summary: The Steve you used to know has been long gone, leaving one who seems to have lost all respect in regard to your feelings. You’re tired of playing nurse and he’s convinced Hawkins needs him as the hero.
content warnings: heavy angst, eddies death being thrown around like a slur, panic attacks, hurt comfort but bare minimum, basically Steve grieving like Dustin, emotional and physical distress, eventual groveling.
Being with Steve Harrington used to mean having a constant sense of security around you. It meant having a silent sense of understanding. A comfort that resigned somewhere deep in your chest. It meant having something solid. Present.
That was until Hawkins decided to split in half, making your boyfriend its very own personal hero.
The WSQK was quiet. Not the good kind. Not the peaceful, comforting quiet that used to reside in the building after hours. This was a different kind of quiet. The kind of quiet that would sit terribly wrong, deep in your chest.
Steve was leaning against the console like this is just another shift. Like this wasn’t life or death — bat propped nearby with his jacket half on, muttering something under his breath with the usual crease that resigned between his brows. Ready, as always.
You close the door behind you, the click of the latch dull and final in the stillness of the room.
He sighs, running a hand over his face like your very presence was one of the world’s greatest inconveniences.
“I’m going,” he defends almost immediately, his tone final.
“I know you are,” you say flatly, a poor attempt at indifference, though he didn’t seem to have noticed anyways.
“So there’s no point in talking me out of this. We don’t have time to discuss anything. We have a plan and I’m going.”
You almost laugh in disbelief despite yourself, the sound coming out dry and humorless.
He finally looks up at you. “what?”
“You’re doing that thing again,” you cut in.
“Strategies and all that bullshit. Where you act like having a plan means nothing will fall apart. Like it’ll distract me from the thought of you hurt.”
Steve straightens. His shoulders square, like armor snapping into place. “Someone has to do it.”
Your chest tightens. “It doesn’t always have to be you.”
A beat. He shrugs, casual. “It’s easier when it’s me.”
“No,” you say, swallowing the bitter taste in your mouth threatening to choke you. “You don’t get to do that. Pick and choose who’s life is worth more. Label yourself as what? Easier to lose? You wouldn’t do that to me.”
That lands harder than you expect, since really, nothing you’ve been telling him recently has even been as much as acknowledged properly. His mouth opens, then closes.
“Look,” he says, quieter now. “We can’t do this right now. We don’t have time to contemplate.”
“Then when can you do this?” you reply sharply, folding your arms around yourself like that could somehow keep you from breaking apart. “Cause recently that’s all it’s been. Nothing. Later. Not right now.”
“Please, let’s not make this a big deal. Not now,” he repeats.
“It’s always been a big deal!” you argue. “Since the tunnels, the Russians, the crawls. Maybe the blood and wounds aren’t a big deal to you but they are to me. You think joking about it is going to distract me from the fact that you’ve almost died countless times, but it doesn’t, Steve.”
His voice sharpens hard enough it could’ve made you flinch, if you weren’t so used to it by now. “I don’t joke.”
“You do,” you say. “Every time. Like it’ll make the whole thing look easier. Like it’ll make me forget the blood and the fear.”
The words hang between the two of you, ugly and true as the silence weighs heavy. The hum of the equipment suddenly feels awfully deafening.
“You think I don’t know the odds?” he asks.
You swallow, “I think you don’t think about them enough. If you considered the odds you wouldn’t be going. For me.”
The last part comes out barely audible.
Steve takes a step closer. “What do you want me to do? Sit back? Let someone else get torn apart?”
“I want you to stop acting like you don’t count,” you say. “I want you to stop treating your life like something you can throw away with no consequences. Because it scares me. I’m scared that at some point you won’t come back.”
For a moment, it looks like he might reach for you. You can practically feel it — his arms wrapping around you with practiced ease, warm and solid. But alas, your snapped out of your thoughts as his voice reaches you again.
"I'm not trying to be some self-sacrificing hero," he starts, voice strained. "This is just how it works out."
“But it doesn’t have to. You don’t have to! I don’t want you to be the hero, why does it always have to be you,” you plead.
“Because I’m good at it. Who else is going to be out there swinging bats?” he responds, self deprecation seeping into his tone.
“Good at what? Throwing your life away?” you say, your voice raising, fear replacing itself with desperation and anger.
Steve flinches like you physically hurt him. "That's not fair," he mutters, turning away, pacing a few steps before spinning back.
“What isn’t fair is me having to watch you go wondering if I’ll ever get to see you again,” you snap, exasperated.
Steve's face crumples, looking genuinely gutted.
"You think I don't know that?" His voice rises to match yours. "You think I sleep easy knowing you're sitting at home worried sick about me every night?”
“You’re the one with the choice, Steve! Clearly I have no impact on your decisions. I’m the one always left behind waiting for you. You can choose, and you always choose to leave me!”
He looks up at you again, brown eyes meeting yours.
"You think you have no impact?" his voice dangerously quiet. “Every decision I make, it all starts and ends with you."
"You're the reason I come back. The only reason."
“But when will I be the reason you stay?” you plead desperately.
"You think I want to leave?" His voice cracks on the word. "Every time I walk out that door, it feels like leaving a piece of me behind with you. It’s not that easy. When shit goes south and people are counting on me.. what am I supposed to do? Hide behind you?"
He runs his hand through his hair again, like that’ll somehow make the conversation less painful.
“I’m not asking you to hide, I’m asking you to be more careful!“
Steve exhales sharply. "You think I'm not trying to be careful? That I walk into every fight looking for a way to get hurt?”
He gestures wildly toward the bat leaning against the rest of the equipment.
"Every time I’m out there, every single time, my first thought is always ‘how do I get back in one piece?' But it doesn't always work out that way."
His hands clench at his sides again, frustration leaking through.
"You act like this comes easy for me."
You shake your head, exhausted and angry. “I never said that. God- why can’t you just listen to me?”
His shoulders tense. "I do listen to you," he insists, voice rising slightly.
"Every other damn thing in my life, I follow your lead on. But this? I can’t just drop everything else because you’re worried I’ll come back with a few scratches.”
That one really hurt. Not just because it was wrong, but because of his indifference. A few scratches? More like numerous near death experiences that you had to help him around. Always you having to play nurse.
Your mouth was working faster than your mind at this point, tears burning your eyes.
“You know.. you’re just like Eddie,” you scoff. You didn’t mean it, you knew that much. But it was impossible to take back now.
Steve froze like he'd been slapped.
For a second, he just stared at you, completely blindsided. Then his face darkened with something between anger and raw hurt.
"Don't," he says quietly, voice dangerously low. "Don't say that."
Eddie Munson was a name Steve rarely tolerated being brought up, especially not in this context. You knew that. You’ve seen it before, but you couldn’t help it.
"That's low." The accusation hangs thick in the air.
You swallowed down the guilt anyways.
“How the hell is that low? Eddie was a great guy, not that you would know. You hardly tried to get to know him.”
Steve's entire body went rigid.
"Eddie Munson died being stupid and reckless," he says, voice icy. "He didn't think about consequences, he just charged in like an idiot." A muscle ticks in his jaw. "And I do think about consequences. Every damn time. You know I do.”
The comparison clearly stung worse than anything else you've said tonight, just as expected.
Steve paces abruptly, the sound of his boots loud in the suffocating room.
"You don't get to compare me to him," he says, voice still sharp with hurt. "Eddie was reckless for fun. I do this because it has to be done."
He stops pacing and turns back toward you.
"Do you seriously think I enjoy risking my life? That I wake up excited about possibly getting killed?"
“You think he was excited?”
A harsh laugh escapes him.
"Eddie loved the danger," he says through gritted teeth. "He lived for that shit. The excitement, the risk."
"I don't love it. I do it because if I don't...no one else will."
“I doubt he loved dying” you defended, your chest feeling uncomfortably heavy.
Steve scoffed. “Eddie chose to go after those bats. His job was done and he went back. That wasn’t duty, that was ego,” he responded sharply, his voice rising to match yours. “He wanted the glory! The big heroic moment. And guess where that got him?” he says, pacing around the room. He was ranting now, defending himself against nothing, because you’ve already gone quiet.
You watch him pace, his mouth moving fast, the sound muffled and all too loud at once.
“I’m not like that! I follow orders when they’re given-“
You try to calm yourself down but breathing only got harder. You try to focus on Steve’s footsteps.
How many did he take before pacing the other way? One, two, three.. one, two, three, four…
“You think I want to be like him? The idiot got himself killed by being reckless!”
You steady one hand against the counter the other firm against your chest, moving in repeating circles just like you were told to do when you were little.
Steve finally stops pacing when he notices your stillness. The anger drains from him instantly. “Hey,” He takes a quick step toward you, all that fiery debate forgotten in a heartbeat. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"
Your immediate reaction is dismissal, closing your eyes, you shake your head no.
Steve's voice drops to a concerned murmur.
"Hey, talk to me," he says urgently, taking another step closer.
It was only then that he noticed your poor attempt at soothing yourself that he realized what was wrong.
"Shit - shit okay," he says quickly, his hands finally making contact as they gently grip your shoulders.
He guides you carefully to kneel down.
"Breathe with me, yeah?" he instructs softly, demonstrating slow inhales and exhales. You would’ve found it embarrassing if you weren’t scared out of your mind.
Steve kept his hands steady on your shoulders, speaking in a slow, soothing rhythm.
"Come on," he murmurs. "In...two...three..." He demonstrates another deep breath.
His eyes never leave yours, focused entirely on helping you breathe through the panic attack. Tears started to burn at your eyes, more out of longing for his comfort than fear or panic.
"Out...two...three... that’s it, you’re okay,” he continues as your breathing finally evens out.
Something about the tenderness of it all struck you straight in the heart. You’d almost forgotten what his arms felt like when they weren’t rigid with anger or indifference.
Although it wasn’t under perfect circumstances, something about finally having his comfort and his arms around you for the first time in months brought a sense of reassurance, as fragile as it was.
