The safehouse felt smaller after the Protocol's message hung in the air like smoke.
Synchronization Required
Steve stared at the holo-projection until the words blurred, then forced himself to look away. Jax killed the display with a quick tap; the red glow faded, leaving only the warm yellow bulbs and the soft patter of rain against the Faraday mesh outside.
Robin broke the tension first, practical as ever.
"So. Two Prime Anchors. One Protocol. And presumably a ticking clock before Arasaka turns us into corporate sushi. What's the play?"
Eddie leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, the faint glow of his circuit tattoos pulsing in time with his heartbeat—or maybe that was just Steve's imagination.
"Short term? We don't jack in. Not yet. The moment we sync, every corp sensor in the city lights up like Christmas. We need a clean rig, isolated net, and a decoy signal to mask the handshake."
Jax nodded slowly.
"I can build the isolation cage. Got most of the parts in my pack. But it'll take hours. Maybe a full day."
Robin glanced at the cot in the corner.
"Then we hunker down. Rest. Eat something that isn't caffeine and spite."
Steve finally moved—crossing to the small fridge Eddie had jury-rigged under the counter. Inside: a few sealed protein packs, bottled water, and—miraculously—a six-pack of the same cheap beer they used to drink after shifts at Scoops Ahoy.
He pulled two out without asking, cracked one, and passed the other to Eddie.
Eddie took it, their fingers brushing again. This time neither pulled away immediately.
"Old habits," Eddie murmured.
Steve met his eyes.
"Some die harder than others."
Robin rolled her eyes but didn't comment. She turned to Jax instead.
"Come on, kid. Let's see what you've got in that deck. I'll help you sort parts."
Jax looked relieved to have something to do. They moved to the workbench, heads bent over scattered components, voices low as they discussed bandwidth filters and signal dampeners.
That left Steve and Eddie alone by the kitchenette.
Eddie took a long pull from the beer, throat working.
"You gonna keep staring holes through me, or we gonna talk?"
Steve set his own bottle down untouched.
"I carried you out of that trailer. Felt your heart stop. Buried what was left."
Eddie's expression softened—just a flicker—before the mask slipped back.
"I know."
"You didn't trust me enough to tell me you were alive."
"Didn't trust anyone enough." Eddie's voice was quiet. "Including myself. The chrome… it changes things. Rewrites how you feel pain, how you remember. For a while I wasn't sure which memories were mine and which were just leftover code trying to keep me compliant."
Steve exhaled slowly.
"And now?"
"Now I remember everything." Eddie stepped closer—close enough that Steve could smell rain on his jacket, motor oil, and something faintly metallic under it all. "Including how you looked at me that night in the Upside Down. Like you were pissed I was dying on you."
Steve's jaw tightened.
"I was."
Eddie studied him—eyes tracing the silver at Steve's temples, the faint scar along his jaw from a demodog swipe that never quite healed right.
"You got old, Harrington."
"You didn't."
A small, crooked smile.
"Perks of dying young and getting rebooted."
Silence stretched again, heavier this time. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.
Eddie reached out—slow, telegraphing the movement—and brushed a damp strand of hair off Steve's forehead. His fingertips lingered at the hairline, cool from the beer bottle but warm underneath.
Steve didn't flinch. Didn't pull back.
"You still smell the same," Eddie said softly. "Rain and expensive shampoo you pretend isn't expensive."
Steve huffed a quiet laugh—the first real one since the alley.
"Some things don't upgrade."
Eddie's hand dropped, but not far. It settled on Steve's shoulder—light, testing.
"I didn't come back expecting… anything. Just figured if the gates were gonna try one last swing, I'd be here for it."
Steve covered Eddie's hand with his own. Flesh over chrome. Warm over cool.
"And if the Protocol wants us synced?"
Eddie's thumb moved—just once—small circle against Steve's collarbone through the shirt.
"Then we sync. Carefully. No rushing. No forcing it."
Steve felt the words settle low in his gut. Not just about the System. About everything else too.
He nodded once.
"Carefully."
Eddie's eyes darkened a fraction—pupils widening in the low light.
"Good."
From the workbench, Robin's voice cut through like a knife.
"If you two are done having a moment, Jax needs a second set of eyes on this wiring. Preferably ones that aren't currently undressing each other with stares."
Eddie chuckled, low and rough. Dropped his hand.
"Duty calls."
Steve watched him walk over to the others—long strides, easy confidence. The circuit tattoos on his arms flared brighter for a second, like they were reacting to his pulse.
Steve picked up his beer again. Took a drink this time.
It tasted the same as it had in '86.
Bitter. Cold. Familiar.
He joined them at the workbench.
Hours passed in quiet work—tools clinking, low murmurs, the occasional curse when a solder joint failed. Jax explained the isolation rig in pieces: Faraday shielding layers, quantum noise generators to scramble trackers, a manual override in case the Protocol tried to force a sync.
Eddie contributed parts from hidden stashes—rare connectors, a black-market neural buffer that could slow corruption feedback.
Robin kept watch on external feeds through a tiny encrypted window Eddie had rigged into the wall mesh.
Steve mostly listened.
Helped where he could—holding wires steady, fetching tools.
But his mind kept circling back to the names side by side in glowing text.
S. Harrington | E. Munson
Synchronization Required.
Every time Eddie leaned close to point something out—shoulder brushing Steve's, breath warm against his ear—Steve felt the old pull sharpen.
Not just nostalgia.
Something hungrier.
Something that had waited thirty-eight years to breathe.
Around 3 a.m. city time, Jax yawned so hard her jaw cracked.
"Need sleep. Rig's at eighty percent. Can finish tomorrow."
Robin nodded.
"Cot's yours, kid. I'll take first watch."
Jax didn't argue. She curled up on the cot, deck cradled like a teddy bear, and was out in minutes.
Robin dimmed the lights to emergency red.
"I'll be on the couch. Wake me in four hours, Dingus."
She stretched out, eyes closing almost immediately.
That left Steve and Eddie standing by the workbench in the dim glow.
Eddie rubbed the back of his neck—old habit.
"Guess we split the floor."
Steve glanced at the empty space beside the cot.
"Or we don't."
Eddie stilled. Looked at him—really looked.
"You sure?"
Steve stepped closer. Close enough that their boots touched.
"No. But I'm tired of pretending I don't want to find out."
Eddie exhaled—shaky, almost a laugh.
"Jesus, Harrington."
He reached up—slow—and cupped the side of Steve's face. Thumb tracing the scar on his jaw.
"If we do this… it's not just tonight. Not just waiting out the heat."
Steve turned his head, pressed a kiss to Eddie's palm.
"I know."
Eddie's breath hitched.
Then he leaned in.
The kiss was soft at first—tentative, like neither trusted it to be real. Lips brushing. Testing.
Steve's hand found Eddie's waist—careful of old scars under the shirt. Eddie's fingers threaded into Steve's hair, tugging just enough to angle him deeper.
It stayed gentle. No rush. Just mouths moving slow, learning the new shape of each other after decades apart.
Eddie tasted like beer and rain and something faintly electric—chrome and life and stubborn survival.
When they parted, foreheads resting together, breaths mingling—
Eddie whispered, "Still swings first."
Steve smiled against his mouth.
"Still talks too much."
They didn't go further.
Not tonight.
Just stood there—holding on—while the city hummed outside and the Protocol waited in the dark.
Some things were worth taking slow.
**End of Chapter 4**