Chapter Text
"Steven, do you understand the position you're putting yourself in right now?" the police chief asks, shaking his head as he holds the omega's hand from across his desk.
"But I didn't do anything, Uncle Jim! I'm just telling you what I heard. It's not like I'm going to meet up with Billy again." Steve pouts, crossing his legs at the ankle like his mother—the chief's sister—taught him.
Jim Hopper sighs. He loves his nephew, but Steve has been spoiled, his parents letting him run wild after a broken engagement when he was twenty-one that left the poor omega inconsolable for weeks. Which is how he's twenty-five, without a job, spending his nights going to clubs and hiding from his feelings. "Steven, you're claiming to have overheard Henry Creel ordering your boyfriend to take care of a dirty cop the day before he turned up dead."
"Billy isn't my boyfriend! We just meet up at The Factory, we dance, and go back to his place to fool around. And why do you keep full-naming me?"
"Because the DEA is trying to pin Creel down, and plenty of people who have come forward have died. Officer McCormack was supposed to testify next month, and now the whole investigation's been set back." Jim scrubs a hand over his face. "I've already got federal agents coming out to meet with another witness, so if you are committed to testifying, I can guarantee they'll put you into protective custody. Hell, I'm considering keeping you here so I don't have to call your mother with bad news."
Jim stands up, rounding the desk so he can hold Steve's face, make him look up at him, those liquid-dark eyes completely guileless. "Are you sure you want to testify to what you heard? It's very brave of you, kiddo, but it's very dangerous, too."
"I know, Uncle Jim. I wasn't seeing Billy because he was a nice guy, he's just got a big-"
"Steve! I really do not need to know-"
"But I'm not just going to pretend I didn't hear him agree to kill a guy!" There's a beautiful fierceness to him as he says it, but Steve deflates right after, grabbing one of Jim's wrists. He's quieter as he says, "And I've seen people OD at the club. I know things are getting worse."
"Okay, Steve, I'll let the feds know you want to talk. They should be in tomorrow morning, so you aren't going back to your apartment tonight."
• • •
Two days later, Steve is given half an hour to pack his essentials before being driven to a government facility across state lines. He's not alone, the black sedan stopping to pick up a second passenger: an alpha Steve thinks is about the same age as he is. He has far less with him than Steve does though, just a backpack.
The agent driving them makes quick introductions, "Miss Harrington, this is Mr. Munson. Feel free to talk, we've got a long drive ahead of us."
Munson pushes back the hood of his sweatshirt, revealing long, messy curls. Curls Steve is pretty sure he recognizes, probably from nights at The Factory based on their reasons for being together in the car, but he can't place him. Poor guy has dark circles under his eyes that look like bruises, and he's shaking his knee with whatever remains of his nervous energy.
Steve can't help it, wanting to offer comfort but also needing Munson to stop shaking the seat; he goes slow, letting the alpha see his approach before making contact with his knee, firm yet gentle. "Hi," he says, "I'm Steve."
"Eddie." He stares at Steve's hand for what feels like a full minute, then looks up, meeting Steve's with eyes dark enough to drown in.
"Are you okay?"
About a dozen emotions flash across Eddie's face before he squeezes his eyes shut. "I don't know," he says, the truth of it overwhelming him, world-weary and aching.
"Can we just listen to the radio?" Steve asks the agent, waiting until some Top 40 station comes on playing Madonna. He turns back to Eddie, pats his knee. "You should try to sleep."
"Yeah," Eddie says, voice rough. "Okay."
Steve lifts his hand, starts to pull it back, but Eddie grabs it. His fingertips are callused, his hand warm. Steve waits, doesn't yank back or try to pull away, he simply says, "It's okay."
Eddie swallows. "Sorry. It's just…" He rubs over his sternum with his free hand. "Felt too alone to sleep, it… Sorry."
"It's okay," Steve says again, "You're not alone." He shifts his hand in Eddie's; now they're holding each other, grip light and sure. He watches as Eddie leans back in the seat, as he finally closes his eyes. It's nice, the physical contact, and Steve closes his eyes too, allows himself to drift.
He doesn't wake up until the agent pulls into a rest stop so they can all stretch their legs and use the restroom. Eddie lets go of Steve's hand and breathes, "Thanks. I, um, I haven't really been sleeping well since…"
"I get it. I've been there, always on watch because it feels like no one has your back."
"You have?"
"Don't sound so surprised. We're both in the back of this car."
Eddie nods. They are, both set to testify against a mobster with a drug ring. "Sorry, it's just, you smell happy, like you were scent marked by someone important recently."
"Yeah, my mom. She's beside herself over this, wailing to my dad about how they should have been taking me to the country club to find a husband. Like that worked the first time." Steve smiles, but his bladder orders him to get out of the car. "Sorry," he says to excise himself as he opens the door, sliding from the seat. "You should really come, who knows when we'll stop again," he adds, leaning back in to look at Eddie, the alpha frozen for a moment, then scrambling out to keep up with him.
They separate once they are inside the tiny building, going to the appropriate restrooms. Steve sighs when he sees how empty the ladies' side is; he's alone, and he allows himself to slump as he does his business. The rest stop is clean, but the stall is full of graffiti, likely from bored kids on school trips. Plenty of juvenile name-calling and bad jokes written in pen and permanent marker, there's even a line of poetry that Steve thinks he recognizes from high school.
He takes his time washing his hands, too. The water is warm as he finally rinses the soap suds, and he lets it run over his skin. Wherever the feds stick him, it's sure not to have as nice a bathtub as his apartment does, and Steve wants to soak, to let the hot water relax away the tension from his shoulders. Tonight, he'll make do with a shower, but it won't be quite enough, he can already tell.
There's a knock at the door. "You alright in there, Miss Harrington?" the agent asks.
"Yes! Sorry. I'm coming." Steve turns the water off and rushes to dry his hands. As he exits, the man holds out a can of Tab and a bag of chips from the vending machines, which Steve gladly takes. He glances towards the door where Eddie is waiting with his own chips and a Coke.
"We aren't stopping again until we reach our destination unless it's an emergency," the agent says, not bothering to wait for a response as starts back toward the car.
"Do you even like Tab?" Eddie asks. "I told him it was sexist to assume you'd want one just because you're an omega, and he said we didn't have time to wait for you to choose. We can trade if you want." He holds out his Coke can in offering, but Steve shakes his head.
"No, Tab is fine." Steve's fridge door is full of the pink cans. He should have told his mom to take them. "But I feel like this guy is gonna get annoyed if we get crumbs all over the back seat."
"Then he shouldn't have given us chips." Eddie shrugs, tugging on the sides of his bag until it opens and fishing out a Dorito. He offers it to Steve. "Trade you for a Ruffle?"
"Sure." Steve grins. It feels like snack time in grade school, easy friendship and sharing as they return to the back seat of the sedan. But once their snacks are gone, the silence returns.
Eddie lays his hand in between them, palm up, and Steve takes it. He's got such warm hands, a solid anchor as Steve stares out the window, watching the miles pass by.
• • •
When the car finally pulls to a stop outside a nondescript office building in Wisconsin, a black man in a suit is waiting for them. The driver doesn't even get out of the car, once Steve's bags are out of the trunk, he drives off.
"Miss Harrington, Mr. Munson, welcome. I'm Agent Sinclair, I'll be overseeing your protection while we wait for our field agents to finish building out their case against Creel." He shakes each of their hands, before looking at Steve's collection of baggage: two rolling suitcases and a weekend bag. But he doesn't comment as Eddie takes the handle of one suitcase, even though they are clearly from a matched set. "Let's head inside so you can be briefed and introduced to your handler. We have a lot to go over before your flight."
"Flight?" Eddie asks, suddenly paler than Steve thought would be possible.
"Yes, Mr. Munson. We've got you on a red eye out to your final destination." Agent Sinclair holds the door for them after badging into the building, a more high-tech lock than any Steve's ever seen. So, at least they're safe in here.
Agent Sinclair leads them all the way down a corridor to a room at the end. There are no windows, but a young alpha woman is waiting, pacing. The sturdy table at the center of the room has a pair of file folders in front of the chairs on the far side from the door, and Agent Sinclair ushers Steve and Eddie in to take those seats. "Miss Harrington, Mr. Munson, this is Agent Buckley. She'll be your handler and primary contact for the duration of your time in Witness Protection, and she is going to walk you through our plans to keep you both safe." With that, the senior agent steps to the side, leaning against a wall and keeping an eye on the door.
"Hi!" Agent Buckley chirps, taking the seat across from Eddie and Steve. "This may seem odd, but please call me Robin. In order to maintain contact, anytime we meet where others could be listening, you should just treat me as your friend, Robin. If you open your files, you'll see that we have a complete dossier of your fabricated lives. We all met at UW Madison, I was in your wedding party—"
Steve and Eddie look at each other, wide-eyed. "Wedding party?" Steve asks, amazed that his voice does not crack.
Robin shakes her head, pointing to the identity documents in their folders. "Yes, sorry! I should have started with that."
"Yeah," Eddie blurts, only to blush as he draws three pairs of eyes to him.
"We are admittedly using the identities that were set up for Officer McCormack and his wife, it means the two of you aren't stuck waiting while we start from scratch, and it will be easier to monitor the two of you together rather than splitting you up and dividing our resources. As such, you will be Edward and Steven Lennon, married a year and a half. You recently came into a small inheritance and as your best friend, I talked you into moving out by me."
"And just where is that?" Steve asks.
"Portland, Oregon."
"Oregon… " Steve looks over to Eddie, hoping he'll be with him on this, especially if they are supposed to be married. "That's really far to move from family."
"Yeah, who moves across the country to be close to one friend?" Eddie asks, tilting his head to the side, leaning a smidge closer to Steve.
"Maybe if you were my sister—"
"Sure! Perfect! We can update the dossiers."
Agent Sinclair interrupts from his place in the corner, "Buckley, this is highly unusual."
"I don't see anything wrong with minor changes to help them feel comfortable with it. I can be Steven's sis—"
"Steve."
"Yes, good. Steve's sister. I met Edwa—"
"Eddie's fine."
"Thank you." She pauses for a breath. "I met Eddie in college, introduced you. I moved out west, and when you mentioned planning to buy a house, I talked you into looking near me. We found Eddie a job, and now you're finally moving out." Robin smiles, pleased with herself, adding, "The neighborhood is fully vetted, and as far as we know, Creel doesn't know either of you could be troublesome to him. We'd like to keep it that way."
Steve knows that much is true; his parents are saying they gave him an ultimatum and sent him to rehab. He doubts many people will bother asking much about him for a while.
"We've still got a few hours before we need to leave for the airport," Robin says, pushing herself up from the table. "Let's use them to make sure you have the basics down. I was worried we'd have to focus on getting you comfortable with physical contact, but you're already in one another's space. They look natural together, don't they, Sinclair."
"Sure do. Now let's get to it, Mr. and Mrs. Lennon."