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hitlikehammers · 2 months

Text

feels like home

rating: t ♥️ cw: coming out, softness, recovering from the upside down ♥️ tags: pre-relationship, post-s4, fluff, hurt/comfort, Eddie is having many feelings, the main one being that Steve feels like home, platonic stobbin, supportive platonic soulmates coming out so Eddie feels safe to do the same, injury recovery, still-so-soft

for @steddielovemonth day seventeen: Love is about a hand reaching out to you so you don't get lost (@yournowheregirl)

this definitely takes place chronologically after this one so: have some of these codependent lovebirds as they start to figure their big feelings out ♥️

It’s weird, and probably unhealthy, that his hospital room—like this—feels kinda like home.

But he thinks it’s okay, to be fair, because it’s not like he thinks this place is home; the smell of antiseptic is still pretty sharp in the air even as he’s gotten disconnected from one machine, drip, or monitor every day until he’s largely free to toddle to the bathroom on his own as long as there’s someone to watch and make sure he doesn’t fall. Wayne’s there for that when he can be, which explains the home associations, but: the rest of the time, in fact—kinda more often than it isn’t?

It’s Steve.

And Eddie struck a deal with himself—no digging in to the fluttery-gooey-warm-chest-squeezy feelings while he’s laid up in a bed—but when he walks around even under supervision, it’s…feeling like he’s cheating.

Plus the feelings are getting kinda…kinda loud.

Because Steve is always there, sometimes he ever stays when Wayne comes, at least for a while. He leaves to keep an eye on the Party, leaves to check up on Max, hits the community hub: but it’s…it’s such a blip of time, honestly, in comparison to being here, with Eddie.

And when he’s gone, it doesn’t…it doesn’t feel at all like home, it feels kinda fucking horrible, so.

Eddie doesn’t even actually have to dig in to that train of thought. It’s pretty fucking clear as-is.

He’s surfacing from kind of, like, a light doze, not even a full on nap, and he’s gentle with the coming-to of it because he can kinda, like, feel Steve’s presence at his side and he’s talking really low anyway, even if he couldn’t, so Eddie definitely knows it’s him, and he could have guessed the other visitor pretty easy even if it wasn’t her voice that was the first to bleed through with actual words:

“She’s,” Robin makes a little stifled whine; “you’ve seen her.”

“Not my type but,” Steve’s saying from next to Eddie; “ I see your point, yeah.”

“She’s like a,” Robin’s voice goes kinda hazy, a little dreamy; “like a fairy creature, or! Or like a prairie woman with those, those hats—“

“A prairie woman who likes boobi—“

“Stop!” Robin hisses low, and Eddie can feel her knock his mattress a little, she must lean over like she wants to enforce her will somehow: “stop stop stop—“

“If you can’t say it you probably shouldn’t be touchin—“ Steve’s saying and god, his voice is so bitching, and Eddie think he kinda fucking lov—

Oh. Oh, well. Shit.

“I’m not touching!” Robin moans, but kinda frantic with it; “the problem is I am not touching!”

And Eddie, too, is not touching the thought he just had about those four fucking letters that are, that, that are—

“Also it’s a gross, immature word,” Robin’s going on and…oh.

Oh.

Okay, so like: even if he’s just kinda in that liminal space of awareness, they have to know he’s more awake than not; his two remaining monitors are different even when he’s calm and just resting, but as the words themselves sink in, now? His heartbeat’s betraying the hell out of him for the staccato it’s pinging on the screen as he processes it: Robin’s showing her cards, though Eddie’d always figured she might be a bird of his feather, but, like—

“Is it though?” Steve’s murmuring low and so, so judgmental; “seems more immature to not say it at all,” and he, he fucking tsks at her, then, and, and—

And then—

Then Steve’s saying words that make no sense at all, like: sure they’re words. In English. Eddie’s very sure of it. So that means he should definitely comprehend them. But…

“You should listen to me, Robs, seriously. I do still like boobies, too. I have insights.”

And Eddie—Eddie’s eyes fly open, he thinks out of shock? That makes the most sense, like he’s startled into full-wakefulness, that tracks as he blinks up at the water-stainer ceiling with his heart in his throat as he tries to find sense in those words, fails, tries again, fucking fails, all as the Corsican Twins cackle over word choice, good god, and then—

“Hey.”

Steve’s grabbing his hand at the wrist and covering it so gently, fucking…cradles it and stories his thumb over the insistent tap of his pulse and meets his eyes, so wide and honest and earnest and if Eddie’s heart wasn’t already primed toward racing it sure as shit would have started just with those eyes on him, and that touch on him, and:

“You okay, man?” and it’s so simple, and Eddie doesn’t fucking know what’s happening on his face, what kind of of shock or terror or something deeper still is seeping from his expression but Steve’s studying him, watching for long seconds that stretch for-fucking-everbefore his jaw squares and his head tiles, something resolute shining through in him and he moves so slowly, lifts Eddie’s hand in his so slowly and Eddie doesn’t even wholly clock what’s happening, let alone that it’s real, as Steve fucking pauses their hands by his lips, so Eddie can feel his breath so warm and he watches, then, waits, and Eddie doesn’t think through what it means when he nods, like it’s not actually a legitimate thought, exactly, he just knows that, that—

Whatever’s happening, and however terrified he thinks he is: he can trust Steve.

Because somehow: Steve’s home.

It’s still fucking earth-shattering when Steve does lean, when his lips brush against the heel of Eddie’s palm, still scrape-covered, and then he reaches just as slow again for Eddie’s cheek to cup, to fucking cradle that, too, and Jesus H. Goddamn Christ—

“You’re safe, Eddie,” is all he says and maybe, maybe Eddie’s reading into it way beyond what he should, but like, it doesn’t feel like Steve’s telling him he’s safe maybe from the lingering threads of a nightmare, or that he’s safe from the government, from the cops, or from the Upside Down coming for them because they all know it’s still fucking coming but Eddie has felt scared of it once, yet, not like this, not here, with—

But Steve’s tone doesn’t just hold that: it’s bigger. He means…

They had to know he wasn’t really asleep, and so, Eddie, Eddie thinks Steve means…

Yeah.

Fuck.

“You’re outta water,” Steve’s saying and Eddie didn’t even notice he’d been reading to pour Eddie a glass from the ever-present pitcher at his bedside then he’s standing, his hand leaving and fuck all if Eddie doesn’t lean into it before he can think twice but Steve just smiles, soft, as he walks out the door.

“We talked about it.”

He turns to Robin almost violently, head kinda snapping her direction with the speed and force he moves with.

“We weren’t gonna hide it from you, but like,” she mashes her lips together, Eddie can see she’s trying to find a way forward with the least possible rambling, but the clearest possible throughway so she can get what she needs to say out, before Steve comes back.

“You shouldn’t feel like you have to,” she hums a little; “be that, you know, open? With us, if you don’t want to,” her eyes are so big and sincere, and Eddie’s pulse is steadying if only slowing by a fraction, but she does help put him at ease, even as she trips a little over the rest: “if you had any thing that was, y’know, kinda private or, something,” she nods to herself and plays with the hem of her shirt: “yeah.”

Eddie nods to himself, and…he can’t, he can’t not ask her, not in this window, because she said they’d talked and if this wasn’t part of it she loves Steve fierce and he could be still a little fresh off death’s door, she’ll still tell him to fuck off if she needs to, so at least there’s that, at least he knows, like, he won’t be allowed to step where he’s not welcome, and—

“I’m,” and fuck, his voice is a mess, he does need a fucking drink but in the absence of one at hand, he clears his throat hard and accepts that consequences of it burning like hell; “he, umm,” Eddie bits his lip and gestures toward the empty door, eyes Robin kinda pitifully: “he said—“

Robin, thank fuck: Robin is merciful, has to see where he’s going, here, and she points to the doorway indicative of who isn’t in it, yet:

“Very both,” she says simply, then point to herself: “very…”

“Boobies?” Eddie suggests and Robin, she just groans.

“Not you too,” and…okay, shit, umm, well—

Eddie… maybe Eddie can be brave. Like, in small doses.

“Actually, ah, I,” he stumbled but then he makes himself take a breath, makes himself try:

“No, not me too,” he says in a rush and looks up at her through his lashes, so fucking vulnerable: “like, very specifically not, me too.”

And she smiles at him so warm and…like, almost welcoming, which is weird but feels, nice? And she pats his arm kinda affectionately and, just—

“Did you decide to take me up on my wisdom so we can actually accept she’s almost definitely into you, and move on to planning your wedding?” Steve slides back in and shuts the door behind him, getting to pouring Eddie some water before he even sits the fuck down.

His fingers brush Eddie’s as he passes it off and, it probably shouldn’t make Eddie all tingly, Steve did kinda kiss his hand? Like, a little?

But that don’t mean shit: Eddie’s all pins and needles and, like, sparkles.

“He’s the only help you’ve got here, Buckley,” Eddie screws his courage up one more time because…because Steve needs to know, too; Eddie wouldn’t put Robin in the position of not knowing whether she can tell her platonic soulmate something, make her keep a secret even by implication but so much bigger that that is, are—

All the things he doesn’t want to poke at, or dig up and examine, that he’s dodging on the excuse of convalescence: all those things taken into account: he trusts Steve. He feels…so much for Steve already, and he feels weirdly sure that whatever happens next, those feelings are only gonna find ways to grow, so—

Steve has to know, not just because Eddie thinks he suspects it, but because Eddie tells him—because it’s….’cause it’s Steve.

“Feels like it’d be foolish not to take the man up on the offer when he’s definitely the expert in the room,” Eddie pushes on, awkward but determined; “seeing as I don’t, umm, know about,” and his eyes flicker to Robin for a second, before they land on Steve to finish:

“About boobies.”

And Steve does say anything, doesn’t look any way save how he’d looked before: calm, and mostly-relaxed, and right next to Eddie, and Eddie’s eyes drop from Steve’s face and find the collar of his shirt, the peak of hair from in between and, shit, shit, he’s talking about tits and then there’s Steve’s chest hair and holy fucking wow he is staring:

“Umm, I mean,” and fucking fuck, now he’s talking—

“Like, not that kind, at least,” and then he forces his eyes down to the sheets over his lap and considers if it’s possible to dissolve into cotton if it’s startchy and uncomfortable as shit, and you happen to be mortified enough to sink into the fucking threads.

But then; then there’s Steve.

Because of fucking course there’s Steve.

And Steve?

Steve takes his cup from him when he could easily have leaned to put it down himself, but then Steve replaces the cup in Eddie’s grip with his own warm hand, like a tether, like a lifeline, like a…

Like a promise.

And when the conversation turns toward strategizing Robin’s approach for Vickie, Eddie’s, he, he just…

He’s home, y’know?

tag list (comment to be added): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson

♥️

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vox-ex · 6 months

Text

write

supercorptober 2023

“Let us turn over the pages, and I will add, for your amusement, a comment in the margin.” - Virginia Woolf

----

A soft morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room as Lena stirred from her sleep. Wrapped in the comforting embrace of the sweatshirt she had come to wear most nights, she breathed in deeply, catching the lingering scent of Kara's laundry detergent still caught in its threads. It was a subtle reminder of the delicate place they were in now, of all the ways Kara had made her way back into her life And as the days passed, Lena began to notice the little traces of Kara reappearing around her apartment more and more. A handmade mug in her kitchen cabinet. A colorful painting on her wall. The woody citrus scent of her shampoo clinging to the tiles from time to time while she used the shower. And now, as the evenings turned colder, even a thick wool blanket that found its way too onto her couch; and eventually wrapped around the both of them.

Little by little the thought of Kara in her home became familiar again.

Little by little, Kara became familiar again.

One Sunday afternoon, while waiting for Kara to return from a mission, Lena found herself going through her bookshelves for something to read. Her finger trailed along the spines; she hesitated at a small collection she didn't quite recognize, wondering if Maybe this was another piece of Kara slipped in.

"Those don't look familiar," she said quietly to herself, an eyebrow arching in curiosity. She pulled at them carefully, tipping out the warn paperback one by one.

Each was a slim volume of poetry. Mary Oliver, June Jordan, Louise Glück.

She flipped each of their well-loved covers open. She noticed the dates scribbled in the corner. Noticed her name — Lena — in Kara's familiar writing just underneath. Noticed that all the dates were newer than the books themselves, but also much older than they should be.

She sank into her armchair, the soft fabric cradling around her as she began to leaf through the pages of Mary Oliver's poems. Each turn revealed more and more of Kara – a hastily scribbled note in the margin, a title underlined in pencil, a phrase circled with a question mark beside it. Notes on what song to listen to after reading it. Her fingers traced over Kara's handwriting, feeling the indentation left by the force of it against the paper. Lena could almost see the years between them just in what Kara writes — in how she writes.

At least one of the notes she found was for her.

"Share with Lena."

Written in the corner of a poem titled "Wild Geese," — her heart swelled at both the words and the idea she could be known by someone else in such a way.

"I wonder," Lena breathed into the stillness of the room.

She stood up and walked back to the bookshelves that lined one whole wall of the office. She scanned the shelves again, her fingers brushing against the spines of well-worn novels she had packed and unpacked a hundred times to heavy textbooks and research volumes.

She started pulling down more books. One she had told Kara about, ones she had told her were her favorites.

Soon, she was sitting on the floor, books scattered all around her.

Her fingers traced the words that Kara had left. Unlike in her books, the writing wasn't on the pages themselves, but scribbled on pieces of paper — small post-its or even a few bits of napkins — and stuck in between the pages. Her thoughts, questions, even elegant equations.

"Hey," Kara's voice drifted through the open doorway before the rest of her appeared, body angling just past the doorframe.

"Am I interrupting?"

"No, not at all," Lena replied quickly, smiling gently. "I was just…" She hesitated, not quite sure.

"Looking for something?" Kara ventured, taking a step closer, her expression shifting from confusion to a gentle understanding

Something like that," Lena admitted from her spot on the floor.

Kara's gaze fell to the book that lay open on her lap, and Lena could see the flicker of surprise and recognition in her eyes.

"I didn't think you'd find them," Kara admitted, her voice caught between awe and vulnerability as she stepped fully into the room. "I mean, you have so many."

Lena hesitated, then added, "I wanted to show you something."

Kara nodded, and Lena stood up, holding out the book. It was one of hers, Felicity, by Mary Oliver. But it was newer than all the others.

Kara took the book from Lena, careful not to lose the page it was on.

She caught a hint of Lena's neat script at the bottom but didn't look at it yet.

How do I love you?

How do I love you? Oh, this way and that way. Oh, happily. Perhaps I may elaborate by demonstration? Like this, and like this and no more words now

When she got to the end, her eye fell back into the margins, back to what Lena had written — a question.

'No more words?''

She read it a couple of times just to be sure.

She grabbed a pen from her pocket — but then looked up at Lena instead.

"Perhaps I could elaborate with a demonstration?"

Kara's kiss, when it came, was soft and unhurried, her lips warm and gentle. And like the rest of Kara that had made her way back to her, there was comfort in how familiar it was.

And when Lena pulls her back in a second time, it's with a tenderness that says I will be patient with your heart if you are careful with mine.

---

read and follow along all month on Ao3

#sg prompts #supercorp #supergirl #supercorptober #supercorptober2023 #supercorptober 2023 #softness #just hints of heaviness #hopeful endings #Lena kinds pieces of Kara in her apartment again as well as in the margins of her books #Kara love poetry because it's not something really valued on Krypton is a HC I will always lean into #It probably also made Earth make more sense...or potentially less

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