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You tell Steve that you don't think you're capable of orgasming with a guy. He's determined to prove you wrong.
pairing: steve harrington x reader
words: 4.2k
contains: (18+ smut!! minors dni) mutual masturbation, porn with very little plot, hint of friends to lovers, pet names, steve is packing, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.
author's note: request by @djobriens | this is inspired by that scene from off campus!! recently watched it and i am forever changed. this was yet another request that started as a blurb and ended up being way too long.
Telling one of your closest friends that a guy had never made you come had seemed like an okay idea at first. Unless that guy was Steve Harrington who took the news like it was a personal insult.
"What?" He asked, a look of horror on his face as he stared at you as though he was waiting for some sort of punchline. "Never? You're kidding right? This is some sort of sick joke—"
Your face feels hot as you look away from Steve, suddenly regretting telling him about your disappointing date from Saturday night. Suddenly regretting being too honest with him, about the lack of orgasms that you had received from men over the years. You would usually talk about this sort of stuff with Robin but she was on vacation with her family and you needed someone to vent to. And so, you had showed up to Steve’s under the guise of a movie night and general catch up.
But maybe venting to Steve had been a bad idea.
"Forget I said anything," you say quickly, leaning over to grab the large bowl of popcorn that had been sitting on Steve's lap and stuffing a large handful into your mouth just to avoid answering any further questions.
But of course—Steve wasn't going to let you off that easily.
"I'm serious!" Steve says, snatching the popcorn back and placing it on the coffee table before shifting on the sofa to look at you properly. "This is—this is abhorrent. Do you exclusively date selfish assholes or something?"
If you hadn't had a mouthful of popcorn, you would have probably argued with him. But instead you settle for sending him a glare as you chew what was left of the salty popcorn in your mouth.
"Do you finish when you touch yourself?"
You nearly choke on a popcorn kernel.
"Jesus Christ, Harrington!" you gasp out, your face now so hot you were surprised that steam wasn’t rising from your skin. “You can’t just ask me that—”
“—what?” Steve asks, seemingly confused why you were so taken aback by his question. “I’m trying to help—”
“—by asking me about masturbation?”
“I’m just trying to understand the situation!”
You huff because you knew deep down Steve had good intentions. You knew he wasn’t asking to be a creep—he was asking because he genuinely cared about you and wanted to help you with the situation. But talking about something so intimate with Steve made you feel a lot of things that you weren’t quite sure what to do with.
“Yes,” you say finally, determinedly not looking at Steve as you answer. “Yes, I um, I finish when I—you know—”
“—touch yourself?” Steve finishes for you and the words send heat coursing through your entire body. You shift on the couch beside him, eyes on his TV that was currently playing some sitcom you were no longer paying attention to. “C’mon, don’t be coy about it! Masturbation is normal! I do it at least three times a—”
“—Steve!” You scold him, your face somehow even hotter as you turn to glare at him. “I don’t need to know about how many times a week you jerk off—”
“—actually, I was going to say that I do it three times a day.”
You look at him and suddenly, any intelligent thought you had disappears. Because now all you could think about was Steve and what he’d look like fucking his fist with his cock. You would be lying if you said you hadn’t thought about Steve in that way before. He may be a good friend of yours but he was also stupidly attractive and wore jeans that hugged his lower half a little too well. Sometimes, if you had a chance to look at him for long enough, you could see the imprint of his thick cock over the denim. And his ass—
“You know I’m kidding right?” Steve asks you, seeming to take your lack of response as disgust—when in reality it was anything but. “I don’t—that’s just excessive. Few times a week is enough for me—”
“—okay, okay! I get it!” You interrupt, wanting him to stop talking because his words were going straight to your core and you didn’t want your traitorous eyes to shift down to his lap. “I don’t need to know your…schedule.”
Steve smiles a little before nudging you with his elbow. “It’s pretty rigorous, I’ll tell you that—”
“—Steven—”
“—sorry,” Steve grins at you before he finally looks away from you. You pray that he drops the entire conversation, that he doesn’t ask anymore questions so that you could finally take moment to relax—
“So, it’s not you—it’s just the guys that you’re seeing?”
“Steve, can’t we just—”
“—no, we can’t,” Steve says, sitting up and looking at you with a careful expression. “Listen—I know you feel awkward talking about this with me but—I just—I care about you and I care about the way guys treat you. And if they’re not making you come, not taking the time to work out what you want, then they’re not treating you right. I—I just want to make sure that you know it’s not you that’s the problem here. It’s them.”
You swallow because, god, why did he have to be so caring? Why did he know the exact right thing to say? And why did you have the sudden urge to press your thighs together?
“I dunno,” you say finally, your throat a little dry for reasons that had everything to do with the man sitting right beside you. “What if—what if guys just can’t make me come? Like I’m too complicated down there or—”
“—stop right there,” Steve interrupts, not unkindly but in a firm sort of way that shuts you up almost instantly. “What did I just say? It’s not you. You said you can make yourself come so I promise you—you’re not the problem. They are. They’re being selfish. They need to—they need to take the time to learn what your body needs. Ask you what you like, how you respond to what they’re doing to you.”
It was good advice, genuinely. But all you could think about as you listened to Steve was what he’d be like in bed. If he would take the time to learn what your body needed, if he would ask you what you liked, if he’d watch—lips parted and eyes wide—as your body writhed beneath him, as your plushy walls squeezed around his—
“I don’t know Steve,” you say quietly, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth as you try not to think too hard about the image you had of Steve’s head between your thighs, of his lips wet with your slick dripping down to his chin. “I don’t know if it’s just that. I mean—it’s not like what they’re doing is really bad because I get close, I—it’s like right before I get there—I just seize up or something.”
Steve listens carefully, his attention solely on you as you try your best to explain the issue and when you’re done, he takes a few seconds to mull over what you had just told him.
“These guys,” Steve begins, hazel eyes flickering between yours as he studies your expression. “Do you trust them?”
“What?” You ask, a little confused at the question. “I don’t know what you—”
“—do you trust them?” Steve repeats the question, not elaboration or clarification—just a small quirk of his brow as he waits for you to respond. “Do you trust them enough to let yourself go completely?”
The question takes you by surprise and you want to say yes—but the word dies on your tongue and the lack of a response was enough of an answer for Steve. He looks at you for a moment too long, hazel eyes studying you as though he was trying to look inside your brain.
“Do you trust me?”
You don’t even think as you nod—because of course you trusted Steve. You trusted him with your life. After everything that had happened in Hawkins, it was hard not to.
“Of course I—”
“—then make yourself come in front of me.”
The silence that greeted Steve’s words was deafening. You stare at him, eyes wide as you let his words truly sink in. You let yourself come to terms with the fact that you weren’t having some strange sex dream. That your good friend and guy you occasionally had inappropriate thoughts had just asked you to make yourself come in front of him.
“Why?” You ask him finally because though you were shocked—there was a large part of you that didn’t want to say no to his offer.
“I just—I think it might help,” Steve shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant but you notice the way the tips of his ears redden. “I mean sex is pretty fucking vulnerable so you might just need an experience with someone you trust who cares about you. So you know it’s okay to—to let go in front of someone.”
The way he says it—with so much care in his voice that it almost makes you forget about the whole making yourself come in front of him thing. He makes it sound so sweet that you find yourself lost for words again.
“You think it’s weird,” Steve says, shifting away an inch or so away from you on the couch—in your state of shock you had barely noticed that he had begun to inch closer to you. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t have—”
“—n-no, no, no,” you stutter out before you could stop yourself with a subtle shake of your head. “I mean—yeah, it’s weird but—as you said I-I trust you.”
Steve blinks and then—seems to realise that you weren’t completely disgusted by his proposal and sits up a little straighter on the couch.
“Really? You—you’d want to try and—”
“—yes,” you say before he could finish his sentence because you were feeling incredibly turned on by the thought of Steve watching you touch yourself and you didn’t want to let rational thought creep in now. “It could help and if it doesn’t then—”
“—then we just forget it ever happened,” he finishes with a quick nod. “Yeah, totally. Like it never happened.”
You look at each other then, apparently both waiting for the other to back out. But when neither of you do, Steve visibly swallows as he stands up from his couch, holding out his hand out for you to take..
“You wanna—go somewhere more comfortable?”
Steve’s bedroom was surprisingly tidy considering the fact he hadn’t been expecting company. Still, there’s some clothes strewn across his bed that Steve makes quick work of tidying up.
“Sorry,” he mutters as he dumps the clothes onto his desk before gesturing towards his bed for you to sit down.
You glance down at his bed before you look back at him. Because now you felt nervous—now you were thinking about lying on his sheets and fingering yourself in front of him. And perhaps you were just starting to realise how insane that would be and—
“Hey.”
You feel one of Steve’s large hands on your arm and it pulls you back to reality. You hadn’t even realised that you had been staring blankly down at his plaid sheets, already too in your own head about what was about to happen. Steve’s gentle touch, his fingertips brushing over your skin help to ground you—remind you that this wasn’t a stranger you had met at a bar or someone you had been set up with by a mutual friend. This was Steve. Your good, totally platonic friend, Steve.
“You’re okay,” he says gently, thumb rubbing gentle circles in your skin and unknowingly turning your insides into goo. “I’m gonna put on some music, okay? Help you relax a bit. Just take a seat.”
You listen because you did not know what else to do, sitting on the very edge of his bed and watching as he walks over to his vinyl player perched on top of a chest of drawers. You continue to watch him from the back as he sorts through the small stack of vinyls he had, apparently trying to find the perfect record.
A few moments later, the sound of Baby Now That I’ve Found You by the Foundations starts to play and you feel your shoulders visibly relax before Steve turns around to look at you.
“Really?” You ask him with a faint smile. “Is this you trying to set the mood?”
“That obvious, huh?” Steve asks you as he steps towards the bed—towards you.
You watch him, your lips parting as he stands a foot or so away from you now. The room feels five times smaller as Steve’s eyes are on you.
“What if it doesn’t work?” You ask Steve suddenly. “What if there’s something wrong if me or—”
Steve cuts you off by saying your name and the way he says it steals the air from your lungs.
“There is nothing wrong with you,” Steve says firmly, as though he believed every syllable. “Absoluetly nothing.”
You nod, choosing to believe him as you look at his face, the smooth voices of the Foundations putting you a little more at ease. “Okay so—we’re doing this. Okay. Are you just going to watch me or—”
You stop when you see Steve shaking his head. Your body suddenly feels hot, as though all the blood in your body had been replaced by fire. It was almost as though it seemed to know what Steve was going to say before he said it.
“No,” Steve says in a low voice that goes straight to your aching centre. “You’re going to show me. And I’ll show you.”
Everything became very still after that. The both of you just looked at each other—your chest heaving and his eyes flickering over your face as though trying to find any hint of uncertainty. You wanted to be the one to make the first move and you almost do, your fingers curling into the sheets beneath you as you build up the courage to do so. But before you could find the hem of your t-shirt, Steve begins to lift up his top.
The first flash of his soft stomach, of his happy trail and you seemed to forget how to breathe. God, he was gorgeous. Moles and freckles were dotted over his skin, there was a generous smattering of hair over his chest that made your thighs press together and you wanted nothing more than to run your fingers through it. In truth, you could have looked at him for hours.
But instead, you take a deep breath before you very slowly get to your feet.
Steve is watching you carefully as you begin to lift up your own shirt. His eyes on you should have made you feel self conscious, should have made you think twice of the very unsexy bra you were wearing, should have made you think of all the parts of yourself you didn’t like. But there was something about the way he was looking at you as you let your shirt fall to the floor that made you feel the very opposite of self conscious.
And so, before you could second guess yourself—you made the next move before him.
Your fingers fiddle momentarily with the button of your jeans before you unzip them, the sound making Steve’s eyes widen slightly. And when you begin to tug your jeans down over your hips and then your thighs, leaving you in just your mismatched underwear, you watch in fascination as a faint blush creeps up Steve’s neck.
You step out of your jeans, not looking away from Steve for even a second so you didn’t miss a single facial expression. So that you didn’t miss the way the flush had crept up his cheeks and right up to the very tips of his ears, how his breathing had started to become shallow.
“You look—”
“—don’t,” you say, surprised to find that your voice was barely a whisper.
“Why not?” He asks gently, head tilting to the side as he begins to unbuckle his belt.
You lick your lips, eyes still on his face but desperately wanting to shift lower to watch as he unzips his jeans.
“Becuase I might think that you’re just saying it to make me feel better,” you say. “Considering what we’re about to do.”
“I would never lie about how beautiful I think you are,” Steve says simply, his eyes still on you as he finally pulls his jeans down.
You barely have a moment to comprehend Steve calling you beautiful before you catch sight of him in only his boxers. He was—shit, he was perfect. You let your eyes dip down to feast on his delicious thighs, his boxers that had a large, noticeable tent in them that made your core throb.
Your throat felt dry, you didn't quite know what to do. All you knew is that Steve Harrington was hard just by looking at you. The thought sends a hot surge through your body, as though every damn nerve was suddenly burning beneath your skin. And perhaps it was that thought—the idea that you had made Steve hard without really doing anything—that you reached carefully behind you to unclip your bra.
Steve visibly swallows as your breasts spill out, finally seeing your hardened peaks as you let your bra fall to the floor alongside your t-shirt and jeans.
There was a beat and then—
He begins to tug down his boxers.
You had imagined what Steve Harrignton’s cock would look like more times than you cared to admit. But every mental image you had conjured up was nothing—nothing—compared to what was standing to attention right in front of you. His cock was long, thick and heavy, so heavy in fact it had made an audible sound when it had slapped against his soft tummy. His cock was beautiful—he was beautiful. Slightly curved in a way that you knew was made for hitting that spot inside of you just right. The ruddy tip of his cock was already leaking precum, which you shamelessly watch drool along a vein bulging along his length. Your mouth felt incredibly dry as you ogled the sheer size of him, imagining what it would be like for his thick cock to split you open—
You come to your senses just enough to discard your panties. They stick to your cunt briefly due to how fucking drenched you already were and Steve notices—his bottom lip between his teeth as he marvels at how your lips cling to the fabric before giving way, his cock twitching when he sees the damp patch your wetness had caused.
And there you both were, both finally completely bare in front of one another for the first time. Both looking shamelessly at the other’s body, both clearly desperate to touch the other but not dare to do so.
And then, without a word to each other, you sink back down onto his bed while Steve reaches blindly behind him to pull out his desk chair.
It was only now beginning to feel real, as you look at Steve’s face at the same time he looks at you.
“Still with me?” He asks you breathlessly.
You take your time to answer, spreading your legs a little wider and watching with immense satisfaction as his eyes flicker down to your soaked pussy. Another surge of something hot like molten lava surges through you as you notice the way his hand twitches towards his cock.
“Yeah,” you breathe out. “Still with you.”
You could have looked at each other for hours, days even. But your pussy was clenching around nothing and more precum dribbled out of Steve’s cock and you both knew you couldn’t wait any longer.
Steve moved first, one of his large hands wrapping around his thick cock before giving himself one, two gentle strokes. The sound of his own precum wetting his cock was obscene and it was that noise that made you trail your fingers delicately over the skin of your inner thigh before making contact with the soaked, sensitive flesh between your legs.
The relief was instant. You felt your entire body relax, your eyelids flutter for a brief moment before you made sure to look back at Steve. He was already watching you and for a moment you just smile at each other—almost shyly despite the situation—before you both focus back on pleasuring yourselves.
Your fingers glide easily through your folds, your slick allowing you to plunge two fingers inside of yourself. A breathy moan left your lips before you could stop it. You were almost embarrassed by it but then you notice the way Steve’s jaw clenches at the sound, the way he squeezes his cock a little bit tighter.
His words—his filthy fucking words—go right through you. Your cunt clenches around your fingers and you briefly wonder if you had died and gone to heaven, if Steve Harrington was really dirty talking to you right now.
“C’mon pretty girl,” Steve grits out as he pumps his dick that little bit faster, eyes not leaving yours. “Don’t hold back. Please, baby. Don’t you dare hold back on me.”
You could barely believe it, the words that were falling from his lips, the pet names he had just called you. But you didn’t question it—too busy fucking yourself with your slick fingers as you let out another soft, almost pornographic moan.
“That’s it,” Steve murmurs, the schlick, schlick, schlick of him fucking his fist filling the room as he watching your soaked fingers move in and out of your needy hole like it was the best damn thing he had ever seen. “Soak your fingers f’me. That’s so fucking hot.”
You let out a whimper at that, his words having such an impact on you that your hips buck upwards to meet your fingers, your eyes fluttering again as pleasure floods into every pore over your skin.
“Steve,” you mewl out as your fingers pump in and out of your hole, your breasts bouncing with each and every thrust. “Fuck, Steve. Feels so fucking good.”
Steve hadn’t been expecting you to dirty talk but god, had it been the most welcome surprise.
“Yeah? Gonna make yourself come for me, sweet girl?” Steve asks you, now pumping his dick frantically as he watches you roll your hips against his bed—your slick soaking his sheets. “Gonna get my bed all wet? Make me smell you on my sheets for days?”
You whimper and nod desperately as you curl your fingers, hitting that spongey spot inside of you that had you mewling out yet again.
“Gonna touch your clit for me?” Steve asks you, breathing heavily as he tries to hold back as the sight of you pleasuring yourself on his bed was suddenly becoming too much for him. “C’mon, please. Wanna see you lose it, baby.”
It was like Steve knew exactly what you needed, almost as though he knew your body better than you did without even touching it.
Your other hand—the one that had been curled into the sheets beneath you—journeys to between your legs. And that first brush of your fingertip over your swollen, arching clit had you seeing stars. You’re pretty sure you moan out Steve’s name but it also could have been nonsense. All you could focus on was Steve’s own pleasure dancing across his face and the dual sensation of your fingers plunging in and out of your soaked cunt and the other that was circling around your clit.
Pleasure was consuming you—it was white hot and you could feel it pulsing in every nerve in your body. You could feel the blood in your veins burning as the coil in your gut was pulled tighter and tighter while you played with your swollen clit.
“That’s it,” Steve gasps out, his eyes only on you as you neared the edge. “C’mon, baby. Be a good girl and come for me. You can do it, I know you can.”
You wish that you could have held on, that you could have prolonged your pleasure by a few more seconds. But your orgasm had snuck up on you—crashing over you like a tidal wave. Your thighs shook, your toes curled and Steve’s name fell from your lips as you came all over your fingers, your juices soaking Steve’s bed.
And it was that—watching you finally trusting him enough to let yourself go completely that made Steve follow along right behind you. You watch in awe as his toes curl, as his stomach clenches and how his head tilts back against the back of the chair in ecstasy, his release spilling all over that soft tummy of his. Steve lets out a loud groan, followed by your name and you swear, you could have come for a second time from that sound alone.
You withdraw your fingers as you catch your breath, your chest heaving and body still buzzing after the intensity of your orgasm.
Finally, after taking a moment or two to prepare yourself, you finally look at Steve’s face. He was already looking at you and smiling.
“See,” he breathes out. “Nothing’s wrong with you. It’s all about trust.”
“Steve Harrington being right for once?” You say, smiling. “It must be a miracle.”
You both laugh and though you both clean up, get dressed and promise each other nothing will change between you—deep down you both knew that after tonight? Things would never be the same again.
a loud groan left steve’s lips as you bounce on his dick. he throws his head back into the pillows, gripping your hips tightly as you move up and down, moaning at the feeling of his cock deep inside of you. your pace is relentless, your tight pussy squeezing around him in a way that has steve seeing stars. his fingers dig deeper into the skin of your hips. “baby, please…” he whines out, and you slow the rolls of your hips for a moment. “no, don’t stop, please, i’m close. fuck, please don’t stop.” a smirk settles on your lips as you pick up the pace again, bouncing down on him harder and faster, his cock bruising your cervix and his eyes roll back into his head. “fuck, honey, please. ‘m so close, please. don’t stop, keep going. shit.” with a load moan, steve finishes inside of you, warm, sticky ropes of his cum filling you up. but you haven’t finished yet, and as you keep riding him, steve whimpers. a white ring of his cum and your juices forms at the base of his cock with each grind of your hips as you ride him. “baby…” steve looks up at you with wide eyes, holding back almost pained moans as you overstimulate his cock. “please.” his grip on your hips loosens, his fingers instead tangling in the bedsheets. “what?” you smile down at him innocently. “you asked me not to stop.” he whines at you and you lean down to kiss him. “just let me cum, okay, baby?” a whimper leaves his lips, but he nods, groaning the moment you pick up the pace again.
- steve thinks you're shutting him out because you don't trust him; he doesn't realize you're spending every day trying to survive the place you call home
- cw: abusive home life, y/n mentions angst
the fight started because steve was tired.
not angry. not at first.
just tired because every time something was wrong, you disappeared behind a smile. every time life got hard, you insisted you were fine. every time steve reached for you, you met him halfway and then stopped.
he knew you loved him, that wasn't the problem. you loved him in a hundred quiet ways. you always remembered how he took his coffee. you kept extra band-aids in your purse because he somehow managed to cut himself doing the simplest things. you left notes in his jacket pockets. you called robin when you knew steve was struggling but wouldn't admit it.
you loved loudly through actions, just never through words.
and steve was exhausted trying to guess what was happening inside your head.
"just tell me what's wrong."
you looked away immediately. "nothing."
"there is always something."
"steve—"
"don't." his voice wasn't loud, which somehow made it worse.
you stared at him as he rubbed a hand over his face.
"i'm not asking for every thought you've ever had."
"then what are you asking for?"
"anything." the word came out broken. "i'm asking for anything."
guilt twisted in your stomach because there were things—so many things. the unpaid bills hidden in drawers. the holes punched into walls. the screaming matches. your dad. always your dad.
but if you started talking about it, it became real, and if it became real, you weren't sure you'd survive it.
"i just don't like talking about stuff."
steve laughed. once. humorless. "see, that's exactly what i'm talking about."
your chest tightened.
"i'm trying."
"no," his jaw clenched, and the words hit harder than they should have because part of you feared they were true.
steve looked frustrated and hurt. "you tell me enough to shut the conversation down."
you swallowed. "that's not fair."
"isn't it?"
silence.
the worst part was that you couldn't defend yourself because he wasn't entirely wrong.
steve looked away. when he spoke again, his voice was quieter, which somehow hurt more.
"i don't think you trust me."
your head snapped up. "that's not true."
"then why am i always the last person to know when something's wrong?"
"you're not."
"really?" he laughed again. "because that's what it feels like."
you opened your mouth, closed it, and opened it again. nothing came out, and steve saw it, saw you choosing silence again. something in his expression cracked.
"okay." your stomach dropped. the "okay" wasn't okay, and you knew it immediately.
"steve—"
"no." he stood up. "i'm done dragging information out of you."
"that's not what you're doing."
"isn't it?" his eyes were glassy now, hurt—so hurt.
"i love you." the words nearly broke you. "but i'm tired."
you stared at him.
"i'm tired of guessing," he swallowed, "when you're ready to actually let me in, come find me."
your heart started pounding.
"what does that mean?"
steve looked away, and that terrified you more than yelling ever would.
"it means i'm not doing this anymore."
"steve—"
"i'm serious," his voice cracked. "i can't keep being the only one trying. it's your turn."
and he left, leaving you standing there, wondering if you still had a boyfriend or if you had just watched your relationship end.
the next few days were hell. and not because of steve.
your sister leaving wasn’t supposed to happen like that.
you found out because her bedroom was empty. that was it—no conversation, no warning, no goodbye.
you came home from work and stood in her doorway, staring at the bare walls. the closet was empty, the dresser was gone, and the bed frame had been taken apart.
for a moment, you genuinely thought you had walked into the wrong room. then you noticed the note. just three words: "i'm sorry."
your knees nearly gave out.
you called her immediately, but it went straight to voicemail. again. voicemail. again. voicemail. on the fourth attempt, she finally answered. you didn’t even say hello.
“you left?” silence.
then, “i couldn't do it anymore.” your throat tightened. “you left.” guilt flooded her voice.
“i know.”
“you didn't tell me.”
“because if i told you, i would have stayed.” that somehow hurt worse.
you sank onto the floor, surrounded by the ghost of her room.
“you just left me here,” the words slipped out before you could stop them.
silence.
heavy silence.
then a shaky breath.
“i’m sorry.”
you closed your eyes because you knew she was. you understood exactly why she left. you just hated that she could and you couldn’t—at least not yet.
suddenly, it was just you and him now.
that night, your dad barely spoke. the next day was worse, and the day after that was even worse.
by friday, you felt like you were drowning.
you thought about calling steve a hundred times, but his words kept replaying in your mind: "it's your turn."
every time you picked up the phone, fear stopped you. what if it was too late? what if he didn't want to hear it anymore? what if he was done? so, you said nothing. again.
this turned out to be the worst possible choice.
the fight happened in the car.
rain hammered against the windshield as your dad gripped the steering wheel, already angry before either of you spoke.
you tried anyway. “why are you acting like this?” you asked.
nothing.
“dad.”
his jaw tightened, “drop it.”
“i’m just asking—”
“i said drop it.”
you looked out the window, then back at him.
“ever since she left—”
“get out.”
you blinked. “what?”
“get out.”
you stared, certain you had heard wrong. the rain pounded harder. “dad—”
“get. out.”
your stomach dropped. “we’re three miles from home.”
“then walk.”
“are you serious?” he slammed the brakes, and the car lurched.
“out.”
your eyes burned with anger and confusion as you climbed out. the door slammed behind you, and he drove away just like that, leaving you standing in the rain.
across town, dustin henderson happened to be looking out his bedroom window, partly out of boredom and partly because he liked spying on the neighborhood.
his eyes narrowed as he spotted a familiar car and a familiar argument. a familiar girl.
“what the hell?” he watched your dad speed away, watched you stand there alone, and watched you start walking, completely soaked.
dustin didn’t hesitate. he grabbed the phone and dialed immediately.
steve answered on the third ring. “what?”
“uh,” dustin looked back outside. “don’t freak out.”
“that’s literally the worst way to start a sentence.”
“i think something’s wrong with y/n.”
silence. immediate silence.
“what happened?”
dustin explained everything. with every second, steve became quieter until he finally asked, “where is she now?”
“walking.” another pause, then steve instructed, “stay inside.”
by the time you finally made it back, you were soaked to the bone. your shoes squelched with every step, your hair stuck to your face, and your hands were shaking from the cold and exhaustion. all you wanted was to get inside.
instead, you found your dad standing in the driveway, throwing a duffel bag into the back of his truck.
your stomach dropped. not again. not another fight. not today.
he spotted you immediately, and his expression darkened.
"finally."
you stopped walking, too tired to even defend yourself.
"dad—"
"where the hell have you been?"
you stared at him. seriously?
"you told me to get out."
"don't start."
you laughed, actually laughed, because the alternative was crying. "don't start?"
he slammed the truck door. "i've got enough problems without dealing with your attitude."
your chest tightened. "my attitude?"
"everything's always about you."
you physically recoiled, as if he had hit you, because nothing in your life had ever been about you. not once. not ever.
"she left because of you." the words slipped out, and the second they did, you wished they hadn’t. his face changed instantly, dangerously.
"what did you say?"
you swallowed. too late. way too late. "you heard me."
silence enveloped you, making your stomach knot. his voice dropped—quiet, which was always worse.
"after everything i've done for this family…"
you almost laughed again because what family? there wasn't one anymore. just him, and you, and a house that felt like a minefield.
"you're unbelievable." he shook his head. "just like your sister."
the words landed exactly where he wanted them to, and you felt them. he saw that and kept going. "both of you are selfish."
your eyes burned. "stop."
"both of you are ungrateful."
"stop."
"both of you—"
"i said stop!" the scream tore out of you, and suddenly, the entire street felt silent.
your dad stared. you stared.
neither of you noticed the bmw that had pulled up at the curb—not at first. your dad laughed, cold and mean.
"there she is."
your stomach dropped because you knew that laugh.
"all that crying and carrying on."
you looked away, humiliation crawling up your throat. "just leave me alone."
"that's your problem." he pointed at you. "always the victim."
you physically flinched, and that’s when you saw him—steve—standing beside his car, frozen, watching.
oh god.
your blood ran cold because he’d heard it, heard enough, seen enough.
your dad followed your gaze, noticed steve, scoffed, then grabbed his keys.
"whatever." he climbed into the truck, slammed the door, and drove away, leaving silence behind.
you couldn't breathe.
steve was still standing there, staring, not judging, not angry, which somehow made it worse.
you wanted him angry. anger was easier. anger you understood.
pity would kill you.
without a word, you turned and hurried toward the house.
"hey." you ignored him, your hand shaking as you unlocked the door.
"y/n."
the door opened, and you practically ran inside.
the last thing you wanted was for him to see—too late.
steve stepped in behind you and stopped, completely frozen. now he could see it—really see it.
the dent beside the hallway, the hole in the living room wall, the cracked picture frame, the patched drywall. the damage that suddenly explained everything. the things you’d spent years strategically hiding now all sitting out in the open.
steve looked around slowly. once, twice, three times.
his face got paler with every second.
"oh." the word barely came out.
you closed your eyes, humiliation flooding every inch of you.
"now you know. congratulations."
steve didn’t answer.
you laughed bitterly. "this is why i don't talk about it. this is why i don't invite people over. this is why—"
"hey."
the softness in his voice stopped you immediately.
you looked up and saw tears in his eyes—actual tears. steve shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t process what he was seeing.
"did you think i was going to leave?"
your throat tightened because, yes, of course you did. why wouldn’t you?
steve stepped closer, carefully, like he was approaching something wounded.
"you seriously thought i was going to see this and leave?"
you couldn’t answer. his face broke completely, and suddenly he looked far more upset than you were. now he understood. not everything, but enough.
enough to realize that while he’d been angry about being shut out, you’d been surviving something alone.
the realization wrecked him.
"oh, sweetheart," the nickname shattered whatever composure you had left. you started crying immediately, and steve crossed the room before you could look away, pulling you into his arms. he held you so tightly it almost hurt. and for the first time since he walked away after that fight, neither of you let go.
angst angst angst! reader gets injured pretty bad in the upside down on a crawl maybe, blacks out or something dramatic, boyfriend!steve is beside himself with worry. hes pictured their whole lives together, he cant lose her, he cant, he cant. eventually they get to safety, happy ending? thanks love!
જ⁀➴ crawl gone wrong
holy shit i hate this so much 😭😭😭 but idk how much longer i can hold back on you guys 💔 hopefully i get back into writing ASAPPPP
steve felt his heart stop when he saw you go limp in his arms.
the crawl wasn’t supposed to end this way—with you bleeding out in his arms. you were supposed to go in and out unscathed like the dozens of times before.
a demogorgon wasn’t supposed to jump out of nowhere and practically shred your abdomen.
steve wasn’t supposed to see any blood bubbling out of your body. he wasn’t supposed to hear your breathing come to a stop. he wasn’t supposed to feel your heartbeat wither.
none of this was supposed to happen.
you two were supposed to flee hawkins the second the lockdown was over. you two were supposed to travel the world and have kids. you were supposed to settle down in a small town near the countryside and have a huge farm. acres and acres of land.
steve could imagine a life without the farm and the kids, but a life without you? that’s no life worth living.
he pressed his index and middle finger to your neck, right above your pulse. weak, but present.
he let out a relieved breath. “come on, sweetheart. can’t leave me yet.”
he shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around your torso before picking you back up.
he cut the crawl short and made his way back to the right side up. his every step carried a heavy weight. your life was in his hands, and if he lost it simply because he wasn’t fast enough—
“no.” he shook his head. “stay with me, baby, we’re almost there.”
he pressed his fingers to your pulse once more and it was… stronger? he wasn’t sure if it was his mind playing tricks on him or if there was some sort of miracle, but he really was not complaining. in fact, it only drove him more determined to get back the squawk.
you were not to die in the upside down.
the second he stepped foot into the familiar building and his found family gaped at the damage that had been done to you, his lip trembled and he stood frozen in place.
he became hyperaware of your blood leaking through his jacket, leaving red splotches across the blue denim. he became hyperaware of the dullness that overtook your skin, and the color fading from your lips.
hopper—sprained ankle and all—took three long strides and took you out of steve’s arms.
steve still remained frozen in place, his hands and shirt drenched in your blood. his hands were still outstretched. he looked down and saw how red they were and his stomach turned.
robin placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him to the bathroom. she turned on the sink and pumped soap into his hands.
he turned to look at her, eyes wide and teary. “if she dies—”
she cut him off. “don’t say that.”
“i’m not gonna be able to do it.” he shook his head. “i can’t do this without her. robin, she’s everything—”
“i know. i know that. hop’s got her.” her throat bobbed. “she’s gonna be fine.”
“if i was paying more attention—”
“you can’t do this to yourself, steve.” she said firmly, tugging off the hoodie she was wearing.
she placed her hands on the hem of his shirt. “up.”
she didn’t make any comments or scrunch her face up in disgust at his chest hair—she wasn’t even thinking about that this time around. she tossed the bloodied shirt in the trash and tugged her hoodie over his head.
good thing she was wearing one of her oversized hoodies.
“listen to me.” she grabbed his jaw and forced him to look at her. “you’re gonna go out there and sit next to her. you’re gonna be there when she wakes up, okay? you’re gonna be the first face she sees.”
he nodded wordlessly, eyes still oh so wide.
“and i’m gonna be next to you the entire time.” she added. “come on.”
he found you laying on the couch while hopper tended to your wounds.
his throat bobbed. robin gave him a slight push and his feet took him to stand in front of you.
“sit, don’t hover.” hopper gruffed.
steve immediately brought himself to the floor, hand holding yours.
his eyes were flooded with a mix of worry and tears. he sniffled and hopper sent him a brief glance. “she’ll be fine, kid.”
“really?” he wiped his eye with the back of his hand.
hopper glanced and steve and his own throat bobbed. this wasn’t the former jock he got noise complaints about at least once a week—no, this was a much more vulnerable version. a version of him he last saw when steve was only a kid and frequently called the police station in fear of a break in when his parents were away.
hoppers eyes softened for half a second. “yeah.”
you didn’t wake up after hopper bandaged you up, nor soon after that.
it seemed as though a permanent frown has made its way onto steve’s face. all he could do was give your hand a squeeze every now and then and exhale shakily.
whenever anyone tries to check in on him he simply wouldn’t respond—or, he wouldn’t even hear them to begin with.
he was only snapped out of his trance when eleven placed her hand on his shoulder.
his head snapped to the right, and, upon seeing her, his face softened.
she gave him a soft smile. “hi.”
he turned back to face you, his thumb going over your knuckles in the way you like. “hey.”
“she will be okay.” el said firmly.
“i—how do you know that?” he sighed. “i thought she was a goner, el, you didn’t see her down there—”
“i did.” she cut him off. “i saw it.”
“you-you did?” steve blinked.
eleven nodded and steve’s eyes welled up again for the millionth time. “you saw how bad it was. i mean, her heart gave out on me, el.” he ran a frustrated hand through his face. “fucks sake, i can’t stop feeling how weak her heartbeat was i can’t-i don’t know what i’d do if it happened again, and i mean she lost a lot of blood—”
“i will bring her heartbeat back again.” eleven reassured. “i can’t see her die too.”
steve’s eyes widened and his lips slightly parted. “you did that?”
steve, with his hands and jeans stained with your blood, with his face covered in all sorts of upside down grime, pulled eleven in for the tightest hug she’s ever received. “thank you.”
“i love her too, steve.” she murmured against his ear. only then did he hear the wobble in her voice, and he immediately felt so foolish for not checking up on her sooner. she viewed you as the older sister she never had and seeing you almost die for something she practically brought to life—
“she’s going to wake up soon, i feel it.”
you did not wake up soon. hopper took el back home before you could wake up.
steve fell asleep sitting on the floor, hand holding yours, and his head on your thigh.
when you stirred, he awoke. he brushed your hair back until your eyes peeled open. you let out a pained gasp and his hand dropped to cup your face.
when you spoke, your voice was scratchy and weak. “steve?”
“hey,” he smiled softly. “damn thing got you good, huh?”
“i’m-i’m okay?” you questioned.
he nodded. “hop patched you up.”
“steve, i thought…” you trailed off, shaking your head.
he wiped away a tear you hadn’t known had fell with the pad of his thumb. “doesn’t matter what we thought. you’re here now.”
he watched as a frown made its way onto your face. he couldn’t help but smile. he knew what kind of frown that was. it was your angry frown. the one you got before you cursed someone’s bloodline. “i’m not going down to that shithole again, steve, i swear.”
“no you won’t.” even though it was said through a chuckle, you knew he was being dead serious. “can’t do this bullshit without you.”
you gave him a weak grin. “what—the crawls? i’m sure hop isn’t a bad—”
“life.” he corrected.
“lucky for you i’m not going anywhere.”
and suddenly, the farm with the six kids came back into view. he saw the aching backs and the cracky knees and the gray hairs. he saw it all, and he wasn’t going to let it slip through his fingers ever again.
Summary: Complete re-write of Stranger Things in which Dustin Henderson’s fiercely protective older sister goes from clashing with Steve Harrington to fighting beside him as Hawkins falls apart around them. What starts as a reluctant friendship slowly turns into a romance neither of them is ready to admit.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI!, AFAB reader, canon divergence (mostly starting at Season 4), enemies to friends to lovers, SLOW BURN, canon typical violence, canon typical language, canonical character death, use of nickname, no y/n, eventual smut (warnings marked in individual chapters), underage alcohol use, drug use, dual POVs, and probably more that I will add later
Notes: A Henderson!Reader? In this economy? I know. My originality is off the charts. This is basically me staying decently canon compliant up until Season 4, or when I just really don't like the way something happened. I think the Duffers did some of these characters DIRTY and/or flipped their whole personalities and motivations in between seasons. If you feel how I do, and you're in love with our boy Steve, I think you'll like this.
🖤 An Ongoing Fanfic Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library.
☾⋆ OSWDLS Full Series Masterlist here.
VOLUME III • Chapters 81 -> 82 -> 83
Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader
enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 into S5 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting turned happy ending (no more upside down!), ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
🎧 Fic Song Inspo: "Infinite Baths" by Sleep Token
(s/o to @silkholland for this)
🖤 CHAPTERS SUMMARY: The plan was never to turn back and put your entire party in a position to be caught redhanded. But sometimes, plans change. Now it’s time to put everyone’s poker faces, Russian and survival instincts to the test.
Question is…
Will it work?
🖤 AUTHOR’S NOTE: WE ARE SO BACK!!!!!!!!!!
Get ready for some angsty thrill rides up ahead. We’re all very much in the thick of my S5 hot take with this story. Steve & Babe Bauman are eternally my Roman Empire. Their story is my longest one, and even when we reach their “happy ever after…” it still keeps going.
Enjoy the mayhem. It only gets crazier from here.
Xx,
misha
OVERALL WARNINGS: (t.w.'s in advance that applies throughout the series) end-of-the-world upside down themed mayhem, graphic descriptions of v**lence, graphic descriptions of s*x, arguing, strong language, heavy topics, sensitive mental health matters. mega comfort to balance the mega hurt/comfort trope. 🖤
Chapter Eighty-One
Checkpoint Charade
April 1987 • Day 1 of the Plan
“There’s a line,” Jonathan says quietly, “between acting like a soldier and becoming one.”
No one adds to that.
It’s already true enough as is.
Because it’s morning now. A gray, skeletal morning. The tank has stopped. The storm still snarls overhead like a dying god, but the worst of it’s begun to lift. Rain runs in stripes down the thick front glass of Dingus-1, refracting the silhouette of a looming checkpoint just half a mile up ahead. A military vehicle rolls past like a phantom and its guards move like ants in black coats.
Inside this tank, no one breathes wrong.
You’re all in uniform. All disguised.
And somehow that’s the most fucked up part.
Because it works.
Argyle’s long, silky hair is shoved under a standard-issue helmet. Jonathan’s newly shaved. Nancy’s sweet face is obscured beneath thick goggles and a dark drawstringed scarf. Hopper and Joyce are both completely covered up, hooded, and silent — tucked in the very back with Max, whose eyes are the only thing visible beneath layers of uniformed camouflage. She’s curled beside them in the dark, motionless. She can’t walk today. And if she’s seen out of place, the whole charade collapses.
Steve is behind you, crouched on one knee and carefully adjusting the collar of Dustin’s uniform.
Neither of them speaks during most of it.
Dustin’s arms are slightly outstretched like a stiffened mannequin’s. His young face is set. His voice, when it finally comes, is uncharacteristically quiet. “That good?”
“Almost,” Steve says. He’s double-checking the velcro on Dustin’s left wrist, smoothing a seam. “Boot’s still loose,” he adds without blinking.
Dustin doesn’t argue. He just lifts his foot.
That alone nearly undoes Steve.
Because Dustin’s fifteen now. Grown. Brilliant. Capable. But right now, in this light, in this silence… Steve swears he looks ten again. Just some little kid allowing his older brother to tie his shoes before school. Or rather, in this case… sending him off to war.
It guts him.
Steve doesn’t say it, though. He just tightens the boot.
Across from them, you’re crouched between Mike and Lucas, tugging gloves over their fingers and zipping up their chest armor. It’s all real. It all fits. And neither one of them is goofing off, even as they remain themselves.
“Dad,” Mike mumbles, “I can’t feel my pinkie.”
“That means it’s working,” you deadpan, smoothing the sleeve seam.
Lucas hides a grin. “Do I look tall enough?”
“Freakishly, yeah,” you reply. “And you’ve got a man's voice now. That’ll scare ‘em real good.” You shake your head. “Scares me enough as it is...”
They chuckle at that. Nervous, quiet, real.
Nancy watches from the side.
Not with jealousy. Not with resentment.
Just… silent awe.
Her baby brother is different with you. They always had love, she and Mike, but it was cautious love. Conditional. Awkward. And here he is, letting you fuss with his collar like you’re his actual dad. And Steve? Steve’s basically Mom now, and no one questions it. Not even Hopper.
And maybe, just maybe… Nancy wonders if this is what it’s supposed to feel like.
Not romance. Readiness.
The way you and Steve both move like two halves of one whole. How you instinctively tag-teamed outfitting all four kids. The quiet tenderness. The bone-deep stability. The feral protectiveness underneath it all.
Nancy swallows.
She wants that. Not yours. But her own.
She’s just not sure yet if she’s built for it.
Across the tank, Jonathan laughs at something Argyle says under his breath as he adjusts his vest strap. The laugh is too sharp, too fast. A stress-laugh. But Argyle gives him a thumbs-up like it’s gospel.
“Bro, we’re fine,” Argyle says. “We’re not dead yet. Let’s keep that vibe alive.”
Jonathan snorts, checks the clip on his belt. Argyle hands him a fake ID and salutes.
Up front, Robin’s at the wheel, eyes locked on the road.
Eddie sits next to her in full gear, twirling a fake security badge. “So,” he says casually, “what if I get bored and bust out my Queen’s English?”
“You’ll get shot,” Robin mutters.
Eddie sighs. “That’s fair.”
“By me.”
He gawks. “Well then.”
They’re already fully dressed, completely ready. And you are meant to flank them, the front line crew, so you step forward, boots clunking up toward the front panel. Argyle joins you, his energy calm and quiet. Stoic.
Murray appears behind you like a ghost, now squinting at the three boys standing ready behind you. “Pop quiz,” he says grimly.
Mike, Lucas and Dustin all straighten.
He points at Dustin first. “Russian accent. Now.”
Dustin doesn’t flinch.
He switches immediately and it’s perfect.
“Now give me words,” Murray nods at him.
“Ты, возможно, будешь один из моих лучших учеников,” Dustin says without hesitation.
Murray grunts. “Good. Stick to that.”
Then he points at Mike and Lucas. “You two—grow up. Drop the octave. You’re both men now. Act like it.”
Mike clears his throat and says something brutally mature and soldier-esque. Lucas coughs and tries again, but he’s also got his deepest voice down… and the way he leans into an American accent somehow sounds foreign.
Murray smirks. “Better. Try not to squeak when they ask questions.”
From up front, Robin calls, “Dustin. Was that Russian fluent…? I couldn’t tell, it was too sexy.”
“Lowkey?” Eddie adds. “That was hot, Henderson.”
Dustin bows, only mildly smug.
Steve leans over to you, low-voiced. “If he wasn’t my son, I’d be concerned.”
You smirk. “Makes two of us.”
Steve looks back at the checkpoint, then at you. His voice drops another octave. “We survive this, angel? I’m gonna do very bad things to you. And by bad I mean illegal in multiple states.”
You blink, stomach flipping. “Why does that make me wanna get caught?”
He grins, razor-sharp. “Oh I’ll catch you.”
And then he’s stepping forward, right next to Murray, in front of the kids as you bite your lip like a lovesick idiot.
Then your uncle and your lover fist-bump without looking.
It’s time.
The checkpoint looms up ahead.
A stark, skeletal gate stretching across the road, manned by three visible guards. One is pacing. Another is talking into a comms unit. The third one watches your tank like a hawk as you all rumble forward and approach them.
Rain slaps the windows.
Good, you think. The more coverage, the better.
You move to stand just behind Robin and Eddie, one hand on the overhead bar. Argyle stands beside you, shoulders square. You can feel the energy in the tank tighten like a noose.
Robin kills the engine.
The tank hisses to a stop.
The guard steps forward, barking something inaudible.
Robin opens the hatch and leans out. “Morning. Scouting unit. Storm recon.”
Her voice doesn’t sound like Robin. It’s crisp, sharp. Zero sarcasm. She hands over papers without blinking.
Eddie chimes in beside her. “Scheduled report drop, sector C, quadrant nine.”
Nancy and Jonathan are nearly invisible now, hunkered low, ready to fire if necessary... Hopper looms behind a viewport like some passive brute, faceless. Joyce is still tucked with Max, breathing shallowly.
Then another officer approaches. Higher rank. Different uniform. Eyes sharp.
But he doesn’t look at you all harshly.
He’s smiling.
“Привет,” he says, suddenly speaking Russian too. His accent is strange. American. But the words are fluent.
Oh shit, you realize. They’re scared of us…
You can tell that this is registering silently for Robin and Eddie, too. Argyle also lets this click and tilt his head at the higher, ranked officer, saying more to him in Russian as he whistles and gestures towards the back of the tank.
Dustin stiffens.
But off your single nod, Murray nods once too.
Permission granted.
So with that, Dustin steps forward slowly. And god bless Steve, he squeezes his small arm once in passing, then lets him go quickly… even though he’s dreading it.
The boy walks straight to the front, posture perfect and ready to put on the act. You make room for him, all while Murray and Steve maintain their wide stance positions in front of Mike and Lucas — who also stand as tall looming statues, looking far too old for their own good.
Finally, Dustin speaks.
Clear, fluid, precise.
He answers every question that the officer tosses at him. States your mission. Your timing. Your parameters. Your orders. Says nothing suspicious, offers nothing specific. It’s dazzling. It’s dizzying. And it’s so damn grounded, it makes your lips twitch with disturbed pride underneath your masked face.
Argyle backs him up with a little slang. Something real, something unscripted.
The officer nods.
He’s still kissing ass. And he’s still keeping up with the Russian language while butchering it with the American accent.
But it’s working…
Holy shit, it’s working.
Robin throws in a fake complaint about the rain. Eddie fake-groans about “this busted hunk of steel that needs replacing.” Both of them sell it… by underselling it.
And then…
Clearance.
Just like that, the officer waves you through.
All of you.
He even tips his hat to Robin. She mildly offers the same and kicks the tank back in drive while Dustin grips onto a seat’s back, with you and argyle flanking him, holding the bars overhead as the tank drives forward.
No one speaks until you’re two miles past the gate.
“Holy shit,” Eddie exhales.
“Oh I’m shitting alright,” Robin huffs, smiling hard.
Steve immediately claps a hand on Dustin’s back. “That was insane, dude.”
You grab him next, shaking his shoulders, half-laughing, half-in-disbelief. “You perfect little gremlin. I could pinch your smug cheeks like a proud mama.”
Dustin bows. “I accept.”
Argyle reaches out and fist-bumps him. “Little comrade’s got fire, dog.”
Jonathan lets out a breath so deep it might’ve cracked a rib. “I didn’t even get to rock my shaved face, though,” he jokes. “I’m pissed!”
Argyle shoves him and grins.
They both laugh.
“We’ll snap a picture of it,” you laugh.
“New ID photo,” Jonathan declares.
Nancy climbs down from her sniper spot and wraps her arms tightly around Mike’s shoulders from behind. “You were incredible.”
Mike blushes. “I said nothing. You were better.”
“I was hidden.”
“Exactly,” he shrugs. “Still better.”
Lucas pulls off his gloves and flops backward. “I aged ten years in five minutes.”
“I aged ten years watching you,” Steve says, tugging you to his side.
Max peeks out from the dark with Joyce and Hopper. “Did we win? Blink twice if this isn’t real.”
“Fuck yes, we won,” Eddie crows. “No dual blinking here, Mayfield!”
She grins wide beneath her masked face, crinkling her bright ocean blue eyes.
Murray, bizarrely, starts laughing. Like, fully laughing, now bent over, wheezing.
The kids stare.
“You alright, Grandpa?” Lucas asks.
Mike leans in. “Gramps cracked.”
“I just—I can’t—poor Pops,” Hopper says from the back, straight-faced.
Murray straightens, eyes wide. “You shut your goddamn mouth—”
“I said Pops,” Hopper barks with amusement.
Murray points. “Too close.”
Everyone howls.
Even Joyce is giggling. Even Max is still grinning, and she lets herself nuzzle against the group’s mama bear.
Steve wraps an arm around you and kisses your temple. “Still down for those illegal activities?”
Heat flares inside your gut. “You have no idea.”
Outside, the road stretches forward into a ghost town. Rain keeps falling. The air hums with a strange, quiet static, the start of something new bubbling towards the surface.
You’ve all crossed the border.
All of you are back in Hawkins now.
And nothing will ever be the same.
Chapter Eighty-Two
Ghost Protocol
April 1987 • Day 1 of the Plan (continued)
The wheels grind softly over wet pavement, Dingus-1 pushing forward like some slow, haunted beast. The rain outside has thinned to a ghostly drizzle, misting the landscape in a cold gray shroud. Trees blur past the narrow viewports, skeletal and half-dead. The road signs are familiar now—more than familiar.
Because you’re back in Indiana.
And no one in the tank knows whether to cheer or cry.
You’re seated just behind the front compartment, pressed against the cool side wall beside Max and Joyce. Steve is half-standing, crouched slightly beside you with one hand gripping a pipe overhead… the other resting protectively near your shoulder. And somewhere between the warmth of his presence and the steady murmur of voices from the back, you finally exhale.
“You know,” Robin mutters from the front, “I don’t mean to start us off with a panic spiral, but… why were they all so polite to us?”
Eddie snorts from the co-pilot chair (what passes for one in the tank’s grim interior). “That guy tipped his hat at you like we were brunch buddies. I don’t tip hats at brunch.”
“Timeout,” Mike shook his head. “You mean they weren’t just being procedural assholes…?”
“She means the Russian thing,” Argyle says, his voice calm, but laced with curiosity. “They heard me speaking Russian and immediately brought in the big dogs.”
Dustin looks up from where he’s fiddling with a tactical strap. “And none of those guards were Russian. Not even close.”
“They were American,” you say softly, brows drawing in. “All of them.”
Murray makes a low, thoughtful sound as he leans back against the wall beside Mike. “Which begs the question… why the hell are Americans so eager to accommodate Russians right now?”
“They weren’t just accommodating,” Steve adds, jaw tight. “They were kissing ass.”
“Hard,” Robin agrees.
You nod, glancing toward Dustin and Argyle. “What were they saying to you two?”
Dustin shrugs. “It was pretty standard protocol stuff at first. Asked for identification. Clarification on the unit number. When Argyle and I gave them the sector info, one of them asked which facility we were assigned to.”
Argyle chimes in, “I told them we were coming from recon at a deep ops site and headed toward an extraction point.”
“And that didn’t throw them?” Steve asks, frowning.
“Not even a little,” Argyle says, mouth slightly agape. “Dude nearly complimented my vocabulary.”
Murray squints. “You used slang.”
“Russian slang,” Argyle confirms.
“My point.”
“I should not be this impressed,” Jonathan mutters from the back, almost reverently.
“Nah, you should,” Dustin deadpans. “We’re that good.”
Robin barks a laugh. “Oh, now he says it.”
“You are good,” you say genuinely, looking over at him. “Seriously, Dustin. You killed it back there.”
“Yeah, I—thanks,” he says quietly, eyes dropping. “I’m just glad it worked.”
Steve tilts his head. “Wait, hold on. How fluent are you, dude?”
Dustin pauses. “Uh. Pretty fluent.”
Robin raises an eyebrow. “Since when are you more fluent than me?”
“Since Murray started helping me.”
Murray snorts. “Kid picked it up faster than you. Not sorry if that hurts your feelings.”
Robin gasps. “Et tu, Brute?”
“Don’t feel bad,” you murmur, nudging her shoulder. “He didn’t tell me either.”
Steve blinks at Dustin like he’s seeing him for the first time. “Jesus Christ, you’re like twelve.”
You shake your head. “If we survive this, you’re getting a diploma and a plaque.”
“Hell yeah,” Mike says, then pauses. “But seriously, what does this mean?”
There’s a beat of silence. Then Hopper speaks.
“I’ll tell you what it means,” he now mutters from the floor, arms crossed, back stiff. “They’re scared. Not of us. Of who they think we are.”
Joyce immediately reaches out and presses a hand to his shoulder. “Don’t you even think about standing up, Hop.”
“I’m not,” he lies.
“You are,” Max says beside him, voice dry but fond.
Hopper huffs. “This floor sucks.”
“And getting discovered will suck harder,” Joyce stated.
Murray snorted. “That’s what she said,” he muttered.
Steve literally did a double take, while Lucas choked on air. You blinked like a disturbed robot and chose to just control-alt-delete that last second.
Joyce blinked. “Who said what…?”
“Nothing!” Mike and Nancy chirped.
“Nothing,” Hopper pretended to scold, eyes on Murray, who just shrugged and smirked at the way Jim was so clearly trying not to smirk back or laugh.
Max shifts subtly. You can tell her legs are aching even though she’s said nothing, and you don’t miss the way Joyce gently moves to open a med pack beside her.
You quietly join them now, slipping an arm around Max’s hunched shoulders, steady as her breath catches when Joyce presses two pills into her palm.
“Here,” Joyce hands her a water bottle.
“Go ahead and chug that whole thing for me if you can,” you added softly with a wink, rubbing her back.
Max swallows dryly.
“Okay,” she murmurs, swallowing the pills and obediently hydrating while you continue tenderly rubbing your palms up and down her crooked arms.
“Back to the creepy Russian deference thing,” Jonathan says, voice low, “isn’t this all reminding anyone else of Starcourt?”
“Exactly,” Hopper says grimly. “All that land? Bought up by Russian currency. Then boom. Portal underneath the goddamn mall.”
“And the mayor let it happen,” you add.
Jim scowled bitterly. “Larry Kline.”
“Schmuck,” Murray spits.
Mike leans forward. “Wait, is he still in Hawkins?”
“Good question,” Murray muses, suddenly squinting like he’s visualizing a cork board inside his brain. “If that town was evacuated under government order, then maybe…”
“Maybe he wasn’t evacuated,” you say slowly. “Or maybe he was forced out with everyone else. Either way, they cleared the whole town.”
Lucas frowns. “What if the Russians wanted it cleared?”
Silence.
The thought had flickered through his mind in real time and now it ripple through the tank.
Robin’s knuckles whiten on the wheel. “Nope. Don’t like that theory.”
“Why would they?” Joyce asks.
“To keep something hidden,” you murmur.
“Or,” Murray says slowly, eyes narrowing as he stares into the middle distance, “to bring something in.”
That sends a bigger ripple down every spine.
Even Eddie shifts, suddenly restless.
“Nope,” he says. “No thank you. You can leave that thought back at the checkpoint.”
But it tracks. The whole tank knows it.
Steve’s already lost in thought about. There’s a pensive pinch between his brows, and you feel his palm subtly press into your back, grounding. Quietly afraid.
You lean against him without looking up. “You okay?”
He exhales. “Just hate thinking about those uniforms.”
You squeeze his other hand once as it settles on your hip. He doesn’t need more than that. But he deserves more anyway.
“They slapped you,” you murmur, low enough for just him to hear. “Right off the bat. I’ll never forget that.”
His jaw clenches, hearing the way you silently seethe at the memory. He remembers it all too well.
Just as well as you do.
“I kicked their teeth in,” you add, softer now. “You weren’t awake yet. Still had us split up, but not before I got a few more hits in.” Your eyes darkened as you stared straight ahead, muttering, “should’ve seen the guy’s nose.”
Steve’s eyes dart to yours, equal parts awe and dread.
Murray blinks. “I’m sorry. Louder please? Repeat that for us little people in the back.”
“She threw hands,” Robin goes first without missing a beat. “Back at Starcourt. Took out a guard with her fucking knee.”
“Because they slapped him,” you added, still staring a hole into oblivion, “for absolutely no reason at all.”
Your uncle looked scandalized. “Why am I only hearing about this now?” Murray demands.
“Because she’s scary,” Eddie says. “And a true mystery ‘it girl’ that doesn’t disclose her hot hits.”
Steve levels him with a glare, no real heat behind it as he holds you tighter and shudders at the memory.
Murray’s still eyeing you down.
You shrug. “Timing never came up.”
“Jesus Christ,” Jonathan mutters, impressed.
“Okay but—focus,” Mike says quickly, pointing a finger. “If they think we’re Russian soldiers… are we gonna have to keep pretending to be Russian soldiers?”
“They saw no faces,” Argyle reminds the tank. “We might be good.”
“For now,” Murray adds. “But if we hit another checkpoint, Dustin and Argyle are the face of this op. They’ll expect the same ranks. Same voices. Same responses.”
That visibly unsettles Steve.
You watch him shift to glance at Dustin, before he looks away again. His hand tightens on the rail up above your head.
He doesn’t say what he’s thinking. Doesn’t need to. You already know and reach for his pinky, linking it with yours. No fuss. Just warmth.
Jonathan rubs his forehead. “It’s not a bad plan. It’s just a terrifying one.”
“They can pull it off,” Lucas says with quiet confidence. “I mean… you guys saw them.”
“I did,” Steve says. His voice is gentle, but rough. “And it scared the shit out of me.”
“Dustin?” you say softly.
He looks up to meet your eyes.
“You okay doing it again?”
Dustin exhales. “If I have to. I’ll just need to keep my sweating to a minimum.”
You offer him a small smile. “Just making sure.”
“Fair enough,” Robin says. “Consent is important even in espionage.”
That gets a half-laugh out of Max, who leans her head against your shoulder.
“Speaking of spooky espionage,” Nancy says suddenly, poking her head in from the back hatch, “you think Will and El are still meditating or floating rocks by now?”
“Oh they’re absolutely levitating,” Eddie mutters.
“Dimitri’s probably doing tai chi,” Argyle says serenely.
“Owens is praying,” Mike adds.
“He’s always praying,” Lucas says.
“Think we all are these days,” Steve murmured.
“Should we check in?” Joyce asks.
Murray shakes his head. “No signals. Not until we’re closer.”
You nod, processing all of it. Then look up front. “How long til we reach Hawkins?”
Eddie checks a GPS readout. “Hour, maybe less. We’re dragging but we’ll get there. We should probably refuel soon.”
“Agreed,” Robin says. “Sooner the better. I don’t wanna stall on the doorstep.”
“Find a pull-off,” Steve says, nodding at them upfront. “I’ll go with Jonathan. We’ll make it quick.”
“I’m coming,” Mike says immediately.
“Me too,” Lucas adds just as quickly.
Steve hesitates, scanning their faces. Then nods. “You two look the part. Just stay tight. Don’t improvise.”
“Scout’s honor,” Lucas deadpans.
“Famous last words,” Jonathan mutters.
Eventually, the tank lurches as Robin pulls gently into a clearing off the main road. Everyone tenses but nothing moves outside. No vehicles. No signs of life. Just lighter rain, breezy trees and pale mud.
Steve checks his vest. Jonathan slings a rifle. Mike and Lucas secure their gear and fasten their facial disguises while the older two boys do the same.
Nancy steps out after them, her rifle already at the ready, posted like a ghost against the rain-drenched tree line. You glance over at her and catch her eye. She raises her eyebrows.
You smirk. Sexy soldier.
She smirks back. Got our boys.
They all disappear through the hatch.
Inside the tank, things settle as Murray nudges you. “Let’s check your vitals,” he says without ceremony.
You blink. “Right. Forgot.”
Steve’s head whips around, midway out the tank.
Of course he heard that.
“You forgot?”
“Baby, I feel fine. It just slipped my mind.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“She looks fine, Steve,” Joyce offers him warmly.
Hopper leans back with a grunt. “Better check anyway.”
“Thank you,” Steve mutters with a nod, eyes on your uncle as he moves to the medical kit.
Murray’s already pulling out the equipment. You slide off the floor to let him near you, brushing your fingers lightly over Steve’s wrist before he steps back out, refastening his face mask as you try not to drool.
Argyle pokes his head out from the makeshift food bin. “Time to eat, amigos.”
Joyce nods. “Perfect timing.”
Cans are cracked. Rations are divided up as he passes them to Joyce and gets ready to serve up for everyone.
And off to the side, Hopper shifts to lean closer to Max. She’s propped quietly beside him, still clutching a ration bar. She doesn’t say anything until he does.
“Ya know, I never did ask.”
Max glances up at him in surprise. She realizes now that she’s almost never really spoken to him, other than when she would spend the night with El back at his cabin.
“Didn’t really expect to see me, huh?” he says roughly.
She huffed a laugh. “Honestly? No.”
“Just occurred to me,” Hopper jutted his chin with a tiny smirk. “You likely still thought I was dead.”
“I mean… yeah,” Max reflects on that, a small shiver running up her spine. “Last I heard before slipping into the coma was just… from El. Missing you.”
A soft silence falls over them as she looks haunted by the memory. Hopper does, too. Eventually, he hums.
“Disappointed?”
“Nah.” Max shrugs one shoulder, grinning at him, cheeky and light. “It kinda makes way more sense.”
That actually startles a laugh out of him.
“So like…” Max glances sideways at him. “You were in a Russian prison for like… a solid minute. And then you came back from the dead. And now you’re hiding in a tank.”
“You say it like it’s normal.”
She peels back a nutrition bar. “It's normal for this group.”
Hopper barks out another laugh. “God. No wonder you’re her best friend.”
Max beams at that. “She’s mine, too.”
Hopper winks at her, briefly glancing over at Joyce as she moves with argyle to carefully assort the least mess sort of grub for everyone that won’t be hard to clean up, and won’t draw attention if they’re stopped.
“Glad you’re back,” Max says after a moment, quieter now. “I’m really, really glad.”
He doesn’t say thanks. Just nudges her with his boot as she smiles around her granola bar. “You too, kid.”
That makes her smirk, a new thought crossing her mind. “We sure do like to give our family a nice death fake-out, huh?”
Hopper blinked at that a moment before his shoulders lifted up in a quiet wheeze, palm to the face. Because shit, if that wasn’t the goddamn truth.
“I mean really,” Max chuckled, pleased with his reaction. “You vanished for over half a year—”
“And you,” he grins at her, pointing, “—mentally vanished for eight months.”
“Nine months.”
“Both numbers got me beat, so,” he huffs an amused sigh and shakes his head at her. “Good game.”
Max lifted her granola bar, offering him her second one so that they could probably ‘cheers’ them. “Good game.”
Outside, Nancy taps twice on the hatch before Mike and Lucas enter with her.
“Time to roll,” comes Jonathan’s voice, who now barrels in with Steve as they shake off the dampness of the rain.
Steve flashes a crooked grin at him. “You really should shave more often. It’s a good look.”
Jonathan arched a brow. “Oh yeah? You noticing?”
Steve just shrugged. “Kinda hard not to when, y’know. We’re all packed in like sardines and have lived together for the last, I dunno — damn near year.”
That earned him a snort and light shove.
You grinned like a menace.
So did Nancy, who now plopped down beside you.
She leaned in. “Crazy to think those two used to… like…”
Even unfinished, her words deepened your grin. You leaned into her, too, lowering your voice as you both watched your boys.
“…what, have so much unresolved sexual tension?”
Nancy snorted, nudging your shoulder as you nudged her back. Max grinned over at the two of you. Even Hopper did.
Murray sighed. “Alright, well. Heartbeat’s still an ass, but it's functioning.”
You raised up a triumphant fist. “Love that for me.”
“Are we readayyyyyyy?!” Eddie suddenly rock-n-rolled from up front, earning him a giant smack upside the head from Robin even Lucas whooped with a rock on hand gesture with Mike.
Steve pointed. “Roll the tape.”
Dustin sighed. “I just sat down with some grub.”
“Good thing it’s to-go,” Mike deadpanned.
Lucas giggled like a girl as he grabbed a can of tuna.
Max made a face. “That is so alarming when you’re in uniform, babe.”
He instantly stood up straighter, making Max laugh.
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” she light waved at him with her crooked arm.
It made Steve’s heart seize, so he moved to sit next to her and Hopper, lowering down with a huff.
“What’s for dinner?”
Max grinned at him. “Canned scams.”
“Hm. My favorite.”
Hopper sighed deeply. “I never wanna look at soup so long as I live after we all make it outta this.”
Steve like the sound that.
After we all make it outta this.
After we all make it outta this.
You scrunched your nose, catching his face and making your way over to them. He instantly patted his lap for you as if you weren’t already headed straight there.
“Think it’s still standing?”
You’d asked it gently.
But the question itself was heavy.
Steve sighed through his nose. “Not sure,” he murmured, lost in thought as pulled your torso closer to him so that your back dug into his uniformed chest. “Just know that we’re all gonna stick together after this, even if it’s not.”
That made your uneven heart flutter.
You craned your neck to glance up at him. “Was that an official boyfriend offer for me to move in?”
Steve blinked at you. “Baby, if you didn’t already know I’m not letting you live in another room, much less another house…? Then I’ve already blown it as your boyfriend.”
Now your stomach was just having a fit.
A mad-happy fit of furious love and joy.
He saw it on your face, grinning. “Or maybe I didn’t.”
“No, you didn’t,” you hummed into him with deep little chuckles that vibrated against his chin. “You so fucking didn’t,” you added, even quieter. Almost dreamily.
The smile on Steve’s face grew tenfold. “Still want me to ask?”
You nodded eagerly, peeking up at him through your lashes as he chuckled softly.
Then he lifted one coy eyebrow, giving you the most beautiful Steve Harrington face you had ever seen.
“Bauman Squared,” he started, husky and low. “Angel girl. Devil woman. Light of my life, bane of my existence, daddy to my chicken nuggets…”
You were already blushing from the most heartsick chuckles that bubbled your entire chest wide open.
Steve sighed, nuzzling your nose. “Move in with me?”
He’d asked it almost shyly. As if there was somehow a possibility you’d ever say no, as if you’d even remotely consider declining the invitation.
It sent shivers down your spine.
It cracked your already unsteady heart in two.
It made your head spin, your stomach flip, your wildest dreams race through your mind all over again…
You sighed against him, nuzzling his nose back in your signature Eskimo kiss fashion. “Only if it’s forever.”
Steve’s big brown eyes crinkled, heavy-lidded as his gaze never let your own, his breathing steady and solid and all yours.
“Every single forever.”
Chapter Eighty-Three
There Will Be Blood
April 1987 • Day 2 of the Plan (arrival)
The silence is a murder weapon.
The tank rumbles like a casket dragged by God, slow and deliberate and precise over pitted concrete. Rain needles the windshield in thin, icy strands. The town ahead, your town, is a graveyard. A dead thing with its jaw pried open, crumbling teeth of broken rooftops and burned dead trees lining every street.
Not a single home is lit.
Not a single soul occupied the sidewalks.
No sign of residence can be traced.
Welcome back to Hawkins.
Up front, you stand just behind Argyle, Eddie and Dustin. Steve’s beside you, one hand clamped to the overhead rail, the other resting stiffly at your hip as he stares ahead and peruses the streets. Your arms are crossed over your chest like you’re holding yourself together by sheer force. And outside the tank’s wide bulletproof glass…
Your entire childhood disintegrates street by street.
Nothing looks familiar. Everything’s wrong.
A dead grocery store looms just up on the corner, its sign half-fallen, an entire wall blown inward from the quakes… still left beaten and battered with weathered debris. Trash and shattered glass cling to the curbs like plague. And its shelves are left naked, now exposed from the lack of wall to keep them enclosed.
Below you, Dustin adjusts his collar once, jaw twitching. But he doesn’t say a word. Neither does Eddie, helmet low and completely silent. Only his gloved hands twitch slightly near his lap, ready to reach for a weapon.
Just in case anything goes south.
Argyle drives like he was born for this. He’s composed. Smooth. Civilized. And he’s already Russian again, since there’s no telling if he’ll need to act like it again. He flicks his eyes left quickly as another tank crawls down a cross street. Military, American, government-owned.
“…alright…”
It’s barely audible, the way that Argyle murmurs it almost absentmindedly. His fake accent is still thick, even here, right now, given that he’s not daring to break it because there’s no telling if he’ll need to speak with it on the fly.
The US military tank’s cannon swivels a fraction toward you as it slows. But no one aims any weapons your way or fires off ammo.
Instead you’re all greedy with a flock of salutes.
Straight-backed. Precise.
Argyle and Dustin both return it without hesitation, fluid, almost indifferent. Eddie adds a casual nod, like a man used to being obeyed. All three of their Russian salutes are curt, confident and unfamiliar to all of the American soldiers.
No one questions you.
No one slows you down.
…yet.
Your fingers tighten on the overhead railing as the tank bounces over a downed tree limb. Steve’s hand flies up behind you, bracing your lower back. He doesn’t even look. Just touches you like muscle memory. The rattle of the tank’s frame masks the small, involuntary sound you make in the back of your throat.
Robin’s above you, half-silhouetted in the faint rainfall as she stands out the top hatch. Nancy’s huge rifle is braced against her shoulder. She doesn’t flinch as the wind slaps her. She just watches with cold calculation… like a statue carved out of war. Her long silhouette moves in stiff, slow, mechanical sweeps as she scans every rooftop, alleyway, treeline, turning at a 360-angle with military precision.
She doesn’t look scared.
She looks like vengeance.
It’s so out of character for her that it would make you all laugh and audibly gawk at just how combing it is… But there’s no time for that. Not right now.
In the back of the tank, Hopper, Joyce and Nancy are all lined up along the left-side viewports. All their fingers are poised above the interior firing mechanisms, just in case. Joyce glances down once, looking at Max.
Max, who is wedged in the corner below them, hunched small between Joyce and Hopper’s legs, arms tucked to her chest, head down. She hasn’t dared look out a single window. Not once. Not because of her faulty limbs… but because she simply does not want to see it. Not yet.
None of you blame her.
Along the opposite wall, Jonathan, Mike and Lucas are similarly posted, rifles within reach, eyes sharp through the slots. They track every corner. Every shadow. They whisper nothing. Not even to each other.
And Murray holds the rear.
He stares out the back viewport like he’s waiting to watch the past come barreling after him. Whenever he turns his head, just slightly, he murmurs only to Joyce and Hopper.
“Blessing and a curse,” he says.
Joyce doesn’t turn. “What is?”
“This disguise. This vehicle. The protocol.” His voice is paper-thin. Brittle. “We look like them. And that’s the only reason we haven’t been torn apart yet.”
“But we also look like them,” Hopper mutters darkly.
“…exactly.”
Jonathan exhales, quiet but sharp. “So either we blend in and stay ghosts—”
“—or we draw exactly the kind of attention they don’t want to be giving us,” Murray finishes. “And eventually someone’ll crack.”
“What happens when someone starts asking questions?” Max murmurs. “If they get too close…?”
“What happens when they figure out the Russians aren’t even in here…?” Jonathan asks quietly.
No one answers that.
Outside, another checkpoint looms. A gate that’s ripped halfway off of its hinges, soldiers shivering under tarps, half-armed and barely alert. You see it first. Then Argyle slows warily…
“Coming up on a clearance station,” he murmurs without panic. Just calm as steel. “Act like we own it.”
“Which we do,” Dustin mutters, his voice higher than he wants it to be.
You gently place your hands on both his shoulders from behind. His breath stutters. He doesn’t look up. And you don’t ask him to. Instead, you just squeeze gently.
“Just keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” you murmur right near his ear.
Dustin nods once. Firm, his young eyes forward.
Steve shifts beside you like he wants to say something. His hand brushes your lower back again, intentional this time, and you lean against it. His eyes flick to yours. And even beneath the shadow of his uniform, even through all the layers of disguise… you know what he wants to do.
He wants to tear the whole world apart for you.
He wants to fold Dustin up in his arms and carry Max out of this tank and scream until the sky caves in.
But instead, he swallows it down.
Because that’s what Steve Harrington does best. He lets it sink to the bottom of the ocean floor, never letting it fully surface so that it can finally breathe.
Another rattle. The tank creeps forward. The guards don’t stop you. They all just glance. Salute. Keep moving, keep watching you all with their lingering stares and frightened posture that borderlines cult behavior.
And just as you reach the town square, Hawkins’ hollow, broken heart… you see them.
Three worn figures. Huddled and dragged.
Civilian-clothed humans. Thin. Dirty. Caught.
Homeless.
Two are clearly men. One’s a woman, maybe. All of them are being yanked forward by soldiers, rifles slung loosely over their backs. None of the civilians struggle. They’re all too cold. Too weak. One of them stumbles… knees hitting the wet pavement.
Dustin looks away as soon as the woman’s eyes bug open from the harsh impact as they haul her up mercilessly.
Steve grips his shoulder hard.
He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t even look at him. Just anchors him like the older brother he was always born to be for this kid, ever since Claudia birthed him.
Robin slowly lowers herself halfway back inside the hatch now, until only her eyes remain above the rim. Her voice is low.
“They’re clearing out stragglers,” she says.
Nancy looks back from the viewfinder. “Why? Who even would stay…? Who could even be left, who do they think is left?…”
You don’t answer that.
Because you’re starting to understand the truth: they don’t fucking care.
Across the tank, Jonathan suddenly exhales. Short and shallow. “I—I know we’re safer in this thing, but—I…”
He trails off, unable to even finish a thought let alone form a full sentence as he watches the streets.
“You’re not wrong to be freaked out,” Joyce says softly.
“They’re scared of us,” Murray says. “That’s the only reason we’re breathing.”
Argyle’s voice floats up from the front. “They’re scared of something worse.”
That shuts everyone up.
And then Robin quietly whispers, “We should check the house.”
Every stomach drops. Even Argyle shifts slightly in the driver’s seat.
You glance at Steve, because it’s him that she’s looking at for approval. He’s frozen, fingers clenching the upper bar so hard his knuckles shine bone-white beneath his fingerless gloves.
It’s Nancy who speaks up.
“She’s right.”
“We need to know if they’re watching it,” Robin continues. “If they’ve found something. If they’re keeping something there.”
Murray nods slowly. “If they’re setting up surveillance, it’ll be in the places that mattered before. Homes. Schools. The Wheeler house… Harrington’s house.”
“And the new mall,” Hopper adds darkly. “If any of it’s even still standing.”
You don’t say anything as you nod.
Neither does Steve.
Eventually he exhales. Quiet. Controlled. Then he shifts, reaches for Robin’s shoulder, and takes the rifle from her hands without ceremony.
She passes it to him with no words. Just a look.
He gives you a final glance, then gently squeezes the side of your neck. Soft, grounding. And then he climbs.
“Argyle, hit the neighboring streets,” you nod up at him, taking a step closer to where he’s seated. “Let’s search Cornelia St. last.”
Robin ducks below Steve as he rises out through the top hatch, straightens, and becomes someone else entirely.
A ghost in a Russian uniform.
He stands fully above the tank now, rifle slung against his shoulder, light rain streaking down the black helmet and the pale insignia. His profile is unreadable, posture still, composed, military. He doesn’t twitch. He doesn’t falter.
And not five minutes later, the tank turns down Loch Nora Drive, just a few streets down from his own.
Every house here used to be full. Trees. Lights. Lawns. Jack-o-lanterns in October. Snowmen in December, and pastel blooms in the early months spring.
Now it’s only debris. Gutted cars. Shattered fences. The remains of a picket fence dream, lying face-down in the muddied soil.
And the Harrington’s house is worse.
As you round the bend of his street last, all of you spot a group of four soldiers exiting his front door. And it makes all of you root to the soot, rendered speechless…
They’re laughing.
One of them is holding something, like a photo album or maybe a stack of documents. The others look like they’re just clearing out. Like they’ve already been there today or several times this week.
Steve doesn’t blink at the sight, his brown-eyed gaze not wavering once as he glares and remembers to breathe… to just breathe, just breathe…
The soldiers all glance up.
They see the tank.
Their eyes scan it, register it and stiffen in unison.
Then slowly, they salute.
..and Steve salutes them right back.
Perfect. Cold. Russian.
You can’t see his face, but you know… you know that his heart is trying to claw its way out through his ribs.
Inside the tank, Lucas swears under his breath. Mike grips the viewfinder like he might rip it out of the wall. Nancy is white-knuckled behind hers, throat tight.
Max still doesn’t look.
She stays folded in the corner, silent. Hidden from view. And even Hopper closes his eyes for a second too long as she leans against his calf, between him and Joyce… who hasn’t uttered a goddamn word in a long time.
You and Murray exchange looks. Long, lingering, hard looks that pierce through both your goggles.
And all the while, Argyle keeps driving.
Dingus-1 passes the Harrington house, turning down a side street and circling the block. You keep moving.
No one follows.
No one stops you.
But everyone watches.
And now that the adrenaline is fading, all you’re left with is unanswered questions that just keep piling up...
What are they looking for?
What do they think they’ll find?
What have they found?
Why are the Russians suddenly the most feared and most respected presence in Hawkins?
Why is the US military helping them?
And what the hell are they so afraid of?
The tank rumbles forward. Every street is a memory that feels long forgotten. Every shadow is a threat. And every street is mauled and charred with wreckage…
…and every single heart inside this metal beast is quietly breaking, including your own that refuses to fully quit.
You lean forward, fingers pressed to the back of Argyle’s and Dustin’s seats, your voice a low whisper meant only for the three boys up front.
“Keep driving,” you murmur. “Don’t flinch. Don’t blink. Just drive like you own the whole goddamn world.”
Dustin swallows thickly and nods once. His voice is just barely audible. “Copy that.”
thinking about you and your ex boyfriend steve harrington still having to see each other because you’re in the same friend group and you both swear that you two can still be friends after the breakup except he’s been going on dates practically every weekend and you’ve been too busy mourning the loss of the best relationship you’ve had that you’ve grown a little bitter toward him, not knowing that he has to distract himself with awful dates so he has an excuse to avoid you and most of the group activities you’re part of with your shared friends. and how one weekend robin begs him not to plan a date so they can have movie night at his house and everyone’s passed out in his living room, except you you had the wherewithal to sneak off into his guest room to avoid waking up with aches in your neck and back from the couch or hardwood floor. but unfortunately that leaves you sleeping inside the room next to your ex boyfriend and because his AC’s on the fritz you have to sleep with the room’s door open so the fan’s air could circulate through the house so it isn’t hard for steve to hear you whimpering in your sleep; are you still having nightmares? he can’t help but wonder as he quietly gets out of the comfort of his own bed to go check on you and sure enough, you’re curled into yourself and fidgeting. he hasn’t seen you have a nightmare since you broke up three months ago, but the sight of it still tears into his chest and makes his face fall. which is why he doesn’t hesitate to take the couple of strides into the room toward the bed and doesn’t stop to think before he’s crawling over you to position himself behind you, his arms automatically wrapping around you and pulling you flush against his chest. when you stiffen and the room falls into a deafening hush, he thinks he’s fucked up. royally. until he hears a broken and whispered “steve?” and feels your hands come up to rest on top of his around your stomach. “i’m here,” he promises, pulling you closer when you maneuver yourself to lay facing him, burying your face into his chest as his chin rests on top of your head. “it’s okay,” he whispers, his hands now rubbing slow circles on your back. “i’ve got you. go back to sleep.” and he knows in the morning either he’ll wake up first and have to sneak out, or you’ll already be out of the bed when he wakes up, and neither of you will acknowledge that way his hands occasionally squeezed your hip or how one of them fell to your leg that had wrapped itself around his waist or the small, barely there trail of kisses you planted against his chest and his neck to soothe yourself when you two used to sleep like this when you were together. you both just enjoy it while you can blame it on a sleepless and vulnerable night.
I wrote this post, and then a request sparked the idea to build out the life of the six nuggets these two would have!
Time period taking place - 2006/2007
I'm thinking for now just keeping this series as request only, so if you have any, please feel free to send them in 🫶🏻
About the Nuggets:
I don’t like giving names to kids in x reader imagines (just a personal preference - you can come up w/ what you’d like!!) but here’s what I’m thinking their ages are.
Steve & Reader started having their babes young, so they’re only like 38.
Boy - 17 years old
Girl - 16 years old
I’m thinking the reason for the next age gap between kids would be bc reader thought two was enough, but then the twins end up being a happy accident.
Boy & Girl Fraternal Twins (reader was twins w/ Billy so it runs in the fam) - 10 years old
Another age gap because four is already a lot, and then Max & Lucas start having kids of their own - which makes reader have insane baby fever that leads to…
Boy - 4 years old
Girl - 2 years old
In timeline order!
Summary: Steve's struggling to accept that his little girl has turned into a rebellious teenager. Link to read
Summary: Watching his little girl go through a breakup nearly crushes Steve's own heart. Link to read
Summary: When your oldest boy gets into one of the most prestigious music colleges in the nation but doesn't tell you and Steve - you spiral, and Steve's there to help pick up the pieces. Link to read
Summary: You and Steve navigate how to tell your girl where babies come from. Link to read
Summary: Your oldest kids catch you and Steve in a compromising position, but it leads to them realizing they're thankful to have parents who are disgustingly in love. Link to read
Summary: In the heat of the moment, you make a comment that strikes Steve heavily - and your kids are left wondering where their parents stand. Link to read
Summary: Your eldest son brings home a girl for the first time - things quickly go south when your kids get an attitude with each other and then with you - which Steve doesn't tolerate. Link to read
Summary: Summer break means soaking up all the time with your babes, but that also means being needed, all the time - and Steve makes sure your needs are met too. Link to read
Summary: Steve knows you're gorgeous, but it doesn't stop him from being all pouty when other men (and one bold teenager) who aren't him flirt with you. Link to read
Summary: It's the last Harrington family trip around the states before you and Steve send your oldest boy off to college, and safe to say - it's chaotic. Link to read
˖ ࣪⭑ dating steve harrington (beginning of summer version) ˖ ࣪⭑
swimming pools, phone calls at midnight, running your fingers through his messy hair, kissing under a street light, spilling wine and laughing about if for hours, white fluffy towels that smell like his laundry power, watching him press a cold glass of lemonade to his cheek, everyone in town leaving their windows open all day long, freshly cut grass, the book he borrowed from you sitting on his bedside table, taking a cold shower together just to get a break from the humidity, carrying around tote bags & water bottles wherever you go, the sudden coolness that comes from walking bare foot across his kitchen floor
tracing the tan lines on his hip bone, sea shells that he brough back from the beach for you sitting on top of your dresser, chipped blue nail polish, kissing for hours on end because you have no plans all summer, getting sand stuck in your shoes, kisses that taste like fresh fruit & ice tea, sleeping under thin bedsheets so you can still cuddle into his side, blasting the air conditioning in his car and switching channels on the radio until you find something that you like, taking polaroid pictures, getting bubble-gum ice cream and watching steve's tongue turn blue, driving down to the harrington's beach house for the weekend, all the desperate/sweaty touching that summer brings
the first few days of sun-kissed skin, the soft humming of your bedroom fan, the scent of sunscreen & bonfires hanging in the air, running across hot pavements, impromptu sleepovers that last entire weekends, jumping in lovers lake just to feel the cool water against your skin, wearing short skirts just to mess with him, his boy-ish smile, playing card games all night, melted lip balm lost in the backseat of his car, all the late nights that fade into early mornings, drinking diet coke with crushed ice, the scent of the ocean water lingering on his skin, endless boxes of cherries, his wet hair, stolen t-shirts & sweaty hands
🕊️ A Stranger Things AU Fanfic from Misha’s Masterlist Library.
📚 Full Fanfic Saga & Infodump File here
📕 Book One: all chapters here
BOOK ONE: Chapter 41 -> (extended chapter)
🕊️ The Games -> The Capitol -> Hawkins
🏹 Day 4 of the Games
Steve Harrington x OC!fem!reader
hometown strangers to friends to lovers. ultra dark, heavy angst and hurt/comfort. alternate universe -> upside down apocalypse.high suspense, dystopian game-of-survival plot with morbidly dry humor sprinkled along the way. eventual plot-driven angsty smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
A fever dream multi-crossover au inspired by The Hunger Games and The Purge universes, merged with Stranger Things. 🏹
🏹 SUMMARY: The littlest lost boy of the arena has already scavenged his goods for the day, returning to his hidden tree hut where he shelters his unconscious hero under a bed of twigs and healing leaves. While Steve Harrington sleeps, little Ro sets out on his own side-quest to discover what has become of the Careers in the midst of their own tracker jacker stupor... and what he finds is the last thing he ever expected.
Nancy Wheeler’s column in the Hawkins Post makes its way onto every single citizen’s porch, every storefront’s stoop, and every mailbox still standing — adding fire to the already burning flame.
Back at the Capitol, Hopper fights every single urge to strangle every single jeweled neck he needs to sponsor you. Because your leg is bad, you're growing weaker by the minute and you need shelter.
Good thing Cinna already drew up a pitch on your behalf.
🏹 AUTHOR’S NOTE: We finally get to live in Ro’s world for a while, while Steve sleeps off all that trackerjacker venom. <3 Sweet little darling of my heart, he’s just an angel… Also? Hopper and Cinna tag-teaming in this chapter lights me all the way up. Team Hawkins = unstoppable.
Get ready for the continuation of this chapter this weekend. I’ll be sharing the next half of it in the next post. Be prepared. It goes off the rails.
Xx,
Misha
🏹 OVERALL SERIES WARNINGS: This is my darkest fanfic series. Strong language, mature themes all around. Explores PTSD and severe trauma, past s*xual and physical abuse, graphic descriptions of violence, dystopian setting. Heavy angst/hurt/comfort (yes, there will be a hard-earned happy ending). General THG series setting + angst, plus grim themes and gore in the vein of The Purge.
Chapter Forty-One
DAY 4
The first thing Ro notices on day four is that Steve still looks unfairly pretty for a person who’s been unconscious for a full goddamn age.
Not that Ro says that out loud.
He just kneels there in the pale hush of early morning, inside the little hidden hut he’s built from bent branches and leaves and stubbornness, and stares down at the sleeping shape of him with one hand braced on the earth and the other hovering over Steve’s neck to feel for warmth.
Still there.
Good.
Outside, dawn is only just beginning to thin the dark. The arena forest has that eerie half-born look to it — not night anymore, not quite morning either. Just a dim in-between. The leaves and moss overhead are wet with old dew. Somewhere farther off, something birdlike chirps once, then thinks better of it. The world smells like damp bark, churned dirt, chewed herbs, and that faint coppery under-note of injuries still knitting themselves back together.
Ro exhales through his nose and gets to work.
Quiet as always.
Quiet enough to make the dead jealous.
First? He carefully rolls up the sleeping bag, stashing it safely in a far corner. Then he peels back the old poultices first — the mash of medicinal leaves he’d chewed and pressed onto the tracker jacker stings yesterday and again before dark. Steve doesn’t wake. Doesn’t even twitch much. Just breathes into the backpack beneath his cheek, eyelashes still, mouth slightly parted in slumber like his body’s gone all the way beyond dreaming and straight into healing.
Ro checks the sting on the forearm first.
Way better.
Still swollen, yeah. Still ugly in that nasty, angry way bug poison likes to be... But the skin is no longer stretched so tight it looks ready to split. The redness has pulled inward instead of spreading. It just looks like a wound now, not a curse.
The one on his neck is next.
Still bad.
But not as bad.
Ro’s little chest swells with the quietest sense of pride. “Okay,” he whispers, almost to himself. “Okay, cool.”
Since Steve’s still on his stomach, Ro contemplates trying to roll him onto his back… but then decides against it after a few tries, only because the neck’s sting is closer to the nape… so he doesn’t want it irritated. Instead, he settles for rolling the bigger boy slightly on his side.
“—okey-dokey,” Ro softly grunts, positioning him just right before resuming.
Soon enough, Steve is drowsily turned halfway on his side.
Waist curved, torso twisted enough to make him look like a fallen star.
Ro nods once. That’ll do.
The knee still takes the most careful work because Ro has to shift the rolled cargo fabric up just a little higher to really see it. That sting had been the meanest-looking one by last night — swollen and hot and almost shiny with irritation. Now it’s calmer too. Not calm-calm. Not pretty. But definitely not as pissed off.
Ro beams despite himself.
It’s tiny. More to himself than anything. Just one quick little smile that says yes, yes, yes, this is working… before he remembers nobody’s supposed to be making any noise at all and his mouth flattens back down into business.
He changes the leaves carefully. New mash, fresh-chewed, damp and bitter smelling. He presses them into place with the gentlest fingers he’s got and tries not to think too hard about how the whole time he’s been doing battlefield medicine on somebody else’s hero.
Because if he thinks too hard about that, he might get emotional, and well… Ro Shadowmere has no time for that shit this early in the morning.
He checks the burn too.
As for that awful patch high on Steve’s thigh, where the hellfire rain once ate him alive… well, it looks even better now. Still gnarly. Still definitely headed toward one hell of a scar. But not… raw anymore. Not charred. It’s gone yet another shade of that strange, baby-soft pink again… like new skin is arriving in fragile little waves. Ro stares at it for a second, relieved enough to feel it in his bones.
That balm was magic.
…or Capitol science.
Same difference, probably.
He reaches for the sponsored silver tin from Steve’s supply line — which is still arranged in that neat little row along the inner curve of the hut where Ro put it all. Knife. Rope. Wire. Crackers. Jerky. Matches. Sunglasses. Water bottle. Toothbrush. Toothpaste. Bow and arrows. Tin of balm. Everything is exactly where it should be, because Ro refuses to be the kind of person who pawns through a man’s stuff while he’s passed out.
He only takes what he needs.
And right now, that means the balm.
He smooths another careful layer over the healed-over burn, barely touching it, fingers light and precise.
“Just a little more,” he inaudibly breathes, eyes focused.
Ro catches the way Steve’s brow now begins to deeply furrow in his sleep… as if maybe he’s dreaming. It’s such a pensive pinch between his brows, like a knitted little line of worry and uncertainty in the midst of slumber.
He waits another few seconds to make sure Steve isn’t surfacing.
He isn’t.
Still dead to the world.
Still his problem.
Still his hero.
Ro finishes the balm application, closes the tin, puts it back exactly where it belongs — and then checks Steve’s pulse one more time, for his own peace of mind.
Steady.
Good.
“…keep fighting pirates,” Ro whispers, carefully unraveling the sleeping bag before draping it over his shoulders… then reaching for the little matchbox.
That done, he crawls backward out of the hut and into the sunrise.
The woods are colder than they look. The kind of cold that creeps under your sleeves and makes your fingers clumsy if you let yourself stand still too long. Ro doesn’t stand still. He stretches his shoulders once, glances all around, then scurries off between the trees on silent little feet.
He already scavenged earlier.
That had been before the sky went fully pale — when dawn was just a rumor and the forest still belonged mostly to things with better night vision than him. He’d found the eggs then, tucked low in the half-hidden nest of some dumb bird who’d built too close to the ground and trusted the wrong morning. Only two, but two was enough.
Now Ro needs to cook.
Not because he enjoys it. But because if he tries to eat eggs raw like some kind of woodland freak, he’s probably gonna make himself very sick and that would be a very embarrassing way to die in the Hunger Games.
He gets far enough away from the hut before doing anything with fire.
That matters.
He knows it matters.
Everything matters in here.
He finds a low little pocket between roots and rocks where a tiny flame won’t travel and a hint of smoke won’t drift straight back toward the hideout if the breeze turns mean. So he crouches there, checks the air twice, then stares down at Steve’s box of wooden matches in his little hand.
Ro grimaces.
He really does not want to use one…
Not because Steve would mind. Or well, maybe he would mind… depending on how grumpy he wakes up. But because it feels like stealing, even though it’s not, and also because matchsticks are one of those things in the midst of this game of survival that feel more precious the less of them you’ve got.
He opens the box.
Takes one.
Then, before striking it, whispers guiltily into the morning air, “Sorry.”
The match flares.
Just like that.
Little scratch. Little spark. Little tongue of fire.
Ro nearly sighs with relief. It really saves time. Saves effort. Saves him from rubbing sticks together like some tiny idiot from a survival manual.
He gets the eggs cracked into a little scavenged tin cap he found yesterday, cooks them fast and cruelly over the tiny flame, and kills the fire the second that they’re done. No lingering. No campfire coziness. No cute little breakfast moment beneath the pines.
This is not that kind of story.
He doesn’t shovels the eggs down until he’s back inside the hut — sitting tucked just inside the entrance with Sleeping Beauty (Steve) beside him and the arena waking outside — and tries not to moan at how good they taste.
It’s only eggs.
Just hot, plain eggs, cooked fast and barely salted by the mineral taste of the tin.
But still, after three days of eating roots and berries and bark and whatever non-poisonous shit the woods have decided to spare? It tastes unbelievable. Ro devours them both, drinks from his water skin in little measured sips, then tucks it into his little knapsack..
By then the morning has properly arrived.
It’s not bright. The arena never does bright in a friendly way. But light enough that the leaves outside are green instead of black and the world has shapes again instead of threats.
Ro checks Steve one last time before leaving for the day.
Still asleep.
Still breathing.
Still healing.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Ro whispers, which is objectively sorta stupid because where the hell is he supposed to go unconscious, but it feels right anyway.
Then he slips out into the woods again and climbs.
Fast.
Easy.
Nimble.
Belonging up there in a way he never belongs anywhere on the ground.
That’s the thing about the canopy. It’s his. Or close enough. Up there he is all quick limbs and balance and silence, a little blur of dark skin and dirt and smart eyes, moving from branch to branch without ever fully giving the forest a chance to notice him.
He follows the stream first.
Not all the way, not even right off.
Just enough to start looking.
This is where the real ache of the day lives…
Because he is searching for you.
Not blindly. Not stupidly. But hopefully… in that disciplined little way only that somebody very young and very serious can manage.
Breadcrumbs.
That’s what he’s in search of right now…
Not real breadcrumbs, obviously. You’d laughed under your breath when you called them that the first time — back on day one, after you’d gotten Hannah and Jack hidden and everything had finally gone still enough for planning to feel possible. “No actual bread in the arena,” you’d said. “Unless somebody real generous gets poetic with sponsorship. But ‘breadcrumbs’ works as our code name.”
So breadcrumbs it was.
The two of you had built them together in whispers and glances and hurried explanation. Tiny signs left where only somebody looking the right way would see them. Like a shallow nick in bark angled downward. Or three snapped reeds tucked under a stone. Or a bent fern tied loosely with a blade of grass. Nothing obvious. Nothing that would call another tribute’s eye and say here, follow me to safety and ruin it.
Signals for people who knew how to disappear.
Ro looks for them now. He moves along the stream, up high and then low… sometimes dropping down to inspect a trunk or the edge of a muddy bank, then climbing again whenever he finds nothing. He checks every likely place. Every place you would’ve chosen. Every little pause in the land where a trail sign could hide without really being a trail sign at all.
Nothing.
At least, not yet.
He doesn’t let that spook him.
You told him not to.
If he didn’t hear back from you, if he didn’t find signs quickly — that wasn’t necessarily bad. It could mean you’d made it to the cave. It could mean you were hidden. It could mean you were sticking to the plan so hard you’d rather vanish than take a stupid risk just because your heart missed people.
Which, honestly, was very you.
Ro tells himself all that again as the hours stretch. But still, eventually? He stops in a high branch above the stream and lets out the first whistle… Soft, fluttery, barely there. Four notes that are enough to carry.
The mockingjays catch it almost at once.
One from farther downriver. Two more deeper in the trees. Then another somewhere overhead, each of them repeating the little tune in pieces until the forest itself seems to be thinking about it.
Ro waits.
He’s still as bark now, listening for the answer you’d agreed on — a different four-note birdcall that would tell him you were near enough to hear the birds and answer back without showing your face.
…nothing comes.
Just the woods again.
Ro tries once more, then again — maybe twenty minutes later from farther down the stream, where all the banks bend strangely and the water narrows around exposed roots.
He whistles.
Same birdcall as before.
The mockingjays take it…
But no answer comes back.
He presses his lips together and stares into the leaves, disappointed enough to feel it under his sternum like a bruise.
But he does not let it become fear.
That part matters too.
Because if there’s one thing that you drilled into him with all that angel-eyed seriousness of yours, it’s that panic ruins plans faster than enemies do.
So he swallows it down and says to himself, in the privacy of his own head… Good sign. Means she’s hidden. Means she made it. Means keep going.
Then he turns away from the stream.
Because there’s other work now.
The Careers.
He needs to know where they are, who woke up, what changed, whether the entire map of danger inside the arena has shifted while he’s been playing nursemaid to Sleeping Beauty with a nicer ass and worse attitude.
So Ro climbs higher, turns inward toward the middle of the arena, and starts covering ground.
A lot of it.
The day swells around him while he does.
The sun gets higher. The air warms. The bugs wake all the way up and start whining around the trees. Ro sips water carefully and snacks from the little stash in his knapsack — roots, a few sour berries, strips of something leafy and edible enough not to kill him, all chewed slowly to make them feel like more. Thankfully? The protein from the eggs has given him far more stamina than he would’ve had without. So he’s in full-blown lost boy mode today.
Around midday he’s a long, long way from the hut.
At least an hour.
Maybe more if he had to make it back fast on the ground, which he will not be doing unless God personally drops the arena on his head.
By then he can see it coming before he reaches it.
The Cornucopia.
That huge golden mouth of a monster sitting in the open field like it owns the whole world. Even from the high up canopy of the trees, not even half a mile out now… it looks wrong. Too staged. Too polished. Too deliberately enticing. Like somebody built greed into a shape and then painted it pretty.
Ro slows.
Then stills.
Then just before he flies to another tree—
He hears the scream.
It cuts through the afternoon so sharp it practically fillets the air.
Human.
Young.
Terrified.
Ro’s whole body locks up, nearly gasping at the abruptness of it.
Then comes shouting.
It’s male voices. Loud. Aggressive. Hard to make out at first through distance and leaves and wind, but definitely there. One of them is rowdy and mean as hell. The other one is lower, angrier in a much flatter way.
Ro goes cold.
Then he flies again — faster now, but careful. Always careful. He flies branch to branch. Trunk to trunk. Closing the distance without ever losing the height advantage. And by the time he reaches the tree line that rings the huge open field, his heart is slamming hard enough to make his ribs ache.
And there they are…
Tommy first.
Of course that psycho’s the main character right now.
He’s stalking out from the far side of the clearing looking like some pissed-off devil in human skin — one eye still swollen from the tracker jacker sting, that nasty red scratch slicing across his face, hair filthy, clothes rumpled, whole body moving with the ugly restless energy of somebody who woke up furious and stayed that way.
Marvel’s right behind him, dragging Syl by the back of her jacket.
Ro’s eyes go wide.
Syl looks like absolute shit.
Sixteen and half-starved and wild-eyed, hair sticking every direction, boots scraping over the ground while Marvel hauls her like a sack of onions. One second she’s begging, the next she’s snapping wildly, the next she’s back to begging again in that frantic, breathless way that people do when they know death is three feet away and wearing a sneer.
Tommy and Marvel drag her all the way into the open.
Toward the Cornucopia.
Ro flattens himself against the trunk and watches from the high up leaves, in the shadows… barely breathing.
Now he can hear more.
Not every word, but enough.
“What the hell’d you think was gonna happen?” Tommy barks, pacing around her as Marvel keeps hold of her. “You just stroll in there, grab whatever the fuck you want, and disappear?”
“I was hungry—!” Syl gasps, voice high and cracking and nearly hysterical. “Jesus Christ, I’m starving, I just needed—”
Marvel jerks her harder. “Needed what?”
“Food! Water! Anything!”
Tommy gives a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah? And look where that genius lil idea got you.”
She spits on the ground like a fuming prisoner of war.
That’s enough to make Tommy stare at her long and hard, laughing openly at the sheer audacity of that move as he gestures, looking at Marvel.
“Goddamn—she’s ready to go.”
Syl’s eyes dart everywhere except their faces. “Please,” she keens, and now it’s pure begging. “Please don’t kill me, I didn’t take anything, I swear to God, I barely got in there, I barely—”
Marvel presses the spear up under her chin.
Ro’s stomach twists.
Syl goes dead still except for the trembling.
Tommy crouches down in front of her, getting right up in her space. He says something then — low, way too low for Ro to catch from all the way up here, this far away — and that’s frustrating as hell, because now? Ro can see the shape of the conversation changing without hearing the words as he cranes his neck, desperate to hear.
Syl blinks.
Tommy talks.
Marvel doesn’t move.
Ro narrows his eyes so hard they hurt. “What the frick-frack-paddy-whack are you saying, Codfish?” he mouths soundlessly to himself, because this is getting weird.
Tommy stays low and keeps talking. He’s not yelling now or threatening with volume. Just saying something right in Syl’s face while she stares back at him like she doesn’t know whether she’s being recruited or sentenced. After a while Marvel circles around her and comes to stand beside Tommy again… still holding the spear under her chin.
Then, to Ro’s utter astonishment — he lowers it.
…and Syl does not bolt.
Probably because she’s not stupid.
Probably because she’s terrified.
Probably both.
Then Tommy yanks her to her feet. Marvel grabs her wrists. The two of them tie them together while Syl winces and nods along to whatever they’re telling her.
Then it gets even stranger.
They start walking her around the Cornucopia.
Pointing at things.
Ground. Crates. Edges of the field. Spots Ro can’t make sense of from here.
Syl jerks her head around, following every indication like her life depends on it, which it very much does. Tommy gestures sharply. Marvel says something shorter. Syl nods faster and faster, her scraggly pixie-cut bouncing with it.
Ro leans out farther from the tree to get a better angle. “Tink,” he breathes to himself, baffled. “What’re they even showing you...”
It really does look like they’re giving her a damn tour.
And that is not a sentence Ro ever expected to think about two murderous Careers and a starving angry-pixie-girl dragged out of hiding.
Eventually they sit Syl down on a crate.
Tommy tosses her something.
An apple.
Ro’s stomach does a genuinely pathetic little twist at the sight of it, because wow, okay, rude, that looks incredible.
Syl stares at the apple like she thinks it might be a trick.
Then she bites into it.
Then she absolutely inhales the rest of it like she hasn’t tasted civilization in a week.
And that’s when it clicks…
Oh.
Oh, hell.
They’re not killing her.
They’re keeping her.
Ro blinks slowly, then again.
He watches Tommy stand over her with his arms crossed while Marvel looms beside him like some mean scarecrow with abs, and all three of them look like the world’s worst job interview is happening in the middle of the field.
“You guard,” Tommy says louder now, enough that Ro now finally catches it clearly. He jabs a finger toward the tree line. “You see anything? You tell us.”
Syl nods so fast it looks painful.
“And you touch our shit again,” Marvel adds, his voice flat and ugly, “I will put this through your throat.”
Ro winces.
Syl nods again.
Tommy says something else that’s too low for Ro to hear, then jerks his chin toward the Cornucopia like that settles it.
Ro is still processing all of that when new movement catches his eye.
A squirrel.
Tiny thing, grayish-brown and stupidly alive, darting from the far grass like it’s just another day in paradise, toward the open field.
Ro watches it without understanding why Tommy suddenly snaps his head in that direction. Then Marvel sees it too. Then? Both of them backpedal hard and grab Syl, hauling her toward the Cornucopia opening.
Ro frowns. “What—”
Boom.
The explosion is smaller than the cannon blasts. Smaller than hellfire. But in the open field it sounds enormous anyway — a sharp, sudden, brutal crack that sends dirt and grass and solid earth flying and blows the squirrel into a red-gray nothing.
Ro clamps both hands over his ears too late, whole body jerking with shock.
And then he just stares…
Because holy shit.
Holy shit.
Landmines.
That’s what they were pointing at.
That’s why Syl didn’t get far. That’s what the tour was.
The entire perimeter around the Cornucopia is seeded.
Ro’s mouth falls open. He actually whispers, “Wow” — because what the hell else do you say when a squirrel gets blown to smithereens and accidentally explains the Careers’ security system to you?
The field settles again.
Little bits of dirt rain back down.
Tommy, Marvel, and Syl all step back out from the Cornucopia mouth after a minute. Eventually, Syl’s wrists get untied. Marvel hands her the spear, walks her back to her newly assigned “post.” Tommy talks at her some more, giving her the riot act by the look of it while she stands there rigid and pale, nodding along like she’s trying not to evaporate.
Ro watches all of it with intense little eyes and stores every bit away.
Carol’s nowhere.
Which likely means she’s still out cold somewhere inside.
Tommy’s awake. Marvel’s awake. Carol’s still sleeping or she’d be here. The landmines are active. The Cornucopia is still stacked with supplies. Syl from Five has been drafted into servitude instead of killed.
Good information.
Horrible information.
Useful as hell.
After another few minutes, Tommy heads back inside the Cornucopia mouth and disappears from view. Marvel starts doing slow perimeter circles around the outside, watching the field like a proper asshole. Syl stays exactly where she’s been put, spear in hand, shoulders tense enough to snap.
Ro waits a little longer just to be sure nothing else changes.
Then he eases back from the trunk.
No point staying.
He’s learned what he came to learn, and Steve’s still back at the hut asleep with nobody guarding him but leaves and prayer. Ro’s not willing to push his luck farther than necessary.
So he turns.
And he begins the long trek back.
Tree to tree.
Shadow to shadow.
The afternoon is already leaning toward evening by then, the light beginning its slow slide toward gold. Ro moves fast enough to make up time, but never sloppy. Never loud. He drinks from his water skin once, chews another bitter root for the energy of it, and keeps going with his little body stretched to the limit and refusing to complain.
In his head, the map is shifting all over again.
Tommy’s awake.
Marvel’s awake.
Carol is still down.
Syl is now theirs.
Landmines around the Cornucopia.
Supplies still guarded.
No sign of you.
No answer from the mockingjays.
Still no cannon for you.
Still no face in the sky.
Good sign, he tells himself again.
Good sign.
By the time the shadows start getting long, Ro’s hands are scratched and his thighs ache and his shoulders feel full of hot sand from climbing and carrying and bracing all day.
He doesn’t care.
Because he’s heading back to his little hidden world now.
Back to the lost boy sleeping in the leaves.
Back to the hut that nobody’s found.
Back to the place where day four is still being held together by a little kid with good balance, a good memory, and absolutely no fucking intention of giving up.
And somewhere out there — deeper in the woods, farther along the water, closer to the cave maybe, maybe not — there is still the lost girl too.
Still hiding.
Still breathing.
Still holding the line.
Ro says a prayer for you without using words for it. Just breathes once into the cooling air and keeps flying branch to branch beneath a sky going softer by the minute, carrying everything he’s learned back to the boy who will need it when he finally wakes.
Because the lost boys are only half the story.
Sooner or later, if the woods stay merciful and the dead keep their names off the sky, the lost girl will find her way back into it too.
“—so lemme get this straight,” Hopper says, already mid-conversation and halfway to a goddamn aneurysm, “you want her to sit out there with a hole in her leg and cry prettier until Harrington wakes up and finds her in the knick of time, like some storybook rescue mission?”
Nobody in the little jeweled cluster around him answers right away.
That’s probably smart of them.
They stand there in silk and shimmer and carefully arranged hair, all of them holding their expensive drinks with polished fingers, all while the giant silver screens all around the Capitol square keep cutting between live feeds of the arena. Their faces glow in flashes of green woods, blue stream water, dark leaves, sleeping tributes, talking commentators. They look fascinated. They look moved. They look invested in the way people do when the pain belongs to someone else and therefore counts as entertainment with emotional depth they can place their bets on.
Hopper wants to set every last one of them on fire.
Instead, because he is trying very, very hard not to tank your chances by getting himself hauled out in cuffs for decking a socialite with a face like an expensive bird, he keeps both boots planted and his voice down.
One of the men finally clears his throat.
He’s got silver at his temples and a tiny pearl pin at the knot of his neck scarf and the kind of smile that makes Hopper think of taxidermy.
“That is not,” the man ponders aloud with a placating little tilt of his head, “… quite what we meant.”
Hopper stares at him.
The man keeps going anyway because men like this apparently don’t know when God is giving them a chance to shut the fuck up.
“What we mean is that anticipation matters. Emotional payoff matters. You must understand, Mentor Hopper, that the entire country is now fixated on the possibility of reunion between your tributes.”
Hopper’s jaw flexes so hard it aches.
He doesn’t dare look back at the screen.
He doesn’t have to, though.
He already knows exactly what’s on it because he’s been looking at it all goddamn morning. He’s been looking at it in between every conversation, every failed pitch, every false smile, every patronizing nod from these Capitol freaks who swear up and down that they “adore” you but can’t quite bring themselves to ruin the narrative by helping you too early.
Hopper knows the image by heart now.
You leaned up against a tree in the darker part of the woods. Pale. Shaky. So tired you can barely sit upright. That strip of cloth torn from the hem of your t-shirt hanging half-finished around your shin because you can’t quite make your hands work long enough to tie the damn thing tight without having to lift your palm and scream into it. The wound’s ugly and red and deep enough to turn Hopper’s stomach over every time the camera catches too much of it. The little bit of your stomach showing now, because you had to tear the shirt higher than you wanted, is also a topic of conversation. The whole country apparently, specially these brainwashed pricks, are now treating the sight of your suffering like it’s tragic art instead of a fucking emergency.
And your mentor hates them for it.
He hates the way that some of them sigh over your “fragility.” Hates the way some of them drool over your “waif-like figure.” Hates how these women and their fad diets envy your newly exposed flat mid-drift. Hates how they all call you “ethereal” — while you are literally trying not to black out from blood loss and pain. Hates the way these pompous, entitled, privileged sons of bitches keep saying words like poignant and tender and inevitable as if inevitability is somehow prettier than infection.
Most of all… Hopper hates that this is getting under his skin the exact way everything involving girls always does now.
Not girls.
Kids.
Not even kids.
Daughters.
Because of course it does.
Because apparently…? Jim Hopper cannot stop being somebody’s goddamn dad even when he does not want to be, even when the daughter in question is not his, even when his own little girl has been dead for so long that some mornings her face feels farther away than his own hand.
Sarah still lives in the worst corners of him anyway.
Sarah at five and diagnosed with death.
Sarah, just months before her sixth birthday, taking her last breath.
Sarah before that, all little pink socks and hospital bracelets and peach-fuzz hair against a pillow, laughing around a milkshake straw.
Sarah… gone.
So now here you are on a screen — too thin and hurt and gritting your teeth through something you should not have to be enduring — and every single rotten paternal reflex in him is clawing at the walls.
He drags a hand over his mouth.
Across from him, the same pearl-pinned asshole offers a forced sympathetic expression that Hopper instantly wants to wipe off with a fist.
“We’re all deeply concerned for the young lady,” the man patronizes.
“Oh, are you.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
A woman at the edge of their cluster lets out a tiny offended breath. “There’s no need to be rude.”
Hopper turns his head and looks at her fully for the first time.
She shuts up.
Good.
Because if he actually starts on this crowd, it is going to get ugly. He can feel it building. That old furnace-rattle inside him. The one that usually ends with a slammed door or a broken nose or both. His patience is already hanging on by one filthy little thread, and the worst part is? He knows he needs these bastards. Needs their money. Needs their interest. Needs their perverse little fantasies to somehow align with your survival long enough to get something into that arena.
Not for Steve this time.
Steve’s safe enough for now, hidden away with Ro, sleeping the venom off.
You are the one out there open to the dark.
You are the one with a slice down to the fucking bone.
You are the one at risk of blood poisoning and demise.
That thought is enough to make Hopper step back before he does something terminally stupid.
“Excuse me,” he bitterly mutters.
The pearl-pin man begins, “Mentor Hopper—”
“Nope.”
Hopper’s already turned on his heel, walking away before his foul mouth and cruel tongue gets him banned from the square. He cuts through the crowd with his broad shoulders and bad temper like a ship through bad water.
Someone says his name. He ignores it. Someone else tries to flag him down with a question about “the young man on fire.” He keeps moving. He passes one of the silver columns and is genuinely forced to picture what it would feel like to put his fist through the polished marble anyway. The image helps for about half a second.
Then it doesn’t.
Because the screen above the opposite promenade catches your face again and he sees you press your bony fist to your mouth and cry into it once, just one — before swallowing the sound and forcing your breathing back under control.
That nearly does him in.
He veers hard into the nearest private corridor, shoulders through a restroom door meant for Capitol men with more money than sense. And to his relief… It's empty.
Thank Christ.
The silence in there feels sterile and wrong. The lighting too soft. Mirrors too clean. Everything too goddamn expensive for a room where he is currently bracing both hands on a marble countertop and trying not to lose his whole fucking mind.
He yanks the tablet slung over his chest back up.
Your feed fills the screen immediately.
Still under the tree.
Still resting because your body has finally bullied you into it.
Still trying not to look at your own leg longer than necessary.
Hopper’s throat tightens with such sudden vicious force that he actually has to bow his head once and breathe through his nose.
“Jesus,” he mutters.
His reflection looks back at him from the mirror — tired, grayer than it used to be, rage sitting in the worn lines of his face like it rented the place. He looks like hell. Feels worse.
“Whatever God’s up there, give me strength,” he bitterly mumbles, hard eyes boring a hole into the sink as he stares at it like it’s already a grave in the dirt — symbolizing every single one of his failures.
He’s got one hand curled around the edge of the sink hard enough to blanch the knuckles when the restroom door opens behind him.
“Oh for the love of—”
Hopper cups himself off mid-bark after he sees who it is.
Cinna.
And of course, he doesn’t stride in like he owns the room. He never does anything like that. He steps in carefully, quietly…shutting the door behind him with one hand. His dark suit is as immaculate as ever. Expression? Not so much. There is too much in his eyes this evening for him to pass as serene, per usual… though he’s trying.
Hopper straightens enough to avoid barking at him.
“Sorry,” he grunts awkwardly.
Cinna’s mouth softens faintly. “No need.”
For a second neither of them says anything.
The screen in Hopper’s hand continues flickering with your feed.
The stylist’s gaze lands on it and stays there. Something anguished and hurt moves behind his gentle eyes before he looks back at Hopper.
“She’s fading,” Hopper says before he can stop himself.
Cinna nods once. “I know.”
That’s it. That’s all it takes.
Because suddenly Hopper’s got words again and they do not stop.
They come out clipped at first, then rougher — then more openly furious the longer he goes. He tells Cinna about the cluster outside. About the way that these Capitol freaks keep leaning into the idea of you waiting hurt until Steve wakes up and “finds his lost girl.” About the way they keep calling it beautiful and inevitable and emotionally satisfying and written in the stars. About how one of them actually smiled while saying the reunion would mean more if you were still in pain when it happened… because that would make for a brutally, emotionally charged reaction from Steve if he’s faced with the dark possibility of “not making it in time.”
At one point Hopper half-laughs, but it’s the kind with no humor in it.
“They’re fucking obsessed with it,” he says, bewildered and frustrated. “They don’t want her dead. That’s the thing—they want her saved. They just want her saved late enough that it means something to them.”
Cinna stays quiet.
Not passive. Listening.
Hopper paces once. Then twice.
He keeps going.
About stingy sponsors. About the folks who claim they adore you. About the folks who call you “the dove” and “the arena angel” and “that lovely baker’s daughter” — and then still don’t send anything because now they’ve all got some collective hard-on for suffering as foreplay to rescue.
He talks about your leg.
Talks about how the cut goes deep and how it’s only a matter of time before it gets infected if nobody gets medicine in there. Talks about the way you keep trying not to let the cameras see you cry. Talks about how every time he sees the hem of your shirt torn open and your belly half-visible because you had to rip it to make a bandage… he wants to break somebody’s teeth in for romanticizing it, like you’re some pop culture icon to drool over.
Hopper’s aware, in the midst of his venting — somewhere in the distant civil part of his brain — that he is oversharing.
Doesn’t fucking care.
And all the while, Cinna just listens like he was built for it. Arms loosely at his sides, head slightly tipped. No interruption, no flinch, no noble little attempt to calm Hopper down with some bullshit phrase that will only make him angrier.
Finally Hopper drags both hands over his face and exhales through clenched teeth. Then, because he’s so wound up he can barely breathe inside his own suit, he mutters — “I swear to Christ, every idea I’ve got right now involves strangling somebody or inventing all-new felonies.”
A tiny breath escapes Cinna’s nose.
Not quite a laugh, but close enough to humanize the air and thaw out the ice.
Hopper glances over at him.
Cinna says, very mildly, “Then perhaps it’s fortunate I came before you acted on any of them.”
Hopper scoffs. “You got a better one?”
“I think I might.”
That stills him.
Because at this point, Hopper will listen to anything. He will drink from a toilet if someone tells him it’ll get you antibiotics. He will put on a fucking evening jacket and sing if that’s what it takes to get some tasteless billionaire to send you an aid parcel.
He just grunts, “lay it on me.”
Cinna lifts one hand. “Let me finish before you decide you hate it.”
“…that’s not a great start.”
“Well unfortunately, you’re not talking to Effie. Now may I continue?”
Hopper narrows his eyes. “Confidence.”
“Experience.”
The answer is so dry that it almost gets him.
Then Cinna goes on. “If they will not send her medical aid,” he begins, “then we need to stop asking them for medical aid.”
Hopper just stares at him for a moment.
The stylist keeps talking before the interruption can come. “They do not want to be the people who save her from the injury.”
“Which’s batshit.”
“It is.”
“Stupid.”
“Yes.”
“Cruel.”
“Yes.”
Hopper throws up one hand. “Then what the fuck’re we doing here.”
Cinna’s expression changes by a hair. More intent now, less sympathetic, but completely decided. “We ask them to send something else.”
Hopper actually feels irritation spark all over again. “How’s that help.”
Cinna tips his head. “Let me finish.”
Hopper flexes his jaw and shuts up through visible force of will.
“The thing the Capitol has attached itself to,” Cinna says, choosing the words with almost surgical care, “is not only her suffering. It is her image. Her myth. What she represents to them.”
Hopper looks at him flatly. “A girl with a fucked-up leg.”
“A girl who is mercy where mercy should not exist,” Cinna counters at once. “A baker’s daughter. A small-town Cinderella. Pure, beautiful creature made of kindness and sacrifice and work.” His gaze flicks once toward the tablet. “A girl who protects children. A girl who feeds people. A girl who creates.”
Hopper is following and not following all at once.
Cinna sees it, but keeps going. “This morning another shipment arrived from Hawkins.”
Hopper blinks. “What.”
“From the Everlark Bakery.”
That gets his full attention in one ugly, confused rush.
“Wait.”
“A few almond tartes,” Cinna says, “and two loaves of bread.”
Hopper stares at him, eyes flashing with a newly stunned fire. “You’re telling me her asshole stepfamily actually sent something?”
“The wicked stepmother and her bitter minion sent something?”
Cinna doesn’t wince at the sarcastic phrasing. That’s another thing Hopper appreciates about him more and more by the second.
“Yes, they did.”
“Did it get through?”
“No.”
“Why not.”
“Customs.”
Hopper’s mouth falls open in actual disgust. “Customs.”
“It did not pass sanitation standards.”
Now Hopper laughs.
He actually fucking laughs.
It comes out more like a cough dragged over broken glass.
“Not sanitary enough for these people?” he asks disdainfully. “These weird— little jewel-encrusted cockroaches are worried about sanitation?”
Cinna’s mouth twitches faintly. “Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“It is.”
“You’re telling me this pompous-ass city—” Hopper gestures around. “—think our measly little towns outside’a here carry plague and disease, just because we’re not economically up to speed?”
Cinna sighs through his nose, visibly ashamed to nod in confirmation.
Hopper turns in one furious little circle and looks up at the ceiling — like the gods of the universe personally owe him reparations.
Then he looks back at Cinna. “So what good is that.”
Now the stylist does something very few people can do without immediately getting on Hopper’s nerves.
He waits.
Not in a patronizing way, not to make a point. Just enough to let Hopper burn off the first spike of anger before laying down the next piece.
“The shipment itself did not get through,” Cinna admits. “But the story of it is spreading very quickly.”
Hopper’s brows draw together.
“Effie is making sure of that. She is telling the press that love is arriving from home.” Cinna pauses. “And that matters.”
Hopper’s expression goes ugly with conflict.
Because of course it does. Of course the damn optics matter. Of course the story of your bakery sending sweetness to the Capitol plays better than the actual food making it through their snotty little checkpoint. Of course the people who haven’t done right by you in real life are now somehow useful in the fantasy version of your life these monsters are helping write.
He hates that.
…but he also sees it.
Cinna watches him catch up and, once again, doesn’t crowd the process. “It helps that the bakery has become part of her image,” he says. “It helps that there’s an industry waiting inside her, if the right people decide to imagine it.”
Hopper narrows his eyes. “Imagine what.”
That earns him the smallest, breathiest laugh Cinna’s made yet.
He steps closer. Lowers his voice.
“A bakery in the Capitol.”
Hopper’s whole face sours. “Why the hell would she want that.”
“She may not,” Cinna says calmly. “That is not the point.”
Alright, yeah. There it is.
That actually stops Hopper cold.
Because no, it is not the point.
The point is making these people think your future belongs partially to them. Making them feel like investors in your own fairytale. Making them think they discovered something in you that only they can fully draw out. The point… is never the truth. It’s always what version of the truth flatters their role in it.
Hopper drags a hand down his face again.
“…so we make them think this was their idea.”
Cinna smiles then. Tiny, sharp. Gorgeous in the way knives are gorgeous.
“Precisely.”
Something inside Hopper actually unclenches.
Just slightly…
Not because he likes any of this. He still thinks this whole city oughtta just be swallowed up by a sinkhole. But because now he can finally see a move. An angle. A way in.
A chance at getting you the help you need.
“Here,” Cinna murmurs, reaching into the leather folio tucked under one arm, pulling free a sleek tablet of his own. He taps it awake, then turns it towards Hopper. “Take a look...”
Hopper leans in, observing what’s onscreen.
Digital scans.
The bakery items.
The loaves look humble and timelessly delicious — like the kind of bread that could make a person cry if they were hungry enough or homesick enough or human enough to taste nostalgia. The almond tart cakes look more delicate, buttery, dusted fine, arranged on wax paper. Like someone still believed that beauty mattered in a world that had spent the last few years trying to kill it.
“Jesus,” Hopper mutters.
“I had them scanned the moment they were logged.”
“Course you did.”
Cinna inclines his head as if to say yes, well… somebody around here came to work. Then he opens the folio farther and slides out a sketchbook.
“I also wanted to show you something else.”
The stylist offers it to Hopper, who takes it automatically.
The first page he turns to is a dress.
He stills…
It’s not sugary. Not pageant bullshit, not overdone.
It looks like candlelight learned how to fall in waves of fabric.
It’s a pale, buttery gold-yellow shade. Soft in the sketch but deliberate in the structure. Something graceful enough to make a room shut up when it enters and draws the eye. Something that looks like it belongs to a woman who has survived the dark and brought the light back in with her on purpose.
Hopper doesn’t say anything.
Cinna does.
“It would complement the suit I have in mind for Steve,” he says, the words softening. “For the homecoming.”
Hopper glances up at him.
The stylist’s face is unreadable in that elegant way of his, but his hazel eyes give him away. He’s thought about this. Built it. Held onto it. Not as fluff, but as the future.
Hopper turns the page.
Another sketch. Then another.
One leans into your artistry — not just cakes, but decoration, detail, color, the visual intelligence of hands that know how to make sweetness look sacred. The other takes all that airy Capitol nonsense about doves and angels… and does something far smarter with it, something much less obvious. The result is somehow still you. More you than anything the press has come up with so far, because Cinna sees the line between image and person and walks it like he invented balance.
Hopper stares at the page too long.
And when he finally looks up, his voice has gone rough with genuine respect. “You’re good.”
Cinna’s answer is immediate and infuriatingly modest. “I’m trying.”
“No,” Hopper shakes his head. “You’re good.”
That genuinely lands.
The stylist does not bask in it but does not wave it off either. He just accepts it with that quiet seriousness he seems to reserve for things that matter.
Then Hopper hands the folio back to him. “So what’re you seeing that I ain’t.”
Cinna takes the sketchbook, closing it against his chest.
“She decorates cakes.”
Hopper blinks. “Yes…?”
“And at the training center,” Cinna continues, “you told me she demonstrated camouflage techniques with frosting dyes and surface texture.”
Now Hopper really blinks.
Because… Christ.
Because shit, there it is. Suddenly it’s obvious. Suddenly it’s brilliant.
A kit.
Paint.
Proper paint, not some child’s nonsense. Quality pigments. Quality brushes. Something decent enough to let you blend into bark and dirt and shadow and leaves if you need to. Something that turns your one skill these people find decorative into a survival tool they’ll actually pay to see deployed.
He actually feels his own irritation pivot into something sharper and cleaner.
“Holy shit.”
Cinna’s mouth lifts.
“That,” Hopper says, pointing at him now, “that is a hell of a thought.” He lets the thought turn over in his brain, scratching at his jaw, then his brow furrows with more questioning. “But how’s that help give her a shot at healing that…” He grimaces before finishing. “—bone-deep shin wound?”
The stylist’s eyes grow somber.
“For now, it may simply be our best shot before nightfall.”
That wipes the flicker of satisfaction right off Hopper’s face.
Nightfall.
Yeah.
Because if the arena stays too quiet, the Gamemakers are going to stir it.
Steve and Ro are hidden enough. Hannah and Jack are hidden enough, too. Even the Careers with their stupid little pile at the Cornucopia are set for the moment, along with the girl from District 5.
You are the one out in the open.
You are the one that will need to disappear.
“There’s not been enough violence today,” Cinna adds solemnly. “Now since the nest took out Glimmer. That’ll affect tonight’s show, or tomorrow’s. But I’d be willing to bet they’ll be forcing entertainment tonight.”
Hopper’s already catching onto what Cinna is explaining.
But he lets him finish anyway, staring him right in the eye.
“Now that the Careers recruited the other girl instead of slaughtering her,” the stylist continues, “and Steve’s still safely hidden, along with the kids? They’ll wanna put anyone else out in the open at risk.” He pauses, eyes sad. “Which puts Ren, Foxface and Thresh in direct line of fire. Whatever their plans are.”
Hopper’s gaze drops back to the tablet in his hand and finds your feed again. You’re still trying to tie that strip of cloth tightly around your openly cut shin with hands that won’t stop shaking.
“If Ren doesn’t survive the night,” Cinna concludes, voice quiet and no longer concealing his fear, “then surviving her leg wound will not matter.”
Hopper exhales once, long and thin.
“I shoulda thought of this.”
Cinna goes very still.
The silence between them changes texture.
When he speaks again, it’s even softer than before yet somehow even firmer for it. “You do not need to fail every test inside your own head before you are allowed to solve one.”
Hopper looks over at him.
That one hit farther than intended. He can tell by the flicker of true regret and understanding both that passes through the stylist’s face, but he doesn’t take it back.
Which is good.
Because Hopper is too damn tired for comforting lies anyway.
He just grunts, “You always talk like that.”
“Like what.”
“Like you’re trying not to bruise people while still saying the thing.”
Cinna thinks about that. “More or less.”
A sound leaves Hopper’s nose that might almost qualify as a laugh, this time not laced with sarcasm or fury. Then practicality slams back down over both of them.
“How do we pitch it,” Hopper asks, leaning back with his arms crossed.
Cinna, of course, is ready for that too.
“As protection,” he says. “As artistry. As identity.” He taps Hopper’s iPad. “As an extension of home. Something only she would know how to use properly.” He glances up at him. “Something that makes her more herself, not less.”
“And if they ask why I’m not bribing ‘em for medicine now?”
“We don’t ask them to choose between aid and spectacle. We just convince them this is both.”
Hopper nods slowly.
“Christ, I hate how these people think.”
“I know.”
“I mean, I really hate it.”
“I know,” Cinna repeats gently, eyes sad. “So do I.”
Hopper knows he means that sincerely
He sighs through his nose and re-fastens his tablet across his chest, gripping the strap. Then he points a thick finger at Cinna as they head for the door.
“You’re comin’ with me.”
Cinna arches one brow. “That was already my plan.”
That actually earns him a brief crooked smirk from Hopper.
They step back out into the corridor together, making their way out of the big building, back into elite civilization.
The noise of the Capitol square rolls over them in glitter and silver and too much perfume and too much money and too many screens. The crowd still swells around the arena feeds like worshippers around an altar. Somewhere, Effie is probably still dazzling someone into submission. Somewhere, Caesar is likely rehearsing phrases he’ll say later with fake sincerity and real delight. Somewhere… a hundred rich people are deciding which child’s agony feels most emotionally fulfilling to sponsor.
Hopper hates them with a passion.
Also knows exactly what part of them he’s about to exploit.
As they walk, he murmurs under his breath, “Ain’t this breaking your rules.”
Cinna opens the sketchbook again as they go, flipping to the digital scans, then back to the dress, then to the image set, already assembling his arsenal like an undercover salesman on a mission.
“I have been working around the rules since I was old enough to understand who wrote them.”
Hopper glances sideways at him.
“Touché.”
“Besides,” Cinna adds, just dry enough to keep it from sounding saintly, “I am not sponsoring. I am merely styling the case for sponsorship.”
“Fancy way of saying you’re helping me hustle these bastards.”
“Appreciate that.”
Hopper huffs. “Alright then, let’s get this bread.”
Cinna hums, an amused little sound in his throat. “Love the pun.”
“Thanks.”
They slow at the edge of the promenade and scan the square.
That’s when Hopper hears it first.
High little voices.
He turns…
A cluster of Capitol parents stand near one of the lower viewing terraces — dressed like walking chandeliers, while two little girls in fluttery layered skirts spin circles around each other under the watch of some overwhelmed nanny. Both are maybe six. Maybe seven. One of them has a ribbon tied in her hair like a bow on a present. The other is clutching a sugar-dusted pastry in one tiny hand while she argues with the full moral conviction only rich little girls can muster.
“No, I get to be Ren!”
“You got to be Ren already!”
“I was morning Ren!”
“Well then I’m afternoon Ren!”
The first girl stamps one little satin shoe. “You be the sleeping boy!”
“I don’t want to be the sleeping boy—!”
Hopper and Cinna stop in perfect unison.
For a beat, neither says anything.
Then Hopper looks over at the stylist.
Cinna looks over at the mentor.
And there it is.
Their prime target.
Parents with money. Daughters obsessed with you. Just enough innocence in the children to make the adults eager — incentivized — to indulge it. Just enough status anxiety in the adults to make them want to be seen indulging it. Just enough distance from the actual horror… that they can mistake their interference for generosity and still sleep tonight.
Hopper’s mouth pulls into something not remotely kind.
“Well,” he murmurs.
Cinna’s eyes gleam, elegant and merciless in equal measure.
“Order up.”
Hopper squares his shoulders.
The little girls keep bickering loudly. One of the mothers leans down, smiling absently, only half listening as she smooths a hand over her daughter’s curls. The father beside her is laughing at something on one of the screens, where a stupid commercial for some high-end brand of cologne.
Easy.
Hopper knows easy when he sees it.
And children, no matter what poisonous silk-and-gold world they’re raised in, still want the same thing children always want: to play hero, to be seen, and to help the story end right.
He knows how to use that.
He learned from the best little girl he ever knew.
So with Cinna at his side, digital scans ready, strategy sharpened, fury finally pointed somewhere useful—
Jim Hopper fixes his face into something almost courtly and starts toward the family while one of the girls spins again and declares, to absolutely no one’s surprise at all:
“I’m Ren, and I get to paint the sky with stars.”
And this time, for the first time all damn day…
Hopper thinks they might actually get somewhere.
By 5:09 p.m., Joyce Byers finally got to read the whole damn thing.
Not standing half bent over the register while somebody asked whether the powdered milk was limit one or limit two. Not with one hand still on the phone and the other reaching for a pack of off-brand batteries. Not while Donald shouted from the back that they were out of the cheap bagged coffee again and one of them needed to go mark the chalkboard before the next wave of people came stomping through the door like the end of the world personally sent them a shopping list.
Nope.
For the first time since Nancy Wheeler dropped off the morning edition hours ago, Joyce had the store almost entirely to herself.
The early rush had come and gone in a frenzy right after opening — people buying whatever they could afford and three things they couldn’t, because that was what storms did to a town like Hawkins now. They made everybody remember just how quickly shelves could go bare. White bread rolls. Cheap canned soups. Two brands of cereal nobody actually liked. Frozen dinners with suspicious looking meat. Off-brand milk. Crap-quality water bottles. Trail mix bland enough to make a person question the value of living. Coffee tins. Flashlights. Batteries. Toilet paper, because for some reason humanity never stopped making that the first battlefield.
Now the aisles sat in a rare pocket of hush.
The fluorescent overhead lights hummed while the storm hit the building in waves. Somewhere in the back office, Donald was dead asleep in his chair with his mouth probably hanging wide open and his hat tipped over one eye, because he’d been up for almost thirty hours straight trying to receive fresh inventory like the apocalypse was a small business inconvenience instead of a plague on everybody’s soul.
Joyce stood behind the counter with one elbow braced against it and the folded Hawkins Post open in both hands.
And she was smiling.
Not politely, not faintly. Not the kind of smile people give when they are trying not to cry and mostly failing. She was actually smiling down at the page with tears in her big doe eyes…and pride breaking over her face like sunlight over wreckage.
Because Nancy had done it.
That sharp, stubborn, beautiful girl… had gone ahead and done the fucking thing.
The article ran across most of the front page, beneath the masthead and above the fold, with the storm report kicked to the side and the supply shipment notice knocked all the way down where it belonged. The headline sat there in big black letters with Nancy Wheeler’s byline below it, and Joyce read it one more time even though she already knew it by heart.
PAN & HIS SHADOW — AND THE LOSTGIRL WHO STOLE THEM TIME By Nancy Wheeler
Joyce swallowed once and started reading again.
There are towns that survive because they are large enough to absorb grief.
Hawkins, Indiana, has never had that luxury.
We survive because everybody knows everybody, because no tragedy ever stays private for long, and because love in a small town has nowhere to hide once it decides to become action.
By now, most of the country has seen the image: Ro Shadowmere of District 11, scarcely more than a little boy, guiding Steve Harrington of District 12 to safety through the trees after the tracker jacker attack on the morning of Day Three. One child leading another child’s local legend back from the edge. One shadow keeping pace with the boy who first became a symbol when he volunteered at the Reaping for twelve-year-old Dustin Henderson, here in Hawkins.
For many in town, that image has already become its own kind of folklore. Pan and his shadow. The lost boy and the little guardian who refused to leave him.
But Hawkins knows better than most that survival stories are rarely made of only one rescue at a time.
Because while the nation watched a sleeping hero get carried out of danger by a little child with uncommon courage, another act of strategy was already unfolding elsewhere in the same arena. It did not happen loudly. It did not happen in full view at first. And like many of the most consequential things in Hawkins — it happened all because several somebody’s underestimated the quietest person in the room.
Ren Everdeen has now spent four days inside an arena designed to punish mercy.
In that time, she has helped hide two younger tributes in a cave beyond the main fighting grounds. She has moved under the attention of the Career pack without ever fully becoming one of them. She has bought time where there should have been none. And on the morning of Day Three, by all visible evidence now available, she deliberately drew danger toward herself and away from Steve Harrington at the exact moment when his survival depended on the split-second misdirection.
There are places in the country where that kind of act would be called foolish.
Hawkins has other words for it.
We call it knowing your people.
We call it “reading the room,” and the weather, and the danger in a person’s face before they’ve even finished deciding what kind of violence they mean to do.
We call it “doing the hard, ugly thing” because no one else in the moment is positioned to do it better.
And we call it what it is when a baker’s daughter from a town better known for sinkholes, blackouts and rumors of monsters still finds a way to turn the Games’ own cruel bloodthirsty appetite for spectacle… into an opening wide enough for other people to live through.
This is not sainthood. It is not myth. It is not softness confused for innocence.
It is intelligence.
It’s nerve.
It’s the sort of long-game type of thinking that rarely announces itself before it strikes.
By now, much of the national press has understandably focused on little Ro Shadowmere’s courage. They should. His composure, his uncanny skill in concealment, and his refusal to abandon a far larger tribute once Steve Harrington fell unconscious, speak to a level of bravery no child should ever have been asked to possess. Hawkins owes him a debt it cannot yet repay.
But if this town is loud in its gratitude today, it is because the people here understand something that the bigger cities and more privileged parts of this country too often forget: rescue rarely belongs to one pair of hands.
Somebody bought the time.
Somebody pulled the eye of danger elsewhere.
Somebody secretly understood that keeping one person alive… might mean disappearing another person into the margins of the frame and letting the nation catch up later.
That somebody was Ren Everdeen.
And maybe a town like Hawkins is especially equipped to recognize that kind of labor, because we have built most of our lives around versions of it.
The work that saves people here is not always glamorous. Oftentimes, it’s quite the opposite. It is unpaid. Uncredited. Done in kitchens, in hospitals, in garages, at grave hours, on side roads, in back rooms, under leaking roofs, between shifts and power outages and one more bad headline. It is the work of keeping one another alive long enough to hope again.
That is why Ro Shadowmere’s rescue of Steve Harrington belongs to this town now — not because Ro is ours, but because Hawkins knows how to recognize devotion when it sees it.
That is also why Ren Everdeen’s role in the same chain of survival must not be treated as background scenery simply because it happened farther from the camera at first.
In stories written elsewhere, the loudest act tends to get remembered best.
Hawkins has always had a better memory than that.
Here, we remember who left the door unlocked so that someone else could get in.
We remember who doubled back.
We remember who noticed the smallest child in the room.
We remember who moved first.
And we remember the people who were mistaken for fragile until the day they became indispensable.
The Capitol may continue to market heroes as though they emerge cleanly, one at a time, for the convenience of a good narrative. But Hawkins is not interested in convenience. Hawkins watched a little boy become a guide, a local son become a symbol, and a kind baker’s daughter become the unseen hinge the whole morning turned on.
That is the truth of Day Three.
And in a town where everybody is in everybody else’s business whether they like it or not, truth has a habit of getting around.
Joyce made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. “Oh, honey,” she whispered to nobody and everybody — Nancy, you, Steve, Ro, the whole impossible miserable world.
Then she looks over the article again, this time slower, mouthing a sentence here and there under her breath.
The unseen hinge the whole morning turned on.
Jesus Christ.
That girl could write.
Joyce’s eyes burned harder. She pressed the heel of one hand against her mouth and laughed again because if she didn’t, she was going to start crying loud enough to wake Donald through two walls and a lifetime of bad sleep.
You’ve always been like a daughter to her.
Not in the casual way people said things like that when they meant they liked having some kid around. No, you were family in the way that happened when one child spent years tucking softness into a home that badly needed it. You were there in the Castle Byers days. There in the aftermath of Lonnie. There when Jonathan was trying too hard to be older than he was, and when Will was still small enough to cry without trying to hide it, and when Joyce herself sometimes felt like she was holding together a house with one hand and a prayer.
You were there.
And Steve was too, in his own different way, years later…beautiful, ridiculous Steve Harrington, who had taken one look at Will and all those boys and simply decided they were his now. He had done it so casually that it took the adults a while to understand he was completely serious about it. And then one day he was driving them places, feeding them, standing between them and trouble, making them all laugh, making them feel safe, becoming family without asking anybody’s permission.
Joyce stared down at the article one more time and gave a shaky laugh.
“Damn right,” she muttered fondly. “Damn right, Nancy Wheeler.”
A burst of thunder rolled far off. The front windows rattled. Somewhere in the back Donald snored loud enough to sound offended by his own body. Joyce folded the paper with aching care, then opened it again immediately because she couldn’t help herself.
Back at the Byers’ house, Jonathan was doing the exact same thing.
He stood in the kitchen in sock feet and a flannel over an old t-shirt with the newspaper spread open on the counter beside the stove while a pot of bone broth heated slowly and fragrantly behind him. Steam lifted from it in gentle curls. The radio nearby muttered weather updates through occasional static. On the counter sat the fresh loaf Parker had dropped off that afternoon while Angelica was busy in the bakery proper — one long baguette, still good, still crusty, still slightly warm at the center when Jonathan had cut into it.
He’d already read the article three times to himself.
Now he was reading pieces of it out loud to Burdock again.
“Listen to this part—” Jonathan called toward the living room, newspaper in hand. “We remember who doubled back. We remember who noticed the smallest child in the room. We remember who moved first.”
Out in the living room, Burdock sat in his chair with the biggest damn grin on his face, quilt blanket over his lap and his inhaler on the end table and tears shining openly in both eyes.
“That girl can write,” he said thickly.
Jonathan laughed, but his own voice cracked around it. “Yeah.”
“No, I’m serious.” Your grandfather pointed toward the kitchen with surprising authority for an old man whose lungs were trying to mutiny. “That Wheeler girl’s got fangs.”
Jonathan lowered the paper a little, smiling despite himself. “That she does.”
He couldn’t even help it. That lifelong crush of his was going to be the death of him, because right now? He was this close to running in the rain, all the way over to Steve’s house, just plant a kiss on Nancy Wheeler‘s beautiful set of lips — over and over, profusely thanking her for this feature.
Especially after their little feud of sorts in the van yesterday.
“Read the hinge part again,” Burdock hollers.
Jonathan blinked. “The what.”
“The part about Ren,” the old man grumbled. “Being the hinge. Read it again. Don’t make me beg in my own damn second home.”
That almost got Jonathan.
He looked back down at the page, swallowed hard, and read it again anyway while stirring the broth with his free hand.
Outside, the storm had turned from ugly to ominous. Wind slammed against the house in irregular fists. The porch light flickered once, then twice. The old maple out front scraped the siding like it was trying to get in.
Jonathan kept reading.
Because what else was there to do?
The television in the living room stayed fixed on the Games’ live feed. The arena flickered there in pieces while Caesar and Claudius ran their mouths over every quiet little movement like they were narrating the rise and fall of empires instead of children trying not to die in the woods.
Every time the feed cut back to you, Burdock’s smile broke all over again into something far more fragile.
There you were: deep in the shadows now, following the stream where you could, leaving it where you had to, stopping finally because your leg simply could not bear one more step without revolt. Both windbreakers still wrapped around your small body. Chin tucked. Face pale. Eyes still alert despite the pain trying to drag you under.
Jonathan’s stomach twisted every time.
But he kept his tone light when he spoke to Burdock. He kept his face open. Kept his voice warm. Because your grandfather already knew too much. He didn’t need Jonathan adding his own terror on top of it.
The broth began to bubble. Jonathan turned the heat down. Reached for the bread knife. Cut thick slices off the baguette and set them aside with butter.
“Smells good,” Burdock called.
“That’s because Parker finally coughed up decent bread.”
“Miracles abound.”
Jonathan snorted and looked back at the article again, unable not to.
He could still hear the storm even over the radio.
Possible power disruptions in low-lying sectors…
Wind advisory extended through the night…
Citizens encouraged to remain sheltered…
The lamp over the sink flickered.
Jonathan looked up fast, waiting…
But it held.
“Don’t start,” he muttered to the house itself.
In the living room, Burdock gave a weak little chuckle. “Talking to the ghosts again?”
“Talking to the wiring.”
“Same difference in this town.”
That one almost made Jonathan bark out a laugh.
Meanwhile, over at Steve’s house, Nancy Wheeler was asleep on the couch like someone had shot her full of exhaustion and neatly folded the remains.
She’d stayed up all night writing. Then she had driven to the printers herself for expedited production. Then stood there like a tiny mob boss making sure all two thousand copies actually came off the line. Then helped route them out. And then? Walked part of the damn paper route in the rain herself with a giant raincoat of Steve’s pulled over her own, accompanied by Chrissy, while Fred and Suzie ran the rest and Eddie tried not to have a coronary watching everybody act like weather was a suggestion.
Now she was out cold inside the living room under three blankets and one of Steve’s old sweatshirts folded under her head like a pillow.
The television was still on across from her, volume low, live feed rolling on... and Steve’s house had now become quiet in the deliberate way houses with sleeping people in them went quiet — careful, practiced, full of whispers and feet placed just so.
Eddie had already bitterly cried over the article hours ago, after Chrissy had dropped off a copy in person, because of course he had. He’d read it once at the kitchen table, once standing up, once pacing, and once aloud to no one before catching himself and swearing at the wall for making him “emotional like some Victorian widow.”
Now, though, he was back to running the house.
Which meant that he had retucked Nancy’s blanket approximately every ten minutes like a complete psycho while giving her one or two forehead kisses.
He knew she was hurting. Knew it in that raw, embarrassing older-brother way where watching somebody try not to crack open made you want to both smother them affectionately and leave them alone with dignity. So instead? He compromised by hovering at medium distance and muttering about room temperature and making sure no child under that roof so much as squeaked too loud.
The kids, to their credit, were being really fucking good.
Upstairs, Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Will and Erica had all now mostly confined themselves to the entertainment room and the hall bathroom and a series of whisper-fights about cards and posters and cereal distribution. Every now and then, one of them padded quietly to the banister to peek down at Nancy asleep on the couch, only to get shooed away by Eddie like a stray cat from a countertop.
“Let her sleep,” he hissed for the fourth time that hour.
“We’re not doing anything,” Dustin whisper-hissed back.
“You’re existing with too much volume.”
“I’m literally whispering—”
“Shhhhhh!—”
Erica looked past him, down toward the living room, and then back at Eddie. “You’re tucking her in again.”
“Shh. I am not.”
“You literally are.”
Eddie looked down and found one hand still holding the corner of a blanket.
“…mind your business, child.”
She rolled her eyes and walked off like a queen dismissing her royal court.
The house felt emptier without the parents in it.
Karen and Sue were both stuck at the hospital now, the storm too ugly and the roads too bad and their jobs too necessary to justify going home. They each had their own thin cot in the staff rest area — one pillow, one scratchy blanket, the kind of setup that worked only if you were already tired enough to lose standards.
Ted and Charles had their version of the same setup on the lower level near security’s staff room quarters.
Claudia was still at the nursing home.
Steve’s big house, for all its shelter and space, still felt the absence of adults in a way that made Eddie’s shoulders stiffly carry just a little more weight. He had never asked for any of this. But he’d also never once walked away from it, nor did he want to, nor would he ever.
So he kept doing what needed doing.
Checking the doors. Listening to Powell’s patrol car pull up to the house, the tires rolling over the gravel outside. Making sure the kids had eaten. Keeping the television on. Glancing up every time the feed cuts to the arena.
Nothing wild was happening in there right now.
Which somehow made it feel worse.
Steve still slept inside Ro’s hidden little shelter, dead to the world while the leaves on his bites did their work. Ro sat nearby, nibbling on seeds and roots and edible little things with the earnest concentration of a tiny forest creature between missions.
The Careers were still near the Cornucopia. Tommy prowled. Marvel circled. Syl co-guarded with all the miserable stiffness of somebody who had learned exactly how conditional mercy could be. Carol still hadn’t woken up.
Thresh moved in the grasslands like wind. Foxface stayed hidden. Hannah and Jack shared crackers in the cave, little shapes bent close together.
And you…
You were leaned up against a tree with both jackets around you, pain held so tightly in your body that it had become posture. Watching. Waiting. Trying not to look weak even to the dark.
Eddie hated that more than he had language for.
He glanced toward Nancy sleeping on the couch and then right back to the screen.
“Hang in there, sweetheart,” he muttered, not even fully sure whether he was saying that to you or Steve… or both. Then he tucked Nancy’s blanket higher up around her neck for the millionth time, winking down at her sleeping form. “You better be dreaming of a cure for carpal tunnel.”
Up in her room, the typewriter sat quiet.
Down in the living room, the newspaper lay folded on the coffee table with Nancy’s byline visible from where Eddie stood.
And all over Hawkins, two thousand copies of truth were making their way through kitchens and break rooms and guard stations and shop counters and cot rooms and front porches before the storm could blow the day clean off the map.
At Melvald’s, Joyce read the “hinge” paragraph one more time and laughed softly through tears.
At the Byers’ house, Jonathan tore bread and ladled broth into a bowl while Burdock demanded yet another reading of the first half like a man trying to memorize grace before it could be taken from him.
At the hospital, Karen folded her own copy and tucked it into her purse like something sacred. Sue kept hers on the desk under her clipboard and reread the same three paragraphs twice between admissions.
At the nursing home, Claudia had her edition tucked into the pocket of her scrub top, warm from her own body heat and reread every time she got thirty seconds to herself by a vending machine or supply closet.
The officers down at the station all pass it around, exchanging their thoughts on the article and noting their favorite excerpts from it.
Even Larry Klein himself couldn’t help but read it over and over, setting aside an extra copy to frame and hang up down at City Hall.
The town was keeping the article with them.
Because that was what Hawkins did with things that mattered. It folded them into itself and carried them around all day like lucky charms and grief tokens and proof that somebody else had seen the same truth they had.
By the time the kitchen clock at Steve’s house ticked toward dinner hour, the sky had gone from ugly to threatening in earnest — which meant that Eddie finally surrendered to the fact that he was, in his own words, “playing wartime housewife with a criminal record.”
He headed into the kitchen, tying an apron around himself that absolutely did not belong to him and setting out everything he needed with the efficiency of someone who had been taught both by Wayne and by necessity.
He was going to cook enough for the kids and himself, enough for Officer Powell and his two backup stationed outside tonight… and enough to plate one extra serving for Nancy, then wrap it in foil afterward so it stayed warm for when she finally woke up starving at some godforsaken hour.
He thanked every stupid star in the sky that he’d done a market run earlier in the week. The pantry was fuller than most in town. The freezers (those giant bunker-ass end-of-the-world monsters downstairs) were stocked with frozen vegetables, bagged soups, bread, meat, and all of the venison Steve had put away for days exactly like this.
“One day,” Eddie dryly muttered to himself, under his breath, “I’m gonna get laid real good for this by a fine ass woman.” He grabbed the nearby shakers of salt and pepper. “Sooooon as I wife’er up...”
He got the stove going. Set a pot on. Pulled ingredients from cabinets and fridge and freezer with the rhythm of a man who had cooked under worse pressure than this and knew it.
The sleek silver TV inside the kitchen was set to the weather instead of the Games, because the main set in the living room remained holy territory now.
Onscreen, the weather map looked like a threat made visual.
“This system is not moving out anytime soon,” the meteorologist said, pointer tapping a massive smear of red and yellow and green like it personally offended him. “High winds through the night. Severe thunderstorm conditions likely to persist for the next several days. We are also continuing to monitor unusual atmospheric instability—”
Eddie frowned up at it while opening a can.
Outside the big kitchen windows, the trees were starting to bend harder than trees should bend. The last bit of the daylight was bleeding out behind thick storm clouds until the world beyond the glass looked bruised and almost underwater. Harsh winds shoved at the house in long ugly waves. One of the hanging porch lights flashed on and off and on again.
Eddie set the can down slower than before.
On the TV, the meteorologist kept grimly reporting something about pressure systems. Something else about county lines and something about conditions worsening before dawn.
Eddie didn’t like the sound of any of it.
Didn’t like the look of the sky either.
The house creaked once.
Then again.
Upstairs, one of the boys laughed a tad too loudly before immediately getting shushed. In the living room, Nancy slept on — one hand tucked under her cheek. Powell’s silhouette crossed the front walk outside with steady, faithful regularity.
Eddie turned back to the stove and started dinner anyway, because that was what there was to do.
But as the light died all the way outside and the weather report droned on in the background — and the first real growl of thunder rolled close enough to rattle something deep inside the walls… he felt the same cold little crawl go down his spine that everybody in Hawkins had started learning meant more than weather.
This storm wasn’t leaving.
And somehow, deep in his gut, Eddie Munson knew the town was about to pay for that.
Could i request a Harrington house fic of the oldest boy heading off to college 😭 steve would be a WRECK
I love your work btw genuinely some of the best
Summary: It’s the last Harrington family trip around the states before you and Steve send your oldest boy off to college, and safe to say - it’s chaotic.
WC: 5.3k
Warnings & What to Expect: hargrove!fem!reader, Steve struggling to let go of his oldest, brief mentions of blood & throw up but nothing descriptive, brief mention of sex w/ allusion to spice, some tension & angst between reader and Steve and the babes bc they’re all emotional over the oldest leaving - very bittersweet 😭
Harrington Household Masterlist
currently writing this series based on requests, so if you have any ideas - please feel free to send them my way 🫶🏻
Main Masterlist If Interested!
Peach’s Note: oh anon, Steve would be an absolute mess 😭 i combined this request w/ this one to build up to Steve’s breaking point over it.
also, i still plan to write for requests that include the oldest!! just won’t be in a “timeline” order.
fun fact about me, i grew up in Western Mass - just about two hours from where Joe is from! It’s why i chose to have the college set in Boston, bc I’m familiar with it… but also why i set the family trip in the north/ east coast bc i miss it so much since moving.
anyways, enough of me yapping, hope you enjoy lovie! thank u sm for the support!! 💚
The string of bad luck starts when the bathroom system breaks on the sixteen hour drive from Indiana to New Hampshire.
“I have to pee,” groans your ten year old boy, for what feels like the thousandth time now.
There’s a resounding sigh of frustration around the RV at his complaining. His twin sister sits across from him at the table in the kitchenette, markers spread around her as she draws.
Your youngest boy sits next to her, chin propped in his hand boredly - you can tell he’s been chatting her ear off, and your girl has been patiently listening. You’re grateful for her willingness, because keeping a four year old entertained has been the hardest part of the whole trip.
Your oldest boy is tucked into the folding sofa that turns into a bed at night with your toddler propped up in his lap. Her hands are pressed against the glass - leaving a residue of tiny fingerprints behind as she watches curiously out the window.
“We know, shut up will you?” Your oldest girl bites out, sick of the hearing the phrase once again.
She’s taken one of her wired earbuds out of her iPod to sneer the words at him - must’ve heard him despite the fact that she’s all the way in the back resting on one of the bunk beds.
“Hey, be nice to your brother,” Steve calls from the driver's seat, eyes flicking to the rear view mirror.
She folds her arms and grumbles, “Sorry, Dad, but could you please tell him to stop whining about his bladder problems?”
You turn around from the passenger seat to look at your boy who’s clearly exaggerating his need to go, “Ten minutes tops till our next stop, hun. You’ll make it.”
The RV was quite the investment, which is why it’s infuriating that the bathroom isn’t working, but when it came time to start preparing to move your oldest boy to college, the rest of the kids were desperate to go with - wanting to be there to say goodbye. Meaning, you had no other option but to take the recreational vehicle.
The trip went from a thirteen hour drive to Boston, Massachusetts - where your boy got accepted into Berklee College of Music, to a trip around the North East for the remainder of the summer - because if the whole family was going on one last excursion, Steve refused to not plan out the perfect road trip before freshman move in day.
The problem was that Steve’s perfectly crafted plan was crumbling before his eyes as each day passed - leaving him stressed, moody, and insanely frustrated at each stream of things that kept going wrong.
And you knew it was only a matter of time before something broke his resolve.
The first stop on your route to a lake house in New Hampshire was an amusement park in Ohio.
The morning forecast was beautiful, but you didn’t take into account the thunderstorm that was supposed to roll in come afternoon.
Steve was in his element, on roller coaster duty with the teenagers and twins while you happily kept the littles entertained in the younger section of the park.
You met back up for lunch, before deciding to stick together since the rain seemed to be making its way in.
“We probably have time for one more ride before the rain starts,” Steve decides, clapping his hands and rubbing them together in excitement.
“We’ve been saving the fastest one for last, so let’s go there,” your oldest suggested.
“I’ll race you two there,” Steve declares, taking off after your oldest and getting a head start on the twins who immediately run after him - shrieking at him to wait.
“What’s it like taking care of seven children?” your eldest girl chirps at you.
You roll your eyes lovingly, “Just go catch up to them, babe.”
You watched the sky nervously as they waited in line, and it’s almost like the clouds intentionally waited for their turn to get on the ride to open up and release the onslaught of water.
Your babes looked miserable coming off the ride - sufficiently soaked to the bone, and you had to hustle to make it back to the shelter of the RV.
From the jostled movement of the coaster after lunch and the chaos of running in the downpour, your ten year old girl has a sick look on her face by the time you make it back.
“Don’t you dare throw up on me!” Your eldest girl screeches when her sister moans about not feeling good.
“Baby, can you make it to the bathroom?” You ask, crouching next to her.
Steve’s shaking his head already, “The toilet is still broken, she can’t puke in there.”
You cut a glare towards him, “Well, she certainly isn’t standing outside in the pouring rain to do it, Steve.”
“Please stop talking about it,” your girl whimpers in distress, clutching at her stomach.
Steve gestures towards the kitchen sink, which makes the rest of your kids scatter.
“Oh god, I’m gonna be sick if I watch,” your oldest whines - booking it towards the bunk beds, and the rest of your children instinctively follow him while you and Steve take care of your girl.
Needless to say, a plumber was called to fix the bathroom situation that evening.
Then in Pennsylvania, you lost your four year old at a children’s museum.
Your youngest boy was definitely on the verge of coming down with a cold, but Steve begged you not to stay behind - kept bringing up how it was the last full family experience together, and you felt guilty saying no to the puppy dog eyes he gave you.
You were straggling behind, holding your boy close to you - frequently feeling his forehead to check if a fever was kicking in.
Steve was ahead of you with your toddler in his arms, the twins darting around delightedly at each exhibit, and your oldest two were behind you - not too thrilled at being dragged along to a place geared towards younger kids.
Your arms were groaning in protest, but each time you tried putting your babe down, he’d start protesting. Steve was too caught up in the excitement with your other children to notice you struggling, and you knew how important it was to him to be spending the time together - which is why you didn’t say anything about needing help.
“Sorry, baby. Need to set you down,” you say to your boy as your arms give out, dropping him carefully to the floor.
He starts fussing as you stretch, turning away briefly, and you miss how he storms off into the crowd of people - upset at you for letting him go.
You notice he’s missing when you turn back and frantically look around for him with no success.
“Steve, he’s gone,” you say, panic lacing your tone when you grab his attention.
Steve’s eyes blow wide, “What do you mean he’s gone?”
Frustrated tears blur your vision, “I set him down for a second. He was just here a moment ago.”
“Why weren’t you watching him?” Steve asks.
“Excuse me? I’ve been carrying him around this whole time, so I’m sorry if my arms needed a break,” you snap back.
Regret instantly washes over his face, “I’m sorry, honey. Didn’t mean it like that.”
“I think you did,” you reply snippily.
“I didn’t,” Steve defends.
“Maybe we should just start looking for him?” Your oldest jumps in, trying to diffuse the tension.
By the time a worker reunites you with your boy, you and Steve are frazzled with unease; and you can’t help but feel betrayed when he runs to Steve first, crying his eyes out.
Steve notices how you go stiff, how you try to hide from him the rest of the day - pretending like guilt isn’t eating at you for losing your kid.
“Baby,” he breathes by the shell of your ear once you’re curled up in the folding bed that evening.
“Don’t wanna talk about it,” you tell him dejectedly.
His arms slip around your waist, tugging you to press your body against his, slotting his legs in between yours.
“C’mon honey, please,” he tries again.
You cave, turning around in his arms, “I lost him, Steve.”
He presses a kiss to your jaw affectionately, “Wasn’t your fault.”
“You blamed me,” your voice cracks as the tears threaten to fall.
He tucks you close into his chest, one hand firmly on your waist, the other stroking your hair, “I’m so sorry it came out that way. I promise I don’t blame you, baby. I was just scared.”
You rub at your eyes, “And then he ran to you, god, like he knew it was my fault.”
Steve’s hand comes up to hold onto your cheek, fingers delicately splaying out across the expanse of your neck, “Babe, let’s be real. I was just the first one he saw. And if we’re gonna blame anyone, it’s him for being a little shit and running off like that.”
“Steve,” you chide at the name calling of your child.
“What? He may be four, but we’ve taught him about the importance of staying close to us. He was throwing a tantrum, just like I was about not letting you hang back and rest with him when you told me he was getting sick. Meanwhile, you were being the best Mommy in the world for trying to hold him the whole time,” he concludes with a sweet kiss to your lips.
You instantly melt at the feeling, humming contentedly, as his tongue coaxes your mouth open to deepen the kiss. When you pull away to breathe he stares at you, desire pooling behind those doe eyes of his, and it causes a heat to flare up inside of you.
“You blushing, baby? What, did you like me calling you Mommy?” He teases, pinching at your hip playfully.
“Stop it,” you whine in embarrassment.
He laughs softly, “Don’t need to get all shy on me, honey. You know I want you just as bad.”
You roll on top of him at the encouragement, “We already get interrupted when we’re in our own room at home, Steve. We’re not having sex here.”
He groans, “Then you need to get off me, baby.”
You shift against him subtly, “Doesn’t mean we can’t do other things, right?”
“Oh fu-,” Steve starts, but a small voice calling for you startles both of you.
“Mommy?” Your four old stumbles over to your side of the bed in the dark.
“What’s wrong, babe?” You inquire worriedly, sliding off of Steve.
He climbs up on the bed and snuggles up next to you, “Don’t feel good.”
You glance over at Steve, who smiles before telling his boy, “Then you’ve come to the right place, bud, because Mom makes everyone feel better.”
He spends the night tucked in between you and Steve, which was a sweet reminder that he’ll always need you, but then the next morning you woke with a sore throat.
And when you finally hit New York - the place everyone was looking forward to the most, the virus your boy came down with had spread to each of you, and you spent a week miserably parked at a campsite to recover.
Your last stop before reaching the lake was Vermont, where you hiked several family friendly trails through the mountains.
You had just finished taking a picture of Steve with all your babes in front of a waterfall, cheesy grins across their faces, when a spider crawled up your eldest girl's arm - causing her to flail around and skid along the rock, making her fall and skin her knees.
A whimper leaves her lips as blood starts to dribble down her legs. You run up to help her as Steve hauls his backpack off to grab the first aid kit.
She smacks her father’s hand away when he gets the antiseptic wipes out, “That stings!”
“Stop squirming, and let me take care of it,” Steve asserts.
“That’s a lot of blood,” your youngest boy comments.
You turn to him, “Not helpful, hun.”
Steve successfully patches up his girl's legs and a bittersweet ache blooms through your chest at the reminder of the times you’ve watched him do the same thing when she was younger.
“Think you can walk, babe?” You ask her when she’s back on her feet.
She takes a slow step forward, but you see her wincing in pain.
Steve must see it too because he crouches in front of her, “Alright, get on my back.”
“I’m not a little kid Dad,” she mutters.
“Maybe not, but you’re still my kid. Now get on,” Steve refutes, gesturing for her to move.
“What if I mess up your back?” She jokes, wrapping her arms around his neck as she leans her weight on him.
“Okay, ouch. I’m not that old,” he replies as he straightens up, hooking his arms under her knees to keep her up.
He then promptly gets suckered into promising a piggyback ride for all his children on the next hike, even the oldest who claimed it simply wouldn’t be fair to be left out.
When you finally reach New Hampshire, Steve's wired tightly like a coil - just waiting for the next thing to go haywire, and he cracks on the last night before packing up for Boston.
He’d spent hours prepping his oldest’s favorite meal - insisting he could do it himself while you took care of the littles inside.
The sun was starting to set, crickets chirping in the evening, and the table on the back porch was filling with plates and food while the oldest two and the twins were playing volleyball in the grass of the backyard.
“I already told you, you can’t hold the ball like that,” your oldest girl calls out to her younger brother across the net.
“I’m not!” He yells back at her.
“You are, and it’s called cheating,” she goads.
Your boy gets angry at the accusation, “I’m not cheating!”
“Now you’re being a baby, and a poor sport,” she presses, and Steve tries to put an end to the ribbing before a full blown fight starts.
“Play fair or don’t play at all, and no name calling - that’s being a bad sport too,” he emphasizes, raising his eyebrows at his girl who rolls her eyes in response.
Steve bites his tongue - doesn’t want to get in an argument with her on the last night together as a family before your oldest is dropped off at Berklee.
His interjection seems to settle them for a bit, but ultimately it starts back up.
“You’re doing it again!” Your ten year old girl shouts at her twin.
Your oldest tries to smooth things over, “Can you two calm down? It’s not like he’s intentionally doing it.”
“It doesn’t matter, he shouldn’t play if he can’t play the right way,” his younger sister replies.
“Why have you been so mean to me on this trip?” your ten year old boy says in aggravation.
“Because you’ve been annoying the whole time,” your oldest girl snarks.
Your boy’s lower lip starts wobbling at that and because he’s upset with his sisters, he refuses to let go of the volleyball.
“C’mon, seriously? Dad!” Your eldest girl calls, trying to get Steve to intervene.
“Fine! You want the ball? Go get it,” her brother snaps and then proceeds to kick the ball hard.
His siblings watch in shock as it glides through the air and hits the table prepped for dinner - must’ve smacked into a weak spot because the whole glass top of the table collapses; caving in on itself and shattering alongside the dishes.
Time feels frozen for a second, everyone staring in disbelief at what just happened.
You rush outside at hearing the crash, toddler and four year old following you - forcing them to slow down before they walk onto the glass that’s scattering across the porch.
“Oh my god,” you gasp.
Steve’s got a blank look on his face as he stares at the mess, hands on his hips stoically.
“Dad, I’m so sorry,” your ten year old boy is already crying, repeating himself over and over because Steve’s not answering him.
He tries to climb the stairs to get closer to Steve, tears streaming down his face, and you yell at him to stop, “Baby, wait! There’s glass everywhere and you don’t have shoes on.”
He’s crying too hard to hear you, but your oldest rushes over and grasps his brother around the middle - hauling him backwards.
Because Steve’s the best dad in the world, he doesn’t start screaming at his kids - instead knows he needs to step away from them for a moment.
He takes off the grilling apron that he was wearing and tosses it to lay across the railing of the porch, before stepping gingerly through the glass - thankfully wearing shoes that make crunching noises under his feet as he catches some of the tiny fragments.
He doesn’t say anything as he walks down the stairs, past his children, and stalks the stretch of the dock that leads out into the lake.
Your middle boy is still in your oldest’s arms, and he’s got snot running down his nose from how upset he is, “Mom, I promise I didn’t mean to do it.”
He’s prattling on about how he got mad and kicked the ball but didn’t think it would hit the table, while you work on trying to figure out where to start addressing the situation.
Your eldest girl notices you struggling on deciding what to do, “Mom, why don’t you go check on Dad? I can take them back inside.”
She’s referring to the littles standing behind you, who’ve been curiously watching everything unravel.
You trade spots with her after grabbing a couple of clean napkins off the grill stand, “Thanks, sweetheart.”
You kneel down in front of your boy, gently starting to wipe away at his face.
“Dad’s gonna hate me,” he sobs raggedly.
You suck in a sharp breath at that, “Dad does not hate you. Why would you think that, baby?”
He hiccups, “James told me his dad wouldn’t talk to him for days after he broke the TV.”
You pull him into a hug, “James’ dad is not Steve Harrington. Your father loves you. He just wasn’t answering you because he needed a break from the situation. Remember he told you that needing a break is healthy sometimes?”
He continues to cry against your shoulder, leaving a wet residue behind on your shirt, but you love him too much to care.
“And can you understand why Dad might’ve been too stressed to respond right away?” You ask evenly, and your boy nods briefly into the crook of your neck.
“I’m still gonna be in so much trouble,” he whimpers.
You rub circles softly against his back, “You’re probably not getting off totally scot-free, hun, but it sounds like it was an accident,” you start, pulling away to dab at his cheeks again with the napkin, “and if you get the broom and trash can to help clean it up, I know Dad would really appreciate that.”
He nods rapidly, and your oldest offers to take over delegating the cleaning process so you can go talk to Steve.
You stand up and make your way down the same path he just went on. You find him there with his head in his hands, shoulders hunched, and can almost physically feel the heaviness weighing on him.
“Steve,” you say quietly, taking a seat next to him on the edge of the dock - legs swinging softly, feet skimming the water.
You watch the tight movements of his jaw; how he brings a hand to rub harshly along his mouth, and you can tell he’s crying despite the fact that his pretty eyes are blocked with sunglasses - little sniffles escaping him.
“I don’t want him to leave,” Steve chokes out brokenly when you wrap an arm around his bicep.
“Oh, baby,” you breathe, pressing a delicate kiss to spot below his ear - realizing his reaction is not about the table, or dinner, or even the downfall of the trip, but about his oldest leaving the nest.
Steve swallows hard, shakes his head like he doesn’t want you to comfort him, “Sorry. “M sorry, supposed to be the strong one here.”
“Hey,” you chide, gently grabbing his chin to meet your eyes, “you are strong Steve, but you do not have to be the strong one all the time. You’re allowed to need me too.”
He moves to rest his forehead tiredly against your shoulder, “Just wanted this night to be perfect for him.”
You kiss his hairline, “For him,” you pause hesitatingly, “or, for you?”
Steve scoffs a bitter laugh at that, “Have I been that obvious?”
“A little bit,” you mumble, threading your fingers delicately through the whispers of hair at the back of his neck.
“This whole trip has been a mess,” he groans.
You sigh in agreement, “It has. I’m so sorry that it hasn’t gone the way you wanted it to, baby.”
“I guess I just thought if this one last trip was perfect, then it’d be easier to say goodbye,” he trails off before sighing deeply - wiping at the drying tears and pushes the sunglasses up to look at you.
His eyes are rimmed red, making the hazel color pop a bit more, and you reach out to cup his jaw lovingly - thumb brushing sweetly along the stubble there.
“It’s not going to be the same without him,” Steve admits defeatedly.
“It’s not meant to be,” you remind him.
“God, and I knew it was coming, but I didn’t expect it to hurt this much,” he confesses.
You take a moment to stare out at the lake before answering - watching the boats heading in for the night, ripples of water gliding against the surface.
“Change may be a part of life, babe, but that doesn’t mean it’s any easier when you see it happening. If anything, it hurts more because we watched as the time slipped away while he was growing up,” your voice wobbles.
Steve bites his lip hard, reflecting on the past.
“I remember when he was just this tiny little thing that would fall asleep in my arms,” Steve closes his eyes briefly at the memory before continuing, “and now he’s about to be eighteen, with a girlfriend that he loves, and he’s off to a college that’s so far away from us, and I just feel like-.”
He abruptly stops talking at the way his throat constricts.
“Like what?” You prompt, curling a strand of hair back behind his ear.
“Like I’m losing him,” he reveals despairingly.
Your heart constricts at that, because you’ve been feeling it too - even though you know it’s not true, “Just because he’s leaving the house, doesn’t mean he’s leaving us. And, that’s kinda the whole point, right? The fact that he’s ready to leave means we did our job.”
He hums softly, finding words too hard to form a proper response.
“And it’s just college, baby. He’s going to be coming home for every break for the next four years. We still have time with him, even though it’ll be less. It just means we have to make those moments count a bit extra,” you trace your fingers along his jawline.
Steve lets the words settle over him before he looks longingly at you, “I love you.”
You press your forehead to his, “Love you, handsome.”
You fall into a peaceful silence for a moment, fireflies start to twinkle around you, signaling it’s probably time to start heading back in order to check on how your kids have managed without the two of you.
“It’s a good thing there’s five more of them to shuttle around, right?” you tease lightly - it works, and you’re relieved to see Steve’s lips pulling up in a smile.
He laughs quietly, standing up and reaching a hand out to help you up, “Told you six of ‘em was a good idea.”
You let him pull you up and into his chest, wrapping your arms securely around his lower back - head pressed against the place where his heart beats steadily.
“Your mini me is completely beside himself, by the way,” you whisper, referring to your middle boy who could be a carbon copy of his daddy.
Steve’s eyes shut in regret, “I didn’t mean to ignore him. I just needed to step away.”
“I know. I told him that, but I’m sure it’ll mean more coming from you. And, maybe don’t be too hard on him, it sounds like the girls were egging it on,” you reply.
“They were, and I knew I should’ve stepped in sooner, but I got distracted by stupidly trying to make the perfect dinner,” he mutters.
“It wasn’t stupid, honey. I think it’s sweet, and I’m sure he appreciates the gesture,” you assure him, pulling away to guide him back down the expanse of the wood panels to the house.
“Not sure how much appreciation's been going on here,” he grumbles softly, “have you noticed how cranky they’ve been with each other?”
You pause, “Actually, I have. Think it’s time for one of Dad’s famous family pep talks.”
“Think you’re right,” Steve replies, arm thrown over your shoulders as you walk back.
When you approach the backyard, your middle boy tosses down the broom he’s got in his hands and throws himself at Steve, who hauls him up despite the fact that he’s growing like a weed and certainly too big to hold for long.
You keep walking towards the house to give them the space they need to talk, and you’re not at all surprised to find your eldest girl giving directions through the sliding back door while the littles sit behind her; watching as your middle girl picks up her brother’s broom he dropped to continue cleaning while your oldest is dumping the dust pan full of glass into the trash bin.
“Does anyone wanna tell us why your mother and I have noticed some unkind words being thrown around lately?” Steve inquires, arms folded as he looks at his kids.
No one answers, avoiding eye contact with you and Steve as you stand in front of the bonfire later that evening. Pizza had been ordered, and ingredients for smores had been passed out - but you couldn't ignore the underlying tension that was radiating off your children.
Your youngest boys have their eyes downcast, sad looks on their faces, and your toddler pouts - mimicking her siblings solemn expressions.
“He’s leaving,” your eldest girl breaks the quiet, pointing to her older brother, “and everything is going to be different.”
It’s silent for a beat, before your middle girl bursts into tears, “I don’t want him to go.”
It’s nearly the exact same words that Steve had uttered to you earlier, and suddenly the attitudes make sense, because your children learned best from their parents. And they had picked up on the devastation you’d both been feeling at the upcoming deadline for the time you had left with your boy.
They’d been absorbing your cues and were simply following the lead.
Your lips part at the realization, turning to Steve - encouraging him to take the reins in the conversation, but your oldest beats him to it.
“Why is everyone acting like I’m not coming back?” Your boy asks offendedly.
He leans forward in his lawn chair, and grabs onto his sister's hand who’s still crying, “I’m coming back. Don’t you guys know that?”
Your eldest girl mumbles angrily, “Well, why else did you pick a school so far away if not to get away from us?”
“Baby, that’s not why-,” you try to interject, but your oldest smiles at you - signaling that he’s got it.
“I chose music, and it just so happens that the best opportunity for that is in Boston. Believe me, if I could pick up Berklee and move it to Hawkins I would,” he says decisively.
“You would?” Your ten year old boy asks curiously, eyes lighting up a bit.
“Are you kidding? I’m going to be homesick out of my mind without all of you to torment me,” he replies in jest.
You lean into Steve as you watch your boy confidently assure his siblings that college was just a part of life, the next step for some people, but that he’d always come back home.
The words aren’t just for your babes, but for you and Steve too - a comforting guarantee that while yes, your boy was about to be off on his own, he would never outgrow where he came from.
Steve’s lingering at the RV, and you know he’s purposefully hanging behind - trying to delay the inevitable of saying goodbye to his first born.
You didn’t know how it was possible, but your capacity for loving your children somehow grew larger while watching them cling onto their brother as they prepared to leave him.
When they finally extract themselves from him, he makes his way over to you and drops his head into your neck when he wraps his arms around you.
“Gonna miss you, Mom,” he whispers.
“I’m gonna miss you, baby. You can’t imagine how proud I am of you, my sweet boy. We’re all going to be a little lost without you I think,” you reply honestly.
He goes to release you, but you’re not ready to let go just yet. The feeling was like a bruise about to bloom - tender when poked. A rush of memories floods your mind as you hold him, wishing hopelessly that time could slow, while still wanting to see everything he was going to accomplish on his own.
“Give your Dad an extra tight squeeze please, and promise you won’t get too busy to call him, okay? He’s taking this really hard,” you release a shaky breath, kissing his cheek as you pull away.
“And you’re not?” He jokes, trying to lighten the mood.
“Of course I am. Your father wears his heart on his sleeve, though. It’s where you get that from,” you smile, patting gently where his heart rests.
You watch as he makes his way to his dad, who doesn’t say anything, just pulls him into a crushing hug.
Your boy's tears that he’d been holding back start to trickle down his face when he’s in Steve’s arms.
“God, I’m gonna miss you, kid,” Steve tells him.
Your boy clears his throat, “I know everyone keeps telling me that, but I’m the one who’s going to be all alone here.”
Steve pulls back at that - claps a solid hand on his son’s shoulder, “You’re gonna love it here, and once you settle in you’re not going to feel like that anymore. Don’t forget you’re a Harrington, bud. Which means you’re never alone, you’ve got all of us. We’re just a phone call or a plane ride away whenever you need it.”
“Promise?” Your boy asks a little shyly now.
Steve just pulls him back for another hug before eventually it’s time to leave.
And you can’t deny that it feels like a piece of you is missing on the drive back, which is a lot less chaotic. You know it’s going to take time to adjust, and you know there will be empty spaces back home without your boy.
But as you hold onto Steve’s hand and look through the rearview mirror at your children - you’re reminded that being a parent comes with sacrifices; and the biggest one of all is being willing to let your child become independent, which also comes with the biggest reward of seeing them succeed.
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okay need y’all to vote… i have a couple requests that could lead to a surprise baby #7… which im happy to write for bc big families remind me of cheaper by the dozen which is a classic in my house 🤣 BUT don’t want to write that if y’all aren’t feeling it. pls vote to lmk!
