Chapter Text
Steve smells Eddie before any of his other senses wake up.
He's always loved Eddie's scent: woodsy, smokey, but sweet. It always felt uniquely Eddie, all warm and safe, like a hug.
Eddie gives the best hugs.
But right now, in this void of darkness where Steve can only rely on his nose, the scent is off. Not in an odd way, Steve still recognizes it. He knows all of Eddie's scents intimately, he used to wear them like perfume.
But when he inhales again, it's distinctly wrong. It smells like a mixture of a million different memories:
When Steve went into labor and the two of them sat in the hospital room clutching each other.
Eddie kept telling him to 'just breathe, baby' and Steve kept screaming at him to 'shut the fuck up'. Every contraction, he would sob and dig his nails into Eddie's bicep, just begging this baby to pop the fuck out so he could hold her and sleep forever. He remembers Eddie's scent that day. Still warm, still safe, still like the best hug you could ever imagine. But Steve could smell the fear mixed in with the rest of those lovely notes. Anxiety and unease soured Eddie's scent no matter how hard he tried to reign it in for the sake of Steve's comfort.
When Eddie left his razor on the sink.
It hadn't seemed like a big deal at the time, but June had just reached the age where her chubby fingers could finally grip things—curious enough to "experiment." She sliced three parallel lines across her pointer finger the second Eddie turned away. She sobbed like it was a mortal wound, squeezing her finger like she wanted Steve to clean up as much blood as possible.
He remembers the horror on Eddie's face, how he immediately rushed forward, scooping their daughter into his arms like he could protect her from an evil world of razors just by holding her tighter. Within the next minute, June was sucking on a lollypop and admiring her SpongeBob band aid with rapt attention. But Eddie couldn't let it go. He got stuck in his head, replaying how it could've been worse, how it could've been his fault. Steve could smell it on him for the rest of the day: the guilt, sharp and lingering, heavier than it ever needed to be.
When Steve got invited out for drinks.
It was back in the beginning, before June, when the only form of nutrition they could afford was oily takeout. A few friends from work had invited him out, just for some drinks. But he didn't go out that night. They both know he couldn't. Not really. They'd done the math too many times; a night of "just drinks" cost more than a week's worth of groceries.
So Steve shrugged, turned off his phone, and leaned into Eddie's side on their sagging couch. He hadn't cared. He'd left behind his father's trust and his mother's expensive taste the day he chose Eddie. All he wanted was him.
But Eddie's scent that night had been heavy—smoky, edged with something sour. The same note that always crept in when things like this happened. Steve hadn’t understood it then, Eddie’s constant need to make up for something Steve never asked for. He used to think it was just rebellion against his father, Eddie’s quiet war against Mr. Harrington.
But really, it was more than that. Eddie always felt the need to prove himself—that choosing him hadn’t been a mistake, that he could provide for his omega.
It was an alpha thing. But it was also an Eddie thing.
Steve remembers every Christmas Eddie spent too much on jewelry they couldn’t afford, every dinner where the bill made his stomach twist. He’d always smelled the same on those nights—shameful, embarrassed, and still trying so hard to make it right.
Floating in the dark, Steve recognizes it distinctly, among all the other memories and scents. It's the same note in the air now, years later. The scent of a man still trying to prove he deserves the life he already built.
Steve inhales nonetheless.
-
His sight comes next. He opens his eyes slowly and regrets it immediately.
The room is impossibly bright. White bleeds through the edges of everything.
For a second he thinks he's underwater. The world ripples when he blinks. Shapes blur into each other: walls, machines, a curtain that might be a person.
He shuts his eyes immediately. It hurts. But the smell is still there. Still Eddie. Still a hug.
He blinks until the light steadies. The room takes shape. The sterile gleam of a hospital, tubes taped to his arm, a monitor keeping score of his heartbeat.
And there, slouched in the chair beside the bed, is Eddie.
Head tipped back against the wall, long legs twisted awkwardly under the plastic chair.
Steve misses him when he's two feet away.
He supposes that's when he starts to feel as well. The tightness of his throat, the scratchiness of the hospital blanket.
Taste and hearing come right after: the sour tackiness of a dry mouth, the soft snores from the body next to him.
It's peaceful. Steve knows it's the calm before the storm. He's always had a knack for recognizing moments like these. Like the universe picked him out especially to feel the moments of exhale before they passed.
A second later, Eddie's eyes blink open, like he knew. They were always like that, always reading each other's minds.
"Steve?"
Eddie's voice sounds like it's been scraped raw. Rough and quiet, like he's afraid to say it too loud in case it disappears.
Steve blinks again, slower this time, trying to line the sound up with the sight. Eddie, here. Eddie, real. The bags under his eyes, the stubble that's gone from charming to desperate.
"Hey," Steve manages, though it comes out more breath than word. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth.
Eddie jerks forward, chair legs squealing against the tile. His knees knock into the hospital bed and his hands hover over Steve's arm, like he's scared to touch him.
"You- shit. Okay, you're awake." He laughs once, shaky and too loud for the quiet. "Jesus, Stevie."
Steve swallows, throat burning and mouth tacky. "Where's June?"
"Wayne drove up and they're at the apartment. She's fine."
Steve blinks. Wayne drove up.
He licks his lips, tries to wet the dryness in his mouth. "How long was I out?"
Eddie hesitates, and that's answer enough. He looks exhausted. Steve feels it with all his five senses.
"A little more than a day I think. The doctor said your body needed to catch up on some rest," Eddie finally says, then adds, after a beat of silence, "I think she was putting it lightly."
Steve lets out a shaky breath. The monitor hums beside him, traitorously calm. He thinks about asking if June saw him like this, wires taped to his arms and dead to the world. But he knows the answer, knows Eddie wouldn't leave her at the apartment alone.
Like Steve did.
Eddie interrupts his spiral with a breathless:
"Fuck, Steve. Why didn't you tell me any of this?"
He sounds more wrecked than angry, but Steve can feel the edge underneath. If he had enough energy, he'd be rolling his eyes at Eddie's tone.
But he doesn't. Instead, he blinks at the ceiling, not looking at Eddie's desperate eyes. "Tell you what? That I was tired?"
"Don't do that." Eddie leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Don't make it sound small."
Steve scoffs. Fucking unbelievable.
Eddie always hated uncomfortable conversations, almost as much as he loved to preach "talking it out."
"What do you want me to say? That I knew this was coming? Because I didn't. This wasn't some desperate attempt at your attention, believe it or not."
Steve can hear Eddie's jaw clench. "I didn't say it was." His voice is tight, controlled the way it gets right before he cracks. "Why didn't you go to Robin's? I would have never done what I did if- I thought you went to Robin's."
That snaps Steve's gaze to him, finally. Eddie's eyes are glassy, rimmed red. He looks like he's been crying for hours but still hasn't gotten to the part where it helps.
The anger dissipates immediately looking at him. Not because Eddie looks cute when he's getting defensive. But because Steve is exhausted, tired of walking on eggshells that carve his feet just to make Eddie's reality less painful.
"I don't want to talk about this right now. I'm tired Eddie." He shuts his eyes again, hoping to get lost in a smoky scent and past memories.
Eddie scoffs absurdly loud.
Jesus Christ, this man is so dramatic.
"This is exactly the problem Steve. You just- you keep shit from me and then it blows up in our faces like this." He pauses, like he expects Steve to say something. "What I did was wrong, I know it was fucked. I'll regret it forever, I don't know what I was thinking- No, I wasn't thinking. And I'm sorry. So sorry, Stevie. I love you so much and what I did was unforgivable, I know. But you need to talk to me about shit like this. So it doesn't end up like this. So it doesn't touch June."
Eddie's still talking, voice trembling somewhere between pleading and lecturing, and it just- snaps. Something inside Steve snaps.
"I was embarrassed, Eddie!"
It bursts out before he even knows it's coming. "Do you not get that? I was fucking embarrassed. You told me to leave—my own house—and I did. What was I supposed to do, huh? Go to Robin’s? Go knock on her door like, 'Hey, can I crash on your couch because my alpha thinks I'm unstable?'"
He laughs once, sharp and bitchy. "So, yeah. I know it's selfish and immature, but I was embarrassed, OK? About all of it, every single day I had to pop one of those fucking pills."
Eddie's hands twitch, useless on his knees. "You should have told me Steve. I-"
"When? During the rare dinners you spend with us, where you're too tired to even speak? Or maybe when you're passed out on the couch with your shoes still on?"
Steve's voice keeps climbing. He wants to cry. "I- We don't have time to talk. I don't have time to sit you down and tell you all the shit that's been happening with my body while tiptoeing around all the gross details so you don't feel like you failed."
Eddie flinches like he's been slapped. "That's not fair. How was I supposed to know any of this was happening? You know I would never let you hurt like this. The doctor had to tell me all this shit- If you had just told me, I would have been there. You know I would."
He says it with such certainty it's almost comical. It almost convinces Steve he's the crazy one. Almost.
Steve exhales, eyes dragging open again. He’s pissed. Pissed that Eddie’s still fucking talking. Pissed that he’s lying in a hospital bed tonight—today?—while the world rearranges itself around his collapse. Pissed that there’s a migraine building behind his eyes and he doesn’t have his meds.
"Because you were just supposed to notice," he says finally, too tired to fight. "I dunno' Eddie. You were just supposed to feel it."
The words hang there—flat, final, a little pathetic. He isn’t even sure he meant them to sound cruel; they just came out that way.
For a long moment, Eddie doesn't say anything. The silence stretches, thick enough to make Steve’s stomach twist, because he’s bracing for the next wave—the argument, the defense, the something.
But it doesn’t come.
Instead, Eddie exhales. It's shaky. Small. Nothing like how he's supposed to sound. When Steve risks a glance, Eddie's staring at the floor, hands clasped tight between his knees in a way that looks painful.
Steve wants to be seventeen again—wants to sit on Eddie’s bed after their first kiss, holding those same hands.
Eddie opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, the door swings open.
A woman in a white coat steps inside. There are dark circles under her eyes and an exhausted set to her jaw, but she still looks put together—composed in the way only someone who’s used to chaos can be.
"Mr. Munson," she nods to Eddie.
Guess everyone got acquainted while I was out.
"Steve. My name is Dr. Khanna. I'm glad to see you're awake. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got hit by a bus," Steve says. It's not his best, but forgive him if his brain can't think of any witty one-liners.
Dr. Khanna stills gives him a small chuckle, checking something on the tablet in her hand. "That’s actually one of the better answers I’ve gotten this week."
Eddie's still next to him, not looking at the doctor nor Steve. Like there's something both of them know and they're not telling Steve.
Dr. Khanna steps closer to the bed, eyes scanning the monitors before glancing back at him. "Do you remember what happened before you got here?"
Steve hesitates. He remembers everything—the cold, the pills, Eddie’s voice echoing in his head—but he just nods. "Enough of it."
"That’s fine," she says softly. "Your vitals have stabilized. You were severely hypothermic when you came in, but your body’s responding well to treatment." Her tone is factual, but not cold. She makes notes on her tablet, the quiet tap of the stylus filling the pause. "You’re also dehydrated and your body is exhausted, which is likely what triggered your collapse."
Eddie makes a small sound in his throat, almost a flinch. Dr. Khanna doesn’t look at him, but Steve can feel her awareness of it, like she’s cataloguing everything in the room.
"I’d like to run a few quick tests, if that’s alright?" she says.
"Sure." Steve nods, watching as she checks his pupils, adjusts the IV line, and presses a stethoscope to his chest. Her hands are steady, gentle. She moves with the kind of calm efficiency that makes Steve trust her immediately.
"Deep breath in," she says. He obeys. The hospital air tastes sterile and too cold, but it’s air, and that’s enough.
"Good," she murmurs. "And again."
When she pulls back, she gives him a small, tired smile. "You’re doing well. We’ll need to monitor you for another day or so, but I’m optimistic."
Eddie exhales a breath that sounds like it’s been trapped in his lungs for a week. "Thank you," he says, voice low.
Dr. Khanna nods once, eyes flicking between them. "You’re welcome. I can tell this has been a lot for both of you."
Steve doesn’t answer. He’s too busy trying not to read into that.
There’s a brief silence, heavy but not uncomfortable, before Dr. Khanna closes the tablet and looks at Eddie. "If you don’t mind, Mr. Munson, I’d like a few minutes alone with Steve. It’s just standard procedure after a patient regains consciousness."
Eddie blinks, confused, like the words don’t compute. "Oh—uh. Yeah. Sure." He glances at Steve, searching for permission.
"It’s fine," Steve says quickly. "Go get a coffee or something."
Eddie hesitates another beat before standing, joints popping, exhaustion written in every movement. He gives Steve one last look—worried, reluctant—and then slips out of the room.
The door clicks shut behind him.
Dr. Khanna exhales, quiet and deliberate, like she’s resetting the air in the room. Then she drags the plastic chair closer to the bed and sits, tablet balanced on her knee.
When she looks up at him again, her tone has changed—softer now, but more pointed. "Alright, Steve," she says. "Now that it’s just us, I need to ask you a few questions."
-
Steve had been scared of Eddie when they first met.
Not because he thought Eddie would hurt him, but because Eddie felt like standing too close to a bonfire—loud, alive, and impossible to ignore.
They'd gone to school together for years before they ever spoke. Eddie was angry back then, all sharp corners and noise, swinging at the world before it could swing at him. Steve remembers watching him in the hallway—all leather and laughter, always too much.
His kind of hurt was foreign to Steve. Steve’s unhappiness was quiet, something that simmered inward instead of spilling out. Eddie wielded his pain like a knife. So yeah, Steve had been scared then.
Eddie was taller, stronger, louder—everything an alpha was supposed to be. But even in those early days, when his temper was quicker and his pride sharper, Steve had known the difference between danger and defense. Eddie fought the world, not him. Never him.
He'd proven that a hundred times over since.
Eddie was big, loud, and hurt. But never cruel. Never toward Steve. Even when they fought, Eddie’s voice would crack before it ever sharpened. He’d back off, breathing hard, running a hand through his hair until he could meet Steve’s eyes again.
He trusts Eddie with all his five senses and in every moment the universe lets him settle in a moment of calm.
That's what makes this moment feel so strange, sitting here while a stranger in a white coat looks at him like he’s fragile glass. He’s not scared of Eddie. Not even close. But he can already feel the question coming.
"Steve?"
Dr. Khanna's gentle voice cuts through the haze of memory, soft but deliberate.
He blinks, refocusing on the sterile white of the room. The beeping of the monitor steadies him, pulls him back. "Yeah," he says, voice low. "Sorry. Zoned out."
"That’s alright." She adjusts the tablet on her lap, folding her hands over it. "These next questions are standard procedure. I ask them of all my patients who come in under these conditions. There are no right or wrong answers, and you can tell me if you’d rather not say."
Steve nods. "Okay."
"Good." She gives him a small smile, tired but kind. "Do you feel safe at home, Steve?"
Steve almost laughs, but he thinks better of it, knows she's just doing her job.
"Yeah," he says immediately. "Yeah, I do."
He couldn't think of a universe where he didn't.
She studies him for a moment, not writing anything down. "And your partner—Eddie—does he ever make you feel unsafe? Physically or otherwise?"
"No," he says quickly, sharper than he means to. "We're not like that."
Dr. Khanna tilts her head slightly. "Like what?"
"Like..." He trails off, trying to search for a word that doesn't sound defensive. "I know how all of this looks. How we look. But it was just a bad night, that's all. He would never hurt me."
Her expression softens a little, but she doesn’t look away. "That’s good to hear. You’d be surprised how often people say the same thing right before telling me otherwise."
"I'm sure. But that's not us."
She taps her pen lightly against the tablet, then continues, voice steady. "Have there been any recent arguments that made you feel unsafe or unwanted in your home?"
Steve hesitates. He can still hear Eddie’s voice from last night, can still feel the words that sent him out into the cold. Leave, just for the night.
But she’s watching him with that gentle, clinical concern, and the truth feels like too much to hand her. Too messy. Too easily misunderstood.
"No," he replies eventually. "We fought. We both said stupid things. But that's all it was."
She nods once, slowly. "You’re sure?"
"Positive."
From there, the questions get repetitive, but less accusatory. Soon, Steve doesn't feel like he's defending his relationship.
Eventually, Dr. Khanna looks satisfied.
She straightens in her chair, smoothing a hand over her coat. "Alright," she says, gentler now. "Thank you for being patient with me. I know these aren’t easy questions."
Steve just nods, tired.
She glances at her tablet again. "I want to make sure you understand what’s happening with your body," she continues. "The collapse wasn’t only from the cold or the medication. Your system’s been under strain for a long time—stress, exhaustion, suppression imbalance. It’s what we call a mild rejection response."
Steve’s mouth goes dry. The term sits heavy even though he already knows it, or at least guesses.
Dr. Khanna goes on, matter-of-fact but kind. "It’s common in bonded pairs when an omega’s physical and emotional needs have been neglected for a while. It doesn’t mean anyone did something intentional—it just means your body started to shut down before you could."
He swallows, eyes fixed on the blanket. "Right," he murmurs. "That tracks."
"I’ll give you and your partner more details after I run a few more tests," she says, standing. "For now, rest, eat what we bring you, and don’t try to prove you’re fine. Healing takes more than being awake."
Steve lets out something between a laugh and a sigh. "I’ll try."
"I’m counting that as a promise." She smiles, then adds, almost softly, "You’re lucky it was caught in time."
Caught. More like imploded.
And then she's gone and Steve is left in the exhale before the storm again.
The silence presses in. Without her voice filling the space, the implications behind every question start to sink in.
Do you feel safe at home?
Does he make you feel afraid?
It's absurd. He knows Eddie would be disgusted by the questions, insulted by the insinuation.
Steve knows what she saw: a tired omega, hooked up to wires, an anxious alpha hovering close by. She saw data, not context. She didn't see all the years that came before, the softness, the laughter, the thousand small ways Eddie tried.
But now that the questions have been asked, they hum in his head like static.
He drags a hand over his face, throat tight. Maybe he's not ready to forgive. Maybe forgiveness isn't even the point right now.
But for the first time, the thought of Eddie walking in and pulling him into his arms doesn’t make him feel safe. It just makes him tired.
-
The door opens again a minute later, and Steve doesn't have to look up to know it's Eddie. His scent hits first—sharper now, frayed at the edges with nerves and caffeine.
"She done interrogating you?" Eddie asks quietly. He's trying for lightness, but it comes out clunky in the context.
Steve hums, eyes still on the blanket. "Guess so. I passed the test."
Eddie lets out a shaky breath that's almost a laugh. "Good. I was about to storm back in here if she kept you any longer."
"She'd probably arrest you"
"Yeah. She really hates me." Eddie drags the chair back to the bedside, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees.
For a moment, neither of them speaks. June is really good to have around during moments like these, too young to feel uneased by the silence. Steve wishes she were here. Or maybe that he was with her.
"So you heard about all the rejection sickness stuff," Eddie says eventually. "Guess I didn't help with that."
Steve doesn't say anything to that. Wouldn't know what to say, either.
"I should've noticed," Eddie says finally. "You were right about that. I should've seen it-"
"Eddie." Steve cuts him off gently, or he thinks so at least. He's feeling tired again, his senses dwindling away. "I can't do this right now."
Eddie blinks, like he hadn't expected that answer. "Okay," he says, too fast. "Okay."
He leans back in the chair, rubbing his palms together like he’s cold. The room smells like antiseptic and a thousand memories.
Steve doesn't look at him, knows his body would betray him if he did. "She said I should rest," he mutters.
"Yeah. You should." Eddie shifts like he wants to reach out, then thinks better of it. "I'll, uh- I'll stay. If that's alright."
"What about work?"
It comes out before he can even stop it. He didn't even mean it like that, didn't mean to twist the knife deeper.
Eddie flinches, just barely. "Work can wait," he says, too quickly.
Steve hums, noncommittal. He didn’t mean it as an accusation, but the air shifts anyway—something brittle cracking under the weight of everything they’re not saying.
"I don’t want you to feel like you have to stay," Steve adds after a beat, voice low. "You’ve got enough going on."
"I want to stay," Eddie says, almost incredulous, like because of tonight Steve's supposed to automatically believe the thing that separated them for months has just disappeared in Eddie's mind. "If that’s still okay."
Steve lets the silence stretch before answering. "Yeah. It’s fine."
Steve keeps his eyes closed, pretending to drift off, but sleep doesn’t come. He can feel Eddie’s presence like static at the edge of his senses—familiar, grounding, and somehow unbearable all at once.
He doesn’t know what to do with that.
He hopes Eddie understands the gravity of all of this. But even for Steve, the thought of all the work they have to do is draining.
He hopes Eddie remembers everything. Remembers when Steve went into labor and they held each other in a room similar to this one. Remembers when their daughter cut three thin lines on her pointer. Remembers when Steve was invited out for drinks but he stayed on their lumpy couch instead.
For a moment, the room is still, and Steve can feel himself drifting again. Smell, sight, feel, taste, touch all slowly fading.
Then the door slams open.
And he can feel her before she even says anything. But, of course, she has to say something:
"Jesus fucking Christ."