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moonchildstyles · 11 months

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rosemary

rosemary part one: harry has a lot of secrets and has perfected the art of being alone. y/n likes to wear bows in her hair and tries harder than anyone harry has ever known.

wordcount: 14.5k+

—————

The sound of the lock clicking in place as Harry twisted the deadbolt on his front door had his shoulders relaxing. The kind of comfort a locked door brought was something he'd never take for granted.

He kicked off his shoes beside the door, the dingy carpet making his beaten Vans look a lot cleaner than they really were. His keys clamoring atop the rickety side table he had set up next to the door had him wincing at the volume. He didn't like loud noises much anyway, but especially not after one of his longer shifts. Harry bypassed the single curtained window in his apartment, leaving the drapes heavily closed despite the morning light crawling over the horizon.

First order of business was changing out of his work uniform. He hated nothing more than relaxing in the same pants he had worked all night in, even if the dress code of the grocery store was on the lax side. He flung the maroon collared shirt into his hamper, followed by the set of stiff, dark pants he wouldn't wear ever in his daily life. He could have melted as soon as he threw on a heather grey t-shirt and tattered sweats.

The second he sunk into his bed, springs creaking under his weight, he felt the knots in his muscles begin to loosen. He'd never worked over nights before at any of his previous jobs, and he hadn't anticipated how hard it would be to adjust to falling asleep when the sun came up and the challenge his body would pose over working when he should be resting. At least, he was home.

His studio apartment wasn't heavily furnished—or even lightly furnished, if he was being honest. This was his seventh home in the last handful of years, and after a while the idea of lugging furniture around and anything other than the essentials made him just as exhausted as the actual process of moving. It was easier to pack up and leave when there wasn't much for him to miss. Instead, he often bought secondhand, or anything cheap whenever he settled in a place that seemed good enough for the time being.

This particular move left him with a plain bed frame, the legs uneven but fixed with the help of a couple of old books. His pillows were thin, matching the frayed sheets he had stretched across his mattress and the threadbare comforter topping the whole thing. Like with most of his past apartments, the carpets held stains from before he moved in, walls yellowed from cigarettes he didn't smoke, and the kitchen appliances worked at their convenience. The only things that were truly his, that he never parted with in any of his moves and made this place less of a crash pad, were the few well-loved books under his bed that weren't being used to prop up the frame, and the small photo of his mother and sister sitting on a shelf he was lucky enough to have found at a garage sale when he moved in.

Despite it all, Harry liked this place.

The town he'd landed in was on the quieter side, too small for much trouble to rise up. He hoped that would make it an easy place to stick around for a while.

His body felt heavy when he forced himself to stand from his bed and pad over to the tiny kitchen tucked in the corner of the space. As exhausted as his body was, his brain was still very much awake and urging him to eat something before he settled any.

His kitchen was made up of limited cabinet space, a trio of stubborn appliances, and a square of loosely-laid tiles marking the confines of the space. The flimsy cabinets were barely hanging onto their hinges, from before even Harry moved in. The shelves were sparsely dotted with canned food and boxed snacks. They were the easiest and cheapest things to grab, even if they weren't necessarily bites that he liked. Plus, they were easy to travel with if he needed to leave in a split.

The stubby refrigerator manning one of the walls held only the bare essentials, leaving the shelves and door more bare than not. The appliance mostly held the frozen meals he was able to get a discount on through his job. The microwave embedded in the wall stunk like burnt hair every time he ran it for longer than ten seconds. The stove was the most reasonable method of heating up food in this apartment, Harry had found, even if only two out of the four burners operated on more than a simmer. He had never used the oven in the three months since he made this his home, despite the fact it had been cleared by his landlord on move in day. The exposed wiring sticking out of the back looked like it would cause a house fire instead of just heating a lasagna.

Harry bypassed it all as he rifled through his near-empty cabinets. To be fair, this wasn't the worst place he'd ever lived, so he'd take it if things were on the rundown side and carried an odd smell if he paid close enough attention. It was a routine the way he pulled out a can from his cupboard, a Spaghettio's label wrapped around the tin, before reaching for the misshapen pot he kept in a lower cabinet. His movements felt robotic as he went along, forming his meal out of habit more than any conscious thought. His brain happily turned onto autopilot as he stirred the runny tomato sauce, noodles floating through, until boiling bubbles broke through the surface.

Taking it off the heat, Harry scooped it into a bowl. This was good enough for him.

With the pot in the sink to be washed and the can in the trash, he moved on tired feet back to his bed. He didn't have a dining table to eat at, and he didn't really care if he was honest. It wasn't as if he was hosting dinner parties or entertaining guests. He was happy enough with nestling into his blankets and eating on his bed.

Tucked underneath his pillow, Harry pulled out a well-worn book. A dog-eared page marked his place in the oil-softened pages. The spine no longer cracked when he folded open the pages, the stiff set in the glue having settled somewhere after his fiftieth read. The bent and frayed cover no longer phased him anymore, nor did the name inscribed in the inside cover that wasn't his. No matter the state, this book followed him through every move, every change, and every sleepless night.

He knew this love story like the back of his hand; the pages one of the only constants in his life of transiency.

Harry wasn't even that much of a reader the first time he had picked up the volume. He had only been looking for something to escape into when he first started going on jobs, the stress and guilt beginning to warp his mind. These pages still hadn't lost their shine in his eyes, this story having been one of the only bright points when he swore he was digging himself to rock bottom.

Absentmindedly spooning bites of his meal into his mouth, Harry slipped into the familiar story. The comfort was almost enough to have him lulled into something safe enough that he could have fallen asleep where he was sitting, memories of every sleepless night when he had turned to this book hitting his system. It was a feat little else had been able to achieve, and Harry was grateful for that. He couldn't keep staying up at all hours now that he had the challenge of flipping his days with this new job.

Sitting on his well-loved bed, a well-loved copy of his favorite book in hand, and something that could pass as breakfast if he squinted hard enough, Harry felt at peace for a moment.

He didn't mind being alone, not when it was like this anyway. He hoped he wouldn't have to move on from this place for a while.

—————

Cardboard scraped against Harry's forearm as he reached into his box, digging through the packages of cookies and crackers that filled this specific shipment. The fluorescent lights above him felt especially fried now that the sun had gone down, washing out his skin and paling the ink of his tattoos.

While the rest of the night crew were paired off and working together to stock the shelves, Harry was commissioned alone. He worked better by himself, he knew that, and it was nice to have his boss know that now too. It only took almost two months into his employment until everyone realized he wasn't the kind of person that enjoyed idle chatter or wanted to get close to any of these people around him. Now, he was able to enjoy his music in peace, the white wire connecting the buds hitting his chest as he moved.

Harry had a system with the way he worked. He wanted to finish as fast as possible, and not waste any more energy than he had to. He tried to organize his boxes as much as he could on the cart before he was stocking each line of product as quickly as he could, extras being cast aside until he could make a trip to the back room. It was all a system, something he planned out without even thinking. If not for the fading ache in his shoulders and knees he would feel at the end of his shift, he wouldn't even really remember his movements.

Given this focus, there wasn't much that could distract Harry as he worked. His goal was to finish as fast as possible and move onto something else to fill his mundane nights, not to linger on the guests of the grocery store or fill the silence with small talk he didn't care about. There was a reason he gravitated towards the operations side of this job and not the customer service aspects.

That's why he didn't give it much of a thought when he saw a pastel streak flash in the corner of his eye. He continued doing his job, organizing his box some, as he filtered through the packages of biscuits and sweet crackers, soft sleeves of cookies, and bags of other products. It wasn't until the pastel streak drew closer did he instinctively glance in its direction.

Her back was to him as she held her gaze upwards. She was scanning the shelves, this woman, complete with an overlarge cream sweater and a peach colored bow in her hair that shone in the light like the velvet fuzz of the color's namesake. One of the grocery store's signature maroon baskets was at her side, the handles tucked in her elbow. There was barely anything in her basket, but that isn't what had Harry's brows knitting in the middle by the time he stitched his attention back on his work.

It was way too late for anyone to be doing any menial shopping in his opinion, especially not a girl who looked as if she might deem throwing flower petals in the face of an attacker to be sufficient self-defense. But, that wasn't his business, he reminded himself. It didn't help soothe the tears in his mental health to imagine the worst possible scenarios starring those around him.

A centering breath was sucked in through his nose as he flicked the switch in his brain that had him thinking only of his body's movements. He curled around himself, stepping out of the way as much as possible so the pastel-peach girl could go about her business and disturb Harry as little as possible. The less approachable he looked, the less he'd be approached.

He didn't know if she wandered that aisle for the next couple of minutes or traced down the shelves on the other side before coming back, but that telltale shift in the air around him told him she was now behind him. The static told him she was right there, at his back.

Harry didn't acknowledge her presence, instead making it clear he was working and didn't want to be disturbed. He hoped she could see the wire of his headphones that much clearer against his dark shirt. He wasn't inviting her presence; if she needed help, Brett and Fawn were just a couple of aisles down and much more friendly.

As with some attempts at camouflage, it didn't work in Harry's favor. Some people didn't always see what was clearly in front of them, he knew that.

A small hand, complete with pearl polished nails and skin smelling of something sweet like honey and the savory bite of herbs, landed on the crook of his elbow. "Excuse me?" her voice leaked through his headphones.

With a tick appearing in his jaw and a pace of breathing he was sure looked just as forced as it was, Harry halted his work with a sleeve of graham crackers in his hand. His features felt stiff when he turned towards this girl.

He spoke as he twisted in his spot with a hand yanking his headphones out of his ears, her touch falling from his arm just as quickly. "What?"

When Harry's gaze brushed over her, cataloguing details to add to the pastel streak he had thought her to be before, the same attention that went into his work was now employed in keeping his features stoic and muscles hard. This woman... was very pretty.

Her cream sweater he had seen from behind was actually a cardigan, buttoned loosely over her torso with a pale peach top underneath. The buttons were pearls, matching the shifting light that characterized the varnish on her nails. Her jeans were high waisted, ripped in places that lead to a pair of pristine white tennis shoes, complete with a set of pink laces threaded over the tongue. The bow held back pieces of hair that would have normally fallen around her face, leaving small strands fluttered as if matching the tendrils of her bow that drifted down her back.

In the time he was trying to figure out who was standing right in front of him, she blinked at his harsh tone, almost recoiling as if she'd been struck. Her hands became a bundle at her middle as he squirmed under his gaze. Harry swallowed harshly.

"Sorry to bother you," she started, recovering some with a short smile on her lips, "I was just wondering... God, this sounds so much more dumb out loud than I thought it would." She cut herself off with a soft laugh, dropping her gaze from his to settle on the cardboard box on his cart. "Do you have any of those white chocolate raspberry cookies that come in the bag in your box? The soft ones?" she tired again, shuffling her toes against the linoleum, "I didn't see any on the shelf, so I was hoping you might have some in one of your boxes. They're my favorite so..."

Harry wanted to be annoyed, he really did. There were hundreds of less offensive situations he'd been in that bothered him more than he knew his mother would be proud of him for, but this just couldn't be added to the list. And that annoyed him. Though, there was something in him that felt a bit contented knowing that there was still a heart buried somewhere inside of him that wouldn't allow him to get upset at someone like her.

"Let me look." His voice was gruff as he brushed a knuckle under his nose.

He knew exactly what she was looking for, the packaging coming to mind. He liked this brand too, though he rarely ever felt as if he could spare the cash to indulge. He'd never tried the raspberry variation, though.

Working stiffly, he rifled through the box until he found the bottom layer of product. A white, rustic looking bag was tucked in a corner. The brand name stylized as if it were embedded on a wooden board was printed on the white bag, with the name of the cookies and the variation underneath.

White chocolate chunks with bites of real raspberry in a soft cookie.

That's the one.

Fishing it out, Harry unceremoniously presented it to her. He made a point to keep his eyes from lingering on her for too long. He needed to keep his clear head.

"This one?"

She lit up in a way Harry couldn't ignore. Her eyes had to have been holding glitter behind her irises the way the color brightened, matching her smile. Creases appeared around the corners of her eyes, soft lips stretched and complemented with laugh lines.

"Yes, yes, those ones!" she chattered off, reaching out to take the bag from him.

Harry shoved the crinkling bag into her grasp, watching as she stumbled back some before placing it in her basket among what he could now see was a bundle of rosemary and a package of noodles. Nonetheless, her smile didn't falter as she turned towards him again.

"Thank you..." she trailed off, her gaze dropping to his chest where a name tag was pinned to the breast, "Harry."

There was a lag in between the second he heard her voice wrap around his name and the beats of Harry's heart resuming at a rapid pace. His throat went dry for a moment, something he couldn't believe was happening to him over something like this. When was the last time someone learned his name just because they wanted to know him?

He swallowed that line of questioning down as soon as it popped up. "Um, yeah," he told her, turning back to his box as soon as he had the words out.

His headphones he had dangling in his grasp were replaced in his ears, his music still playing on, a different song now filtering than the one that had been when he ripped them out. Harry pushed his objective to the forefront of his mind, leaving little space to keep up with the way his stomach tightened hearing this girl's voice saying his name. He didn't want to focus on the fact he could still feel her presence for a moment after he had dismissed her. He wasn't going to let any of this fluster him—or whatever it was that could happen to a person who barely had any feelings left.

Calculating his movements was the only viable distraction until he could feel that static of her presence flitter away. It was only then that he dared to indulge himself in a short glance aimed in her direction. He caught the barest view of her wobbly bow and the edge of her loose cardigan before she disappeared around the corner, leaving him alone once more.

He was going to forget her, Harry decided. Whatever reaction he just had, wasn't going to happen again.

—————

Gazing down at his hands, Harry only saw red. It wasn't his blood that tainted his skin, but there was a pain in his body that made him want to argue that there was no way he wasn't injured. From somewhere far—but not far enough—away, a crashing sound rumbled through the warehouse. He felt his bones vibrate and his head go fuzzy. More blood dripped from his skin.

Another crash sounded, this time much closer to where Harry couldn't move his feet. It was as if he were bolted to the spot. More blood, more scars.

From the corner of his eye, he saw someone. They were walking with a purpose, heavy on their feet.

His hands still shook even when he took his eyes off of the thick crimson dripping from his fingers. The person coming towards him looked familiar. Too familiar.

The second they were close enough, Harry recognized that it was himself. There was a gun in the clone's hand, the barrel pointed right at his head.

Another loud crash.

Harry woke with a start, rocketing up in bed. His breathing was heavy, thick and humid, with his hands shaking where they were clutching the thin bedding askew over his form. There was a sheen of cold sweat covering his body, his hair clinging to the back of his neck.

Looking at his hands, untangling from the bedding, Harry felt his heart rate go down a notch when he no longer saw blood coating the appendages. His vision still blurred at the edges as he came down, his lips mouthing a mantra he wanted so badly to believe:

It's not real, it's just a dream. It's not real, it's just a dream. It's not real, it's just a dream.

He didn't live that life anymore, he reminded himself. That was a part of his past, but it's all over now. Those scars would never reopen and his hands would never be stained that way again. He would make sure of that.

As he talked himself down, the rest of his apartment came back into view. The edges of his vision sharpened, showing him the rest of his full bed, rumpled sheets, and the book he had dropped when he finally managed to fall asleep in the middle of a passage. He busied his hands as fixed his book, righting the bent cover and smoothing back the crease that folded into the page he left on. With that sweat on his bare chest and thin comforter falling to his lap, he realized just how cold his apartment was.

Taking a deep breath, his lungs shuddering as he fought to regulate the pacing he lost in his sleep, he swung his legs over the side of his bed. He worked slowly as he replaced his book back to his rightful slot underneath his bed. Lethargy weighed down his limbs as he searched for his phone somewhere on the floor as he sat with his legs crossed underneath his bottom, the scratch of the carpet dragging across his ankles from where his pants rode up grounding him.

The screen of his phone was far too bright when he powered it up, the time being of no surprise to him even if he was disappointed. He only got a few hours of sleep before that dream woke him up into the real world, plenty of time left before he should begin getting ready to go to work.

This was how it always was for the past handful of years. Harry was lucky to have slept at all really, as some days he wasn't that fortunate, but there was no way he was going to be able to drift off again. But, he'd gotten rather good at finding ways to fill his time.

Standing on wobbly legs, Harry took his time stripping his bed. There was time to get through some laundry, he figured, hauling both his bedding as well as his full hamper to the rickety washer and dryer stationed in the hall closet.

Every movement was a distraction: separating the colors of his clothing, the measuring of the detergent, and the three times he had to set the cycle before the machine finally came to life all did their part to keep him from obsessively staring at his hands as if they would do something bad if he wasn't watching. It was routine the way he didn't allow himself to dwell on the dreams he could no longer forget like he could when they first started sporadically.

Harry felt like a shadow as the hours passed, even after a cold shower shocked his nerves and a bland meal had warmed his stomach. But, at least he was awake.

—————

Watching his hands as he stocked and stocked the shelves in front of him, more and more of himself came back to Harry. This was the perk of the more manual of jobs he had. He could use his body and keep track of every movement he made, every stretch of his muscles coming from his own volition.

It felt like a ritual the way a pastel flash struck the corner of his vision.

It'd been almost a month since the first time he'd seen her, and she made more trips with a basket tucked into the crook of her elbow than he had seen most other patrons. Maybe he only noticed her now that he recognized her and the phantom ache that touched the muscles of his stomach every time he saw her wander close to him. Nonetheless, he saw her more often than not, barely anything in her basket but small items and snacks, never once with a full shopping cart or a list in hand.

In an odd way, he'd almost begun to expect her—look for her. It was a part of his shift to see her drifting through the aisles in something comfortable, a ribbon in her hair, and that ever-present smile on her face. He'd never admit that though, even to himself.

Instead, when he saw her drift into his aisle—the frozen meal section tonight—he kept to himself. Harry didn't even bother to look up at her for more than a glance, even when he paused his music as he listened to her footsteps padding over the floor. Just like she always did since the first night she went out of her way to read his name tag, she offered him a soft smile of recognition as she passed by. Even though Harry hadn't reciprocated a single one.

Just like that, she kept moving, Harry's ear trained to hear her pad off until he couldn't distinguish her footsteps against any of the other noises filtering through the grocery store. He played his music again then, allowing something else to fill his head before she could wiggle her way inside.

Though he would rather not acknowledge it, there was something about the fact that the haunted feeling that had clung to him since his nightmare earlier in the day, finally began to dissolve. That turning in his stomach every time he saw one of the thin scars of his hands turned into the residual flaps of a butterfly's wings, even if he didn't dare give the feeling a name or even think of the cause.

Despite the fact there was something loose in his muscles now as he worked, his head a little bit more clear with that dream tied up in a peachy bow in the back of his mind, Harry was going to ignore it all just as he had every time he saw that girl.

—————

"Thank you, Harry!"

The bow girl's chirping gratitude only had Harry looking at her stiffly with a grumbled Yeah falling from his lips. Just as she had done the last couple of months since she made herself a presence during his shifts, she simply gave him a smile before bouncing away with her basket only containing a carton of banana milk and her favorite cookies. She was no longer perturbed by the standoffish responses he gave her. Harry couldn't decide if he liked that or not.

It was like this at least a couple of times a week. She never did a big shop, only stopping by at later times to pick up individual ingredients for a dinner she had chatted to him about, or little snacks she couldn't seem to go a day without. During at least one of her trips, she found an excuse to talk to Harry; she asked him about his day if she was close enough to feel comfortable starting a question (Harry never gave her a good answer, honestly), she told him about her own day and what she was shopping for if there was anything specific she had in mind. She almost always had a bow pinned to her hair, fluttering behind her and matching whatever soft piece of clothing she had cinched around her form. Harry had even begun fishing out a pack of her favorite cookies from his boxes if he was stocking that aisle, just to make it easy if she came in and asked him for assistance. It made the interactions quicker and less bothersome—at least that's what he told himself.

He knew more about her and her routines than he had any of the hundreds of people he'd met in the last handful of years since he started moving around. Even if that did make him feel a bit guilty knowing that she didn't have a clue about who exactly she was sharing these parts of herself with; she didn't know the mess she was tiptoeing around every time she interacted with him.

Tonight was no different, her leaving a rattling in Harry's bones that he wanted nothing more than to ignore like every other part of his life. If he was superstitious, he would think she could have cast some kind of spell on him with the way she and her little bows lingered in his brain long after she had checked out and gone on her way home.

That rattling followed him as he made his way into the backroom, his empty box needing to be replaced. An exasperated sigh fought to leave his chest when he saw almost half of the overnight team huddled in the area, puttering about as they chattered and pretended to work. He didn't like being roped into their conversations, and that almost always happened when he ran into more than two of them at once.

Harry didn't say a word as he broke down the cardboard box on his cart, pushing it off to the pile of the other flattened boxes before he reached for another. The conversations had quieted some when he walked in, but he could still hear what sounded like Brett and Fawn flirting in the back corner with a cart of refrigerated items that needed to go on the opposite end of the store, and Theo talking to two of the other guys that Harry hadn't bothered to remember the names of.

"Busy night, huh, Harry?" Theo started, dropping whatever topic he had been rambling to his friends about just a moment before.

"Yeah," Harry answered, voice stiff. It wasn't any more busy than any other night as far as he was concerned. Besides, he had other things he needed to worry about than to be making conversation with a coworker he barely knew. There was still a peach colored ribbon tying his stomach in tiny knots that he needed to fix.

Soon enough, a silence fell through the backroom when the others made their way out. Only Harry and Theo were left, Harry doing his part to semi-organize his chosen box before heading out on the floor again.

Maybe it was the rattling in his bones, or the vision of a peach colored bow that he saw every time he blinked, but something in Harry felt a little reckless when he peeked over at Theo focusing on his own box.

"That girl," Harry rumbled, feeling odd in his skin as he spoke, "The one with the bows in her hair... She comes in a lot."

Theo looked taken aback for a moment, his eyes wide with furrowed brows as he looked in Harry's direction. He even glanced over his shoulder as if there were anyone else there for the conversation to be aimed at. Harry had to keep from scoffing, dropping his gaze back to his working hands.

Floundering over his words, Theo tried to catch up once he realized Harry was voluntarily talking. "Um, the—uh—the one with bows in her hair?"

Harry hummed in response. "She's in a couple of times a week."

"Ohhh," Theo sounded, familiarity touching his tone, "You mean (Y/N)?"

Harry swallowed at the sound of her name. He'd never asked for it himself. "If that's her name."

From the corner of his eye, Harry could see Theo nodding his head. "She comes in a lot, yeah. She's not good at keeping a list and always forgets stuff if she tries to do big shops, so she just comes in when she wants something or runs out."

Though he didn't want this information to mean something to him, Harry felt a part of himself slowly being fulfilled the more details he learned. She didn't tell him these kinds of things when she rambled about her dinner choice for the night.

Keeping his gaze tacked to his hands, Harry kept his words measured and calculated. "Oh," he started, "Is she from here?"

"She's lived here forever, yeah. Why?"

A beat passed as Harry opted to ignore the second part of Theo's response. He didn't need to have any details as to why Harry was asking after someone after working together for five months with only a handful of interactions. Even if he did want to share that, Harry didn't have any real answers to that why, anyway.

"Does she... What does she do?" Harry asked, the phrasing of his words feeling awkward falling out of his mouth. He was lucky he was so used to shielding his emotions and staying stoic, otherwise he would have cringed where he stood.

"Like for work?" Theo asked, his eyes warm on Harry's profile.

Lifting his shoulders, Harry only shrugged in response. It was probably a good idea to keep his mouth shut.

"She—uh—she works at the bakery over on Windsor. She and my sister work there together," Theo told him, acting as if Harry was supposed to know what bakery he was talking about and who his sister was. "(Y/N)'s pretty nice, though."

"Right," was all Harry offered by the time he finished organizing his box. He didn't bother to give anything more in response or wait for Theo to elaborate before he was walking out on the floor again. Even when he could feel Theo's eyes stuck to his back.

No doubt would this interaction make its way to the rest of the team before the end of the shift.

It was harmless curiosity, Harry argued. He just had to believe the harmless part.

—————

It's funny the kinds of things that happened in the day that then were transported and highlighted in a dream. Stranger's faces, odd conversations, a passing thought, things that normally wouldn't have been catalogued at all by a waking brain but were held tightly in the middle of sleep.

Despite the fact Harry made it home from work at three in the morning, he still ended up waking in the early morning after a lingering dream. He didn't remember much about the scene the longer he was awake, but he knew there were swaying bows in pretty hair. A soft voice could have been there too, along with a subtle smile, but he couldn't remember. All because he had seen those ribbons and heard that voice the night before.

For a split second, when he was surfacing from sleep, he wanted so badly to just roll over and continue whatever play was running in the back of his mind. But, sleep didn't come easy for him; he'd have to take whatever small amount of hours his body allowed him and be grateful.

That left Harry to lay in his bed and stare at the ceiling above him, peeks of sunshine beginning to filter through the heavy drapes on his single window. He pretended as if he wasn't waiting for flashes of the dream to come back to him, even as he reluctantly found his footing in the real world.

He was off work for the next two days. Forty-eight hours he would have to fill with the kinds of tasks he dreaded almost as much as actually reporting in for a shift.

Grocery shopping was at the top of the to-do list as well as the hated tasks list. He hated going into his work on his day off just so he could shop the canned food aisles and dodge small talk from the dayshift coworkers that pretended as if they had met him more than once during his training shifts. A trip to the library was due as well, his borrowed books packed away under his bed and read from cover to cover in the week since he'd last visited the building. There was also always cleaning and laundry to be done, more things to keep him busy before he would undoubtedly retire to his bed for the rest of the day and read as much as he could to keep his brain from going to mush.

Harry sighed at the day's agenda. This was the life he wanted, though, so he was going to appreciate every day of the boring tasks and the mundane dredge.

By the time he had a load of laundry running in his machine and his hands buried in the sink, doing dishes he put off until his weekend, Harry's mind was already wandering somewhere outside of his apartment.

Theo had been complaining last night towards the end of the shift about how his sister needed him to pick her up from work today. She was opening and had stayed the night at her boyfriend's before, but he wouldn't be able to drop her off and pick her up. That left Theo to take up the job in exchange for gas money and whatever treats his sister could sneak from the bakery. Theo kept droning on about how since it was Sunday, the bakery opened up early, leaving him to have to fight to stay awake after going home so he wouldn't miss picking up his sister.

Throughout all of the petty complaining and meaningless rambling, the only thing that stuck out to Harry was the hours of this bakery being narrowed down. He didn't mean to pay attention, not now after knowing who else worked there, but it was just another one of those things that stuck in his brain like a dreamy detail.

An early opening could mean that his bow girl—(Y/N)—might be there as well.

Harry's hands flexed under the soapy water. It wouldn't be such a bad thing to go to a bakery on a Sunday morning. No one would think anything of it—and neither should he. He liked pastries as much as the next person. Even if trying out one of the town's baked goods wasn't necessarily his goal for the outing didn't mean that it would be a bad idea. He had more self-control than most people—a bit of indulgence wouldn't break him.

Before he could get too far ahead of himself, Harry focused on washing the dishes in the sink. He laid each piece gently out on the tea towel flattened out beside the sink, taking extra care as if his slow pace could prove that he still had all that control he was boasting about. If he was really on the edge of breaking—about to make a bad decision—he wouldn't be so in control, he argued. He even waited for the load of laundry to make that erratic beeping noise that notified him that he could trade into the dryer.

Still clad in only a pair of sweats that acted as his pajamas, Harry lazily reached for his phone before looking at the time. Just before nine a.m. According the Theo, the bakery opened at eight in the morning today, right when he was picking up his sister after her early morning shift. Harry held onto that air of nonchalance as he looked up the open confectionaries around him, finding a link at the top of the page for The Flour Pot.

They were marked as open, hours laid out on the same popup. Only a handful of miles away from the grocery store and on the same block as his library. It wouldn't take him longer than fifteen minutes to get there. He could even stop by the library on his way back or do his grocery shopping.

There, he cemented. That just proved this whole thing wasn't just to see a fluttering bow or hear a soft voice. He had other things he needed to do, and after hearing so much about this bakery, he could try it out while he was in town.

With his laundry rumbling in the dryer and his dishes laid out to dry on the counter, Harry changed out of his sweats and threw on a hoodie to keep him warm against the chill in the morning air. He tucked his library books under his arm and started out the door, locking up behind him just like any other day.

Just as he figured, he was back in town in less than twenty-minutes, the directions on his phone taking him just a few buildings down from the library. With the early hour, he couldn't see the bakery being especially busy, but when he found a parking spot across the street from the building, his hands clenched around the steering wheel.

Through the lit windows, he saw a line inside. Morning sunshine kept the glass especially translucent, even through the decals pasted to the panes boasting the bakery's name and pots of leafy plants to play on the pun of the title. He could spot glimpses of patrons lounging in the few tables provided while others were waiting in line, the queue long enough to have others shuffling aside when the door behind them swung open.

Harry's heartbeat quickened at the sight. He never liked being where so many people were crowded. It was hard to keep track of so many and what they were doing and saying when they were packed in a tight space. He thought—hoped—that with the early time he'd be beating out the crowds.

Taking a deep breath, Harry reminded himself that there was no harm in having more than ten people in one space. This was something he needed to work on anyway—something he was working on. There was no point to becoming so nervous over something like this. The odds of someone recognizing him or something out of his control happening were slim to none.

The whole point in leaving those years ago was to have a normal life. This was part of that.

Before he could dwell on the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, Harry swung open his door. He planted his feet on the solid ground, stuffed his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, and trekked on.

Keeping his eyes on his feet as he walked, Harry didn't look up until the entrance to the bakery was right in front of him. He had his phone gripped in one hand, prepared to pull it out and fiddle with it in an attempt to sate his nerves, while the other reached out for the golden handle embedded in the glass and wood door.

One peek through the crystal had his hand falling from the handle.

Behind the counter was (Y/N).

She had her back to the door, but he knew that bow. She'd worn it before. He knew that silken pearl color, the slightly lopsided loops, the fabric nestled in with the mess of hair on the top of her head. He knew that if she turned around, even spared a glance over her shoulder, what kind of smile would be painted over her features and the soft set of her features that was practically her trademark. He wanted her to turn around just so he could compare that smile to the ghost of the one in his dreams

It's the fluttering in his stomach and the pacing of his heart behind the cage of his ribs that had Harry turning around. He didn't care if anyone saw his reaction, if anyone noted just how weird the whole moment was. He wasn't able to make those extra steps to go inside.

He shouldn't be that happy to see her. That wasn't the kind of reaction someone in control would have. That only showed him the kind of weaknesses the walls around him had, the bits of crumbling stone that he was going to have to solidify before he could boast about all of his self-control.

This was the reason he never allowed himself to grow attached to anyone. The fact that she was the only person in five years to even bother attempting to penetrate those stone walls should have no bearing on how he conducted himself. He knew better than to let her soft smiles and fluttering bows and gentle conversations get to him. He was the one who knew better in this situation; (Y/N) didn't know what kind of person she was offering those niceties to, and it would be wrong of him to accept and even seek them out.

She didn't deserve what could happen if he let this loss of control continue.

Slamming his car door shut behind him with a reverberating rattle of the frame, Harry vowed that whatever had caused that flutter in his stomach and the clench of his heart would stop now. He can't feel that way about anyone or anything. He was taking back control now.

With his hands tight around the steering wheel and the thought of the bakery wiped from his mind, Harry hoped he never dreamt of bows again.

—————

Harry pretended as if he couldn't hear the conversation happening at the end of the aisle from him, a couple loudly wondering where they could find the artisanal bread. He didn't want to help them.

This was why he hated coming in any earlier than the call time for his overnight shifts. Even with the fact he was only covering a couple of extra hours—coming in at six instead of eight—the difference in clientele was too stark for his comfort. It was too early in the night even to justify sticking in his headphones and drowning out the noise of others.

Instead, he hoped that the slight frown on his features and the furrow in his brows would be enough to warn people away from him as he continued his stocking of the soup and other canned goods he was tasked with for the time being. The outfacing shelf gave him the advantage of leaving his back facing most of the customers that walked through, though he made a point to drift away whenever a patron stalked a little too close to his personal space.

Despite it all, a part of Harry was grateful for the distraction of work and the extra people around him. That was why he had been picking up hours here and there throughout the week. Anything to keep his brain busy since he had recoiled from the bakery a week ago.

He'd done a good job in his opinion, of keeping (Y/N) and all of the bows in her hair off of his mind. His resolve was being rebuilt brick by brick, reminders swirling in his brain of why he's never experienced those kinds of butterflies and the anticipation in his heart before. He wasn't the kind of person that needed that kind of feeling—deserved that overflowing of joy in his veins. He kept himself tucked away for a reason, and he needed to remember that.

His shifts no longer held a current of anticipation, waiting to see if this would be the night she would wander on by, sparing him a smile and a breath of her attention. Her place in his brain had been corralled to a back corner that he was adamant on keeping the barriers to steady and clean.

That was why when he saw a pair of white sneakers with pink shoelaces threaded through, he pretended as if his brain didn't go to one person immediately. It could be anyone in the world—should be anyone else. He shouldn't be able to recognize her from such a minute detail, but there was already that beat against the ladder of his ribs that told him everything he needed to know about how poorly he had maintained that corral in the back of his mind.

With a tick in his jaw, Harry reminded himself of his resolve. He kept his focus on his cart, taking more time to dig around while he waited for those shoes to disappear from the corner of his eye.

Of course, he couldn't be so lucky.

"Harry?" that soft voice asked him.

A slow breath was sucked in through his nose as he stood to the full of his height. He turned to find her looking at him with those eyes he could only remember glimpses of from the haze of his dream. Her face was clean from makeup, hair twisted back into a clip as she had forgone a bow for the day. Comfortable clothes adorned her body, slouching and stretching with pastel hues stitched through her top and flowers adorning her leggings. In her hands, nails sparkling with a pearly white polish, she had a solid block of cheese.

Harry didn't bother to offer a response. (Y/N) was used to it by this point, though.

"Do you know if this is any good?" she started, emphasizing the cheese with a flick of her wrist, "I googled a recipe for a grilled cheese today, and it wants this kind of cheese, but... I don't know. I just want to make sure I'll like it before I buy it, and all. Have you tried it before?"

If Harry could draw his eyes away from the dewy planes of her face and the glimmering sheen of her eyes, he might have been able to read the label on the block she had in her hand, but that didn't seem to be an option his body was willing to follow.

He knew he had been following the line of her nose and pillows of her cupid's bow for a beat too long when she tipped her head, a crease appearing in-between her brows. Clearing his throat, he dropped his gaze from her eyes to fall in the neckline of her top. He schooled his features, keeping himself in line as he brushed the tip of his nose with the knuckle of his index finger.

Skimming his gaze over the white cheese in her hand, he shrugged some. "Um, probably," he mumbled, voice a rumble.

That glimmer in her eyes flashed to amusement. "You've probably tried it before?"

Under layers of the stoic front he put up, Harry could feel himself cringe. He knew he wasn't giving her a smart answer, but he didn't anticipate sounding that stupid.

Again, he shrugged. That was as much of an answer as he could formulate at the moment.

That same part of him that cringed at the lame answer he gave her, curled in on itself when he saw for the first time, (Y/N) grow crestfallen. She had always been very stubborn in her sunny disposition, only having been taken aback the first time they had met. Other than that, no matter how much of a downer he acted, there seemed to be a smile on her face she didn't mind offering to him, even if he didn't deserve it.

This time, he watched her brows pinch in the middle, her smile falling some to leave a barely there, lopsided curl that didn't reach her eyes. She dropped her gaze down to the block in her hand. Even her body seemed to shrink under his gaze, drawing her limbs close to her body in a recoil.

"Well, thanks anyway," she got out, the tone the same chirping pitch as usual, but there was no current. Nothing authentic sat beneath.

He watched as she lingered for a moment longer, her eyes attached to the label pasted to the cling wrap fitted around the cheese, before she began to head in the other direction. He'd never seen her so dejected before, even if she was only matching the energy he constantly gave her.

Guilt pooled in his stomach. It wasn't a nice feeling to see a light like her's becoming extinguished, especially from his own hand.

Before she could trail too far away, he peered over her hand and read over the label attached to her cheese. He recognized the French name from when he would help his mother in the kitchen. He knew this as one of the ingredients she would use for her macaroni and cheese; shredded and added to a pot to melt before being added to the spirals of noodles. He remembered how his main job when he was too young to properly help was to stir the cheese sauce, his eyes following the swirls and strings tracing through the cream.

Harry wasn't even aware he was taking a step to follow after her until he felt his toe push against the linoleum. "Actually—um," he started, watching as she turned to face him, features lightening, "That's a good cheese. Melts really nice. It'll probably be good for whatever recipe you found."

Instinctively, he wanted to curl back into his work, give himself a distraction and soothe some of that rattle in his bones. Instead, he forced himself to stay firm in his spot as she made those few short steps back to him.

(He couldn't help but to feel a bit silly, if he was being honest. All of this over a conversation about cheese. It verged into the territory of ridiculous if he wasn't actually experiencing it).

"Really? Thank you!" That genuine contentedness he had missed from her voice before was back, lilting and molding her words. "I read that it was good for melting, I just wasn't sure if I should slice it or shred it. The page didn't really tell me much on that."

Shrugging, Harry pretended to care about the box left on his cart he still needed to sort through and stock. "Shredding is good," he offered, "It melts easier that way, I think."

(He actually knew that, but he didn't really want to get into the story of the time he had tried to make his comfort meal shortly after he was separated from his mom. He had gone about it all wrong, having sliced it without thinking only to have to go through the too-long process of watching it melt in a puddle of milk. He would have attempted it again after that, but money was especially tight right after he left home and the ingredients for a single meal were too expensive. Besides, it would never taste as good as the one his mother made, and he didn't need to break his heart any more with the attempts).

Decidedly, (Y/N) dropped the block in her sparse basket. "I'll try that tonight and I'll let you know," she told him, the stray tangles of her hair swaying as she spoke, "Thank you, Harry."

Harry nodded his head, reaching into the cardboard box piled with different soups. "Yeah."

It was hard to breathe when she heard him say his name with that smile on her face.

But, (Y/N) didn't leave right away. She lingered for a moment, a step between leaving him behind and staying right there with him. He couldn't decide which outcome he was hoping for.

A beat later, she swung back to face him. "Have you ever been by the bakery a few blocks over on Windsor Ave?"

He swallowed. The vision of The Flour Pot immediately came to mind.

"No, I don't think so."

(Y/N) looked at him with a smile with shy edges, rocking on the balls of her feet. "Well, we have these cheesy breakfast soufflés that we only make on Friday mornings, that are really good. I bet you'd really like them if you like cheese and stuff." There was a slight wince and a huff of a laugh falling from her lips as (Y/N) finished.

She must also realize how silly they both sounded, too. Breakfast and cheese, the great unifiers, Harry supposed.

With the faint amusement bubbling in the back off his mind, Harry still felt something in him catch. Her recommendation felt something like an invitation. An invitation to go somewhere she would assumedly be.

Harry checked his expectations as he dropped his gaze to his hands, rolling a can of loaded potato soup so the barcode faced him. "I usually work all night Thursdays, so Friday mornings can be a little hard to make when 'm tired."

That nervous rocking continued even with the bright smile molding (Y/N)'s features. "I work there, so you can let me know when you have time to stop by and I can make sure we have an extra one for you," she told him, hands bundling together at her middle, "Or, just pop by whenever. Everything we have is really good, so."

Around him, Harry could still hear the annoying couple from before complaining about the layout of the grocery store. The overhead lights were mismatched on this section of the store, leaving some amber spots to combat against the stark fluorescents. There was a buzzing to the left where the refrigerators were keeping the cheese section where she had shopped from cool. But all of his attention was placed a few paces before him.

Harry spent years pushing people away. Not once had anyone ever been able to wiggle through even one layer of the protective walls he had around him. He made a point of that; it was the way it was supposed to be for everyone's safety. He didn't invite anyone into his life, and no one invited him into theirs.

Of course the first person to do so would be someone like (Y/N). She would be the one to dare to cross that line, offer a hand out to someone so adamant about not wanting anything of the sort. He knew those butterflies in his stomach were a warning; they were creatures to be heeded, not cradled.

Despite it all, Harry nodded. He looked at her, leaving his idling hands to play around without him. "I'll see what I can do."

It was the smile that bloomed across her lips that had Harry remembering that there were flowers that were meant to unfurl in the night.

"Cool," she said, something giddy replacing that authenticity, "Have a nice night, Harry."

"Have a nice night," he got out before he turned on his heel, pinning his attention straight on the box awaiting him. It was an abrupt ending to the conversation, but he couldn't look at her any longer if he wanted to keep some of his head. She was driving him mad again already.

When Harry looked up, he found her turning the corner of the aisle. Their eyes matched for a moment when she looked back at him too, a ghost of a smile stretching her cheeks before she was gone.

Taking in a deep breath, he centered himself.

Harry can not go to that bakery.

——————

As much as Harry loved his comfort reads, the volumes that became like classics to him, he couldn't read them all the time. Besides, he liked libraries.

While every building was different, the librarians with their own rules and nuances that ran the shelves, the spirit was always the same. Even the smallest of towns he travelled to had their own shelves to peruse. The crackle of the covered spines, some old enough to still be sporting checkout cards in the front cover, with pages loved by others, made him feel less alone. The library in this town was no different.

A quiet librarian manned the front desk or puttered through the shelves, offering Harry a quiet kindness he appreciated more than if she had given attempts to get to know him any more outside of the process of getting his library card. All she wanted to know was what kind of genres he liked so she could recommend books when he came in the more regular he became. He was left to ghost through the shelves, fostering books as he went before returning them home once their time was up. He was able to be comfortable there.

But, this town had to be mocking him at this point.

While he's been making a point to keep his head down and focusing on only himself and definitely not (Y/N), old habits die hard. A hefty portion of his life was spent with his eyes sharpened, taking in every detail and every person and every place around him. Even with years away from the circumstances that had him looking over his shoulder with every step he made, he couldn't shake every habit. But those habits made it way too hard to ignore what was going on just down the street from the library.

The Flour Pot was busy as usual when he stepped out of his car, library books held at his side with his fingers flexing around the plastic covering. A line was trailing out the door with as many people walking out with the brown paper bags or cake boxes as patrons were walking in with hunger in their eyes. Harry could almost hear the bell chiming above the door every time it opened, just like he swore if he listened close enough, he could hear a familiar laugh.

It took effort for him to keep his eyes ahead of himself, fingers tight around his books. He didn't allow himself to linger on the sidewalk or his gaze to stray, heading directly into the library.

Harry could feel his features twisted into frustration even as he stepped in the substantially quieter building. But even with his furrowed brow and the tight line of his mouth, Ms. Klarke didn't bat an eye. She had to be used to it at this point.

A lined smile had her lips stretched, showing off white teeth. "Done with this week's, Mr. Styles?"

He only nodded with a hum as he approached the desk, dropping the trio of volumes on the glossy wood. It was instinct the way he worked, pulling out his green library card.

Ms. Klarke worked with familiarity, scanning the code on his card before clicking through his profile. Her eyes didn't move from the computer screen as she spoke, "We got some new books in yesterday. I saved a few that I thought you'd like in the back."

Perking up at the prospect of the new arrivals, Harry felt his features smoothen out, a light falling into the usual rumble of his voice. "Really?"

She looked at him from the corner of her eye, a short smile tugging at the corner of her lips as she slid his card back. "Mhm. I'll be right back."

Taking his returns with her, she stepped into the backroom positioned just behind the front desk only to come back a moment later with another set of books. The volumes were freshly wrapped in the crinkling plastic, the covers still vibrant underneath without any smudging or scratching marring the art.

"I've heard good things about these," Ms. Klarke said, spreading out the trio on the wood for him to look at. "The descriptions sound like something you would like."

They were romances—the genre he had divulged to Ms. Klarke all that time ago. He recognized the covers and the authors, having read his own reviews and takes on the literature. Bright colors were splashed across, with the hallmarks of the genre coming in depictions of flowers or the minimalistic art that was becoming the norm. A twitch itched the corner of his lips seeing the pages she saved for him to have first.

"Thank you," he told her, looking at her through the lashes as he kept his hands at his sides, "I've seen a lot about these, too."

Ms. Klarke's lined features brightened at his words. "Gonna take them home with you this week?"

"Yes, please," he answered in a rush, "If that's alright."

Her brows pinched in the middle, already grabbing the books to scan them onto his profile for the week. "Of course it's alright. I saved them for you for a reason."

Harry was struck then. He stood, listening to the sounds of her hands clicking the keys on her computer and the beep of the scanner reading the barcodes, his hands shoved deep in his pockets with his fingers clenched in tight curls.

While Ms. Klarke didn't know really anything about him, she still had him in mind when she read these titles and made a point to save them off for him. She only knew him as far as the kind of literature he liked to spend his time with and the kind of care he treated each book with, but she knew him enough to trust him with these new reads.

She knew him enough.

He forgot what it felt like to be known. He missed the feeling of being known. Even if it was his fault that he was pushed into that forgotten corner in the first place. His impact wasn't supposed to be felt, even if he still felt the absence of the familiarity he had in a past life.

Two people now, in this town, had given Harry more than a passing thought.

The feeling was overwhelming.

"Thank you," he repeated when Ms. Klarke passed back his books for the week, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

With his books in hand, he exited out onto the sidewalk. Down the block he could still hear the faint commotion from the bakery, but his stomach didn't sour like it had only ten minutes prior. In that kitschy shop was the one other person who was trying to know him, even when he insisted on being alone.

The thought of walking in didn't sound so bad, even if he still kept on his path to his car.

—————

Harry had a plan.

Days after visiting the library, he had been tucked away in bed reading one of his new books when he couldn't get his mind off of (Y/N). The main female character was a baker with a softened heart, a bubbly demeanor shining through. Given the nature of the book, every peek into her heart was romanticized, especially in the first handful of chapters he was still working through. He couldn't help but to picture (Y/N) the more he read, disregarding whatever physical description the character was given.

She hadn't left his mind since.

Maybe it was the fact there was a scene written where the lead male character visited the pseudo-(Y/N) at the patisserie she worked at, but there was a niggling thought in the back of his mind that it might not be such a bad thing to take up her invitation from the week prior. While he was nothing like male lead—not in demeanor nor backstory—, he couldn't ignore the want he had for a moment like the one inked across the page.

It felt entirely reckless to give into that want, the kind of idea that would come to him after too many hours spent awake and too many romance cliches floating through his thoughts, but he'd done worse. Indulging in the pattering butterflies and bruising beats of his heart would land at the bottom of the list of the most dastardly things he'd ever done.

Besides, if this Sunday morning was anything like the last, it wasn't like there would even be enough time for his defenses to weaken enough for an impact to be made. If anything, he would see her in passing, the flutter of the bow in her hair as she bustled through the shop, and that would be it. Maybe a smile in his direction, but he couldn't imagine any more being spared for him.

He didn't need anything more than that, anyway.

Harry would be careful. Butterflies weren't strong enough to break stone.

—————

His hands were clenched into fists in the pockets of his coat, the sign to The Flour Pot gleaming on the glass window from the corner of his eye. Though he knew well that there were just enough patrons inside to create a hustle within the shop, Harry kept his resolve strong as he stepped over the pavement. He didn't skip sleep for the last handful of hours since his shift ended just to run home without even taking a single step inside.

Slipping inside, Harry forced his gaze to lift from his feet, a deep breath filling his lungs. Those small tables he had spotted from the windows were twisted wrought iron, the backs outlined with intricate shapes of flowers, hummingbirds, and shining suns. Cushions padded the seats of the chairs, a charming combination of mismatched patterns that all seemed to work together to make the space that much cozier. Customers Harry could recognize as some of the people he saw at the grocery store were littered about, though they looked decidedly much cheerier in this environment. Even with the chill in the air, hints of spring lingered within the confines of the shop.

Butter and sugar kissed the air, twining with notes of lingering herbs and spices, different ingredients that made up the confections filling the display case up front. Tiny lights were embedded in the trim, shining right on the flaky crusts of croissants, glimmering glazes on sticky buns, and the golden skin of homemade baguettes. More intricate cakes and laborious treats were held in glass cabinets behind the desk. Warm wood made up the front cash register area, the grains twisting and curving in the way only real wood could. Hanging from the ceiling behind the desk was the menu with every treat laid out and priced, twirling descriptions following just underneath with every add-on available. A note on the bottom recommended talking to the bakers about seasonal specials and their favorite combinations.

Everything looked new but second-hand at the same time. Harry didn't know what to compare the space to other than a home opened up for visitors. The treats in the case were just a bonus of being invited into such a home.

The flapping of the cafe doors leading to the back caught his attention, pulling his gaze from tracing over the space that felt as if it lived within candlelight. (Y/N) emerged from what he assumed to be the kitchen, a pan in hand full of something golden brown and filled with herbs. She dropped that pan onto the back counter before disappearing again, a pearly gold bow pulling her hair back. Her uniform consisted of a long sleeved brown top with The Flour Pot printed in yellow lettering as if the words were dripping in honey. He felt like a moth the way his eyes followed each of her moves, her being the flame he didn't want to lose track of.

That smile he pretended to not care about had her lips stretched with smile lines bracketing the curl. He watched on as she spoke to the dark-haired girl and the shorter boy working behind the counter, nodding her head with the tendrils of her bow going flying before she seemed to count out certain items in the case all before leaving to the back once more. In her hands, another pan reemerged with her.

As his eyes followed her, he was grateful for the first time for the amount of patrons occupying the building. The line in front of him gave him enough time to watch her—to get his fill to quell the battering ram made of butterflies in his stomach. Even if he wanted to keep his eyes to himself, drop them to his feet or find a blank spot to fix his eyes too, he didn't think he had it in himself.

With the line moving, Harry shuffled forward a pair of spots. At that same moment, the cafe doors swung open once more, (Y/N)'s arms empty as her eyes scanned across the guests in her shop. She found Harry in an instant, her eyes brightening and smile blooming. She brought her gloved hand up to wiggle her fingers in a quick wave for only him.

Before he could even lift his hand to wave back, she had sidestepped behind the desk and whispered something to the dark haired woman working the register. A quick conversation played out while Harry watched, (Y/N) whispering while the other woman gave small reactions. The conversation lasted only a couple of beats with the line still waiting before them, (Y/N) disappearing into the back after shooting Harry a look with bright eyes and a wide smile.

In (Y/N)'s wake, the cashier gave Harry her own look. It was something quiet and knowing, a short curl only on the corner of her lips before she slid her gaze back to the patron waiting in front of her.

(Y/N) and her bow didn't return again as the line slowly moved forward. Only the dark haired cashier and a shorter boy were working the counter, working as a team with the boy picking the pastries with gloved hands and the woman taking orders and collecting payments. The line dwindled as they worked, guests leaving with small paper bags and smiles wider than the giant muffins that took over the bottom shelf of the case.

While Harry felt like he could breathe better with every person that exited, it all moved too fast. By the time he reached the counter, Harry's brain was filled with nothing more than a buzz. In all his distractions of watching (Y/N) and being a little too aware of the others around him, not once did he really examine the menu. He didn't have a plan of what he wanted to order, every quick glance at the menu hanging above was more panicked than the last, nothing being absorbed.

The last patron in front of him worked quickly. The chatter of her voice was almost drowned out by the blood rushing through his ears, her order being rattled off in an instant out of practice before she was stepping off to the side to await her own brown bag of treats.

Stepping forward to the counter, Harry couldn't help but feel a little silly. The amount of high stress situations he's been in in his life, the kind that warranted the kind of panic and fight-or-flight reaction he could feel himself building to was more than any person should ever go through. But in all of those moments, he remembered moving through them like an expert, not thinking before doing.

This—ordering from a bakery—was going to be the one thing that broke his brain, it seemed. Figures.

The dark-haired girl behind the counter held that same guest service smile on her face when Harry approached, only the ends curled that much more when she saw it was him. "Good morning! What can I get you today?"

Harry's mouth dropped open, words intending to come out before nothing actually did. He barely recovered in the way he instead said, "Ummm."

From the corner of his eye, the cafe doors to the kitchen swung open. A pan full of stacked baguettes were in (Y/N)'s arms, eyes trained on the pyramid before she chanced a glance up. That same wide grin pulled at her lips the second recognition filled her eyes.

"Hi, Harry!" she chirped out over her shoulder as she deposited the pan onto the back counter, "How are you?"

His dry throat finally began to work again when he swallowed, his nervous hands beginning to pluck at his cuticles in the pocket of his hoodie. "'M good, thank you," he mumbled, "You?"

"I'm doing good, thanks!" She spun on her heel to take over the spot by the register. For a second, he saw the dark-haired girl bump (Y/N)'s hip with her own, before taking over the second station just to the left and tending to the line from there. It was a move that had to have come with a plan. "I wish I knew you were coming in today, I would have made you one of those soufflés I was telling you about."

"Oh, sorry," he told her, shuffling on his feet as the rest of the line behind him meandered around him to the available register.

The tail of hair she had pinned back with her bow bounced as she shook her head. "No worries at all! What did you come in for?"

For the first time since she stepped out, he pulled his eyes from hers to the sign above her head.

Maybe it was the noise around him, the chatter of other guests, the way he was hyperaware of every inch of space around him and how close others were getting to him before hiking left to the other register, or the fact he knew (Y/N) had her eyes on him, but the letters didn't make any sense when he tried to take them in. He knew the words, could associate them with different treats, but there was nothing that connected his thoughts.

Silence fell from his floundering mouth, the kind that felt too loud in a busy place like this.

In a second, (Y/N) sidestepped to the case at her right, her eyes bright and still on Harry as she nudged the sliding door to open for her. "My favorite at the moment are the raspberry and almond scones," she bubbled off, using her gloved hand to grab the pastry from the tray, "I just finished a batch, too. They also come with this lemon cream kind of glaze, if you wanted to try it that way."

Her energy didn't deplete as she spoke, showcasing the scone for him to see. She saved him from the way his throat was beginning to tighten the longer it took for him to come up with an answer.

Chunks of raspberries were visible in the pale base of the scone, sprinkled with almond slivers. It reminded him of the cookies she so favored at his own place of work.

"I'll try that," he told her, the even pacing of his breathing returning, "Thank you."

"Perfect!" she chirped, looking genuinely pleased at his response. Nothing inauthentic touched at her features as she gazed at him. "Do you want the glaze and everything?"

"Um, sure," he said, a nod of his head throwing a curl over his forehead.

He saw as (Y/N)'s gaze tripped upwards, trailing along the length of that stray hair brushing the bridge of his nose. A glittering sparkled in her irises.

The rest of the transaction went quickly, (Y/N) shedding her gloves and taking his cash as she asked about his work. Noncommittal answers were shared from Harry (he barely remembered the shift if he was being honest. His brain had been too fixed on this morning's plan).

"I'll have that ready for you in a second," she told him, toothy smile and all, "You can wait over there in the meantime."

A mumbled, kay... fell from his lips as he exhaled a deep breath. He nodded his head before he followed her direction and stepped off to the side. He half expected her to continue helping the line that had dwindled behind him, instead watching as she stepped off the side with his treats in hand.

Dropping his gaze from her, Harry pulled his hands out of his hoodie to inspect the sore cuticles he could feel beginning to sting with every touch. Spots of blood had spread to the plate of his nails, skin frayed and irritated at all the picking.

Harry expected to hear his name called when his bag was placed on the pick-up counter just as it had been for every other patron, only to have (Y/N) bounce around the entire case when she had finished puttering behind. The tendrils of her bow flowed behind her, skimming the length of her hair before she stopped in front of him.

For someone who didn't like mornings that much, she smiled a lot.

"Here you go," she beamed at him, offering him the small paper bag with the business's logo inked on the front. Beside the picture was his own name written in looping script, a smiling heart printed beside it. "You have to tell me what you think the next time I see you, okay? These really are my favorites, so if you don't like them I don't know if we'll be able to be friends anymore."

A breath of air caught in Harry's throat, his Adam's apple bobbing as he tried to swallow it down. Anymore, she had said.

"Got it," he forced out, taking the bag from her hand with their fingers barely brushing as he slipped his own under the handles, "Thank you, (Y/N)."

At the sound of his voice wrapped around her name, her smile only widened. "Of course. I'll see you around, Harry."

Before he could get too far ahead of himself, the indulgent butterflies in his stomach urging him to linger longer than he knew would be good for him, Harry spun on his heel and moved to the exit. He swore he could feel (Y/N)'s eyes on him up until he disappeared through the doors.

There wasn't a thought in his head other than getting back to the safety of his car as he rushed over the pavement, loose rocks in the old concrete kicking up in his wake. The slam of his car door behind him left the cab going still. The air was silent finally, leaving him sealed away with the ticking of his heart evening out.

Instinctively he locked his doors before reaching for his seatbelt. In that split second he seemed to forget the bag in his hand until he felt the warmth of the pastry in his lap.

He hesitated.

It would probably be best to eat it now while it was still warm, he decided.

In his parked car across from the rush of The Flour Pot, Harry carefully extracted his treat. His fingers brushed a slip of paper clinging to the side of the bag, the end trapped under the cup containing the lemon cream she boasted to him about. Laying the boxed treat on the center console, Harry plucked out the slip of paper.

It was a length of blank receipt paper, only to turn the page around and find that same looping writing that printed his name on the bag.

Come by next Sunday and I'll have a souffle for you :)

(Y/N)'s name was signed at the bottom, another smiling heart drawn beside the final letter. Another invitation.

Harry didn't need to take a bite of the scone to know that it was going to be his favorite too.

—————

Maybe he had been too giddy to see her again after those moments at the bakery, but Harry couldn't help but notice her the second (Y/N) walked through the glass doors.

It was as if he had it all planned the way he had been stationed in the herb and spices section of the store tonight, an aisle that was conveniently situated by the entrance. He had a bundle of basil in his grip when he saw her walk in, a clip dripping with crystal flowers holding her hair back with a The Flour Pot crewneck on. Fatigue coated her movements as she reached for one of the maroon baskets stacked by the door, the handles tucked into her elbow before she started towards whatever aisle she was shooting for.

There was a moment of her slowing on the front mat, eyes scanning through the shelves until she saw him, cart and all, and her expression changed. Her features softened and rounded, creases appearing by her eyes while her lips stretched into a smile. Her lips were soft and chapped, hair a bit messy, and sleeves dulled by a dusting of what had to be flour, but Harry still felt that knot in his stomach he did the first time he saw her all those months ago. Even more so, when his heart got carried away thinking that she may have been looking for him, too.

Harry dropped his gaze when he saw her begin her way over to him. He didn't want to look too eager to speak to her again, especially not when he couldn't even admit to himself that he was looking forward to see her.

"Hi, stranger," she greeted, voice lilting as the toes of her white shoes came into view of his downturned gaze.

Swallowing around his dry throat, he slowed his work and looked up at her again, features schooled into something stoic. "Hi."

Ever-pleasant and unperturbed by his attitude, she only looked to him with raised brows and expectant eyes. "So?"

A pinch drew Harry's brows together as he looked at her. So what?

When the beat of silence lasted too long for her liking, a teasing huff fell from (Y/N)'s lips. "What did you think of the scone?! You promised you'd tell me about it, remember?"

For the first time in a long time, Harry could feel one corner of his lips twitch, the beginning of a titled smile. He thought of the length of receipt paper he still had folded away in his wallet.

"It was really good," he started, shifting his weight on his feet, "The—uh—the lemon cream was really nice. Thank you."

The look on her face at his compliments could rival that of the waning sunshine outside the windows. She was bright and shining, warm like the sunset colored sky.

"I'm so happy you liked it!" she beamed, her shopping put to the back of her mind as she gave every bit of attention to him, "There's this recipe for a lavender version of the scone I've been wanting to try, but every time I tell the other girls they don't look as excited. They said it sounds like I'm trying to make soap."

Harry didn't even realize what he was saying before the words were falling from his lips: "I'd try it."

As much as he wouldn't—couldn't—say it out loud, he's sure he'd try anything she made. He wasn't lying about the raspberry scone.

Something sheepish touched at the corners of her smile as she dipped her gaze down to where he was now fumbling with a shaker of dried oregano on his cart. "Okay," she started, nodding her head, "I'll make some, and next time I see you, you can try them."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed around the dryness coating his tongue. "Thank you."

Under her attention, gaze peering through the fan of her lashes, those butterflies in his stomach and the beating of his heart traveled down to his palms, making them restless and the skin go clammy.

All of this over another invitation.

—————

rosemary represents remembrance; looking back on the past with the future right in front of you

ahhhhh!!! hes finally here!!! im so excited to be sharing this story w you guys and letting you meet one of my kings thats sooooo in my heart!! def a little different of a story for me so I really hope you enjoy it!!!! thank u sm for reading, sorry for any mistakes, and please lmk if you have any ideas or requests or just thoughts about this story !

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upsidedownwithsteve · 10 months

Text

Simmer #1

CH1. Home Style | The Menu [3.7K] Eddie Munson x shy fem!reader: a line cook au.

Jim’s Midnight Grill wasn’t the magical place the name made it sound like.

In fact, it was worse at night. Hawkins' only diner sat on the outskirts of town, just before the road that took you out alongside the cornfields. In the height of a sunny day, the water tower cast a shadow over the old building and the gas station next door only had one working pump.

The leather booths were constantly sticky, the table tops grainy with spilled salt, but if you made your visit on a Thursday night after nine, milkshakes were two for one. The back alley was littered with cigarette butts, graffiti on the walls telling you who to call for a good time— and someone called King Steve used Farah Fawcett hairspray? The regulars were permanent fixtures on the bar stools, coffee stains on the counter in front of them, stolen sugar packets in their pockets, frowns on their faces.

The staff didn’t want to be there, the owner refused to replace the flickering lights and the cook had a bad attitude and liked to communicate with heavy sighs and eye rolls. But he made a mean grilled cheese. The walk in freezer was reserved for the pitiful weekly deliveries and breakdowns, a stolen kiss or two. Or three, or four. But no one liked to tackle the clogged sink and god forbid anyone change the TV channel— Mr Creel always had something to say about it.

—————

Honestly, Hawkins wasn’t your first choice when you decided to move to a smaller place. The idea of a big city was all fine and well until you lived a year in Chicago, the dream of a brownstone apartment quickly disappearing when you realised jobs were hard to come by and finding friends was even harder. Living alone wasn’t all that fun, especially when your landlord hinted at sexual favours to justify late payments and he didn’t care to fix the leaking radiator in your bedroom. The nights were never quiet and the city hardly slept, but instead of neon lights and late night bodega runs, you lay awake on the broken spring in your bed and flinched at the sound of backfiring cars and people arguing on the street below.

It was lonely, living somewhere so big and busy and always eating dinner by yourself. So you sold the old car you didn’t really use and cried enough that your landlord eventually gave in and ripped up your lease that still had four months to go. Packing your stuff was an easy enough job, hardly enough belongings to fill the duffel bag you’d dragged with you. You dug into the back of your freezer for the wad of cash your grandma gave you, threw it into the bag and grabbed your greyhound ticket and decided you’d get off the bus when the skyline turned a little more green. When the buildings shrunk, when the smog lifted and when wildflowers sprouted from between the cracks in the sidewalk.

So you rolled into Hawkins before the day broke, way before the sun crept up over the quarry, before the small town came alive. The apartment you’d found was the same tiny size as the one you’d had in Chicago but it was cleaner and the carpet was new. Nothing leaked. Nothing smelled weird. The parking lot was filled with cars and none of them had bullet holes in the side, your trash can wasn’t on fire and god, god, the first neighbour you saw - an elderly woman who was walking with a yorkie on a leash - smiled at you.

She smiled at you.

So despite the lack of twenty four hour stores and pizza parlours, Hawkins was already looking up. There wasn’t much on the Main Street, a library, a tiny bakery run by a couple who offered you a free croissant as a welcome to town gift. There was an outdoor pool with sun bleached bunting across its chain link fence, an arcade next to a video store, a high school that was derelict due to the summer months. The larger houses across from the park were lined with cherry trees, neat lawns with white mailboxes and flowers under the windows and suddenly Hawkins was a million miles away from Chicago and the buzz of traffic and car horns.

The librarian let you print out some resumes the day after you’d settled in, and you found your way around town by asking kind strangers, buying a coffee and a breakfast sandwich in exchange for directions out of your neighbourhood. It was easy to stroll along the sidewalk with an iced latte and your headphones around your neck, blue skies above you and the sound of sprinklers in their yards, breathing in air that didn’t smell like diesel. You found a man by a rundown garage, white haired and tired looking, mechanic scrubs tied around his waist as he smoked a cigarette.

You took a deep breath, and then another one, smiling politely - warily - as you approached. The man lifted a brow at you, a little suspicious, but he held the burning stub away from you, smoke billowing in the opposite direction.

“You lost, kid?”

You were. Just a little.

“I’m looking for Jim’s, uh,” you glanced down at the pink flyer that had been pinned on the library's notice board. “Jim’s Midnight Grill? I got told it was out this way, but—”

You looked around, noting that there wasn’t much out this way. The busiest part of Hawkins was behind you, tidy sidewalks giving way to long roads out of town, a lone bus stop by the garage, a farm in the distance across the street. You squinted against the sun and shrugged.

“You wanna keep going for ‘nother mile or so, it’s just before the town sign,” the man pointed further out where the cornfields were overgrown and the sun faded billboard told everyone ‘thanks for visiting Hawkins!’ You weren’t sure the bus ran that far out. “Jim should be there, but if he’s not, jus’ ask for Eddie, he’ll sort you out.”

“Eddie,” you nodded, peering into the distance. You couldn’t see another building, but this man didn’t seem like he was lying. “Right, okay. Just keep to the road?”

The man nodded and he cracked a smile, small but soft. He stubbed out the end of his cigarette and gestured to an old pick up that looked like it had seen better days. “You needin’ a ride?”

The urge to say yes was strong, especially after walking all the way from your apartment as the heat soared. It snuck up on you like a slow roll, going from pleasant to warm to too hot, far too quickly. Beads of sweat clung to your skin underneath your sundress but you shook your head, shyness crawling up the back of your neck. Accepting a ride from a stranger didn’t seem the wisest idea, no matter how kind he seemed.

“It’s okay,” you told him. “Thank you, though. I appreciate the help.”

The man smiled again, a little bigger this time, crows feet crinkling, the sunlight catching the white of his five o’clock shadow. “That’s alright, kid. Jus’ tell ‘em Wayne sent you, yeah? Follow the road, you’ll see Forest Hills - the trailer park - keep going a lil’ ways and it’s right across the road.”

It turned out Wayne was right.

You kept walking, the heat soaring, the fields on either side of you growing taller but you bit back a smile at the sight of the wildflowers that snuck through the cracks in the concrete. Eventually they gave way to a trailer park, just as Wayne side, a quaint place that hummed with generators and had lines of laundry between each mobile home. Across the road sat a sandy lot, a diner in the middle, a neon sign letting passer-bys know they’d arrived at Jim’s Midnight Grill. Except the ‘r’ was loose, hanging from its wire and buzzing blue and purple.

Cats patrolled along the roadside, going from trailer doorsteps to the back alley of the diner, hoping and waiting for a free meal that they all knew would eventually come. You stopped to pet an orange kitten, a little scruffy looking thing but cute all the same, your CV clutched in one hand as you peered suspiciously at the front of the restaurant. It looked too quiet, like it wasn’t open yet. But there was a black van parked along the side of the building and some steam leaked from a vent on the roof, so you opened the front door.

The bell jingled but the patrons at the dining bar who sat on their stools didn’t move, didn’t turn to look. The place was nearly empty, some people nursing a coffee, some staring blankly at the buzzing television screen that was mounted in the corner. No one stood at the host desk, the menus stacked messily, the phone off the hook. In fact, there wasn’t a server to be seen as you made your way to the counter. You grimaced as you leaned on the surface, elbows sticky, avoiding spilled coffee the best you could. You waited, resume still in your hand, patience on your features.

No one came.

So you rang the bell that was on the bar top for the very purpose of gaining attention, but the man beside you glared at the noise. Still, no one came. The fans overhead squeaked and whirred, the TV fizzed with bad signal and from somewhere behind the open serving hatch, you heard the clatter of pots and pans. You tried to crane your neck to see through the window, steam and smoke billowing from it, the slight shadow of maybe a person moving through it.

The person swore, dropped a skillet and swore again.

You leaned in further, elbows on spilled salt grains and drops of ketchup, trying to gain a better view into the kitchen from the bar top. “Hey, ‘scuse me? Can I— can someone—”

You huffed as the figure moved out of sight, falling back onto the stool that squeaked and the man next to you snorted into his coffee cup. You frowned and took further action, sundress falling back around your thighs as you hopped off the chair and made your way to the side of the counter that lifted up. No one paid you any mind, no one at all, but you still hesitated before ducking under the bar and hovering by the hatch. You could smell garlic and sage and something a little sweet now you were closer, the scents of the kitchen winning over the stale coffee, cigarette smoke and engine oil that clung to the patrons clothes behind you.

You peered into the kitchen, your paperwork still clutched to your chest. It wasn’t much cooler in here than it was outside, the AC unit broken and the fans working overtime to combat the heat. The kitchen seemed empty now, a stovetop still on despite no one to supervise it, flames licking high up the sides of a steel pot, big enough for you to fit both feet in. There was something inside bubbling, foam rising to the top and chopped courgette and red onions sat on the workbench beside it, abandoned. A radio played, staticky and fuzzy, an old sixties tune floating out to mix with the smoke.

“Come a little bit closer, you’re my kind of man. So big and so strong, come a little bit closer, I’m all alone.”

“H-hello?” You cleared your throat and braced yourself to speak a little louder. Stronger. Braver. “Hello?”

No one answered. In fact, it seemed like the entire diner was run by ghosts, no waiting staff, hosts or cooks to be seen. Maybe you’d imagined the silhouette in the smoke, maybe the heat was finally getting to you.

“No customers back here, what d’you think you’re doin’?”

You startled, jumping back a little only to knock an elbow into a half filled coffee pot, the brown liquid thankfully lukewarm but it still spilled across the countertop, soaking into stray packets of sugar and scattered napkins.

“Oh, fuck, uh—” you grabbed at whatever dry napkins were left, hurriedly mopping up the spill before it dripped to the floor. Old coffee dotted the red and cream tiles, into the gaps between your sandals. You grimaced and looked up, only half paying attention. “Shit, I’m really sorry, I just— there was no one there and—”

You stopped, swallowing hard, cheeks hot, eyes wide. The person in front of you was half hidden behind the serving hatch, but he was scowling through the window with a ladle in his hand. Big brown eyes, unnervingly expressive and dark hair to match, unruly looking curls that were pulled back with an elastic band in a bun that wouldn’t have passed a health inspection.

A boy, unfairly pretty, and annoyed looking with tattoos peeking out from his chef whites, a black paisley printed bandana knotted around his neck. There was a furrow between his brow, lines etched there so deep that it made you think they were a permanent fixture on his handsome face.

“—no customers behind the cash desk, sweetheart, you look bright enough to understand that.”

Your mouth fell open, a burn creeping across your cheeks. Annoyance settled in your chest but you realised you weren’t quite brave enough to do anything about it. So you lifted your resume and slapped it on the hot steel ledge that separated the kitchen from the coffee bar. “No one’s working,” you tried to explain, gesturing with one hand to the empty diner behind you. “I rang the bell—”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” The boy scoffed, raising a tattooed forearm to wipe away the sheer layer of sweat from his brow. “Havin’ a spa day? Shit, no one rings the damn bell, don’t you know that?”

You scrambled for a response, the burn on your face growing hotter, an awful clawing feeling coming across your chest. You swallowed, your throat tight, but you pointed at your CV once more. “I’m here for the job opening. I need to speak to Jim? About the kitchen porter role?”

The stranger laughed, a breathy thing that you didn’t think was supposed to come across as mean as it did, but it stung all the same. You shrunk a little, a hardly seen thing as the boy turned his head to check on whatever was bubbling in the big pot. “Look, sweetheart, I don’t wanna be a dick about it, but uh, I don’t think you’re cut out for the kitchen - sorry.” He turned back to you, a slightly more apologetic look on his face instead of the frown. “You understand, right?”

You were speechless, just for a second. Blinking away the confusion, you made noise of protest as the boy started to move away. Your hand touched his bicep and he swivelled back, scowling once more. You snatched your hand away, glancing at your fingertips as if the ink from his tattoos would have stained them black.

“Sorry— it’s just, I, I need a job.” You swallowed, hoping none of the customers could hear your desperate plea. “I just moved into town and honestly, I’ll take anything, like anything. I’m supposed to talk to Jim— or Eddie?”

The boy seemed to mull over your words for a second or two, a passing of sympathy or something just as kind coming over his features. He sighed and shrugged, turning away to stir the pot before it boiled over and he shouted at you through the smoke and steam. Not meanly, just enough for his voice to be heard over the music, the hissing of the stove, the hum of the freezer. “I dunno where Jim is, sorry.”

You deflated, sliding your stack of papers off of the ledge and back to your chest. You tried not to appear too frustrated as you asked, “what about Eddie? Someone - a guy, at the garage - he told me to ask for Eddie.”

The ladle clanged against the pot, some soup - or maybe stew - spilling out the sides. The boy frowned at the mess, dragging a rag over the spots before he glanced up at you. You tried to smile, tried to tamp down the watery doe eyes you knew you couldn’t help but have on show, but you felt desperate. Leaving Chicago with nothing more than the bag on your back and no plans was suddenly seeming like an awful idea.

“Sorry,” the stranger said again. “I dunno an Eddie.”

—————

Sitting in a sticky leather booth in the corner of Jim’s Midnight Grill for another hour turned out to be worth it.

Just before two o’clock, a man walked in, greeting the same customers who were still nursing their coffees with a muttered ‘hello,’ a familiar thing that everyone grunted back at. He was a tall man, broad shouldered with a moustache and a shaved head that was covered with a battered wide brimmed hat. He looked more cowboy than business owner, checked shirt dirt covered boots and all, but you heard someone call him Jim and you were up and running after him.

Your sneakers stuck to the linoleum tiles, the ‘shtick shtick shtick’ of your soles pattering between the aisles of empty tables until you caught up with the man just before he disappeared into the kitchen. He raised his brows at your sudden appearance at his elbow, wide eyed and hopeful as you clutched the same resume you’d tried to hand the cook, the pieces of paper stained with coffee now.

The man lifted his chin to a small table before you could speak, gesturing to two chairs by the window. You startled, wondering what was happening as he pulled out a seat and pointed at you to sit in the other one.

“You’re new, right?” The man - Jim - fumbled with a packet of cigarettes, most of them crushed and bent, but he found a good one to lift to his lips. He lit it and blew smoke upwards, staining the already yellowing ceiling. “Here, in town?”

You nodded, unsure how he knew that. You guessed that news travelled fast in a place as small as Hawkins, so you decided to elaborate for the sake of talking. “Uh, yeah. From Chicago. I’m inquiring about the, um, the porter job?”

“What’s your name?” Jim leaned forward in his chair and poked gently at your forearms. “You don’t got a lot of scars, you done soft jobs? No kitchen stuff before?”

The AC unit kicked in and rattled a vent above you as you stared at the man, trying to work out what he meant. Stammering, you told him your name and passed over a resume, pointing out your last few jobs, doing your best to try and make them sound more professional than they actually were.

Librarian's assistant.

Barista. For two weeks.

Cashier at a knock off Chuck E. Cheese.

“I guess they’re what you could call, uh,” you squinted Jim, floundering for the word he’d used, “soft jobs. But I’ve got a scar on my knee from pulling a kid out of the ball pit. He’d come straight from little league, he still had his spikes on and there was a considerable amount of blood even th—”

Jim stopped your spiel by jamming a thumb back towards the kitchen hatch. You could still see the boy there, pretty and scowling all the same, a dark curl falling from his hair band to fall over his cheek. You watched him blow it away and flip something in a skillet, the sizzle of it just heard over the music, the bad TV in the corner of the bar.

“You ever worked a kitchen?”

You shook your head, stomach sinking. ‘Fake it til’ you make it,’ failed you once before, and the owner of the coffee shop in Lincoln Park quickly realised you were wasting both your times when she discovered you didn’t know the difference between a mocha and a latte. “No, sir.”

“Our line cook is real particular ‘bout who we put in his kitchen with him,” Jim pointed to the boy, who’d now been joined by someone else. Another male, one with even longer hair, sleek and dark and they seemed to be arguing over blocks of cheese. “Now I don’t think it’s a good idea to throw you in there—”

Dread bubbled in your stomach. If you didn’t manage to land this job, you weren’t sure where else to look. A small town brought on few opportunities, and you’d already exhausted most of the businesses on Main Street. “Sir, please, I—”

“—but there is a waitressing gig available.” Jim frowned as he tried to remember the details. “Full time, forty odd hours if you don’t mind doing lates.”

“Yes!” You blurted out the answer too loud, loud enough for the customers to turn away from the TV screen for a second or two. The boys in the kitchen peered out the hatch, one curious, one annoyed. “Yes, sorry, yes. I’ll take it, thank you.”

Jim nodded and stubbed out the amber end of his cigarette in an ashtray beside the sauce bottles. “Easy enough job, minimum wage, you keep any tips you make.” He listed off each point on his fingers. “You start tomorrow.”

You could only nod back, eager and grateful. “Of course, yeah, sure. Uh— do I need—?”

Jim waved you off, already standing as he lit up another cigarette. “Just come by for eight, Eddie’ll sort you out with a uniform, locker, that kinda stuff.”

You frowned, confused. Looking around the quiet diner, you wondered if there was someone you hadn’t noticed before, but the number of visible staff members remained the same. The two boys in the kitchen, the pretty cool who you’d spoken to back at the stove, tasting its contents with a teaspoon.

“Uh,” you coughed awkwardly, feeling stupid. “I thought— I thought there wasn’t an Eddie who worked here?” You pointed warily to the boy with the messy curls, the black tattoos across his exposed forearms, he was staring at you, like he knew you were talking about him. He was scowling. “He said there wasn’t.”

The noise and heat of the diner and the summer outside didn’t do anything to diminish the embarrassment you felt at Jim’s next words. His gaze followed to where you were pointing and snorted. “Kid, that is Eddie.”

#Eddie munson #eddie munson x you #Eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fic #Eddie munson fanfic #Eddie munson smut #eddie munson fluff #Eddie munson oneshot #Eddie munson imagine #linecook!eddie

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dhampling · 3 months

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oh, mother fem!reader, 3.3k

A whimper at your feet as you nurse. The way he ebbs at the corner of your maternal tableau. The flit of an incalescent glaze before he nestles into your houseskirt as if a child caught mid-swindle seeking some kind of sanctuary. - It's the mummy fic. cw: lactation, breeding mentions, age regression (?), smut, astarion as a content warning, humping, feeding, afab reader, MUMMY, dadstarion, cockwarming w/c: 3.3k

Astarion looks over his shoulder from the homespun carpet, book limp in hand.

Like the written word could hold any comparable weight whilst you’re there decalescent and milk-swollen above him.

A whimper at your feet as you nurse. The way he ebbs at the corner of your maternal tableau.

The flit of an incalescent glaze before he nestles into your houseskirt as if a child caught mid-swindle seeking some kind of sanctuary. The way he strokes something so very gentle at your swollen shin, head stirring as he searches for purchase atop an aching thigh.

Your eyes leisurely as they cut between the infant latched to your heavy breast and the restless chit by your legs on the ground.

“Hm?”

The youngling gurgles in sleepy succour.

Astarion rolls his head forward with a lazy smile, saccharine in holding his tongue between teeth.

“This. All of this. Dreamy, isn’t it?”

His voice is silken against the low crackle of the fire. The shallow suckling breaths at your chest.

“Mhm.”

Your fatigue is wholly joyous in its maudlin haze, your agreement a free and light hum.

The man at your heel, the child he gave you; the wonder as he watches on - her little face scrunching as she swallows, the hint of a cough as you lightly adjust where she lies in the crook of your arm. A small coo.

There’s a strange look in his eye. Not the reverent fatherly gaze you’d come to expect from your husband in the months since you’d become a mother. Instead he seems fallible.

Round-eyed, gentle;-

Lamblike. The restless sheepling. Marvelling and timid.

“You’re a vision.”

Your eyes meet and you dare him to hold the stare in his yielding state.

You’ve become somewhat of a recluse in spending time with your daughter, and she certainly isn’t begrudging of the tangle of hair atop your head, nor the span of your torso kept so soft and warm on which for her to lie. The heavy swell of your breasts, the intermittent spotting where milk bleeds through your tailored house clothes.

It’s not that you necessarily feel any certain way about your physical attributes at present but you’ve definitely felt cleaner. Been better presented.

Mother.

Astarion’s face is pure butter, muddled and waxen as his brows draw together. Quietly roused in a moment of recondite.

Whatever runs through his head is new.

Lashings of fresh rain hammer the windowpane. The claw of winter, dark streets; seeping stone. The umber flickers of the fire on the wall. Heat licks the side of your face closest.

Glowing.

She groans a gentle burble. Her lips smack together softly as she finishes and you lift her from your chest, tucking your breast back into your slip and bringing her into the crook of your arm.

There’s a moment where his head tilts as if to speak.

“She’s tired.” You whisper whilst running a finger along her cheek. Small eyes of glimmering ruby, lids lulling open and closed. More quiet gurgling as she fidgets.

“I’ll take her. Rest, love.’

Astarion stands from crossed legs, twirling around to lean over the little one; over you. Runs his wiggling fingers over her small frame in little taps.

‘My darling girl! Princess of the Kingdom Sleep.’

Large hands lift her from your chest into his. A gentle rock as he does so.

‘This simply won’t do, will it? Let’s take you upstairs.”

He taps her nose on ‘you’. She sneezes violently.

You watch them both from the lounger as he steps through the arch and round the corner, up the spiral staircase and padding softly to your shared chamber. Balmy quiet. More rain.

Your first Lover’s Day as three feels poignant.

Despite keeping from the sun - and therefore sleeping the actual day away - in the stormy night your home brims sweet with ardour. A bubble of somnolence; a barge at sea.

A year of calm. Stillness. Establishing yourselves in your respective newfound freedoms and figuring out who you are; both alone and together. A conscious effort and one rewarded just months earlier with her.

“You’re so… soft with her.’

You don’t hear him reenter the room as he comes behind you and closes the door to the den with two chalices in hand, a bottle in the other. He doesn’t miss the brow quirk.

‘Dealcholised. Don’t worry’

The top uncorked.

‘I fail to see the fun in it myself, but ‘needs must’ and all that.”

A hint of the player’s tone. You laze back as he returns to his place at your heel, handing you a glass of honey mead.

“I’m her mother. Of course I’m soft with her.”

You take a large sip and recline.

Astarion snakes an arm around your leg, leaning in and planting a gentle kiss to the flushed skin.

“You. Her mother.’

He takes a large gulp and swills the sweet tincture around his teeth.

‘I still can’t quite believe it. The baby part, that is -’

A shake of his head. A brief grimace, puzzled yet pleased. Wholly adorative and you can see the retrospective of recent memories fly through his head.

‘You as a mother on the other hand. As if it were meant -’

Kiss.

‘To’

Kiss.

‘Be.”

His lips close on your shin, habitual breath fanning cool over the hot flesh.

“Mhm?”

He looks up at you with those big round eyes once more, a reticent smile. Head tilting to you coyly.

“You. You’re a vision. An absolute vision.”

“You like it?”

“It’s-’

He falters in that moment of recondite from before. Seeks avail.

‘I watch you care for her and it makes me weak at the knees. Your little love.’

The last words whispered in fond awe. His hands wave around his face in a considered manner.

‘You provide for her, hells. Nurture her. Hold her close to you in this beautiful, unconditional love; no matter the hour.’

Your love for him. He wonders if it will stretch to the words on the tip of his tongue, but he’d be a fool not to try.

‘And I-”

“You think you might want it too?”

He sags. Still round-eyed, but the corners of his mouth noticeably dip.

“Yes. I- I suppose I do.”

You’re not surprised, though you’re impressed that he voices it so plainly. In your mind every instance he’s retreated into you plays in vivid colour. Each time he’s held you close, so innocently; as a child may a parent. Not often. Not boldly. But the want is there.

Maybe it’s the taste of the mead, despite the lack of alcohol. Fizzy and heady.

But no. You want this. You want to show him you care in the most innate way you’re able; unearthed in the way you care for her.

Your darling. The Rogue of the Gate. Brittle-boned and weak following years on years of isolation and hurt but here; eyes aflame, wide open at your heel and healing.

He runs his hand absentmindedly up and down your leg as you ponder.

“What do you want, my love? Tell me.”

Your voice is pure honey as you keen into his touch a little further. Yielding. Relishing the pads of his cool fingers; a salve to your inflamed limbs.

The whine from earlier. You remember it. The bridled snare of his tense coil, watching you mothering his child and aching for you to cosset him too. The soft mindless touches. The way you feed her from your breast as you do him from your neck. His knee-jerk rutting against your leg.

He sits in sullen silence for a moment.

Then, his eyes meet yours once more. A wary hand slips up to your thigh; deft fingers circling the doughy inner skin. You part your legs at his touch.

“It’s okay, darling boy.’

You lean forward from your slouch and hold his head in your hands, legs open; back arched as your thighs remain open. Low and soft as you bring your mouth down.

‘It’s okay. What do you need?’

Astarion shivers. Guttural. Frozen in sheer terror. Lust as you cradle his head close to your aching breasts. Real, unfettered lust. Every sprawling emotion, each moment spent searching for someone to see him with comfort in their eyes in those early hours two hundred years ago.

He sometimes forgets he’s allowed to feel anything remotely desirable when he’s like this. Forgets he’s with you. Forgets he can covet you and still keep you past dawn.

Old habits die hard.

‘Come back to me now, sweetheart.’ You whisper, tongue ghosting over the outer contour of his ear as he continues his ministrations at the inner skin of your thigh. Tips flushed red.

‘Come to mummy.”

The groan spilling from his lips is inhuman. The hesitant hand diving between your legs turns to an iron grasp in record time.

Pliable. Ass pert on the sofa cushions.

“Can I?” He whispers, clutching feverishly at the pillowy skin.

“Use your words, Astarion. Come on.”

His ear is his soft spot. Tender, sensitive; flushed with blood from waking bites.

“Can I?”

Your eyes are featherlight as they roll into your skull. Burning cheek, thighs strong.

“Please.’

His head lifts from the crease of your knee as he braces himself to stand - eyes meeting yours in a sheer devotion that wracks every inch of your scalding frame.

‘Come to me.”

You shuffle so there’s room for him atop the cushions, and he crawls into the space between you legs as you hold his arms. Your angel. Forlorn with a lack of direction akin to that on his face when you first met. His eyes weary; heavy in their low-lidded gaze.

The parting of your legs once more. The way he inhales.

“Mother. Mother.”

“I’m here, love. My darling. I’m here.”

Astarion queries the break in your thighs once more with a desperate hand. Leans in closer with a small choked sob.

“What do you need, my love? What can I give you?”

Your ability to provide for him. Enough to make him hard each time - the fact you offer it freely in his home, atop his embroidered cushions; the primal need to comfort him with your body. He resonates with it. Yearns for it. Freely given and given free.

“Can I touch you, please?”

Thighs part as bullrushes in wading season. You think about his pale prick, standing alert in his trousers.

“Come here.”

You expect his hand to resume the agonising crawl up your thigh, but instead it moves to palm at your wetness quicker than you think. His leaky bride. He searches for evidence of your desire and he finds it in abundance through the cloth of your undergarments, and instead of the typical smarmy response you’d come to anticipate-

He simply gasps.

Mouth heavy with spit. Thick with joy, lust; ripe having seen the proof of your need for him. To take care of his ruined body and learning mind.

Your hands move to your chest as he looms over you, peeling the slip down from your breasts so you can relieve the ache that wracks them. Heavy. Painful in their retention, nipples distended as wholly engorged with milk.

“Fuck.”

“Swearing in front of mummy? Rather unbecoming, no?”

His eyes roll back into his skull, this time from jovial relief. He’s still in there. No disassociation, no hurt as you sigh, as your hands move to relieve the ache from your teats; rolling your nipples in practised tandem and riding the air with the subsequent high.

He groans once more. Straddles your lap as his hips move to hump the air by your soft belly. Desperate thrusts. Wanting. Needing more and more of your validation.

It’s not until your aching nipples do something most unexpected that you moan alongside him. Longing. Your lover - his face now spattered with your drips. Forehead, cheekbones; the space between his nose and lips; all adrip with the sweetest fluid he’s ever been baptised with. Milk dribbles from each of your teats and flows into the one neat pearl hanging from each.

Astarion’s eyes meet yours, and in that moment you feel it deep in your abdomen.

“You want to taste?’

A meek nod. A solemn promise. Those lips of a charlatan.

“Can I do something first? Please?”

You wonder how many silken lies have spilled from that tongue in some desperate sense of bravado over the years. How the performance has no audience here any longer.

“Tell me. What do you want?”

You struggle against the moan desperate to spill from your lips. You want nothing more than to become clay in his capable hands, and yet you know you must remain as you are. Stoic. Liberal with a chiding tongue should he need it.

“Will you warm me while I do?”

“Are you hard, my love?”

“Please, mother.’

He lifts your wrist from your chest to the apex of his thighs, manoeuvring your palm by the back of your hand so it presses deep on his aching cock. Hard. Pulsing. Searching for somewhere to bury deep inside and be warm in comfort.

‘Mummy. Please.”

His use of ‘mummy’ throws you a million miles off course on a wayward comet of pure desire, hurtling through a new sky in hearing it in his downy timbre. A mere whisper. You see for a brief moment the small elven boy he once was as he seeks comfort in you, ears out at a point, eyes folded something crestfallen.

Your tits ache as you reach down to free your cunt, rolling the linen down your legs in a sweat-laden stupor and throwing the piece aside as Astarion strokes his cock.

“Fill me, sweet one. Let me look after you.”

Whatever remaining crumbs of resolve he has dissipate at the sound of your voice, rolling to pull you onto his lap and holding you in a hover above his fat head, slit leaking clear as it rests against his shirt.

There’s a moment where you look at him fondly, as an equal.

Then as you sink onto the pointedly hard length of his weeping cock you see the softening of his face and you want nothing more in all the realms than to baby him like he wants of you. To hold him close, soothe his aching need for your body; for your guidance and wit, for your humour and want. For the way you smell warm, like domestic heaven; so much like someone who cares for him as if he were born directly from you.

A part of him was. The part of him now alive and breathing, asleep upstairs in the cot beside your shared bed.

This part of him however now feels it close. Feels the way your spongy walls yield to him. The way you want to please him and be pleased.

You allow yourself one roll of your hips as you shift to accommodate his sharp length, holding a moan in the back of your throat and wriggling so you sit comfortably above him. This isn’t about the fervent dance to reach a peak. It’s for him.

Leaking teats now at eye level, large droplets of milk freed in your shifting. He pulses inside you as he asks with big round eyes. A taste - and who are you to deny your favourite boy?

With a nod from you, his lids flutter shut and his tongue brushes sharp fangs to lick softly at your nipple. The sweet cloud of nectar dissipates on the surface and his whimper rocks you straight to your core, the brief wince as you feel the kick of his cock inside you.

Hungry. The only way you can describe the sound biting at his throat.

“So good! So good.”

He nods softly at your encouragement, looking to you once more; seeking permission to take a wholly distended nipple into his waiting mouth.

You arch forward in response. A gentle ‘yes’.

The veiny flesh of your breast forms a lightning-visceral halo of blues and greens around his soft curls as you look down. Wet kitten licks, soft suckling; coaxing the warmth from within as you card a steady hand through his hair.

His hips begin to roll a little. Your other hand moves to anchor him.

“Ah-ah. Rest now. My beautiful boy. You’re doing so well. You don’t need to move, do you?”

He shakes his head frantically around your nipple. A furious refute.

“Good. Good boy. Do this for you.”

There’s a moment where he loses himself fully in the taste of you. The sheer mass of your newly-fattened nipples, the way they feel as he pushes against; over them with his cool wet tongue. Soft yet aching. Rubbery. Abundant. Listens to the rain hammering the window.

Then a hand reaches out. Grabs at your clothed waist, palm basking in the body heat; lifting your skirt just a little further up your thighs to gain access to the bud of your swollen clit and smooth the hood up and over. Exposed. Curious as to how far he can go.

When he starts to circle the white-hot flesh you know you have to focus.

This isn’t about you.

And yet he murmurs something under his breath. You aren’t sure if you’ve heard properly at first.

“Want to feel you cum around me.”

Astarion can’t meet your eyes as he says it. All sense of grandiloquence he’s ever shown anyone lost behind flush cheeks. Vulnerability.

“Say it again.”

“I want to give to you.”

“You want to give to me, or you want me to give it to you?”

He stops. Looks at you with a bewildered furrow.

“I want you to stop touching me and focus on yourself. Use me, sweetheart. Take your pleasure.”

The furrow remains for a moment or two as he stews in blank thought.

“Talk to me. I can do it, I’m so close already.” He laughs shyly with an eager pulse of his cock.

“You want to spill in me again? Make mummy round once more, sweet one?’

A brisk nod. Desperation deep set as he looks you over.

“It’s okay! You’re allowed to want this, to take it.’ You lean in to his ear once more and bite calmly at the tip.

His eyes screw shut and his lips purse together.

‘I want you to do this.”

And he cums. Hard.

Tries to bounce you on his lap in order to gain some friction in the waves of brutal frustration biting at his core, grunting and wailing as he grabs at whatever of you he can. Hips, ass, thighs; terse and hot.

And you simply coo.

Refusing to let him move you, nor take solace in the friction you so willingly often provide. His abdomen tenses something staccato as he takes what little purchase he can and tries to push into you further.

And then, he begins to weep.

Your hand moves to his hair once more, bringing him in to your chest as he attempts to hump you through his climax.

“There now. Good boy.”

Tears as he finishes. Cold-heavy sobs. Mouth absentmindedly searching for the soft of your neck in the rolling haze and biting. Gnawing. Looking for the pulse point now permanently marked by two bloody spots.

He feels the nod you so freely give and sinks his fangs deep past the skin.

Ruts up with his now softened cock, suckles like a small lamb. The sluice of his spend pooling on his pelvis.

“Good boy. Take what you need, always. I’ve got you.”

The haze passes with each sip from you, blood puddling under his tongue and down his perfect throat. The frustration melts into sheer joy as he hugs you close in small peals of laughter.

“Gods. That was -’

He pauses for one last sip before tilting his head to look at yours.

‘That was phenomenal, love.’

You take a moment to look him over for any signs of discomfort, anything that might indicate he’s putting on a front for you; and there’s nothing. No veil. His eyes are empty in post-orgasmic bliss and he looks so incredibly beautiful in such joy.

‘I’m wholly spent. I really am.”

You laugh at his breathy shakes.

“Mummy is here whenever the urge should strike, darling. You know this.”

He rolls his eyes and grins.

“Oh mother. How could I forget?”

#my writing #astarion x reader #astarion #astarion ancunin #dadstarion #nsft

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holdupjack · 7 months

Text

Forgetting You

——————

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fem!Reader

AU: Inspired by ‘Forgetting You’ by Cam

WARNING: ANGST NO COMFORT

——————

Third Person P.O.V:

Seven Years After The War

Hermione lay on the bed in the tiny hotel room as Christmas drew closer and closer every passing day.

They were staying near the Russian Ministry as they took a small vacation for the Holidays. Her future husband's 'idea' of a getaway.

Ron slept beside her as the digital alarm clock flickered to 3:09 A.M. Her eyes blinked slowly at the ceiling as she listened to his soft snoring fill the room.

Her mind was blank, but at the same time, it seemed to be filled to the brim with...something.

She slowly sat up and placed her feet on the carpeted floor. The fibers slipped between the spaces of her toes as she debated getting out of the warm bed.

The room was dark and stuffy, almost suffocating as she sat there. Hermione swallowed the ever-present lump in her throat as she stood up and slowly walked towards the bathroom.

The TV was on but was muted as it played a news broadcast, talking about some tragedy in a part of the world she didn't live in.

The bathroom was only a few feet away, but she felt as though she was dragging a skyscraper by a chin around her feet.

When Hermione opened the door, she flicked on the light and closed her eyes, the sudden brightness blinded her as she shut the entry behind her.

Her head began to throb as she shuffled over to the toilet and shut the lid, sitting down with a small sigh as she rubbed her temples.

She could hear the ice machine humming from somewhere near the small kitchen in their room. It was reassuring as she opened her eyes and adjusted to the light.

Hermione looked to her right and saw her reflection staring back at her. She didn't recognize herself anymore.

She stood up slowly and looked down at the counter to find her old makeup sitting on the corner instead of the one from home. Her hand reached for it but paused a moment halfway through.

Uneasiness filled her chest as she looked between the bag and the ring on her finger. One was shiny and new, while the other was old and ready to be forgotten.

Hermione swallowed the lump again as she grabbed the bag and pulled it over to her. Her fingers slowly unzipped the middle, where she found nothing but old makeup and dust.

Ron must have packed this for her by mistake, she swore she had left it under the sink, hidden behind the bleach and tile cleaner.

Her hand slipped into the bag and pushed away the contents until she saw a face she hadn't seen in years.

"Y/n..."

A small polaroid sat at the bottom, moving with the magic she had cast on it in the fifth year. Long forgotten.

Slowly she pulled it out, dust lay overtop of it from neglect. She quickly wiped it away and let out a shuddered breath.

'Love Birds 🧡

October 11th, 1995'

"I thought I had lost this" she whispers to herself as she stares at it with a desperate longing behind her voice. She recognized Ginny's Orange glitter gel pen.

Y/n played her guitar in the photo as a younger Hermione sat on the floor and watched with a lovestruck expression. She remembered Ginny telling her she snapped the picture while the two of them were stuck in their own little world.

Hermione let out a hardened breath as she placed the Polaroid down and rested her hands on the edge of the counter. She leaned against it and calmed her raging memories and emotions.

"Fuck" she choked out as her bottom lip trembled uncontrollably, she bit it in hopes to stop the sobs that tried to escape.

Everything she had pushed from her mind started to make its way to the forefront. Sending sharp pains to her soul as she remembers everything that she had loved and lost.

Hermione suddenly grabbed the photo and placed it in her palm, threatening to crumple it with a shaking hand.

"Stop haunting me!" She grits out as her eyes start to fill, threatening to spill out onto her dry cheeks.

"It's bad enough that everything reminds me of you! From the morning sun to the midnight moon...you've ruined everything normal in my life" Hermione says as her fingers flexed over it, refusing to crush the misplaced memory. A salty droplet fell on her face as she stared at it with a mix of anger and agony.

A grunt of annoyance left her lips as she threw the photo on the counter and turned around. She wiped her face in a way to clear her mind, but it didn't seem to help as more tears fell without her permission.

The mixed sounds of the AC and air vent cut in and out as they regulated the small space of the hotel bathroom. It didn't drown out her ragged breathing, sadly.

"You just had to be a hero" Hermione mutters as she turns back around and looks at the photo, that is now lying face down on the counter.

"I told you not to let go of my hand, but you went off and got yourself killed!" She spits out with pure anger as she flips it over and looks at the smiling face of Y/n.

"You're supposed to be here with me, not him. It was never supposed to be him." Hermione says as she gestures to the door, where her soon-to-be husband is fast asleep on the other side.

She breathed heavily, waiting as if the memory would reply. Of course, it didn't. It only replayed again.

"I'm left on this spinning rock in the middle of infinite space, without my favorite person, and you're somewhere where I can't see you...don't you get how physically draining these last seven years have been?" Hermione asks as her anger turns into sadness. Tears falling more frequently now that she's stopped holding back.

"You-You...ugh!" She whispered angrily as she tried to regulate her emotions, but they only seemed to spill over more as she stood in that freezing bathroom. Goosebumps rose onto her skin over time, and the bottom of her feet felt like it was burning due to how cold the tile was.

The picture continued to repeat as it showed better times, that we're trying to be forgotten. All Hermione could do was wrap her arms around herself and muffle the sobs that tried to escape her throat.

It took a few minutes before she spoke again, somehow even quieter. Her eyes darted back and forth between the mirror and the counter, trying to decide what to do.

She sighed, finally landing back on her favorite person...or favorite ghost.

"He buys me roses, I hate roses, and he knows that. He buys me white chocolate when I love dark chocolate. He doesn't like to hold hands when that's my favorite thing." Hermione explained as she began to pace slightly. The tile seemed even colder than before, and even more lonely.

"You knew all these things...you made sure to get me tulips, and dark chocolate, and to hold my hand like I'd disappear..." Hermione mumbled as she ran her fingers through her hair, shaking out the tangles in annoyance.

"Then the one time you didn't take my hand...you died"

That realization hurt.

Y/n had separated from Hermione during the battle, telling her she needed to 'go help' the others.

Ten minutes later, Hermione found nothing left but her wand. She was pulled away by Ron when the Nagini began to come their way.

After the war had been won, Hermione spent days clawing through debris and bodies in search of her lover. The smell of decay was still stuck in her nose to this day.

Y/n was never found.

Hermione hoped that she was out there somewhere, that she was hiding in shame from defecting from the war efforts.

But Hermione knew better.

She knew Y/n better.

That's why her mind told her that she was gone, beginning to come to ash that blew away quickly in the wind.

"Did it hurt?" She asked for the photo as silence scrapped at the walls of the bathroom. Threatening to claw out more realizations that she wasn't ready for...she'll never be ready for.

She hid from her grief like an owl in the night, huddling deep in her nest of sorrow. Her head burrowed down into her wings, shielding herself from the painful realities of the world. She wanted nothing more than to disappear into the blackness of the sky, to fly away and never return.

To escape her pain and loss, to leave her grief far below, to start anew, and never again know the weight of sorrow.

Yet, she held on to the love of her life, even as she was about to marry another.

"If I let you go...will I be happy?" She asks as her nails dug into the skin of her forearm, almost spilling blood from her grip.

She knew that answer. A ghost didn't need to come out for her to figure it out.

The photo showed the final moments before it repeated, where Y/n laughed as Hermione began to sing along.

She swore she could almost hear it.

Her eyes closed as she let her memory replay the vocals of that chuckle, hoping to have it embedded in her mind for safekeeping.

"I haven't heard that laugh in a very long...long time" Hermione chuckled sadly, a sigh coming out with it as she kept her eyes closed. Memories started to fill the recesses of her mind as she thought back on the night before they had gone back to the castle.

"Do you ever wonder what life will be like if either of us doesn't make it?" Y/n had asked as they lay on the small cot together, Hermione had her face buried against her neck. She could still smell nature and firewood that was stuck to her skin.

"Don't even put that into the universe, please" Hermione had whispered back as she held her girlfriend tighter, the boys were talking by the campfire outside.

"It's a valid question" Y/n replied as her hand trailed up and down her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake. Even seven years later, in a hotel bathroom thousands of miles away from that forest.

"It's a scary question" Hermione retorted as she looked up at her, her lips brushing the underside of Y/n's jaw. She could still taste that stupid fizzy drink she loved from Hogsmeade.

Older Hermione chuckled at that little remembrance. Her hand reached up and touched her lips in a small attempt at feeling her lost love kiss again.

"How would you like me to phrase it then Granger?" Y/n asked with a small chuckle as she looked down and stared at Hermione with a playful gaze.

"Don't even bring it up" she replied as she leaned up and kissed her to shush the raging thoughts in that once beautiful mind of hers.

Of course, that only worked for a moment.

"Come on, we have to talk about the possibilities," Y/n says when they pull away, and Hermione crawls up to her, resting her forehead against hers.

"As long as you keep your hand in mine, we'll either go down together or survive"

Y/n knew better than to keep poking Hermione about a topic she didn't like. Which was, of course, death.

Hermione looked back at the mirror, and for a moment she swore Y/n stood behind her, smiling.

She took a few deep breaths, focusing her mind back on reality as the light hummed softly above her head.

Her hand grasped the photo gently as she shut off the light and exited the bathroom, walking into the small area that was only lit by the muted TV.

Ron was still in his deep sleep, snoring like nothing was wrong. When everything was wrong.

"I can't do this" Hermione whispers to his unconscious form as she stares at him. Ron's breathing was slow and calm, while hers was fast and earth-shattering.

Her ring finger seemed to burn as the cold metal latched to her skin, trying to stake its claim when it had nothing to take from her.

One person had claimed every part of her body with kisses and caresses full of promises of a life together that hadn't come.

Hermione placed the photo on the dresser as she ripped out a piece of hotel stationary paper and took the pen beside it.

She didn't cry, but guilt did fill her chest. She had tried her best to forget Y/n for him, but it wasn't fair to be unhappy with someone who was nothing but kind to her.

'I'm sorry'

The ring bounced slightly when she placed it on top of the note. Her eyes fell back to the photo when she grabbed her wallet from the bedside table and placed it inside. She didn't want to lose it again.

Hermione moved around the room silently as she packed her duffel bag and changed into better clothing. It only took her ten minutes or so to be standing near the door, looking back at Ron's sleeping form with a regretful expression.

"Goodbye" she whispers as she slips through the doorway and shuts it quietly behind her. The hallway was dim and vacant as she walked a few feet before apparating.

She found herself at the doors of The Three Broomsticks, it was loud inside as the smell of peppermint and cinnamon filled her nose before she even walked in.

Her duffel bag made a noise when Hermione hiked it up before opening the entrance. No one paid attention to her as she walked to the bar and took a seat at it.

Madam Rosmerta spotted her as soon as she sat down and placed her bag near her feet. She walked over with a knowing smile as she glanced down at her finger. Bare.

"What can I get you Ms.Granger?" she asks as she leans over the bar to hear her better. Hermione thought a moment and looked back at her with a small smile in return.

"Do you still sell that drink that she liked?" Hermione asks, silently confirming what everyone knew was going to happen when they saw the engagement announced in the newspaper.

"Of course" Rosmerta replies as she pushes away from the bar and walks to the back. Hermione pulled out her wallet and went to pay when she returned with the mug but was quickly thwarted with a simple 'it's on the house'.

Hermione was soon left to her devices as she took a sip of the drink, the taste of Y/n's lips raced to the front of her mind.

Her wallet laid on the bar top, and the corner of the Polaroid stuck out, enticing her to look at it again. So she did.

It now sat between her and the mug, moving in the dim lights as it replayed for maybe the millionth time.

As time went on, the cup eventually emptied, and Hermione found herself tracing Y/n's face with a heart full of ache.

"How are you?"

She looked up to find Rosmerta filling her mug again, which Hermione tried to pay for but was quickly stopped.

"I don't know how to answer that" she replied as the older woman looked down at the picture giving a sad smile.

She and Y/n had grown close while she was alive, or before she went missing. Rosmetra took it hard when she got the news.

"Sometimes I can still see you two in that booth" the older witch whispers as she points to a vacant table in the corner. Hermione chuckled softly at the memories.

When they looked back at one another, Madam Rosmetra gave a puzzled look when she saw the expression of conflict that laced the former Gryffindor's face.

"What is it?" she asked to which Hermione looked back at the photo and sighed softly. A single thought had been echoing in her mind since the war ended..and maybe it was just delusional hope.

"Do you...do you think she could still be alive?"

That question has been asked many times by different people. It was strange that Y/n was the only body that hadn't been found, but officials said she was most likely destroyed by one of the many vaporizing spells.

"Maybe, there's nothing wrong with a little hope" Rosmetra replied as Hermione looked back up at her, who now seemed to be thinking deeply about something.

"Do you mind if I post something on the bulletin board?" Hermione asks as she gestures over to the hanging board near the doorway. Rosmetra nodded as she was called over by another customer.

Now left alone, she grabbed her duffel bag and pulled out a small piece of paper, and a pen. Her heart thumped as she scribbled something quick but to the point.

Hermione downed the last of the drink and stood up, leaving a big tip for Rosmetra on the bar as well. She strolled over to the bulletin and found a spare push-tack, her eyes wandering to find an open space.

She soon hung her note on the board, taking a step back to look at it. It was in the middle, the Polaroid paperclipped to the piece of paper that simply said:

'Come Home - H'

Hermione stared at it another moment before slipping out into the cold night, the streetlights were dim as she walked towards an Inn down the street.

Her heart thumped softly as she thought about a reunion that would never come. At least not in life.

"I'll never forget you" she whispered into the air, her breath puffing visibly in front of her.

Even as she walked away, she could still hear Y/n's laugh as the Polaroid went through its endless loop.

A part of Hermione knew that her laugh would welcome her into the next journey of life. As much as she hated to think it, it seemed like paradise.

Maybe...

#harry potter #hermione granger #hermione granger x reader #lesbian #fanfic #angst

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owlafterhours · 3 months

Text

pot, kettle

sir, that's my emotional support ice worm,

621 has a habit of making little critters it seems - Walter isn't sure if he got that from Carla or if he was like that before augmentation, but it has made keeping the place cleaner, so he's not sure if it's something he wants to complain about.

The sea spider's a fire alarm system+extinguisher and the helianthus are actual roombas that can do heavy duty cleaning - it can even clean carpet! The iceworm is also a roomba, but looong, and good for getting into corners and very specific cleaning. It will also come and twine around your legs if you 'call' it :)

I think by the time he's got all these critters, Walter's also taken to dressing down more on base - but he'll always have his harness on, juuust in case. He acknowledges that it's small comfort, but he'll take what security he can haha

621's eyes are pretty bad and they suspect they deteriorated during his time being frozen tuna. It doesn't impact his ability to pilot an AC so its all good! It's a part of why his clothes are the way they are; it lets him use literal plugins. That being said, they're also not great for him, so he usually gets around with a tricked out cane instead.

#armored core 6 #c4 621 #handler walter #ice worm #coral containment sphere #owlscratch #i cannot explain how much the iceworm just entertains me #all of them are so cute...#tbh can't say im happy w/ walter's nose but i can work on that..

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am-i-the-asshole-official · 10 months

Note

WIBTA if I made my housemates sign a cleaning chart/rota/contract thing?

So I (20F) am a student and while it's currently the summer, I am going to be living with most of the same people I lived with last year when school starts again in Sept. These are friend A (20M), friend B (20M) and friend C (23M). Friend B's girlfriend (21F) lived with us last year, but in the coming year she will be living in the same building as us but not the same flat. She will probably be an unofficial 5th housemate.

Last year there were some issues, particularly in the cleaning department. The only two people who actually clean with any kind of regularity and competency are me and A. I've been a paid cleaner before and A works in a kitchen. The problem has been that B and C will be like "I'll do it later" then forget about it. I'm not a neat freak, I'm not bothered about carpets being hoovered at a particular time or dusting being done at a particular time. I do care about having kitchens and bathrooms that aren't biohazards. B and C will leave the kitchen and bathrooms until they start growing their own microbiomes before they'll do anything without prompting. I don't want to be some helicopter housemate standing over adult men being like "time to wash the dishes" but I am running out of options.

A and I both didn't stay in our uni town over the Easter break, and when we returned there was a sink full of orange mould waiting for us. This pissed me off more than usual because I had given the kitchen a very deep clean before I left and they just let it get to that state again, and their excuse was "Well we didn't really use the kitchen we had takeaways" but the evidence spoke for itself. I ended up deep cleaning the kitchen again, and A ended up deep cleaning the bathroom.

We tried a normal rota last year, but B and C half assed their stuff. Bins (in a house that had 7 people in it, so filled very quickly) would be left to pile out of the bin into some leaning tower of trash before they would take them out, but it was "in the deadline" so we couldnt complain without looking unreasonable. Neither of them seem to understand that you need to pick things up and clean under them too to have a clean space (wiping around cups left in the kitchen instead of like...washing them), and B's girlfriend tried to argue we didn't need to replace our broken hoover because we "didn't need one" and like I'm not that particular about carpets but come on? (This also wasn't a money thing, she's got rich parents who she has a good relationship with). A and I ended up having to do the same chore after them so that it was done to a competent standard where we wouldn't get ill.

A thinks they've both never had to clean up after themselves before and genuinely don't understand what it takes to live in a hygienic environment. I think it's weaponised incompetence. B's girlfriend had the nerve to say last term "going home really puts into perspective how gross this house is in comparison" and it took all my strength not to snap that if certain people got of their arses and did something we might actually have a sanitary house.

Anyway, my idea I might be the asshole about it that I think a good motivating factor might be money. My idea is if you dont do your chore/do it poorly, and someone else has to do it again after you, you have to pay them national minimum wage for their time you wasted. Currently NMW is £10.42 an hour. I don't actually want them to pay me and A, I want them to be motivated enough in not wanting to spend that money to be a competent housemate and clean the fucking kitchen. I sense though, that it might be too aggressive an action to take with people I'm going to be living with till next July.

Would that make me an asshole?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

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phantomphangphucker · 16 days

Text

Phic Phight - Does The Blood And Viscera Define Him (It’s from Fights And Injuries, Guys, Not Messy Bloodsucking, Gosh!)

@going-dead

Maddie and Jack consider themselves very supportive parents, even if they were rather strange, and that includes towards they’re definitely not human, or entirely human, son. Besides! At least he wasn’t a ghost! Vampires were much better, Vlad made that pretty clear.

Maddie side-eyes Danny as subtly as she can, watching him open the fridge, quirk an eyebrow, and poke the little blood juice box in there. Sticking that in there wasn’t the most subtle of things she could have done, but it was easy enough to explain as a ‘easy transport’ blood transfusion that Jack wanted to design to make ‘look fun’; and it did have a tube and needle instead of a straw so it technically could be used that way. That wasn’t really why they made it though, not a chance.

No, the point was Danny. Trying to make sure he was healthy.

She’s not entirely sure how he was getting his needs met, she had a good guess of course. Sam was always pale, even if she always had been since she’d first meet the young girl. And Tucker would literally sell his soul for Danny. Plus there was also the fact that Sam was not only extremely wealthy, but her parents never really looked at any purchases she made; she could absolutely be buying him blood. She’d also spotted them bloodied or bandaged once or twice; Tucker on the neck even. This was all without even touching Danny’s odd ‘frienemies’ relationship with Vlad, sometimes he seemed to hate the man’s existence and other times it felt more like Danny trusted him more than her or Jack.

And well…

Vlad was a vampire so…

She could understand is what she’s saying.

She makes a point to focus back on trying to fix the toaster, for the fourth time this month, when it seems like Danny might turn around. She can tell the moment his eyes are on her, she always could, it always had this sort of predatory pressure to it; she’s thankful it never felt possessive or creepy like it did with Vlad. No, Danny’s gaze felt more… cautious, like an uneasy predator, and protective, as if he worried about them getting hurt. Hurt by him or from the ghosts or from their own recklessness, she’s not sure, but she could never bring herself to be worried about him hurting her. Heck she didn’t even worry Vlad would genuinely hurt her; if that man wanted to bite her he likely would have a long time ago and he was far too self controlled to do it accidentally. If Danny did bite her, she’d probably spend more time calming him down and reassuring him, than actually trying to get him to stop. It’s was a parents job to look after and support their kids, if that meant blood with her son then so be it. If that meant trying to clean up the state his room wound up in so often, then so be it. Even if that was fairly disgusting, he was clearly not the cleanest drinker considering all the organic messes he managed to get on the floor and his walls. He even got a bit of rotting blood inside his window wall somehow. She made the mistake when he was younger of just leaving him to clean up his own room, the carpet had to be ripped out and it literally was dripping with gooey unidentifiable gore. Danny’d been very awkward and wouldn’t met her eyes after she told him about ripping up his floor; she didn’t give him too much hassle about it but still. She went in there with an enzymatic cleaner at least once a week now.

She waits a few minutes after Danny leaves to look in the fridge, the blood box is gone and she feels… content. Like she’s done her job as a mother.

(Danny doesn’t know why the heck his folks would make blood transfusions in juice boxes of all things, but they made a mini bazooka shaped like a toothbrush, he should expect this shit by now. Either way he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, his ghostly physiology meant he didn’t really have to worry about blood type and he absolutely did not want that emergency blood fusion thing to happen again. He felt like a huge dick asking Tuck to do that just because of some stupid blood sucking unicorn ghost).

She makes sure to send Jack a photo of the fridge with a thumbs up emoji, letting her husband know the idea was a solid one. Some of both of their ideas had been hit or miss. Sam appreciated their backyard being more shady, even if Maddie’s sure Jack’s ‘we needed a new shed’ explanation wasn’t believed, but Danny didn’t seem like he even noticed. His refusal to use sun screen also bothered her, to the point where she’d started adding speciality spf drops to his body washes to make sure he got at least some protection. Rolling her eyes to herself a little, boys and their ‘I’m too tough for such and such thing’. At least he wore long sleeves these days, and thick pants sun couldn’t easily get through.

(Danny was hiding scars. Danny was tired of cheap thin clothing getting wrecked. Danny was developing muscle that he did not want noticed).

Her cooking black pudding and blood sausage did not go over well, everyone agreeing -including Danny- that it was gross and to never try that again. She did attempt it another time, just to see if she messed it up, but, well, that became sentient and everyone was very disgusted by the ‘blood spitting sentient sausage’, Danny had even seemed personally offended, likely he thought the ‘waste of blood’ was insulting.

(Danny got covered in his own blood and ecto, as well as others, enough that a freaking sausage doing it legit was insulting. He had been very offended).

Jack’s fang brush Danny did seemingly take but she’s pretty sure he’s using that on a stray dog he seemingly likes but has never brought home.

(Cujo loved its weird shape. Danny loved that Cujo loved it).

Maddie shakes her head, smiling a little down at the toaster as she gets the last little piece in place, she’s not sure why it had a habit of spitting toast at Danny but she is slightly annoyed that he keeps retaliating like a toaster can care about that. Even if vampires were more aggressive and vindictive by nature, it was still annoying to keep having to fix it; at least it gave Danny something to take those natural desires out on… besides his pranking feud with Vlad. She really would like Vlad to do almost anything else other than nailing dead badgers to Danny’s door or beneath his window, she gets that the man has completely normalised animal corpses to himself -since she’s sure that’s what he feeds off of- but it’s extremely disturbing and Danny complains heavily about the clean up effort. At least she got Danny to stop mailing Vlad fully made cereal, since the mailman threatened to stop taking their packages if he got one more moldy stink bomb box; she hadn’t had the heart to tell the mailman it was moldy food being mailed the long way specifically to get more moldy and not a stink bomb.

Jack pops up from the lab, arms full with more blood boxes and grinning. Maddie putting her hands on her hips, whispering, “Jack, that’s way too many. It’s suspicious”. Her husband has the good sense to look embarrassed and dash right back down to the lab. Being subtle, at least subtle enough, was important. Neither one of them wanted to give away what they already knew, they wanted Danny to tell them himself! Sure, Vlad never did, but after that lab accident she couldn’t blame him for not trusting them, especially when he refused to talk to or visit them for twenty years… She’s still convinced that Danny’s why that man got back in touch with them, that he somehow knew or found out about Danny. Vampires probably smelled different to vampires than humans did. Same with how ghosts clearly had a strong ectoplasmic scent, hence why Danny always seemed to know when one was nearby and would smartly run off.

Jack comes back with only three boxes, which might still be pushing it but she won’t tell him off this time. They go in the fridge.

At least Vlad didn’t really hide being a vampire either though, which Danny was very clearly trying very had to do. She’d absolutely caught glimpses of Vlad’s eyes flashing red, and his hair style did nothing to hide his pointy ears with the way he wore it. The fangs weren’t subtle either and sometimes she thinks he’s trying to make his dark undereyes actively more noticeable. While Danny’s hair always somewhat covered his ears these days, the fangs… either he’s filling them down or he can retract them.

Oh, right, she should update that message board that her son seemed to like the blood juice box idea. Originally her and Jack had joined the website as just lurkers, when they got suspicious about Vlad years ago, but they kinda forgot about it once Vlad made it really clear he wasn’t ‘interested’ in their ‘support’ or friendship. Then Danny hit his pre-teen and early teen years, they’re assuming he ‘awakened’ during the beginning of puberty but the message board made it clear that vampires could awaken at pretty much any age. Sure they only had access to the ‘human’ areas, and not the parts meant for vampires, but it was a fantastic resource. The area for parents of vampires was particularly useful, and a couple others were curious how the blood juice box thing would go over; Maddie and Jack weren’t subtle about being inventors. Maybe they should try selling them?

Her and Jack both heading down to the lab now. Him getting back to work on a shield to protect the Highschool, since it was such a hot spot. Her hopping on the computer.

MadScientist: the juice box method seemed well received. He was a bit cautious about taking it, but still took it. We’re calling it a winner. Hopefully more cropping up, and him taking them, will make him more comfortable with it.

LemiRemi: he might not take them too often, since I’m sure what he gets from his blackswans is arguably better. And they might get worried if he starts feeding off of them less.

Maddie did worry about that, especially since she knew Sam and Tucker wouldn’t bring such worries up with her or Jack, nutritionally he should be fine since they formulated it to be identical to the nutritional value and contents of human blood; it wouldn’t be ‘as fresh’ probably but still.

MadScientist: hopefully it won’t worry them too much, since we really are just trying to make sure he’s healthy and trying to get him comfortable enough to talk with us about it.

Gem45: some kids just never really get comfortable with their parents, but their health should definitely come first.

Zeemzeff: I wish my kid had the resources you do, him autofeeding always worries me

Maddie was still lost on how autofeeding, a vampire feeding off of themselves, was remotely viable, even if it sounded like it wasn’t really safe rather just survivable. If Danny started doing that, she’d out and tell him she knew immediately to get him to accept their help with getting his ‘food’.

MadScientist: I was thinking about trying to sell the blood boxes, but I doubt they could handle any really long trips. We already sell volatile and sensitive inventions so the transport itself would be fine. But blood is only good for so long.

Zeemzeff: oh how I wish we lived in America sometimes. The weather is a lot better here but man, do Americans have access to everything.

Emilyfreetree: I’m still lot letting my girl anywhere near one of those blood bars.

MadScientist: agreed

She’d be concerned if Danny even wanted to go to a place like that, Vlad no doubt did but she’s going to hold out hope that the man will not encourage Danny to when he’s of age. She wouldn’t… object to him buying blood wine though, even if it was expensive and apparently a bit on the salty side; only when he’s older of course. Heck, she’d try some if it made him more comfortable.

LemiRemi: I’d be interested in purchasing that, at least to see if my kid would like it. I definitely would discourage getting too dependent on just that though

MadScientist: we’ll see what we can do. Even if my son was fine with just the boxes I’d rather him have variety, that has to be healthier.

Her looking away from the computer to her husband, “at least one person’s interested in trying to buy the blood boxes, so we should definitely work on that”.

Jack beaming instantly, “awesome!”, rubbing his neck, “we just gotta make sure none of that gets accidentally contaminated”. Maddie nodding immediately, that wasn’t an issue for Danny, since he has that contamination of his, but it would be an issue for anyone else. Jack then snapping his fingers, “oh! We should totally send Vladdie some! Betcha he’d love some human mixed in with all that animal he gets!”. Maddie sighing, fairly certain Vlad won’t actually appreciate that.

(Danny later had to explain to an annoyed though impressed Vlad that no, he did not mail him fucking human blood regardless of that reading as a ‘your ghost ass looks like a vampire’ joke. Vlad did not believe him and sent back a bloody thank you card as a form of mocking).

Jack liked to think he was a pretty good dad, a little oblivious and a little silly, but still a good dad. Sure his family was a little weird, from the ghost hunting to his daughter’s baffling intellect to his son’s species. Sure Jazz and Danny got a little annoyed with the ghost hunting, but it helped keep the town and his family safe. Even with both of them avoiding the gear so much, sometimes it seemed like Danno was nervous around the stuff, like maybe he thought they’d start hunting vampires too or something! Never! But he’s certain vampire hunters exist too, even if he’s never met any. Fae probably exist too, same with fae hunters. But fae and vampires, probably or definitely for vampires, have brains and hearts; far better than the ectoplasmic nothingness ghost had. Ghosts weren’t beings. Sure Danny’s vitals were a little weird but they were still there, same as Vladdie’s!

Jack shaking his head as he tries to focus back in on the gun he’s putting back together, they needed something that would actually work on that Phantom ghost, at least to talk to the thing about what was driving It to behave as some kind of wannabe ‘ghost hunter’. That, and Phantom clearly knew about Vladdie, based on his public comments, so he’s got to wonder if the ghost knew about Danny too. Danny-boy was weirdly ghost-friendly, a monster comradery thing perhaps, so maybe Danny talked with the ‘friendly’ ghost about the less human things about himself. Jack would rather his kiddo come to him with that, but he could understand a bit. And Phantom was, like, hundreds of years old so no way the spook didn’t know about vampires; that online forum made it seem like there were quite a few out there! Which most people probably wouldn’t like knowing about, but he’d rather Danny-boy have lots like him than very few.

Oh! Jack pauses, maybe if he just seemed like he was trying to talk to Phantom on ‘friendly’ terms the spook would float down and have a chat? Sure it would be hard to resist shooting It but if he could find a thing or two about how to better care for his kid then it would totally be worth it.

Jumping up and sticking his head down the lab door, “I’m heading out! Gonna see if I can track some spooks down!”.

“Make sure not to bother Danny if he’s day sleeping in a tree again!”.

Jack rubbing his neck, “how was I supposed to know he’d be there?!?”.

“You need to practice more situational awareness!”.

“I’ll try! Hon!”.

His dear sweet Maddie only laughing in response as he heads out. He knew he wasn’t the best at paying attention to his surroundings, but Danny-boy sleeping so quietly didn’t help! He definitely wished Danny’d get more sleep though, daytime sleep since all the night time sleeping didn’t seem to be doing him much good; perhaps he couldn’t actually really sleep at night at all and that’s why he kept falling asleep in classes before they just started letting him spend Sundays sleeping instead of doing chores.

It’s really bright out today, Amity was usually pretty good for cloud coverage, even if the sudden random snow storms that cropped up sometimes were odd. The light glare off of the scanner was annoying but that didn’t stop it from picking up on spectral traces, he knows a fight happened down by the park this morning so that’s where he’s heading. It was deer season too so maybe he could snag one there for lunch, something more fresh even if Danny always seemed a little confused and weirded out when he brought something home for Mad’s to serve nearly raw. Kiddo probably just wasn’t a big fan of getting his food from something that was actually dead dead. It was too bad ghosts didn’t have blood in them, Jack would love trying to encourage Danny-boy to bite them.

…

He actually has more luck with the animals than the ghost samples, none of samples were anything they haven’t already gathered and examined multiple times over. Meanwhile, he’s got himself a good healthy little bunny, just startle It with a ray blast at the ground and then quickly grab and break its neck. Simple, quick, and painless; just like how his pa taught him. Honestly it was more of a struggle to not fully crush really small animals, one of the downsides of being a really big guy.

“What’d the bunny do to you?”.

Jack actually jumps, whirling around with his prize and blinking in surprise at Phantom’s judgmental raised eyebrow, “oh! Phantom! Ha! Didn’t see you there”, holding up the rabbit a little, “they're good for stew, and the rabbit population here is a little crazy since there’s no coyotes or anything”. When the ghost issue first popped up, the spooks chased pretty much all the wild life away but over time most just got used to the ghosts. And sure, stew wasn’t as great a blood meal for his Danny but it was still fresh meat; and the blood wouldn’t have to be thrown out since he’d figured out how to powderise it and mix it into Danny’s ground coffee. Danny had even commented on getting a better batch! So Jack called it a win!

(Much later, after finding this out, Danny would make a rather panicked call to Vlad about if ghosts liked the taste of blood. Vlad had been completely baffled, didn’t have a good answer, and agreed to try some of Danny’s apparently blood contaminated coffee. Vlad had some opinions on Danny’s disgustingly strong coffee as well as agreeing that yes, ghosts probably did actually like the taste. The FrightKnight later confirming that yes, ghosts did, and humans used to give ghosts live and blood sacrifices for that very reason. Danny had a crises… he didn’t stop drinking the blood coffee though. It was already too late anyways! And! It did taste better).

Phantom blinks, “okay, you’re not wrong, but it is still super weird to see a random citizen just… strangling a rabbit in the park”.

Jack cringes a little, okay yeah, he can see how that might be alarming and something to go check out. Laughing anyways, “fair enough! Vladdie hasn’t said it’s not allowed though!”.

Phantom grumbling, “considering what the dear old mayor does to animals that’s not really a good thing”.

Jack beams a little, oh he was totally right! Phantom definitely knew! Sweet! “Eh gotta get those needs and murderous desires met somehow, am I right?!”. Phantom’s concerned expression doesn’t change, if anything It seems slightly more concerned. “And he’s a good mayor for the town, even if he wasn’t my buddy I’d say that!”.

“I guess? He’s certainly different enough to fit in?”, Phantom shakes his head and holds up a finger, “question, why? aren’t you trying to shoot me?”.

Jack rubs his neck, “well knowing my Danny-boy, he’s probably tree sleeping again and the wife did just give me clear instructions not to wake him up, again. Night sleeping doesn’t seem to be working out for him, figures, so you know”.

Phantom blinks, “he… does sleep in trees a lot”, smirking, “I’ve startled him, and birds, a few times”.

“I’m surprised he’s never given himself a sunburn really, leaves aren’t super great shade”, Jack shaking his head, even if Danny-boy wasn’t a vampire, Jack would still worry since he’s such a pale kid. Honestly Jack would probably worry about the kid having an iron deficiency if he didn’t know about the vampire situation!

“I really don’t think you have to worry about that. He can handle the sun”.

Jack taps his chin, perhaps his contamination made him more resilient? “I suppose his contamination makes him a tougher cookie”.

Phantom tilting his head, “yeah… physically strong and all that”.

“Sometimes I wonder why he’s not stronger”, Jack chuckling, “that or he’s got a bit better strength control than I’ve got! Ha!”.

“I have seen you pick up that military vehicle of yours”.

Jack laughing a bit more, “exactly!”, Danny really should be stronger than him, Jack knew Vladdie had some serious strength but he was also on a basically animal only diet. Danny was getting human, from those friends of his, so he should be seriously strong! Danny-boy was probably just really self-conscious about his strength, and so was really careful about it! Not that he needed to be! Just the same as how he’d get all awkward when anyone commented on him getting places really quickly, he’s not sure if being able to turn into a bat was a real thing, it didn’t seem to be but who knows! If he could then Danny-boy would totally love flying! Oh! Maybe he can just ask Phantom here about that! “I also wonder why he doesn’t talk about flying, he’s always loved space, so you’d think he’d find ways to get up in the air more”.

Phantom’s response is slightly panicky for some reason, “I mean, I’ve gone flying with him before, you know how ghosts fights can be. It’s a much easier way to get out of a dangerous area”.

Ha! Jack knew it! That was so cool! Danny could be a bat! Like from Hotel Transylvania! He bets Danny makes for an adorable bat! Same with Vlad! Vlad’s probably a tall skinny bat! Like a flying fox bat or a Sulawesi fruit bat with their sharp faces! Imagine if Danny-boy was a cute little Honduran white bat or a teeny tiny bumblebee bat! Danny would be so embarrassed but so cute! Kid already fit in his hand, in one finger would be so adorable! Him blurting out, “he must use a really weird brush to deal with that wind swept hair! His normal hair’s already a handful! Ha!”.

Phantom looks so confused and is probably sticking around at this point because of Its confusion. Maybe the ghost found it weird Jack took this long to ask things? Phantom blinks harshly, “I know that Sam girl has tried to brush him with a toothbrush but I think that’s the closest to weird it’s ever been”.

A! Toothbrush! That was adorable! He hopes the goth has photos he can see whenever Danny gets comfortable enough to tell him. “A toothbrush! Ha! That’s great!”.

(Danny is very confused when his next birthday card has the image of a bat getting toothbrush head scrubbies on it, and also confused as to why Jack thought it was hilarious).

Phantom blinks, “yeah… did you… come down here just to strangle a rabbit?”.

Jack holds up the scanner, “nope! Was seeing if there’d be any good samples to take! The rabbit was just a bonus, a yummy one and nutritious”, nodding strongly to himself, “Danny boy definitely needs to put on a pound or two”.

“I think? he’s fine?”.

Oh perhaps vampires didn’t really need to worry about that? That’s good, “well a growing boy still needs to get that blood pumping, either way”, humming, “maybe I should take him hunting proper one day. Fishing went okay?”; oh he definitely should! What if Sam or Tucker get sick or injured and can’t feed him? He should be able to get an animal on his own. Yes! New bonding opportunity!

Phantom chuckling awkwardly, “I’m not going to encourage you taking your son out to kill things”.

Jack waving the ghost off, “oh you’re a ghost! That’s expected!”, putting his hands on his hips and nodding strongly, “I’m taking him hunting”, smacking a fist into a hand, “in fact, I’m going to go home and plan it right now, bye you spook!”. Phantom sighing tiredly while waving Jack off. Phantom was really good at that playing friendly act! Wow!

(Surprisingly, the whole hunting bonding trip went weirdly well. Even if Danny was kinda disturbed and weirded out when his dad actually had him freaking carve up a deer and then just… told him to take out the heart and take a bite out of it. Since APPARENTLY that was ‘first kill’ tradition. Danny was disturbed. Danny absolutely had a really weird dream about cutting out his own heart and taking a bite out of it. Danny didn’t like that it didn’t taste bad. Danny had a lot of feelings about this. Jack… also took a photo and sent it to Vlad. Vlad was actually disturbed and called Danny personally to ask if he was safe and sane and that this wasn’t what he meant by halfas being apex predators. Danny threatened to bite his heart too. And his dad, only hearing half the conversation, seemed weirdly proud).

…

Jack basically barging into the lab, “so I ran into Phantom!”, holding up his catch, “and we can have rabbit stew tonight! Right?”.

Maddie grinning at him, “of course dear, just get It drained first”.

“Of course! And! Phantom totally said Danny can fly! Didn’t really confirm the bat thing but apparently Sam’s brushed him with a toothbrush before so I say I’m sold!”, tilting his head and humming, “the spook also implied Danny’s contamination makes him tougher with that sun sensitivity issue, so we don’t actually have to worry too much about that”.

Maddie sighs happy, “that’s great, and I’m sure he makes an adorable bat, if it’s a bat thing at all, but try not to tease him too much Jack? We want him to feel comfortable, not more awkward”.

Jack just laughs, rubbing his neck with his free hand before going upstairs to work on the rabbit. Him getting Danny to help when the boy gets home, the kid might be slightly weird about handling blood and raw meat but he needs to be used to it and to not act weird around it.

And if Danny licks his fingers clean then who’s he to judge? Sure he didn’t actually see his boy do that but well, one second his fingers and hands were a bit messy and then next second Jack looked and they were completely cleaned off. Danny-boy absolutely licked his fingers clean and nothing could convince Jack otherwise.

End.

(the message board referenced in here does actually exist for psych and sanguinarian vampires, Maddie and Jack have just misinterpreted it to also mean actual real life fanged non-human movie vampires. Also yes, if you didn’t know blood bars are a real thing, they are. Also also, blood in wine is a thing but it’s been banned since the 1930’s; but if you want to make your own wine out of blood you absolutely can, go wild.)

Prompt: Jack and Maddie knew something supernatural was going on with their son, waiting for him to feel comfortable telling them they set out to help him in subtler ways. If only they had actually gotten the species right.

#danny phantom #phandom #phicphight24 #phic phight 24 #danny fenton #maddie fenton #jack fenton #phantomphangphucker #have a fic suck my dick #my writing #gothmoth #vampires #mistaken for a vampire #animal death #blood drinking #fan fic #phan phic

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anangelwhodidntfall · 2 years

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Suffer In Silence: Eddie Munson

Stranger Things Masterlist

word count: 800

request: Eddie and y/n are best friends (who secretly love each other but don't want to destroy their friendship so both suffer in silence).

Y/N and Eddie are like two peas in a pod, they were always together and many would assume that they were a couple and it was shocking to them when either one of them said that they weren't a couple. Truth is that both Eddie and Y/N had been in love with each other for the longest time but neither one wanted to risk losing the amazing friendship that they shared so they both suffered in silence much to their friend's dismay.

You were on your way over to Eddies and he currently forming a plan on how he was going to jump scare you this time, scaring you was one of his favorite things to do because sometimes you made it so easy. He saw your car pull into the driveway so he decided to fake sleep on the couch and wait to fake scare you when you least expect it.

"Hey Eddie, I grabbed some snacks and picked up the new nightmare on elm street for us to watch..." You said as you walked into the house but stopped once you saw him asleep.

You shook your head at him as you sat the bags down on the counter and walked over to him and took his shoes off and set them on the floor before walking to his room to grab him and blanket and pillow for him.

"Only you would fall asleep in the most uncomfortable place instead of in your own bed." You muttered as you gently slide the pillow up his head hoping not to disturb him.

"Not to mention you are about to freeze to death." You said covering him and quietly turning on Fast Times At Ridgemont High at a low volume.

Eddie was melting inside at how sweet and caring you were being with him during his "fake sleep" and was almost tempted not to jump scare you anymore. He heard you open and close the fridge before coming into the living room and taking a seat next to him on the couch and resting your arm on his leg as you watched the movie and it made him wish there was more between you two than friendship but sadly that was never gonna happen.

He continued fake sleeping for at least thirty more minutes until he decided enough was enough and waited until you had your drink in your hand to scare you. But what he wasn't expecting was to reach over and brush some of the curls out of his face.

"Boo!" He said opening his eyes and making you jump back with a scream and drop your glass onto the floor in the process.

"God damn it! Eddie don't fucking do that!" You said slapping his chest as he laughed.

"Oh c'mon you know it was funny. sweetheart." He said sitting up.

"No, it wasn't because now I have spilled coffee all over your uncle's rug, which he's gonna kill me for." You said picking up the glass and heading to the kitchen.

"Ehh it'll be alright. But let's talk about how sentimental you were being towards me?" He said getting up and following you into the kitchen.

"I was just trying to be a good friend and make sure you were comfortable." You said as you reached under the sink for some carpet cleaner.

"Sure you were. But what about you reaching over and brushing my curls out of my face?" He asked you.

"Eds I know you don't like it when your hair touches your face, so I was trying to help you sleep which you clearly weren't doing in the first place." You said rolling your eyes as you walked into the living room and began cleaning up the stain from earlier.

"Look I know I gave you shit about it, but I did really enjoy you taking care of me even if I was faking it, so thank you seriously." He said after a few minutes noticing how quiet you had been.

"Your welcome Eds." You said giving him a small smile before heading back into the kitchen.

"So did I hear you right that you had snacks and the new nightmare on elm street?" He asked you.

"I did. I figured could have one of our movie nights unless you want to do something else?" You said taking a seat on the couch.

"There's nothing else I rather do sweetheart." He said popping in the movie as you set your assortment of snacks and drinks on the table in front of you guys.

As you two were watching the movie, Eddie thought about earlier and how much he enjoyed you taking care of him, and made sure to fall asleep around you more often especially now that he knew what kind of treatment he got.

#eddie munson #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson fic #stranger things 4 #stranger things x reader #anon request #eddie munson imagine

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us-the-voices-and-more-voices-2 · 3 months

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actually good cleaning hacks from someone who’s been through some shit

Get a steam mop I don’t care how much it is or cheap, just get one

if you have a pet invest in a wet dry vacuum, you will thank me.

get cleaning cloths you actually like the feel of, if you hate microfiber get a cheap set of tea towels and use them instead. Or chop up a dead tee shirt and use that.

plug in vacuums are 2x more powerful than non-plug in vacuums. You trade sucking power for mobility with cordless, so think that over when you get one.

buying a cheap mop every time one gets moldy is cheaper than having to deal with any mold you get from using a moldy mop.

invest in disinfectant/antifungal/antiviral/antibacterial liquid for your laundry, because that stuff makes getting rid of moldy musty musky shit easy. And it cleans your cleaning cloths without getting them greasy or soapy.

to fix “I accidentally left my clothes in the washing machine too long now they smell like mold” thing, you will need antifungal laundry liquid and the literal sun. Wash your clothes on the hottest setting you can with your clothing materials in mind, add the antifungal before you start, let it go for like 2 hours. And put it in the sun to dry. Repeat if it still smells moldy, until it doesn’t anymore, works like a charm!

to clean crystalline dog piss, you will need water, a steam mop, a wet dry vacuum (depending on if it’s in a carpet) dog cleaning spray or vinegar. Basically , rehydrate the piss, clean it up with dog spray or HOT vinegarish water, grab a steam mop and steam it (if not on carpet) and viola it should be okay now.

If it’s in the carpet you will need to rehydrate the piss, then just dowse the piss with water, use the wet dry vacuum to suck up the water, repeat until water comes up clean. Use whatever pet cleaner that’s good on your carpet to get the smell out, Patch test it in the corner of the carpet before you do it on the piss spot, soak up and remaining water from the carpet until it’s dry or blow dry it if you have to. And tada you have a cleaner carpet! The same works for dog shit too.

drain snakes are your best friend if you don’t remember to get the hair out the drain.

have one sponge for wiping down the sink and one for washing your dishes, because sometimes it’s easier to use a sponge to wipe down the sink than a cleaning cloth.

You can put sponges in the dishwasher and it cleans them REALLY WELL, do it everyday if you can.

Invest in a good glass cleaner for glass because when it gets greasy it’s hell.

Koh cleaner will literally cut through grease and oil, and fat. Like it wasn’t even there, if you don’t have the money white vinegar and bi-carbs does the same thing. Though be careful because it’s reactive and might destroy your countertop or pots, just invest in koh your life won’t be the same. (I can clean all the grease off things, that’s how good it works. Plus it doesn’t smell!!!)

Replace your toilet cleaner every 3 months, or make sure you don’t let it fester. That’s more of a hassle than replacing it every now and then.

Get a good dish soap, because you can use it for everything because of how mild it is.

After mopping always steam mop otherwise it will always be streaky or tacky, idk why but steam mops fix this 9/10 times.

there’s more, but I;m too tired.

#-pop #disability #I’m disabled and these hacks have saved me so much suffering and pain #I’m always in pain after cleaning but this way is way easier to clean shit up #STEAM MOPS FOR LIFE #if you have no money for a vacuum there’s these fancy sweeps 🧹 that have 2 discs that move and collect the dust and crumbs they #Are SO WORTH IT #cleaner #cleaning #laundry #cleaning tips #decluttering #mental health stuff #activism stuff

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rehfan · 24 days

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La Belle Dame avec Merci -- Chapter 6: The Dance

Eddie Munson x Unpopular!AFAB!fem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ readers only please - minor children DNI! – No Upsidedown; reader is technically a virgin; mutual pining; Eddie has trust issues; emotional hurt/comfort; female masturbation; male masturbation; emotional manipulation; reader is kinda shitty to Eddie; reader gets better; angst; more angst; Eddie’s mom is dead; small act of accidental physical violence; Uncle Wayne is the best

Tagged: @bluestuesday / @ali-r3n / @winchester-angel / @iletmytittiestitty-russ / @mewchiili / @chaoticgood-munson / @welcometohellsock /

DO NOT POST TO ANY OTHER SITE. My words are mine and mine alone.

Inspired by @/hard-candy-writing ‘s ORIGINAL POST

MASTERPOST LINK – AO3 LINK

********************************

Saturday arrived unceremoniously despite being the day of the Sadie Hawkins dance. The dance Eddie wasn’t taking you to. You awoke to a pair of parents on a cleaning frenzy. They roped you in quickly, handing you the paper towels and the window cleaner and assigning you every interior flat glass surface throughout your three bedroom split level ranch home. “Don’t forget the sills!” your mother shouted over the disco music she had put on to motivate the three of you. She was handling the kitchen. Dad was getting the lawnmower ready to tackle the front yard for one of the last times before winter truly settled in. As you cleaned the large sliding glass doors that led to the back porch, you could hear him cursing while trying to attach the bagger for the leaves and clippings. You wondered if he would appreciate Eddie’s help.

As soon as the thought hit you, you shook it off. Nope. He was not going to invade your thoughts. Certainly not on a domestic level. He probably had no idea how to cook or clean anyway, never mind now a lawn. But then, he might? You knew so little about him it was shameful.

And then again, you weren’t his actual girlfriend. You two had never had a proper date, no opportunity to know one another. As you wiped at the windows in your parent’s bedroom, your mind drifted to what a date with Eddie would be like. Certainly, he’d take you someplace for dinner. Maybe pizza. Maybe takeout Chinese? Neither one of you can afford Enzo’s. And the conversation? Where would you begin? Music, probably. Cosmo. Teachers. Family. Hopes for the future.

And when all was done? Where would you go? Where could you go in Hawkins? Lover’s Lake. The quarry. Skull rock. You’d heard all of these places were used as rendezvous points for the kids at Hawkins High, but you’d never been. Skull rock sounded ominous. Lover’s lake was a bit too on the nose and too cheesy for you. But the quarry? A little dangerous, a little unexpected for one of your puritanical reputation. Yes. That was the one.

Maybe tonight you’d take a drive out that way instead of going to the dance.

Your mother called you out of your daydreams. Apparently the carpet in your bedroom wasn’t going to vacuum itself.

~080~

Early visits to the car part store and the hardware store filled Eddie’s Saturday morning. Though he was standing there between Wayne and Rocco, the auto parts guy, discussing the proper time to be adding antifreeze to Wayne’s truck and Eddie’s van, Eddie couldn’t help but feel his mind wander to you. Did you have any antifreeze for the winter? Did you need any? Maybe your dad took care of that stuff for you.

“Fuck,” Eddie muttered.

“Something wrong, Ed?” asked his uncle, both men paused in their conversation at Eddie’s curse.

“Hm? No. Sorry. Just think I forgot my smokes. I’ll just check the car, yeah? You good, unc?”

“Yeah, son. I’ll just be a minute.”

Eddie took a deep breath when he got to Wayne’s truck. He wasn’t supposed to be thinking about you. But give his brain less than one thing to concentrate on at a time and goddamn it - off it went, thinking of you like it did just the night before.

It was shame that had him up so early that morning. The shame of waking up in that empty bed still smelling like sweat and his own spunk. He needed to fuck you out of his system. And then there was the shame of jerking off to you - again! The only thing for it was a scrub in a hot shower…which of course meant he was rubbing another one out while trying not to call out your name.

He leaned heavily against the truck, gulping down air like a fish out of water. Shaky hands brought out a half-crumpled soft pack from his inner pocket. He shook out the end of one of the cancer sticks and with what used to be smooth and practiced motions, mouthed the end of one, stuffed the pack back, and brought out his lighter. Today it took him three tries to get the cig from the pack into his dry mouth and four attempts to get a flame to come from his cheap plastic Bic.

He was three draws in again when he felt steady enough to swear. Two more and his hands weren’t as shaky.

“Ready to go?” Wayne asked.

Eddie stubbed out the cig and nodded. He got in the truck and Wayne settled the plastic bag of spark plugs in Eddie’s lap to hold. “You want to tell me what that was all about?”

“What?”

“Look, Ed, I’m not here to be nosy, but I like to think you’d come to me if there was something going on. I mean —, “ here he gazed at his nephew as the engine roared to life, “I worry about you. That’s all.”

“It’s nothing,” Eddie said.

Wayne reversed the truck and backed out of the space, eyes moving between mirrors and out the back window. Shifting to drive, he pulled to the exit and waited for traffic to open up. He wasn’t looking at his nephew when he said, “Your mom on your mind?”

“Huh? No. Not really.”

“Because you get this way when you—“

“It’s not her, okay?”

“Okay.”

The truck moved smoothly into the street and headed in the direction of the hardware store. It was off Main Street in downtown Hawkins and Eddie liked it there. Something about buckets and buckets of bolts, screws, nuts, and washers all in their proper places made his brain buzz pleasantly with a calm joy. He really liked the smell there too: fresh cut wood and paint supplies. Which reminded him:

“I need some acrylics for some models,” he said. “Do you think they’d carry some?”

“We can ask, but don’t you normally scrounge that stuff from school?”

“Yeah, but the art teachers can only give me so much,” he said, shrugging. “If they don’t have any, it’ll be okay. It was just a thought.”

Wayne spared Eddie a sideways glance. The boy stared out his passenger side window, head against the glass, eyes dull, and his fingers twisted one of his rings around his finger idly.

Wayne decided to take a chance: “What’s her name?”

Eddie turned his head, eyes suspicious. “What are you talking about?”

Wayne couldn’t hide his small laugh. “I knew it might happen again. But I’ll admit, I was hoping for sooner. Been a while since that Debbie girl.”

Eddie felt himself go crimson. “Shut up, man,” he mumbled.

“Hey. First off, no back talk. Second, having a thing for someone is fine.” There was silence in the cab for a block or two before Wayne said, “She really pretty?”

“I suppose.”

“Wow.” Wayne let out a long low whistle. “With that kind of reaction she must be a knockout.” He threw Eddie a cockeyed grin. “She’s a stunner, huh?”

Eddie couldn’t help himself. He grinned and sighed: “Totally.”

“And she knows you like her?”

Eddie’s grin faded. No. You had no idea. He’d kissed you twice, but still you thought he hated your guts. He'd given you that impression himself. But you never knew that he’d fucked his fist over you multiple times now. He’d imagined you in his life and his bed, but you were in neither. And you never would be.

Eddie shook his head.

“Ah,” said Wayne. He was quiet for a while after that. He didn’t talk again until the truck was parked in front of the hardware store. It was a busy morning in Hawkins and Saturdays were the days people went to Hawkins Lumber and Supply. The two of them people-watched for a minute in the quiet cab of the truck.

“I know you don’t have much luck with the opposite sex,” Wayne began.

“God, Wayne,” whined Eddie. “You make me sound like I’m a virgin.”

Wayne painted a mock look of shock on his face and gasped. “You mean my sweet baby boy has been spoiled?!”

“Shut up,” Eddie said, a smirk on his face as he unbuckled and opened his door.

The lumber smell hit him first. He could swim in it. “Over here,” Wayne directed eagerly with a grin. Eddie hadn’t seen him this keyed up in a minute. But it’s not every day a man gets his own brand new generator. The last two winters had been hell without one. Eddie had helped his uncle lay down the concrete patch that the small shed would sit on to house it. The trailer park red tape they went through to get that little patch put in was a war onto itself, but that mountain had been conquered. Now the crowning glory was coming home with them. All they needed to do was set her in place and hook her up.

Wayne grinned ear to ear while talking with Sally the sales lady. Eddie gave her a polite nod as she smiled at him before motioning for her associate to wheel out the generator on a hand truck.

When it was mounted and secured in the truck bed, Wayne sat behind the wheel, closed his driver’s side door, and sighed, happy. He turned to Eddie: “Gonna be a warm winter.”

“Finally! No freezing our asses off bundled up in blankets,” grinned Eddie.

“Drinking hot drinks just to warm up,” agreed Wayne.

“Or worse: heading to the church for a meal.”

Wayne shook his head. “They mean well.”

“Yeah. They’re real mean. They wanted to baptize me!” Wayne chuckled at Eddie’s outrage and started the engine. “And you almost let them!”

“I almost did!” said Wayne. “Only reason I didn’t: they wouldn’t heat up the holy water first. Colder than a witch’s tit that year.” Eddie laughed and shook his head. “What? Couldn’t have you catching cold!”

They were half way home when Wayne asked, “Would she take care of you?”

“What? Who—?” But in the next instant, he knew who his uncle meant. “Aw man, leave it alone, will ya?”

“Answer the question.”

“Would she take care of me?”

Wayne nodded. “If you were sick. Or if you hurt yourself.”

Eddie recalled your soft kisses to his hand from pounding on the elevator door. He remembered you so concerned for him that he had shoved you to the floor. His gut twisted. “Yeah. She would.”

Wayne nodded and as he drove, fished out a cigarette from the pack in his pocket. Eddie lit him up with his lighter. “She cares then,” he said. “That’s good.”

“I guess,” Eddie said, his head now back against the window, the same listless look in his eyes once more.

“Ed, I may not know much, but I do know that it should be about how this girl sees you. And if you see yourself reflected in her eyes, don’t hesitate.”

“But what about your track record?”

“My track record is not your track record. Don’t look at my life and see yours. Because it isn’t. And your mother’s track record isn’t yours either. If this girl’s not abusive — words and deeds, remember — then go get her. Don’t let her slip through your fingers.”

“What if—“

Silence.

“What if what?”

“What if my track record… is my dad’s?”

“You get angry around her? You haven’t hurt her, son?”

“No! No way! I mean… I knocked her over once — but that was an accident! I swear! I wasn’t mad at her. She was trying to help calm me and I shook her away and she fell, but I didn’t want to hurt her! And she wasn’t! She was fine. She said so!”

Wayne gripped the steering wheel just a bit tighter. He let out a slow breath. “I’ve known you your whole life, Eddie. You’ve got your mother’s heart but you do have your dad’s temper. Fortunately, you can be calmed pretty easily. Did you spot that you knocked her over right away or did it take—“

“Right away,” said Eddie. “No question.”

“And you apologized?”

“Are you kidding? I was practically losing my shit that I did it. But then she smiled at me and I—“

“And all was forgiven,” Wayne finished. Eddie nodded.

“And then she kissed me,” Eddie said softly.

“And did you kiss her back?”

Eddie nodded.

“And she doesn't know you like her?" Wayne shook his head and smiled to himself. "So what’s the problem?”

“What if I do it again? What if she thinks I'm like my dad and walks away? What if she runs? What if she’s too ashamed of me to really be with me? She’s a Loch Nora chick. You know: money.”

“Oh? Well…. She sounds pretty invested as it is,” Wayne said, “for a girl that doesn’t know you like her.” He brought his truck to a stop at their trailer, having backed up behind it, the tailgate end facing the concrete slab and wooden housing they had built. He turned off the engine. “What you’re afraid of sounds pretty normal to me. What do your instincts tell you about her?”

Eddie shrugged. “Our beginning was…kinda wild? She was using me as kind of a fake boyfriend to get back at the cool kids and I let it go, but then it started getting weird and I guess she felt it too, because she had a change of heart and now I’m so turned around by her…” He took a breath. Christ, he was beginning to nervously ramble like you do. “I think my compass is just spinning and spinning. I have no north anymore.”

“Sounds complicated.”

Eddie nodded. Wayne laid a hand on his shoulder. “Women are. Relationships are. But boy are they worth it when you get it right. Stick around her. See how she is with you around with no strings attached. Maybe that compass of yours will find north in the end.”

Eddie considered this for a moment until his uncle patted him on the shoulder and woke him up. “Come on. Let’s get that beauty hooked up.”

~080~

Eddie had sat on the couch for as long as he could stand it. Your apology from yesterday and Wayne’s words from that day had been running around in his head all afternoon and evening and they were eating his brain. He had never looked forward to a Monday at school before, but he needed to be around you again. He needed to see you, to hear you, to flash a smile and see if you returned it among all the other people there. He sighed for the millionth time as he stared through the Gunsmoke rerun on the television.

“Jesus, Ed,” his uncle had said, exasperated, “Just go to bed.”

That tore it.

“I’m gonna go for a drive,” Eddie had said, slapping his hands on his knees and getting up. He grabbed his keys and his jacket. “I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Wayne had given him an evaluating stare. “I’ll be here.”

Eddie had nodded to him and had left with the familiar slap of the screen door echoing behind him.

He drove aimlessly as the sun set on Hawkins. Normally, his metal music would be blaring, but tonight he hadn’t bothered with any music. He didn’t want to drown out his thoughts, he wanted the drive and the night to take them - and for the most part, it was working. He lit a cigarette at a lonely stop sign and rolled down his window, exhaling smoke into the autumn air. The smell of rotting leaves and burning wood from someone’s fireplace mingled with the cold as he drove off again. The streets were quiet. He wondered when the dance was supposed to begin. He wondered how you looked. He wondered if you were having fun. But he didn’t wonder hard enough to actually drive to the school to find you. That would have been too real.

Street lights gave a hazy yellow glow to the road ahead as he rounded Lover’s Lake. He thought of hanging at Rick’s, but that would only end in a drunken weed haze and not get him back in those couple hours he promised Wayne. Then he’d hear it. Nah. Not worth the struggle.

Night darkened quickly this time of year and he wanted more of the eerie gloom. He chose an unlit back road that led to just above and over the quarry. There was a small patch on the shoulder where he parked his van. He sat there for a minute in the silence and finished his cigarette, willing the thought of you out of his head for the millionth time. He crushed out the butt and flicked it off into the dirt. Passing a hand over his face, he gave a soft groan and, for the sake of his sanity, played radio roulette. He turned the knob and stopped on the first song that caught him. Static crackled and snapped as this announcer voice passed by that commercial and this sugary pop song until Bob Seger sang to him to “Turn the Page”: a song about a lonely musician with long hair out touring away from family and everything familiar. Perfect.

Later in the evenin’

As you lie awake in bed

With the echo from the amplifiers

Ringin’ in your head

You smoke the day’s last cigarette

Rememberin’ what she said

He listened to its finish and turned the radio off, allowing the night to swallow him again. He closed his eyes, he saw you in his mind’s eye all apologetic and sad. He remembered his hands rubbing against your upper arms, comforting you. You had called yourself horrible things, but he hadn’t bothered to correct you. He had been too busy holding onto himself emotionally. You weren’t a bad person. But he had been. He should have just accepted your apology and ended your self-torture, but he didn’t.

He turned off the engine and the lights. There was a rusty guard rail running along the edge of the quarry but he easily clambered over it. He moved carefully to the edge, peering over it in the moonlight. The water was dark and still at the bottom. A void that, if he were in any other mindset, he probably could have flung himself into with little thought. He felt like shit about you and what his next steps should be, but he wasn’t feeling that badly. Instead, he sat with his feet dangling over the edge of the drop and took another drag.

To his side was a rock the size of a cantaloupe. He couldn’t resist. He picked it up and, one-handed, shot-put style, chucked it into the void below. There was a space of nothingness where only the breeze in the boughs around him could be heard. Then, with a sad finality, he finally heard the splash he anticipated. Goddamn, that was a long way down.

He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He threw another. This rock was a bit smaller and he tossed it high, outward from his position, his eyes attempting to track its descent futilely because even though the full moonlight was bright, the depth of the quarry swallowed everything visible. Again, the anticipation of the sound was more dreadful than the actual satisfaction of hearing the landing. A small splash echoed back up to him and he breathed again.

Small ripples caressed the shore of the quarry. He heard them more than saw them, although the water’s surface was accessible far below him just off the access road. Due to the angle of the shore he was able to see the soft waves lap gently there in the moonlight until they finally stilled. He threw another rock, watching and waiting for the splash and then seeking out the ripples against the shore far below. He counted elephants to himself: “One-elephant-two-elephant-three….” It was four and a half elephants to hear the splash and another nine until he saw the ripples. The anticipation of both was palpable.

Funny how mere seconds could be so long. Or how days could stretch into years. Sunday still lay before him. All in all, it was about 36 hours by his reckoning before he would be heading off to school. It seemed like 4 million years.

He wished he could touch you again. He wished he could bring you here to sit in the quiet and the stillness. He wished he could apologize to you for being kind of a dick. No. A total dick. The lyrics of the song echoed back to him like the splash from the stones below:

You smoke the day’s last cigarette

Rememberin’ what she said

Lights appeared on the access road below. A car stopped. Someone got out. The lights of the car were on and the car radio echoed tinnily against the carved stone walls. For a moment, Eddie wanted to flee but his legs betrayed him; he never moved. He was frozen. He soon discovered that it was the perfect vantage point. The individual walked in front of the lights completely ignorant of his presence. The figure was small, but they had a massive voice the echoed off of the walls of the quarry, startling some birds in the trees. “Eddie Munson! Get the fuck out of my head!”

He started at the sound of his own name, but then he registered who it was that was below him. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. He looked up at the sky briefly, “Mom, are you seeing this?” before he crushed out his cigarette, got to his feet, and watched you stoop and pick up the first stone skipping it along the water, ripples breaking and mixing in the shine from the headlights. Then another. Then another.

~080~

You really hoped your friends forgave you for ditching them but as you pulled up to the old quarry, you realized that you didn’t care. It was only a stupid dance. A dance that you were going to go to with all your female friends and try and have a good time? Nope. No chance. The radio was playing some soft rock when you put your car in park and turned off the engine, but engaged the ignition to keep power to the radio and lights.

The night was bitter and cold. You had brought your winter coat and wrapped it around yourself as you got out of the car and walked around the dirt road leading up to the water. You were instantly reminded that you were wearing your black stirrup pants under your denim pencil skirt, paired with black flats; your ankles were practically made of ice as soon as you stepped out of the car, but you wanted to feel the bite of it. You wanted to feel small and cold. It was your penance for being a horrible person.

The wind in the trees that surrounded the area, the faint music from your car, and the odd call of a night bird were the only sounds. The lights from your headlights reflected off the water and made shadows against the far quarry wall. It was spooky here all alone. You could see why it was a great make-out spot. Anyone would want to cuddle toward someone else, if only for a sense of security. You let out a deep sigh and watched your breath fog drift away.

Your day of cleaning had moved into running errands with your parents in the afternoon: grocery shopping, dry cleaners, and a trip to the watch maker’s so your dad could get his grandfather’s pocket watch cleaned. The late afternoon had been filled with talk of the dance. You had headed back to your room and called Gail. “Pick up Marie, will you?”

“Why? What happened?”

“I’m not going.”

“No! What? You said you would!” Gail had whined your name and it killed you to hear it.

“Sorry, Gail, but I just can’t. I can’t be happy. Not yet.”

“What is going on between you and Eddie?” she had asked. “Last I knew he kissed you and then ditched school.”

“Yeah. Then I saw him last night and I apologized.”

“For what?”

Gail had had no idea the whole thing was a set up, so of course she was confused. But you hadn’t wanted to explain it to her. She might have thought worse of you if she had known, so you had decided to dodge the bullet. “I didn’t exactly treat him well.” And here you had sighed, guilt still nibbling at your guts. “But he didn’t forgive me, so I guess we’re kind of through.”

“Jesus. That didn’t last long.”

“It’s okay. My relationships never do. S’why everyone thinks I’m this virgin,” you had said.

Gail had grunted in annoyance. “Listen, if Eddie shows up at the dance or any afterparty we go to, I’m going to kill him!” she cried. “Why is he dodging you? You apologized for whatever it was you said or did, so clearly you like him – though God knows why – but he really shouldn’t turn up his nose at you. You’re a hell of a catch – and better than he could ever hope to do. Honestly, he doesn’t deserve you.”

You had brushed off her insult to him/compliment to you. You hadn’t had the strength for that battle. Instead you had decided to refocus her attention. “You were invited to an afterparty?” you had asked, truly curious.

“Well, no,” Gail had admitted. “But there’s still time. My point is: if I see him, he’s dead meat. I’ll claw his eyes out.”

“Don’t do that,” you had said. “I like his eyes. And besides, you might break a nail.” There had been a pause during which you knew she was checking her well-manicured nails.

“True,” she had finally agreed. “Well, anyhow. What are you going to do with your night? Spend it with the ‘rents?”

“Oh God no. I have other plans. But if they ask: I met all of you at the school and had a blast. Okay?”

“Okay,” she had agreed. “See you Monday, mopey.”

You shivered against the cold and wondered why you had bothered to leave your house for this place, but you needed the time by yourself. The gloom only added to your mood.

“EDDIE MUNSON, GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HEAD!” you screamed and then pierced the night with a genuine shriek of frustration and anger. Your voice was amplified and echoed all over the quarry. Night birds startled in the trees that surrounded you and you were grateful and more than a little fearful that you were in a place where you could scream your brains out and no one was around to hear and call the cops.

Breathing hard, you held your hands to your head and ran them through your hair. “Nothing to be done, girl,” you said to yourself. There were many pieces of flat pieces of shale at your feet. You kicked at them idly, but decided to pick up a few to skip across the still water. The splashes echoed a bit and the ripples glittered waves in the glow from your car’s headlights behind you.

Five skips.

Four.

Six.

Five.

Only the radio kept you company as you wasted your night alone with the water and the stones and your thoughts about Eddie Munson. How could he be so funny and kind and so cruel and cutting toward you all at the same time? It was like he was punishing you for more than the crime you committed. With every rock you threw, you felt a tiny bit better, so you kept at it. You didn’t know how long you’d been there, but you groaned when you felt additional lights on you and heard the sound of another approaching vehicle.

You suspected it was some of the local kids from Hawkins here for a make-out session. If they found you here on your own, they would paint you as a loser and you felt your heart race as the light flashed across your face and the vehicle slowed to a stop next to yours. It was too late to hide. Fuck.

The lights of the car went out and the moonlight took over. Eddie’s van appeared before you, dust from its tires blowing away in the wind behind it. Eddie himself jumped out of the driver’s seat and slammed the van door behind him. He strolled forward toward you, his hands in his jacket pockets, a smile on his face.

“Imagine my surprise, running into you,” he said.

Instantly, you were aware of how alone you two were. That smile of his was disturbing. Instinctively, you backed up a pace. “Yeah,” you laughed nervously. “What are you doing here?”

Eddie read your body language instantly. He held up his hands and stopped moving, saying, “Hey, hey. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You did a good job anyway,” you said, your arms crossing protectively across your chest.

“Sorry,” he said. He meant to add: And while I’m at it, I’m sorry for everything else too, but he didn’t. He just stood there dumbly and waited.

“I was enjoying my solitude,” you said, turning and picking up another stone to throw. You curled it in your hand, took a step, and threw your arm swinging outward. Six skips that time.

Eddie whistled low. “You’re pretty good.” He looked around his feet and came up with a stone. He threw it. Two skips. “And I suck,” he said with a short laugh.

You didn’t say anything at first. He was the last person you wanted to see. But what was twisting you from the inside was that he was also the only person you wanted to see. You hucked another rock and he paid you another compliment. What was his deal? The last time you saw him, he kissed you and then dropped you like a hot rock when his friends found you both in that compromising position. Something in you boiled over.

“Look, why don’t you go away? Huh?” Your throat was suddenly raw with hurt. “You don’t like me? Fine. I don’t need you to like me any more. I’m done. You win. You get to hate me with the burning passion of a thousand suns. And your plan now is - what? - to torture me? To hang around until guilt chokes me and swallows me whole? What more do you want? Do you want me on my knees begging your forgiveness just so you can stand there and laugh at me with your friends?”

You had no plans to get on your knees for Eddie Munson.

“N-no,” he stuttered as his brain conjured up a totally inappropriate image. “I gave it some thought. You’re driving me nuts, but I was pretty cold to you back at Cosmo’s.” Here you barked a short sarcastic laugh. “And then you were crying and then I knocked you over…and then we, uh. And then I just left you there. It was pretty shitty, you know? So I couldn’t get all of that out of my head. I was just trying to tell you that I’m okay now. That I… forgive you. And that I’m sorry too.”

You didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Eddie gave you a sideways look and continued, guarded, “So if you want…,” he began slowly, “…I’d like to make it up to you. But only if you want.”

“Make it up..?” you managed.

“Yeah, you know… dinner, a movie. Real boyfriend shit. Things like that. If you want. I mean, I could make it up to you by staying the fuck away too, but I’ll be honest: I don’t want to do that.”

All you could do was blink and barely breathe as he went on: “I want to hang out with you. You’re funny. And smart. And I like you…?” His voice petered out weakly at the end, his voice lilting up into a question.

In the awkward silence that held dominion over you both in that moment, he held out a stone for you to take. “Here,” he said, “throw this and think it over.”

You were too torn up to see the rock in his hand. You couldn’t tear your eyes away from him. Relief flooded your senses and you felt cracked in half. One side of you wanted to hit him hard. The other wanted to fall into his arms. Mechanically, you reached out your hand. The stone was small and warm from his hand. It was three-sided and fit perfectly into your palm.

“Bit small for a skipping rock,” you whispered.

Eddie shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll make it work. You can do anything.”

“Anything except understand you, Eddie Munson,” you said flatly. You regarded him for some time as he kicked at the shale and avoided your glance.

Eddie could feel your stare and from somewhere deep inside him, he heard Wayne’s words about the complexity of women: …boy are they worth it when you get it right. Stick around her. See how she is with you around with no strings attached. Maybe that compass of yours will find north in the end.

Buoyed by this, he rounded his shoulders in a carefree shrug. “All part of my charm, sweetheart,” he quipped, that trademark grin, the one you had been waiting for for all this time, was right back on his face.

You little shit, you thought. You squeezed the stone in your left fist and moved to him, completely prepared to sucker-punch his smug little face.

The closer you got, the more your heart ached. You wanted to strangle him. But in the end, you just needed to touch him. “You are the single most infuriating person. I swear to God,” you said and wrapped your arms around his neck and hugged him with everything you had.

His arms came up around you and held you close. Nearby, the radio DJ decided to put one of your favorite songs on. You always thought it so sad, because you’d never been treated like the woman in the song by anyone, but now, you noticed as your hug broke, Eddie swayed with you in his arms to the beat of it. He reached up and took your right hand in his left and pressed his cheek to yours.

“If that’s a yes, then I think I’ll start by dancing with you, if that’s okay,” he whispered.

You were dizzy, but Eddie’s body braced you, his arm around you supported you, his skin against yours warmed you and you had never felt more cherished. It was breathtaking how gentle he was. He brought your hand to his chest and covered your hand over his heart, warming your fingers as the music and the night surrounded you.

I’ve never seen you looking so lovely as you did tonight

I’ve never seen you shine so bright

I’ve never seen so many men ask you if you wanted to dance

They’re looking for a little romance, given half a chance

And I have never seen that dress you’re wearing

Or the highlights in your hair that catch your eyes

I have been blind

The lady in red is dancing with me (cheek to cheek)

There’s nobody here

It’s just you and me

It’s where I wanna be

But I hardly know this beauty by my side

I’ll never forget the way you look tonight

He pulled away from you when the song faded away. “How was that? I mean, I know it’s not the Sadie Hawkins or anything, but-“

You kissed him.

In the whole of your life, you had never been this frustrated by or been made to feel this helpless by a man. You had never had a man hold you like you were delicate or precious. You had never felt his kiss kill you and give you life all at the same time. But here, on the edge of the black pool of an abandoned quarry in a remote section of Indiana, you felt the universe turn around you and the world shift as your fingertips brushed his jaw.

You were suddenly hyper-aware of him: his taste, warmth, pressure, scent. All of Eddie surrounded you and you wanted more. You wanted to crawl inside of his jacket and hide in his pocket. You wanted him to hold you and dance with you and talk to you. For this night and every night.

Eddie was stunned to his sneakers. He never expected you to kiss him. The hug was already a shock, but this? No way. Even after everything that had already happened between you, he would never have predicted it. In fact, when you had first walked up to him, he could have sworn that you were going to clock him right in the face. But then you didn’t. And then the song came on.

It was a little sappy for his taste, but he had heard it plenty of times in all sorts of places and when he paid attention to the lyrics, he realized that it was perfect for just this moment. After all, you were stunning and he felt so lucky to be here alone with you. And he did rob you of the chance to go to the dance with him. He owed you a dance at least.

And now this. He felt terrified to take more from you, but that’s all he wanted to do. He wanted to usher you into his van and kiss you everywhere. He wanted to spend the rest of the night here, if you’d let him. He felt your chilly fingertips touch his jaw and instinctively, he took your hand and held it.

Your glassy-eyed stare was all he needed to see. He was sure that his looked the same to you. Holding your gaze, he slowly kissed you again. This time, he let it linger. This time, he didn’t run.

“Eddie,” you whispered.

“Yeah?”

“You really want to date me for real?”

Eddie laughed and his hold on you released. His laugh busted out into a howl. He doubled over with it and stumbled a few paces away.

You watched him cackle and the longer it lasted, the more you found yourself becoming angry. “Edward Munson! Was this all just a trick to get me to kiss you again?”

His eyes flew wide and the laughter stopped immediately. “No no! Nooo! No, sweetheart, no!” He came to you and held both of your hands which you had balled into fists. “I’m not laughing at you at all! I mean it! I really did! It’s just- you asked me if I was for real and you- well, you’re you! You’re you and you’re asking me if I want to date you for real? You do remember that I’m the freak of Hawkins High and that you’re the Unattainable Ice Queen, right?”

“I do,” you said, thoroughly confused. “I mean- I didn’t think you liked me. That’s all.” You looked up into his dark eyes. They held a gentle humor and matched his soft smile.

“I know I gave you that impression in no uncertain terms, but…” He sighed and dropped to one knee. “You are the single most intelligent and beautiful thing I have ever laid eyes on and it would be my undying honor to take you out on all the dates ever for as long as you can stand to be around this feeble excuse for a man.”

“Oh.” You wanted to kiss him so damn badly, but it took your stuttering brain too long to put the rest of your body into motion to do it. He stood.

He held up your left hand. “Aren’t you going to throw this?” The stone still lay in your palm, warm and solid.

“What? You want me to throw away your fake-aversary gift to me?”

“Honey, it’s a rock.”

“Yes. It’s a rock shaped like your guitar pic,” you said, flicking the plastic pendant for emphasis. “It’s also sort of heart-shaped, which is nice.” You pocketed the stone.

A slow grin spread across his face and he bowed his head, shaking it slowly. “You know, I think you might be weirder than me.”

“Then that makes us a pretty good match, don’t you think?”

“It doesn’t hurt,” he said. For a moment, neither of you spoke and the DJ’s voice came through. “Hey, uh… you may want to shut off your radio and your lights or you won’t have juice in your battery.”

“Oh damn!” You ran to the car and did as he told you.

“Now start it up,” he said, fully prepared to grab his jumper cables if you needed them. “See if she cranks over.”

The engine stuttered but caught and you breathed a sigh of relief. Eddie wandered over to your window. You lowered it. “My knight in shining armor. My parents would have killed me. Especially since they think I’m at the dance,” you said, smiling. “You do know how to save a girl, don’t you, Munson?”

The grin on his face was contagious, but he shrugged modestly. “I do my best for any maiden in distress, but… well…”

“Well?”

You are my maiden to rescue, aren’t you?” he asked, uncertainly. You smiled at him and leaned toward him, making your wordless answer unmistakable. He smiled and leaned in gently, kissing you softly. In the span of time it took for his lips to meet yours and part again, he knew he didn’t want to push you. Everything was too new. It was too delicate. He didn’t want to crush this thing before it had a chance to exist. “Now,” he said, clearing his throat and looking at his watch, “it’s not completely late, but you did lie to your parents. If you’re feeling guilty about it, you may want to head home. Besides, it’s freezing out here. I’ll see you on Monday, okay?”

The clock on the dash said 8:40. That wasn’t late at all. Why was he calling you his maiden, kissing you, and then pushing you away?

Your confused look must have moved him. “You can have my number?” he offered. “Just to let me know you got home okay?”

You nodded dumbly and you exchanged numbers. Eddie wrote yours on his arm with a pen from your purse all the while thinking, baby steps baby steps baby steps…gotta move slow…

As he passed before your headlights again, your stubborn resolute nature found a voice. It was too soon. You didn’t want to do anything but be with him. Plus, your curfew wasn’t until midnight anyway. You easily had just under four hours to burn. You opened your door and with one foot in the car and the other one out, you leaned one hand on the roof and shouted to him: “Hey! Are you hungry? I have pizza money. We could go into town. If you want?”

Eddie stopped short. Your voice was a shock. Are you hungry? He paused, but in the next second he was thinking of where he could take you on the money he had coming to him next Saturday from Rick. He wanted to take you to Clark’s Diner or The Harvester’s, some place that was nice, but not Enzo’s nice. But then he registered what you said after that: pizza? His stomach growled. “Sure,” he said. “Larry’s?”

“Larry’s Pizzeria it is.”

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