#but holy dick balls this is saints row

[eighteenoheight]

The story for saints row has got to a point where I’m like omg how am I supposed to stop playing it’s nearly 3am

[ghostmaggie]

you can take my best (it’s yours, it was never for me)

for the @tgpsecretsanta​ holiday gift exchange! written for @cheesecake-heartache, based on the prompts “stuck in an elevator” and “the first sentence your soulmate says is tattooed on your arm.” I hope you enjoy it, and happy holidays!!!

Ships: Eleanor/Chidi

Rated: Teen and Up Audiences

Words: 2k 

Summary: Eleanor Shellstrop almost died. Now she feels guilty for being a dick all the time. 

read on AO3

---

Eleanor Shellstrop almost died.

There had been a dropped bottle of Lonely Gal Margarita Mix For One; a row of runaway shopping carts; a billboard truck hurtling towards her, changing lanes at the last possible second.

And she’s still alive.

She figures it’s impossible to walk away from a near-death experience without being changed at all , but damn it, can’t she trade this stupid dumb guiltiness for two broken legs or a bigass scar on her face?

Because, yeah, she didn’t have a flash of, like, judgment day when those carts hit her, but she did walk away thinking, Wow, what a shitty way to die. And I probably deserve it. I’m kind of a shitty person.

Sitting alone in her apartment after she’s released from the hospital, no friends who care enough to see her--even after she almost died , thanks dickheads--she traces her hand over the words printed on her wrist in stark black.

You are my soulmate .

It would suck if she never got to meet them. It would suck if she wasn’t good enough for them.

Immediately she shoves the thought away. “They’re my fucking soulmate,” she says aloud. “Of course I’m good enough for them.”

But she can’t quite escape that guilty itch at the back of her mind.

---

 There’s no overnight change. That’s not how this shit works, apparently. Eleanor was kind of hoping enough lonely three a.m. Googling about how to be a better person would unearth some magic pill she could buy to make her act better--and more importantly, feel better.

No dice, apparently.

But, like, she’s trying . Mostly. Sometimes. When she thinks about it.

Seriously, she is!

Some dude cut her off on the freeway the other day, and she just honked and yelled at him--she didn’t even give him the finger! And she told a girl that her skirt was tucked into her underwear and only laughed about it a little! Plus she didn’t take any pictures of it. That was big for her. Oh, and she saw a guy drop his wallet and totally gave it back without even thinking about it.

So really, she’s doing great.

This thought is circling in her head as she waits for an elevator up to the third floor of some fancyass office building. She’d--well, she’d quit her job at the sketchy pill company after her accident, around the same time she’d cut her hair short, just above her shoulders, blessedly lighter, not weighing her down so much. So anyway, now she was working at some lameass temp agency. She’s not always as good at the boring lame shit her assignments want her to do as she was at manipulating sick old people, but it makes her feel less itchy.

Ugh. Being good is so boring.

The elevator arrives, finally , and Eleanor saunters inside, immediately checking out her own boobs in the mirrored wall.

She’s startled by a blur of motion as some nerdy looking dude wih bigass glasses and a fuckin’ man purse hurries toward the elevator.

They make eye contact, and the dude looks relieved, sticking out a hand in a hold the elevator, i’m super late and in a huge hurry kind of motion.

But Eleanor hates sharing elevators. And she’s still not a saint. And she’s still pretty much an asshole. So she pushes the door close button.

The door starts to slide shut. Eleanor sends the dude a sorry, bro look, and thinks that’ll be the end of it.

Except before it closes all the way, the dude’s arm is stuck in the way and he’s in the elevator with her.

Oops.

He doesn’t yell at her, or even shoot her a dirty look. He just makes a tight, uncomfortable face, his lips pressed together as he avoids eye contact.

Eleanor feels that stupid twinge of guilt.

But--whatever! He made it in anyway. Boo-freakin’-hoo. He’d’ve done the same thing to me.

The silence stretches.

Awwwkward.

Eleanor decides she’s definitely not going to say anything. This guy clearly lacks the balls to call her out on her dick move, so no harm, no foul, right?

Just as she thinks this, of course, the elevator makes a terrifying screeching noise and lurches to a decisive stop. The big nerd actually stumbles and falls to the floor. Then the lights go out.

“Holy motherfucking shitballs, what do we do?” Eleanor asks.

The dim backup lights flicker to life, illuminating the stricken look on the nerd’s face as he gathers himself to his feet.

Eleanor shifts under the force of his incredulous, unflinching stare.

“ You are my soulmate?” he demands, sounding none too thrilled with the idea.

It takes Eleanor a second to process the question. “ What? ” she demands, half a squawk. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Hands shaking and fumbling, the nerd shoves up the sleeve of his sweater and rolls up the button down underneath. There, across his forearm, are the words Holy motherfucking shitballs what do we do .

Eleanor’s jaw drops. “I...I…”

“Let me see your soulmark,” the guy says, sharp, panicked.

Dumbly, Eleanor holds out her arm. The guy takes it in both his hands, gently, looking closely at the words.

You are my soulmate.

“Oh,” he says.

“Yeah,” Eleanor forces out a laugh. “Not exactly the way I expected you to say that.”

The dude smiles a soft, sad, self-deprecating smile. “I’ll be honest,” he says, dropping her arm and taking a small step back. “I never quite came up with a plausible context for--well--this.” He gestures to his arm before rolling his sleeve back down.

Eleanor tries not to think about the sharp pang that goes through her heart once the soulmark is back out of her sight.

“So,” the guy says. “It seems like we might be stuck. Do you have any signal on your phone?” As he asks, he checks his own. “Looks like a no for me.”

Shaking off her weird reaction to the disappointment she’s sure she saw on his face when he realized she was his soulmate, she gives a cursory glance at her phone. “Nope,” she says, feeling the wall around her bruised heart building itself higher.

If he doesn’t want her as a soulmate, she definitely doesn’t care. She doesn’t need him. She doesn’t need anybody.

The guy is messing with the elevator’s control panel. “Seems like the emergency phone is out, too. Great.” He seems a little panicked again.

Eleanor rolls her eyes, crossing her arms and leaning back against the wall.

“The only elevator in a seven-story building is stuck, genius,” she says, biting. “We don’t need to tell anybody. They already know. We just have to wait.”

For a second, the guy seems hurt, but he recovers quickly. “Right,” he says. “Of course.” There’s a beat. “Well,” he pushes on, “If we’re stuck here--not to mention soulmates --we might as well start getting to know each other. I’m Chidi Anagonye.”

She raises both eyebrows. “Eleanor,” she says. “Eleanor Shellstrop.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says. “So, tell me about yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

He smiles. “You know, like--I’m a professor of moral philosophy. I like museums and French poetry. I was born in Nigeria, raised in Senegal. I’m here in Phoenix teaching Ethics at Arizona State University for the semester.”

Wow. he’s a major nerd. So why does Eleanor find him so oddly cute? Stupid soulmate hormones. She pulls her face into a dismissive almost-scowl.

“I sell fake medicine to sick old people,” she says. “I like binge watching bad reality TV, binge drinking, and not caring about the environment. I’ve never left Arizona, and I never finished college.” She finishes with a sharp, predatory, winning smile.

The guy--Chidi--blinks at her. He looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“It’s--uh--nice to meet you,” he says again.

Eleanor rolls her eyes. “You too, Cheeto.”

 ---

 They have been. In this elevator. For three. Fucking. Hours. Eleanor thinks they might really die here. Honestly, that might be a relief if it’ll get her away from Chidi’s incessant attempts at polite conversation. She blows him off with increasingly nasty replies every time he tries a new topic, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

Right up until he explodes.

“Why are you so mean , Eleanor?” he demands. “Can’t you even pretend to be decent? I’m trying to be nice, i’m trying to be your soulmate , so why--”

All of her frustrations bubble up from the bottom of her chest, where she’s been tucking them for hours. Days. Months. Years. “Because I’m not a good person, man!” she snaps, leaping to her feet. “I fucking suck, and I always have, and I always will, so what’s the point of all this trying to be good I’m doing when I’ll never gain approval from my stupid morality professor soulmate anyway?”

There’s another long silence in which Eleanor feels her face burn and Chidi watches her with an inscrutable expression.

Finally, he asks, tone void of judgment, “So, you’ve been trying to be better?”

She blinks, surprised to find tears rising to her eyes.

And somehow it all comes pouring out. Her near-death experience. Her first exposure to real, actual, aching guilt for her effect on other people. How she quit her job. How little she feels like her efforts have any impact. How much she hates thinking about what she owes others and what others owe her, when her own parents and her supposed friends have never been there for her, not really. How she’s never really been there for them, either.

Chidi is a phenomenal listener, keeping his eyes on her, making her feel heard, nodding to acknowledge her but never interrupting. She can’t stop the word vomit, but he doesn’t make her feel foolish or shitty or awful because of it. He just listens.

When she’s finished, they’re sitting across from each other, cross-legged, maybe a little too close together.

After one more silence, Chidi says, “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Eleanor.” His voice is sure.

“You don’t?” she asks, feeling small.

“I think you’re a person who has been in bad situations and who has done bad things.” He pauses. “A lot of bad things. Some alarming, weird, improbable bad things--sorry.” He cuts off at her look. “But you’re trying , Eleanor! You’re trying to do better, because you want to, and that’s incredible! I mean, as a professor of moral ethics--”

“You can help me!” Eleanor says, jumping to her feet again.

“What?” Chidi yelps, taken aback.

“As a professor of moral philosophy, you can teach me how to be good! I mean, isn’t that your job?” Her voice rises a few octaves in her excitement.

“Well--yes--” he says. “But--”

Eleanor groans. “Oh, c’mon, man,” she says. “What are soulmates for besides helping? You can teach me how to be good, and I can teach you--how--how to swear, or, I don’t know, how to do two shots at once, or--” She racks her brain for more options. She’s gotta be good at something besides lying.

“Eleanor,” he says, and she stutters to a stop.

“Yeah?”

“I’ll help you. But--” he adds, as her face lights up and she starts to respond. “It’s not going to be easy. It’ll be rewarding and sometimes fun, but these are difficult concepts that are even more difficult to put into practice.” He gazes seriously at her, like this is something important. Like she’s something important.

Eleanor nods eagerly. “I’m in,” she says. “I want to do it.”

Chidi smiles. “Okay,” he says. “Then...great.”

With a bright grin, Eleanor leans down and kisses him on the cheek, rewarded by his instant blush. “Thanks, Chidi,” she says, and his smile softens.

 ---

 By the time the elevator starts moving again, they’ve gotten into three more shouting matches, called off their deal twice, almost kissed at least once, and laughed so hard Eleanor nearly wet herself.

But hey, that’s soulmates for you.

They leave the elevator holding hands.