking far too angelic for a gangly fourteen year old.
“In a while Crocodile,” Steve called back with a slight laugh, just a shadow of his former self, turning and rushing to his waiting parents who gave Eddie one last glare before slamming the door shut.
Eddie waited a second, staring at the locked door and listening to the song on the radio, wishing that the burning in his eyes would just disappear the way Steve had.
Do the chairs in your parlor seem empty and care?
Do you gaze at your doorstep and picture me there?
Is your heart filled with pain
Shall I come back again?
Tell me dear, are you lonesome tonight?
Eddie opened his eyes again, back in the present, to find Steve already watching him.
In another world, things worked out differently, but not in this one.
In reality, Steve didn’t come to Hellfire the next day. Tommy was at his locker bright and early, there to laugh the whole thing off and drag Steve to try-outs come hell or high water. Eddie had seen the whole thing, and he had known then and there Steve wasn’t one of them. Steve’s cheek was still bruised, but there were finger shapes on his wrist that definitely hadn’t been there the day before during detention. He had glanced at Eddie, but quickly glanced away, agreeing loudly that try-outs were going to be awesome.
When Steve had caught his eye that day, when he had tried to say he was sorry without words, Eddie hadn’t been in a place to listen. He had a thousand chips of his own weighing on his shoulders, and an inability to see anything but his own opinion as right.
There was no way to be two things at once, not back then.
But that bruised beat up kid was in front of him again, big hazel eyes begging for forgiveness again. And this time, Eddie finally felt ready to give it to him.
“Hi Alligator,” Eddie whispered, the words barely able to get out past the lump in his throat. A small smile graced Steve’s lips as his eyes began to shine in the dark.
“It’s been a while, Crocodile,” Steve whispered back.
Tag List: @paopaupaus @zerokrox-blog @surferboyzaza @whatever-is-a-good-name@minjintea @addelyin @5ammi90 @hagbaby420 @shinekocreator @bornonthesavage @starxlark @electrick-marionnett @resident-gay-bitch @ash-a-confused-enby @classicdinosaurdeathpose @valon-whomsttf @rotten-lil-goblin @thereindeerlady @love-ya-kash @kerlypride @sparkle-fiend @thefreakandthehair @flowercrowngods @milf-harrington @sadcanadianwinter @gothbat99 @hotcocoaharrington @henderdads @lightwoodbanethings @colorful565 @h0n3y-dw @craterbbox @sourw0lfs @lesliiieeeee @bidisastersworld @tinynebula @ravnlinn @bonescaro @mexmatch @cottagecoredreams @joruni @hellykelly @maegan1116 @farewell-wanderlvst @desertfern @due-to-the-fact-that-im-a-slut @anythingforourmoonyedits @eerielake @fandemonium-takes-its-toll @sidekick-hero
#Steve joins hellfire au#Steve harrington#Eddie munson#steddie#steddie au#steddie ficlet#st#stranger things#stranger things 2#stranger things au#post stancy breakup#post s2#Steve and eddie#st au#stranger things 2 au#steve harrington#Writing(with a capital W)#Jeff stranger things#freak stranger things#Steve has ptsd#Flash back#Flashhhhh backkkkkkk#hehehe
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Shades of Grey- if I could make a constellation in the night sky...
Aziraphale-
#good omens#fanart#crowley#artists on tumblr#season 2 spoilers#under the stars#sad#neil gaimen#terry pratchett#ineffable#alone#lonely#please reblog i worked hard on this#halo horns#wings#Gentel Quite Romantic#good omens fanart#post s2
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crowley sings aziraphale to sleep like he did to warlock to make him feel better about abandoning him for heaven
#sorry i don't make the rules#good omens#good omens hc#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#post s2#charlie's ramblings
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A Delayed Reunion (part 2 of 3)
(first part) (second part (you're here!)) (last part)
Seems like it takes me about a month to crank out each one of these, so expect the final part in around that timeframe! I've been absolutely tickled pink by the response to the first part of this so I hope y'all like this and how it eventually wraps up! ^-^
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I feel like most of us understood pretty quickly Crowley's reasons for acting the way he did during that final 15 minutes, but Aziraphale's goals and feelings took a little more thinking about (or at least they did for me). They definitely feel very layered.
That's part of why I wanted to dedicate the last few pages for this part to letting Aziraphale talk through his reasoning. He wasn't just 'rejecting Crowley' so simply, he had a lot of reasons for his choice, some of them good, and many of them obviously grounded in trauma, or simply wanting so terribly for the universe to be a kinder place. I felt it was important for him to own the fact that, while he had some good reasons, he still hurt Crowley deeply.
I honestly have enough thoughts on that last 15 minutes to turn into several pages of writing (at least), and I only had so much space per panel, so I had to be relatively brief. Hopefully it all still makes sense. (plus I wanted to make it sound reasonably like how Aziraphale would think about it in his own brain in retrospect)
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Once again, if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this comic please let me know! It made me so darn happy to see people asking to be added on the last part, thank you all so much!! I simply don't have the words for how much it means to me that people like my silly comic <3 <3
A Delayed Reunion Taglist! : @actual-changeling , @khlara , @we-are-the-multitude , @peregrintook , @a-raptors-ramblings , @six-of-snakes , @sharkbait-33 , @halcyonfawn , @yogaduck
#art#ana's art#my art#good omens 2#good omens#crowley#aziraphale#aziracrow#ineffable husbands#good omens fanart#crowley/aziraphale#good omens comic#gomens#a delayed reunion#ineffable husbands fanart#post s2
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turn around, bright eyes — XXIII
After Francesca is led away by the butler to be reunited with their brother, leaving her alone with their sister-in-law, silence reigns supreme in the Featherington drawing room.
In Francesca’s absence, they both fail to alleviate the awkwardness, instead avoiding one another’s eyes as they self-consciously pick at their pastries. But Hyacinth has never been known to accept failure with good grace.
Read on AO3.
#polin#bridgerton fic#colin bridgerton#penelope featherington#hyacinth bridgerton#francesca bridgerton#lady danbury#sophie beckett#a certain canon character the show has deprived us of thus far#daphne bridgerton#genevieve delacroix#violet bridgerton#benedict bridgerton#alternate universe - canon divergence#post s2#turn around bright eyes#my fic#bridgerton#bridgerton fanfiction
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