It's Feminism And Gay Rights To Have An M/m/f Pairing Because Women Deserve To Have Two Boyfriends And

i love richie

Frank ‘ 😍 😍 😍 ’ Castle.

Winner Takes All

(Richie Jerimovich x F!Reader)

CW:  Slight angst; idiots falling in love; drunken near-encounters but nothing explicit; vulgar language because let us be honest - it's Richie.

Word Count:  2730

AN:  This was requested by the lovely @winchestershiresauce for the April Showers event!

Maybe Richie wouldn’t have said anything if you had just shut your mouth.

Maybe he would have gritted his teeth, manned the register, and dealt with the customers while you chattered away with Tina and Marcus in the back of the house.  Out front, in the bustle of the lunch hour, he could have ignored you, let your voice fade into the background.

But you don’t shut the fuck up.

You’re talking a mile a minute because you’ve met a new guy.  Some fancy asshole who works at the Merc, and Richie starts to get a headache as you talk this guy up.

“He sells weather derivatives!” he hears you say.  There’s a clatter of pots, a whosh of flames lighting on the stove.   

“What’s that mean?”  Marcus’s voice, now.

“It has something to do with insurance and risk,” you explain, and Richie can’t help but half-listen, judging how fucking stupid it sounds.  This new guy of yours deals in weather, and he makes a shit-ton of money doing it:  a condo with a lakeside view, a fancy car in the garage…

“He sounds like an asshole,” Richie scoffs from the pass-through window.

“You’d know.”  The retort is paired with you narrowing your eyes at him.

“He sounds…nice,” Tina tells you, but she pauses enough on the nice, glances at Richie long enough for him to know that she’s thinking the exact same thing he is, deep down.

This guy is going to break your heart.  Just like the last one, the tenure-track professor at Loyola.  And the one before, the electrician.  And all the others before—the bartender, the dermatologist, the trust fund laze, the NGO founder.  At some point, Mr. Weather Asshole is going to hurt you terribly, and you’ll come into the Beef in pieces that they’ll have to put back together.

Maybe Richie wouldn’t have said anything, but he fucking hates that he can see your future and you cannot.

“It’s never gonna work out,” he says.  “Guy’s gonna break up with you.”

You glare at him again.  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Bet you he will.  It always happens, and you’re too stupid to see it.”

“Bet you he won’t.”  You pause, stir the sauce you have simmering on the stove.  “He’s different than the others.”

Richie sighs because he also knows that Mr. Weather Asshole isn’t different.  He’s probably exactly the same as the others, a user who will cut loose the moment he’s done having fun with you.  It happens every time, and you have some goddamned amnesia about your own terrible love life—

“I wanna take that bet,” he tells you.  He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms, stares at you.  “Easy win for me.”

You turn and face him, mirror his body language by crossing your arms too.  “Alright.  What are we betting?  Fifty?  A hundred?”

Richie could take your money.  He knows it’s a sure thing.  Some mean part of him, though, wants to make it hurt.  He wants some awareness to finally sink into your thick skull.  He wants you to be more careful, to guard your heart closer, to stop leaving yourself open to such hurt from such awful men.

“Make it interesting.  Mr. Weather Asshole dumps you within the month, I get your Def Leppard shirt.”

Your eyes narrow to slits.  “Which one?”

“You know which one.”

The angry set of your frown tells him you know exactly which one he means.  He has no idea how it came into your possession, but you have a cherry vintage concert t-shirt from Def Leppard’s 1983 Pyromania tour.  Richie isn’t that big a guy, not much bigger than you, really, and the one time he saw you wear it, it was just a shade too big.

It will fit him perfectly.

He watches the little twitch in your jaw—you’re clenching it, your teeth grinding.  “Fine.  What do I get?”

“What do you want?”

Your face opens up, softens.  You smile and say, “okay, I want your Bruce album.”

“Which one?”

“You know which one,” you reply, mimicking his voice, which makes Tina snort and shake her head.

Richie has a rare vinyl of the Japanese pressing of Bruce Springsteen’s “Tunnel of Love.”  He can’t even remember how you found out about it, but you’ve pestered him in the past about how much it would cost you for him to part with it—

It’s a sure thing.  There’s no way Richie is going to lose this bet, so he nods.  He uncrosses his arms and holds his hand out to shake. 

It’s your hand in his, your eyes crinkled as you smile at him…it makes him feel sad all of a sudden.  You’re going to be hurt; he can see it as clearly as anything, and you can’t see it at all.

-----

Two weeks, nearly.  Twelve days, to be exact:  you march into the Beef, and Richie barely has enough time to realize it’s your day off before you toss a plastic grocery bag down on the counter in front of him.

“Here,” you spit out.  You’re already turning on your heel and leaving, and you add over your shoulder as you wrench open the door, “I don’t want to hear a word about it, asshole.”

He doesn’t need to, but he opens the bag anyway.  Inside is the concert t-shirt, neatly folded.  The spoils from him winning the bet that hinged on your broken heart.

“Ah, fuck,” he mutters.

-----

Richie knows where to find you that evening.  He helps Carmy close up, and then he makes his way to Kelly’s.

The dive bar is below street level, dark and musty.  The beer is cheap, and the jukebox is stocked with a very specific slice of alternative rock beloved by Kelly’s owner.  The vibe is grimy but safe, the perfect place for someone like you to drink away her sorrows and stumble out without too much risk.

Still…Richie likes to keep an eye on you.  Just to be safe.

Kelly’s is too small for him to hide from you, and he doesn’t bother to try.  He finds you belly up at the bar, slouched, and he takes the empty stool beside yours.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye before you turn back to your drink.

“Come to gloat? You ask.

“Nah.”

“Say ‘I told you so’?”

Richie shakes his head.  “I’m not a complete asshole.”

You sigh.  “What, then?”

He holds up a hand to flag down the bartender, and he orders another for you and one for himself.  Then he turns in his stool at looks at you.

“Wanted to make sure you’re okay,” he replies, and he hopes it rings earnest to your ears because it’s the truth.  He’s not a complete asshole but he is at least partially so, and he struggles with his delivery almost every time he tries to be nice to you…but he cares, and he wants to make sure you know it.

Whether you believe him or not, you don’t say.  You only tip him a nod in thanks for the drink, and the two of you fall into an evening together of mostly silent companionship and more than a little drinking.

-----

He wakes up fast and rough because he thinks he’s about to puke.

He sits up quick, manages to calm his roiling, sour stomach with deep breaths through his nose.  Once the danger of vomiting has passed, he looks around at the strange room.

It’s not his room:  not the one in his apartment, and not the one he shared with Tiff when they were still married.  It’s a softer space; the sheets underneath him are silkier, nicer than his own.  The room smells different too, warm and spicy like something baked with cinnamon, and it takes his hungover brain a beat to realize where he knows that smell…

…it’s your smell.  It bothers him every time he has to work with you at the Beef; it seems to seep into his clothes under the smell of the sandwiches and fry grease.  He glances down at the figure stretched out in the bed beside him and sees you.  You’re fast asleep, your face smushed into your pillow, lips parted as you breathe deep and even.

It takes his hungover brain two beats to realize that he’s naked.  No, scratch that—he’s in his boxers only, he’s shirtless, and when he studies you closer, he sees part of the reason why:  you’re in his t-shirt, the one with the typo that reads “The Berf.”

Richie scrubs a shaky hand over his stubbled face.  The evening comes back to him a little at a time.  The drinks that flowed too easily, the realization that you live only a few blocks from him.  The stumbling out together at last call, his arm around your waist as much to steady himself as to steady you.  Him walking you home, the booze hitting you hard and making you turn pathetic. 

Him turning to give you hell and seeing the pitiful way your lower lip trembled as your eyes filled with tears over Mr. Weather Asshole.  Richie getting pissed at that, wanting to say something meaningful that would lance through your alcohol-fog to make you understand that Mr. Weather Asshole wasn’t someone worth crying over—

Him failing to find the words and kissing you instead.  You kissing him back.  You kissing him back with an eagerness that surprised him, and he remembers going upstairs to your apartment with you. 

He remembers each of you stripping down to nearly nothing before it occurred to him that you weren’t in any shape to make any decisions, and he wasn’t much better off.  He remembers stopping you, taking your hands in his, slurring his words as he told you it was a bad idea.  He remembers you tearing up at that, misunderstanding him, feeling the rejection too personally. 

Maybe in some respects the alcohol was a boon, because Richie Bad News always fucks it up.  Richie Bad News always says all the wrong things.  Richie Bad News always manages to mistranslate the feelings in his heart with his stupid fucking mouth.

But Drunk Richie?  Drunk-but-Noble Richie who was able to gently turn down the opportunity to fuck you because you were too wasted to make good decisions?  That guy seemed to get it right.

He remembers telling you that you shouldn’t cry over him or Mr. Weather Asshole or any other loser who manages to disappoint and hurt you.  He remembers telling you what a catch you are, how lucky a guy would be to snag you.  He remembers telling you to be choosier, to be more wary of men, to trust them a little less and yourself a little more.

Mostly, he remembers telling you that you have the biggest heart of anyone he knows, and then he remembers saying he wishes you’d guard it closer.

He remembers how you looked at him then, how you seemed to see him through the alcohol haze.  You seemed to figure him out in that moment, seemed to piece together all your time together at the Beef, all the frustration he had with his own terrible love life that he vented over Family meals as you listened.  You seemed to understand his own hurt, how he came in each day after his own awful dates the night before, how he looked at you on the sly as if he were measuring you against those women while he also measured himself against all those terrible men you dated.

Most of all, he remembers how you reached up and laid a gentle palm against the side of his face, and how he nuzzled into your touch.  You had looked him dead in the eyes, murmured his full name like you wanted him to know you really saw him.

“Richard Jerimovich,” you had said.  “You might be an asshole, but you’re a good man.”

He remembers how you turned shy then, how you dropped your hand and your gaze, like you were suddenly aware that you were basically naked in front of him.  At your words—that he maybe he wasn’t Richie Bad News but just an asshole and a good man both—he felt surer of himself.  More certain.  He had bent down and snagged his discarded t-shirt, and he had helped you pull it over your head.

“C’mon,” he told you.  “Let’s go to sleep.”

And that was all the two of you did.  Drunk as you each were, he had kept it as above-board as he could, and you had fallen asleep snuggled against him. 

-----

Now he’s awake and nauseous.  It’s still dark outside.  A quick glance at his phone says that it’s only three in the morning, hours from dawn.  He hears what he thinks is a delivery truck rumbling past your building, but the sound is paired with a flash of blue-white lightning, and he realizes that there’s a storm rolling in.

He climbs out of your bed carefully, and he makes his way to your kitchen.  He pours a glass of water from the pitcher in your refrigerator, and he drains it in one go.  He feels his stomach calm.

Richie stands at your kitchen sink for long moments:  it’s dark outside the window there, but each bolt of lightning illuminates the view—the brick wall of the building next door, the street below.  It looks lonely outside; the sky spits rain in fits and starts.

He could leave.  Maybe he should leave now, while you’re still asleep.  He has no idea how you’ll wake up:  what if you’re angry at him, or embarrassed?  What if you wake up and remember him gently rejecting you and misunderstand it?  Because he’d happily, gratefully take you to bed under any other circumstances, but not as your rebound and not with you as drunk as you’d been…but you may not realize that.

He probably should leave, but it looks miserable outside.  The storm makes him want to return to your warm bed, so that’s what he does.

You’re still asleep.  He stands over you and looks his fill for a moment.  The flashes of lightning gild your face in its stark white light, but he thinks you look adorable.  Even with your makeup from last night smeared under your eyes and lines from your pillow etched across your cheek, Richie thinks you might be the cutest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

He crawls back under the covers and rejoins you.  He tries to be careful about it, but the shifting of the mattress makes you stir.  You grumble beside him, and a moment later you open your eyes and fix him with a bleary look.

“Richie?  What—”

“It’s fine.”  He whispers in reply.  “Still too early to get up.”

“Mmm.” 

“Go back to sleep.”

You hum again, and maybe you aren’t completely sober yet or completely awake—but he’s glad he decided to stay, because you bridge the slight distance between you and snuggle up against him again.  You press your head against his shoulder, gently headbutting him until he huffs out a laugh and lifts his arm for you to cuddle in close.  He wraps his arm around your shoulders, and you nuzzle against his bare chest before you settle.

It doesn’t take long for you to fall back asleep despite the storm picking up in intensity outside.  Richie doesn’t fall back asleep at all, but he’s comfortable, relaxed.  The rain lashes at the window of your bedroom, and thunder rumbles in the distance, but he feels cozy.

More than that, he feels hopeful.  He’s had such a shitty run of it.  The loss of Mikey, the loss of his marriage.  His ex-wife may consider him Richie Bad News, but he’s been the on the receiving end of plenty of shit too.  He’s at the lowest he’s ever been in his life, but for the first time since everything went to hell, he finally feels a bit of hope.

It started with a bet that he won, and now he’s in your bed with you snoring lightly in his arms while you wear his stupid fucking “Berf” t-shirt.

What comes next?  He has no idea, but he finally has hope that it might be something good.

Russian Into Love - Pt 1

Pairing: Alexei x fem!reader

A/n: (pls ignore the pun title, it was meant to be just a working title but I can’t think of anything better 😭) soooo this is the first part to a slow burn fake dating/marriage thing that I’ve had in my head since watching s3 of Stranger Things, I’m gonna be playing fast and loose with canon and idek if the s4 plot will be in this buuut I’m having fun writing it :)) pls feel free to comment and tell me what you think bc I personally love this and I want you all to love it too ❤️

(All Russian translations were taken directly from google translate so pls don’t attack me, attack mr google instead)

Wordcount: 2.9k

You were certain that you were going to lose your mind. It had been days since you had really looked at the sky, watched the clouds roll by like passing trains, and you were convinced that another day spent staring at the same faded floral wallpaper would be the death of you.

“Y’know, Murray, I’ve been thinking…” You began tentatively, not raising your eyes from the gossip magazine you had been pretending to read for quite some time.

“Sounds dangerous. Try not to do it again.” Murray dismissed without even looking up from the book he was wasting away his own time with. Ignoring his quip, you continued as though uninterrupted.

“I think we should go to California with Joyce and the kids.”

The idea had been playing on your mind for days, ever since you had learned that Hopper was gone. And after 4 days hiding in a motel room with Murray and the quiet Russian scientist, you were desperate for any opportunity to get out and as far away from these four walls as possible. Murray’s head snapped up from the book he was reading in the old armchair in the corner of the room, and Alexei’s eyes left the TV playing Loony Tunes to watch the conversation in interest.

“Oh? And why’s that?” Murray asked, his voice tinged with the familiar condescension that you had come to expect from him.

“Well, first off, if we have to stay in this motel much longer I think I might snap and start killing people. Secondly,” your tone softened slightly, “I’m worried about Joyce, and I think we should try to be close by.”

As Murray pondered your words, Alexei watched you both patiently while waiting for a translation. Murray knew as well as you did that with everything that had happened in the Starcourt mall and the subterranean Russian lab, Joyce had a lot to deal with right now, and while you both knew that she was capable of looking after herself, you just couldn’t stand the idea of her moving away on her own.

“As much as I may agree with you, we can’t go anywhere until Alexei’s green card situation is resolved.” Murray argued eventually.

“в чем дело?” [What’s going on?] Alexei asked, but before Murray could respond to him, you continued.

“Yeah, well, there is an easy way to deal with that. If Alexei wants to.” You said, and Murray’s head snapped up to look at you in obvious surprise.

It wasn’t the first time the idea had been brought up; Murray had mentioned marriage as a solution to Alexei’s citizenship situation on the very first day of your captivity, but it had been dismissed quickly because finding someone to marry Alexei would prove difficult, perhaps even impossible. So, Murray had moved his attention onto finding other ways to solve the problem, whereas you had been unable to stop thinking about it; it was such a simple solution, you were willing and as long as Alexei was too, you could soon see the other side of the motel room door.

“There is. Are you volunteering?” Murray asked with a cocked eyebrow.

“If it gets us out of this room, sure.” You replied, crossing your arms across your chest determinedly and trying to ignore the nervous pounding in your chest.

Murray’s gaze fixed on your face only intensified, his eyes narrowing as he regarded you closely from behind tinted glasses.

“I don’t think you’re taking this as seriously as you should be. Marriage is a big deal for most people, you know.” He explained with a frustratingly soft look on his features.

Wordlessly, you stood from your spot on the garish floral bedding and crossed the room to peer through a crack in the blinds. Both men watched you as you made a show of peering from left to right across the mostly empty car park.

“Nope, just as I thought, there’s no queue of men waiting for my hand in marriage.” You sighed dramatically and flopped back down on the bed, while Murray scoffed at your dramatics.

“Murray, что она сказала?” [Murray, what did she say?] Alexei asked again, and this time Murray answered.

“она предложила выйти за тебя замуж из-за грин-карты. и она хочет переехать в Калифорнию.” [She offered to marry you for your green card. And she wants to move to California.] He explained, and Alexei’s head spun quickly to stare at you, eyes wide behind his glasses.

“если мы поженимся, я стану гражданином США?” [If we marry, I’ll be an American citizen?] Alexei spoke, his eyes never leaving you.

You toyed anxiously with a loose thread on the bedding while Murray explained your idea to him. Alexei’s approval of this plan was the only thing coming between you and your escape from this room, so while being rejected by him wouldn’t be the biggest hit your ego had ever taken, it would mean staying here for longer. With the man that had rejected you.

“да. но вы также будете женаты на ней.” [Yes. But you’ll also be married to her.] Though you didn’t understand Murray’s words, you couldn’t miss the disdainful tone at the end and so you shot him a venomous look. Alexei looked thoughtful for a moment, still staring at you.

“это было бы не так уж плохо.” [That wouldn’t be so bad.] He said finally, and Murray let out a hearty laugh.

“What’s so funny?” You asked, jaw clenched at the sigh of Murray’s glee.

“He thinks it’s a good idea.” He stated, causing your heart to leap. It had been surprisingly easy for Murray to convince him, you thought absently. “I’m not taking you to buy a wedding dress, though.”

—————————————————

So just a few days later, after what you were sure must be the fastest, most pragmatic wedding ceremony ever held in Hawkins, you, Murray, and your new husband piled into Murray’s van with what few belongings you still had, and set off for California.

You were admittedly beginning to grow nervous about your plan; once you arrived in California, you and Alexei were moving into a small home under the half-correct guise of being a newly-wed couple moving into their first home together, while Murray had found a new base for his own work somewhere nearby. The nervous pit that bubbled in your chest had nothing to do with the prospect of living with Alexei, you had been living with him in that horrid motel room for over a week at this point and despite the close quarters, he had been a wonderful roommate. Instead, your nerves were flaring up the idea of being caught in the ruse you had agreed to live in for the forseeable future. Or at least, until Alexei met someone he wanted to really marry.

But as you watched the scientist eagerly watching the scenery go with his forehead practically pressed against the windows of the van, you felt your worries fade a little. His smile was infectious, and just existing around him was easy, as natural as breathing. Not to mention the fact that his English was improving steadily; faster than your Russian, luckily.

Just then, Alexei turned towards you and caught you staring. His face split into an ecstatic grin that you couldn’t prevent your own from mirroring.

“это так…тепло.” [It’s so…warm.] He said with a small chuckle, gesturing out of the window.

Even though you didn’t understand his words, his joy was simple and genuine, and you couldn’t stop yourself from grinning along with him. You didn’t even realise you had been staring at him until Murray coughed pointedly, drawing both of your attentions to him.

“Now, I know that this is all very exciting, but you two need to remember that to your neighbours, and friends, and coworkers, and everyone except for me and Joyce, you two are married.” Murray reminded for the hundredth time, enunciating his words with annoying precision as though you were rowdy children. He glanced past you at Alexei, and translated. “Вы должны вести себя так, как будто вы на самом деле женаты. Понять?” [You have to act like you’re actually married. Understand?]

With a glance in your direction, Alexei nodded. Murray turned his gaze on you, one eyebrow raised in that universally understood question: well? You huffed, avoiding his gaze.

“Yeah, sure. Are you gonna give me strict instructions on how to do that? A list of my wifely duties or something?” You questioned snarkily, and Murray tutted in response.

“No, actually, I thought maybe California might melt that icy heart of yours and you can figure out how to be affectionate on your own.” Ignoring your indignant noise, he continued. “Look, I’m not asking you to consummate this faux marriage, just try not to act like our comrade here repulses you too much.” He explained firmly.

“He doesn’t repulse me.” You replied entirely too quickly. Embarrassed heat flared in your cheeks and you ducked your head in the hopes that Murray would not notice; the chuckle he let out told you that he did notice.

When the van finally pulled into the driveway of your new home, set against the late afternoon sky, you hopped out of the back of the van excitedly. It was a relatively small two-story house, with houses on either side that looked like the epitome of suburbia; beige buildings with pristine gardens, even complete with a white picket fence. The mundanity made you want to retch, but instead you focused on your own home and allowed yourself to pretend for a moment that it was real, that it could ever be real for you.

Suddenly, a large hand was in yours, and it raised your hand to Alexei’s lips for him to press a kiss to the back. You stared at him in utter confusion for a second, before he nodded surreptitiously behind him, in the direction of a neighbours house.

In a window at the front of that house, you could see a tanned, blonde woman peering through her curtains, watching your arrival as subtly as she could. Sending her a friendly wave and a smile that you hoped looked genuine, you scoffed lightly.

“Nosy neighbours. Fantastic.” You murmured, mostly to yourself. Alexei watched you with a faint smile, before pulling you eagerly towards your new home.

Together, though no longer holding hands, you explored the house; Alexei was simply delighted by the small pool in the backyard, and you were pleased to find the kitchen already equipped with a fridge and oven. Then you ventured up the stairs and found four doors, behind which were a linen closet, a hideously beige tiled bathroom, and thankfully, two bedrooms, both already furnished with basic double beds.

You glanced at Alexei and he met your gaze with a half smirk, both of you seemingly grateful to not have to share a bed in order to protect your newly-wed image. He entered one of the rooms wordlessly and you entered the other, one with a window overlooking the back yard, and dropped your backpack on the floor at the foot of the bed. You couldn’t help the sigh of relief that slipped past your lips; all things considered, the house was nice. Murray had really showed you some mercy with the two bedrooms, too. You had almost been expecting him to make this as uncomfortable as possible, just to spite you for being a constant thorn in his side.

“Alright, lovebirds, I’m leaving!” Murray called up the stairs, and you stepped out onto the landing to see him standing at the bottom of the staircase.

“Wait, we don’t have any groceries and I’m starving, you’re leaving me here without food on my wedding night?” You asked in faux incredulity, to which Murray rolled his eyes.

“There’s a flyer for a pizza place by the front door, will that be adequate for the blushing bride?” He asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” You waved off his snide comment with a dismissive scoff. “You’re coming back tomorrow though, right?”

“Yes, I’m coming back tomorrow to take you and loverboy to buy a car. Hopefully, that’ll stop you from bugging me to take you places.” Murray replied with another roll of his eyes.

Before you could respond with a quip of your own, Alexei stepped out of his bedroom and onto the landing beside you. He and Murray exchanged words in quick fire Russian, before Alexei nodded, and brushed past you with a gentle smile into the bathroom.

“I just told your dearly beloved to be ready to go at 10am tomorrow. You’d better not make me wait.” Murray explained, waving a finger at you as though you were a naughty child.

“Would I do that?” You asked as innocently as you could, fighting back a smile as Murray began to walk away.

“You would and you have, repeatedly. Don’t make me leave you behind.” His final warning, only intended half jokingly, rang out as the sound of the front door closing signalled Murray’s departure.

Breathing out a slight chuckle, you tried to ignore the ache in your chest that already missed Murray and his quick wit; although you had always argued with him and seemingly done everything within your power to irritate him, you and he both knew that it was all in good fun. After years spent alone, you both had found verbal sparring partners within each other, and the few short years you had lived with him had been the happiest that you could remember.

You remained in place on the landing, absorbed in your thoughts, until the sound of running water reminded you of Alexei’s presence in the bathroom. The realisation that he was there, just on the other side of the dark wooden door beside you, and presumably about to shower, sent a cold jolt though your veins and before you could think about it you were darting away from the bathroom door and bolting down the stairs as quickly as you could.

Since your living room was totally devoid of furniture, you elected to sit outside in the back yard beneath the late afternoon sun as it slowly dipped towards the horizon. Lying on your back on the warm ground, you kicked off your shoes and allowed your feet to dangle in the pool, relishing in the coolness of the water around your ankles as you gently kicked your feet. With your eyes closed, you allowed yourself a single moment of peace and serenity before what you were certain would be a busy week, with your new house to be fully stocked and decorated.

The only thing that signalled Alexei’s arrival by your side was the shadow that he cast over your face, the sudden darkness prompting your eyes to open. He stood, towering above you, with damp curls and that same cheery smile across his face.

For an evil genius Russian scientist, he sure does look friendly, you found yourself thinking.

“Hi,” You said, peering up at him as a smile began to unfurl across your own face.

“Hello.” He said, his accent distorting the word slightly.

Carefully, he lowered himself to sit on the ground beside you, his own feet dangling in the pool beside yours. For a moment he was silent, and you attempted to settle back into the peaceful moment you had found just before, until you were again disrupted by a gentle prod to your cheek.

You opened your eyes to see Alexei, now propped up on an elbow so that he was almost lying beside you, holding a flyer in front of your face. After some squinting, you recognised it as the pizza place flyer Murray had mentioned, for a place called Surfer Boy Pizza.

“You’re hungry?” You asked, tilting your head up towards him. He nodded.

“Da.”

“Alright,” you replied, happy with the simple exchange, and unfolded the flyer to read the menu, “let’s order something then.”

As you were reading through the topping options, Alexei leaned further down over you to point a finger at one of the pictures on the flyer, a picture of a fresh, greasy, pepperoni pizza.

“Say?” He said, looking down at you intently.

As you looked back up at Alexei, his face was cast in shadow from the late afternoon sun behind him, making his features difficult to make out clearly, but you were fairly certain that he was staring intently at your lips. You froze, fixed in place by his watchful gaze. The whole world seemed to stand still for a long moment before you regained the ability to speak.

“P-pizza?” The word came out as a question, and heat flared in your cheeks as he grinned.

“Pizza.” He repeated.

Oh. The pronunciation.

“Y-yeah, pizza.” You repeated, breathing a slight sigh of relief when he finally turned his attention away from you again. “Um. Okay.”

You rose shakily to your feet, the flyer trembling in your grip.

“I-I’m gonna, uh, just, um, go? Inside? And…order pizza? Yeah, um…okay.” And with that, you darted back into the house without a glance back at the man sitting, looking very confused, at the edge of the pool.

The cool indoor air did nothing to soothe the burning in your cheeks after your unbelievably awkward exit, though it was a relief to no longer have Alexei staring at you. The memory of his attention focused so intently on you made you want to curl up in a ball; it had been as though he was the first person to ever truly look at you, and it had made you feel vulnerable in a way you hadn’t in a long time, not even with Murray.

Before you could allow your thoughts to delve too far into what that could mean, you snatched the phone from the receiver and punched in the number with more force than strictly necessary.

i wanna write for richie but i want to test out the waters and actually make sure people like what i write for him because i do have a work in progress for him at the moment...

besides the occasional game of uno, you did not play cards much. every single time someone tried to explain a card game to you, your mind went blank and you found it hard to follow along. and if there was another thing that was to be known about you, you could be a people pleaser at times. in part, it's the reason you're out in the back of the restaurant sitting on a milk crate. richie's right across from you, shuffling the deck of cards that he sneaks into his suit pocket for occasions like this.

this has become a ritual between the two of you. every thursday after closing, he calls over to you and mouths a "you down?". your response is always a big smile, which you didn't even think you could muster because of how late it always is. he grabs three milk crates. two serving as a seats for you and him, and one as your playing table. to thank him for always setting a seat for you, you bring two glasses of water out to the back.

it started on a particular thursday morning. richie strolls into the kitchen looking as giddy as you've ever seen him. he's waving around a box of bicycle brand playing cards and bragging about how eva won them in some sort of gift basket from school and she didn't want them.

"kid doesn't know what she's missing out on," he looks to ebra, who just clocked in for the day. "sometimes all i needed was a deck of cards. a good game of solitaire, rummy, even poker. won my first pack of smokes at fifteen from a game of spit."

"spit?" you looked back to the two men. you didn't even realize you spoke what you were thinking out loud. you catch richie's attention, and he lightly scoffs.

"you've never heard of spit?" it almost sounds like an insult coming from him.

"never even played. i'm not good with card games," you explained, smoothing out the small little wrinkles in your dress shirt. you had tried getting them out of your waitressing uniform the night before, but had no such luck.

"you know what? what about a quick game before we open? i promise i know this game like the back of my hand, i'll tech you in no time," he sounds so sure, like he could shuffle and deal the right amount of cards in his sleep. as you're about to respond, carmy busts out from the walk-in, yelling about how there's only twenty minutes to open and everyone should start prepping their stations. he motioned to you and richie,

"you two, get out front. and no card games!" he shouted, and you both mutter out a "yes chef".

"come find me after closing, i'm gonna school your ass," he whispered as he held the door open for you.

and that's how you're here, week after week without fail. you feel a bit bad because you haven't necessarily gotten the hang of the game yet, and you don't want richie thinking you're not enjoying yourself. just being in his presence, having him acknowledge you and take the time to really teach you how to play, it warms your heart. it makes you feel a way that you want to say is strictly platonic. you feel there might be something there for you two, but you just chalk that up to you being delusional.

you're so close to the end of your game. this is probably your fifth or sixth round, you seriously lose count every single time you two play. richie has three cards left and you only have two. you don't have high hopes because there's been times you've been left with one card and richie won regardless. you've only won two games, and you didn't really win them. richie just made you win, and that made you feel a certain way too.

you stare at his cards. he has one queen of hearts, a two of hearts, and an eight of diamonds. you have an ace of spades and a two of clubs. you could win, if the next card drawn made you lucky enough. richie looks to you, eyebrow raising and hovering his hand over the deck placed to his right.

"come on, hit me, richie!" you both laugh as he turns over the next card, revealing an ace of hearts. richie lets out an "ooh" as he placed down his two of hearts. that's all he can do, and you realize this is truly the game where you finally get your first real win. you start to laugh to yourself as you place down your final cards and leave richie stunned.

"holy shit," he blurted out, double-checking the cards you placed down to make sure there wasn't some kind of mistake. you hated the way it made you giggle, it made you feel like a little girl.

"you didn't make me win this time, did you?" you accuse him, making him hold his hands up in defense.

"i had nothing to do with this, sweetheart. did this shit all on your own," he chuckled and collected the cards and gave them one more shuffle. you never let him know, but you love it when he calls you that. you wish he would only call you that, but you know it's a term of endearment he uses on everyone. sugar, sydney, and even carmy (that only happens when they're yelling at each other in the back). you wonder if one day he could call you something else, a nickname he had just for you.

"now that you've gotten your actual first win, maybe we can try another game. i'm thinking blackjack next, but the cards are in your favor," he cringes at his own joke but you do find some humor in it.

"what about poker? it's a card game everyone knows about, i just don't know how to play it," you look at him and he nods.

"we can do that. i don't play it much anymore. i think last time i played was when me and mikey tried impressing this girl. she turned it into a game of strip poker, though," he explained, packing the cards back into their box.

"well, i wouldn't mind doing that," you don't know what came over you, really. your eyes widened by your own comment, you hope he thought you were just referring to poker itself, not strip poker.

"then we better move it somewhere inside, then. your place or mine?" he winks at you and you know you have him right where you want him.

a/n: please i hope this reaches the right people & my richie girls are able to enjoy this :) if anyone is interested in the richie fic i have completed like 25% of, let me know!

I want to point out that in this scene (after they say “Our Mother of Victory, pray for us) Richie is crossing himself the Eastern Orthodox way as opposed to the Catholic way—right shoulder to left shoulder instead of left to right. Ebon’s mentioned in a couple different interviews that Richie is Ukrainian, and the Ukraine is primarily Eastern Orthodox. Here’s a quote from an interview he did with The Guardian (after mentioning that he was baking rye bread lol):

sydney and richie dancing together in 3x10

we all got that functionality suicidal homie who’s favorite website is Last. FM

Once Upon A Time - 2.05 The Doctor