Archive of Our Own ^beta

The kicker is, Mister Harrington and the newly single Missus could get Stevie practically anything else his middle school brain desires. First of all, they're rich as sin, living it up in this ridiculously opulent beachside property in Hawaii. Secondly, they're practically chomping at the bit to outdo one another on who's the better caregiver.

They niggle at Steve constantly, after the divorce. Always asking, insisting that he tells “—me first, son. Whatever you want. You still like pirates, right? How about I get you a boat, huh? To practice with? Just let me know before the other old fart.”

And at first, Steve relishes the conflict. Before the start of seventh grade, he’s collected a pet koi fish, two iPads, thirty Air Jordan’s, and a jet ski. Doesn’t matter that he’s got no one to share it with, now that they’ve fucked outta Hawkins for the indefinite future, leaving Nancy and Carol and Tommy and the rest of Steve’s “playmates” thousands of miles in the dust. The spiteful gifts pile up by the day.

It’s deliciously satisfying, right up until the moment that he's sitting in an empty home, surrounded by a bunch of sleek shit that means absolutely nothing, while his parents disappear to their manor in the Virgin Islands to fuck each other silly and re-negotiate their civil contract.

They leave Stevie in Kauai with a pat on the head, a platinum Master card, and a list of emergency contacts scribbled onto an old pocket square. He's just turned thirteen, and he hasn't prayed for anything other than materialistic hunks of crap since he was eight and he thought that Mamma and Tatti could still iron things out.

It's done, now. There's nothing left to wish for.

"Hey. It's me again..."

Except.

"I need someone to be my friend, someone who won't run away."

Well.

"Maybe send me an angel? The nicest angel you have."

And, Steve doesn't know it while he's kneeled on Mamma's Tabriz carpet and tonguing at sad spoonful of Nutella in front of the plasma screen, but. Something of a miracle happens that night. A shooting star streaks across the night sky, a graceful spit of magic—

only for the sleek spacecraft to come hurtling down to Earth in a wild ball of fire and crushed steel. And shrieking. Giddy, ugly, maniacal shrieking.

Steven H, you requested an angel?

Experiment 718 muscles out of the wreckage with a grin and six missing teeth. It's alright, though. He's got forty more to spare.

He stretches out, pawing at the loamy soil with greedy claws. Curiously, the dirt sticks to his skin and fur, so unlike the lifeless silt of his home world. The Council’s world. Doctor Brenner's world.

He licks at the residue left on his palms, grey tongue stretching to curl between the webbing of each finger.

It's got a strong taste. Rich. There's potential here, and sustenance. It's as good a place as any to land. For him, anyway. But the natives?

His tail curls mischievously at the thought. The spiked ridges of his spine rattle, sharp edges chittering like tiny laughter. When he screams, howling at the harvest moon, the demented echoes make it all the way down to Harrington estate.

Steve perks up from his bundle of blankets on the couch. His cheeks are ballooned with hazelnut spread and cracker dust.

"Wha the fug was tha?"

That is bounding through the woods and winding strips of mountainous tropical highway on all fours, distressing the holes that have already strained his testing suit to ribbons. The red and blue unitard is still sizzling a little from where the good Commander Hop had tried to fucking vaporizehim.

He's preoccupied with tonguing at a particularly mean burn at his collarbone when a black blur leaps into his path. 718 halts in the middle of the road. He bares his teeth. He cocks his head. His nails click on the asphalt.

It's a kitten. A baby bobtail. Not that 718 knows that, scrutinizing the little thing with narrowed eyes.

He rumbles, circling the fur ball. The girl mews, mow? A sweet gesture, but he's not here to fucking coddle the local wildlife. He growls. The tiny thing whines again, distressed. That won't do—the natives need to be brought to heel if 718 is to be their new king.

Faster than the confused kitten can process, 718 darts forward and lifts the scrambling girl up by the scruff of her neck. She whines frantically, mrow mow!, but 718 just bares his teeth and nips at her dangling paws.

"Mine." The map of the star system had identified this as the third rock from the sun. Earth. Lingua Franca: English. Ruled by a primate species beset by self-aggrandizing ideals of their own importance. Is this little thing... one of their young?

He's moments away from flicking at the thing's stupid snout and demanding that it lead 718 to this planet's pathetic overlords when—BRAAAA!

A metal giant with glowing eyes is barreling towards them. 718 tosses away the mewling foundling and roars at this new contender. What was that saying the language module taught him? "Eat my ass, motherfucker!" That's the one.

Trouble is, the truck driver is too stunned to stop for the rabid puppy dog that's screaming profanities from the center of the road. And 718 may have been built to withstand the pressures of deep space and explosive blasts, but he'll be damned if he doesn't eat shit when the eight wheeler punches him off the mountainside.

"... you... you eat my ass..." Ouch.

It's three in the morning, now. It's three in the Goddamn morning, and Steve's chicken McNuggets and cookies still haven't arrived. He's already picked up the phone to start bitching at, fucking, Nani the five-star super-Uber driver, when he finally hears a racket from the side of the property. She must've taken the access road towards the poolside entrance. Whatever.

Steve stomps outside in board shorts and his old swim team hoodie. He fully intends to take his treats on a pool float. "Hello? Order number 178? I'm ready for my chocolate chips!"

The driver is nowhere in sight, but there's someone else. Something else. Watching from across the mist of the heated water and the dark treeline. A tiny, scruffy thing that hears the numbers 178 and perks right up with his insane blue eyes boring right into Steve’s soul.

“Oh fuck.” Steve whips out a little pink canister from his back pocket. “Stay back—or I swear your creepster ass won’t live to stalk again.”

And 718? 718 is tired. The consecutive attempts on his life are becoming a bit difficult to handle, especially considering that he’s only been fully conscious for the past thirty-six hours. His suit has been so battered and torn that's dispensed with it completely, and the muddy terrain of this world has left him wet and shivering. He needs to rest, to lick his wounds good and proper.

And somehow, this silly, combatant human in flower-patterned underwear knows his name, though he’s too stupid to pronounce it in the proper order. 7-1-8. Brenner’s latest test-tube monster. The native will be prepared for any of 718’s tricks.

Enough. A temporary truce is in order, at least until he has the energy to tear out this ape's throat. He remembers those sweet, patheticsounds of defeat from the baby creature on the road.

Steve's still got his mace locked and loaded when he hear, fucking, mewing. Those terrifyingly electric eyes have gone soft and big, and as Steve's vision finally adjusts to the low light, he finds that the intruder is much... smaller than he'd been imagining.

The wild little thing crawls out from the shadow of Mamma's jackfruit tree and flops down on its belly in front of the poolside tiling. "Mow, mow. Me surrender, asslicker." And, um, what the fuck?

Steve shuffles to the opposite side of the pool lipping with the spray in one hand and his wallet keys in the other. The trespasser is some sort of puppy, or maybe a mutant rabbit or some sort of fucking pint-sized werewolf. Yet there's something about it, something in the dexterity of its hands and the sharpness of its head, that's just this side of almost human.

It's child-sized, this small bundle of dangerous edges with teeth and nails and bones spiking out of its back. Between the high-pitched yapping of its little mouth, Steve spots a horrifying menagerie of needled fangs.

But for every twisted, fucked-up detail, he finds something sweet vying for his attention. Like that button nose. Or the baby pink Cupid's bow. Or those long lashes and the spectacular, adorable bundles of golden curls all over the tiny animal's body.

"What are you?"

The thing mewls again, this ridiculous little rumble, and it's entirely unfair how dewy and vulnerable those deadly eyes suddenly become.

"Need. Need help me. Please?"

Jesus. That's just cheating. Taking advantage of Steve's weak, open, loser heart right when he's at his lowest. Christ, he's still thumbing chocolate off of his chin, and now this? Nope. There's no way.

The, fucking, puppy lowers its ears. Its fluffy, overly articulate tail sinks pathetically, and the crying meows raise an entire octave. "Please. Need help please."

And, Steve? Steve, just, fucking—

Steve runs the bath. The puppy trails behind him on dirty paws, first doing him the favor of staying on all fours, and then eventually just giving up the act entirely and walking upright as they ascend the steps. God al-fucking-mighty.

The pup loves warm water, Epsom salts, and vanilla sugar body wash. It's almost demonic, the way the animal spits and hisses as Steve tries to take the foaming bottle that it's sucking like a sippy cup.

"That's not for drinking, you ignorant fuck!"

"Mine."

He scrubs at the beast, avoiding its angler fish mouth and flinching at every mean growl when he brushes too close to that steepled spine. As Steve bandages the new nicks and bruises he's gained, he decides that the puppy is an entirely ungrateful motherfucker who maybe deserves whatever shitshow sent him tumbling down the mountain.

All the same, he smothers the thing in towels and sticks a spoonful of Nutella is its mouth. They end up in Steve's bedroom, silently gaping at each other on Steve's outdated firetruck-themed carpet. He really should get a cooler rug sometime soon. Ya know, when he's got guests that aren't insane monster babies who know absolutely nothing about interior design.

Steve fusses with the hem of his hoodie. "Okay, so um. Clearly, you're some sort of cryptid motherfucker." The beast blinks, lashes fanning over those huge eyes. Steve swallows.

"I, uh, I just. Well. I'm not trying to be rude or anything, but it would be a lot easier on my brain right now if you could just, like, tell me what you are?"

The pup rumbles and scratches at his ear with his hind leg, already annoyed. Short-tempered little shit.

"No shame here! As long as you're not a dybbuk or, like, a vampire or something. You don't want to eat my heart, do you?"

A too-long tongue darts over his mouthful of too-many teeth. Steve claps.

"Names! Let's start with names. I'll go first. I'm Steve. S-t-e-v-e. What about you?" Unsurprisingly, the pup deigns not to respond.

"Here." Steve reaches over to his backpack. He dumps it out on the carpet between them, his notebook, a pencil case, the latest mall catalogue, and a calculator tumbling out of the leather pouch. "You can write it down if you want." He passes the pup a mechanical pencil, which the creature holds between pinched fingers like Steve has just given him a pair of dirty undies.

The pup lets the pencil drop, and Steve’s already sighing and recollecting his things when the animal snatches the calculator out of his sweaty hands. It clicks out a few numbers with the pads of those dangerous fingers, then slides the device back to him, upside down.

8-1-7. BIL. Steve feels warm. “Bill. Funny. That’s an old man name. You look more like a Billy.”

The pup sits up, fur puffing adorably. Those bony spikes are almost hidden by the new fluff.

“Billy?"

“Yeah, it’s a nickname. Is that okay?”

The pup hums, pleased. “Human.” A mischievous glimmer lights up in his eyes. “Billy is good.”

Things go a little quiet again, the puppy preening and murmuring the new name while shaking out under his temple of towels. Steve can’t fight the smile that tugs at his lips.

"You know, you’re kinda cute for a little monster. I mean, you're an asshole, but, like, not all the way."

"… Monster?"

Steve backpedals, eyeing those claws. "No! I—I didn't mean it like that. It's just, I've never seen anything like you before. You’re, uh. Different."

"Different. Different... stand out?"

Steve chuckles, nodding. “Yeah, I'd say you'd definitely stand out."

The pup spits. The glob is brown, and almost immediately sinks into the rug fibers. “No. No good. No surprise."

Steve sputters. Surprise? And, it’s not the word itself, but the way the little demon licks over it, lips puckering hungrily, that sounds like he means a surprise attack. "Why would you want to—?"

He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t bother. Because, like, he’s too busy choking on nothing at what this fucking urban legend of a thing does next.

It starts off simple enough. The pup, Billy, slaps a hand over the Starcourt fashion catalogue that’s still laying between them. He lifts the glossy cover up to his face, sniffing at the image of Margot Robbie smiling in a pair of acid wash jeans, hair tightly curled and teased.

“Pretty? Good. Mine.” Billy tears off the cover of the catalogue, shoves the paper down his throat, and proceeds to tear out one of the bones jutting from his back.

The transformation is quick, and utterly fucking foul.

The exposed vertebrae whine and rattle before falling onto the carpet, sticky and dripping. His claws follow suit, popping off at a frightening rhythm. The paws extend and de-puff, the fur sheds in huge sloughs of hair and hide. The teeth clatter down to Steve’s feet, tinkling like broken glass.

The finished mess of discarded anatomy reminds Steve of a caterpillar’s cocoon, all brittle and slick to the touch.

The boy is lovely.

He’s Goldilocks. Goddamn Rapunzel. A baby-faced teen just shy of Steve’s own age with rosy cheeks and that lovable button nose, now dusted with freckles. The tan, dotted skin extends down into the nest of towels, where the kid is completely fucking naked and utterly uncaring. If anything, he’s proud, peacocking with his chin upturned and a curious finger playing with the one errant curl resting on his forehead, a single wave in the gorgeous spill of blond locks brushing against his neck.

He’s. He’s.

An angel. A breathing, grinning, bastard angel right in his own home.

“Good?,” the boy asks, head cocking as if he’s still the hellish puppy that had clawed out of the woods.

Steve nods, throat clicking. “Yeah. Great.”

“Great.” Billy croons, delighted. He stands, and the towels tumble right off, like they’re excited for the reveal, and that’s e-fucking-nough of that.

“Billy, no!”

He tackles the boy with one of the fallen linens, pinning the fabric in place with a crushing hug. And, and.

Steve’s heart is racing. The air is a little thin. He can barely breathe, actually. And it’s so Goddamn stupid, that this is the thing that sends him over the edge.

Not the talking or the walking on two legs or the fangs or the John Carpenter shapeshifting. It’s this. That pretty, happy, young face grinning at Steve, so stupidly unafraid and entirely inappropriate and alien.

It’s finally having someone here, now, all too Goddamn comfortable in his company. Not leaving anytime soon. Or at least, not as long as Steve holds him close, shielding his modesty like Billy is actually some dumb kid, instead of, well.

Steve is still huffing, quivering uncontrollably, when Billy slowly slips his arms out of the towel and… wraps them around Steve’s waist. It’s awkward, mind you. His grip is low and too tight, like he’s securingSteve more than comforting him. It’s likely the first gesture of affection he’s ever attempted in his life.

It’s stupid. Yet, it’s everything Steve has been craving since he was eight and caught Mamma drunkenly fingering her masseuse on the chaise lounge while Tatti whispered dirty promises to the co-worker giggling at the other end of the receiver. God, what a fucking joke.

Billy digs his nails into Steve’s back, grounding. The towel is feather-soft, tickling at Steve’s skin. It’s strange, but he doesn’t pull away.

Steve’s voice comes out as a mumble. “Where did you come from?”

He can practically feel Billy’s eyes roll. He huffs. “Up, stupid. From up.”

Steve chuckles, half-delirious. “Of course. Silly me.”

Billy grunts. He gives Steve a final squeeze before pushing away. Thankfully, he holds the towel in place as he steps away. Then he flicks Steve’s forehead. Hard.

“Ow! Jesus, Billy.”

“Need help, Steve. You need help.” He jabs at the same spot on his skull, insistent. “Too stupid to breathe. Pathetic. But no worries. Billy will help.”

The blonde smirks. It’s baby-soft. He runs his nails across Steve’s jaw. “No throat tear tonight.”

Small miracles.

They spend the rest of the night watching shitty reality TV and tonguing at a shared tub of Rocky Road. Billy slowly improves his English by bitching at the different contestants while Steve critiques his grammar between mad giggles. It’s fun.

Doesn’t matter that a veritable fleet of ships is zeroing in on Billy’s point of impact. Hell, it doesn’t even matter that Steve’s parents have left him in the dust.

What matters is that Steve lets Billy borrow his softest tee shirt and some leftover gym shorts. That Steve laughs harder in those few hours with Billy than any time in the past three months. That Billy laughs, too. Sweetly, genuinely, for the first time in his life. Steve tries to shove the boy after he says something particularly crude about, fucking, ass, and Billy proves that he doesn’t need those pointy teeth to make a mark.

As far as beginnings go, it’s a good one.