Summary: Steve Harrington, in his seventeen years, had been shown one lesson that was paramount above all others: he didn't warrant care. Meanwhile, caring was all you'd ever known to do. When a fateful monster attack draws your worlds together, you would find yourselves in a place so different from where you started.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Female Henderson!Reader
Word count: 1.5k
Tags: S2 onwards, canon divergent, multi chapter, slow and I mean sloooooow burn, angst, eventual comfort.
Warnings: Emotionally abusive and neglectful parents, parentification of a child, parental cheating, bullying.
Please read the fic masterlist for a full list of warnings!
Next ->
Steve Harrington was rich.
Not a generational, inherited from his grandparents rich, if the Harringtons had anything to say about it, but a rich stupid enough that Daniel “Danny” Harrington could be appraised as an impressive, hard-working man who looks well after his wife and son. A family man.
“You must be very proud of him,” he would hear, but Steve was not.
His father was a perfect businessman, and by all accounts, a very charming man, to boot, exuding a confidence so audacious that only being told ‘no’ could do away with. His warm handshake applied the desired amount of pressure and his smiles encouraged his associates and adversaries to spill their most trusted secrets into their whiskey.
He knew how to move people. He could smell deceit on them, much like the perfume from a woman who was very much not their wives. He endorsed their boldness and positioned himself as the friendly conversationalist to gain their trust, while exposing their offshore accounts and sending their lives up in flames.
He didn’t fancy himself a snake, because he didn’t put the venom there. He only set what was already poison on a downward path of implosion in order to climb himself higher. To provide for his family.
Steve knew about money. He knew the value of currency – of the importance of having something to offer and that which must ensure a particular lifestyle. His father made sure that he understood this, and how to utilise it.
Despite this endowment, truth be told, Steve Harrington was an unloved kid.
Admired? Yes. Revered? Absolutely.
But loved? Nurtured? Harder to say.
He would certainly claim the contrary. He would recount the time his mom showed up to his end of season basketball game. She waited until after his winning shot to head back to work, and bought him a new watch band in congratulations. A mother’s pride.
He would reminisce on when he made the class laugh at a joke, success blooming warmly in his chest from where Tommy H and Carol slapped him in delighted uproar. Maybe he shouldn’t have said that about their classmate, but he was sure they didn’t hear him, so no one was hurt. For that, he felt like a winner.
And of course, at the centre of it all was his girlfriend, Nancy Wheeler, who laughed at his idiocy and gave him something deeper than anything he’s had with any other girl. Something to protect and keep precious. He wouldn’t let it fail.
Perhaps Steve Harrington would be adored for his place at Hawkins High – King Steve. Romeo amongst seniors, co-head of the swim team and a shining example on the basketball team. He was practically a hero to his extracurriculars. He took his throne upon the shoulders of his teammates, immersed in the chant of his name.
This was a currency he could use. This he could carry to his parents’ feet, so that he might exchange his infamy for their respect, and perhaps also their affection. He would be defined by that.
He would see his mother in the breakfast she left him, wrapped in sweating tin foil that memorised her fingerprints, traced by the attending son.
Upon the yellow note left by the phone in the entry way, corners curled from Steve’s fidgeting. “Staying late. Order dinner x,” thirty dollar bill beside it.
On the signed permission slips sent across states, becoming more frequent.
His father was generous in that wreck he left, with Steve left to comb the remnants.
Empty wine bottles left out on the counter, moved to the trash to join the cigarette stubs. Mascara smeared tissues beside his parents’ bed, swept away. Phone, agitated for the duration of the night, hung back up on the wall before heading to school.
A day well executed had the potential to earn him his father’s praise, so long as he promised more of the same. However, more of the same, coupled with a change in the weather, also had a 50/50 chance of earning him a reprimanding.
Despite his performance, his currency always liquidated. His father asked more and demanded better, reaching straight into his chest, pulling. And when all that was done, his head hung low, neck turned hot, palms sweating, he would sit, and his heart would race far beyond what the asshole was worth.
His father was not loved. He was impressive, desired and respected. Perhaps even feared by someone other than Steve.
Steve Harrington would vow to be nothing like Danny Harrington.
—
If those locker-lined halls could speak, they would tell great tales of “the best years of your life.” High school years. Messy love proclamations that imploded by Monday. Parties that beckoned the cops. Raging hormones and sloppy kisses. Late turn ins. A system that separated those destined for greatness from those whose futures would fizzle out under the weight of a graduation cap.
If those locker-lined halls could speak, they would tell of Steve Harrington, and how much of a raging asshole he was.
You had never really spoken to Steve, despite attending many of the same classes, but affiliation was unnecessary in order to feel the shift during freshman year, when his talents in sports and being the class jokester put him on a path to Tommy Hagan.
And when Tommy’s girlfriend, Carol Perkins, joined the pair, they became the trio that brought chaos to Hawkins High, and Steve became the king.
Tommy and Carol did their part to make the status quo their own, casting incendiary rumours and mind games at the student body and faculty alike.
But while others might have regarded Steve as having only fallen in with the wrong crowd, much more sedate than his friends, in your eyes, he filled a role just as destructive.
He didn’t stand for anything. Anything meaningful, at least. He chased what awarded him renown in the hallways and what would provide his friends the dumbest glee, which you supposed must have been a sign of loyalty. He left their behaviour unchallenged, even when it was downright cruel.
You had been a firsthand witness to his crimes, watching as Tommy unloaded a verbal ballista into Robin and her already skittish band friends, not letting up even after they sank one by one into their seats at the lunch table.
Steve sat beside Carol in the middle of it all, from their fortress, while she chortled and clapped the table like a seal. He picked at his food casually, as if what was unfolding was no more than simple entertainment. He chuckled quietly to himself before catching his expression, resetting it back to neutrality.
When it was done, Tommy received the highest honour of Steve’s fruit cup presented to his lunch tray, and you were restrained by Robin’s pleading vice on your knee.
When the whispers came that he was newly dating Nancy Wheeler, and that she seemed perfectly happy, you took pause.
Nancy was kind, but certainly no pushover. Whatever Steve Harrington possessed inside of his soul to win her over must have warranted him some merit, but the string of heartbreak he left amongst the girl population was undeniable, so you made to look out for her just a bit more.
While you may not have been close with Nancy, you were friendly enough to chat on the doorstep when you came by to pick up your little brother, or to joke with her in the halls as Robin and Barb ran on the fumes of old times.
And with Jonathan, too, the three of you shared a kind of relatedness that came with your parents having been friends in high school. There was an unspoken duty to one another, now sustained by the unbreakable bond of your younger siblings who played D&D as naturally as they drew breath.
When Will and Barb went missing, your worlds came stuck fast together.
Will was a sweetheart. Sensitive. Unlike the more commanding presence of Mike Wheeler, you never heard a peep out of him when the boys were over, aside from his thanks for having him.
A crater should have been left when his body was pulled from the quarry, but Dustin’s laughter and smiles at the funeral were anything but a tribute. Grief presents in many ways, but you couldn’t shake a gnawing feeling like you were missing the punchline to a joke.
You liked Barb very much. When you accompanied Robin to meet her for the first time, she received you into her circle happily. She was a fierce friend to Nancy and Robin, always affirming them, undoubtedly loyal and principled. She was the antithesis to everything Steve was, and she was no more keen on him than you were.
So upon her car being discovered at a bus station, and Jonathan defiling Nancy in the most invasive way you could imagine, you ensured to be there for her best friend while she was away, in the honesty of returning Nancy’s photograph back into her own hands.
Therefore, in the parking lot on an uneventful Wednesday, came your first real brush with King Steve, and he made his first conviction. With all witnesses present, Jonathan’s prized camera fell from his hand, crashing to the ground with an irreversible smash. He would surely claim it was for the right reasons.
And in the shock waves, you were ripped from orbit, your small world hurtling on the path of theirs.
YOUR THOUGHTS ON NATURAL BLONDE REX. YES. I never see people who agree with me on this! Like people think Mace Windu would be walking round with a bucket of hair products to hand out to the cadets? 😂😂
Like, common. You think Rex has time to do anything other than shave his hair down to where he doesn't have to deal with it? No way he's dyeing it 😂 there's no way he'd be able to keep up with it or would want to keep up with it. That man is constantly running around with Skywalker and Tano and trying to keep up with their antics. Squeezes in time to eat and some sleep if he can. Also, we've seen blonde cadets before so a clone with that mutation isn't unheard of.
I do like to think that Rex was super self conscious about his hair as a cadet, like, maybe he'd figured that since he didn't look exactly like the others then he wouldn't be as good as the others. Maybe was even picked on by another batch. Our beloved 99 probably had a long chat with cadet Rex and it really gave him that boost he needed. Rex had Cody, too. His best bro. So Rex started feeling better about his hair, and when he was selected for special training over tons of other cadets, he realized it didn't matter that he wasn't exactly like the others in appearance.
It makes Rex all the more special in our hearts 😭💙
Summary: Steve Harrington, in his seventeen years, had been shown one lesson that was paramount above all others: he didn't warrant care. Meanwhile, caring was all you'd ever known to do. When a fateful monster attack draws your worlds together, you would find yourselves in a place so different from where you started.
Chapter summary: Life gets its last laugh when a meeting with the principal reveals how deeply you're drowning, and yet you're somehow supposed to find time to care about who's dating who and the looming Halloween party.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Female Henderson!Reader
Word count: 4.6k
Warnings: Emotionally abusive and neglectful parents, parentification of a child, parental cheating, bullying.
Please read the fic masterlist for a full list of warnings!
<- Prologue Next ->
Dustin is going to end up with bright yellow hair if he doesn’t quit his complaining.
Messy lines. Number of stripes. Weathering. Don’t put paint in there, the mechanism won’t open properly. Too much duct tape.
“Can you make the dial look worn?” He asks, hand far too close to your face, pointing at the red cap right across your line of sight.
“It’s a bottle top, Dus’. Paint doesn’t really stick,” you respond, clipped, squinting under the light of the lamp.
“The paper is rippling.”
You adjust your jaw. “Yeah, because you made me pile on a ton of paint to get the right shade of yellow.”
“And it’s still not right," he retorts.
You fall back in your chair, practically throwing the paintbrush down with a clatter onto your palette. “Well!” You shout, gesturing wildly at the project as the afternoon of constant foremaning catches up to you. “You do it, then!”
“Guys!” Your mom calls in a soft but mediating tone from the other room.
The white noise of the television behind her reminds you that you are in fact existing within the world, and that you are not a part of the furniture after sitting in the same spot for three hours, hunched over, painting tiny little details on your brother’s Halloween prop.
Dustin had been to see Ghostbusters eight times. With a notepad. He had drawn extensive diagrams, as if from a blueprint, meticulously detailing all of the dials and wires that make up the design of the proton pack. He had spent three months creating the pack and neutrona wand from cereal box cardboard and glue.
It looks awesome.
Seemingly having run out of steam within the last week, he had recruited you for a final part: the ghost trap. You didn’t have any issue saying yes, working on it around your own costume, homework and shifts. Plus, you also love Ghostbusters, so you were sinking your time into something you can both bond over.
But then your job let you go, and suddenly there was not enough time in the world to be hunting for a new one alongside everything else.
Going into work was straightforward, secure: Do the tasks, however dull, get paid and come home.
Now, your almost every waking moment was spent trying to find a place that was accepting new people, while begging the older generation management to let you sell your soul to their company in exchange for a lousy part-time income.
Not forgetting, Dustin is a stickler for details, and in his mind, every addition had its scientific reasons, meaning more time for you to lose. You curse the bloodline of Mr Clarke for surely being the one to ignite this fire in him that landed you in the position you were in now.
Dustin, realising he definitely doesn’t have the patience nor the artistic skill for this, turns to you with a look he’d surely use to barter with the devil, places a hand to your shoulder and says earnestly, “It is absolutely perfect.”
You hum in acceptance of his apology, smirking to yourself.
You’re lucky to have him, really. It’s kind of a miracle that two siblings would get along so well. Granted, you want to tie him to a train track some days, but he’s a super bright, real wears his heart on his sleeve kind of kid. Just the best.
He shrieks, ripping you from your affectionate stupor. “Don’t get that part wet!”
Sure enough, the wet cardboard under your fingers is now bowing, glue separating from the two pieces holding the entire thing together. “It’s pulling apart!”
“You are just–“ Simmering heat rushes to your head. “Get me the hot glue gun!” You command, holding out an arm to receive it like a surgeon.
He sprints away, feet scampering across the hall, and comes back a second later. “Glue gun,” Dustin affirms, pushing it into your grip before running to plug it in at the wall.
Just then, his walkie crackles and comes to life. “Dustin? Dustin, come in, this is Lucas, over.”
He almost trips over the wire as he runs to his backpack, finding the walkie and pulling out the antenna. He slumps on the chair at the end of the table. “Lucas, I copy.”
“What’s your haul?”
“My haul- shit!” You could swear you feel your eardrums vibrate at the volume, recoiling the other way.
Lucas groans on the other end. “You did not forget!”
“I’ve been busy. Son of a bitch! Mom! I need cash!”
“Check my purse,” your mom responds cooly, wholly unphased as she bounces Mews like a baby in her lap.
More shuffling. Dustin returns from the doorway with the leather handbag, tips it upside down and frantically shakes the contents all over the floor. Mews meows in perplexity.
He finds a lipstick, baby photo of himself and her purse. He unzips it and too interrogates it with a battering. A lousy quarter is all it surrenders.
His hands come up to remove his hat like a strained old man, fussing both hands through his hair like this is the biggest struggle of his life. “Not enough… not enough!”
“Time to get a job, Dus’, I heard they were hiring banshees down the street.”
The quarter hits the back of your head.
He turns his attack to the couch cushions now, throwing them aside and letting one bounce over the coffee table. “Son of a bitch… son of a bitch! Another stupid penny.” The penny takes flight.
“Dusty, watch it, you almost hit Mews!”
He swings his arms to enunciate. “Can I please check under your cushions?”
“Dusty…” She tilts her head.
“Mom, please, it’s an emergency!”
Your mom makes a noise that suggests she has joined you in the land of overwhelm. Dustin parrots it back with a groan. She stands anyway, and he fumbles around in the armchair before landing on his jackpot with a grin.
“Love you, mom!” He calls back, sprinting into his bedroom.
You can distantly hear him asking Lucas how much he has, and Lucas’ mumbled reply. A minute later, he emerges again, passes you in the kitchen, sure to leap over the cable again, and makes a beeline to your bag up on a hook.
Currently distracted by glueing the pieces of cardboard back together, your head snaps up at the noise. “Hey!”
“I’m sorry!” Doesn’t make a difference, because he’s still removing your purse from your bag and gifting himself with a ten dollar bill.
“I got fired, Dus’! Where am I pulling money from, my ass?”
He’s pulling on his backpack and shoving the money, your money, into his pocket. “Consider it an investment in my future!”
It is at this moment that the glue gun you had been using decides it isn’t done with you yet, and a small bead of glue lands on your nail. You cry out. “Shit! Dustin!”
“I love you!” He’s sprinting to the door now.
And he’s gone. His footsteps disappear up the path and you hear the familiar sound of his bike pulling away.
“Dustin!”
“Please forgive me!"
You shake your head and hiss, turning your attention back to your angry thumb. You switch off the glue gun and set it down, then push back from the table and stand. You clench and unclench your hand, making your way to the kitchen and running it under the tap.
“You’re not giving him a ride?” Your mom calls over the sound of the news cycle on the television.
“Can’t, I’m heading out to Robin’s.”
She hums like she isn’t sure she accepts that fact. You know better than to respond.
The fingers of your other hand drum against the counter. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
Your eyes land on the bag of trash by the refrigerator, threatening to fall over. You shake off the water and go to pick it up. You go by your mom on the way to the door, grabbing the remains of her microwave meal.
“Thank you, honey,” she coos sweetly.
The air is brisk when you step outside. You make a brrrr sound with your mouth and lift your shoulders in an attempt to keep the heat in.
You try to recall if Dustin went out with a jacket, but you’re unable.
The trash bag is tied off and thuds into the can.
You’re turning back to the house when there’s a rattling from within. Sure you don’t want to be bitten by whatever animal might be inside and positive you can’t handle another thing going wrong right now, you continue on your path and step back into the house.
You pull your hands over your face and scrub down your eyes and mouth. “Do we have rats?”
Your mom sits bolt upright. Mews is clearly unsettled by this, because her pupils widen like there’s a collapsing galaxy inside. “What makes you say that?”
“Think there’s something in the trash,” you state, padding back to the kitchen. You can hear her puff out air in exhaustion. “An infestation is the last thing we need.”
Your mom is clearly of the same mind, judging by the way she doesn’t respond.
The bills on the table punctuate this for effect. Mews’ vet bills. Dustin's medical bills. Boiler repair. Service for the car.
You sweep up the papers and their envelopes into a stack. “Mom, I told you not to leave these out.” The last thing you need is Dustin being burdened by this knowledge. He’s just a kid.
—
Contrary to your house, Robin’s is a hub for the living dead. Her parents are in the kitchen at the table, coworking on the edges of a jigsaw puzzle. The peace and quiet of no television or radio running awes you.
Apart from your best friend herself, of course.
Robin’s bedroom, for once, has a visible floor. You suppose she might have realised the mess it would be in when the two of you were finished with it and determined that mess upon mess didn’t provide optimal working conditions.
That, or her mom worked some magic.
Her walls are pinned with movie posters for films you've never heard of. Her matching pine furniture looks dark green in the space lit only by a lava lamp. The desk is homing a sprawled assortment of sheet music, stand beside it, and her trumpet is balanced precariously on the hamper at the end of the bed, stuffed full of what you can see are various styles of stripy socks.
Your back will be crying by the morning, if the day’s events of killing your posture are anything to go by. You are curled up like a shrimp over the fabric, with a needle between your thumb and finger.
Robin is perched on the edge of her bed, one foot up on the chair, pulling apart a gummy worm by her teeth. She’s rattling off about social hierarchies and cliques as she notices your frown. She flicks on the desk lamp before continuing.
“—and, like, I get it. They’re chasing some kind of control because they know their futures are going down the toilet and I have a semblance of an original personality, but I still want to enjoy my youth and god, they’re such—”
“Assholes,” the two of you finish in unison.
She’s waiting with bated breath, ready for your expected slander of Tommy and Carol. But instead you just worry at your bottom lip and remain fixed on your costume, pushing the needle through the two layers of white polyester fabric.
She starts to swing the decapitated candy around in her fingers. “You’re very morose this evening.”
“Just focusing,” you return in such a tone that sounds easy, to deflect any further digging, but Robin being Robin, it only lures her in.
“Sure, but the lights are on and you’re not home.” She pokes you with her foot for emphasis. “Here I am sharing my grievances with our country’s education system and you’re responding like I’m holding up giant cue cards,” she pulls her hands apart wide, conveying just how large these would be.
“No, no… I’ve seen you way worse, saying far more.”
“I’m responding, aren’t I? We’re conversing.” You pull the thread through the hole and work out a section threatening to knot.
You glance up at her briefly, and then trail your eyes over to her costume laying lifelessly on the bed. “So, was that gonna finish itself?”
She hops along the bed, mattress springing in protest. She resets her foot on the spinning chair, but this time, she pushes it back and forth, lightly jostling you in the seat.
You recoil your hands from one another, not in the mood to add stabbing yourself to your accomplishments tonight. “Hey! Needle.”
“I’ll get all arts and crafty as soon as you tell me what’s wrong.”
You shake your head. “Not right now.”
She leans in until you can feel her breath fanning over your face, elbows perched in front of you. “When?”
“When I can be bothered to focus on it more than I already am,” you mumble, dedicating special attention to neatly folding the raw edge underneath itself.
Her stillness is freakishly unlike her and it sets your hairs on end.
You lock eyes and sigh. “I really don’t have the energy right now, okay?”
Robin is looking at you in an icy way, almost like she’s about to crane the lamp in your eyes and ask who you work for. Oh, what a timely line that would be.
“Can’t we just do what we said we’d do? Work on our costumes, eat junk and complain about whoever?”
She seems to consider your proposal for a few seconds, then surges forward, slapping a kiss to the crown of your head. She settles back onto the quilt, and immediately a jack-o-lantern shaped plastic bowl is in your face, stuffed to the brim with candy. “This is acceptable.”
You smile, placing your project onto the desk. As you reach out your hand, she wrenches the bowl away just a couple inches. “But I will unearth the truth eventually,” she teases.
You huff blithely, pushing your fist in full force down beneath the depths, grabbing a huge handful.
You sort your favourites from the rest in your palm, and as your mind catches up with your body, you slump. “I’m sorry,” you offer. “They’ve been hassling you for forever. It can’t keep going on like this, Rob.”
Your best friend shrugs. “If you think you can be the catalyst that makes Higgins finally take bullying seriously then be my guest. Besides… doesn’t matter, anyway. They’ll be gone by next year. I’ll be free.” She raises her eyebrows for dramatic effect.
You bite the shell of a Reese’s Pieces. “It’s just wrong.”
Robin shrugs. The two of you chew thoughtfully for a moment. You brush your toes back and forth in the carpet, drawing a pattern into the weave. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be Higgins.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nancy,” you answer like it’s the simplest thing in the world.
Robin rolls away from you dramatically. She hits the headboard with a hollow thunk.
You frown. “What? She could talk to them.”
She opts to save you from the rant on the tip of her tongue about Miss Perfect, choosing instead to only stick to the facts. “I’m not sure that’s in her jurisdiction, on account of not hanging out with them anymore.”
That was unknown to you. “Really? Must make things awkward with Steve.”
“And that’s exactly why.” Reinvigorated by the opportunity to spin a tale, Robin throws herself limbs first off the bed and into the space opposite you.
“Apparently, Tommy and Steve had this huge blow up fight last year. Happened after the whole Jonathan Byers smackdown. Blood pouring from every orifice, skull cracked, ‘The Hair’ barred from ever seeing an Agnès Varda masterpiece. I thought you knew this.”
You nod, processing this new information. “Right, that stuff with the movie theatre?”
“Ding, ding, ding.”
A thoughtful silence fills the air. Your attempts to read Nancy are done at arm’s length. You can imagine how she has been handling things since Barb’s disappearance, you need look no further than witnessing firsthand the grief Robin is still going through.
You had hoped that Nancy would know that she could come to you, as a support or just another girl friend, and certainly, the two of you are talking more than ever, but there is still a feeling like there’s something you’re missing, passed between the three of them like a football.
You hold a sharp discomfort in considering that she might have gone back to Steve and Jonathan despite everything because they were a presence at a time when she had no one.
You tilt your head back and it hits the top of the metal desk chair.
“They were awful to her. I don’t get it. Plus… what, those two knock each other around and suddenly they can stand to be in the same space?”
Robin huffs air through her puffed out lips. “We may never know,” she simply puts, flexing her toes on either foot one at a time. “But speculation may lead us to a cult.”
You reach across, grabbing her untouched project and flinging it at her. Her arms flail up in a circle, doing nothing to shield her face from the impact. You snort. “Get to work.”
—
Your mom’s word had done its job, earning you permission from the school to take your first period to drive around town, handing over the excessive copies of your résumé you had made to whoever would listen.
The stack of neglected ones sat on your passenger seat, guffawing at you as you drove back to school. Hawkins is a small town, and most stores hadn’t been hiring or were even willing to speak with you, on account of still being in high school and unable to commit to more hours.
You had ended on Melvald’s, cutting into an encounter of the romantic kind with Joyce and her new boyfriend, leaving the three of you feeling sufficiently awkward.
She had taken your résumé with sympathy, stating that she didn’t think they were hiring right now, but she would be sure to put in a good word. She hurried out not long after that, explaining that she had to pick up Will for a doctor’s appointment.
You had asked if he was alright, but she closed up fast, in a way you didn’t expect.
Arriving back at school, your first destination was the front office, as agreed.
The murmur of classes taking place fades into the hallway, providing you with a terrible reminder that you were estranged from that now. It was hard to feel connected to any of it when there was far worse at stake.
The door to the office swings open, the weatherstripping dragging dried up leaves and all sorts with it. A short woman sticks her head around and her eyes lock with you, sitting in one of the chairs against the wall. “(Y/N) Henderson?”
You offer her a tight smile, throwing the strap of your bag over your shoulder and shuffling in behind her. She leads you to Principal Higgins’ office and knocks on the door. You can’t hear much of anything from behind her, but you suppose she must have heard him, because she opens the door and explains “Your next appointment.”
He thanks her properly as she closes the door behind you. He gestures to the couple chairs in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”
You obey, pulling off your bag and settling it beside the chair. You kick it closer to the chair leg and set it upright when you notice it start to slope open.
The office does little to calm your nerves. Higgins’ desk is long and grand, a couple inches taller than the chair you are sitting in. In different lighting, the visual of him looming over you would be especially foreboding.
The water cooler in the corner bubbles every few seconds. There’s a TV sat on a filing cabinet, angled towards where he is sitting, spotless, and you wonder if when he’s not fulfilling obligations like these, he’s sat on his ass watching that all day. The air con drones above you, like a monster about to open its massive jaws to swallow you whole.
“Alright…” he sighs, readjusting in his seat. He picks up a file, and you note your name along the tab.
It feels clinical. Uncomfortable. He is an uninvolved man, only ever being sighted during big school events. In your last four years here, he had made no effort to speak to any of the student body in a way that shows care for wellbeing.
“So, your mother called ahead and filled us in on a few things. Namely, your job and where you’re up to in your studies. You’re taking AP classes, yes?”
You nod. “Art and calculus. My other classes are English, social studies, biology—”
“Yes, yes,” he nods along as your declaration takes him down the page before him. “Yes, very good. Good grades, not much involvement in extracurriculars, but I suppose what we’ve learned today explains a lot of that, and you want to go to college for art, yes?”
He closes the file and settles it back against the desk. His hand slides over to a singular slip of paper.
“I’ve had a word with a couple of your teachers. They’ve told me that you’re a good worker, but that they’re concerned over your recent test scores.”
He pulls another slip of paper out and holds the two up, gesturing with his pen between either page.
“This is your GPA as calculated last semester, and this is where you’re sitting now.”
You straighten up in your seat. 3.5 down to 2.9.
Your face hardens. A cold feeling washes over you, bringing with it a prickly sensation in your limbs.
“Now, you’ve been pretty consistent since moving here, so as you can imagine, it does raise some questions. I understand that your father is not around.”
“And that you have a brother, in middle school. I imagine being the oldest, you feel a certain responsibility to help out, yes? Be a support for your mom? Not a bad quality to have at all. But maybe a refocus on your studies would go further to help you in the long run.”
You want to laugh, and then cry. And then drown him in the water cooler.
“It’s not—” you start, nails digging into your palms. “—out of choice. We can’t pay the bills.”
“Well, there are programs to help with that,” he answers tersely, seemingly already done with the meeting as he aligns the papers into a stack and closes his hands together.
“Not something you need to be worrying about. I’m sure your mother is aware that there are government programs to assist with aid. If you want to make a note of this—”
You don’t.
“The AFDC, for one, is a program that helps low income families.”
You see the script coming from a mile away. “We don’t qualify.”
He stills. “Yes, I suppose not.”
What?
“But that is not something that you need to handle. Your priority should be on your classes. Leave your mother to worry about that. I’m sure she would agree.”
Suddenly he’s standing and rounding the desk, buttoning his jacket.
“Because certainly, no one wants to see that number drop any lower.”
He gestures to the door, his work done. You gather up your bag and exit without another word. You’re left to find your way back to the hallway. By this point, the bell rings, and it feels more like the signal of your heart being restarted than the sound that class is over.
Students fill the hallways with the normal sounds of teenage joys and worries, unaware that part of your soul has just broken off and fallen into the sea. You slink in the direction of your locker mindlessly, and at the worst moment collide with the crowd of your English class.
You spot Nancy immediately, with Jonathan accompanying her.
“Hey!” She greets with a smile. “Where’d you get to this morning?”
You’re mumbling a greeting and smiling back immediately, automatically. You fall into step beside the two of them. “Oh,” you stumble, gesturing behind you. “Had a doctor’s appointment.”
“Everything okay?” She asks, weaving around a group of athletes.
You hum, so cheery sounding it makes you grimace. You look by Nancy, who doesn’t seem to have picked up on the anxiety rolling off of you, to see Jonathan watching you intently. His eyes flick away immediately. You huff.
“Well,” she starts, “Now that I’ve got you…” She flaps a piece of brightly coloured orange paper in your face. “I want you here, too.”
It might as well be a dead animal by the way you take the flyer between two fingers and stare at it.
You grimace. “What the hell is this?”
TINA’S HALLOWEEN BASH
Come and get sheet faced
Nancy tucks her hands back around her binder, smoothing her fingers back and forth over the corners. She bumps your shoulder with hers. “A party. Tomorrow night. Come on, this is the one night a year where you’re not allowed to be a recluse.”
“No thanks. Not my thing.” A headache is worming its way behind your eyes, pulsating with the noise of a guy shouting for his buddies across you.
“Oh my god, what is it with you two?” Her head snaps back and forth.
The words draw yours and Jonathan’s eyes back to one another. You’re sure there are two drastically different dialogues going on in your heads.
He glances away, back between her and the floor. “I’m going trick-or-treating with Will,” he offers casually.
“And I need to,” you start, shaking your head at the ceiling tiles, beckoning a thought to come.
Need to contemplate my life that is rapidly spiralling out of control?
Shoulders shrug. “Study.”
It's hardly a lie.
“Study,” she repeats.
“... yeah.”
“You can do that any night. Come on, there will be music, drinks… other people our age, looking to meet someone.”
“Nance, if I want to meet someone, I’m not doing it at a saliva exchanging, loud, hormone-hopped party.”
Despite that, your eyes wander back down to the flyer. Get sheet faced. Fingers graze over the address printed along the side.
There’s a sudden squeal that scares the life out of you, and Nancy is up in the air, swallowed in the arms of a hyperactive Steve Harrington, who is very typically unaware of the conversation that had already been taking place.
She slaps his chest as he falls back against the lockers, giggling like a child. “Oh my god, take those stupid things off!”
He obeys, removing his sunglasses. “I missed you,” he croons affectionately.
And then they’re kissing and you feel very out of place. You catch Jonathan shuffling from one foot to another and then scratching his browbone, before turning and walking hurriedly down the hallway.
“It’s been, like, an hour!”
He takes her face in his hand. “Tell me about it.”
The kiss dissolves into a full makeout, and you realise that Jonathan’s timing was award winning. You consider that perhaps he has mastered this down to a science.
With a proportionally awkward shake of your head, you spin to continue the journey to find your locker and hopefully a solution to the storm battering the inside of your skull.
<- Prologue Next ->
Author's note: Thank you everybody so much for your kind feedback on the prologue! After a few years out from writing it means the world 🥹 I know this chapter was very Steve light, but I pinky promise there's gonna be more of him next one! Just gotta get that reader lore in there first 🤌
Summary: Steve Harrington, in his seventeen years, had been shown one lesson that was paramount above all others: he didn't warrant care. Meanwhile, caring was all you'd ever known to do. When a fateful monster attack draws your worlds together, you would find yourselves in a place so different from where you started.
Chapter summary: The night of the Halloween party. Drinks are had, fights are initiated and Dustin Henderson discovers a new friend.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Female Henderson!Reader
Word count: 6.7k
Warnings: Homophobia, bullying, drunk reader, alcohol assumption/abuse, physical violence, parentification of a child.
Please read the fic masterlist for a full list of warnings!
<- Prev Next ->
Trust Dustin to remain the outstanding reminder of joy in your life.
A flash explodes across your vision as your mother shrieks in delight. “Oh, I want to see those pearls!”
Your brother is situated in front of the fireplace, particle thrower in hand, decked out in full flight suit, ghost catching paraphernalia, and he is absolutely beaming at the camera. You stand beside your mom, arms crossed, with a grin splitting your face wide open.
“Yeah! Who you gonna call?” She proceeds to sing a tone deaf, entirely misled rendition of the Ghostbusters theme song, before Dustin brandishes the trap you made with pride, holding it up for the camera the way a fisherman would present an award winning bass.
“Wait, wait, wait!” You order, your mom and brother turning dead still. You run off to his bedroom and return with one of his toys.
“What are you—”
You drop to your knees beside your mom and switch on the aluminium spaceship. It seems to question you for whether there are batteries inside before lighting up with a stutter in the familiar green.
You skid forward to the carpet beside Dustin and roll over onto your back, stretching your arm up to point the light at the trap. The aspiration is to create a brilliant glow, giving the impression of life rolling off of the scientific instrument.
Instead, a pathetically small green light hits it, most of it absorbed by the thick black paint and duct tape.
“What are you doing?” He giggles.
“It looks like a ghost is inside!” You wave it around slightly for the illusion.
The two of you stare at the truly sad attempt at a visual effect. After the moment of silence, you break out into cackles.
“That’s crap,” he laughs.
“Is not,” you counter, slapping the spaceship against his leg. But you’re grinning.
Your mom snaps the photo anyway and walks into the kitchen with a smile on her face, fanning the fat stack of photos dry.
She had gotten a call home from Principal Higgins yesterday afternoon – some warning would have been awesome. She had known everything but the details of your declining grades, and she was not the happiest upon that discovery. Dustin was still out, which meant she had free reign to release her lecture in the living room.
Why had you kept things a secret? You hadn’t done so intentionally.
Why hadn’t you talked to her? It was the lowest on the list of priorities, and you believed that even if you had told her, it would have added to the groggy, already compacted feeling in your head that you were best off dealing with it yourself.
What were you going to do? Take on catch up homework, tests and extra classwork until you fall down dead, you supposed.
And as for a new job? No one has called to follow up on your pleas.
Dustin readjusts the straps on his shoulders and steps over you, still laying on the ground.
“It’s right here, Ray. He’s looking at me,” you quote.
Without missing a beat, “He’s an ugly little spud, isn’t he?”
You laugh.
Dustin places the trap on the carpet, unworking the twist in the tube. He rotates the pedal to sit right way up in front of his foot and lifts it, bracing. “One final test.”
Suspense held in place, he squashes it under his sneaker. A hissing sound squeezes painfully in the air and the trap remains shut.
His face crumples. “No!”
You watch as he dives forward, cradling it in his arms, and you’re already scrambling to your feet. “Hey, it’s fine! It just needs pressure, right?”
You turn with a skip and a hop to the dining room table, still an example of the damage done last night in the rush to completion. You pick up the duct tape and come to sit alongside him.
“Keep pushing it,” you direct him, setting the tape down. He starts to squeeze the pedal, over and over. You cup the tube connecting the trap to the mechanism, hovering your hands up and down it, feeling for inconsistencies. You move your hands further up the tube, towards the pedal, and then you feel it - a small shot of air. “Got it.”
You snatch the tape and pull it, the drag of the adhesive making a crackle noise. You rip tiny sections off at a time, wrapping a couple around the split in the rubber and then several around the base to prevent any other weak points from forming and wrecking the spectacle.
“When Max gets a load of this,” he grins, watching you work. “She’s gonna be so psyched.”
A frown forms between your eyes, and then a tiny smirk blooms. She?
“... Max?”
Realising the secret he has just divulged, his mouth makes the shape of a small ‘o’.
“Who’s Max?” Your tone is full of air.
“Just- a girl…”
“A girl?” You tease, abandoning the trap to poke his side.
He bats your hand away, snickering. He instantaneously shocks to life, becoming very animated. “She’s new, but awesome. She skateboards, and she’s a pro on Dig Dug. She got one hundred thousand more points than me.”
“You’re handling that way better than I’d expect. She must be really pretty.”
He pretends to think about it for a moment, and then shrugs as nonchalantly as he’s capable. “She’s… okay.”
You snicker. “Is she your girlfriend?”
He’s gearing up again, so excited by the concept, but deflates from memory, holding up a finger. “No. Lucas likes her, too.”
“Well, just be sure to treat her with respect. She’s not an award and you guys don’t need to end up fighting over her. And learn to be okay with whatever she decides for herself.”
You finish up the repairs. You share a preparatory look with one another, and then he punches his hand to the pedal. The trap slams open. Victory. Dustin beams at you, that contagious joy, and you mirror him naturally.
He tilts his head up at you, eyes squinting. “What do you know about girls, anyway?”
You feign puzzlement, poking a finger into your own arm several times.
“Okay!” He guffaws, poking you harder to shut you up.
“Come on, get your stuff,” you start to stand, using the top of his head as a launchpad. “You’re gonna be late.”
—
The boys pull up on their bikes singing the theme song at the same time you pull into the parking lot. Dustin docks his bike in the rack and instantly charges at Will.
“Spengler!” They bellow at him in greeting.
Dustin shows him the trap, and the entire group goes absolutely feral for a second time. You distantly hear Lucas say, “Your sister’s so cool.”
You laugh, turning to shut the door. Robin slides out of the passenger seat and ambles up beside you to witness the event. “Have a good day, guys,” you call, but they’re already absorbed in their own excited rambles.
“Happy little nerd goblins,” she muses, before swinging one gangly leg to turn and walk into school.
You lock the door and spin to follow Robin, but collide with something solid. You automatically put your hands out to steady yourself, until the person you crashed into shoves them away.
Tall, doused in tight denim, with a mullet, the face to the figure is angry. “Watch it!” He spits around the cigarette tucked in the crook of his lips. The smoke invades your senses, encouraging your drawback to happen faster. You move a foot backwards. He steps by you to walk through the front doors, uncaring about the shoulder that shunts you.
Robin walks to your side. “Who the hell is that?”
You shake your head, matching her glower. “No idea… but seems like a problem.”
—
It may be that Robin’s forehead will have a crater in it by the time the night is over, attributed to her anxious rubbing at it with her thumb.
She has been peering out of the window for the last ten minutes, watching the street lights strobe by under the curtain of the treeline, disassociating in silence. When you make a turn onto the road of your destination, now fully wound up, she turns to the roof of your car and starts craning her head around in a circle.
“Hey, Rob–” Hearing the way her neck pops, you reach up and spread your fingers into her scalp, applying the slightest pressure to ground her in place. “It’ll be fine.”
“This is horrifying.” Raspy. Exhausted already.
“You didn’t need to come.” It’s not abrasive. Only offering. “You can stay in the car.”
She’s already shaking her head wildly. “If you think,” Her finger is pointing accusingly at you. “I’m leaving you alone at a party with all of the worst people-”
“Well, thank you.” You smile at her, briefly taking your eyes off the road to convey your genuine gratitude.
“What is happening?” She asks to the air, and then more personally to you, turning her head against the headrest. “Have you outgrown me?”
You almost slam on the brakes. “What?”
“It’s just, my mom always says that I don’t fall in anywhere, with anyone. That one day I’ll want to do all of this. Is that what this is, have you grown up?”
“No!” It comes out too personal. Too sharp. You soften it. “No. I would never.”
You don’t look round but you can just catch her turning her head out to the street again, pressing her forehead against the window and fogging the glass with her laboured breathing.
You speak more levelled this time. “I know the option was there to stay in - do what we always do, and I would have been happy to do that.” The last part is stressed unequivocally. “But I just… wanted to try something different for a change.”
It’s not a lie, per se. For once, an opportunity has been handed to you. Nobody needs you tonight. You could sink into the identity of the masses, not just a witness to the life that normally passes you by.
You also know that everyone in there is going to be a complete mess, and the concept of not having to meet any expectations is something that leaves you feeling lighter.
A rumbling in your ears floats through the reverie. The booming beneath your feet bookends it. The earth splitting sensations supply a sense of foreboding for the night ahead.
The house comes into view. It’s enormous. Modern. Unsurprising, given the street it resides on and yet it still hangs over the others. There must be about twenty cars. Most line the edges of the street, but a still sizable number criss-cross over the front yard. Deep tire tracks spoil the grass. You would hate to be the person waking up to explain that to parents in the morning.
The party is uncontained. People gather by the front porch, under a canopy. A huge crowd, yelling and heckling. A few scatter about, stumbling like zombies, already out of their minds.
You switch off the engine and remove your key from the ignition. Robin has spied the zombies. Her stare suggests that she is imagining them taking a bite out of her. You twist your body towards her and rest your elbow on the steering wheel. “An hour. No more. If it’s too much before then, we’ll leave. Go find a crappy movie to watch.”
She takes a moment to steel herself. She seems to be considering both sides, to your favour. Her tongue is smushed to the corner of her mouth, cheek wriggling over it. She clicks it. “It would be unjust of me to neglect our peers of this cultural phenomenon.” Justifying. Not sold on the matter. She gestures to her costume, black bob wig. Black dress pulled from the end of her closet, seen only by family members and funeral attendees. A thick white collar pokes out of the neckline.
Your laughter is fond. You squeeze her hand in thanks, before reaching for the mirror, pulling it down and checking your own costume. You press your fingers to the buns on either side of your head, testing their security. You push a fleeing bobby pin deeper into one to hold it where it’s loose. Your white belt, matching the colour of the rest of the costume, has spun in your seat. You pull it back around your waist so that the front point sits central again, above your belly button.
A pit forms in your stomach then, semi expected. It’s provoking you to react, but you don’t allow yourself a moment to do so before you’re shoving the door open and throwing yourself out.
You hurry to Robin’s side, offering her an arm. The two of you walk, clasped together, up the concrete path. You cherish the cold air before stepping into what you know will be a furnace of teenagers.
A small group of the rowdier boys lead the mob back inside as you approach, the lot of them chanting in chorus a name that is illegible over the noise of the music. One, the guy who had bulldozed his way past you this morning, you recognise, is donned in a leather jacket, with beer drizzling from his mouth, down his neck and over his bare chest. He howls like an animal and spits his rising status into the crisp air.
You follow the commotion into the house, using the rush they have brought to make your entrance with as little noise as possible.
The music inside pounds monotonously. The same few heavy metal guitar notes are punched down by aggressive drumming. It shakes the walls and puppeteers the party goers to sway from side to side, none fighting their strings. Groups of friends crowd together, knocking back red plastic cups. Couples latch at the lips and don’t seem to ever let go. How are they breathing?
The two of you stand steadfast in the doorway, before a second, smaller crowd shoves through, forcing you further into the beast. Robin is stiff as a board, and you can feel her arms twine tighter around yours. “Come on!” You yell over the music.
You beeline for the kitchen. The dancers are so tightly packed that it’s hard to move through in a row of two. “Excuse me!” You shout only once, realising immediately that people are too drunk, too ignorant or simply unable to hear you. Your arms become separated from Robin’s grip, but you’re sure to squeeze tight to her hand. You start to shove your way through, away from the stereo and into the kitchen, where the activity thins out and you can hear yourself think.
There’s a huge punch bowl on the counter with a guy close beside it, whooping at the top of his lungs. And – Nancy?
“Hey!” You call to her.
She’s angled over the bowl, mid taste of whatever is inside. She hums, swallowing, brushing a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Hey! I didn’t think you were coming!”
“Change of heart.” You join her in leaning in, staring. The murky depths pull you in.
“What is that?” You shout over the music.
A gulp is received poorly, judging by the grimace on her face. “No idea.”
“I’ll take those odds.” You gather up the stack of cups, pulling two from the rest and then separating them from each other. You turn, hand stretched out with one for Robin. “Rob'?”
She’s transferring her weight from one foot to another. Scratching at the skin around her fingers. Her eyes are on you intently.
You smile softly. “A little bit?” Not pressure.
She silently shakes her head. You give her a reassuring nod before scooping your cup and pulling it out partially full.
A couple who has been sucking face up until this point gets a different idea, walking hand in hand around the corner to another part of the house. The fridge becomes available. You move towards it, opening the door in search of something. You retrieve a can of soda and position yourself back beside Robin, between her and the drunk guy whose impassioned state is getting very physical.
You slide the drink into her hand. It’s ice cold, unlike the punch which has been sitting on the side turning warm. She smiles, pulling on the tab until she hears its pleasing crack. The two of you toast your drinks.
You’re about to ask Nancy a question, who is still hanging around the bowl, when Steve sidles up beside her. “Hey, whoa, whoa, whoa! Take it easy. Take it easy, Nance. Nance.” He’s grasping at nothing, trying to move her away with the sheer force of the distance between his hand and her arm. You gather that he has an inside knowledge of what the contents might be.
She recoils, agitated. “We’re just being stupid teenagers for the night, wasn’t that the deal?”
Steve sinks in his shoes. There’s a heavy look between them, full of words they’ve shared that didn’t seem to go over well. She makes a display of taking another full cup of the punch, kicking it back. Excess of the drink dribbles down her face, leaving its red mark, mocking him. There’s a hollow stare in her eyes when she turns and disappears into the crowd without him.
Steve remains where he is opposite you both, shoulders high and tense with either arm spread against the counters. He looks up through his lashes at the two of you standing there, watching.
“What?” He asks, tone barely concealing his energy fleeing him.
It feels like your own kind of justice when you lock eyes with him to take your own first, long sip.
—
Robin puts a challenge to the laws of time. Sixty minutes. How fast can sixty minutes roll by?
She knows that there must be around two hundred people at this party. Maybe fifty of them will be able to walk by the end of the night. Cups sit abandoned around the frenetic living room, jumping when someone butts into a table or slams onto a couch. Most are entirely empty, in the name of quitting while ahead or replacing one with another. She doesn’t know for certain, but can definitely take an educated guess.
The two of you curb your anxieties enough to move from beside the microwave and perch yourselves on a couple bar stools. You settle into an easy commentary on the other party attendees.
Ten minutes in, a guy on the debate team – Dracula, you note, puts his foot through a chair after jumping on it, witnessing a game of beer pong. His friend pulls him up, still attached to it, and a cop wearing shades with an inflatable baton yanks him free.
“I’ll give that an eight out of ten,” Robin rules, watching the inebriated vampire sit down beside the television to pull splinters from his calf.
You frown. “Eight? What was that dismount?”
Her chair spins back and forth as she elbows the corner of the kitchen island. “I thought we were judging on shittiness?”
Five minutes after that, a string of girls begin to flee from their boyfriends, with boyfriend and boyfriend’s second girlfriend in tow. That’s a ballerina, alien, devil, cowgirl, pirate, bee, Wonder Woman, cactus, mermaid, cat, hotdog and Alice, from Wonderland, passing by you.
Robin wistfully bats her eyelashes. “Young love.”
You sputter from the absurdity of it all, scratching your face with the rim of the plastic cup when Alice looks at you a little too madly.
Occurring simultaneously with the train of heartbreak, a curtain rail is ripped from the wall and crashes down. A noble knight rises to joust his buddy with a fern. Soil spits up across the rug and there’s an outcry from those on the periphery.
The fern degrades before Robin’s eyes at the same time you disappear. You’re back by her side seconds later. She grips your chair still as you climb back onto it. You have another drink. This time, it’s full. You laugh wistfully enough to make her start a mental count.
At the twenty five minute mark, your posture slinks. Inches are lost to your height when you lean back, lax to a point where you don’t realise you’re doing it.
You could fool her for being asleep, your eyes so heavy lidded in contentment. Your small laughs let her know that you’re still conscious, but elsewhere.
It’s not until the fourth event of the evening, when someone is thrown against a cabinet and it topples down, glass shattering, sliding across the waxed floors like cracked ice, and you holler like it’s a football game, that she realises this is suddenly too big for her to manage.
The music transitions away from the droning, stomach drop inducing timbre that the two of you have grown accustomed to and becomes something with a rhythmic beat and vocals. Something pleasant. Something that compels you to move. You don’t find yourself questioning this impulse.
You almost kick the stool out from under you when you get up. “Come and dance?”
She flinches, certain that a UFO plucked you away while her back was turned. “No, no…”
You’re tugging on her sleeve like a child. Her drink is pried from her grip by your grubby fingers. They seem to be fighting each other for control. “C’mon, I need someone to dance with!”
She tries to fight you, forgetting that you’re losing the rationale to hold this conversation. “But the world doesn’t need to see that.”
“Please?”
You tug her until she falls from her seat as an unwilling lump, boots clambering to the ground. She tucks away a reminder for later that she deserves another present for Christmas as you're allowed to pull her to the very outskirts of the activity. You hold onto one of her hands in yours, and resume sipping at your cup.
You bounce in place, hips rocking uncoordinated to the beat, waving her hand along with you as an extension of your arms. She sways in accompaniment, unenthusiastically but trying to partake for the benefit of keeping you in place. Her other hand is out, bracing for if you try to do more than your body can currently handle.
Panicked thoughts that hadn’t been discussed blaze at the forefront of her mind. What happens next? When is it too much? What does she do? How are you going to get home?
Before long, your lag behind the music grows into a full delayed, breaking, on a different song kind of pace of a dance. She’s not certain you know who you're holding onto anymore. Your mind has smoothed out, the jagged anxieties eroding away. You tip the rest of your cup down your throat. The burning has moved out of town. You’re only tasting the artificial flavour of the punch now.
“Hey, watch it,” Robin warns. She tries to reach for the cup, but you slink under her arm, giggling.
“I didn' try to steal yours,” you say playfully.
“That’s because mine won’t kill anyone.” The hardness of her voice is imperceptible to you, twirling yourself through her armpit.
You sway slightly when you come back up, waggling the cup at her between your fingers for emphasis. “Mine isn’ gonna kill me. Well- we’re- we’re all gonna die at some point.”
“How about some water?” It’s not a question. She grabs your hand and pulls you back through into the kitchen.
You stumble into someone trying to shake the last remaining drops from your cup above your head and they shout. You apologise to the toaster.
She lets go of your hand, grabbing a new cup and twisting on the faucet.
There’s a girl across the way from you putting her hands on someone’s ass, and just below Robin is a guy clambering out of the cupboards with a sponge. He staggers weakly to his feet, takes a full breath and then wipes the sponge across his armpits with a satisfied, half-conscious moan.
You pick up a foot and grasp it in your hand. You feel so light, so weightless, you could spin. As if there were skates strapped to your feet, you do just that, witnessing but not processing everything around you. Your vision whizzes by and you’re not sure you’ve ever noticed it being so closed in at the edges before.
You push off to spin again, but your leg wobbles from beneath you. A drop is taken into the counter. You smash your hand on the edge but your elbow keeps you from a full dive bomb against the tiled floor. Climbing a summit, you pull your upper body over the ledge, and your eyes catch something truly beautiful. There’s a cup, and there’s the bowl of your new best friend.
Robin turns back to you in time to see you pulling it out, hands dripping. You lock eyes in a half second stand off. It sloshes as you attempt to fly out of the kitchen.
“(Y/N)—!”
She gets caught in a bottleneck. You flee across the dance floor, in time for Jonathan to throw himself out of the way to avoid being struck down as soon as he’s arrived.
You shake with tiny chortles, laughing at nothing and no one. Your feet step widely and then tightly together. Robin pushes through and stops beside Jonathan.
“Is she-” he starts, trying to match the image of the girl he knows and saw yesterday in school to the one now, kicking off her shoes and stepping in a frenzied circle.
Robin answers with a sharp shake of her head, preoccupied. She flinches as you bump into a guy, who seems very enthused by the contact. She grips the cup of water tighter. “Something’s wrong.”
This picture is all wrong. Truly, completely wrong. You, her best friend, famously the prosecution of suppressing your feelings, has just crumbled like alcohol is your salvation. She sees you smiling, sees the giggles work through your belly to your cheeks, but it’s empty. You’re blank. You’re in pain and you’re not letting anyone access it.
“Robin!” You wave to beckon her over, forgetting about what just occurred.
She approaches, more carefully than before but not waiting for you to finish your slow jive in a circle. She plants her hands on your arms. You try to slide your own hands up to take hers, cup getting crushed.
“Dance,” you sigh, suddenly dropping one of her hands to try and take another sip.
“No. Come with me.” She makes a reach for the cup but you jolt your body away from her. Jonathan reaches down to pick up your shoes. A hand is out, ready in case.
“No, I don’ wanna.” Your arms get reactive quickly. You try to push back against her.
“(Y/N)—” She tries to stop you, battling against her progress to get you somewhere to calm down.
“No–” You try to bump her with your side in rebellion, but it comes out with the force of a shove.
Before she can do anything to intercept you, you’re throwing your arms around her shoulders, tipping the cup with them, and it pours down the back of her neck. She gasps, back tensing up. “Jus’ dance w’me.”
Jonathan steps in, trying to untie the knot you’ve made of your elbows locked around Robin.
“No–”
You’re being grabbed by too many people. There’s too much focus.
“Stop!”
Jonathan lifts his arms like he’s been burned. Robin stops, too. Her face is all you can see at the centre of your vision, darkness floating and moving around her.
“Please, just…” You thump a hand against her chest.
Resigned. Desperate.
“Please—”
The noise and the lights have filled up her head like a bucket, but she can still tell clear as day the stutters of genuine distress weeping into your voice.
Your resolve is cracking.
Her head shakes frantically.
“I can’t–”
“Buckley!” A bark. Robin tenses.
The three of you turn at once, you mostly by Robin, to find Tommy Hagan and Carol Perkins sidling up.
Shit, now?
“Didn’t think we’d find you here, Buckley!” Tommy is grinning wider than usual, hand clasped around a drink. Carol assumes her position in the crook of his arm. The new boy moves behind them a second later, witnessing.
“And with the creep, too?” She gasps airily, petting Tommy’s chest. Her eyes flit over them the way a shark would circle, and then she notices you. “She okay?” She leans in towards you and almost loses her balance. “She’s kinda… drooling.”
Robin is uncaring for their current timing, much more focused on you. “Not now,” she squeaks, surprising herself.
“She has a voice! That’s what you sound like? It’s not all…” Tommy unhooks himself from Carol, who nearly hits the deck from the loss of support. His hands take the shape of a trumpet. His chest rises and falls heavily, before he blows into it, faux sneezing. Carol’s cackles are his accompaniment.
“Hey, knock it off.” Jonathan moves forward, partially obscuring Tommy’s view of you. His eyes don’t entirely find their target.
“Why, Byers?” Tommy goads, mirroring his step toward him. “Are they yours? Don’t like us playing with your toys?” His breath stinks, curling around Jonathan’s face.
“They’re not–”
“You know, I thought you and Princess were forever.” Tommy cups a noble hand to his chest. “I mean, I was rooting for you. Those were some beautiful photos. But I guess it’s less fun when you get them secondhand, right?”
Jonathan’s face twists in disgust, jaw ticking.
A commotion crashes into the standoff, the kitchen beckoning everyone’s attention. Nancy and Steve stand at the centre, successfully winning the gasps of the conscious. Nancy is doused in the punch, holding out an overturned cup. Steve stands opposite her, hands hovering in place.
It’s silent, all but the music carrying on, unaware.
Nancy scoffs, “The hell?”
She leaves sluggishly away from him. He chases right after, calling her name, and not long after, the party fills the space with racket once more.
Carol holds her fingers to her mouth, playing with her lip, pretending to smother whatever is itching to burst free. A second later, she’s sniggering.
Tommy laughs with her, loud and jolly. “Might not be too late for you after all, Byers!”
They revel in it like hyenas. The new boy doesn’t join in, maintaining his position of spectating. Assessing.
It’s several moments before Tommy refocuses, seemingly trying to find where he had gotten to. Believing he’s come to a grand conclusion, he taps himself on the top of the head. “Wait, I remember now!” He points to you. “You’re the one who told Princess about the photos. Wanted her out the way to have him all to yourself, am I right?”
Robin attempts to turn away slightly to reduce their interaction with you, but it only inspires them further.
“Is that what this is about?” His finger darts between the three of you. “Scoping out some new clients to shoot?”
Carol takes the cup from Tommy, pulling away her cigarette for a swig. “Is this a band thing?”
He whips round to her. “What, freak central? What do you say, Byers?” He stalks into Jonathan’s face. His voice scoops low. A hard poke finds its mark in Jonathan’s arm, nudging, beckoning. “You like to blow the horn?”
Before he can react, Carol drags the cup in the air over the general vicinity of you and Robin, trying to stitch an answer together from your head in the crook of her neck. “They seem close.”
Robin unconsciously shrinks.
Tommy tag teams. “Is that your girlfriend?”
“The freak club is a queers club.”
That cuts through.
“What’d you say?”
She sees you, then. Really sees you. Registers your eyes not really holding on her, but full of malice all the same. Her smile evolves into amused observation.
Jonathan’s head flinches ever so slightly to glance at you. You’re sluggishly unfurling yourself from Robin, who is trying with all her might to keep you where you are. She’s at least relieved to see you taking the cup of water.
Carol scoffs, disregarding your impact immediately but still gunning for easy pickings. “I said, do you want us to leave you alone with your girlfr-”
You throw the water.
It kills her cigarette, falling from her mouth as she screeches in horror. “You bitch!”
Whack.
The hit shouldn’t be enough to shift your centre of gravity, but drunk as you are, you topple backwards.
You’re back up despite everything that is good for you and your world rocks, begging you to get off the boat.
You spot the two Carols and go for both.
You fall again.
This time, there’s low yelling. You’re not sure from who. Someone is beneath you.
Carol is beneath you.
You slap her. Is your hand meant to be closed when you slap someone?
“Get off of me!” She shrieks at the top of her lungs.
You’re sure your scalp is being opened up. Your hair is under a terrible amount of tension.
Your head is pulled back, and it’s enough to leave you reeling for a week. There are bony knees jutting into your stomach. You groan.
Tommy’s stumbling to hoist her up and by then, the pressure on your head disappears.
“You’re crazy!” That voice seems far away. Was it meant for you?
The floor is the best thing you’ve ever felt. You could do without the spinning, but it’s cool against your skin. You could settle down here.
The ground falls away. You must be floating. Your arms are weightless. Your body is moving. Are you dying?
Your legs aren’t sure, but they want to follow.
Robin and Jonathan pull you past the crowd and out the door.
Something cold, the air, settles on you.
“Set her down.”
They slowly deposit you on the steps, hands around your waist and on either arm. Robin slots herself beside you, arm bent uncomfortably against your full weight on her. Your head drops to her shoulder.
Jonathan stands, assessing the situation on behalf of Robin who is occupied with worry. “I’ll get her some water.”
He steps back inside, fragile.
Robin turns her hand out to the sky. A thin scab along her palm that has lived there for a few days is lifting up, peeling. She pulls at it. Crimson emerges. She stops. Rubs her thumb across it. Scowls at it.
She sighs at the circumstances.
Her lip juts. Eyes burn.
“Rob'.”
A deep breath pours into her aching chest and floods the spot where you mumble against her.
“‘m sorry.”
She scowls at the pavement, being stupid enough to be adorned with vomit. A heavy exhale. “I know.”
“‘m failing.”
Hurt. Drained. “No, you’re not.”
You attempt a nod. She doesn’t feel it.
“Not gonna graduate.”
She shouldn’t engage. It won’t take her anywhere good. But she’s talking into the crown of your head, anyway. “What are you talking about?”
“Failing.” And she can’t understand where the next words connect to the last. “Got fired.”
A blink. A second blink. Lines being connected.
She doesn’t realise Jonathan coming back before the moment he’s placing a cup of water under your nose. She takes it from him and he disappears again.
“Drink.”
You do.
The only thing you know how to do. You don’t stop until it’s empty.
Jonathan comes back, replaces the cup.
You close your eyes and swallow.
A solid article knocks into your back. A foot? Throwing the water up in your mouth so you’re choking on it. The rest drops. Darkens your costume.
Legs swerve around you too late, stumbling down the steps. Steve.
You look at the cup, rolling on its side.
“F–fuck you, Harrington.”
He turns entirely, startled. Not expecting anyone. He blinks. Sniffles. Has the decency to pause. Then leaves backwards towards his car.
Jonathan doesn’t replace your cup this time. He returns with Nancy, eyes closed and floppy against him.
He and Robin pile the two of you into his car. You’re moved somewhere quiet and warm. Robin makes a phone call, explaining your absence.
You lose track by then.
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Author's note: I STRUGGLED with this chapter. I attribute it to a migraine that has been rattling around my brain for the last five days :') This was always going to be the most difficult chapter to write, for me. Though, on a final reread, I think I'm good with where it lands!
Silly bit of author lore here - I own a replica of the Ghostbusters: Afterlife proton pack and neutrona wand, so the Ghostbusters stuff in S2 is truly phenomenal to me. Also, ya girl just finished a Princess Leia cosplay last year, hence reader’s costume! I anticipate that there will be a ton of sci-fi references in this series (sorry not sorry, what’s the point in writing a self insert if you can’t give them your whimsical fangirl tendencies?)
Robin's costume is Ilona from Daughters of Darkness (Thank you to my queer media loving bestie for this nod <3)
Thanks so much for the support! It makes me v happy to have a taglist growing <333333
Summary: Steve Harrington, in his seventeen years, had been shown one lesson that was paramount above all others: he didn't warrant care. Meanwhile, caring was all you'd ever known to do. When a fateful monster attack draws your worlds together, you would find yourselves in a place so different from where you started.
Chapter summary: Dustin hates the distance he's put between the two of you. He doesn't realise what damning consequences it has until it's too late.
Pairing: Steve Harrington x Female Henderson!Reader
Word count: 8.2k
Warnings: Violence, mentions and descriptions of deceased/missing pet, parentification of a child, absent parent. Please read the fic masterlist for a full list of warnings!
<- Prev
This is the worst week of Dustin Henderson’s life.
Well… not exactly. He might be pushing it a little on the dramatics.
He would be remiss to fail to mention last year, where one of his best friends went missing in the woods for a week. Except unlike your standard missing child story, these woods flipped. They became an alternate woods where roots squirm and the sky flashes crimson, with monsters and spores and crazy government assholes and interdimensional doorways, and an amazing girl who could move things with her mind.
He misses El.
He doesn’t miss that time.
Though it looks like it might be returning with a vengeance once more, with that same friend stepping across one world to the other like something right out of a campaign and being hunted by a supposed shadow monster hanging in the sky.
To make matters worse, the party have been out on a mission to find and eliminate his new friend, Dart. Rifling through trash and armed with their blunt force weapons of flash lights and walkie talkies to bludgeon the little guy. Led by the raving lunatic, Mike Wheeler, who is unreachable with any semblance of logic. Because he’s convinced that Dart is an agent of evil…? Honestly, who the hell cares if he’s from the Upside Down? He’s not doing any harm. Nature versus nurture is a long-standing scientific debate for a reason, Michael.
And for the cherry on top of the shit birthday cake—
“Dustin!”
He straightens, removing his chin lax from where it’s pressed into the curve of his palm. His eyelids shutter a morse code of alarm, restoring abruptly to the present moment.
“Are you with us?” Asks his favourite teacher, Mr Clarke.
Dustin nods after a moment, attempting to rouse himself from his melancholy. “Yes. Yes, of course.” He tucks a rogue sheet of paper on the desk beneath his textbook, enforcing a sense of order upon his faltering mind. “I’m sorry, Mr Clarke. Please continue.”
Mr Clarke seems to consider this for a moment. So unlike his star student. But appearing to land on no conclusive theories to explain the out of character behaviour, he slides right back into the topic at hand.
“As I was saying… All creatures in our animal kingdom have a survival instinct. Even us. We are all born with internal signals that ward us against threats.”
The middle school class is dead in their seats. Eyes are everywhere but on Mr Clarke, engaging in passing notes and daydreaming. One student chews gum loudly to the left, and a couple desks over to the right, another burrows a pencil into their nose. In the centre sits Dustin, Lucas and Mike, backs melting into grey plastic chairs. Enduring a chill along their spines knowing that their friend isn’t sitting with them.
Mr Clarke continues, delighted by the material and blissfully unaware of the lack of enthusiasm. “Have you ever noticed birds flying in a flock? They’re headed somewhere new. Some animals do this to search for food, others to hibernate during the change in season, and some want somewhere safe to breed or lay their eggs. It’s all in the name of survival.”
He slides the textbook page up, framing the image of a flock of Arctic Tern under the projector light. The boys follow the sight, battling the shaky jittering of the page in their teacher’s hand.
“And they don’t need to be taught to do these things, either. Birds can fly right back at the end of winter.” There’s a hand gesture to accompany the image, palm gliding through the air. “They don’t need a map to know the way. And fish are born knowing how to swim. Neat, right?”
The boys are more than familiar with the concepts, operating at levels of scientific understanding far above what is expected from an eighth grade class.
In an attempt to atone, Dustin raises his hand.
“Dustin,” Mr Clarke addresses agreeably, gesturing with his palm up in invitation.
Dustin taps his fingers against the front of the desk. “It’s the same with nests. Birds know they have to make them. And beavers know they have to build dams.”
His teacher’s mustache lifts in a proud beam. “Right you are, Dustin! These kinds of intrinsic skills are passed down from their ancestors as part of their evolutionary history. They’re so important because they keep the species from extinction.”
He points his pen out to the class, waving from one side to the other. “Without you all being born with the ability to swallow, you wouldn’t have been able to eat. And as Earth’s climates become more volatile, it’s incredibly important that an animal species develops with it.”
There’s a thud at the back of the room, marking the moment that a child is lost to sleep.
“But,” he proclaims, raising his hands, eyes wide to relay a message of doom. “Don’t be fooled, young voyagers, for that’s not all. While environmental dangers and predators still prove to be the biggest threat, some animal species have to worry about their own kind. Some animals,” he starts, turning the page and adjusting the focus on the projector to be an image of the subsequent animal. “Like marmosets, have hierarchies within their tribes. They allocate their own leaders, who will carry and protect their young. To them, it is most important that they have strong offspring to make sure their tribe’s future is secured.”
Mr Clarke downturns his face, solemn. “In the event that this does not happen, well… they have no problem wiping out the offspring and their parents, and starting over.”
Lucas raises his eyebrows.
“It’s an incredible, but brutal… world out there.”
—
He was wrong. This is officially, sure as shit, his worst week ever.
As it turns out, the small, adorable pollywog he’s been sheltering in his bedroom from the Hawkins Middle kill squad is a demogorgon. That’s a pretty hard fact to defend. Returning home to find a new pal chewing on the family pet is bound to put a damper on anyone’s week.
And you know, for a group of ten or so people whose lives were changed forever by the aforementioned traumatic events of ‘83, none of them seem to give a shit that his life is now spiralling rapidly out of control faster than he can handle.
Nancy is off having slumber parties, Lucas is busy fawning over Max, Mike and Will have disappeared and Mr Wheeler is still a lazy son of a bitch who takes a nap after lifting a single finger.
But the part he hates the most?
Is that in his time of need it’s Steve Harrington helping him instead of you.
He hates this.
Hates the lies.
Hates sitting in Steve’s car, bumping over the train tracks with a constant juddering that is just begging to blend up his brain and leave it pouring out of his ears.
“Alright, so let me get this straight,” Steve starts, bucket propped in his lap with the windows rolled down, staring ahead at the trail. “You kept something you knew was probably dangerous in order to impress… a girl… who— who you just met?”
Dustin chucks a chunk of meat out of the window. “Alright, that’s grossly oversimplifying things.”
“I mean, why would a girl like some nasty slug, anyway?”
“An interdimensional slug? Because it’s awesome.”
“Well, even if she thought it was cool, which she didn’t… I don’t know, I just feel like you’re trying way too hard, man.” Steve picks up a piece of the meat and braves a sniff. Big mistake. He recoils hard, offended, head knocking into the back of the headrest before launching it a considerable distance from the car.
“Well, not everyone can have your perfect hair, alright?”
“It’s not about the hair, man.”
Dustin scoffs. “Look, if you’re gonna tell me it’s what you smell like, or how you walk, or the car…” There’s an active effort taking place to pull back the fraying string of his patience, but at the end of the day, he’s still a teenage boy. “I’m sure this probably works on the girls where you’re from, but all it’s doing right now is slowing us down. This would’ve been way easier on foot.”
“Alright, crabby pants,” Steve mutters. He reaches around and pats the exterior of the door. It clangs dully. “Hear that? Safer. Reinforced. Fast. On foot, we’re monster bait.”
Dustin rolls his eyes as the car continues rattling over the sleepers, testing the strength of their teeth.
“Look, the key with girls is just acting like you don’t care.” Steve shrugs lopsidedly.
Dustin yields, looking to him with lips puffed and round eyes. “Even if you do?”
“Yeah, exactly, it drives them nuts.”
“Then what?”
Steve looks back at Dustin, dimples twitching at the line of questioning. “You just wait, until, uh… until you feel it.”
“Feel what?”
He drops a piece of meat. “It’s like before it’s gonna storm, y’know? You can’t see it, but you can feel it, like this, uh… electricity, you know?”
“Oh, like in the electromagnetic field when the clouds, in the atmosphere—”
Steve’s lost immediately, shaking his head emphatically. “No, no, no, like a— a sexual electricity.”
“Oh.”
“You feel that…” He dunks his hand in a non-existent basketball net. “And then you make your move.”
A beat.
“I’m not so sure.”
Steve is clearly personally offended. He scoffs. “Why? I think the results speak for themselves.”
Well now it’s just funny. Dustin shrugs as casually as he’s able to with a smirk hankering to break out on one side of his face. “Doubt my sister would agree.”
“I know you’re not talking about the sister back there.”
“(Y/N) says it’s better to be honest with girls. Sensitive, gentle, that kind of thing.“
Steve stills, pupils darting incrementally in thought. “Yeah, well, what the hell does she know, she’s not exactly a ray of sunshine.”
The mischievous smile burns off. Dustin’s tongue lodges to the bottom of his mouth while he turns with a new attitude to stare out of the window, daring Dart to appear and to take the first swing.
It falls quiet, long enough for the fragile shell that has encased him since the scene at your home to breach. He numbly lets more meat fall beside the car to be ground up in the tires, presence dwindling into a deeper kind of thought.
His mind is with you.
His sister, who tries to help with homework despite knowing he can handle it. Just so he knows you’re there. Who has perfected your mom’s signature to fake it on the field trip notes when he’s forgotten to ask about it the night before and she’s staying late at work. Who takes very seriously his goal to collect the entire line of Star Wars cereal box toys, and happily trades him when he gets another dupe of Han Solo.
There are days long gone that he aches for, even if he can recall them as travesties. The day the two of you were particularly tetchy with one another and you pushed him so hard he went right off the path and into a pine tree. You’d spent an hour pulling needles out of his shins and elbows and slathering him in too much antiseptic while urging it’s okay, please don’t cry so loud.
Time used to flow naturally. Easily. Without a haemorrhaging of the feeling of safety. The two of you watching your favourite sci-fi films on tapes that skip. Laughing at the way the iconic lines ping and frazzle with rainbows scattering across the television screen. Playing it so loud because your parents were preoccupied. There were plentiful conversations, and unburdened by constant checking for his own lies. It’s become so tiresome, sifting through the conflicting information he’s provided as to where he’s going, is Will okay, why is he being like that.
And shit, has he lied to you. But he had no choice! There are eyes in the walls and ears in the phone, put there by the NDA he was forced to sign.
He doesn’t expect the harsh nudge that comes, between his shoulder and armpit. It rips him from his stupor. He twists at the waist to evade Steve’s wiggling finger coming at him a second time and glares questionably.
Steve’s face shrivels at the reaction but almost instantly resets. “What’s the deal with her, anyway?”
“What do you mean?” Dustin responds languidly, turning slightly but looking at the dash.
“She’s pretty high strung. Kind of intense.”
“You got all that from back there?” Dustin murmurs.
“We go to school together, knucklehead. I got that from a whole load of things.”
“She’s not like that.”
Steve shrugs. “News to me.”
“She’s not!”
Harsh eyes meet softening ones.
Dustin surrenders. “I mean… yeah, she yells at me sometimes, but only when I really mess up. Missing the toilet, forgetting to feed the cat…”
“The cat that just got…”
“Yes. It’s always been like this. Our dad isn’t around, so she helps my mom out.”
Steve’s yellow gloved hands twist, parting around the steering wheel. The leather cries under the friction. His eyes wilt against the numbers on the speedometer. “That’s tough,” he says. Low and brittle.
“Yeah. It's better without him, though. He was an asshole.”
Steve nods, mind elsewhere, hunching slightly in his seat.
“She’s always looked out for me. I hate lying to her, especially about something this significant.”
“Woah, wait.” The situation blazes back to the forefront. “You’re not thinking of telling her, are you?”
“What— Of course not!”
Steve babbles over a jumbled series of syllables that sound defensive and appeasing all at once.
The threat fizzles around them again. Waiting. Imperceptible. Like that storm. Sharp and then nothing. Testing to see if they’re still on alert.
“I'm not an idiot, Steve!”
“Good!” Steve’s eyebrows wave and spike. “Just… good. It’s not worth it. Not with those lab creeps breathing down all our necks.”
Steve frowns, voice dropping low. As if at a wake. “What are you gonna tell them about the cat?”
“No idea.”
Dustin knocks the bucket against the freshly cleaned car window frame several times, shaking the contents out. Ungainly enough that Steve clenches. “I’m sorry, man.”
Dustin’s voice is blank. “Might have to just let her vanish — left one night and didn't come back. Probably a roadside accident.”
Jesus.
How have things gotten so bleak? Concealing the death of a family member in his bedroom. Burying her body. Now setting out to kill what killed her.
“Do you think she saw something?” Steve asks suddenly.
Dustin’s face crinkles. “What? Who?”
“Your sister, dude.”
“Why would you—”
“She told me to keep you away from Skull Rock.”
“I don’t know— I don’t know, she just…” He huffs and the car stops. The bucket slides sideways as he swings around in Dustin’s direction. “You’re telling me she’s usually creeped like that?
“Well… no, but–”
Dustin scowls. “What? Why would she—?”
Steve shrugs, then agitates his hair. “I don’t know, maybe she saw Bullseye.”
“Dart.”
“Whatever.”
“Wait, then why are we here? If she saw something, why aren’t we looking for him there?”
“You think I’m going back to your house and telling her that her squirt brother was made into little lizard bite-sized patties? What do you think the car’s for?” He turns to grasp the wheel again. “Besides, Nance said those things can smell for miles, like sharks. Blood, and all that kinda stuff. If that’s true, he’ll smell what we’re doing and come running.”
“Hair.”
“And if you’re wrong?”
He shrugs. “Then nothing happens. You don’t die and I keep my head.”
Steve glances at him, eyes softening. “Hair.”
The car rocks into propulsion once more.
They move down the tracks several more feet, dispersing more bait as they go, into a rhythm now, joined with the odd clear of the throat from Steve to break up the quiet. His eyes flitting every so often to your brother.
“Fabergé.”
—
Dustin frowns. “What?”
Steve points undignified at the height of his head. “It’s Fabergé Organics.”
Dusk is barreling towards the junkyard when they arrive, the sky a murky yellow that rots dark around the edges the way that film burns. The wind has settled with a hefty silence, ready for the chill to force its way in. A severity of cold that is sure to make noses burn.
Steve takes off his sunglasses to survey the bones of their operation. Seriously, why he’s still wearing them and how he can see anything is anyone’s guess. Dustin curdles under the examination of his choice spot, until after a moment, Steve nods.
“Oh, yeah. Yeah, this’ll do.” He nods again, gears already turning up a plot. “This’ll do just fine. Good call, dude.”
Your brother elicits a toothy grin, warmth pooling in his cheeks. Proud. Already putting so much weight behind Steve’s words.
The two fast friends walk a meager remaining steps to the centre of the yard. Dustin glances briefly Steve’s way and sees him checking further, eyeline upon the trees, beyond the immediate ground where they stand. Careful glances in all directions. Dustin’s stomach flips, sensing the danger that will soon be upon them like the dark.
They dump the remainder of the buckets in a pile at their feet, singing with a strong metallic odour.
“I said medium-well!” Lucas’ voice projects from the opposite end of the junkyard. He waves avidly with his bike against his side.
“Who’s that?” Steve asks.
On the other side stands Max, weight dispersed to one leg and hand stuck in the pocket of her green hoodie. She swaggers forward with a smirk that looks natural.
She’s so cool.
But Lucas brought her. And he did so joyously. The sight of a battle lost. His heart sinks and his face joins it. But no sooner had the expression been there than it was gone again, replaced with familiar displeasure. Another person involved. Another friend in danger. One more step away from you. Feeling his allegiance dying a bit more.
He pounces when they’ve cut the distance. “What are you doing here?”
Max adjusts her stance for hostility. “‘Hi’ to you, too.”
“You told her?” Dustin accuses.
“Oh. Oh, I’m not here,” Max points fingers between the two of them.
Lucas shrugs his bag strap higher in challenge. “So what?”
“‘So what’,” Dustin echoes back drily.
“You wanted to tell her, too!”
“Yeah, but I didn’t, alright? We all agreed not to tell her and to look for Dart.”
Max’s face adjusts, awed by his nerve. Dustin notices immediately, because of course he does. He juts his chin at her, daring. “What?”
She recovers, snapping her mouth closed and crossing her arms, smirking. “Nothing. I just think that’s very funny.”
“What is?”
A loud bang cuts the chattering in half.
The culprit is Steve, standing beside a now reverberating trash can, bat primed for another hit if they so dare. “Hey!” He barks, pushing them to straighten up and stand to attention. Dustin falls in beside Lucas, who elbows him. He shoves him back.
Steve slings his bat across one shoulder with a flourish and starts a walk down the stretch of them. “We’re all here for a reason, and we’re burning daylight. So let’s just get this shitshow on the road so we can all go home where it’s warm and dry and never think about any of this ever again.”
The three of them maintain a synchronised gawk at him.
“Do you hear me, dickheads? Now!”
—
Dustin jumps into action, snatching Lucas’ walkie as if it’ll do anything to convey that he’s not above orchestrating a rebellion. “Alright, asshole!”
“Stupid.”
The junkyard is transformed. Impressive, all things considered. Achieving this makeshift militarised zone with nothing more than three kids and their attitude problems? Perhaps Steve has a place in a leadership role after all. Take that, Dad.
A school bus is the hub of their safety perimeter, reinforced with scrap and tucked with barrels so that Dart can’t reach their final line of defence. Lines of gasoline are drawn from a primary attack zone at the centre to where they reside, ready to be lit ablaze, and they have enough weapons of varying combat ranges to have a solid chance against the little bastard.
He turns his wrist, chasing a prism of light that has broken through between the rows of corrugated metal fastened against the bus, illuminating his watch face a pale blue in the moonlight. Calming, given what they’re about to undertake. It also helps to prevent the claustrophobia that might have set in otherwise.
Claustrophobia that he’s definitely not affected by. No, siree.
He flicks his lighter again, cap opening and engaging a flame. He snaps it shut, again.
Dustin’s elbows swing constantly and sharply beside him, each time his whole body turns to glare at various points in the structure. Like the rusted nails are about to betray him. “Are you gonna do that all night?”
Steve stares at him. Follows the line where he’s casting his frustration. He glances at the lighter, then back at Dustin, and flicks it open again. Dustin huffs, all limbs arguing back at him.
Lucas descends the ladder perched against the entrance to the roof. “All clear,” he announces, stepping out of the way in order for the new girl, Max, to come down after him. She takes his hand when near the bottom, and looks once at the kid. They awkwardly retract away from each other, and while she’s not looking, (busy rubbing at her eyes?) he hastily corrects the placement of his bandana against his forehead and brushes down his jacket.
Oh, these kids are mush.
“For now,” Dustin adds belatedly with a mutter. Very helpfully, Steve might add, and perhaps also with an air of chagrin at the very obvious relationship development between the other two.
The pair glance tiredly at Dustin.
Steve is just about willing to let him off, on account of having several good reasons to be acting like this. What he can’t tolerate is his watch loudly ticking on without his permission, inducing an angry puff of air that ruffles a curl drooping down over his forehead. “Your sister is gonna murder me. I mean, I hope you realise that.”
The three of them fix him with equally incredulous looks.
“I told her six-thirty. It’s seven-fifteen.”
Dustin’s arms flop hopelessly at his side. “We’re luring a monster from another dimension to our position so we can kill it and you’re worried about my sister?”
“She’s scary, dude.”
Max snorts. “Seriously?”
Steve stares. “Uh… yeah. You won’t get done for child endangerment.”
Lucas does the maths on that. “Neither will you!”
“That is, if we don’t all die.” Max says it as a joke, with a dry little smile. Still under the sway of scepticism, from what Steve can gather.
Dustin reacts instantly, fists balling as he proclaims, “Nobody’s dying!”
If the atmosphere wasn’t already torched, it most certainly is now. Steve sees the way Max’s lips falter. His eyes slide to Lucas as his spine curls over. Even Dustin’s blinding confidence seems to take a hit.
Doesn’t he know the fatal law of jinxing? You don’t speak things into existence!
Way to doom us before we’ve even started, dude.
And he was feeling fine about it, too, but hindsight is one hell of a thing.
Because when he came face to face with one of these things last year, he might not have been expecting it, but Nancy and Jonathan were. Hell, Nancy had a gun. A gun she aimed at his big head. What does he have now? A few eight year olds and sports equipment?
But it’s too late now.
They’re barricaded. There’s no going back.
The cicadas take the floor for conversation. Lucas falls beside his crush in the driver’s seat while Dustin sluggishly collapses against the door. Steve’s wondering how the kid is still standing after this whole ordeal. And the crux of it hasn’t even started yet. He flicks his lighter once more.
He can feel it. The quiet unease that’s permeating all of them. Even Max doesn’t appear to know what to do with the tonal whiplash taking place.
She’s the first to speak again. “So, you really fought one of these things before?”
She’s looking at him. He nods, sheepishly.
“And you’re, like, totally, one hundred percent sure it wasn’t a bear?”
It doesn’t even sound judgemental. More than anything she sounds curious, which makes a change from the limited information he’s come to possess about her. It still doesn’t stop Dustin from firing off another round, though.
“Shit, don’t be an idiot, okay? It wasn’t a bear.”
Her eyebrows shoot halfway up her head.
Oof. Coming in way too hot, man.
“Why are you even here if you don’t believe us? Just go home.”
Dustin fizzles out, but Max doesn't look done. Steve is watching it like a standoff, waiting, hoping that this will settle down again and give him a rest before the headache that he’s sure will come by the end of the night. He knows from experience that nothing good comes from a group divided right before a big event. Something he could have told Brian McCormick before the playoffs.
After a second, Max smiles, and that can't possibly mean anything good.
“I know your secret.”
Oh, boy.
Dustin glowers. “What the hell are you talking about? Lucas, what’s she talking about?”
His friend shrugs, looking partly terrified.
Max tucks her hands further into her sides, a bemused twinkle in her eyes. “I know… and so does your sister.”
Dustin is learning how to speak all over again. “My sister? What the hell do you know about my sister?”
“She’s totally onto you.” She actually chuckles. It spurs a puzzled look that gets passed around the three of them.
“When are you hanging out with my sister?”
“Relax.” Max settles in, posture loosening casually in the musty seat. “She bought me a burger last night.”
That clearly does nothing to calm Dustin. “Why are you hanging out with her?” He insists.
Steve catches the momentary freeze of her face, before she expertly recovers. “She picked me up. I hadn’t eaten, so we went to get food.” With a shrug that he knows as one you give a parent. An irate one. “But she knows you’re not telling her the truth! She’s not stupid, she’s figuring it out. She knows there’s something weird with Will and she knows you’re lying about where Dart has been.”
That gets Lucas’ attention. He leaves the seat, hands bracing the tense air. “Wait… what?”
Max joins him. “All this time, when we’ve been looking for him? Yeah. Dustin has been hiding him in his bedroom.”
“I knew it!” Shrieks Lucas. “You’ve had a creepy little bond with him from the beginning! He’s lured you to the dark side!”
This is all spiralling faster than Steve can keep up. He stands too, frazzled but ready to break it up. “What… dark side—?”
“No!” Dustin wavers. “No—”
“You lied to the party! You kept him when you knew he was dangerous!”
“I didn’t know he was a demogorgon!”
“You knew he was from the Upside Down!”
“That’s not enough to judge him on!”
“So what, you just had to wait until he showed you his five hundred teeth before you realised we were right?”
Steve realises it’s probably not the best time to mention that Bullseye ate Mews. He steps into their periphery, trying to interject. “Okay, lock it down!” But it bounces right off.
Steve and Max collectively roll their eyes. Thank god he still has one alongside.
“You broke the rule of law!”
“So did you!”
“What?” Lucas exclaims.
“You told a stranger the truth!” Dustin pokes his walkie right in the direction of Max. The antenna narrowly misses her face.
Her entire being locks up. She scoffs, stomping forward. “A stranger?”
Oh, cool! Now he’s lost the third one!
He sighs and scratches his eyebrow, taking a couple steps down the bus so that he can hear himself think. Perhaps his only option is to let them ride this out.
But it’s at this moment that Steve’s gut shifts. Not a hunger pang or the late stage of an adrenaline spike from scoring a basket, but that initial feeling of something maybe being wrong. The kids’ bickering floats away on the wind, which has grown somehow even more still around them. He knows this, even if he hasn’t been able to hear it for the last half an hour.
He moves to the corner of the bus, right by the door, where the panels they had secured couldn’t quite reach, presses his cheek right against the surface and pinches one eye shut, squeezing for a look. But his visibility from this angle is severely limited. Now would be the time to call upon Lucas with his binoculars, but he’s stuck in a confrontation with his best friend that is so totally stupid and ill-timed and that feels harder to navigate than pulling teeth right now. Somewhere out of view, he hears something land on one of the scrap cars.
“Hey, guys?” He treads.
They keep going.
“You wanted to tell her, too!”
“Yeah, but I didn’t, Lucas, okay? I didn’t tell her!”
Another clang.
This volume is too risky. He can’t chance it. He ambles across the dilapidated floor and cups his massive hand around the lower portion of Dustin’s face. The kid’s reaction would be funny if he knew for sure that what was waiting for them on the other side of the doors wasn’t a threat. He directs a stare in warning between the three of them. Fortunately he doesn’t need to take it further, because Lucas and Max get the message and silence immediately.
“There’s something outside,” he whispers, pressing a finger to his lips. He eases away from Dustin, and is relieved when the group doesn't explode again. The four of them move to the windows, taking on the same cautious stance as Steve before.
There are no big reactions to be had, which he supposes is maybe a good thing? Maybe it was a bird. Better than a massive stomping monster or for them to erupt into screams.
“There’s definitely something,” Dustin confirms, in dreaded anticipation.
Great.
Steve moves past Max to Lucas and pats his shoulder, then points at the binoculars at his side, the ladder and up. Lucas nods and moves into position, climbing to the roof. Max follows him.
Steve pulls back one of the looser panels — Dustin’s handiwork, no doubt, and peers out through the grated section of metal amongst the soupy fog.
“I’ve got eyes! Ten o’clock!”
He and Dustin magnetise to that section of the junkyard, framed by a blue truck and collapsed shack. He’s looking, waiting, for a shift. For the moonlight to reflect off of that familiar sickly shine.
He spots it immediately. “There,” he points.
From the thick air emerges a crouched figure, with long limbs and a muted complexion, the space where a face should be folded into itself.
It doesn’t move further into the yard. Merely shifts its head around methodically. He wouldn’t have thought that those monsters have a brain.
“What’s he doing?”
“I don’t know.”
Thanks, Henderson. Still talking about it like it’s a domesticated family pet and not an all consuming, blood thirsty monster that’s favourite pastime is swiping at humans.
The pile of meat… he can see it. In the middle between them. Just ripe for the pickings. “He’s not taking the bait. Why is he not taking the bait?”
“Maybe he’s not hungry.”
Oh.
Steve gets an incredibly stupid idea.
The trepidation burns away, making way for something new, that tinges him blue in the depth of the unknown. Because while he’s positive that Dustin would rather have been doing this with literally anyone else, he still trusted him enough to get in his car. Or perhaps he was just a means to an end. Either way, the kids are looking to him for guidance. Safety.
Maybe this was a lifeline thrown his way. Albeit, the kind where he probably dies at the end of the story, but some karmic intervention nonetheless. Steve doesn’t necessarily surrender to any such idea, but hey, he’s lured a monster from another world to a shitty junkyard with his girlfriend’s brother’s friends. Question mark around the girlfriend part. This is probably the best time to be betting on things like that. An opportunity for trust that he hasn’t known before. Shaped differently. External to any prior understanding of loyalty that he’s subscribed to, in boyfriend or son. Not that he’s been the best at either. These younger kids, counting on him.
He knows that his public reputation is the resident royal dickhead, and maybe he’ll never be able to convince you otherwise, but right now, he can do one thing right.
He exhales. Straightens. “Oh, shit.”
Dustin looks back at him, already attuned to his intentions, and the two exchange a glance. Dustin’s face is constructed upon heavy caution that Steve is sure he should listen to. His own face has steeled impressively well, despite the pit in his stomach. He moves to the door without a moment to lose.
“Steve? Steve, what are you doing?”
A promise isn’t a flimsy thing to him. He’s seen too many broken ones to go that same path. He promised to keep your brother safe.
He can do this. He can learn to do this. He’s done enough of the tearing down. He’s ready to step up to the task of building someone up. Making sure they’re okay, before his own first.
He casts his lighter at Dustin, who remarkably catches it in his cupped hands.
“Just be ready.”
And then the door is dragging against the wonky floor, folding into itself.
Steve steps out of the bus with his bat, stance already primed to hit a home run. His eyes flicker frantically between every shadow on the ground.
It’s just like an away game.
He takes two careful steps forward. Breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. The fog swallows his ankles.
He reaches the mound of meat they had left, finding it swarming with flies.
Okay, so maybe the thing has some standards.
Picky asshole.
Steve beckons closer, shins becoming lost in the dark haze in the air now. And that’s when the chittering starts.
At first he’s not sure what he’s hearing, so he whistles. The thing likes its home comforts — maybe it likes a whistle.
“Come on, buddy,” he coos, edging around the bumper of a car. Another whistle, longer and more drawn out this time. He can hear the kids starting a commotion in the bus again, and puts a pin in it to kill them later.
“Come oooon, buddy,” he says, louder this time. “Dinner time! Human tastes better than cat, I promise.”
If this is it for him… God, what a terrible choice of last words.
It’s a kitty. A big, cuddly kitty. A kitty who has razor sharp teeth and could dice him like a pepper.
Kitties like toys, right?
He swings the bat from side to side, the motion creating a whooshing sound. Doing the last part he needs to lure the creature.
Ten feet, right ahead of him. He stops, shifting back so that the bat is drawn at his side.
This thing is way bigger than he was expecting. He’ll add dramatically downplaying the state of things to the list of what he knows about Dustin Henderson.
“Steve! Watch out!”
For crying out loud.
“A little busy here!”
“Three o’clock! Three o’clock!”
Three… what?
He lurches, and wow, he really wishes he hadn't. Another demogorgon springs atop a pile of trash.
And oh look, there’s another.
The two new arrivals press on their front legs, stretching forwards towards him.
“Steve!” Comes Dustin’s voice, and the next time he speaks, it’s louder. “Abort! Abort!”
That increment of time between is all the first demogorgon needs to cry its piercing roar and make a bolt straight for him, petal face wide open.
He always has been more of a dog person.
In a split second decision marred by the sound of more movement from his back, he dives from the monster’s path and hits the hood of one of the cars. He doesn’t have time to recover from the spike of pain through his back because when he stops rolling the monsters are still on him. The fastest meets him. He swings. His bat cracks in the air.
The uproar that follows is the frantic cries of the kids, screaming his name and waving frantically at him to gun it.
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
He floors it to the bus, shin burning from the pull of trying to beat the wind. He doesn’t know how many are behind him and that knowledge couldn’t possibly make him run any faster than he already is.
He flies through the gap in the bus, and Sinclair is on it, slamming back the door. Steve falls back against the others, all cast against the furthest wall, and is immediately kicking out his legs to stop the claws from breaking the door down.
“Shit!” Dustin yells.
The night has gone from somewhere between a massive inconvenience, maybe a cut on the knees, to a full on life-or-death, certain-nightmare-shitshow scenario.
He rips down a sheet of metal and wedges it against the door, and holds that with his striking feet again.
“Are they rabid or something?” Asks Max, finally frantic.
Steve cries out in pain when the entire bus veers sideways, then back again. Rocking away from its very foundations. He remains desperately trying to keep the door blocked.
“They can’t get in! They can’t!”
Tell that to my legs against this door, Sinclair!
A huge boney arm comes swiping through the crack, bearing claws that would cut through his arm like butter.
The cat imagery is so not funny anymore!
The kids howl and flee to the back while he fishes his bat and bludgeons the demogorgon with all his might. The pained outcry nearly pierces his eardrums.
He can’t find the time to imagine just how many of them are outside that they’re able to lift a goddamn school bus.
But Dustin definitely has an inkling judging by the SOS that is now battering down his headset. “Is anyone there? Mike? Will? God, anyone! We’re at the old junkyard and we are going to die!”
The bus rocks again, booming and crashing against the cinderblocks beneath it. The kids cry in fright again.
The demogorgon is silent now. Steve isn’t taking any chances though and beats it until the only sounds it makes are the wet, squelching ones of its guts along his bat and decorating the nails.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.
He drags himself up off the floor, and just in the nick of time, too. Max moves along the bus, following a succession of dents padding out the roof, until she’s staring up into the hole. Right as the source appears at the opening, and its face opens up.
She screams.
Like hell.
Steve picks her up and shoves her right behind him, filling the spot she just cleared. “You want some? Come get this!”
The monster is unphased. Its jaw opens wider, every row of teeth inflicting maximum terror. Huge paws step onto the ladder, traversing ever closer. And staring right down the face of it, Steve is positive that it could pluck his bat from his grasp and break it in half like a toothpick. And it will. Just like it will break them.
Until it doesn’t.
Its face relaxes, musculature turning flaccid, and turns away from them.
It disarms them. For just a fraction of a moment.
No, that doesn’t mean shit. He betters his stance, either hand strangling the bat and eyes locked on that square of night sky above him blistered by horror.
But it leaves the ladder. Settles back onto the bus.
Another demogorgon wails, further away. Their primary aggressor responds, somehow with a lilt ever more hostile than what they’ve been receptive to. It leaps out of sight, followed by a final shake of the bus. As if they’ve all cleared away.
What?
The four of them stand deathly still, reeling. After a second of distant noise, he turns from the entry point and checks for the kids.
Shaking. Frigid with fright. But still standing. Still alive.
Harrowing sounds prevail outside, but not on top of them anymore. Steve reverses, keeping the kids positioned directly behind him, just in case. If his arm were long enough, he would snake it around the three. He risks an approach to the window where the panelling has been shaken free and stares out in the direction of the noise.
The demogorgons gather in a circle. Still prowling, but not hungering for them anymore.
Across the way comes another group. More demogorgons.
Fuck.
They stampede in the direction of the initial attackers. Still undeniably demogorgons, but of a subtly different pallor.
The groups begin a steady spin in a circle, assessing the other. Snaking and weaving in a spiral. The odd creature from each tribe snaps at an opponent. They rise on hind legs and jerk forwards, testing for weaknesses. Goading. Challenging. It builds, and builds, like a nuclear bomb growing helplessly bigger.
And then the clash happens. The biggest from each side skulk forward and move into a threatening dance. They chirp at one another, hostility climbing. As if talking. And then the biggest of all swipes at the other, massive claw coming down and wiping them away. Clobbers it with its teeth.
The rest follow.
Steve, Dustin, Lucas and Max watch helplessly as the two groups ravage each other. Piranhas to flesh. Tearing and pulling and separating and so much blood, blood and blood. Steve has to force himself to look away, at his car. It’s on the other side of the massacre. They can’t make a run for it. They would never get there in time.
He wants to pull the kids away. This is too much, even for him. But they’re not out of the woods yet. They need to be vigilant. So against every impulse to protect, Steve waits.
In time, the fight stops. Few survivors. All of the same cluster. The biggest demogorgon releases its jaw, and its adversary falls lifelessly to the dust. Drowned in the rest of the mist.
It roars. In victory or further mercilessness, he doesn’t know.
And to meet it comes a smaller voice. Higher. Further away, beyond this hellscape. Dustin presses in, ever closer to the windows. Steve tries to lunge for him to create distance, but he stops him.
A small cry chitters. Beyond the woods, far away. Sounds like… another demogorgon. Dustin is unmoving. It encourages Steve to stay fixed, too.
He would never claim that these creatures are respectful, or anything above wild animals, but he could swear the largest one barks commands to the other two at its side. And without a moment to rest, the three are fleeing from the junkyard, paws thundering along the grass, leaving a river of remains in their wake.
Steve waits. A minute. He counts it. Until he opens back up the door to the bus. He takes two very precarious steps, holding out a hand to tell the others to stay put. And then finally, when he’s sure he can hear nothing but the now dead space, he drops it, and the others follow suit.
Max is the first to speak, breath stolen like she’s run a marathon. “Where are they going?”
“I don’t know,” Steve responds.
A beat.
They let them go.
Why?
Max rubs her palms down her pants, scuffed. “They kill each other?”
Lucas trails her away from the bus that they thought would be their coffin, doing a quick sweep to check nowhere is bleeding. “I guess. We’ve never really seen them interacting before.”
“It was like lions. They have their groups, right?”
“ Or hyenas.”
Steve can’t help but notice how suspiciously quiet Dustin is. “Henderson?”
“Oh.”
The three lock onto Dustin.
“‘Oh’?”
Dustin tilts his head up to the sky, dread washing over him. But he doesn’t allow it to drown him. He rushes forward in pursuit of clear ground.
“What? What?” Steve persists, watching the kid fall to his knees, dragging his backpack with him. The zips are caught up in the fabric where he pulls them thoughtlessly apart, making the space to shove his arm in up to its elbow, rooting around in there.
He drags a book out and onto the ground like it’s scorching, and slams it open.
“Dude, this is not the time for book club.”
He points a warning finger back at Steve. “No— shut up a minute!” He continues wordlessly, flipping through the pages.
“What are you looking for?” Lucas asks, risking a step towards him.
“This.” He stops on a spread. He’s on pages 103 and 104, from their biology lesson with Mr Clarke earlier this week. “That wasn’t Dart before. None of them were. Dart has a distinctive yellow mark along his butt.”
“Okay, so?”
“So, one did. Had a yellow mark.”
Lucas frowns. “So what? Dart probably moulted again. The marks evolved.”
“So it was Dart?” Steve has never felt stupider.
“No, did you not hear me? One had yellow markings, but they were different from Dart’s.”
“Except with his body mass through each growth stage and the frequency of his growth stages, I don’t think Dart would’ve been that big.” He shakes his head worriedly. “I don’t think it was Dart who attacked us.”
Steve crouches beside him, brandishing a flashlight and aiming it at the book to take a peek himself. “So what, you’re saying Dart’s mommy and daddy showed up looking for him?”
Dustin ignores him. “Lucas, do you remember what Mr Clarke said about marmosets?”
Lucas throws up his arm, and then focuses, closing his eyes for a fraction of a moment. “They have tribes.”
“This isn’t the time, man!”
“Just answer me!” He’s desperate, still terrified, and that sets Steve on edge almost as much as when he came face to face with the demogorgon. Both times.
“He said they kill their own kind.” Dustin finds the specific section they covered in class, finger following each word. “‘If they don’t feel that their new litter will be well enough looked after, they may commit infanticide in the hope of finding better brood-rearing circumstances in the future.’”
The information needs a moment to drop.
“I think that demogorgon we heard calling out before they left was Dart, and the one that left here…”
“Was his parent.”
“And that,” he points at the lead demogorgon from the other pack. “Is his other parent. Meaning…”
“They’re going to kill Dart.”
“No— Wait, wait,” Steve stammers, right as Dustin wastes no time in picking up his shit and sprinting to the beamer. “I don’t get it! Isn’t that what we wanted?”
Sure, on the bad side, it means there are still three more out there, but they’ll kill Dart. And he might get a good swipe in first. Isn’t it better like this? It gives them a chance to regroup!
“Where are you going?” Yells Max.
“We need to go!”
Steve doesn’t move. Only frowns at him.
“Steve, please!” And the cry in his voice wakes him up. He delves into his pockets while he picks up into a run, finding the key. Lucas and Max jog swiftly behind.
They slam into the seats and buckle up, all but Dustin who is repetitively reading over the book. “Oh, god.”
“Dude, you need to explain so we’re all on the same page here.” Steve checks his reverse as he backs out of the tight space encompassed by scrap, and then the car wobbles back down the muddy path and onto the line that leads to the main streets.
“If it’s trying to kill Dart then it’s decided he isn’t a strong enough descendant.”
“You’ve been feeding him like a kitty.”
“I’ve domesticated him.”
The penny is starting to drop.
“There’s one question I’ve been asking since the beginning: How did he end up in my trash?”
Steve follows the conversation in the rearview mirror, unable to contribute much. He observes the second that realisation dawns on Max’s face.
“He was put there.”
“By his mom.”
“Like a nest.”
“Then we know where they're going,” Steve finishes, finally understanding.
He pulls back the gearshift and slams the accelerator. The tires beg for mercy, spinning for longer than they have, flicking dirt, until eventually gripping into the sopping road and surging away.
The kids hang onto the handles for dear life when the car hits past a speed they’ve never experienced before. Suddenly the mirrors are useless, because checking them suggests care, and they can’t afford that right now.
Because he’s sure from Dustin’s words that whether Dart is at Dustin’s house or not, someone else might be. And that person is in horrible danger.
And he would take a solid guess that it’s you.
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Author's note: DUN DUN DUNNNNNNN. Aaaaaand we're OFF!!! I have been DYING to write this chapter since the beginning. I realise I'm taking a bit of a risk bringing in new demogorgon lore and shifting some stuff about but I came up with this idea weeks ago and I've been buzzing with how it leads into next chapter. I hope it was worth the wait! 80% of my big events for the year are done with now with my holiday to Disneyland behind me so I'm really hoping I can get the next chapter out faster. As per, thank you so much for reading lovies! Let me know what you think! <3333333
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Series
In the Same Orbit: Steve Harrington, in his seventeen years, had learned one lesson that was paramount above all others: he didn't warrant care. Meanwhile, caring was all you'd ever known to do. When a fateful monster attack draws your worlds together, you would find yourselves in a place so different from where you started.
Consequence of Krell: You have joined the 501st and 212th in the campaign of taking Umbara, and now you have to apprehend and arrest the turned Jedi, Krell. But what happens when Krell turns his sights and hurts you?
