"You clean up nicely, Stevie"
cw: mentioned blood and gore | mafia/mob AU | steddie pre-murderhusbands relationship
big thanks to @dapandapod for beta reading and improving my poor attempt to write sth
Steve Harrington is good at his job. He's quick, he is thorough and most importantly, he doesn't ask questions.
There's nothing that could shock him anymore. He's seen everything.
Steve doesn’t mind severed limbs, gore, blood and body fluids, sometimes creatively mixed in more ways than are pleasant to imagine.
He's used to it, and cleaning it is what earns him a nice living as a crime scene cleaner.
Or just... scene cleaner maybe.
He doesn't work with the police or authorities. No, his specialty lies outside the law, which means he arrives before a mess becomes a nuisance. He cleans until there is not a speck of blood left, until there is nothing to indicate that something happened there. Was there ever a crime committed if there is no crime scene?
The money's amazing by the way. Of course cleaning the remains is a shit job but if you add the hush money on top, well, ain't that a nice bonus.
Again, Steve doesn't ask questions. He doesn't care. It's none of his business.
–
Eddie's shoes are squeaking in the puddle of blood he tried and failed to not step into.
He flips the business card around and squints at the hurried scribble of a phone number that was added right under the name "Stevie".
He trusts Chrissy's background check.
They were in a dire need of a new guy after the previous one decided to catch a bullet with his face after snooping one time too many.
Eddie looks up to the blood stained walls and ceiling and dials the number on the card.
"Hello?"
"Watergate Street 53", is all Eddie replies.
"How many?", Stevie asks.
"Uhm, five?"
"You sure? Might wanna go check again?", Stevie laughs into the phone.
Bitch.
"It's five." Eddie answers, annoyed.
There's a low whistle. "Alright, I'll be there in 20. Payment upfront. 50k."
Then the line goes dead. Eddie rolls his eyes, pockets his phone and looks around for a clean spot to sit while he waits.
–
It's exactly three hours and thirty two minutes later when Stevie empties his water bucket for the last time.
Eddie watches curiously as Stevie takes off the gloves, mask and safety glasses he arrived in. Eddie didn't mean to stick around but he's not trusting this new guy yet (he's also curious, sue him).
His gaze turns into a stare when the other man pulls down the zipper of his squeaky yellow biohazard suit, throwing back the hood and running a clean hand through his sweat soaked hair. He has a strong jaw and long, mole dotted neck that Eddie just wants to taste.
Eyes wide, Eddie’s not able to hold back the sharp intake of breath as he watches in horror the moment Stevie's eyes lock with his and -
Fuck.
Stevie's lips curl into a smirk.
Eddie is so fucked.
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"A van Dyck," Dream drawled, dragging a light finger along the gilt frame of the painting propped on the top of one of Hob's shelves. Hob really should do something more formal with that. "Interesting thing to have in your living room, Hob."
"I tell people it's a print," Hob said, coming to stand beside him and handing him his tea.
"Oh, but it is not." There was a smirk dancing on Dream's lips, Hob knew without even looking at him directly.
"Makes sense that you'd be able to tell," he sighed.
"Of course. Just how did you come across such a thing?"
"Well, I was still mingling with the aristocracy in the early 17th century. Met some interesting people." He shrugged. "Really should have sold it when I was, well, destitute, but couldn't bear to. Managed to stash it away. One of the few things I have of that time, actually."
"I can only imagine you had more than one valuable thing in your possession over the centuries," Dream mused, sipping his tea. "Why this one?"
Oh, God. He knew, didn't he?
Hob rubbed at the back of his neck. "Reminded me of you."
Hob had never known much about art, particularly back then. He hardly would consider himself a collector and certainly not a connoisseur. But that particular portrait had caught his attention immediately for its similarity to Dream.
The likeness was, indeed, striking. His hair was longer than it had been when they'd met in 1589, sweeping over his shoulders, and his features were half-draped in shadow, but his eyes. Hob would know that haughty, intense gaze anywhere.
He'd never quite discounted the idea that it was a portrait of his stranger, except that he couldn't imagine him having the patience or cause to sit for it, or the desire to be immortalized in that way.
"It is me," said Dream.
"What? Seriously?" Hob turned to stare at him and found Dream already looking back, ethereal and lovely. There was only one lamp on in the living room, night falling around them, and it cast his face in a similar light to the portrait, soft gleaming skin and plunging darkness as backdrop, limitless shadow in his eyes. "You, allowing a portrait? You're not having me on?"
"I do not joke." Dream took a step closer to him, setting his tea aside on a table. "I suppose I must have been in good humor that day."
Hob raised both eyebrows. "Oh, uh-huh, you in good humor?"
Dream's lips ticked up in a half-smile. "It happens occasionally."
Hob leaned against the shelf, careful not to jostle the painting. "For someone who so disdains the waking world, you sure are very aware of the art scene."
Dream leaned beside him, tilting his head. "You might consider me a patron of the arts."
Hob chuckled. "A patron? Or an inspiration?" He reached out and dragged his thumb along Dream's lower lip. "Dream?"
"A lover of artists, perhaps."
"I'm sure." Hob swept a hand along his cheek, breaking up the light like he was dragging a wet brush through paint. "You look like you could have stepped right out of that painting right now. You could have stepped out of any painting."
Dream looked at him from under his lashes. "Are you calling me a work of art, Hob Gadling?"
"Always."
Then Hob kissed him, hands framing his beautiful face. Dream was like an artwork, constant in essence but changing interpretation in every new light. Hob could imagine how many people over the centuries had had a fleeting encounter with him and come away changed, just as he had.
Dream hovered near him when they parted. Hob looked over to the painting again. No mere depiction could capture Dream in all of his colors, but it really was a rather good try. Van Dyck had gotten the depth of his eyes just right.
"The Baroque period suits you," Hob told him.
"Now who knows something about art?"
"I've picked up a few things over the years. I'm in love with the world's greatest artist, after all."
Dream moved in as if to kiss him, but paused to speak against Hob's mouth. "There are other works of me out in the world, if you care to seek them out."
"Don't open that challenge because I will do it," Hob informed him, quite seriously.
"I hope so." There was a sharp gleam in Dream's eyes. Hob could only imagine what kinds of paintings might inspire that look. "I look forward to seeing what you find."
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