the thing about ai witch hunt is that instead of spreading awareness about why and how ai can be harmful, people focus their energy on harassing other people instead. so instead of actually achieving something, fandom space and the internet as a whole just became twice as toxic because people have found a ✨noble way✨ to tell other people to off themselves and get praises for it. you’re not helping. you’re part of the problem
I don’t use ai in my writing. Environmental and ethical concerns aside, it would defeat the whole purpose of me sitting down and creating something.
At the same time, I won’t be participating in any witch hunts against people who do. It kinda goes back to basic fandom etiquette when interacting with someone else’s work. If I come across a fic that I don’t really vibe with, I click away. I don’t spam their comments section with notes on why their fic isn’t for me, I just leave.
Same thing goes for a work I think was made with ai. The worst thing I could do is mistakenly accuse someone of using ai when they didn’t and crush their desire to create. Even if they are using ai, I highly doubt anything I say will prevent them from using it again. The only thing I can control is my own reaction to it. I can control the amount of engagement I provide that fic and I can simply keep scrolling.
this app feels like the last refuge of the internet as i wish it would be 😭✨ every time i come on here i find cool writing, random facts that are actually interesting, and mind blowing art, all in an environment that is calm and the content doesn’t scream or flash
i guess i’m just trying to say thank you to all the tumblr people!! i come off this app relaxed and happy
Why are laptops so dramatic when something doesn't work?
Literally, me just now:
Me - *Opening laptop to systems test window for laptop fan, knowing full well the fan wasn't working last time I used it* Oh. Okay. I've probably gotta take the back off and-
Laptop - TEST FAIL! FAN NO SPIN! *Repeated full-volume error noises, like my laptop is screeching at me*
“A performance was demanded of me, and now I have delivered! Encore!”
@laciffo-natas horde enrichment spot
Dearest mutuals @no-one-offical and @shah4139 seem to enjoy these so I’ll tag them in particular
obligatory @pukicho even though I know we’ll be safe
@house-offical @the-eccentric-of-notre-dame @unyieldingsilence @thecacophonyspeaks @cherrychillz @nybariz @null-the-void-monarch-offical @some-one-offical @someone-official @tag-me-if-you-can (I can) @i-am-a-snom (HELLO SNOM :]) @fwugradiation01 (who is this evil toby fox?) @toby-fox-offical (who is this store brand toby fox?) @international-electromatics @foreign-starlight @watchpoob @poob-has-it-for-you @satan-official-account (Sickin the devil on your post) @smol-gremlin-child-offical @d3rlord3-offical (He’ll know I tagged him in advance I guess) @hastur (Sickin the king on your post) @britain-offical (sickin the british on your post) @burning-britain-official (twice)
Do you know anything about band? Specifically, marching band?
If yes, I have some questions :)
What is marching band like?
What goes through your head while you're on the field? (It looks like it takes so much concentration to step at the right tempo, play your instrument correctly, and not run into anyone else all at the same time)
What are some of your most heinous inside jokes?
Are there really a lot of band camp stories?
What about band politics? Does one section get mad at another because they don't ever start playing on time?
Do you ever forget what you're doing halfway through and just have to wing it?
For away games, what are the bus rides like? Do you all just kinda do your own thing or are you hyping each other up the whole way there?
Who chooses the theme and how do you all react when it comes out?
What's something you see people get wrong about band in books, fanfic, movies, tv, etc.?
BONUS POINTS if you were, are, or want to be drum major -
What's that like?
Is it a lot of pressure to lead the whole band?
Do you ever wish that you were marching instead of leading? Do you march?
What did you have to do to become drum major? Are there tryouts or is it based on something different?
Oh hey, I lettered in marching band! I am qualified to answer these questions! Now, I played flute, not trumpet or mellophone, but tbh the only section that experiences things differently is percussion (and even then the difference is slight).
So, my marching band was pretty small. We only did home football game halftime shows (except the game against our rival school, we travelled to that if it was away), pep rallies, parade/field competitions, and on one random occasion there was an optional basketball game.
First thing to note that all media gets wrong: we rarely wore the full uniform and NEVER wore it to class. It consists of Dinkles (special marching shoes), overalls, a jacket, a shako (the hat), and a plume (the feather thing, which is removable). You wear a t-shirt and like, gym shorts under it, usually. Our jackets opened from the back and had a pocket in the chest that could fit a phone. We DID NOT take the uniforms home. Ever. Except the shoes... those we owned and I actually still have mine.
Football games we'd wear everything but the plume (they're very expensive and impossible to clean. We were not allowed to touch them or remove our shakos if it was attatched). For pep rallies (and that one b-ball/away football game) we would just wear our band t-shirts.
There was a closet full of bags on hangers to keep our uniforms. We were sized during band camp each summer and they were tailored to fit us by a volunteer mom. There was also a storage room attached to the band room for our instruments so we wouldn't have to carry them around all day. The room was always open early in the morning so we could drop them off before class. There were cubbies of varying sizes for easy sorting, but they were not assigned.
We were not allowed to eat wearing the jackets. We'd have to take them off to consume anything except water.
Also, if your hair was long enough, you are required to put it in a bun. Not a ponytail. A bun, hidden under your shako. If you couldn't get it high enough, the hard plastic hat would press the hair tie and pins into your skull and it would give you the most awful headache.
Band camp, for us, wasn't actually scandalous at all. We knew the assumptions, but there was just no time. We had a week to memorize our parade march and field show (which was never perfect/done in time). We didnt have to memorize stand music. There were tiny flipable stands that could attach to your instrument or your arm (flute) that you could put sheet music into. So it was just exersize, instrument practice, drill, parade practice, field practice. A lot of running.
Though, we did have one kid we perpetually bullied because on the first day of band camp their freshman year, they were handed a baritone that wasn't theirs and instantly dropped it onto their foot, crumpling the horn around it.
Yes, there were band politics, but it wasn't really section vs. section (except percussion. They were constantly getting yelled at for not playing right). It was usually 1st-2nd chairs vs everyone else. People who were prodigies or practiced for 4 hours a day vs literally everyone else. If you were in drama club or *anything* else that took up time (God forbid a sport) you were HATED by them. 1st chairs were "in charge" of the section (realistically only during section practices) and thought that made them the king of the castle and you could never play well enough for them. Of course, that only applied if the section was big enough to harbor a big ego. Usually niche instrument players were really nice people. French horn/oboe/baritone were super chill, from my experience. Flute & trumpet had the loudest egos and most competition.
My band was run by the band director (teacher) and marching instructor (they were married). There was a seperate coach for percussion and they went off on their own sometimes. The band director had all authority and chose what we played. We could make requests, but it was rare they listened. It really didn't make a difference, we had to play it anyway, but there were some pieces we preferred and would play independently (as a band) prior to practice for fun. That was always spontaneous and the best playing we ever did. The band director was entirely disheartened by this.
Football games went like this:
Get dressed in uniform (sans plumes)
Line up into two rows, march from the band room to the field
Fill up section in the stands
Play hype music during time outs/pauses in play (NEVER over gameplay or our team would get a penalty)
Play the fight song when a goal is scored
Line up for halftime show and walk to the back of the field
Pre-show good luck ritual (ours was to link pinkies with a friend and kiss your own thumb simultaneously. You'd do this with as many people as you could/wanted to)
Halftime show
3rd quarter break time!
More hype music
Line up and leave
We had a call-and-response cheer with the cheerleaders/drum major. This was not taught to freshman. One learned by exposure. We had beef with the ASB-hired DJ because they had no reason to be there and would play over us.
One time, at the first football game of the year, we just weren't done with learning the show so we ran half of it and then stopped and played the rest of the music standing still.
Another important note: Marching band is a sport. It is competitive-- there are competitions. Any far-too-invested band kid will rant about this. We could letter after a single year because we had more athletic hours than any other sport. This WAS NOT a thing in the 80s.
Parades went like this:
Eat breakfast (offered in the band room and provided by voulenteers. NO MILK! It can and will curdle in hot sun and wool uniform and make you puke. It got at least one freshman every year)
Bus to location (we took two. My friends and I spent the whole time playing Mario Kart 7 until our 3DS batteries ran out. The other bus (color guard) was notorious for being very loud)
Get dressed in uniform
Wait. Seriously. There was a lot of waiting. Multiple hours at least a few times
Line up in parade block
Wait some more (but practice the march why don't you, lazy bums)
Start moving forward block by block as the parade began like a mile ahead of you
You guessed it, that means more waiting. Practice the march again! I think we can squeeze in one more time before the--
QUIET ZONE!!! SHUT THE FUCK UP! Wait some more but this time be forced to listen to how the bigger bands are so much better than you
Okay team, we're next, you're gonna do great (the band director is suddenly very sweet and encouraging)
Play the march for real while being stared at by judges (scary!)
Play the march over and over again but for happy people on the streets (fun!)
Finish the parade and be released to a little fair area for food and souvenirs while you wait for the judges to grade you (aha! You thought you were done waiting?! Fool!)
Award ceremony
Bus ride back to the school (very quiet. Usually getting dark. Often spent sleeping or listening to headphones)
Unless of course, it's the infamous parade where the judging is at the end of a TWO MILE ROUTE. Somehow I think we won 3rd place at that one.
Field show competitions ran that exact same format except instead of waiting on the streets you waited in the (nightmarishly tall and steep) stands watching the other schools perform and the fair happened concurrently underneath the stands.
My favorite technical part was drill, suprisingly enough. There often tests/games to see who could last the longest without messing up. I think my best was 2nd or 3rd place, because I have auditory processing issues and get my left/right mixed up (so Robin would probably hate this).
Important commands:
Parade Rest (bowed head, instrument down)
Attention (slightly different per band. Ours was, "Band atten-hut!" This requires a verbal response from the band, ours was, "Pride!" because we were the Tiger Pride band. No, I'm not saying which one)
Horns Up (instrument at the ready to play)
Horns Down (back to attention)
Left-face/ Right-face/ About-face (turn around)
Mark Time March (march in place, toes staying on ground. Start with your left foot!)
Dress Left/Center/Right Dress (look to the side and adjust your position to be in line with the others in your row)
At Ease (stay in your spot but you can move a little and talk to people)
As You Were (if a command is made by mistake-- meaning, you cannot perform that command from your current position-- you say, "As you were, sir." regardless of gender. The person giving commands will then respond with, "As you were." before continuing. If they give a different command before saying "as you were" IT IS A TRICK! SAY "AS YOU WERE, SIR" AGAIN! For example, if you are at Parade Rest, you cannot About-Face or Horns Up, since you are resting. Or, if you are Horns Down, you cannot Horns Down, because your instrument is already down. Or, if you are Horns Up, you cannot Parade Rest, because you can only Parade Rest from Attention. You can, however, Attention at Attention as many times as the commander wishes-- you just keep shouting the response call.)
Forward March (always start on your left foot!)
Halt (usually done silently by drum major, can be shouted in an emergency or for drill)
Band Dismissed (you can leave now)
The signal to start playing the march was a specific whistle. Otherwise the commander would just count us in.
I found this online. It's pretty close to what I know.
Tbh, the trick is to Not Think while marching. If you are thinking about what you are doing, you are not confident in what you are doing, and therefore you will mess up. The best way to save yourself from actively messing up (being off-sync, out of place, lost, etc) is by following those around you.
Your periphery becomes your best friend. You're not supposed to look around (unless actively dressing), so you just gotta get good at judging your lines/diaganals and looking at the feet of the person in front of you. The best marchers get front row and center column. If people are off, the problem gets exponentially worse farther down the line. One snare hit simultaneously with the Drum Major's baton for keeping time. It is a team sport, after all.
Also, keeping your instrument parallel to the ground is important. The flutes usually have trouble with this. Also, the uniform overalls DIG into the left shoulder for flute players. I still have muscle issues from it and can't have pressure on that shoulder.
Backwards marching is also fucking impossible. You stand on your toes and drag your feet behind you. Blindly. Praying to God no one falls over. If someone does fall, they will be trampled (and the instrument saved before their life. Remember kids, your instrument is worth much more money than you are. My second-hand flute was $800 in the early 2010s) Drifting out of line is almost guaranteed. Robin most certainly hates this.
The final exam was to stand at attention for twenty minutes without moving. Locking your knees is a real danger. One year, a kid (who was a 1st chair, mind you) locked their knees and got stuck there, unable to move or speak. They looked mortified. I pried their instrument out of their hands so the marching instructor could literally buckle their knees in, allowing them to move again.
I don't know much about what it is like being a Drum Major, as I was not one nor was I in the running, but I know what they do. Our band had two, one for parades and one for field shows. They would switch back and forth during the stand-work of football games. When not running the band, they wore a normal uniform and marched normally.
When running a parade, yes, they march. They are in front in their special different uniform and hold a big baton they raise and lower to mark time. Up=left foot forward. They usually learn a fancy twirl around to show-off to the judges before the band moves. They also learn a bunch of fancy whistles for commands. Usually to start the march and to start the drum line (where the percussion section plays to give the rest of the band a break).
When running a field show, they do not march and conduct from a raised stand.
Our perspective Drum Majors were tested as juniors at the end of the fall season, usually by conducting the band for a song and commanding a drill test. There was probably an essay. The band director picked their favorite and sent them to a regional camp for drum majors (that wasn't at our school) over the summer, before band camp.
A final fun fact: Volunteer parents would walk beside us during parades with these giant squirty water bottles with a metal straw-thing attached to it (similar looking to a hamster water bottle, though not held upside down). That way, during breaks between songs, they could run between the rows as we marched and shoot water into our mouths.
Jesus, that was a lot. I hope it helps you, though!
Also, congrats on lettering! It sounds like a lot of work, time, and money goes into that achievement and I didn’t wanna just blow past it.
This is SUPER helpful! Getting an insider perspective always helps me more than googling alone. Not that I won’t be doing extensive googling as well, but there was no way an article was going to give me these kinds of details.
I especially appreciate your insights into what Robin might dislike or struggle with! Also, the definition list on the different commands - I’m sure I’ll be referencing it a lot. This is giving me so many new ideas, so thank you!
Steve clenches his hands together in his lap, trying to stop the slight tremble still running through his fingers as Ada wheels him back to his room.
It went quick, thankfully. The trip through the hospital and prepping for the scan took longer than the scan itself.
Everything worked out fine, at first. The scanner was bigger than he expected it to be. A hulking circular machine with a bed positioned in front of it. Ada had helped him from the wheelchair to the white cushioned surface. She’d had him remove his glasses again, with the promise that he’d get them back once they were done. Then, she fitted a padded restraint around his head. She’d said something about movement messing with their pictures. Steve’s never been bothered by small spaces before, so he hadn’t thought anything of it.
A heated flush rises in his cheeks and he clenches his hands a little tighter as they pass a few nurses in the hallway.
He’d never felt more trapped than when Ada left and the machine turned on, whirring softly in the small room. He couldn’t see anything around him, padded material around his head blocking his vision. And normally it wouldn’t be a problem. But the whirring started to sound more like the kind of chirping, clicking that comes right before a petaled face unfurls.
His breath had gone shaky, like it sometimes does when the shadows shift in his house or the lights flicker during a storm. That sound had gotten louder, closer, like one of those dogs was going to climb right over the top of the circular machine to look down at him.
Then the whirring stopped. And the chirping stopped with it. Ada came back in and undid the restraints holding his head in place before returning his glasses and helping him back into the wheelchair.
Now, his hands won’t stop shaking. Even though he’s fine. Even though nothing happened. Even though the gate is closed.
The gate is closed, right?
His head doesn’t hurt nearly as bad and his stomach has stopped trying to jump into his throat, thank you Ada and modern medicine, but everything still feels off.
He knows he’s asked about the gate. Knows he got a definite answer one way or the other, but he can’t remember what it was. It’s like looking at one of those stupid word unscramble activities mom loves so much. He knows all the pieces are there, floating around in his mind, but he can’t for the life of him put them in the right order.
It’s probably closed. Hopper wouldn’t be at the hospital with him if it wasn’t. The uncertainty gnaws at his insides anyway.
It’s a relief when Ada swings him through the curtained off doorway, into his room. Hopper is in the same chair he was in earlier, feet propped up on the edge of the bed, sleeping. Something settles inside his chest at the sight of him, which is weird. Usually, if Hopper is around, it means one of two things. Either his neighbor filed another noise complaint or the world is ending. Neither of which are particularly comforting situations.
He decides not to dwell on it. To just take the win as his hands finally stop shaking.
Ada’s positioned him next to the bed again. She leans down beside him and the locks flip in place with a click.
Hopper snorts at the noise, jumping awake. His wide eyes scan the room before landing on Steve. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he drops his feet from the edge of the bed and sits straighter in the chair.
“Ready?” Ada prompts from in front of him. She’s got one hand held out for him to grab, the other hand braced on the bed.
He takes her hand and stands from the wheelchair. His head throbs as his legs straighten, but not like before. The pain is muted, almost closer to a wash of pressure across his skull than actual pain. The world still shifts around him as he sits on the bed and shuffles across the cushion. It gets worse when he leans his head back and, for a split second, he thinks he’s falling backwards through empty space.
He jolts forward, just enough to lift his head so it hovers over the cushion, and the world rights itself. He releases a slow breath as he lowers his head back down.
A shuffling noise comes from the side of the bed as Ada folds up the wheelchair and tucks it away behind him.
“Dr. Moore will be back in once the scans are ready. If you need anything before then, just press this button,” she fishes out a small remote from the side of the bed and points to a big red button, “and someone will be in to help.” She smiles at him, setting the remote down where he can reach, before leaving the room.
Shifting his gaze, he watches Hopper yawn and stretch out his shoulders before settling back in the chair. He glances down at the watch on his wrist, brows furrowing, before looking back up at Steve.
“Time is it?”
The words come out slower than he means them to, but they’re clearer than they were earlier. It’s a little easier to move his mouth around the words now that the pain and nausea aren’t fuzzing everything out.
“Mmm…” Hopper glances back down at his watch. “Just after two.”
“Huh.” Over twelve hours since he ran into Dustin and got roped into fighting monsters. Again.
That uncertainty comes back, stronger than ever, to chew on his stomach. He picks at a hangnail that’s been lingering on his thumb for the past few days. He keeps forgetting to clip it off. “I know…” he stares intently at his thumb as heat rises in his cheeks, “I’ve asked this already. But…” he peeks over at Hopper, “did you- is it-” He takes a breath. “Are we safe?” he whispers into the small room.
Hopper’s expression softens and he reaches out to gently pry Steve’s hand away from where he’d started tearing the hangnail from his thumb. “We’re safe.” He squeezes his hand. “It’s over.”
Calm settles over him again at the confirmation. He squeezes Hopper’s hand back.
It’s strange how quick Hopper is to offer a hand or a shoulder squeeze in reassurance. He never really took him for a touchy-feely kinda guy, but that’s quickly been proven wrong tonight.
Steve isn’t a stranger to touch. Nancy always sits close so she can lean against him when they hang out and, of course, there’s always the more hot and heavy side of it.
But this is different. This is almost what he’d expect from his parents, were they home more often. Except, even when they are home, it’s never like this. His parents aren’t exactly tactile people. He might get a hug from mom when they first get home and a shoulder pat from dad when he’s really impressed, but that’s about it.
It’s nice. Really nice. Which is dangerous, because it’s not permanent. Still, he can’t bring himself to pull away.
“How’d the scan go?”
Steve looks away from their joined hands to face Hopper.
That whirring, chirping, clicking sound echoes in his ears and he decides he doesn’t want to talk about it. “Good. Quick.”
“Good.” Hopper gives him a look but doesn’t say anything else. They fall into silence for a few moments before Hopper’s face pinches, “Hey, where’s your car?”
“Umm…” Steve frowns, where is his car?
“I assume you left it somewhere. I’m not sure how else you would’ve got all the way out to the-” Hopper pauses, “well, to us without it.”
He thinks back, wading through the fog that’s settled in his mind. Went to Nancy’s, ran into Dustin, went to Dustin’s, then the butcher’s, then the railroad tracks. His head throbs as he forces the pieces into the right order. “Parked it on-” He remembers the street, can picture the sign. “Parked it on, um…” it’s sitting, just out of his reach. “Shit. I don’t remember what the street’s called. Parked it by the train tracks on some side street. Out toward Nancy’s.”
How’s he gonna get it back? That’d be a long walk.
“I think I know where you’re talking about. I’ll see if someone can run me out tomorrow and I’ll drop it back at your place.”
Guilt pools into his stomach because Hopper has already done so much. “You don’t-” he remembers driving the kids back from the tunnels. How the road seemed to shift underneath the car, no matter how hard he focused. The guilt pools thicker as he realizes how reckless it was to drive the kids like that. He doesn’t want to put Hopper out, but maybe it’s better if someone else drives the Beamer. And he’s already offering, so. “Thank you.”
Hopper nods absently, clearly thinking. “So, your parents.”
Something shrivels up inside of him and he’d actually really like to circle back on how the scan went. He pulls his hand out of Hopper’s grip to pinch at a loose thread on his shirt. “Yeah? What about them?” A familiar feeling slides over him as he says it. That feeling when Carol or Tommy would say something that cut a little too deep and he’d smile through it so they couldn’t jam their fingers in deeper, just to watch him squirm.
He must be out of practice because Hopper’s expression shifts into something wary. Like he knows he’s walking on eggshells right now. “You said they’d be gone for a week?”
A calendar swims to the forefront of his mind. The one from the kitchen. He remembers crossing out yesterday’s date this morning. Remembers the big red note marking his parent’s return date next weekend. Only, that one was scribbled out. A new note was written over the weekend below, because his parent’s trip was extended. “No, two.”
Hopper nods again, leaning back in his chair. “How long have they been gone?”
Frustration simmers in his chest, bubbling right at the base of his throat. “I don’t know. A few weeks?” it comes out sharp, bitten off. “What does it matter?” The room is suddenly too big. The chairs behind Hopper sit glaringly, infuriatingly empty. “They’re not here.”
The frustration bubbles higher, threatening to choke him. Maybe he isn’t being fair. He knows, logically, that if his parents were here right now, things would just be worse. Hushed accusations because he must’ve, somehow, provoked Billy into beating him senseless. Disappointed looks because he can’t win a fight he started. And money. Everything would come right back to the bill he’s going to have to explain to dad when it shows up.
Still, it’s impossible to silence the small part of him that thinks everything would be better if they were here.
His vision goes blurry and he’s never been more grateful for Hopper’s sunglasses. Harrington men don’t cry. Especially over something as stupid as missing his mom.
“Did they leave a number?” Hopper is watching him carefully. “Some way to get in contact with them?”
Steve blinks rapidly to clear his vision. The thread he’s messing with pulls a little, tension popping loose as something unravels in the shirt, thread getting longer. He clears his throat, frustration sinking back into his chest, “Yeah. There’s a post-it note on the fridge with the number to their hotel room.” He doesn’t mention that he’s crossed out at least three or four numbers already, writing the new number underneath each time.
“Okay.” Hopper pats his hand against the chair arm twice, “I’ll call them tomorrow, after I get you home. Let them know what’s going on.”
Steve hums so Hopper knows he’s heard him, but his words are floating around in his head, after I get you home.
Most people call him lucky when they see his house for the first time. It isn’t huge, but he knows it’s bigger than most in Hawkins. He thinks back to the Byers’ house, family photos hung everywhere, rooms crowded with too much furniture, dirty dishes lingering in the sink. Filled to the brim with love and life. Steve thinks they’re the lucky ones.
His house is cold in comparison. Stupid showroom furniture mom picked out of a catalogue forever ago. Fake plants and generic paintings spread throughout the space. Not a hint of the people who live there.
Sometimes he hates it. Hates the shadows that move when he doesn’t expect it, the silence that lies thick over the entire space. He loves his room, though. He’s made it his own, slowly, over time. It’s where he takes his friends when they visit. It’s where he took Nancy, most of the time, when she came over.
He doesn’t want to go home. It’s a jarring realization, but no less true. He doesn’t want to face the creeping shadows, doesn’t want to sit in silence and wait for that chirping click to find him. Doesn’t want to go to his room or lie in his bed, surrounded by the lingering scent of Nancy’s perfume. Doesn’t want to be alone. Not after everything that’s happened.
A hand lands on his shin and he jumps, looking back at Hopper.
“Hey. You with me, kid?”
“Yeah.” Steve blinks a few times. “Sorry. Just,” Just what? Throwing himself a pity party? His parents aren’t flying back tonight from wherever they are, so he’s just gonna have to suck it up and deal with being alone for a little bit. “Thinking,” he lands on lamely.
Hopper pats his leg a few times, like he had the chair arm earlier. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep. Those scans can take awhile sometimes.” His hand retracts as he leans back to settle into the seat.
“Thought you weren’t supposed to sleep with a head injury?”
“I think that’s a myth.” Hopper slips a little further down the seat. “But if anything changes, you start feeling worse or I notice something’s up, we’ll press that button.” He motions toward the remote on the other side of Steve’s bed.
He nods, not thinking, and it makes the world tilt just a little to the left. He cuts the motion short, staying very still until everything settles. Then, he shuffles to slip further down the bed, landing in a comfortable position, before letting his eyes close.
It’s a little awkward at first. The sunglasses dig uncomfortably into the side of his face and he isn’t really sure what to do with his arms. His exhaustion wins out eventually, though, because he falls into a kind of half-sleep. He can still hear the general sounds of the hospital and jolts a little every time someone walks past his room. At the same time, flashing shapes dance across his closed eyelids. He can’t make out what they are, but they fill him with a vague sense of unease.
A chittering comes from behind him and he starts running through the darkness. Trees jump into his path, threatening to knock him off course as he races away from the monster at his heels. A light breaks through the leaves and he shoots through the treeline, into his own backyard.
The pool lights wash across the pavement, turning it a sickly pale green-blue. His heart jumps in his throat and he freezes, rooted to the spot like his feet have sunk into the concrete. There’s someone standing across the rippling water. He can’t really make them out, shadows thick across their face, but his body goes cold as they step closer. They reach out a hand and something wet cascades down their wrist, dripping into the pool. “Where’s your bathroom?” It’s Barb’s voice, haunting and distorted, and his feet come free as he lurches for the back sliding glass door.
He breaks through into the Byers’ front hallway. Billy has Lucas hoisted into the air by the collar and he’s filled with a red-hot fury. Gripping his shoulder, he spins Billy toward him and is met with a too wide smile. The fury leaves him all at once as Billy grapples behind him before something smashes across his head. He can hear pieces of whatever it was tinkle to the kitchen floor as he stumbles into the living room.
The lights are flashing, a multicolored christmas-themed strobe light show, right here in the living room. Nancy and Jonathan are somewhere off to his side and they all watch in horror as the ceiling dips, something clawing its way out.
The creature lands with a snarl and he knows he’s alone now. Just him and this monster. It stands up, straightening to its full height before looking over its shoulder at him. The head tilts like a dog’s, except he’s never heard a dog make the chittering, clicking sound that comes from the monster. Its face twitches, petals unfurling to reveal-
Knock, knock, knock.
Steve jumps awake just as Doctor Moore walks into the room. He says something, but Steve doesn’t hear him, stuck halfway between the hospital and the Byers’ living room. His eyes scan over the ceiling, looking for the monster, but there’s nothing there. Just some generic tiling surrounding the bright overhead lights.
He looks over at Hopper. Watches him blink sleep from his eyes to stare blearily at the doctor. He doesn’t seem to notice Steve’s hands shaking against the bed and he takes a few deep breaths to keep it that way.
It was just a dream. The gate’s closed. Everything’s fine.
He sits up slowly, not wanting to make himself dizzy. His head is throbbing in time with his erratic heartbeat and he’s worried the combination of the two might bring back the nausea.
Doctor Moore stares at him expectantly and Steve’s brain stutters. “Uhh…” he pauses, glancing back at Hopper who raises his eyebrows at him. He turns back to the doctor “What?”
“I asked how you were feeling?” Moore says gently.
“Oh. Umm…” He takes a moment to really think about it. His head is starting to settle as his heart rate drops. He still feels off and everything’s still kind of floaty from sleep, but overall, “Good.
“Good!” Moore drops his gaze to leaf through the papers on his clipboard. He flips some papers up to wrap over the top of the clipboard and shifts it so he and Hopper can see a set of black and white pictures.
He isn’t really sure what he’s looking at, but Hopper leans forward in his seat to get a closer look.
“Good news! We didn’t find any bleeding. Your scans all came back clean.” He gestures at the pictures and Steve realizes he’s looking at his own brain.
Moore keeps talking, explaining what they’re looking at with words Steve doesn’t really understand. His eyes have locked onto the ridges and bumps in the picture. They remind him a little too much of his dream. Of wrinkled white skin glistening with slime. His heart starts hammering again in his chest and he has to fight to keep his lips from turning up in a hysterical smile. Does the demogorgon have a brain? Would it look the same as those pictures?
The papers flop back down to cover the photos and Steve jumps. He looks back at Moore as he tucks the clipboard under his arm and leans back against the small counter. “But, you do have a severe concussion.”
Hopper settles back into the chair with a sigh, but he doesn’t look exasperated. He almost looks, relieved?
“Also, your nose has a slight fracture. Nothing surgical, but we’ll need to realign it. That cut on your head will need stitches, too.” He taps his own temple to demonstrate. “So,” he twists to drop the clipboard down on the counter before turning back to them, “we’ll start with numbing your head and nose. Just two quick injections. I’ll clean out that cut a little more and stitch it up. Then, I’ll perform a quick procedure to shift your nose back in place, okay?”
Broken nose, huh? He guesses that explains the swelling. And the soft whistle he hears every time he breathes in. And- you know what, yeah it explains a lot.
Nerves sparkle in his stomach at the thought of the doctor shifting it back in place. He thinks about all the action movies he’s seen. When the main character yanks his own nose back in place with a sharp crack, completely unphased. He’s always figured that’d hurt like hell.
“Okay.”
“Perfect.” Moore spins around and pulls on a pair of gloves before moving to a tray sitting on the counter. He must’ve brought it in with him earlier, while Steve was looking for monsters in the ceiling. He pulls each item out and lines it up methodically, a lot like Ada, and he wonders if it’s a procedural thing.
Moore spins around with two small, soaked sponges held between his fingers. “We’ll do your nose first.” He steps closer. “Lean your head against the bed for me.”
Steve leans back to sit stiffly against the cushion.
“And tilt your head back, just a little bit…” Moore shifts to stoop down in front of Steve, getting a better look at his nose.
His hair rustles against the bed as he tilts his head back slightly. He’s glad he’s already leaned against the cushion because the motion makes the world tilt around him. He closes his eyes, trying to ignore the way the walls spin lazily.
“Just some slight pressure…”
Something cold and wet hits his nose and he flinches back, even though he knew it was coming. Huffing out a laugh, “Sorry.”
“That’s alright.” Moore speaks softly, distracted.
There’s a creak off to his side before a hand slips into his own, gripping tight.
He squeezes back as Moore slides the sponges into his nose. It’s more than a little pressure. They press into the bones just hard enough to send sharp pain up his sinuses. His teeth grind together as he clenches his jaw and he tightens his grip on Hopper’s hand to keep himself from squirming away.
His next inhale hisses through his teeth as he switches to breathe through his mouth instead of his blocked nose. The pain lessens just as his head starts throbbing, washing pressure over his skull. Opening his eyes, he spots Moore where he’s returned to the counter. He tilts his head over to look at Hopper. His eyes are pinched at the corners and Steve loosens his hold on his hand.
“You okay?” Hopper asks, hushed.
“Yeah.” Steve responds, just as quiet.
“Head next, while we wait for those to numb up the inside of your nose.” He turns around with a syringe held in front of him. “This one should be easier.”
Moore walks closer and Steve looks away from the needle sticking out of the syringe. He stares down at his and Hopper’s hands, held tight together at the edge of the bed. Moore stops in front of him and Steve feels a sharp pinch near his hairline. There’s a little extra pressure before Moore backs up, dropping the syringe back onto the counter.
Steve breathes out slowly. That one was better.
“Go ahead and remove those shades again for me.” Moore glances over his shoulder at him.
He lifts the glasses up, off his nose, before pulling them away from his face. He squints against the light as he drops them into his lap. It doesn’t hurt his head as much anymore, but everything has a sickly bright halo around it. That off feeling gets worse, flooding down toward his knees.
There’s some rustling before Moore returns with a wad of soft cloth held out. He places it gently over Steve’s eyebrow. “Hold this here, please.”
Reaching up with his free hand, he holds the cloth in place. He closes his right eye against the lights and shifts the cloth slightly so it offers a bit more shade to his left.
“Perfect,” Moore says as he settles. “I’m going to flush this out with a saline solution. Looks like there’s some debris hanging on here, and we don’t want that.”
Some more rustling before the bubbling of a squeeze bottle comes from above him. The sound throws him back to middle school science lab. Him and Tommy and Carol betting on which one could get the liquid higher in the squeeze bottle without it spilling over the top. Chucking pipettes at each other when the teacher wasn’t looking. Doing anything but the assignment laid out in front of them.
A bittersweetness twinges in his chest as Moore backs off, deeming his cut clean.
He drops his supplies back onto the counter before returning to take the cloth from Steve’s grip. “Ready for stitches?” He returns with a needle and some kind of thread.
As ready as he’ll ever be, he guesses. “Yep.”
“Now, this shouldn’t hurt. You’ll just feel some pressure, but let me know immediately if that isn’t the case, okay?”
Steve hums as Moore shuffles closer so he’s positioned over his forehead. It’s…weird. When Moore starts stitching up his cut. It doesn’t hurt, which, thank god for whatever was in that shot. But it’s not comfortable, either. Each time Moore pushes the needle through his skin, there’s a tugging pressure as the thread slides after it. He swears he can hear it drag through his skin and he grips Hopper’s hand a little harder as that off feeling sweeps down to his toes.
He closes his eyes and tries to focus only on the feeling of Hopper’s hand. To ignore the tugging pressure as Moore stitches him up. Hopper’s thumb starts sweeping slowly across his knuckles. A gentle back and forth motion that he latches onto.
He doesn’t realize it’s over until a gentle snip sounds above his head. He opens his eyes to watch Moore dispose of the remaining thread. “Okay! Lean your head back again for me.”
Steve hadn’t realized he’d lifted it, but he sinks back against the cushion as Moore bends down in front of him.
“Let’s take these out.” He reaches out and pinches the sponges out of Steve’s nose.
It doesn’t hurt this time. He barely feels it as the sponges slide out. His sinuses throb, though, as soon as they’ve left his nostrils. More of a deep ache than the sharp pain it was earlier.
A snap filters over from the counter and Steve turns to see Moore pulling on a new set of gloves. “Okay….” He spins around with another shot held out. “Tilt your head back, just a little bit.”
Steve closes his eyes and follows Moore’s direction.
“Perfect. We’re going to do this one inside of your nose, okay? You shouldn’t feel anything, it should already be pretty numb in there.”
He wonders, distantly, why he needs another shot if his nose is already numb, but he holds himself stiff anyway. He doesn’t feel anything this time, only realizing the shot’s been administered when he hears Moore’s footsteps drift back toward the counter.
“We’ll give that a minute or two to take effect.” He shifts to lean back against the counter again. “Once it does, I’ll shift your nose back in place. Again, it shouldn’t hurt. Just some-”
“Pressure.” Steve says along with him. “Right.”
“Exactly.” Moore’s mouth twitches into a small smile. His eyes widen and he spins back toward the counter, pulling a few tissues out of a box against the wall. “Now, your nose might start bleeding when I shift it back into place. It’s okay if it does, perfectly normal.” He holds the tissues out toward Steve.
He takes them with his free hand before glancing over at Hopper, who’s staring at Moore intently.
“I’ll put some packing in your nose to hold your bones in place from the inside. A small splint will go here,” He lifts his hand to hover over the bridge of his own nose, “to keep everything in place from the outside.”
“Okay.” Nerves sparkle in his stomach again.
“After that, there’s just a few administrative things I want to talk you through before you’re good to go.” His focus shifts as he pushes off the counter and walks closer. His fingers come up slowly to hover over Steve’s nose. “Rest your head back?”
Steve presses his head into the bed, tilting his head up a bit so Moore doesn’t have to ask him again.
“Perfect. We’re gonna check and make sure that anaesthetic’s kicked in. Let me know if you feel anything, okay?”
“‘kay.” It comes out weaker than he means it to, the sparks in his stomach climbing into his chest. He can see Moore’s fingers, just barely, as they move across his nose. Can hear the rubber gloves rustle softly as he presses against his skin. But he can’t feel anything. No pain. No pressure. Nothing.
“Anything?”
Steve shifts his gaze to meet Moore’s. “No.”
“Good! Got those tissues ready?”
He watches Moore’s fingers shift across his nose until they’re braced in a specific position. Tightening his hold on the tissues, he hums out a confirmation.
“Good.” Moore says again, softer this time, as his gaze shifts to Steve’s nose. “Okay, you’re gonna feel that pressure in three, two, one…”
Steve tightens his hold on Hopper’s hand as Moore pushes on his nose. A deep pressure builds in his sinuses, getting stronger and stronger until there’s a crack. His vision pops at the noise, sickening halos of light flooding over everything, and he jumps out of Moore’s reach. “Ow, shit!”
Something hot runs down the back of his throat and he leans forward to cough into the tissues. The world tilts as the coughs force him further forward. His head throbs at the jerking motion, a bit of that familiar ache slipping into the pressure and making his eyes water. The world tilts a little more and a hand grips tight to his shoulder.
“Easy, kid. Deep breaths.” Hopper’s hand shifts to rub circles between his shoulder blades.
He coughs a few more times into the tissues before they finally peter out. He focuses on the gentle pressure against his back, breathing deep through his mouth as he waits for the world to stop spinning.
He pulls the tissues away from his face only to see blood splattered across the white material. Alarm sparks in his chest before another drop lands right in the center of the crumpled pile. Right, his nose is bleeding. He brings the tissues back up, bunching them under his nose this time. There’s something sticky dripping down his fingers and he lifts his other hand to hold the tissues so he can get a better look. Blood is smeared over the back of his hand, collecting across his knuckles and dripping toward his wrist.
Grimacing, he looks toward Moore and is startled to see him already holding a fresh wad of tissues toward him.
“It’s okay. Perfectly normal. You did good!”
He reaches out to take the tissues, but Hopper’s arm cuts across his vision and pinches them out of Moore’s hand. He gives him a look and Steve, a little stunned, holds out his hand for Hopper to wipe down.
“Thanks.” His voice comes out thick around the blood and the tissues.
“Don’t mention it.” Hopper replies gruffly as he wipes the blood off his hand.
It’s mostly silent as they all wait for Steve’s nose to stop bleeding. The only sounds come from the slow drag of Hopper’s hand across his shirt and some rustling as Moore messes with his supplies. Eventually, the flow stops and Steve lowers the tissues from his face.
Hopper’s hand pauses as Moore drifts to the edge of the bed. Steve leans back until his head meets the cushion and Hopper moves with him. The continued contact makes something twist in his chest, but he doesn’t pull out of Hopper’s grip on his shoulder.
“Packing, splint, then the worst of it is over.”
Steve tilts his head back slowly in response and Moore stoops down to get a better look. He reaches up and Steve feels pressure slide into his nose. It’s very faint, muted through the anaesthetic, and over before Steve really has a chance to feel any discomfort.
More reaches over to the counter and grabs a small piece of rigid looking material. He peels something off the back before pressing it gently over the bridge of Steve’s nose. The pressure increases a bit as he pushes down on the edges of the material, molding it to his face.
“Okay, all done. You can put the sunglasses back on, if you want.”
Steve lets out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding when he slides the glasses over his eyes. It whooshes slowly out of his mouth, since he can’t breathe around the packing. His heart sinks a little bit as he realizes how quickly that’s going to get old.
Silently mourning over his dry-mouthed future, he turns to look at Moore where he’s rifling through the clipboard again. He gestures toward the packing. “How long’s this gotta stay?” His voice is thick, like he’s got the world’s worst stuffed nose.
Moore looks up at him over the clipboard, “One week.” His gaze shifts to Hopper. “We’ll need to see him back here in one week to remove the packing and the stitches. It might be tempting to do it yourself,” His gaze shifts back to Steve, “but that would be a very bad idea. The packing and the splint, together, are holding your nose in place. Removing the packing early could cause it to heal in the wrong position.”
“He won’t.” Hopper says from over his shoulder.
Hopper’s face is stern when Steve glances up at him. It’s familiar. He’s seen this look dozens of times, opening his front door during a party to see the Police Chief on his porch.
“Uh…” he turns quickly back to Moore. Too quickly, because the world continues to move even after he’s stopped. “Yeah, I won’t.”
Moore nods. “The splint will need to stay on a little longer. We’ll evaluate how much longer next week.” He flips through a few more papers before landing on a page. “One thing I want to talk to you about, though. I saw in your history that this isn’t your first concussion. That you sustained a minor injury around this time last year?”
Steve gives a tiny nod.
“Okay…” he chews on the inside of his cheek before letting the papers fall. “I’m going to write you a referral to a specialist located out toward Indianapolis. We’ll talk a bit more next week when we see you, but if your symptoms don’t start to improve over the next two weeks, or you notice any lingering effects, I want you to schedule an appointment with them.”
Hopper gives his shoulder a small squeeze.
“For now, given your history and the severity of this concussion, I want you to refrain from any intense physical activity for the next three weeks. Also, no contact sports until you’ve been cleared by someone here, or by your primary care physician, to return.”
A pit opens up in Steve’s stomach. “You mean, no basketball?” There’s a flash in his mind. A quick glimpse of a disappointed, angry, face.
“Exactly. No basketball until you’ve been cleared by a doctor to return.”
His head throbs and his chest winds tight. “Wh- umm…” Practice is supposed to start next week. What is he gonna do? “How long do you think I’ll be out?”
“Really depends on your recovery timeline. Being safe? I’d say…” he tilts his head side to side, “Two, three, months?”
A chill runs down his spine. He’s in deep shit. Basketball was his ticket into college. Without it, he isn’t sure his grades will make the cut. The pit in his stomach opens up wider, threatening to swallow him. Except, sitting right on the edge of it is a tiny kernel of relief. Because, as much as he knows college is the next step, knows it’s what’s expected of him, how was he ever supposed to leave them behind?
Moore is still talking about medications, return appointments, post-concussion care, things to look out for, but Steve is desperately trying to figure out how he’s gonna fix this. Trying to figure out if he even wants to.
Hopper gives his shoulder another squeeze and he turns to see him listening intently to what Moore is saying.
He forces himself to focus on Moore’s words.
“-will send Ada back in to remove your IV and settle all the discharge paperwork.” He scoops up the clipboard and starts toward the curtained off doorway.
“Wait!” Steve jolts forward, like he can somehow grab Moore from his spot on the bed.
Moore stops anyway, turning back to face Steve.
“Can I get a note or something? About basketball.” He settles back against the cushions, feeling awkward. “For my, uh, coach.”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll write it up with the referral note and have Ada bring it in with your paperwork.” He smiles. “I’ll see you in one week for your follow-up.” He gives a pointed look before leaving the room.
Hopper sighs, hand sliding off Steve’s shoulder as he sits back down in the chair. “Doing okay?”
The words almost seem to float through Steve’s ears. “Yeah.”
“Almost done.”
The words bounce around Steve’s head. Almost done. Almost time to go home. His heart sinks in his chest and he wonders if the rest of Moore’s instructions will be written in his paperwork or if he’ll have to call Hopper tomorrow and ask.
Silence envelopes the room as they both wait for Ada to return. The silence stretches and Steve’s exhaustion starts to catch up as time passes. With nothing else to do, nothing to focus on, his thoughts turn loose. Almost floaty. Like he’s dreaming with his eyes open.
He tries to fight against sleep, not wanting another nightmare to creep up on him until he’s in his own bed, but his limbs grow heavy anyway. His eyelids droop, blocking his view of the curtained off doorway for a moment before he opens them again. Then, between one drooping blink and the next, Ada appears.
He watches, distantly, as Ada putters around the room. His eyes stop drooping, but he can’t quite shake the tiredness that’s settled into his bones. Stepping closer, she maneuvers his arm until the inside of his elbow faces the ceiling, before removing the IV needle. A small pinprick of blood wells up where the needle was and Ada places a bandaid over it. His eyes trace over the intricately woven pattern until a hand on his shoulder makes him jump. He turns his head, fully awake now, to see Hopper’s worried gaze.
“Hey, you okay?”
Clearing his throat, he sits up a little more against the bed. “Yeah, sorry. Tired.”
Hopper nods. “Alright. Sign those papers and we can get outta here.”
He turns back to his other side to see Ada holding out a clipboard and pen. He takes both from her, settling the clipboard in his lap. The words swim across the page and he can’t tell where he’s supposed to sign it. He squeezes his eyes shut briefly before refocusing on the page.
Hopper reaches over and points at a spot further down. “Here.”
“Thanks,” he mumbles. He traces the pen along the page in a shaky signature before handing both items back to Ada.
“Perfect.” She turns to place both items on the counter before reaching behind his bed for the wheelchair. “You’re good to go,” she pushes down on the seat to unfold the chair. She looks back at him, holding out a hand.
He sits up slowly and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He sits for a moment, waiting for the dizziness to back off before taking her hand. Keeping one hand braced on the bed, he stands from the edge, shuffles over a step, and sinks into the chair.
Hopper comes around the front of the bed, a folder full of papers tucked under his arm, as Ada unlocks the wheels. Then, they’re moving past the curtain, down a series of hallways, and through the waiting room door. It’s practically empty, a few people scattered through the space, and they pass through quickly as Ada wheels him out the front door.
It’s cold, early November air biting into his arms and making him shiver. He wishes his shirt had longer sleeves.
“Where are you parked?” Ada says from behind him.
He twists to glance back at her, but aborts the motion halfway through as it makes his dizziness worse.
Hopper speaks up from where he’s started walking into the parking lot, pointing toward the truck. “Over here, this first one.”
Ada maneuvers the wheelchair across the short section of sidewalk and to a small ramp. Steve holds the wheelchair arms tight as she rolls him down, into the parking lot after Hopper. He watches him open the passenger side door, pushing it wide before stepping to the other side of the door.
Hopper steps forward when Ada rolls him to a stop in front of the opening. “C’mon kid, up and in.” He leans down to loop one of Steve’s arms across his shoulders.
Steve grips the fabric of his hoodie tight as he’s lifted out of the chair. The dizziness washes over him, the world tilting so far that his knees go weak. Hopper tries to move him forward, but he’s stuck. Squeezing his eyes shut, he gives Hopper’s hoodie a little shake. “Wait. Just-” He reaches a hand up to rest over his forehead, hoping that maybe it’ll make a difference. “Wait a sec.”
“Sure.” He shifts to splay his free hand over Steve’s chest, holding him in place. “Whatever you need, kid.”
The extra pressure, being wedged between Hopper’s hand on his chest and his arm over his back, helps. Reminds him that the world isn’t actually spinning, that it just feels like it is. They stand still for a few seconds before the world starts to settle. Opening his eyes, he breathes out a soft, “Okay.”
“Okay. Almost there.” Hopper helps him shuffle closer to the truck before leaning him against the side of the vehicle. “Just like at the house.”
A hazy image comes to Steve of hauling himself into the truck at the Byers’ house and he repeats those motions. One hand on the seat, the other reaching for the overhead handle before lifting himself into the truck cab. He lands in the seat with a huff. Turning his head, he sees Ada give a small smile and a wave before she spins the wheelchair around and starts back toward the hospital. The truck door closes blocking his view of her for a second before he spots her through the window. The truck shakes slightly as Hopper climbs in.
There’s a soft jingling before the engine rumbles to life. Hopper messes with some of the controls in the center to crank the heat. The vents still blow cold air, but Steve knows it’ll warm up once they get going. Only, Hopper doesn’t move the car from its parked position. Steve follows his gaze, turning to look back out of his window. They both watch as Ada finally enters the hospital, sliding glass doors closing behind her.
A few clicks come from his left as Hopper shifts gears and then they’re pulling out of the parking spot. The air coming out of the vents turns warm shortly after they leave the hospital and Steve positions them to blow across his bare arms. He’s almost starting to feel too warm when Hopper cracks his window, tilting his head slightly into the cool air flow.
Finally comfortable, his eyes start to droop again. He lifts his feet onto the seat before leaning against the door. He wedges his arm between his head and the window, elbow resting on top of his knees. The sunglasses dig into the side of his face and he pulls them off, letting them land beside him on the seat, before closing his eyes.
The truck jerks to a stop and Steve’s head slips forward, off his arm cushion, and then he’s falling. Jerking his head up, he opens his eyes with a gasp, sleep leaving him all at once. His vision swims, a rocky picture slowly settling into place through the windshield, and he knows where they are. He’s home.
“Shit.” Hopper hisses, glancing over at him warily as he shifts the truck into park.
Steve sits a little straighter in the passenger seat, letting his feet slide back to the floor. Hopper’s dropping him off. He isn’t really sure what else he expected, but disappointment swirls in his chest anyway. The thought of leaving the truck makes something cut deep into his chest. Still, he doesn’t want to make it awkward, so he clears his throat around the feeling.
“Thanks. For, y’know, taking me.” He avoids Hopper’s gaze as he slowly reaches for the door handle.
A click comes from both sides of the truck right as Steve’s fingers touch the handle. He turns around to see Hopper, hand hovering over the lock button on his door.
His brows are pinched together, mouth slightly open, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”
“Umm…” he points out the windshield, “home?” His own brows furrow at the surprise that crosses Hopper’s face.
He shakes his head, “Nuh, uh. Someone needs to look after you for the next few days, remember?” He gestures toward the folder full of papers, abandoned on the dash, before gesturing toward his house. “I’m not dropping you off, we’re just here so I can grab some of your things.”
Steve pauses, everything falling silent in his mind for a moment. “Wh-” Guilt starts to drip, heavy, into his stomach. It’s not fair that Hopper needs to look after him, just because his parents can’t be bothered to be here. It’s not fair that, after everything that’s happened this week, Hopper ends up with another problem on his plate. It’s not fair how badly Steve wants this to happen. To go back with Hopper, wherever he’s going, so he doesn’t have to be alone.
The guilt pools thicker, like oil in his stomach. It’s not fair that he has to be alone in the first place. That his parents keep extending their trip, taking on more projects, when they haven’t been home to see him in weeks. Fire sparks in his chest, igniting the guilt into a burning inferno. It’s not fair of Hopper to think that he can’t take care of himself, when he’s been doing just fine since he got his license and his parents didn’t need to come home anymore.
“I don’t need you to look after me. I’m not a little kid.” The fire burns a little brighter as he turns back to the door. He wedges his fingers into the pull, lifting it up to unlock the door. It pops up with a click and clicks right back down as Hopper locks the doors again.
He whips around to face Hopper’s bewildered expression, ignoring the way it sends the world spinning. “Let me out!” It comes out sharp, angry, and it satisfies the burning inside him. He can’t remember why he’s fighting so hard to leave when all he really wants to do is stay. A confusing mix of emotions swirls threateningly in his chest.
“I’m sure you can take care of yourself fine, Steve, under normal circumstances. These aren’t normal circumstances. You’ve got a severe concussion.”
“And it’ll be fine! I’ll just walk it off, like last time!”
Hopper’s face shifts into something stern, eyes tightening until he looks angry. “That’s such bullshit.”
Hopper keeps talking, but Steve can’t hear him through the blood rushing in his ears. Everything freezes, like a bucket of ice water’s been dumped over his head.
Flashes of a bathroom, littered with solo cups. A white shirt, stained red with punch. Nancy, wasted and slurring, “No, you. You’re bullshit.”
A year ago, laid up on the couch, ice pack slowly leaking into his hair. Dad standing over him, face twisted with disappointment and anger. “I’ve seen your grades, Steven. How do you expect to get into college if you’re not playing? Cut the pussy bullshit and walk it off.”
Steve is horrified to feel tears well up in his eyes. He tries to push them back down, looking away from Hopper and toward the window, but something big is building like a wave inside of him. He’s so tired and everything still feels so off and he swears that it’s not, that he’s not bullshit.
Something cracks in his chest and he can’t stop the tears from spilling over. He bites his lip, trying to stay quiet, except his chest stutters over his next inhale. It’s wet and broken and loud, because the packing in his nose forces him to breathe through his mouth, and Hopper stops talking.
A hand lands on his shoulder. “Hey,” it’s hushed and dripping with worry.
It makes a lump rise in his throat and he has to hold his breath to keep from sobbing. He curls forward to cover his face with his hands, even though Hopper definitely knows he’s crying now. His head starts to throb again from holding his breath and really what else is there to lose? He sinks further into his hands and lets the wave crash over him, sobbing out choked, hissed breaths.
“Hey!” It’s more alarmed, but no less gentle and Hopper’s hand tightens on his shoulder. There’s some shuffling and the seat creaks as Hopper slides across it. His arm shifts across Steve’s shoulders as he tugs him into his side.
It makes everything better, which makes everything worse. The next set of sobs take all of his breath and then keep going, digging deep into his lungs until he’s shaking, before he’s able to drag in another shuddering inhale. The hand holding, and the shoulder squeezes, and the pressing into Hopper’s side as he helps him walk just isn’t enough anymore.
His body moves before his brain can catch up, lifting his head from his hands and twisting to crush himself against Hopper in a hug. His hands come up to fist into his hoodie, holding on tight as he pushes his forehead into his chest. “‘S not!” He spits out before dissolving into another round of sobs.
Hopper shifts against him and, for a terrifying second, he thinks he’s going to pull away. Instead, his arms come up to wrap around him, squeezing tight. His next breath hitches hard in his chest and he can’t muffle the sobs anymore, can’t choke them back into hissed breaths. His whole body shakes with the force of real sobs, the ones that come from his stomach and travel up his throat like vomit. The kind of crying he hasn’t done in years.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Hopper’s hand shifts across his back to land against his head, holding him into the hug. “I gotcha, kid. You’re okay.” He squeezes a little tighter, “You’re gonna be okay.”
His head throbs and his face hurts where he’s got it pressed into Hopper’s hoodie, but he can’t stop crying. Can’t make himself pull away. It feels like he’s drowning under the force of this thing in his chest and Hopper is the only thing tethering him in place. “‘M not-!” he chokes out before he’s cut off by sobs.
“Yes, you are. You’re gonna be-”
“No!” He forces himself to take a big breath, to force out his words all at once before he’s cut off again, “‘M not bullshit!”
Hopper goes stiff under him, “No!” Relaxing again, hand running gently over his hair, “No, no. Of course you’re not bullshit. That’s not what I meant.” He sighs. “What happened to you isn’t bullshit.”
Steve tightens his hold, some of that urgency to make him understand melting under the confirmation.
“What is bullshit is that someone told you that you’re bullshit. That you think you should just walk off an injury when you don’t have to.” He takes a deep breath, chest expanding under Steve’s forehead, “And I know it wasn’t Todd, kid. That guy took a few hits to the head, himself, back in the day. He’s the last person that would’ve told you that.”
He chokes on his inhale, coughing through the next set of cries because Hopper knows. He knows it wasn’t coach.
“We’re not gonna talk about it right now. But we will talk about it.” That sternness from the hospital shines through, but his voice softens as he continues, “I know you’re used to doing things on your own. I know you’re more than capable of looking after yourself. But I need you to know that you don’t have to. Especially not right now.”
That wave starts to calm in his chest, making it a little easier to breathe.
“You’ve got people in your corner, kid. People who care about you, who know what you’ve been through. You don’t have to be alone with it.”
The words settle over him like a thick blanket and he’s crying for a completely different reason. Because he’s seen it tonight, hasn’t he? Nancy, trying so hard to spare his feelings. To hang onto a relationship he knew wasn’t working anymore. The kids, frantic and worried when they found him curled up in the bathroom. Not perfect, but trying. And Hopper. Taking control of the situation and helping in a way his parents haven’t these past two years.
It dries up the last of the swirling emotion rushing in his chest, shining with a warmth that’s almost uncomfortable. Almost too much. He turns his head to press the left side of his face against Hopper’s chest as the sobs slowly start to taper off.
Hopper doesn’t say anything else, just holds him close until the crying stops. Until his breaths have stopped catching in his chest and the world has stopped spinning around him like a top. He holds on until Steve slowly loosens his grip on his hoodie and backs out of the embrace. Distantly, Steve thinks he should be embarrassed. But he feels completely wrung out, exhausted in a way he didn’t know was possible, and he can’t muster up the energy to care.
Even though there’s some distance between them now, Hopper keeps his hands on his shoulders. Two heavy weights that keep him from floating away. “You gonna let us help?”
Steve nods his head a little.
“If I leave you out here to go get your things, you’re not gonna make a run for it?” His mouth twitches into a small smile.
He smiles back, “No.”
“Okay, then.” He drops his hands from Steve’s shoulders. “Do you keep a spare key or something, so I can get in?”
“Mmm…” Steve pats his pockets before reaching into his right and pulling out his keys. He holds them out toward Hopper, “Here.”
They jingle softly as Hopper takes them. “Alright. I’ll be quick.” He scootches across the seat to open the driver’s side door and climb out of the truck. He closes it softly behind him.
Steve watches him walk up the drive and stop in front of the door. He tries a few keys before getting the right one, pushing inside and disappearing from view. And then he’s alone in the truck. It’s kind of unsettling, but that warmth still lays heavy over him and it acts like a protective barrier against the creeping feeling.
He pulls his feet back onto the seat, situating himself against the window again as he resolves to go wherever Hopper wants to take him. His eyes grow heavy and he lets them close. They itch something fierce from the crying, but his body sinks fast into the tiredness until it doesn’t really matter anymore.
The truck shakes under him an indeterminate amount of time later. Hushed words and gentle nudges filter through his consciousness and he clings to sleep as he follows their direction to lift his head. Something slides over his chest, clicking into place beside him before another gentle nudge has him leaning back against the door. The soft rumble of the truck lulls him deeper into sleep.
A hand on his shoulder, shaking gently, raises him back to alertness. His arms prickle with goosebumps as he registers the wash of cool air coming from Hopper’s open doorway. He says something, but it filters through Steve’s brain without catching. Sleep still hovers at the edges of his mind and it’s making everything hazy.
He shifts his gaze to look out the windshield and is met with the Byers’ house. Hopper’s door clicks shut beside him and he wakes up a little more. He watches him cross in front of the truck and the pieces fall together enough for him to realize what Hopper must’ve said. Dropping his feet, he shifts to face his door just in time for it to swing open.
“C’mon, kid. I’ve got everything set up inside.”
Steve wonders what he means by that as he slides out of the truck. It’s almost familiar, now, wrapping his arm around Hopper’s shoulders as he tugs him against his side. The haziness still lingers and he’s glad for the extra support, even though the world isn’t tilting as much this time.
The door clicks shut behind them as Hopper starts leading him up the driveway, toward the porch. It’s dark when they go inside. Light filters across the hallway from the kitchen, but the living room is washed in the muted grays and blues of darkness. The kids are scattered across the floor, one big blanket pile with Will right in the center.
Steve smiles as Hopper shuffles him through the path they’ve left open to reach the couch. He’s surprised to see his pillow resting against one of the arms and his duffle bag on the floor, shoved into the open space between the couch and the side table.
“Take a seat, kid.”
Steve doesn’t waste any time before sinking into the cushions. He toes his shoes off, not bothering to untie them, before tilting sideways to smush his face into his pillow. Bringing his legs up, he shuffles around to find a more comfortable position against the cushions before closing his eyes. He’s already half asleep again when he feels a heavy weight fall over him. Blinking his eyes open reluctantly, he sees Hopper tucking one of Mrs. Byers’ crocheted blankets around his feet.
Hopper’s eyes catch on his and he reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, “Get some sleep. I’ll wake you for some more meds in a few hours.” He gives another squeeze before dropping his hand and walking toward the hallway.
A hushed conversation filters in from the kitchen and one of the kids stirs by the couch. Dustin’s curly head pops up out of the blankets and he blinks blearily at him. “Steve?” his voice is thick with sleep, “Are you okay?”
Soft sounds still come from the kitchen and the kids’ breathing echoes softly around his ears, a constant reminder that he isn’t alone. Warmth spreads through his chest again, soft and comforting. He fights against his closing eyes as he answers, “Yeah, ‘m okay.” His eyes stay open long enough for him to see Dustin nod before he can’t hold them open anymore. “Go back to sleep,” it’s half muffled into his pillow, but there’s a rustling as Dustin settles back down. His body gets heavier as he falls asleep, surrounded by the sound of people who care about him.
Hopper doesn’t take the back roads, even though they’d be faster. He tells himself it’s for Steve, that he doesn’t want the twists and turns to upset the kid’s stomach. And if the extra lights on the main roads helps him unstick his clenched fingers from the wheel? Well, it’s just an added bonus.
Even with the extra lighting, he can’t help but glance toward the woods every time he’s forced to stop at an intersection. He knows he’s still on high alert. Knows that he has been ever since he walked into that pumpkin patch and realized something was wrong. It’s how he hears Steve fall asleep halfway to the hospital, breaths smoothing out into a deep and even rhythm that echoes into the truck cab.
He turns carefully into the emergency room portion of Hawkins General, not wanting to jostle the kid out of his doze. The parking lot is practically empty and Hopper swings into a spot close to the front entrance. He glances around the empty spaces, confused by the lack of activity, until he catches the time illuminated on the silent radio. It’s almost one in the morning. Hopper figures the only people here, at this time of night, are in pretty rough shape.
Shutting off the car, Hopper glances over at Steve where he’s slumped into the passenger side door. The bright parking lot lights wash over his features and he gets his first real look at him since he left to close the gate. Distantly, he thinks that ‘pretty rough’ is a nice way of describing how bad Steve looks.
His face is covered in bruises. Some linger as angry red marks while others have already turned a deep purple. He’s got two black eyes, the skin already looking puffy. Hopper winces as he thinks about how swollen they’ll probably be tomorrow. What really stands out, though, is Steve’s nose. It’d been hard to see the extent of the swelling back in the dim living room. Here, there’s no question on whether or not his nose is broken.
Hopper takes a breath before leaning over and laying a hand on Steve’s shoulder. Giving a gentle shake, “Steve. Wake up, kid.”
Steve sits up with a gasp, twisting to face him. His eyes are wide, scanning over Hopper’s shoulder before he hisses through his teeth and raises a hand to block the light flooding over his features.
“We’re here.”
“Here?” Steve shifts his squinted gaze to look out the truck windows.
“Yeah, at the hospital. We’re gonna get you checked out.” Hopper squeezes his shoulder and Steve turns away from the window to look at him again. “Stay in the truck. I’m gonna come around to your side and help you out, okay?”
He waits, watching the words sink in, until Steve gives a tiny nod.
Releasing his grip on Steve’s shoulder, he opens the door and climbs out of the truck cab. He closes the door as softly as he can before crossing in front of the vehicle to the other side. He glances at the kid through the window, making sure he hasn’t leaned against the glass again, before opening the door. It creaks softly as he pushes it as wide as it’ll go.
Steve’s feet slip off the passenger seat to rest on the floor and he turns his head to look at Hopper.
“We’re gonna do this the same way as at the house.” Steve just stares blankly at him, so he elaborates. “One step at a time.”
Recognition spreads fleetingly across his features before he responds, “Okay.” He shifts forward to drape his legs over the edge of the seat, so they’re dangling out of the truck.
Hopper steps forward to brace Steve under the armpits. “Slowly, Harrington.”
Steve leans forward to place one hand against the open door and the other on Hopper’s shoulder. His fingers squeeze into his collarbone as he slowly slides out of the truck to reach one foot toward the pavement.
Hopper’s back protests as Steve’s foot finally hits the ground, shoving him forward into Hopper’s hold. He ignores the dull ache to soften Steve’s landing as much as possible when his other foot follows, body sliding completely out of the truck.
Hopper watches him carefully as he settles to stand on the pavement. Steve squeezes his eyes shut, but his head doesn’t drop. He removes his hand from the truck door to place it carefully over his eyes, thumb and middle finger resting against his temples.
Keeping a tight hold on Steve, Hopper glances up at the metal light fixture nearest to them. He shifts to glance through the front door of the hospital, where the lights are even brighter. Looking back at where Steve is still shielding his eyes, Hopper gets an idea.
He shifts Steve to lean back against the truck, making sure he’s standing clear of the open passenger side doorway. “Will you be okay if I let go for a second?”
Steve has his jaw clenched so hard, Hopper’s surprised he can’t hear his teeth grinding, but he gives a small nod in answer.
Moving quickly, Hopper releases Steve to support himself before climbing back into the truck. Reaching up, he presses on a small compartment by the rearview mirror. It swings down to reveal a pair of sunglasses. He grabs them, being careful to avoid smudging the lenses, before stepping out of the truck.
He freezes for a moment, catching sight of Steve, before rushing over to grab him. The kid is practically melting, one hand planted against the truck to keep himself from falling over completely.
“Hey, woah!” Hopper tugs him upright, holding tight to his shoulders to keep him in place. “What’s going on, kid?”
Steve’s fingers dig deep into Hopper’s forearm, clutching him like a life line. His other hand has shifted across his face to press the heel of his palm into his forehead.
“D’zzy” he bites out.
Hopper feels his shoulders relax. Not new symptoms, then.
He looks back toward the front entrance. “Well, what do you wanna do? Wait here for a few minutes or go inside and sit down?”
Steve squints up at him, thinking, before pushing himself away from the truck. “Le’s go.”
“Alright.” Hopper adjusts his hold again until he’s got Steve tucked against his side. He holds tight to his arm, looped across his shoulders, to keep him from toppling over. Swinging the truck door shut, Hopper starts leading Steve toward the emergency room entrance.
The glass door slides open as they walk up to it. Bright overhead lights flood over them as they cross the threshold and into the hospital . Steve drops his head, hand reaching up to cover his eyes again with a groan.
Hopper tightens his hold, steering him carefully through the waiting room and over to the first row of chairs he sees. He gives Steve’s hand a squeeze where it’s still draped over his shoulders before he releases it. “Take a seat, Harrington.”
Steve squints his eyes open under his steepled fingers and glances behind him at the chair. Dropping his hand from Hopper’s shoulders, he braces it against the chair arm instead, before falling into the seat.
He goes to lean his head back but meets only empty space. Hopper startles forward to catch him, but he’s already leaning forward to balance his elbow on the chair arm, instead. His head sinks further into the hand shading his eyes.
Hopper realizes, belatedly, that he’s still got the sunglasses clutched in his outstretched hand.
“Here.” He uncurls Steve’s other hand from the chair arm to wrap carefully around the shades. “Put these on. They should help.”
He gives a short hum of acknowledgement but makes no move to put the glasses on. Steve’s lips are pressed into a thin line and his fingers shake slightly where they rest against his temples.
Hopper sighs. “I’m gonna go get you checked in. Don’t go anywhere.” He waits until Steve gives another hum before moving toward the front desk.
There’s only one person manning it. She’s leaned over a stack of papers, several folders laying open around her as she organizes. Hopper steps up to the edge of the desk and she looks up from her work to reveal a pair of glasses that are, in his opinion, entirely too big for her face.
“Checking in, hon?”
“Yes, but not for me.” Hopper glances over at where Steve is still leaned over in the chair.
“Yeah,” She steps away from her papers and takes a seat in the deskchair across from him. “I saw you bring him in, poor dear.” She scootches closer to the desk to better reach the computer. She clicks her mouse a few times before her fingers shift to hover over the keyboard. “Patient name?”
She doesn’t look up at him, but her fingers fly over the keyboard when he answers, “Steven Harrington.”
She clicks her mouse a few more times before continuing, “Uh huh. And can you verify the patient’s home address?”
Flo’s voice echoes in his ears as he rattles off Harrington’s address.
“Perfect. Looks like we’ve already got his information loaded into the system.” She shifts to look up at him. “Any recent changes in insurance?”
He hopes not. “Nope.”
“And what’s brought you in to see us today?” She turns back to the computer.
Hopper hesitates, awareness of what this might look like to an outsider suddenly clicking into place. There’s no hiding the fact that Steve got his ass kicked and he’s in a building full of mandated reporters. The last thing he needs is for some doctor to get the state police involved. An image of El, sleeping on the couch, comes to the forefront of his mind and something curls tight in his chest.
It’s easy to slip into the role of Chief of Hawkins PD as he decides to give a half-truth. He shifts his arm to rest against the desktop, making sure the police department patch on his zip-up is visible.
Letting some authority leak into his voice, “Harrington was involved in a physical altercation earlier this evening. The situation’s been dealt with, but the kid got knocked in the head pretty hard. He was unconscious for between 15 and 20 minutes. Woke up with double vision, nausea, vomiting, sensitivity to light.” He pauses, letting her catch up as she types. “Also, his nose is pretty swollen and sensitive.”
She peers at him over the top of her glasses. Hopper watches her eyes catch on the patch before she turns back to the computer. “Would you say his symptoms have been getting worse? Better? Or around the same?”
Hopper huffs out a breath, glancing back toward Steve. “Worse at first.” He remembers Dustin’s explanation in the living room. “But he’s been about the same for around…” He glances down at his watch, “the last hour. Maybe longer.”
“Okay. And just to confirm, you said he lost consciousness for around 15 or 20 minutes?”
“Yes, correct.”
She types a few additional notes into the computer before pushing away from the desk. “Okay, almost done.” She leans down to rifle under the desk before popping back up with a wristband held in her hand. Picking up the nearest pen, she glances between the wristband and the computer screen, jotting down Steve’s information, before holding it out to him. “Place this around his wrist and make sure he keeps it on while he’s here.”
Hopper takes the plastic wristband.
Leaning over, she rifles around behind the desk ledge before revealing a blue plastic bag. She holds it out the same way she had the wristband, “In case the nausea comes back.”
He carefully takes it from her.
“Okay, you’re all set. Someone should be out to get you shortly.” She smiles warmly at him before pushing up her glasses and walking back over to her stack of papers.
Making his way back toward Steve, Hopper carefully shakes the barf bag open. He’s shocked to find the kid hasn’t moved an inch from where he’d left him, body held stiff where he’s leaning into his hand.
Dropping into a seat beside him, Hopper glances at the sunglasses still cradled loosely in Steve’s fingers. Sighing, he reaches out to take them from him, but Steve’s grip tightens across the lenses. He opens his eyes to peek at Hopper, still not moving from his hunched position. Recognition spreads over his face and he lets him take the glasses.
“Here. Take this instead.” Hopper shoves the open plastic bag into Steve’s waiting palm.
He gives the bag a wary look from under his steepled fingers. He swallows once, twice, before closing his eyes and turning further into his hand, away from the bag he’s holding with a white-knuckle grip.
Sending silent thanks to the lady with the big glasses, Hopper drops the sunglasses and wristband into his lap to place a hand on Steve’s back. “Use it if you have to, kid. Just try not to vomit all over the floor.”
Steve is shaking under Hopper’s palm, small tremors running up and down the kid’s spine. At a loss for what else to do, he starts running his hand over Steve’s back in what he hopes is a soothing motion.
Glancing around the waiting room, Hopper is struck by how normal everything seems here. The couple sitting a few rows away, the man grabbing a snack from the vending machine, the lady holding an ice pack to her wrist, none of them know they were nearly overrun by interdimensional monsters tonight.
He cranes his neck to see the television playing in the corner of the room. There’s nothing on the news, either. Nothing about the bloodbath that happened at the Lab. Just a late night re-run of some guy talking about the mall they put in a few counties over.
Steve’s back jumps beneath Hopper’s hand and he turns just in time to see the kid move faster than he has all night. His whole body shifts forward, hand dropping from his forehead to hold the plastic bag open. It’s hard to see the kid’s face, hunched over like he is, but Hopper knows the second Steve loses the battle against his stomach. His back jumps under Hopper’s hand again as he gags over the plastic bag.
“Aw, kid.” He keeps his touch light as he rubs circles between Steve’s shoulders. “It’s okay. Better out than in.”
The small tremors get worse with each heave until the kid is nearly shaking apart under Hopper’s hand. A pit opens up in his stomach, concerned that something is wrong, that he’s getting worse. He glances over at the front desk, wondering if he should try to flag down glasses lady, when Steve finally drags in a full breath.
The shaking subsides as Steve continues breathing, slow and measured, until his stomach finally seems to settle. Releasing a hand from the still empty plastic bag, he wipes hastily at his face before shifting to lean back in the chair. Hopper slides his hand up to rest gently on the nape of Steve’s neck.
He only has a second to take in Steve’s face, flushed bright red and damp from tears, before he shifts to shade his eyes again. Thankfully, the kid looks less tense than he did before. He’s sunk into the thin cushion of the hospital chair.
Dropping his hand from Steve’s neck, Hopper lifts the sunglasses out of his lap and carefully unfolds the arms so they’re fully open. He reaches out and lightly taps the hand Steve is using to cover his eyes. “Move your hand.”
“Lights h’rt”
“I know, kid. These will help more.” Hopper holds the sunglasses into his line of sight. “Trust me.”
Steve doesn’t move. Hopper’s starting to think he’s elected to ignore him when the kid drops his hand away from his face. His eyes are tight around the corners and become increasingly glassy each second they’re exposed to the light.
He carefully slips the sunglasses onto Steve’s face, making sure to be extra gentle when he sets them on his nose.
The kid lets out an audible breath as the glasses slide up to rest against his eyebrows. He sinks further into the seat, shoulders dropping in relief at finally being shielded from the bright hospital lights.
“Better?”
“So much.”
“Good.”
Hopper picks up the hospital wristband before looping it around the arm Steve has just dropped. He holds the band tight, where he thinks it should lock in place. “Too tight?” He glances at Steve’s face for a reaction.
He looks down at his wrist. “No. ‘S good.”
Hopper pushes down on the plastic piece and the wristband locks in place with a snap. He rotates the band around Steve’s wrist until he sees the receptionist’s tight scrawl.
“Hey, your parents haven’t changed health insurance recently, have they?”
Steve looks up at him, brows furrowed. “What?”
“The lady at the desk said they already had your information in their system. Your health insurance hasn’t changed since you were here last, right?” He pauses. “Otherwise, you’re gonna get a huge bill in the mail after this.”
“Oh. Umm…” The plastic bag crinkles under Steve’s fingers as he fidgets with it. “Las’ time I w’s here…” Steve lifts his hand out of Hopper’s grip to rub his forehead. “W’s ‘cause of basketball. Last year. Some asshole on th’ other team shoved me. Hit m’ head on the court floor...”
He seems to stare off for a moment before he turns to look at Hopper. “Wh’t was your question?”
“Insurance. Has your insurance changed since then?”
“Right.” Steve thinks for a moment before responding, “No, I don’t think so.”
Hopper doesn’t exactly keep tabs on high school sports, but he thinks he’d remember hearing about one of their best players being benched due to an injury. “Didn’t you play the whole season last year?”
“Hm?” Steve’s fingers pause where they’d been digging into his eyebrow. “What d’ you mean?”
“I mean, you had a head injury bad enough that you went to the hospital and you were still allowed to play the rest of the season?”
“Well, yeah.” Something must show on Hopper’s face because the crinkling gets louder as Steve starts to explain. “Wasn’ like this. Not even close to this, honestly.” He pushes the sunglasses further up his nose before moving his other hand to fidget with the bag as well. “Was back t’ normal in like, two weeks. Da- or…” Steve stills, bag falling silent before he continues, “coach told me to just, y’know, walk it off,” he finishes with a shrug.
Hopper, actually, doesn’t know. In fact, Hopper is opening his mouth to explain to Steve how absurd it is to tell a teenager to walk off a major injury when a door opens near the front desk, cutting him off.
A squat lady in a nurse’s uniform pushes a wheelchair through the doorway. “Steven Harrington?”
Hopper stands from his seat to catch her attention. Steve moves to follow his lead, but Hopper drops a hand on his shoulder to keep him sitting. “Wait for the wheelchair.”
Steve sinks back into the seat, grimacing as the nurse comes closer with the chair. He looks back to Hopper, mouth opening to say something, but he holds up a hand before he can start.
“Don’t fight me on this one, Harrington.”
Steve’s mouth clicks shut just as the nurse pushes the wheelchair up to his side.
“Hello! My name’s Ada. Heard you were feeling a bit dizzy?” She leans down to lock the wheels so the chair stays in place. “Hospital protocol, I’m afraid.” She gestures at the stationary wheelchair. “Go ahead and take a seat and I’ll get you wheeled into the back.”
Steve glances up at him before looking back to the wheelchair. The plastic bag crumples under his fingers as he braces both hands against the chair arms. He’s poised perfectly to stand up, but he hesitates.
Stepping forward, Hopper reaches down and loops an arm around Steve. “I gotcha, kid.”
He looks over with what Hopper thinks is a grateful smile. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses, but he doesn’t protest as Hopper lifts him slowly out of the chair.
Steve lets go of the chair arms to grip the wheelchair instead as Hopper maneuvers him from one seat to the other. The wheelchair threatens to move as Steve drops onto the leather cushion, but the locks keep him from rolling away.
“Perfect!” Ada cheers from where she’s still standing beside the chair.
Hopper steps out of her way so she can lean down and unlock the wheels. Her sneakers squeak against the linoleum floor as she walks behind the chair and starts pushing Steve toward the front desk.
Ada sends him a strange look as he follows beside the wheelchair. Her gaze shifts to his police department patch and her face clears. She doesn’t say anything as he follows them into the back.
She wheels Steve deeper into the hospital, past a few curtained off alcoves, and into a small examination room. There’s a hospital bed in the center of the space, a few chairs pushed against the wall, and a number of machines that Hopper is only vaguely familiar with.
The locks on the wheelchair click as Ada flips them into place again. She’s positioned Steve so he’s right next to the hospital bed. “Alrighty. One more shuffle and we’ll see if we can’t figure out what’s going on, okay?”
She holds out a hand for Steve to take. Hopper starts forward to help Steve up himself, but freezes as Harrington grips her hand and leverages himself onto the edge of the hospital bed. She stays surprisingly steady, despite the extra foot of height Steve has on her. She smiles warmly at him as he scootches back to sit properly on the bed.
Leaning down, Ada folds up the chair and tucks it against the back wall. She moves over to the small counter and starts rifling through a few papers on a clipboard.
Hopper steps over to the side of the bed, eyeing the kid where he’s got his head rested back. He’s still got the plastic bag clutched in his hand, but he isn’t tense like he was in the waiting room.
The papers flop back down against the clipboard as Ada abandons them for a machine right next to Steve. She reaches out and grabs a blood pressure cuff from where it was hanging off the side of the machine. “Any new allergies or medications?” The velcro rips as she loosens the cuff and slides it up Steve’s arm.
Steve looks down to watch as she pulls the cuff tight. “No.”
She presses a button on the machine and a hum fills the room as the blood pressure cuff expands with air. She pauses, watching the screen until the hum cuts off. It’s silent for a moment before the air whooshes back out with a hiss. Looking away from the screen, she removes the cuff from Steve’s arm and hangs it back up.
She grabs a pen from the counter and returns to the papers, jotting down a few notes. “Ohh-kay.” Looking back at Steve, she points her pen at a little white sign posted on the far wall. There’s a set of increasingly distressed smiley faces lined up across it. Each smiley face has a big number posted beneath it. “Which face best describes your pain?”
Steve’s face pinches as he follows her pen to assess the sign. “Umm…” He pushes the glasses further up his nose. “Like a s’ven?”
Her pen scratches across the paper. “And I have a note here about nausea. Using the same scale, how would you rate that?”
The plastic bag rustles as Steve thinks. “Right now? Maybe like a three…” He pauses. “Comes ‘nd goes, though.”
“Alrighty…”
Hopper drops a hand onto Steve’s shoulder and the rustling stops as he looks over at him.
“And your dizziness. Does it feel like you’re moving or is the room moving?”
Steve looks back at her. “Th’ room.”
Her pen scratches again as she jots down a few more notes. “That should be everything I need. A doctor will be in soon, okay?” She scoops up the clipboard and leaves the room, pulling a curtain shut behind her.
Steve sinks further into the crappy hospital bed as soon as she disappears from view. Huffing out a sigh, he brings a hand up to press into his forehead.
Hopper squeezes his shoulder. “You doing okay, Harrington?”
He tilts his head to look at Hopper, completely deadpan, “Been better.”
Giving him a tight smile, Hopper pats his shoulder lightly before looking behind him, toward the chairs against the wall. “Yeah, I know, kid.” He drops his hand and walks over to grab one of the chairs. Gripping the back, he scootches it across the floor so it’s closer to Steve before sitting down.
It’s startling how intimately he knows this position. It’s a different chair, a different bed, a different kid, but none of that stops a familiar grief from choking him. He almost stands up again, just to get away from the feeling, when there's a knock against the doorway.
The curtain shifts and a man in a white coat enters the room. The tightness in Hopper’s throat is chased away by pure shock, because it’s Doctor Owens.
“Hello, hello.”
Except, he realizes, it’s not Owens. This guy just really looks like him.
“I’m Doctor Moore.” He walks over to the little counter, setting down what Hopper thinks is Ada’s clipboard before pulling on a pair of gloves. Crossing over to stand next to Steve, “Sounds like you’re having a pretty poor night.”
Steve pulls himself up to sit straighter against the back of the bed. “Could’a been worse.” A strange expression crosses Steve’s features, but Moore doesn’t seem to notice.
He smiles at Steve before motioning toward his own eyes. “Go ahead and take those glasses off and we’ll figure out what’s going on.” He says it gently, like he expects a refusal.
Steve, to his credit, doesn’t argue. Just clenches his jaw and slips the glasses off to rest, arms still open, in his lap. He squints up at Moore as he leans down to get a better look at Steve’s face.
Reaching out with a gloved hand, he tilts Steve’s face up a bit. Ghosting his thumb under Steve’s right eye, he stares for a moment before tilting Steve’s face back down. He shifts to look at the blood crusting on his temple. “You’ve got quite a cut here.” He shifts a few strands of hair out of the way. “Any idea what caused it?”
Steve sits stiff as Moore continues to examine the wound. “I don’t…” he grits his teeth as the doctor shifts a few more strands.
“A plate.” Hopper jumps in. “I think it was a plate.” He knows it was a plate. Max told him as much in the living room.
Moore glances at him before tilting Steve’s face again, looking at his nose this time. “Hold still, please.” His hands shift to hover over either side of Steve’s nose. He drops his fingers to skate lightly over the skin there.
Steve’s jaw clenches and his eyes start to water as Moore continues his examination. He presses down to apply gentle pressure and Hopper has to grip the chair arms with both hands to keep himself seated.
“Okay.” Moore drops his hands, leaning back to stand up straight.
Steve blinks a few times, glassy sheen across his eyes dissipating.
Moore holds out a finger squarely in Steve’s line of sight. “I want you to try and follow my finger with your eyes. Don’t move your head, okay?”
Steve’s eyes fix onto Moore’s hand. “‘kay.”
Hopper watches Steve as Moore slowly shifts his hand from side to side. His eyes track the movement, but in jerky jumps instead of the smooth glide Hopper knows it should be.
Dropping his hand, “Good job!” He digs a hand in one of his coat pockets before pulling out a small pen flashlight. He positions the light so it’ll shine into Steve’s right eye. “Go ahead and stare over my left shoulder. Don’t look directly into the light.”
Fixing his gaze over the doctor’s shoulder, Steve gives him a tiny nod.
Moore turns on the flashlight. Steve’s eyes go glassy again, but he doesn’t look away like he had when Hopper ran this test back at Joyce’s house. Steve’s pupil shrinks slightly against the light, but he can tell it’s still wider than it should be.
Dropping the flashlight, “And look over my right shoulder.” He waits for Steve’s gaze to shift before bringing the light up to shine in his left eye. He gets the same reaction on this side.
No wonder the kid needs the glasses.
“Perfect.” Moore turns off the flashlight, dropping it back into his pocket. “You can pop those shades back on, if you want.” He fishes a pen out of his pocket before returning over to the counter where the clipboard sits. He clicks it once before writing something across the pages.
Steve doesn’t hesitate to slip the glasses back onto his face. His shoulders droop as he pushes them up as far as they’ll go.
Moore drops the pen on the counter and shifts to look between Steve and Hopper. “Ada’s gonna come in and give you some medication for the pain and the nausea. She’s also gonna clean up that spot on the left side of your head.” He taps his own temple. “Then she’s going to take you down for a head CT so we can get a better look at your brain.”
“You think it’s more than just a concussion?” Hopper’s fingers tighten on the chair arms.
Moore tilts his head slightly side to side. “It’s impossible to say until the scans come back.” He picks up the pen and puts it back in his pocket. “Most of his symptoms align with what we’d expect from a concussion, but there was a considerable gap in consciousness. The dilated pupils, too,” he gestures to his own eyes. “While they’re not an uncommon symptom for a concussion, it could point to a bigger issue.” He pauses. “I just want to make sure we’re not leaving any stones unturned.”
He gives Hopper a reassuring smile before turning back to Steve, “So, Ada will be in shortly. I’ll see you again once those scans come back.” Grabbing the clipboard, he brushes past the curtain and out of the room.
“Bigger issue?” Steve tilts his head to stare at him from behind the sunglasses.
“I think they want to make sure your brain isn’t bleeding.”
Steve’s face freezes for a moment before he lets out a shaky, “Oh.” He looks away, hands fisting into the hem of Jonathan’s shirt.
“Hey,” he leans forward to take one of Steve’s hands, squeezing it tight. “I’m sure there’s nothing wrong.”
Steve looks back at him, lips pressed into a thin line. He squeezes his hand back, just as tight. “How d’ you know?”
A single, flat note echoes in Hopper’s ears. “If they thought something was really wrong, this room would be swarming with doctors right now. We wouldn’t be waiting for Ada to wipe down your face.” He smiles, relieved when Steve gives a tight smile back.
“Besides,” he gives his hand a small shake, “even if there’s something wrong, that scan the doctor was talking about will pick it up.” He feels his smile slip, black and white pictures of his little girl’s lungs flashing in his mind. “And they’ll be able to fix it.” He speaks with more confidence than he feels.
Steve gives a small nod, sinking back into the cushion.
They fall into a comfortable silence as they wait. Hopper doesn’t think Steve falls asleep, but his grip on his hand slowly loosens as he stares up at the tiled ceiling.
Eventually, another knock filters into the room, curtain swishing open to reveal Ada. She deposits a tray with various different items onto the counter.
“Hello again!” She pulls on some gloves before ripping into a few packages from the tray, carefully lining up the items she pulls out of them. “I’m going to administer two different medications. One for pain relief and the other is an anti-emetic for the nausea.”
She twists around with a strip of a stretchy material held out in front of her. “Hold out your arm for me…”
Steve tightens his hold on Hopper’s hand. He follows Ada’s direction and holds out his other arm toward her.
Sneakers squeaking as she steps closer, Ada wraps the material around Steve’s arm. She positions it to rest right above his elbow and ties it off tight. Revealing a small package she’d had tucked into her palm, Ada rips it open and pulls out a soaked square cloth. Crumpling the package in her hand, she runs the small square gently over Steve’s skin. The kid’s nose wrinkles right before the sharp scent of alcohol hits him.
Returning to the counter, she drops the package and the alcohol swab onto the counter before grabbing an IV needle from her careful lineup.
Steve shifts to stare up at the ceiling, away from where Ada has leaned over his arm.
“You’re gonna feel just a slight pinch…”
Hopper grips Steve’s hand, squeezing tight in reassurance.
“In three, two, one…”
Steve’s eyebrows pinch together as Ada slides the needle in right below the crux of his elbow.
“Hold still for me…” She quickly grabs a piece of tape from the counter and sticks it to the needle in Steve’s skin, fixing it in place. “Perfect! Hard part’s over.” Tugging on the stretchy material, her knot comes loose and the band falls away from Steve’s arm.
Ada starts working on administering the medication, but Hopper turns his attention to Steve. He’s still got his head tipped back to stare at the ceiling. From this angle, Hopper can see just enough under the glasses to know that Steve’s got his eyes squeezed shut tight.
“Hey.” He loosens his hold on Steve’s hand before tightening it again. “How’d you end up tailing Henderson today?”
Huffing out a breath, Steve tilts his head to look at him. “‘s a long story.”
Hopper glances around the small room before turning back to the kid. Shrugging, he lifts an eyebrow at him.
“Umm….” His brows furrow over the edge of the sunglasses. “Nance ‘nd I got into a fight yesterday.” Looking back at the ceiling, “We’d fought before, but n’t like this. Felt bigger, like maybe ‘t wasn’t something th’t could be fixed.” His lips press together before he shifts to look back at Hopper. “Figured I’d try anyway. Bought some flowers from th’ farmers market. Th’ one that pops up next t’ th’ general store?”
Hopper nods, “Flo usually brings pastries into the office from that one lady’s stand.”
Steve smiles, “She’s got th’ best cinnamon rolls.” His smile droops, “Anyway, I got some flowers ‘nd drove over t’ Nancy’s to apologize.” Smile disappearing, face going stiff, “She wasn’t there. W’s on a trip with Jonathan. Didn’t know then, but w’s obvious when they came back.”
Hopper remembers standing in the driveway, watching Nancy nod toward Jonathan. Remembers the understanding that had passed over his face at the small gesture. That kind of ability, to talk to somebody without words, doesn’t just show up overnight.
“H’nderson was there. Needed help…” Steve glances over at where Ada is still working. “…looking for a dog. Planned t’ corner it at th’ junkyard. ‘S where we met Sinclair and Mayfeild. And, well, you can prob’ly guess th’ rest.”
“How sweet.” Ada chirps from where she’s started gathering all the plastic pieces and sterile packaging. She tosses them into the designated trash bin before turning toward them. “What kind of dog was it?”
“A mutt.” There’s a dark undercurrent to Steve’s voice.
Her eyes widen briefly before she gives a tight smile. “You should feel that medication start to kick in soon.” Grabbing a few items off the counter, she shifts to stand closer to Steve. “Look this way, please.”
Steve follows her gentle direction so she can better access the cut on his head.
“Perfect, just like that.” Holding a soaked disposable cloth, she dabs at the dried blood on Steve’s temple.
The kid tenses at her touch, grip tightening on Hopper’s hand to crush his fingers. It slowly melts away, though, as Ada keeps working. His grip loosens as he goes boneless against the hospital bed. He lets out a steady sigh when Ada backs off and Hopper figures the meds must’ve hit.
“Alrighty.” She tosses the cloth in the trash before grabbing the wheelchair from the far wall. Dragging it over, she unfolds it to rest next to Steve’s bed. “Ready to head down for some scans?”
Steve just stares at her for a moment before he releases Hopper’s hand to sit up on the bed, swinging his legs over the side.
Hopper stands up and walks around to the other side of the bed before Ada can step forward. He reaches out an arm for Steve, who takes it. Gripping tight to his forearm, Steve stands from the bed. It’s quick work to get the kid settled into the leather seat.
Ada leans down and unlocks the wheels before glancing at Hopper.
He waves her off. He knows the drill. “I’ll be here when you get back, okay kid?”
Steve gives him a small nod before Ada wheels him carefully around the bed and through the curtained off doorway.
Hopper walks back to the chair and sits down. The room feels smaller without the kid in it, more suffocating. He props his feet onto the edge of the empty bed and tries to ignore the distant beeping of heart monitors while he waits.
Hopper knows there’s something wrong the second he pulls into Joyce’s driveway. A car he doesn’t recognize is parked beside him and it looks like every light in the house has been turned off.
He glances back at El where she’s laying sprawled across the back seat, sleeping. He doesn’t want to take her into the house when he doesn’t know what’s going on, but the idea of leaving her out here alone and vulnerable is even worse. So, sending a wary glance at the house, he steps out of the truck. He looks around the front yard, making sure they won’t be ambushed, before sliding the driver’s seat forward and carefully extracting El from the truck.
Once she’s situated in his arms, he slowly creeps toward the front door. Climbing up the porch steps, he can hear voices from inside. The kids’ voices, high and laced with panic. He’s about to rush through the door to figure out what the hell happened while he was gone when it swings open for him. All four of them are gathered right in the threshold. He has just enough time to take in their frantic expressions before they explode into motion.
They talk loudly over each other as they rush to him.
Mike reaches him first, “El! What happened? Is she-”
“-didn’t think it was this bad!” Dustin’s eyes are wide, voice pinched.
“-turned off all the lights and moved him to the-” Lucas gestures wildly over Mike and Dustin’s shoulders.
It’s impossible to understand what they’re saying. Hopper can’t focus on one statement long enough to hear its end.
Max’s voice breaks through the others’ “-arted beating Steve and nobody was doing anything so I-”
He latches onto the name. Steve. Something’s wrong with Steve.
He remembers Harrington’s kid. Steve volunteered to stay behind and watch the kids when he and Joyce left to close the gate. What, possibly, could have happened to him?
El stirs in his arms as the kids grow louder, more frantic. “Woah, woah, woah. One at a time!” They go silent, looking at each other to figure out who should explain. Hopper points at Max. “You. Where’s Steve?”
She points to the right, toward the living room. Hopper steps through the group of kids and into the house to get a better look. He spots Steve immediately. He’s sitting on the couch, head tilted back at an awkward angle. The darkness makes it hard to see details, but a small nightlight plugged into the wall casts enough to see the bruises and dark splotches of blood covering Steve’s face.
Alarm sparks in his chest and he hurries over to the kid. “What the hell happened to him?!”
Reaching the couch, he gingerly sets El down in the space next to Steve before leaning toward him for a better look. Someone’s clearly beaten the shit out of him.
The kids remain silent and he spins around for an answer to his question. Dustin is already pointing behind their little group and Hopper sees someone else sitting against the wall by the front door.
Stepping closer, he’s flooded with recognition. He does know that car parked out front. It’s Hargrove’s son’s car. He’s pulled the kid over a few times now for speeding. His face is bruised and bloody too, but not anywhere near as bad as Steve’s. His bloody knuckles make it clear who won that fight.
“Steve saved me.” Hopper turns to Lucas. “Billy showed up looking for Max.” He glances over at her. “He had me pinned up against the wall and was threatening me. Told me to stay away from her. I don’t know what he’d have done if Steve hadn’t stepped in.”
“Yeah, but Billy never holds back during a fight.” Max says. “He smashed a plate over Steve’s head and then wouldn’t stop hitting him once he was on the ground. So I shot him with the other sedative.”
“You mean the one we gave Will?” Hopper asks carefully.
“Yup.”
“But Steve was already unconscious at that point. I don’t know how long he was out.” Mike adds from where he’s shifted to stand beside the couch where El is laying.
“That’s a good question, actually.” Dustin reaches a hand up to rest under his chin. “He was unconscious for maybe ten or fifteen minutes? Long enough for us to load him into the car.”
“And get almost to the pumpkin patch. That had to have been more like twenty minutes.” Max shakes her head slightly.
The pumpkin patch? What were they doing out there? Hopper’s brows furrow together, eyes sharpening as he pieces together where this is going.
“He drifted for a little bit, though. We thought he was awake a few times before he actually woke up.” Lucas glances over toward Steve.
So, Steve gets knocked unconscious by Billy, who was knocked unconscious by Max. Then he was hauled into a car, Billy’s he assumes since it’s the only other one here, and driven to the pumpkin patch.
Right to the tunnels.
He doesn’t want to think about who was driving with Steve out of commission.
Hopper has to close his eyes and take a few deep breaths to quell the frustration growing in his stomach. He needs to deal with one thing at a time and Steve takes priority right now considering he was unconscious, or mostly unconscious, for up to twenty minutes.
He opens his eyes to see the kids staring up at him.
“He seemed fine when he woke up, a little confused and kind of off balance, but he went back to normal in the tun–” Lucas shoves Dustin in the side and he coughs a few times to cover his slip up. He glances sheepishly at Hopper before continuing. “Um, anyway, he started getting worse really quickly.”
“What do you mean, worse?”
“He was really off balance at first and I think his head was bothering him. I found him in the bathroom with all the lights off. Said he felt like he was on the tilt-a-whirl, y’know that ride at the fair?”
Hopper nods absently, silently urging the kid to continue.
“I know you’re supposed to check for double vision to assess head injuries and he was definitely seeing double. He said I was holding up five fingers when I was only holding up three, which doesn’t really make sense mathematically if you’re seeing double, but whatever.” Dustin shakes his head. “Basically, he can’t walk on his own because he’s too dizzy, he can’t stand the lights because of his headache, and he’s vomited a couple times now. I think something might really be wrong with him.”
“Okay. It sounds like he has a concussion. I’m more worried that he was unconscious for so long.” He walks back toward the couch where Steve is still slumped into the cushions. He crouches down in front of the kid. “I want to check one more thing.” He looks back at Dustin. “Do you know if Joyce keeps a flashlight somewhere in here?”
“Umm. I don’t know, but I can check.” Dustin rushes toward the kitchen.
Turning back to Steve, Hopper reaches a hand out to grip his shoulder. Steve’s eyes flutter open at the contact but it takes a few seconds for him to focus on anything. He sees awareness slowly cross Steve’s features as he takes in El’s sleeping form beside him.
“Steve, hey.”
Steve lifts his head to look forward at Hopper. His eyes are squinted in the dim light, but Hopper can clearly see that Steve’s pupils are blown unusually wide.
Steve just looks at him, expression blank, before his brows pinch together and he mumbles, “D’d you do it? D’d you cl’se the g’te?”
Mike speaks up from beside him, “He’s asked that a few times now. I’m not sure how much he’s remembering.”
Which really isn’t good.
“Yeah, kid. We closed the gate. It’s over.”
Steve breathes out shakily, shoulders relaxing under Hopper’s hand. His eyes start to close again but Hopper gives a short squeeze. “Hey, no, no. No sleeping yet. I’m gonna ask you a few questions. That Billy kid really beat the crap out of you and I need to know how bad it is.”
Steve gives a grumble in response, but doesn’t close his eyes.
He can hear Dustin rummaging around in the kitchen. Drawers slamming and contents rustling confirm he’s going to have to wait for the flashlight.
“What year is it?”
There’s a pause as Steve seems to absorb the question before he replies. “1984.”
“Okay, good. Who’s the President?”
A longer pause this time. Hopper can practically see the gears spinning behind Steve’s eyes and it’s like a light turns on when he answers, “Regan.”
“One more question, and I know you already answered this one, but just bear with me.” Hopper holds out two fingers in Steve’s line of sight. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Steve’s brows pinch together, eyes focusing clumsily on Hopper’s outstretched hand. “Umm…” His eyes squeeze shut briefly before opening again. “Four?”
Okay, well he’s definitely had his bell rung, but his long-term memory seems to be intact. He needs Dustin to hurry up with that damn flashlight.
“Alright, Harrington. We’ll get you fixed up.” Squeezing Steve’s shoulder again in reassurance, he shifts to brace himself on the couch arm instead. “Tell me what’s going on. How are you feeling?”
“Dizzy,” Steve sighs out. “Head hurts. Face hurts.”
Hopper waits a few seconds for Steve to continue, but there’s only silence. He runs through the list of symptoms Dustin gave him earlier. Shifting slightly in his kneeled position, he catches sight of a trash can shoved to the end of the couch.
“Dustin said you’ve been vomiting. Are you nauseous?”
Steve gives a half shrug.
Hopper glances at the trash can again, convinced he can smell its contents from where he’s positioned, now that he’s aware of it. “Do you think you’re going to get sick again anytime soon?”
Steve gives another half shrug, eyes starting to droop again.
He figures they’re probably in the clear for now. Glancing back toward the door, he finds only empty space where he expected Lucas and Max to be standing. Whipping his head in the other direction, he catches sight of Lucas in his periphery. Standing, he turns around to see both of them hovering right behind him.
“You two.” He gestures toward the discarded trash can. “Go wash that out, would you?”
“Wash it out where?” Lucas replies with a grimace.
“Go dump it in the toilet and then,” he hesitates. The can is too large to fit under the sink. “I don’t know, rinse it in the bathtub or something. We can disinfect it later.”
Max lets out a sigh before moving to pick up the trash can. “C’mon.” she says to Lucas before gripping his arm and steering him toward the bathroom.
A triumphant, “Aha!” comes from the kitchen just before Dustin rushes into the living room, flashlight in hand. He holds the light out to Hopper, a grin spread across his face.
Hopper grabs the flashlight and turns back toward Steve, who’s clearly falling asleep. He reaches out and lightly taps his cheek a few times. Steve opens his eyes to stare blearily up at him. “No sleeping, remember?”
Hopper tests out the flashlight by shining it toward the floor, away from Steve. The light is a little too big for what he wants to test, but he’ll make it work.
“I want to check your pupils’ reaction to light, okay? So I need you to stare straight ahead and try not to close your eyes.”
Steve gives a noise of confirmation before he slowly leverages himself into more of a sitting position. He’s off balance, head wobbling slightly as he lifts it from the cushions to rest squarely on his shoulders.
Once he’s looking more or less straight ahead, Hopper positions the flashlight so it will catch the top half of Steve’s face. Carefully watching his eyes, Hopper doesn’t give any warning before he turns on the flashlight. He has a split second to see Steve’s face, pupils still blown unnaturally wide despite the light, before Steve flinches into the couch like he’s been hit. The kid sucks in a breath and raises a hand up to shield his eyes. Hopper is quick to turn off the flashlight.
“Shit, sorry kid.” Hopper bites back a sigh. It seems like his night isn’t quite over. He’s gonna have to take him to the hospital. Which means he should probably call Steve’s parents, and he has no idea how he’s going to explain this to them.
“What’s your home phone number?” Steve blinks up at him through squinted eyes. He’s pressing a hand into his right eyebrow, like he’s still shielding himself from the flashlight.
Steve’s face twists with confusion as the question sinks in. “Why?”
“So I can call your parents and let them know what’s happened. I’m sure they’ll want to meet us at the hospital.”
Steve slumps into the couch cushions again, dropping his hand back to his side. “They’re n’t there. Traveling. Maybe…Vegas? Or D.C.?” His expression is pinched, like it hurts to think. “Haven’t been home in forever.”
Dustin takes a sharp breath behind Hopper, but he doesn’t exactly share the kid’s surprise. He’s shut down too many parties over at the Harrington house to be shocked that Steve is left home alone a lot. “Do you know when they’ll be back?”
“A week?” Steve pauses before continuing. “Maybe two?”
Well, shit. Concussions are no joke. Steve isn’t gonna be able to go back to his house without someone there to look after him, and that’s assuming the concussion is the only thing wrong.
One thing at a time, he reminds himself. He’ll cross that bridge when they get to it.
In the meantime, Steve isn’t going anywhere until they clean him up a bit. His face and clothes are streaked with dirt and drying slime. It’ll spark too many questions at the hospital. Questions he won’t be able to answer.
He glances over at Mike where he’s perched on the edge of the couch, between El’s head and the sofa arm. “Go into Jonathan’s room and get a clean shirt that will fit him.” He gestures toward Steve.
“Who?” Mike glances around. “Me?” He points at himself.
“Yes, you.”
“But…” He glances down at El where she’s resting before shifting his gaze over to Steve. He sighs. “Fine.” Standing from the couch, he walks down the hallway toward Jonathan’s room.
Turning to face Dustin, “And you. Go get a bowl of water and a washcloth from the bathroom.”
Dustin nods before turning and following Mike down the hallway.
“Alright, Harrington.” He turns back toward Steve who is, mercifully, still awake. “Think you can sit up long enough to change shirts? We’ve gotta clean you up a bit before I take you to the hospital. We don’t want any NDA violating questions tonight.”
In answer, Steve hoists himself up again to sit properly on the couch. He wobbles when he leans forward, like he’s on a boat instead of sitting in Joyce’s living room. Hopper reaches out a hand to steady him.
Steve shrugs off his coat before yanking his shirt up and over his head. He hisses when the collar brushes roughly over his forehead. He dumps the shirt onto the couch arm just as Mike returns with a fresh one. He hands the plain black material to Hopper, who shakes it out before handing it over to Steve.
Steve is pulling the shirt down to rest properly on his shoulders when Dustin returns with a bowl carefully held in his hands. Lucas and Max follow closely behind with the clean trash can, which they deposit back to the end of the couch.
Even in the darkness, Hopper can tell that moving around so much hasn’t done Steve any favors. He’s slumped back into the cushions again, face drained of color outside of the bruises, blood, and dirt.
Making an executive decision, Hopper takes the bowl from Dustin’s hands before kneeling back down in front of Steve. Placing the bowl on the floor beside him, he fishes the washcloth out of the warm water and rings it out.
Carefully, he starts to wipe the dirt and slime off Steve’s hands. They’re actually pretty clean, considering. Most of the crust gathers around his wrists, where his sleeves hadn’t quite covered.
Steve stirs as Hopper wipes them clean. “I c’n do it.” He reaches to grab the washcloth from Hopper’s hands, but he maneuvers out of Steve’s reach.
“Trust me kid, this will go a lot faster if I do it.” And judging from the way Steve had yanked the shirt roughly over his head, aggravating his wounds, he’ll be a fair bit gentler too.
Steve seems to accept Hopper’s assessment and backs off. He makes quick work of cleaning his hands and wrists. He dunks the washcloth back into the bowl, watching the dirt disperse into the previously clean water, before ringing it out again. Hopper gently runs the cloth over Steve’s face. He’s careful to avoid the large patch of dried blood by his temple, not wanting to reopen the wound until they’re at the hospital.
He dabs the cloth under Steve’s nose and the kid flinches back with a gasp.
Hopper jumps at the reaction, backing off immediately. “Sorry, kid. You okay?”
Steve inches closer again, “Yeah, fine.”
Hopper takes a second look at Steve’s nose. It looks mostly fine, but maybe a little swollen? He brings a hand up to hover over the bridge of Steve’s nose. His eyes are wide where they’re locked onto Hopper’s fingers. “I promise, I’ll be gentle.” Heat blooms under his fingertips as he lightly brushes his skin. Definitely swollen, then.
He backs off. “Okay, we’ll skip that one for now. It might be broken.”
“Perfect.” Steve bites out through gritted teeth.
Scanning Steve’s face, Hopper deems him clean enough to avoid any questions. The wash cloth lands back in the bowl with a soft splash. Taking one last look, he notices there’s a few bandaids clinging weakly to Steve’s forehead and chin. They’re soaked through and lifting around the edges. They come off without resistance when Hopper pulls on them, and he disposes of them in the trash can.
“Okay,” he sighs out before rising to his feet. “I think we’re about ready to go, Harrington.”
“I’m coming with you.” Dustin says from beside Lucas and Max.
Hopper turns to see the others nodding in agreement.
Absolutely not. He’s been able to keep them busy with various tasks here, but at the hospital? With nothing to do except wait? It’d be like trying to herd cats.
“No.”
They erupt into protests, voices overlapping as they crowd closer to him. He holds up a hand, cutting them off so suddenly that the resulting silence is deafening.
Standing to face them head-on, “Let me make myself clear since, apparently, I wasn’t clear enough last time.” He takes in the way they glance hesitantly at each other. “None of you are going anywhere. You will stay in this house until Joyce gets back with the others. I’d better not hear anything about any of you being within 10 miles of that tunnel entrance.” He pauses. “Understood?”
He hears a few mumbled yes’s as they each nod their agreement.
“Good.” He starts to turn back toward Steve when his eyes catch on Billy. He’s still slumped against the wall by the front door, but Hopper isn’t sure how much longer the sedative will last. That dose was meant for someone Will’s size, not Billy’s. Uneasiness washes through him at the thought of leaving the kids alone with the person responsible for this whole mess.
Max glances between him and Billy. “We’ll be fine.” She speaks with unwavering confidence. “He won’t mess with us anymore.” She looks back at Billy, eyes hardening. “Now he knows what’ll happen if he does.”
Her confidence is inspiring, but Hopper isn’t convinced that Billy won’t try to make trouble. So, he starts toward the front door.
“Where are you going?” Max sputters out from behind him.
“Grabbing something out of the truck.” He turns the doorknob. “Stay here.” He closes the door behind him as he steps down onto the porch.
The gravel crunches under his feet as he walks down the driveway. Stopping by the passenger side, he opens the truck door before leaning into the cab and popping open the glove compartment. It’s a bit of a mess, papers threatening to spill onto the floor as he roots through them. His fingers brush against something cool, and he plucks his spare set of handcuffs out of the mess.
He snaps the glovebox shut, closes the truck door, and turns back to the house. He fishes his keys out of his pocket, singles out the cuff key on his ring, and unlocks the restraints as he walks up the driveway. He pauses on the porch long enough to return his keys to his pocket before opening the front door.
The kids stare at him wide eyed as he walks over to Billy and pauses. He stares down at the unconscious teenager for a few seconds before walking over to the kitchen doorway. Scanning over the room, purposely ignoring what looks like half the fridge scattered across the floor, his eyes land on the oven.
Returning to Billy’s side, Hopper leans down and grips his shoulders before slowly maneuvering him away from the wall. Stepping closer, he slips his arms under Billy’s shoulders and drags him backwards into the kitchen. Condiments scatter in his wake as he pulls at Billy’s shoulders until he’s leaning against the oven door.
Hopper places a cuff around Billy’s right wrist, tightening it so he doesn’t have any room to wiggle out of the restraint. Then, he threads the other cuff through the oven door handle before tightening it around Billy’s left wrist, effectively tying him in place.
Eyes locked on the drawers beside the oven, Hopper pulls them open one by one. His hands scrape through the contents, searching for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon. All he finds is an absurd number of hot pads, which he decides to leave alone.
Searching the only cabinet within Billy’s reach, he finds a stack of cookie sheets. Carefully pulling them out of the cabinet, he deposits them on the counter across the room from where Billy sits.
He glances around the room a final time before the lingering uneasiness finally drains away. Cuffed to the oven like this, there’s no way Billy will be able to cause trouble. Even if he’s able to stand and grab something, there isn’t anything left around him to use as a weapon.
Turning toward the living room, he’s met with all four kids crowded into the kitchen doorway.
He fixes his gaze on Max. “Now he won’t mess with you anymore.”
Pushing slowly through their group, he walks back to the living room.
Stepping up to El’s side of the couch, he crouches down next to her sleeping form. Her face is pale under the makeup lingering around her eyes. There’s a smudge of blood trailing from under her nose toward her cheek, like she missed a spot when she’d wiped it.
He knows how much closing the gate must’ve taken from her.
He runs a hand gently over her curls, remembering how she’d levitated off the ground. Remembering how the blood vessels popped around her eyes as she forced the gate shut with all of her strength.
Mike speaks softly from his side, “She’s just drained, right?” His eyes search Hopper’s face. “She’ll be okay?”
“Yeah, she’ll be okay.” He gives Mike a reassuring smile. “She just needs rest.”
Mike nods at his answer. “We’ll take care of her.”
“I know you will, kid.”
Standing, Hopper steps back over to where Steve sits, eyes closed and breaths even. Reaching out, he squeezes Steve’s shoulder a few times to wake him up. He gives a gentle shake when he doesn’t respond. “Steve, hey, c’mon we’ve gotta go.”
Steve blinks awake to stare blankly up at him. “G’where?”
“I’m taking you to the hospital.” He slips his hands under Steve’s arms, ready to hoist him onto his feet. “We need to get that head of yours checked out by a doctor.”
Steve grimaces, “Hate hospitals.” Lifting his arms, he rests his hands hesitantly on Hopper’s shoulders.
“We’re gonna take this slow. One step at a time, Harrington.”
Steve grips his shoulders a bit tighter. Hopper watches his eyes harden and his jaw clench, and it’s all the confirmation he needs to slowly lift Steve up off the couch.
Hopper gets him mostly to his feet when Steve’s grip turns ironclad, fingernails biting deep into his shoulders. Hopper winces at the pinch, watching in alarm as Steve’s eyelids flutter and his head droops toward his chest.
“Shit!” Steve’s knees start to buckle and Hopper steps closer, tugging Steve against his chest to keep him upright.
Mike jumps forward, hands outstretched, ready to catch him if he falls.
Dustin rushes over. “Steve!”
“He’s okay.” Hopper throws in his direction.
Steve isn’t completely unconscious. At least, Hopper doesn’t think he is. He’s still supporting some of his own weight and his hands are still clenched tight to Hopper’s shoulders.
Softly, he repeats, “You’re okay, kid.” He can feel Steve’s uneven breaths where his face is pressed into his chest. “Deep breaths. Just like this, okay? Deep breath in.” Hopper breathes deep into his chest, making sure Steve can follow his lead. “And out.” He releases his breath slowly, letting his chest deflate. He can feel Steve’s breath, slow and controlled, as he releases it.
“Good. In.” A deep breath in through his chest.
Steve’s grip gets impossibly tighter as he sucks in a breath.
“And out.” A controlled breath out.
Steve lifts his head a few inches before it falls forward again.
It hits Hopper’s chest with a dull thud. “Easy, easy.” A small, sad sound escapes from Steve’s slumped form and Hopper pulls him a little closer. “One step at a time, remember? Just get your bearings, kid. We won’t move until you’re ready.”
It’s another few carefully controlled breaths before Steve’s knees straighten to take on more of his own weight.
He slowly lifts his head again until he’s staring straight ahead. His eyes are still slightly unfocused, but they stay open this time.
Steve loosens his grip on Hopper’s shoulders, nails retracting from his skin, but doesn’t pull away completely. He can feel how off balance Steve is. Can feel the way his grip tightens on one shoulder for a second before releasing to tighten on the other. He can see him wavering on his feet, balance shifting from one side to the other, mirroring his shifting grip.
He tightens his hold on Steve to try and keep him steady. “Better?”
“Yeah. S’rry.”
Hopper ignores the slurred apology. “Think you’re ready to move to the truck?”
Steve takes another deep breath. “Yeah.”
He nods. “Okay. Let’s just-” Slowly, he resituates them so he’s holding Steve against his side, instead of close to his chest. He’s got one arm braced under Steve’s arms, resting across his back, while his other grabs Steve’s arm to loop it across his shoulders.
Glancing at Mike, who is still hovering between Steve and the couch, “Come get his other side.”
He doesn’t hesitate, moving forward to awkwardly mimic Hopper’s hold on Steve’s other side.
It’s not perfect. Mike is a bit too short to really be much help. Luckily, Steve seems to be holding up most of his own weight and he really just needs Mike’s help to keep him balanced.
“Still doing okay?” He leans forward slightly to get a better look at Steve’s face for a response.
His eyes are tight around the corners, brows furrowed together, but he gives a noise of confirmation.
“Alright.” He looks around Steve to Mike. “Just keep him from hitting anything, okay?”
Mike nods, tightening his hold on Steve’s shirt as they start moving toward the door.
Steve sways with each step and Hopper braces his other hand against his chest to try and keep him from toppling toward Mike.
They push past Dustin, who’s staring wide-eyed at Steve as they go by. Lucas steps up beside him, brushing against Dustin’s arm in silent reassurance.
Max steps forward from where she’d been standing near the hallway to open the front door. Hopper nods his thanks as he crosses the threshold and steps onto the porch. Steve follows clumsily after him, leaning heavier into Hopper’s side as he stumbles onto the porch.
They’re about halfway to the truck when Hopper notices the way Steve’s arm is shaking against his shoulders. He glances over to see the kid’s eyes squeezed shut, jaw clenched tight.
“Almost there, kid.” He walks a little faster.
They stop beside the passenger side door. He glances over at Mike, who’s still trying his best to help hold Steve up. “Open the door for me, will you?”
He nods, dropping his hands from Steve’s shirt to pull on the handle and swing the door open as wide as it’ll go.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.” Mike steps forward to help brace Steve again when a pair of headlights break through the lingering fall foliage to spill across the driveway. Mike freezes for a moment, wide eyes staring at Joyce’s car as it approaches the house, before glancing back at Hopper.
Hopper nods his head in the others’ direction and Mike’s face splits into a grateful smile before he takes off toward the car. There isn’t much left for him to help with, anyway, but maybe he can distract the others long enough for him to load Steve into the truck.
Steve has started leaning heavier into Hopper’s side and he has to adjust his hold to compensate for the extra weight. Looking over, he sees the kid’s eyes are still squeezed shut and he gives his chest a few gentle pats to try and shake him out of it. “Steve, open your eyes, bud. We’ve got one more step and then you can sit down.”
Steve’s eyes crack open slowly, squinting against the dim light coming from Joyce’s headlights.
“You’re gonna have to work with me, here.” Hopper shuffles them over so Steve is braced between him and the side of the vehicle. “Think you can step up into the truck?”
Steve hesitates for a few seconds. “Yeah.” He lets out a shaky breath before moving forward to brace a hand on the truck seat. His other hand slips from Hopper’s shoulders to reach up and grab the overhead handle.
Hopper follows close behind, gripping Steve’s sides to keep him steady as he lifts himself into the truck cab.
Steve lands in the passenger seat with a huff, leaning back to drop his head on the headrest. His eyes are squeezed shut again, hand digging into his forehead like he had earlier, in the living room.
Hopper reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “You did good, kid.” Steve’s hummed acknowledgement cuts off into a choked groan as a SLAM echoes across the driveway. Glancing over, Hopper sees Joyce walking his way. He gives Steve’s shoulder another squeeze, muttering a half-hearted “Stay here,” before walking over to meet Joyce between the truck and the car.
“What happened?!”
His eyes widen and his chest tightens as he gets a good look at her. “What happened to you?!”
His hands lift automatically to touch the red mark covering her neck, but he freezes before they make contact. He eyes the line of darker marks running up the column of her throat. Together they paint almost a perfect handprint.
A door opens and Hopper looks over to see the others climb out of the car. Jonathan holds a bundled Will close to his chest, Nancy following right behind them.
“Will!” Mike startles from his spot near the front of the truck and runs over to his friend.
Hopper can hear his voice turn watery as he interrogates Jonathan.
“Steve?” Nancy brushes past him on her way to the open passenger door. “Oh my God. What happened to you?!”
He turns back to see Joyce’s expression has hardened. “I asked you first.”
He glances at the truck again to see Nancy give Jonathan a nod. Jonathan hesitates for a second, ignoring Mike’s continued questioning, before taking both boys into the house.
“It’s a long story,” he sighs. “I still don’t have all the details.” He rubs a hand down his face before continuing, “Short version is, you have an unconscious, problematic teen handcuffed to your oven, Harrington had his ass handed to him by said problematic teen, and the kids took a field trip to the tunnels while we were gone.”
Joyce’s face twists, eyes wide and brows furrowed. Her mouth gapes open like she’s going to say something, but nothing comes out.
“Look, I’ve gotta take Harrington to the hospital. He’s definitely got a concussion and I want to make sure his brain isn’t bleeding into his skull. Is there anyone else that needs to ride along?”
He stares at the bruise forming on her neck again and she must hear his silent question.
Her expression softens. “No. We’re okay.” She glances back at the house. “I’ll make sure there aren’t any more field trips tonight.”
Hopper smiles in thanks.
“Have you called his parents?” She looks over his shoulder at Steve.
He shakes his head. “He says they’re not home. Traveling or something. He didn’t seem sure of when they’d be back.” He pauses, debating how much of Steve’s personal life he should share, before continuing, “I’m not sure he has anyone taking care of him.”
Joyce purses her lips, glancing over his shoulder again before her expression turns fierce. It’s the same look she gave when she’d talked about burning the Mindflayer out of her son. “He does now.”
He follows her gaze to the truck. The kid looks a little better now that he’s sitting. His eyes are open, staring at Nancy as she talks to him. Steve gives a tiny shake of his head at something she says, eyes tightening at the motion.
Turning back to Joyce, “Can you keep an eye on El while I’m gone? She’ll probably just sleep the whole time, she’s pretty drained.”
“Of course,” she nods.
“Oh! And see if you can talk to Dustin. The kid seemed pretty shaken up when we hauled Harrington out of there.”
“Hop. We’ll be fine.” She gently shoves him toward the truck. “Go take care of him.” She walks up the drive toward the house, leaving Hopper to walk back to the truck.
He catches the tail end of Steve and Nancy’s hushed conversation as he rounds the front of the vehicle.
“Are you sure?” Nancy’s voice is small, hesitant.
“‘M sure, Nance. He needs you”
Hopper swings himself into the driver’s seat, glancing over to see Nancy squeeze Steve’s hand.
“Seriously, it’s okay. ‘ll be fine.” Steve slowly removes his hand from her grip.
Nancy turns her gaze to Hopper.
“I’ll take care of him. Go get some rest.”
She looks back to Steve, expression pinched. She searches his face for something, but he just smiles at her before glancing at the house. Her gaze drops as she steps away from the truck. She gives him one last look before carefully closing the passenger side door and turning to walk toward the front porch.
Steve’s face falls when she turns her back on him.
Hopper looks away, digging in his pocket for his keys before turning the ignition to start the car. He’s backing slowly out of the driveway when he sees Steve pull his legs up onto the seat out of his periphery. The kid has curled himself against the window, one arm braced against the glass to cushion his head and the other circled carefully over his stomach.
He thinks regretfully about the trash can sitting forgotten in the living room.
“Let me know if you need me to pull over, okay?”
Steve answers with a quiet, “kay.”
He glances over at the kid, but it’s impossible to see his face where it’s tucked toward the window.
Hopper sighs, pushing down on the gas a little harder as they drive toward the hospital.
Cross-posting my stranger things post-season 2 Steve-centric fic here during these trying times (ao3 is down without notice) for anyone interested.
Read on ao3
Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4
Walk it Off
Chapter 1
Steve’s fingers dig deep into the dirt as he hauls himself out of the tunnel. It gathers under his fingernails and he absently regrets removing his gloves to start the fire. Max and Lucas rush over and grab his elbows. Together they drag him over the ledge, through the soil, and onto the grass.
Steve’s legs tingle with phantom pressure, like the demo-dogs are still running past him, and it makes his chest wind tight. Heart hammering, he scrambles to his feet and rushes to Dustin’s side. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he takes a good look at the kid. He looks okay, if a little confused at Steve’s searching gaze. His chest loosens and he sighs out his first full breath since he woke up in the back of Billy’s Camaro.
He doesn’t think those dogs got either of them.
But if they weren’t sent to attack, where are they going?
Almost in answer, the headlights on the Camaro flare to life. Steve hisses as the light sears through his goggles and into his brain. The throbbing pain radiating from his left temple turns sharp. He lifts a hand, trying to block the light as it grows brighter and brighter.
Steve glances between the car and the kids, trying to figure out if anyone knows what’s happening. They look just as confused as he feels, all four of them staring blankly into the headlights. Steve looks back at the car as the lights grow even brighter. He’s squinting so hard he can barely see.
He’s starting to think the headlights are going to burst when the lights go out, throwing them into complete darkness. The relief is instant. His headache retreats, like it had in the tunnels.
A flashlight comes on, slicing through the darkness.
“What. Was that?” Max directs her light toward the group.
“Eleven.” Mike whispers. “It was Eleven,” voice louder now. “She did it. She closed the gate!” A smile breaks out across his face.
“How do you know for sure?” Lucas steps next to Max, the whole group moving to surround the circle of light on the grass.
“El’s powers cause surges!” Dustin pipes up from beside Steve. “Remember in the AV Room? When she fried the Heathkit?”
“Yeah…I can’t believe we didn’t get in trouble for that,” Lucas reaches a hand up to rub his neck, grimacing.
Steve and Max share a glance. What does any of this have to do with the gate?
“But what about Will…” Dustin is quieter than before.
Mike’s face twists briefly with worry before he shakes his head. “She wouldn’t have closed it if Will was still in danger.” He stands tall, voice strong. “We did it. All of us. It’s finally over.”
Relief washes over their features, but Steve isn’t really convinced.
“Wait, wait. Hold up.” Steve holds out his hands like he can physically stop the conversation. He reaches up and takes off his goggles, clenching his jaw when the strap grazes over his temple. “So the gate’s closed and Will is alright? And you three put all that together just because the lights went all wonky?”
“Yes, Steve.” Dustin turns to look up at him. “Weren’t you listening?”
He shakes his head at the sarcasm lacing Dustin’s response, but knows immediately it was a mistake. The motion makes the world tilt around him and he stumbles to keep his footing. He squeezes his eyes shut and goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, only to meet rough fabric.
“Woah!” Dustin is in front of him, one hand on his arm and the other reaching up to untie the bandana still covering Steve’s face.
“I’m okay.” The world rights itself, dizziness dissipating. “I’m good.” He gently shoves Dustin’s hands away, which weren’t making much progress anyway, and yanks the bandana down so it rests around his neck. His nose protests as the fabric slides over it. Something shifts under his skin in a way that makes him woozy and he sucks in a gasp through his teeth.
Dustin is looking at him warily, like he’ll collapse right here in the pumpkin patch. The others haven’t moved, but keep glancing between him and each other.
“We should go back to the house.” Max digs a set of keys out of her pocket and holds them up. “I’ll drive.”
“Oh, hell no.” Steve walks over to Max and snatches the keys out of her hand. She throws him a dirty look in response. “We barely made it here in one piece. What are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack before I’ve gotten to college? No, no. I’m driving.”
He reaches the driver’s side door, one hand resting on the handle, before he looks back at the group. None of them are moving, just staring at him like he’s crazy.
“What?” None of them respond. “Get in! Let’s go!” He opens the door and climbs behind the wheel.
The kids scramble across the field and, after untying the rope from the front bumper, pile into the car after him. Dustin hops in the passenger seat first, before anyone else can claim it. The others each find a spot in the back seat.
Steve puts the key in the ignition and goes to step on the break, except the break is a lot closer than it should be.
“What the…” Pushing the seat back, he shifts to glance down at the pedals only to see two wooden boxes. He can picture it now, Mike or Dustin or whoever tying them onto the pedals so Max could reach them. Reaching down, Steve yanks the boxes off the pedals before tossing them into the back seat toward Max. He watches her tuck them carefully under her seat.
“What?” She asks at his questioning gaze. “I told you, I’ve driven before. I use them for practice.”
Steve takes a slow breath as he turns back toward the wheel, silently vowing to circle back on this conversation later.
Finally able to reach the break comfortably, he turns the ignition and the engine roars to life under his hands. The soft hum runs through him and he takes a moment to savor it, knowing he won’t have another chance to drive this car. Then, he slowly maneuvers them out of the pumpkin patch, making sure to give the tunnel entrance a wide berth.
They’re about halfway to the Byers’ house when Lucas and Max start muttering to each other in the back seat. He can hear Mike and Dustin join the conversation, but it’s coming through Steve’s ears like white noise. It was easy to ignore the pounding in his head and face when their lives were in danger. Now, the adrenaline is leaving him and it takes all his focus just to keep the car on the road.
By the time he finally pulls into the driveway, Steve feels like complete shit. His head feels like it’s going to split open, his face and nose throb where he must’ve taken the brunt of Billy’s beating, and his stomach is starting to turn like that time he rode the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair.
He throws the car in park and removes the key before leaning forward slightly to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. The car shakes as the kids scramble out of it, slamming the doors closed behind them. Each resulting WHAM sets off fireworks behind Steve’s closed eyelids.
He just needs a minute. One minute of silence. Then, he’ll go inside to wrangle the kids and clean up before Mrs. Byers gets back.
A hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps, whipping his head to see who’s touching him. Pain floods over the left side of his head and down through his neck and shoulders. He presses a hand into his left eyebrow, trying to chase the pain away with the pressure.
Dustin still sits in the passenger seat next to him. His hand tightens on his shoulder, eyes blown wide.
“Steve, hey, you okay?” His voice is urgent and laced with blatant worry.
“Yeah,” it comes out automatically. He drops his hand hurriedly to make his case more convincing.
It’s mostly true, anyway. Steve recognizes a lot of these symptoms from that time he got a concussion playing basketball. They’re slightly worse this time around, he doesn’t remember the world spinning so violently last time, but Dustin doesn’t need to know that.
He clearly isn’t convinced. “Seriously, man, I’m fine. Just ready for the day to be over, y’know?”
Dustin’s face clears a bit. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” His gaze shifts to look through the living room window where the others are already gathering. Their silhouettes shift behind Mrs. Byers’ curtains.
“C’mon,” Steve braces himself mentally before moving to get out of the car. His hand slips over the handle, leaving dirt streaks behind. His fingers are slick with mud and slime and he grimaces against the nausea building in his stomach. “Let’s go inside. I want to wash some of this shit off my hands.”
Dustin gives his own grimace, rubbing his fingers together like he’s just realized how dirty they are, before opening the door.
Steve hauls himself out of the car, leaning on the frame for support as his dizziness gets worse. He stands there for a few seconds, static filling his ears, before the feeling retreats. A SLAM echoes into the night air, making Steve wince. Dustin crosses in front of the car, still watching him like a hawk. Steve shoves himself away from the car, closing his own door significantly softer than any of the kids, before following Dustin to the house.
The light spilling out of the front door sets Steve’s headache aflame. The throbbing in his neck and shoulders gets worse as he goes inside. He has to squint to see Mike, Lucas, and Max in the living room. They’ve each got a pile of blankets and pillows in their arms.
Looking over, he sees Billy propped up against the wall, fully unconscious. His gaze slips down to Billy’s split knuckles and his face throbs painfully at the reminder.
Walking over to the kitchen, he’s struck by the realization that he can’t really see out of his left eye. His vision’s gone fuzzy, like something is stuck in it. He reaches a hand up to rub at it, hoping to clear away the blurriness.
Maneuvering carefully around Dustin, who’s started picking the fridge contents up off the floor, Steve deposits the keys onto the kitchen table. They jingle softly when they hit the wood and Dustin looks up at the noise. He stares warily at him, but Steve waves him off before walking down the hallway and into the bathroom.
The lights are, mercifully, off in the small space. Steve’s head is still pounding and his face aches even worse, but the darkness helps in a way he can’t identify.
He stumbles over to the sink, turning on the faucet and letting the water run over his hands. He watches the dirt and grime from the tunnels wash down the drain and he scrubs to get the last of it off.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and freezes. His face is crusted with dirt, slime, and blood. Some bandaids have been placed hastily over his forehead and chin, which probably need to be changed now. Bruises are already forming around his eyes and his nose is swollen to nearly twice its normal size. He probes the swollen skin with wet fingers, recoiling when the pressure causes a spike of pain to shoot up his sinuses and fuel his headache.
The pain branches from his left temple and Steve thinks he remembers Billy hitting him with something by the sink. Wanting to get a better look, he tilts his head and gingerly parts his hair around the wound. It’s too dark to really see anything, but the thought of turning on the light makes his stomach turn so ferociously that he has to drop his hands over the sink edge to stabilize himself.
He closes his eyes to try and will away the feeling, but all it does is make him dizzy. He feels like he’s floating through empty space, which only makes the nausea worse, so he opens them again.
Sighing, he cups his hands under the running faucet, hoping the shock of cool water will act as a reset for his system. He leans down to splash the water on his face, except the world keeps tilting after he’s already stopped and Steve’s forehead bounces off the faucet’s curved edge.
It wasn’t a hard hit, but the consequences are immediate. The left side of his head is flooded with sharp pain. Water splashes back into the sink and onto the floor as Steve’s hands clumsily grip the sink edges to brace himself. The world still feels like it’s moving around him, spinning faster and faster like that damn tilt-a-whirl.
Everything is starting to feel slippery. Nothing is concrete enough for his mind to latch onto. Uneasiness rushes hot down his spine and it’s the last straw for his stomach.
He’s leaning over the toilet, knees aching, fingers clenching painfully on the edges of the bowl, acid coating his tongue, and no idea how he got here. Wasn’t he just at the sink?
His stomach flips and he’s heaving over the still water. Each gag makes his head flare with white hot agony. It’s like his brain is pushing against the inside of his skull.
His hair flops over his forehead and he wants to push it back, away from the bile leaving his system, but he’s afraid to move his hands from their braced position on the toilet. With the way the room is still spinning around him, he thinks he might fall over if he loses any support.
There isn’t anything coming up anymore, but his body doesn’t relent, stomach clenching painfully around nothing. His vision goes blurry with reflexive tears and he’s hit with a longing for his own home. His own bathroom. Where he could camp out on the floor with his comforter and nothing would matter.
The nausea finally starts to back off, heaves stopping long enough for him to take a full breath. He stays there for a few seconds, kneeling over the toilet. The room isn’t spinning quite so fast, and his headache isn’t as sharp now that he’s still.
His gaze shifts to the handle of the toilet and gets stuck there. He should probably flush it. The thought comes through slowly, like it’s stuck in syrup. He lowers himself carefully to sit on the cold tiles, hands dropping to his sides to anchor himself in the new position. Carefully, he shifts his weight to one side so he can lift a hand and flush the toilet.
Except, he misses the handle, fingers just brushing the edge of it. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and clear his vision. Opening his eyes, he tries again, aiming a bit more to the right. The handle goes down and a resounding Flush carries away the mess.
He’s starting to think something might really be wrong. His last concussion wasn’t like this.
A knock sounds off the bathroom door, “Hey, Steve! The Chief and Mrs. Byers radioed in and…”
Dustin’s voice blurs together. That slippery feeling is back and it’s impossible to focus on the words long enough to actually hear what he’s saying. The Chief? Mrs. Byers? They were closing the gate, right? Does that mean they did it? Is it over?
His head throbs in time with his heartbeat. He brings his left hand up over his eyebrow, fingers digging deep into the skin to try and lessen the ache. Dustin’s voice is getting louder through the door, making the pain worse as his volume increases. Steve can’t help the strangled groan that slips out after a particularly sharp throb pulses through his skull, and Dustin goes silent.
A few seconds pass before a quiet, “Steve?” filters into the bathroom.
Steve can’t bring himself to answer. The room is starting to spin violently again and all he can focus on is not falling over.
“Steve, answer me or I’m coming in!”
It’s another few seconds before the handle turns and the door is thrown wide. “Holy shit!” Dustin practically falls across the floor in his rush to sit beside him.
Steve winces at his volume, fingers still pressed deep into his forehead. “Shhh, n’t so loud H’nders’n.”
“Shit, shit, shit.” Dustin glances at the open bathroom door before looking back at Steve. “Okay, okay.”
Dustin grips his shoulders, shoving gently to turn Steve toward him. The motion makes the dizziness worse and Dustin’s hand digs further into his shoulder as he tilts to the left. His own hand falls from his forehead and slams to the floor in an attempt to catch himself.
“Whoah! Steve, are you okay? What’s going on?”
He hears the question, but the meaning lags a few moments behind. “Dizzy.” Steve chokes out when the meaning finally registers. “Like ’m on th’ tilt-a-whirl.”
“Okay. Do you think you can scootch back? Then you can lean against the wall.”
Dustin’s hands are already pushing gently on Steve’s shoulders again and he just follows their direction, scootching backwards across the tiles until something solid hits his back. Steve unfolds his legs so they’re extended in front of him.
He squeezes his eyes shut against the light filtering in from the hallway. A soft tap on his face makes him open them again to see Dustin kneeling in front of him.
“Hey, good. Keep your eyes open.” He holds up a hand, right in Steve’s line of sight. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Steve tries to focus on Dustin’s fingers so he can count, but his gaze keeps slipping right over them.
“Steve. How many fingers?”
The urgency in Dustin’s tone makes something heavy pool in his chest. He looks back at the hand held in front of him, willing the room to stop spinning long enough for him to give an answer.
Well, he can clearly see three fingers held out, but each digit has another finger trailing right beside it. So, six? But that doesn’t make any sense. Hands only have five fingers.
“Five?”
Dustin’s face shifts at his answer, eyes growing wide and mouth dropping open, and Steve knows he must’ve given the wrong answer. Dustin spins around toward the open door, “Mike! Lucas! Get in here! Something’s wrong with Steve!”
Steve brings his hands up to cover his ears, groaning as Dustin’s voice makes his head pound.
“Sorry.” Dustin’s voice is quieter now, and he offers a grimace in apology.
Footsteps come stomping down the hallway and into the bathroom. Chaos erupts the second the other two cross the threshold. They’re loud, voices overlapping as they talk over one another and gesture wildly in his direction.
The conversation moves too fast for him to really understand what they’re talking about, but he catches a few words. Something about Billy? Tunnels? The Chief and Mrs. Byers.
His chest grows tight at the reminder, and he needs to know. “Did they do it?” The kids fall silent. “Did they cl’se the gate?”
Dustin turns back toward him. He hears someone mutter a quiet, “Shit” by the door.
“Yeah, they closed the gate. It’s over.” Dustin kneels down in front of Steve again.
Relief unwinds the tightness in his chest and he feels his shoulders sag as he lets out a breath.
Dustin turns back to the others. “We should move him to the living room.”
He sees the others nod, but the words don’t click until Mike and Lucas are each grabbing one of his arms.
“Wait, wait.” He yanks his arms away from the kids, curling them protectively against his chest. “Can’t leave.” He can still feel nausea simmering in his stomach and doesn’t want to think about the look on Mrs. Byers’ face if he vomits in her living room.
“Why can’t you leave?” Dustin asks.
“Nauseous.” Which, really is only one problem of many on Steve’s list right now. “And th’ lights. Too bright.”
“Well, I can’t really do much for the first one. We can fix the lights, though.” Dustin looks pointedly at Lucas.
“Yeah, yeah. Totally.” Lucas leaves the bathroom. Muttering filters in from right outside the door for a few seconds before two sets of footsteps go rushing toward the living room.
When Lucas finally hits the hallway light, the room goes pitch dark. It helps again, in that way Steve can’t identify. The room still spins and his brain still feels like it’s going to leak out of his ears, but the darkness makes it better somehow.
Steve shifts slightly against the wall, trying to relieve the dull ache building in his lower back. How long has he been sitting on the floor? Maybe moving to the living room wouldn’t be such a bad thing. The couch would certainly be more comfy than the tile.
But he knows that moving that far is going to hurt.
Lucas and Max reappear in the doorway. “Lights are off.”
“Well, except for that light from Will’s room.” Lucas turns toward Dustin. “Y’know, the little one? I mean,” he glances back at Max, “we couldn't see anything out there with the lights off. Don’t want anyone to trip or something.”
“Okay, let’s move him.” Mike steps closer to Steve, hands reaching out to grab him.
Steve flinches back, out of Mike’s reach. “I got it.” The only thing that could make this situation worse is being carried around by a bunch of thirteen year olds. He honestly isn’t sure how they would get him out there, short of dragging him by his arms across the floor.
So, Steve takes a moment to brace himself, trying to will away the dizziness and the nausea long enough to stand up. His shoes scrape along the tiles, streaking dirt and slime in their wake, as he shifts to get his feet under him.
“Steve, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Dustin moves forward, hands outstretched as if to catch him.
Steve stands. “It’s fine. I said I’ve–” Static rushes through his ears, his vision goes blurry, and his knees turn to jelly as lightning strikes through his head. His back slams into the wall behind him, body sagging under the force of the pain.
All four kids rush him at once, gripping him under the arms and around his chest to try and keep him standing, but it’s no use. Steve’s knees give out completely, sending him crashing back down to the bathroom floor.
A distant part of Steve feels the abrupt impact, but it’s like he’s floating somewhere just outside of his body. Voices filter through the blood still rushing in his ears, but they’re tinny, as if they’re talking through a bad radio. Steve can’t hold onto the words long enough to understand what they’re saying.
Pressure circles under his arms and up around his shoulders. The voices are growing more frantic, but Steve can’t bring himself to care. The pressure tugs and the room moves around him, making him feel like he’s moving backward and tilting to the left. His head throbs in protest and it makes the floaty feeling retreat just enough that Steve can feel his limbs again.
Nausea churns in his stomach as the room keeps moving and he opens his eyes to try and anchor himself. His gaze shifts across the room for something stationary, but everything is moving. The ground slides under his outstretched legs and then he’s passing through the bathroom doorway, into the hallway.
The room isn’t moving around him. He’s moving through the room. The kids really are dragging him backwards by the arms.
The revelation does nothing to calm his stomach. Hot mortification mixes sickeningly with the nausea. He clenches his jaw and takes shallow breaths through his nose to combat the feeling.
He tries to focus on something, anything, other than the room moving around him. Mike and Lucas’ fingers dig deep into his shoulders as they haul him backwards toward the living room and Steve latches onto the feeling.
He only notices they’ve made it when his back hits something soft and squishy. The couch. Hands shift from his arms and shoulders to under his armpits and around his chest. He only has a second to register the change in position before Mike and Lucas hoist him up, draping him clumsily across the cushions.
His head screams from the change in elevation and his stomach jumps into his throat. His mouth floods with saliva and he hurriedly shoves himself somewhat upright to lean over the side of the couch.
Dustin, thankfully, shoves a trash can under his face right before he starts heaving. Each gag sends a wave of sharp pain rocketing across his skull. His back aches from the way he’s tensing, but nothing is coming up. The nausea only grips him tighter, body trying to expel anything left in his system.
A hand brushes over his forehead, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes, and stays there. The contact is nice, grounding. The room stops spinning quite so fast.
“Steve, breathe man.” Dustin says from beside him. “Slowly.”
He tries, but it’s like his body isn’t his own anymore. He manages a half breath before he’s cut off by another dry heave.
“Okay. You’re okay.” Dustin’s voice comes out tight.
Dustin’s other hand lands to rest between Steve’s shoulders just in time for his body to finally find something to expel. Bile splashes down into the trash can, acid coating his tongue as it leaves his system. He spits a few times to try and get rid of the taste. Taking deep breaths, the nausea finally abates.
The sofa creaks as Steve gingerly hauls himself up so he’s sitting properly on the couch.
“Woah!” Dustin reaches down to shift the trash can out of the way before gripping Steve’s shoulders to help him lean back.
He sinks into the cushions, slowly tipping his head back so it rests against the back of the couch. His head throbs in the new position, but now that the nausea has returned to a simmer and not a boil, Steve is struck by how tired he is.
Dustin’s hands leave his shoulders. A few seconds pass before he registers the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. He should probably go see who it is, make sure all the kids are safe, but his limbs are too heavy to lift. His eyes are just starting to close when he hears the front door open.
Do you know anything about band? Specifically, marching band?
If yes, I have some questions :)
What is marching band like?
What goes through your head while you're on the field? (It looks like it takes so much concentration to step at the right tempo, play your instrument correctly, and not run into anyone else all at the same time)
What are some of your most heinous inside jokes?
Are there really a lot of band camp stories?
What about band politics? Does one section get mad at another because they don't ever start playing on time?
Do you ever forget what you're doing halfway through and just have to wing it?
For away games, what are the bus rides like? Do you all just kinda do your own thing or are you hyping each other up the whole way there?
Who chooses the theme and how do you all react when it comes out?
What's something you see people get wrong about band in books, fanfic, movies, tv, etc.?
BONUS POINTS if you were, are, or want to be drum major -
What's that like?
Is it a lot of pressure to lead the whole band?
Do you ever wish that you were marching instead of leading? Do you march?
What did you have to do to become drum major? Are there tryouts or is it based on something different?
Thoughts on The Breakfast Club being Nancy’s bi-awakening - oh shit - moment?
I see Rocky Horror Picture Show looped into fics often to trigger that realization, but I’m just not sure it’s something Nancy would reach for without a push from someone else. (Full transparency, I haven’t watched it yet but understand its importance to the community at the time)
The Breakfast Club, though? Where the whole premise is breaking down stereotypes and stepping out of the box society has put you in? Especially with how it relates to the high school bs. I could see her reaching for that.
She probably wouldn’t think too much of it in the beginning, cute guys, parallels to Steve and Jonathan (loose as they may be). Brian reminds her a little too much of Fred to think of that way. But there’s something alluring about Allison. Her soft features, feathered hair, and her dark clothes make it so she can’t help but stare. Then Claire breaks out the lipstick to showcase her “trick” and it’s basically game over.
I’m always running into ronance crumbs in steddie fics, and I love it, but I’ve decided to flip the script. It’ll take place between seasons 3 and 4, over the course of high school football season. I’m thinking mostly the main four (Nancy, Robin, Steve, and Eddie (only minor Jonathan since he’s in Lenora)) and some minor moments with the kids (possibly Nancy and Robin lowkey adopting Max).
I’m giving myself some time for research and outlining and I want to know:
What are some of your favorite tropes, 80s/LGBTQ+ history/cultural elements, and relationship dynamics you’ve seen in stranger things fics?
