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summary: gator's sick of people pushing him about settling down. you'd understand a little better if he didn't take it out on you. and, well, if there's one thing the two of you know how to do, it's have a good fight-- and it's a good thing gator always knows how to make it up to you.
tags/warnings: gator x reader, no use of y/n, established relationship, suggestive content, grumpy x sunshine, hurt/comfort, possessive!gator, domestic!gator, manhandling, elements of casual sub/dom, overuse of pet names (baby, doll, mama), couple fights, drinking, unpacking trauma, gator is a sweetie but he still got issues, but lowk so do you, let's yell at each other with mama!
---
You’re sitting at a picnic bench outside your church, and the bridge ladies won’t quit jabbering.
The coffee hour has been moved outside to take advantage of the spring sun, and a balmy wind is kicking up napkins and delighting screaming kids across the grassy expanse. You’re really only here to maintain appearances, donate some baked goods, and chat with the few parishioners you can actually stand. Church isn’t really something you love– at least here in North Dakota. It’s something you do for your boyfriend’s benefit, at his dad’s insistence, and because in some ways, as Gator’s girlfriend, it matters what these people think of you.
You smile politely as the women drone on about neighborhood gossip and recipes they simply have to send you and how they dropped off a snickers salad for the preacher’s wife last night ‘cause she’s had so much trouble cookin’ lately. They’re old women, and they’re multitasking between their card game and keeping you shackled to their conversation. It’s like this every Sunday they can get their hands on you.
Sometimes you think it’s no wonder you and Gator were drawn to each other– despite how much better you mask it in public, you both share the affliction of being easily frustrated by nosy small-town people who won’t shut their traps. And speaking of your boyfriend…
Gator seems trapped in a dialogue of his own across the lawn, Roy standing before him, so clearly laying another lecture onto his son’s shoulders. Gator squirms like a kid when his dad yells at him, and you can see it now, that lack of attention span from the ADHD you keep telling him to get tested for driving Roy even crazier than he already is. Finally, Roy makes his point and relents, and Gator makes his way across the lawn toward you, the set of his shoulders still tense.
“Hey, baby,” he mumbles as he nears, dropping a kiss onto the top of your head. He smiles tightly and nods to the bridge ladies, who coo over his arrival, and slides onto the bench beside you, straddling it to face you. One of his hands goes immediately to your lower back like he needs the contact, or maybe an excuse to cop a feel in the modest sundress you’ve donned for church today.
“Gator, honey,” one of the ladies– Mrs. Pearson, whose husband runs the hardware store near the diner where you work– greets him. “We were just tellin’ your little missus here ‘bout some recipes she should get her hands on.”
Gator nods and doesn’t reply further, unamused. You press your thigh into his leg, telling him silently to play nice. You know he’s only over here because you are, and that he’d always rather be long gone once the church service ends, but this is what it takes to be a part of a community, and even grudgingly, he knows that. Still, his constant frustration with these people is part of the reason they’ve always liked you more than they like him. He is the town bully who barely grew out of it, still brash and impulsive and rude at times, still hiding that sweetness behind his tough-guy face except when it comes to you. You are the town darling, the one who runs Sunday school when the preacher’s daughter can’t, the model future wife for the sheriff’s son. You always wear your church skirts to your knees, and from your pretty smile, no one can tell it’s Gator who’ll bunch them up to your waist when he bends you over later.
“She’s such a nice girl,” one of the other ladies croons, smiling widely at you. There’s pink lipstick on her teeth. “You know she’ll do a bang-up job as your little wife, mister.”
“That’s right!” Another one chimes in, placing down a card with a wrinkled hand. “I mean, geez Louise, forget about the cookin’! She’ll have that house spick and spam for ya, isn’t that right, sweetiepie?”
You laugh indulgently, although everything in you wants to roll your eyes and find a way to escape this table. Sure, you can cook, and you’ve always kept the house far cleaner than Gator cares to, but you don’t need these women telling him that. If he hasn’t figured out the virtues of keeping you around already, he’s certainly not gonna listen to them tell it.
“I’d say, with how handsome a couple you two are, you’d better get movin’ on those little ones!” Mrs. Pearson adds.
“Little ones?” Gator repeats flatly, and you step on his toe under the table.
“Well, I betcha your daddy wants another baby in the family soon,” Mrs. Pearson explains laughingly, then leans over to touch your cheek. “It’d be a shame to waste those cheekbones, anyway. You two better get crackin’ on those kids before the sheriff has to tell ya to!”
You hear more than see Gator’s jaw grind. He opens his mouth to say something you’re sure won’t be too flattering, but you cut in before he can, slipping your hand over his on his thigh. “You know, you ladies are too right. In fact, I think we’ve got a little business to attend to at home, come to think of it. Can’t let that house go too long without a cleaning, can we?”
The ladies laugh at the scandalous joke, waving you off.
“You kids!” Mrs. Pearson smiles. “Go, enjoy the day, sweeties!”
You rise to your feet, smiling back at them, and pull Gator up by the hand, dragging him away from the table before he can say something the both of you will regret. He follows behind you, one of his hands sliding over your waist as you cross the grass again. You can tell he’s angry by how quiet he’s gone, the way he tugs at the collar of his crisp black button-up.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he mutters in your ear. “You put in your damn time.”
“Let me grab my purse,” you tell him gently, smoothing a hand down his chest— already having guessed from his mood you’d be taking off early. “You grab the tupperware from the scones, and I’ll meet you by the truck.”
“Don’t stop to chat,” he says gruffly, hand tightening on your waist. “I’ll blow my brains out if Mrs. Pearson finds me again.”
You bite back a smile and kiss his cheek, heading off swiftly to gather the rest of your belongings.
You intercept him on the way back, two more of his shirt buttons already undone and his sleeves pushed up to the elbow. You slip your hand into his as you walk back through the parking lot together, not daring to check behind you to see if anyone’s noticed your early exit.
Gator opens your door for you and waits for you to get in, a muscle in his jaw twitching. You worry about that expression on him– about what his father might have said to him to get him so fired up.
It’s only when you’re speeding back down the dirt road from the church that you finally ask, reaching over and squeezing his arm as you do.
“Gate.”
“Hm?” he replies, eyes on the road.
You keep your hand on his forearm, thumb brushing up and down
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’,” he mutters.
You snort. “Convincing.”
He shoots you a dirty look out of the corner of his eye. “Will you leave me alone, woman?”
You roll your eyes, removing your hand and shifting back to your side of the car with a quiet sigh. When he gets grumpy like this, you’ve found over the years it’s best to just leave him to mope.
You drive in silence for a while, staring out the windshield and not bothering to keep your face polite. Eventually, you hear Gator muttering to himself, and your attention snags on the noise.
“Nosy old hags.”
“What?” you ask, brow crinkling.
Gator doesn’t repeat himself, but you heard him clearly enough the first time.
“You’re upset about Mrs. Pearson and the ladies?” you surmise, voice flat. For goodness’ sake, he could have just told you that.
“They’re sticking their damn noses where they don’t belong,” he finally snaps, the one hand he has on the steering wheel gripping the leather.
“That’s just what they do, Gator,” you say mildly. “That’s who they are. They gossip about everyone in town, not just us.”
“Yeah, well, they can say what they want about all those other assholes, but not about me ‘n you,” he bites, his jaw ticking again.
You fight another sigh and take his free hand in both of yours, squeezing it. “They’re not being nasty. They’re just old women.”
The words have the opposite of their intended effect of calming him. Gator’s voice rises as he snaps, “Well, what goddamn business of theirs is it when we’re havin’ any fuckin’ kids? We’re not even hitched yet, and they’re breathin’ down our necks.”
You exhale through your nose, wishing silently he wasn’t so sensitive when it came to what other people thought. “Well, when you’ve been together for three years, those are the kind of questions people ask, Gate. Marriage, kids. I mean, we live together, baby. It’s not totally crazy.”
“So you’re on their side, then?” he demands, head whipping between you and the road.
You stare back at him, starting to be irritated. “I’m on your side, always. You know that.”
“Then why are you fuckin’ defending them?”
“I’m just saying they didn’t do anything wrong, Gator,” you huff, withdrawing your hands again. “They’re just nosy. If you don’t wanna hear any gossip, we’re gonna need to find another place to live.”
“Like hell they aren’t doin’ shit wrong,” he fires back at you. “Draggin’ themselves into our business like that, basically asking when I’m finally gonna man up and knock you up–”
“Well, you don’t seem to mind the idea so much when you’re inside me, now do you?” you cut in flatly.
Gator whips his stare to yours. “The hell’s that s’posed to mean?”
You look back at him coolly, your displeasure evident. “I just didn’t think you found the idea of settling down with me so terrible. My mistake.”
“Don’t be like that,” he grunts.
“Well, what else am I supposed to think, Gator?” you challenge him. “You’re practically jumping down my throat for suggesting people aren’t totally crazy when they ask if we’ll ever have kids.”
“They’re not askin’, they’re tellin’.” Gator snaps. “And I’m sorry, but I happen to think a man has a right to privacy ‘bout a few things, and puttin’ a baby in his woman is one of ‘em.”
Your lips tighten, and you look back out the windshield. “How romantic.”
“A man should get to decide when he wants all that shit to happen, alright?” he repeats himself loudly. Y’should get to do it in your own time.”
“Fine,” you cut in, now more than a little pissed with him. “Next time, I’ll just tell sweet old Mrs. Pearson to fuck right off.”
“Now that would be bein’ on my fuckin’ team,” he bites.
You shake your head, knowing arguing with him again about how disagreeing doesn’t diminish how you feel about him would be a moot point. “Whatever.”
“Y’could drop the attitude, you know,” he adds bitterly. “Don’t ‘whatever’ me.”
“Well, I guess I’m not your fuckin’ wife, so there’s no sense in me being all respectful and proper, now is there?” you spit back at him, crossing your arms.
Gator seethes to himself as you pull into your driveway, not looking at each other.
“I’ve got a shift at the diner,” you inform him flatly, jumping down from the truck without waiting for him to open your door for you– something you know full well will piss him off even more. “I’m off at six. Don’t wait on me to eat dinner.”
“Really?” he snaps, following you into the house. “That’s it?”
“Guess so,” you toss over your shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to actually settle anything, would we?”
Gator lets you slam the door to the bedroom, changing swiftly into your work uniform. As you throw on your clothes, still steaming with anger at your mule-stubborn boyfriend, you can hear him mutter something unflattering at you through the door.
You’re still wearing a frown while pouring coffee three hours later, and nothing at work is helping to lighten your mood.
Two of your regulars have already told you to put a smile on your face, but you can’t help it. You hate fighting with Gator. As much as things have calmed down in recent years between the two of you, as much as you’ve settled into each other and smoothed over so many dangerous cracks, every now and again, something like this will come up and you’ll feel like the two of you are right back to square one.
You move back through the diner and behind the counter again, coffee pot in hand. Your eyes sweep the tables for empty cups, which means you catch it when the door opens and the tiny bell above it rings, announcing the presence of your newest customer just as surely as the heavy tread of his combat boots.
Eyes pointedly cast down, you focus on refilling three more mugs as Gator strides up to the counter, sliding into a barstool and leaning on his elbows over the table.
“Hey, mama,” he greets you, and you can tell from his voice alone he’s already over your fight. He’s grinning, actually, just like he always is when he stops in mid-patrol for a quick pour and a kiss or two from you. He’s always been so good at putting arguments like this behind him– like whatever tiny thing had had him cursing and spitting a few hours ago had faded completely to the back of his mind. You hate that he does that. It’s like he can’t understand how not to move on without resolution.
“Hey, yourself,” you toss back flatly, still not meeting his eyes. You ignore the way he’s clearly leaned toward you and refill the coffee of the customer to his right.
Gator’s eyes track you, scanning over your face. “What, you’re not gonna greet your boyfriend?” he asks, that shit-eating grin still painted on his lips. “Gimme a kiss.”
“I only kiss my boyfriends who are nice to me,” you intone, sliding the coffee pot back into the machine. It’s a low blow, and you know it– alluding to your made-up other boyfriends. But it still gets under Gator’s skin every time, that jealousy he can’t seem to stifle.
“So you’re still pissed at me, then,” he surmises, leaning back and digging in the pocket of his tactical vest for something.
You point a finger at him, that heady anger rushing back to you. “Gator Tillman, if you pull that disgusting vape out of your pocket–”
He pulls free a different pen– one of the fake ones you introduced him to when he finally gave into all your pleading for him to quit nicotine. He holds it up as if in surrender. “Relax, babe. It’s just the bullshit one.” He takes a hit off of it, though if it actually calms him down, you wouldn’t know.
Unimpressed, you move over to the cash register, counting and stacking your receipts just to have something to do.
“So, what, you never gonna talk to me again?” he teases you, clearly nonplussed by your bad mood.
It works to piss you off even more– the fact he’s brushing off your annoyance like it means nothing. Like there was no reason for it in the first place.
“Depends, are you gonna apologize for losing it on me earlier?” you muse, flicking between receipts.
Gator’s amusement finally fades, and he slips off the barstool to come around the cash register. “Don’t see what I’ve gotta apologize for.”
You huff a humorless laugh. “Yeah, you never really do, do you?”
“Hey,” he cuts in, “You were the one defending those old bags.”
You scowl, rounding on him. “Oh, will you just drop that? I wasn’t defending anyone.”
“Yes, you fuckin’ were,” he argues, glaring down at you.
“Why can’t you ever just admit you were too harsh and apologize?” you demand, shooting daggers at him with your eyes even as he towers over you.
“Maybe I would if you quit flappin’ your fuckin’ mouth!” he fires back. “God, d’you have to be such a bitch about it?”
Shock flashes through you, and you scoff, bewildered. Dangerously, you ask him, “You wanna rethink a couple of those words?”
“Nah, I don’t think I do,” he spits, looking you up and down.
You clench your jaw, fighting back the sting in your eyes that’s telling you tears are coming whether you like it or not. God, this man frustrates you so much sometimes you could scream. “Great. Then I guess we don’t have anything else to talk about.”
“Great,” he says back, tone nasty. “I’ll finally get some peace and goddamn quiet.”
You huff an incredulous laugh, turning away. “Have a great shift, Gator,” you tell him bitterly, not meaning a word.
“I’ll see you at home,” he promises, stalking away.
You don’t check behind you after the bell rings– you know he’s gone. And you know he won’t look back.
Perched on a stool at the counter of the least shitty dive bar in town, you clutch your drink, the ice biting against your fingers.
You’ve been here almost an hour, and your mood hasn’t significantly lifted, despite how you’ve been faking smiles with your friends and tossing down liquor to try and stifle the endless repeat track of your boyfriend’s callous words. It’s almost 7:30. He’ll be waiting up at home for you when you get back, and if you know anything about Gator, you know he’ll be furious.
You don’t care. Let him have a taste of his own medicine– let him be the one getting hurt for a change. If he didn’t care to communicate like an adult, then you shouldn’t have to, either.
“Babe,” one of your friends calls to you, voice raised over the blaring music. “You’re being a total buzzkill. You sure you don’t wanna just head home?”
In times like these, even in your dismal mood, you can’t help but consider yourself exceptionally lucky for your friends. When you pulled the group of waitresses aside after Gator left the diner and asked if they wanted to grab drinks after work, they must have seen your expression and knew you needed it more than you let on. They agreed instantly, and now here you are– utterly failing at distracting yourself despite their best efforts.
You shake yourself, trying to escape your self-pity and lingering resentment. “No, no– sorry. Those shots just haven’t kicked in yet.”
Your friend’s face tells you she sees through it, but she just sips from her colorful drink with a rueful smile. “That handsome boyfriend of yours isn’t gonna show up and kill us for stealing you away tonight, is he?”
Knowing Gator, that wasn’t entirely out of the question. You smile behind your glass as you tell her, “Don’t worry about it. If he’s got something to say, he can say it to me.”
“I hope I didn’t just hear the word boyfriend.”
A voice from behind you makes you twist slightly in your seat, and a man you’ve never seen before sidles up to you and slides into the barstool to your left. “Never seen you before, gorgeous. Where’d you come from?”
You flatten your eyes slightly, hoping he’ll take the hint you’re not interested. While you’re usually alright pushing your limits with Gator, appearing to flirt with another clueless guy at a bar would be about four steps over the final line. “My gunowner boyfriend’s house,” you supply mildly. “How ‘bout you?”
The guy points back to the other side of the room, unphased. “I came from over there once I saw that pretty little skirt on you. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Pretty sure my tag says ‘property of Gator Tillman’,” you tell him. The name alone should put some kind of nerves into this guy if he has any sense at all. “If found, please call 1-800-bite me, I’m taken. Nice meeting you.” You turn back to your friend, hoping he’ll just cut his losses and move on.
“Well, hang on a second, sweetheart–” the man goes on, reaching out and grabbing your forearm.
Your head whips back to him, brows raising in shock he actually touched you. You make to rip your arm away from him, but it turns out, when you’re Gator Tillman’s girlfriend, you don’t have to.
You watch as the man is yanked forcefully off his barstool and pulled to his feet. Gator’s standing there like an apparition, fury contorting his face as he grips the man’s shirt in his fist and shoves him up against the bar before he can regain his balance.
“You heard her, shitbird,” he tells him, voice low and face inches from the poor idiot’s. “Now get lost before I put you in the fuckin’ ground.”
The man pales, nodding once. Gator releases him with one last shove, watching as he hurries back across the crowded bar. And then he turns back to you, and all that fury finds a new target.
Between the booze and your lingering anger, seeing him again is a head rush. You can’t tell if you’re grateful for the intervention or annoyed he’s here or anxious about the fight that’s building between you like an oncoming storm.
Your friend must sense the tension, because she squeezes your shoulder and slips off her barstool with a farewell smile. You can’t bring yourself to care too particularly much when Gator’s still looking at you like that.
“Been all over fuckin’ town lookin’ for you,” he starts, barely-controlled anger in his voice. “You don’t come home, and this is where you’ve been all night?”
“The girls and I were just getting some drinks after work,” you explain, a little quieter than you mean to. Oh, he’s mad– just about as angry as you’ve ever seen him. You can’t help the little thrill it sends through you.
“And you didn’t think to call and tell me that?” he challenges, towering over you where you still sit on the barstool, muscles tight with anticipation. “Didn’t think you’d let me know you weren’t fuckin’ kidnapped? You know how worried I’ve been?”
“It’s been an hour,” you drawl, sipping from your drink. “I’m hardly a missing person's case.”
You can tell from the deepening scowl that that was the wrong answer. Gator points to the bar door, eyes not leaving yours. “Get your ass in gear. Let’s go.”
“I’m not done with my drink,” you tell him stubbornly, fingers tight against the glass.
He rips it out of your hand and knocks the rest of it back, the ice reverberating through it as he slams it back down on the counter. “And now you are.”
You scowl at him, the liquor finally giving you some courage. “I’m not through here, Gator. I want to stay.”
He takes a shallow breath through his nose, in and out. “I wasn’t askin’, mama. Now get in the fuckin’ car.”
“No,” you tell him, firing the word between you.
His brows lift, and he laughs humorlessly, low and harsh. “Some fuckin’ attitude on you tonight. I ain’t gonna say it again, baby. Get in the car.”
The pet name in contrast to the sharp tone does what it always does and riles you. As you stare down your boyfriend, you decide that, today, you might just be angry enough to push back. “No,” you say again, plain and stubborn.
The corner of Gator’s mouth twitches up, his face still hard and set. There’s no humor to be found there, and that particular fact feels more thrilling than the liquor does.
“I warned ya,” he sighs, like he’s giving in— as if he’s ever once done that.
And then his hands are on you, pawing your waist and throwing you over his shoulder.
You yelp at the sudden movement as he lurches you both to his feet, gripping your thighs as he hauls you back through the bar.
“Gator!” you yell in shocked protest, not caring how badly the two of you are making a scene. “Put me down, you asshole!”
“Since you don’t wanna listen, guess you need a little help,” he tells you, his voice gratingly calm. His hands are a vice grip on your bare legs, even while you thrash around. You beat at his back, your hair getting in your face and the buzz of alcohol not helping with keeping your head straight any more than the rapid motion. “Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t let me go–”
“Yell all you want, mama,” he muses as he directs you both through the crowded bar tables. “These assholes aren’t gonna do shit. They know you’re with me.”
As arrogant as the statement is, he’s probably right. If they didn’t recognize Gator’s face and know better than to interject already, they’d sure recognize the Stark County Sheriff's Deputy badge pinned to his chest. Deep-rooted frustration roils in you, and you squirm even more against the arm he has pinning your legs.
“You’d better knock that off, pretty,” he tells you, a warning in his deep voice.
“Or what?” you spit.
You can almost hear the wicked smile in his voice as he replies, “Or I might just have to take you to the bathroom and fuck that attitude outta ya.”
“Pig,” you hiss at him, scowling even as warmth coils in your gut at the words– at what’s probably waiting for you at home as a punishment for your misbehavior.
He doesn’t set you down until you’re right next to his truck, haphazardly parked in one of the first open spots in the bar parking lot. You wonder how long he drove around looking for you before he thought to come here– wonder how long he waited in the house pretending old wounds weren’t being poked by your absence. For a second, a flicker of guilt runs through you. Sure, your boyfriend isn’t exactly a paragon of emotional stability. But you could have done better than you have tonight to fight that.
Gator releases you and reaches around you to yank open your door.
Your cheeks flushed, you stand before him stubbornly and cross your arms, refusing to move. He’s placed himself in between you and any possible escape, fencing you into the truck.
“Get in the car,” he orders you again, face entirely uncompromising.
You’re a little drunk, and your resolve is cracking, but you still manage to glare up at him. “Isn’t there something you wanna say first?”
“You want an apology outta me after the shit you just pulled?” he demands, brows shooting up. “You’re lucky I don’t lock you up after a stunt like that.”
“You don’t own me, Gator,” you remind him, scowling into his stern face.
“That’s not what you were saying to that idiot back there,” Gator challenges, his dangerous voice purring.
You flush harder, wishing you had more faculty over your words. “I’m not going with you until you apologize.”
His eyes flash, all the pushback getting to him. “We’ll talk when you’re safe at home. Now get in the fuckin’ car.”
You falter slightly at the offer to talk. He’s learning– you know he is. A year ago, he’d have brushed this whole thing under the rug, chalked it up to some kind of female dramatics. But now, even if your ‘talking’ is probably gonna amount to another screaming match and some makeup sex… well, you suppose communication takes many forms.
He sees your hesitation and settles slightly, jerking his head to the seat. “Don’t make me throw you in there.”
You shoot him one last dirty look and relent, climbing into the truck and taking your seat indignantly.
Gator slams the door behind you, telling you through the open window, “S’like wrangling a fuckin’ bobcat with you.”
You’re still sulking when you pull into the driveway of your home, the lights in the living room still on like Gator didn’t bother turning down the house before he left. He must have been worried. That guilt flips through you again.
Gator walks behind you into the house, and although he doesn’t say it, you know it’s probably so he can catch you if you drunkenly stumble. Always so protective, this one– even when he’s infuriated with you.
You sigh as you pad through the entryway, tossing the bag stuffed with your work clothes by the shoe rack haphazardly. You hear Gator’s keys hit the dish, but you don’t turn back to look at him– just make your way to the kitchen and pull a water bottle from the fridge, drinking from it deeply to clear your throat.
Gator sheds his leather jacket and throws it over the hook by the door before stalking into the kitchen after you. You eye him coolly as he comes up to the counter, his hands resting on it as he watches you back.
“So, you gonna tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing tonight?” he starts, his voice already harsh.
“Drinks,” you tell him again, taking another swig of water. “With my friends. Told you.”
Gator runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. Out of his heavy uniform, when he’s as rumpled as he is now, he’s nowhere near as intimidating as most people find him. “You told me you were off at six,” he barks. “I get home, no call, no text, and you’re out with your fuckin’ girlfriends like it’s goddamn mardi gras.”
“It was one fucking hour,” you gripe, fingers locked around the plastic of your water bottle.
“I don’t give a damn,” Gator snarls, planting his hands on the counter and leaning toward you. “You don’t just run out on me. Plans change, then you call me and let me know and then I come and haul your ass out of the bar.”
You know where this fear comes from– know what he’s getting at, know why he’s ordering you so uncompromisingly. But maybe you’re too drunk and heady with anger to care, because once again, you can’t help but keep pushing. “Maybe I just didn’t want to talk to you, ever think about that?”
“You’re the one always harpin’ on me about communicating, aren’t ya?” he drawls, that dangerous edge still in his tone.
“Well, forgive me if I don’t have a strong interest in sitting here and letting you call me names over things that aren’t my fault,” you spit, and to your frustration, you feel your eyes start to prick again at the memory of what he called you this morning.
His jaw ticks, his lips pressing together. “You know damn well I didn’t mean that.”
“I have yet to hear you say so,” you challenge, face twisting. “I guess it’s just fine that you call me a bitch and tell me to shut my mouth? That’s just fine now?”
You see his hackles raise– see frustration and aggression fight for dominance in his expression before he finally relents– retreats just an inch for you. “I’m sorry,” he says firmly. “You bring it outta me when you push me like that. You know that.”
You shake your head, still not satisfied. “You can’t just lash out at me ‘cause you’re pissed with someone else. I’m not your proxy for the bridge ladies, Gator.”
“I know that,” he snaps, some of the softness fading. “I know you’re not sayin’ what they’re sayin’!”
“Then why are you yelling at me?” you spread your hands, incredulous.
He drags his hand through his hair again, aggravated. “I’m not–”
“You are,” you argue. “You are, Gator. I mean, why can’t you just talk to me about it?”
“I’m sick of fuckin’ talkin’ about it!” he yells. “I’m sick of all these people and their pushin’– all the little hints and nudges and tellin’ me what to do!”
“Who’s been saying that?” you plead with him, shaking your head. “It’s a couple of old ladies, Gator. It doesn’t matter what they think.”
“It’s not just them, it’s everyone!” he argues, still steaming. You can almost see that anger bubbling up in him– though, once again, you can tell you’re not its intended target. “Roy was on my ass about it this morning, too,” Gator spits out bitterly. “Talkin’ about makin’ an honest woman outta you. Carryin’ on the family name and all that horseshit.”
You fall quiet, the pieces clicking into place; the true reason for Gator’s bad mood this morning, his reason for coming over to sit with you in the first place. The pressure you can almost see in the set of his shoulders, the burdens he doesn’t realize he willingly takes on, the impossible expectation you’ve tried so hard to teach him to forget. But as long as Roy is here, some things will cut too deep into Gator for even you to mend. And this, the ‘pushing’ he keeps bucking, is about something bigger than the words you’ve thrown at each other tonight.
“I’m sorry,” you tell him, and for the first time tonight, you really mean it. “He shouldn’t have said that. You’re right, it’s none of their business.”
You watch as Gator deflates slightly, the calmness of your voice finally working on him.
“You can’t let it get to you like this,” you go on, brow creasing. “You can’t let him get in your head, baby, it’s—“
“You fucking try it,” he fires at you.
Your expression hardens again. “You don’t see me losing my shit when those people say I'm nothing more than a good housewife in the making.”
“That shit is different and you know it,” he says, thrusting a finger at you. “You know that’s not you. You play that game, but you know that’s not you.”
He’s still pushing— still fighting you. And, just now, it feels as heartbreaking as anything else he’s done, especially when it comes to this— to the little hopes you've fed each other, the plans you’d thought were in the making. That’s what finally gets you— finally makes you blurt it out. “Why is this such an issue for you?” you make out, and your voice cracks as you say it. You're reminded of the fact you’re still a little drunk as tears pool in your eyes, threatening to spill down your face.
Gator sees it, too. His expression creases, and he tears his eyes away, his resolve all but completely breaking. It’s the one thing he’s never been able to stand— you crying. The second he sees he’s pushed you there, the second your voice starts to wobble, he can’t take it– he always relents.
He heaves a sigh, his face falling and his shoulders drooping. “Baby– baby, why are you crying? Come on, don’t– don’t cry.”
The words do nothing to help matters. Tears fall swiftly down your cheeks, and you reach up to brush them away just as quickly. “Do you–” you take a breath, your voice weak with emotion. “I mean, do you… not want that with me?” You feel idiotic– naive. That quiet dream you keep locked away in your chest, that fantasy of a rowdy reception hall blaring music and a carseat in the back of the truck and tiny, sticky hands gripping a camo pant leg… maybe it was only ever that: a beautiful, foolish dream. But after three years, what else could you expect? How could you not have pictured it all with this boy who’s taken possession of you?
His expression contorts, confusion flashing in his eyes. “That’s what you think?” he demands.
“That’s how you make it sound, Gator!” You cry, hands flying to wipe furiously at your face. “That’s what it sounds like when you act like it’s so offensive that people think we’re gonna be a family one day!”
You watch as that one word– family– hits him square in the chest. “You’re not gettin’ it,” he shakes his head, his voice infinitely quieter. “You don’t get it, doll.”
“You’re damn fucking right, I don’t!” you snap back, sniffing.
“I just–” Gator turns from the counter again, frustration choking his voice. “I just can’t listen to any more of these fuckers tell me what to do. Not about this. Not about you.”
You shake your head, tears blurring your vision.
“Listen,” he tells you, suddenly insistent. Like he can’t stand it any longer, he rounds the counter toward you, stopping just before you. His hand comes up to fit over your jaw, almost covering the lower part of your face. He’s holding you there, forcing you without pain or aggression to look up at him. It’s possessive in its utter gentleness. “I don’t have a lot ‘a shit that’s mine,” he tells you, and something in his eyes shifts, melts a little. “But you? You and me, baby? That’s just mine. That belongs to me, you understand?”
A pathetic noise, a tiny gasping sob, works its way out of your mouth. Gator’s fingers are firm and warm on your face as he holds you, rooting you in place with that one hand.
“I want this because I want it,” he says, low and clear. “Not ‘cause I'm told to. Not as somethin’ my dad’s makin’ me do for him. I want you ‘cause I love you like nothin’ I’ve ever felt.”
You’re trembling, heart stuttering at the admission. Your hands come up to grip his arms, needing something to stabilize you.
“No one else gets to tell me to love you,” he says fiercely, staring down into your face. “No one gets to tell me what to want. I pick you.” His hand slips into your hair, cupping the back of your head, and he pulls you into him, crushing you into his chest.
You let out another sob, arms coming around him immediately. You clutch him back, your feet nearly lifted off the ground by the strength of his embrace. But you need it– you’ve always needed Gator’s force, his violence. You need his hands, his words, his love imprinted onto your skin in red lines like sleep marks, the intensity existing as the proof that it’s real.
“I love you,” you choke out, eyes fluttering shut.
Gator’s fingers scratch at your scalp, his strong arms tight around you. “Don’t you ever run out on me again.”
You hear the desperation in his voice, much as he might try to hide it. “Couldn’t if I wanted to,” you whisper, drawing back to look up at him.
He’s so serious when your eyes meet again– his face drawn and pensive. One of your hands comes up to brush over his cheek, marvelling at the unexpected softness of his skin. “Fuck ‘em all,” you tell him, a smile flitting across your lips. “You and I are on our own timeline.”
He turns his head into your hand, nuzzling your palm. “I love you,” he says again, the words a grumble in his chest.
That naive, perfect dream is back in your chest, stronger and more insistent than before. As you stare up at Gator, his face softer than you might ever have hoped, you feel it softly glow.
---
a/n: I really do love this but it was a bitch and a half to edit. going to reward myself by writing some truly vile smut about this man
all the angst i needed for gator... this filled the void ten times over. i loved reader not backing down. him calling her a bobcat i laughed i love this so much
maybe a little something about gator getting used to living with girly!reader? Like her everything shower routine, nighttime routines, drinking tea, candles in the house, cleaning up, small things like that that he wasn’t used to on the ranch as a bachelor. Idk i feel like this could be cute and fluffy!!
The Space You Fill
soft!Gator Tillman x girly!reader
Summary: Gator grew up in the world of other people's rules and choices, where he was forbidden to want, ask, or get attached. But when you enter his small apartment, everything changes.
Tags/Warnings: soft!Gator, girly!reader, fluff, really very-very sweet, a brief mention of Roy.
W/C: 2,8k
A/n: I really enjoyed writing this! I hope you like it too! Thank you! 💘 I tried to use short forms to replicate Gator's manner of speaking, but I'm rather bad at American abbreviations and other things (I study British English at the institute). English is my second language, please, correct me if anything is wrong.
Gator thought that some things might change with you moving in with him, but he definitely didn't expect it to affect him in any way.
Even before you fully moved in, his already small apartment had started to rapidly fill up with your things. At first, it was just the basics: shampoo and hair conditioner on the shower shelf, a couple of books you brought so you wouldn't get bored if he got called into the police station, an old lipstick and a powder compact so you could quickly fix your makeup if needed.
But now you live with him, and your presence is everywhere.
It becomes noticeable from the very first week.
Morning. It's almost strange that you're working today while he is on shift at night. Gator stands in the middle of the bathroom, holding a bottle of shampoo that smells like ripe raspberries, and stares at his old shampoo with its half-peeled-off "2-in-1 for hair and body" label, feeling a little betrayed. It has been pushed to the farthest corner of the shelf, like some outcast in a kingdom of beauty, a criminal exiled for being almighty. Well, what's wrong with that? The last thing he needs is to buy a bunch of separate products for every part of his body. He is perfectly fine with slathering that stuff on, rinsing it off, and smelling like menthol and eucalyptus until his next shower. Simple, no fuss.
He steps out of the bathroom and notices your slippers in the hallway. They're woolly and pink, looking like giant paws. He tried to stick his foot into them once, thinking they were big enough, while you squealed that he'd stretch them out. As you can see, they're perfectly fine. You were rushing, you're always afraid you're running late, and yet you always end up arriving early. You left a little chaos behind, but Gator doesn't mind – he's already made peace with it. He steps over the slippers, then turns around, picks them up, and sets them by the wall so no one stumbles.
The changes in the kitchen have been quite the revelation too. Now he doesn't just make himself coffee in the morning: he asks you what you want to drink. Gator remembers that you always ask for tea. You even placed a tea organizer next to the electric kettle! Where you carefully stashed his lone box of black tea, which has more dust and tea crumbs in it than actual leaves and flowers.
Gator opens the fridge in search of a quick breakfast (he doesn't say that he actually likes the yogurts too, but you notice when they disappear and silently buy a few extra each time) and sees a container with a sticky note attached.
"Some for you too. Eat it before evening. If you lied about liking strawberries, you'll have to like them now. Kiss you."
With you, Gator started eating much better. He never bought fruit for himself, never made salads, and his snacks at work were dried meat and soda. He still remembers how dumbly he stared at you when you shoved a container of food at him to take with him.
Besides, no one had ever cut fruit for him before.
Gator opens the container with sliced strawberries and kiwis inside. He smirks at the thought that it's just like you and him. You're sweet, and everyone loves you, like strawberry. And he's unappealing and an acquired taste, but inside, not so bad. Probably.
Gator is grateful that you don't change things radically, just improve them, leaving what he already had.
You fill all the free space that was actually just empty because Gator had nothing to put there. And honestly, he even felt a little joyless looking at the surfaces and shelves that only held a layer of dust. But that problem is solved. On the sofa lies a glossy magazine, and Gator will definitely investigate what you circled with a marker in the cosmetics section. Your cardigan with golden flower-shaped buttons is draped over the back of a chair. And on the coffee table is a box with a set of hairpins, but only two are left because you have lost the rest.
He won't tell you that one of them is in his uniform pocket.
By the second week, you had finally moved all your things in.
Gator comes home late from work. As usual, he takes a quick shower, and then comes the worst part of the day. Untangling his hair from its styling. And for some reason, in the morning he couldn't get it to lay flat on the first try, so it's horribly stuck together from too much gel, because water got on it while he was washing himself. Gator steps out of the bathroom looking for his comb and, of course, he can't sneak past you.
"What are you doing?" You turn down the TV volume and look at him.
"My comb's gone somewhere." He sees several combs on the dresser, but his isn't there.
"You mean half a comb?"
"I said what I said." Gator snorts, a little irritated, water dripping onto his shoulders. "Wait, you didn't throw it out, did you?" It suddenly dawns on him.
"No, it's in the drawer. Come on." You stand up, and he lets you go first because he likes watching you in that satin set: the top with straps and ruffled shorts. You rummage through the drawer where he keeps his spare razor cartridges and the new deodorant he bought on the BOGO deal. You pull out a comb – a wide-toothed one, with a third of the teeth missing.
"Thanks." Gator replies flatly, but you don't leave. "You can go."
"I want to see what happens next." You say with distrust, but Gator just shrugs. He tries to comb his hair, but it's tangled, with knots even forming in places where the comb snags. It looks like torture. But not for him. For you. "What are you doing!"
Gator flinches at your loud exclamation, which hits his ears. You shout like he's nearly broken federal law. "I almost went deaf. It's your own fault for staying to watch. I thought you were a spectator, not a critic."
"Give it to me. Sit." You pull a stool from the corner for him to sit on. You grab a squeeze tube from the shelf, and Gator tenses up. This is better than scissors, sure, but still...
"What's that for?" He tries to read the label.
"Just hair conditioner, for easy detangling." You take a little in your hand and apply it to his head.
"It's gross, like jelly." Gator sniffs it. "And it smells terrible!"
"Would you rather go bald by ripping your hair out with... that?" You're pointing at his pathetic hair care kit.
"Fine, just do what you gotta do." Your fingers gently massage his scalp, spreading that disgustingly sweet conditioner through his hair. He wants to protest, say he's a cop, not a poodle being groomed before a show, but the words get stuck in his throat because... this feels nice.
Damn. This really feels pleasurable.
You run your fingers through his wet hair, untangling the knots he made himself. Gator closes his eyes, feeling the tension leave his shoulders. When you touch the back of his head, he almost purrs. Almost. He'd never admit it.
"Always start combing from the bottom up. And how many times have I told you that shampoo dries out your hair?" You advise and explain reasonably, without pressure. "We can get you something without such a strong scent."
"I'll think about it..." Gator grumbles, but already knows he'll go to the store with you this weekend and smell everything you shove under his nose until he approves.
"Now you can wask it all off." You wait patiently while Gator washes his hair. And when he reaches for a towel, you hand him something completely different.
"This is a t-shirt." He looks at you with a hint of skepticism. Was just touching his hair enough to drive you crazy?
"No. Well, yes, but that's the point. Terry towels tangle hair, but cotton just absorbs water." You make him bend down and wrap his head in your old pink t-shirt. You bite your lip, stifling a laugh, because Gator looks ridiculous.
"I opened a portal to hell when I let you do this." He hangs his head dejectedly, more theatrically, but still a little offended. You don't even pay attention to his antics, patting his hair dry with the t-shirt again. Before turning on the hairdryer, you grab another product from the shelf and spray it over him without warning. "Chemical attack! I'm in a gas chamber! Exit is blocked..." Gator covers his eyes with his hand and coughs. It smells like meadow flowers and honey. Harmless.
"Oh, Gator, you're so dramatic." You turn on the hairdryer and don't hear him cursing. Honestly, you really like touching his head, especially when his hair is so silky. When you finish drying, you lean down, pressing your face into the top of his head, inhaling the scent.
"What are you plotting now?" Gator fidgets, because everything he's let you do so far is way out of bounds. But he looks in the mirror and sees you hugging him around the neck, your hands on his shoulders, slightly bent, pressed against his back.
"Nothing. I'm done." You shrug and walk out, heading back to the bedroom.
Gator examines himself in the mirror, and giving you your due, he's never looked this good.
So... Domestic.
He walks over to you, and you're sitting at the dressing table on a low pouf, brushing your hair. Gator squats down next to you.
"You didn't comb your hair? I showed you where your comb is." You run the brush through his front strands, and his bangs fall into his eyes. You laugh, and he rests his head on your lap. Complete surrender. You comb his hair, and his arms wrap tightly around your waist. "You smell like me."
"Y'know, maybe it's not so bad."
By the third week of living side by side with you, Gator realized how lucky he was.
He doesn't say it out loud, but he understands that he's ready to take back every word he ever said. He likes this. Being in comfort. Not just surviving, as it was at the ranch. When he lived in his father's house, he wasn't allowed to have excess belongings – only the bare essentials – and it felt more like the army than a home where, it turns out, you can keep fond things and warm memories. When he moved into a separate little house on the same ranch, it got better. Though he had to fix it up himself so the roof wouldn't leak and the wiring wouldn't short. But it was his den, where posters could hang on the walls and he could listen to any music he liked, as loud as he wanted.
And in a world of constant prohibitions and reproaches, you showed him that getting attached to things isn't bad at all: it's actually good to have something you love. Something of your own. Because when he left the ranch, he realized he didn't know how to choose something other than the first thing he grabbed or the cheapest option, how to want something, and most importantly, how to ask for it. He grew up convenient, quiet, obedient. But you started proving to him that he could be selective, picky, have his own opinions, and not be punished or humiliated for it.
Gator started to understand that you wouldn't mock him for never having tried matcha or alternative milk – you'd stop by a café after work and buy him something to try. And iced caramel latte is now his favorite drink there. You wouldn't scold him for picking the same cereal that a five-year-old would choose at the store, because his father ate nothing but oatmeal for breakfast, and the family ate only what he liked.
Gator lived by other people's choices, and sometimes he just didn't have the energy left to make his own, because after a 24-hour shift, he didn't care what movie was on TV. He turned it not just to fall asleep in silence.
And now he falls asleep cuddling and talking to you.
You let him try and make mistakes. And that tells him more about your love than any words ever could, and Gator is glad that you see it too. A couple of days ago, you were putting hand cream on at night, and he just reached out his hand to place it in yours. At first, you didn't understand what he wanted, but when you felt how dry his hands were and how cracked his skin was, you didn't ask questions. You applied some cream and traced each knuckle.
That's how you learned that chamomile and sandalwood appeal to him more than geranium and bergamot. And now that cream lies on his side of the nightstand. There's a lot more stuff there now, actually: a velvet cloth where Gator places his watch and badge so they don't scratch the nightstand; a moisturizer he needs, especially in winter; sometimes a mug of jasmine tea, because you broke him of the habit of drinking coffee at night.
With you, Gator feels significant, not like a hollow space. At first, he thought it was silly when you asked him about the color of the blanket to cover the sofa in the living room or the kitchen towels you wanted to buy, or any other trifling question you could have answered yourself but chose to consult him on.
That's how you show him that he matters.
And he tries to pay you back in kind.
Tonight is just for the two of you. Gator booked a table at some fancy restaurant, having researched options in advance to make sure you'd like it. He's trying to get used to styling his hair without gel, so it's soft and pliable with a faint hint of mint and lemongrass, because that way you can run your hands through it and ruffle it. He put on a crisp white shirt, and you helped him roll up the sleeves.
Gator waits for you. He peers into the bedroom, and you're almost ready too, finishing your styling. You're sitting, twisted at an awkward angle to see what you're doing in the mirror. Your hair is already curled into perfect ringlets in the front and on the sides, but the back is still straight.
You notice him. "I'll be done soon, the mirror isn't helping me synchronize my hair and the styler." You joke.
"Give it to me." Gator takes it from your hands.
"Do you know how to use it?" You ask, and Gator can't help but admire how your eyes sparkle, and it's not from the shimmery eyeshadow.
"I know how to follow orders. If you guide me, maybe something will come out of it."
"Okay." You turn your back to him. "Basically, it does everything itself: just separate a strand, turn it on, bring it close. It'll curl it."
"Sounds simple, like even I could do it." Gator smiles and does exactly what you say. He separates a strand, turns on the styler, and brings it to your hair. The hair wraps around the heated cylinder, and Gator waits a few seconds. "Then what?"
"There's a button, cool it with cold air, then turn it off." You explain, feeling his breath on the top of your head. Gator switches the air to cold, then turns off the styler. A perfect curl. He repeats it three more times before proudly declaring that it's done.
"Now spray it with hairspray." You grab it and hand to Gator.
"Just take it and...?" Gator makes a motion with his hand but doesn't press the nozzle.
"Yes, like when I sprayed the heat protection on you in the bathroom."
"Oh, well, I can do that." He sprays a cloud of hairspray over you, then puts everything aside and rests his hands on your shoulders, squeezing gently. Gator kisses the back of your head. "You look pretty. Very-very pretty."
"So do you." You reply with a smile, and he leans back a little to look at you.
"Did the hairspray get into your eyes?" Gator laughs, but you're actually serious.
"Not at all." You stand up and reach your arms out to him. He doesn't want to ruin your makeup, so he just hugs you, but you press your cheek against his. "Thank you, Gator."
"Anytime, baby." Gator looks at you, and one side of his face is shimmering from your highlighter.
"Now you're glowing too." You try to wipe the glitter off his cheek, and he covers your hands with his.
"That's all because of you." Gator leans in and presses his forehead against yours, his nose barely touching yours. "Come on, we don't want to be late, right?"
You nod, and he takes your hand, certain that it couldn't get any better.
He thought moving in was about letting you into his life.
But it turns out that he's been living in yours for a long time.
Summary: Steve expects just another birthday. Instead, he discovers he's spent years building himself the family he'd always dreamed of.
Warnings/tags: 18+ ONLY, minors DNI, no use of y/n, established relationship, fluff, hurt/comfort, mentions of a neglectful childhood (steve's), found family, angst, everyone loves steve harrington (lmk if i missed anything)
A/N: pls blame jess (@holawdw) for the emotional damage 😭😭 thank you SO much for giving me this idea and then spending several days screaming about it with me in dms because i genuinely don't think i would've written this without you. i knew the second you said it that this had to become a fic. i really hope i did your beautiful idea justice. thank you for trusting me with it, and thank you for emotionally ruining both me and steve 🫶
W/C: 8k
Read more of my writing here: [masterlist]
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You wake before Steve does.
The curtains are still only half-lit, the early morning sun filtering through the gaps in soft bands of gold that stretch lazily across the bedroom floor. Outside, Hawkins hasn't quite decided to wake up yet. Somewhere in the distance a lawnmower coughs into life before giving up again, birds chatter noisily from the oak tree outside the window, and the whole house sits in that strange, peaceful quiet that only exists before the rest of the world remembers itself.
Steve is still asleep beside you, one arm escaped from beneath the duvet during the night, stretched lazily across the mattress until his fingertips brush yours, as though even unconscious he has some quiet need to know you're still there. His hair sticks up in every possible direction, flattened on one side and hopelessly unruly on the other, his face softer in sleep than it ever is when he's awake.
You smile to yourself.
Twenty-three.
It feels impossible somehow - not because twenty-three is particularly old, but because you've spent long enough loving Steve to remember nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Every version of him that existed between those birthdays and this one. Each year he'd grown a little gentler, a little quieter in himself, as though life had slowly been teaching him that he no longer had to carry everything alone.
Carefully, so as not to wake him too suddenly, you lean across and press a kiss against the centre of his forehead.
His nose wrinkles immediately. A low, sleepy groan rumbles somewhere beneath the blankets before one eye cracks open just enough to find you. "...Morning."
"Morning, birthday boy."
His expression falls with almost theatrical disappointment. "...Do I have to get older?"
You laugh quietly. "I'm afraid you don't have much choice."
"I was hoping we could skip this one."
"I'll write to the calendar."
"You think it'd listen?"
"Probably not."
He sighs dramatically before rolling onto his back, staring up at the ceiling with the sort of resignation usually reserved for tax returns and dentist appointments. "...Worth asking."
You reach over to smooth an impossibly stubborn piece of hair away from his forehead. "You know," you say, "most people get excited about their birthday."
Steve hums. "I know."
"You don't."
Another small shrug. "I've just never really been bothered."
He says it so casually that anyone else might have believed him.
But you've known him long enough to understand the difference between someone who doesn't care and someone who learned, very early on, not to expect much in the first place.
Steve never disliked birthdays. That wasn't it. He'd simply stopped allowing himself to build them into something worth looking forward to.
Growing up, they were... fine.
There'd usually be a couple of presents, carefully chosen by parents who knew roughly what an eight-year-old boy ought to like but never quite what their eight-year-old boy actually did. His mother insisted on the same dense, healthy carrot cake every year because she preferred it to chocolate, somehow never stopping to consider that perhaps the birthday boy himself might have had other opinions.
Sometimes his parents were away entirely, leaving him with grandparents or a childminder and promising they'd celebrate properly when they got back. Sometimes they were there, though never really present. A birthday dinner if everyone happened to be home. A quick "happy birthday" over breakfast before somebody rushed off to a meeting. There was never anything cruel about it.
Just... distance.
Nothing bad enough to complain about.
Nothing good enough to miss.
By the time you'd met him, birthdays had become something he accepted with the same quiet indifference he accepted rainy Tuesdays or running out of milk. Nice enough if somebody remembered. Easily forgotten if they didn't.
He catches you looking at him. "What?"
You realise you've been absent-mindedly tracing your thumb across the back of his hand. "Nothing."
"Your face tells me it isn't nothing."
You smile. "I was just thinking."
"Dangerous."
"Oh, absolutely."
He grins, the corners of his eyes creasing in that familiar way that still makes something inside your chest soften. Then, just as quickly, he stretches with another sleepy groan and reaches for his glasses on the bedside table.
"So..." He pushes them onto his nose. "...What's the plan today?"
The question is completely innocent.
There's no expectation behind it. No hopeful curiosity. No excitement. Just the quiet assumption that whatever happened would be perfectly nice, and perfectly ordinary.
You hold his gaze for a moment before leaning across to steal one more kiss.
"Oh," you murmur, smiling against his cheek. "I think you're going to have a very different birthday this year."
Robin is the first to arrive.
You hear her before you see her.
The front door flies open without so much as a knock, followed almost immediately by, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS."
Steve has barely managed to look up from the mug of coffee in his hands before something rectangular bounces unceremoniously off the side of his head.
"...Ow."
"You're welcome."
He picks the envelope up from the floor, turning it over suspiciously.
Across the front, written entirely in thick black marker, are the words:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DINGUS.
Beneath them, in much smaller handwriting:
Don't let this inflate your ego.
Steve laughs quietly through his nose. "I haven't even opened it yet."
"I know." Robin folds her arms with exaggerated satisfaction. "I just wanted to establish the tone."
You disappear into the kitchen under the pretence of making more coffee, partly because somebody has to rescue breakfast before it burns, and partly because you've known Robin long enough to recognise the expression she's trying very hard to hide.
She's nervous.
Steve, blissfully unaware, slides a finger beneath the flap and unfolds the card.
Silence.
Then another page unfolds.
And another.
Steve blinks. "...Robin."
"What?"
"It's..." He flips another page over. "...Really long."
She shrugs with studied indifference. "I got carried away."
"What did you write?"
"I don't know."
"You wrote it."
"I wasn't paying attention."
He gives her a look.
She refuses to meet it.
You watch him begin reading.
The smile appears immediately, tugging at one corner of his mouth as he reaches the first insult.
Happy Birthday to Hawkins' second-biggest idiot.
Congratulations on somehow surviving another year despite making some of the dumbest decisions I've ever witnessed.
He snorts.
Robin looks insufferably pleased with herself.
Then the smile begins to change.
It softens almost imperceptibly, his eyes moving more slowly across the page now.
You can't read the words from where you're standing, but you know Robin well enough to know exactly what she'll have hidden between the jokes.
She'll have thanked him for making Family Video bearable, for never making her feel like she had to be anyone other than herself, for listening when she came out without making it weird, without asking questions she didn't want to answer, without changing the way he looked at her afterwards. She'll have written about Starcourt. About Russian secret bases and demobats and everything in between. About the fact that, somehow, Steve Harrington had quietly become the safest place she'd ever known.
By the time he reaches the final page, the kitchen has gone strangely quiet. Robin is studying a loose thread on her sleeve with almost academic concentration.
Steve clears his throat before reading the last line aloud, his voice noticeably softer than before. "'Don't get emotional.'" He smiles to himself. "'I'm only saying this once.'"
Robin points at him immediately. "Exactly."
"You literally wrote three pages."
"I know."
"You called me your favourite person."
"I was clearly concussed."
"You said you'd trust me with your life."
"I mean..." She sighs dramatically. "I would."
His smile grows impossibly soft. "You know..." He glances down at the card again. "...Thank you."
Robin groans so loudly you almost laugh. "Ugh."
"What?"
"Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're about to hug me."
Steve doesn't even pretend to think about it. He simply walks around the table and wraps his arms around her.
Robin lets out the most exaggerated sigh you've ever heard. "This is disgusting."
"You started it."
"I wrote a card."
"You wrote three pages."
"I regret everything."
"No, you don't."
"...No."
She hugs him back anyway. Only for a second. Only because nobody's looking.
Except you absolutely are.
When they finally pull apart, Robin immediately pokes him in the shoulder.
"If you tell anybody I have feelings, I'll deny the whole thing."
Steve laughs. "My lips are sealed."
"They'd better be." She narrows her eyes. "And if you cry..."
"I'm not going to cry."
"You looked dangerously close."
"I wasn't."
"You were."
"I definitely wasn't."
Robin glances towards you. "He was, wasn't he?"
You smile over the rim of your coffee mug. "A little."
"I wasn't."
"You've still got watery eyes."
"It's allergies."
"In February?"
"...Shut up."
The conversation drifts naturally onto something else after that.
Dustin is apparently running late. Robin immediately starts complaining about his inability to tell the time while Steve joins in as though nothing unusual has happened, the two of them slipping back into familiar bickering before Nancy wanders in from the hallway carrying an armful of paper plates, looking between them with a knowing smile. "He's late again?"
Robin throws her hands into the air. "When isn't he?"
The room fills with laughter, and before long the conversation has moved on entirely.
Later, while everyone else is distracted in the kitchen and Robin is attempting to convince Joyce that frozen chips absolutely count as a vegetable, you catch Steve standing alone in the hallway.
The card is open again.
He's reading the third page for a second time, his thumb lingering over the final paragraph before he quietly folds it closed with surprising care. The smile on his face is small, thoughtful, the sort that only ever appears when someone has managed to tell him something he didn't realise he'd needed to hear.
He slips the card carefully back into its envelope.
Not tossed onto the side. Not left amongst the wrapping paper.
Carefully. Like something he already knows he'll keep forever.
Dustin arrives nearly forty minutes late.
He bursts through the front door carrying three different bags, a box of doughnuts, and what appears to be a screwdriver for reasons known only to himself.
"Sorry!" he announces before anybody has the chance to say hello. "The bus was late, the car wouldn't start, and then I had to help my mum move a bookshelf because apparently I'm 'the man of the house now.'"
Robin raises an eyebrow. "...You brought a screwdriver."
"I know."
"Why?"
Dustin looks down at it as though only just noticing it in his own hand. "...Huh."
Steve laughs. "There he is."
Dustin grins, dropping everything onto the kitchen table with considerably more force than necessary. "Happy birthday, old man."
"Thanks."
"You look ancient."
"I'm twenty-three."
"Exactly."
Steve rolls his eyes. "You'll understand one day."
"I'll never be twenty-three."
"You literally will."
"I refuse."
The conversation dissolves into laughter almost immediately.
Nancy is still trying to work out where everyone's coats are supposed to go. Joyce keeps disappearing back to the kitchen because she insists she's forgotten something. Holly trails after Steve, carrying a balloon almost as big as she is, asking if she can help despite clearly having no idea how. Derek is outside trying to light the barbecue with considerably less success than he'd predicted.
After everything that's happened over the last few years, days like this have become strangely precious. Nothing extraordinary. Nobody saving the world. Just everyone existing in the same place at the same time, talking over one another, stealing chips from each other's plates, and interrupting conversations with terrible jokes as though they haven't spent the better part of adolescence fighting monsters together.
More than once, you catch Steve quietly looking around the room.
Not at anything in particular.
Just... everyone.
It makes something warm settle gently inside your chest.
Eventually, as plates begin disappearing into the kitchen, Dustin freezes mid-conversation. "...Oh."
Steve glances up. "What?"
Dustin slaps a hand dramatically against his forehead. "...I forgot your present."
Robin doesn't even look up from her drink. "No, you didn't."
"I did."
"You absolutely didn't."
"I absolutely-" He stops, sighing with theatrical defeat. "...Fine."
Steve laughs. "I knew it."
"You were supposed to believe me."
"I've known you too long."
Dustin disappears into the hallway before returning a moment later, carrying something wrapped in Christmas wrapping paper. It's awkwardly shaped, too large to be a book and too flat to be anything else. Without meeting Steve's eyes, he thrusts it into his hands. "There."
Steve turns it over carefully. "...What's this?"
"I said don't ask questions."
"You literally handed it to me."
"I know."
"Can I open it?"
Dustin rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. "...Yeah."
The room gradually quietens. Even Mike abandons the card game long enough to look over.
Steve peels the paper back with surprising care, trying not to tear it.
Inside is a thick scrapbook.
The cover is slightly crooked, one corner clearly glued back into place after an unfortunate accident, and across the front, in unmistakably Dustin Henderson handwriting, is written a single word.
STEVE.
Nothing else. Just... Steve.
His smile falters almost immediately.
Slowly, he opens it.
The first page is covered in old cinema tickets from Family Video movie nights.
The second is photographs.
Robin asleep against his shoulder. Lucas laughing so hard at something Steve had said that he's almost falling over. Max pulling a face behind Steve's back while he remains blissfully oblivious. A much younger Dustin wearing Steve's sunglasses, the frames so oversized they practically swallow his face.
Then come the things Steve doesn't even remember keeping.
Campaign maps from old Dungeons & Dragons sessions. Drawings Holly had made years ago that somehow ended up forgotten in his glove compartment. Polaroids. County fair wristbands. Birthday invitations. Receipts. Little scraps of paper everyone else would have thrown away.
One page is filled entirely with handwriting.
Robin's. Nancy's. Lucas's. Mike's. Will's.
Even Erica's, squeezed into one corner with the words:
"Don't let it go to your head, Harrington."
Beneath each name is a tiny memory.
"Steve bought me fries because I forgot my wallet."
"He waited outside my maths exam because he knew I'd panic afterwards."
"Drove us home in a thunderstorm even though he hates driving in the rain."
"He always says yes."
"Best babysitter ever."
Steve turns the next page much more slowly.
His fingertips linger against the edges as though he's frightened of damaging something.
"...Dude." His voice is barely above a whisper.
Dustin shrugs without looking up. "I know."
"You..." Steve lets out one quiet, disbelieving laugh. "...You made this?"
"...Shut up."
"No, seriously."
"It wasn't a big deal."
Robin snorts immediately. "He spent three weeks chasing us for photos."
"I did not."
"You literally made Joyce search her loft."
"That," Dustin points accusingly, "was research."
"And you bullied me into writing two pages."
"You wrote three because you got emotional."
"I did not."
"You absolutely-"
"Shut up, Henderson."
Laughter ripples around the room.
Steve doesn't join in.
He's still turning the pages. Slowly. As though every photograph contains a memory he'd forgotten belonged to him.
Then he stops. Halfway through the book.
You can't see the page from where you're standing.
You only notice the way his expression changes.
His shoulders soften. His eyes linger. His thumb brushes gently across whatever Dustin has glued onto the paper. "...You kept that?"
Dustin finally looks up. "...Yeah."
Steve swallows. "I didn't even know anybody still had it."
Dustin shrugs as though the answer should be obvious. "You don't throw away stuff that matters."
The words are so matter-of-fact that Dustin probably doesn't even realise what he's said.
But the room falls quiet anyway.
Because Steve is looking down at years of little moments he'd long since forgotten.
Movie tickets. Drawings. Receipts. Photographs. Inside jokes. Evidence. Proof that people had been quietly collecting pieces of him long before he'd ever thought to collect pieces of himself.
You watch him blink rapidly once. Then again.
Very carefully, he closes the scrapbook, resting one hand against its cover. "...Thank you."
Dustin clears his throat. "Yeah." A beat. "...Don't cry, dude."
Steve laughs softly, rubbing quickly beneath one eye. "I'm not crying."
Robin doesn't even glance up from her drink. "Third lie of the day."
Another ripple of laughter breaks the silence, the conversation slowly picking back up around him. But you notice something Steve doesn't seem aware he's doing.
He never lets go of the scrapbook.
Every time somebody shifts it to make room on the table, his hand finds it again almost instinctively, fingertips resting lightly against the cover as though he's quietly reassuring himself that it's still there.
The presents continue throughout the afternoon, though calling them presents hardly feels accurate anymore. Some are wrapped carefully, others arrive in supermarket carrier bags or with the price stickers hastily scratched away, and none of them are particularly expensive. None of them need to be. Somewhere between Robin's card and Dustin's scrapbook, the day has quietly stopped being about gifts at all; instead, it becomes a long series of people finding their own ways to tell Steve Harrington that they love him.
Lucas is next. He hands Steve a neatly wrapped box with a shrug that tries very hard to look casual, though he watches far too closely as Steve begins peeling back the paper. "It's not a big deal."
Steve smiles. "It didn't have to be."
Inside is a new baseball glove, the leather still stiff and untouched. Steve hadn't asked for one, but Lucas had noticed weeks ago that the stitching was beginning to unravel on the old glove he used whenever he played with the kids.
"You remembered," Steve says, turning it carefully in his hands.
Lucas looks almost confused. "Well... yeah."
"You noticed that?"
"You use it every week."
A quiet laugh escapes Steve. "I didn't think anybody was paying attention."
"Steve." Lucas shakes his head as though the answer should be obvious. "We notice everything."
Steve looks down again, his thumb moving slowly across the smooth leather before he thanks him with one of those small, genuine smiles that always reaches his eyes. Across the garden, Erica loudly informs Derek that the new glove still won't make Steve any less terrible at baseball, prompting Lucas to shout something defensive on his behalf while Steve laughs and calls them both ungrateful.
Max wanders over a few minutes later carrying nothing but a dog-eared paperback she'd spent the last month insisting he needed to read.
"You keep stealing mine," she says, pushing it into his hands. "Now you have your own."
Steve turns the book over. "I thought you liked lending them to me."
"I don't. I like getting them back eventually."
"I always return them."
"After six months."
"They're long books."
"They're four hundred pages."
"I'm a slow reader."
"I know." Her mouth twitches despite herself, but the amusement fades as she hesitates, scuffing the toe of her trainer against the grass. "...Thanks, though."
Steve blinks. "For what?"
"For always treating me like..." She pauses, searching for something precise enough. "...Just me. You never acted like I was broken."
His smile softens immediately. "You aren't."
"I know." Max shrugs one shoulder, suddenly fascinated by the book in his hands. "You just made it easier to remember."
She bumps her shoulder against his before walking away, leaving Steve watching after her for a moment before his attention drops back to the paperback. Nearby, Will quietly makes room for her beside him on the patio steps, neither of them saying anything as she steals a crisp from his plate.
Nancy catches Steve later while he's helping Joyce carry a tray of drinks into the garden. She slips a small envelope into his pocket so discreetly that nobody else notices. "Open it later."
He raises an eyebrow. "Secret?"
"I'd rather Robin didn't make fun of me."
"Fair."
When you find him reading it alone in the hallway a little while later, you discover it isn't really a birthday card at all. It's a letter, short enough to fit on half a page but written with the sort of care that makes every sentence feel deliberate. Nancy thanks him for always showing up, for never once asking whether somebody deserved saving before trying anyway, and for reminding her that kindness and courage were never mutually exclusive.
She ends simply:
The world is better because you're in it.
Nothing more. Nothing less.
Jonathan doesn't write anything. That wouldn't be him.
Instead, while everyone mills around the garden balancing paper plates and cups of lemonade, he quietly hands Steve a photograph he'd developed himself. It was taken the previous summer, though nobody had realised Jonathan was holding a camera that afternoon. Steve is sitting on the grass with Holly asleep against one shoulder while Joyce is topping up everybody's drinks without asking. Will is showing Max one of his sketches, Mike is laughing at something beyond the frame, and El is lying flat on the grass looking at clouds.
You aren't looking at the camera either.
You're looking at Steve, smiling in that completely unconscious way people only ever do when they don't know they're being watched.
On the back, Jonathan has written a single sentence.
You always make it feel like home.
Steve stares at it for a long time. "...You took this?"
Jonathan nods. "You looked happy."
"I was."
"I know."
A quiet, bewildered laugh leaves Steve as he looks around the garden. Nancy is collecting empty plates; meanwhile, Robin is stealing chips off them before they can be picked up and taken into the kitchen. Everyone is talking over everyone else. Nobody is paying Steve any particular attention anymore.
The celebration has simply become itself.
"...You all remembered," he says, his voice nearly lost beneath the noise.
Jonathan studies him for a moment before giving the smallest shake of his head. "No."
Steve frowns. "What?"
"We didn't just remember." Jonathan glances towards the garden. "We wanted to."
It's such an ordinary sentence, spoken so quietly it almost disappears beneath the laughter drifting through the open door, but you watch something shift inside Steve anyway.
All day, some part of him has been waiting for somebody to admit they felt obligated; that birthdays are merely something decent people acknowledge because convention tells them to. Instead, every person keeps offering him the same truth in a different form.
Not simply happy birthday, but:
I'm glad you're here.
You make things better.
Life would look different without you.
And, perhaps for the first time in his life, Steve doesn't quite know what to do with the possibility that every one of them genuinely means it.
By the time the sun begins dipping behind the trees, the garden has dissolved into the sort of comfortable chaos that always seems to follow this particular group of people. Dustin and Erica have started teaching Holly a card game that she keeps accidentally cheating at. Mike and Lucas are throwing around a football, while El keeps spectacularly missing the catches and laughing anyway. Hopper has claimed the garden chair furthest from the noise with the determination of a man pretending not to enjoy himself, and Jonathan wanders quietly between them with his camera, capturing moments nobody else seems to notice.
Joyce, meanwhile, has somehow produced enough food to cater for an entire wedding.
Steve stands in the kitchen doorway, staring at the dining table. "...Joyce."
She looks up from the casserole she's carrying. "Hm?"
"There's enough food here to feed about thirty people."
"I know."
"There are, like, twelve of us."
"I know."
He gestures helplessly towards the mountain of dishes covering every available surface. "How did you even make all this?"
Joyce shrugs as though she'd thrown together a sandwich rather than enough food to sustain Hawkins through the winter. "I got carried away."
Robin wanders past and steals a roast potato straight from the tray. "She always gets carried away."
"I heard that."
"I wanted you to."
Steve laughs, shaking his head. "This is ridiculous."
Joyce smiles without looking up. "I know."
Nobody goes hungry when Joyce Byers is involved. Plates are filled faster than they're emptied, second helpings appear before anyone has the chance to refuse them, and every attempt to help clear away is met with a gentle but immovable, "Sit down. I've got it."
Steve tries anyway. Of course he does.
He appears beside Joyce with an armful of empty plates before she's even reached the sink. "I can help."
"I know." She takes them from him. "But today's your birthday."
"I don't mind."
"I know." She smiles at him over the top of the washing-up bowl. "So let somebody look after you for once."
The words are spoken so casually they almost disappear beneath the rush of running water, but you see Steve pause.
Only for a second.
Later, after dinner has dissolved into coffee, cake and half a dozen conversations happening at once, you wander back into the kitchen in search of more plates and find Joyce standing at the counter surrounded by plastic containers. She fills one, then another, then another: pasta, roast potatoes, slices of pie, enough leftovers to feed two people for the better part of a week.
Steve wanders in behind you just as she's clipping the lid onto the final container. "...Joyce?"
"Hm?"
"What's all this?"
She looks at him as though the answer is obvious. "Your dinners."
"My..."
"You work long shifts." She stacks another container neatly on top. "And I know you'll forget to cook for yourself if I don't send you home with something."
Steve laughs softly. "You don't have to do that."
"I know."
"You've already fed all of us."
"I know."
"This is too much."
Joyce finally stops what she's doing, placing both hands on the lid of the last container before sliding the entire stack towards him. "You'll take these."
He hesitates. "I don't need-"
"I wasn't asking."
There's no sharpness to it, no irritation, only the gentle certainty of someone who has spent years making sure the people she loves never leave her house hungry.
Steve looks down at the containers, then back at Joyce, and something shifts across his face so quickly that, had you not been watching for it all day, you might have missed it.
Recognition.
Not of the food.
Of the feeling.
Joyce has done this before: when he'd arrived after a shift looking exhausted, when he'd spent too many evenings helping the kids instead of himself, when she'd quietly wrapped slices of lasagne in foil because she'd "made too much again," despite everyone knowing perfectly well she'd cooked extra on purpose.
You realise, with a sudden ache beneath your ribs, that she has been mothering Steve for years. Neither of them has ever said it aloud. Neither of them has needed to.
Joyce notices his silence. "What?"
Steve blinks, almost startled back into the room. "...Nothing."
"You've got that look where you're thinking too hard."
A small smile finds him. "I was just..." He glances down at the containers again. "...Nobody's ever packed me leftovers before."
The kitchen falls unexpectedly quiet.
Joyce's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Oh, sweetheart." She reaches out without hesitation, smoothing an affectionate hand over his shoulder as though she's done it a hundred times before. "Well." Another gentle squeeze. "They do now."
Steve doesn't answer. He only nods once, swallowing a little too hard before carefully carrying the stack across the kitchen and opening the fridge. He rearranges half the shelves to make room, setting each container inside with absurd precision before closing the door as though he's placing something valuable somewhere safe.
They're only leftovers. A few plastic tubs that will probably become lunch before work tomorrow.
But as you watch his hand linger briefly on the fridge handle, you realise they were never really about food at all. They were proof that somebody had been thinking about tomorrow on his behalf.
For someone who'd spent most of his life quietly taking care of everyone else, that might just have been the greatest gift he'd received all day.
When he finally wanders back outside, the evening has settled into that soft golden hour where everything seems to slow down. Fairy lights strung between the fence posts have begun to glow faintly against the darkening sky, somebody has started another pot of coffee, and the birthday cake sits half-demolished in the middle of the table, one candle still stubbornly refusing to go out despite Robin's repeated attempts to blow it over with exaggerated determination.
You lean against the kitchen doorway for a moment, simply watching.
Steve barely makes it back onto the patio before Dustin catches him again, insisting he absolutely has to see the scrapbook page he'd forgotten to point out earlier. Mike throws a crisp at him. Lucas joins in without even asking what they're arguing about. Max rolls her eyes so dramatically you're surprised they don't disappear entirely.
And through it all...
Steve laughs.
Not the polite laugh he gives customers. Not the awkward one he used to force whenever his parents invited colleagues over for dinner.
This one is different.
Loose. Easy. It belongs here.
You don't think he'd even realised the difference.
Not until today.
Hopper chooses his moment carefully.
He waits until Steve wanders away from the noise with another cup of coffee, escaping towards the edge of the garden where the old oak tree throws long shadows across the grass. It's the sort of place Steve always drifts towards when everything gets a little too loud - not because he dislikes the company, but because he's always needed a minute to breathe between moments.
Hopper follows a few seconds later.
Not obviously.
You watch from the patio without saying anything.
Steve hears the footsteps and glances over his shoulder. "Oh. Hey."
Hopper grunts something that could generously be interpreted as a greeting before stopping beside him.
For a while, neither of them says anything.
They simply stand shoulder to shoulder, looking out across the garden while laughter drifts faintly behind them. Joyce is gathering empty mugs onto a tray. Nancy is folding paper napkins that don't really need folding. Robin has somehow persuaded Holly to help blow bubbles across the garden while Dustin insists bubbles are scientifically impossible to catch.
Steve smiles into his coffee. "...Nice day."
Hopper nods once. "Yeah."
Silence settles again.
Not uncomfortable. Just... Hopper.
Eventually, he clears his throat. "Happy birthday."
Steve looks faintly surprised. "Oh." A small smile appears. "...Thanks."
Another long pause passes, and you almost wonder whether that's going to be the entire conversation.
Then Hopper speaks again, his eyes still fixed somewhere out across the garden. "You've done good."
Steve frowns. "What?"
"The kids."
A shrug. "They're good kids."
"They are." Hopper nods slowly. "They're better because you're around."
Steve's expression changes almost imperceptibly.
Hopper keeps talking before he has the chance to interrupt. "I've seen the way they look at you." Only then does he turn his head. "They trust you."
Steve opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
"You didn't have to keep showing up." Hopper's voice is as gruff as ever. "Nobody asked you to." Another pause. "But you did."
Steve looks down at the coffee cup in his hands. "I just..." A quiet laugh escapes him. "...They needed somebody."
"They did." Hopper nods once. "They got you."
For a moment, neither of them moves.
The sounds of the party carry on behind them as though nothing extraordinary is happening. Someone starts another round of Happy Birthday purely to annoy Steve. Robin groans loudly enough for the entire neighbourhood to hear.
Steve laughs automatically.
His eyes, however, have become suspiciously bright.
Hopper notices.
Naturally.
He pretends not to.
Instead, he reaches out, giving Steve's shoulder one firm, awkward squeeze before offering his hand.
Steve blinks. "...Really?"
"What?"
"The handshake."
"I'm trying."
Steve laughs through the thickness in his throat. "I know."
He takes Hopper's hand.
The handshake lasts barely two seconds.
It's probably the closest Hopper has ever come to saying I'm proud of you.
When he lets go, he clears his throat. "Don't make it weird."
"I wasn't gonna."
"You were thinkin' about it."
"...Maybe."
Hopper points back towards the house. "Go enjoy your party."
Steve smiles. "...Yeah."
He watches Hopper wander back towards the others before letting his gaze drift across the garden.
Robin has somehow ended up with Holly asleep against her shoulder despite loudly insisting children "smell weird". Joyce is packing slices of cake into foil while Nancy labels the containers before anyone can forget whose is whose. Lucas and Mike have wandered to the end of the garden with a football, Jonathan is crouched beside the flowerbed trying to photograph a butterfly Holly spotted, and Erica is shamelessly raiding the snack table one last time before anybody notices.
You catch Steve's eye from across the lawn.
He smiles at you.
Not because anything funny has happened. Not because he's trying to.
Simply because, for perhaps the first time all day, he's beginning to understand what every single person has been trying to tell him.
He hadn't just been thrown a birthday party.
He was home.
By the time the last of the washing up has been stacked beside the sink, the house has settled into a gentler kind of noise.
The loud laughter has softened into quieter conversations, and the music drifting from the old radio has become little more than background static. Through the kitchen doorway you can still see everyone scattered comfortably around the house, no longer celebrating in any organised sense of the word, simply... staying.
Robin has somehow ended up half-curled across one end of the sofa, arguing lazily with Max over what film everyone should watch before they eventually leave. El sits cross-legged on the rug with Mike, the two of them still passionately debating something that nobody else is listening to anymore, while Will quietly contributes the occasional comment that neither of them acknowledges. Joyce is wrapping the last slices of birthday cake in foil, Hopper pretending not to help while hovering close enough to hand her the tape every few minutes without ever admitting that's exactly what he's doing. Holly has fallen asleep against Nancy's side, Jonathan is carefully packing away his camera, and Erica is wandering through the living room helping herself to whatever snacks everyone else has forgotten about.
Nobody seems in any hurry to go home. Nobody seems to want the day to end.
Steve stands beside you at the sink, drying the final plate with considerably more concentration than the task really requires.
He's been quieter ever since Hopper wandered back inside. Not unhappy. Just... Thoughtful.
You hand him another plate, and he dries it automatically before speaking into the comfortable silence. "...I don't get it."
You glance sideways. "What don't you get?"
A quiet laugh escapes him, though it carries none of its usual ease. "Today." He runs the tea towel slowly around the edge of the plate. "They all..." He trails off, searching for words. "...They actually wanted to come."
The sentence settles heavily between you. Not because of what he's saying. Because of what he's accidentally revealing.
You wait.
He keeps looking down at the plate in his hands. "I know birthdays are..." He shrugs awkwardly. "People feel like they have to come, right? You buy a present. You sing. You eat cake." Another small shrug. "It's just... what people do."
You lean your hip against the counter. "Is that what you think today was?"
"I don't know." His smile is almost embarrassed. "It didn't feel like that."
"No."
"They weren't just doing birthday stuff."
"No."
He looks through the doorway towards the living room, where Robin has thrown another cushion at Dustin, Lucas catches it before it reaches him, and Joyce laughs so hard she has to steady herself against the arm of the sofa. "...They were celebrating me."
You smile. "They were."
He looks back at you, his brow creasing slightly. "I've never..." The sentence never reaches the end. Instead, he laughs quietly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "...I don't think I've ever had that before."
Your heart aches. Not because he's upset. Because he says it with such genuine surprise, as though the possibility had never once occurred to him.
You reach for his hand. "C'mere."
He follows without question.
You lead him slowly through the house without saying anything, simply letting him look.
Nancy is gently lifting Holly so she doesn't wake her. Hopper is quietly locking the back door, while Joyce wraps up slices of cake in individual napkins. Jonathan is wiping down camera lenses, Mike has drifted asleep in the armchair, and El gently covers him with a blanket. Robin is trying to convince Max that one more film won't kill anyone, despite half the room already falling asleep, while Erica is counting how much birthday cake she's managed to smuggle home.
Nobody's performing anymore. The party is over. This is simply what remains. People comfortable enough to exist in one another's spaces without needing a reason.
Steve watches them quietly. "They're still here."
"Mhm."
"They don't have to be."
"No."
"They've all got homes."
"They do."
He looks around again, confusion softening into something quieter. "So why..."
People who had arrived separately, from entirely different corners of his life, and somehow fit together now. People who, before him, had never all belonged in the same room.
"You spent years looking after everyone because you thought that's what made you useful."
His eyes meet yours.
"You drove them everywhere. You showed up. You fixed things. You carried everyone else's worries until they stopped feeling so heavy."
He nods slowly. "I thought..."
"I know." You step closer, your thumb brushing gently across his knuckles. "But somewhere along the way... they stopped needing you because of what you did."
His brow furrows.
"They stayed because of who you are."
The words seem to settle somewhere deep inside him.
"You became loved long before you even noticed."
For a long moment he simply looks at you.
Then his eyes begin to shine again.
You smile softly. "I've still got one more present."
He blinks. "You do?"
"Mhm."
You disappear upstairs for barely a minute before returning with something wrapped carefully in plain brown paper and tied with twine.
Steve laughs quietly. "I thought we'd finished."
"We had." You place it gently into his hands. "This one's different."
He unwraps it slowly.
Inside is a dark leather-bound photo album.
No title. No ribbon.
Just his name, pressed carefully into the cover in tiny gold letters.
Steve.
He opens it.
The first page isn't a photograph.
Just a single sentence:
You spend so much of your life looking after everybody else.
He turns the page.
Steve teaching Dustin how to drive. Steve asleep on the sofa with Holly curled against his chest. Robin laughing so hard she's crying while Steve looks completely bewildered. Max stealing chips from his plate. Lucas teaching him a ridiculous handshake. Jonathan catching him mid-laugh behind the camera. Joyce handing him another plate of food. Hopper clapping him awkwardly on the shoulder.
You.
All of them.
Beneath each photograph you've written a single line.
Not describing the picture.
Describing what it meant:
The day Dustin stopped needing a babysitter and started needing a brother.
The first time Robin laughed like she wasn't afraid anymore.
The afternoon you accidentally became Holly's favourite person.
He keeps turning the pages until he reaches the last one.
There are only six words:
Home isn't always somewhere you arrive.
He turns one final page:
Sometimes it's something you build.
Nothing else.
Steve doesn't realise he's crying until a tear lands quietly on the paper.
He lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, shaking his head. "...Honey."
Very gently, you close the album beneath his hands.
"So..." You smile. "Happy birthday."
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then, without saying a single word, he wraps both arms around you.
Not because he doesn't know what to say.
Because, for perhaps the first time in his life... being loved has left Steve Harrington completely speechless.
By the time the two of you finally climb into bed, the house has fallen completely silent.
The fairy lights outside the bedroom window still glow faintly against the darkness, casting soft pools of amber across the ceiling, and somewhere downstairs the dishwasher hums steadily through the last traces of the evening. Steve's birthday cards are stacked neatly on the dresser, Robin's sitting proudly on top, still slightly bent where she'd thrown it at his head that morning.
The leather photo album rests beside them.
Closed now, but not put away.
You curl instinctively beneath the duvet, expecting exhaustion to pull you under almost immediately after such a long day.
It doesn't.
Some time later, you wake to find Steve still lying beside you, exactly where he'd been when you fell asleep. Only now his eyes are open, fixed quietly on the ceiling, his hands folded loosely across his stomach as though he's trying to untangle a thought that's been sitting with him for hours.
"...Hey."
He turns his head. "Oh." His voice is barely above a whisper. "Sorry."
"You don't have to apologise for existing."
A tired smile appears. "I know."
You roll onto your side, propping yourself up on one elbow. "What're you thinking about?"
For a while, he doesn't answer. The silence between the two of you has never needed filling.
Eventually, he lets out a quiet breath. "...When I was little..." He laughs softly to himself. "...I always wished I'd grown up with a big family."
The confession catches you off guard. He keeps looking at the ceiling.
"I used to imagine one of those really noisy houses. People everywhere. Dinner all squashed around one table. Too many birthdays. Too many Christmas presents." He smiles faintly at the thought before it fades again. "I don't know... I just thought it'd be nice."
You reach across the mattress until your fingers find his. He threads them through yours automatically.
"I thought..." He swallows. "...I thought I'd missed my chance."
You shake your head. "No."
For the first time since he started talking, he turns to look at you. "No?"
"You didn't miss it."
His brow furrows.
"You built it."
A quiet, disbelieving laugh escapes him. "I don't..."
"You've got Robin. Dustin. Lucas. Max. Mike. Will. El. Erica." You smile gently. "Nancy. Jonathan. Joyce. Hopper. Holly." You pause. "And me."
His eyes soften.
"They're your family, Steve."
He looks away again. "They..."
"They are."
"I know they care about me, but-"
"No." You squeeze his hand before he can disappear back into old habits. "They don't love you because you drove them everywhere. They don't love you because you babysat them. They don't love you because you fixed every problem before anyone else even noticed it."
You think back over the day.
Robin's card. Dustin's scrapbook. Jonathan's photograph. Joyce quietly packing tomorrow's dinner before Steve had even thought about feeding himself. Hopper, standing beneath the oak tree, trying to say I'm proud of you without ever using the words.
"They love you because you're Steve."
The room falls quiet again.
"You spent years believing people only stayed because you made yourself useful."
His eyes glisten.
"But somewhere along the way..." You smile. "...they stayed anyway."
He lets out one small, disbelieving laugh. "...When did that happen?"
"I honestly don't think anybody knows."
You think about Dustin, twelve years old, following Steve everywhere. Robin slowly deciding she could trust him. Joyce wrapping leftovers in foil because she'd quietly started expecting him for dinner. Holly climbing into his lap without asking.
None of it had happened all at once.
There wasn't a single moment where strangers became family.
It happened on ordinary Tuesdays. On lifts home from school. Movie nights. Late-night phone calls. Shared meals. Inside jokes.
One quiet act of kindness after another until, somehow, nobody could remember a version of life that didn't include Steve Harrington standing somewhere in the middle of it.
"It just..." Your thumb brushes gently across his knuckles. "...Kept happening."
His breathing catches.
You nod gently towards the bedroom door, beyond which the cards, photographs and carefully stacked leftovers still wait downstairs.
"If every single person chose to spend today celebrating you..." Your voice is barely louder than the rain-soft silence outside. "...it's because every single one of them can't imagine their life without you in it."
For a long time, he doesn't speak.
His breathing catches once. Then again.
He laughs quietly through the tears gathering in his eyes. "...You're really laying it on thick for a birthday."
"I know."
"You trying to make me cry?"
You smile, brushing the same stubborn strand of hair away from his forehead that you'd smoothed back that morning. "No." A gentle kiss against his temple. "I'm just telling you the truth."
Something inside him finally gives way.
Not dramatically. There are no great sobs. No speeches.
Just one quiet exhale that seems to carry years of loneliness away with it.
A tear slips silently down his cheek. Then another.
Without saying a word, he turns towards you and buries his face against your neck exactly as though that's where he'd always belonged.
You wrap your arms around him instinctively, your fingers disappearing into his hair as he lets himself be held. Completely.
For perhaps the first time in his life, Steve Harrington doesn't apologise for crying.
He doesn't explain it away. He simply allows someone else to carry the weight for a little while.
You press one last kiss into his hair. "Happy birthday, sweetheart."
His reply is almost lost against your shoulder. "...Best one I've ever had."
You close your eyes, holding him a little tighter as the fairy lights continue glowing softly beyond the bedroom window.
This morning he'd asked if he could skip his birthday.
Now, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing against your chest, you realise birthdays were never really supposed to celebrate surviving another year.
Sometimes they're simply an excuse for everybody who loves you to remind you how very glad they are that you did.
i knew this was going to feel like someone pulling my heart out of my chest, and i was right. this was beautiful in so many ways & saying it's the best fic i've ever read feels like an understatement.
"You spent years looking after everyone because you thought that's what made you useful." His eyes meet yours.
"You drove them everywhere. You showed up. You fixed things. You carried everyone else's worries until they stopped feeling so heavy."
He nods slowly. "I thought..."
"I know." You step closer, your thumb brushing gently across his knuckles. "But somewhere along the way... they stopped needing you because of what you did."
His brow furrows. "They stayed because of who you are."
^^^^^^ this is the textbook definition of steve harrington. someone who was always shown conditional love, not the kind that makes you feel safe.
between robin's long card, holly being his little mini me, joyce packing leftovers... he created the family he never had 😭
contents: dubcon!!!!!; toxic!boyfriend!steve x fem!reader; reader with a vagina and breasts; jealous!steve; possessive/obsessive!steve; light bondage; slight stalking; piv; steve is pushy and overprotective but he really genuinely thinks it’s what’s best for you :( <\3… something something it’s very hot when a man loves you so much that he won’t let you go…
thinking of boyfie steve being protective of you to the point where it’s borderline toxic. or maybe even outright toxic. like, he was always looking out for you as friends, but some sort of switch flips the literal moment you say “yes” to being his girl, sitting in his car at lover’s lake one summer evening.
all of your problems are suddenly his to fix. flat tire? he insists on you sitting in the car while he fixes it up, even though you know what you’re doing. it’s chilly out and you’re not wearing a jacket? he’ll buy one for you so that you don’t catch a cold. not drinking enough water? he notices, and he won’t let you out of his sight until you’ve finished at least one glass in his presence.
it’s nice at first, being taken care of like this — but soon it feels a little condescending and sometimes even chauvinistic. there are boundaries you try to set with him, stressing that you’re not stupid. and steve does know that! you’re the smartest prettiest angel he’s ever seen! but a little thing like you shouldn’t have to carry the world on your shoulders. he sweet talks you, calms you down, telling you that he simply loves spoiling you and could very happily do so for the rest of his life.
but it doesn’t really feel like he’s spoiling you when he’s sizing up a guy who you were making small talk with while waiting for your drink at the bar. you watch your sweet steve turn from a puppy into a watch dog, his fingers digging into your waist and ushering you away from the presence of whatever “sleaze” was just “trying to fuck you.” that’s how steve sees the interaction, at least. as a threat. someone who wants to take you away from him.
you blow up at him when the cool outside air hits you. breaking out of his grip to shove your pointer finger into his chest and scolding him, words vicious, things you don’t really mean but you’re just so sick of him acting like you’re incapable of existing without him.
“i’m a big girl, steve, i can fucking handle myself!”
this is where steve disagrees with you. but he lets you rant at him until your throat hurts, and he lets you poke at his chest until it turns red. he lets you seethe in the car on the way home. most shocking of all, he doesn’t argue with you when you tell him you need a little space, a few days to just breathe without him watching you as if you might choke on air at any given moment.
he gives you a few days. it’s agonizing torture for him, and he sort of hopes it’s the same for you, too. though you do actually seem a lot happier when he watches you from the parking lot of the hawkins public pool, dressed in a goddamn bikini, one that he bought you, one that you’re only supposed to wear at his place. surrounded by friends with your tits barely concealed, where the lowliest trash in town can have an eyeful of your body.
he has half the mind to get out of his car and drag you away, but he knows better than to blow his cover now. so he waits until you’re tucked in bed that night to knock on your window and sweetly ask if you’d let him in. just to talk. nothing else. promise!
but would steve really be a loving boyfriend if he let you get away with that shit? no! he’s gotta fight for you, doesn’t he? even if that means tying you to your headboard haphazardly with a silk scarf when you get all combative again. even if that means slapping his hand over your mouth so that you’d just listen to him instead of arguing. until he finally shoves your underwear into your mouth with a regrettable sigh because you’re acting like someone you’re not.
“where’d my good girl go?” he asks softly, hands tracing down your body, cloaked in one of his oversized hawkins basketball shirts and nothing more. “what happened, baby? hm?”
you try to argue with him, but nothing quite makes sense past the cotton in your mouth.
a hand lingers at the base of your neck, steve’s finger gently tracing over the golden s that hangs on an expensive chain he got you. he’s at least pleased that you haven’t removed it, but it seems that, perhaps, it’s not doing such a good job at reminding you of who you belong to.
“i know you’re mad at me,” he says, sounding absentminded as his fingers continue to stroke his initial. it looks so pretty on you. “let me make it up to you, okay?”
you let him push your legs apart. you let him push his old t-shirt up over your breasts. you let him kiss down your neck while your chest rapidly rises and falls, clearly worked up — pissed at him and so wildly turned on that your sheets are darkening under you, wet with your arousal.
he fucks the look right out of you. spreads your legs wide and hitches them up on his shoulders, bending you in half. pushes in with one brutal thrust, a perverse sense of pride overtaking him while he watches your eyes widen and your fists clench above you.
“said you were a big girl,” he groans. “now you’re lookin’ at me like you can’t take it. need me to help you, huh?”
you clench hard around him, hips bucking, trying to get away from the stretch.
steve laughs. “yeah. just like i fuckin’ thought.”
every thrust is rough, but there’s intention behind it. each push of his hips is slow and deep, tilted just right, the tip of him sweeping over your g-spot over and over. you couldn’t even find it with your dumb little fingers before him. each press is a kiss to the deepest part of you — i love you. i love you. i love you. let me.
“i can be better,” he groans in your ear. “fuck, honey, let me show you.”
that doesn’t mean he’ll take a step back — instead, he means that he’ll help you get used to him. to his hand on the small of your back, to his overwhelming need to take care of you, to the rest of your lives together where you don’t lift a fucking finger except for him to put a ring on it and for you to take care of his kids.
and, considering how dumb you get when he has you like this, all spread open and at his mercy, it may actually be an easy lesson for you. and if it isn’t, that’s okay. he’ll keep you here as long as necessary. and you’ll thank him for it.
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: Anger was never a trait that came naturally to Steve Harrington. He wasn't born to wear it, let alone embody it naturally. Maybe that's because only half his genetics is the reason he was born into it.
Back in May 1986, Rick and Trisha Harrington left their old life behind for good... and they let their son stay behind with it, because he refuses to leave this town full of people who have given him reasons to keep going.
Even the girl who he vowed to hate, and now cannot live without.
🖤 AUTHOR’S NOTE: We're going back in time again. And this time... we see what happened before Steve's house became the safe house for the whole party, just a year before they're all on the run.
Cue up TSwizzle's “You're On your Own, Kid.” Also, yes. “Cornelia Street” gets its own street cred, too. I was in a strange Swiftie mood when writing OSWDLS, and kinda perplexed at just how much some of her lyrics fit him.
Heads up: the first chapter features yet another one of my all-time favorite pre-lovers’ era flashback memories for Steve & Bauman. 🥹 She truly saved his life. TBH, we get a couple of little flashbacks in between during their pre-lovers era. God, I love how bitchy they were with each other...especially when Steve starts secretly realizing how he feels about her.
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
Chapter Eighty-Four
“I’ll Never Walk Cornelia St. Again”
• 1986 •
💭 💭 💭
“This is fucking madness.”
The door slams open so hard it bangs off the wall and nearly swings back to crack Rick Harrington across the shoulder.
He doesn’t flinch.
Just stalks forward across the porch, shoulders squared, coat collar turned up against the morning chill, duffel bag slung over one arm like he’s boarding a plane and not abandoning his only son.
Trisha Harrington is already in the car. The engine idles, clouding up the frosted air with soft, white plumes, and her gloved fingers drum once against the steering wheel before going still again. She doesn’t look at the house. She doesn’t look at her husband.
She doesn’t look at her son either. Not yet.
Steve follows Rick out a few steps slower, hands shoved in the pockets of a sweatshirt that isn’t warm enough, hair messy, eyes bruised and sleepless. He doesn’t say anything. Not yet. Just watches his father haul another suitcase toward the trunk.
“Fucking madness,” Rick says again, louder this time, instead of muttered underneath his breath. “Whole town’s gone to shit. Can’t even drive five miles without cracking a damn axle. FEMA’s a joke. Insurance is a joke. Mayor’s probably dead. Or golfing. Maybe both.”
He throws the bag into the trunk, slamming it shut hard enough to rattle the license plate.
“Shoulda left those Larry Kline signs off my lawn,” he grits with disdain, turning back towards the house.
Steve stops at the edge of the porch. He’s stiff, trying to not look like he is. He’s flexing and unflexing his jawline, crossing his arms, feeling how taut I’m his biceps are.
His father meets his eyes and instantly regrets it.
As usual.
“You’re really doing this, huh,” Steve barely murmured.
Rick doesn’t look at him now. “We gave you a choice.”
Steve huffs. “Wouldn’t exactly say getting disowned was a conscious choice.”
“You’re not getting disowned.” That comes with a flash of Rick’s eyes, sharp and narrow. “You’re getting left behind. Big difference.”
“Oh, okay. Yeah. That’s way better. Thanks.”
Rick turns fully now. “You wanna stay in this goddamn death trap, be my guest. Just don’t come calling when it all goes to hell again.”
Steve exhales through his nose, jaw clenching again. “Maybe I already live in hell. Maybe I’ve lived here for twenty years.”
Rick walks closer, and for a moment, the tension shifts. Not louder. Not softer. Just… even stranger.
“I don’t get you, Steve,” he says, head shaking. “I really don’t. Your mother and I just—” Rick scoffs a laugh with zero humor. “Hell, we’ve given you everything. And you just wanna throw it all away. For what? Some Kumbaya friends from the wrong side of town? This burned-out rat cage of a house? Your—what? Little girlfriend?”
Steve’s face hardens instantly. “She’s not my girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Rick smirks. “She turn you down already?”
“Don’t talk about her.”
“I’m just saying—”
“Don’t talk about her.”
Trisha steps out of the car now. Her heels click softly on the pavement, somehow so elegant in the chaos of it all. A cashmere scarf wraps tight around her neck. Her lips are pale, despite the rouge. Her eyes are glass. Like a mannequin from Sax Fifth, slowly fracturing.
“Richard,” she says quietly. “Don’t.”
He ignores her. “This town is a ticking time bomb. And you wanna be the guy holding the match.”
“I wanna be the guy who doesn’t bail the second it gets hard,” Steve snaps.
“Bullshit.” Rick’s voice slices cleanly.
There’s that word again.
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
Bullshit.
“You wanna be the guy who plays ‘hero.’ You think this lowlife town makes you brave. You think staying ‘means something.’ You wanna be the noble kid out in the ashes while the rest of us go rebuild somewhere safe and cushy and live our best little privileged lives—”
“Never said that.”
“You’re not brave, Steve. You’re a stubborn little punk who thinks pain equals purpose.”
Tricia flinches that one.
Steve opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
Rick exhales hard, pinching the bridge of his nose the way that Steve always does… but it’s not the same.
They’ll never be the same.
“Jesus Christ, you’re just like her.”
That’s what does it.
Steve takes two steps forward, fire flashing in his chest. Not the angry kind of fire. The raw kind of fire. The rarest fire that dwindles but never wanes.
“Don’t.”
Rick lifts his eyes. But they aren’t angry now. Just… weary. Confused. Maybe even something closer to lost.
“You got her softness,” he says. “All that goddamn heart. Bleeding for anyone who looks your way. And what’d it ever get her? What’s it ever gotten you?”
Steve stares at him. Doesn’t move.
But Trisha does. “Rick.”
“She used to be warm, too, you know,” Rick blurts, now glancing sidelong at his wife, like she’s not even there. “When I met her. God, she was… sh’was all light, this—” He gestures wildly at his son. “This insane light that just won’t burn the fuck out.”
Trisha closes her eyes.
Steve looks between them now. Something inside him is slipping sideways, a tightrope pulling too thin.
He turns to his mother. “You don’t have to go.”
She stares. “Steven…”
“You can stay. Just—stay here. With me.”
Let him go.
That’s the part he leaves out.
Choose me. Not him.
Choose me, pick me, love me.
God, Mom. Please just love me.
Trisha’s lips part slightly, eyes boring into her son’s. And for a split second, even a few of them… she looks as if she actually might.
Steve sees it.
He sees the flicker of hesitation and the breath she draws that isn’t quite complete, the way that her hand wavers at her side. But then Rick drops another bag into the back seat with a thud and calls across the lot—
“Trish. Let’s go.”
Another dreaded moment sizzles again between mother and son. More big brown-eyed gazes that look so much more alike than not.
And then it fizzles out. Just like that, Tricia Harrington’s spine straightens. Her jaw locks. She turns.
And she walks away.
Steve doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he just watches her go.
She hesitates once more at the car door, looking back. Her eyes meet Steve’s again, and this time don’t move for another long stretch of time.
Once again, she says nothing.
Once again, Steve doesn’t blink.
Then, with a soft rustle of wool and silk, she slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door behind her.
Rick stares at Steve a beat longer. “You’ll regret this.”
Steve swallows. “Maybe.”
“You’re not a soldier, kid. You’re a babysitter with a death wish.”
“I’m not a kid.”
Rick doesn’t argue. Just pulls open the driver’s side door and slides in behind the wheel. But not without having the last word.
“You’re on your own, kid. Always have been.”
The engine revs. The tires crunch. And the car backs out slow and smooth onto the ruined street, never braking to stop other than when Rick looks both ways before the car heads in whatever direction is meant to carry them away.
Steve doesn’t wave. He doesn’t move a muscle. He just watches them go until they turn the corner, vanishing off in the distance, never planning to walk Cornelia St. again.
The silence that follows is deafening.
It’s not the silence of peace.
It’s the silence of an empty house, of no footsteps behind the giant walls, of no dinner on the stove, of no one ever coming back.
It’s the silence of abandonment. Lifelong abandonment that now just gave the ultimate grand finale and took its final bow.
Steve blinks once.
And then the tears come, like his body’s been holding them in for hours, days, years. But even now, they’re quiet.
Angry.
Bitter, anguished.
He smacks both palms hard against his face, his fingers clawing first before digging the heels of his palms into his eyes as he takes in a shuddering, sharp, guttural fucking breath that barely escapes as anything but a rasp.
Then another.
Then another.
Steve doesn’t sob. He won’t.
But his knees feel weak and the world tilts sideways just long enough to make him grit his teeth bitterly and let out a ragged noise that scrapes from his throat… like a blade dragged across stone.
He kicks the nearest box, sends it flying across the porch, and then takes off to go back inside like if he stands there another second, he’ll wind up screaming loud enough to wake the goddamn earth.
Or Max.
Or Vecna’s seemingly lost vessel.
Steve slams the front door shut with a huff, the sound of it wet and dreadful… right as the wall phone rings, just as soon as the door shuts behind him.
He stares at it. Laughs once, humorless and cracked.
Lets it ring once.
Then twice.
Three times.
Four.
He almost lets it go.
But then he thinks: Dustin.
The kid’s name as the possible caller runs through his mind, knowing damn well he could need him, or the other kids… so Steve urgently snatches up the receiver, just before the machine kicks in.
“Hello?”
“…hey.”
It’s you.
Your voice is soft. Static-laced. But it’s so fucking real, that it makes his knees weak all over again.
“Hey,” Steve breathes, swallowing hard. He rubs a hand over his face like he can erase the wreckage there. “Uh. What’s up?”
You hesitate a second. “The boys were just talking about coming to see you. Lucas is still at the hospital with Max, though. He doesn’t wanna leave yet.”
Steve exhales. “Yeah. No, that’s—that’s okay. I can come to you.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I, uh…” He glances around the house. It looks like a grave. “Yeah. Please.”
You pause again. “Well I’m already on the road,” you say finally. “About to grab Dustin and Mike. I can swing by and get you.”
“No, I can—I can drive—”
“I’m already ten minutes out.”
Steve shuts his eyes.
And something inside him quiets.
“…okay. Yeah. That’s… yeah. Thanks. Hey wait, where are you even calling me from??”
A soft sigh pours through the receiver, sounding more like a breathy laugh than any sign of exasperation.
It sounds warm.
It sounds kind.
And Steve doesn’t know why the hell that’s making all of his bones melt with relief right now.
“Payphone,” you murmur. “Stopped to fuel up. You know, since—gas stations are gonna tank soon. Pun intended.”
Steve rolls his eyes, tears slipping. He swats them. “Yeah well, hope you grabbed yourself another gallon. No telling when we’re gonna need it.”
You paused, before… that, right there, there’s that sound again. That breathy little sigh-laugh.
“Didn’t realize we were sharing,” you lightly teased.
“It’s the end of the world,” he deadpans half-heartedly. “That’s how this goes now.”
You hummed. “Well then, in that case. You owe me two quarters for this phone call.”
Steve nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. “Great. I’ll go scavenge my piggy bank. Or Dustin’s. Then blame you.”
“Cool,” you say gently. “You got ten minutes to brush your hair and pretend that you’ve slept in the last twenty-four hours.”
Steve almost smiles. “Copy that.”
It’s quiet for another second.
But you don’t hang up.
Neither does he.
You’re just about to though, when suddenly:
“Hey—hey, wait.”
You freeze on the other side of the line. “Yeah?”
“Um.” Steve’s hand tightens around the phone. “You guys should… I mean. After. You should stay the night.”
You blink. “At the hospital?”
“Yeah. Or—or here. Whichever. Just—don’t go back out tonight. Roads are shit. It’s getting cold. Just bring a bag or something.”
You’re quiet again.
And his chest starts to pinch.
“I mean if that’s stupid, forget it,” he says quickly, his voice defensive now. “I just thought—”
“No,” you cut in, steady. “We will, I’ll—we’ll stay.”
Steve blinks at that, letting it register, then exhales so hard he forgets he was holding his breath.
“Okay,” he says. “Cool. Good. Um… grab some stuff for you too. Like, enough for a few days. Just in case. Throw some overnight shit in a duffel.”
“Overnight shit, huh,” you say softly, but it sounds like you might be grinning. “Alright, what else should I pack?”
“Snacks. Sweats. Maybe your second-best knife.”
You smile. “Why not my best?”
“Because that one’s mine now.”
You hear him smile at his end of the line, just barely. But it’s enough to let you know that he’s let himself surrender to something.
Maybe even to you.
“Alright, Harrington,” you say. “See you in five.”
“Five?” he echoes. “I thought it was ten.”
You grin. “Yeah, I rounded up. See you soon.”
And that’s when the line clicks.
Steve stands there another second or so longer, staring at the receiver in his hand. And he’s this close to letting himself smile at it.
But then he bolts upstairs to change, after settling it back onto the wall.
Then halfway up, he stops…
…turns.
…marches back down, hits the hall and goes straight into the master bedroom.
It’s mostly empty now. Rick and Tricia didn’t leave much behind.
Except for one box.
He opens it… and right there on top is a photo.
The three of them on the Florida beaches. Long ago. During that weekend trip to DisneyWorld, after they’d stayed at some resort for a week-long conference.
Steve looks at it.
His throat closes up violently, because clearly leaving this behind had not been an issue. No more than leaving their own son was.
So he shoves it down deeper into the box without sparing it another glance and hauls the entire thing up to the attic, not letting himself feel a single fucking thing until it’s shut away behind the plywood and dust.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
Out of reach.
And Steve waits for you to show up, so that this time, he doesn’t have to be completely left behind. Maybe you will stick around and stay a few nights with the kids. Maybe it won’t feel so bad. Maybe things will feel full.
Maybe he won’t feel the truth of it.
Steve Harrington: the rich kid with no parents and a big house.
Chapter Eighty-Five
Operation: Crystalline
Hawkins, Indiana • 1987 {present}
The streets of Hawkins are unrecognizable.
Ash clings to everything now. In the gutters, across the skeletal trees, even caked into the uneven tracks your tank’s treads have carved through four straight hours of prowling. Somewhere between dusk and dread, the line blurred, and now the forbidden ghost town looks like it’s been cryogenically frozen mid-collapse.
And through that static fog, you walk.
Boots heavy.
Shoulders squared.
Uniform crisp but untraceable.
No name. No rank. No patch.
Just presence.
Steve hates this plan. Hopper hates the plan right along with him. Murray co-signed the shit outta hating this plan, even though he helped orchestrate it, albeit with the most disdain known to mankind.
You’d all come up with it during the hours spent prowling the streets inside of Dingus-1. It had all been a collective effort, a family effort, coming up with what the hell needed to be done.
Max had been strong about it. Surprisingly, she’d been the strongest about it, other than Joyce. Not because she liked it. She didn’t. But she understood it. And she wasn’t about to throw her fears into the mix and make you doubt any more than all of you already were.
Jonathan gave it conditions.
Steve deepened those conditions.
Eddie demanded he stay up front, ready to trample over any onlookers who might “pull a fast one” — while Robin made it crystal clear that her not being involved stressed her the fuck out… but that she’d stay behind for Steve’s sake, along with everyone else, as backup.
The frontline team was decided.
And now? They’re all in motion.
You’re flanked by Argyle and Dustin at your sides, Mike and Lucas are behind you like statuesque shadows, and Nancy is farther back — all but still, her gun slung, stance wide, petite small frame swallowed by layers of fabric and menace. If she were any quieter, she’d disappear… like a true sniper in the night.
A unisex apex predator that makes it clear: anyone will be shot onsight if they fuck around and find out, simply using their presence and loaded rifle to say it without a word being spoken.
Argyle’s jaw is locked in a way no one ever expects from him. His hair’s tucked and greased down underneath the battered ushanka. He hasn’t said much… Not to you, not even to Dustin. But he’s exhaling in through the nose, out through the mouth, like someone who’s doing procedural pre-battle breathing exercises. His Russian accent, when it arrives again, is impeccable.
You taught him that.
Dustin keeps pace beside you, gloved hands curled at his sides, expression unreadable under a fake mustache and cheap aviators. He looks like the villain from every Cold War propaganda reel.
And then there’s you.
No one would know you at a glance. Not with your eyes hidden. Not with the way your voice drops an octave and leans sharp into every syllable of Russian.
And not with the weight of Murray Bauman’s expectations anchored behind your ribs and ingrained in your skull.
Your group stops moving only once the soldiers appear.
Three of them.
Standard fatigues.
Uncertain eyes.
The highest-ranking one steps forward. Stern jaw, flat affect, maybe mid-thirties. He speaks first, tone low and wary:
“Identify yourselves.”
Okay, so different motherfucker than the last time, you now think to yourself. Same uniform, different eyeliner.
You don’t blink. You simply tilt your head slightly and let Argyle drawl the first blow, his Russian accent slow and near-whispered.
“Vy znayete, kto my yest’. I yesli net, to vy uzhye opazdyvayete.”
(You know who we are. And if you don’t, you’re already late.)
The lead soldier hesitates.
Dustin steps forward half a click, posture deliberate. His Russian is rougher, but still convincing, each phrase thick with the shape of memorized fear:
“My otpravljeny dlya osmotra i izvlecheniya. Lyuboye soprotivleniye budet zafiksirovano.”
(We are sent for surveying and extraction. Any resistance will be recorded.)
A flicker of something passes over the soldier’s face. Worry. Forced respect. Maybe fear.
“What kind of extraction?” he pressed in English.
You smile faintly. No warmth.
“We do not owe you specifics,” you reply in that heavily accented English, as if you are a Russian spy that must mask up when duty calls. “This land belongs to us now.”
“…since when—?”
“Since Starcourt,” you snap. “Since this town burned and you all lit the match. Do not play dumb.”
He subtly reels back half a step, eyes narrowing. “The evacuation orders—”
“Were yours to follow. Ours to dictate.”
Lucas doesn’t move. Neither does Mike.
They are both silent statues behind you, their boots apart in semi-wide stances, eyes unreadable, obscured by the shadows of their helmets and military-grade type of cloth that almost look like ski-masks.
Your hands rest lightly at your sides.
Then Dustin cuts in again, producing the crispest, most official-looking file folder known to man from inside his coat. He opens it with a theatrical snap and flips it once toward the soldiers.
Photos.
Documents.
All aged to hell but stamped and sharp where it matters.
And there they are — the names.
Richard and Patricia Harrington.
Steven Harrington.
Joyce Byers.
Jonathan and William Byers.
Theodore and Karen Wheeler.
Nancy Wheeler.
Michael Wheeler.
Holly Wheeler.
Maxine Mayfield.
Charles and Sue Sinclair.
Lucas and Erica Sinclair.
Claudia Henderson.
Dustin Henderson.
Murray Lloyd Bauman.
...and your name.
The soldier stares, jaw clenched. “Where did you get these?”
You step closer. “Where did you lose them?”
Another soldier, younger, shifts beside the captain. “We last saw Harrington. He was with Joyce and the younger Byers. At his house. Few weeks back.”
Dustin stiffens. “Evacuated?”
The soldier shakes his head after a moment of hesitation.
Bingo.
That’s the window.
“No,” he admits. “We left the house. He—we thought he was already washed up. That he was crazy. Didn’t think he’d stay behind.”
“He threatened suicide,” another one adds.
Argyle’s posture doesn’t even change. “And was a body found?” he asks them in patronizing English.
No one volunteers to answer that.
Several tense seconds tick on by, and it’s as if you can hear every wristwatch tick tick tick as you all stand there and wait.
Finally, the grim-faced younger soldier finished what he started. “We thought he might have off’d himself during the blizzard.”
Wrong answer.
Your tone drops to a surgical chill.
“...you thought.”
He tries to recover. “He refused extraction. Said he was waiting for us to take care of it for him. For us to execute his death.”
“Well then he is still waiting,” you say, voice a razor. “But we… are done waiting.”
Argyle exhales through his teeth and mutters something in clipped Russian. “Oni igrayut s ogniom.”
(They’re playing with fire.)
The senior soldier’s eyes dart nervously. As if expecting backup. As if wanting to call something in.
That’s when your tank hisses.
All heads snap toward it as the back door unlatches. From its shadowed interior steps out a figure clad in indistinguishable gear — helmet low, rifle strapped, voice cutting through the air like winter wind:
“Vy uzhe dostatochno sdelali. Nikto ne budet zvonit’. Nikto ne budet dvigat’sya.”
(You have done enough damage. No one will make calls. No one will move.)
Murray.
But not as anyone’s seen him.
He doesn’t just speak Russian — he is Russian. Utterly unplaceable. So much so, the American captain’s mouth clamps shut before he can even process why.
You cut a glance back at Murray. He nods once and then slinks back inside, the door hissing shut behind him like a tomb sealing.
Then you turn back.
Dustin steps forward with deadly calm as he holds up one of the documents. “Yest’ voprosy po povodu Baumana. Nam nuzhny otvety.”
(There are questions about Bauman. We need answers.)
The soldier stammers. “Bauman’s… been missing for months. Same as his relative. We’ve got no leads.”
You lean in now, voice all but venom. “If there are any leads — anything at all — he will be dragged back by tooth and nail.”
The soldier swallows visibly.
Argyle snorts like he’s trying not to laugh.
“Hey, man,” he mutters in his Russian lilt, slipping into English… like oil over opaque glass. “You guys should probably strap your boots. You are making us all feel very watched.”
None of the soldiers answer. The power dynamic has flipped so fast it’s practically upside-down.
Pun fucking intended.
That’s when you ask it.
Your voice is lower, curious. Casual in the way a knife resting against a throat is casual. “Where is Larry Kline?”
They blink. “What?”
“You heard me.”
The captain recovers first. “Evacuated. We think. Three days ago. Escorted. Maybe paid his way out.”
Argyle clicks his tongue. “Is that not always the way...”
You nod slowly, eyes unreadable behind your goggles. “He’ll turn up. Like rot always does.”
With that, you start to turn back towards the tank. Dustin moves to tuck the documents back into his coat, keeping in time with your steps, making to follow.
And that’s when the captain tries.
“Wait.”
You stop.
…your shoulders go stiff.
… doubt’s creeping in.
But you shove it back, mentally refusing to give it access.
You don’t face him.
But your voice is soft.
Lethal.
“If you are going to speak again, then you will tell me this: you all understand that we will be visiting all households belonging to these names.” You flick the files in Dustin’s hands. “Starting with Harrington’s house.”
Dustin plucks the file out and shoves the others into his coat. “Exactly where you all decided to take a day off.”
They look as though you’ve shunned them from society.
You nod to Dustin, and he juts his head towards the tank as you all finally move to leave for good with the snap of Argyle’s commanding fingers, harsh and sharp.
Mike and Lucas, silent until now, both take a step forward in perfect sync. Their boots shuffle against the pavement like gunshots.
Lucas speaks first, flat and cold: “Do not follow.”
Then Mike, voice deeper than usual, inflection erased entirely, clips of with: “You’ve already done enough.”
They don’t even sound like themselves. They sound like soldiers who’ve seen blood and don’t mind seeing more.
It’s enough to shut everyone the fuck up.
You keep walking.
Argyle and Dustin fall in ahead, leading the path toward the tank. Mike and Lucas flank behind, perfect symmetry. Nancy shadows farther off, unreadable under her helmet and rifle. The silence between you all is thunderous.
No one looks back.
Up ahead, Steve and Jonathan are still at their posts. Right next to the tank’s entrance, stances wide, faces completely concealed. Posture brutal. Unmoving. The two of them had been there the entire time… ready to strike if need be, but knowing their place.
This had been one of their conditions, and it worked.
The soldiers stare after you, dumbfounded, silenced, scorched by your wake.
And for the first time in all of Hawkins history, the enemy walked in without a single gun raised… and they still left with the whole town burning at their feet.
💭 Hawkins, Indiana • 1986 💭
Dustin’s room smells like Cheetos and dryer sheets.
There’s a tube sock on the ceiling fan and one singular rubber band holding together two decks of Uno cards on the dresser. Something is beeping softly under the bed… you don’t ask. You know better. Besides, it’s a Tuesday.
Sort of.
If anyone were still bothering with calendars, it would say Tuesday. If anyone was still bothering with sanity, they’d be long gone.
But Claudia’s out working a double at the nursing home. Again. And you are posted up on the floor beside Dustin Henderson’s twin bed, eating Nutella straight outta the jar like it’s soup. Because what else are you supposed to do, like… cry?
“Can’t believe he let me in on his secrets that early on.”
Dustin’s across from you now, haphazardly folding up a sweatshirt into a big bag he’s definitely overstuffed. He’s been packing without even acknowledging he’s packing. You haven’t mentioned it, either. And honestly, it doesn’t feel weird.
Feels like the new normal.
Which is horrifying.
But you two aren’t talking about that.
Currently? You’re both talking about Steve’s hair. Specifically, how he keeps wearing it like he’s not twenty pounds of Aqua Net away from setting off the ozone alarm.
“I’m just saying,” you mumble, mouth full of hazelnutty chocolate, “if he gets any closer to the sun, I’m gonna need to wear shades.”
Dustin chokes on his Sprite. “He looks like a freaking shampoo commercial.”
“Correction,” you say, licking chocolate off your thumb, “he looks like he thinks he’s in a shampoo commercial. The rest of us are watching a horror film about vanity.”
Dustin snickers, all giggles and smug glances as he over-stuffs another pair of socks into the corner of his duffel. “He said it’s for wind resistance.”
You made a face at your next spoonful of Nutella. “What is…”
“The vast amount of hairspray mixed with anything but gel,” he explains, folding another shirt, “because I guess that’s off the board at all times.”
You blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
He nods solemnly. “Apparently, it ‘helps with cornering.’ His words. Not mine.”
That makes you bite back a grin. “God, he’s unbearable.”
“He’s a woman with the lust of a man.”
“He’s like masculine ego as a fragrance.”
You both dissolve into a wave of helpless, exhausted laughter. The type that crumbles at the edges. The type that doesn’t quite hide the truth.
Because outside, Hawkins is… folding in on itself.
Not on fire. Not anymore. But it’s shuddering.
People are leaving. Houses are all boarded up. Grocery shelves are becoming empty. Some families fled weeks ago, some just yesterday. Some never planned to leave at all. Some, like you, waited just long enough to make a plan that didn’t involve a screaming match at 6AM and a sheriff escort out of town.
So here you are now. Eating Nutella. Watching Dustin Henderson pack another bag that neither one of you is acknowledging.
Just another Tuesday.
Knock knock knock.
You both freeze.
It’s not loud, but it’s frantic. Scattered. Like someone knocking while also—
jiggle jiggle
“—Dustin?! Open the—goddamn—it’s—where is it—!”
“Oh my God,” Dustin mutters, eyes widening. “He’s using the spare key… finally.”
Of course he is.
You tilt your head toward the front of the house just in time to hear a door unlock and then slam against the frame as it flies open.
“Dustin—Dustin?!” Steve’s voice echoes like a drunk bat inside a gymnasium. “Are you here?! Why the hell is your walkie off?! Why aren’t you answering? I swear to God if you left—”
His voice bounces down the hallway, getting closer with each muffled bootfall.
You and Dustin just stare at each other.
“—and she left, without so much as a goddamn phone call, I’m—”
And there he is: the man of the hour.
Steve rounds the corner like he’s expecting a goddamn crime scene, only to find you sitting cross-legged in a pair of cutoff shorts and a thermal… licking Nutella off of your index finger.
And he stops so hard, his Nike’s squeak.
You blink at him a few times, eyes big and round.
Dustin lifts a single hand like it’s a pageant. “Hi.”
Steve squints.
First at Dustin, then at you.
Then back at Dustin.
Then, he’s got a finger raised, blinking like an overloaded computer. “What the hell—what are you—why the hell is your walkie off?! And you—” (finger shifts to you) “—what are you doing here?!”
You scoop another spoonful. “Snackin’...”
Steve looks like he’s short-circuiting. He opens his mouth, closes it, recalibrates. “Well I went to your house.”
You freeze mid-bite.
“I went to your house,” he repeats, quieter now but still heated. “And it was empty. Like, lights off, doors locked, no car, no mail. Gone.”
“Yeah,” you nod, mouth half-full. “I dropped my grandma off at the airport earlier. She’s staying in Vegas. With her boyfriend. Real guy. Wears bolo ties. Don’t ask.”
His jaw slackens. “You booked her a flight to Vegas?”
“She’s got a whole bingo strategy and an old money mafia boyfriend. I was merely the taxi and instigator.”
“…you—” He cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Fine. Fine, sure. But—why was all your stuff gone?”
You blink again. “Because it’s in my truck.”
He gapes. “Why is it in your truck?!”
You tilt your head toward Dustin’s duffel. “Same reason his stuff’s in bags. We were gonna come to yours.”
There’s a big ass beat of silence.
Then Dustin, very gently, breaks it with…
“Surprise.”
Steve just stares. Eyes wide, lips parted, breathing like someone who just came out of a sprint and found out the race was imaginary.
“You were gonna—come to mine?” he repeats.
You nod, cheerful now. “Yep.”
“…and when were you gonna tell me that.”
Dustin shrugs. “I dunno. After we got there?”
“Maybe during the ‘Steve, we’re in your driveway’ phase of the plan,” you added in case that might help.
Steve’s eye twitches. He flaps his arms helplessly. “You can’t just show up without warning!”
“Why ever not?” you ask sweetly.
“Bec—” The poor man looks like he’s about to combust. “Because—because—I didn’t know? I didn’t know where you were? And could’ve—saved the damn gas, or ya know, spared me my loss of sanity…?”
Something quiet settles into the room then.
Dustin actually looks away.
But you stare right at Steve.
And suddenly, the buzzing inside your chest… the one you've been ignoring for days, and years, the one you have labeled “just tension,” “just exhaustion,” “just the end of the world” — suddenly becomes something else.
He thought I left.
You realize it in real time.
He thought I left and didn’t tell him. And now he doesn’t know what to do with that.
Your voice softens without meaning to. “Well hey,” you offer finally, “I didn’t.”
Steve swallows.
You don’t say anything else. Neither does he. It’s not the kind of silence that demands talking. It’s the kind that just sits between you, all heavy and electric.
Dustin, sensing a moment he wants no part of, reaches for his bag and starts zipping it… as slowly as possible.
zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzip.
You glance at him.
And you nearly laugh.
But you don’t.
Steve runs a hand through his hair like he’s seconds from spontaneously combusting. “I just—I went to your house and you weren’t there, and then I drove over here and all the lights were off—”
“Because Claudia’s working a double,” you say gently.
“...didn’t she just do that?”
“You know how she is. She’s volunteering nonstop.”
He still stares at you. “Why would you not tell me where you were going?!”
Now you laugh. “I didn’t think it was a big deal!”
“It’s a huge deal.”
“…umm,” Dustin clears his throat. “Okay, you’re both at, like, an eleven outta ten noise decibel—”
Steve whirls. “Claudia knows about this, right?!”
“Yes.”
“Is she okay with it?”
“Again, yes.”
“Great.” Now he looks at you again. “And you just—what, planned to stay over for however long?”
You glance at the Nutella. Then back to him. “Would it be weird if I said until the rapture?”
Steve exhales loudly now, muttering something under his breath. Then, before either of you can speak, he crosses the room, snatches Dustin’s duffel, and slings it over his shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re leaving now.”
Dustin blinks. “Oh. Cool.”
Steve gestures at you. “Do you need anything else from the house?”
You open your mouth, but he cuts in, rushing. “Actually no, wait, if you forgot anything, we can come back. That’s fine. I just—I just meant like—if you had something super important—or like a toothbrush, or…shower stuff, but I’ve got…ya know, plenty of extra so there’s honestly like...no need to...”
He eventually trails off mid-sentence.
You’ve already begun to smile slowly.
Warmly.
Wickedly.
You had been ever since he grabbed Dustin’s bag, and now you stand, wiping your hands, screwing the Nutella lid back on. “I’ll go double check the truck.”
And then you’re moving past him… close enough for him to catch the scent of whatever soap you use.
It smells like rich firewood and vanilla and something that knocks the breath out of his lungs.
…wait, what is that—
He watches you go as his thoughts race.
…why does that smell really good.
He watches you walk.
Why the hell does she smell good right now?
Steve thinks these things like he’s not allowed to notice those things at all. Like it hurts to notice things like that.
Dustin hoists the rest of his gear up and turns to Steve, deadpan. “Are you gonna walk out there or should I call your nonexistent therapist?”
Steve doesn’t answer at first, side-eyeing him.
Dustin just raises his eyebrows.
Then Steve finally huffs. “God, you’re annoying.”
“Love you too.”
Outside, you’re already look through your stuff inside the bed of your truck. The night air smells like… woodsmoke and nerves. Steve hauls Dustin’s duffel into his BMW like it just insulted him. Then he catches the keys mid-air and turns to find you leaning against the truck, arms folded.
You’re grinning at him.
And he looks back at you like you baffle him. Like you haunt him in his sleep and in his wake.
He points a finger again. “Don’t make this weird.”
You nod solemnly. “I wouldn't dream of it.”
“...what about your uncle.”
“Don't worry. Next plan is to kidnap him when he starts feeling left out.” A cheeky smirk finds the corner of your lips. “Ya know. Assuming there's enough room at the inn.”
Steve considers that, nodding slowly. This time, he doesn't have any sort of retort for like. If anything? He seems strangely pleased at the concept of taking in Murray at his house, too.
Dustin is halfway into the car by now, now muttering something about clowns in crisis. Steve opens up the driver door, but before getting in, he glances at you.
“You double checked everything, right?”
You nod again. “All good.”
He hesitates. “And you’re coming.”
A gentle laugh is sniffed from your nose as you nod at him, opening up the driver's side door. “Thought you’d never ask.”
He lets that land. And after one last look, he gets into his own car.
“Follow me,” he mutters.
You grin wider. “I’d follow ya anywhere, Harrington.”
He doesn’t respond as you shut the door.
But in the rearview mirror, his smile gives him away.
Chapter Eight-Six
You’ve Followed Me Everywhere
April 1987 • Hawkins, Indiana {present}
The bedroom smells like nothing.
Not even dust. Not even time. Just a hollow, breathless kind of nothing, like grief got here first and sucked all the air out.
Dustin stands in the center of it, his shoulders squared, helmet on, ski mask tight. If it weren’t for the height and the posture, he’d look like a total stranger. Just another foreign soldier. Just a random body in a ghost town.
But this is Dustin Henderson.
This is his room.
And this isn’t how he left it.
The tube sock is still on the ceiling fan. The Uno cards are still rubber-banded on the dresser. There’s even still something beeping faintly under the bed…he still doesn’t want to ask or check.
But now there’s also a gaping wrongness here. A drawer left half-open that definitely wasn’t before. A corner of the rug curled back. The comic books were left in the wrong goddamn order, and his bed’s been stripped.
Someone’s been here. Of course they have.
Dustin knew that. They all did.
But it still feels like standing in an open wound.
He hasn’t moved. Not since they cleared the house. Not since the others started sweeping. He’s just… standing there. Like he can still see it.
You, cross-legged on the floor.
Himself, zipping a bag too full of socks.
Steve, bursting into the room like a lunatic with a key.
But that was now over a year ago.
Now, Steve’s standing in the doorway again. Only this time, he doesn’t look like Steve Harrington. Not at first.
This time, he’s dressed in full military-grade gear. Black helmet, a tactical vest, rifle slung tight. His face is almost entirely covered, save for the goggles pushed up slightly, revealing his eyes.
Those big brown eyes. They’re the only part of him that’s familiar and resemble anything that looks like him.
They’re all Dustin needs.
The two of them don’t say anything for a minute. They just breathe. Just look. Just observe and stare and feel.
Then Steve steps into the room. It’s quiet. Not in the way things are usually quiet. This silence is intentional. Overly prepared and calculated. Reverent. Determined.
Everything they say now is barely above a whisper, just in case of any unwanted ears…
“Still smells like feet,” Steve mutters.
Dustin doesn’t laugh. He just exhales through his nose. “Didn’t think it’d be this weird.”
Steve nods slowly. “I know.”
His kid turns finally, but he doesn’t pull his mask down. “It’s not like… I didn’t know it’d be trashed. I knew it. It’s just…”
Dustin pauses to collect his thoughts.
Steve doesn’t rush him. He waits.
“You ever have a dream where you’re back somewhere you haven’t been in years,” Dustin finally continues, “and it feels normal, but something’s… off?”
“Yeah.”
Dustin nods at the bed. “My duffel was right there.”
“I remember.”
“And you came in, yelling about my walkie.”
Steve huffs. “And you waved at me like a psychopath.”
Dustin’s voice breaks just the tiniest bit when he laughs. “I was just...trying to diffuse.”
Steve finally steps closer. Not too close. Just enough. “You did good.”
There’s a long pause now. Dustin looks back around the room, eyes tracking invisible ghosts.
“I still see her,” he admits faintly.
Steve knows who he means, his eyes drifting to where you had sat there as Dustin packed his things.
“Eating Nutella on the floor,” Dustin continues, lost in thought. “Wearing those trendy cutoffs. She thought she was so cool.”
“She was,” Steve says quietly.
Fondly.
“She is,” Dustin corrects, just as fond.
Steve nods.
The silence sits again, but it’s not as heavy this time.
“I thought about it a lot,” Dustin says finally. “About what it would’ve been like if we hadn’t come back. If we’d just… stayed gone.”
Steve turns to look at him again, but Dustin’s still staring straight ahead.
“I don’t mean the good kind of real,” Dustin continues. “I mean the kind that… eats at you. Every time you try to sleep. Every time you pass a mirror and… don’t know who is looking back.”
Steve doesn’t answer.
“I’m scared for my mom.”
That’s the closest Dustin has come to crying.
Which is why Steve closes the distance finally. He drops one hand onto Dustin’s stiff shoulder, risk be damned.
“I know,” he says carefully.
Dustin’s breath stutters once.
“I left a note on the fridge. In case she ever came back.”
Steve squeezes his shoulder tighter. “Argyle said it was gone,” he finally says.
Another beat.
Steve says nothing else. He doesn’t have to embellish.
“She read it.” Dustin’s voice breaks. “At least I know she read it.”
They both stand there a long time. Neither saying much. Neither needing to at all.
But whenever Steve finally moves his hand from Dustin’s shoulder, it’s only to offer his hand a firm squeeze. Dustin takes it without hesitation.
They don’t hug. They don’t cry.
They just squeeze hands like brothers.
Like war buddies.
Because that’s what they are.
They’re still holding that handshake when Nancy appears at the edge of the doorway. She’s still a shadow. All black gear. No visible face. Unmistakably her to your group, but not to anyone outside of it.
She gives a small nod. A silent gesture.
The coast is clear. No bugs.
They nod back.
Steve lets go of Dustin’s hand, and the two of them fall into silent steps behind Nancy as she rounds the corner.
You’re already inside, moving in from the back with Mike and Lucas. None of you say anything. You’re all dressed the same, in full tactical. Totally unrecognizable.
Argyle is the only one speaking right now, but he’s still just barely whispering, now crouched down in Claudia’s bedroom, carefully sweeping for signs of disturbance.
He shakes his head slowly.
Dustin watches from across the hall, and his throat bobs harshly. If there was ever a note left behind, then it’s long gone by now. Scrapped. Discarded. Burned or tossed.
That’s what makes him feel sick.
You step up beside him now, gently and without a word, and then your hands come down on both his shoulders, firm and grounding and resilient.
Dustin remains rooted to the spot as you give him one good shake. That’s all he needs to snap out of it enough. He straightens up, blinks away whatever he has to… No words still. No risking cracks in his voice. Just soldiers.
Just aliases.
Just moving forward.
And that’s exactly what all of you do right now. Move forward. Jonathan is the final sweep, moving into the room and giving a curt, practiced salute. Steve salutes back, then juts his head towards the front door so that both him and Jonathan can walk up ahead in order to flank you from up front, just a few paces ahead.
Mike and Lucas step into formation behind Dustin and Argyle, who are in the middle as Nancy exists last in true sniper fashion, whipping her head in all directions as she makes sure that no one else followed… before marching forward to bring up the rear with her brothers. One blood, one not.
Jonathan opens the door, letting you all make your way back inside the tank. Lucas instantly moves to sit beside Max, who’s seated on a bench. She still doesn’t look, or even speak. She hasn’t since you all entered the house. She’s upright, still helmeted, completely disguised, leaning softly into the boys who now both flank her from either side, now that Mike has moved to join them.
Max has been awake now for nine months. But it does not feel real.
None of this does.
Hopper and Joyce are still seated, eyes sharp behind the viewfinders, silent and solemn as the grave, while Dustin passes them to move up towards the front.
Jonathan and Nancy step in last, their weapons drawn, unblinking. Murray is stationed by the rear hatch. His jaw clenched. His gloved hands steady. His rage unreadable.
Finally, Argyle steps forward, one hand on the overhead handlebar. “All clear,” he murmurs in Russian, voice low, steady, all business again.
You nod in return.
But then, you feel presence behind you, and Steve’s already right there, moving to stand in front of you.
You didn’t need to hear him approach. You felt it. In your bones. In your chest. In the way that the air shifted just to make room for him.
Steve steps in front of you without a word. Fully masked, uniformed, unreadable to anyone else.
But he lifts one hand slowly and tugs his own goggles up, just enough. Just for you.
His beautiful brown orbs for eyes find yours. Suddenly, you forget the war gear.
Forget the tank.
Forget the silence.
Because those eyes…?
Those eyes could burn down the world.
Steve reaches for you, gloved fingers brushing the edge of your mask. And carefully, deliberately, he peels it back. Goggles. Scarf. Everything that keeps you from him.
Anything that stands between you.
Then he takes you in. Like he hasn’t seen you in years. Like he needs to memorize you again just to survive the next hour, and get like there isn’t any rush at all… as if he knows how to balance the contrast.
Your lashes flutter as two of his fingers come to rest just beneath your chin, and for a beat… you both forget how ruined the world is.
How armed you are.
How watched you might be.
And then he leans in to brush his lips with the whisper of a kiss against your own.
Featherlike. Fragile. Completely devastating.
The kind of kiss that doesn’t just say I love you.
The kind of kiss that says I’ll still follow you everywhere.
Your breath catches, but you don’t make a sound.
And neither does he.
By the time anyone turns around, both your masks are back on and you’re already stepping into formation like nothing happened.
But your lips are still burning.
And his eyes…
They never once leave your face.
The others don’t notice. Or maybe they do. But it doesn’t matter. The tank is back in motion before anyone speaks. Robin and Eddie are already at the front of the tank. Both suited up, only their eyes showing.
Dustin moves past them, climbing in. Robin reaches a hand out to squeeze his elbow while Eddie nods at him slowly. Nothing needs to be said. It’s all in the eyes.
Lucas and Mike keep their seats beside Max. Still silent as if they’re not safe inside the privately shared space.
Joyce and Hopper don’t turn. Don’t blink. Murray’s eyes stay sharp as he seals the hatch. Jonathan stays posted right beside Nancy, both their rifles ready.
And finally, Steve looks at you again from behind his alias appearance. Then he looks forward after you’ve nodded.
The tank engine hums back to life.
It’s March 20th in Hawkins, now just a ghost town in the rearview. And you’re still following him further down into the rabbit hole.
you know who would be hard for his wife ALL THE TIME no matter what she was talking about??? this man right here. she could be going on for hours about nothing and he’d just be all like “uh huh baby” while popping a boner
