Chapter Text

Chapter 3: Reinvention

At first, it’s…Steve wouldn’t call it scary. There aren’t a lot of things on this plane that scare him. Jinn are undying things, with strong tethers that shimmer invisibly upward, but the quiet is unsettling. He’s so used to hearing Mom in the morning, to waking up with the soft sounds of breakfast being made under the hum of the record player. Now, everything is so still. It’s just him haunting the home for the first week. Steve tries to fill the silence with the TV, blasting records he’s not allowed to play, but it’s not the same. 

He doesn’t tell anyone his parents have left him alone, but no one asks either. Instead, he pulls his bike out of the garage and tells Tommy that he’s going to be bringing himself to school from now on. Tommy only shrugs; Mrs. Hagen, however, narrows her eyes with each passing day. His stomach squirms in her presence. He doesn’t want to answer her questions, not really. Parents get in trouble for things like this. He remembers when Munson first slipped into school, the whispers about his parents and uncle that claimed him, but Steve’s different. He can take care of himself better than any human child his age could. He doesn’t need to be supervised. 

It doesn’t matter, though, because a week goes by and Mrs. Hagen never bothers to pull him aside, and it hurts almost as bad as Mom leaving.

In the end, it’s surprisingly easy to get used to neglect.

The silence becomes a blanket around week two, cold but familiar, when he pitters around the house. He gets into everything, opening every door and cabinet he wasn’t allowed to touch before, and he finds his Token twelve days after they’ve left. Steve’s not sure how he missed it before. It’s not hidden. Richard has laid it innocently on his desk, tucked between a family picture and one just of the Harringtons, like a simple decoration. 

Steve leans against the desk and stares at the dark metal. He wants so badly to touch it. He remembers forming it, before he was Steve, or Sabe, or Squall, or Smile, or any of the other names he’s collected over the centuries. When the only thing he knew was Sassil and the shape of his being. Bhirru says it’s because he’s hardheaded, the Elders say it’s a hint, a spoiler if you know how to read it, and Steve thinks it just fits.

He keeps the study locked now that he knows where it is, and raids the rest of the house. He eats his way through the pantry. A certifiable vacuum until there’s not a sweet or cookie left in the entire house. He runs up a hefty bill with the local pizza place. Eating the stuff damn near daily until he’s throwing up sauce and cheese at the mere thought of dough and pepperoni.

It’s going on week three when Steve decides to venture out on his own for actual food. It takes him an entire day to plan the shopping trip. To dog-ear each recipe and decide on which bag to carry with him. He lands on the tote, easier to hold everything, and won’t get in the way when biking. It’s Saturday morning when he leaves the house, a giant bag slung across his shoulders with a wallet tucked firmly in his pocket. The grocery store’s further away, with actual roads he’ll have to cross, but he’s undeterred. Steve will lose his mind if he eats another microwavable meal. 

Warm air combs through Steve’s hair as he pedals toward town. There are a few kids out, small gangs of bikes that veer toward the arcade, and Steve nods as he coast past them. The trip is fine until the roads start to bloat with cars. Steve sticks close to the side and grips the handlebars tight when a sedan blows past him.

“You got this,” he mutters and checks the street signs. “Just a few more blocks.” 

An SVU drives by, and Steve wobbles. He swerves dangerously into the street, and a car honks so loud that his heart jumps into his throat. Steve swallows and looks ahead. The SVU jerks further down, its red and blue lights flickering as it parks off the road. 

Shit.

The policeman steps out, and Steve reluctantly rolls to a stop. They stare at each other, only a few feet separating them, and the man frowns. He’s big, burly like the mountain men on TV. The officer crosses his arms, putting the silver Hopper nametag on display. “Where’re you going, kid?” 

Steve sets his shoulders. He can handle this. “To the store.”

The officer squints down at Steve. “Aren’t you Richard’s boy?” It’s not phrased as a question, but Steve nods anyway. Hopper sighs, a giant hand rubbing down his face. “Where are your parents?” 

“Out of town.”

“Out of town,” Hopper repeats. “And when do they get back?” 

Steve shrugs. He stopped checking the calendar.

“And this little adventure couldn’t wait until they got home? You know how dangerous it is to bike on this road?” 

“I’m not a baby,” Steve snaps. “I’m sticking close to the side, and it’s daylight.”

“People get into accidents all the time, regardless of time, kid,” Hopper says. “Go home. I’m sure whatever you want can wait until your parents can drive you there.” 

Steve scowls. Hopper doesn’t get it. Steve’s literal sanity is at stake. “I’m not eating pizza again.” 

Hopper pauses. “What?” 

“Am I under arrest?” Steve says. He’d seen it on TV. They can’t just tell you what to do anymore. “Or in detention?” 

“Detention-?” Hopper blinks. “Do you mean detained?” Steve glares in response, and Hopper groans. “Jesus, kid, no, you’re not being detained or arrested.” 

“Ok,” Steve nods and kicks at the stand. He swings a leg over the bike and checks for traffic. “Bye.” 

Hopper steps forward. “Wait, wait, fuck-I’ll take you. To the store if you’re so set on going.” 

Steve frowns. “I’m not supposed to go off with strangers.”

The officer laughs, quick and loud, before stopping abruptly. Hopper coughs, as if the sound didn’t come from him. “I’m the police chief. Trust me, you’ll be safe with me.” 

Steve looks between the man and the bike. It’s not a bad idea; he’d be back a lot sooner and have extra time to make lunch and dinner. A car whizzes by, fast and close, and Steve swallows. The last thing he needs is to end up in the hospital or worse. Building a new body sucks, no matter what form you take. He jumps off and walks the bike toward the car. “I’m sitting in the front.” 

It takes seconds to load everything in the trunk. Steve struggles a bit climbing into the SVU. It’s big, for no reason he can see, but he’s buckling in by the time Hopper slides behind the wheel. Steve adjusts the bag to lie clunkily in his lap and double-checks that the wallet is still deep in his pocket. “Alright,” Steve says. “I’m ready.” 

Hopper snorts and starts the car. “I wasn’t waiting on your go-ahead.”

Hopper shaves ten minutes off Steve’s trip, slipping easily into an empty spot near the front. The car jolts as it slides into park, and Hopper sighs. “Alright, what’re we buying?”

Steve pulls the cookbook from the bag and opens it to the bookmarked page. “I need the stuff listed here and cereal.” 

The Chief raises an eyebrow and tugs the book from his hand. “You need ingredients for stuffed chicken.” 

“And cereal,” Steve nods, “and milk, oh, and paper towels.” He pauses; he’s running low on tissue, too. Steve chews his lip and glances at the store. Shit, he thought the recipes were enough. “Do you think I need a list?” 

A sigh echoes through the car before the door clicks open. “Come on. We’ll stock up on the necessities, then get you the basics for a nice and easy soup.”

“I don’t want soup!” 

“Well, I’m not letting a child buy all this when there’s a strong possibility you’re going to try and cook this alone.”

“I-” 

“Tell me that’s not the plan,” Hopper pushes. 

Steve huffs and sinks low into the seat. He drops his head against the door and stares mutinously out the window. It’s not fair. Despite his looks, Steve can take care of himself. He’s hunted food in his other forms, taken down wild boar when he was a canine. A feat of epic proportion because those little bastards are ferocious. Cooking in the safety of his kitchen can’t be harder than that. 

“Have you even held a knife before?” Hopper sighs.

His shoulders draw up. No, he hasn’t. Mom will only let him use the kitchen scissors. “You didn’t even look at the second recipe,” he grumbles. “That one’s gotta be easier.”

The scratch of paper fills the car before Hopper leans back and laughs. Full-on shoulder shaking, eye-crinkling guawfs from what Steve can tell. “I gotta say, kid,” Hooper chuckles. “You’re ambitious. Stuffed chicken and braised duck. Must be a trained chef under all that hair. You do know these take hours to cook.” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Why do you think I’m here now?” 

“And we’re sure this can’t wait,” Hopper asks. “I bet your folks would love to cook this with you.” 

“I don’t think so,” he mumbles. Steve thinks back to that night, to the shift in dynamic. He doesn’t say how much he misses her. How much he struggles to make his own breakfast. How hard it is to put himself to sleep, or how much he misses her voice without the static.  

“Besides,” Steve huffs. “I can’t wait another week to eat some real food.” 

The air tightens as Hopper closes the book. “Come on, kid,” he says gruffly. He slides out of the car. “Lets get you some grub.”

The shopping trip is a lesson in patience. Hopper vetoes practically everything Steve tries to throw in the cart. Hopper doesn’t care that he’s the one paying for it. The man even snorted when Steve first pulled out the card, grinning mockingly as he tried to lay down some ground rules. 

“Look,” Steve glares, black card held out like some sort of sword. “My parents trust me to take care of myself. I can handle my own shopping.”

“Right,” Hopper nods and puts the cupcakes and cake Steve dropped over the rim back on the shelf. “I’m sure a ten-year-old is very responsible.” 

“I’m twelve. Almost thirteen!”

“‘Almost,’ he says,” Hopper snorts. He shifts the bagged vegetables and raises an eyebrow. He lifts out three boxes of Lil Debbies. “Jesus, kid. Do you know how much sugar is in these things?” 

“But I’m not allowed to have them!” 

“Wonder why,” Hopper says. “You can pick one.”

“What-One!?” Steve resists the urge to stomp his foot. “It’s my groceries! You’re not even supposed to be here!” 

Hoppers unmoved, holding all three boxes of treats in his hands. 

Steve narrows his eyes. “You’re not my Dad!” 

Silence.

“Holy shit-”

“Language.” 

A silent war brews between them, and Hopper’s not letting up. The man gets comfortable, leaning against the cart as if he has all the time in the world.

A thought slips into place, and Steve straightens, face smoothing into one of passivity. “Oh, Hopper,” Steve says slowly, condescension dripping from his teeth. “Did you think?” He laughs, low and mean like his dad, and Hopper twitches. Steve latches on. “Thank you for the ride, really, but I’ve got this part covered. No one’s expecting you to pay.” 

He’s watched his parents do this before. Tear confidence to shreds and leave women and men weeping in the shadow of their words. They know how to poke, how to pull embarrassment to the surface like a fish on a hook. Steve’s not as good, but he’s learning. He waits for Hopper to flush, for him to abandon the cart with a ‘fuck this’ and finally leave Steve to his own devices. 

Instead, Hopper shrugs and shoves the treats on a shelf Steve can’t possibly reach. “Suit yourself,” he says and moves the cart. “Maybe on your next trip. Let’s keep moving. Chicken’s on the opposite side.” 

Steve’s jaw drops. Did he not do it right? Hopper’s supposed to leave. “What? No!”

“I told you to pick one-” 

“You, ugh!” Steve hisses. Hopper doesn’t slow, and Steve scrambles forward. “The oatmeal cookies!”

Hopper stops. “You done being a smartass?” 

Steve shoves his hands in his pockets, silently seething. He definitely did it wrong. He doesn’t get it. It’s starting to work at school. People back off his fumbling words and look at him in awe when he gets mean like his parents. I wish Mom were here, he thinks desperately. She’d know what he did wrong. 

“The oatmeal cookies,” he glares. “Please.” 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Hopper grins and drops the box in the cart.

He simmers through the rest of the shopping trip. Grumbling under his breath as Hopper walks him through the recipe of his famous chicken soup. Steve stares off to the side, disinterest leaking from his pores, but he is listening. Maybe it’s not a bad idea to start with soup. He could always do the stuffed chicken next time. 

It takes no time at all to check out, and Steve gives the cashier his card before Hopper can do something stupid and try to pay for it. He loads the groceries into his bag and nearly balks at the weight. It’s heavy. Maybe it’s a good thing Hopper came with. 

He refuses Hopper's offered hand and drags the groceries to the car. He’ll have to get used to the weight eventually. He can’t rely on lucky run-ins every time he needs to stock up on food. He tucks the bag between his legs and buckles up. “Alright,” he says. “I’m ready.” 

Hopper shakes his head and slips the keys into the ignition. “You’re a real brat, you know that.” 

Steve huffs and turns for the window. “I live in Loch Nora.” 

“I know,” Hopper says. He makes quick work of the parking lot. People jump out of his way, practically falling on their faces to offer Hopper an easy way out. 

They drive down the road in silence, and Steve digs through the bag. He pulls out the box of cookies, picking at the cardboard edge when a large hand snatches it from him. Steve blinks at the empty space and turns slowly. “What the hell?” 

“You’re gonna spoil your dinner,” Hopper hums. He rips at the edge with one hand. He pulls out an oatmeal cookie, tearing through the plastic with a sharp canine. He takes a bite and tucks the box against the door. 

Steve narrows his eyes. “But you can eat some of my groceries?” 

“I’m an adult,” Hopper mumbles. He holds the cookie between his teeth and wipes a hand on his leg. “Let’s run through the recipe one more time.”

Hopper grills him on the importance of soup until Steve’s sick with it. It’s the longest fifteen minutes of his life. Hopper drones on and on about the temperature, about how long to set the timer, and the proper ratio of seasoning. “You always start with a handful,” Hopper commands. “This way, you’ve got a decent base and not just chicken and water. You can season to taste later.”

Steve counts the minutes as he repeats the recipe back to Hopper and nearly jumps out of the car once his neighborhood comes into view. Hopper quick, slamming the car locks so he doesn’t fling himself out of a moving car. “Hold your horses, kid.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense.” 

Hopper blinks and turns left into the cul-de-sac. “It means slow down.” 

Steve twists. “Horses are fast, though.” 

“It’s an expression,” Hopper says. “Like your horse is moving too fast and you need to slow them down.” 

“If you say so,” Steve mumbles. Jesus, everything has a double meaning. He waits until the car pulls to a stop and makes a show of slowly opening the door. “Slow enough for you?” 

“Smartass,” Hopper huffs with a smile. 

Hopper wrangles the bike from the back while Steve drags the bag out of the seat. He grunts; it’s still incredibly heavy, but he can do it. Hoppers waiting for him by the door, the box of Lil Debbies tucked in his elbow. 

Steve drops the bag on the welcome mat and stares up at the chief. Hopper raises an eyebrow, eyes flickering to the door, and Steve raises one back. “You gonna open it or what?” 

“Once you’re back in the car,” Steve says and holds out his hand. “I got it from here.” 

Hopper hums. Steve watches Hopper take in the empty driveway, the low lights of the house, and the pile of newspapers Steve keeps forgetting to bring inside. “They’ve been gone a while.”

It’s not a question. “They’re away on business,” Steve says. “Dad is busy building his empire.” 

“Empire,” Hopper snorts, “Right.” He rocks back on his heels and sighs. “You remember what to do with the chicken?” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “Shred with forks. I heard you the first ten times.” 

“Not a knife,” Hopper reminds. He rubs a hand down his face and digs into his back pocket. The wallet is old, even peeling in places, and he plucks out a battered card. “Look, give me a call if you need anything before your folks come back.”

“I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” He says, but takes it anyway. “And I’m definitely not supposed to call them.” 

“Jesus, kid,” Hopper huffs, but there’s a grin cutting across his face. “I thought we weren’t strangers anymore? Just call me the next time you need a ride to the store. It’s not safe going by yourself.” He steals another cookie before dropping it in Steve’s bag. “Take care, kid.” 

A heavy hand sinks into his hair, mussing the careful swoop before ambling back toward the cruiser. Steve watches Hopper circle for the front seat and swallows down a growing lump. He opens the door quickly, dragging the bag into the empty home, and shuts it just as the cruiser rumbles to life. 

He stands in the foyer, groceries long forgotten, and stares at the card. It’s straightforward, just a name and a direct line, and he slips it carefully into his own wallet. 

The soup takes all afternoon to finish, and Steve burns his fingers twice on hot water and even hotter burners, but he heals them with a quick shake of his hands. He shreds the chicken carefully against a cutting board, and it’s a lot harder than Hopper made it out to be. He scurries to the living room once finished, a bowl filled to the brim as he turns on the TV. It’s salty, and the chunks of chicken are too big, but it’s the first thing he’s ever made, and it tastes almost as good as Mom's homemade dinners.

It’s not the last time Hopper takes him to the store. The man makes a habit of stopping by when his parents are out of town. Steve’s not sure how Hopper keeps finding out as the years pass. He could never work up the courage to call the number, even when some nights got so lonely that all he could do was stare at the phone.

Oddly enough, things with the Harringtons fall into a weird new normal. It’s like Richard took a breath, lifted some unknown weight from his shoulders when Maria joined him on that first business trip. The man is still prickly. Still awkward in his role as a father, but he asks about Steve’s day. Is surprisingly proud as Steve moves up the ranks of the swimming and basketball team, though he still huffs and sighs when Steve’s grades stay just below average. It worries him, Steve can tell, especially as he settles into high school.

“I just don’t get it,” Richard sighs like clockwork. Steve faxed over his report card, as requested, and it’s dripping in just enough C’s to push him to the next grade. “You’re probably older than my entire lineage, yet things like algebra and science confound you. Science, I can understand. Your…magic doesn’t adhere to laws of the world, but how are you struggling with history? Weren’t you here for this?”

“One day I would like to talk about something new,” Steve muses. He picks absently at his lunch. It’s meatloaf, courtesy of the Chief, but it’s hard as a brick and just as dense. Steve appreciates the thought, but Hopper excels best when he’s throwing whatever’s left in the fridge in a pot. “Maybe about sports or planning a camping trip. That’s what Tommy’s dad does. Besides, do you know everything that’s going on, in like, Europe?” 

“Yes,” Richard sighs. “I do, because I live and make money in the world. Which is exactly my point.”

“Well,” he flounders. “Do you know what’s going on in space?” 

Silence rings through the line. “...Is there something going on in space?” 

“Oh, what?” Steve mocks. “Have you not been paying attention? Don’t think you’d pass a test on the happening of Mars? I mean, you’ve lived in this Milky system all your life.”

“That’s not,” Richard breaths. “You’re childish.” 

His shoulders draw up. He’s not a kid. “I’m fifteen!” 

“I’m starting to believe it.”

It’s not great, but it’s…better than what it was. 

Mom is a different story. 

She still mothers him on the phone, calls every night to talk about his day, and regales him with tales of her own. Describes how she’s managing contract work for the Hawkins Lab and Richard at the same time. How it fills her with such sharp joy to war over details that heavily favor her side. “I would love to walk you through some,” she would sigh into the phone. “You have a way with people. You just need to know the theory.” 

“Sure,” he’d said, and it was like everything was still the same. 

It’s not when she's home. Mom can maybe make it halfway through a week before Steve finds her trapped on the stairs. It’s like she’s stuck, reliving that awful night until it sends her drinking, then running back across the country into Richard's arms. He’s no better. Richard goes white as a sheet every time he braves the steps on the rare occasions he’s home. Steve tried to talk about it to both of them, but it’s like they have sand in their ears. It doesn’t make sense; he’s right here, but something shattered that night. Something he’s still desperately trying to understand and repair. 

Still, it’s nice. This new normal he’s found himself in. Sure, he’s still lonely. Still aches for a familiar kiss, home-cooked breakfast, and a house that doesn’t echo, but Mom still whispers ‘I love you’s’ over long-distance calls, and Richard actually shows up for Steve’s first high school game. It’s not a perfect family, not by a long shot, but he’ll take it for his first time in a human one. 

It all comes to a head during his sophomore year. Sort of. Steve’s not exactly sure what happens. 

Mom’s been back in Hawkins for two weeks. The Lab has allowed her to jet set across the country to help her husband, but sometimes a project is too important, too time sensitive, for her to iron out the details over the phone. Steve’s not sure when she’s set to leave, but he relishes each day that she's here. 

She’s lounging in the kitchen when he gets back from practice, a precise cream pant suit wrapped carefully around her frame. Mom hardly glances his way as he moves through the room, her eyes stuck on the thick folder she’s leafing through. Steve frowns at the dark circles sloping down her cheeks. Whatever she’s working on is taking a toll.

He pops open the fridge and pulls out the chicken he prepped last night. “Everything ok?” 

“No,” she sighs and drags a red mark through a paragraph. 

“Anything you can talk about?” Steve pulls out a pan and reaches for a cutting board.

“Just,” she groans. “This one’s a hard one. They want more supplies, but everything except for salt is redacted. Not sure how I can work anything out with so little information.” 

“You’ve done it before.”

“Not like this,” she mutters. “If they would just tell me what’s going on down there.” 

Silence builds between them as Steve starts chopping the vegetables. She hardly talks about her job, and Steve's not sure he'd understand it even if she did. Something with contracts and resources, clearly, but she only ever haggles with the government. You’d think there would be a pharmacy or something on the list. What’s a Lab without medicine? 

The sun's long gone by the time the meat hits the stove. He lets the meat cook on the back burner before starting on the vegetables. 

“You’ve really gotten good at this,” she muses.

“Yeah, well,” he mumbles. “Even I get tired of frozen meals and junk food. “

The mood dims between them, and Steve refuses to feel bad about it. What was he supposed to do after they left? He glances back. Her mouth is a thin line, and the pen quakes in her hand. 

“Plus,” he sighs. “I like it. Cooking, I mean.” 

“Really?” 

“It’s fun,” he shrugs. He flips the vegetables and moves to the rice. “I’ve even started making my own recipes.” 

“You any good?” she smiles, and he tries not to get lost in it. 

“Tommy and Carol think so,” Steve answers. 

They love his cooking, even going as far as to steal bits and pieces of his lunch when he’s distracted. He thought about doing it for the team. Maybe invite them over and cook one giant meal, but Tommy and Carol are firmly against it. “Are you crazy, Steve?” Carol tutted. “They’ll eat you alive if they find you cook.” 

He doesn't think so; the guys are nice enough, but Tommy and Carol are his north star when it comes to other kids. 

“Tommy and Carol,” she teases. “What about you? Any girls I should be worried about?” 

“No,” he snorts. He’s been on a few dates, even had a few make-out sessions and hot and heavy moments, but nothing’s ever clicked like the TV says. Maybe it never will. “Not yet.” 

He puts dinner together quickly and slides a full plate across the island. Mom blinks, shock clear across her face. “Oh,” she breathes. “For me?” 

“Yeah,” he answers and slides into the opposite stool. It’s been years since they last had dinner together, but maybe the location was the problem. Maybe here, in the warmth of the kitchen and small marble counter, it will feel like a meal and not a reminder. 

“Thank you, Steve,” she smiles, and it finally reaches her eyes. “So, tell me about these grades. I don’t want to sound like your father, but I’m worried about you repeating a year.” 

He groans, but the conversation flows easily between them. They talk like they’re making up for lost time. He tells her everything, about the friends he’s made and the way Tommy’s been calling him King Steve in the hallways. He even tells her about the few parties he's thrown. First freshman to do so, and the audacity catapults him further up the hierarchy. He didn’t want to throw them personally. They’re fun in the moment, with liquor and music pumping endorphins through his system, but the cleanup is a bitch to handle. 

Her mouth purses at the mention of teenagers rambling through the house, but she lets it go in the end. Sighs a quick, ‘I’d be a hypocrite to tell you otherwise,’ and they circle back to her work. She leans against the counter, dinner nearly done under her steady hands, and vents. 

“I like a challenge, sure,” Maria says around the fork.  “But this is too much. Not to mention all the work I’m doing with your father’s company. I can't give either the full attention they need. Not with one expecting me to do it practically blind.”

“What do you think they’re doing?” 

“Who knows,” she huffs. “It’s the government. They could be building weapons in the basement for all I know.” 

“Well, how’s the company?” Steve pivots. “Is it an empire yet?” 

“Empire,” Mom snorts. “You know he’s been saying that since we met. I’m going to build an empire, Maria, just you wait.” She sighs into the rice. “I should be asking you more than anything.” 

“What for?” He frowns.

“Well,” she hesitates. “You know. Has he used…one, recently?” 

She still can’t say it, after all these years. “No,” he answers. “Dad’s still got seven left. He’s a lot more conservative than I thought.” That’s an understatement. He’s had Masters who go through wishes faster than he can snap. Sixteen years is nearly a record.

A small smile blossoms. “He is,” she says. “It’s one of the things I love about him. He’s so meticulous. He wants to do a lot of it with his own hands, you know? He just needed a push.”

Steve hums into his water. He doesn’t really care. He’s never been interested in how the wishes are used. They always circle the same objective anyway.  

“Can you get me some wine?” She sighs. “The Blanc? I’m not in the mood for something heavy.” 

Later, much later, he’ll wonder why he did it. Maybe because Richard always requests his drinks in the same way, or because he itches to use his magic, or because she didn't say run down stairs in the original request. Because. Because. Because. The truth, though, is always simple. He forgot. Steve snaps his fingers absent-mindedly, and the bottle materializes with a crystal wine glass plucked from the china cabinet. 

Mom screams, and it echoes between them like a gunshot. He sits there, frozen, hand still in position, as she bursts into tears.

“Shit,” he breathes. “I-I’m sorry. I forgot you don’t like-” Me, he thinks, because it is him, all of it is. “Sorry.” 

She sucks in a breath. “Right,” she babbles, and it’s like she can’t calm down. She pulls in three more breaths, but the tears refuse to slow. “Right. Without Richard here, and the stairs. I’d forgotten-”

“-That I’m a Jinn,” Steve says dully. 

She wipes her face with a loud hiccup and reaches for the bottle. She fills the glass to the brim and swallows it in two giant gulps. “It’s not like I don’t know what you are,” She sniffs and fills it again. “I was the one who found your Token-”

His head whips up. “What?” 

“-But I raised you, Steve,” she says. “I changed your diapers, taught you how talk, and how to walk. I wrapped all your Christmas presents. Jesus, you remember how you thought the tooth fairy was real for years-” 

“In my defense,” He interrupts. “I exist. I didn’t know parents lied about magical creatures.” 

“You were my baby,” She continues, and downs another glass. “My kid, my dream.” She tilts a bit. “And then Richard ruined it.” 

“Mom.” 

“He hurt you,” she spits. “Killed you-” 

“He didn’t,” he runs a hand down his face. “I’m right here, Mom. I’ve always been here.”

“He killed you,” she snaps. 

He reaches across the table and stops just short of touching her. It’s not something they do much anymore. She shies away from him, could only stand one brief hug per visit until he just…stopped offering. Maybe that was a mistake, he thinks, and closes the distance. 

There is no moment of reconnection, no click into place, or past made right. Steve takes her hand, and she freezes. Her eyes lock on the contact. “I’m right here,” he says. “I miss you, Mom.” 

She swallows thick. A beat passes, and he waits. Waits for her to turn her palm up and squeeze his hand. To do something. 

She pulls away. 

He sits there, arm still outstretched as she pours another glass. 

“You care too much,” Bhirru scoffed. “It is not your job to worry about mortal consequences. Let them tie the rope used to save or hang themselves with. You are nothing more than the hook, Sassil. That is it. Stop reasoning, stop protecting, and grant the wish.” 

He rises from the stool, throat tight with something. Steve doesn’t look as she drinks more than she needs to. Doesn’t care in this moment. He cleans up. Boxes up leftovers and starts washing the raw meat off the cutting board. His shoulders tighten the longer she sits there in silence. He wants her to go. To slink off to her room and jet off to another state like she always does. 

She’s almost through the bottle when she finally stand, and Steve slumps against the sink as she leaves. Fingers trembling against the stainless steel. It shouldn’t hurt this much. These people aren’t his real family. He has Jinn waiting for him, friends who’ll poke and make fun of how much this small life hurts his feelings. 

“It doesn’t matter,” he reiterates. “This life will pass in a flash.” 

He jumps when he hears her coming back a minute later. She twists into the kitchen, a slight wobble in her step, and his Token held tightly in her hand. His heart stops.

“Mom?”

“I look at you,” she breathes and fumbles back on the stool. “And all I can think about is that night. And it’s like you died. My baby boy died.” 

“I didn’t,” he says.

“All I’m left with is the Jinn wearing his skin,” she says. "And then I start thinking you were never real in the first place." There’s a slight slur to her words, the wine leaving her unbearably honest. “My one wish, and Richard took it from me.” 

She balances the Token on its point. It stands in stark contrast to the white marble, and she spins it lazily with her finger. “You know something, Sassil,” She hums, and he stills. She’s never used his true name. “I’ve been thinking about these wishes. About how important they are to him, to the family. But you know what? I haven’t made a single one.” She smiles. “He gets three, and I get none? I don’t think that’s very fair.”

His heart thumps. She’s going to wish for the impossible. To bring him back to life when he’s still living and breathing before her. She sways against the counter like a storm. She hums an unknown tune as she taps the nail against the marble. It will crack right through if she’s not careful. A Token is made of powerful stuff.

“So, Sassil,” she says. “I wish for a bottle of my favorite wine.” 

He blinks. “What?” 

“There’s one in the basement, I think,” she grins. “That’s what I want. I wish for a bottle of my favorite wine.” 

“You know I can just,” He snaps his fingers, and the bottle of Petrus appears beside her glass. It’s a vintage, stored deep in the depths of their personal cellar. 

It’s one of the few things mortals and Jinns have in common. There are wines older than human intelligence shared between Elders. Necturs Steve can only dream of tasting, but he’s too young in both planes. An irony that’s not lost on him when he sneaks a sip during the Harringtons' absence. 

He nods toward it, hopeful that this will be the end of whatever whirlwind she’s found herself in, but it’s not. She goes ramrod straight, drunkness and swaying leaving her frame as if it were never there in the first place. Maria lifts the bottle, a painted hand curving around the glass neck. She looks him dead in the eye, sober and alert and vengeful. “I know.” 

The bottle crashes against the floor, red rolling and bubbling through crevices and under appliances. Mom picks up the Token, the nail balancing on her fingers. “Now, Sassil,” She smiles. “I wish that my wine bottle were right as rain. Completely intact on the island counter.” 

Suddenly, he sees it, the precipice she’s purposefully approaching. There’s no going back from this. A wish gone is a wish gone, and Richard Harrington is a greedy man. This is a theft he will never forgive. She lifts an eyebrow, shoulders set as she plays with the rope in her hands. 

“You care too much.”

He becomes the hook.

“As you wish.” 

The bottle reassembles in her hands instantly. Maria blinks, her fingers trembling around the neck, before releasing a deep shuddering sigh. “Thank you,” she breathes. “And let's keep-”

“I won’t say anything unless he asks,” he says. He’s never been one to keep their secrets, and he’s not going to start now. 

She nods and stands, leaving the wine untouched on the counter. The Token lies haphazardly on the counter, and Steve wonders if she'll remember to put it up before she goes, or if she'll leave it there. A horrible present for Richards' inevitable return.

He waits until her footsteps disappear up the stairs to collapse against the wall. “Shit,” he sighs.