Archive of Our Own ^beta

Being popular is..lonely.

You're treated as some sort of statue on display in a museum.

People stare, they gawk, they point, but they never get close enough to touch. For you cannot smudge the art with your dirty hands.

Stephanie Lauter’s school years were riddled with whispers in the hallway, invites to the biggest parties held by the upperclassmen, and superficial single dates with boys that only wanted to brag about taking the mayor’s daughter on a date.

That’s another thing that sucked. Being Solomon Lauter’s daughter.

The other kids were afraid to get anywhere near her, perpetually fearing the wrath of the mayor. After all, appearances are important, and who wouldn’t want to vote for the picture-perfect, loving, protective, single father?

But behind closed doors, he was none of those things. He was shady, cold, detached, and neglectful, though it had taken her months after his death to fully come to terms with that last one.

The start of her healing process had everything to do with the four nerds she somehow ended up living with. (And with with, but that’s a story for another day.) They had survived, though none of them really liked to talk about it at length, instead silently agreeing they’re trauma-bonded for life. 

Steph tried staying on her own. She was an adult, technically, and inherited her father’s house and his entire fortune. She was more than capable of keeping the house clean and in check, she never understood why her father had to hire so many maids to manage it.

She woke up in her childhood bedroom every morning, skipped breakfast, drove to school, and valiantly fought off the senioritis that threatened her steadily rising grades. 

(She woke up cold. She couldn’t go grocery shopping because she didn’t know exactly how big a single serving was. She couldn’t stand to listen to music in the car, too distracted by the memories of her father berating her from the passenger seat from when she was learning. When she returned home from school, the empty house echoed her every step back to her. Homework was the last thing she wanted to think about.)

After grad night, her annoying and favorite group of nerds slept over, all too tired to head back to their own places. For the first time, Steph felt at ease. The house no longer echoed, and the usual chill she felt was replaced with warm laughter. They sat in the living room she’s always loathed, watched a shitty movie, and ate greasy takeout. And Steph knew this was exactly how she wanted to spend the rest of her life.

She woke up with a crick in her neck, curled into Pete’s side, and quietly took in the chorus of peaceful breathing that formed a symphony only she could appreciate. Tears rose to her eyes and spilled over unbidden, which alerted her living pillow, which then alerted the others in the room.

Soon enough, she was sobbing into her hands, surrounded by four awkward people that were, honestly, shit at comforting others. But she wouldn’t’ve had it any other way. Pete slowly rubbed a hand up and down her back, Richie loudly and clearly rehearsed his breathing exercises, Ruth gently untangled her hair with her fingers, and Grace simply knelt in front of her and held her hands, all four of them steady rocks in the hurricane that devastated her thoughts.

Their combined warm touch was more than she had ever received.

When she was finished crying like she had never cried before in her entire life, they obviously had questions. She answered them the best she could, reluctantly explaining how much she hated living on her own, how big and empty the house always was, and how she only felt truly at peace when she was near the four of them.

Surprisingly, it was Grace that brought up the idea of them moving in. Steph knew it was partially because the other girl had come to hate living with her parents in recent months, but it would still be mutually beneficial. They were all a little fucked up after the year’s events.

So, they planned the best way to move in without alerting the various adults in their lives. Technically, they were all also adults, but the best way to avoid unnecessary drama was to do it secretly. In the days leading up to graduation, the four of them started inconspicuously moving a few bags worth of belongings into the mansion, all under the guise of packing for a sleepover.

The night of graduation, after the ceremony and after all of them had returned to their respective parents’ houses, they waited for them to all fall asleep to best execute their plan. The ones with more chill parents, like Ruth and Pete, didn’t have to be too careful about sneaking out. They simply left out the front door, quietly locking it and hopping into Steph’s waiting car outside.

For the other two, it wasn’t quite as easy. Richie’s parents were always paranoid about him sneaking out, even though he had literally never thought of doing so until they made this plan. He couldn’t go out the front door, so he was forced to shimmy open his window and climb out. Thank god they had a single story house.

Grace agonized over the best way to get out for days. Her parents’ room was right next to hers, so they would be able to hear any little noise, such as her opening a window. And they were light sleepers, so they would wake up if they heard her walking down the hallway.

But, if she walked down the hallway into the bathroom, they would surely think she was just doing her business, so they would roll over and fall back asleep. 

Which is exactly what she did. She even flushed the toilet as she opened the frosted window to mask the sound. If they were awake long enough to realize she never left the bathroom, Grace had no idea, because she was already in the car, breathing heavily and watching the house disappear behind her.

Steph drove the five of them all back to the mansion, their home.

But that was a couple years ago.

They’ve all settled into living together nicely and have all picked up various jobs and hobbies to fill the time. Steph’s poison of choice is a part-time job at Beanies, only because Richie’s socially awkward uncle once mentioned they were understaffed.

Plus, the small amount of money she makes is her own. She earned it fair and square, she put in the hours to learn all of the drink recipes and she dealt with all of the shitty customers. And put up with Zoey.

Steph hates Zoey. Emma is pretty chill, and Nora is an asshole sometimes but she’s still generally nice. She can’t say the same for Zoey. She’s always singing somewhere in the back, pocketing tips that are definitely not meant for her, and dragging her feet on any task that wasn’t specifically making coffee. 

Which is how Steph finds herself basically closing the store by herself while Zoey sits behind the counter on her phone. It’s ten minutes to close, and they haven’t had any customers in the last twenty minutes, thank fuck. Likely thinking the same thing as her, Zoey steps into the back with a flourish.

She rolls her eyes. She’s probably sneaking out the back door to meet up with that scummy cop boyfriend of hers. But honestly, Steph would rather close up on her own, so she turns and continues to furiously wipe at a stain on the table like it personally wronged her.

In the next moment, three things happen in quick succession.

First, the door opens and the bell dings. Before she can turn around and mutter a tired hello and a minor greeting to the dick that came in five minutes before closing, the next thing happens.

A hand grabs her shoulder, definitely way tighter than necessary, absolutely threatening.

And last, the hand spins her around, and another finds its place next to her head on the wall, pinning her in place. Frozen, Steph looks up to find none other than fucking Sam Sweetly leering at her, a flirty grin on his face that makes her stomach drop. The point of contact burns.

“Hey, baby,” he croons, and though Steph can’t see his eyes behind the dark sunglasses, she’s sure he winks. “You ready to head to the bar? Or we can just skip to the good part; I have a pair of handcuffs with your name on them,” Officer Sweetly leans in closer as he speaks, the smell of alcohol permeating the (now small) space between them.

Steph can’t get her legs to move. Her mind is screaming run. She only manages to slide down the wall a little, useless legs trembling and threatening to give. She opens her mouth to yell, to scream, anything, but only exhales a small “no..”

At that, the officer backs up a little and runs his eyes up and down her body. “Are you not Zoey? You look just like her,” His eyebrows are furrowed in drunk confusion as he removes himself from the girl’s space, swaying on his feet. “Wow, I am very drunk.”

God, Steph hates Zoey. She doesn’t think they look alike at all, but that’s all she hears every day from customers. The only thing they sort of have in common is the long hair and makeup. 

Did she mention she hates Zoey? 

Officer Sweetly leans against a table, blessedly on the other side of the cafe. Steph stumbles away from the wall, legs shaking like a newborn deer, and hurries into the back room. There she finds Zoey, spinning carelessly in a chair, phone out like it always is.

Steph hates her even more. “Zoey. Cop Boyfriend.” She grits, pointing toward the dining room. In response, her coworker rolls her eyes as she stops spinning and saunters out, expensive bag slung over her shoulder.

She can vaguely hear the two making conversation in the room over. Steph rakes a deep breath in and out of her lungs while she anxiously runs a hand through her hair. She collects her belongings as fast as she can, shutting the lights off and making sure all of the doors are locked.

As Steph locks the front door, she watches Sam and Zoey get into his running car, the officer drunk behind the wheel if his swerving is anything to go by. They speed away, lights switching on and sirens blaring into the night sky. Even with him gone, Steph can feel the phantom fingers still gripping her shoulder.

Standing against the glass door of her workplace, she takes a second to force back the tears stinging her eyes. Steph has never liked crying, not since her father had drilled the words, ‘Lauter’s are never weak’ deep into her psyche right after her mother’s death.

Steph begins her trek home, silently thanking whatever’s out there that she works the closest to their shared house. The lump in her throat only grows in the fifteen minutes, to the point she’s breathing heavily and erratically by the time she walks up the driveway and unlocks the front door.

A burst of life hits her as she steps inside. There’s sounds of chatting emanating from the living room, along with a dim soundtrack of some video game she’s never played. Ruth and Richie. 

There’s music playing from the attached greenhouse, and she can see the fuzzy outline of someone swaying along in the window. Grace. 

There’s something cooking in the kitchen, if the savory smell and the sound of sizzling and pots clanging is anything to go by. Pete.

Steph follows her nose. She is indeed correct; she finds Pete rummaging through the fridge while a pot of something that looks like chili cooks away happily on the stove. The boy is so entrenched in his search that he doesn’t notice Steph standing there, not even when he finds what he’s looking for, which is a full bag of cheese.

Pete turns and begins to carefully pour the cheese into the pot, and because he thinks no one is watching, dumps in way more than is necessary.

Steph snorts. 

Pete jumps, shrieking as he flings the (almost empty) bag of cheese in her general direction.

And, the thing is, Steph’s not even upset. In fact, it’s hilarious. But she has had such a shitty day that the whiplash has a sob bursting out instead of a laugh. And that first sob is followed by another, and another, until she’s standing in their kitchen with tears streaming down her face and shredded cheese in her hair.

In a last ditch attempt to save any dignity she may have left, Steph hides her face in her hands as she hunches over, the action shaking a few stray pieces of cheese loose. She laughs, but it comes out as another sob.

Pete is in her space in a second, hands fluttering around her but never touching. And it’s different from Officer Sweetly. When Pete is near, her frantic heartbeat calms, her labored breathing returns to its normal pace, and she craves him. Like a starving man at a full buffet.

When her sobs start to fade out, she comes out of hiding behind her hands just in time to snatch one of Pete’s. She guides his hand to her cheek, not really caring how obviously desperate she is. On his own, Pete copies with his other hand, so he’s cradling her face like she’s the most precious jewel in the whole world. She lets her eyes slide shut, completely trusting him.

Steph slumps forward, letting Pete carry the weight of her emotions for a few seconds. Pete, the tall gangly man he is, wobbles, but eventually ducks down to press his forehead to Steph’s.

The door behind her opens and closes, but Steph hardly hears it. She’s trying exceptionally hard to meld her mind with Pete’s until she never has to think about her dad or Zoey or Officer Sweetly again, and she knows Pete can see whoever it is. He doesn’t seem to care, so neither does she.

Steph is starting to get sleepy by the time she recognizes the sound of footsteps approaching them. Pete still doesn’t move. So, Steph doesn’t either. But she does think she can make out what she thinks are sweeping noises.

Both of Pete’s hands are still on her face, but a different third hand plucks something from her hair. So, either Pete grew a third arm, or the mystery person is pulling shreds of cheese from her hair. “Really, Grace?” Pete hisses, though there’s no real fire behind his words.

Oh. It’s just Grace. If possible, Steph relaxes further.

“What? Obviously you attacked Stephanie, now I’m just cleanin’ up after you,” Grace accuses. Steph peaks an eye open to glance at her, and she’s wearing her gardening overalls, her hair is pulled back, and there’s dirt smudged on her forehead.

Steph’s heart sings. Suddenly remembering she has arms, she reaches out to her with grabby hands, not caring at all how childish the action is.

Grace grins, all teeth, and bumps Pete out of the way with her hip, abandoning the broom and dustpan to fall to the floor. Steph has to seriously condense herself, but she manages to curl her head under Grace’s chin as their arms wrap around each other, almost tight enough to hurt. 

Pete dramatically sighs, then turns back to the pot on the stove. Where his chili is burning. “Oh fuck!” he yells, way louder than necessary. The two girls giggle as they watch Pete turn the burner off and start to stir faster than they’ve ever seen him move before.

“Did you burn yourself again?” 

Steph turns her attention toward the living room, where the high-pitched nasally voice emanates from. Footsteps stomp comically loudly toward them and in walks Ruth, who pauses at the scene in front of her.

But Ruth never passes up an opportunity to cuddle with her girls, so she bypasses Pete’s struggle and instead worms her way in between Steph and Grace, probably pretending with all her might not to notice the tear tracks on Steph’s cheeks. 

Richie follows like a lost puppy, and if she had to guess, disgruntled greatly by his game being interrupted. Just like Ruth, he stops to analyze the kitchen, but unlike Ruth, he moves to pick up the abandoned broom and dustpan, grumbling all the while.

Richie then finishes cleaning up the mess of cheese, including getting the last few pieces still clinging to Steph, and dumps them in the trash. And when he sees the full trash, he has to take it out. When he gets back, he wrinkles his nose at the sink full of dishes, so he starts to work on those.

Steph knows this is his form of damage control. While he’s not a full-on germaphobe, he can’t stand a mess. Plus, she knows Richie’s not the most people-person, so he’s probably more comfortable trying to fix the disarray of the kitchen than trying to fix her.

But Steph knows he cares in his own way. When he plucks cheese out of her hair, he is careful not to disturb her. Even going so far as to caringly smooth the strands. When he takes the trash out, he holds the door so it slowly shuts behind him to avoid the loud noise. He does the dishes quieter than she ever thought possible, especially since Richie is a storm of awkward limbs that hardly ever tapers off.

Throughout the whole ordeal, nobody truly speaks. Sure, Pete curses under his breath over the burnt bits in his pot, and Richie quietly complains at the dishes, but no real conversation happens between any of them.

The silence is heavy, and the tension in the room mounts as Steph continues to say nothing. She doesn’t even know how she’d explain anything that happened, that in a moment of possible danger she was too useless to do anything, too stupid to get away from him, just a dumb little girl.

Distantly, Ruth complains about her legs hurting from standing too long. Grace steps back reluctantly, and before Steph can protest the lost body, Ruth is pulling her into the attached dining room and forcing her into one of the chairs at the table. She does not go far, instead she nestles her body into the taller girl’s lap, much like a small lapdog.

Grace joins them at the table, in one of the many seats across from them. Richie filters in soon after and sits next to Grace as he pulls the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands and rubs them together, which Steph recognizes as one of his self-soothing techniques. He once told her he just likes the way the fabric feels as it slides back and forth.

Finally, Pete enters and puts his big ass pot on a placemat in the center of the table. He turns back toward the kitchen to grab something else, and Grace hops up to help him, always eager to please. The two return with various sides Steph hadn’t even realized he’d made. 

Without a word, Steph reaches and starts serving herself. Food hadn’t crossed her mind all day, but now that it’s in front of her, a burning hunger temporarily overtakes her emotional state. The other four settle in and start to eat as well, as if given some greenlight by her action.

Still though, no words are exchanged. Ruth, who usually talks with her mouth full just to keep a conversation going, silently munches on a piece of bread from her spot under Steph’s chin.

But the silence doesn’t bother her too much. 

Steph can remember being eight years old sitting in this exact chair, a math worksheet in front of her. The numbers in front of her made her head swim, equations blurred through her tears. She had bowed her head, and let the tears drip onto the paper. 

Her father yelled, louder than she had ever heard him before. Told her she was never allowed to cry, how she was never going to get anywhere in life if the simplest of hardships brought her to tears, that her mother would be disappointed to learn she turned out so dumb.

And looking back on it, Steph realized he had shoved a long division worksheet in front of a third grader. And that wasn’t even the worst part, they had just gotten back from her mother’s funeral. She had still been wearing the scratchy black dress they bought for the service.

God, he really was a fucking asshole, wasn’t he?

In Steph’s humble opinion, anything is better than being screamed at. And quiet is no exception. So, she doesn’t mind eating in peace and ignoring the multiple questioning looks she receives as a consequence.

When she’s done eating like her life depends on it, Steph sits back and wraps her arms around the girl still comfortably resting in her lap. She suddenly finds herself exhausted, heavy eyes sluggishly blinking as she buries her face in Ruth’s untamed curls.

Ruth gasps dramatically, reaching up with a free hand to blindly swat at her. “Hey! You better not drool in my hair, I just washed it!”

Steph inhales deeply through her nose, taking in the pleasant scent of Ruth’s strawberry conditioner. “But I’m sooooo sleepy..” She rumbles, playing it up to annoy the other girl.

“No!! Richie, do something!!” Ruth cries, but not moving her head an inch. Steph knows she could literally just duck forward and away from her.

“Meh,” Richie drawls, “You did this to yourself. Literally.”

Pete laughs. “Yeah, man, I don’t know what you expected.”

Ruth fake sobs. “Gracie… my last hope..”

Steph hears Grace hum in what sounds like consideration, then the scrape of a chair and dishes clanking together. “Well, I’m gonna start on the dishes. Good luck Ruthie!”

Ruth’s fake sobs turn more dramatic, no doubt at the triple betrayal. Steph snickers, thoroughly enjoying the distraction that is Ruth’s theatrics. 

The two boys filter out to help Grace with cleanup, leaving Steph and Ruth sitting alone at the dining table. Ruth sighs, giving up the show in favor of returning the hug Steph has her trapped in. 

“C’mon, let’s get you to bed,” Ruth huffs, extricating herself from Steph’s iron grip and hopping to her feet. She intertwines their fingers and hauls Steph up as well, then leads them up the stairs. She thinks the others follow, but honestly she’s very focused on the warmth of Ruth’s hand in her own.

Once in their room, Steph mechanically changes out of her work uniform and into the comfiest pajamas she owns. Grace hops into the shower to wash all of the dirt off herself while Richie completes his (frankly ridiculously) long skincare routine. 

Pete and Ruth are the first ones in bed, and Steph follows right after, crawling right on top of the tree man. She’s not usually this clingy, but, fuck, after the day she’s had, she’ll do anything to forget about that ugly ass cop.

Steph flops on top of him, and she hears his breath whoosh out as she lands. “Y’alright?” he asks, already half asleep.

“Yeah,” she grunts, muffled by his shirt. “Zoey’s boyfriend thought I was her. He’s really bad at flirting when he’s drunk.”

Grace exits the bathroom and faux-retches. Steph can visualize the exact disgusted face she’s making. Pete coos and places a hand on her back sympathetically. 

Her other partners eventually make their way into bed with them, but Steph is content being Pete’s blanket. He falls asleep soon after, snores whistling under her.

Just before she falls asleep, someone rumbles a quiet, “Night, Stephie.”

And then she’s gone.