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ao3 | eddie munson masterlist | steve harrington masterlist
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current works:
daylight completed
beyond completed
right where you left me completed
my skin in your teeth — vampire!eddie munson.
falling like the stars, falling in love — friends with benefits to lovers. eddie munson x reader.
the boy is mine (blurb challenge)
now in progress:
and tell me some things last - coach steve, guardian reader to little brother, marriage of convenience
I pretend I don’t care about her stare, while she’s giving me a tough time.
summary: you’re an observer of sorts, a wall flower, and the last hire made by the infamous runaway Jimmy ‘fast hands’ Lee. It was a job you took on a whim, a decision made without much thought. You weren’t expecting to ever share a room with Steve Harrington again, but when it starts to happen five days out of the week, you certainly weren’t expecting the now quiet and brooding former king to take up so much space in your mind.
WC: 17k
warnings: 18+ slow burn, soft soul touching smut, takes place a few months after season five not exactly canon accurate (he still has his beamer), steve is picking up the pieces of his life, reader has no knowledge of upside down, moved back after the military disappears, touch and love starved steve (reader is similar), mild angst, lots of yearning, mentions of holiday sadness, smoking, one bed trope, p in v van sex, scar kissing & touching (steve has scars).
authors note: well this was originally supposed to be a long one shot but it grew legs and became too long. so enjoy part one of two of the story i’ve been writing since volume one. Writing this got me through a rough holiday season and it started to feel really special. I hope it feels that way when you read it and thank you for waiting so long. I wouldn’t call this a holiday fic at all, its used as more of a backdrop. also i have no idea how things at a radio station work so if it’s not accurate beyond what I googled I apologize! don’t hate me! Thank you to Andy, Candy and Jelly for listening to me ramble and read snippets over the course of the last few months, couldn’t have finished it without you!
Three Weeks Before Christmas - A Monday Morning.
Steve Harrington was an anomaly.
A word you never thought you’d use for the face and hair of Hawkins High’s sports programs circa 1981 to 1985. A jock who used to push kids in lockers, break their camera’s, the kind to stand girls up who would just turn around and beg him to do it again. The popular guy who always seemed to get what he wanted, someone you thought would have his future laid out for him on a road paved of gold. So when you had your first day at The Squawk almost three months ago, and found him not only working the sound board for WSQK’s very own ‘Rockin Robin’ aka your favorite trumpet player to skip band practice with, but that they were also best friends. Like inseparable best friends, finishing each other's sentences kind of best friends, you weren’t sure how many chapters you missed after leaving for college four years ago.
Steve Harrington was an anomaly, and he was wearing that damn brown bomber jacket again.
It was your favorite of what seemed to be his early winter collection that had started to appear in the form of thick sweaters and fitted jackets once the sun began disappearing after four pm. Another thing you hated almost as much as not being able to put your chipped polished finger on him anymore, was that now, the word favorite is in your vocabulary when it comes to the guy who never even looked your way despite sharing the same homeroom all four years of high school.
This particular jacket though? It was your kryptonite. The soft suede wraps around his broad shoulders like butter, tapering just enough at the bottom to give the illusion of a loose fit, like it’s tailored special just for him. Its rich earthy brown color brings out the gold flecks in his hazel eyes that you swear changed colors with the season, or maybe it was because Nancy Wheeler finally stopped coming around.
After a few weeks of noticing an extra broody-ness about Steve’s presence, you’d overheard a conversation between him and Robin that Nancy had finally left Hawkins to attend Emerson in Massachusetts. You’d overheard a conversation between him and Robin a few weeks ago after noticing an extra broody-ness about his presence that she had finally left Hawkins to attend Emerson in Massachusetts. It was all you were able to catch without being caught eavesdropping on your way to map out the next few weeks DJ schedules in Jimmy’s abandoned office. An office you were only supposed to be an assistant too, but now somehow managed to end up being the one to do the job it was made for. It was becoming a full time one too, keeping the station running since its operating hours are no longer the allotted time slots given by the military. Which still seemed like a fresh nightmare for most of the people that decided to stay when the fences finally disappeared.
“Morning!” You greet them, stretching your neck enough to peek out of the open office door, making your presence known since your ever changing schedule keeps you at the station at random times.
Today you’d gotten here at 3am to fill the late night dead air with your own curated mix, something you do whenever Steve or Keith couldn’t. It was easy money, you didn’t even have to talk, just make sure to queue the ads you’ve been having to fight tooth and nail to get in order to keep the lights on.
“Good Morning!” Robin waves stretching her neck to meet your gaze with her signature toothy grin that lights up the whole room. Her blonde hair is extra frizzy from the snow starting to fall outside, the cold kissing her cheeks with roses.
All you get is Steve’s back as he continues his path to the studio, giving you a quick flick of his wrist in acknowledgment. It was 50/50 depending on the day, or even his shift if he’d stay mute or give you a short ‘Morning’. Either way, it didn’t matter because he still cared enough to pretend that he likes his coffee black in front of you. A secret that you’ve always kept close after catching him put cream and an absurd amount of sugar in his whenever he thought you weren’t looking– on multiple occasions.
”I put your coffees in there already, three creams and two sugars for Robin, and don’t worry Steve, I left yours black just how you like it.”
Your lips twist at the slight tense of his shoulders.
”Thanks boss!” Robin sings, skipping to catch up with her best friend’s long strides.
”I’m not your boss!” You call back, brows furrowing ñ at the nickname she’s been determined to make stick. They weren’t paying you a radio manager’s wage.
“Could’ve fooled me!” Her raspy voice carries across the room, before both her and Steve’s go muffled behind the soundproof door.
5 minutes till showtime.
You can see them through the glass that encases them from the cracked window in your office. Steve looks like he’s rambling about something to her, big hands gesturing wildly before they push back his thick mane of chestnut hair, the blonde tips it used to have, long forgotten. It is his personal tell that he’s stressed, besides a thumb flick to the nose which follows shortly after. Robin’s face softens, not meeting his chaotic energy as he takes off his jacket, revealing the cream mock turtle neck sweater underneath it. You can’t hear what she’s saying, but whatever it is makes his shoulders slump, nodding in response with another card of his hair. Relaxing.
It’s unexpected when his eyes shoot across the room, meeting your gaze for the first time in a few days. Averting your stare as quickly as you can, your cheeks feel like they're being raked over coals, they burn hot as you try and refocus on the spread sheet laying on the desk. Quietly vowing to leave the station before they break for lunch as your escape plan. This way you can lock yourself in your dark apartment and sleep off the exhausting seven hours before suffering the kind of embarrassment that radiates from your fingertips and all ten of your toes.
—-
Thursday Early Morning
5:13am. The bright green numbers on your dash feel like an assault as the tires of your Oldsmobile crunch against the snow and gravel leading up the path to The Squawk. From inside, the constant vigil of the studio lights fades into a soft glow, filtering through the glass front entrance doors to cut through the last bit of night and bounce off the shimmering snowflakes that somehow continue to fall. It’s been four days of this now, the sky alternating between flurries and heavy snowfall. It’s starting to feel like it might never stop, like the universe seems determined to deliver a white Christmas during the one year you and the rest of this town can’t seem to find the spirit.
Your jaw stretches with a yawn as you try to will the caffeine to hit your bloodstream faster. You pull up beside what should be Keith’s Thunderbird and rub the remainder of sleep from your eyes blinking at Steve’s BMW parked next to the WSQK van. A newfound anxiety flutters beneath your ribcage, at the memory of how his eyes caught you– like you were intruding on something personal, a secret only meant for his best friend’s ears. Everything with Steve Harrington has felt like a secret lately. An unsolvable puzzle with a missing piece always just out of reach. There’s a determination to find it. With slightly shaking hands, you arm yourself with a travel mug of homemade coffee and a deep breath to collect your courage before heading inside.
He probably won’t even say hi anyway, if you’re lucky he’ll just wave from the studio, maybe, and then you’ll both ignore each other until he leaves without saying goodbye.
Frank Sinatra’s ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’ spills from the speakers in the studio, the door propped open allowing the soft trumpets and piano to fill the normally quiet space. He plays a lot of Sinatra on his overnights, a taste you’ve assumed he acquired from Robin, but part of you can’t be too sure anymore.
Christmas lights that weren’t there the night before are draped around the DJ booth, with even more hanging half hazardly above the soundboard. They twinkle in red, green, and gold, warming the room in a comforting glow. It’s not until you round the corner that you see Steve on a step stool stringing more around the common area, a small pile of multi-colored shimmering garland on the table beside him with tiny Santas and snowmen hanging off the tinsel.
Steve Harrington is decorating for Christmas.
“You’re not Keith.” You say, finding your voice, trying to break the usual awkwardness between the two of you with some kind of joke. Butterflies waking up in the pit of your gut when you hear it.
A laugh.
It’s so quiet that if you didn’t see the slight shake of his shoulders, you’d probably miss it. An unfamiliar desperate need to make him do it again tugs at your heart.
”Defintely not Keith.” He huffs, but you can hear the slight smile in his voice. You’d almost forgotten what he really sounds like.
His Nike covered feet step down from the stool, leaving the string of lights to dangle half way on their journey across the room. Turning around, he runs one of his big hands through his messier than usual hair, those familiar hazel eyes catching yours for the second time in one week. A record breaking streak.
He’s wearing dark washed jeans, they fit him snug like all of them do. A navy WSQK sweater stretches over his chest, the letters faded and peeling because Jimmy cheaped out on the printing company.You’re willing to bet Steve’s got three more washes till they're all completely gone. The sleeves are pushed up revealing his permanently sunkissed skin despite the warm weather hiding on the other side of the earth, and they’re dotted with more freckles than you can count.
“He asked me to cover his shift last minute, something about a pet ferret?” His face twists in the kind of judgment that has an uncontrollable giggle slip past your lips.
The gold in his eyes seems to sparkle at the sound, the corners of his mouth twitching, fighting a smile that he doesn’t let win.
“That explains the smell of his jacket sometimes.” Scrunching up your nose at the memory of the last time you saw Keith, Steve can’t seem to fight his grin off this time, pearly whites gleaming behind plush pink lips.
It threatens to steal the breath from your lungs, teeth digging into your bottom lip with cheeks that start to feel like the surface of the missing sun, warming your skin with something that has you looking away. Suddenly, you have a new understanding for all those girls in high school.
“I hope you don’t mind, me uh - decorating and stuff.” He scratches the back of his neck, like talking this long to someone that’s not his best friend is hard for him, or maybe it’s just because it’s you. “Robin was complaining about how she’s not feeling very festive this year, and it’s her and vi- it’s her first Christmas dating someone so I was thinking maybe this might help.”
It almost makes you mad at how sweet of a gesture it is, and how it feels like you’ll never quite figure him out. Every time you think you’re close, he sheds another layer. Throwing off your scent.
”Not at all, honestly, I haven’t been feeling very ‘jolly’ myself.” You laugh weakly, finally meeting his softened gaze, making his shoulders relax as if there were a world where you’d actually be mad. “This job has been…a lot.”
You don’t go into anymore detail about how none of this was what you signed up for, or how your home doesn’t feel very much like one anymore, like your childhood was some figment of your imagination the military erased. You’re not sure he’d even want to hear any of it anyway. No need to test the boundaries of this new progression between you and the former king of Hawkins, anyway.
“Well, if it means anything coming from me, I think you’re doing a great job, all things considered.” He answers with a casual shrug, like he didn’t just shatter all the assumptions you thought he had of you in one sentence.
”It- It does mean something, thanks, Steve.” It feels weird saying his name out loud, despite how many times it’s crossed your mind over the past few months.
Pink powders the apples of his cheeks, and now it’s his turn to look away.
”Decorate all you want. I’ve got this, like, 4 foot tall Christmas tree I had in my dorm in college that I can dig out and bring into the station tomorrow.” You add, returning to the safety of the original conversation, and you can tell he’s thankful for it.
”Cool.” He grins, shoving his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels a little bit.
”Cool.”
The two of you stand there, not really sure where to go from here until the music cuts off and Steve remembers the job he’s actually supposed to be doing.
”Oh shit!” He gasps, eyes looking like a deer caught in headlights. “I gotta flip the record, I’m sorry, I swear I don’t let it go silent like this normally.”
You want to tell him that you know, because his overnights are some of your favorites to listen to. But you decide it's another secret best kept to yourself instead.
”It’s fine, I’m sure the four people listening will forgive you.” Rolling your eyes playfully, you catch the small grin you get in return as he jogs to the studio room. “I’m gonna go do my job too.”
Grabbing the stack of ad proposals next to his garland, you wave them in your hand, before making your way to Jimmy’s office, the kind of smile that makes your cheeks hurt tugging up the corners of your lips when you’re sure he can’t see it.
—-
Saturday
“Secret Santa!” Robin exclaims from the doorway of Jimmy’s office, bright blue eyes staring at you with the kind of excitement that threatens to be contagious. “We need to do a Secret Santa!”
”There’s like six of us who work here.” Steve speaks up from behind her, a half eaten sandwich dwarfed in his big hand, leaning against the studio room looking far too cool in a maroon sweater and dark washed jeans.
”Okay and? That’s an even number. You couldn’t ask for a more perfect scenario actually.” She gives him a tight lipped sarcastic smirk, before bringing her attention back to you,rolling up the sleeves on her white turtle neck she’s layered with a black The Smith’s shirt on top of. “Here me out -“
”We can do it.” You say simply, closing the radio tower instruction manual that was starting to give you a headache.
“Wait, really?” She gasps with a smile so big it shows all her teeth, practically vibrating when you nod your head yes. “Oh my god this is so exciting, I’ll get everything together, you don’t have to lift a finger. Let's say a ten dollar budget, nothing too crazy.”
“Ten dollars?! I don’t like anyone around here enough to spend ten dollars on.” Steve scoffs, shoving the rest of his sandwich in his mouth before crossing his arms.
”Are you kidding me? You don’t like me enough to spend ten dollars on? Her?” Robin points at you, and the urge to hide is the most tempting idea you’ve ever had, especially when Steve’s eyes meet yours from across the room with something you can’t decipher. ”Dustin, Mike? Literally you just hate Keith.”
”Dustin and Mike hardly count. They are here like two hours a week but fine! You win.” He surrenders, throwing his arms up before running an annoyed hand through his hair. His plan to help her feel more festive worked a little too well.
“I always do!” She sings, throwing a wink at you before sauntering back to the chair and mic that feel like they are made for her to deliver Hawkin’s favorite segment of the day, nudging Steve playfully on her way. ”Hurry up dingus, we’re back on in three minutes.”
”You had to walk around me, I’m already here.” He huffs, kicking off the corner and back into the studio room closing the sound proof door behind them.
You can’t seem to fight the smile that twists at the corners of your mouth as you grab your weekly planner from under the pile of work orders that you’ve been deluding yourself into thinking you can find the fixes in the manual.
The faint sounds of Billie Holiday’s ‘I Thought About You’ catches in your ears, something shifting in the air as the heat from an unfamiliar stare warms against your skin, sending goosebumps pebbling, begging for your attention. You haven’t risked even a glance through the window of your office since the day that Steve caught you, but something was daring you to do it again.
You aren’t sure what you’re expecting when you look up but it isn’t his eyes already locked on you, holding your gaze after they meet letting you know it’s not a mistake. Butterflies stretch their wings wide as you work up the courage not to look away first. The grip on your pen tightening, teeth digging into your bottom lip watching the slight shimmer of gold around the darkness of his pupils. He studies your face like he’s looking for the answer to something hidden inside of the contours of it, and you think this must be the way you look when he catches you staring.
It’s Robin that unknowingly interrupts whatever was going on, tearing his attention away with a bob of his Adam’s apple and a shake of his head. Saying something that looks a lot like the word ‘sorry’ before switching out the sound effect 8-track for the one she clearly wanted. In the hour it takes for you to wrap up and reach the end of your day, neither of you dare to look up again, and it’s you who leaves with a quick flick of your wrist, not saying a word this time.
What was that?
—-
Two weeks before Christmas
You stare at the name on the small piece of paper you’d grabbed from Robin’s Santa hat on your way out the door. The white wisps of your breath filling the freezing space of your car, too stunned to even be bothered to turn it on. You read it a few more times just to be sure that too many overnights weren’t making you delirious, but there it was, clear as day in Robin’s signature bubble writing.
Steve
His name plays on a loop as you finally kick on the engine to your car, it finds its way in every thought, sneaking past your efforts to shut it out. ‘Steve’ lingers in the cold breaths you take on your way to the front door of the small apartment you’d rented while your parents house gets rebuilt. It warms against your skin like the hot water from the shower that rinses off yet another long day at the station, following you to bed and curling around you under your covers, meeting you again in your dreams.
—-
Tuesday
You climb up the short ladder that leads you to the hatch door, pushing up, you give it a good shove, the rusted hinges squeaking as it flings open. The clearest night sky you’ve seen in what feels like weeks shimmers brightly above you. Suddenly it didn’t matter that it was twenty degrees, not when it looked like this. Tightening your scarf and zipping up your coat as far as it will go, you finish your climb up onto the roof.
The cold greets you with a sharp sting, sending a shiver straight to your bones.Too focused on closing the door to keep the heat trapped inside the station you don't notice you aren’t the only one admiring the view. It shuts with a loud thud at the same time someone clears their throat behind you. Jumping at the sound, you turn around with a startled scream just begging to escape and echo through the darkness until your wide eyes meet Steve’s panicked ones.
”Hey! It’s just me! It’s cool, you’re cool, we’re cool.” His hushed words come out with urgency to stop it from happening, a nervous hand running through his already wind swept hair after it seems to work.
Cool seems to be Steve’s favorite word when it comes to you. You weren’t entirely sure how you felt about that.
”Jesus Christ, Harrington.” You gasp with a hand on your chest, your quick huffs of breath embarrassingly visible in the cold air.
”Sorry! How was I supposed to know anyone else would come up here?” He exclaims, a slight agitation to his voice that doesn’t last long before asking “Are you okay?”
Your gaze lands on his Nike’s first, wandering up the light wash denim that covers his legs, accentuating parts of him that you’ve been trying not to think about. Tonight he wears a dark brown leather jacket that tapers at the waist just like your favorite one does. While his lack of scarf seems like a choice, it has the moles that cluster around his neck in their own constellations battling for your attention with the ones above him.
“Yeah, I’m good. No scarf?! Aren’t you col -“ You lose your train of thought when your eyes catch the glowing ember at the end of a half smoked cigarette tucked between two long fingers. “Wait, are you up here smoking?”
His eyebrows furrow together like he’s confused, until realization dawns on him smoothing the wrinkles on his forehead.
”Yeah,” He shrugs, flicking the ash before taking another drag. “I used to in high school, well, mostly at parties when I was drunk trying to look cool. But I don’t know, I picked it back up recently, I don’t smoke all the time, mostly over nights when I’m stressed or bored.”
“What are you now?” The question comes out before you can even filter and mark it as inappropriate, the look on his face burning your cheeks only adding to your immediate regret.
But then he does the last thing you expect, he answers it — honestly.
“Stressed.” Wind whips his hair around some more before he shrugs in a squeak of leather adding, “and a little bored.”
There’s storm clouds in his stare as he looks at you with an intensity you can feel tingling at your fingertips. Underneath it lives a nervousness that tries to hide in the dark pools of his eyes from letting you perceive him, gauging your reaction by taking another drag.
”I come up here when I’m stressed too.” You say with ease despite the wild thumping of your heart in your ears, taking a few steps closer, your boots crunch against the frozen brick.
“To my spot?” His words come out around white clouds of smoke, a small smile twisting up the corners of his lips.
”Excuse me? Your spot? I’ve never even seen you up here.” Scoffing, you dig your hands deep in your pockets, shuffling closer with chattering teeth you desperately try to hide.
As if on instinct, Steve positions his body to block you from the wind, cinnamon and amber from his cologne tickling at your nose. He was closer than you’ve ever been to him, close enough to have your palms sweat, for your softened gaze to trace the purple bags under his eyes. The pale pink of a healed scar you don’t remember from high school shows its imperfect end from the edge of his beige sweater’s collar, only to hide from you again when he lifts his cigarette towards you in an offering.
“I’m pretty sneaky. Stealthy, if you will.” He winks, cold bitten cheeks pushing up at the snort you give him in response.
Your fingers brush with his accepting the nicotine with a spark you blame on the emanating voltage from the tower.
“What about you?” He asks quietly, his eyes wandering over the details of your face like he was really looking at you for the first time. Maybe he was.
Despite yourself, you can’t help but wonder if he likes what he’s found.
”Stressed, maybe a dash of depression, maybe.” If you admit to it out loud, that might make it true, but it’s his honesty that pulls out your own.
He nods his head in response, mimicking your previous stance, shoving his cold hands in his pockets. He kicks at the small patch of ice, brows furrowing as he thinks about what he wants to say. The pad of your thumb brushes against the butt of his cigarette still a little wet from his lips, there’s an intimacy there when yours wraps around it, cheeks hollowing as you take a drag. Inhaling him.
“Honestly, this time of year. It’s never been my favorite.” His gaze is piercing when they meet your eyes again.“The only time I really liked it was when I had a girlfriend and that was like once.”
”Nancy Wheeler.” You hum, biting at your bottom lip wondering if it was a mistake to say her name out loud.
”Yeah,” he sighs, watching you take another drag, eyes lingering just a little on your mouth when you hand it back to him. “But honestly, I’m starting to realize a big part of that was because I didn’t have to spend it alone.”
“What do you mean?” You ask confused because he’s Steve Harrington, the boy who’s always had it all. “What about your parents?”
”They’re never home — hell, they were gone when the quarantine happened.” There’s a bitterness in his dry laugh, taking one last hit before tossing the cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out with the toe of his sneaker. “They couldn’t get back in, but I think they preferred it that way, part of me thinks I did too.”
“I’m sorry, Steve.” You don’t know what else to say, but it also doesn’t feel like he's looking for much more than that either, giving you just a peek into the closed blinds of his soul.
The bare trees rustle and snap in the silence between you. It’s not an uncomfortable one, but one that lets you sit with the weight inside of it. Steve Harrington, the king of Hawkins, the boy who everyone adored school but always returned to a shell of a home. You can feel the wall rebuild itself around him after revealing more of his hand despite the way both you subconsciously shuffle closer to chase each other's body heat. Steve looks up at the sky, but your eyes stay trained on him. Maybe you were seeing him for the first time too.
The moon shines bright above, casting shadows on his sharp features, revealing the slight dusting of a five o’clock shadow that covers his jaw you didn’t notice before. Steve Harrington had grown up into a man. You aren’t sure how you missed it until tonight, under a blanket of stars no one’s seen in weeks. What else haven’t you seen?
His gaze finds yours again, the wind making his hair go wild. He holds it like he did in the studio room the other day, and you swear he moves even closer, the toe of his shoe tapping against yours. You can smell the leather of his coat, the tobacco clinging to the fabrics of his sweater mixing with the spice of his cologne in a way that shouldn’t smell as good as it does. A playful smirk teases at the corners of his mouth.
”You’re always looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out.” There’s something delicate about the way he stares at you, tugging at the bundle of nerves twisting in the pit of your stomach. Loosening the knots.
“Is there something wrong with that?” You hum quietly.
”N-no.” He smiles with something timid behind it, weary even. “Just no one’s ever reall-“ He’s cut off by the crackle of the walkie talkie you didn’t know he had clipped to his back pocket
“Radio silence again dingus!” Robin’s voice comes through the small speaker, “Trying to make moves here and you aren’t helping.”
You don’t think you’ve ever seen Steve roll his eyes any harder, a loud irritated breath escaping through his nose like a bull. He mouths sorry before bringing the walkie talkies to his lips, pressing harsh on the red button.
”I’m doing you a favor tonight if you remember, watch the tone.” He turns it off after, leaving her no room to respond, determined to get the last word.
”Another day of catching you not doing your job.” You tease with a wink, getting your own eye roll but this one comes with a smile.
”I keep getting distracted by my boss.” He wiggles his eyebrows, starting to back away towards the hatch door.
Was Steve Harrington flirting with you?
”Ugh! Not you too.” You groan, crossing your arms watching him open the rusted metal with ease.
”If the shoe fits.” He shrugs, “Don’t stay out here too long, can’t have you getting sick, the station would probably burn down or something like that.”
”You and Robin ran it just fine.” You argue, with a grin that refuses to go away.
“Yeah, sure.” Steve snorts, climbing down the first few steps of the ladder stopping when all you can see is his shoulders up, “but seriously, it’s cold. I mean it.”
”Okay, Dad.”
He visibly grimaces at the nickname.
”Yeah, pretty awful isn’t it?” You arch a brow, laughing at his glare for falling into your trap. “I’ll come back in a few minutes, promise.”
He lingers for a few seconds more looking torn, like he wasn’t ready to leave yet, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t wish he could stay too. But he does the selfless thing you’ve noticed he always does, closing the hatch behind him with one last look catching your small wave goodbye.
—-
Friday
Robin is a ball of energy at seven in the morning, completely consumed by whatever she’s ranting to Steve about when they burst in through the front door together. You watch with an amused smirk from your spot on the lime green couch in the common area, a cup of fresh coffee you brewed for the three of you warm in your hand. She’s so distracted that she doesn’t notice you, but Steve does, almost as if he was searching for you first. The blue hidden in the gold and moss of his eyes are like sunbursts when they find your gaze. His smile is small, but it’s just for you and it’s enough for the butterflies you’ve managed to snuff out all morning with distractions to wake back up. Hiding your smile in your mug, you watch as he nods his head giving Robin a ‘yeah,’ like he’s listening, but something tells you he had stopped a while ago.
Once they get inside the soundproof room Steve peels off the same leather jacket he wore on the roof. Robin follows suit tossing her long navy blue tench coat to the side, lips still moving a mile a minute. He runs two big hands through his hair, the little bit of flurries that had stuck to the ends melting on his fingertips before pushing up the sleeves of his WSQK sweater. And just as you suspected the K at the end of it had already peeled off since last week.
Robin’s lime green polished hands fly all over the place making the people on her ‘Beam me up, this place sucks’ sweater look like they’re actually running. Crossing his arms as he leans against the door frame, Steve seems distracted, but you can tell he’s still actively trying to focus. He’s shaved since the last time you saw him, and the bags that had kissed lavender under his eyes on the rooftop were gone. Maybe that meant he’d finally gotten some sleep.
His best friend grabs her coffee mid sentence, holding out a finger to give her a minute as she drinks what has to be at least half the cup. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip watching Steve grab his own. Suddenly you wish you’d have gone into Jimmy’s office for this moment as a new fear that maybe something that seemed like a cute idea in the middle of night actually makes you look like a weird stalker. The intrusive thought eats away at your confidence as he takes the first gulp and looks confused peering down in his cup before taking another just to be sure.
Steve’s eyes lock on yours through the glass, something inside them shifting just like the air between you on the rooftop. A secret revealed that paints his cheeks red, a small gesture that you don’t know has never made him feel more seen as he takes another sip of his coffee made the way he actually likes it today.
—-
“Hey boss, I’m running out for lunch, but Dustin’s got the news report covered while I’m gone.” Robin pokes her head in Jimmy’s office where you’d been for the past hour lost in balancing the books.
”Not your booosssss,” You sing with an annoyed smirk, giving your eyes a break to look up at her. “Isn’t he in school?”
”Winter break!” She grins, shoving her arms into her coat like she’s in a rush, “I’ll be back in like thirty, maybe forty minutes tops!”
She’s gone in a blur of blue and blond before you have a chance to respond, and as if on cue Dustin comes strolling in not even two minutes after her departure. He waves at you with a wide grin, green braces gleaming against the low light. The ends of his long tan trench coat are stained wet, dripping on the checkered floor. Duck boots squeaking against the linoleum. He must’ve rode his bike here like a lunatic.
”Hiya boss!” He greets, turning around to face you walking backwards to the studio room completely oblivious to the angry Steve yelling behind the soundproof glass watching him drip water and salt everywhere.
”Henderson!” You groan, burying your face in your hands before resting it on your desk.
”It’s a compliment!” He argues, getting you to look back up only to see that Steve is now standing behind him with his hands firmly planted on his hips.
”Are you kidding me asshole? Look at the floors.” He huffs, with the kind of outrage a parent would have with their kid.
“It’s just water, it’ll dry.” Dustin rolls his eyes, pushing past Steve to start setting up but not before adding. “Or you can make yourself useful and mop it up.”
”How about I kick your teeth in, instead?”
“Not the first time you’ve threatened that.” The teenager raises his eyebrows at him, looking unimpressed, letting you know they’re always empty. Of course Harrington is all bark and no bite.
Another endearing quality, unfortunately.
“Yeah, and one day it just might happen if you don’t watch your sass dickhead.”
It takes every ounce of will power not to snort at the sight in front of you, smiling like the Cheshire Cat at all the ways you’re going to schedule them together this summer.
If it ever comes.
“I’ll let you know if I need, I don’t know — like, a car crash sound, or maybe a police siren, but otherwise quiet on set. I have a job to do.” Dustin closes the door to the studio before Steve even has a chance to get the last word in, something you’ve come to find as the clear indicator of who the winner is in these little spats between all of them.
Steve still flips him off through the glass, grumbling to himself about getting the mop so someone doesn’t slip and break their necks. Dustin gives you a thumbs up from behind the sound board switching the ON AIR sign ‘Red’. He taps the sheets of paper you assume is the ‘news’ loudly on the desk to add his own effects as he kicks it off with the weather. Which is snow… always more damn snow.
You groan, rubbing your temples at the thought of having to clean off your car every day for another week and all the shoveling, so much damn shoveling.
”God, I miss summer.” You mumble, exhaling a defeated breath through your nose grabbing the calculator to finish where you’d left off.
You don’t get very far though, the familiar sound of someone clearing their throat in the doorway breaking your concentration. Heat warms your cheeks instantly, teeth digging into your bottom lip daring to look up and meet the hazel eyes you swear have changed colors again. Something new — brighter, something that feels more like Steve.
”H-hey.” He waves awkwardly, giving you a closed lip smile riddled with the kind of nerves that tighten in your chest too.
”H-hi.” It comes out quieter than you intend, your voice cracking making you try to clear the nerves out of your throat too.
Steve digs his hands into his pockets, leaning on the door frame with a shyness you’d never expect from him. It’s got a stubbornness about it like he’s worked himself up to do this and is vowing to see it through.
“How’s your uh, how’s your day going?” A hand that can’t help itself comes out of his pocket running through his hair.
“It’s going,” you sigh, a little defeated tossing your calculator to the side. Suddenly the weight of the last few months makes itself known in the muscles of your shoulders, while your bed starts to sound a little too welcoming for it to only be half way through your shift. “What about y-you? How’s your day going?”
“Not too bad, I passed out on the couch and slept for like 12 hours yesterday. So I’d say feeling pretty good all things considered.” Another card of his hair.
Your eyes catch Dustin watching you both with an amused curiosity.
“On the couch?! Rest in peace to your back.” You smile trying to crack a joke that somehow works, earning you the twitch of his lips that you were looking for.
”It’s been through worse.” He laughs softly, looking down at his feet before meeting your gaze from under his thick lashes with a shy teasing grin. “Did you switch up the coffee this morning or something? It was better than usual.”
The giggle that bubbles out of you makes Steve’s full pink lips stretch wide over his teeth that look even more brilliant in the daytime. It cracks at the awkwardness that's tried to settle between you.
”I guess you’re not as stealthy as you think you are huh?” You wink, giddy feet bouncing under the desk.
”Apparently not.” He narrows his eyes playfully, “it needed maybe one more packet of sugar though, but hey, who’s counting.”
”Steve, I put in three already.” You scoff with a smile so wide it hurts, heart skipping a beat when his grows like it can’t contain itself either. “Why did you even pretend to like your coffee black in the first place? Such a weird thing to lie about.”
“I don’t know!” He whines, embarrassment flushing his cheeks as he runs his hands down his face, “It’s like I did it once, because you know, you’re pret — “
Steve clears his throat catching the words that almost slipped from his mouth, but you catch them, heart thumping wildly at the idea of how that sentence almost ended.
”I hadn’t seen you since high school, so I wanted to come off more like an adult? I don’t know, it was dumb and honestly, I don’t know what’s worse, the fact that you caught me lying or that you let me keep up with it for so long.” He groans, huffing out a laugh scratching the back of his neck.
”Don’t worry, it was pretty amusing, dare I say my favorite part of the morning. You always looked so nervous, like you were about to be caught robbing a bank or something.” You try to hide your laugh behind the back of your hand, when you earn another one of his glares.
”Ha, ha, ha.” He rolls his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his lips gives him away.
”Steve!” Dustin’s voice interrupts you, making his shoulders tense, jaw clicking with instant annoyance.
”What Henderson? Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation?” He snaps turning around to face the high schooler, broad shoulders blocking him from your view.
”I’m sorry to interrupt your flirting to ask you to do your job.” Dustin responds with a taunting smile that you don’t need to see to know is there.
“You’re really pushing me today, you little shit. I’ll be there in a minute, just give me a second.” This time Steve runs both hands though his hair before turning around to face you again, the thumb flick you were expecting hitting his nose.
”What is this, the third time now in the past few weeks?” You can’t help yourself, or the teasing smirk that spreads across your face, lashes fluttering a little too much, but the greens in his eyes sparkle because of it.
”Like I said the last time, I keep getting distracted by my boss.” He laughs at your scowl about the nickname, walking backwards towards a very impatient Dustin, like he doesn’t want to stop looking at you until he absolutely has to.
This time you didn’t have to wonder, Steve Harrington was flirting with you.
————-
Five days before Christmas
Monday
When Dustin said to expect snow this week you didn’t realize that he meant a blizzard. Of course it’s a fucking blizzard.
Your tires spin in the foot of snow that’s already fallen since it started this morning. The smoke from your exhaust comes out in huge plumes, over working your engine until you finally give up and take your foot off the gas. You curse the day you decided to go with the cheaper car that lacked the four wheel drive needed to leave the station tonight. And god, you really wanted to crawl into your bed.
“You’re gonna flood your engine!”
It’s muffled, but the sound of Steve’s voice is unmistakeable, the timbre of it etching into the corners of your mind lately. Cutting off your engine, you look through the fogged up passenger window to see him and Robin standing at the front entrance of the station, the low yellow light almost turning them into shadows. Robin waves excitedly with mitten covered hands like she didn’t just see you less than ten minutes ago, an oversized crocheted beanie threatening to swallow her eyes. Steve on the other hand, he looks almost as stressed as you feel with only that damn leather coat protecting him from the winter storm quite literally raging around him, Nike’s still on his feet.
Leaning over your console, you start to crank open the window, the glass sticking from the frost, groaning like it might shatter before it gives way to snow fluttering into your car. Maybe this wasn’t your best idea.
”I’m stuck!” You yell over the howling wind jutting your bottom lip out for dramatic effect despite stating the obvious.
”Steve can drive you home!” Robin volunteers without hesitating to ask him if that's okay, but he doesn’t even flinch at the idea.
”Oh — oh no that’s okay, I live on the other side of town, maybe you guys can just help dig me out?” You suggest instead, heart rate kicking up at the thought of being inside Steve’s car.
You’ve heard a lot of stories about that BMW, most against your will.
”You’re just going to get stuck again trying to get out of here, I’ve got four wheel drive. It’s fine, I can drive you.” He waves you off, taking his first steps towards you and into the storm. He walks past his BMW parked on the other side of the WSQK van that blocked some of the snowdrifts, protecting his car from suffering the same fate.
”How will I get to work in the morning if I don’t try and get my car out of here now?” You counter, with the kind of nerves that only seem to get worse every time he’s around.
His steps crunch softly in the snow stopping at your half opened window bending down with a hand on the roof to meet your eyes. Robin follows close behind, tilting her head to the side to listen, a smirk twisting up the corners of her lips.
“I’ll pick you up, you’ll need help digging out your car anyway.” He shrugs like he wasn’t offering to completely inconvenience himself for the next 24 hours for solely your benefit.
“Steve - I can’t, I- “
”Seriously it’s fine! Steve loooves doing stuff like this, it’s like a hobbie, a kink if you will.” Robin interjects, a little too pushy for you not to narrow your eyes at her. “He’s got like a white knight complex or something.”
“Okay, Robin.” Steve snaps, glaring at her from over his shoulder. ”Also, how is enjoying being helpful to my friends a kink? What the hell is wrong with you?” scoffing incrediously, he turns his back almost completely to you.
“I’m just saying!” She shrugs winking at you like you’re in on the joke, but all you can focus on is Steve insinuating that you’re his friend and why that word has a sting to it.
Running an irritated hand through his hair, he mouths something to her you can’t hear before turning to meet your gaze again with a softness inside his eyes that doesn’t match the tone he just had. It’s the same way he looked at you under the stars that night.
“We’ve got two options here, and they are either accept my help now, or after you make me throw out my back attempting to dig out your car in a blizzard that will inevitably still get stuck half way down the hill.” The teasing grin on his pink lips disarms you with the kind of charm only he knows how to have, the kind you remember from high school. “I’ll do whichever one you want, honey, so you tell me.”
Honey.
The word wraps around you gooey and sweet, covering your insides in sugar, warming your bones, leaving you no choice.
”Fine!” It comes out in a playful huff, the edges of your mouth threatening to curl as you pull your keys out of the ignition. You meet his eyes from under your lashes, giving him one last chance to change his mind. “If you’re really okay with this.”
He nods, those perfect teeth of his tugging his full bottom lip between them, cheeks dusting a pretty shade of pink that’s not just from the cold.
”Oh, trust me, he is!” Robin interrupts, and you watch in real time the way the gold sparkling inside his eyes turn black before they roll in the back of his head.
“Keep running that mouth Buckley, and you’re going to get real familiar with the walk home.” He groans with another hand through his hair, the constant snow fall making the ends wet.
”Empty threats.” She scoffs, completely unphased just like Dustin. “Now let's go before we all get stuck too. No offense to you guys but I don’t want to have a sleep over at The Squawk with Keith.”
She says his name like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, and Steve’s face twists in disgust like he can taste it too.
“Couldn’t agree more’.” You add, amused by another display of the two of them sharing the same brain.
Leaning over to crank your window back up, you meet Steve’s gaze from up close, something swirling inside it that you can’t figure out making your heart thump a few beats quicker. He holds you there till you’re sealed inside, leaving the storm muffled just like his voice.
“I‘ll go warm up the car.”
———-
You never thought you’d be sitting shotgun in Steve’s BMW, or that it would relax every bone in your aching body, loosening the stress knots that have made a permanent home in your shoulder blades. It’s the way the cinnamon and amber fill the small space with the musk of his cologne, and how they mix with the deep tanned leather of the seat underneath you. The heat that blows from the vents only seems to intensify it along with the man next to you. It feels like you’re surrounded by him, encased by him.
He drives slowly down the winding road that leads into town, the tires crunch as it compacts the thick snow underneath them. It falls from the sky like it’s angry, wind sweeping the wet flakes against his headlights. His wipers squeak working overtime to keep visibility. The full moon hidden behind the deep purple clouds fights to shine its way through the storm, casting a deep lavender glow along the banks. Illuminating the snow that hangs heavy on the edges of the trees that line the bare woods surrounding you. Frank Sinatra’s ‘You Go To My Head’ plays softly from his speakers with a light crackle from years of playing his music way too loud joy riding with Tommy and Carol.
Steve readjusts slightly in his seat to shift gears, and you catch a whiff of tobacco still clinging to the fabric of his sweater underneath his coat. Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, you have to fight the urge to lean forward and inhale.
“Okay, so — secret Santa. We were thinking of having it at the Wheeler’s, since their basement is practically like our second apartment anyway, on top of the fact that it’s way easier to get to than The Squawk.” Robin breaks the silence, leaning forward resting her elbows on the backs of either of your headrests.
You don’t miss the way Steve’s grip on the steering wheel tightens enough to show the white’s of his knuckles at the name, or the anxious pit that forms in your gut at the idea of being the new face in a group of friends that are tied together by something you can’t even begin to comprehend.
“Hey! Sit down, are you kidding me?” He scolds, glaring at her from the rearview mirror.
”Sorry, Dad.” She huffs, raising her hands in defense, flopping herself back into her seat. Your lips twitch at the familiar nickname.
”And put your seat belt on too. Jesus, I’m driving in a freaking blizzard Robin.” He only takes his hand off the steering wheel just long enough to run it through his hair. Robin sticks her tongue out at his reflection, but you still hear the click of her seatbelt before she continues.
“Anyway, I’m thinking around 8 o'clock Christmas Eve. You can make Keith work the overnight shift since you’re the boss and all.” She grins wide when you toss her your own glare from over your shoulder.
”What if Keith wants it off?” You counter with teasing revenge.
It’s Steve that snorts next to you, bringing your attention to the curve of his lips, doing good to keep his eyes on the road.
”Keith was banned from secret Santa, per our agreement, so therefore he has to work and you have to go.” He argues siding with his best friend daring to meet your gaze before adding a little quieter. “Besides, I want you to go.”
Your stomach flips at his admission, cheeks warming enough they could fog the window next to you if you were just a few inches closer. Biting down on your bottom lip, you try to fight off the shy smile that wants to take over your face. Nervous hands pulling at the sleeves of your coat.
”I guess I’ll see what I can do.” You try to play along with a roll of your eyes and a bad attempt at an even voice, but you can tell Robin sees right through it. The heat of her stare threatens to burn a hole in the back of your head daring you to meet it.
”Perfect, then it’s decided.” She finally says, something mischievous dancing around in her tone. “Hey dingus, drop me off at our place first, I forgot I gotta wake up early to help my Mom with something.”
It sounds casual, the way she lays the trap, but you know exactly what she’s doing and you’re almost positive Steve does too. Especially by the way he stares her down through the rear view mirror before clearing his throat.
“Sounds good.” He nods with a small smile that almost seems nervous, glancing at you from the corner of his eye to gauge a reaction you don’t give despite the wild thumping of your heart in your chest.
Robin Buckley was a menace.
Of course it doesn’t take much longer for Steve to pull into the small parking lot of what you assume is their apartment complex. It’s one of the two in Hawkins, and yours of course is on the exact opposite side of town. Guilt consumes you with the realization of how far out of his way he’s going to not only drive you home, but to also pick you up first thing in the morning as the never ending storm clouds continue to dump what seems like another foot of snow on top of you.
Robin jumps out of the car before it even fully comes to a stop.
”Drive safe, and I’ll see you on Christmas Eve!” She smiles, sticking her head in one last time, throwing Steve a wink that makes him scoff and wave her off.
”Bye. Close the damn door before the snow ruins the leather.” He scolds, trying to dismiss her very obvious ulterior motives, mouthing ‘go’ until she finally obliges.
The wind outside isn’t loud enough to drown out her cackle after she shuts the door, and despite his annoyance he still doesn’t drive away till he sees her disappear safely into their apartment. Adding yet another quality to the long list of things Steve does that you unexpectedly find extremely endearing.
“I’m sorry — I don’t know why she’s being so, so - she’s being weird.” He stammers nervously, slowly pulling out and back into the snow storm that’s only seemed to get worse.
”I think that’s just Robin’s general demeanor.” You say casually, like your palms weren’t sweating.
“That is also true.” He laughs quietly, shifting gears when his tires slide, turning a corner.
“Are you seriously sure this is okay Steve? We're still not that far from the station. It’s getting bad, I can just stay there.”
As if to prove your point, the wind kicks up, smacking loudly on the side of his car.
”You’re not sleeping at the station.” He responds seriously, shifting again before slowly hitting the gas getting back on the main road. “I would not have offered it if I didn’t want to.”
”Technically Robin offered.”
”We’re basically the same person, so.” He shrugs, a toothy grin spreading across his face that only seems to be more handsome draped in shadows and moonlight.
Frank Sinatra’s ‘If I Had You’ fills the quiet space between you, the strings and his deep melodic voice turning the snow outside into something magical instead of treacherous.
“You really like Sinatra don’t you?” The question makes him do a double take, a reveal that warms both your cheeks and sends butterflies soaring deep in your gut giving your cards away about listening to his overnights.
‘I could show the world how to smile. I could be glad all the while. I could change the grey skies blue, if I had you.’
”Checking up on me I see.” He grins, shifting again only this time the side of his hand grazes your thigh, the slightest touch sending your body buzzing.
”I mean, I’ve got to keep tabs. I’ve caught you slipping, what? Four times now?” You tease, doing your best to hide your grin.
”Three. And all of them were your fault.” He corrects, sly eyes finding yours over the console making you giggle.
”Sounds like a deflection to me, Steve.” You sigh, relaxing even more in your seat meeting him from under your lashes. “I just never pegged you for a Frank Sinatra kind of guy.”
He huffs out a laugh, running a big hand through his hair that almost looks like a messy kind of bed head after the amount of times he’s done it throughout the day.
“I wasn’t until Robin started judging my love for Eddie Money like it was the worst thing she’s ever heard in her life. Which is crazy cause —”
”He makes hits!” You agree, with the kind of excitement that makes a smile stretch so big across his face that it splits in two.
”Thank you! Yes, he makes hits. But, she disagrees and decided to dedicate the first two months we worked at the station ‘expanding’ my music taste. I tried hiding the fact that I liked Frank outta spite, but apparently you aren’t the only one who listens to my overnights.” He glances over holding your stare for just long enough to make your heart skip a beat.
“You really aren’t stealthy, Steve.” You giggle before adding, “I bet she knows you’re smoking again too.”
”You’re probably right.” He groans at the possibility.
”I hear that a lot.”
Steve snorts, flipping his blinker on to turn down the road that leads to your side of town, shifting again his knuckles brush against you for the second time sending goosebumps pebbling across your skin.
“I was so surprised the first time I heard you play ‘My Way’, but honestly Harrington, it kinda suits you. I like it.” Your cheeks warm at your own compliment, something about saying it in his moonlit car has it feeling bigger than intended.
He stays quiet for a moment, letting the song fill the space between you charged with the new feelings that sit on the edge of both of your tongues.
’And I could leave the old days behind. Leave all my pals, I’d never mind. And I could start my life anew, if I had you.’
”Yeah?” He asks quietly, with a kind of soft vulnerability wrapped around the word that’s unmistakable.
“Mmhmm.” You whisper matching his tone turning shy, heart thumping wildly in your chest. “It’s hard not too.”
You aren’t talking about Sinatra anymore, and you think you both know it.
His gaze feels heavy as it crawls over the details of your face in the silence that follows, trying to figure out what’s going on inside your head. You hope whatever he’s looking for is hidden, just like the feelings that are starting to bloom despite how much you’ve tried not to water them.
“What was it like?”
The question you’ve been too scared to ask since you’ve been home slips out without warning, nervous fingers fidgeting with the sleeves of your sweater that poke out from your coat.
“Lockdown?” He clears his throat, straightening his posture holding the steering wheel with a harsh grip.
“If you don’t want to talk about it, I understand.” You try to take it back watching the way all the muscles in his body seem to tense at the memory.
”No, no, it’s fine.” He responds with a small smile reading you like a book from the corner of his eye. “I don’t mind, just, uh, I wasn't expecting it.”
”Sorry, I have a bad habit of just blurting out whatever pops into my mind.” You laugh nervously, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth.
“Oh, I know, I remember your conversational skills on the roof.” He teases, the whites of his teeth shining against the dashboard lights.
“Now look at us because of my lack of conversational skills.” Smirking, you dare to look over at him again, your eyes tracing the moles that dot his profile.
Steve was always handsome, but was he always this handsome?
“Fast friends.” He chuckles softly, meeting your gaze briefly before focusing back on the road.
There’s that word again. You guess it’s better than ‘cool.’
The snow falls so heavily outside you aren’t entirely sure how he’s even able to see through it anymore.
”Lockdown was like being trapped in a never ending loop of the worst day of your life.” He says with a low voice, his handsome features going dark at the memory.
Shifting gears again, his Beamer slowly trudges up the kind of hill that you know would have been your car's demise if you had even made it out of the station's parking lot. He leaves his hand to rest on the stick shift this time, the tips of his fingers press softly into your thigh, he doesn’t move them.
“But at least I had a real excuse for once as to why my life turned out the way it did.” There’s a layer of self hatred sewn into what he’s saying, it’s hard to miss in the way it diminishes the light in his eyes.
”What do you mean by that?” You whisper, too nervous to talk at full volume, but you lean your thigh further into his touch, keeping him connected to you. The rev of his struggling engine bleeds through the conversation, and you wonder if his car will even make it back.
”I mean look at me.” He laughs, like it’s obvious.
“I am looking at you Steve.”
You almost tell him that it’s all you seem to be doing lately.
”My Dad’s a lawyer with his own firm, and I’m a sound guy at a radio station who peaked in high school that can’t seem to get it together enough to leave.” He scoffs like you must need a reminder, running that nervous hand through his hair again, knee starting to bounce.
“That’s not what I see.” It comes out soft just like your gaze, fingers flexing in your lap fighting the urge to wrap around his.
”Yeah?” His voice cracks a little, but he keeps his focus on the disappearing road. “What do you see?”
’I could be a king, dear, uncrowned. Humble or poor, rich or renowned. There’s nothing I couldn’t do, if I had you.’
“Someone that loves his friends so deeply that he constantly puts his needs last. You’re selfless almost to a fault Steve, and sometimes I have to fight the urge to yell at you to take care of yourself when I see how bad the bags under your eyes get some days.”
He chuckles dryly, his grip on the steering wheel tightening as he blinks back tears that threaten to spill like he’s never heard these things about himself before. A storm raging inside of him just like the one outside.
”I see a guy who’s so kind, he’d sacrifice his own happiness for anyone that he loves. And I think that’s exactly why you’re still here. I wouldn’t call that being a failure. Not by a long shot.”
That’s when you do it, you wrap your fingers around his and squeeze, he does it back with zero hesitation, like he was waiting for you. Keeping you there.
”I think about it all the time you know?” He whispers, the pad of his thumb brushing against your knuckles, butterflies multiplying deep in your gut.
”What?”
”Leaving.”
Frank Sinatra’s deep baritone fills the quiet that falls between you when he turns on your road, letting the weight of his confession hold the space there. A deep longing inside of it to see what lies past where the twenty feet tall fences were.
“Why haven’t you?” The question feels loaded when it leaves your mouth, and the way his thumb stutters tells you it is.
”I just need to know they’re safe — that they get out of here first. Especially Dustin, that little shit gets under my skin but I love him like he's my kid.” He answers the question with the most selfless kind of reason you should’ve expected. Something else lingering inside of it that he doesn’t want to unpack just yet. “After everything, I just can’t, I can’t. Not yet. Part of me feels like maybe I’ll always live here.”
He pulls into your complex like he’s done it a thousand times before, wheels spinning in the snow before his car propels forward into the first spot, only letting go of your fingers to put the car in park.
”That doesn’t mean you can’t explore what’s past Hawkins, Steve.” You whisper, turning in your seat to face him, already missing the warmth of his hand. “You’re not stuck, even if you stay, you can always see what else is out there, one place at a time, one trip at a time. Bit by bit. The world is big, and it’s not going anywhere.”
His eyes shine, glassy and shimmering under the street lamp above his car. They tell you everything he can’t bring his mouth to speak, your hands flexing in your lap fighting the urge to grab onto him again. Shadows make the moles and freckles that dot his skin look like the last flick of a paint brush, the final touches to a painting and you realize — yes, Steve has always been this handsome, you just didn’t see it before.
You see it now though.
“Thanks for taking me home.” You smile a little shy, the heaviness of the conversation hanging in the air.
“Any time, honey.” His full lips twist into something sweet, the new nickname making your body come alive. “Want me to walk you to your door?”
He glances around your well lit parking lot like something could be lurking in the shadows, it feels silly to you, but the expression that furrows deep in the V of his brows tells you that it’s anything but to him.
“I’m already scared you’re not gonna get out of here as it is. I’m just right there.” You point to the door of your apartment, the one conveniently closest to where he’s parked and his shoulders visibly relax. You knew he was going to watch you till you got inside anyway.
”I’ll pick you up around 8?” He asks, his eyes glancing down at your hands that fidget like he missed your touch too.
The bold red numbers on his dash read: 9:38PM. Suddenly tomorrow feels like a million years away.
“That sounds good.” It comes out in a whisper, your mind frantically searching for anything to say to keep him here even if just for a few minutes more. But it’s all static.
”I’ll see you tomorrow morning then.” He smiles, leaning back into the headrest.
”I’ll make you coffee for your troubles — with four sugars, don’t worry.” You tease, trying to ignore the nervous crack in your voice, but your joke lands earning you a snort in response and it only pushes your cheeks up higher.
“Better make it five.” Steve winks, white teeth gleaming against the dashboard lights at the eye roll he gets.
”Whatever Harrington, it's your body, your diabetes." You shrug, not expecting the genuine full belly laugh you get, quickly doing your best to try and memorize the bass and timbre of it in case you don’t hear it again.
You take one last look at him, committing this moment to memory. His eyes do the same as they trace over every curve and dip of your face, it makes you squirm a little in your seat. Your fingers grab the door handle at the same time he clears his throat leaning back into the leather. He flicks his thumb across his nose, before that big hand of his wraps around the stick shift, signaling that it’s really time to go.
”Please drive safely.” You beg, stepping out of the car and into the snow, remembering all those times he peeled out of the station’s dirt road.
”I will, I will. Don’t worry.” He waves you off with a smirk, “I’ll be thinking about that coffee the whole way home.”
He’s not talking about the coffee.
You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, the wet snow flakes that stick to your cheeks melting from the heat emanating off of them. Shutting the door, you wave at him one last time before trudging up to your apartment, feeling the warmth of his stare on you the whole way. He waits until your keys are in your door before you hear the squeal of his gear shifting, his tires spinning loudly just like yours did at the station. It makes you turn around, and you watch him try to back out again just to get himself even more stuck in the snow that just continues to pile around him. He tugs at his hair trying one more time, finally giving up when smoke starts to come up from the burning rubber of his tires. His eyes meet yours through his windshield, apologetic and nervous, the wind kicking up a notch to add salt to the wound.
”You’re gonna flood your engine!” You tease with a grin, getting the shine of his teeth you were looking for. Bright like the sunshine you missed so much, they break through the storm clouds that threaten to hide his face.
Steve Harrington was snowed in at your apartment.
—-
You never thought your place was that small for a studio until Steve was standing in the middle of it, broad shoulders and long legs taking up so much space. His eyes are curious as they absorb his new surroundings, mouth slightly agape unzipping his leather jacket looking around like he’s being let in on a big secret. Nerves twist tight in your gut at the general clutter scattered around your room that doubles as a common area, especially the pair of underwear hanging half hazardly from your laundry basket.
”Sorry for the - the um, mess. I wasn’t expecting anyone, obviously.” You stutter, peeling off your coat in a rush.
Hanging up your puffer by the front door, you scurry past him to try and clean up what you can, starting with the black lace but the deepening red in his cheeks tells you that it's too late.
”You're fine, seriously. You’re cute — I mean.” He clears his throat like it's closing up, scratching the back of his neck, “It's a cute, cute apartment.”
You can’t stop the twist of your lips no matter how hard you try, giggling a soft thank you as you speed clean around him. He stands there awkwardly, unsure of what to do with himself either, both of you lost in uncharted territory.
“Here, I’ll take your coat.” You huff throwing away the last of the wrappers you’ve collected, taking a deep breath at the realization that you’re being a bad host. “You can sit on the couch, and get comfortable.”
Steve looks like a deer in headlights when you walk over to him with an open hand.
”Is it okay if I use your bathroom real quick?” There’s a shyness in the way that he asks, slipping his wet leather coat into your grasp, that nervous hand pushing his hair back.
There’s a brief moment of panic as you try and remember the way you left it, but since you weren’t running late today, you’re nintey nine percent sure it’s safe.
”Yeah of course, it’s on the right around the corner, not the left, that's just a closet.”
He nods, patting himself down like maybe he’s forgetting something before turning around and disappearing into the bathroom with a soft click of the door. A shaky breath you didn’t even know you were holding slips out from between your lips as you hang up his coat. The musk of his cologne hits your nose along with the relaxing hint of amber inside of it, and this time, you give in, inhaling a little more.
You take one last look around your apartment for anything else you might’ve missed before grabbing an extra blanket from the closet you warned him about. Your heart thumps a little quicker hearing the muffled sound of the water running in the sink as the reality of Steve Harrington having to sleep on your couch just a few feet from your bed settles in.
You grab the extra pillow you usually cuddle with from its hiding place under your comforter, laying everything out for him on one side of the loveseat. Staring down at the short piece of furniture, there's a part of you that wonders if he’s even going to fit on it, at least comfortably. Another wave of guilt hits you like a tsunami as you start to think maybe you should be the one to sleep on the couch instead.
The sound of the bathroom door opening stops you from being able to fret about it too much as he emerges from around the corner. His hazel eyes find yours instantly, the gold in them looking warm like honey. A toothy grin cracks his handsome face in two calming the anxiety that had begun tightening uncomfortably in your chest. The sleeves of his brown sweater are pushed up, and the windswept mess on the top of his head had obviously been tamed in his absence. A mental image of him fixing his hair in your small bathroom mirror has the corners of your mouth curling up. It feels like something to check off a bucket list.
“I like the pink rugs you have in there.” He points over his shoulder with his thumb taking two long strides to the middle of the room, his gaze wandering the posters on your wall like he's trying to piece you together.
“Thanks, I bought them when I first moved back to brighten it up a little.” You sigh with a shrug, looking down before adding “this one too.”
You point to the fuzzy burnt orange throw carpet under both your sock covered feet, a proud smile pulling up your cheeks meeting his eyes from under your lashes.
”I’ve got the last little bit of my favorite summer candle. I usually light it when it snows like this. If you wanna get really crazy, we can even pretend it’s June.” The wiggle of your eyebrows earns you the kind of laugh from him that threatens to become your favorite sound.
“What does summer smell like to you?” He questions with a soft stare, teeth tugging at his full bottom lip. The warm light from your floor lamp casting shadows across his sharp features.
”It smells like the beach on the sunniest day of the year — salt water, sunshine, with the smallest amount of sweetness and dare I say a dash of clean linen.” You sigh at the thought of it, side stepping him to light it from where it sits on your kitchen island.
“Take me away to cocamo or whatever the song says.” Steve huffs, finally flopping down on your couch. A low groan rumbles from his chest as his body molds into the cushions. This time he runs both hands through his hair.
“I’m just gonna change into something more comfortable really quick.” It comes out in a rush, your nerves from before jumbling the words on the tip of your tongue.
”Take your time,” He waves you off with a yawn, “do you care if I use your phone to call Robin while you’re doing that? I don’t want her thinking I’m in a ditch somewhere.”
“Go for it.” You smile, grabbing your softest pajama pants and an oversized shirt doing your best not to over think it, or the fact that you have nothing for him to sleep in.
Disappearing around the corner, you have to ward off the mental image of what Steve sprawled out across your couch in his boxers would look like.
—-
His voice sounds faint on the other side of the door and even though he's speaking in a hushed tone you can still tell he’s annoyed by whatever his best friend is saying on the other end. Judging by the way she was acting in the car, you can only imagine in the privacy of a call.
You stare at yourself in the mirror, probably the same way he did, messing with your appearance. Your mind wanders, replaying the night and how pushy Robin was all of the sudden, and it makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t. Maybe you weren’t the only one figuring out what that flutter in your stomach actually means.
Clearing your throat loudly, you give him a subtle warning of your return, fingers wrapping around the doorknob for ten extra seconds longer before finally coming out.
”You are not basically Dave Hull, you don’t host a match making show, please shut up— I gotta go, seriously? Can it— bye!”
He hangs up, running an irritated hand down his face mumbling something to himself before turning around. His eyes go wide, crimson staining his cheeks clearly oblivious to all the warnings you tried to give him.
“Sounds like she was super worried.” You tease trying your best to hide your smile and ignore the way his gaze wanders your softer edges, the hardened shell at work hung up with your coat.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” He snorts with an annoyed groan, “she was just being —“
”Robin.” You finish with a giggle, dragging your feet lazily to your bed, as a guilty conscience has you sizing up the couch again.
”I forget that you understand.” He laughs dryly flopping back down where he was sitting before you changed, thighs spreading wide as he head lulls against the cushions.
”Steve, I really don’t think that couch is going to be big enough for you.” Crossing your arms, you try to think of any kind of comfortable position he could possibly sleep in without his legs hanging over the arm rest. Or worse, propped up in mid air.
“I think you should take my bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”
”No, nope, absolutely not.” He sits up, squaring his broad shoulders in stubborn finality.
“Seriously, I re-“
“I mean it, I'm fine, I could sleep standing up if I’m tired enough.” Steve grabs the blanket you laid out for him, leaning back and stretching out with one leg on the arm rest and the other on the floor.
“See? Comfy.”
He drapes the quilted comforter over himself to really drive his point home. It doesn’t look comfortable at all, but it’s obvious he’s not going to back down.
You narrow your eyes at him, staring just long enough to get a laugh before he shoos you away to a bed that’s been calling your name since the station. This time you don’t have it in you to argue, taking one last look at him letting him win after he whispers a final ‘I’m fine, go to bed.”
———
The wind howls loudly outside, noisy gusts blowing against your windows sending in a chill that bleeds through the cracks of the poorly sealed glass. Another harsh blast against your apartment building has the flimsy foundations shake, and despite the thickness of your comforter goosebumps pebble across your skin, teeth threatening to chatter. Glancing over at your alarm clock, bright red numbers flash a harsh 12:34AM at you.
It was the sound of Steve’s light snoring that lulled you to sleep about an hour ago, but now it’s his constant shuffling and re adjusting on the couch that pulls you out of it. A long huff escapes through his nose after turning for what feels like the hundredth time, and you don’t have to see him to know he’s running a hand through his hair.
The wind kicks up again, blowing out the dim flame of your dying candle on the kitchen island, the soft yellow glow disappearing turning the room a deep blue. A shiver runs up your spine at the same time the springs of the couch squeak as he tries to readjust again.
”Steve, just get in the bed.”
The shuffling stops, both of you holding your breath.
”It doesn’t have to be weird, you’re clearly uncomfortable.” You sit up rubbing the sleep from your eyes finding him in the kind of position that was sure to give him back problems for the next week.
The internal battle he’s having with himself is evident on his face, and it lasts long enough for the uncomfortable weight of regret to start settling in your chest. Nerves digging your canines into the skin on the side of your thumb.
“Fuck it.” He huffs under his breath sitting up, grabbing the pillow you gave him that had been rolled up to help support his neck in the pretzel of a position he had put himself in.
Your shoulders relax for a split second until the realization of what this means quickens the beating of your heart. Chewing your bottom lip, you lift the comforter in a silent invitation doing your best to keep up with the ruse that this wasn’t a big deal, even if it feels like the exact opposite.
Steve stops at the side of your full size bed, running those long fingers through the already messy main on the top of his head. Purple shadows kiss the bags under his weary eyes as he takes in the small space next to you before they meet your gaze.
”Are you sure? I- I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He asks with a sleepy rasp in his voice that makes your chest swell.
”I’ve actually never been more sure of anything in my life, if you can believe it.” You give him a lazy reassuring grin, “besides, I’m cold and I’m willing to bet you’re like a human furnace.”
He lets out a soft laugh at the reveal of your ulterior motive, the stress in his shoulders softening as he runs a hand over his face before nodding tossing his pillow down next to yours.
”As long as it’s mutually beneficial.” Steve smiles a little shy climbing under the covers, his weight making the mattress dip in the middle daring you to come closer.
The bed squeaks underneath him as he adjusts, your metal bed frame smacking against the wall. He settles on his side facing you with a hand tucked under his pillow. You mimic the way he lays, nerves coming out in the form of fidgeting feet, your toes brushing against his under the covers. He’s so close that you can see the smattering of freckles at the corners of his eyes, and every mole that dots along his neck. Amber and tobacco hit your nose, warming you just like the heat that radiates off his body, eyes glowing a golden evergreen in the deep blue light of your apartment.
God he was close, so close.
His gaze traces the lines of your face and you swear they linger on your lips. Even if just for a fleeting moment, catching your breath in the back of your throat.
“Bet you regret offering to take me home now huh?” You tease in a whisper, the tip of your toe catching on his shin.
“Nah,” he scoffs with a soft grin,“I do however regret not wearing my boots, I wasn't even thinking, rookie mistake.”
Your giggle makes his full pink lips stretch wide over perfect white teeth. Butterflies flutter in a kaleidoscope of color when he catches your feet with his own.
“I’ll help you,” you hum, as your hand not tucked away finds a new home in the space between you. “Don’t worry.”
There’s a moment of silence while his fingers follow yours, resting close enough for the tips of them to brush. His thick eyebrows marry in the middle of his forehead, thinking hard about whatever he’s wanting to say next.
“Sorry if that was a little much in the car earlier, I didn’t mean to dump all of that on you.” He looks up at you from under his lashes, insecurities swirling in the depths of his irises.
“Don’t be,” your voice comes out quiet, swallowing your apprehension as your index finger hooks with his, “I like seeing that side of you.”
His finger flexes at your response, squeezing.
“Yeah?” He questions with the kind of disbelief that cracks open your heart.
“Mmhmm.” You murmur, holding his gaze, toes digging into the top of his foot, silently saying I like you.
You don’t know when it happened, but staring at him in the incandescent light of your room. You’re sure of it now.
Steve scoots closer, the heat of his breath fanning against your lips. Drawn to him like a magnet, you do the same, the tip of your nose brushing with his. Cinnamon from the Big Red he always chews invades your senses like the left over cologne clinging to his clothes. Another gust of wind smacks against your windows, sending a chill up your spine. Steve’s lips quirk on one side.
“Want to test out your furnace theory?” He breathes, a nervous crack in his voice, as he takes the leap of no return, first.
Tugging your bottom lip between your teeth, all you can muster is a shy nod, your legs wrapping tighter around his. Something greedy warms every inch of your skin like it’s a need to have him as close as possible, and here he is offering it to you like it’s all he wants too.
His big hand finds your hip before sliding to the small of your back, his palm flattening along your spine tugging you to him. It doesn’t take much to close whatever space that was left between you, legs tangling together with bodies pressed so close that you can feel every ridge and dip of him. You look up from under your lashes just to find him already staring down at you, and even with the heavy weight of his mind evident under his eyes, he’s somehow more handsome than he was an hour ago.
Your palms flatten along his chest, the unbuttoned collar of his sweater revealing the top of a thick patch of hair that hides underneath the cotton. It makes your thighs press into his, your cheeks burning but if he notices he doesn’t show it. The pad of his thumb presses softly running along the dip of your spine, soothing your stiff muscles while his eyes trace over the contours of your face. There’s something about the way he looks at you that makes you feel like he can see everything that you’re trying to hide, and when his gaze lingers on your lips you’re sure he can.
The hand he kept tucked under his pillow outstretches with his arm, sliding under your head to pull the rest of you in. Tucking you under his chin, you bury your face into the side of his neck, thankful for the hiding place. His skin feels just as sunkissed as it looks, and it takes everything inside of you not to nuzzle deeper into him searching for more.
“Is this okay?” He whispers against the crown of your head, soft fingers running up and down the length of your back.
“Mmhmm.” You mumble against his throat instead of ‘can I live here?’ curling your fists into his sweater to pull yourself closer.
For the first time all winter, you’re thankful for the snow.
“Are you okay?” Your question comes out in a murmur, lips ghosting against his skin as you attempt to look up at him failing miserably nosing the sensitive spot behind his ear.
”Am I — am I okay?” He snorts incredulously, pulling you close enough to feel impossible, turning his head just enough for your cheeks to brush, the heat of his breath pebbling goosebumps along the side of your neck. “Never been better, honey.”
Honey. You want to change your name to honey. Get lost in the gold of it hidden in his eyes.
All you would have to do is lift your chin up slightly, and your lips could be pressed to his. The thought of them being so close quickens your heart beat, breath hitching as the tip of his nose nudges against the side of your cheek. Testing the boundaries like the realization dawned on him too. The sound of your heavy breathing mixes with the howling of the wind outside, filling the quiet space of your apartment, neither one of you daring to speak. His chest rises and falls under your palm, his own heart matching yours, skipping a beat at the tilt of your chin.
His fingers slide down your spine, fiddling with the hem of your shirt until he feels the slight nod of your head giving him permission. Electricity sparks goosebumps along the soft skin of your lower back the moment the tips of them touch you, a low hum escaping the back of your throat. You swear you feel his lips curve up against your cheek at the sound. Your bodies move together, seeking friction you’re not ready to give into yet, heavy breathes hot against each other's necks.
Your hands trail down his chest, a greedy need to touch more of him taking over all logical thought. They reach the bottom of his sweater at the same time your nose presses harder into his cheek when the blunt end of his nails drag softly down the dip of your spine. Your fingers slip under the hem, the pads of them meeting the rough hair of his happy trail. His body tenses, the movements of his hand coming to halt. You immediately feel the loss when he pulls it out, long fingers grabbing a hold of your wrist.
“Hey.” He whispers against your ear, his voice laced with something soft and scared.
You work up the courage to push past the bitter taste of rejection sneaking up on you to pull your head back just enough to meet the heavy gaze of his eyes, eclipsed dark with want, fear sparkling in the depths of them. The tips of your noses brush, and your fingers itch to smooth the lines in the middle of his forehead from the furrow of his brows despite the way your heart drops to the pit of your gut.
Maybe you read this all wrong.
“There’s — There’s stuff you don’t know about me.” He starts, the hand on your wrist letting you go so he can thread his fingers with yours, easing some of the anxiety that had started to build. “Things happened to me — happened to a lot of us during that time.”
You press your forehead to his, the pad of your thumb rubbing softly over his knuckles, silently encouraging him to continue. His face twists like he’s in pain, shame shadowing his handsome features, breaking your heart before he even has a chance to finish.
”These things, they left their mark on me. It’s — it’s a lot to explain, not really pillow talk.” huffing out a nervous laugh, he swallows avoiding your gaze, he moves his focus to your tangled hands instead before continuing, “my stomach and umm parts of my chest — I’ve got a lot of scars is what I’m trying to tell you pretty fucking badly. A lot of them, and I haven’t really shown them to anyone before. Well anyone —“
”New?” You finish, squeezing your legs around his calf a little tighter remembering the one you saw wrapped around his neck.
Tears that you don’t let fall sting the corners of your eyes. Seeing him vulnerable like this, leaving himself bare to trust you to help pick the pieces back up has a sharp pain tightening in your chest. A vengeful rage boiling under the surface at the idea of whatever it was that caused him so much pain. The urge to apologize to him eats at you but you keep it to yourself knowing that’s the last thing he would want. Steve Harrington hated pity.
”Yeah,” He breathes a slight sigh of relief, his eyes finally meeting yours with a worry he can’t seem to shake swimming deep in the pools of them.
”Steve.” His name comes out gentle, a softness about it that has his nose nudging against yours. “You only have to share with me whatever you’re comfortable with.”
You run the tip of your nose along the length of his, breathing him in.
“I don’t need to see them yet, or ever if that’s what you want, I just — I just really want to touch you.”
Your eyes close, hiding from his gaze that searches for you.
“I want that too, honey. God more than anything.” He whispers against the corner of your mouth, the silk of his lips waking up every nerve ending in your body.
He lets go of your hand, fingers lazily crawling up your hip before returning to their home on the small of your back. A shiver runs up your spine at how good it feels to be touched by him again, only a few minutes passing but they felt like a lifetime.
You meet Steve’s stare, an intensity burning in his eyes that wasn’t there before. The kind that gives you the courage to slip your hand back up the bottom of his sweater. Tentative nails raking through his rough happy trail. The feeling of your touch sends a shudder through his body, like it’s been denied this kind of intimacy for a long time. A low groan catching in the back of his throat pressing his forehead harder against yours.
Your touch grows bolder, more curious as your fingers dare to crawl further up. The pads of them are met with uneven skin, evidence of large almost teeth-like shaped gashes lining the sides of his ribs. Despite pinching his eyes closed, he leans further into your touch. Your teeth dig into the fat of your bottom lip, holding in the cry that wants to slip out.
What happened to you?
The blunt ends of your nails find the softer patch of hair on his chest, your hips meeting his on their own accord. Steve tilts his head up, his mouth hovering just above yours as his hands spread wide across the small of your back. He pulls you to him like there’s somehow more space between you even though there isn’t. Your top lip brushes just slightly against his full bottom one, while your fingers dance slowly down the other side of his ribcage. The bumps of identical scars kissing the pads of them again.
His nose presses into your cheek, a shaky breath tickling against your skin. The blunt end of his nails digging crescent moons into the soft skin of your back when you go over a deeper indentation.
“So handsome.” You whisper, lips ticking just under the shell of his ear as you glide your fingers over the same spot again.
He breathes out a shy laugh, nuzzling deeper into you leaving a whisper of a kiss at the hinge of your jaw. His mouth is so close to where you want it most, a fluttering tickling deep in your gut at the feel of them dragging along your skin.
“So beautiful.” His voice comes out low against the sensitive spot in the crook of your neck. Its baritone has your body curving soaking in the warmth of him through your palms because touching Steve feels like bathing in sunshine.
The need for more is insatiable, and he lets you take as much as you want. Your hands wander the broad expanses of his chest, tracing the dips and curves of the pinched skin of his scars until your eyelids grow too heavy to keep open. The soft caresses of his fingers against the sore muscles of your back lulling you to the deepest sleep you’ve had in what feels like months but not before you hear a quiet whispered ‘sweet dreams, honey.’
——-
Part Two ✨
tag list: @beezusvreeland @winharry @stydiaforeverbitchezz @mhayes777 @margiissoswag
The moon shines bright above, casting shadows on his sharp features, revealing the slight dusting of a five o’clock shadow that covers his jaw you didn’t notice before. Steve Harrington had grown up into a man. You aren’t sure how you missed it until tonight, under a blanket of stars no one’s seen in weeks.
What else haven’t you seen?
His gaze finds yours again, the wind making his hair go wild. He holds it like he did in the studio room the other day, and you swear he moves even closer, the toe of his shoe tapping against yours. You can smell the leather of his coat, the tobacco clinging to the fabrics of his sweater mixing with the spice of his cologne in a way that shouldn’t smell as good as it does. A playful smirk teases at the corners of his mouth.
”You’re always looking at me like you’re trying to figure me out.” There’s something delicate about the way he stares at you, tugging at the bundle of nerves twisting in the pit of your stomach. Loosening the knots.
hii i was wondering if you had steve harrington multi part fic recs, i love yours so im guessing you'll have good taste :p
EEEEP i maybe like reading fics more than writing sometimes. (i realllllly need to make a masterlist for these amazing authors) here are a few fics you 100% need to read and honestly, i admire so much as a writer. (some of them might be oneshots-- but are long-- fyi because i read them more than series) most if not all these blogs require you to be 18+ to interact
@upsidedownwithemmy okay listen, emmy was actually one of the first steve writers i came across back when s4 came out. i was there when she posted my favorite fic of hers that ill put!!! so please read it and then go read her other stuff too. please. shes currently writing a pregnancy!reader series rn and its so fluffy and angsty so cute cant wait to see steve be a dad masterlist
shes drives me crazy (a camp au thats enemies to lovers)
meet me in the afterglow (sequel to SDMC)
also has an eddie summer if you like eddie fics!
@curiositydooropened amanda was one of my first friends i made!!! she has mutliple multi-part fics (shes writing one into an actual book and im so proud of her!!!!) just go to her masterlist
not necessarily multipart but she knows how i feel about these two
chamomile (UGHHHHHH COLLEGE AU ANGSTTTTTT. steve is a cop in this one!)
lemonade (sequel to chamomile and currently begging for a part 3 to this day)
@andvys i feel so embarassed i havent seen andy's stuff until s5, and so im doing a lot of reading/catching up!! has a big masterlist!!
the edges of your soul (i have't seen yet) (post apocalypse mean!steve DELICIOUS!!!!! still on-going, but i just caught up)
also her cheer fic... eddie endgame (i knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss).... i promise i wont shamelessly include so i can ask for her to write a sequel... steve endgame truther....
@stevie-petey just discovered this author bc of their rockstar steve fic, gonna read her rewrite for st soon masterlist
gasoline (OH MY GOSH THIS FIC LITERALLY CHANGED ME FOREVER. I NEED IT ON MY SHELF. I CANNOT WAIT FOR THE EPILOGUE. ANGELFACE AND ROSIE HAVE MY HEART)
@loveshotzz hey twin. n e way, lots of great series. again, recently just discovered!!! masterlist
all i really want is you (this is one of my next reads but im putting it on here because i love the premise widower!steve)
nice to each other (PEOPLE WE MEET ON VACATION MENTION!!!! lovevlvoevoeve how i found her in the first place)
@levanswrites UGHHHHHUHHHHH an author whose brain i want to climb into. multiple on-going series im enjoying and loving so much!!!!! masterlist
rules of the crawl part 1 | part 2 (fwb but one big rule NO KISSING so they dont fall in love... but obviously thats not working out ANGSTT. on-going please dont spam her for pt 3... shes getting there!!!)
field nots one love (dont get me started on this fluffy cute masterpiece)
@abibliophobiaa masterlist
and tell me some things last (BAHHHH marriage of convenience after reader is now the guardian of her brother. coach!steve. literally drooling for the next part!!!!)
@chestharrington masterlist
let's hear it for the boy! (long oneshot steve can't finish.... enough said, friends to lovers)
two authors that write a lot of blurbs/multi drabbles that i adore, and probably my two i consistently check their blogs daily.
@luveline (masterlist) and @lovebugism (masterlist i've been really loving her crawl series)
you had it all: perfect family, mom, dad, the sweetest little brother. and then you lost it just as quickly, in the earthquake that claimed so many. left as the sole provider for your little brother, with mountains of bills piling up, doing everything in your power to give him the world. and you’re doing your best, even if the odds are stacked against you. enter steve harrington, a blast from high school past, and your brother’s baseball coach. and somehow, your… soon to be husband.
marriage of convenience. sole guardian f!reader to her ten year old brother. r has asthma. baseball coach steve.
chapter warnings: hospital scenes, sickness, loss of parent(s).
story masterlist
-
Chapter Two:
The house is quiet when Davie returns. The sort of too quiet that’s unsettling, even more so beyond the fact the door was left open and unlocked when he’d gotten dropped off by the bus.
He calls into the home, and nothingness greets him there. Nervous, he toes off his shoes in the doorway, knowing you always hate when he leaves them on, and enters the kitchen first. There’s nothing unnatural. Nothing out of place other than the half filled coffee cup left to cool on the tile.
He calls your name, and only open air is there to find him. Fear grapples in his chest, mixing with the anxiety over the last time he came home to an empty home, after the two of you sat for hours in the back of an ambulance, battered and broken and freshly orphaned.
He can still see the flashing lights of cop cars, blinding now as he walks into the living room and finds you sprawled out there, curled on your side in your pajamas, never having gotten ready for work.
Sweat lines your brow, little droplets that cling to your scalp and dampen the cushion below. A blanket, now kicked off, lays around your ankles like you moved in your sleep, overheating with your fever. You’re trembling a little now, from cold or weakness he can’t tell.
“Hey…” he whispers, jostling your shoulder a bit, “are you sleeping?”
A sound passes through your chapped lips. Breathy, not words, not really, more like a wheeze. A rattle. As you shift, a deeper inhale fills the room, the kind that sounds like it feels like a knife drawing through lungs and flesh.
Fear claws up his throat, heart hammering like a little hummingbirds in his chest as your eyes finally crack open in the slightest. Unfocused, not quite meeting his own. “School is already out?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little shakily this time, “you’ve been asleep since I left?” A whole day gone and spent sleeping, something you never do. Ever.
Your head shakes back and forth slowly. “Not sure…”
He winces. “You look bad. Like bad bad.”
“Thanks, buddy,” you rasp, trying to draw in another breath that ends up in a rattling cough, “I’m fine. Just needed to rest.”
You’re not. He’s not foolish enough to believe it either. He remembers what momma used to do when you were little; fingers brush at your hairline, spreading against your forehead. It’s hot. Burning hot, and he whips his hand back.
“You’re burning up,” he croaks, glancing wildly about the room, unsure of what to do. And then he remembers, “water. You need water. That’ll fix it.”
He nearly trips over his feet rushing to get to the sink. The cabinets are higher than he is, so he clambers on top of the counters like he knows you hate, but it’s not a moment to care. He’ll face the grounding later. His fingers tremble against the sink as he twists and water starts to fill the glass. It sloshes as he runs back into the living room, half of it ending up on the floor, holding it up to your lips where you lay.
“Come on, you have to try,” he pleads, trying to help you sit up, grimacing as you struggle to prop yourself up onto some pillows. The water you try to sip spills onto your chin, and he gasps out a pitiful whimper. “Come on, just…just try, okay?” The water just spills and spills and stains your shirt even further. And he knows it’s useless; he feels useless. He wishes he was older, smarter. Maybe then he could do something. Maybe then.
Your eyes trail up to take in his features, and you must see the fear there because your tired face softens, and you gently reach up to brush at his cheek. “Hey, hey. Please, don’t look at me like that.”
He snuffles. “Like what?”
“Like you’re going to cry,” you whisper, letting out another cough, “I’ll be fine, I just need five more minutes…”
“Hey!” He shouts, to no avail, as your head slumps and you fall back into whatever sick slumber he found you in. He shakes your shoulder once, twice, three times.
Only this time you barely move, breath coming in and out too slowly, too weakly. He backs out of the room on shaking legs, looking about for anyone to call. Any number. Anything. And then he remembers Steve lives just a few blocks away, easily manageable by bike.
He whispers up a plea to his parents, to not take you too, to leave you here. Throws up a promise to not pester you or call you bad names too for good measure.
And then he’s rushing out the door and hopping on his bike, pedaling faster than he ever has in his life.
Steve will know what to do. Steve who drives him around to baseball practice. Who always comes over with extra groceries he just happens to find in his fridge. Steve, who just fixed the kitchen sink the other day when you told him there was a leak. His coach, who stays probably a little too long after he drops him off after practice, even when he knows you won’t be home for another hour or two.
Davie doesn’t even have time to think as he tosses his bike to the side when he pulls up to Steve’s apartment door. He pounds his fist so hard the neighbors dog starts barking, and then the owner, yelling at him to quiet down out there.
The door opens slowly, Davie’s fist still in the air, his eyes wide as he breathlessly lets out, “Something’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong, buddy?” Steve’s crowding him against his side, thumb sweeping against Davie’s trembling shoulders as the boy gasps to catch his breath from the effort of biking.
“My sister,” he wails, tugging on Steve’s arm urgently, trying to drag him in the direction of home, “she’s really sick. We need to go. Now.”
“Hey, hey. Slow down. What do you mean sick?” Steve drops down to look him in the eye.
Davie can only shake his head. “She’s hot and she was coughing and I tried to give her water but she fell asleep and wouldn’t wake up.”
Something crosses Steve’s gaze. A mirror flicker of the panic pumping in Davie’s blood, and then he’s reaching into his apartment to grab his keys and rushing out the front door.
“Bike in the trunk,” Steve orders, popping it quickly so Davie can run over and toss it inside. Steve marches over to the car and whips his door open. “Get in and buckle up.”
Davie doesn’t even wait.
-
He’s not sure why it worries him so much. Why someone he’s known a couple months means so much. Somehow even still, you’ve wedged your way into his heart, a close friend and someone he genuinely enjoys spending time with.
His fingers tighten around the steering wheel as he races the two blocks down the road to Lark. Davie is stoic beside him, his hands toying with a string dangling on the edge of his shirt. He’s seen his own kids, the party, in various states of distress over the years. Can only imagine the war in Davie’s mind this time. He’s lost so much so young, a pain he shouldn’t have to know, and now he fears he’ll lose another. The thought alone has Steve pushing the pedal down further, well over the speed limit for this part of town.
The house, like Davie warned when he came practically beating down the door, is quiet upon entering. The sort of quiet that disturbs Steve. He rushes into the kitchen first to try and grab a towel, anything to maybe try and bring down your fever a little, running it under cold water while Davie rushes to your side. On the kitchen table are various bills, some stamped in red, notices of varying degrees of lateness.
He wonders how long it’s been like that, how long you’ve been struggling, how long you’ve been doing everything if only to stay afloat. You’re always happy, maybe on the surface, putting your best foot forward. But he knows, he knows how hard it is on his own to survive on a teacher and coaching salary, so he can only imagine doing it all alone with a kid to raise on top of it.
His heart sinks as he shuts the tap off, pushing aside his newly attained knowledge as he darts over to the living room.
He only needs to take one look before he’s swearing under his breath. Tosses the useless towel to the side, because it’s clear Davie wasn’t overemphasizing just how clearly sick you are. Whispering your name, Steve kneels on the ground, running his fingers down the inside of your wrist, resting over the place where he knows he should find a steady pulse. It’s weak, the sort of gentle flutter that worries him. Your breathing is worse. Rattling whooshes of breath in and out of tight lungs, a sort of wheeze that sends a fresh wave of terror down his spine.
“Hey,” he whispers, thumb trailing over your likely sore bicep, given the scalding temperature of your skin, “for someone who always has something to say, you’re really quiet right now.”
It’s teasing and light, and when he only gets a moan and an incoherent babble, his stomach sinks even further. Davie looks up at Steve with those wide eyes, light a deer caught in headlights. There’s a brief moment of understanding that passes between the two.
“She needs the hospital,” Davie insists, sounding much older than his ten years, “I told her she needed to go to the doctor and she didn’t listen! She never listens!”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. Nods. Wishes he understood exactly what Davie’s words mean, if only to understand how dire the situation is better. “Closest one is fifteen.”
Steve’s working on helping you up and off the couch, pushing your arm up and over his shoulder, wincing at the groan that pours from your lips. Your eyes flutter, just barely, and he clutches tighter at your side, worried you’ll sink to the floor like an anchor if he doesn’t.
“She doesn’t have insurance,” Davie says as the older man begins to move, clutching at Steve’s forearm, like he’s suddenly been reminded of the fact. As if it would change the fact you’re in desperate need of medical attention.
“That’s…we’ll worry about that later, okay?” Steve assures him, as Davie rushes to your other side and helps Steve practically drag you to the car. “Right now your sister needs a doctor. And medicine. And things that we don’t have here in this house. Insurance is the least of our problems.”
Davie nods, jumping into the back seat after helping to buckle you into the seat beside Steve.
“Buckled?” Steve asks, looking in the rear view mirror.
Davie nods, reaching over to clasp your shoulder reassuringly. Your eyes flutter again at the nearness of your little sibling who is your whole world, tired eyes looking up through lashes at Steve. “M’okay, Steve. No doctors. Please. Just five more minutes.”
Steve shakes his head, fingers sliding over your palm, clasping it tightly. His dark eyes lock with yours, and he finds only a tired sort of fear there. He can only imagine how many things swirl in your mind, knowing what he does about your life and situation. “I know you’re going to be mad. I know I’m overstepping, and you can hate me for it later, but you’re going to a hospital. Now.”
When you’re too weak to argue with him, Steve knows he’s made the right decision, and pushes his car into drive.
-
March 27, 1986…
It’s a birthday party for one of those cousins you see once a year. The kind where there’s too many sweets consumed and too much alcohol drank by adults who already have fragile relationships to begin with, and it’s only a matter of time someone starts fighting.
Yet you don’t mind, sitting against the wall as your brother plays an intense card game with one of the younger cousins. They’re shouting, but it blends in with the music pouring out of a radio speaker, and mixes with the chatter of adults pouring their third glass of wine or cracking a new can of beer.
“Go fish!” Davie shouts, vibrant laughter from him filling the room.
“No!” Kevin yells back, shaking his head vehemently, “you go fish! You definitely have my cards.”
“I do not,” Davie argues, “see?”
Kevin falls back against his seat with a loud groan. “This stupid game is rigged.”
You glance up from the book you’ve brought along to keep you company for the evening, tabbing the page you’re on. You shake your head, laughing, “Not rigged, just your bad luck.”
Kevin narrows his eyes at you, opening his mouth likely to tattle on you, when the ground starts to rumble. Heads all about the room glance up, the photo frames along the walls, various cups atop different tables and stands, beginning to shake all around you.
The intensity only grows, the house trembling as though a train is driving right through the building. Adults shout to get down around the room, your parents appearing in the doorway leading to the dining room.
You start to crawl over to David’s side, the world trembling and groaning around you, as the ground starts to separate. To rip like a mouth yawning, amber light seeping into the room.
It happens suddenly, your parents, family friends, falling through the ground. Falling through the earth.
It’s a mere blink, a second, and then Davie is screaming, his hand whipping out to claw at yours as he rolls towards the gaping hole. You catch him hastily, tugging him close to your body, shielding him from the ruin around you.
“Run!” you shriek, shoving your brother along to safety, your cousin along.
Those able to run pour out of the house, cries of fear and anguish rising up from those in homes all around you as you race to safety, to where the ground doesn’t try and swallow you whole.
“Mom!” Davie is crying, “Dad!” Over and over as you tug him along, your heart thundering as your cousin’s home falls through the hole in the ground that wasn’t there moments ago.
He screams it. Wails it over and over again as he breaks, as you fall to your knees, praying for the world that just took your parents to swallow you whole too.
Because in the wake of chaos, there is only nothingness.
A sort of cold emptiness as ambulances start to pour into Hawkins, as cops litter the streets, military begins to make their presence known.
You’re bombarded with question after question, asking you to recount those moments.
Asking you to repeat over and over again how one moment your parents were there, and the next they were gone.
Ripping open the gaping wound in your heart that bleeds and weeps and aches.
Four people went to a party, and only two made it home.
-
The dream starts to dissolve, the sounds of Davie crying for his mother and father start to fragment and break off, like wispy clouds behind your eyes fluttering away in the wind. The world starts to form behind your eyes with it. A slow blink and you see a ceiling. Another and you see white walls. One more and you note the white sheets laying low against your hips.
There’s a steady beep, beep, beep sounding from somewhere in the distance. Like a metronome or a heartbeat. Heartbeat. A steady thrum, thrum, thrum, as the room starts to materialize before you.
Steve is sitting at your bedside, his eyes immediately locking with yours as you start to shift in the bed, body aching from even the slightest effort. “Hey, hey. Slow.”
“Steve,” you croak, wincing at the pain in your muscles, sore from fevers, “I can’t be here.”
“You need to lay down,” he urges, a hand at your shoulder, guiding you back against the pillows lining the bed.
Davie sits in the corner of the room on a rickety plastic chair, his feet kicking back and forth, not quite touching the ground yet.
“Davie,” you say, though it comes out as a breathy rasp. “Hey buddy, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, dipping his head, “Steve got me a soda and a snack.”
You smile briefly at Steve, noting where his hand is wrapped around yours again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. That’s also when you notice the hospital bracelet around your wrist. Reality sparks to life like a live-wire, reminding you of the many reasons as to why being in a hospital is absolutely not in the budget at all.
Noticing your rising panic, Steve notes quickly, “The doctors think you have pneumonia. They’re running tests. You didn’t tell me you have asthma—that you’ve been neglecting your treatment of it.”
Something you’re sure is meant to assuage your anxiety only raises it, the heart rate monitor picking up speed. “Asthma costs money. Inhalers cost money. Tests cost money. Money I don’t have. I don’t have insurance. Sometimes the light bill has to come before anything else, or the oil bill, or new tires for my car. Sometimes Davie needs new clothes—”
“I know,” Steve says, a little solemnly this time, “Davie told me. But you don’t neglect yourself to do all of that, sweetheart.”
You’re so frustrated the pet name doesn’t even register in your mind. “Are they going to admit me?” Steve doesn’t say anything, which therein lies your answer. “I can’t do this. I was just catching up, and now this happens and I ruin it all.”
Davie, who has been silent thus far, jumps up from his chair. His eyes narrow. “You’re not ruining anything.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as Davie glares down at the floor, the fear and hurt rolling off his form in waves. He’s scared, you know he’s scared. Can only fathom the way he found you earlier when he came home from school.
“Hey buddy, let’s just…cool off and sit down, okay?” Steve suggests, patting Davie’s shoulder as he settles back down on his chair. Steve pauses, his features hard…and a little nervous, which is out of character for him. “There might be a solution…”
You let out a weak laugh, breaking off into a cough. “I don’t suppose you have a few thousand dollars in your pocket, do you?”
“I’m a public school teacher,” he says, as if you don’t already know this about him.
You squint at him. “I know, Steve.”
“I don’t get paid a lot, but what I do have is health insurance…” he begins, turning to look at you, “and…it’s decent insurance.”
Your stomach plummets, understanding where this is going. “Steve, no.”
“If we were married, you’d be covered. Spouses are covered.”
“Married?!” Davie exclaims, breaking up the silence that stretches between you two.
“No, Davie. Steve has gone insane,” you scoff, coughing, “We’re not getting married.”
“I know,” Steve says immediately, “I know it sounds insane, but if you just think about it—”
“You’re talking about a marriage. We’re not even dating.”
“I know.”
“You’re my friend. A good friend. I can’t thank you enough for everything you do for me, but proposing in a hospital is crazy.”
Steve’s eyes flash at that word. “I’m not proposing. I’m offering a solution.”
You huff a laugh. “A solution isn’t marrying your friend because she’s gotten herself into a crappy situation.”
“People marry for even less,” Steve says, still firm despite your hesitance.
“And they likely regret it,” you point out.
“Is Steve going to be my brother?” Davie asks, coming to stand beside Steve.
Steve looks back at Davie, then at you. “You’d be able to at least afford to take care of yourself, without the fear of another medical bill. You’d get your prescriptions. You could take care of yourself so you can take care of Davie.”
It’s a low blow, but you know he’s correct. And you hate that the insane idea of a hasty marriage sounds so attractive.
“I just hate watching you refuse help. I know you can do it on your own, trust me I know you can. I’ve never seen someone work harder. But you don’t actually have to do it all on your own.”
“This is insane.”
“I know,” Steve agrees.
“It would change everything,” you say softly.
His thumb rubs the back of your hand. “I know.”
“I’m not saying yes tonight.”
Steve nods. “I don’t expect an answer tonight. If ever. I’m just…laying an option out there.”
“Okay,” you whisper, glancing over Steve’s shoulder to see Davie staring up at you, a fresh flicker of hope in his eyes, the idea lingering in the spaces between the three of you, suddenly so very real.
-
A doctor knocks on the door to enter some hours later. Davie is curled up on a little couch, his hand dangling off the side, Steve’s jean jacket a pillow for the boy. The man is older, graying hair around his temples, a clipboard in hand that he reads through quickly before approaching your beside.
“Alright,” he says gently, “let’s take a listen.”
You sit up with Steve’s helping hand, every moment driving that pain in your chest even deeper. The doctor asks you to breathe as the cool disc rests against your back, each harder than the last, a hacking cough that has his mouth tightening.
He leans back, draping his stethoscope around his neck, writing something within your chart. “Based on what I’m hearing, reviewing your vitals, and your chest x-ray, we’re looking at pneumonia. I’m going to admit you until your high fevers go down and you start to respond to the antibiotics.”
Davie starts to stir at the doctor’s words, his head lifting up off his makeshift pillow. You glance his way briefly, turning your attention back to the doctor. “I can’t stay. I don’t have insurance, I can’t afford—”
“Stop,” Davie interjects, just as the doctor excuses himself to allow a moment of familial privacy.
“Davie…”
“Just stop trying to be the hero for once.” And then he rushes to your bedside, crying into your shoulder. “I already lost mom and dad. I can’t lose you too.”
“Hey…” you coo, lifting his head, wiping at the tear streaked face of your little brother, “I’m just sick. I’ll get better, okay? I’m going to be fine.”
“Not if you don’t let them help you get better.”
Steve awkwardly shuffles closer, resting a hand on Davie’s shoulder. “Your sister isn’t leaving you, buddy. We’ll make sure of it, okay?” Davie nods, and Steve turns to you, quietly so Davie can’t hear, “I’m serious, we can fix this.”
“I told you it’s crazy,” you whisper back, a little too harshly.
“Please just think about it.”
You do.
You do think about it as the day passes, as you fall asleep and wake in that same hospital bed, eyes heavy when Steve announces he has to head in for work and that he’ll drop off Davie at school so you can rest. The only response you can give is a nod, before falling back to sleep. Hours pass like that, morning on the second day in the hospital passing in a blur of dreams and vital checks by nurses, with new antibiotics and a fresh inhaler.
The next day is more or less the same, giving you time to think. To really think.
Steve’s idea is crazy, but the look of worry in your brother’s face was a dose of reality you never once considered. What happens if you’re gone? What happens if it had been worse, if you left him afraid and alone? He’s already lost so much, too much, and there’s no part of you that ever wants to put him through that terror again if you can help it. And if you’re being honest, you’re tired. Tired of doing it on your town. Tired of fighting against a moving current trying to drag you down.
Sun streams through the hospital window as Steve and Davie coming barreling into the room, both laughing about something you have no inkling of. The growing closeness between them has your chest burning, and it has nothing to do with your current diagnosis.
“You two look like you’ve had a fun day,” you tease, reaching over to hug Davie as he slams into your side.
“Steve let me get McDonald’s on the way here.”
“Kid was hungry,” Steve says, shrugging, before pulling out a bag behind his back, “I also snuck us in some food. Figure it’s still not the greatest, but definitely better than whatever they’re feeding you here. I also heard someone might be discharged today. I guess antibiotics do work.”
“Hardy har,” you taunt, sticking your tongue out at him.
Grabby hands extend toward his bag of food, and Steve tuts, “She makes fun of me and then expects me to give her food.” Davie laughs, and Steve tosses the food your way. “Save some fries for me, will you?”
The three of you eat in comfortable quiet. Little chatter is shared about your days, yours the least eventful of the group. Steve had tests to grade for his health class, Davie spoke about how him and Holly successfully planned their next campaign, requesting to spend Saturday afternoon at the Wheeler’s house to play with his friends. And before long, the doctor gives you a final once over before deciding you’re well enough to head back home and finish your antibiotics and getting better in the comfort of your own bed.
The car ride brings with it a new wave of emotions. Thousands of thoughts swirl, decisions looming over your head. Davie sits in the back seat, forehead pressed against the glass as Steve pulls up in front of your home.
There’s a beat of silence and then, “Davie, can do you mind running inside and making macaroni and cheese for us?”
“For Steve too?” he asks, practically beaming for the first time in two days.
“Stay for dinner?” you ask, chewing on your bottom lip.
“Sure,” he agrees.
“You’re in luck! Macaroni and cheese is my specialty,” Davie muses, reaching over to take the house keys out of your extended palm, “thanks! Love you!”
“Love you too,” you call back, waiting until the door is closed to break the silence, “Okay.”
Steve’s brows arch. “Okay?”
“I’ll…do it.”
“Do what?” He blinks.
“Please, Steve. It’s already crazy enough for me to agree, don’t make me say it.”
“Are you proposing marriage to me?” Steve claps a hand over his chest, gasping in mock shock.
“Steve!” Coughing fills the car, and his palm comes up to rub between your shoulder blades. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And we’re engaged.”
You balk. “We are not engaged. We’re entering into a highly questionable marriage agreement.”
Steve’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Can I buy you a ring at least?”
“No.” You shake your head.
“How are we going to sell it then?”
“A cheap ring. Maybe,” you concede. He lets out a whoop. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”
“I’m enjoying that you’re smiling.” And it’s then you realize you are. There’s a lightness you’ve been missing, the kind of lightness that comes around when he’s near.
“We’re still us,” you tell him, biting at your lip. “We don’t change.”
“Exactly. You’re you, and I’m me. Just…we gain some fancy new paperwork and legal benefits.”
“Right.”
“I am going to have fun telling people you’re my wife. ‘She totally loves me, don’t let the scowl fool you.’”
“Steve!” You playfully thwack him on the shoulder, grinning like mad at the laughter that bubbles up from him. “If I’m getting health insurance, what are you getting out of this?”
“I mean…I love Davie. You guys are also pretty great.”
“Spill it, Harrington.”
“My lease on my apartment is up soon. There’s a place I’ve been saving for, I don’t have enough yet but I will soon—”
“I have a spare room,” you interject. “You’ll move in. To sell the…marriage.”
“Cool. Cool.” Steve nods. “And you’re not just getting insurance. You’re getting help and time to do things for yourself again. Maybe even get afloat.”
You don’t even know what that looks like, but the idea sounds wonderful. “But if you tell anyone you proposed to me in a hospital, I’ll kill you Harrington.”
“Anything for you, future wife.”
“Steve!”
-
Upon entering the home, the two of you find Davie standing on a chair in the kitchen and swirling a spoon in a boiling pot of water. Normally you’d yell for him to get down, but the adrenaline of the day is wearing off.
Sensing this, Steve rests a hand on the middle of your back and leads you to the stairway. “Okay. Bed to lay down now. No arguing.”
He loops an arm around your waist and you protest weakly, “I’m not that weak.”
“Let me,” he urges, helping you up the stairs, “I’m practicing for our marriage vows.”
“You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you?”
“Way too much,” he says, steering you toward your bed, propping up a pillow behind you. He rests your antibiotics and inhaler on the bedside table. “You keep your inhaler nearby and you follow the doctor’s instructions for your medicine. Okay?”
“Someone is bossy.”
Steve settles down beside you on the bed, suddenly serious. “You scared me. When I found you like that…”
You glance down at your hands, sorrowful. “I know.”
“Don’t do it again, okay? Davie needs you,” he says, not teasing now. No joking in his tone.
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. Don’t push yourself like that. Let me help, let friends help, let people in.”
“Because you’re going to be my fake husband?” you laugh, a little watery.
“No,” he says, looking you in the eye, “because you’re my friend. And I care about you.”
His tone is so gentle, so sincere. “Okay,” you agree.
“Rest a little, okay? I’ll let you know when Davie is done cooking us our five star dinner.”
You laugh. “Okay.”
“Tomorrow we can talk…details.”
“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow then.
-
a/n: thank you for all the love. like, reblog, comment — i love to interact with you all. 💌
you had it all: perfect family, mom, dad, the sweetest little brother. and then you lost it just as quickly, in the earthquake that claimed so many. left as the sole provider for your little brother, with mountains of bills piling up, doing everything in your power to give him the world. and you’re doing your best, even if the odds are stacked against you. enter steve harrington, a blast from high school past, and your brother’s baseball coach. and somehow, your… soon to be husband.
marriage of convenience. sole guardian f!reader to her ten year old brother. r has asthma. baseball coach steve.
chapter warnings: hospital scenes, sickness, loss of parent(s).
story masterlist
-
Chapter Two:
The house is quiet when Davie returns. The sort of too quiet that’s unsettling, even more so beyond the fact the door was left open and unlocked when he’d gotten dropped off by the bus.
He calls into the home, and nothingness greets him there. Nervous, he toes off his shoes in the doorway, knowing you always hate when he leaves them on, and enters the kitchen first. There’s nothing unnatural. Nothing out of place other than the half filled coffee cup left to cool on the tile.
He calls your name, and only open air is there to find him. Fear grapples in his chest, mixing with the anxiety over the last time he came home to an empty home, after the two of you sat for hours in the back of an ambulance, battered and broken and freshly orphaned.
He can still see the flashing lights of cop cars, blinding now as he walks into the living room and finds you sprawled out there, curled on your side in your pajamas, never having gotten ready for work.
Sweat lines your brow, little droplets that cling to your scalp and dampen the cushion below. A blanket, now kicked off, lays around your ankles like you moved in your sleep, overheating with your fever. You’re trembling a little now, from cold or weakness he can’t tell.
“Hey…” he whispers, jostling your shoulder a bit, “are you sleeping?”
A sound passes through your chapped lips. Breathy, not words, not really, more like a wheeze. A rattle. As you shift, a deeper inhale fills the room, the kind that sounds like it feels like a knife drawing through lungs and flesh.
Fear claws up his throat, heart hammering like a little hummingbirds in his chest as your eyes finally crack open in the slightest. Unfocused, not quite meeting his own. “School is already out?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little shakily this time, “you’ve been asleep since I left?” A whole day gone and spent sleeping, something you never do. Ever.
Your head shakes back and forth slowly. “Not sure…”
He winces. “You look bad. Like bad bad.”
“Thanks, buddy,” you rasp, trying to draw in another breath that ends up in a rattling cough, “I’m fine. Just needed to rest.”
You’re not. He’s not foolish enough to believe it either. He remembers what momma used to do when you were little; fingers brush at your hairline, spreading against your forehead. It’s hot. Burning hot, and he whips his hand back.
“You’re burning up,” he croaks, glancing wildly about the room, unsure of what to do. And then he remembers, “water. You need water. That’ll fix it.”
He nearly trips over his feet rushing to get to the sink. The cabinets are higher than he is, so he clambers on top of the counters like he knows you hate, but it’s not a moment to care. He’ll face the grounding later. His fingers tremble against the sink as he twists and water starts to fill the glass. It sloshes as he runs back into the living room, half of it ending up on the floor, holding it up to your lips where you lay.
“Come on, you have to try,” he pleads, trying to help you sit up, grimacing as you struggle to prop yourself up onto some pillows. The water you try to sip spills onto your chin, and he gasps out a pitiful whimper. “Come on, just…just try, okay?” The water just spills and spills and stains your shirt even further. And he knows it’s useless; he feels useless. He wishes he was older, smarter. Maybe then he could do something. Maybe then.
Your eyes trail up to take in his features, and you must see the fear there because your tired face softens, and you gently reach up to brush at his cheek. “Hey, hey. Please, don’t look at me like that.”
He snuffles. “Like what?”
“Like you’re going to cry,” you whisper, letting out another cough, “I’ll be fine, I just need five more minutes…”
“Hey!” He shouts, to no avail, as your head slumps and you fall back into whatever sick slumber he found you in. He shakes your shoulder once, twice, three times.
Only this time you barely move, breath coming in and out too slowly, too weakly. He backs out of the room on shaking legs, looking about for anyone to call. Any number. Anything. And then he remembers Steve lives just a few blocks away, easily manageable by bike.
He whispers up a plea to his parents, to not take you too, to leave you here. Throws up a promise to not pester you or call you bad names too for good measure.
And then he’s rushing out the door and hopping on his bike, pedaling faster than he ever has in his life.
Steve will know what to do. Steve who drives him around to baseball practice. Who always comes over with extra groceries he just happens to find in his fridge. Steve, who just fixed the kitchen sink the other day when you told him there was a leak. His coach, who stays probably a little too long after he drops him off after practice, even when he knows you won’t be home for another hour or two.
Davie doesn’t even have time to think as he tosses his bike to the side when he pulls up to Steve’s apartment door. He pounds his fist so hard the neighbors dog starts barking, and then the owner, yelling at him to quiet down out there.
The door opens slowly, Davie’s fist still in the air, his eyes wide as he breathlessly lets out, “Something’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong, buddy?” Steve’s crowding him against his side, thumb sweeping against Davie’s trembling shoulders as the boy gasps to catch his breath from the effort of biking.
“My sister,” he wails, tugging on Steve’s arm urgently, trying to drag him in the direction of home, “she’s really sick. We need to go. Now.”
“Hey, hey. Slow down. What do you mean sick?” Steve drops down to look him in the eye.
Davie can only shake his head. “She’s hot and she was coughing and I tried to give her water but she fell asleep and wouldn’t wake up.”
Something crosses Steve’s gaze. A mirror flicker of the panic pumping in Davie’s blood, and then he’s reaching into his apartment to grab his keys and rushing out the front door.
“Bike in the trunk,” Steve orders, popping it quickly so Davie can run over and toss it inside. Steve marches over to the car and whips his door open. “Get in and buckle up.”
Davie doesn’t even wait.
-
He’s not sure why it worries him so much. Why someone he’s known a couple months means so much. Somehow even still, you’ve wedged your way into his heart, a close friend and someone he genuinely enjoys spending time with.
His fingers tighten around the steering wheel as he races the two blocks down the road to Lark. Davie is stoic beside him, his hands toying with a string dangling on the edge of his shirt. He’s seen his own kids, the party, in various states of distress over the years. Can only imagine the war in Davie’s mind this time. He’s lost so much so young, a pain he shouldn’t have to know, and now he fears he’ll lose another. The thought alone has Steve pushing the pedal down further, well over the speed limit for this part of town.
The house, like Davie warned when he came practically beating down the door, is quiet upon entering. The sort of quiet that disturbs Steve. He rushes into the kitchen first to try and grab a towel, anything to maybe try and bring down your fever a little, running it under cold water while Davie rushes to your side. On the kitchen table are various bills, some stamped in red, notices of varying degrees of lateness.
He wonders how long it’s been like that, how long you’ve been struggling, how long you’ve been doing everything if only to stay afloat. You’re always happy, maybe on the surface, putting your best foot forward. But he knows, he knows how hard it is on his own to survive on a teacher and coaching salary, so he can only imagine doing it all alone with a kid to raise on top of it.
His heart sinks as he shuts the tap off, pushing aside his newly attained knowledge as he darts over to the living room.
He only needs to take one look before he’s swearing under his breath. Tosses the useless towel to the side, because it’s clear Davie wasn’t overemphasizing just how clearly sick you are. Whispering your name, Steve kneels on the ground, running his fingers down the inside of your wrist, resting over the place where he knows he should find a steady pulse. It’s weak, the sort of gentle flutter that worries him. Your breathing is worse. Rattling whooshes of breath in and out of tight lungs, a sort of wheeze that sends a fresh wave of terror down his spine.
“Hey,” he whispers, thumb trailing over your likely sore bicep, given the scalding temperature of your skin, “for someone who always has something to say, you’re really quiet right now.”
It’s teasing and light, and when he only gets a moan and an incoherent babble, his stomach sinks even further. Davie looks up at Steve with those wide eyes, light a deer caught in headlights. There’s a brief moment of understanding that passes between the two.
“She needs the hospital,” Davie insists, sounding much older than his ten years, “I told her she needed to go to the doctor and she didn’t listen! She never listens!”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. Nods. Wishes he understood exactly what Davie’s words mean, if only to understand how dire the situation is better. “Closest one is fifteen.”
Steve’s working on helping you up and off the couch, pushing your arm up and over his shoulder, wincing at the groan that pours from your lips. Your eyes flutter, just barely, and he clutches tighter at your side, worried you’ll sink to the floor like an anchor if he doesn’t.
“She doesn’t have insurance,” Davie says as the older man begins to move, clutching at Steve’s forearm, like he’s suddenly been reminded of the fact. As if it would change the fact you’re in desperate need of medical attention.
“That’s…we’ll worry about that later, okay?” Steve assures him, as Davie rushes to your other side and helps Steve practically drag you to the car. “Right now your sister needs a doctor. And medicine. And things that we don’t have here in this house. Insurance is the least of our problems.”
Davie nods, jumping into the back seat after helping to buckle you into the seat beside Steve.
“Buckled?” Steve asks, looking in the rear view mirror.
Davie nods, reaching over to clasp your shoulder reassuringly. Your eyes flutter again at the nearness of your little sibling who is your whole world, tired eyes looking up through lashes at Steve. “M’okay, Steve. No doctors. Please. Just five more minutes.”
Steve shakes his head, fingers sliding over your palm, clasping it tightly. His dark eyes lock with yours, and he finds only a tired sort of fear there. He can only imagine how many things swirl in your mind, knowing what he does about your life and situation. “I know you’re going to be mad. I know I’m overstepping, and you can hate me for it later, but you’re going to a hospital. Now.”
When you’re too weak to argue with him, Steve knows he’s made the right decision, and pushes his car into drive.
-
March 27, 1986…
It’s a birthday party for one of those cousins you see once a year. The kind where there’s too many sweets consumed and too much alcohol drank by adults who already have fragile relationships to begin with, and it’s only a matter of time someone starts fighting.
Yet you don’t mind, sitting against the wall as your brother plays an intense card game with one of the younger cousins. They’re shouting, but it blends in with the music pouring out of a radio speaker, and mixes with the chatter of adults pouring their third glass of wine or cracking a new can of beer.
“Go fish!” Davie shouts, vibrant laughter from him filling the room.
“No!” Kevin yells back, shaking his head vehemently, “you go fish! You definitely have my cards.”
“I do not,” Davie argues, “see?”
Kevin falls back against his seat with a loud groan. “This stupid game is rigged.”
You glance up from the book you’ve brought along to keep you company for the evening, tabbing the page you’re on. You shake your head, laughing, “Not rigged, just your bad luck.”
Kevin narrows his eyes at you, opening his mouth likely to tattle on you, when the ground starts to rumble. Heads all about the room glance up, the photo frames along the walls, various cups atop different tables and stands, beginning to shake all around you.
The intensity only grows, the house trembling as though a train is driving right through the building. Adults shout to get down around the room, your parents appearing in the doorway leading to the dining room.
You start to crawl over to David’s side, the world trembling and groaning around you, as the ground starts to separate. To rip like a mouth yawning, amber light seeping into the room.
It happens suddenly, your parents, family friends, falling through the ground. Falling through the earth.
It’s a mere blink, a second, and then Davie is screaming, his hand whipping out to claw at yours as he rolls towards the gaping hole. You catch him hastily, tugging him close to your body, shielding him from the ruin around you.
“Run!” you shriek, shoving your brother along to safety, your cousin along.
Those able to run pour out of the house, cries of fear and anguish rising up from those in homes all around you as you race to safety, to where the ground doesn’t try and swallow you whole.
“Mom!” Davie is crying, “Dad!” Over and over as you tug him along, your heart thundering as your cousin’s home falls through the hole in the ground that wasn’t there moments ago.
He screams it. Wails it over and over again as he breaks, as you fall to your knees, praying for the world that just took your parents to swallow you whole too.
Because in the wake of chaos, there is only nothingness.
A sort of cold emptiness as ambulances start to pour into Hawkins, as cops litter the streets, military begins to make their presence known.
You’re bombarded with question after question, asking you to recount those moments.
Asking you to repeat over and over again how one moment your parents were there, and the next they were gone.
Ripping open the gaping wound in your heart that bleeds and weeps and aches.
Four people went to a party, and only two made it home.
-
The dream starts to dissolve, the sounds of Davie crying for his mother and father start to fragment and break off, like wispy clouds behind your eyes fluttering away in the wind. The world starts to form behind your eyes with it. A slow blink and you see a ceiling. Another and you see white walls. One more and you note the white sheets laying low against your hips.
There’s a steady beep, beep, beep sounding from somewhere in the distance. Like a metronome or a heartbeat. Heartbeat. A steady thrum, thrum, thrum, as the room starts to materialize before you.
Steve is sitting at your bedside, his eyes immediately locking with yours as you start to shift in the bed, body aching from even the slightest effort. “Hey, hey. Slow.”
“Steve,” you croak, wincing at the pain in your muscles, sore from fevers, “I can’t be here.”
“You need to lay down,” he urges, a hand at your shoulder, guiding you back against the pillows lining the bed.
Davie sits in the corner of the room on a rickety plastic chair, his feet kicking back and forth, not quite touching the ground yet.
“Davie,” you say, though it comes out as a breathy rasp. “Hey buddy, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, dipping his head, “Steve got me a soda and a snack.”
You smile briefly at Steve, noting where his hand is wrapped around yours again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. That’s also when you notice the hospital bracelet around your wrist. Reality sparks to life like a live-wire, reminding you of the many reasons as to why being in a hospital is absolutely not in the budget at all.
Noticing your rising panic, Steve notes quickly, “The doctors think you have pneumonia. They’re running tests. You didn’t tell me you have asthma—that you’ve been neglecting your treatment of it.”
Something you’re sure is meant to assuage your anxiety only raises it, the heart rate monitor picking up speed. “Asthma costs money. Inhalers cost money. Tests cost money. Money I don’t have. I don’t have insurance. Sometimes the light bill has to come before anything else, or the oil bill, or new tires for my car. Sometimes Davie needs new clothes—”
“I know,” Steve says, a little solemnly this time, “Davie told me. But you don’t neglect yourself to do all of that, sweetheart.”
You’re so frustrated the pet name doesn’t even register in your mind. “Are they going to admit me?” Steve doesn’t say anything, which therein lies your answer. “I can’t do this. I was just catching up, and now this happens and I ruin it all.”
Davie, who has been silent thus far, jumps up from his chair. His eyes narrow. “You’re not ruining anything.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as Davie glares down at the floor, the fear and hurt rolling off his form in waves. He’s scared, you know he’s scared. Can only fathom the way he found you earlier when he came home from school.
“Hey buddy, let’s just…cool off and sit down, okay?” Steve suggests, patting Davie’s shoulder as he settles back down on his chair. Steve pauses, his features hard…and a little nervous, which is out of character for him. “There might be a solution…”
You let out a weak laugh, breaking off into a cough. “I don’t suppose you have a few thousand dollars in your pocket, do you?”
“I’m a public school teacher,” he says, as if you don’t already know this about him.
You squint at him. “I know, Steve.”
“I don’t get paid a lot, but what I do have is health insurance…” he begins, turning to look at you, “and…it’s decent insurance.”
Your stomach plummets, understanding where this is going. “Steve, no.”
“If we were married, you’d be covered. Spouses are covered.”
“Married?!” Davie exclaims, breaking up the silence that stretches between you two.
“No, Davie. Steve has gone insane,” you scoff, coughing, “We’re not getting married.”
“I know,” Steve says immediately, “I know it sounds insane, but if you just think about it—”
“You’re talking about a marriage. We’re not even dating.”
“I know.”
“You’re my friend. A good friend. I can’t thank you enough for everything you do for me, but proposing in a hospital is crazy.”
Steve’s eyes flash at that word. “I’m not proposing. I’m offering a solution.”
You huff a laugh. “A solution isn’t marrying your friend because she’s gotten herself into a crappy situation.”
“People marry for even less,” Steve says, still firm despite your hesitance.
“And they likely regret it,” you point out.
“Is Steve going to be my brother?” Davie asks, coming to stand beside Steve.
Steve looks back at Davie, then at you. “You’d be able to at least afford to take care of yourself, without the fear of another medical bill. You’d get your prescriptions. You could take care of yourself so you can take care of Davie.”
It’s a low blow, but you know he’s correct. And you hate that the insane idea of a hasty marriage sounds so attractive.
“I just hate watching you refuse help. I know you can do it on your own, trust me I know you can. I’ve never seen someone work harder. But you don’t actually have to do it all on your own.”
“This is insane.”
“I know,” Steve agrees.
“It would change everything,” you say softly.
His thumb rubs the back of your hand. “I know.”
“I’m not saying yes tonight.”
Steve nods. “I don’t expect an answer tonight. If ever. I’m just…laying an option out there.”
“Okay,” you whisper, glancing over Steve’s shoulder to see Davie staring up at you, a fresh flicker of hope in his eyes, the idea lingering in the spaces between the three of you, suddenly so very real.
-
A doctor knocks on the door to enter some hours later. Davie is curled up on a little couch, his hand dangling off the side, Steve’s jean jacket a pillow for the boy. The man is older, graying hair around his temples, a clipboard in hand that he reads through quickly before approaching your beside.
“Alright,” he says gently, “let’s take a listen.”
You sit up with Steve’s helping hand, every moment driving that pain in your chest even deeper. The doctor asks you to breathe as the cool disc rests against your back, each harder than the last, a hacking cough that has his mouth tightening.
He leans back, draping his stethoscope around his neck, writing something within your chart. “Based on what I’m hearing, reviewing your vitals, and your chest x-ray, we’re looking at pneumonia. I’m going to admit you until your high fevers go down and you start to respond to the antibiotics.”
Davie starts to stir at the doctor’s words, his head lifting up off his makeshift pillow. You glance his way briefly, turning your attention back to the doctor. “I can’t stay. I don’t have insurance, I can’t afford—”
“Stop,” Davie interjects, just as the doctor excuses himself to allow a moment of familial privacy.
“Davie…”
“Just stop trying to be the hero for once.” And then he rushes to your bedside, crying into your shoulder. “I already lost mom and dad. I can’t lose you too.”
“Hey…” you coo, lifting his head, wiping at the tear streaked face of your little brother, “I’m just sick. I’ll get better, okay? I’m going to be fine.”
“Not if you don’t let them help you get better.”
Steve awkwardly shuffles closer, resting a hand on Davie’s shoulder. “Your sister isn’t leaving you, buddy. We’ll make sure of it, okay?” Davie nods, and Steve turns to you, quietly so Davie can’t hear, “I’m serious, we can fix this.”
“I told you it’s crazy,” you whisper back, a little too harshly.
“Please just think about it.”
You do.
You do think about it as the day passes, as you fall asleep and wake in that same hospital bed, eyes heavy when Steve announces he has to head in for work and that he’ll drop off Davie at school so you can rest. The only response you can give is a nod, before falling back to sleep. Hours pass like that, morning on the second day in the hospital passing in a blur of dreams and vital checks by nurses, with new antibiotics and a fresh inhaler.
The next day is more or less the same, giving you time to think. To really think.
Steve’s idea is crazy, but the look of worry in your brother’s face was a dose of reality you never once considered. What happens if you’re gone? What happens if it had been worse, if you left him afraid and alone? He’s already lost so much, too much, and there’s no part of you that ever wants to put him through that terror again if you can help it. And if you’re being honest, you’re tired. Tired of doing it on your town. Tired of fighting against a moving current trying to drag you down.
Sun streams through the hospital window as Steve and Davie coming barreling into the room, both laughing about something you have no inkling of. The growing closeness between them has your chest burning, and it has nothing to do with your current diagnosis.
“You two look like you’ve had a fun day,” you tease, reaching over to hug Davie as he slams into your side.
“Steve let me get McDonald’s on the way here.”
“Kid was hungry,” Steve says, shrugging, before pulling out a bag behind his back, “I also snuck us in some food. Figure it’s still not the greatest, but definitely better than whatever they’re feeding you here. I also heard someone might be discharged today. I guess antibiotics do work.”
“Hardy har,” you taunt, sticking your tongue out at him.
Grabby hands extend toward his bag of food, and Steve tuts, “She makes fun of me and then expects me to give her food.” Davie laughs, and Steve tosses the food your way. “Save some fries for me, will you?”
The three of you eat in comfortable quiet. Little chatter is shared about your days, yours the least eventful of the group. Steve had tests to grade for his health class, Davie spoke about how him and Holly successfully planned their next campaign, requesting to spend Saturday afternoon at the Wheeler’s house to play with his friends. And before long, the doctor gives you a final once over before deciding you’re well enough to head back home and finish your antibiotics and getting better in the comfort of your own bed.
The car ride brings with it a new wave of emotions. Thousands of thoughts swirl, decisions looming over your head. Davie sits in the back seat, forehead pressed against the glass as Steve pulls up in front of your home.
There’s a beat of silence and then, “Davie, can do you mind running inside and making macaroni and cheese for us?”
“For Steve too?” he asks, practically beaming for the first time in two days.
“Stay for dinner?” you ask, chewing on your bottom lip.
“Sure,” he agrees.
“You’re in luck! Macaroni and cheese is my specialty,” Davie muses, reaching over to take the house keys out of your extended palm, “thanks! Love you!”
“Love you too,” you call back, waiting until the door is closed to break the silence, “Okay.”
Steve’s brows arch. “Okay?”
“I’ll…do it.”
“Do what?” He blinks.
“Please, Steve. It’s already crazy enough for me to agree, don’t make me say it.”
“Are you proposing marriage to me?” Steve claps a hand over his chest, gasping in mock shock.
“Steve!” Coughing fills the car, and his palm comes up to rub between your shoulder blades. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And we’re engaged.”
You balk. “We are not engaged. We’re entering into a highly questionable marriage agreement.”
Steve’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Can I buy you a ring at least?”
“No.” You shake your head.
“How are we going to sell it then?”
“A cheap ring. Maybe,” you concede. He lets out a whoop. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”
“I’m enjoying that you’re smiling.” And it’s then you realize you are. There’s a lightness you’ve been missing, the kind of lightness that comes around when he’s near.
“We’re still us,” you tell him, biting at your lip. “We don’t change.”
“Exactly. You’re you, and I’m me. Just…we gain some fancy new paperwork and legal benefits.”
“Right.”
“I am going to have fun telling people you’re my wife. ‘She totally loves me, don’t let the scowl fool you.’”
“Steve!” You playfully thwack him on the shoulder, grinning like mad at the laughter that bubbles up from him. “If I’m getting health insurance, what are you getting out of this?”
“I mean…I love Davie. You guys are also pretty great.”
“Spill it, Harrington.”
“My lease on my apartment is up soon. There’s a place I’ve been saving for, I don’t have enough yet but I will soon—”
“I have a spare room,” you interject. “You’ll move in. To sell the…marriage.”
“Cool. Cool.” Steve nods. “And you’re not just getting insurance. You’re getting help and time to do things for yourself again. Maybe even get afloat.”
You don’t even know what that looks like, but the idea sounds wonderful. “But if you tell anyone you proposed to me in a hospital, I’ll kill you Harrington.”
“Anything for you, future wife.”
“Steve!”
-
Upon entering the home, the two of you find Davie standing on a chair in the kitchen and swirling a spoon in a boiling pot of water. Normally you’d yell for him to get down, but the adrenaline of the day is wearing off.
Sensing this, Steve rests a hand on the middle of your back and leads you to the stairway. “Okay. Bed to lay down now. No arguing.”
He loops an arm around your waist and you protest weakly, “I’m not that weak.”
“Let me,” he urges, helping you up the stairs, “I’m practicing for our marriage vows.”
“You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you?”
“Way too much,” he says, steering you toward your bed, propping up a pillow behind you. He rests your antibiotics and inhaler on the bedside table. “You keep your inhaler nearby and you follow the doctor’s instructions for your medicine. Okay?”
“Someone is bossy.”
Steve settles down beside you on the bed, suddenly serious. “You scared me. When I found you like that…”
You glance down at your hands, sorrowful. “I know.”
“Don’t do it again, okay? Davie needs you,” he says, not teasing now. No joking in his tone.
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. Don’t push yourself like that. Let me help, let friends help, let people in.”
“Because you’re going to be my fake husband?” you laugh, a little watery.
“No,” he says, looking you in the eye, “because you’re my friend. And I care about you.”
His tone is so gentle, so sincere. “Okay,” you agree.
“Rest a little, okay? I’ll let you know when Davie is done cooking us our five star dinner.”
You laugh. “Okay.”
“Tomorrow we can talk…details.”
“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow then.
-
a/n: thank you for all the love. like, reblog, comment — i love to interact with you all. 💌
this whole conformity gate thing reminds me of when i (and others) genuinely thought beth from walking dead could have survived her death. and because of that, i am not doing this again. 😂
are there any scenes in particular we are hoping for?
as this is a mini series, I obviously have plans for the duration of the fic. but just curious if there’s anything you’re hoping for. juuuuuust curious.
you had it all: perfect family, mom, dad, the sweetest little brother. and then you lost it just as quickly, in the earthquake that claimed so many. left as the sole provider for your little brother, with mountains of bills piling up, doing everything in your power to give him the world. and you’re doing your best, even if the odds are stacked against you. enter steve harrington, a blast from high school past, and your brother’s baseball coach. and somehow, your… soon to be husband.
marriage of convenience. sole guardian f!reader to her ten year old brother. r has asthma. baseball coach steve.
chapter warnings: hospital scenes, sickness, loss of parent(s).
story masterlist
-
Chapter Two:
The house is quiet when Davie returns. The sort of too quiet that’s unsettling, even more so beyond the fact the door was left open and unlocked when he’d gotten dropped off by the bus.
He calls into the home, and nothingness greets him there. Nervous, he toes off his shoes in the doorway, knowing you always hate when he leaves them on, and enters the kitchen first. There’s nothing unnatural. Nothing out of place other than the half filled coffee cup left to cool on the tile.
He calls your name, and only open air is there to find him. Fear grapples in his chest, mixing with the anxiety over the last time he came home to an empty home, after the two of you sat for hours in the back of an ambulance, battered and broken and freshly orphaned.
He can still see the flashing lights of cop cars, blinding now as he walks into the living room and finds you sprawled out there, curled on your side in your pajamas, never having gotten ready for work.
Sweat lines your brow, little droplets that cling to your scalp and dampen the cushion below. A blanket, now kicked off, lays around your ankles like you moved in your sleep, overheating with your fever. You’re trembling a little now, from cold or weakness he can’t tell.
“Hey…” he whispers, jostling your shoulder a bit, “are you sleeping?”
A sound passes through your chapped lips. Breathy, not words, not really, more like a wheeze. A rattle. As you shift, a deeper inhale fills the room, the kind that sounds like it feels like a knife drawing through lungs and flesh.
Fear claws up his throat, heart hammering like a little hummingbirds in his chest as your eyes finally crack open in the slightest. Unfocused, not quite meeting his own. “School is already out?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little shakily this time, “you’ve been asleep since I left?” A whole day gone and spent sleeping, something you never do. Ever.
Your head shakes back and forth slowly. “Not sure…”
He winces. “You look bad. Like bad bad.”
“Thanks, buddy,” you rasp, trying to draw in another breath that ends up in a rattling cough, “I’m fine. Just needed to rest.”
You’re not. He’s not foolish enough to believe it either. He remembers what momma used to do when you were little; fingers brush at your hairline, spreading against your forehead. It’s hot. Burning hot, and he whips his hand back.
“You’re burning up,” he croaks, glancing wildly about the room, unsure of what to do. And then he remembers, “water. You need water. That’ll fix it.”
He nearly trips over his feet rushing to get to the sink. The cabinets are higher than he is, so he clambers on top of the counters like he knows you hate, but it’s not a moment to care. He’ll face the grounding later. His fingers tremble against the sink as he twists and water starts to fill the glass. It sloshes as he runs back into the living room, half of it ending up on the floor, holding it up to your lips where you lay.
“Come on, you have to try,” he pleads, trying to help you sit up, grimacing as you struggle to prop yourself up onto some pillows. The water you try to sip spills onto your chin, and he gasps out a pitiful whimper. “Come on, just…just try, okay?” The water just spills and spills and stains your shirt even further. And he knows it’s useless; he feels useless. He wishes he was older, smarter. Maybe then he could do something. Maybe then.
Your eyes trail up to take in his features, and you must see the fear there because your tired face softens, and you gently reach up to brush at his cheek. “Hey, hey. Please, don’t look at me like that.”
He snuffles. “Like what?”
“Like you’re going to cry,” you whisper, letting out another cough, “I’ll be fine, I just need five more minutes…”
“Hey!” He shouts, to no avail, as your head slumps and you fall back into whatever sick slumber he found you in. He shakes your shoulder once, twice, three times.
Only this time you barely move, breath coming in and out too slowly, too weakly. He backs out of the room on shaking legs, looking about for anyone to call. Any number. Anything. And then he remembers Steve lives just a few blocks away, easily manageable by bike.
He whispers up a plea to his parents, to not take you too, to leave you here. Throws up a promise to not pester you or call you bad names too for good measure.
And then he’s rushing out the door and hopping on his bike, pedaling faster than he ever has in his life.
Steve will know what to do. Steve who drives him around to baseball practice. Who always comes over with extra groceries he just happens to find in his fridge. Steve, who just fixed the kitchen sink the other day when you told him there was a leak. His coach, who stays probably a little too long after he drops him off after practice, even when he knows you won’t be home for another hour or two.
Davie doesn’t even have time to think as he tosses his bike to the side when he pulls up to Steve’s apartment door. He pounds his fist so hard the neighbors dog starts barking, and then the owner, yelling at him to quiet down out there.
The door opens slowly, Davie’s fist still in the air, his eyes wide as he breathlessly lets out, “Something’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong, buddy?” Steve’s crowding him against his side, thumb sweeping against Davie’s trembling shoulders as the boy gasps to catch his breath from the effort of biking.
“My sister,” he wails, tugging on Steve’s arm urgently, trying to drag him in the direction of home, “she’s really sick. We need to go. Now.”
“Hey, hey. Slow down. What do you mean sick?” Steve drops down to look him in the eye.
Davie can only shake his head. “She’s hot and she was coughing and I tried to give her water but she fell asleep and wouldn’t wake up.”
Something crosses Steve’s gaze. A mirror flicker of the panic pumping in Davie’s blood, and then he’s reaching into his apartment to grab his keys and rushing out the front door.
“Bike in the trunk,” Steve orders, popping it quickly so Davie can run over and toss it inside. Steve marches over to the car and whips his door open. “Get in and buckle up.”
Davie doesn’t even wait.
-
He’s not sure why it worries him so much. Why someone he’s known a couple months means so much. Somehow even still, you’ve wedged your way into his heart, a close friend and someone he genuinely enjoys spending time with.
His fingers tighten around the steering wheel as he races the two blocks down the road to Lark. Davie is stoic beside him, his hands toying with a string dangling on the edge of his shirt. He’s seen his own kids, the party, in various states of distress over the years. Can only imagine the war in Davie’s mind this time. He’s lost so much so young, a pain he shouldn’t have to know, and now he fears he’ll lose another. The thought alone has Steve pushing the pedal down further, well over the speed limit for this part of town.
The house, like Davie warned when he came practically beating down the door, is quiet upon entering. The sort of quiet that disturbs Steve. He rushes into the kitchen first to try and grab a towel, anything to maybe try and bring down your fever a little, running it under cold water while Davie rushes to your side. On the kitchen table are various bills, some stamped in red, notices of varying degrees of lateness.
He wonders how long it’s been like that, how long you’ve been struggling, how long you’ve been doing everything if only to stay afloat. You’re always happy, maybe on the surface, putting your best foot forward. But he knows, he knows how hard it is on his own to survive on a teacher and coaching salary, so he can only imagine doing it all alone with a kid to raise on top of it.
His heart sinks as he shuts the tap off, pushing aside his newly attained knowledge as he darts over to the living room.
He only needs to take one look before he’s swearing under his breath. Tosses the useless towel to the side, because it’s clear Davie wasn’t overemphasizing just how clearly sick you are. Whispering your name, Steve kneels on the ground, running his fingers down the inside of your wrist, resting over the place where he knows he should find a steady pulse. It’s weak, the sort of gentle flutter that worries him. Your breathing is worse. Rattling whooshes of breath in and out of tight lungs, a sort of wheeze that sends a fresh wave of terror down his spine.
“Hey,” he whispers, thumb trailing over your likely sore bicep, given the scalding temperature of your skin, “for someone who always has something to say, you’re really quiet right now.”
It’s teasing and light, and when he only gets a moan and an incoherent babble, his stomach sinks even further. Davie looks up at Steve with those wide eyes, light a deer caught in headlights. There’s a brief moment of understanding that passes between the two.
“She needs the hospital,” Davie insists, sounding much older than his ten years, “I told her she needed to go to the doctor and she didn’t listen! She never listens!”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. Nods. Wishes he understood exactly what Davie’s words mean, if only to understand how dire the situation is better. “Closest one is fifteen.”
Steve’s working on helping you up and off the couch, pushing your arm up and over his shoulder, wincing at the groan that pours from your lips. Your eyes flutter, just barely, and he clutches tighter at your side, worried you’ll sink to the floor like an anchor if he doesn’t.
“She doesn’t have insurance,” Davie says as the older man begins to move, clutching at Steve’s forearm, like he’s suddenly been reminded of the fact. As if it would change the fact you’re in desperate need of medical attention.
“That’s…we’ll worry about that later, okay?” Steve assures him, as Davie rushes to your other side and helps Steve practically drag you to the car. “Right now your sister needs a doctor. And medicine. And things that we don’t have here in this house. Insurance is the least of our problems.”
Davie nods, jumping into the back seat after helping to buckle you into the seat beside Steve.
“Buckled?” Steve asks, looking in the rear view mirror.
Davie nods, reaching over to clasp your shoulder reassuringly. Your eyes flutter again at the nearness of your little sibling who is your whole world, tired eyes looking up through lashes at Steve. “M’okay, Steve. No doctors. Please. Just five more minutes.”
Steve shakes his head, fingers sliding over your palm, clasping it tightly. His dark eyes lock with yours, and he finds only a tired sort of fear there. He can only imagine how many things swirl in your mind, knowing what he does about your life and situation. “I know you’re going to be mad. I know I’m overstepping, and you can hate me for it later, but you’re going to a hospital. Now.”
When you’re too weak to argue with him, Steve knows he’s made the right decision, and pushes his car into drive.
-
March 27, 1986…
It’s a birthday party for one of those cousins you see once a year. The kind where there’s too many sweets consumed and too much alcohol drank by adults who already have fragile relationships to begin with, and it’s only a matter of time someone starts fighting.
Yet you don’t mind, sitting against the wall as your brother plays an intense card game with one of the younger cousins. They’re shouting, but it blends in with the music pouring out of a radio speaker, and mixes with the chatter of adults pouring their third glass of wine or cracking a new can of beer.
“Go fish!” Davie shouts, vibrant laughter from him filling the room.
“No!” Kevin yells back, shaking his head vehemently, “you go fish! You definitely have my cards.”
“I do not,” Davie argues, “see?”
Kevin falls back against his seat with a loud groan. “This stupid game is rigged.”
You glance up from the book you’ve brought along to keep you company for the evening, tabbing the page you’re on. You shake your head, laughing, “Not rigged, just your bad luck.”
Kevin narrows his eyes at you, opening his mouth likely to tattle on you, when the ground starts to rumble. Heads all about the room glance up, the photo frames along the walls, various cups atop different tables and stands, beginning to shake all around you.
The intensity only grows, the house trembling as though a train is driving right through the building. Adults shout to get down around the room, your parents appearing in the doorway leading to the dining room.
You start to crawl over to David’s side, the world trembling and groaning around you, as the ground starts to separate. To rip like a mouth yawning, amber light seeping into the room.
It happens suddenly, your parents, family friends, falling through the ground. Falling through the earth.
It’s a mere blink, a second, and then Davie is screaming, his hand whipping out to claw at yours as he rolls towards the gaping hole. You catch him hastily, tugging him close to your body, shielding him from the ruin around you.
“Run!” you shriek, shoving your brother along to safety, your cousin along.
Those able to run pour out of the house, cries of fear and anguish rising up from those in homes all around you as you race to safety, to where the ground doesn’t try and swallow you whole.
“Mom!” Davie is crying, “Dad!” Over and over as you tug him along, your heart thundering as your cousin’s home falls through the hole in the ground that wasn’t there moments ago.
He screams it. Wails it over and over again as he breaks, as you fall to your knees, praying for the world that just took your parents to swallow you whole too.
Because in the wake of chaos, there is only nothingness.
A sort of cold emptiness as ambulances start to pour into Hawkins, as cops litter the streets, military begins to make their presence known.
You’re bombarded with question after question, asking you to recount those moments.
Asking you to repeat over and over again how one moment your parents were there, and the next they were gone.
Ripping open the gaping wound in your heart that bleeds and weeps and aches.
Four people went to a party, and only two made it home.
-
The dream starts to dissolve, the sounds of Davie crying for his mother and father start to fragment and break off, like wispy clouds behind your eyes fluttering away in the wind. The world starts to form behind your eyes with it. A slow blink and you see a ceiling. Another and you see white walls. One more and you note the white sheets laying low against your hips.
There’s a steady beep, beep, beep sounding from somewhere in the distance. Like a metronome or a heartbeat. Heartbeat. A steady thrum, thrum, thrum, as the room starts to materialize before you.
Steve is sitting at your bedside, his eyes immediately locking with yours as you start to shift in the bed, body aching from even the slightest effort. “Hey, hey. Slow.”
“Steve,” you croak, wincing at the pain in your muscles, sore from fevers, “I can’t be here.”
“You need to lay down,” he urges, a hand at your shoulder, guiding you back against the pillows lining the bed.
Davie sits in the corner of the room on a rickety plastic chair, his feet kicking back and forth, not quite touching the ground yet.
“Davie,” you say, though it comes out as a breathy rasp. “Hey buddy, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, dipping his head, “Steve got me a soda and a snack.”
You smile briefly at Steve, noting where his hand is wrapped around yours again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. That’s also when you notice the hospital bracelet around your wrist. Reality sparks to life like a live-wire, reminding you of the many reasons as to why being in a hospital is absolutely not in the budget at all.
Noticing your rising panic, Steve notes quickly, “The doctors think you have pneumonia. They’re running tests. You didn’t tell me you have asthma—that you’ve been neglecting your treatment of it.”
Something you’re sure is meant to assuage your anxiety only raises it, the heart rate monitor picking up speed. “Asthma costs money. Inhalers cost money. Tests cost money. Money I don’t have. I don’t have insurance. Sometimes the light bill has to come before anything else, or the oil bill, or new tires for my car. Sometimes Davie needs new clothes—”
“I know,” Steve says, a little solemnly this time, “Davie told me. But you don’t neglect yourself to do all of that, sweetheart.”
You’re so frustrated the pet name doesn’t even register in your mind. “Are they going to admit me?” Steve doesn’t say anything, which therein lies your answer. “I can’t do this. I was just catching up, and now this happens and I ruin it all.”
Davie, who has been silent thus far, jumps up from his chair. His eyes narrow. “You’re not ruining anything.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as Davie glares down at the floor, the fear and hurt rolling off his form in waves. He’s scared, you know he’s scared. Can only fathom the way he found you earlier when he came home from school.
“Hey buddy, let’s just…cool off and sit down, okay?” Steve suggests, patting Davie’s shoulder as he settles back down on his chair. Steve pauses, his features hard…and a little nervous, which is out of character for him. “There might be a solution…”
You let out a weak laugh, breaking off into a cough. “I don’t suppose you have a few thousand dollars in your pocket, do you?”
“I’m a public school teacher,” he says, as if you don’t already know this about him.
You squint at him. “I know, Steve.”
“I don’t get paid a lot, but what I do have is health insurance…” he begins, turning to look at you, “and…it’s decent insurance.”
Your stomach plummets, understanding where this is going. “Steve, no.”
“If we were married, you’d be covered. Spouses are covered.”
“Married?!” Davie exclaims, breaking up the silence that stretches between you two.
“No, Davie. Steve has gone insane,” you scoff, coughing, “We’re not getting married.”
“I know,” Steve says immediately, “I know it sounds insane, but if you just think about it—”
“You’re talking about a marriage. We’re not even dating.”
“I know.”
“You’re my friend. A good friend. I can’t thank you enough for everything you do for me, but proposing in a hospital is crazy.”
Steve’s eyes flash at that word. “I’m not proposing. I’m offering a solution.”
You huff a laugh. “A solution isn’t marrying your friend because she’s gotten herself into a crappy situation.”
“People marry for even less,” Steve says, still firm despite your hesitance.
“And they likely regret it,” you point out.
“Is Steve going to be my brother?” Davie asks, coming to stand beside Steve.
Steve looks back at Davie, then at you. “You’d be able to at least afford to take care of yourself, without the fear of another medical bill. You’d get your prescriptions. You could take care of yourself so you can take care of Davie.”
It’s a low blow, but you know he’s correct. And you hate that the insane idea of a hasty marriage sounds so attractive.
“I just hate watching you refuse help. I know you can do it on your own, trust me I know you can. I’ve never seen someone work harder. But you don’t actually have to do it all on your own.”
“This is insane.”
“I know,” Steve agrees.
“It would change everything,” you say softly.
His thumb rubs the back of your hand. “I know.”
“I’m not saying yes tonight.”
Steve nods. “I don’t expect an answer tonight. If ever. I’m just…laying an option out there.”
“Okay,” you whisper, glancing over Steve’s shoulder to see Davie staring up at you, a fresh flicker of hope in his eyes, the idea lingering in the spaces between the three of you, suddenly so very real.
-
A doctor knocks on the door to enter some hours later. Davie is curled up on a little couch, his hand dangling off the side, Steve’s jean jacket a pillow for the boy. The man is older, graying hair around his temples, a clipboard in hand that he reads through quickly before approaching your beside.
“Alright,” he says gently, “let’s take a listen.”
You sit up with Steve’s helping hand, every moment driving that pain in your chest even deeper. The doctor asks you to breathe as the cool disc rests against your back, each harder than the last, a hacking cough that has his mouth tightening.
He leans back, draping his stethoscope around his neck, writing something within your chart. “Based on what I’m hearing, reviewing your vitals, and your chest x-ray, we’re looking at pneumonia. I’m going to admit you until your high fevers go down and you start to respond to the antibiotics.”
Davie starts to stir at the doctor’s words, his head lifting up off his makeshift pillow. You glance his way briefly, turning your attention back to the doctor. “I can’t stay. I don’t have insurance, I can’t afford—”
“Stop,” Davie interjects, just as the doctor excuses himself to allow a moment of familial privacy.
“Davie…”
“Just stop trying to be the hero for once.” And then he rushes to your bedside, crying into your shoulder. “I already lost mom and dad. I can’t lose you too.”
“Hey…” you coo, lifting his head, wiping at the tear streaked face of your little brother, “I’m just sick. I’ll get better, okay? I’m going to be fine.”
“Not if you don’t let them help you get better.”
Steve awkwardly shuffles closer, resting a hand on Davie’s shoulder. “Your sister isn’t leaving you, buddy. We’ll make sure of it, okay?” Davie nods, and Steve turns to you, quietly so Davie can’t hear, “I’m serious, we can fix this.”
“I told you it’s crazy,” you whisper back, a little too harshly.
“Please just think about it.”
You do.
You do think about it as the day passes, as you fall asleep and wake in that same hospital bed, eyes heavy when Steve announces he has to head in for work and that he’ll drop off Davie at school so you can rest. The only response you can give is a nod, before falling back to sleep. Hours pass like that, morning on the second day in the hospital passing in a blur of dreams and vital checks by nurses, with new antibiotics and a fresh inhaler.
The next day is more or less the same, giving you time to think. To really think.
Steve’s idea is crazy, but the look of worry in your brother’s face was a dose of reality you never once considered. What happens if you’re gone? What happens if it had been worse, if you left him afraid and alone? He’s already lost so much, too much, and there’s no part of you that ever wants to put him through that terror again if you can help it. And if you’re being honest, you’re tired. Tired of doing it on your town. Tired of fighting against a moving current trying to drag you down.
Sun streams through the hospital window as Steve and Davie coming barreling into the room, both laughing about something you have no inkling of. The growing closeness between them has your chest burning, and it has nothing to do with your current diagnosis.
“You two look like you’ve had a fun day,” you tease, reaching over to hug Davie as he slams into your side.
“Steve let me get McDonald’s on the way here.”
“Kid was hungry,” Steve says, shrugging, before pulling out a bag behind his back, “I also snuck us in some food. Figure it’s still not the greatest, but definitely better than whatever they’re feeding you here. I also heard someone might be discharged today. I guess antibiotics do work.”
“Hardy har,” you taunt, sticking your tongue out at him.
Grabby hands extend toward his bag of food, and Steve tuts, “She makes fun of me and then expects me to give her food.” Davie laughs, and Steve tosses the food your way. “Save some fries for me, will you?”
The three of you eat in comfortable quiet. Little chatter is shared about your days, yours the least eventful of the group. Steve had tests to grade for his health class, Davie spoke about how him and Holly successfully planned their next campaign, requesting to spend Saturday afternoon at the Wheeler’s house to play with his friends. And before long, the doctor gives you a final once over before deciding you’re well enough to head back home and finish your antibiotics and getting better in the comfort of your own bed.
The car ride brings with it a new wave of emotions. Thousands of thoughts swirl, decisions looming over your head. Davie sits in the back seat, forehead pressed against the glass as Steve pulls up in front of your home.
There’s a beat of silence and then, “Davie, can do you mind running inside and making macaroni and cheese for us?”
“For Steve too?” he asks, practically beaming for the first time in two days.
“Stay for dinner?” you ask, chewing on your bottom lip.
“Sure,” he agrees.
“You’re in luck! Macaroni and cheese is my specialty,” Davie muses, reaching over to take the house keys out of your extended palm, “thanks! Love you!”
“Love you too,” you call back, waiting until the door is closed to break the silence, “Okay.”
Steve’s brows arch. “Okay?”
“I’ll…do it.”
“Do what?” He blinks.
“Please, Steve. It’s already crazy enough for me to agree, don’t make me say it.”
“Are you proposing marriage to me?” Steve claps a hand over his chest, gasping in mock shock.
“Steve!” Coughing fills the car, and his palm comes up to rub between your shoulder blades. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And we’re engaged.”
You balk. “We are not engaged. We’re entering into a highly questionable marriage agreement.”
Steve’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Can I buy you a ring at least?”
“No.” You shake your head.
“How are we going to sell it then?”
“A cheap ring. Maybe,” you concede. He lets out a whoop. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”
“I’m enjoying that you’re smiling.” And it’s then you realize you are. There’s a lightness you’ve been missing, the kind of lightness that comes around when he’s near.
“We’re still us,” you tell him, biting at your lip. “We don’t change.”
“Exactly. You’re you, and I’m me. Just…we gain some fancy new paperwork and legal benefits.”
“Right.”
“I am going to have fun telling people you’re my wife. ‘She totally loves me, don’t let the scowl fool you.’”
“Steve!” You playfully thwack him on the shoulder, grinning like mad at the laughter that bubbles up from him. “If I’m getting health insurance, what are you getting out of this?”
“I mean…I love Davie. You guys are also pretty great.”
“Spill it, Harrington.”
“My lease on my apartment is up soon. There’s a place I’ve been saving for, I don’t have enough yet but I will soon—”
“I have a spare room,” you interject. “You’ll move in. To sell the…marriage.”
“Cool. Cool.” Steve nods. “And you’re not just getting insurance. You’re getting help and time to do things for yourself again. Maybe even get afloat.”
You don’t even know what that looks like, but the idea sounds wonderful. “But if you tell anyone you proposed to me in a hospital, I’ll kill you Harrington.”
“Anything for you, future wife.”
“Steve!”
-
Upon entering the home, the two of you find Davie standing on a chair in the kitchen and swirling a spoon in a boiling pot of water. Normally you’d yell for him to get down, but the adrenaline of the day is wearing off.
Sensing this, Steve rests a hand on the middle of your back and leads you to the stairway. “Okay. Bed to lay down now. No arguing.”
He loops an arm around your waist and you protest weakly, “I’m not that weak.”
“Let me,” he urges, helping you up the stairs, “I’m practicing for our marriage vows.”
“You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you?”
“Way too much,” he says, steering you toward your bed, propping up a pillow behind you. He rests your antibiotics and inhaler on the bedside table. “You keep your inhaler nearby and you follow the doctor’s instructions for your medicine. Okay?”
“Someone is bossy.”
Steve settles down beside you on the bed, suddenly serious. “You scared me. When I found you like that…”
You glance down at your hands, sorrowful. “I know.”
“Don’t do it again, okay? Davie needs you,” he says, not teasing now. No joking in his tone.
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. Don’t push yourself like that. Let me help, let friends help, let people in.”
“Because you’re going to be my fake husband?” you laugh, a little watery.
“No,” he says, looking you in the eye, “because you’re my friend. And I care about you.”
His tone is so gentle, so sincere. “Okay,” you agree.
“Rest a little, okay? I’ll let you know when Davie is done cooking us our five star dinner.”
You laugh. “Okay.”
“Tomorrow we can talk…details.”
“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow then.
-
a/n: thank you for all the love. like, reblog, comment — i love to interact with you all. 💌
