Chapter Text

Chapter 1: Like Rain

It’s raining when his Token is found. It’s a young couple this time, draped carefully in translucent material and thick shoes to protect them from the inclement weather. As embarrassing as it is to admit, he’s not sure which one claims him. He’d been too busy quarrelling with Bhirru to notice the humans' curious touch through his tether. A misstep on his part, one he’s sure to be scolded and teased for once the contract comes to an end. 

He’s yanked abruptly from the Halls, twisting and flailing between astral planes when it should be a graceful slide to the mortal realm. He crashes hard into the Earth, a dense sapphire fog exploding from the impact. It covers everything, rushing over foliage and swallowing the trail until there’s no avenue of escape for the screaming mortals. 

Sassil lies there, disoriented. He sucks in a lungful of air and stares at the green leaves high above him. They twitch gently from the soft patter of rain, and his eyes slip closed. He missed the rain, the smell of damp foliage, and ancient trees. Nature’s a living, breathing thing in the mortal plane, one of the few things that make this job bearable. 

He huffs a soundless breath and twists. He’s not ready. Sassil hasn’t served a human in ages. Sort of hoped the last one would be the end of it. That a tree or boulder fell on his Token and hid him away from prying eyes and greedy hands. He lifts slowly from the ground, an imposing twenty feet tall, and focuses on the job at hand. 

The humans stumble back, but they don’t run, an admirable trait, or a foolish one, Bhirru might scoff, if he were here. Bhirru never found value in those who thoughtlessly stood against the unknown. Better to run and regroup, to survive, than find yourself posturing before something you can’t handle. 

The man bravely steps forward, brandishing Sassil’s Token as if it’s some sort of weapon. “W-what the hell are you!?” the man shouts. He’s a head taller than the woman, with broad shoulders and a head full of sweeping dark hair. He’s shaking, dressed in a way that has Sassil reeling. He’s never seen clothes like it. Sassil focuses on the woman and just barely stops his jaw from dropping. She’s wearing pants.

He takes a closer look at the forest, notes the change in size and girth of the trees, and wonders how much time has actually passed. Interest sparks in his chest. It shouldn’t change anything; a job is still a job, but he’s always been…curious about the mortal realm. It’s never still, morphing and changing every few years until it’s hardly recognizable. Maybe they’re still expanding, he thinks. Still chasing after Columbia as she reaches for the West. 

The man pushes the woman, trying desperately to dislodge her terrified grip on his arm. “Run, Maria!” His voice is shaking, but he doesn’t falter. “Damnit, Run!” 

“Like hell I’m leaving you, Richard!” She spits. She glares through blonde fringe, steel in her gaze, and slips a small knife from her hip. 

Sassil lifts an eyebrow. They’re definitely not lacking spirit. “Be calm. I do not wish to harm you.” 

“Bullshit!” 

He looks around for the aforementioned animal, but it’s just them in this dense forest. It does not matter; what matters is the hungry thrum of a contract in his chest. Sassil closes his eyes and breathes. Magic twists through the air, shrinking him down to a height less threatening. Smoke fans out wide in response. Licking up trees and hanging through branches like cloud coverage. 

“I am Sassil,” he says. “A Jinn of the High Halls, and you,” He holds out a hand, pointing directly at Richard. “Hold in your hand my Token.” 

The speech is awkward on his tongue. Stilted from disuse. Sassil’s not like those career Jinn. Whose Tokens are practically passed down from generation to generation in a constant flow of wish-granting.

The man pants hard, but the tremors fade as Sassil makes no effort to approach. Richard’s gaze flickers to the space-dark nail in his hand. It’s old, before his time, and long and thick like a forearm. 

“You are granted ten wishes in reward.” 

Richard blinks, and his arm goes limp. “What?”

Birds return in the ensuing silence. Cautious and noisy as they fly through his rolling fog. Richard’s jaw works, his face alternating between fear and growing wonder. Sassil waits for them to speak. He remembers enough to let the emotion play out. To let disbelief and terror transform into overwhelming curiosity. 

“J-Jinn?” Maria hesitates, knife lowering. “Like-like a genie?” 

Richard clasps a hand over Maria’s. “What the fuck is a-You know what this-this thing is?”

She moves slowly out of Richard’s shadow. “I learned about it in college,” she whispers. “They’re myths. Creatures who grant the wishes of anyone who finds their…” her eyes fall to the nail. “But they’re usually lamps?”

“A lamp,” Sassil allows, and they jump. “A shell, a knife, a rock, or even a nail. All can be Tokens, and all lying in wait for the mortal lucky enough to find them.”

Richard collapses to his knees, adrenaline leaking from him in waves. He stares at the nail, hands trembling as the weight of the offer finally sinks in. “Th-this is,” he swallows. “This is real? You’re offering us-me ten wishes for finding a fucking nail?”

His fingers twitch. He put a lot of work into the Token. Carved it personally from a dying star while this species was still rubbing sticks together for fire. Sassil maintains his manners. “Correct.” 

“Ten wishes,” Richard breathes. He turns to Maria, a grin threatening to split across his face. He wraps his arms around her waist and laughs into the fabric covering her stomach. “Do you know what we could do with ten wishes?” 

“What’s the catch?” She demands. Her fingers curl iron-like against Richard's shoulders. “There’s always a catch.” 

“A Token can be stolen,” he says, and they stiffen. “And all remaining wishes will be theirs to claim. If all wishes are used before you reclaim it, you may not use me again. Even if you brave these hills and find me again. We do not answer to the same Master twice.” 

“Right,” Richard breathes. “Right. Fuck, of course, others would want this. Would kill for this opportunity.” He stands and pulls Maria close. He scans the quiet forest, as if he can see them now, lying in wait for an opportunity to act. He turns nervous eyes on Sassil. “Is-is there a way to hide you? People are bound to notice if you come out looking like,” he waves, “like this.” 

Sassil does not know what he looks like to mortals, but it’s a common concern. A Jinn’s appearance can change on a whim in the High Halls. Always stretching, and collapsing, and morphing. The only proper identifier is one's energy and unchangeable tether. He lifts a hand, and a golden glow emits from his chest. 

The humans step back as a bundle of aged paper materializes in the space between them. It’s Maria who moves first. She grabs the small stack and pulls it close. She scans it, eyes growing wide with each word. “This is,” she frowns. “This is a contract.” 

“Yes.”

Richard leans over her shoulder while she flips through the pages. She’s a quick reader, scanning through all five pages three times before glancing up. “Guidelines…appearance…restrictions, it’s very…one-sided.” She settles on. “This gives us a lot of power over you.” 

He smiles, “Such is the curse of a Jinn.” 

There are limits to what mortals can do; They’re only allowed two rules to impose on him, but the fact that they can always offer some relief. Maria’s shoulders drop, and she finally tucks the knife back in her pocket. “This says we can choose your form? What does that mean exactly?” 

“I can be anything you desire,” he answers. “Jewelry wrapped around your wrist or a familial pet at your call. Always close and inconspicuous.” 

His lips press into a thin line immediately. He shouldn’t have mentioned a pet. It’s what he’s been the last three times. A loyal dog, a winding cat, all unnoticeable and all incredibly boring. 

Richard steps forward, but Maria stops him. “Richard,” she breathes, and her hands are trembling. “You know I’ve always wanted a child.” 

He studies her face, the quiver in her hands, and turns. “Could you do that?” Richard demands. “Still grant our wishes while being a child? An infant?” 

“Of course,” He says. He has granted wishes as an animal and fancy babbles strung around women’s necks. A human child is easy. “I can answer no matter the shape I take. Just hold the Token in your hand and make your wish in my presence.” 

They collapse into a huddle, whispering and arguing until they’re clinging to each other. “Ok,” Richard says. “Ok, that’s what we want, ah, choose. A human child.”

Maria pulls in a breath and wipes at her eyes. “I can’t believe it,” she laughs. “A baby, a real baby,” she hiccups and cries harder. “I’ve always wanted a boy. Steve, I imagined,” Her eyes drift, seeing something that’s not quite there. “Steve Harrington,” she huffs and pulls Richard in for a desperate kiss. “How does that sound?” 

“Shit, Maria,” Richard laughs. There’s a manic quality to it. He picks her up with a spin, and her laughter rings through the trees. “Shit! Ten wishes! Ten fucking wishes at our fucking fingertips!” Smoke twirls with their jubilation, and Sassil hums. He’s never been a human before, let alone a child, but maybe, with this couple, it won’t be so bad. 

If the other Jinns could see me now, he thinks. Sassil, interested in living the life of a human.

“Alright,” Richard grins. His grip tightens around the Token. “Let’s do it!” 

Sassil flips a hand, and the contract drifts toward him. He reads through it and stops on the two rules they’ve filled in. The first one is easy. He’s been bound to secrecy before. Had Masters who thought he’d whisper the truth to others in an attempt to free himself. A useless request when his form was always something that couldn’t communicate. 

It’s the second guideline that gives Sassil pause. Magic is only for the Harringtons' use. It’s vague yet constraining enough to bind his hands. Small magic will be out of the question without their express permission. He’ll truly be living the life of a human between their wishes. It’s…not ideal. 

Another moment passes before the contract snaps closed. What choice does he have? It disappears into his chest, and the magic takes hold.

“And so it begins,” he booms. Smoke rushes towards him. Torrential and violent as it twists skyward in an angry whirlwind. Richard and Maria fall from the force, grasping for trees that have survived worse storms. “From here forth, I am at your command, bound until all ten wishes are granted, whether it takes two days or one hundred years.” 

The contract sinks deep into his core, reshaping and adjusting the locks on his magic. “Be careful with your wishes.” 

Smoke condenses into a single point, and for a breathtaking moment, everything is silent. All the energy just… dissipates. There’s no explosion, no breaking of sound barriers, just…quiet. The ground breathes as the smoke disappears, and the misting rain gains weight in Sassil’s absence. There is no more towering entity, no promise of wishes, or cosmic contracts. No proof of the deal the Harringtons just made. 

A soft wail tugs Maria forward. She falls to her knees, and a sob escapes her throat. 

Here, naked and swaddled by vegetation, a baby screams.

Chapter 2: A New Life

Sassil doesn’t remember much about his first few years as a child. An infant's mind is incredibly fragile, so he learns quickly what parts of him to keep and what to save for later. He doesn’t do more than remember his purpose for the first two years. It’s the only reason he remembers Richard slinking into his nursery about a year after they claimed him. He tiptoed past an exhausted Maria and hovered over the crib, Token in hand.

“This better work,” he said, and made his first wish for investment money. 

Sassil could do no more but babble in response, a tiny fist waving instead of his preferred finger snap. The phone rang immediately after, and Sassil doesn’t retain another memory until he’s three.

He experiences it all in flashes, growing truly like a human child while he places a new piece of himself back with each passing year. It’s different, this in-between awareness. To grow and learn, but already knows himself and the world around him. Things have changed. Drastically. There are machines called cars now. TVs that blast sound and color, and medicines that work.

Sassil approaches everything with true childlike wonder, and Richard wasn’t ready for how close to a kid he’d actually be. Cornered him one Christmas and demanded to know how long the ‘child shtick’ was going to play out. It’s not an act he tried to explain. They formed him into a child, and a child he became. He’s still Sassil, still over an age-old and cosmic, but he’s experiencing things truly as a human. Seeing everything for the first time through human senses and hormones. 

All things considered, being a human is…fun. It’s nothing like being a dog or a cat. Wants and needs are simplistic when you’re a pet. Easy. Here, with knobby knees and wild hair, it’s all so complex. His brain tells him he wants everything and nothing at all. Wants to cry when he drops his ice cream, and climb to the top of trees on a wild dare all at once.

Even socialization turns out to be easier and harder than he expected. Humans are naturally drawn to Jinns. Have an innate instinct for things that can grant them the moon. They call him a charmer as he grows older, so he’s never without a playmate or friend ready to battle the world with him. It’s words, however, conversations that trip him. Humans speak in more riddles than the creatures they accuse in their myths. There’s a double meaning for every word, a simile behind every action. 

He’s going on ten, and he still doesn’t fully get it. Why pulling pigtails means you like someone, or why some things are secrets and others you can shout to the rooftops. He approaches what he can of this life with the truth. It’s who he is naturally. There’s no point in lying as a Jinn, and here, with the human want for people to know him, does he learn the importance of the first guideline.

Sassil’s throat locks when he tries to whisper in Tommy’s ear that he’s a Jinn. Falls to the ground so hard that he can’t breathe. The contract burns against his sternum, hisses a soft ‘Never tell anyone what you are’ before releasing its grip. 

“Steve,” Tommy frowns and kicks at his legs. “Are you faking? You know it’s my turn on the swing!” 

He wants to tell him so badly, but he smiles. “You caught me,” he laughs and jumps to his feet. “Race you?” 

Tommy lights up, and they take off, the first lie he’s ever told sinking into Steve’s skin like a brand. It was so stupid. He’s never felt the urge to confide in another, so they know all of you. Maybe that’s a part of being human. He’ll have to be careful and monitor the impulse so it doesn’t get him in further trouble.

“You’ve spent too much time as a dog,” Bhirru would probably say. He’d explode around him, smoke smothering in apathetic condensation. “You’re too honest. It will be the end of you, Sassil. Learn from the mortals and lie to them.”

It’s not so easy, asshole, he thinks, and hides a grin behind his hands. Another thing he never saw the appeal of until he was breathing with sapien lungs. Cursing is so cathartic. 

“Steve!” his mom calls, and he stops. She’s standing on the edge of the playground, a wild smile on her face. “It’s time to go, sweetheart.” 

Where Richard stutters in parenthood, Maria flourishes. She dotes on him constantly. Teaching him to tie his shoes and correcting his multiples when the numbers won’t stop twisting away from him. She’s there for every milestone, only missing a day or two when work gets hectic, and she has no choice but to phone a nanny. It’s a stark contrast to Richard. The man tries when he’s around. Fumbles through the role of a father when they’re out together, or when Steve's academic difficulties really get to him. 

“Another C? You should know this, Steve,” He’d sigh as another poor report card slides against the table. “Aren’t you supposed to be all-knowing? ” 

“That would be God,” Steve would mumble back, and around and around they’d go. 

That would get him grounded, of course, and in those moments Richard acted like the fathers he’d see on TV, but it’s her name that morphs in his mind, bending from stand-offish Maria to welcoming Mom.

He wants to do things for her. Create her breakfast and heal the aches in her wrist with a snap of magic, but he can’t. The final guideline sticks heavy in his veins. A permanent ‘Your magic is only permissible by the Harringtons’ echoes anytime he reaches for it. He only gets to use it when Richard crawls back to Hawkins whenever he needs something. He never hesitates to request small magic from Steve. Clean this, fix that, create this. Snap. Snap. Snap. It echoes when the man is in town, but it’s not the same. Mom never asks him for small favors, nor has she made so much as a single wish while her husband burns through three before his tenth birthday. She’s just…there, and it evokes a new type of feeling.

She’s here now, shouting in the crowd as Tommy finally throws him the basketball. Time slows down as he jumps. He’s waited years for this moment. Worked as hard as an eleven-year-old boy can to make it on the starting line-up. This is his chance. It’s not a pretty shot; it wobbles too long on the rim, but it’s the winning one, and the particulars fall away when his team lifts him in the air.

Human elation is something he’ll never grow tired of.

He runs to her, the trophy held high and dopamine still on his tongue. He’s never won anything before. Here or in the Halls. He gives her a gapped-tooth grin, and isn’t that crazy? Teeth that fall out and grow back. 

She nearly falls to the ground from the force of his hug. “Did you see?” he demands. “We totally kicked their ass!” 

“Steve,” she gasps, but there’s a laugh on her lips. “Language.” 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “But we won. Coach said I can keep this for the weekend since I made the last shot. Isn’t that awesome!” 

“It’s amazing, honey,” she smiles. “My little basketball star.” 

“Congratulations!” Mrs. Hagen cheers as she joins them. She pulls Steve into a quick hug, squishing Tommy and Steve together until they’re struggling to pull away from her. “How does it feel to be champions?” 

“Uh, amazing,” Tommy scoffs, but he’s grinning. “I knew we were going to win.” 

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “They sucked.” 

“Steve!” Mom admonishes, and Tommy muffles a cackle behind his hands. “Don’t be cocky. It was pretty close there near the end.” 

“Until we got in the game,” he whispers to Tommy. They tug at each other, grabbing and yanking at the trophy as they leave the gym. 

“-he here?” 

“Oh, you know,” Mom says. “Richard is busy building his empire.” 

Mrs. Hagen frowns. “It’s a shame he couldn’t make it,” she says. “A father should never miss their son’s championship game.” 

Mom's smile goes tight. “Speaking of fathers, I see Donald coming around with the car now. Best hurry before the traffic gets too bad.”

They part ways quickly after that, Mom practically bundling Mrs. Hagen into the small car before pulling Steve carefully across the parking lot. He slides into the backseat with a small frown. He waits until they’re pulling onto the street, twisting down Hawkin’s slow roads to say it. 

“Should he have been here?” he asks. “I didn’t call him about the game.” He hasn’t spoken to Richard in months. 

The setting sun lights the car as her hands tighten against the steering wheel. Her eyes flicker to his in the rearview mirror. “We’ll call him when we get home,” she decides. “You can tell him all about the game then. It will be like he was really there.” 

He doesn’t think it works like that. Telling a story is not the same as living it, at least not for him. He’s always so jealous when Tommy recounts a family camping trip, wants to jump straight into the boy’s memory and experience it himself. “Ok,” he shrugs. “The coach was saying something about the swimming team,” he says suddenly. “He helps with it, and he thinks I might have-” 

The conversation drifts around him, and before he knows it, they’re pulling into the driveway. He jumps out of the car and runs straight for the door, trophy held close to his chest. “It should go in my room, right?” he says. “Like right in the middle of my dresser. Or maybe the living room. Then everyone can see it.” 

She laughs, “Someone’s got a big head.” She unlocks the door and pushes him in. “Why don’t you put it on the counter for now and call your father?” Steve gives her a dubious look, and her smile wanes. “Just,” she sighs. “Call him, please.” 

“Ok,” he mumbles and reaches for the phone. If it will make her happy, then why not? 

It rings twice before the call connects. “Maria?”

He slaps on a smile. “Hey, Dad!” 

A beat. “Steve.” 

It’s flat, a hint exasperated, but Steve’s not deterred. “We won the championship, and I made the winning shot!” 

Static crackles over the line. “They let fifth graders play in tournaments now?” 

Steve rolls his eyes. “I’m in sixth grade, Dad. That’s not the point. We won! I made the winning shot, and there were a bunch of eighth graders on the other team. They couldn’t play for shit though-”

“Steve!” 

“-At all,” he amends. “Well, they were winning for a bit, but then the coach put me in and I-” Richard sighs, hard and heavy, and the story dies in his throat.

“I don’t know why you keep doing this.” 

“What, basketball?” He blinks. “It’s fun. Do you think I’d be good at something else? Coach did ask me about swimming, and I think-”

“Just,” Richard interrupts. “Just stop, please. With this fucking act.” 

Steve leans against the wall and sighs. He doesn’t know how many times he can tell the man he’s not acting. It’s a hard concept for mortals to wrap their minds around, this duality of being a child while still being the same entity that offered you the world eleven years ago. He gets it, really, but part of being a human is being really fucking irritated with repeating yourself. 

“Do you ever ask anything else?” he groans. “It’s always Simon Says with you.” 

“You’re not using that right,” Richard huffs. 

“I’m pretty sure I am,” Steve frowns. “It’s a game of repeat, and you repeat yourself so...” 

“That’s called being a broken record.”

“How can a record repeat if it’s broken?” 

There’s another huff, a scrunch of paper, the familiar wave of irritation leaking through the line, before Mom settles beside him. She pulls the phone gently from his hands. “Let me talk to him, sweetheart. Why don’t you get ready for bed?”

“Ok,” he shrugs. He takes the stairs two at a time but doesn’t go straight to his room. 

Instead, he tiptoes to the railing and sinks to the floor. He slips his legs through the divots, swinging them gently, and wraps his arms around the thin metal bars. He sticks his head out and can just catch her silhouette around the corner.

Her back is towards him, but her voice lifts clear over the empty living room. “...He’s our son, Richard.”

The metal is cool as he drops his forehead against it. This is a familiar argument.

“You should be here for things like-” she twists, and her scowl cuts through the low lights. “No, how many times do I have to say…I don’t care how much you need me…Excuse you? I like my job at the…Can’t you just wish for a negotiator…Besides, even if I were to consider it, all that traveling isn’t healthy for a young boy. Not to mention his schooling. We’d be uprooting his-” She pauses, a beat passing before she stands ramrod straight. “That’s not fair. We made the decision together.”

Steve stands as the conversation hits familiar beats. He doesn’t know why she tries. Richard isn’t going to be happy with anything less than Steve sitting quietly in a room, waiting patiently for a wish to be made. The man would much rather Steve be an inanimate object instead of this living, breathing thing. He wonders sometimes why Richard agreed to making him a child in the first place. 

He’s sliding beneath the covers when she slips into his room. Steve sits up as she hovers at the door. “Mom?” 

That pushes her into motion. She sits delicately on the covers, a soft hand running down his face before pulling him close. His arms come up automatically, wrapping carefully around her middle.

“Everything ok?” he frowns.

“Yes, yes,” she sighs. “Just your father being stubborn.” 

“Is he ever anything else?” He grouches. “He’s not getting anything for Father's Day at this rate.” 

There’s a stunned pause before she laughing. It echoes through the room, and he grins. He loves making her laugh.

“God, sometimes I think you’re a dream,” she whispers into his hair. “You’re the only thing I really wanted. I was always…ambitious.” She says. “Every school, every job I’ve ever had, I took by storm. Your mom can close a deal with a snap of her fingers, just like her little boy.” She leans back a bit, and Steve doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t want to interrupt this odd moment between them.

“I love it,” she continues. “Negotiation is truly an art. You have to know people. Figure them out before they can figure you out, and that process is so much fun.” 

Mom runs a hand down his back, a soothing and thoughtless motion. “It’s one of the reasons why we decided on Hawkins,” She says absently. “My job at the lab pays handsomely while Richard builds his ‘empire’. He spends his days building a foundation for the Harrington legacy, while I get to barter and take down doctors who think they’re so much better than me.” She smiles, shark-like and hungry. “It’s everything I’ve always wanted out of a job.” 

Mortal wants and ambitions are always so complicated. They’re boiling with too many chemicals and hormones and afflicted with enough neurons to reason. He doesn’t really get it. Steve’s a Jinn at his core, even with the same boiling human body. It gives him whiplash sometimes, how they’re constantly caught between instinct and intellect. How they can send metal and man to the moon while simultaneously beating their chests in victory. 

“But there was something else,” she breathes. “Something personal that I wanted more than anything. My cake and eat to, so to speak.”

He groans at the metaphor, and she laughs. 

“Child rearing doesn’t come naturally to me,” she admits softly. “I’m so awkward. My baby cousins would cry every time I fumbled through a new game or trick I wanted to show them, but I always wanted to hold them. To change their diapers and handle all the ‘yuck’ people say is involved with raising babies. I couldn’t wait to question my child's taste in music as they aged, to dislike their significant others on principle, and send them off to prom with a hundred photos waiting to be developed.” 

She leans back, her eyes caught on the ceiling. They’re still covered in stars from last month. When she balanced on a ladder and painted the solar system in small, glowing stickers.

“But it was never in the cards for me,” she sighs. “A punishment, my mother says. For going against my ‘demure’ nature. An unfortunate defect in biology, if you listen to the doctors.” She wipes her face. “But a loss of a dream, nonetheless.” 

A melancholic quiet settles in the room. Steve fidgets under the weight of her words, of the vulnerability she’s sharing, and offers the only thing he has.

“I can heal you,” He whispers. “If you wish for it. I wouldn’t mind having a little brother or sister. I think I’d be pretty good at it. I already take care of Tommy-” 

He stops as soft hands cup his face. They guide him until he’s gazing into her damp eyes. “Oh, Steve,” She sighs. “That’s not what this story is about.” 

“Then what is it about?” he huffs. “You know I suck at metaphors.” 

“You don’t suck,” she says. “You just need more practice, and it’s not a metaphor.” She pauses. “Maybe we should invest in that Language Arts tutor.” 

“Mom!” 

“Sorry,” she smiles. “The point is, I thought I’d never have a child, not the traditional way at least. Richard was always ambivalent to the idea of children, but me? Oh, how I wanted,” She strokes his cheek. “When you…fell from the sky, it was like you were already answering my wish, and then there you were,” she breathes. “Bundled on wet leaves and so perfect. Like a dream come true.” 

“Is that why you don’t wish for anything?” 

“Yes,” she says after a moment. “Because I already have everything I could’ve asked for. Richard can complain and miss out all he wants, but you’re my son. I just hope I’m doing a good job.”

“I think so,” he says, and stares up at her. “I’ve never had a mom,” he shares. Jinns just are. “But I think you’re the best one yet.” 

“Oh, yeah?” she grins. “Based on what, sweetheart?”  

“Well, Tommy’s mom lectures when he comes home with bad grades,” He muses. “But you sit with me until I understand it, and you let me pick out the paint in my room,” he says. It’s a small metric, but one he knows made the kids' jaws drop when he told them. “No one's parents let them do that.” 

She laughs. 

She surges forward, bundling him tightly in her arms, and he giggles. It’s hard not to; the human torso is a hot zone for the sensation. 

“I love you, Steve,” she sniffs. 

He pauses. Maybe this is mortal love. A warm hug and shared secrets. A want to run home and display the grade you worked so hard for. “I love you too, Mom.” 

It all comes crashing down a year later. 

Richard’s been home for two weeks when it happens. He’s angry for most of his stay, caught between things not working with the company and the need for another wish bunching between his shoulders. Steve tries to give him a wide berth, not really in the mood to be grounded every day for simply existing, but Richard makes it a mission to seek him out.

He demands small magic for everything. Has Steve snapping his fingers for projects like fixing the car, to bullshit like folding the fucking laundry. It’s smothering the easy mood he and Mom have made routine, and he finds himself wishing that Richard would hop on a plane and let them breathe.

“Steve,” Richard says. “Get the bourbon I like from the cellar, will you? No need to get up.” 

They’re crowded around the table for dinner. A typically joyous affair if Richard fucking Harrington could get his act together. Steve stabs at the carrots, mutinous before the guideline nudges his hand. Steve sighs and snaps his finger. The bottle materializes on the table, and Mom stiffens at its appearance. Richard makes a show of checking the bottle, humming at the brand, before filling up his already liquor-stained glass. “Steve, make a copy for Maria. No need to get up and get another glass.” 

Steve flops dramatically over the table. When is this going to end? He lifts an arm, fingers already in position, when a hand stops him.

Mom glares at Richard, shoulders hard as steel. “Would you stop it?” she spits.

“Why’s that, Maria?” Richard drones. “You don’t have a problem with Steve doing magic, do you?” 

Steve’s head lifts. Problem? Mom’s never had a problem with him doing magic. He opens his mouth to say just that when her hand goes tight over his. Steve turns to her, eyes wide.

Oh.

“Hey, Sassil,” he tosses out Steve’s real name like a punch, and Mom flinches. “I don’t think we’ve ever asked you about your previous Master's. Tell me, when were you last on Earth-sorry, this plane?” 

Steve glances between the two and twists his hand until he’s properly holding her. She gives him a small smile, and Richard sets the glass down with a hard click.

“Um,” Steve starts. “I don’t think-” 

“Oh, don’t be shy, son,” Richard pushes. “At least tell us the year.” 

A pit forms in Steve’s stomach. There’s nothing to be nervous about, at least there shouldn’t be, but there’s a hint of something here. Another conversation that he’s just barely aware of. 

“184-” 

“Don’t answer him, sweetheart,” Mom interrupts. Her grip is like iron now, and Steve squirms. “You’re drunk, Richard.” 

“And you’re delusional, Maria!” Richard snaps. “My God, this-this thing is over a hundred years old, and you’re helping him with his fucking math homework!” Mom’s a statue in his outburst, and it only seems to make him angrier. “I thought he was just going to be practice-”

That pulls a reaction. She bristles and drops Steve’s hand to slam them hard against the table. “Practice?!” 

“Yes, fucking practice, until we were ready to have a real child!” Richard yells. He’s on his feet now, and Steve doesn’t know what to do. 

“And what would happen to Steve?” she hisses. “We’d just throw him away? Lock him up in some room until you need another wish to fix the ‘shortcomings’ in your business!”

“The company is fine,” he fires back.

“Right,” she laughs, and it’s her turn to hit him where it hurts. “That's why you wished for two years of steady growth. Because Harrington Investments is drowning in demand.” 

Richard stumbles back, face flat before turning a searing gaze on Steve. “You-you little bastard. You told her about my wish!” 

“I-”

“Don’t call him that!” She shouts. “I asked him, asshole. What choice did I have?! You won’t tell me anything!” 

“I’d tell you if you’d come work with-”

“Oh, this again,” she sighs, all put out and dismissive. 

Richard goes purple, and Steve closes his eyes as the fight reaches a fever pitch. It’s almost too much, all the shouting and hurt and rage being flung around the table. Fear glues Steve to the chair even though his brain is telling him to run.  

Fists slam against the table, and Steve jumps. Richard is pointing at him now, spit flying and eyes bulging. 

“-We’d pass his fucking Token to our kids,” He roars. “So we can keep the Jinn in the family line! Think about it, Maria. We’d never want for anything ever again! ” 

“You’re sick,” she swallows. “Steve is our son. Not some-some expensive art piece or inheritance you pass down!”

Richard looks around, an incredulous laugh bubbling from his throat. “That’s exactly what he is! Jesus, Maria. I thought we were on the same page. I thought you were playing house to work the kinks out, you know, figuring out how to be a good mom, but it’s been twelve years. Twelve! And not once have you brought up fixing your fucking uterus!”

Steve draws in a breath as silence falls so heavy that he practically drowns in it. Richard pants in the hush, the only action audacious enough to make a sound. They stare at each other, bloodied and hateful from words alone, and Mom…straightens. She wipes delicately at her mouth and stands.

“Fuck you, Richard Harrington,” She says. “Fuck you.” 

“What?” Richard sputters as she walks away from the table. “Don’t walk away from me!” While Mom was calm, Richard’s a typhoon. He shoves away from the table. Chair and silverware flying, and stomps behind her. “Dammit, Maria! We aren’t done talking about this!”

Steve remains at the table. His fingers wrapped so tightly around the base of his chair that it hurts. His heart beats hard in his chest, and it’s the only thing he can hear. He’s never been scared like this. Never had a reason to be. A hazy memory flashes. Of Richard lifting Maria and twirling in the midst of Steve’s smoke. Laughing and kissing as a cosmic being offered them the world. They were so optimistic, he remembers. How the fuck did it get this bad? 

A crash bounces off the walls, and the shouting picks back up. Steve twists in his seat and can make out the shadow of them on the carpet. It’s like a puppet show, their silhouettes illuminated by the walkway light. An arm moves, erratic and furious, and it disappears into Mom’s shadow. His heart freezes.

What if he hurts her? 

The thought shocks Steve to his core. He has no reason to think it. Richard has never been violent, but he’s never been loud either. Steve chews his lip as the volume continues to rise. It wouldn’t be the first time. He’s healed and brought people back to life after arguments turn murderous. Had mothers, fathers, and children begging him to undo the unthinkable. 

His leg bounces against the floor. It’s not going to come to that. They just need to calm down. Get it out of their system and sleep on opposite ends of the bed like they do on TV. Mom might even come visit, slip quietly into his bed, and whisper how Richard didn’t mean any of it. He should just sit here, wait out the storm until he’s needed for clean up. 

His shoulders hunch as Richard’s voice echoes through the house. It’s not his problem to solve. What did Bhirru use to say?

“You care too much,” Bhirru scoffed. He compresses around him, threatening and obnoxious as always. “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 rushes for the stairs.

They’re still on the walkway, shouting and screaming so hard that he can hardly understand what they’re saying. Richard has her backed against the banister, and he sees red. Steve takes the stairs two at a time. He’s not sure what he’s going to do when he reaches them, but he’s going to do something.

“Hey!” Steve yanks at Richard’s shirt. It’s not enough. He doesn’t have the mass to move an adult man, but he doesn’t care. Tears prick the corner of his eyes, fear and protectiveness urging him to pull harder. “Stop yelling at my fucking Mom!” 

Richard pivots, fast and brutal. He’s practically foaming at the mouth when he roars. “MY WIFE IS NOT YOUR FUCKING MOTHER!!” He plants giant hands on Steve’s shoulders and shoves.

Steve stumbles back, arms windmilling, but his last fumbling step takes him over the edge. There’s a weird moment, right before gravity takes hold and yanks him down the stairs, where time slows. He watches his mother charge forward, a scream caught in her throat, while Richard stares at his hands in shock. “Dad?” 

Then he’s crashing. 

The fall hurts everything. Steve flips down the stairs, limbs bending and cracking in his desperate attempts to stop the tumble. He’s on the last step, the world spinning around him in terrifying agony, when his head connects at just the wrong angle. 

CRACK!

He lies there, broken at the bottom of the stairs, and Mom shrieks. It echoes through the house with the pound of her heels. It’s another moment before her panicked face is all he can see. “Oh, Steve,” she pants. Tears streak down her face, dragging dark lines of mascara to her chin. “My God, Richard! What have you done to our SON!” 

“M-mom.” 

“You’re going to be ok, sweetheart,” she babbles. Her hands move uselessly across his chest, or at least he thinks so. He can’t exactly feel anything beneath his shoulders. “W-we’ll get you to the hospital, and they’ll fix you right up.” She jerks to her feet. “An ambulance, Richard! Why aren’t you calling for a fucking ambulance!” 

“For God's sake, Maria! Calm down!” 

Her face sets, and she stumbles in her heels. Her knees are red, dripping things, and Steve wonders if it's her or him bleeding. She runs out of sight for the kitchen, and another pound of steps explodes down the stairs.

There’s a muffled shout, a yelp of pain, and a clatter of photos along the walls before his head is jerked roughly to the side. Sensation slips away beneath his neck like sand between fingers. “You can heal yourself, correct?” 

Steve blinks, slow and unsteady. “Are…you...giving me…” he wheezes. “Permission?” 

“Yes,” Richard says, stony and hollow, but his face betrays him. There’s real fear in his gaze, tears threatening to fall as his eyes struggle to avoid the mess he’s made. His large hands shake in his hair. “Use your magic, Sassil.”

He hasn’t done something this big outside a wish in twelve years, but the magic circulates as easy as breathing. He can’t snap his fingers, the nerves permanently disconnected, but he never needed the motion. How did Bhirru put it? He thinks, My eternal love of theatrics.

Magic drifts over him, snapping bones into proper place and reconnecting nerve endings. He takes a shuddering gasp and sits up. He coughs, blood dripping sluggishly from his mouth. Mom muffles a cry to her left, and Steve finds her tucked in the corner, the phone in one hand with the other covering her mouth. There’s a hint of bruise peeking over the edge of her sleeve.

“You see,” Richard says, and his shaky hands rest on Steve’s shoulders. “He’s not a real boy.” His eyes flicker to the ground before paling. “C-can you,” he pauses, visibly gathering himself before starting again. “Can you get rid of the mess? It’s unsightly.” 

Steve turns to the puddle of blood and snaps his fingers. Blood melts from the hardwood as if the push never happened.

Richard struggles to his feet, knees quivering, before standing tall. He approaches her, hands out, as if he’s talking down a wild animal. Her eyes never leave Steve, and she jumps when Richard touches her. “I shouldn’t have gotten rough, Honey,” he whispers and pulls her close. “But he’s not human. He’s not building a life, he’s not learning anything, and he doesn’t love us. Doesn’t love you.” 

Her eyes remain fixed on Steve even as Richard whispers in her ears. He tries to stand and falls over. Nerves still new and jittery from the sudden reshaping. She reaches for Steve, and Richard cups her face, forcing her to look at him.

“It’s not real, Maria,” he pleads. “It never was, but I am. I’m real, our relationship is real. Steve is just,” He sighs and pulls her closer. “He’s just a dream.”  

She pulls in a shuddering breath and collapses into his chest. She doesn’t sob, she’s too strong for that, but something in her posture breaks. Richard’s shirt threatens to rip from how hard she’s gripping it.

“Go to bed, Steve,” Richard says. Steve hovers behind them, unsure if he should actually listen or run over and hug her, consequences be damned. Richard twist, tears and frost in his gaze. “Now.” 

He glares, hot and furious all over again. “Mom?” 

“I-it’s ok,” she shudders. “Go to bed, Steve.” She doesn’t look at him. “Please.” 

He waits for a nod, a gentle smile of reassurance, but she gives him nothing. He limps to his room a moment later, putting himself to bed without washing up. He stares at the constellations for a long time, waiting for Mom to sneak in and wrap comfortingly around him, but she never does.

The next morning, she joins Richard for the first time on a business trip. She hugs him stiffly at the door, her mouth pulled in a flat, painted line. “There’s money on the card,” she says, and she won’t meet his eye. Won’t so much as look at him. “And the hotel number is on the fridge. If you hurt yourself while we’re away, then you have my permission to heal yourself until we get back. Call us if you need anything, dear.” She pales as the endearment leaves her mouth. She swallows and reaches for the handle. “Goodbye.” 

The door shuts, and a sense of finality washes over him.

It makes sense, in hindsight, why she never wished to be healed. The Harringtons are pragmatic, people say, and she saw an opportunity to have her dream without wasting a wish. That’s the woman Richard missed. Not this doting mother who split her time between work, raising a cosmic entity, and growing. Richard wanted it so badly, to change her back to what she was before a small human hand touched her face. A want he wasn’t willing to waste on a wish.

Steve looks around the empty house, and wanders toward the kitchen. He hasn’t eaten anything yet. His parents were so busy packing that breakfast fell by the wayside. He finds the pantry, drags out a packet of noodles, and heads for the counter. He pulls the step stool close and reads carefully how to boil pasta. The words begin to blur on the package, and he sniffs, throat clogging immediately. He drags an arm across his eyes, but it only makes it worse. Steve leans over the counter, folds carefully away from the stove because Mom warns him constantly to mind the burner, and sobs.

Another lesson, he supposes. Humans can grant their own wishes if they want them badly enough.