Author's Note: This took me longer than expected to get up here… whoops. I apologize immensely for that. But, it wasn't more than a month, so yay! I think? C:

In addition, I don't believe that Steve was ever given a birthday, so I just made one up off the top of my head. If I'm incorrect and he does have a birthday, please feel free to tell me. C:

Review response time~

-Loki's Little Sister: AH! That's awesome! Thank you so much, and I promise I'll try to be better about updating!

-The Vampaneze Alchemist: I promise I'll try to be better about updating, thank you so much for bearing with me! And a big big BIG thank you for directing your sister to me :DD

"—And I just have to face the fact that my baby boy is not coming back any time soon."

Steve froze in his tracks when he heard the voice, so familiar, so haunting. He whipped his head around to face it, only to find that the scratchy falsetto had come from a display of television sets. His mother was being featured on some talk show, selling herself to the nation with her false tears. Every once in a while her eyes would meet with the host's in a fashion that Steve remembered well— it was the same look she and her various boyfriends had shared whenever he'd been around, the one that meant that whichever man met her gaze was well on his way to becoming the newest addition to her long line of affairs.

"Repulsive." Steve muttered the insult under his breath, forcing himself to return his attention to the television when he saw that it was his mother's turn to speak again.

"I know he's a psychopath. He has such deep-rooted issues, and I just…" His mother trailed off, shaking her head and taking a moment to compose herself before going on. "I'm sorry. I feel like I failed him, in a way. I know it's not my fault, that he has a severe need for mental help, but I just... I can't help but think that maybe I could have done something."

Actually, you're right, asshole. An uncontrollable scowl overcame Steve's face as his mother played the role of victim perfectly, her performance so convincing that it almost fooled Steve. She'd had plenty of practice pretending to care over the past few months. You could've done something. You could've been a fucking mother instead of a whore.

"Well, I assure you— this is in no way your fault." The host reached over and placed his hand on top of Ms. Leonard's. A predatory smirk played on the corner of her lips for a brief moment before reverting to its previous state of false sadness, the only crack in her act thus far. Steve couldn't help but wonder how many viewers had noticed it, if any, and out of those few which would know the meaning behind it. He wondered if anybody could see through her, or if he was the only one who knew what she really was. "Your son has deep psychological issues, and nobody could have ever predicted that they would show in this manner. I am deeply sorry for your loss, and for the losses of all of Mr. Leonard's victims."

Nobody could have predicted it? Steve's aggravation expanded to include both his mother and the show host, who so clearly bought every lie that she'd been spewing. Bullshit. Absolute bullshit. His fingers dug into his palm, drawing blood. My mother has been telling me since I was a child that I was psychotic– I just got sick of trying to prove her wrong.

Steve finally got fed up with his mother's bullshit performance and turned away from the television, pulling his nails out from his skin and wiping the blood on his pants. Anger simmered inside of him, turning his stomach and making his face heat up— his mother was so fucking full of it. He was so sick of watching her feign concern and sadness and love for him. It was nauseating how quickly she could put on the masks of everything he had once wanted her to display so badly.

Now, he wanted absolutely nothing from her. He wanted her gone. And pretty soon, she would be.

Before he even knew what he was doing, Steve found himself in an electronics store. There was immediately a small video camera in his hand, and he was making his way to the front of the store. None of the cries of "Excuse me, sir" or "Sir, you need to pay for that" reached his ears. He ignored the alarms that sounded and snapped the wrists of any and all hands that dared clasp around his arm, and within seconds, he was gone. Just like my mother will be, soon enough. He smirked as he broke out into a sprint, stopping only once he'd reached an Internet café on the opposite side of town. He stared down at the hard plastic case surrounding the video camera's box and dug his nails into it, pulling out a large chunk of its one side before chipping away a large enough hole to pull the box out of. He studied the camera blankly before hitting the red record button and turning the camera to focus on himself.

"Hello, Mother. It's your baby boy… Stevie." A smirk twisted up the corners of his lips before they fell away to remove all traces of emotion. "Now, you might be wondering why I'm making you a video. Truth be told, it's just another one of my reckless impulses coming to fruition— but you know all about those, don't you?" His impassive face gave way to an angry snarl, the emotion so strong that he could barely speak through it. "Here's the deal. I'm sick of watching you bullshit your way on to television. Your fake sadness, confusion, disappointment— it's nauseating. I grew into exactly what you raised me to be, so don't even bother trying to say otherwise. I won't give you that chance. And if you're lost, have no idea what I'm talking about, go through our old family videos. I'm sure that'll jump-start your memory. Broken Steve, bloodied Steve, bruised Steve– the only thing you'll be missing is happy Steve." He bit his lip and sadness began to take precedence over anger as he went on coarsely, "You've been telling me all my life that all I would grow up to be is a criminal. So stop the fake concern, sadness, and above all the fake fucking loving mother act. You're making me sick." He paused again, clearing away the sadness. This was the part he'd been waiting for. "And to help you in your search for authenticity, I'm going to instill in you a real emotion, one that I hope strikes you to your core: fear." A smile exploded onto his face and a small laugh escaped him as he finished, "You're next."

He stopped filming and strolled into the café, sitting down at a computer and plugging his stolen camera into it. There was exactly one file on it, and approximately seven billion people he wanted to see it. He logged into his old YouTube account, grinning when he got the password right on the first try. His smile widened even further when he saw what his account consisted of. There was video after video of soccer-related stunts, all starring either himself or Darren attempting to perform something they'd seen done on television. The videos all ranged from ages eleven to fourteen, except—

What's this? Steve frowned and clicked on a video that was time-stamped two and a half minutes. The cover photo was nothing but a black box, and it was the only one that hadn't been submitted for the world to see. He checked the date— he had been just barely seventeen when it was filmed. So why did he have no recollection of it? He clicked the link and glared at it, his gaze immediately softening when a familiar voice reached his ears.

The screen was completely black as the video began, a girl's voice cutting through the silence. "Steve, I'm not doing this. Put the camera away."

You could practically hear the mock pout in Steve's voice as he pleaded, "Come on! Please? For me?"

"I thought Darren was supposed to be the film major!" Michaela's hand retracted from the camera lens, revealing the setting of the video. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of Steve's bedroom, in her favorite Scooby Doo pajama pants and black camisole. "Steve, I'm not even dressed. Can't we wait until morning, after I've made myself at least somewhat presentable?"

"If you weren't dressed, then this would be a different video entirely," he said solemnly. His laugh came from behind the camera in response to the scowl that immediately glued itself to her face. "Besides— in the morning, it won't be my birthday anymore, and I won't be able to guilt you into this. You look fine, I promise."

The scowl remained on Michaela's face as she grumbled, "Well, you have a biased opinion." She crossed her arms over her chest for emphasis before elaborating, "You're my boyfriend. You aren't allowed to say you think I'm ugly."

"True," Steve admitted after a moment's thought, "But if you were ugly, I wouldn't be dating you." His laugh once again filled the room as Michaela leaped forward to hit him. The camera shook as Steve fell over, and as the struggle continued the frame became all the more mobile. "Okay, okay!" he exclaimed. "At least let me put the camera down before you kill me." Michaela got off of him and allowed him to put the camera down— If Steve recalled correctly, he'd placed it on his desk— before instructing, "Get in front of it."

"Steve! I'm not going to—"

"Oh, come on! You promised." The grin could be heard in his voice as he went on, "Besides, when my mom's prophecies come true and I'm old and alone, I'm going to need some sort of proof that there was a time—"

"Ugh, fine!" Michaela moved in front of the camera, her waist cutting off the view of Steve's bedroom. She kneeled so that she was eye-level with the camera and stated a patronizing, "I, Michaela Frieland, on this fifth night of March, proudly proclaim my love for Steven Leonard." Her eyes shifted off-camera to look at Steve and inquired, "Happy?"

He responded by taking one long stride towards her and pressing his lips to hers. She laughed against his kiss— it was so typical of Steve to attack her rather than just give her a simple 'yes'— and allowed him to guide her down to the floor. One of her legs bent so that her knee was against his side, and his arm came around to hold it closer to him. Her hand went up to hold his face, but just as his mouth began to move from her lips to her neck, she cut him off. "Steve—"

"I know, I know," he murmured into her neck. He kissed her lightly, his lips lingering against her skin before he pulled backwards, turning off the camera and ending the video.

Steve stared blankly at the screen long after the video had ended. Michaela. Oh, God, Michaela. It had been so long since he last saw her laugh like that, since she'd last kissed him like that. If he thought back hard enough, he could remember—

Darren. The king of all assholes himself, in Steve's spot in her bed, his arm wrapped around her like he had the fucking right to be there. Like he wasn't betraying his supposed 'best friend' once again by doing so.

Steve suppressed a cry of rage in favor for a small grunt. He checked that his video for his mother had successfully uploaded and jerked away from the computer, knowing that his job was finished. Well… almost finished. All he had left to do was mail the camera itself to his mother, which would prove to be problematic because—

A grin lit up his face as he realized the one thing he'd previously overlooked. Sure, he had to stay in the sewers with Murlough. Sure, Tiny's orders were law. But Tiny had never said anything about taking a field trip. Tiny had always been big on nostalgia, and was sure to understand Steve visiting home.

Steve was going to hand-deliver his message to his mother personally.

A/N: And there you have it! I love Steve so much. Unf. Let me know if you do too? c: