ns/fw blog (must have age in bio and be 18+ to follow!): @stevenose
writes: steve x reader; gender neutral; fluff, angst, hurt/comfort are my strong suits! writing from steve’s POV is also my bread and buttah 🫶🏻
requests: open! please note - i will only reply to fics i feel that i can write and do justice. if i don’t answer your request, please don’t hesitate to send another one!
in which, the last person on earth you expected to call you at midnight does.
contents: steve x reader; no gendered terms used for reader; post s5 fic (contains some spoilers!); confessions; past trauma and chronic pain mentions; mention of prescription medications; angst with a hopeful ending!!
word count: 2k
suggested listening: back to the old house by the smiths
It’s cozy in your apartment. You’re teetering on the edge of sleep, the orange glow from your lamp and candles illuminating the pages of the book you read. Your body sinks heavily into your bed, lids hooded. Outside, the city is still loud. You try to tune it out with the radio turned, volume low.
You finally give up after nodding off once. You sigh and yawn as you rise, bones cracking, your back aching. The pain has gotten worse and worse since ‘86. You place your book down and blow out a candle while heading to the kitchen for water. You’re still taking the same medicine as you did when you moved here - an antidepressant, sleep medication, and an anti-anxiety pill. You take them together with water from the tap, along with ibuprofen to ease the ache.
You’re padding off to bed with another yawn when the phone rings. The shrill tone scares you, and you whip around to look at it, hanging innocently on the wall. Then your eyes move to the clock — 12:09 a.m.
You pause for a moment, twitching when that same shrill tone calls out again.
If it’s important, they’ll leave a message, you think, but you still linger to see if whoever it is actually does.
Your voice comes through the speaker. Sorry I missed you. Leave a message and I’ll give you a call back.
A beep.
A sigh heard across the room.
Your breath hitches. You know it’s him before he even starts talking.
“Hi,” Steve’s voice says.
Your legs shake and you slowly walk to your couch, sitting down and listening.
“I know it’s late for you. I’m sorry.” Another sigh. “I’m sorry. I just — do you remember that soup you used to make? The one with the potatoes and the onions?”
He laughs, soft and low.
“Wanted it so bad tonight. And I just picked up what I remembered you buying when you made it. But I think I left something out. Maybe garlic? It was fine, not as good as yours.”
There’s another long pause. You hear him sniffle, then laugh again.
“It took me two hours. You used to make it so fast. I tried to do some of the tricks you taught me to dice, but I didn’t…”
He clears his throat.
“I didn’t remember. I remember what you looked like, and what you were wearing — that light blue button-up I got you at Macy’s — and you were dicing chives. But I don’t remember how you did it.”
The back of your throat aches. It hasn’t ached in a while. Your eyes burn with hot tears and your molars crack under the pressure of your jaw, though you don’t notice the pain just yet.
“Anyway. I guess I j— I miss you. And I think about you.”
His voice shakes.
“And I hope you’re okay.”
The silence is only filled by the sounds of both of your hushed breaths. A tear falls down your cheek and your teeth bite into your bottom lip.
“You’re probably out doing something fun with fun people. You don’t have to call back. And for the record, I’m sober. Alright. Well, I’ll —“
You panic. You pick up the phone.
“Hi?” you breathe.
There’s another long pause before Steve softly says your name.
“Hi,” you say again. You haven’t heard him say your name in so long. Not in real life, at least.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey — I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”
“No. I was getting ready to.”
“Oh…. What time is it there?”
You can’t help but to laugh. “Same time as you, plus an hour.”
“Right. Sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”
You bite your tongue. You want to keep the conversation going, but you don’t know how.
“Who gave you my number?”
His voice is small when he says, “Robin.”
You definitely should have known.
“Of course,” you say softly.
“I shouldn’t have called you.”
Your hands shake. You take a deep breath. “It’s okay. I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
Another long pause. You’re breathing in tandem.
“How’s Hawkins?”
It’s the sorest subject you could bring up. You left, he stayed. You begged him to come with you; he begged you to settle down with him. It was a fight you had both ceded to two years ago.
You can’t imagine a worse place on earth than your hometown. The word feels foreign as you say it.
He swallows. “I, uh — I don’t know.”
Your stomach drops.
“You left?” you whisper.
He swallows again. “Yeah.”
You’re supposed to be over Steve. You thought you were. You’re even in a committed relationship now, though you’ve been contemplating ending it. And you never thought Steve was in that equation, why you always left the people you thought you loved.
But it all goes back to Steve, whether you know it or not. Nothing has ever compared to him.
You don’t want him to control your feelings anymore. You’ve swallowed him down with your bitter sadness. But knowing he’s left Hawkins after you begged and pleaded with him to come with you was a blow lower than any you’ve ever taken. You’re immediately angry, waiting to strike at him, to make him feel just as low as you.
“You were right,” he says. “Everything you said about compartmentalizing and — and wanting to play hero — you knew it before I did. And you were right. I should have listened.”
Steve didn’t want to leave. He wanted to settle down in his hometown, have a few kids, be a working father with a stay at home partner. Two vacations a year, an RV in the driveway, nothing but domestic bliss that, for some reason, he didn’t think he could find anywhere else.
“You’re not letting yourself heal,” you’d argued with him. “You’re only staying here because you think you can fix it all if it happens again.”
His response was always, “It won’t happen again. It’s over. We saw it.”
You pleaded with him to at least admit that he was scared. That what’s happened to him has affected him. He simply wouldn’t budge. You left, he stayed, and that seemed to be the end of it.
He says your name softly, like it’s a holy word that he’s not allowed to say.
“I’m so sorry.”
You chew on your lip again. The sharp taste of metal on your tongue makes you feel sick. You never want to taste blood ever again.
“I’m happy for you,” you eventually say, and only because it’s the right thing to do. You don’t mean it, though you wish you did. “Where are you now?”
“Over in — over in Forest Hills. So not that far away. But it’s enough.”
You hum. The short distance move makes you feel better, as dumb as that is.
“Are you still in New York?”
“Yeah.” You laugh a little. “Rent here’s a lot more than it is in Forest Hills, let me tell you.”
He laughs, too. It comes out in a burst, like he’s been holding it in for a long time.
“God, I’m sure. Have you seen Byers?”
“We get dinner sometimes. He’s making another movie now.”
“Another cannibal one?”
“He’s going after global warming this time, actually. He just told me and I can’t even remember what the metaphor is.”
“Will you be in it?”
You laugh again, your body relaxing. The anti-anxiety is kicking in, and things almost feel normal. Almost.
“I’m not an actress, Steve.”
You hear him choke on a gasp.
“Oh, wow,” he says breathlessly.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Just — haven’t heard you say my name in a long time.”
Your throat aches again. Tears pool in your eyes, making your vision blurry.
His interruption is your savior. “What about little Byers?”
“Fine. He’s doing good. He’ll crash on my couch if he gets too drunk sometimes. He knows Jonathan will be pissed.”
“Little Byers getting drunk? Never thought I’d hear that.”
“Yeah,” you laugh. “We’re all grown up now, Steve.”
The dead air that follows is maddening.
“I guess we are,” he eventually answers.
Another long silence. Steve breaks it again.
“I missed hearing your voice.”
You close your eyes, evening your breaths. “Steve —“
“Christ, I missed that.” His voice is thick with sadness that he rarely let show when you knew him. “I missed you saying my name so much.”
Your mouth drops just a little. You’re overwhelmed, not sure what to do or say, your bedtime medication cocktail ramping up in intensity. But you’re just like Steve. You missed his voice. You missed him.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m here, Steve.”
His breath shudders.
“What — um — what do you do now? For work?”
He chuckles. “You’re not going to believe what I was doing before I moved.”
“Do I get one guess?”
“One guess.”
“Hmmm. Retirement home receptionist.”
“You just said my worst nightmare out loud.”
You laugh. He laughs.
“Way worse, though,” he says. “Baseball coach.”
“What? That’s a great —“
“And! And, Sex Ed teacher.”
You’re so shocked that you have to process it for a moment. But then you laugh, loud.
“You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious. I guess that’s what they make coaches do.”
You laugh again. Tears spring to your eyes from the emotional release. And you just can’t stop.
Steve’s laughing, too. A sound you missed desperately, one you hardly heard when he was yours and you were his. Always so serious.
“That is genuinely the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.”
He groans. “I know.”
“I guess you do have a great resume for a job like that.”
“Shut up,” he mumbles. You can hear the smile in his voice. “It was awful. You wouldn’t believe how many of these kids stayed after class and flirted with me.”
“Oh, ew.”
“It was horrible!"
“Now you know how Ms. Michaels felt when you’d linger at her desk after math class.”
“She was hot!”
You laugh, incredulous. Then you yawn, loud, your eyes closing on their own.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I should let you go —“
“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “Just took my sleeping pills before you called.”
He’s quiet now. “You take them, too?”
“Yeah. I somehow got my psych to prescribe me the same ones Owens did. Very lucky.”
“Do you take them every night?”
“Almost always.”
“Me, too,” he says softly. “It’s been so hard to sleep since….”
“I know,” you whisper.
“No. You don’t know.” He laughs, but it sounds pained. “You have no idea. I haven’t slept well since you left.”
Your brain goes blank.
“And when I sleep, you’re there, but it’s not good dreams. It’s — I just keep seeing you —“ he sighs, loud and long. His voice shakes as he continues. “I see you in there. I see you broken and… and then sometimes all I dream about is the last conversation we had. You walking out the door. And I wake up, and I’m so empty. It’s all so empty.”
Your heart pounds.
You’ve spent years doing the same thing you accused Steve of — compartmentalizing. But not your trauma, not the Upside Down. Just Steve. And suddenly, it’s all opened up, forcing you to face it again.
“I swear I can still smell you sometimes,” you whisper, voice slurring a bit with sleep. “I’ve washed my sheets a million times and they still smell like you. That stupid Guy Laroche cologne that you used to drown yourself in. All the guys wear it here and every time I smell it… I want to — to puke. It’s like it only makes sense on my sheets.”
He whimpers. There’s another long silence, both of you contemplating as you struggle to keep your eyes open.
“I know you’re tired,” he says softly. “But I just need you to know that the biggest mistake I’ve ever made was staying here and letting you go.”
You can tell now that he’s crying.
“I miss you like crazy. I think about you all the time. I try so hard not to. I see people, I go out, but you’re always in the back of my mind. I see someone who looks like you and I… I just go stiff. And I know that’s my own fault. I know. I swear I know. I just wish I knew it when I was younger, you know? How the world moves and I need to move with it.”
Your bottom lip trembles, more hot tears tracking down your cheeks and tickling your neck.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again.
You’re not sure what else to say.
“It was really nice hearing your voice —“
“Steve.”
There’s a slight whine. “Yeah?”
You chew on your thumbnail.
“Want to stay on the phone while we sleep?”
His breath hitches. “Yeah. Yeah. Shit — yeah.”
You hear him shuffling. You smile, body weak, sinking into the couch and resting the phone beside your ear as best as you can. It’s uncomfortable, certainly not as nice as your bed. You owe Will Byers an apology for making him sleep out here when he’s drunk.
You know you’ll sleep well, though. Better than you have in a long time.
“I’ve got about thirty seconds left,” you slur.
“Go ahead,” he says, his voice thick. “I’ll be right here, okay? Won’t go til you wake up.”
You hum happily, smiling gently. “We have a lot to talk about in the morning.”
“Yeah. We do.”
For a moment, you just listen to him breathing. The evidence that he’s alive and safe. That he’s here with you now.
in which, the last person on earth you expected to call you at midnight does.
contents: steve x reader; no gendered terms used for reader; post s5 fic (contains some spoilers!); confessions; past trauma and chronic pain mentions; mention of prescription medications; angst with a hopeful ending!!
word count: 2k
suggested listening: back to the old house by the smiths
It’s cozy in your apartment. You’re teetering on the edge of sleep, the orange glow from your lamp and candles illuminating the pages of the book you read. Your body sinks heavily into your bed, lids hooded. Outside, the city is still loud. You try to tune it out with the radio turned, volume low.
You finally give up after nodding off once. You sigh and yawn as you rise, bones cracking, your back aching. The pain has gotten worse and worse since ‘86. You place your book down and blow out a candle while heading to the kitchen for water. You’re still taking the same medicine as you did when you moved here - an antidepressant, sleep medication, and an anti-anxiety pill. You take them together with water from the tap, along with ibuprofen to ease the ache.
You’re padding off to bed with another yawn when the phone rings. The shrill tone scares you, and you whip around to look at it, hanging innocently on the wall. Then your eyes move to the clock — 12:09 a.m.
You pause for a moment, twitching when that same shrill tone calls out again.
If it’s important, they’ll leave a message, you think, but you still linger to see if whoever it is actually does.
Your voice comes through the speaker. Sorry I missed you. Leave a message and I’ll give you a call back.
A beep.
A sigh heard across the room.
Your breath hitches. You know it’s him before he even starts talking.
“Hi,” Steve’s voice says.
Your legs shake and you slowly walk to your couch, sitting down and listening.
“I know it’s late for you. I’m sorry.” Another sigh. “I’m sorry. I just — do you remember that soup you used to make? The one with the potatoes and the onions?”
He laughs, soft and low.
“Wanted it so bad tonight. And I just picked up what I remembered you buying when you made it. But I think I left something out. Maybe garlic? It was fine, not as good as yours.”
There’s another long pause. You hear him sniffle, then laugh again.
“It took me two hours. You used to make it so fast. I tried to do some of the tricks you taught me to dice, but I didn’t…”
He clears his throat.
“I didn’t remember. I remember what you looked like, and what you were wearing — that light blue button-up I got you at Macy’s — and you were dicing chives. But I don’t remember how you did it.”
The back of your throat aches. It hasn’t ached in a while. Your eyes burn with hot tears and your molars crack under the pressure of your jaw, though you don’t notice the pain just yet.
“Anyway. I guess I j— I miss you. And I think about you.”
His voice shakes.
“And I hope you’re okay.”
The silence is only filled by the sounds of both of your hushed breaths. A tear falls down your cheek and your teeth bite into your bottom lip.
“You’re probably out doing something fun with fun people. You don’t have to call back. And for the record, I’m sober. Alright. Well, I’ll —“
You panic. You pick up the phone.
“Hi?” you breathe.
There’s another long pause before Steve softly says your name.
“Hi,” you say again. You haven’t heard him say your name in so long. Not in real life, at least.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Hey — I’m sorry, were you sleeping?”
“No. I was getting ready to.”
“Oh…. What time is it there?”
You can’t help but to laugh. “Same time as you, plus an hour.”
“Right. Sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called.”
You bite your tongue. You want to keep the conversation going, but you don’t know how.
“Who gave you my number?”
His voice is small when he says, “Robin.”
You definitely should have known.
“Of course,” you say softly.
“I shouldn’t have called you.”
Your hands shake. You take a deep breath. “It’s okay. I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
Another long pause. You’re breathing in tandem.
“How’s Hawkins?”
It’s the sorest subject you could bring up. You left, he stayed. You begged him to come with you; he begged you to settle down with him. It was a fight you had both ceded to two years ago.
You can’t imagine a worse place on earth than your hometown. The word feels foreign as you say it.
He swallows. “I, uh — I don’t know.”
Your stomach drops.
“You left?” you whisper.
He swallows again. “Yeah.”
You’re supposed to be over Steve. You thought you were. You’re even in a committed relationship now, though you’ve been contemplating ending it. And you never thought Steve was in that equation, why you always left the people you thought you loved.
But it all goes back to Steve, whether you know it or not. Nothing has ever compared to him.
You don’t want him to control your feelings anymore. You’ve swallowed him down with your bitter sadness. But knowing he’s left Hawkins after you begged and pleaded with him to come with you was a blow lower than any you’ve ever taken. You’re immediately angry, waiting to strike at him, to make him feel just as low as you.
“You were right,” he says. “Everything you said about compartmentalizing and — and wanting to play hero — you knew it before I did. And you were right. I should have listened.”
Steve didn’t want to leave. He wanted to settle down in his hometown, have a few kids, be a working father with a stay at home partner. Two vacations a year, an RV in the driveway, nothing but domestic bliss that, for some reason, he didn’t think he could find anywhere else.
“You’re not letting yourself heal,” you’d argued with him. “You’re only staying here because you think you can fix it all if it happens again.”
His response was always, “It won’t happen again. It’s over. We saw it.”
You pleaded with him to at least admit that he was scared. That what’s happened to him has affected him. He simply wouldn’t budge. You left, he stayed, and that seemed to be the end of it.
He says your name softly, like it’s a holy word that he’s not allowed to say.
“I’m so sorry.”
You chew on your lip again. The sharp taste of metal on your tongue makes you feel sick. You never want to taste blood ever again.
“I’m happy for you,” you eventually say, and only because it’s the right thing to do. You don’t mean it, though you wish you did. “Where are you now?”
“Over in — over in Forest Hills. So not that far away. But it’s enough.”
You hum. The short distance move makes you feel better, as dumb as that is.
“Are you still in New York?”
“Yeah.” You laugh a little. “Rent here’s a lot more than it is in Forest Hills, let me tell you.”
He laughs, too. It comes out in a burst, like he’s been holding it in for a long time.
“God, I’m sure. Have you seen Byers?”
“We get dinner sometimes. He’s making another movie now.”
“Another cannibal one?”
“He’s going after global warming this time, actually. He just told me and I can’t even remember what the metaphor is.”
“Will you be in it?”
You laugh again, your body relaxing. The anti-anxiety is kicking in, and things almost feel normal. Almost.
“I’m not an actress, Steve.”
You hear him choke on a gasp.
“Oh, wow,” he says breathlessly.
“Are you alright?”
“Yeah. Just — haven’t heard you say my name in a long time.”
Your throat aches again. Tears pool in your eyes, making your vision blurry.
His interruption is your savior. “What about little Byers?”
“Fine. He’s doing good. He’ll crash on my couch if he gets too drunk sometimes. He knows Jonathan will be pissed.”
“Little Byers getting drunk? Never thought I’d hear that.”
“Yeah,” you laugh. “We’re all grown up now, Steve.”
The dead air that follows is maddening.
“I guess we are,” he eventually answers.
Another long silence. Steve breaks it again.
“I missed hearing your voice.”
You close your eyes, evening your breaths. “Steve —“
“Christ, I missed that.” His voice is thick with sadness that he rarely let show when you knew him. “I missed you saying my name so much.”
Your mouth drops just a little. You’re overwhelmed, not sure what to do or say, your bedtime medication cocktail ramping up in intensity. But you’re just like Steve. You missed his voice. You missed him.
“Are you still there?”
“Yeah,” you whisper. “I’m here, Steve.”
His breath shudders.
“What — um — what do you do now? For work?”
He chuckles. “You’re not going to believe what I was doing before I moved.”
“Do I get one guess?”
“One guess.”
“Hmmm. Retirement home receptionist.”
“You just said my worst nightmare out loud.”
You laugh. He laughs.
“Way worse, though,” he says. “Baseball coach.”
“What? That’s a great —“
“And! And, Sex Ed teacher.”
You’re so shocked that you have to process it for a moment. But then you laugh, loud.
“You’re kidding.”
“Dead serious. I guess that’s what they make coaches do.”
You laugh again. Tears spring to your eyes from the emotional release. And you just can’t stop.
Steve’s laughing, too. A sound you missed desperately, one you hardly heard when he was yours and you were his. Always so serious.
“That is genuinely the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.”
He groans. “I know.”
“I guess you do have a great resume for a job like that.”
“Shut up,” he mumbles. You can hear the smile in his voice. “It was awful. You wouldn’t believe how many of these kids stayed after class and flirted with me.”
“Oh, ew.”
“It was horrible!"
“Now you know how Ms. Michaels felt when you’d linger at her desk after math class.”
“She was hot!”
You laugh, incredulous. Then you yawn, loud, your eyes closing on their own.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “I should let you go —“
“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “Just took my sleeping pills before you called.”
He’s quiet now. “You take them, too?”
“Yeah. I somehow got my psych to prescribe me the same ones Owens did. Very lucky.”
“Do you take them every night?”
“Almost always.”
“Me, too,” he says softly. “It’s been so hard to sleep since….”
“I know,” you whisper.
“No. You don’t know.” He laughs, but it sounds pained. “You have no idea. I haven’t slept well since you left.”
Your brain goes blank.
“And when I sleep, you’re there, but it’s not good dreams. It’s — I just keep seeing you —“ he sighs, loud and long. His voice shakes as he continues. “I see you in there. I see you broken and… and then sometimes all I dream about is the last conversation we had. You walking out the door. And I wake up, and I’m so empty. It’s all so empty.”
Your heart pounds.
You’ve spent years doing the same thing you accused Steve of — compartmentalizing. But not your trauma, not the Upside Down. Just Steve. And suddenly, it’s all opened up, forcing you to face it again.
“I swear I can still smell you sometimes,” you whisper, voice slurring a bit with sleep. “I’ve washed my sheets a million times and they still smell like you. That stupid Guy Laroche cologne that you used to drown yourself in. All the guys wear it here and every time I smell it… I want to — to puke. It’s like it only makes sense on my sheets.”
He whimpers. There’s another long silence, both of you contemplating as you struggle to keep your eyes open.
“I know you’re tired,” he says softly. “But I just need you to know that the biggest mistake I’ve ever made was staying here and letting you go.”
You can tell now that he’s crying.
“I miss you like crazy. I think about you all the time. I try so hard not to. I see people, I go out, but you’re always in the back of my mind. I see someone who looks like you and I… I just go stiff. And I know that’s my own fault. I know. I swear I know. I just wish I knew it when I was younger, you know? How the world moves and I need to move with it.”
Your bottom lip trembles, more hot tears tracking down your cheeks and tickling your neck.
“I’m so sorry,” he says again.
You’re not sure what else to say.
“It was really nice hearing your voice —“
“Steve.”
There’s a slight whine. “Yeah?”
You chew on your thumbnail.
“Want to stay on the phone while we sleep?”
His breath hitches. “Yeah. Yeah. Shit — yeah.”
You hear him shuffling. You smile, body weak, sinking into the couch and resting the phone beside your ear as best as you can. It’s uncomfortable, certainly not as nice as your bed. You owe Will Byers an apology for making him sleep out here when he’s drunk.
You know you’ll sleep well, though. Better than you have in a long time.
“I’ve got about thirty seconds left,” you slur.
“Go ahead,” he says, his voice thick. “I’ll be right here, okay? Won’t go til you wake up.”
You hum happily, smiling gently. “We have a lot to talk about in the morning.”
“Yeah. We do.”
For a moment, you just listen to him breathing. The evidence that he’s alive and safe. That he’s here with you now.
super random question but are your different accounts side blogs to your main or separate stand alone? i want to have a similar set up and I’m not sure the best way to do it 💜
hi!! this and stevenose are side blogs! its worked out for me. the only caveat is that your main blog will show up for likes/asks/follows, which can just get a little annoying!! otherwise i def would recommend this set up. so much easier than having to log in and out!!
Steve finds you after his long nights at the radio station and tangles himself up in you. Sneaking in past curfew to slot his legs between yours, throwing an exhausted arm over your soft body. He needs to be close to you.
contents: steve-centric pov; post-s4/during s5(?); lovesick/loverboy/touch starved steve; angst, with sweetness/some comfort; steve self sabotaging to keep people he loves safe :/; reader referred to as a girl; unsaid love confessions
based off of this little thing i wrote on my other blog. back on my “steve wants love so bad but is so afraid of hurting people” bullshit. happy s5 vol 1 day 🫶🏻
It’s late. As in, curfew started two hours ago, and Steve’s running high on adrenaline. But he has a few rounds to make. Driving by the Wheeler/Byers’ joint residence, then Sinclair’s, then Henderson’s. Always the god damn babysitter, whether he has a choice or not.
He drives with his headlights off. The dim red glow of the still-steaming gates guides his way. He passes Robin’s just for good measure, though he dropped her off just half an hour ago. All lights are off, but there’s something on her bedroom window that wasn’t there before.
He slows down and squints, brows furrowing together.
GO TO BED, DINGUS.
He laughs — more of a scoff — and keeps going.
Steve doesn’t really sleep anymore, and he isn’t sure if it’s voluntary or not. He sort of wishes all of those concussions made him sleep easier, but it just made his memory poor and his head ache enough for him to shout through clenched teeth when meds weren’t enough.
His head doesn’t pound tonight. He had a good day at the station and battling evil or whatever the hell he does now. He doesn’t know what to call it other than work, which isn’t wrong, but it’s not exactly right, either.
The BMW drives slowly down a dim street. He doesn’t need lights to see where he’s going. Eleven months of driving to and from the house he’s headed to makes the path easy, something he could find in the dark, in any weather, in any condition.
Steve slides to a stop. The engine idles, then dies down with a soft click. The night is quiet, houses dark. It’s unnerving. He leans back and grabs a bat from the backseat — not the one Jonathan hammered nails into, but a sleek, heavy, metal bat. His hand flexes around it as he brings it to the front. It’s pristine so far. No blood, no dents.
But as he looks, he sees his reflection in the metal. His tired eyes, the pink and purple that rims them. His messy hair that hasn’t been cut by a professional in over a year. It hangs limply over his forehead and for the hundredth time tonight he snakes his strong, calloused fingers through it to push it back into place.
He can’t look at himself anymore.
The sleek maroon car door opens softly without a creak. Steve pauses and listens, then steps out. His hand flexes again, a nervous tick, and with a roll of his shoulders he tries to bolster his confidence.
Suave. Smooth. Like a ninja.
The door shuts with a gentle thud. Steve breathes shallowly and walks carefully with well rehearsed steps — knows where to put his weight and where to shift it to be quiet. He’s careful around gravel and pebbles, stays vigilant, eyes and ears straining for any signs of trouble.
He makes his way around his target. A house that’s too tall and too quiet for what’s inside. He relaxes slightly when his Nike’s find the soft purchase of the back lawn. From the back pocket of his dark wash denims, he pulls out a single silver key.
Steve slides it into the lock slowly. Pulls the key out even slower. Looks around one final time, triple checking his surroundings, before pushing forward.
No barricade this time, so he’s welcome. He shuts the door quietly behind him and locks it, then locks the two deadbolts that he installed. And, for good measure, he puts a chair from the dining table under the handle.
He pauses to catch his breath. His eyes flit around and adjust quickly in the dark. He makes his way through the kitchen, sore muscles relaxing with each step. He’s hit with the smell of lavender and vanilla the closer he gets to the bedroom, the soft glow from a nightlight filtering out onto the hardwood in front of the door.
He knows the scent is for him. Some kind of pseudo-science about lavender helping with sleep. And it definitely doesn’t, but it still smells like home.
Pausing in front of the door, Steve bites his tongue, not sure if he’ll find what he wants, but knowing still that he’ll find what he needs.
His breath catches before he even sees you. You simply steal it by being so close to him.
You’re asleep. Your back faces him, laid on your side. An invitation.
Steve kicks off his shoes, then almost trips out of his Levis. He toes off his socks and heads right towards you, cringing when the bed groans under his weight.
You’re warm. So warm and soft and sweet. Your skin smells like lavender and vanilla, too, like maybe if he breathes you in enough he’ll finally doze off. He wraps you under one of his arms as the other bullies its way under your pillow awkwardly. You shift, giving him more room to lay beside you in your double bed.
“Steve,” you whisper.
“Hi,” he whispers back, nudging your ear with his nose.
You shiver. “You’re cold.”
He chuckles and pulls your back into his chest. “Then warm me up.”
This is what he wanted. A little bit of conversation. He doesn’t get to see you very much when you’re awake. He usually just holds your sleeping form like you’re precious and then slips out right as the sky turns from black to indigo.
“You’re late,” you say softly.
His thumb lazily rubs back and forth across your ribcage. “I know.”
“Scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
You push back against him harder. “Hold me.”
He is holding you, but he knows what you mean. He holds you closer, almost crushing you against his chest. And he knows it’s more for him than you. He’s touch starved to near death. But here you are, desperate for closeness almost as much as he is.
“Day okay?” he murmurs, his warm breath tickling your neck.
You don’t answer for a long while. Then, “I missed you.”
You break his heart. You really do.
There’s no way to describe what you are to him, or what he is to you, other than salvation. Calling you his girl would be ridiculous. The end of the world isn’t the place to find love. Just a place to lean into the love you already have.
But he did find you. And you’ve given him every part of you that you could between the hours of one and six in the morning and let him occupy your thoughts every hour after. And Dustin’s always bitching at Steve about his ‘girlfriend’ or, when Steve gets defensive, his ‘woman of the night.’
The problem with Steve, as Henderson and Buckley have pointed out ad-nauseam, is that he’s a loverboy. Always was and always will be. So despite his best efforts to keep you off of his mind, or to not come crawling into your bed every night, he always fails.
“I missed you, too,” he says softly.
Your hand finds his and you lace your fingers together. You squeeze once and he squeezes back.
Steve drapes his body over yours like he could protect you by doing it. Almost laying directly on top of you. He slots his leg through yours and relishes in the sigh you let out, in the way your hips roll against his thigh ever so slightly. If it wasn’t so late, he’d turn you around and kiss you breathless, until you’re water in his hands. He’d press himself against you and murmur promises, sweet little somethings that are laced with devotion. He’d pull you apart and put you back together just in time for him to slip out of your window.
It’s dangerous to love you. And it’s sick of him, but he thinks about Max and Lucas. How Max was roped into everything and suffered from the risks that she was more than willing to take.
Lucas’s grief was enough to solidify the fact that Steve couldn’t do that to you or himself.
And when he lays awake at night he tries to come to terms with it. How is he supposed to spend his life with somebody and never tell them what happened to him? Isn’t that what love is — vulnerability? Is it worth it to sacrifice your safety to get to keep you like this? Warm and so, so soft, fitting between his arms so perfectly?
Steve swallows hard, the ache in his throat threatening to make him unravel. He squeezes your hand again.
“I missed you,” he repeats, a little louder this time, though his voice shakes.
You turn over. You’re so beautiful. It makes him go stupid, his pink lips parting, his heart racing. His palms go sweaty and his cheeks turn pink — like he’s a kid again. Like he has the luxury to have a god damn crush.
Your hands cup his cheeks. He stares down at you, a smile tugging at his lips while tears sit dangerously at the rims of his eyes.
You stare back while you swipe your thumb across his cheekbones. Left, right, over and over.
“Got something on my face?” he asks, voice thick.
You put a hand on the back of his neck and gently pull him towards you.
Your kiss is gentle. It means something. It’s not lust-driven or frantic. It’s careful and slow and methodical. Your lips are soft against his and he shivers when your fingers gently curl around the waves at the nape of his neck. Greedily, Steve wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer, until he can feel your heartbeat against his.
You pull away first. It makes Steve dizzy, his eyes blinking slowly, hypnotized by you.
The smile you give him is heavy. Your eyes are glossy with tears and you blink a few times, trying to fight them back.
“Hey,” Steve coos softly. “What’s the matter?”
Your eyes trail down and rest on his neck. Experimentally, the pads of your fingers settle gently over the silver scar around his neck.
His breath hitches.
“What is this from?” you ask softly.
He’s caught off guard. You’ve seen it plenty before, but this is the only time you’ve mentioned it.
Steve swallows under your tender touch. “An accident. Not — I didn’t… try anything. If that’s what you’re — if that’s what you think.”
You shake your head. Your breaths turn heavy. Then you lean forward and press your lips to it gently.
You’ve marked up his neck before. He’s felt you kiss him there, the skin extra sensitive. He’s always made a conscious effort to trust you with it.
But this is different.
You press kisses along the line. It makes Steve shiver, his grip on you growing tighter. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses the back of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to even out his breaths.
“Does it hurt?”
He shakes his head.
He feels your thumb swiping across it again. You have him on edge, and he tries to swallow his anxiety down with his tears so that he can kindly tell you to cut it out.
“Steve. Look at me.”
He does. A little awkward with you tucked under his chin.
Your chest rises and falls. You open your mouth once, then twice. “You’re pretty.”
He knows that’s not what you want to say, but he’s still relieved that you didn’t. He couldn’t take hearing it.
“Yeah?”
You lean upwards, a single kiss pressed to his jawline.
“Yeah,” you repeat, then promptly flip over. “Hold me.”
Steve does without hesitation. Wraps one arm under your waist where the bed dips and another over your torso. He holds you tight, afraid you’ll let go, even though he’ll be the one that leaves first in the morning.
His fingertips gently glide back and forth over your stomach. He listens to your breathing go from quick and shallow to measured and deep. He wasn’t going to stay, but your soft little snores are like a lullaby to him tonight. He’ll grant himself a reprieve, a little nap with his nose tucked against your hair, trying to memorize the way you smell and feel against him.
He’s startled awake by nothing except for his own mind. His biological alarm clock has set off and it’s correct - 5:31 am.
Steve blinks hard, clearing sleep out of his eyes. He should just keep sleeping. Take you up on your offer to spend a day in bed, just the two of you. Learning about each other in a more intentional kind of way. But he knows he can’t — that he’s needed at the station, that he keeps hearing about the plan, the plan, the plan.
He stretches his legs out, and as he wakes up, he realizes that his chest feels cold. Wet. He looks down at you. You’ve twisted around to face him at some point in the night, buried your head in his chest. And he can see the little wet patches that rest quite perfectly where your closed eyes are.
The guilt sends has his heart dropping into his stomach.
“Hey,” he says softly, seeing if you stir.
You sniffle, exhaling shakily.
“Hi.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, running a hand through your hair, pushing it away from your face. He’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.
You’re quiet. Little fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt. Your breaths shudder, making a conscious effort to not cry.
“It’s okay,” he says softly. “You can cry.”
You either laugh or sob. He’s not sure. “I’m tired of crying.”
You lift your head. Your eyes are pink and swollen, tear tracks running down your cheeks. He runs his thumb over them, pressing the salt back into your soft skin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
You sigh, taking his cheeks in your hands again and kissing him. It’s another calculated kiss, but this one’s a little deeper. It lingers, has him leaning into you, breathing you in like you’re the only supply of air he has.
He knows what it means.
Steve’s dazed when you pull away. Blinking slowly, eyes flitting over your features.
“Come back,” he says. Quiet, vulnerable.
You laugh humorlessly, almost bitter. “Stay.”
He breathes deep. Swallows. Can’t look away from you. Your tired, glossy eyes, the nuanced color of your irises. Your expressive brows. Your lips, soft and willing to kiss all of him — the good, the bad, the ugly. All of the parts of him that he tries to hide.
You really love him. He really loves you.
“Okay,” he breathes.
He won’t let you take a risk for him. But he can take a risk for you.
Steve finds you after his long nights at the radio station and tangles himself up in you. Sneaking in past curfew to slot his legs between yours, throwing an exhausted arm over your soft body. He needs to be close to you.
contents: steve-centric pov; post-s4/during s5(?); lovesick/loverboy/touch starved steve; angst, with sweetness/some comfort; steve self sabotaging to keep people he loves safe :/; reader referred to as a girl; unsaid love confessions
based off of this little thing i wrote on my other blog. back on my “steve wants love so bad but is so afraid of hurting people” bullshit. happy s5 vol 1 day 🫶🏻
It’s late. As in, curfew started two hours ago, and Steve’s running high on adrenaline. But he has a few rounds to make. Driving by the Wheeler/Byers’ joint residence, then Sinclair’s, then Henderson’s. Always the god damn babysitter, whether he has a choice or not.
He drives with his headlights off. The dim red glow of the still-steaming gates guides his way. He passes Robin’s just for good measure, though he dropped her off just half an hour ago. All lights are off, but there’s something on her bedroom window that wasn’t there before.
He slows down and squints, brows furrowing together.
GO TO BED, DINGUS.
He laughs — more of a scoff — and keeps going.
Steve doesn’t really sleep anymore, and he isn’t sure if it’s voluntary or not. He sort of wishes all of those concussions made him sleep easier, but it just made his memory poor and his head ache enough for him to shout through clenched teeth when meds weren’t enough.
His head doesn’t pound tonight. He had a good day at the station and battling evil or whatever the hell he does now. He doesn’t know what to call it other than work, which isn’t wrong, but it’s not exactly right, either.
The BMW drives slowly down a dim street. He doesn’t need lights to see where he’s going. Eleven months of driving to and from the house he’s headed to makes the path easy, something he could find in the dark, in any weather, in any condition.
Steve slides to a stop. The engine idles, then dies down with a soft click. The night is quiet, houses dark. It’s unnerving. He leans back and grabs a bat from the backseat — not the one Jonathan hammered nails into, but a sleek, heavy, metal bat. His hand flexes around it as he brings it to the front. It’s pristine so far. No blood, no dents.
But as he looks, he sees his reflection in the metal. His tired eyes, the pink and purple that rims them. His messy hair that hasn’t been cut by a professional in over a year. It hangs limply over his forehead and for the hundredth time tonight he snakes his strong, calloused fingers through it to push it back into place.
He can’t look at himself anymore.
The sleek maroon car door opens softly without a creak. Steve pauses and listens, then steps out. His hand flexes again, a nervous tick, and with a roll of his shoulders he tries to bolster his confidence.
Suave. Smooth. Like a ninja.
The door shuts with a gentle thud. Steve breathes shallowly and walks carefully with well rehearsed steps — knows where to put his weight and where to shift it to be quiet. He’s careful around gravel and pebbles, stays vigilant, eyes and ears straining for any signs of trouble.
He makes his way around his target. A house that’s too tall and too quiet for what’s inside. He relaxes slightly when his Nike’s find the soft purchase of the back lawn. From the back pocket of his dark wash denims, he pulls out a single silver key.
Steve slides it into the lock slowly. Pulls the key out even slower. Looks around one final time, triple checking his surroundings, before pushing forward.
No barricade this time, so he’s welcome. He shuts the door quietly behind him and locks it, then locks the two deadbolts that he installed. And, for good measure, he puts a chair from the dining table under the handle.
He pauses to catch his breath. His eyes flit around and adjust quickly in the dark. He makes his way through the kitchen, sore muscles relaxing with each step. He’s hit with the smell of lavender and vanilla the closer he gets to the bedroom, the soft glow from a nightlight filtering out onto the hardwood in front of the door.
He knows the scent is for him. Some kind of pseudo-science about lavender helping with sleep. And it definitely doesn’t, but it still smells like home.
Pausing in front of the door, Steve bites his tongue, not sure if he’ll find what he wants, but knowing still that he’ll find what he needs.
His breath catches before he even sees you. You simply steal it by being so close to him.
You’re asleep. Your back faces him, laid on your side. An invitation.
Steve kicks off his shoes, then almost trips out of his Levis. He toes off his socks and heads right towards you, cringing when the bed groans under his weight.
You’re warm. So warm and soft and sweet. Your skin smells like lavender and vanilla, too, like maybe if he breathes you in enough he’ll finally doze off. He wraps you under one of his arms as the other bullies its way under your pillow awkwardly. You shift, giving him more room to lay beside you in your double bed.
“Steve,” you whisper.
“Hi,” he whispers back, nudging your ear with his nose.
You shiver. “You’re cold.”
He chuckles and pulls your back into his chest. “Then warm me up.”
This is what he wanted. A little bit of conversation. He doesn’t get to see you very much when you’re awake. He usually just holds your sleeping form like you’re precious and then slips out right as the sky turns from black to indigo.
“You’re late,” you say softly.
His thumb lazily rubs back and forth across your ribcage. “I know.”
“Scared me.”
“I’m sorry.”
You push back against him harder. “Hold me.”
He is holding you, but he knows what you mean. He holds you closer, almost crushing you against his chest. And he knows it’s more for him than you. He’s touch starved to near death. But here you are, desperate for closeness almost as much as he is.
“Day okay?” he murmurs, his warm breath tickling your neck.
You don’t answer for a long while. Then, “I missed you.”
You break his heart. You really do.
There’s no way to describe what you are to him, or what he is to you, other than salvation. Calling you his girl would be ridiculous. The end of the world isn’t the place to find love. Just a place to lean into the love you already have.
But he did find you. And you’ve given him every part of you that you could between the hours of one and six in the morning and let him occupy your thoughts every hour after. And Dustin’s always bitching at Steve about his ‘girlfriend’ or, when Steve gets defensive, his ‘woman of the night.’
The problem with Steve, as Henderson and Buckley have pointed out ad-nauseam, is that he’s a loverboy. Always was and always will be. So despite his best efforts to keep you off of his mind, or to not come crawling into your bed every night, he always fails.
“I missed you, too,” he says softly.
Your hand finds his and you lace your fingers together. You squeeze once and he squeezes back.
Steve drapes his body over yours like he could protect you by doing it. Almost laying directly on top of you. He slots his leg through yours and relishes in the sigh you let out, in the way your hips roll against his thigh ever so slightly. If it wasn’t so late, he’d turn you around and kiss you breathless, until you’re water in his hands. He’d press himself against you and murmur promises, sweet little somethings that are laced with devotion. He’d pull you apart and put you back together just in time for him to slip out of your window.
It’s dangerous to love you. And it’s sick of him, but he thinks about Max and Lucas. How Max was roped into everything and suffered from the risks that she was more than willing to take.
Lucas’s grief was enough to solidify the fact that Steve couldn’t do that to you or himself.
And when he lays awake at night he tries to come to terms with it. How is he supposed to spend his life with somebody and never tell them what happened to him? Isn’t that what love is — vulnerability? Is it worth it to sacrifice your safety to get to keep you like this? Warm and so, so soft, fitting between his arms so perfectly?
Steve swallows hard, the ache in his throat threatening to make him unravel. He squeezes your hand again.
“I missed you,” he repeats, a little louder this time, though his voice shakes.
You turn over. You’re so beautiful. It makes him go stupid, his pink lips parting, his heart racing. His palms go sweaty and his cheeks turn pink — like he’s a kid again. Like he has the luxury to have a god damn crush.
Your hands cup his cheeks. He stares down at you, a smile tugging at his lips while tears sit dangerously at the rims of his eyes.
You stare back while you swipe your thumb across his cheekbones. Left, right, over and over.
“Got something on my face?” he asks, voice thick.
You put a hand on the back of his neck and gently pull him towards you.
Your kiss is gentle. It means something. It’s not lust-driven or frantic. It’s careful and slow and methodical. Your lips are soft against his and he shivers when your fingers gently curl around the waves at the nape of his neck. Greedily, Steve wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you closer, until he can feel your heartbeat against his.
You pull away first. It makes Steve dizzy, his eyes blinking slowly, hypnotized by you.
The smile you give him is heavy. Your eyes are glossy with tears and you blink a few times, trying to fight them back.
“Hey,” Steve coos softly. “What’s the matter?”
Your eyes trail down and rest on his neck. Experimentally, the pads of your fingers settle gently over the silver scar around his neck.
His breath hitches.
“What is this from?” you ask softly.
He’s caught off guard. You’ve seen it plenty before, but this is the only time you’ve mentioned it.
Steve swallows under your tender touch. “An accident. Not — I didn’t… try anything. If that’s what you’re — if that’s what you think.”
You shake your head. Your breaths turn heavy. Then you lean forward and press your lips to it gently.
You’ve marked up his neck before. He’s felt you kiss him there, the skin extra sensitive. He’s always made a conscious effort to trust you with it.
But this is different.
You press kisses along the line. It makes Steve shiver, his grip on you growing tighter. He squeezes his eyes shut and presses the back of his tongue to the roof of his mouth, trying to even out his breaths.
“Does it hurt?”
He shakes his head.
He feels your thumb swiping across it again. You have him on edge, and he tries to swallow his anxiety down with his tears so that he can kindly tell you to cut it out.
“Steve. Look at me.”
He does. A little awkward with you tucked under his chin.
Your chest rises and falls. You open your mouth once, then twice. “You’re pretty.”
He knows that’s not what you want to say, but he’s still relieved that you didn’t. He couldn’t take hearing it.
“Yeah?”
You lean upwards, a single kiss pressed to his jawline.
“Yeah,” you repeat, then promptly flip over. “Hold me.”
Steve does without hesitation. Wraps one arm under your waist where the bed dips and another over your torso. He holds you tight, afraid you’ll let go, even though he’ll be the one that leaves first in the morning.
His fingertips gently glide back and forth over your stomach. He listens to your breathing go from quick and shallow to measured and deep. He wasn’t going to stay, but your soft little snores are like a lullaby to him tonight. He’ll grant himself a reprieve, a little nap with his nose tucked against your hair, trying to memorize the way you smell and feel against him.
He’s startled awake by nothing except for his own mind. His biological alarm clock has set off and it’s correct - 5:31 am.
Steve blinks hard, clearing sleep out of his eyes. He should just keep sleeping. Take you up on your offer to spend a day in bed, just the two of you. Learning about each other in a more intentional kind of way. But he knows he can’t — that he’s needed at the station, that he keeps hearing about the plan, the plan, the plan.
He stretches his legs out, and as he wakes up, he realizes that his chest feels cold. Wet. He looks down at you. You’ve twisted around to face him at some point in the night, buried your head in his chest. And he can see the little wet patches that rest quite perfectly where your closed eyes are.
The guilt sends has his heart dropping into his stomach.
“Hey,” he says softly, seeing if you stir.
You sniffle, exhaling shakily.
“Hi.”
“What’s wrong?” he asks, running a hand through your hair, pushing it away from your face. He’s pretty sure he already knows the answer.
You’re quiet. Little fingers tangling in the fabric of his shirt. Your breaths shudder, making a conscious effort to not cry.
“It’s okay,” he says softly. “You can cry.”
You either laugh or sob. He’s not sure. “I’m tired of crying.”
You lift your head. Your eyes are pink and swollen, tear tracks running down your cheeks. He runs his thumb over them, pressing the salt back into your soft skin.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
You sigh, taking his cheeks in your hands again and kissing him. It’s another calculated kiss, but this one’s a little deeper. It lingers, has him leaning into you, breathing you in like you’re the only supply of air he has.
He knows what it means.
Steve’s dazed when you pull away. Blinking slowly, eyes flitting over your features.
“Come back,” he says. Quiet, vulnerable.
You laugh humorlessly, almost bitter. “Stay.”
He breathes deep. Swallows. Can’t look away from you. Your tired, glossy eyes, the nuanced color of your irises. Your expressive brows. Your lips, soft and willing to kiss all of him — the good, the bad, the ugly. All of the parts of him that he tries to hide.
You really love him. He really loves you.
“Okay,” he breathes.
He won’t let you take a risk for him. But he can take a risk for you.
cutting steve’s hair in his big empty basement in the middle of the apocalypse because it’s gotten so long and he trusts you enough 🫶🏻 and the salon is closed until further notice 🙄
Paring: Steve Harrington x fem!OC - Francesca “Frankie” Amato
Summary: five years after leaving Hawkins, Steve is still searching for answers on how to manage the pain the Upside Down permanently left him with. What’s only meant to be a mundane trip to the coffee shop and yet another doctor appointment turns into more thanks to shaky hands and unfortunate yet perfect timing, giving him hope, for the first time in a long time.
WC: 8k+
Includes: angst, hurt/comfort, ableism, language, PTSD, discussions of chronic pain/illness and disabilities, brief mentions of comorbidities, brief mentions of medical gaslighting, etc.
series playlist ⋮ masterlist
tether - chvrches
↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺
“will we ever get away from this place? / it’s an image that’s burned on my chest / for a moment you need me to stay / cold-blooded and drifting away”
A/N: I touched on this more in the masterlist, but basically, this is a HC I’ve had since ST3. After all of the physical/mental trauma Steve’s endured, I imagine he’d end up with some sort of chronic pain disorder/illness/disability.
May is Fibromyalgia Awareness Month, so I feel now’s a good time to share this. This will be 3 parts, and more Steve centric. This was easier to write with an OC than reader, so I hope y’all will still give this one a chance despite that. There’s not enough disability/chronic pain rep in fics imo— so chronic pain babes, this one’s for you. ♡ (Also s/o to @stevenose for the help, feedback, and encouragement!)
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
It’s another brutally beautiful winter morning in Chicago, and that means it’s another morning Steve dreads leaving bed. Not the common, casual dread most folks talk about when coming back to work after a long weekend off. Or how people dread meeting their significant other’s parents, when they really mean they’re just nervous.
Steve feels dread deeply on the days he needs to get up, but can’t find the energy, or motivation, or a two for one special of both. There’s a certain way his stomach turns over and drops with this kind of dread, and it makes his aching joints just hurt more.
It’s simple, really— Steve hadn’t been himself since 1983. It’s not surprising for anyone from Hawkins to not be themselves for a while now. For Steve Harrington, though, it’s been rough, to say the least.
It began with nightmares. His mind started taking on massive amounts of a very specific type of trauma no one should ever face, especially not as many times as he had. He was awake more often than asleep in the beginning, terrified to shut his eyes and find himself back in the tunnels with the demodogs, or trapped far, far below Starcourt Mall, struggling for his life, relying on a child to save both him and Robin.
Steve didn’t even want to acknowledge the events of 1986, leading up to Hawkins transforming into hell on earth as the Upside Down bled into the sleepy little midwestern town. He refused to talk about it, or even think about it while he was conscious.
Now, it’s 1991, and the world continues to spin; people Steve graduated with were getting married, having babies, starting their own families… things he quietly longed for, even after confessing to Nancy that’s what he wanted with her.
Years later, Steve still regrets confessing anything to her. He’s happy she’s happy, with Jonathan, both of them career driven and building their life together with some sort of plan.
He’s happy for them, really, he is.
But Steve still longs to find someone to share a life with— a normal, long, happy life. And he’s tried, but there’s always some shitty excuse to stop things before they start with someone new. He never expects anyone he first meets to be The One, nor would he just settle; Steve wants that dream with someone who clicks perfectly with him, someone who doesn’t shame him for the mental anguish and physical pain he’s been burdened with from the trauma. He wouldn’t want that with someone who wouldn’t want to understand him, and love him unconditionally, while he returns that love to someone he truly adores.
Robin tried setting Steve up for blind dates, introducing him to new people, but he slowly lost interest in the process of getting to know someone. What was the point if everyone left the first night they slept together, and he had a nightmare? Or the moment something triggers a flashback, he’s left grounding himself alone. And when his joints lock up, or the haze in his mind gets too thick, he’s seen as a burden.
A liability.
Unworthy of love for something out of his control.
Why bother with any of this if it would just waste Steve’s time and energy in the end?
“No, Rob, I don’t want their number.” Steve grumbles into his scarf, turning another set up down as he’s dragging his feet along the sidewalk. He and Robin make the trek a few blocks away from their apartment to a nearby coffee shop. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he’s shivering and shaking, despite being bundled up. “This shit’s just draining any enjoyment I had in a social life.”
“Steve, the only social life you have is seeing doctors regularly.” Robin bluntly points out, and shrugs off the side eye Steve throws her way. She’s not excessively bundled up the way her best friend is, nor is she violently shivering. “Dude, you could’ve stayed home, I would’ve grabbed your coffee.”
Steve’s shaking his head, but Robin can’t tell if it’s from the cold or if it’s his response to her. “Doc said I gotta “keep my joints movin’”. Easy for him to say.” Steve flatly points out.
“Yeah, maybe, but I am proud of you for getting out of bed. I know that hasn’t been easy.” Robin has been one of the very few people in Steve’s life who has held space and empathy for him and his pain. She tries helping more than he lets her, but he feels bad. It’s Steve’s battle to fight, not hers. Robin has already had her fair share of trauma, she doesn’t need to try to juggle any more flashbacks or nightmares outside of her own.
“Thanks, Robin.” He’s quiet, but sincere. It really does help, even a little, to hear words of encouragement. Because without those, his own mind is just on a constant cycle of negative self-talk. It’s something he’s still working on in therapy.
If Steve was being honest, there was a lot he was working on in therapy.
It wasn’t long after that the two of them arrived at the coffee shop, groaning in unison when they realize the line was all the way to the door. There’s just enough room for them to squeeze right at the end, directly by the doorway. Steve keeps his scarf up against his face, shivering each time someone exits the cafe.
“When’s your appointment?” Robin asks, unable to take her eyes off the massive line of customers.
Steve, unfazed, replies, “Three hours from now. I planned for this, don’t worry.”
Robin finally turns around, shooting him a puzzling glance. “You plan your doctor visits around getting coffee?”
“… You don’t?”
“I see my doctor, like, once a year, maybe.” Robin shrugs.
“Must be nice.” He grumbles, burying his face further into the fuzzy warmth of the scarf.
Robin winces before giving a soft, “Sorry.”
A loud conversation at the front of the line grabs Steve’s attention, wondering what the commotion was about.
“Isn’t today your day off? The hell are you doing here?” One barista asks the customer, who he can’t see beyond the crowd behind her.
Another barista barks a laugh, occupied with the macchiato they’re making. “She can’t make coffee to save her life.”
“I can! It’s just… not good.” The stranger admits, response growing quiet towards the end in embarrassment.
The playful tones make it obvious they greet each other like this often. Something about the banter brings a tiny smile to Steve’s face.
“Usual, I guess? You’re sick if you say yes.”
“Why is it socially unacceptable to enjoy a fresh iced coffee in the middle of winter?” Steve chuckles to himself at the comment. “And yes, Cade, with extra sprinkles, pleaaaase.”
“Yeah, yeah, get outta here, ‘Key. You owe me that Dinosaur Jr. tape, better bring it next time, or I’m charging you real life, adult dollars.”
Walking out of the line, she makes her way over to the opposite end of the counter to wait for her order, shooting Cade one quick smile. “No Monopoly money? Dang.”
Steve’s gaze lands on her, eyes clinging onto the sight before him with no intention of peeling back. She has to be close to his age, but he immediately notices the cane she’s using, moving in time with her feet while walking. He’s in awe of the casually cool aura she seems to radiate, despite being mostly bundled up in layers, hiding any defining features besides the cane and a worn jacket, countless patches and pins covering most of its surface.
Robin snaps her fingers in front of Steve’s face. “Quit being rude.”
“I- huh? I’m not!” He retorts in a hushed tone. The line moves up a bit, and Steve’s grateful to be heading towards the warmth, and away from the frigid cold by the door.
“You were staring, dingus.”
“I wasn’t trying to,” Steve’s face flushes red, but it blends in with his winter wind-dusted cheeks. The bonus of the scarf still pressed against his face helps, too. “I just- I never see anyone our age using mobility aids.” He tries sneaking another glance at the woman, but Robin steps in front of Steve’s line of vision.
“Quit it. I know you mean well, but I know how much you hate when people stare when you’ve got your knee brace on.”
Steve didn’t think of it like that; he squeezes his eyes shut as he nods with embarrassment. “Right. Shit. Yeah. Got it.”
“Thanks, Rhi, I owe you too.” The stranger’s voice floats above the chatter amongst others, not with volume, but a distinct warmth and sincerity. Then, voice turning up, she shouts towards the cash register, “I’ll get your tape tomorrow, Cade, promise!”
The line moves up, and Robin steps back in to move, too. Steve can’t help peering over again, and the timing is perfectly unfortunate; the woman only makes it about two steps before her hand violently jerks, sending the coffee flying forward forward and onto the tiled floor.
The room doesn’t fall completely silent, but it does settle into hushed voices, with some concerned onlookers, but mostly nosy and judgmental. Steve doesn’t miss the way some people in line feel the need to say something, like it’s their business. As if these strangers know her.
“She deserves it for being so obnoxious.”
Steve feels his jaw set, immediately bothered by the unnecessary comment.
She’s frozen for a moment, staring down at the mess, pooling around her boots. One of the baristas, Rhi, calls out to the back for someone to take over before rushing over to the scene.
“Hey, you okay?” Rhi asks her, to which she nods silently, carefully bending down with the help of her cane for balance while pulling napkins out of her pocket, trying to sop up the puddle of iced coffee. Rhi throws the towel down that was in her back pocket before reaching for one of the napkin dispensers on a nearby table.
“What the hell is she using a cane for anyway? She can bend her knees just fine.”
Steve’s fists clench in his pockets, and somehow Robin can still notice that; she’s reaching out to touch his coat-shielded arm, almost holding him back as she whispers “Steve, hey, don’t.” He bites his tongue, wondering how ignorant people can be when it comes to any of this; it’s always those who are able bodied who act like a disabled person’s struggle is an inconvenience to their own lives. Makes them feel high and mighty, like they themselves are invincible.
What a hard lesson that’ll be for them to learn, Steve thinks.
If life doesn’t disable someone, through accident or injury or a bad hand of cards dealt, lying in wait, it’s age that usually changes everything. To this day, it still shocks Steve that people just don’t get it.
Or maybe, they just don’t want to.
“Great, now we’re gonna have to wait even longer.”
The woman is kneeling on the floor, cane leaning against a table while she does her best to clean what’s in reach from the spot she ended up in; her hands continue to tremble, jerking involuntarily every so often. Tears well up in her eyes while shaking her head silently.
“Hey, it’s okay, I got this, babes.” Rhi continues soaking up napkins with the coffee; she tries consoling her friend before realizing how many people were staring. “Hey, haven’t your mothers taught you to mind your business?!”
Some customers scoff, others leave, but not before spitting rotten comments at the pair of them. The rest in line have common sense to mind their business, going back to talking amongst themselves.
”Well, at least the line’s shorter.” Robin murmurs, trying to look on the bright side. Steve wants to go over and help, but he’s torn; he doesn’t want to come across as if he’s pitying her, or trying to be a good guy for some kind of backwards recognition. He just knows how it feels when a health ailment gets in the way of your daily routine, and he really knows how hard it is to go without coffee when you’re looking forward to it.
“Great job, Rhi, you drove half the morning out.” An older woman scolds her from behind the counter while she's scurrying to catch up on orders. Rhi looks furious, but holds herself back from challenging the unnecessary comment further.
“Hey, I’ll make ya’ a new one, on the house,” Rhi offers. “Don’t listen to her, Cade and I would rather you be comfortable than deal with those assholes. Bet they actually make and like their shitty coffee, too. They’ll be back.”
Laughing softly, her friend sniffles, wiping her eyes, “Can I mop or something in return? You don’t need extra work ‘cause of me.” Rhi shakes her head, linking arms with her as she rises to her feet, pulling the woman up, too.
Rhi throws a thumb over to an empty nearby seat, “You just chill here, I got this under control, no sweat.” She gives her a quick side hug before hurrying to the back to grab cleaning supplies. Steve hears an audible sigh; the woman sounds defeated for the day, and it’s only 9 in the morning.
It’s a sign of defeat and fatigue Steve knows all too well, but he pushes down the desire to talk to her, knowing this isn’t the time. Plus, what would he even say as an introduction?
Hey, I’m Steve, and I’m disabled, too—
He shakes the thought from his mind, embarrassed he’d even think that was appropriate at all. He’s bummed that the first time he runs into someone else his age that’s disabled, is truly at a perfectly unfortunate moment in time.
When it’s Steve’s turn to order, he pushes every thought involving the stranger to the back of his mind.
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If Steve had a dollar every time someone ignorantly told him, “You’re too young to be in pain like that!”, he’d certainly have enough money by now for a better treatment plan. This is one of the very few things in life he wished his parents would actually help with; it’s not the easiest to juggle several jobs and still barely get by, with the bonus of always playing “catch up or drown” with medical bills.
It’s even more of a challenge to keep up with medical bills when jobs constantly let him go for the very few sick days he has to take, and it leaves him wondering, “Doesn’t the ADA protect against that kind of discriminatory shit?” except he never has the energy to research it.
Every doctor visit is the same routine; arrive with a list of symptoms, turning from nuisances to roadblocks in his quality of life. Telling them what he’s been feeling, or what he’s become numb to, physically and mentally. Or that the cons of his medications have started to outweigh the pros; it’s a struggle trying to find a combination when you need several kinds of medication, and it’s even more of a pain in the ass to change even just one, restarting the process all over again.
When one of the countless doctors he saw finally believed his pain, he was left with what a lot of medical professionals believe to be a last ditch diagnosis: Fibromyalgia.
Steve felt validated, for the first time since seeking help years after the traumatic events that plagued Hawkins for so long. He also felt lost, because what the fuck was fibromyalgia? Any time he’s heard anyone talk about it, it was mainly in judgment and criticism; even with the most life-altering of fibromyalgia cases, the majority of able-bodied people and doctors considered it to be a phony condition.
It’s been six months since his diagnosis, and Steve still feels just as lost and clueless since day one. It doesn’t matter how many packets and pamphlets the doctor gives him with handy information on what his chronic pain is, or what he can try as treatment, because nothing seems to work. Taking different vitamins and medications, trying physical therapy, trying out yoga— because everyone seems to think that one’s a cure— if you’ve mentioned it, he’s tried it.
There’s still no clear answer on where or how it starts; genetics, trauma, depression, sickness triggering something more long term? No one, no medical professional, or his own fruitless research with late nights at the library, can give a solid answer.
As time has flowed forward, all of the years of serious damage and injury from Hawkins and all its demons, supernatural and human, he wouldn’t be surprised if the trauma theory was true. His parents are fine (at least, on the surface, but they’ve got too much pride to ever say otherwise), so cross genetics out. Depression? Yeah, no shit Steve’s depressed.
Refer back to answer 1.
It’s a never ending cycle, and now that he’s aware of it, Steve is constantly wondering if this is how the rest of his life will be. Waiting rooms and lab work that tells him nothing about his pain? Humiliation with every doctor he sees, who tells him it’s not that bad, as if they live in his own damn body and know. Making a choice between using the last of a paycheck on another co-pay for another dismissive specialist, or on the medication he’s been on to help him at least live some kind of life, knocking some symptoms or comorbidities off the list.
Today, Steve’s in a waiting room where the fluorescent lights are too damn bright, pushing him onto the brink of a migraine. It’s quiet, which he’s grateful for, but he wonders if that has anything to do with the doctor, if they’re really any good, or he’s excluded from a local secret everyone else is in on.
The room is relatively plain; fake plants, small tables with outdated magazines, a handful of health PSA posters are scattered along the walls, and the chairs are much more uncomfortable than they appear.
Steve basks in the silence, at the very least; usually waiting rooms are too noisy, and it sets off his fight or flight instinct. That’s one he still has to get to the bottom of, but he had to push off therapy for a while with his tight budget. It was that, or skip this appointment he waited months to get in for.
That blissful silence doesn’t last long, of course, knowing Steve Harrington’s shit luck. With a swing of the office entrance’s glass door, the little bell dings, along with the clunky sound of shoes, faint against the basic carpet lining the floor. His head tilts up, and to his surprise, it’s someone that’s not decades older than him.
“Kid, what did I tell ya’ about those cursed platform boots?” A voice scolds from behind the receptionist’s desk, where this person is leaning against the counter, elbows on the surface, head in hands with a soft giggle.
Wait—
“Dad, my outfit begged for these boots today. Told me it’d die without ‘em.”
“Yeah, and one of these days, you’re gonna croak with those death shoes on.”
Steve can’t help the small, amused smile that graces his face, recognizing the woman from the coffee shop earlier.
“Kiddo, you still gotta sign in.” The receptionist pushes the clipboard towards her, not sounding annoyed, more so familiar with her presence.
“You better be saving all of these, Betty. Someday those autographs will be worth something.”
“Yeah, just as much as my 3 hour old coffee.” Betty teases; she’s an older woman, grey and silver hair in a perm that frames her face. Steve can tell the banter and chit-chat is a normal occurrence.
“Yeah, well, you enjoy that coffee, Bets. I dropped mine in the coffee shop and was too embarrassed to let them make me a new one.” She rolls her eyes with a dramatic sigh. “It had those cute, crystal-lookin’, sugary, sprinkles too.”
Steve felt bad, remembering how flustered she seemed. He couldn’t help replaying this morning’s accident over and over in his head again. The end of her conversation with Betty floats over Steve’s head as he’s lost in his thoughts.
Spinning around, the woman’s eyes land on Steve immediately, confidently striding over in platform boots, cane working in tandem with her steps. She keep a respectful distance, one chair over and across from Steve.
Steve blushes, realizing he’s finally seeing her face completely as she smiles at him; it’s not filled by forced positivity, not like the ones all the healthier and able bodied folks give him. It’s warm and familiar, like sunshine on his skin; no pity, no fake empathy, none of that shit.
The contrast of her smile against her outfit, one that resembles something at the crossroads of 90s grunge and cute and cozy, with a hint of mall goth somewhere in her style, is something he admires. Her wild, black hair is tied into a messy side braid, hanging over her shoulder, with a thick, blonde streak interwoven in the braid.
“There’s never anyone in here that’s younger than 30. It’s kinda nice to see someone my age.” She admits in awe, then backtrack while her face falls. “I- not that it’s nice to see— oh my god, you’re probably not even chronically ill, I’m just assuming like a jerk. I’m so sorry.”
Steve’s unsure where to begin, but he returns the same warm smile back her way, hoping it offers reassurance. “Don’t apologize, I- yeah. I am, actually. It’s… kinda nice to see someone my age too, for once.”
“Lemme guess, you get told all the time you’re too young for this shit.”
“Kid, language.” Betty scolds, but she waves a hand at her, unfazed. “You better have a quarter for the swear jar, kiddo.” Betty closes the little glass partition, clearing her throat loudly.
“Right, introductions would be helpful, I guess,” She extends a hand out towards Steve, “Name’s Frankie Amato. Or, well, Francesca,” She cringes at her full name. “But everyone calls me Frankie.”
That explains why one of her friends at the shop called her ‘Key’ earlier, Steve realizes.
Steve takes a moment to reach back, observing all of Frankie’s tattoos and painted black nails, jelly and beaded bracelets colliding on her wrists. He shakes her hand, the contact pulling himself out of his daze, “I- I’m Steve, Steve Harrington. Sorry, didn’t mean to stare, you just— ”
“Oh, it’s okay, I know I dress like someone who tripped into their closet and left the house with whatever ended up in the outfit that day.” Steve snorts at the joke directed towards herself.
“It looks… cool.” Cool? Seriously, Steve? What is this, middle school? “ I- words. It’s. You- You look really cool.”
She stifles her giggles lazily, coming out as a snort, “Brain fog, huh?”
It shocks him to hear someone his age use the term. “How’d you know?”
“It’s like staring into a mirror right now, except you’re dressed way nicer than me.” She jokes, nodding to his cozy cable knit sweater, and Steve shakes his head, even though he’s smiling.
“Nah, no way, I’m still kinda dressing how I did in high school.”
“Oh, you think I dressed normal in high school? I was even more mismatched than this.” Frankie enthusiastically gets up with the support of her cane, twirling to show off today’s outfit. Her overall ambience is a kind Steve had never seen exude from anyone else before.
Tripping over her own feet, she yelps, losing the grip on the cane before losing her balance. Instead of hitting the floor, though, Steve catches her awkwardly, lunging out of his chair with his arms planked out in front of him. The rapid movement and odd position are doing no favors to his already irritated joints, but he wasn’t going to just let her fall over like that.
Frankie laughs, as if she wasn’t a foot away from cracking her head on the concrete underneath the thin, corporate-esque carpet. Steve’s so perplexed by her entire character, but he’s curious, wants to learn more.
“Are you okay?” Steve’s asking as he guides her into the chair next to her. She’s laughing, face flushing with embarrassment.
“Are you? I’m so sorry for that. Got a little too excited, I guess.”
“Or, it’s those damn boots.” A booming, yet mellow voice comes from the doorway leading into the doctor’s office. A tall, burly man with olive toned skin, and a scruffy salt and pepper beard with hair to match, holds the door open while giving her a look. “Francesca, quit trying to make that poor boy dance with you.”
“I was not—”
“Steve Harrington?” The doctor comes over to them, shaking Steve’s hand. He introduces himself formally with his name, following up with, “Dr. Amato. It’s nice to meet you.”
Before today, Steve knew the doctor’s name, but he’s just making the connection now that Frankie and his new doctor are related.
What a small world.
“He’s a stick in the mud, but you’re in good hands, promise.” Frankie murmurs, and her father rolls his eyes.
“What, did you forget I’m right here? I can hear you.” Dr. Amato deadpans. “Also, that’s biased of you to say, you’re my child.”
Steve’s honestly amused by the lighthearted banter between the father and daughter duo, that for a moment, he forgets why he’s even in this office to begin with.
“Don’t you have a job to do?” She shoots back, but there’s no venom in her tone. The teasing banter seems to be something she has with everyone she’s close with.
Her father narrows his eyes at her before turning back to Steve, waving his hand back towards the office door. “C’mon back, we’ve got a lot to cover from the files I could get from your previous doctor.” He doesn’t say it like Steve’s a burden, rather it sounds like the doctor actually wants to comb through the younger man’s medical history and help where he can.
As the two men head back into the office, Frankie settles into her chair, kicking her feet up and over the chair beside her before flipping through a crumpled magazine. Steve can hear Betty slide the partition open and scold her, “Kid, get your damn boots off the chair.”
“Oooh, that’s a quarter for the swear jar, Bets!”
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For once, Steve’s leaving a doctor’s office with hope. Genuine, solid hope. This isn’t like the false hope most doctors gave, if any at all. “There’s studies saying a cure’s not too far off.” and “This should be what helps, but if it’s not working for you, you must be doing something wrong.” That kind of medical gaslighting bullshit he’s unfortunately so used to by now.
Dr. Amato kept things honest, telling Steve whoever said a cure was on the horizon was a terrible liar, and doctors shouldn’t ever produce false hope like that. He told Steve he was doing everything right, and that sometimes, unfortunately, you can do everything right— physical therapy, a good night’s sleep, medication, eating well, drinking water, even caving in and finally trying yoga (which Steve loathes now)— and your body can still work against you.
“It might take some time, a long time, but if you’re willing to keep trying and work with what we’ve got, we might be able to find some kind of relief from your pain. It won’t be perfect, and studies are too new for fibromyalgia to determine cures yet, but with what I’ve learned from fibromyalgia patients over the years, every single body is different.”
Hearing that was already refreshing. Finally, a doctor understood that treatment for invisible disabilities like Steve’s weren’t easily helped with a generic, one size fits all, treatment plan.
“It’s a lot of trial and error, and that can be exhausting, as you already know. But getting to the root of the cause is crucial, I think. And judging off of your medical history, and what you’ve shared from what you’ve endured in Hawkins, I’d say a lot of it is both a physical and mental response to trauma. If you’re ready to face that, I believe you can find your way in time. Regardless, your pain is incredibly real. Anyone in the medical field who says fibro isn’t real is a quack.”
Steve wasn’t leaving with any solid answers, but this was the most reassured he felt for his future and well being in… well, ever, honestly.
After setting up a follow-up appointment with Betty, Steve begins to leave the office, when a light tug on his sleeve stops him in his tracks. Turning around, he locks eyes with Frankie, wearing that warm smile that feels like sunshine all over again to him.
“Steve, can I talk to you quick?” She asks softly, and Steve nods before he’s pulled into the hallway, closing the door behind them. “I’m sorry if I came off strong earlier. If that, like, totally didn’t scare you off, I was wondering maybe if you’d wanna hang out sometime?” Her words begin to turn into a nervous ramble as she finishes.
Steve smiles, but can’t think of a proper response. Damn brain fog. Just say yes, idiot.
“That was probably uncalled for, huh? I’m sorry—”
“Hey, it’s okay. You don’t have to apologize. I- I’d like to hang out too.” Steve answers sincerely.
“Yeah? Okay, cool.” She smirks as the last word leaves her lips, silently teasing him. Frankie’s digging through her messenger bag, hoping to find a pen and some paper, even an old receipt would work; nothing of the sort comes up, so she pulls out her pencil eyeliner, waving it between her fingers. “Can I? It washes off easily, I promise.”
Steve’s brows furrow for a moment before he gets it, “Oh, yeah, no problem, that works.” He hopes he’s not coming off as too eager, but he truly is looking forward to hanging out with someone who just… gets it.
Awkwardly, Frankie takes Steve’s hand into her own, writing her phone number with the eyeliner on the back of his hand. As she scribble the digits, three things stand out to him.
The way she holds his hand is soft, but certain. Any awkwardness she had at first is shaken off while she finishes writing.
She’s got fingerless gloves on now, which he’s always found them funny; what’s the point of a glove if it doesn’t cover everything?
The tips of her fingers are tinged more pale than her skin tone. Her hands, even with the warm fabric, are fucking freezing.
They weren’t cold when he shook her hand earlier. “Your hands are cold,” He murmurs, kicking himself mentally for how blunt and invasive he must sound. Pulling away, she snaps the cap back onto the eyeliner, giving a lazy smile.
“The Windy City ain’t too kind to those of us with Raynaud’s,” The shrug Frankie gives plays off how much the winters here affect the disorder, and how much of an inconvenience it is to one’s daily routine. “I should really use full gloves, but they make it hard to grip stuff sometimes… I mean, I guess the cold does too, but I’d rather be cold— Jesus, I never shut up.”
“If it helps, once I get to know someone well enough, I never shut up, either.” Steve hopes the poke at himself eases her concern, and judging by the smile she gives him, he thinks it does.
“Well, I look forward to not shutting up with you, hopefully soon.” Frankie teases, reaching for the door. Looking back at him, she says with sincerity, “Get home safe, Steve.”
Before she can head back inside the office, Steve gives a nod and a warm smile, hoping it’s at least a fraction as warm and sunny as her own.
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“Robin!” Steve pushes the apartment door open, rushing in with excitement. “Robin, guess what, hey, guess, just guess—“
She looks up from the magazine she’s leafing through, sitting sideways on the recliner with her legs hanging over. Her eyes are wide with shock at his energy.
“You won a million dollars?”
“What? No. I mean, shit, I wish. But no.” He ends up on the couch, sighing happily to be sprawled out after a long day. If joints could cry, they’d probably be crying tears of joy right now. “Remember the girl from earlier? At the coffee shop?”
Robin nods, “Yeah, what about her?”
“Get this— her dad’s the new doctor I’m seeing, and she happened to come in when I was in the waiting room.” Lazily setting the scene, he plunges into his usual rambling. “We got to talking before my appointment, and she— her name’s Frankie— anyway, she’s just… she’s so cool, Rob. I- I don’t think I’ve met anyone like her. And Dr. Amato is really nice, like… kinda like Hopper, if he was nicer… and a doctor.”
“Hey, don’t talk shit on Hopper—“
“I’m not! I- don’t distract me,” Steve grumbles. “Anyway, it was weirdly… refreshing? Like he didn’t sugarcoat anything, or try telling me there’s a ‘cure on the horizon’, or some shit like that. But he wasn’t a dick, either. I don’t think I’ve met a doctor with that much empathy yet. And it wasn’t any of that bullshit about taking up yoga—“
“Why does everyone seem to think that works?” He’s been suggested this so many times, even Robin’s beginning to get annoyed for him.
Steve snorts, “Wish I fuckin’ knew.” Then he quiets down a bit, emotions hitting him. “I don’t think any doctor’s been this understanding, or validated my pain like this. He even said it’s common to still be in pain even if you do everything right… he- he told me it’s not my fault. Being sick isn’t my fault.”
There’s a pause, because Steve’s not sure if he’s even believing the words leaving his mouth, not after being gaslit by medical professionals for so long.
Robin throws the magazine aside to sit next to her best friend, throwing an arm over his shoulders for a side hug. “Of course it’s not your fault, you never asked for any of this.” She takes notice of the tears building in his eyes as he tries rubbing them away. “Even if you didn’t try everything out there, it’s not your fault. No one should have to suffer the way you have.”
“Especially everyone back h—“
Steve stops himself, still coming to terms that Hawkins is gone. Everyone in the group is safe, living better lives wherever they ended up on the map after the disastrous effects of the Upside Down bleeding into the real world.
“It’s cool, I get what you’re saying.” Robin tries to move the conversation forward before Steve can get hung up on the dismal facts. “Everyone in our group has damage one way or another… none of us deserved that.”
With a sigh, Steve nods before continuing, “He wants me to come back in a month, gave me some options for treatment to look into, see what works, what doesn’t, but he wants to find out why something might not work. Not just brush it off and move onto something just as useless. I really, really don’t want to get my hopes up yet, but it feels so validating to not be treated like a lost cause.”
“None of us are lost causes, ‘specially not you, Dingus.” Robin looks down and notices the eyeliner on Steve’s hand that you left behind. “What’d you get on your hand?”
“Huh?” He looks down, “Oh! That’s Frankie’s number! That—“ The digits are smudged. Some he can slightly make out, but the majority are swept away into a black, blotchy stain on his skin. “Shit. It was her number…”
“Eyeliner? Rookie mistake.”
“Hey, she couldn’t find a pen, or paper.”
“And she didn’t go back into the office for some?”
Steve’s dig back fades away as he wonders the same thing. The pair were right outside of the office. Why didn’t either of them—
Oh. Right.
“Probably brain fog… least for me it was. I couldn’t even think to reply when she asked about hanging out.”
“So call the d—“
“No. That’d be weird. So fucking weird. And wouldn’t it be against the hippo thing?”
“The what?”
“You know, the oath that doctors take, or whatever.”
“Oh my god, Steve, the Hippocratic oath?”
“Yeah! Close enough.”
“Not even, but I’ll give you this one today.”
Steve groans, sinking further into the couch. “I finally meet someone who fucking gets it, and lose their number immediately. She’s gonna think I’m avoiding her.”
The two are silent for a beat, until Robin gets an idea. “One of Frankie’s friends mentioned something about her owing him a Dinosaur Jr. tape, when we were getting coffee this morning.”
“Robin, what the hell do dinosaurs have anything to do with this?”
“No, the band, not the— oh my god,” Robin puts her head in her hands, sighing loudly before she continues, “My point is, there’s a record store next door to the coffee shop. Maybe she works there.”
Steve’s face lights up, but he stops his excitement, “Isn’t that also weird? Just… showing up where she works?”
“Maybe a little, but it’s better than guessing numbers, or ditching her, or trying to ask your damn doctor—“
“Okay, okay, okay!” He huffs. “You’re right. I should go tomorrow, maybe before work.”
“Uh… that’s the other thing—“
Steve’s heart sinks; he already knows what’s coming. It’s happened enough where he can spot the pattern from a mile away.
“They called, huh? Told you to pass the message along? Cowards. Can’t even fuckin’ fire me in person.”
“I tried bringing up the ADA to them, but they gave me some bullshit about the decision to let you go wasn’t related to your health.”
“I worked there for barely a month, and never took a day off.” When this happens, Steve’s on the fence between rage and depression, and right now, he’s angry, rightfully so. “I asked for a goddamn chair to rest between helping customers. That’s all I asked for. I did my job, I was nice, I— This is so fucking… so… so,” Steve can’t even find the words for how angry he is, fists clenching, nails digging into his palms while he screams internally.
“Steve, you’re worth so much more than being treated this way. You know that, right?”
He leans forward, elbows on his knees while he runs his hands through his hair, letting his head hang low as his throat tightens with the threat of crying.
“I appreciate you trying to fight it, but employers only get a slap on the wrist for discrimination, if that. Half the time, nothing is investigated. It’s so fucked. Can’t even keep a shitty retail job just for requesting an accommodation.”
“They’ve got a lotta’ nerve for a shitty grocery store.”
“Yeah, you’re tellin’ me.” He tries joking it off, but it’s useless. “Like, it’s no loss to get fired from some stupid retail job, but Christ…” Steve picks his head up a bit, mouth still covered by his hands. It’s muffled, nearly missed when he mutters, “I’m so fucking tired, Rob.” His voice wavers, cracks, “I’m so goddamn tired of this.”
Robin knows nothing she says can make him feel better, not right now. She just uses the arm still around his shoulders to give a comforting squeeze, a tiny sign Steve isn’t alone.
At this point, Steve will take any empathy from anyone he can get.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
The next morning, Steve wakes up with nothing but fatigue pushing him deeper into his bed, despite sleeping for nine hours. He was already struggling in a flare up, but then remembers he lost another job, and it just weighs heavy on his already shit mood.
Does this ever get any better?
He should be happy he was finally heard out by a doctor. He should be glad his best friend defends him. He should be excited he met Frankie, someone who understands first hand how hard it is to exist with a chronic illness.
Instead, Steve just feels numb inside. Outside, everything hurts. He knows he should get up, eat something, start the job search all over again. He also knows if he pushes himself too hard, he’s down for the next several days.
There’s no winning when you’re always sick.
The more time separates Steve from the traumatic life he had back in Hawkins, the more he finds himself wondering if any of this is worth growing from. Sure, everyone in the party had long lasting PTSD— that alone could be debilitating— but no one else ended up with an illness considered fake by most of the world. Even chronic pains and ailments anyone else were left with weren’t as baffling as Steve’s battle with fibromyalgia.
Days like today make Steve feel like sinking into the mattress, and disappearing forever. He talks about it in therapy, and it helps, for a moment. Then when he’s mistreated for his health condition, something out of his control, he feels useless.
Back in Hawkins, Steve was able to at least look out for everyone. Protect his friends. He’d do anything for them if it meant keeping them happy, or safe, preferably both. He put himself last, always. There’s never any regret over taking care of others first, but if he knew it would’ve led to the deterioration of his health, maybe he’d have been a little more selfish and put himself first where necessary.
Jesus, I wish therapy wasn’t at the end of the week.
Rolling over into the pillow face first, he groans, remembering he wanted to stop at the record store, in hopes Frankie would be working and give her number out once more. And he does. He does want to go, he wants to see her, wants to get her number so they could eventually hang out.
Yet Steve can’t find the motivation to get up today. Not even for Frankie. Now, instead of feeling numb, he feels guilt seeping through his heart. Rolling back over to face the wall against his bed, he stares at the sunlight peeking through the blinds, dancing slowly across the wall as time continues on.
That might be one of the worst parts of being chronically ill— no matter how sick you are, the world never stops spinning, never waits for you to catch up. Time just… continues on. And if Steve was being honest with himself, he’d need years to catch himself up to speed.
Fatigue envelopes him, pulling him back into a deep, weighty sleep.
ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ
Winter’s nightfall comes before Steve can wake back up, and when he does, he feels even worse. Resting didn’t help, leaving him just disoriented and somehow more tired. An entire day, wasted to fatigue; just another day that could’ve been used to catch up in life, slipping through his fingers.
The phone rings, but he can’t get up. He can’t bring himself to roll out of bed, walk a few feet to the phone on his dresser to answer it. So, it rings. And rings. And rings. And rings—
As the shrill sound abruptly stops, Steve allows his eyes to fall shut again, until there’s a knocking on his door. Groaning, he pulls the blankets over himself, murmuring the weakest, “Go away.”
Rather than politely wait and try again, the door is pushed open; Steve pokes his head up, squints as light pours into his room, with Robin standing in the doorway.
“Oh, shit, wait, do you have a migraine? Fuck, dude, I’m sorry—“ Robin scrambles for the door, about to rush out, but Steve shakes his head, leaning up a bit.
“No, but if I did, I’d kill you right now.” He winces at how miserable he sounds. “Sorry… uh, what’s going on?”
Robin squints around his room, keeping the lights off for his sake, until she finds the phone. She grabs it, grateful the wall jack is long enough to bring the telephone over to him. Setting it down on his nightstand, she replies, “S’for you, Dingus.” Robin leaves it at that before exiting the room, closing the door behind her.
Steve sighs, picking the handset off the receiver with an unenthusiastic, “Hello?”
“Bad day, huh?”
He immediately recognizes Frankie’s voice, perking up a little as he sits up further.
“How’d you get my number?”
“Robin gave it to me, she stopped by the shop earlier. Told me all about the eyeliner smudging off— I’m so sorry, that was such a dumb idea.”
At first, he smiles faintly, but curiosity gets the best of him. “Okay… why was Robin there? I— I swear, I didn’t ask her to— I was going to come by, but it’s been a hard day—”
“Steve, it’s all good. You don’t owe me an explanation, or anything. I’m glad she told me, though.”
“…. What else did she tell you?”
She giggles softly, “That you two saw me fling my coffee like a damn frisbee yesterday morning, and that you were planning on stopping in, but when I told her you never came by, so she figured you had a bad pain day. Y’know, she seems like a great best friend.”
Steve falls back onto the pillows, phone pressed against the side of his head while he runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, she is—“
“Damn right I am.”
Steve jumps at the sound of Robin’s voice cutting in from another phone in the apartment. “Robin! Get off the— hang up!” Frankie’s laughing hysterically on her end of the call, listening to Steve sigh dramatically as a click! sounds out, signaling Robin finally leaving the line. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be, I needed the laugh,” Her voice settles into a deflated tone, but only for a moment, leaving Steve curious, but he doesn’t pry. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
Heart pumping wildly at the simple question, Steve answers truthfully before he can filter himself, “Well, nothing, now that I lost my job.” He cringes at himself, about to apologize for being so blunt, but she speaks first.
“Good! I— well— okay, not good about being fired, that fucking blows, but,” Steve’s unsure who is better at rambling and word vomiting, Frankie or him, but she’s on a roll. “We’re hiring, y’know. And by we, I mean me, ‘cause I’m the only one left running this place and reallyyyyy can’t do it alone.”
“Wh—“ A scoff of a laugh escapes him. “I don’t think I’d be the right person for that.”
“Why not? You listen to music?”
“Well, yeah, but,” Steve’s dizzy from how fast this conversation is moving. “I- I don’t know a whole lot, I just like whatever’s on the radio, sometimes other stuff, but— you barely know me. Why are you offering me a job?”
“Steve, I’m not offering you a job. You gotta have an interview first, duh.” Frankie’s teasing is lighthearted, playful, and keeps a smile on his face despite feeling confused about everything. “Look, no pressure, but if you’re interested, I’ll be there tomorrow. Or if you just wanna hang out, that’s cool too— unless you don’t wanna hang out, that’s totally fine—“
Steve breathily laughs, “Frankie,” into the phone, bringing her rambling to a halt. “I’ll be there.”
“Oh, okay,” He can hear her smile over the phone through her nervous giggle. “Okay, cool. See you tomorrow, Steve.”
“See you t— wait!” An idea pops into his head. “Don’t get coffee tomorrow.”
“Huh? Why not?” Then it hits her, “Oh, dude, don’t— you don’t have to—“
“Too bad, I remembered your order anyway.” He blushes at his own admission, wondering if it comes off creepy.
She still laughs, just as genuine as every other time Steve’s heard so far. “Yeah, we’re definitely alike if your brain fog fucks everything up except remembering someone’s coffee order. I’ll just have to memorize yours eventually, too. G’night, Steve.”
His cheeks hurt from smiling so wide for the first time all day, “Night, Frankie.”
The first time he’s felt something outside of guilt or numbness all day, and it’s all thanks to her.
… And thanks to Robin, being the nosy best friend she is, but he won’t admit that and let it get to her head.
syl you knock it out of the park every time and this is no exception!!!!! you can tell how much heart you put into him and these characters (including this oc), it just really shows in your writing. i’m CRIMINALLY invested in this dilf doctor what is his story… is he accepting new patients …
if you guys are looking for a fic (and fic writer) who writes about the realities of steve’s life post s4 (and post series), you should really follow syl. this is such a great look into how steve’s life may look after hawkins and everything he’s been through. very beautifully written with so much nuance and love for the character.
it’s so nice to see chronic pain and disability reflected in fic and the fandom needs so much more of it, so thank u for sharing this with us syl 🫶🏻
girl you came out of the angst door ti hit the ball SWINGING what the fuck!!!!!!! jaw dropped on the floor it was crazzzzyyyyyy i love a good "i love you so much i'm going to save the world for you" x 'i don't wan't the world i just want you" like yesssssss be so fundamentally different in how you love yet the exact same in your conviction about it!!!!
THANK YOU!!!!!!! yes i think steve is soooo “ill save the world for you” because he is selfless and i also think it may be hard for him to understand someone cares about him so much that they don’t want him to!!! i just cannot stop thinking about begging him not to get hurt again and he goes right back in. UGH those s5 leaks have me real fucked up over him 🫶🏻😭😭😭
summary: steve makes you leave him at the end of the world.
contains: steve x reader; gender unspecified reader; no pronouns used for reader; post-st4; unresolved angst; probably too much swearing :/
i miss this guy and i’m feeling insane over him so have some angst with an ambiguous ending 🫶🏻
Steve’s feet feel particularly heavy when we steps across your foyer. And the packet he has in his hands feels even heavier. He brushes off a few specs of ashes before slamming them down on the table in front of you, lazily eating cereal.
“What the hell is this?” you ask after a moment, grabbing the ledger on top. You know immediately it’s an airline ticket. It makes you feel sick and you push your Cheerios away as your eyes scan the details.
FROM-TO
IND > LA
You want to fucking kill him but you don’t have a chance as he breezes past, grabbing your suitcase out of your walk in closet.
“You depart in twelve hours,” he starts. He recited it in his head the entire way over to make the conversation easier, but the words are hard to get out. “Only take your essentials. When you’re there, a chauffeur will pick you up and take you to the - the - the location.”
“Steve, I’m not fucking going -“
“Yes, you are.” He says sternly. Like you’re a child.
“I’m not going anywhere without you!”
And he know this was coming - this cyclical argument you’ve been having for the last three weeks, your tears, the lump in his throat, uncertainly fogging both of your vision. But it doesn’t make it any easier, any less frustrating.
He says your name low and quiet. A plea. “This is safe. This is where the - the - the people I know told me to send you. That it’s the safest place.”
“And we’re trusting those people now?”
“No. W-well, yes! It - it’s - just - trust me, not them. Okay?” He settles your suitcase on the couch and starts moving around your living room for things he knows you’ll need. A blanket. Medicine. “Anywhere away from here is better, anyway.”
“So you admit it isn’t safe?”
Steve sniffles. “I never said it was.”
You follow him to your bedroom where he begins ripping clothes from your closet. He doesn’t miss the hoodie he leant you a few months ago. It’s laid on top of your suitcase with more shirts and pants.
You grab his arm and try to force it to fall back to his side, but he’s too strong, god damn him. “Steve, quit!” you beg, digging your heels into the ground and tugging on him. “I’m not leaving, Steve. I’m not going unless you go with me.”
“We talked about this.”
As nauseam, in fact. Until the ache in Steve’s throat was excruciating. Until your voice was hoarse and you were heaving. He’s not leaving, and you are.
You tug on him again. “I’ll keep talking about it until you listen to me!”
He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps moving back and forth between your closet and the suitcase. You cry, as hard as you try not to. You really are like a petulant child, stomping your foot, throwing a tantrum. You feel like it’s the only way he’ll listen, but you know the reality is that he still won’t.
“What about me?” you cry. You’re so angry at him, want to say something that’ll make him hurt. That’ll change the expression on his stoic face. You find it in you to refrain. “What about us, Steve?”
Keeps packing. Head down. Jaw clenched tight. He was ready for this fight when he walked in.
“Steve, let the goddamn military handle it. Do - do you honestly think you’re going to save the world?”
“No,” he snaps.
“Then what?”
He doesn’t answer because you already know why. Because he can’t leave Dustin, and Dustin can’t leave El, because apparently she can save the world. And Robin won’t leave Steve who won’t leave Dustin who won’t leave El. And Nancy fucking Wheeler won’t leave Mike who won’t leave El.
It makes you feel insane. Your blood boils and spills over, and over, and over, and it never just depletes. You keep going, keep arguing, trying to talk him out of it until your voice is hoarse. It’s hoarse now, in fact. Last night Steve held you until you shut up, until you cried yourself to sleep, and you had no idea he had already got you a plane ticket out of here. You feel so betrayed it makes your stomach twist and chest ache.
“I can’t live without you,” you try. It’s the third time you’ve pulled this and it seems to get him the most. “Steve, I don’t know what I’d do if - if….”
Steve bites his cheek, stilling, his hands clutching one of your sweaters.
“Why don’t you care?” you push.
He sniffles again, pinches his nose. You’d prefer it if he’d just let himself cry. He’d give in, then, if he let his emotions take over.
“Don’t you love me?”
“Jesus, yes,” he grits, finally looking at you. His eyes are red. “Why do you think I’m makin’ you leave, huh? Why do you think I’m staying?”
“Because you think you’re something you’re not!”
He runs a big hand through his hair so harshly you fear it’ll get tugged out. He walks towards you, holding his arms out, murmuring, “honey,” and as much as it pains you, you back away.
“Don’t,” you say sharply. Your throat aches. “Don’t do that, Steve.”
“I love you.” He sounds exhausted. “I love you, please believe me.”
“If you love me, then come with me.”
“There won’t be a world for us to live in unless we stop this.”
“You aren’t going to save the world.” You’re so desperate for him to listen to you. “The chances are so slim, Steve. Why can’t we love each other while we have time?”
Steve takes a shaky breath. “I won’t let you die without doing something about it first.”
You stare at each other. It’s suddenly dawning on you that nothing you’ll do will ever change his mind. That his chances of living through the next few days are slim. That this is the last time you’ll get to see him. While he’s packing for you and forcing you to take a plane to California.
There’s nothing romantic about it. It’s not like what you’ve seen in the movies you rented from Family Video when Steve had a shift. Before he was yours. When you went because the forest green vest looked so good on him, and he always had some goofy recommendation, and he let his hands touch yours when giving you your change for a moment too long.
You’ve hardly even had him.
“So that’s it?” You can hardly hear yourself.
“I’m doing this for you. I’m doing everything for you. And - and i-if it works, I swear I’ll make it up to you. I swear, angel.”
You shake your head, hot tears making their way down your jaw. “No.”
He stills. Looks a little like a deer in headlights. Caught off guard, shocked. Mouth parting slightly before closing again, like he wants to argue but can’t.
What is there to say?
“If you make me get on that plane, Steve….” You shake your head again, swallowing the ache in your throat down.
You stare at each other again. His eyes are one of your favorite things about him. Those saccharine, chestnut and moss colored irises. They scrunch up when he laughs. You used to think about leaving Hawkins and moving somewhere nice, so far away from all of this that Steve grows up to have crows feet around his eyes. That you’d be the one who put them there. And this is the last time you’ll see them.
“You have to go,” he eventually sniffles.
“Please,” you try, for the final time.
He blinks slowly, frowning, chest rising and falling slowly. “I love you,” he whispers. “Please believe me.”
Hello <3, it's the last day of 2023, and I wanted to give some love to all the amazing fanfics I read this year. Each one of the people mentioned here is so talented, and everyone should check out their entire work.
(Disclaimer: all fics mentioned are Steve Harrington x reader)
Here are my top reads from this year (in no particular order)
Wildfire by @curiositydooropened (completed series, enemies to lovers) This fic has one of the best world building, I need this to happen in s5, actually. Doesn't shy away from discussions of ptsd and overall, it was so well done. I still have to finish it, but I know Amanda did an amazing job with it. <3
Glitch by @munsonsreputation (series, friends to lovers) This fic is just so cozy and cute. Reader insert felt like a very well-rounded character. You will love all the interactions with the other characters. It's just so well done. <3
whip it! by @schoopsahoy (one shot) This fic was cuteness overload. Loved the confident reader insert, and overall, the character dynamics were so well done, esp Steve and the kids <3
don't think twice, it's alright by @hawkinsquarry (part of a series, hurt/comfort post s4) I think this is one of my fav hurt/comfort pieces I've read this year. The interactions between reader and Steve are so tender. Overall, this was perfect <3
Into Open Flames by @kurokoros (completed series, established relationship, horror, set after s2 canon divergence) This fic has amazing world building. The original monster is so terrifying and well done that I was on the edge of my seat all the time. I adored Steve's character so much, kinda wish the show would have handled his character that way instead of what they did in s3/4. Overall amazing writing <3
confetti by @slashersteve (series, single!dad Steve) My favorite single dad Steve fic out there. I still haven't read the latest part, but I had to mention this series. It's amazing. The characters feel so real, and you'll fall in love with Steve's daughter <3
become the sun by @headkiss (one shot, strangers to friends to lovers) This was probably my favorite summer fic. I adored the small beach town vibe. Overall, that was such a cute read. I still need to read this year's Christmas fic, which I know will be great because last year's was amazing. <3
the view between villages, part one: good bones by @sattlersquarry (completed series, choose your own adventure, s3) Listen this is one of the most creative works I've read. The amount of work that was put in it is insane. You play an active part and get to choose how your story ends. This was such a fun experience <3
the swindling of steve harrington’s heart by @stevebabey (one shot, strangers to lovers) This was such a cute fic, like Steve asking for dating advice in the Hawkins Post was just sweet. I loved all the interactions between him and the reader. If you need a pick-me-up, this is your fic <3
and they were roomates by @sunshinesteviee (one shot, friends to lovers) This fic was just so cute. I loved Robin being kinda in the middle of this and sick of their bullshit. Overall, amazing writing and a quick read if you are feeling down and need cheering up <3
almost paradise by @hawkinsindiana (completed series for now, ST rewrite covering all seasons) I said it so many times, but this is one of my overall favorite stories. Kinda wish we had the reader character in the actual show because it makes so much sense. The writing is amazing, I even shed a few tears towards the end. I can't wait to see what's in store for s5. Also, check out the various blurbs that go with it. There is so much work being put into this, and it deserves a bit more love. I'm gonna re-read the whole thing next year. <3
steve zombie!au by @luveline (compilation of blurbs and one shots) This is one of my fav AU, I can't just choose one thing, so I linked the entire masterlist Their relationship is just so special. I love the world building and the other characters. It's amazing <3
no good at waiting by @familyvideostevie (completed series, sorta enemies to lover farmer market au) This is one of my fav series, and we got such cute blurbs this year from this universe. It has such a cozy vibe to it, great world building and characters. <3
Any Way Out by @hairrington (one shot, angst, ex boyfriend Steve) This fic was a mix of heartache and comfort. Nadia is one of my fav Steve writers out there so everyone check out her entire masterlist. <3
some kind of muted blue by @thecreelhouse (one shot, dark themes, deals with things like ptsd) This was so devastatingly beautiful, I loved that this fic explored Steve's felings so much, something we don't get to see in the show. This was just amazingly written <3
summary: it’s too dangerous to love in a time like this. so for now, you’ll share dish washing duty.
contains: steve x gender unspecified reader; angst; mutual pining
a/n: this is kind of a filler chapter to set up future chapters in the series. after my last fic i decided i wanted to make a monster hunting series so <3 i hope you enjoy!
You wake with a bit of a start, the warm body that was under you suddenly gone. You prop yourself up on one elbow and watch Steve disappear into the Wheeler’s bathroom. You frown but don’t follow, simply laying back down and sighing. The morning light, hazy with fog, shines through the back door. It’s such a rare sight these days. You’re inclined to get up and step outside, but you’re simply too tired.
Your eyes drift shut for a moment before you hear Steve swinging the bathroom door open. You can tell by his footsteps that he’s in a hurry. You open your eyes, expecting him to come to you, but he instead goes to Robin. He shakes her until she wakes with a start, falling off the couch she was on. “Ow!”
“Come here,” he urges, helping her up. Neither of them even glance at you as they go into the bathroom and shut the door. But even with the door shut, you can hear them, as you’re close in proximity.
“What happened last night?”
“What always happens,” Robin snaps, clearly unhappy that she’s been woken up so rudely. “You stepped in front of danger and -”
“What is this?”
There’s a little pause. “You got hurt. There was a Demogorgon, and it swang at you - caught you with its claw, I guess. You got knocked out and - and - well, Nancy got it -”
“Who the hell gave me stitches?”
You hear Robin scoff. “Who do you think, loverboy?”
You’re a little upset that he doesn’t remember, especially with the attention he’d given you. But you already figured the medicine Eddie supplied had made him loopy and a little more sentimental than usual. The ‘loverboy’ makes you perk up, wanting to know more, the implications obvious.
“No. No. No no no no no.”
“No, what?”
“There’s no - I’m not - don’t call me loverboy.”
“Loverboy.”
“Rob, I swear to -”
“Swear to Cupid? Ow!”
“It can’t happen,” he says, and your breath hitches. “This isn’t the time and place for romance, okay? It was - it was misguided, anyway, I was - I don’t even remember.”
“Steve, come on.”
“No, I’m serious, Robin. This can’t happen. I was stupid last night. I shouldn't have let it show like that. I can’t - I can’t right now. I can’t even think about that right now.”
Your brows furrow.
“Since when did you ever put your love life on the back burner?”
“Now! Right now! It doesn't matter how I feel about them if I don't even know if we'll wake up tomorrow!"
“Okay! Okay, okay, I get it. But you might want to talk this out. It was pretty obvious last night."
"Jesus," he groans. You can hear him pacing over your heartbeat. "What did I do?"
"Well, you slept with them, for starters."
"Don't say it like that."
"And you were asking for them and touching them and - I think it was obvious, but I guess I've known for a while."
"This is really bad."
"It's not bad," Robin sighs. "You just... have to talk to them about it. They probably feel the same way."
"About me?"
"The situation," she stresses. "But they were quick to lay down with you last night, and they did fix you up, so...."
There's a long pause this time, and you think they might be whispering. Finally, Steve says, "It can't happen. Not now."
"I know, Steve."
You stop listening then, heart hammering and feeling a little sick. It's a blessing that Steve likes you, but he's right. It's not the time. You feign sleep when they exit the bathroom, peaking with an eye open as they head upstairs, Steve stealing the smallest look at you.
You wish he wouldn't have.
===
You’re washing dishes after breakfast now, Ted Wheeler staring you down over the edge of the newspaper. He seems particularly miffed with Eddie Munson, who’s wasting chocolate syrup and whipped cream in an attempt to make Holly laugh.
Steve stands beside you, awkward and stiff while he dries what you hand him. You’re not sure why he’s in such close proximity, given his previous conversation with Robin, but you don’t say anything. You just wash and rinse and hand the ceramic and glass off to Steve, who seems deep in thought.
Finally, he quips, “You think Ted can smell the drugs on him?”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, maybe.”
No words are spoken about you sleeping on Steve’s chest, or how he looked at you like you were the world last night.
“Thank you,” he says eventually, fidgeting with the dish towel. “For. You know.” He points to his head and you smile.
“Not a problem.”
“I don’t know if I could stitch you up so casually.”
You shrug a shoulder. “I think you would if it came to it. It’s easy if it’s necessary.”
Steve clears his throat. “Well, thank you.”
“Mhm.”
“And what about your hands? I remember how hurt they were.”
“Oh,” you laugh, finally looking at him. “That was just your blood, not mine.”
He blinks, hand slowing on the plate he’s drying. “You didn’t get hurt?”
“No, I’m fine. I just didn’t want to scare you, that’s all.”
“Oh.”
You both stare at each other, your smile falling. When you finally rip your eyes away from him, Steve shuffles in closer, his elbow hitting yours.
“I’m really thankful for you,” he starts lowly, fingers colliding with yours as he takes a cup from your hand. “I’m thankful for last night and every night before that. I'm - I'm so glad you're in my life right now."
“I know it can’t happen,” you whisper, continuing to stare at the sink. "Us, I mean."
Steve pauses for a moment, surprised you knew where he was going. “Do you understand why?”
“Of course.” Your hands still. Working up the courage, you finally look at him. “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you. And I’d rather not get hurt, either.”
Steve’s eyes are soft as he looks at you, and he nods once, curtly. “I feel the same way.”
You nod back. Everything has become blunt and rational since the world ended. There’s no what-ifs, other than the bad ones. You can’t think about tomorrow, let alone a time where you and Steve could actually be with each other. It might not ever happen. And if it does, and the other dies….
"So we agree, then."
You nod again. "I like you, Steve. But we shouldn't let it get to that point."
He nods again, too. "Okay, good. Good. I'm glad we agree. And - and no hard feelings?"
"Not one," you promise, but you can't look at him and say it.
There's a silence between you, a mutual understanding and grieving.
“They’re drafting,” Steve says suddenly, a dish clacking as it rests upon another one. “They want to have people to fight.”
The idea of someone in Hawkins, Indiana, fighting these monsters - someone other than your circle - is so laughable that you outright scoff. Steve laughs, too, gently. His elbow keeps bumping into yours and you force yourself to side step away, the closeness too much for you. “It’s honestly sad.”
“They don’t know what they’re getting into.”
You both look at each other, frowning, and then continue with your duties.
“You’re not signing up, right?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “I mean, I thought about it. And then I remembered we have our own tiny army, so….”
Your eyes roll. “Ridiculous that they - they’re making people sign up to kill themselves, and yet if you’re caught trying to kill a Demodog….”
“Maybe it’s worse than we think,” he says, voice hushed. “Maybe they just need distractions.”
You swallow harshly, letting his words sink in. You hand him the last plate and reach for the drain plug. “Please don’t sign up, Steve.”
“I won’t,” he promises softly. “Gotta make sure you stay out of trouble, don’t I?”
You scoff and look over at him, unable to stop yourself from smiling. Your chest aches. “Yeah, definitely.”
I mean, I understand, but man. I already love their relationship so much. The first part was one of my favorite things to read. So I'm really excited with where this is going. 💗
I loved the tiny snipped we got from Stobin here. They are my besties. 💗
And lmao I can't even imagine Eddie living with the Wheelers or being around Ted. This is hilarious.
Anyway, again, I'm super excited, I can't wait for what you have planned. There are so few post s4 fics that touch on apocalyptic Hawkins on here, so I'm stoked. I love your writing so much. 💗
summary: it’s too dangerous to love in a time like this. so for now, you’ll share dish washing duty.
contains: steve x gender unspecified reader; angst; mutual pining
a/n: this is kind of a filler chapter to set up future chapters in the series. after my last fic i decided i wanted to make a monster hunting series so <3 i hope you enjoy!
You wake with a bit of a start, the warm body that was under you suddenly gone. You prop yourself up on one elbow and watch Steve disappear into the Wheeler’s bathroom. You frown but don’t follow, simply laying back down and sighing. The morning light, hazy with fog, shines through the back door. It’s such a rare sight these days. You’re inclined to get up and step outside, but you’re simply too tired.
Your eyes drift shut for a moment before you hear Steve swinging the bathroom door open. You can tell by his footsteps that he’s in a hurry. You open your eyes, expecting him to come to you, but he instead goes to Robin. He shakes her until she wakes with a start, falling off the couch she was on. “Ow!”
“Come here,” he urges, helping her up. Neither of them even glance at you as they go into the bathroom and shut the door. But even with the door shut, you can hear them, as you’re close in proximity.
“What happened last night?”
“What always happens,” Robin snaps, clearly unhappy that she’s been woken up so rudely. “You stepped in front of danger and -”
“What is this?”
There’s a little pause. “You got hurt. There was a Demogorgon, and it swang at you - caught you with its claw, I guess. You got knocked out and - and - well, Nancy got it -”
“Who the hell gave me stitches?”
You hear Robin scoff. “Who do you think, loverboy?”
You’re a little upset that he doesn’t remember, especially with the attention he’d given you. But you already figured the medicine Eddie supplied had made him loopy and a little more sentimental than usual. The ‘loverboy’ makes you perk up, wanting to know more, the implications obvious.
“No. No. No no no no no.”
“No, what?”
“There’s no - I’m not - don’t call me loverboy.”
“Loverboy.”
“Rob, I swear to -”
“Swear to Cupid? Ow!”
“It can’t happen,” he says, and your breath hitches. “This isn’t the time and place for romance, okay? It was - it was misguided, anyway, I was - I don’t even remember.”
“Steve, come on.”
“No, I’m serious, Robin. This can’t happen. I was stupid last night. I shouldn't have let it show like that. I can’t - I can’t right now. I can’t even think about that right now.”
Your brows furrow.
“Since when did you ever put your love life on the back burner?”
“Now! Right now! It doesn't matter how I feel about them if I don't even know if we'll wake up tomorrow!"
“Okay! Okay, okay, I get it. But you might want to talk this out. It was pretty obvious last night."
"Jesus," he groans. You can hear him pacing over your heartbeat. "What did I do?"
"Well, you slept with them, for starters."
"Don't say it like that."
"And you were asking for them and touching them and - I think it was obvious, but I guess I've known for a while."
"This is really bad."
"It's not bad," Robin sighs. "You just... have to talk to them about it. They probably feel the same way."
"About me?"
"The situation," she stresses. "But they were quick to lay down with you last night, and they did fix you up, so...."
There's a long pause this time, and you think they might be whispering. Finally, Steve says, "It can't happen. Not now."
"I know, Steve."
You stop listening then, heart hammering and feeling a little sick. It's a blessing that Steve likes you, but he's right. It's not the time. You feign sleep when they exit the bathroom, peaking with an eye open as they head upstairs, Steve stealing the smallest look at you.
You wish he wouldn't have.
===
You’re washing dishes after breakfast now, Ted Wheeler staring you down over the edge of the newspaper. He seems particularly miffed with Eddie Munson, who’s wasting chocolate syrup and whipped cream in an attempt to make Holly laugh.
Steve stands beside you, awkward and stiff while he dries what you hand him. You’re not sure why he’s in such close proximity, given his previous conversation with Robin, but you don’t say anything. You just wash and rinse and hand the ceramic and glass off to Steve, who seems deep in thought.
Finally, he quips, “You think Ted can smell the drugs on him?”
You laugh softly. “Yeah, maybe.”
No words are spoken about you sleeping on Steve’s chest, or how he looked at you like you were the world last night.
“Thank you,” he says eventually, fidgeting with the dish towel. “For. You know.” He points to his head and you smile.
“Not a problem.”
“I don’t know if I could stitch you up so casually.”
You shrug a shoulder. “I think you would if it came to it. It’s easy if it’s necessary.”
Steve clears his throat. “Well, thank you.”
“Mhm.”
“And what about your hands? I remember how hurt they were.”
“Oh,” you laugh, finally looking at him. “That was just your blood, not mine.”
He blinks, hand slowing on the plate he’s drying. “You didn’t get hurt?”
“No, I’m fine. I just didn’t want to scare you, that’s all.”
“Oh.”
You both stare at each other, your smile falling. When you finally rip your eyes away from him, Steve shuffles in closer, his elbow hitting yours.
“I’m really thankful for you,” he starts lowly, fingers colliding with yours as he takes a cup from your hand. “I’m thankful for last night and every night before that. I'm - I'm so glad you're in my life right now."
“I know it can’t happen,” you whisper, continuing to stare at the sink. "Us, I mean."
Steve pauses for a moment, surprised you knew where he was going. “Do you understand why?”
“Of course.” Your hands still. Working up the courage, you finally look at him. “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you. And I’d rather not get hurt, either.”
Steve’s eyes are soft as he looks at you, and he nods once, curtly. “I feel the same way.”
You nod back. Everything has become blunt and rational since the world ended. There’s no what-ifs, other than the bad ones. You can’t think about tomorrow, let alone a time where you and Steve could actually be with each other. It might not ever happen. And if it does, and the other dies….
"So we agree, then."
You nod again. "I like you, Steve. But we shouldn't let it get to that point."
He nods again, too. "Okay, good. Good. I'm glad we agree. And - and no hard feelings?"
"Not one," you promise, but you can't look at him and say it.
There's a silence between you, a mutual understanding and grieving.
“They’re drafting,” Steve says suddenly, a dish clacking as it rests upon another one. “They want to have people to fight.”
The idea of someone in Hawkins, Indiana, fighting these monsters - someone other than your circle - is so laughable that you outright scoff. Steve laughs, too, gently. His elbow keeps bumping into yours and you force yourself to side step away, the closeness too much for you. “It’s honestly sad.”
“They don’t know what they’re getting into.”
You both look at each other, frowning, and then continue with your duties.
“You’re not signing up, right?” you ask.
He shakes his head. “I mean, I thought about it. And then I remembered we have our own tiny army, so….”
Your eyes roll. “Ridiculous that they - they’re making people sign up to kill themselves, and yet if you’re caught trying to kill a Demodog….”
“Maybe it’s worse than we think,” he says, voice hushed. “Maybe they just need distractions.”
You swallow harshly, letting his words sink in. You hand him the last plate and reach for the drain plug. “Please don’t sign up, Steve.”
“I won’t,” he promises softly. “Gotta make sure you stay out of trouble, don’t I?”
You scoff and look over at him, unable to stop yourself from smiling. Your chest aches. “Yeah, definitely.”
Inlove with don’t think twice!! Could you please write a fic with the rolls reversed if you have the time ❤️ About to binge all your fics x
YES! i am actually in the process of one where reader gets hurt and steve helps them! i’m trying to finish it soon but i’m being a perfectionist about it lol
