hello platonic stobin fans i need a favor from you. below is a wip that ive been working on for eons. when i say this im talking about pre season five, like before trailers and promo even started. im in love with this story so far and i CANNOT find the motivation to finish it. with that being said, im giving you what i have, and im hoping you will read it and bully me into finishing it. please and thank yew.
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Steve Harrington stood alone in the middle of the vacant parking lot of what had once been Starcourt Mall, now a half-charred mess of flickering, dying neon lights. He stayed last. Of course he did.
One by one, he watched as families reunited with hugs and tears and ‘are you okay’s.
He watched as Mrs. Wheeler squeezed her children tightly to her chest like she hadn't seen them in years.
Mrs. Henderson grabbed Dustin by the face, squishing his cheeks between her hands and scanning every inch of him for even a scratch.
Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair found Lucas and Erica and huddled around the two before dragging them to the car.
Max's mother might as well have magically appeared with how fast she arrived at the scene. He felt nauseous when she asked Max where Billy was, only for her answer to be chest heaving sobs.
Robin Buckley’s parents arrived not too long after, pulling her into a hug, pulling back to inspect her, and pulling her back in again.
Mrs. Byers cradled her two boys with tearful relief and held Eleven as if she were her own, grieved with her as the sudden loss of Hopper seemed to have torn a hole in the universe.
And one by one, he watched as each family drove away. Each ambulance, each police car, each firetruck’s red tail lights dulled into nothingness as they faded into the darkness.
And then, it was only him.
Exhaustion tugging at his eyelids.
He didn't know why he was still standing there.
Honestly, he couldn't believe he was standing at all. The Russians had done such a number on him, he was shocked they hadn't punched a hole right through him.
Maybe it was because he was still processing. Maybe he was waiting to wake up from this cruel nightmare that he calls his life. Maybe he was waiting for one of the ambulances to come back and check on him, to make sure he was really okay.
They'd tried to tend to his wounds, but the very thought of a doctor still made him recoil.
He wasn't sure what snapped him out of his thoughts-- probably the muted pop of a firework in the distance.
When he looked down at himself, he frowned. His embarrassment of a uniform made him look even more pathetic now that the collar was decorated with dried blood and vomit. God, he felt disgusting. He needed to go home.
He didn't know where he parked his car all those hours ago, and he was pretty positive that he had a concussion. But whether or not he was able to drive in a straight line was the least of his concerns right now. He just wanted to go home. So with a heavy sigh, he reached into the pocket of his sailor shorts and-
Those Soviet bastards took his keys.
He froze, his hand fiercely gripping the white fabric of his pocket. He bit his lip in frustration but quickly let go when his teeth tugged on a fresh wound. He grimaced when that all-too familiar metallic flavor met his tongue.
He wasn't even mad. He was frustrated. But he wasn't mad or upset or even scared. He was just tired. He just wanted to go home and take a shower and go to bed and pretend that this never happened. But his life just didn't work that way, did it? He spent all his luck peaking in high school. Now he's just paying off his debt.
So he looked back down -- this time at his shoes -- the ones that he bought just to match with the stupid uniform, and did the only thing left to do: he walked.
His place wasn't too far from the mall. That's what he told himself anyway. It was a thirty minute walk, thirty-five if you counted the times he slowed and checked over his shoulder to make sure no Russians or monsters were trailing behind him. His legs were on fire and his feet felt like he'd been walking barefoot on broken glass. He was sure that by the time he'd got back to his house, the grip on the bottom of his shoes would be flattened to nothing.
By the time he'd finally walked (more or less limped) to his home, he was ready to collapse right then and there. For the first time all night, he felt relieved when he saw that big beautiful house that his father only bought just to flex his wealth. But that relief died when his eyes wandered to the vacant driveway, the pavement only touched by the dim glow of the porch light.
His father had left town for a conference, and his mother tagged along because she couldn't trust him. She’d stopped trusting him ever since she borrowed his car and found a tube of lipstick that wasn't hers.
Steve lingered on the front porch, standing face to face with the door he knew was locked. But in his shaking hand was a spare key – one his mother always kept hidden under a small pot of petunias. It was the only good luck he had tonight aside from not dying. Slotting the key into the hole, he turned it to the side and opened the door. When he stepped inside, he was greeted with the refreshing blast of the AC. He closed his eyes and took it in for a moment before shutting the door behind him. It closed with a click that echoed throughout the vacant house.
He let out a deep breath and let his shoulders slump as he leaned his head against the door. It was quiet. So quiet– almost too quiet– but he couldn't complain. The silence was a beautiful contrast to the chaos that had ensued not even an hour before.
But the peaceful stillness was quickly cut short when the shrill ringing of the telephone screamed throughout the space.
Steve winced and groaned, but didn't move from his spot at the door. He just waited for those 6 shrill bells to run their course before whoever was calling at this hour could leave a message and leave him alone.
He let out another breath, this one more contempt than exhausted. He dragged his eyelids open and slowly lifted himself off of the door. And before he could make another move, the phone started to ring again:
He shook his head and kicked his shoes off his feet despite them stinging in slight protest. “Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself as he dragged his sock covered feet across the cool wooden floor. He didn't care about who was calling or what they had to say, he just wanted it to stop. The third ring was quickly killed when he tugged the phone off of the base.
"Harrington residence,” he spoke, irritation evident in his tone. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the voice on the other end beat him to it.
“Steve!" The voice chirped with a mix of excitement and relief he wasn't sure he'd ever heard before. It was a familiar voice, one he could name in an instant. His tone shifted once the gears in his head clicked.
"Robin?” He asked, brows furrowing. "What are you-”
"Jesus, Steve!” Robin cut him off. "I've been trying to call you for the past… forever! Are you home?”
"Well, I answered the phone,” he replied matter of factly. A faint sigh was heard on the other line.
"I mean, are you okay, dingus?” Her voice had shifted to a softer, more concerned tone. One that he wasn't used to hearing. One that shut him up quick. His gaze shifted to the floor as he thought about it.
Well, he was alive, so that was a plus. And he was still miraculously standing despite the soles of his feet screaming at him. But he couldn't take a breath without his chest feeling like it was about to rip in half, and he was certain that something's eyes were burning a hole in the back of his head. But it beat being dead. So he answered:
"Yeah.” His voice fell flat and empty. He knew it wasn't completely true but didn't have the energy to hide it. Robin heard it too– he could almost hear her frown when a soft huff escaped on the other end of the line.
"Yeah,” she echoed in the same tone. She knew he was full of shit.
They both went quiet after that.
Silence grew before she spoke again:
“Did you get home alright?"
Steve hesitated for a moment before answering. "Fine, yeah. The walk wasn't–”
"Walk?” She cut him off. Her voice pierced through the receiver, so loud it crackled on the line. Steve winced and tugged the phone away from his ear. “You walked home?"
"Those morons took my keys.” He frowned, slowly putting the phone back to his ear. He tapped his pocket again, verifying that his keys were in fact gone. It was still empty.
“And you didn't think to ask for a ride?" Her voice squeaked on the last syllable.
He didn't answer. Robin figured he wouldn't.
So she tried again after another beat of silence, her tone much calmer now.
He replied with a small hum.
“Are you at least home with someone?"
The silence that followed was so loud it hurt. He picked his gaze back up and scanned the vacant area: the empty sofa, the dim staircase leading up to bare rooms, the unoccupied table in the kitchen. He didn't realize how painful the stillness was until his eyes began to burn and his vision began to blur.
And the quiet was the only answer she needed.
Robin's voice quickly picked up, "You're right on Cornwallis, right?” There was a slight sense of urgency in her tone, one that snapped Steve back to reality.
He cleared his throat and responded, “Yeah, I'm–” he paused for a moment. "Wait. Robin, why–?”
"I’ll be there in 10!” Robin quickly cut him off. "Don't move, Harrington!”
The line clicked dead before he could even think about protesting. The cold silence seemed to mock him as he pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it like it had personally offended him. When he realized that staring at the phone wouldn't change anything, he shook his head and hung it back on its base with a quick tick.
And again, it was only him.
Steve Harrington, beaten and bloodied and bruised, dressed in a stupid sailor uniform painted with his own vomit and blood, standing all alone in a void of silence.
He found himself staring at his shoes again. He wasn't sure if maybe it was because of everything that had happened tonight, but he started to realize how much he hated that shade of blue. The more he stared at them, the more upset he got. Why he kept looking? He didn't have a solid answer, but he eventually grew tired of it.
He kicked them off his feet with an irritated huff and didn't think twice when he scooped them up and tossed them in the trash. They met the bottom of the can with a dull thud and for the first time all night he felt a hint of satisfaction.
He turned on his heel and dragged his aching feet to the sofa. He went limp, almost instinctively. He let himself fall onto the linen. His body sank into the cushions. He let out a sigh, finally one of content and not exhaustion or frustration. He leaned his head back. The cushions were cool to the touch after a full day of being vacant. He closed his eyes, and just let himself exist.
He didn't know how long he had sat there for, but it was long enough for him to start dozing off.
Of course, that was before someone had begun graciously banging at his door. He startled awake at the sudden sound, his heart pounding out of his chest. Fear crept in but settled down quickly as a voice sounded from behind the door.
“Steve?” The voice called, muffled through the wood. “Steve, it's me!”
At twelve thirty in the morning, after almost dying numerous times in one night, Robin Buckley was on his front porch, banging on his door.
He shook his head and dragged a palm down his face before peeling his body off the sofa. He hauled himself to the door, which Robin continued to bang and yell at, and quickly swung it open.
“Steve Harrington, I swear-” she was mid-sentence when the door opened. Her hair was a frizzy mess thanks to the wind, some strands sticking up in all directions. Her makeup was poorly washed off, smudged mascara darkened her under eyes which were glossy and slightly bloodshot. Either from the wind or tears, possibly both. She was no longer in her uniform, lucky her, and was now wearing a faded Fleetwood Mac t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. But nothing stuck out more than the look on her face when she saw him. How her expression of determination melted into concern when she really got a look at his face.
His left eye was blown up like a balloon, purple and swollen and angry. There was a gash on the corner of his mouth right below his bottom lip which was split down the middle. There was less color than usual in his face, and the dark bags under his eyes were impossible to miss. His hair, of course, his prized feature, was flat and messy. It looked just as exhausted as he did. He was still wearing that sailor uniform, stained with his own blood and vomit and ash from the mall.
Her heart cracked right down the middle, “Oh, Steve.”
Steve didn't move. He couldn't. He'd never had someone look at him with that level of worry before. He'd never had anyone speak to him that soft before. It almost scared him.
He managed to take a few steps back to let her in. Her blue eyes never left his face as she entered.
“You look like shit.” She frowned as she closed the door behind her.
“Oh, thanks. I was working on it.” Steve raised his brows, attempting humor.
Her eyes finally left his face as she scanned the area for a moment. “Do you have a first-aid kit around here? Or something like that, at least?”
He nodded quickly, taking a step backwards. “Yeah, upstairs. I'll-”
“No,” she cut him off quickly. She pointed to the sofa beside them. “You sit. I'll get it.” She spoke. Her tone was firm, the most serious he'd ever heard from her. “Just tell me where it is.”
At first, he stared at her with his lips parted like a dumbass. For the first time in his life, he was treated with urgency and genuine unmistakable care. And he had no idea what to do with it.
Eventually, he recovered his voice, stumbling over his words. “Yeah- I, uh,” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. He raised his finger and pointed upwards. “In the bathroom upstairs. Master bedroom to the left.”
Robin gave a quick nod to the instructions. She turned on her heels and made her way up the staircase. “Sit!” She called from over her shoulder.
He plopped back onto the cushions, more tension in his body than before. He sat up straight with his hands folded between his knees. He could hear the soft thumps of Robin's feet wandering upstairs. The sounds of draws opening and closing followed before being ended with a faint: “Found it!”
She quickly trod down the staircase, the first-aid kit now secured in her hand. She didn't return to the sofa like Steve had anticipated. Instead, she beelined it to the kitchen without batting an eye. His upper lip curled in confusion when he heard the freezer door open.
He shook his head, incredulous, before calling to her. “Robin?”
“Hm?” She answered with a small hum.
“The hell are you doing?”
The door shut as Robin appeared in the room once again: a first-aid kit in one hand, and a bag of frozen peas in the other.
She raised the peas to bring attention to them. “You need something for that eye of yours.” She announced bluntly before tossing them his way without warning. He managed to catch them despite fumbling with the bag for a second. He stared at it dumbly before he folded it over itself, the plastic crinkling in his grip. He hissed as the raw, crisp chill made contact with his eye, the bruising throbbing in protest.
Robin sat herself next to him and nestled the blue and red kit in her lap. She worked with quick focus as she pulled the essentials out of the box: two small antiseptic wipes, a little round cotton pad, and a bandaid. When all was needed, she closed the kit and placed it to the side.
“Do you know what you're doing?” Steve asked as he watched her open the wipe.
It wasn't that he didn't trust her. He did. He trusted more than the certified paramedics that tried to help him earlier. He was just paranoid. Scared. More scared than he'd ever been in his entire life. But he would never admit that out loud.
Robin looked up at him and raised her brows. “Do you think I pulled these out for shits and giggles?” She asked, a small smile growing on her lips. She huffed a small laugh and directed her attention back to the wipe. “Trust me, I'm a lot more clumsy than you think I am. I've been doing this on myself since I was eight.”
She pulled the wipe out of its thin wrap, shaking it out to unfold it. Steve watched as she wrapped it around her index finger.
“Alright, Harrington,” she breathed, “This is gonna sting.”
Steve let out a small laugh, though there was no humor behind it. He nodded, “Yeah, I've gotten used to it.”
Robin's grin faltered at that. Steve noticed. But neither of them said a word.
She tightened her lips into a thin line as she directed her attention to the nasty wound on the corner of his mouth. The sight wasn't pretty: jagged and dark and caked with dried blood along the edges.
She gently inched the wipe to the injury, careful not to jostle it. The second white met red, Steve grimaced. The burning sting was instant, causing the deep gash and the surrounding area to scream. He clenched his jaw so tight his ears rang. He hadn't realized just how fucked that cut was until she'd started cleaning it.
“Sorry,” Robin winced alongside him. Her stomach turned when she realized how deep the cut was. How hard had they beat him. She shook her head, “Jesus, Steve.”
“Yeah, I know. Not my best look.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “You should've seen the other guy, though.”
“Yeah, I did.” Robin replied bluntly. “He tied you to a chair and beat the shit out of you.”
“Yeah, well, I beat him first, so-”
“Steve,” Robin cut him off, her tone sharp. The grin on his lips died as fast as it grew. She sounded angry, but she wasn't. He knew she wasn't. He could see it in her eyes. She was looking at him, really looking. Her gaze was firm and focused, like she was trying to see what was going on in that aching head of his. But behind all of that was concern. Raw, genuine, unmistakable concern. Not something unfamiliar, but something he hadn't grown accustomed to.
“I'm not worried about what happened back there right now.” Robin spoke after a moment, her gaze still fixed on his. “Right now, I'm worried about you.”
He couldn't look at her anymore. If he did, he'd cry. He could already feel his throat tightening. He tightened his grip on the bag of peas that was now defrosting against his face.
Robin continued, words spilling out at an impressive speed, “I mean, you literally got your ass handed to you, got knocked unconscious, woke up tied to me, got drugged up with only God knows what, finally got out of there just to crash onto Billy Hargroves’ car, only to throw fireworks at,” she waved her hands frantically, trying to come up with any sort of description before ultimately landing on: “whatever-the-fuck that was, then escape out of a burning mall with a dead monster and a dead man still inside. And after all of that bullshit,” she paused, leaned, and angled herself in a way where Steve had no choice but to meet her glossy eyes, tears beginning to pool. She pointed a finger at him. “You walked home. To an empty one.”
Usually when Robin gave Steve a piece of her mind, this would be the part where he had something smart to throw back at her. But nothing came. All words died on his bloodied cracked lips just as fast as they formed in his head.
Which wasn't a shocker. Robin Buckley was right 9 times out of 10. But they weren't talking about ice cream flavors and annoying kids and whether or not Tammy Thompson sounds like a muppet giving birth when she sings. They were talking about how he could've died. How he should've died. How his life within the past 3 days was held together solely by adrenaline, miracles, and Russian truth serum, and after all of that bullshit, he still walked home.
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