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I found it, I've just gotta keep it

Steve Harrington x Reader

4504 words.

“I’m Steve.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, and it’s such a bizarre move that you find your own folding into his quickly without really thinking about it.

“Hi, Steve,” you grin, because you know he expects you to say your own name back. The silence hangs in the air as he waits for it, but you don’t say anything.

He changes tactics. “Can I get your number?”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/75055616/chapters/196122346

Chapter One

The drive to Indiana from Texas is long. It’s full of winding roads where the radio signal can’t reach, motels that look like they’ve been frozen in the 1950s, and what feels like an endless number of overpriced gas stations along the way. The drive isn’t the worst you’ve done, and memories of the cold creeping into your bones during the snowstorm you got stuck in going from Boston to Utah a few years ago spring to mind. Your car had slid off the road due to the ice, and you had to walk miles to the nearest anything to get help.

So, yeah. The drive to Indiana from Texas is long, but it’s fine.

As you drive over the county line, you can see the trucks parked on the side of the road; silver chain-link fences laid to the side as they’re installed, sealing Hawkins off from the rest of the world. Your chest tightens at the thought of being stuck in this backwater town for the foreseeable future, with no access to the outside. You were too low-level for that.

Reaching onto the passenger seat, you push the empty wrappers onto the floor in search of the deck of cigarettes you tossed there hours ago. You don’t smoke— not really. It’s just handy for when things are stressful, and moving across the country, again, while reporting for more duty fits the criteria. Your fingers brush the packet, and you grip it tightly, flicking the top off with your pointer finger and rooting around for a stick. It’s empty.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, tossing it to the floor and turning your eyes back to the road.

You don’t know a lot about this place except for the major stories that had been on the national news. The Department of Energy had allegedly had a gas leak that killed a few people. Starcourt Mall had burned down, and more people had been killed. An earthquake hit a few days ago; the earth tore open and, guess what, even more people had been killed. Honestly, it was surprising that there was anyone left.

You slow down as you pass a group of kids on their bikes, veering away from them slightly and smiling as their little legs pedal faster so they can soar down the hill, their arms spread wide like they’re flying. This is the part about small-town living that you love: the innocence. All too soon, their laughter fades through your open windows— as does your smile— and the space widens between your car and them until they’re out of sight.

A few houses start appearing along the road, eventually leading to some larger buildings and a small gas station. Pulling into the parking lot, you take a second to stretch your tired muscles before grabbing your wallet and heading inside. The air is thicker here than in Texas. Something about humidity, you’d seen while reading over your assignment. You grab a Coke from the fridge and head straight to the counter.

“Camels,” you demand, and the clerk quirks an eyebrow. After a second, you mutter, “Please.”

The bell above the door rings as you leave the store, and you sit on the hood of your car, attempting to crack the seal on the can, but you can’t quite get your finger underneath the tab, and your nails are too short.

“Need help with that?”

There’s a guy standing nearby, eyeing the can in your hands before looking back up at your face with a smile that you just know has the women of Hawkins falling at his feet. You eye him from head to toe and pretend you aren’t noticing him do the same to you. There’s a pair of aviator sunglasses hanging from the neck of his shirt, and his jeans are tight. He’s cute.

You hold out your arm, the can dangling from your fingertips, and he grabs it, making sure his fingers touch yours— exactly like you knew he would. You’ve seen all these tricks before; the different plays all meant to land a touchdown.

He cracks it open with ease and passes it back to you, sucking the liquid that escaped the rim off his thumb before smiling softly at you.

“Thanks.” You take a sip and go back to ignoring him, but he ignores the brush off.

“Coming or going?”

You cough, sputtering around the drink. “I’m sorry?”

He looks amused by you, and points to your car and the luggage that’s practically bursting out of it.

“Oh.” You wipe the edge of your lips. “Coming, I guess.”

He arches a brow, clearly not expecting you to take the bait, before he bites back a laugh, staring at his shoes for a second.

“I’m Steve.” He holds out his hand for you to shake, and it’s such a bizarre move that you find your own folding into his quickly without really thinking about it.

“Hi, Steve,” you grin, because you know he expects you to say your own name back. The silence hangs in the air as he waits for it, but you don’t say anything.

He changes tactics. “Can I get your number?”

“I don’t have one.” And it’s true. Even if you wanted to give him your phone number— which you don’t— you don’t even know if you’ll have your own phone in your room.

“That’s OK.” He pulls out a marker from his pocket and takes the cap off with his teeth. You think maybe his confidence is more arrogance, because his hand slides out of your own and circles your wrist instead as he starts writing his phone number down your forearm.

You can smell his cologne as he stands so close to you, and it's nice. Very masculine and earthy. His hair falls into his eyes as he writes, curving the marker across your skin. A mother gets out of her car with two young boys in the space next to yours and watches the exchange between you and this impossible man. You do everything in your power to keep your cheeks from flushing fluorescent pink.

“There’s a payphone on Main Street,” he says as he lets go of your wrist and snaps the cap back onto the marker. He tilts his head at your obvious confusion. “You know, because you don’t have a phone?”

“Right,” you whisper.

“Right.” He smirks.

He steps back, pulling a set of keys from his pocket that apparently belong to a BMW that looks extremely out of place in this small Midwest town. He gets into the driver’s seat and drives away with a small wave over the steering wheel.

~ ~ ~

You don’t call him. In fact, you don’t call anyone. You arrive at the control zone in the center of town that’s still being set up and get assigned your sleeping quarters. It’s a single bunk bed in a back room of one of the stores that’s been practically blown through by the earthquake, and you get the pleasure of sharing it with eleven other nurses and doctors. There’s no privacy, no space to be alone to think or just breathe. There’s no time for it.

Your entire first week in Hawkins is spent working yourself to the bone—setting up nursing stations, sitting through brief after brief of changes. Toxicology reports because of the ash falling from the sky; EPA reports due to the air quality; pathology reports because initial blood testing is starting to show cancerous properties in some citizens.

In your professional opinion—which is, indeed, professional—they should all be packing up and getting the fuck out of Hawkins. But they’re not, and you can’t understand why.

You hardly sleep because the generator in the corner of the room is too loud, and every time Marleen in the cot below you moves, the whole bunk shifts, so you feel like you’re on a boat all night long. Then there’s the snoring— and that’s just at night.

You can’t remember the last time you ate sitting down, or actually got to finish reading a report before a new one came out. You’re irritated and uncomfortable, and you have to constantly keep reminding yourself why you’re there.

~ ~ ~

Mandatory health checks start the day spring break ends. They begin with the schools, the students lining up single file into the high school gym which now reeks of sweat and disinfectant. You’re meant to be checking for any irregularities—crackling sounds in lungs when breathing; high white cell counts in their bloodwork—anything that might hint at infection, contamination, or whatever the hell the DOE wouldn’t put in writing. They’re all mostly fine.

There’s one kid, though—kind of nerdy. Quiet. He doesn’t speak unless spoken to, and he looks... broken. The stats say roughly one in four people in Hawkins lost someone in the earthquakes, and looking at him, it’s hard not to imagine who he had to say goodbye to. His white cell count is high. Higher than everyone else’s. His eyes are sallow and red, like he’s been crying nonstop for days. His chest is crackly, and you can hear it when he coughs as he explains how he twisted his ankle trying to get away from the earth tearing apart.

“Take these twice a day for that cough.” You pass him a bottle of antibiotics, and you note his raw fingers, blood still coating the edges of his nail beds. “And eat more oranges for your vitamin C count.”

He nods and hobbles out of the bay. Watching him leave, you toss his chart onto the pile of students who didn’t need additional checks that month. You remember what it was like to lose someone—how sick you’d been for months because it was too hard to take care of yourself. This kid didn’t need the goddamn military knocking on his door because he didn’t eat enough fruit.

~ ~ ~

You wanted to be a doctor because you wanted to help people. Your mom had been sick—really sick—and you were in awe of the doctors and nurses who banded together to work out ways to save her life. The hours they’d put in, the hushed conversations in the hallways as they pieced together anything they could attempt in the hope of making even the smallest difference.

There had been one nurse who stayed back after every shift, who practically bathed your mother, holding up her arms gently and running a warm cloth over her skin to give her some peace from all the disinfectant smells coating the hospital.

You didn’t sign up to be abused all day long by disgruntled residents who were trapped in this town and had nobody else to take it out on. The kids had been easy; they were glad to be missing classes and didn’t mind waiting around all day with their friends. The adults, on the other hand… There was now a soldier stationed outside your bay to prevent any more aggression.

“Next!” You yell down the hallway before sitting back down and preparing another chart.

Sneakers squeak across the linoleum of the old general store they’d taken over to turn into a screening facility, and the paper on the bed crinkles under the weight of your next patient.

“You didn’t call.”

Turning, you see Steve reclined on the bed like it’s his own, arms behind his head, one ankle crossed over the other, and that grin that makes women melt.

You roll your eyes. “Hi, Steve.”

“Oh, so you do remember me!” He looks so genuinely delighted that it's almost as if you can feel the heaviness of the day dissipating.

You wheel your chair over to him and go through your regular list of questions.

“Have you had any fevers recently?”

“No. Hey, what time do you finish?”

You ignore him. You’ve gotten good at that.

“Have you had any aches or pains recently?”

“No. Do you like Italian food?”

Steve jabbers away about a restaurant in town while you strap the blood pressure cuff around his arm, and you pretend not to notice him quickly squeezing his hand to flex his bicep as you secure the Velcro. You go back to your chart as the machine starts pumping and fill out any missing details.

“What’s your last name?”

“Harrington. What’s yours?”

You ignore him again and focus on unstrapping his arm, dropping the chart onto the bed next to him.

“Can you undo this for me?” You point to the top few buttons on his shirt. He raises a brow but does what he’s told. “It’s cold, sorry.”

That’s the only warning he gets before you place the earplugs in and press the stethoscope to his chest. He breathes in like he’s done this a million times before: one deep breath, one long exhale, then he waits for you to move the chest piece. Another deep breath, another long exhale.

You lean in closer to listen better when there’s a commotion in one of the other bays—another person angry about the military presence—and you can smell his cologne again, something musky and expensive, no doubt. Adjusting the chest piece, you focus on his skin in front of your face and notice a red line circling his neck. It’s harsh and angry, like rope burn or something worse. His skin is scabbed over and so raw that you think if he turned his head too quickly that the gashes might break open and bleed all over again. There’s a sore-looking welt beneath his ear—pink and swollen—so you know it’s fresh. You eye him carefully

“How’d you get that?”

“Earthquake,” he answers, sighing like he’s bored before buttoning his shirt back up.

His chest sounds clear enough—nothing suspicious—so there’s not really any reason to hold him for much longer. There’s a small stab of disappointment in your stomach now that your time with him is over, because it means you’re going to have to deal with another asshole.

Turning back to your desk, you look for his chart, but it’s not there. Looking back at him, it’s in his hands—he must have grabbed it from beside him—and he’s using your pen to scratch something onto the page.

“Until next time.”

He stands, hands the chart back to you with a wink, and leaves the bay.

His phone number is written on the corner of the page, in a spot that’s easy to tear off. How very considerate of him.

~ ~ ~

There’s a rumor that a radio station in Hawkins has been blasting out anti-military propaganda. You overhear conversations in the mess hall that it’ll be shut down if they’re not careful, and as much as you understand the general public’s frustrations, curiosity claws at you.

Maybe it’s sleep deprivation.

There’s a Radio Shack in the middle of town that has apparently been wiped of anything useful, but you’re still cleared to check when you ask for things like “ventilation regulator batteries,” something you made up in the moment when questioned.

Unfortunately, your superiors were correct. The store has been wiped out, all the shelves covered in debris, and a thick layer of grime coats most surfaces. The floor creaks under your boots, cracking old tiles and scattering broken merchandise, but in what used to be the staff break room, you get lucky.

There are a few photo frames on the wall of the employees—headshots mostly, and a few scattered photographs of family and friends. The manager has a goofy smile but looks kind. On the table, next to an old newspaper with a half-filled crossword and a 3 Musketeers wrapper with some chocolate still melted inside, sits a radio.

Turning the knobs, it comes to life, static resonating loudly in the air, and your heart thumps in your chest as you quickly turn the sound down until it’s practically mute. You hold your breath for a few seconds, imagining the store being stormed and hoping nobody else heard.

Listening to the radio isn’t illegal. Actively seeking out anti-military propaganda, on the other hand? You weren’t exactly going to earn a medal of honor for that one.

It’s too risky to keep fiddling with the radio here, so you put it inside a brown paper bag you find on the floor and place the newspaper carefully on top.

“I got it!” you call to the soldier outside before being escorted back to your quarters.

~ ~ ~

It takes a full week before you’re able to catch any of the broadcasts. You had been obsessively checking throughout the day, waking up every few hours to flick through every station, waiting to catch… something. Then you heard it. Michael Jackson.

The broadcast typically starts at 7 a.m. and is hosted by someone named “Rockin’ Robin,” who talks faster than anyone you have ever met before.

She’s funny, though, and you find yourself smiling as you listen, ear pressed harshly against the radio so nobody else knows what you’ve discovered. Sometimes she does pop quizzes that are practically nonsensical, moving through her own train of thought at a dizzying pace, but it’s nice having a taste of the real world. It’s a complete distraction from ash falling from the sky and earthquakes. The Squawk becomes your own personal escape from Hawkins, if only for a few minutes a day.

Then you finally catch it—the moment Rockin’ Robin takes it too far.

In what could only be described as a tirade, she spends almost fifteen minutes comparing Hawkins to war-torn countries, even though what occurred in town was, quote, “a natural phenomenon.” Your chest tightens and your fists clench as she questions the military presence, questions why they’re quarantined, questions what will come next, and how many more human rights will be obliterated in the military’s pursuit of whatever comes next.

You joined the military because you’d seen firsthand what it did to your own father. You wanted to help—but as she speaks, the line between right and wrong blurs. For the first time, you wonder whose side you’re really on.

~ ~ ~

Soldiers laugh and slap each other on the back, comparing bruises in the mess hall the next morning. The smell of burnt coffee and stale bread fills the air. Your stomach twists.

The Squawk is nothing but static.

~ ~ ~

The next time you see Steve, he comes into your bay with a black eye. You have to do a double take to make sure it’s him.

“What the hell happened to you?” You can’t even keep the surprise out of your voice.

“You should see the other guy,” he quips, but doesn’t answer your question. He doesn’t even crack a smile. If he doesn’t want to talk about it, you won’t push him—but he’s quiet today.

He takes a seat on the bed and waits for you to start your questioning. He doesn’t offer any more information than required. He’s silent as you take his blood pressure and doesn’t even bother flexing this time. He just stares through the open doorway, into the hall where the soldier is stationed outside, the fluorescent light flickering above them both.

Unstrapping his arm, you take a second to check his neck. The welt under his ear is gone, and the marks on his skin have disappeared, like they never existed.

“That healed up nicely,” you say, nodding toward the space where his skin used to be marred, and he hums in agreement.

Aside from his mysterious black eye, Steve Harrington is a picture of perfect health.

You’ve finished all your screenings, and there’s nothing else to say—but you can’t bring yourself to let him go. He doesn’t seem all that eager to get up either.

Pushing back on your chair, you get up and close the door; the lock clicks beneath your fingers.

“What are you doing?” he asks, brown eyes melting in confusion.

“Are you okay?” you quietly ask.

His confusion turns to annoyance, and he stares at his shoes in frustration. Maybe you’ve overestimated this little connection you’ve been having. Your heart aches, and you turn to your desk, pretending to shuffle papers just to do something with your hands so he won’t see them shaking. You feel stupid for letting this asshole, someone you don’t even know, get to you.

You just kind of enjoyed not having to think with him.

He sighs. “It’s not you.”

There’s a hand on your back, soft and warm over your uniform, and you turn around. You can smell his cologne again.

“I’d feel better if your boys out there used words instead of fists… but I’m okay.” He jerks his head toward the door, standing too close. And you get it. The soldiers. They did this to him.

Don’t ask. Don’t tell.

“Okay,” you whisper.

He gives you his famous grin, even though it clearly hurts his eye.

“I’m gonna go.” His hand drops off your back, and he shrugs back into his jacket before leaving the room, giving a pat on the door frame and an awkward wave goodbye.

~ ~ ~

You don’t get to spend a lot of time in the main square of the base. You’ve only walked across it a few times, dropping off paperwork from one station to another. It’s unspoken that it’s meant to always be kept clear, but every time you walk through it, you do your best to note as many irregularities as you can.

And the three large tanks, whose guns all point toward the giant, glowing red wall of melted gum, are about as big an irregularity as you can get.

Your past assignments had involved checking in on war vets or assisting surgeries to help those who had suffered amputations in the field. The military worked on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” basis, but it was getting very, very hard not to ask what the hell was going on.

Especially when you’re ripped out of your bed one night, told to shove on your shoes and run out the door.

“There’s been an accident,” you’re told by the soldier running in front of you. “Two men went down, and one D.O.A.”

Dead on arrival.

You swallow harshly and fight to keep pace, ignoring the way your shoe rubs harshly on the back of your ankle.

The door bursts open to the hospital suite that you helped set up only a few weeks ago, and you stand still at the sight. Blood everywhere—coating the walls, pooling on the floor, spraying over the curtains. The metallic tang fills your nose, mixing with antiseptic. A tray clatters to the floor, and the wails of the men cut through your ears. The shouts of the other doctors fall away as you try to take everything in. Your stomach drops. Your hands shake. For a second, you can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t process the chaos around you.

“Don’t just stand there!” The soldier who escorted you nudges your shoulder, shoving you into the chaos. “Do something!”

~ ~ ~

“Time of death: 4:43 a.m.”

You nod, and the last doctor leaves the room, snapping his rubber gloves off and dropping them into the overflowing rubbish bin by the door.

You’re alone.

The last few hours replay in your head like a horror movie. The way you’d walked around the curtain to see a soldier you’d never met before in literal pieces. His right leg laid on a table, covered in blood and greying by the second as the skin and muscle began to decay. He was missing an eye, and one cheek had been torn apart, baring his teeth through the gaping hole.

His chest had multiple wounds, one so deep that every time they wiped the blood away, you swore you could see his literal beating heart. You assessed and made your choices, hoping they were the right ones. You cauterized his leg, stopping the blood from flooding out of him, ignoring his screams.

“Sedate him!” you’d commanded the nurse standing in the corner, too horrified to move.

The night only got harder from there. You’d fix one bleed, and another would start. You’d stitch one artery back together, and his heart would stop. Move. Stitch. Stop. Move faster. It was one problem after another, with no time to do anything except keep going faster than this man’s body was trying to kill him.

“What the hell happened?” you had yelled across the room to the soldiers standing by the doors. “Huh?!” They remained silent.

Don’t ask. Don’t tell.

That had been hours ago. The room was silent now: no beeping machines keeping track of his heart rate, no whooshing from the ventilators, keeping one of his lungs breathing for him. The only sound was the ticking clock hanging on the wall on the opposite side of the room.

His body lay on the table, unmoving, chest still, and his eye closed. His dog tags remain around his neck, the chain coated in his own blood. You don’t even know his name. Your bloody hand drags over the silver metal.

Callahan, Ryan.

He’s younger than you by a few years. He was probably recruited right out of high school. Bitterness floods your veins. He should’ve been driving around whatever town he was from in a car he worked on with his dad. He should’ve been going on dates to the cinema to see Back to the Future or The Breakfast Club. He should’ve been coaching pee-wee football because his younger brother was on the team. He should not be lying dead on a surgical table in the middle of Hawkins, Indiana.

A tear drops from your eye, and even though you’re not religious, you say a prayer for him.

~ ~ ~

You ask to take the day off, and your superior doesn’t even look up from her desk when she agrees, stamping your exit paperwork with a thump. You walk out the front gates in plain clothes and have to ask one of the soldiers for directions to Main Street, feeling like a complete idiot.

It's your first time off the base, with no escort. You think you’ve done pretty well to even make it this far.

Summer is almost over, but there’s still warmth in the air. Walking through town, you could almost forget everyone is in a quarantine zone and that this was just the all-American Dream. Kids ride their bikes in the middle of the road, enjoying the end of their summer break. A few people sit on the grass, reading their books in front of what used to be the library. There’s even an older couple sitting on their porch swing, watching the world go by.

If they can pretend, so can you.

Picking up the phone, you drop a few coins into the machine and read off a torn piece of paper as you dial the numbers.

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