OMG THAT WAS SO CUTE!
This was the sweetest fluff I have read in a while! Thank you so much for sharing your writing, Rosella đ
oh, my dreams
(part 1: itâs never quite as it seems)
summary: Your nameâs put you in some strange situations before, but this one might win the prize.
pairings: Steven Grant x fem-presenting!Reader**
rating: general audiences
warnings: strangers toâŚ?, administrative fuckups, descriptions of anxiety/anxiety attacks. **I wrote this with a masculine-named AFAB reader in mind, for reasons Iâll explain below, but it could also be read as a transfem reader being deadnamed, so please read with caution if thatâs a sensitive issue for you.
word count: 2650
authorâs note: Written for the Moon Knight Spring Bingo @moonknight-events â this is entry #5 for âOne Bed.â And thanks to @silvernight-m for the encouragement to finish this. đ
Happy reading! â¤ď¸
dividers by @firefly-graphics
You tap your keycard against the lock, half your mind on the lecture youâd just attended and the other half laser-focused on turning your brain off and some trash TV on. Itâs the best way youâve found to decompress, after a day of the sheer chaotic overwhelm that is more usually known as the academic conference.
Opening the door, you vaguely register someone elseâs presence; itâs always irritating, the universityâs insistence on saving money by forcing the grad students to share hotel rooms, but thereâs nothing to be done for it. Dues must be paid, and someday, youâll have tenure and youâll never have to share a room again. But when you emerge from that pleasant daydream, you realize that somethingâs gone very wrong.
Thereâs a man in your room, lounging on the bed, tilting his head at you. âHello,â he says, rather tentatively. âI â I think you might have got the wrong room.â
âOh God â â You fumble for the tiny envelope your keycard had come in, and canât find it. âIâm so sorry â you must be right, let me just⌠but I swear it said 303, itâs got to be here somewhereâŚâ After what feels like a year, you manage to unearth it, and itâs right there in black and white. You glance back to the still-open door, and those numbers havenât changed either. Belatedly, it dawns on you: itâs happened again.
âOh, shit,â you wail, dropping your bag on the floor. âShit shit shit.â
âAre you all right?â He gets up and pads over to you, peering curiously at your stricken face. Heâs British, clearly, from the accent; tousle-haired and dark-eyed and cute in the gentle, nerdy sort of way you like. Far too cute to be tainted by the swirling vortex of bullshit that always seems to follow you around.
âFuck.â You scrub at your forehead, trying to ease the sudden headache thatâs developed, and laugh bitterly. âItâs not personal, I promise â I donât even know youâŚâ
âWell, Iâm Steven. With a V. Steven Grant.â He smiles at you, radiating a careful sort of friendliness, as though youâre a stray dog of uncertain temperament. âSo now you know me a little bit, yeah? Dâyou want to come in and see if we can sort this out?â
Youâre too flustered to object, and you step into the room and flop down into the desk chair, because your legs donât seem to want to hold you up anymore. âOkay. Itâs okay,â you repeat softly, trying to calm yourself. âHe seems nice. Heâs probably not a serial killer...â
âIâm definitely not a serial killer, if that helps.â His eyes are kind, concerned, and you feel oddly safe with him, despite your embarrassment at realizing youâd just said that out loud. âIâm just Steven, perpetually exhausted student. So whatâs happened here? Is it something I can help with?â
âItâs my stupid name,â you growl. It happens all the time, no matter what you do to prevent it, and every time it does, it feels like sandpaper on your skin. Youâve put your pronouns in your email signature, youâve written Ms. before your name, and none of it ever matters because people donât fucking read. âThey see it on the registration forms and just assume Iâm a guy, and then something like this always goes wrong.â
âThey did tell me Iâd have a roommate,â he thinks out loud. âI saw your name on the list and I thought you were this bloke I know from my college, so I didnât think anything of itâŚâ He takes a seat on the edge of the bed, facing you, and thatâs when it hits you.
The bed.
The single, solitary, admittedly large and very comfortable looking, but still only, bed.
âThereâs only one bed,â you sigh. âOf fucking course thereâs only one bed.â Tipping your head back, you study the ceiling as though it has an answer for you.
âWell, thatâs it then,â Steven says. âWeâll have to talk to the organizers â Iâm absolutely sure it wouldnât be a problem for them to move one of us to another room. Iâll go with you and talk with them, if you like.â
âI canât,â you interrupt. You feel it rising, that itchy, frantic, skin-too-tight feeling, the certain knowledge that when one more thing goes wrong you wonât be able to hold the screaming in. Youâre frantically trying to gather up the cracking pieces of your carefully constructed shell, and the tigers in the tall grass will be upon you before you know it. âI canât, because then I have to admit theyâve put me in the wrong room, and theyâll have to shuffle everyone around and itâll make a big fuss and Iâll have Pain In The Ass stamped on my forehead when I go to network and Iâll never find a PhD advisor and â â
I donât need you anymore, youâve tried to tell it so many times. There arenât any tigers here â you donât need to protect me like this. But it doesnât work that way, and you know it. Itâs a bit like a wild animal itself, the anxiety, the way youâve tried your best to tame it with meds and therapy and other, less doctor-sanctioned remedies, and sometimes it feels like youâre finally learning how to be friends.
And then it turns on you again, vicious claws and teeth sinking deep, and you remember you havenât learned anything at all.
âI just canât,â you whisper.
Stevenâs hand lands on your shoulder, and you flinch; you hadnât noticed him getting up to approach you again. âBreathe, love,â he says gently. âJust â take a minute, yeah?â You try, but your brain and heart and lungs donât want to get with the program, and he sees the panic in every line of you. He half-sits down on the table, never taking his hand off your shoulder, and the other hand finds yours and curls around it comfortingly. âThe only good thing about having anxiety attacks,â he says quietly, âis that you know what to do when someone else is having one.â
He breathes, deep and slow, leading by example, and gradually your heart settles into a slower rhythm as though his own is pacing it. His hands are big, and warm, and they ground you, bringing you back to yourself. Tigers in the area, the anxiety whispers, fading, but not here, not right now.
âThe way I see it, weâve got two options,â he says softly, letting go of you and ticking them off on his fingers. âOption one, we go and talk to the organizers and let them sort things out.â You shake your head quickly; he must see the panic rising again, because he switches tracks immediately. âOption two, we, er â donât do that, and just leave things as they are.â
Your eyes fly wide. Youâd been half-ready to just leave, throw your opportunities away and run back to the airport with your tail between your legs, but... âYou meanâŚâ
âThis isnât some kind of a â a come-on, or anything!â he assures you quickly, brows furrowed. âI donât want to be the conference creeper, you know? But it is rather late, and if youâre really sure you donât want to talk to anyone about it, I donât mind at all if you stay.â
âEven though thereâs only one bed? Doesnât that bother you?â
He shrugs. âItâs only two nights â I think we can manage to be grown-ups about it for that long, yeah?â
The faceless Many, the Here Be Dragons on the map, versus the gentle sweet-faced One, familiar only by a technicality: itâs an easy choice, after all. Itâs probably not your smartest, and even as you make it, your rational brain is pressing you to reconsider. But the anxiety, for once, is silent.
âOkay,â you murmur. âYeah. Iâll stay.â
*
You stay, and itâs â well, itâs nice. Heâs nice.
Heâs nothing but cheerful all evening, going out of his way to help you feel more comfortable with him and with this whole clusterfuck of a situation. And heâs funny, with a sassy wit that offers a glimpse of the brain below the messy curls. (You have a momentary thought of gratitude for the opportunity to see Steven Grant with bedhead tomorrow morning. Itâs going to be epic.)
âIâm at Cambridge,â he tells you at one point. âAbout halfway through my PhD in Egyptology. On the linguistics end, mainly, not digging up tombs and things. But I have been on a dig or two.â
âWow, Ancient Egypt. Thatâs like â the gateway drug. The thing that makes kids want to be archaeologists in the first place, and here you are doing it.â You smile at him, and he flushes.
âI suppose youâre right â always had a thing about it, as long as I can remember. Probably watched too many old movies as a kid.â He grins back at you, and itâs endearing as hell, warm and a little shy but somehow cheeky, too. âHow about you? Whatâs your field?â
âIâm on the tech side. Mapping, satellite photography, ground-penetrating radar, all the fancy-ass things that tell you folks where to dig.â
âOh, thatâs fascinating!â he exclaims. âI could never â Iâm hopeless with technology. Utter disaster.â
âMost of you are,â you retort before you can think better of it. âThatâs why you have us.â
He laughs for the first time, and you immediately want to make him do it again. âThatâs why we have you,â he acknowledges with a tilt of his head.
Youâve always been prone to crushes. They tend to creep up on you, more subtle than the anxiety, but no less consuming. The first tendrils always wind delicately around your ankles, and by the time youâve registered their presence youâre already bound up to the knees. No no no no no, you tell yourself, you cannot do this right now. This is Not Allowed. This whole thing is more than weird enough already, without bringing his kindness and his intelligence and his big brown eyes into it.
Oh, no.
Itâs already too late, isnât it? the anxiety taunts.
Sure fuckinâ is, the crush responds.
You shove it down, ruthlessly, burying it as deep as you can. You keep it light, trading fieldwork tales, always the preferred currency at these things but more important than ever now. Iâm for real, they say, trustworthy and honest and normal about things. Iâm safe to talk to.
Steven ventures out for snacks to give you a chance to get ready for bed in privacy (god, how is he so nice), and when he comes back he nibbles on dark chocolate while he regales you with stories of Egypt. âMost people donât know this,â he says, âbut Cairoâs literally right up next to the pyramids. Thereâs a bloody Pizza Hut across the street.â
You stare, skeptical. âNo. No way. That canât be true.â
âHave a look at your maps,â he insists, pointing at you with the chocolate bar. âItâs absolutely true. Fastest way to spot the Egyptologist in the room is to show âem a movie where someone visits the pyramids and gets âlost in the desert.ââ
You trade a few more stories, and then you canât put it off any longer; your commitments tomorrow make a reasonable bedtime imperative. When thereâs a lull in the conversation, you stand up and stretch. âIâm just gonna â â you say awkwardly, gesturing toward the bathroom, and disappear to brush your teeth again (since heâd given you half the chocolate).
When you come out again, heâs rummaging for his own toothbrush, which means you have at least two minutes alone to decide how you want to navigate the inherent absurdity of getting into bed with a stranger. Donât make it weird, the anxiety cautions. âBy the way, do you have any, uh â bad habits I should know about?â
He looks up, startled. âPardon?â
âI mean, like â do you hog the covers? Or snore?â You shrug as though itâs a perfectly normal question to ask someone you met a couple hours ago, and try to ignore the heat rising in your face.
âMy, er, brothers â Marc and Jake â they say I talk in my sleep, sometimes. So Iâm sorry in advance if I say anything bonkers.â Steven laughs and rubs the back of his neck. âStill donât know if I really do, or if theyâre just having me on.â
âIf I hear anything, Iâll let you know,â I promise. âAnd if â if I canât sleep, Iâll try not to keep you up.â
He smiles at that. âLikewise.â
And once heâs brushed his teeth, thereâs really no putting it off any longer, and it doesnât end up being as weird as youâd thought. Just two people climbing into opposite sides of a bed and settling down for the night, nothing weird about that at all. It feels rude to turn your back, somehow, so you curl on your side, facing him, and he clicks off the light and does the same.
Youâve tried to talk yourself out of it, but the apology spills out anyway. âIâm sorry â this is probably the last thing you needed tonightâŚâ Your voice is small in the quiet room. âBut â but thank you. For helping me.â
âNo, no, itâs no trouble at all! This is good!â Steven protests. âI mean, not that youâve got anxiety, but this â whole thing.â He waves his hand in a vague circle around the room. âItâs a good distraction. Means Iâm not getting in my own head about my lecture tomorrow.â
Okay. That makes a certain amount of sense, and you begin to feel slightly better. âDo these conferences bother you too?â
He pauses for a moment. âMaybe⌠not quite in the same way as you? I donât mind talking to people one-on-one and that, but presenting to a crowd always gives me a few fits, beforehand.â
âDo you â â You swallow hard before continuing; itâs going to sound silly, maybe, but heâs looking at you so gently and like he understands, and you blurt it out. âDo you want to know a trick I have? It might help, if you want itâŚâ
âYeah?â Heâs waiting as calmly as if youâre having this discussion over coffee, in broad daylight, not inches from each other in bed in a darkened hotel room, and it emboldens you.
âIf Iâm nervous about meeting someone, or â or giving a talk, or whatever, sometimes it helps me to, um â get there first.â
âGet there first,â he repeats, considering.
âYeah. Get there first. Then itâs like â theyâre coming into your territory, and youâre in charge.â
âThatâs quite clever, actually.â He begins to smile, a broad grin creeping up like sunrise, and nods happily. ââGet there first.â Iâll remember that.â
A tiny glow of satisfaction burns in your chest, and you lie in silence together for a time. Itâs a comfortable one, strangely intimate; you could talk, if you wanted, but for once you donât feel like you need to. Itâs enough just to be here, next to him, somehow knowing itâs enough for him, too.
Itâs just â nice.
And then he stretches and turns, and for half a second your brain shorts out. âGânight,â he says, his voice already blurred with sleep. âSweet dreams.â And heâs out like a light before you can even return the wish.
Even as your eyelids grow heavy, youâre convinced youâll never sleep; how could you, when youâre literally in bed with a complete stranger, kind as he is? But the soft rise and fall of his breath is better than your white-noise machine, and the last thing you remember seeing before drifting off is his strong profile, silhouetted by the moonlight seeping through the space where the curtains donât quite meet.
If you dream, you donât remember it.
But itâs the first time youâve ever been to one of these things and slept through the night.
part 2 coming soonâŚ
@juneknight @spacecowboyhotch
authorâs note, again: I got the idea for this fic from something that did, actually, happen to me as a teenager. Only in my case it was a summer music camp, not a conference, and my mother threw an unholy fit and made them change my room immediately.
(Sorry, Andrew. I guess weâll never know what could have been.)
If your own name doesnât match your gender presentation, for whatever reason, please know that I am fist-bumping you in solidarity and I love you.
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