Chapter Text
Morning comes quietly. Too quietly.
Steve wakes up on his back, staring at the ceiling like it personally wronged him. His body aches in that deep, annoying way that doesn’t hurt enough to justify whining but hurts enough to make everything slower. Neck stiff. Shoulder sore. Knuckles still scraped from gripping tools too hard the night before.
For a second, there’s nothing in his head. Just the faint hum of the house.
Then it all comes back. Metal crunching. Silence. The E23 crumpled in a way it was never supposed to be. The sound of his own voice screaming like he’d lost a limb instead of a car. Steve closes his eyes.
Fuck.
He rolls onto his side and immediately regrets it. Groans softly, presses his face into the pillow like that might absorb the feeling. Eddie’s arm tightens around him automatically, half-asleep muscle memory pulling Steve closer.
“You good?” Eddie mumbles into his hair, voice rough with sleep.
Steve exhales through his nose. “Define good.”
Eddie hums, not quite awake yet. “Alive?”
“Yeah,” Steve says. Then, after a beat, “Barely.”
That earns a quiet snort. Eddie shifts, careful, one hand sliding to Steve’s waist, grounding without even trying. Steve lets himself stay there for a few seconds longer than he means to. Breath syncing. Warmth steady.
Normal.
Eventually, reality wins. Steve moves from the couch before Eddie can fully wake, moving slow, like his body’s made of rusted parts. He pulls on a hoodie, winces when his shoulder protests, and heads downstairs.
The kitchen light is already on. Robin stands at the counter, mug in hand, hair a mess, expression doing that thing where she’s pretending everything’s fine but absolutely clocking everything.
“Morning, Vin Diesel,” she says. “You crash any more priceless objects while I was asleep?”
Steve huffs. “Too soon.”
Robin slides a mug toward him. “Coffee.”
He takes it. Hands shake just a little—not withdrawal, not panic. Just aftermath. He wraps both hands around the mug like it’s a lifeline.
They stand there in silence for a moment.
Then, inevitably, Robin glances toward the garage door. Steve notices.
His jaw tightens. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to ask if your car needs emotional support or physical therapy,” she says. “Because based on last night, it might need both.”
Steve exhales, tired more than amused. “She’s fine.”
Robin raises an eyebrow. “She’s not fine,” Steve corrects. “But she will be.”
There’s something brittle in the way he says it. Eddie steps inside a minute later, barefoot, wearing one of Steve’s old band shirts like it belongs to him now. He pauses when he sees Steve’s posture—too straight, shoulders tense like he’s bracing for impact.
“You okay?” Eddie asks again, this time fully awake.
Steve nods immediately. Too fast. “Yeah.”
Eddie doesn’t argue. He just pours himself coffee and leans against the counter beside Steve, close enough that their arms brush.
Robin watches them like she’s pretending not to.
“So,” she says lightly, “what’s the plan today? Because I’m guessing ‘ignore the mangled car corpse in the garage’ isn’t sustainable.”
Steve stares into his coffee. The surface trembles slightly.
“I’m not going to college today,” he says.
Robin opens her mouth.
Eddie beats her to it. “Okay.”
Steve looks at him, surprised.
Eddie shrugs. “We can go later. Or tomorrow.”
Robin squints at Eddie. “You’re just letting him do that?”
Eddie meets her gaze calmly. “He’s not running. He’s pausing.”
Steve swallows. That word—running—lands heavier than it should.
“I just need to…” Steve gestures vaguely, frustrated. “Be near it. Figure out what’s bent. What’s broken.”
Robin sighs, long and theatrical. “Fine. But if you start talking to the car like it’s a dying Victorian child, I’m calling a professional.”
Steve snorts despite himself. It slips out before he can stop it. Real laughter. Short, but there. Eddie smiles like he just won something.
They finish their coffee. Steve grabs a cigarette, hesitates, then lights it anyway. Stands at the back door, staring out at the garage like it’s a battlefield.
He doesn’t move toward it yet. Just stands there, breathing carefully, bracing himself for the sight. Eddie comes up behind him, rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder.
“One step at a time,” he murmurs.
Steve nods. Not trusting himself to speak yet. Morning doesn’t fix anything. But it doesn’t break him either. And for now, that’s enough.
Several days pass, quietly. Not the kind of quiet that feels empty—more like the steady hum of something being rebuilt piece by piece.
The BMW lives half-disassembled in the garage, her nose bare, headlights removed, bumper stacked carefully against the wall like Steve might apologize to it later. The hood leans on a chair, wrapped in an old blanket Eddie insisted on, “so she doesn’t catch a cold,” which makes Robin roll her eyes so hard she nearly hurts herself.
They spend mornings hunting for parts. Steve drives Robin’s car now, stiff at first, like he doesn’t quite trust himself without the familiar weight of the BMW under his hands. Eddie rides shotgun, scrolling through part numbers, rattling off measurements, teasing Steve about how he knows the engine bay better than he knows his own medical history.
They stop at junkyards. Independent shops. One place that smells like oil and cigarettes and regret. Steve is focused in a way that’s almost meditative. No spiraling. No shaking hands. Just purpose.
He negotiates prices like he’s born for it—charming, firm, flashing that Harrington smile when it helps and dropping it when it doesn’t. Eddie watches him with something like awe, like this is the version of Steve the world never earned but gets anyway.
Robin mostly carries coffees, complains loudly, and somehow always knows when Steve needs a cigarette break without saying it out loud.
Back home, the garage becomes sacred ground. They work in stages:
Front bumper off. Damaged kidney grilles removed. Bent mounting brackets tossed aside with a sharp clatter. Headlights disconnected, wiring labeled carefully because Steve refuses to “just remember it.”
Eddie hands tools. Steve turns bolts.
Robin sits on a stool, smoking, offering unhelpful commentary like, “Wow, she looks worse naked,” and, “Are you sure this isn’t foreplay?”
Steve laughs. Real laughter. The kind that surprises even him.
By the third day, grease stains live permanently under Steve’s nails. Eddie’s knuckles are scraped. Robin smells like garage smoke and victory.
It’s not perfect. Steve snaps once when a bolt won’t budge. Slams the ratchet down too hard. Storms out for air.
But he comes back. That’s the difference.
One night, after Robin’s gone inside and the garage lights are the only thing glowing on the block, Steve and Eddie sit on the floor with their backs against the workbench. Tools scattered. The BMW quiet, waiting.
Eddie cracks open two beers. Hands one to Steve.
Steve hesitates—just a flicker—then takes it. Doesn’t rush. Doesn’t chase the feeling. Just holds it, cold against his palm.
They drink slowly. The silence stretches, comfortable. The kind built from shared exhaustion and oil-stained hands.
Steve stares at the exposed engine bay for a long time before he speaks.
“You know,” he says casually, like he’s commenting on the weather, “this car saved my life.”
Eddie turns his head. Doesn’t interrupt. Steve takes a breath. Another sip.
“There were nights,” he continues, voice steady but low, “when everything felt… too loud. Too heavy. Like I was carrying everyone else’s expectations on my back and I couldn’t put them down.”
He gestures vaguely toward the BMW.
“I’d get in her. No destination. Just drive.” A faint smile. “Sometimes way too fast. Sometimes nowhere at all.”
Eddie’s chest tightens, but he stays quiet.
“She listened,” Steve says. “Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t judge. Just… responded. I’d push, she’d push back. I’d lose control, she’d force me to focus or crash." He exhales softly.
“There were nights I didn’t think I’d make it home if I stayed inside my own head,” Steve admits. “So I got in the car instead. And somehow… I always came back.”
Eddie sets his beer down. Moves closer without making it a thing.
“I know it sounds insane,” Steve adds quickly, glancing at him. “I’m not saying it’s healthy. Or smart. I’m just—” He shrugs. “She was there.”
Eddie rests his shoulder against Steve’s.
“It doesn’t sound insane,” he says gently. “Sounds like survival."
Steve lets that sit. “I was terrified when she got hit,” he admits. “Not just because she’s expensive or whatever. It felt like… like losing proof that I made it through some really bad nights. Felt like losing a part of me.”
His voice wavers just a fraction.
“But you were there,” Eddie says. “You still are.”
Steve nods. Then, quieter: “Yeah.”
They sit like that for a long while. No fixing. No talking. Just existing next to something broken they believe they can restore.
When they finally stand, Steve rests his hand on the BMW’s frame, almost reverent.
“We’ll fix you,” he murmurs. Then, softer, like a promise to himself too: “We’re not done yet.”
Eddie watches him, heart full and uneasy all at once. Because Steve looks steady. Focused. Alive. And because Eddie knows—sometimes the things that save us can also become the places we hide. But for now? For now, Steve is here. Hands dirty. Eyes clear. Choosing repair over ruin. And that’s enough to keep going.
The E23 sits half-open and vulnerable, lights off, like she’s resting between surgeries.
Steve is still standing too close. Eddie notices it before Steve does. The way his shoulder brushes Eddie’s arm. The way his hand lingers on the workbench instead of pulling away. The way the air between them feels… tight. Pressurized.
“You okay?” Eddie asks quietly.
Steve nods. Then shakes his head. Then laughs under his breath. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I feel… wired.”
Eddie studies him. The grease smudged across his cheek. The intensity in his eyes that isn’t panic, not anymore—something else. Something alive.
“Come here,” Eddie says.
It’s not a command. Not really. But Steve moves anyway. They don’t kiss right away. Eddie’s hands slide to Steve’s waist first, grounding, familiar. Steve exhales like he’s been holding his breath for days. He leans in, forehead touching Eddie’s shoulder, just for a second—just long enough to feel real.
Then Steve tilts his head up. The kiss is slow at first. Not hungry. Not desperate. Just sure. Like checking in. Like asking, Are you still here? And answering, Yeah. I am.
It deepens without either of them deciding to make it happen. Eddie’s back hits the workbench with a soft clatter of tools shifting. Steve’s hands slide into Eddie’s jacket, gripping like he’s afraid Eddie might disappear if he lets go.
Eddie groans quietly into the kiss—more feeling than sound—and Steve smiles against his mouth, like he did that on purpose.
“You’re filthy,” Steve murmurs, voice low and fond. “Covered in grease.”
Eddie huffs a laugh. “You started it.”
Steve hums, pleased, and kisses him again—harder this time. Less careful. The world narrows. The garage light hums overhead. Somewhere outside, a car passes. None of it matters.
Eddie’s hands move with intention now, guiding, steadying. Steve follows, responsive, trusting. He presses closer, heat unmistakable, body saying what his mouth doesn’t need to. There’s nothing rushed about it.
Eddie’s hands move with intention now, guiding, steadying. Steve follows, responsive, trusting. He presses closer, heat unmistakable, body saying what his mouth doesn’t need to.
Eddie shifts his stance, bracing Steve properly this time, one hand firm at his lower back, the other sliding just enough to make Steve gasp and cling. The contact is deliberate, controlled — Eddie setting the pace, making Steve wait even as every nerve in his body screams for more.
Steve’s head falls back against the wall, breath uneven, fingers digging into Eddie’s shoulders. He makes a sound — soft, needy, completely unguarded — and Eddie answers it by pressing in closer, leaving no doubt about where this is going.
They move together, slow and precise at first, like they’re feeling out the rhythm again. Eddie murmurs something low and grounding near Steve’s ear — praise, reassurance, both — and Steve melts at it, body yielding, trusting Eddie to carry him through it.
The garage fades into background noise: the smell of oil and metal, the faint hum of the light overhead. All that matters is the closeness, the way Eddie holds him there, the way Steve responds instinctively, matching every movement without being told. Nothing flashy. Nothing careless. Just heat, pressure, and the quiet certainty of two bodies fitting together exactly the way they’re meant to.
Eddie feels it first—the shift, the tightening, the moment Steve’s breath stutters and won’t quite steady again. He adjusts without thinking, grounding them both, forehead pressed to Steve’s, voice low and anchoring. Steve answers with a sound that isn’t a word, fingers curling tight like he’s holding on to the edge of something vast.
The rhythm changes. Builds. Steve’s world narrows to sensation. The firm steadiness of Eddie’s hold, the way his name almost slips out of him, the way his body follows even when his mind can’t keep up anymore. Everything inside him draws taut, a single bright line of feeling that keeps climbing higher no matter how much he tries to breathe through it.
Eddie murmurs encouragement—soft, sure—and it tips Steve over the edge.
The release comes all at once, sudden and overwhelming, like a held breath finally let go. Steve shudders, weight dropping into Eddie’s arms, the sound he makes unguarded and real. Eddie stays with him through it, holding him upright, steady as the tremor passes and the tension dissolves into something loose and warm.
For a moment there’s nothing but aftershocks and breath.
Eddie exhales slowly, resting his forehead against Steve’s shoulder, hands still firm, still protective. Steve leans into him without hesitation, boneless now, heart hammering in a way that feels good—safe.
They don’t move right away. The garage hums back into existence around them: the light, the quiet clink of tools somewhere nearby. Eddie presses a brief, reverent kiss into Steve’s hair, and Steve answers by turning just enough to rest his cheek against Eddie’s chest.
Steve stays where he is for a beat, breathing evening out, forehead still pressed to Eddie’s chest. Then Eddie he snorts.
“…Okay,” he says hoarsely, lifting his head just enough to look at him. “So either that was incredibly hot, or this garage officially needs a warning sign.”
Steve huffs a laugh despite himself. “A warning sign?”
“Yeah,” Eddie continues, dead serious now, gesturing vaguely around them. “Like: Caution. Slippery floors. Emotional vulnerability. Questionable decisions near heavy machinery.”
Steve laughs properly this time, forehead dropping to Eddie’s shoulder. “You’re impossible.”
Eddie grins, lazy and satisfied, eyes bright. “And yet,” he adds, nudging closer, “you keep bringing me back here.”
Steve then tilts his head toward the BMW behind them, lowering his voice conspiratorially.
“I’m like ninety percent sure she’s watching. So if she starts leaking oil later, that’s on you.”
Eddie shakes his head, still laughing. “Unbelievable.”
Steve leans in again, soft but smug, murmuring, “Don’t worry, baby,” clearly addressing the BMW now. “You’re still my number one girl.”
Eddie groans. “I refuse to compete with a vehicle.”
Steve kisses him quick and playful. “Too late. You already lost.”
They laugh together, the tension fully broken now—the garage warm, safe, absurdly domestic, with the BMW standing silent witness to it all.
They don’t say much after that. Steve lingers for a second, like he’s afraid moving will break something fragile, then lets himself be guided inside.
The garage light clicks off. The house is quiet in that late-night way where everything feels suspended. They crawl into bed without ceremony. No urgency. No jokes this time.
Eddie pulls Steve close instinctively, arm firm around his waist, anchoring him there. Steve fits like he’s always known where to go, curling in, forehead tucked under Eddie’s chin. His body finally loosens, tension bleeding out in slow increments.
“Night,” Steve murmurs, already half-gone.
Eddie presses a kiss into his hair. “Night, sweetheart.”
Steve hums—content, safe—and his breathing evens out almost immediately, sleep taking him without a fight. Eddie stays awake a little longer, listening, hand tracing slow, absent patterns on Steve’s back like he’s counting something precious.
Outside, the BMW rests in the garage, quiet for once. Inside, everything finally is too.