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littlemisssquiggles · 5 years

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Pinehead Headcanons: Oscar the New Year Baby

I’ve talked one or two times about Oscar’s birthday and what his potential birth date and astrological sign might be. In this past, this squiggle meister was banking on the theory of Oscar being revealed as a Taurus sign with his birthday falling within the Easter month of April, making him an Easter baby.

While April 21st is still one of my choices for Oscar’s official birthday, recently I’ve considered a second option for Oscar’s birthday. I know there are one or two Pineheads hoping that Oscar is actually a Christmas baby. For Oscar to be born around Christmas, that would make him a Capricorn sign.

Just like last time, I checked out the characteristics of the Capricorn-born personality and, while not nearly as on the nose as the Taurus personality (at least in my opinion), the Capricorn personality can apply to Oscar as well:

Has a maturity beyond her or her years

Tends to be very much into reading

Often finds comfort in those that are older or more advanced

Mild-tempered but will express disapprovals or annoyance often

Usually has hand-selected few friends

(RNJR will be Oscar’s Inner Circle and you can’t tell me otherwise, dagnabbit!)

Capricorn is also another Earth Sign like Taurus. Part of my reasoning for jumping on the Oscar is a Taurus bandwagon is because like most RWBY theories, I pegged earth to be Oscar’s signature element given his former farm hand upbringing and earth-based colour scheme. So I like that the Capricorn sign still fits in with this concept. According to TheZodiaccity.com, Earth horoscopes are:

Not the fondest of change or new situations, but will do what is necessary.

Are prone to feeling “not good enough”

They appreciate honesty and truth, although they hate to hear it

Can be stubborn, but in the sense of staying true to themselves and goals

Their inner, deep feelings can remain a mystery until you dig it out of them

Extremely driven and focused, with a desire to ultimately succeed

Highly sensual…for the right person

It is also mentioned that Capricorn are most compatible with Scorpios. Ruby is a confirmed Scorpio so that fits nicely with this hunch.

“…The Capricorn man is quiet and reserved but very intelligent and practical. They make excellent and stable lovers and partners.”

Quiet and reserved but very intelligent and practical. Yep! Sounds like our precious freckled farm boy.

If Oscar is a Capricorn-born, this fits with all those Pineheads wishing for him to be born on Christmas. The Capricorn birthday falls between December 22nd and January 20th.

If I had a second choice for Oscar’s astrological sign, it would be Capricorn. Capricorn is my second choice for Oscar’s sign and what I like about the Capricorn birthday is that two important holidays fall within this sign: Christmas and New Year’s.

I still wish to believe that Oscar was born on a holiday just to share that cohesiveness with Ruby who was born on Halloween, according to the CRWBY.

Let’s consider Christmas first. Technically you can say that Ozma and the Wizards of Light are the ‘Jesus’ equivalent in the RWBY-Verse. Christ, (according to the Roman Catholic religion I was raised under) was born on Christmas Day to be the saviour of the world who was ultimately crucified and died on the cross for our sins. He was also brought back to life.

Technically that’s not too far from Ozma’s story, minus a few details. Ozma was a valiant warrior of light who ultimately died of sickness. The God of Light resurrected Ozma so that he may save humanity from falling in to complete anarchy and risk their world being completely wiped out by the Gods on the proclaimed Judgement Day should the Brothers ever be summoned back to Remnant via the gifts they left to humanity.

Oscar is the current incarnation of Ozma (and by my headcanon, his one true incarnate as the personification of his original form resurrected in Modern Remnant buuuuut…that’s still up for debate). As one of the Wizards of Light, Oscar is tasked with protecting humanity and ensuring its survival. When you consider the Christ reference, making Oscar’s birthday Christmas Day doesn’t sound too bad. It actually fits quite well.

And unlike Easter, which official date changes with each year, Christmas is a fixed date. It is always December 25th just as how Halloween is always October 31st.

So for the folks who wish for Oscar to be born on Christmas Day, there’s your justification if you needed one. Oscar the Christmas baby is a nice idea.

However; that’s not the title of this Pinehead headcanon of mine, now is it? I like the idea of Oscar being born on Christmas Day, I really do. But I actually have another idea that fits just as good or even better.

How about, instead of Oscar being a Christmas baby or even an Easter baby, what if…Oscar is a New Year’s baby. Imagine if…Oscar is Baby New Year.

Why is Oscar being Baby New Year perfect ?

New Year’s Day is another fixed date like Christmas. It’s always January 1st.

January 1st falls before January 20th which would still make Oscar a Capricorn sign.

A common term for Oscar within the Pinehead community is ‘baby’ due to him being the ‘baby’ of the heroes as their newest, youngest member. Baby = Baby New Year.

Baby New Year symbolizes the ‘birth’ of the next year and the ‘passing’ of the prior year; in other words, a ‘rebirth’. This point fits with the theme of reincarnation being a part of Oscar’s story as a Wizard of Light.

According to Wikipedia, the myth most associated with Baby New Year is that he is a baby at the beginning of his year, however he quickly ages until he is elderly (like Father Time) at the end of his year. At this point, Baby New Year hands his duties to the next Baby New Year while he either dies or remains in this state and retires. I really like this titbit because it reminds me of how the Ozma cycle works. When a Wizard of Light dies, his memories, powers and responsibilities are passed on to his next chosen successor while the soul of the previous Wizard becomes a part of the persona that will ultimately be fused with the soul of current Wizard during the Merge.

Again, as much as I like Oscar the Christmas baby and as much as I’ve always vouched for him being an Easter baby, Oscar the Baby New Year Pinehead headcanon is slowly winning me over.

Plus…as a New Year’s baby, I like the idea of their being a tradition in Oscar’s household where he actually gets two birthday parties in a sense. One on the Eve of his birthday (since it’s New Year’s Eve) and one on his actual birthday which is New Years’ Day.

I also love the idea of their being another birthday tradition for Oscar, where he always got kisses at midnight on New Year’s Eve since it would be his birthday. Like as the New Year countdown starts, Oscar’s female relatives used to kiss him on the cheek and the amount of kisses he got correlated with how old he was going to be that year with the final kiss being at midnight on the dot, marking the New Year and his birthday.

Picture…a birthday like that with Oscar and the heroes.

Picture it. 11: 45, New Year’s Eve. 15 minutes before Oscar turns 15. So as the countdown starts, for every minute that passes, Oscar gets a kiss on the cheek from all the girls on the team with the final kiss---the fifteenth kiss coming from Ruby. But…she doesn’t just kiss him on the cheek.

Like imagine…Maria, Nora, Yang, Blake, Weiss---each kissing Oscar on both cheeks. And for the sake of this hunch of mine, what if…and this is a super mega big ‘if’…General Ironwood does something incredibly sweet for Oscar on beseech from Ruby and has Oscar’s Aunt Em flown out from Mistral to be in Atlas in time for Oscar’s birthday (and the beginning of the New Year).

I know it’s very unlikely but again; for the sake of this theory, let’s say… Aunt Em is present for when her nephew is about to turn 15 and gets to give her two kisses during the countdown.

This leaves Ruby Rose with her two kisses including the last one. Although Ruby insisted that the fifteenth kiss should go to Em, Em gave Ruby her blessing since she is the one technically looking out for Oscar in her place while he’s in Atlas and training to become a huntsman. So in Em’s eyes, the final kiss should come from Ruby. Think of it like a passing of the torch sort of deal from one woman who cared for Oscar to another.

So as the minutes countdown, Ruby kisses Oscar twice on both cheeks as expected. However at midnight, for the final kiss…she does something unexpected. She leans in and kisses Oscar square on the lips. It’s a quick kiss but it’s enough to render Oscar speechless and blushing like crazy. Same for Ruby. Though she composes herself a lot better than Oscar so she could say to the freckled farm boy with great big smile “Happy New Year and Happy Birthday!”

Tell me that doesn’t sound like a cute concept. Since V5, I have mainly maintained my headcanon of Oscar being an Easter Baby. I have kept this theory alive and strong. But now. Now I think I’ll have to make that my second choice. Oscar being Baby New Year sounds too perfect.

Not to mention that guys….do you know what the birthstone and lucky colour for Capricorns are?

Ruby and Red.

I mean…if the shoe fits then wear it right?

To my beloved Oscar the Easter-born Taurus theory: you’ve been a terrific Pinehead headcanon. One I still hold dear to my heart. But at this moment you will have to settle for second place since Oscar the New Year’s had won me.

I know I said once upon a time in a galaxy far, far away that until the CRWBY confirms Oscar’s birthday, I will celebrate it as April 21st cause of Easter.

I change my mind. From henceforth, until the CRWBY Writers confirm Oscar’s birthday, this squiggle meister shall treat and celebrate New Year’s Day (inclusive of New Year’s Eve) as Oscar’s fanon birthday.

Oscar is Baby New Year by the power invested in my Pinehead headcanons and you can’t tell me otherwise until Miles and Kerry say no-no.

More Squiggles’ RWBY Content

~LittleMissSquiggles (2019)

#rwby #oscar pine #ruby rose #oscar and ruby #rwby rosegarden #rwby rosebuds #rwby theories #squiggles' pinehead headcanons #pinehead headcanons

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samhainrites-secretnights · 5 years

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Chapter 1

warnings: the crime scene is described and well it includes a dead person (duh) and blood - will include a warning before it in the text so you can skip if needed! (also mentions of weed but no use)

word count: 10,5k

PROLOGUE

Something deep down had told her she’d get her way. She usually did.

It didn’t match her usual demeanor at all: a reserved, distant looking person, her shyness was often mistaken for cold disdain and gave her an air of superiority. She didn’t like that image but it seemed to stick: it had followed her all the way from her previous life to her reincarnation as a village librarian, keeping colleagues and curious children at bay, maintaining visitors at arms’ length in spite of her otherwise polite attitude. Oh well. She had a few friends who knew her past that first impression, and for the rest she could make do with fiction and correspondence, appearing to the rest of the world as a semi ethereal, semi sleepwalking presence. She presented well (enough) and gave no cause for complaints. She was, as most would put it, an eccentric; there was a time she’d have been suspected of witchcraft.

This amusing perspective was a big part of why she had moved to this little rural area of england, rather than staying in the suburban routine she had grown up and studied in. It started to occur to her that as a newly actualized adult, she was, in fact, in charge of such decisions: where to live, what to do, what to look like, and who to see, all those things that seemed to work themselves out in boring ways, and that she was now able to subvert and turn into something a little more interesting. What she didn’t expect was for wonder to become the norm, and normal to become extraordinary.

***

Charlie Nelson had, against all expectations (including his), gotten perfectly used to country living.

Upon his move two years prior, his friends and family had barely cared to hide their skepticism at the thought of this frankly a little uptight city mouse moving to an area of cottages and sheep, where the median age seemed to grow by a year with every passing day. Charlie was a Londoner by birth and had never expressed the slightest desire to change that: a young, health-conscious detective ready to dedicate his time to his work with little restriction, it seemed the lively character of the inner city fit him best. He had to admit he had been the first one surprised by his own enthusiasm as his superiors had offered him a position alongside a certain DCI Barnaby, whom he knew nothing about; it had felt as if the words came out of his mouth on their own, and as he first set foot in the town of Causton, Oxfordshire, he surely started to question his own judgement.

But that was two years ago. Two years of weathering his colleagues’ utter disbelief at some of his perfectly normal life choices, such as drinking green tea and going for early morning runs, of being resented for filling his predecessor’s shoes, although to be fair, that only lasted for a minute; two years of slowly becoming a part of the tight knit community he formed with the Barnabys as well as Dr Kate Wilding, forensic doctor and, to him, landlady. Two years of discovering things about himself he never had the chance to see before: his resourcefulness, his dedication to serving not only the greater good in childish spectacular fashion, but also the less than glamorous village folk that he had started to like in spite of a sting of bigotry that he did his best to ignore. His contentment with relative isolation, too. And something he didn’t care to admit just yet, though it did worry his adopted mentors slightly: a little void in the way he spoke of the future, a little longing at the thought of living with a colleague, like a college roommate at age 33, intangibly yearning for headquarters of his own.

To his relief, there was no time to think of this when the urgency of cases brought him into a state of constant brainstorming. Not that he used the distress of others to drown the noise of his own shortcomings: he was sincere in all that he did, save for perhaps how he felt about other people - he was, after all, an Englishman - and wouldn’t think of instrumentalizing his position for such mundane purposes. Would he go so far as to say it wasn’t a convenient corollary? Maybe not. However, and to his superior’s great relief, he was always professional when it came to separating his own inner turmoil (you could hardly call it that!) from the necessities of a high risk job; he was good at it, which meant he wasn’t allowing himself to be as clever as he could, leaving the credit to Barnaby and acting as his ever loyal right hand. He didn’t mind: he was watching and learning, remained an inestimable asset in terms of physicality (you wouldn’t see DCI Barnaby running like that, would you!), and formed a bond that grew grumpily somewhere between brotherhood and parenthood.

It usually went like this: on regular days, they’d do their paperwork and go home in the evening, Barnaby to his wife, Sarah, baby daughter Betty, and dog, Sykes; Charlie to Kate’s first floor and occasional company, sharing chinese takeout and films, wondering if perhaps this was becoming domestic, albeit as far from matrimony as you could get. On the weekends they’d visit the Barnabys for tea, and if the weather was good, they’d collectively pick on Charlie for opting for long runs or bike rides before joining them, welcomed by the grownups’ consistent teasing and Betty’s enchanted cooing. She loved her detective-turned-babysitter: as Kate mockingly put it, Charlie was nothing short of a domestic goddess, unburdened by the masculine cliché of messiness and neglect that his landlady was all too happy to take on.

Upon moving to Causton, Charlie discovered himself a bit too much of a homebody, took utter joy in cooking and cleaning, and found that his lack of interest for a company of his own age was often met with his mentor’s dismay. He had adapted swimmingly, but had gotten a little too comfortable and often relied on his cozy routine rather than to put himself “out there”, as they said, for such uncomfortable goals as meeting new friends or courting ladies. In the back of his mind, he knew the longing would become too strong to ignore: fortunately for him, it really hadn’t yet. He went on with his work, and time passed as calmly and erratically as it does when you live in the paradox of a picturesque village as an investigator of its worst possible crimes.

CHAPTER 1

To sit at work one morning, in the reassuring boredom of a rural police station, and to receive a phone call announcing someone’s violent murder was both absolutely baffling and mind-boggingly normal when your name was John Barnaby. On occasion, and if he was in the mood, he’d even roll his eyes (“that’s beetroot on your clothes, Mrs Oadby, not blood, for god’s sake”); but he was a professional and never failed to take a case seriously the second he detected anything fishy about it. And there wasn’t much to detect that morning, he thought: the sun was shining, he was in a rather good mood, the bakery had his favourite pastry in stock, and the only phone calls the station had answered concerned security matters for the upcoming kids’ halloween celebrations.

He considered bothering Nelson for a coffee, since his young partner seemed to oscillate between sighs of boredom and the recognizable look of someone who’s dipping their toe in an introspection most definitely too cold to bathe in at this time of the year. Just as he really started to pity his colleague who turned his undivided attention to a nearby rubiks cube, a uniformed officer came trotting in their office, her hand clutching a scribbled note, her cheeks flushed from the rush. She all but pounced on Barnaby, holding on to his desk to keep from falling over while he raised his eyebrows in an inquiring expression, letting her catch her breath.

“Well? What have you got for me, Patel?”

“Sir… We have… A body has just been found in the Fairfield-under-Wychwood cemetery”, she panted.

“I should hope so, it’s where we usually put those, isn’t it?” Barnaby’s sarcasm was met with officer Priya Patel’s most resigned eye roll. He continued: “Do tell me more. What exactly have we got?”

“With all due respect, Sir, if you’re done showcasing your dad jokes,” - Charlie chuckled in the background - “the local vicar called us, utterly panicked - said he’d been rushed to the cemetery after he heard someone screaming. A local woman apparently found the body as she was visiting a grave - she was too shocked to tell him more, and he said we’d better come see for ourselves.”

Barnaby sighed. Ah, civilians and their inability to control their emotions! Almost as bad as Nelson!

“Very well, thank you, Patel - think Nelson and I will head down then, who are we to question the word of God?”

They got up and grabbed their jackets, leaving officer Patel to her endeared consternation, and back to the task at hand. Seconds later, she could hear tires screeching from the station parking lot.

***

Fairfield-under-Wychwood was everything you’d expect from a minuscule nook in the heart of Oxfordshire’s lush greenery. Everything, and perhaps a little more.

You wouldn’t usually end up there unless you were specifically looking to, or had, by some sort of animist inspiration, summoned the right turns in a seemingly never ending network of eel-like forest roads. Snaking through the moss like a gondola under a canopy of spirits, you’d have to drive slow, or the lack of visibility would guarantee a frontal shock with any oncoming vehicle, animal, or apparently, frenzied murderer; moreover, you’d drive in silence. Not that it made any difference to your security as a motorist. You simply would, though, due to the reverence and hint of discomfort one usually feels when faced with the creeping of nature’s sinuous darkness, its ominous volutes of leaves and distant chirping, and the ancient moisture of its crumbling floors. If you slowed down, you’d remember your ancestors’ memories, and hear the roots hold your ankles in place.

When the roads would decide they’ve caused you enough torment, they’d spit you out and, if you were reactive enough, you’d cling by the tip of your fingers to the edge of an invisible cliff, on top of which you’d land and finally catch a glimpse of your destination. Your confused gaze would linger on the gentle curves of a meadow, gorged with sheep like a tree heavy with ripe fruit; behind it, greyish shapes would suggest a range of mellow stone cottages, adorned with brambles and smoking chimneys. But as soon as your eyes would get used to their surroundings, they’d turn to their most prominent feature: under the greying skies stood the church tower, like a tired lighthouse in the autumn fog.

So did Barnaby and Nelson discover their momentary workplace. The chief inspector’s demeanour remained as phlegmatic as his sergeant’s was becoming tense, Nelson’s big, delicate hands clutching the driving wheel as he slowed down to enter the village’s main street, that lead to the church in a barely perceptible slope. The car trembled over the wonky, somewhat charming cobblestones. As they progressed towards the heart of the village, nameless family cottages gave way to picturesque storefronts and hand painted signboards; vague faces appeared behind thick, steamy windows, slow like the morning errands of an aging community gathering for coffee and newspapers.

The air was crystal sharp and thick with a lingering fog. Rays of sunlight dissolved like dust in the crisp autumn morning, brightening the orange palette of the trees but failing to provide enough warmth for pedestrians to walk without instinctively clutching their coats around themselves; so did Barnaby, slightly irritated at Nelson’s infuriating, sensible planning as the younger man put on his scarf. They had parked by the church garden wall and made their way to the entrance on a mossy, winding path that took them through the small green and to a wooden door. As they approached, it opened and gave way to an elderly man in religious dress, tortoiseshell glasses so thick they made his eyes appear nearly amphibious. His expression was one of utter disbelief, and he walked as though he was floating in confusion.

Barnaby and Nelson routinely displayed their police badges as they introduced themselves to the man who, despite his apparent state of shock, had signaled the incident. He seemed to snap out of his trance as he shook their hands, seemingly hit by reality once more after having saturated.

“Father Gregory, Alvin Gregory - please, if you’d follow me… I was standing right over there by the passage to my study, that’s this room at the back - i was right there when i heard a scream, and it didn’t sound anything like joking around or trying to get someone’s attention, no, it was truly a scream of terror, like you rarely hear, so naturally i hurried there and caught poor Mrs Tomkin right as she was fainting. And that’s when i saw it and -”

He was interrupted by a tremor, halfway between retching and shivering, and had to steady himself by leaning against the nearby wall.

“-and there she was. Dear God, as if murdering her wasn’t enough - her very soul was humiliated, inspector, i can’t believe this is real.”

(WARNING - BLOOD / BODY HORROR, SKIP TO NEXT QUOTE)

Nelson barely had time to catch father Gregory and help him to a chair before the old man’s legs gave in. The two detectives excused themselves and proceeded to the cemetery, where Kate and her team were already set up, their seriousness clashing in a surreal way with the golden highlights of the site’s nature, like a kaleidoscope carried by the threatening presence of the woods and moors beyond the village limits. Across the safety line, their colleague’s blonde hair was tied in a bun above her usual blue protection blouse and gloves, and she was leaning over what looked more like an entire altar than a simple abandoned corpse. She was brought out of her focused examination by Charlie’s loud “HOLY F-” that he had the sensibility of interrupting before his own blasphemy added to the crime scene.

“Take your time, why don’t you!” she started towards them, peeling off her gloves, and went on: “Victim is a sixty-eight years old female, Margaret Hawthorne, known locally and professionally as Sister Peggy.”

“A nun?” Charlie asked, oblivious to the victim’s religious attire.

“No, Nelson, a plumber, in fact-” Barnaby caught a glimpse of Kate’s piercing look.

The doctor went on: “The cause of death would be… Well we’re kind of spoilt for choice actually. She received fatal cuts to the throat and wrists, all of which could have been lethal, and was left to bleed out for uh, obvious purposes, apparently. You’ll have to let me know whatever the hell this is.”

The two detectives stared at the scene in utter incredulity. Not only was Sister Peggy’s lifeless body carefully arranged, her stretched limbs were circled by sketches of browning blood, forming a sort of symbolic shrine around the nun’s corpse. Neither of them was all too familiar with the esoteric, so what they could gather from a first look was rather limited; however, Barnaby’s wife being a historian, the inspector had seen his share of dead languages and forgotten alphabets. From their unfamiliar, angular form, he could tell the drawings looked like norse runes: some of them combined, other simple, some repeated, none he recognized.

Plants and twigs had been disposed between the runic shapes, and in the middle of it all, the elderly woman’s face had been messily painted, her eyes still wide and terrified. The thick smell of blood started to get to the two men as their gaze studied the dark display, Charlie wincing, Barnaby too deep in thought to notice his own frowning. The older detective had had his share of eccentrics, new age lunatics and everything in between; he had surprised the elderly community of a quiet village in full pagan attire, had seen parents killing children and children killing parents. He knew there would be more to it, and, metaphorically rolling up his sleeves, he sighed.

Charlie, on the other hand, was a lot less experienced when it came to the peculiar rationality of isolated countryside murderers. Though he had seen his share of revolting crimes, there was a certain quality, a certain pragmatic originality of the country folk in the way they’d dispose of another person’s life - he had seen corpses washing off the Thames, but was a lot less used to seeing them emerging from manure stocks. A nun with her throat slit in the middle of some esoteric sigil, in a village that peaked at two or three hundred inhabitants on a good day, that was definitely a first.

Barnaby raised his eyes to face his tall sergeant, who was holding his scarf in front of his nose and mouth; he let out a superior huff.

“Thought you liked your black pudding, Nelson?”

Charlie’s face got several shades paler. Kate, in a rare moment of motherly protectiveness, thought the time had come to give them the details of what she’d be expecting from the autopsy, stating that the contents of the blood and stomach would be scanned, as well as any trace of the culprit’s DNA on the victim and surrounding objects. For the rest, she said, they would have to search the villagers’ minds, which seemed to her an even more disturbing task. She’d much rather be in the safety of her lab, where she was sure her company wouldn’t disturb her, on account of being, you know, dead - although with this one, she wouldn’t risk it, she said with a semi-convinced smile.

As the forensic team was proceeding with securing the body and site, pictures were taken from every angle, and the detectives knew they’d need to wait for any clues to be revealed from Sister Peggy’s wounds; focusing his attention away from the waves of nausea that kept hitting him with every reek of blood, Charlie copied the symbols in his notebook, determined to find out more. Barnaby, on the other hand, seemed to pay them little mind; instead, he turned away from the quarantine zone and scanned the area for any curious villagers. Behind them, unsteady and gripping the arm of a slightly younger nun, father Gregory had appeared outside the church door. Motioning for Nelson to follow him, Barnaby made his way back to the vicar, and spoke first.

(GORE BIT OVER)

“If you don’t mind me asking, Father - we’re going to need to know every relation mrs Hawhtorne, uh, Sister Peggy had in the area… Or anywhere frankly, but let’s start there. How well did you know her?”

“Personally, not very - although I have known her for a little while now, yes, she had been participating in the celebrations for several years… perhaps ten? Time passes strangely when you’re my age”, father Gregory answered, thinking out loud. “You see - starting today, the parish is holding the Allhallowtide celebration… As lots of churches do, but these days hold a special meaning to us here, since it’s also the time for us to celebrate our saint Nivel - and that’s been a source of concern recently, it might be our last year having her here”, the older man went on, his voice breaking.

He noticed Barnaby’s inquisitive look and explained: “Our parish takes great pride in being the resting place of such a meaningful figure - you see, saint Nivel was one of the first female abbesses, who happened to be buried right here in this parish! Ever since I started officiating here, we’ve centered our Allhallowtide festivities around her, and have referred to her remarkable intelligence and scholarship for guidance. So to think our little village would be robbed of such a central part of who we are as a community… You see, the Oxford parish has been claiming her for the past months, and that’s brought the occasional attention, both good and bad”, the vicar sighed. “Sister Peggy was part of a group of visitandines who come round every year as a pilgrimage, usually help out with the celebrations too. They’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember, and I’ve been here since… Well, for over seventy years, you could say.” He chuckled. “I was born just across the street, in the house where my nephew now runs the inn.”

Nelson was frantically taking notes, his brow furrowed in concentration; next to him, Barnaby’s face betrayed his mental mapping of everything he knew up to this point, which really wasn’t much. He knew village folk to take lots of their daily circumstances for common knowledge, and knew he’d need to pry if he wanted a clearer view.

“Father, if I may - you did say your saint brought both good and bad attention, am I correct? I take it the visitandines sisters are the good part?”

The vicar sighed, his afflicted face looking down. “Oh they’re alright, they’re certainly a great help, that they are. The bad part is… Well, you younger folk may know about that, but lately there’s been a certain enthusiasm for so-called… Paganism”, he bemoaned, his fingers tracing quotation marks as he said the last word. “Some self-proclaimed guru seems to have declared our village as somehow relevant to whatever it is they think they’re doing. It’s the second time now that they’ve come to bother us during this time of year. Between this and our st Nivel being ogled like some cheap tourist attraction - it’s been a bit of a circus already. And now poor sister Peggy… Punished for devoting herself to our celebrations? Dear God, how could I make it up to you?”

As the realization seemed to sink in, father Gregory’s thick glasses went muddled with tears, and the two detectives were reminded of the presence of the nun that had stood by him earlier as she came rushing to take the old man’s arm and help him stand. Father Gregory excused himself, visibly weakened by the shock and exhaustion, and Charlie replaced the woman - who had been introduced as sister Meg - following her as she guided them back to the vicar’s house, where he’d get some rest and be questioned later on. Any information they’d need for immediate proceedings, they’d have to get elsewhere, and they opted to split up: Barnaby would accompany sister Meg and learn what he could from the three remaining nuns, while Nelson would go and find out what he could about, and from, the so-called pagans. He gulped upon receiving the order.

Charlie liked to think of himself as open-minded: after all, he had grown up in one of the most cosmopolitan, culturally rich havens of eccentricity the western world had to offer, though he had managed to get out somewhat unscathed. In fact, he was probably most original in how ordinarily he carried himself. Though he was surprisingly handsome, he had a tendency to dress too old for his age, and sound too young; he was a mixture of naive all-boys school and barbour-wearing accountant, which was endearing enough but didn’t exactly match what you’d expect of a millenial from London. He felt too tame for the city and too urban for the country, but the truth was, and he knew it, that he went through life following the gentle pointing of his own compass. What he didn’t know, on the other hand, was how much his mentor valued that in him - give John Barnaby one extra glass of wine and he’d reluctantly mumble something about training a future proper chief inspector. He’d never admit it to his face, though: nothing worse than a detective who relies too much on his own talent.

As sister Meg indicated him, the group he had written down as ‘pagans’ for lack of a better word had set their camp at the edge of the woods whose darkened weight bordered the moor-like cemetery. Behind the church lied a threatening, mossy murmur that appeared to warn humans not to try and expand too much: as the nun described it with hyperbolic intimidation, Nelson was struck by the way father Gregory did little to contradict her. Aside from the obvious restraint that one tends to exhibit when faced with a graphic assassination, it seemed to him they shared an unspoken agreement, giving nature the credit and authority it was due, taking the fear it instilled like a serious factor in the way they lead their lives: if Charlie had expected such things to take up more space as he dealt with the ingrained beliefs of remote villages, he now had to admit their reverence was contagious. As he made his way towards the outskirts of the cemetery, he felt like he was reaching the edge of the waking world.

If Charlie (the man) was rather skeptical about everything dark, threatening and frankly uncomfortable, DS Nelson (the detective) had a job to do, and was capable of plunging in bone-chilling, slimy bodies of water for the single purpose of unearthing a less than impressive clue if he felt it was the right course of action. He did wince as the soles of his nice leather shoes gave an unpleasant suction noise when lifted from the muddy path, but quickly focused on looking for the visitors’ camping grounds that sister Meg had indicated in a scoff. He didn’t know what exactly he was looking for, or who; images of “the wicker man” bounced in his head as he carefully trod on the damp forest soil, spied on by peeking mushrooms and croaking birds, abandoned by sunlight and his courage. He puffed out his chest, suddenly very aware of being unarmed, and followed one of the many intuitive paths the footsteps of previous wanderers had shaped.

After a while, he started to feel cold. The trees, the leaves, the ground, everything was damp and pervasive, his jacket clinging to his arms like a leech, his scarf only highlighting the gaps it couldn’t cover; the horror of the crime scene started to sink in, the old woman’s terrorized face and the lines painted on one of her cheeks, the time it must have taken to draw all those symbols, using someone’s blood while their life was coming to a pitiful end. Like a goldsmith crafting circumvoluted rings, Charlie compartmentalized each dimension of his work, packing death away in bundles of kraft paper to be shipped somewhere far away. Somewhere he’d visit one day, perhaps, but not now. Not while he was risking his own life all the time. He shivered and took a deep breath, scanning all his senses for any sign of the campers. Somewhat further away, carried by the wind, he heard voices.

The gentle droplets of wind chimes mixed with the smell of fire and burning herbs as he got closer to the camping grounds. It reminded Charlie of those shops a girl he dated in college would buy incense in, before filling her apartment with it - mixed with mold and weed, it clung to his hair and clothes like she did until he realized he wasn’t particularly happy. He wondered if maybe she’d be there, or if not her, another one of the same breed he found himself too old for even back in those days, when he wore a necklace of wooden pearls that she gave him and it smelled like patchouli and it didn’t feel like him at all. He wondered if anyone would ever give him something that did feel like him; then he heard someone playing one of these saucepan-looking instruments and had to keep his eyes from rolling. Way to be impartial, he thought, but then again, someone’s literally died, lay off the bloody tambourine, will you.

Rather than settling in a clearing, it seemed the campers had preferred limiting their own comfort by cramming their tarpaulin-covered dwellings between trees and stumps; they had somehow managed to dig a respectable fire pit, around which the tents were disposed in a circle. All in all, the site must have accommodated perhaps ten people; four of them were currently sitting in folding chairs, wrapped in shawls, pensive. The music stopped as the man holding the instrument noticed Charlie - soon the three others turned to him as well, unsure of whether or not they should start to their feet, nervously tightening their grips on their armrests. Although he hesitated and thought of joining them undercover, Charlie decided he might as well jump in - it’s not like he’d ever be credible anyway. He flashed his police ID and felt the tension in his interlocutors rise; it stung a little bit. They were about his age, but he had crossed the rubicon of cool long ago.

“DS Nelson, Causton CID - don’t even panic about that, mate, that’s not what I’m here for”, he sighed as one of the men tried to put out his joint on a nearby tree stump. “I’d just like to ask you a few routine questions about what happened last night - i suppose you heard?”

The group, two men and two women, exchanged concerned looks, seemingly unsure about who would talk and what they’d say. One of the women, her black hair braided in a complex network of tresses, cleared her throat.

“We heard. The rest of our group drove out this morning after they went into the village to get coffee - said they didn’t come here for this kind of negative energy”, she answered. “We weren’t sure we’d stay, either. But then we decided this was out of our control and we could do nothing but welcome it like we should any other overpowering circumstances. That’s kind of what we came here to celebrate, anyway.”

Charlie raised an eyebrow at that last comment. “Could you perhaps give me your names… And where you were last night up until about 8 this morning?” They shifted in their seats, ready to defend themselves. “Just standard procedure. As of now, we aren’t accusing anybody, simply gathering information, you understand-”

“Okay fine”, sighed the other woman, not bothering to hide her disdain. “But it’s funny how we’re always being targeted, just because we dare to live slightly differently… Doesn’t mean we’re criminals, unless exploring a peaceful alternative to modern society is a crime”, she paused, hoping to get the assent of her colleagues, who remained silent. Her ash blonde dreadlocks shook as she scanned them for any type of reaction, but they looked reserved, perhaps even a little embarrassed.

“My name is Rosemary Cook”, said the first woman, “this is Maureen Kemp, and Ray Khan, and Chris Hughes - I mean, Christopher”, she added, as Nelson wrote the names down in his notebook. “We’re all from London, as were the rest of our group. Ray here is a musician, Maureen teaches meditation, and Chris and I run a boutique - we focus on alternative therapies. As for where we were last night…” she paused. “I was here at the camp, the entire time.”

“Can anybody confirm that?” Nelson asked, repressing a sigh at the thought that they might all cover each other just in case. The musician, Ray, shifted uncomfortably. “He can”, said Rosemary, pointing at him. “He was with me.” Maureen scoffed in disbelief and let out a barely repressed “fuck OFF!”. Ray shook his head and added, “let’s discuss that later, right Maur?” to which she responded by mumbling something about how unbelievable it all was. Charlie raised his eyebrows, waiting for them to continue citing their alibis.

“I was at the pub with some of our mates that drove back to London”, Chris went on, “i’ll give you their numbers, they’ll confirm I was there. Think I even got the receipt.” He searched his jeans pockets and extracted a crumpled piece of paper. “Got back here at about two o’clock. Then the others drove off around eight, and I went back to sleep.”

“It’s true, I saw him when we got out to say bye”, said Rosemary. Charlie turned to Maureen, who was still visibly upset by her friends’ nightly activities. “Ms Kemp? What about you?” he tried, and she sighed deeply. “Mind if i tell you in private, Mr detective?” she answered in a mocking tone, while the others turned to her and started to get impatient; Rosemary and Ray spoke at the same time, something to the tune of what’s-so-secret-that-you-can’t-tell-us. “I don’t think having something to hide from your friends is a great look on someone present in a tiny community, the night of a murder”, Charlie said. “Just tell me where you were, and i’ll leave you to sort out whatever it is that’s going on with the four of you”.

“Right, and you’ll run my business when I lose my main customers, too?” Maureen snapped. “You pigs are all the same! It’s not my fault you can’t find a killer in a village that’s even smaller than your d-” “THAT’S ENOUGH, MAUR!” Rosemary had risen to her feet and seemed ready to smack the other woman, who suddenly seemed a lot less confident. “You’re gonna make us all look bad, you fucking idiot! Just tell him where you were and let’s be done with this or we’ll start to think we have reasons to suspect you too!”

“I take it you can’t vouch for her presence here at the camp, then?” Charlie tried.

“Was kinda, uh, occupied”, Rosemary mumbled - Charlie blushed and mentally thanked the forest for being dark enough to conceal it. Chris shook his head and muttered something about how he wouldn’t have seen anyone regardless of who was here: after a night at the pub, he went directly to his tent and blacked out. Cornered, Maureen knew she could either lie and be discredited, or give her actual, corroborated alibi, and look a fool - but a free one. She had a certain pride, sure, but wasn’t about to be jailed for a crime she didn’t commit.

“I was at the inn.”

The group looked at her in confusion. “Like, for tea? Do you know someone there?” Ray tried, about as surprised as she had been upon hearing who he was with.

“I was at the inn… In my room. I’ve been sleeping there and sneaking back in before you got up. Guys, i’m sorry, I couldn’t do this anymore.” She barely had the time to finish her sentence before starting to sob, in exceedingly theatrical fashion. “Happy now, detective? You’ll find me there, now that you’ve made me betray my cause”, she whined, got up, and trotted pathetically towards the village, leaving her three friends too confused to react - Charlie didn’t bother to run after her, all too certain he would indeed find her there.

Ray had lit up his joint again, forgetting the reason for the detective’s presence. “Well fuck me! She was the one who insisted we’d ‘reconnect with nature’” - he mimicked quotation marks- “and freeze our asses off while she was sleeping in a bed this whole time! Can you believe this!”

“Actually Ray, I can”, sighed Rosemary. “I mean look at us. Are we even making any sense at this point, like would you reckon we’re making a point at all or just catching fucking pneumonia?”

With the most defensive element gone, Charlie thought it was time to finally ask them what in the world they were actually doing - as much as it had seemed self evident to Sister Meg, who couldn’t look more irritated at what she called ‘blasphemy’, it truly wasn’t to him. In fact, he was getting more confused by the second. Those people always seemed to be defending something or other and he tended to lose interest as soon as the lack of scientific basis started to rear its ugly head. But now, seeing how he wasn’t exactly going anywhere with their discussion to this point, he might as well get to the bottom of it - after all, the entire dramatic setting of the crime scene was still painted in the back of his mind, and, as unlikely as it sounded at this point, he was going to have to associate it with someone.

“If i may, Mrs Cook…” “Miss.” “Miss Cook. Would you mind telling me a little about what it is that you’re doing out here? I haven’t exactly heard a… Constructive version of it from the clergy, you imagine”, Charlie tried, giving her a sympathetic look, and hoping his last comment would attract some sort of anti-religious complicity from his interlocutors. Indeed, the men exchanged a smirk - Rosemary, however, seemed less inclined to indulge in clan wars at such a time. Her face kept a serious expression.

“We’re united, or were united, around our practice of what we call paganism”, she said, her voice dull. “We believe in reclaiming the pagan ways our ancestors lived by, and that implies a change in our lifestyle - abandoning modern comfort for a return to our natural cycle, a union to the natural world. You see, not only do we reject the exploitation of our earth as a resource for us to waste, we also wish to return to a more organic spirituality, one that would celebrate our symbiosis with nature rather than obedience and greed…”

“-like the church of england would?” Charlie tried. Rosemary looked down. “Yeah. we did come here to make a statement about this village and their so-called saint Nivel, who’s actually more likely to have been one of ours, killed for her belief in our ways and not in theirs”, she sighed. “But that doesn’t mean we’d kill to get our point across. We strive for a union between mankind and the rest of the living world, not for mindless violence. We’re not them. They’re the ones that kill for their church, and are ready to appropriate a woman’s death for their own benefit, as if they weren’t rich enough,” she scoffed.

“We’ve been coming here to demand that Nivel’s history be read as it should, as it was meant to, we’re asking for justice so that her memory becomes that of an independent thinker, you could even say a feminist! She’d have been accused of witchcraft rather than catholicism”, Ray added. “The church simply doesn’t want to hear the research, they think that saying it’s always been like that is enough of an argument. But you go to the village library and see - we’ve required a special section on local history, it’s all in there.”

“Still doesn’t mean we’d kill for that,” Chris spat, visibly threatened by Charlie’s frantic note-taking.

“Still you’re the first people i meet who seem rather familiar with the use of runes?” Nelson’s comment was met with a deep, ostentatious sigh from Rosemary and glares of utter disdain from both men. Indeed, the camp was surrounded with the type of art you’d expect from a group of self-appointed animists - except the usual tibetan garlands were replaced by painting on the surrounding trees and what could be apprehended as land art, and it just happened to form the same shapes that enshrined the body of sister Peggy.

“Bet you use the alphabet too, does that mean you’re the fucking zodiac killer, sherlock?” Chris seemed to instantly regret his choice of words, as Charlie’s eyebrows rose in incredulity. “Sorry. Don’t mean to lose my temper, but - people here are constantly at our throats as if we were some sort of animal sacrificing satanists, it gets tiring. We’re non-violent. All we do is look for alternative ways of living, respect mother earth, hold our own rituals for each season…”

“...smoke weed in front of police officers…” Charlie snorted.

“Shit! When did i-” the rest of Chris’ composure had definitely faded. “Forget it, i’m just messing with you”, Charlie went on, “anyway, care to tell me what this is about?”

He pointed to an area behind the arranged tents: surrounded by more of what the campers described as protection runes, a rectangular shape had been dug out, at the bottom of which a plastic tarpaulin was collecting fallen leaves and rainwater. Knowing he’d hit a wall if he mentioned it right away, he’d diligently averted his gaze, afraid to look too accusatory to his already defiant interlocutors: it had to be said, however, that the zone did look like a grave, and that it was, as a matter of fact, surrounded by runes. The similarity was just too stupidly visible to be ignored any longer. In fact, charlie thought, as much as he was going for a subtle approach, it had started to make him look very stupid himself. Everyone present was aware of how absurdly incriminating it looked.

Rosemary started to lose her patience. “Look, detective - i’ll explain, but you have to promise you haven’t already decided we were guilty, cause we haven’t done it, okay? I know it looks shit, i’m not an idiot, but it’s as Chris said. Runes are used by lots of people… Too many, if you want my opinion. Got no idea what they imply. Those are meaningful symbols, detective, not to be thrown around as if they were… Emojis or something.” Rosemary’s look of disgust didn’t go unnoticed, and Charlie made sure to keep a mental note of how animated she got while defending her point. It did sound like she was referring to a particular demographic, one that he had yet to see in the village… But still. He had lots to discover, and lots of connections to make.

Rosemary walked towards the litigious site, motioning for Charlie to follow. “So you see, one of the things we believe is that our society is too wary of death, but sort of fetishize it at the same time, you know? What we’re trying to do is sort of an exercise in perspective, that’s… a way for you to reconnect with your surroundings and re-anchor yourself to the earth, while being aware of your mortality and escaping the hectic routine we’re so often trapped in. It’ll be more evident if you try it, really, but in general - it goes like so: if you have a problem that’s troubling you and you can’t seem to get past it, and you just feel like escaping the stress for a second, well, you lay in there, simple as that. Only rule is, you can’t stay less than an hour. You have to feel powerless in order to gain perspective and let go - don’t look at me like that! Honestly, don’t you think we get ridiculed enough, and here i am making an effort, it’s a risk for me to give you insight to our way of thinking, you realize that!”

She looked so sincerely hurt that Charlie apologized, in part because he felt a fool, but mostly because she was basically blackmailing him and he absolutely needed more justification to this charade that, as far as he knew, might just have gotten someone killed. Rosemary was winning this, both of them were bad enough actors to know, and he swore he saw her smirk before she proceeded to get him exactly where she wanted - six feet under, indeed. “I was serious, you know. It WOULD be clearer if you tried. Not sure i’ll take your impartiality so seriously if you continue to proper disrespect my beliefs, detective.” Or we could keep that staring contest going, Nelson thought, it’s just as mortifying.

“Alright”, he conceded, his irritation so clear he almost sounded like Barnaby - there went his last hope of fitting in with his age group. “I’ll do it. I admit i’ve let my prejudice obscure my judgement, but, miss Kemp, you’ll admit - the whole setup doesn’t exactly play in your favour, does it… Still it isn’t evidence. So, walk me through it, if you’d be so kind.” If she wasn’t turning her back to him, diligently trying to light up a bundle of dried sage, Charlie would have seen her victorious grin, but there was no need for that: he felt it perfectly. Good thing his ego was already reduced to the size of a frightened puppy, wary of his chief inspector’s snark. Joke’s on you, miss Kemp, anything an investigation requires, detective Nelson is willing to do, dignity be damned.

“Kneel.”

Now there ARE limits.

“Excuse me?” “Before you get in, there’s a purification ritual - the sage here provides clarity and wisdom, it has cleansing virtues and will help your mind get a fresh start, free of negative energies”, miss Kemp explained, walking around him waving the burning sage. “Now whether or not you’re open to this idea is up to you, but it does have antibacterial properties that you can hardly argue about, no matter how much of a skeptic.” Her round finished, she dug into her pocket and brandished what looked like a makeup crayon. “If you don’t mind - we usually draw a protection rune so that the person has a reminder they’re being watched over during the process,” she brushed charlie’s hair out of his forehead and applied the cold colour in a few strokes.

“There you go.” He couldn’t help using his phone as a mirror just to make sure the drawing was at least civil. Then, as she waved for him to get back up and follow her, he proceeded to climb down the wonky wooden stool she’d placed in the mockup grave; he winced as she took it back out once he had reached the bottom. “Lay down, detective, and please, give this a chance - you might be surprised. I’ll get you in exactly one hour.”

He was, indeed, surprised. He had expected them to wait at least a few minutes before running off.

***

Charlie was cursing both his lack of climbing skills and his phone’s questionable battery power by the time the light footsteps came within earshot. “Hello?” he went, although perfectly aware whoever was approaching had heard him struggle already - he didn’t want to take any chances. If the cold he was feeling was any indication, he must have spent the best part of the afternoon stuck in a trap of his own making. He was positively freezing, and the humidity had long sunk into his skin; it left him trembling, strands of brown hair stuck to the blurred drawing on his forehead, and the end of his long, thin nose like a pink button above his hazel scruff gave him a boyish air that didn’t exactly help his case. In fact, the newcomer thought he looked like a puppy who’d have played in the mud for too long and strayed away from its family, and it was disarmingly endearing.

She stood by the edge of the grave, taking in the sight with the face of someone who’s not trying hard enough not to laugh. In fact, she was positively chuckling, and Charlie would have been vexed if he wasn’t too busy deciphering what on earth he was feeling: there was definitely some fear in the mix. Upon arrival, he thought the village would be like their usual Oxfordshire unofficial retirement homes, parishes full of gossiping housewives and treacherous land-owners; but up to this point, all he had seen was a dead nun, a live one, a couple of disrespectful hippies, and what he was sure enough was a witch.

She stood, gently shifting her weight from one leg to the other, and from the way she looked down at him, it took him way too long to nice she must be very small. Her round little teeth clashed like a hail storm against the burgundy velvet of her mouth, her cheeks shimmering with the cold; you could only tell her eyes from the black ash that enshrined them by how they shone like a riverbed in the spring. And she laughed, her dark eyes crinkled and wet, pools so deep he flinched; and her jawline shot from her scarf like a dove, and her hair, like pompeii’s pyroclastic flow, turned him to stone. One moment a menhir and the next just a fox, her presence hovered and sank to him all at once, and suddenly, peering from under layers of skirts and capes, her hand reached for him.

He didn’t know what to make of it. It was delicate, the colour of a peach, engraved with scriptures older than the world that ran from under her sleeves and dripped to her fingertips. In a breath he yearned to map her entire skin and marvel at the sensual kaleidoscope; in the next, he remembered he was being offered help, and her laughter doubled, dribbling along with the flows of her brown mane. “Silly me - what use will i be once i’m down there as well, right! Just let me toss you one of their stupid camping chairs first, don’t worry, i’ll be out of sight, not out of mind!” she spoke to him as though she had known him for years, reassuring like a bowl of soup. It appeared to Charlie she was making her footsteps purposefully louder so that he’d know she was still there and he could have shed a tear. As she rummaged through the camp for the appropriate rescue equipment, her wooly alto mumbles made his stomach stir; his heart soared on her accent, lifted from forest moss to snowy passes, and it dived back to her like direct current bolts shot through his fingernails.

“Here,” she reappeared, and handed him a chair. “It still might not be enough… is it?” Charlie struggled, the slippery carpet of leaves and mud providing no solid grip from which he could pull himself up. “Okay wait” - she dug her leather boots into the ground until she was sure not to slip - “take my hands and try to walk up the wall. No really i think that’ll work, come on,” she leaned forward, and offered two tattooed palms for Charlie to grab. “Hold onto my wrists, feet against the wall, i’ll fall backwards and pull you up.” It sounded more like a pragmatic order than a suggestion, the way a tender yet resigned mother would address the child she’s getting out of trouble; though perhaps, as Charlie fell face first into the forest soil, he heard her deep voice fall into a laugh that somehow still sounded foreign. He pitifully failed at dusting himself off, stood and towered over her by at least one foot.

And yet, somehow, she was looking down on him.

And yet, somehow, he wouldn’t have had it any other way.

He finally could take in her full form - the pale, oval face clouded by delicate dark makeup, and long, long hair falling all around it like endless rains; the way it shone out of her cloak like a full moon, how her body was draped in elegant black clothes and mystery, and how the only things about her that seemed a little real were her muddy boots. Her engraved hands had sunk back into her sleeves before he had had time to study them more closely, and just then he realized he had been staring, stunned, intrigued, mouth slightly agape in utter naive fashion. Her eyes crinkled as she burst out laughing again: he kept making a fool of himself. He stood there covered in mud after she had to drag him out of a fake grave where he had ended up like the silly wolf trapped by the clever fox from childrens’ stories, and he couldn’t control the intensity of his blushing.

“They really did you dirty, eh?” she breathed between giggles. Then, like a manuscript summoned, her hand reappeared as she held it out for him to shake. “Luella Göldin. I live just over there,” she nodded towards the woods. He finally snapped out of it and, as he shook her hand, was caressed by a whiff of the most delicious perfume he’d ever smelled. “Charlie - DS Charlie Nelson, Causton CID”.

“I thought so! Met your boss earlier, came by my work looking for the nuns - bit grumpy, is he? I heard him mention his colleague had gone talking to the hippies… didn’t think i’d still run into you on my way back, it’s been hours”, she thought out loud. “Nice to meet you, DS Nelson.” “Charlie.” he corrected her with no second thought, especially none about whether or not this familiarity was appropriate. The fact that she could not be ruled out of the list of potential murderers did not even cross his mind. “Oh. Charlie, then.” Her thumb brushed ever so gently over the back of his hand as she dropped it, neither of them quite sure how intentionally. It felt like she had wrapped it in silk, and from that little touch Charlie’s armed tickled, pumped full of cotton balls; his head was spinning, trying to figure out the provenance of her accent (german? nordic?), to bottle up her perfume and save it for later, to memorize the familiar-yet-strange patterns on her skin that he’d only gotten glimpses of. Her earrings were shaped like rose branches and he wanted those thorns to scratch him so badly.

He felt like those skull-adorned moths had nestled in his throat and were giving him a surprising longing for irresponsibility. Is what what she’d taste like? Shouldn’t he be talking by now?

“Well, miss…” “Göldin.” “miss Goldeen.” she chuckled. “That’ll work.” “Thank you. For getting me out of here. Gosh, this is ridiculous, isn’t it -” “yeah, Charlie, it is.” Her piercing eyes were reducing him to a helpless, boyish embarrassment. She continued: “but you know what it also is? Not your fault. And i won’t tell anyone, don’t worry about that chief inspector.” Shit! Barnaby! He had got to get back - he’d been without a phone for the best part of the afternoon and it was getting dark already, his superior was bound to be concerned, and his concern would absolutely turn into annoyance as he returned unscathed. Charlie sighed.

“Bet he’ll find another reason to make fun of me, seems like it’s all the rage today…” Her mischievous smile showed a glint of compassion. “I’ll need to talk to you some more about today’s events, miss, if you don’t mind - that is, after I reported back about whatever idiocy i’m going to have to invent to justify being lost in the woods for half the day”, he added, rolling his eyes at his own misfortune. She nodded seriously: “you do know where I live, now - just follow the path you came from further into the woods, you’ll find the house, Mrs Brewster’s - that’s my lodger. She’ll likely be there as well, if you wanna question her too, which i suppose you do? Just come by tomorrow.” she paused.

Her eyes slowly, slowly went from the ground and up his legs, up his broad chest, caressing his shoulders, fluttering upon his lips and finally met his gaze - fearful or enthralled, she knew he didn’t know, and almost imperceptibly, her tongue darted out to the upper corner of her lips, disappearing as quickly as it had come. It looked as if she had been about to speak but had changed her mind and just breathed in softly. Charlie felt like she had just inhaled a little bit of his mind and he found himself willing to give her all the rest.

Their exchanged look only lasted an instant, but God, were Charlie’s blue eyes the direct window to his helpless gentle soul. She found him to be so stupidly endearing, his wit tripping over his dorky exterior, sincere as an open book, yet clearly keeping something to himself - after all, he was still a detective, and she was very aware of how little she’d trust herself if she were to meet herself for the first time. As she started to realize just how tall he was, she did all she could to conceal the growing shallowness of her breathing; as her eyes gently brushed his messy long-ish brown hair and his pink, freckled cheekbones, she felt her heart growing warm and her stomach tender. He looked ripe and edible as a sun drenched peach and her hands twitched as she struggled to keep them from cupping his face and running over his charming stubble.

He was the first to break the spell, because of course he was, lowering his eyes in embarrassment at just how choked up he was getting as he realized that the nauseating hot waves greedily licking at his feet were in fact the wildest, most primal desire he’d ever felt in his life. He couldn’t exactly pinpoint what had triggered it or what precisely he felt so strongly about, but he certainly was quite ashamed of it and hoped she didn’t pay his awkwardness any mind.

Or perhaps, to his own astonishment, he did want her to notice. Quickly and furiously, he pushed aside the thought, excused himself, and all but ran off as he heard her chuckle at his clumsy haste; he’d question her later, in better dispositions, when he’d have collected his dignity and a presentable outfit. And perhaps some cologne. But that’d be excessive, she’d know, she’d make fun. Everyone would! But should he bring her something? God, he was spiraling, wasn’t he?

As a matter of fact, as he got to the police car he had escalated all the way to scheming how to get some black roses past Barnaby, like a teen plotting to sneak out on a school night. His emotions had long gone past being all over the place: they were now leading revolutions, building barricades and firing at each other in hormonal fanfare, and he wasn’t sure by what miracle he managed to explain his afternoon’s activities to his superior - or perhaps he simply told the truth, as would be most typical. Either way, the chief inspector shot him a patronizing look, and as he buckled his seatbelt and focused on the road back to the police station, the woods that looked so scary that morning suddenly were synonymous with the lair of a peculiar little witch, and scary had become a promise, and nothing made sense anymore.

The drive back was rather silent, once both detectives had given each other accounts of what they had found out from their respective interviews; Barnaby had managed to get some bigoted ramblings out of the shocked nuns, but he was hoping to talk to them some more now that they knew who he was, and he counted on the shock to wear off and leave them more pragmatic. Between them and the pagans, that they had taken to calling ‘the hippies’ since most people did, the questionings were bound to be of the frustrating variety, as they always were whenever beliefs and rivalries were involved. Superstition was exhausting to both officers, and as most of their cases had to do with rural people more preoccupied with each other’s business than with scientific developments, they were confronted to all sorts of modern crusades, although this was their first encounter with blood runes -

“-and witchcraft too! Did i mention the sisters are utterly convinced the librarian and her lodger are practicing black magic?” Barnaby’s expression was one of complete weariness. “I found them holding some sort of inquiry of their own in the public library earlier, doing their research on saint Nivel to try and prove the pagans wrong, while they’re doing just the same and the village’s book collection is taking a most specific turn… Seems to fit the curator just fine, though - black magic or not, she seems like quite the eccentric young woman, could see why the older crowd would think her a witch”, Barnaby added, seemingly doubting everything everyone had told him, as he tended to do.

“Miss Göldin? Is she the librarian?” Charlie asked, suddenly very much interested in the conversation. Barnaby turned slowly.

“Oh?”

“I ran into her on the way back to the car, says i should come talk to her tomorrow, as well as mrs Brewster, that’s her landlady”, Charlie specified, trying his hardest to sound casual and focused. But you couldn’t fool John Barnaby, especially when you were the worst liar in England: the chief inspector noticed his subordinate’s blushing, fidgeting with the driving wheel, the tensing of his thighs, the nervous lip-biting. He turned back to the window, punctuating a sigh with one of his signature grumpy airs, and mockingly concluded: “well, reckon you’ll do that first thing, then, Nelson?” The teasing was, as intended, utterly lost on the younger man, who nodded in all his faked seriousness.

As he got home after what seemed like a perfectly endless debrief at the station, Charlie found himself longing for the silence of his bedroom, for a chance to be alone with his looming thoughts and unruly feelings. He wasn’t one to succumb to someone’s charm at first glance - in fact, he wasn’t one to succumb to anything at all, and remained notoriously chaste and distant behind the apparent innocence. It was the classic tale of a sensitive heart that had been hurt before, and in his move to the country, he hadn’t been looking to reiterate the experience of attaching himself to someone that’d distract him from his work and take advantage of his good nature. He may not have had a plan, but he knew by all accounts that this, this wasn’t the plan at all.

The more he thought of it, the more he found himself in a daze, unable to make sense of his emotions at all. Purely as a reflex, he let his jacket fall down on the floor and toed off his shoes before letting himself fall on his bed, trying to keep the ceiling from spinning, and only getting back up to lock the door in case - he could not handle any more information for today, thanks very much. He pressed his eyes shut and exhaled, desperate for his breathing to settle, but every breath made his veins tingle with a million sparks and his heart pump some more magic into his chest.

The contrast of Luella’s deep voice and the light girlishness of her laugh were all he could think of - the mystery behind her accent and her cloak; he felt jealous of her tattoos because they got to run up her wrists and beneath her sleeves and god knew where else. Tomorrow she’d be there, and he’d need to stay strong; but tonight, and for many nights to come, he’d let himself yearn and dream, nestled in the palm of her bewitching patterned hand.

Patterns he’d caught a glimpse of, and knew they were definitely familiar but he’d been so enthralled that he didn’t think to connect them -or her- with anything else in the world.

And only then did it hit him: runes.

Jesus. Again?

#my writing midsomer murders samhainrites-secretnights

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hopewritcs · 6 years

Text

dancing in the kitchen. eight.

pairing: romantic steve x reader, familial dustin x reader

word count: 3.9k

summary: without giving too much away: the reader is Y/N Henderson, Dustin’s older cousin who’s staying in town, due to some family issues. takes place soon after s2.

note: ha ha ha i know it’s christmas in this fic and it’s not even halloween rn but can’t argue w the timeline folks !!! anyway a bit of a time skip between the last chapter and now, just for the sake of the world. also this is a long chapter but i’m super proud of it. um also check out the mixtape ft in this chapter HERE !!

other chapters: masterlist

tag list: @stevieboyharrington, @lola-winston-harrington, @fuckthatfeeling,@thekidsofneibolt, @labgeek, @tyedyedstars, @samisimportant, @madhatterweasley, @pity-mee, @l4life, @veryweirdintrovert,@restlessmelodrama @darkuserboxes,@princessnancy, @hipsmcgee, @wtf-richarddd @honey-your-bee-puns-sting @whataloadofmalarkey @queenlalybug @im-a-stranger-thing @bilesxbilinskixlahey (if you wanna be added to the tag list, let me know!!)

It was Christmas Eve Eve and Y/N was wondering just how to get her presents wrapped. She wasn’t exactly a pro at wrapping presents--her mother usually had one of the nannies or maids throw the wrapping together for the big elaborate Christmas tree decorations. But now that Y/N was in Hawkins, she wanted to do it herself. She couldn’t very well ask her Aunt to wrap presents she would be sticking under the tree for her, now could she?

It was nearly a week since Y/N and Steve had their almost kiss. She couldn’t even look at him after it happened. Stupid childhood crush. She cursed herself for even thinking about it then. And again and again every time that dumb face came into her mind. Just move on already. You didn’t even kiss him. She wanted to forget about it. But damn that stupid boy, Steve Harrington, for getting wrapped up in her mind.

“Y/N! Honey, what are you doing?” she heard her aunt knock on the door and Y/N unceremoniously laid herself across the half wrapped presents on the floor in her room. When her aunt got the door open, she raised an eyebrow at her niece’s position. “You okay?”

“Fine, Aunt Claudia!” Y/N exclaimed. “Leave now or have your christmas presents spoiled!” she shooed, waving one hand wildly toward the door. Her aunt just stood there laughing and shaking her head. “Ugh! Do you not want surprises?” she exclaimed once more, glaring at her aunt.

“Sorry sweetie. Lunch will be ready soon, then we’re going to the Wheeler’s for their celebration with everyone.” her aunt was still near tears, clutching her stomach with her free hand as she was laughing. “I’ll leave you to it.” she said, closing the door behind her.

“Thank you.” Y/N called sheepishly after her aunt left before sitting back up. She only had a couple of presents left to wrap. She’d save the best ones for last, and already had stuff wrapped for everyone else to take to the Wheeler’s house. And by “wrap” most of that stuff was just in bags for the kids and her friends. She figured they didn’t care about pretty perfect wrapping paper. But she wanted things to look perfect for her family. After all, this was the first Christmas she’d had in forever that felt like Christmas.

She managed to get most of the presents wrapped before her aunt called her down for lunch. She put them back in her closet and skipped down the stairs, jumping off the bottom step and passing Dustin on her way to the table.

“So what’s the Wheeler’s party like?” Y/N asked as she took a bite of her sandwich.

“It’s awesome! We spend the whole time in the basement playing games and exchanging presents. The adults stay upstairs and do boring stuff.” Dustin explained, nodding his head with a mouthful of food.

“Gross Dustin. Chew before you talk, please.” Y/N made a face at him, waving her napkin in his face.

“You can’t tell me what to do.” Dustin called, laughing as he made faces at his cousin.

“Dustin, chew before you speak. No one needs to see food half-chewed in your mouth.” Claudia spoke up from her side of the table, where she’d been feeding Tews scraps from her plate.

“See.” Y/N sing-songed, making a face at Dustin across the table. In reply Dustin just stuck his tongue out at her and continued to eat.

“We need to leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll get everything into the car while you two kids clean up from lunch and change.” Claudia said after a couple minutes of silence. The kitten purred as he circled her feet while they moved around the room. Claudia gathered a couple of the presents and went out to the car as Y/N got up and began clearing the table.

Dustin gathered what was left on the kitchen table, dropping it on the counter next to Y/N. “Last minute wrapping!” he shouted, racing up the stairs and trying to take them two at a time.

Y/N simply shook her head at his movements before cleaning the dishes. She left them to dry in the rack and then went upstairs to change.

Donning a new dress of her favorite color, and some black kitten heels Y/N grabbed the presents she had gotten for everyone and went back downstairs. She put the bags in the backseat before sitting up front in the passengers seat beside her aunt.

The ride wasn’t even ten minutes, but it was filled with Christmas songs from the radio. Along with the off-key singing of the Henderson family. Laughter echoed through the streets from the rolled down windows of the car as they pulled into the Wheeler driveway.

Dustin was the first out of the car, not stopping to grab the presents he’d brought before running into the house calling a hello to Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler. He bounced down the basement stairs right away to his friends.

Y/N gathered as many presents as she could hold, following her aunt into the house. She greeted everyone with a quick hug and kiss on the cheek as she made her way to drop off the presents, putting the ones she got for everyone in the corner to remember to give them all later on.

An hour later, it seemed like everyone else was showing up to the party. Y/N was sitting on the couch with Nancy and Jonathan as they watched the kids get together. While the Henderson’s were the first to show up, everyone followed closely after. The last of the kids running in being Max, ducking quickly down into the basement with a wave to the teens on the couches.

“Alright kids get up here! It’s present time.” Mrs. Wheeler shouted down the stairs and then turned around, waving her hands at the teens on the couch. “Rearrange everything. Jonathan, help Nancy grab some extra seating from the dining room. Y/N can you start grabbing some presents. And Steve, go grab the kids and make sure they’re heading upstairs.”

Y/N turned at the mention of Steve, confused because she hadn’t seen him arrive. But it looked like he had just gotten there, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door. He caught Y/N’s gaze and raised his hand in greeting before heading down the stairs calling for the kids to grab their shit.

Y/N shook her head, sending a death glare to Nancy. Who had not mentioned that Steve was going to be there. Then again, maybe Y/N should have known when they said that everyone was going to be there. Everyone, in this group, seemed to include Steve Harrington. And Y/N was going to have to deal with that. Even if it meant not talking about her feelings and avoiding them until they bubbled over--which they wouldn’t. Y/N was sure of that. She would definitely get over Steve Harrington. And their almost kiss.

Y/N shook the thoughts out of her head as she sat down on the floor, beginning to organize presents. Thankfully, each was labeled with who it was for, so that wasn’t difficult. The problem was there were a lot of people to hand them out to. So when she saw the kids heading upstairs, Y/N called for help and Dustin and Mike came over. They began handing out presents as Y/N finished her piles. It went by quickly, and soon everyone was opening presents. The whole house seemed to be filled with laughter, happiness, and the sounds of wrapping paper and tissue paper being crumpled up and dropped to the floor ( or, in some cases, tossed at someone else ). The kids were enjoying every moment of opening their presents, and the adults were looking on as they did so saving their own presents for after the kids had finished.

Y/N sat on the couch with the other teens, squeezed in between the edge of the couch and Nancy. She laughed along with Nancy as she watched the kids rip open the presents, commenting on sweaters and comics and other such things the adults had given them.

Only when the floor seemed to be piled with paper did Mrs. Wheeler head into the kitchen to grab a garbage back, passing it from each kid to make sure they got the wrapping in it. Then, once it was all cleaned up the kids were free to go back downstairs each holding onto their new presents. The teens followed them down to the basement, wherein it looked like the kids were going around handing out presents to each other.

“You didn’t get us anything?” Steve teased, sitting at the bottom of the staircase as he watched the kids move around.

“Yeah we did. It’s called friendship.” Dustin grinned at Steve. Steve made a face, waving Dustin off as he laughed.

“So how did you guys split up presents? Or did you get everyone something?” Y/N asked, curling up on the arm of the couch as she watched them move about.

“Well we do a Secret Santa. Bunch of names in a hat. Used to have Nance and Jonathan too, but they’re all lovey dovey now.” Mike explained, making a face as he pointed toward his sister and best friend’s brother. “So we put everyone’s name on paper and grabbed at random. The whole key is to see if you can guess who got you what.” Mike nodded his head as he opened the present he received from his Secret Santa.

“Oh shit, I almost forgot. I didn’t give you guys my stuff upstairs.” Y/N chastised herself as she ran back up the stairs, grabbing the bag of things for the kids before heading back down. She handed the gift bags out to each kid and smiled.

“So when we open presents Christmas morning I’m gonna see all your stuff to me in bags?” Dustin questioned, shaking the bag Y/N handed him. She lightly flicked his shoulder, sticking her tongue out at him. “Ouch. It’s just an observation.” She giggled before walking over to Jonathan and Nancy and handing them their own bags as well.

When she moved back to Steve, Y/N shrugged. “I didn’t know you were gonna be here.”

“Don’t sweat it.” Steve said, shaking his hand at her with a smile. “It’s okay.”

“When it’s time to leave you can follow us back to the house. I have your present there. No one told me you were going to be here so I just...didn’t bring it.” Y/N answered with a kind, sorry, smile.

His eyes perked up as he glanced up at her. “You didn’t have to get me anything, Y/N. Seriously.”

“Yes I did.” Y/N smiled, taking a seat next to him. She glanced back over at Dustin--who was completely enamored with the hermit crab she’d gotten him and showing it off to his friends. “You do a lot for Dusty, you’re kind of his hero. But don’t tell him I said that. Plus, it’s the holidays. You’re a friend. Presents are happening.”

“Well thanks, Y/N.” Steve nodded in her direction, holding her gaze for a minute. Y/N could feel her cheeks heating up from the look Steve was giving her, so she cleared her throat and excused herself back to the couch. She glanced back over at Steve when she knew he wasn’t looking in her direction.

Damn this stupid crush.

Another two hours passed by and the adults were gathering kids up to leave. Everyone said their goodbyes upstairs, the kids thanking Y/N for their presents and the other adults. And, they figured out who had given who what for their Secret Santa. Which would have proved a better “secret” if they hadn’t written the names on the cards themselves.

Y/N pulled her aunt aside as she was putting on her coat. “Aunt Claudia, is it okay if Steve comes over for a little bit. I forgot his present at home and instead of waiting I figured I could just give it to him now.” She asked, giving her aunt her best puppy dog eyes.

“Steve is welcome any time. He should know that.” Claudia explained, glancing over at Steve with a grin as she said that.

“I do. Thanks so much Mrs. Henderson.” Steve nodded, slipping on his own coat. “Want a ride over?” Steve asked Y/N.

“Can I come too?” Dustin asked, bounding over, holding tightly to his presents.

Before Steve could answer, Claudia put a hand on her son’s shoulder and shook her head. “Sorry Dusty, I need your help with all the presents in the car.” She gathered what she could in her hand as she ordered Dustin to grab his own things. “Thanks Karen, Ted. It was wonderful as always.”

“Did you see what Y/N got me? He’s so cool. I’m naming him Dug after Dig Dug.” Dustin continued to explain to his mother as he walked out to the car with the presents in his hand.

“Thanks for having us Mr. and Mrs. Wheeler!” Y/N said, giving each of them a hug before hugging her best friend tightly. “Merry Christmas Nance.”

“Merry Christmas Y/N.” Nancy replied, holding her friend tightly. “I’ll call you as soon as we’re back from my grandparents house. Should be back right before the New Year.” she said, pulling away from Y/N and then giving Steve a quick hug. “Merry Christmas Steve.”

“Merry Christmas Mike.” Y/N said, giving him a hug as well.

“You too, Y/N. Thanks again for the presents.” He exclaimed, holding on tightly to the figures she’d given him from the latest Star Wars film.

“Don’t mention it.” she smiled.

“Later Steve.” Mike exclaimed with a wave before heading upstairs, Nancy close behind.

Then Steve and Y/N headed out to his car, and Steve stopped to open the door for her. She smiled, calling a soft thanks to him as he rounded to the other side.

The drive back to the Henderson house was silent. Not awkward or bad, but silent. Music flowed through the radio quietly, and the heat was on in the car. But neither Y/N nor Steve made any motion to speak.

When they pulled up to the house, Y/N opened the door. “Wait here.” she said, shedding her jacket and leaving it on the banister before running upstairs. She found the present she got Steve in it’s own little bag. When she came back downstairs she held it out for him. “It’s not much.” she explained, leaning against the banister as she watched him open it.

She’d made him a mixtape of a couple of songs. Which was cheesy as hell, and more inclined toward the romantic side, but Y/N had already started on the mixtape before any sort of feelings had occurred. Before the aforementioned almost kiss that was still playing on repeat in her mind. Damn you stupid crush.

“A mixtape?” Steve asked, holding up the cassette with her handwritten note explaining each song on the front.

“Don’t make fun of me!” Y/N said, grabbing for the present she’d just handed over. Despite the fact he was chuckling at her reaction, Steve wasn’t making fun of her. He held the tape out of reach as she continued to jump. “If you keep laughing I’m taking it away from you.” Y/N exclaimed.

“You made me a mixtape.” Steve spoke again, glancing at the writing. He was curious, and made his way over to the boom box in the kitchen. Taking out whatever tape was in there, Steve stuck the one Y/N made for him in there and hit play.

Soon, music filled the kitchen softly and Steve grabbed Y/N’s hand spinning her around to the music. They danced around the kitchen, shoes kicked off as the first song played. Continuing to dance until Y/N stopped suddenly.

“Come on Steve, stop.” Y/N giggled, putting her hands on his shoulder, which he turned into a spin. “Seriously!” she exclaimed.

“Admit it, you’re having fun.” Steve told her as he spun her out again, looking at her face as she smiled.

“Fine, I’m having fun. But you’re going to ruin the rest of the songs if you listen to them all now.” Y/N pointed out, taking a breath as she looked at him.

“You made me a mixtape.” Steve repeated, his eyebrows scrunched up together as if he was asking a question instead of telling her a fact.

“Yes. I happen to love mixtapes.” Y/N admitted. She always carried some with her when she was going anywhere. They were perfect for her walkman when she needed to just listen to music and escape.

“You do that a lot, huh?” Steve asked her. When she looked at him funny he elaborated. “Listen to music to escape?”

She’d said that out loud? Instead of denying it, Y/N nodded. “It’s a good release. Dancing it out to some good music.”

Steve nodded. “I remember. When I came by Dustin’s that night you were dancing in the kitchen too.”

“You remember that? All I remember is the part where I fell flat on my ass.”

“Nah, you looked good.”

Y/N stopped mid movement, looking up at Steve. Her heart was racing--both from dancing around the kitchen and from what he had just told her. Blinking, Y/N looked at him. “You were watching me?”

Steve had stopped moving, leaning against the kitchen counter as he looked at her. “You looked so happy. Just you moving around the kitchen. I was just like...I want to know her.” he explained, scratching the back of his neck as he spoke. “And now I do.”

“And now that you know the crazy girl dancing in the kitchen?” Y/N asked, lifting her gaze from where it had fallen to her feet.

“I like her. She’s actually pretty great.”

Her heart stopped. She blinked a couple of times, his words repeating--echoing--in her ears. “You...?”

“Like you.” Steve finished, nodding his head to confirm the fact. God, why did he feel so awkward all of a sudden? He felt nervous telling Y/N that he liked her. He’d been sure of it after he almost kissed her, but now actually confessing to her? When she didn’t respond right away, Steve took a step forward and placed his hand on her arm. “Y/N?” he asked softly, looking at her.

Pounding. Her heart was pounding. “You like me.” she spoke slowly, as if confirming the fact once more in order to understand her thoughts.

“And you?” Steve prompted, hoping to God he didn’t just ruin whatever moment they’d been having.

“I like you too.” Y/N said softly, holding Steve’s gaze.

It was as if relief fell over Steve, his face relaxed and he grinned at her. “Well I just needed to make sure. Cause after we almost kissed you seemed to be avoiding me.”

“I just didn’t want things to be weird or anything.” Y/N said, placing her hand on top of the one he had on her arm. “I like you, I just didn’t think you’d like me too.”

“Not like you? You’re pretty amazing, Y/N Henderson.” Steve said, letting out a breath.

“You’re pretty amazing too Steve Harrington.” Y/N replied.

Then, Steve leaned in and kissed Y/N as the mixtape continued to fill the kitchen with music. Her heart may have been pounding before but it was racing even faster with the kiss. She leaned in closer to him as she kissed him back.

Steve pulled away, leaving both himself and Y/N with smiles on their faces.

“Is it bad to say I didn’t get you anything for Christmas?” Steve broke the silence, chuckling softly as he looked at Y/N.

As Y/N leaned in to kiss Steve again, they both heard a noise and turned toward the stairs.

“Ew gross." Dustin made a puking sound as he hopped down the stairs looking between his cousin and his best friend. “Are you dating now or something?”

Steve’s eyes glanced toward Y/N as they both stood their silently. Were they dating? Y/N wasn’t sure. Sure they liked each other but that didn’t mean they were like officially official or anything.

“We are.” Steve answered after a minute, then looked back at Y/N. “You want to, right? Be my girlfriend, I mean.” Steve asked, smiling at her aware that he’d just jumped to answer before checking with her.

“Yeah, I want to be your girlfriend Steve.” Y/N answered, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before looking back at her cousin. “Is this a problem?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at the younger boy.

“Yes. Now I owe Mikey and Will five bucks. They said Steve was gonna ask you out before the New Year. I had money on New Years Eve.” Dustin exclaimed, dropping his arms down against his sides as he looked between the two teens.

“You bet money on us?” Y/N said at the same time Steve asked.

“What did everyone else say?” Y/N shot Steve a look for asking, but still turned to look at Dustin.

“Okay so El said you two were already dating but Max said it didn’t happen until the last DnD night. Will said Christmas, and Mike said before New Years. So I don’t know which one of them won, but one of them did. I said New Years Eve, y’know midnight kiss and all. And Lucas said it wouldn’t happen until like mid-January.” Dustin explained. “Now we all owe Mike and Will.” He put his hand over his head and then glared at Steve through his fingers. “You couldn’t have waited until New Years buddy?”

“How was I supposed to know you were betting on me and your cousin?” Steve exclaimed, shaking his head with laughter.

“You just were! And I was supposed to win.” Dustin sighed, slumping down into the chair at the kitchen table.

“Sorry Dustin.” Y/N said, putting her hand on her cousin’s shoulder. “But about us dating. It’s not weird for you or anything, right?” she asked again, wanting to make sure her cousin was going to be fine if she began dating someone who he was close to.

Dustin looked up at her, shaking his head. “Are you kidding? That’s so fine! I mean, gross. Don’t kiss in front of me again. Ever. But it’s all cool.” Dustin answered.

Y/N glanced at Steve, shrugging her shoulders. Meanwhile Steve just leaned in to kiss her again, much to Dustin’s dismay. As the pair kissed, they could hear Dustin shouting at them while he stomped up the stairs.

“Gross. Couldn’t just warn me. Had to go and plant on one her didn’t you Harrington?” He stopped, then turned and looked at the two. “Also if you hurt her I’ll kill you.” Dustin finished, then went back upstairs for good.

“Did he just give me the big brother speech? At thirteen?” Steve asked, looking up the stairs to where Dustin had vanished.

“You bet your ass I did!” Dustin called.

“Hey don’t eavesdrop!” Steve replied.

“Whatever.” Dustin said before closing his bedroom door, leaving the two alone once more.

Steve rolled his eyes at Dustin before turning his attention back to Y/N. She smiled up at him and pressed her lips to his quickly. “Merry Christmas Steve.”

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

#steve harrington x reader #reader x steve harrington #stranger things x reader #fanfiction #reader insert #dancing in the kitchen

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