Night Vale ▷ Steve Harrington

xi. jane doe

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Steve defended. Odd enough, since Scout wasn’t really accusing him of anything to begin with. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in here. Has that smell always been in here?” 

“It’s a library, Steve. Old book smell has always been here.” Part of him was tempted to ask how he didn’t smell it last time he was supposedly in here. As they made their way between the shelves, looking for somewhere to sit, Scout ran his fingers on the spines of thick volumes adorned by inches of dust that rubbed off on his skin. When he rubbed his fingers together, the dust disintegrated between his fingertips, coming apart and falling to the floor like snow. 

“There,” Steve announced suddenly, earning them a chorus of shushing from at least three different directions. “Jeez,” he muttered under his breath, “I wasn’t even that loud!” 

“You still kind of are,” Scout pointed out, nodding at the patrons glaring at them from the scattered tables the place had to offer. The attention has given him goosebumps, small prickles up and down his skin that he wants to rub with his hand, but settles for flexing it at his side instead. He eliminates the distance between them in the blink of an eye, taking two strides and entering the room where Steve was holding the door open, looking everywhere but at him. 

“So what are we looking for?” Steve asked. He let the door swing to a close behind him, where the gap between door and frame narrowed like a hallowed breath until there was nothing in between. His words were accompanied by a sly smile, as if studying was the one thing he could not wait to do — as if their conversation, albeit one-sided, had never happened. There was something about the Harrington boy in this moment; something Scout was not yet seeing, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

“Anything about Mr. Macaulay, I guess,” Scout answered, dividing the slim stack of manila cards he’d managed to snag when the librarian had been busy scolding Steve for being too loud. There wasn’t much, just enough to fit in one hand and wrap his fingers around it. But it was enough, and so the blond eyed the difference as best he could and set down Steve’s on the edge of the table, expecting him to at least pick it up. To his surprise — and partial annoyance — he did not. 

Instead, his attention was preoccupied by the two microfiche readers that stood in all their aging glory upon the box-like desk, running a finger along the top of the machine and scoffing at the thin layer of dust it collected. “When’s the last time anyone’s even used these things?” 

Scout was in no mood to give a straight answer. “We’re about to use them right now,” he said shortly, collapsing in the chair opposite one of the devices. Even before he could look up, however, the blond could practically feel Steve’s raised eyebrow. “They’re not that hard to use,” Scout commented in lieu of an explanation — although it truly wasn’t that hard to figure out. “I had to use them in middle school for a project. The animal environment one, remember?” 

“Oh yeah,” replied Steve, but Scout could tell he really doesn’t remember at all, nor cares, probably. “I honestly can’t remember the last time I’ve done a school project,” he admitted, “Whenever it’s a group one I never do any of the work. One time I paid this kid to do it for me ‘cause I didn’t have time.” 

Not taking his eyes off the screen, Scout guessed, “Partying, right?” 

To his surprise, the boy shook his head, suddenly too quiet for his liking. He sat as if defeatedly, thoughts stirring but no words to accompany them, merely staring at his hands before he found his voice again. “No,” he corrects, now perfectly abiding by the library’s inside voices rule. But other than that one word answer, he offers nothing else; suddenly devoid of words and voice, he turned to the reader in front of him and began to fiddle with its components — no explanation, no nothing.