Capability - Steve Harrington x F! Reader
Summary: After sneaking out to investigate a dangerous Upside Down gate on her own, y/n gets hurt and sparks a heated argument with Steve.
Content warning: fighting, fluff, angst, make outs (But no smut) (MINORS DNII!!)
Word count: 4352Â
a/n: Here to feed into the Steve delusions let me know who I should write for next
WSQK 94.5 FM barely looks like a radio station anymore. The place feels more like a bunker, soundproof foam peeling at the corners, the red ON AIR light flickering like a dying star, maps and radio equipment cluttered across every surface. Outside, another quarantine patrol rumbles by, making the walls tremble.
Steve stands behind the control desk with a headset around his neck, twisting the dial in tiny circles like itâs holding his sanity together. Robin sits on a milk crate near the table, tapping her foot too fast, her knee bouncing. You stand near the boarded up window with your arms folded. A sliver of winter light bleeds through the cracks in the wood.
âCan you not stand right in the open like that?â Steve asks without looking up from the control board.
âIâm inside the building,â you say quietly, still facing the window.
Robin looks between the two of you and lets out a nervous sigh. âLove the tension. Really brightens the vibe in here,â she mutters.
It isnât a fight yet, but it feels like each day Steve gets more overbearing with the whole âbeing safeâ thing. You are almost at your breaking point.
The atmosphere only thickens when the others start arriving an hour later. The station grows cramped fast as Nancy pushes the door open with her shoulder, Jonathan following with a crate of flashlights. Will and Mike slip in behind them, shaking off the cold. Nancy drops her bag onto the center table and immediately pulls out updated tunnel maps. Everyone forms a loose circle around her. Will perches on the arm of a chair, Mike crosses his arms beside him, and Robin stays near the broadcasting setup.
You end up beside Steve, your shoulders almost touching. The air between you feels tight, impossibly full.
Nancy circles an area on the map with her thumb. âThis is the south maintenance tunnel. Hopper and El will sweep the field above it. Our job is to monitor this entry point right here.â
Everyone studies the map, but your mind is already moving, tracing paths and openings and exits.
âI can watch the maintenance gate,â you offer. âItâs isolated, but if anything comes through, Iâll see it first.â
Steveâs head snaps toward you. âNo. That areaâs wide open.â
âItâs a watch post, Steve. Iâll have a radio.â
âYouâll still be alone.â
âI can handle being alone. Iâm not helpless.â
His jaw tightens, and heat rises up your chest.
Steve never questions Nancy the way he questions you. A small, ugly curl of jealousy twists in your stomach, no matter how hard you try to ignore it.
âPick another spot,â Steve says.
You let out a sharp breath. âIâm trying to actually help. Every crawl, every sweep, every plan- I'm stuck on backup or radio duty or whatever job keeps me standing still.â
Steve looks like he wants to reach for your hand but doesnât. âI just want you safe.â
You look away, forcing down the ache in your throat. Something frustrated, something sadder, presses in on your ribs.
Nancy clears her throat and continues explaining the map. She pretends not to notice the tension, but everyone does. The argument hasnât fully erupted yet, but itâs brewing, simmering under every breath.
When the meeting finally breaks apart, people scatter across the station. Will and Mike wander toward the back hallway, arguing about whether the south tunnel even connects to the power grid. Jonathan helps Robin sort batteries and label which ones are half-dead. Nancy slips out to meet Hopper with her rolled-up maps tucked under her arm.
You turn back toward the boarded window, needing space. Air. The station feels too small, too crowded with voices and fears and expectations.
Steve closes the door behind Nancy and hesitates. He could easily pretend to help Jonathan or busy himself with equipment. He could avoid this. But he doesnât.
He walks toward you slowly, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. You keep your gaze fixed on the cracked wood until he stops a foot behind you.
âHey,â he says softly.
âCan you just⊠look at me?â
You turn, but your expression stays guarded.
Steve leans against the counter beside you, arms crossing. His shoulders tense like heâs bracing for impact. âI wasnât trying to embarrass you back there. I justââ
âYou donât trust me,â you say. Your voice isnât harsh, just steady. True.
He freezes. His mouth opens then closes again, words stuck somewhere behind his ribs. âThatâs not fair. I trust you more than you think.â
âThen why is it always me who gets sidelined? Every crawl, every sweep, every planâ you always make sure Iâm the one furthest from danger.â
âBecause I care about you,â he fires back, louder than he meant to.
Jonathan glances over, but Robin nudges him, and they both pretend not to hear.
You blink, trying to process that. âEveryone here cares about each other. You donât stop Nancy or Robin or literally anyone else from volunteering for high-risk positions.â
âThatâs different,â Steve says, stepping closer.
âWhy?â You ask it gently, but you need the truth.
He drags a hand through his hair and grips the back of his neck like itâs the only thing keeping him upright. âBecause losing you is the one line I canât cross. I know youâre brave. I know youâre strong. Thatâs not the point, im not risking your safety because of it.â
He moves closer until his voice barely carries. âI canât think straight when youâre in danger. I canât focus. Everything in me .. just⊠short circuits.â
Your breath catches. Hint of irritation still lingering.
âSteve⊠you canât protect me by keeping me behind you,â you say. âThat isnât love. Thatâs literally fear.â
He fidgets like the words physically hit him. âI know.â His voice softens. âAnd Iâm trying to get better at it.â
You look away, then back at him as your eyes soften just a fraction. âI donât want to be your weak spot. I'm your girlfriend.â
Steve nods slowly. âYou are baby. I just⊠have to learn how to show it without screwing everything up.â
The room grows quiet. Outside, another patrol rumbles past. The window shivers in its frame.
Steve swallows, voice dropping. âPlease just be careful.â
Robin clears her throat loudly, reminding you both that she is definitely still there. Jonathan pretends to be fascinated by a stack of batteries, though he hasnât touched them in two minutes.
You step back from Steve, the air still trembling from everything that was just said. Your heartbeat feels too loud in your ears. You nod once, stiffly, then move toward the equipment table so you donât have to look at him a second longer.
âWe should finish getting ready,â you say. It comes out thin, careful.
Steve watches you for a long second, like he wants to say something else, but he doesnât. Instead, he exhales and grabs a walkie, adjusting the frequency.
Robin mutters, âWell, that was fun,â then hops off her milk crate and goes to check the outside generator with Jonathan.
For a moment, you stand alone beside the window. The flicker of the quarantine lights outside reflects off the cracked glass, and everything inside you twists. Because even after everything you just told Steve, after he admitted every fear in his chest part of you still feels useless.
Nancyâs map flashes through your mind. That maintenance gate. Wide open, yes. Exposed, yes. But important. And empty unless someone watched it.
Steve wouldnât let you volunteer. Wouldnât even let you try.
And it shouldnât matter that Nancy never gets the same speech from him. It shouldnât matter that she stands two feet away from him and he trusts her judgment instantly. It shouldnât matter, but it sits heavy in your ribs anyway.
You swear you hate feeling that way.
Robin and Jonathan step outside to check the noise from the generator. Steve is distracted adjusting the control board. Will and Mike are arguing again in the back hallway.
For the first time in hours, no one is looking at you.
Your fingers drift toward the edge of the table where Hopperâs spare keys sit. You shouldnât even be touching them. You know that.
But the frustration of being sidelined again sits like a stone in your throat. You arenât useless. You arenât fragile. And if the maintenance gate really is exposed, someone should be watching it before Hopper and El sweep the field.
You glance at Steve one last time. He is bent over the radio, brows knitted, muttering something to himself about interference.
He wonât notice youâre gone. Not for a few minutes.
Your breath shakes once. Then your fingers close around the keys.
You slip your jacket on, tuck a walkie into your pocket, and move toward the back door as quietly as you can. The cold air rushes in as soon as you crack it open.
You whisper to yourself, âbecareful, my ass.â
Then you step outside and let the door fall shut behind you.
The cold hits you instantly, sharp enough to bite through your jacket. The entire street feels hollow, abandoned except for the distant hum of patrol trucks circling Hawkins like vultures. You pull your hood up and start walking fast, staying low along the backs of buildings until the radio station disappears behind you.
The maintenance gate isnât far. 30 minutes at most. But the closer you get, the more wrong everything feels. The air is colder here. Quieter. Even the snow on the ground looks disturbed, like something dragged through it.
You swallow hard and grip the flashlight tighter.
A metal screech echoes from the far end of the fence. You freeze, heart beating up against your ribs. The flashlight shakes a little in your hand as you lift it.
âHello?â you whisper before immediately regretting it.
Thereâs another sound. A low, wet shifting. Something moving just out of sight.
You step closer, pressing your hand against the cold chain link. The snow dips unnaturally near the gate, like the ground caved in. You crouch down, leaning in to inspect it, and thatâs when you see it.
A tear. In the earth itself.
A thin, pulsing crack, glowing faintly red underneath the snow.
Your stomach flips. This wasnât on Nancyâs map. Hopper didnât mention it. El didnât sense it.
You reach out with your glove and brush away some snow to get a better look. The ground rumbles under you. Before you can move back, something beneath the surface shifts violently.
The crack pulses brighter.
And a tendril shoots out.
You stumble backward but not fast enough. The tendril whips across your shin, slicing through your jeans. Hot pain flares instantly. You fall onto one knee, gasping, clutching your leg as the burn deepens.
âShit,â you hiss, teeth clenched. You press your hand against the cut. Itâs shallow, but it stings like fire.
The crack pulses again. Louder this time. Deeper.
You scramble up and run, pushing through the snow as fast as your leg will allow. You donât stop until youâre far from the gate, breathing hard, the pain throbbing with every step.
Your walkie crackles just as you lift it.
Steveâs voice cuts through, strained, sharp, panicked.
You close your eyes. You knew this was coming.
You press the button. âIâm here.â
Thereâs a beat of silence. Then:
âWhere the hell are you?â
His voice isnât angry yet. Itâs terrified.
âSteve,â you start, breathing hard, âI just went to check the maintenance gate for a minute. It wasnât guarded and I thoughtââ
âYou thought what?â His voice spikes, breaking over itself. âYou thought you should go strolling into potential ground zero alone?â
You wince, not just from the cut. âI found something. Thereâs a crack in the ground and itâsâ itâs glowing, Steve. It wasnât there before.â
Another silence, but this one is electric.
Then Robin, faintly in the background, âSteve, waitââ
And Steve shouting back, âIâm going to get her!â
You swallow as your throat tightens. âYou donât need to come get me, Iâm already on my way back.â
âNo,â Steve snaps, breath ragged. âStay where you are. Iâm close.â
You donât argue. Youâre too tired and too shaken to. The cold wind stings your cut, making you grit your teeth.
Within minutes, his silhouette appears through the haze of falling snow. Heâs moving fast, almost running. When he reaches you, he stops short, chest heaving, eyes scanning you from head to toe.
His gaze lands on your torn jeans. The blood seeping through.
His whole body goes rigid.
âWhat,â he says in a low voice, âhappened to your leg?â
âItâs nothing,â you say. âI just got too close. Iâm fine.â
âYouâre bleeding,â he fires back. âYouâre not fine.â
âI said Iâm fine,â you repeat, louder this time.
âYouâre not listening to me,â he snaps. âYou never listen when it matters.â
âAnd you never let me do anything,â you shoot back.
The cold air crackles between you.
Steve doesnât argue back this time. He just exhales sharply through his nose and moves, dropping to one knee in the snow.
He shrugs off his backpack, the one he always brings on patrols, and unzips it with quick, practiced movements. You recognize the contents immediately, a flashlight, spare batteries, a walkie clip, a half-crushed granola bar⊠and the small first-aid kit he never leaves without.
He sets it beside him without a word.
When his hands reach for your leg, theyâre gentleâalmost careful enough to hurt. He peels the torn denim away from your cut, and his jaw tightens when he sees how deep it actually is. âJesus,â he mutters under his breath, not at you, but at the wound itself.
He grabs a wipe from the kit and cleans around the cut. The cold sting burns and you suck in a sharp breath. Instantly, his free hand lifts, fingers curling around the back of your calf, steadying you, not restraining, just anchoring.
âEasy,â he murmurs, voice low. âIâve got you.â
You look down at him. His brows are drawn, lips pressed together in a line of worry heâs not trying to hide. Snow is caught in his hair, melting down the back of his neck. His thumb draws slow, unconscious circles on your calf as he works, like he doesnât even realize heâs doing it.
He grabs a bandage from the kit and presses it firmly but gently over the wound, smoothing the edges with warm fingers.
Steve looks like heâs torn between hugging you and shaking you. His hands go to his hips, then drop, fists clenching and unclenching. His jaw tightens. âI canâtâŠâ he mutters through gritted teeth, voice shaking with anger and fear. He swallows hard, struggling to keep it together, then points toward the car, voice snapping over the wind.
âGet in the car,â he says finally, voice tight.
The words hit you like a whip.
âExcuse me?â you say confused on the switch up.
âGet in the car,â he repeats. âWeâre not doing this out here.â
You hesitate. Not because youâre afraid of him, never that. But because youâre afraid of what youâre both about to say.
Still, you walk past him, limping slightly, and head toward the car parked crookedly near the radio tower.
You open the passenger door. He gets in on the driverâs side, slamming it harder than necessary.
The engine rumbles to life.
The car ride home is silent.
Hysteria by Dev Lepard plays quietly on the radio.
And Steve refuses to look at you.
You sit stiffly in the passenger seat, jacket still damp from frost and dirt. Your fingers wonât stop fidgeting. Every bump in the road feels too loud. Every breath feels like itâs echoing.
Steve grips the steering wheel with both hands, jaw flexed. His eyes stay glued to the road. He hasnât looked at you since he found you at the maintenance gateâ hurt, cold, and trying to downplay the way your leg shook under you.
Your eyes drift out the window. The winter trees blur past, tall and dark against the dying light. You open your mouth once, but nothing comes out.
âWhat the hell were you thinking.â
His voice is low. Controlled. Too controlled. Like heâs holding the edges of something sharp.
You swallow. âSteve, Iâ â
âNo,â he cuts in. Still not looking at you. âDonât do that. Donât make excuses. Just tell me.â His voice cracks once. âWhy did you go out there alone?â
You wrap your arms around yourself. The warmth of the car suddenly feels suffocating.
âI wanted to help,â you say quietly feeling childish. âYou wouldnât let meââ
âI told you it was dangerous,â he snaps. âI told you to stay inside. I asked you to. I begged you to.â
âThen stop acting like one!â
The words hit like a slap.Â
âYou couldâve died,â he continues, voice rising. âDo you understand that? Do you get that I thought I lost you? When you didnât respond on the walkieâ when you didnât answerâ I thoughtââ
He breaks off, breathing hard.
You stare straight ahead. âI didnât mean to scare you.â
âYou didnât just scare me,â he says, voice shaking now. âYou broke my trust.â
Your chest tightens painfully. âI wasnât trying to break anything.â
âThen what were you doing?!â he demands. âBecause from where I was standing, it looked like you decided your hunch was more important than the plan. Than your team. Than your own safety.â
Silence drops heavy.
You stare at your hands.
âYou donât trust me,â you whisper.
Steve lets out a bitter laugh. âAre you serious? Thatâs what youâre going with?â
âYou donât,â you insist. âEvery time thereâs a mission, you keep me on the sidelines. You hover. You shut down every idea I have. It feels like you think Iâm fragile.â
Steve looks at you then. Really looks at you. His voice softens, but not in a gentle wayâ in a wounded way.
âI do it because I care about you.â
âYou donât do it to Nancy.â
The words fall out before you can stop them.
Steve freezes.
The air disappears from the car.
Hysteria keeps playing softly like a cruel joke.
He blinks. âWhat does Nancy have to do with this?â
You look out the window, cheeks burning with shame and frustration. âNothing. Everything. I donât know.â
You pull in a shaky breath, your chest tight. âYou trust her. You donât question her judgment. You donât stop her from taking risks. You donât look at her the way you look at me when I even breathe wrong.â
Steveâs face twists. Hurt. Conflicted. Frustrated.
âAre you jealous?â he asks.
You donât answer. You donât have to. The silence answers for you.
Steve drags a hand over his forehead and exhales hard. âY/N, Nancy and I are friends. Thatâs it. She has her own life. I have mine. Iâm with you.â
âI know,â you say quickly. âI know that. But it doesnât stop how it feels. I hate that I get weird. I hate that I feel small next to her. I hate that when you two talk strategy, I feel like Iâm not even in the same league. Like Iâm the weakest one in the room.â
âYouâre not weak,â he says immediately, voice sharp with certainty.
âThen why do you treat me like I am?â
âThat is not what Iâm doing, babyâ I'm trying to protect you.â
You turn to him fully, eyes stinging. âI donât want protection, Steve. I want you to believe I can fight. I can help. I dont have to hide behind you.â
âYou think I donât believe in you?â he fires back. âYou think thatâs what this is?â
âIsnât it?â you snap.
He freezes for half a second, jaw clenched and tired of arguing.
âSo thats why you went into the woods.â âYou went into the woods alone to prove something?â he asks quietly.
âI went because no one else was covering that gate,â you say. âI went because Iâm part of this team too. I went because Iâm tired of feeling like the only thing I contribute is giving you anxiety.â
The tires crunch over snow as he pulls the car onto the shoulder and shifts into park. Steam fogs the windows as he leans forward and presses his forehead into the steering wheel. His breath shakes.
You wipe your cheek, hating the wetness on your fingertips.
When he finally speaks, his voice sounds like something cracked open. âIâm scared,â he says. âIâm scared all the damn time. And when itâs you in danger⊠itâs worse. Everything in me just shuts down except one thought.. get to you. Make sure youâre breathing.â
He sits up slowly and turns toward you. His eyes are glassy and raw. âI know protecting you the way I do isnât fair. I know I canât make every decision. But the thought of losing you⊠thatâs the one thing I donât think I could live through.â
You swallow, trying to breathe past the lump in your throat. âI donât want to be the reason youâre terrified. I want to be someone you fight with. Not someone you have to save.â
The words drift in the quiet, trembling like they might break.
Steve closes his eyes for a long moment, like heâs steadying himself. When he opens them again, the anger is gone. Just softness. Understanding. And fear.
He reaches for your hand again, not gently this time, desperately. His fingers wrap around yours like heâs afraid youâll disappear if he doesnât hold on tight enough.
âWeâll figure this out,â he says, voice low but certain. âIâll figure this out. I promise.â
âIm so sorry, baby.â He looks at you.
Your lips part, but nothing comes out at first. Your throat feels tight, raw from everything you said, everything you didnât mean to say but needed to.
You whisper, âIâm sorry.â
Steve shakes his head instantly. âNo. Donât apologize for telling me how you feel.â
âBut I snapped at you,â you say. âI shouldnt have said things like that.â
âSo did I,â he replies softly. âI shouldâve listened. I shouldnât have yelled. I shouldnât have made you feel like you donât belong on the team. Or like Nancy outshines you. That was never true.â
Your chest aches, the insecurity loosening but still fragile.
âI just⊠I hate feeling like second place,â you admit quietly.
Steve shifts closer across the seat, the cold air between you finally breaking. He looks at you like heâs memorizing every inch of your face the frustration in your eyes, the hurt in your shoulders, the way your breath hitches just slightly when he leans in.
âYouâre not second to anyone,â he says softly, but the words land with the weight of something he's been holding for far too long. âNot to Nancy. Not to anyone. You hear me?â
Your chest tightens, heat spreading under your skin.
Steve moves even closer, slow and intentional, until you can feel his warmth through your jacket. His voice drops to something rougher, something truer.
âYouâre the one I think about,â he murmurs. âThe one I worry about. The one IâŠâ
He swallows hard, eyes flicking to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again.
ââŠthe one Iâm in love with.â
The car suddenly feels too small, too warm, too charged. His cologne- that soft cedar-and-mint mix wraps around you, familiar and dizzying. The faint chill of the winter air still clinging to his clothes makes the heat between you feel even sharper.
Steveâs fingers lift, just barely brushing your jaw, then tracing down to your chin like heâs asking a question without saying a word. You lean into the touch before you can stop yourself, your pulse pounding.
âTell me you believe me,â he whispers, his forehead almost touching yours now. âTell me you know I choose you. Every time.â
Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You want himâ want this.. more than you want to breathe.
His thumb strokes your chin, gentler now, eyes searching yours for permission.
You tilt your head up. A silent answer.
Steve lets out a shaky breath, one that sounds like relief and want tangled together. He leans in, closer, closer, until his nose just brushes yours, until you can feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your lips.
You swear your heart stops.
He whispers, voice wrecked and reverent,
âCome here.â
His hands slide to your hips before you can even think, guiding you onto his lap in one fluid, desperate pull. The movement forces a breathy gasp out of you soft, startled, and embarrassingly needful. His fingers settle firmly at your waist, careful not to touch your wound, not rough, but claiming, grounding, like heâs terrified youâll vanish if he loosens even a little.
Your knees bracket his thighs, the car seat dipping beneath both of you. The warmth of him hits you instantlyâ radiating through your jacket, seeping into your skin, flooding every place youâve felt cold all night. And then he kisses you.
Itâs relief breaking open. Itâs fear bleeding out. Itâs everything heâs been holding back.
Your hands slide up the front of his jacket, trembling, then dive into his hair. He groans into your mouth the second your fingers tighten, pulling you closer, crushing you against him like he needs you thereâ needs this to keep breathing.
His thumb strokes your waist, slow but possessive, while his other hand slips up your back, dragging you impossibly closer. Your lips move against his like youâre trying to drink him in, like you finally have permission to want him this much.
Every exhale mixes mint, cold air and the faint trace of his cologneâ and it hits you all at once. The way he whispers your name between kisses, breath warm and shaky against your mouth. The way his heartbeat slams through his chest, syncing with yours like itâs trying to crawl into your skin.
Your breath stutters as he angles his mouth against yours, kissing you deeper, hungrier, like heâs making up for every second you two spent hurting instead of holding each other.
His hands slide up your sides, fingertips brushing under your jacket, and you meltâ completely, helplessly. The car, the argument, the cold, everything disappears beneath the heat curling low in your stomach and the way Steve keeps kissing you like he never wants to stop.
His lips trail to your jaw, your pulse, then back to your mouth, and the sound you make is barely a whisper.
He kisses the word right off your lips.
The walkie explodes to life between you, crackling loud and sharp:
âSTEVE? Do you copy? Weâve got movement at the south fieldâ repeat, movement at the south field!â
Steve doesnât pull away at first. His eyes open slowly, dark and blown wide, staring at you like the universe personally wronged him.
Then he breaks the kiss with a sharp, frustrated exhale.
He drops his forehead against yours for half a second, jaw tightening, breath shaking with a very clear youâve got to be kidding me kind of annoyance.
When he finally turns toward the walkie, he does it reluctantlyâ his hand still gripping your waist like heâs refusing to fully let you go.
His voice is rough, breathless, and undeniably irritated as he grabs the walkie.
âOn it.â he mutters, glaring at the radio like it murdered him in a past life.
(Thanks for reading guys and please give feedback !