Chapter Text
"The sun and stars that float in the open air,
The apple-shaped earth and we upon it, surely the drift of them is something grand,
I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is happiness,
And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation or bon-mot or reconnaissance,
And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for us,
and without luck must be a failure for us,
And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain contingency."
Leaves of Grass: A Song for Occupations 3
Walt Whitman, 1855
.·:·.✧ ❊ ✧.·:·.
Steven folds himself through a cracked open window, sliding into the building without a noise. His shoes hit the floor with a clack, and then he crouches down, scanning the space.
A silent fan hums in the background. The office is dim, and it's minimalist at best. Makes sense for a corrupt chief of police. There's a desk in the center of the room, a metal shelving unit behind it, some filing cabinets to the left, and a locked door on the right.
He makes his way across the wooden floor with quick, silent steps. He pushes past the chairs in front of the desk, snakes behind the polished, leather spinning chair, and stops at the towering doors of metal.
Steven takes out a bobby pin from his hair, and slides it into the door's keyhole. He twists it around, waits for the distinct click, and then slides the pin back into his gelled hair.
Opening the unit reveals a cardboard box. Steven notes it as what he came for: The old chief of police possessions. It's what Luke sent him in here for.
The new chief could have been more discreet. He wraps his arms around the box, and heaves himself up to his feet. He sets the box down on the desk, and with a hearty thump, a drawer slips open further, catching his eye.
Steven leans down, gently opening the drawer further. He cards through the various files, fingertips skimming the labels, stopping just above one titled: HIGH COURT.
He thinks little of the buzzing in the back of his mind, echoing a sense of danger as he pulls it out. The folder opens itself in his palms, and he skims over the contents with fervor.
Redacted images are pinned to police records; various runic inscriptions are drawn out on napkins. It's sparse, and yet something tells him to keep it. The dread beats deep in his chest, and whispers from the shadows call to him.
This is greater than you understand.
Steven closes the folder with a snap, lips pursed. In bright, red ink, it's labeled for the shredder.
He slides the file into the cardboard box, hiding it under broken frames of family and old, torn notebooks. He pushes the drawer closed with his foot, as he takes the box into his hands.
Steven glares at the shadows. It swirls into figures beyond reality. He rounds around the table, and the darkness follows at his heels.
He knows who it is. Although, he doesn't understand his stake in it: The one who belongs to rot in Asgardian Prison forever. Their abuser.
Even if he's a stakeholder, and at heart Steven knows he should talk to him, he refuses the notion. His nose points to the air at the sight of the warbling corners of the room, and he begins his trek back to the window.
Across the room, he opts to slide the box onto the windowsill before himself. Coincidentally, the cardboard tilts, falls, and hits the fire escape with a loud, shuddering bang. Yet, he doesn't freeze; instead, he hastens his pace: His feet land on the fire escape, and he closes the window within a second of each other.
Steven brings the box back into his hands, holding it tight to his chest. He needn't worry about sealing the window, as the lock was broken in the first place—and who broke that lock, he wonders?
Steven could give Luke everything in the world for facilitating his guilty pleasure, but alas, as he checks the time, it knocks the smugness from his brow.
He's almost late for his date with Greer, and he needs to stash the box away—shit.
╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝
Greer stops at the edge of the steps. Looking up, she feels her heart drop at the sight of the theater Steven texted her to go to. With the vast draperies, massive colonnades towering as tall as skyscrapers, and stained glass windows, it looks too… Rich for her taste. Even tight crowd in neatly pressed clothing screams: Look at me! I have too much privilege and money!
Which, contrary to popular belief, she does not, in fact, have either. A woman on an Avenger's pension doesn't have much equal to the average man.
Greer strides up to the glass doors of the entrance, one hand on her purse, and her other cutting the way through the crowd of sleazy men. She hears her heels click before she realizes she's already at the doors, where red carpet becomes marble.
However, her hand stills on the metal knob. Does she even know what she's doing here? Why is she even attempting to try to trust Steven of all people? All Marc talks about is how pestering and critical he is—
Then why does he like Steven? She doesn't know.
Why don't you just break it off? It'll be much easier. She doesn't know that either. Perhaps it's her morbid curiosity, just like the saying.
She holds her breath, pushing herself past the glimmering doors. The space opens to an atrium, and terribly enough, she has to admit that the inside is stunning: The ceilings are covered in art, sparkling glass, and pillars of gold spiral down to the intricately patterned marble flooring.
As she steps up to the half-wall, which splits the entrance from the dining hall, her head bows down. She rests her hands on the railing, and breathes deeply. In and out.
The dining room is quiet, and pleasing to her oversensitive nose: The air is a soft rose in the spring, just about to bloom, but not as overbearing as its summer counterpart. The only light come from candles lit on entwining chandeliers above the white clothed tables. A stage is on the side, yet the curtains are closed.
A hand comes up into the air. Her eyes trace the horizon, following it down to greet Steven's beaming face. He looks well-groomed: Slicked hair, a teal vest over a white button up, and matching pants with a geometric pattern down the side.
And yet, even though she prepared herself—she even ordered an emergency therapy session for this—she feels herself freeze. Apprehension crawls up her shoulders, as thick as molasses, sticking her feet to the ground.
It was only a few days ago she told Jake her one rule, and while she wants to uphold that rule, she didn't expect them to be so serious about it.
Serious enough, in fact, that Steven jumped on the ball, and now here they are.
Isn't this a bit fast?
She swallows. She was married once, and never did she ever go to a place like this before their wedding day. But she was young. Naive. Moldable.
Does he want something?
His hand falls. Greer realizes all too fast how long she's been staring at his dark, brown eyes, and clean-shaven face. It makes them look younger. Makes the body look unscathed from trauma.
He's going to use you.
Greer wrings her hands and forces herself to unstick her feet from the floor. She peels her legs past another, dragging her body to the steps into the dining room. When her heels finally come off the stairs, and meet the bottom floor, she beelines it for the table.
Approaching the table, she puts on her best smile through her own embarrassment. Does Marc like things like this? "Expensive, is this all not?"
"The best for the prettiest," Steven rests his head on the back of his hands. Greer's heart skips.
"Oh shut it." She scoffs, pulling out her chair: Red velvet cushions and hand-carved wood. "It's good to see you."
"You too." He nods cordially as she sits down. "Your white suit looks marvelous. Was it tailored for you?"
"A gift from a friend," Greer hums. A simple white blazer, pearls around her neck, and sleek sparkling pants is all she has on. "Your outfit?"
"Tailored," Steven slides her the menu; Greer takes it into her hands. "A friend does ours. If you wanted, I could—"
"Is Marc stealing money from people again?" She interrupts, eyes widening at the prices. Her body begs to hurl at the sight, and yet she swears she hears a soft chuckle come from Steven. "None of us can pay for this. Our pension doesn't pay this much."
"I have a job on the side. Don't worry, I can pay full." He assures, eyes creasing. She can't read his tone—whether that's good or bad. Her tail wraps around her leg. "Get anything or nothing, and apologies for rushing you out so soon. Jake can attest, I get excited sometimes, especially if I'm trying to pitch myself."
There has to be an edge to him. Something else than this fake facade of a face. She knows these men well: 'Treat a woman good for one day, and she'll cave' is their mantra. She knows otherwise.
"Sometimes?" She skims through the menu again, brows furrowing. Would pasta be good? Or just wine. Or the whole latter. Hell, she's going to need something stronger than wine after losing her appetite from pricing. "I just didn't expect this. Is this what you do to everyone?"
"Everyone and always," he smirks.
It's odd to her how he says it so carefree. It doesn't sound as if he's flexing it; there's no strain in his voice. It's just a flat confirmation with something warm to it. It's a direct opposite from Marc or Jake. It's jarring. It makes her instincts perk in interest.
A challenge to deduce; to pick apart like roadkill.
"I thought that a theater night would be fun… I'm not that exciting, not in comparison to everyone else." He tacks on, his face squishing into an embarrassed, cheeky grin.
Smiling looks good on their body. It's weird. It hasn't wavered once since she stepped into the main hall.
"You don't have to be exciting." She flips the menu to the other side. Deflection. "What's your job? I've never heard of it."
Or anything you've done. Ever.
"I'm a tax advisor to big corporations. It's pretty easy, being honest, but rough during tax season. I've always liked numbers. Patterns are easy to recog—" He points at something on the menu, dipping the paper. "That's pretty good here. It's not microwaved shit."
A bout of surprised laughter falls from her lips. "Your standards are too high for TV dinners, then? I don't think you're selling yourself good here."
"I'm not saying TV dinners are bad per-se," he rolls his eyes. "I think the MRE's we ate in the military brought my standards up to an all-time high. Then Marc's cooking—did you actually eat Jake's food?"
"Yes," in the back of her mind, she lands on something with venison on the menu and sticks with it. "It was a sweet gesture."
"See, but it tasted terrible." Steven's tone falls flat.
Greer kicks him from under the table. He jolts back. "Be nice to him. He was trying his best."
"Agree to disagree," She offers the menu back to him; Steven takes it back into his hands. "So, Will's out with Soldier tonight again, or…?"
"Wanda asked for him tonight, so no." Greer can't get a solid idea of him. His breathing is too even, and movements too coordinated. The unknown keeps her palms stuck to the edge of the table, ready to run. "What about you, then? I haven't truly met you, and you seem to know a lot about me. So, who are you?"
A waiter passes by, interrupting them. Steven offers their menu to them, and they take it. They order: Venison back strap and cauliflower gnocchi. After, he adds something with an all-too fancy, and long, name to their tab. The waiter walks away with a renowned purpose.
He leans forward, twiddling his spoon in his fingers. "Twenty questions, then?"
She slips the spoon from his fingers, rolling it between her knuckles. "No. I find that boring. What's something fun about you? You said you were dull."
He lets the question roll around in his head, and waits for the curtains to open on the stage. The audience applauds, he doesn't look over. His eyes are pinned to hers. "Hm. Well, I like long walks on the beach—"
"Serious," Greer jests, jabbing the spoon into his direction.
He sets his arms flat on the table. She sets the silverware down. "Serious. Alright. I do like the beach—that wasn't a joke—but I like the ocean more. I used to go on week-long boat rides in the past, but as we've been mandated to land, I've found myself enjoying picking sea shells and glass from shorelines."
"Actually?" She laughs; the waiter sets down a few, thin glasses of some fizzy drink she doesn't know of. "You have the patience for that?"
"If that's so surprising, what's your favorite hobby then?" Steven quips back.
Greer brings the liquid to her lips, testing. It tastes like carbonated cotton candy—not too bad, but too sweet for her tastes. "I like traveling. Specifically backpacking. Like you, I did trips when I was younger—though, I was in high school. I haven't done it in a long time."
"A few places on your bucket list?" He prompts, taking a sip. She sets her drink down.
"Gabon's trails, the mountains of Romania, and some places in… Botswana? I think it was Botswana." Greer taps her nails against the cloth. The play is just background noise to them both. "I made a list when I was still adventurous. It didn't last long."
"There's always time for the future." He rests his hand beside hers. She slips hers away. Too soon, her brain screams. There's still time for him to turn. "May I ask why you stopped?"
"You may not." She's always kept that fact to herself. She was young and dumb, thinking that any man could solve her issues. Her friends told her not to go with him. She did anyways. "It's… Personal."
"You don't have to feel obligated to explain." Steven frowns. "I'd never push you to—and, ah, look, perfect timing!"
The waiter comes into view as she turns her head, two plates of food in hand. She takes her glass in her hands to make room, and they set down the plate of food in front of her. The look and smell makes her mouth water.
As the waiter leaves, she takes her fork and digs in. There's a bout of silence between them. The play goes on—and it's Hamlet of all things. She remembers hating Hamlet. She looks up to Steven. He seems fixated on the play, eyes deadest on the scene of the king being killed by his brother.
"Another fun fact," he switches to her full attention, tone strained. She eyes him carefully. "I had blonde hair as a kid."
"Blonde hair?" She about spits out her food. "You? With blonde hair?"
"And curls too. For years," He adds, as if proud. "Still have them when the humidity makes it frizz all up."
"Do not dye your hair blonde," she chides, taking another bite. The flavor of rare, tangy meat makes her instincts purr. "Or go clean shaven forever. No offense, but you look an peeled onion. You can't take away your other good-looking aspect."
"An onion?" Steven coughs, eyes shooting wide.
Greer's tail flicks. He's fun to tease. "Mhm. Completely bald. I cry over the hair stuck in my drain whenever you shave."
"Goodness," he coughs into his napkin, then folds it in half. "That's unique—and hey! I clean up after myself!"
"Defensive," Greer clicks her tongue. "I've always suspected it wasn't Marc—"
Her phone buzzes in her pocket, vibrating across her leg, making her trail off. She frowns, palm coming down to dig it from her slacks.
Steven scoffs, turning away. "I do not stoop down to Marc's level. You should have seen the body when he had that atrocious mullet—well, actually, you did… But the thought still—"
She pulls up her phone. Whatever Steven was about to say next dies in his throat.
It's from Wanda. Shit.
Maximoff 6:36PM:
Got busy. Sent Will home—are you busy? I can call someone else to take care of him.
She places her phone on the table. "I have to go. Will's already back home."
"Wait what?" Steven watches as she gets up, sliding her chair in. "Wait—hang on," he grabs her wrist. She goes to pull away, but as she watches concern fill his eyes, she relents. It makes her instincts ease, calming her nerves. He cares. "Do you want this to continue? At home?"
Does she? She thinks she does. It's been nice to chat and tease him, at least, but beyond that…? Is he even good with Will? Does he think things need to be clean or fancy as an obligation—because of that's so, he's going to hate their apartment—
"I think so." Greer whispers, and his hand slips off, stilling on the table. "I can't say."
"You don't have to," Steven bites his lip. His own heart is pounding. She can finally hear it. "You can kick me out at anytime, but I'll be there in thirty. Don't worry about anything else—goodness, I know you are. Have been, too. Go run and get it all out, love."
Love. Greer steps from the table, breathing deeply as she staggers away. In and out.
She knows nothing of him, and yet he's read her like a book. It's terrifying. It's comforting. She doesn't know what to do with the butterflies which come from her stomach, and become trapped in the churning acid.
Greer's pace quickens as she turns toward the exit. She doesn't look back as she bolts through the fancy, rich patrons, and fake smiling waiters. The actor for Hamlet turns to his mother—a whore; a prostitute; an evil woman for remarrying.
And for thinking she could love more than just the king.
She breaches the half wall, then bursts past the glass doors without a second thought. She doesn't look back as she chucks off her heels, holding them in her adjacent hand as her eyes scan the block. She has to get out of here. Has to run. Has to go home.
Greer turns sharply on the pads of her feet, pouncing off into the chill night—the rooftops, her destination.
╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝
To his word, Steven comes walking through the door thirty minutes later. She hears him just as he scuffs his shoes outside, and makes sure to purposely hold her growling to a minimum as he enters.
Greer has Will sat on the couch, watching cartoons, while she skims the refrigerator for anything for him to eat. The intruder strides through with socked feet, and an army of tote bags strung across his arms.
Her instincts need to learn how to behave. She'll talk about that later in another session. Maybe. She jots it down somewhere in her mind, and forgets it just as easily.
Steven places his bags onto the counter, then takes two white containers out from one. He pats the tops of them just as she turns to look at him with a keen stare. She sniffs the air: He ran here, obvious by the cologne masking the stench radiating off from him. Weird.
"Hopefully they aren't destroyed. If you want my gnocchi, you can have it as well. I got something for Will," he digs into another, pulling out a few soup containers and sandwiches. "Don't worry. I got him an egg salad one and broccoli and cheese soup. Soldier said that's what they eat all the time and—"
"You talk," Greer grabs her container, opening it only to pluck from the meat with her claws. "A lot. Will likes anything."
"What do I like?" Will pops up from nowhere, causing Steven to jump. Greer smirks. He points to the items in Steven's hands. She can barely see his ginger hair under the counter. "I can warm up my soup myself."
Then, as if Greer isn't right beside the two of them, he leans close, whispering something into her son's ear. Something about a game. She faintly hears it through the gnashing of her own teeth.
When Steven pulls back, Will nods with a bright smile pinned to his face. It makes her gut twist, and her chewing pause.
"Alright, kid." Steven smiles, handing the soups off to him. She squints at the two of them. "I'll get your sandwich ready."
They move together in tandem after: Steven plates Will's sandwich as Will heats up his soup; they come together at the coffee table. Steven ruffles Will's hair, they chat some more about some cartoon Greer doesn't remember showing him, and then Steven bounds back to the counter like a lost puppy, leaving her son alone.
He looks down at the massacre of food on the counter top. Greer's already halfway into his gnocchi, and as she goes to challenge his stare, he gazes at her like she just gifted him every star in the sky.
It's terrifyingly genuine. "Did you want any—"
"What's your opinion on board games?" Steven inquires, his voice calm. It's as if he's ready to tackle the world. Maybe he is. Greer surely isn't.
"I like them. Are we playing board games as a first date?" She speaks with a half-full mouth, swallowing at the tail end. It sits heavy in her stomach. "You are uninteresting."
He hums and shrugs his shoulders, indifferent. "Just thought it'd be nice, and you deserve a break. If you can't get one babysitter on a whim for one night, than I can't imagine how you've been dealing with the stress."
"William isn't a burden." She snaps back.
"I wasn't saying he was, Greer." He looks at her with big, soft brown eyes. It makes her stop in her tracks, any retort dying in her throat. He says it with no hesitation, nor fear in his tone: "Raising a kid takes a village… And you didn't have one. I'm sorry."
It's as if time pauses. Will glances over to the two of them on the couch. Steven keeps his body turned toward her, not a tensed muscle in his body.
He trusts her. Greer could almost cry at how much she wished she trusted him back. It's a problem with her—she knows. She knows too well, but she can't forget. Who could?
Her tail flicks as she shoves the rest of the gnocchi into the trash. She'll probably vomit from the contrasting emotions from the night alone. Steven watches it fall into the bin with a splat.
He nods to something—or better yet, someone—unseen. "You can still kick me out."
"I know." Greer growls, "just go do your surprise. It's almost Will's bedtime."
Finally reveal yourself. Her ears pin back. He takes another bag in hand, turning to face Will instead. What are you doing putting an ounce of hope in him?
Hypocrite. Her face twists. You put faith in Marc. Even when he shouldn't have deserved any of it.
He didn't know what happened to you.
Does Steven know?
Greer picks her head up to ogle at the man skipping toward her son. She doesn't him from scooping Will up, and tossing him into the air, and returning to whispered conversations with him.
She can't. They both look ecstatic with themselves, buzzing happily as they head off to Will's room together. It makes her heart ache.
She hates this man who says all the right things. Hates him to his core. With Jake and Marc, she can forget. Forget in the ways that Marc hurts just as much as she does, and Jake doesn't look at her and say 'I'm sorry. You were so young.'
Or, perhaps he would. She doesn't know Jake well enough either. Another contradiction.
Steven steps out into the hall, heading toward the bathroom. Greer keeps her ears and eyes pinned to the rooms, but all she can hear is the rustle of clothes, and the exciting pattering of Will's paws hitting the floor.
He's a manipulative asshole. You know Marc's susceptible to that.
…And even she doubts that thought. She never got Marc to swoon over pleasantries and soft spoken words. He fell in love over chastising remarks, knowing she was spying on him, and trying to kill him on a rooftop.
Then, there still has to be something else.
Will skips out from his room, and it brings Greer out from her daze. Dressed in a green button-up, brown suspenders, and dark green slacks, he bounds up to the kitchen tiles with a bright grin.
"What's the event?" She tears herself away from the counter, where her feet have melted into the ground.
If Will could smile larger, well, somehow he does. It bunches his cheeks up to his eyes, and puffs his face out wide. He raises his hands up, clawing at the air. Greer hops over to him, past the stools, and brings him up into her arms, nuzzling his forehead.
"A secret!" He hushes, kneading his paws into her fur.
"A secret now? Will Steven tell me?" Greer calls out to the bathroom door, past her son's shoulder. Annoyance laces her tongue without thought, and she cringes.
She isn't annoyed. She knows she's not, but it's a test. When will he lash out? When will he crack and show who he truly is? He can hide under his suit and fake-loving smiling, but when will that break?
The bathroom door swings open, and Steven steps out mid-way buttoning his navy overcoat. He looks up to her, eyes wide, and thin lipped. "Is something wrong?"
He's in a sleek dress; Greer can't help but trail over the silhouette of him. It's a simple, blue velvet dress. It's truly nothing exciting, but it looks good on him. The way her mind fizzles out must be from the stance, or the eccentric demeanor of Steven she's already aquatinted with.
It makes some of the dying butterflies inside of her flutter to safety. "No. I just—" She holds Will tighter to her chest. "I'm just excited to know of the secret."
"Well," he bows his head, and she swears she catches red fall on his face as he digs through the bag still at his side. He fumbles with a box he pulls out, keeping it to his chest. "I thought it'd be fun to dress up and play Clue?"
He turns the box around, with the characters facing her and Will, and the secret unravels in her mind as clear as day: Six characters, each in solid color, just like them.
"You'd be right," she forces out as a meager puff. She can't pinpoint why. Her tail flicks away from her leg. "Come on, lets clear the table and watch as I skunk you all."
"As if!" Will puffs in her ears, scrambling to get out from her arms. She sets him down, not breaking eye contact with Steven.
He smiles, wide and proud, not scared to meet her gaze one for one. She can't find enough air to breathe. She doesn't understand. Doesn't understand any of this.
"Well?" Steven outstretches his arms, "do I look good?"
Her instincts tell her to bite, growl, and run away from the fear of the unknown. Her ears pin back, then flick up. Her claws twitch at her side. Something swirls through her veins, both cold and molten lava, and she can't ignore it.
So, instead of biting her tongue, she closes her eyes, falling into it. Her instincts purr at her choice, hope blossoming in her chest. "The prettiest."
╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝
The night was fantastic, even to Greer's standards—which, maybe are at an all-time low, according to Steven, but she digresses. From the plate of crackers and cheese, to wine Steven had pulled out from somewhere deep in her pantry, it left her smiling to herself throughout the rounds of Clue.
She's still nursing her cup, half-full, swirling it around like a whirlpool. The two boys had disappeared a minute ago, trampling off with another one of Steven's mysterious tote bags. He'd tugged at his cheeks, whisked him off with a hand on his shoulder, and left her to clean up the coffee table.
She stretches out her limbs, hearing her shoulders pop and crack. She places the wine glass down, and takes the cardboard box in hand.
A faucet is running. There's shushing somewhere else. Greer swallows thickly, tasting the bitterness of the wine still stuck in her throat, and swipes the pieces into the box.
She's conflicted. Of course, she is. She's barely met this man, and he's done nothing wrong—quiet frankly, he's been the sweetest, possibly rich man she's met—but that's the issue isn't it? He's too sweet. Too charming. He's not like Marc where she can eye him up and down, notice his hair growing back into a mullet, hear labored breathing upon menial tasks, and piece together that he's been hauling ass on the streets for days on end.
Instead, Steven's heart is level; his breathing is even, and posture lax. He keeps a smirk forever engraved onto his face, as if it's personally chiseled into his skin.
It's uncanny. Every time she becomes aware of it, her fur puffs out on instinct, and tail whips through the air, tense. Maybe it's why he brought out wine: 'Relax. I'm not a threat.'
But right now, he is. He's a threat with her kid, and she's allowing it. She allowed him to march in here, sweep her off her feet, and then now what?
Greer doesn't know. She purses her lips and closes the box. She gets up, tucks it into a drawer, and begins to pick up the lone plates strewn about.
The faucet turns off. There's giggling and chatting from the hallway. She grits her teeth, scrapes the food into the trash, and places the dinnerware into the sink. She turns on the water, lets it run down the drain until it's scalding, then plugs it up.
She counts to ten, reminds herself that its okay that Steven is with William—for goodness sake, she's pretty sure Will likes him more than he does Marc—and wrings her hands together. She's been working on this with Sterman. She'll call this her homework.
It makes her want to call Barton and freak out. How many times had she done that in the past few months?
He'd set her straight. Then Wanda would. Then Reese. Then—
A door creeks open. Her ears twitch. She stops the water, spinning around.
Will rests in Steven's arms, head tucked upon his shoulder. She listens to the soft purrs coming from him as she sweeps them over: Steven is still in his dress, albeit soaked in patches of deep blue; her son is in shorts and a sweater, with wet fur. Lavender swirls through the air.
Greer frowns. It makes something hard and heavy well up in her chest. Them, together, with Steven holding Will up, heading off to tuck him in as if it's not even a second thought.
They disappear into Will's room. She folds her ears down and refuses to listen to the soft lullaby, the lamp clicking off, and him leaving her son in darkness.
Greer doesn't want to imagine it. It makes her long for more of this, and isn't that terrible? Something must fall.
When Steven rounds back into the living room, he takes the his overcoat off, hanging it up on the coat rack in the corner. He lets out a long, drawn sigh, only pausing when his face comes up to level toward Greer's narrowed eyes.
"Are you okay?" His wrinkles crease in the dim light. She pulls back from being slouched over the counter, straightening up. His breathing skips.
A reaction. "We need to talk."
"I'm sorry," an apology falls out from his lips before they even begin. He's been down this rodeo. It's obvious: The gift giving, the fear, the fake smiles, and the perfect words he says. "Did I…? Did we…?"
"We never finished our question game from the table," she'll play his game. She'll beat around the bush, and not say her truth.
She rounds the counter, slowly stepping closer, as if capturing prey. Steven doesn't move.
"No, we didn't."
"I have a question for you," she stops by the coffee table, a few paces back from him. "You say everything perfectly, don't you?"
"I make an attempt," Steven goes still. Her ears pick up on no irregularities, as if he planned this. No reaction. Dammit. "As an entrepreneur—"
"I don't care." She smirks. He chokes on his words, and it makes her tail curl in the air. "I've only met what's out on the surface with you, haven't I?"
"What do you mean, exactly?" He puts his hands together. Cat and mouse.
Her instincts preen. Her canines stick out. "You're not a man Marc Spector would love, Steven Grant. That, I can say, from seeing you tonight." She takes a deliberate pause, yet Steven doesn't falter. "However, from what I've learned, he does. So…"
Greer gradually closes the gap until her palms are pinned to his collarbone, and her nails trace the contours of old scars.
"Why does he? What is wrong with you?"
Bingo. A reaction. His breath wavers and heart skips. Too much air comes from his nose, and not enough comes in. His muscles tense.
His eyes dart around the room, then to Greer. Everything evens out. Interesting.
"So, you want to know what is wrong with me? Is that your question?" An eyebrow raises, and Greer's nails slip under the slim straps holding his dress up.
Her eyes flick up to his. "You heard me nice and clear."
"Well," his face flushes just enough to catch, and as if willing it away with briefly closed eyes, it returns to pale skin. "I like pineapple on—"
She snaps the strap against his skin. He gasps, face scrunching up. "What was that for?"
"Beating around the bush. Answer the question I asked." Greer orders, squinting her eyes.
"Fine," he puffs out. She relents, pushing her hands to his. She presses against the pads of his fingers. They twitch up towards hers, and she picks at the calloused skin. "I… Like…"
His face twists. A reaction. Another stride towards capturing her prey and revealing the truth. She's not being caught again. Her chest puffs out in pride.
"I steal things from rich people," it comes out in a rush. Greer blinks, disappointment settling deep in her stomach.
That can't be it. That's not possible. She pinches his skin, and he breathes through gritted teeth.
"Alright! Okay, fine." He adverts his head away, abashed. "I steal from anyone. I nicked some bills and rings from the dinner venue we were at. Is that bad enough for you?"
"You… Pick-pocket." Greer's face falls flat. Out of everything he could have said? A simple: 'I steal from people'—Hell, Marc and her had killed people. "You don't do anything else?"
"I stole from the chief of police before our dinner," he shrugs. She leaves his hands to rub her eyes and sigh. He looks on in confused terror. "What? Are you disappointed I don't act wild all the time? That I'm not a—"
Greer glares at him as understanding falls upon him. She's losing the battle. Or did she lose from the very beginning?
"Right." He bites his lip, then rubs the bridge of his nose. "Look, Greer, I know we don't know a lot about another, and I know that I can't get you to trust me in a night's time. That isn't how relationships go, does it?"
She keeps her scowl pinned on him, expecting him to take a step forward, to do something wrong—but he doesn't. He stays put. He lets her back up, then go forwards, as if slowly beginning a pace in front of him.
He continues even through the silence. It screams at her to lash out and tear him apart. "Was I an asshole before? Yes, I was. I suppose I am fearful of becoming that man again: Compliant. I… Didn't enjoy it. I vowed to never be that man again, and I will not."
"You have a choice," he raises his hands, palms up. "You can do whatever you want. You can still kick me out at any moment. I wouldn't put it past you: I'm a stranger, barging into your territory, with an agenda to court your mate."
Greer hesitates in her steps. She loses her sneer as her tail wraps around her leg. Her hands twitch at her side, ready to pounce onto him once she spins back to face him.
He's right. This is her territory: Her house of past memories trapped in photos, a semi-broken oven, and plants stashed here by Marc. It's comforting, and someplace she can hide in to leave the world of atrocity.
Steven reeks of chemicals and hidden promises. There's nothing here belonging to him but his coat and body. He sticks out like a sore thumb, but he put William to bed; he brought her to dinner; he adapted to a stressful scenario, and made the night fun for everyone.
And he smiled through all of it. He didn't complain. He understood.
Maybe she likes that. Maybe she's finally understanding why Jake pouted the entire time over lukewarm takeout, hemming and hawing over being left in the front. Maybe she wants to see what will happen if she digs her claws and teeth into him: Will he run away, or will he stay?
'Quiet frankly, I think Steven is deep in love with you too'.
"I do have a choice," Greer's ears flick up. Steven's shoulders drop—a reaction. "I think I'd like to spend more time with you tonight."
"Oh?" He perks up, his dashing, all-too-weirdly sweet smile falling upon his face again. "Well, I have one final surprise if so—"
"What the hell, Steven." Greer rubs her temples as he scampers off to the counter, pulling the last bag into his hands. He trots along like an excited dog, then stops by her side. If he had a tail, she'd sure it'd be wagging. "How much did you spend?"
"Doesn't matter," he offers it to her. "A gift. It know it's been stressful, and overwhelming at points, but tonight has been fun, Greer."
"You say it like I'm kicking you out permanently." She rolls her eyes and takes the bag, bringing herself to the coffee table. He stays at her side as she starts digging through. Her hand lands on something soft, "what?"
"Heated blanket, some compression socks—I know concrete isn't good for the pads on your feet—some candles, nail polish, some claw caps—"
Steven drawls on as if his nerves have finally caught up to him, and it takes Greer pressing her hand up against his chin, forcing his mouth close, to silence him. She takes out the blanket, then places it onto the table.
"This is all incredibly expensive." She blurts out, just as her fur bristles in embarrassment, and her instincts claw at her in confusion. It looks like he's actively trying to court her. "Are you always like this?"
"Of course I am," he deflects, then after a pause, doubles down with statue-like posture. "…I noticed you didn't have some of the items, and then I saw some candles, thought of you, got them, and I suppose it just… Spiraled. Didn't it?"
It's the first note of honest vulnerability from him she picks up on. Her ears swivel toward him before she can crane her head around. He's sweating. A lot. Does he sweat when he's anxious?
"It's very sweet," she confesses. She thought he'd want something else. Something she's not ready to give. Something she can't give. Something that makes her double check corners, and take the rooftops instead of alleys.
She's not ready to give that yet, but she's ready for something else.
Greer leans over, takes his hand into hers, and presses a kiss on the back, between the valleys of bone and skin. Steven squeaks out something incomprehensible. It's cute. Her instincts wrap around her heart, content.
"To bed then?" Greer smiles, softly, and genuine for the first time in the night. She keeps his hand wraps around hers.
Steven takes a minute, as if his body is restarting, then responds curtly. "Anything for you."
╚══ ☾•°◉°•☽ ══╝
He's scrolling on his phone in the bathroom. He knows he shouldn't be. Knows he should put their phone down, or better yet, throw it away just as Marc does every month or so.
Yet, he can't tear his eyes from the screen. The conversation he's scanning through was something he wasn't present for. Didn't even know it happened. It makes bile curl in his throat, begging to be let out in a loud, curdling hurl.
His heart and stomach agree in tandem. His shaky fingers stop scrolling to read.
Marlene (DO NOT CONTACT) 2:34AM:
I trust you with my daughter for a weekend. For some reason—and pray, tell me why, does it always end up in disaster? Are you incapable of protecting her? Of giving her a normal weekend out?
I am not incapable. It was something out of my control. Stop acting as if it is something I stop.
Marlene (DO NOT CONTACT) 2:37AM:
Even if it is controllable? Leave her at your new workplace, for fucks sake. She's just a child. Do you even understand the amount of trauma we've already let her go through?
Seriously, Marc. Me and Diatrice cannot keep doing this song and dance. I allowed her to come to you, for a weekend, without me being there. You let her get hurt.
She didn't get hurt.
Marlene (DO NOT CONTACT) 2:50AM:
…And it took you twenty minutes to form that asshole response.
I'm done for the night.
You're not seeing her again until you get your shit together.
That was your final chance and you blew it. Not anyone else. You.
Steven clicks off the phone, leaving himself in the dark.