"OH, SO WE DO LOVE STEVE..."
🖤 An Ongoing Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library. ☾⋆ OSWDLS Full Series Masterlist here.
VOLUME II • CHAPTERS 7 - 8 - 9
Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader • enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting, ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the hill I die on. This pairing? My OTP. They'll never not be my favorite, no matter how many other fics that I write. Steve & Babe Bauman Supremacy 5ever.
Xx misha
VOLUME II / CHAPTER 7, 8 & 9 (WARNINGS/NOTES): big t.w.'s - severe traumatic diagnosis for one of the main characters, heavy topics, language, sensitive mental health matters. A PRE-READ CHAPTER(S) BLURB: Casa Harrington is in full swing, in even the thick of an unwanted thunderstorm. Steve continues slowly adapting. You never leave his side. Nancy is in her fun girl era. Robin is never meant to play board games. Jonathan is a straight-up savage who can dish it and take it, while Argyle keeps the peace. Eddie? Shameless as ever but also such an anchor without trying.
Murray has strange taste in books (get ready for a theme here). Hopper is in his dad era. Joyce is in... whatever next-level Mom era she's in, somehow continuing to just unlock level after level after level. And the kids are all in the basement acting like actual f*cking teenagers for once in their godforsaken lives.
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[These chapters are meant to be read directly after Part X, in chronological order.]
Tbh if you are not comfortable reading about traumatic situations that lead to trauma induced mental states, then this is jot the story for you. That said, this story has a very beautiful, warm ending and the light at the end of the tunnel is eternally bright. So in my humble opinion? It's worth every bit of the damn journey, if you wanna hold my hand and get there together (we can follow behind Steve & Bauman, as they hold each other tight through it all). 18+
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CHAPTER SEVEN That’s Me in the Corner.
May 5th, 1991 — 6:03 a.m.
The thunder wasn’t close yet. Still just a rumble somewhere in the far-off clouds. Low, dull and ominous. But that didn’t matter. It didn’t have to be loud to take hold.
You could see it the second you stepped back into the room.
Steve was already awake.
He was lying on his side in the bed, curled just slightly, like his body was stuck halfway through an instinct it hadn’t finished executing. Half-protective, half-absent. The covers had slipped low over his waist. One arm was stretched out across the mattress, fingers loose, hovering in the space where you’d been.
He hadn’t moved since you left.
His eyes were open. Barely. And they were glassy again, not dreamy or sleepy, but vacant. Detached. Gone. Catatonic, level two.
His breathing wasn’t ragged, but it was too still. Too shallow. Like he was trying to stay invisible.
It didn’t surprise you.
You’d felt the shift as soon as you woke up. The pressure in the air. The static. The way your heart beat faster for no reason. It had been 5:37AM when the first rumble hit, quiet and far away but enough to register. You’d watched Steve’s jaw clench in his sleep. Watched the soft twitch in his fingers. The micro-winces. And then you’d slipped out of bed, careful not to wake him, hoping to beat the rest of the storm to the punch.
You’d gone downstairs. Dug through boxes. Checked the den, then the living room, finally the spare drawer in the guest room. Found Max’s old Walkman exactly where she said it’d be—next to that Tupperware full of burnt CDs she’d scammed off a summer camp counselor in 1990.
And then you’d raced back up.
But not fast enough.
Now, Steve was somewhere else.
The quiet was so loud, it pulsed. You didn’t say his name right away. You didn’t touch him. You knew better. This wasn’t Level Three. He wasn’t in a full spiral. But it was low. Deep. The kind of freeze that was harder to pull him from than the louder ones. The kind that felt like waiting out a bomb that already went off.
Still, you moved quickly. Onto the bed. Into his line of sight. Soft, steady, a little out of breath.
“Hey,” you said, gently.
Steve didn’t blink or flinch. But his eyes tracked to you, his gaze slow and foggy and full of something awful.
You climbed under the covers again, one knee tucked up as you leaned in to hold the Walkman up like a peace offering. “Found it,” you murmured. “Max’s, like she said. The blue one with the cracked lid. Still works.”
No response. No recognition.
You kept your voice light. Soft. Casual.
“I figured it might get worse before it gets better, and you always hear the first one, even when you’re sleeping. So I thought, okay, we’ll get ahead of it. We’ll just cheat. Start the tape now and see if that helps.”
His lips were parted slightly, but no words came out.
Your chest ached.
You reached into your pocket and pulled out the stack of cassette tapes you’d grabbed in your scramble. A few of Max’s, a few of yours. Mostly grunge and alternative stuff. Low vocals. Steady rhythm. Nothing too bright.
You spread them out on the blanket. “Okay. I brought options. We got Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Alanis Morissette—but she might hit too hard for six a.m.—and… here.” You held up another one. “R.E.M. Max said this one’s good for this kind of thing. Slow build. Safe.”
Still no reaction.
But his eyes were following you. That was something. That was good.
You tried again. “Steve, baby, I know you’re stuck right now. I know it feels like you can’t move. That’s okay.” You kept your tone soft, coaxing. “You don’t have to do anything. Just stay with me. I’m gonna stay with you.”
You loaded the R.E.M. tape into the Walkman and hit play, testing the volume, adjusting it twice before nodding to yourself.
“Alright,” you murmured. “Let’s try this.”
You scooted in closer, propping yourself on one elbow. Then reached forward carefully, brushing a thumb along the edge of his cheekbone. You caught a tear you hadn’t even seen fall.
“You’re safe,” your voice dropped lower. “We’re safe. I’m here.”
Another tear slipped free from Steve’s opposite eye.
You caught that one too.
“This is just a storm,” you whispered. “That’s all. Just noise. Just air moving through clouds. It’s not like before. It’s not the ground opening up. It’s not the Russians. It’s not the vines. I swear. It’s just weather.”
Still, Steve didn’t move. But his throat shifted again, like he was trying to say something. Like his body wanted to come back but couldn’t quite find the route.
You leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “I’ve got you. You don’t have to be all the way okay right now. Just stay with me.”
You lifted the headphones, slid them carefully over his ears. Your thumb traced along the hinge, adjusting them gently. The music kicked in now, muffled from your side, but you knew the song.
“Losing My Religion.”
A slow drip of acoustic guitar.
Measured, grounded vocals.
Echoes of something real, something human.
You watched his pretty eyelids flutter.
“You’re not alone, okay?” you murmured. “You’re not there. You’re not in that room. You’re not in the woods. You’re in our bed, with me, in Indiana, in this safe-ass house with like four extra locks and a bat under the bed and three people already awake downstairs who’d kill for you.”
Steve’s lashes finally started to sink lower, searching for peace and sleep. For rest. For dreams instead of nightmares..
You smiled, brushing a strand of hair back from his forehead. “I know this one’s sticky. I know your brain’s being an asshole. But I swear I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
His lips moved. No sound, just breath.
But you saw it.
You heard it anyway.
You knew what it meant.
You knew what he was trying to say.
So you leaned in and kissed the hollow behind his ear and whispered to him, “I love you more.” Then softer, like a mantra… “Safe.”
You pulled the blanket higher around both of you, curled back into his chest, and let your fingers settle against his wrist so he could feel your pulse.
Thunder cracked louder now, but he didn’t flinch.
His eyes were finally closed.
He was still here.
So were you.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Steady
“Son of a bitch,” Robin Buckley growled, slamming her tiny blue car into a stoplight space with the kind of passive-aggressive flair that could only come from someone who had just been denied her fourth pay raise in a fake-ass career she didn’t even want in the first place.
“You picked the artist job, Rob,” you reminded her casually, spinning your own wheel as Steve’s chin stayed nestled on your shoulder, warm and soft and heavy. “Not the game’s fault that your art major dreams are—”
“A metaphor for my real life, I know, Bauman,” she snapped, cutting you a withering glance that didn’t quite land because her glasses were crooked and she was still clutching Steve’s hand in hers like it was the only steady thing in the room. “Don’t rub it in.”
“I’m not,” you said, failing to bite back a smile that gave away your morbid amusement. “I’m just sayin’, maybe next time, go to law school.”
“Mm, she couldn’t,” Jonathan chimed in from across the coffee table, flicking a salary card at Robin like it offended him. “She didn’t get accepted. Remember? She got ‘Art School… But Make It Bleak.’”
“And yet somehow,” Eddie said, grinning madly as he leaned all the way across the board, “I’m a fucking rock star with three kids, no health insurance, and a lakeside house in Michigan. Eat your hearts out.”
“Are they your kids, or just kids that live there?” Argyle asked, eyes squinted in his own wayward game piece’s direction as though pondering the existential implications of pink plastic pegs.
“Valid question,” Nancy mused, while recounting her rainbow colored money.
Eddie pursed his lips at Argyle. “…Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, bro.”
Thunder rumbled softly outside like the sky was grumbling in its sleep, rain smearing the windows with long, streaky sighs. It was gray out. Not apocalyptic gray. Just… saturated. Low and dull, soft and heavy. Like the weather knew exactly how much all of you could handle and agreed to stop just short of too much.
The living room glowed gold with lamps and dimmed sconces and the light of a dozen half-burnt candles. Whatever had been lying around in the kitchen drawer and scattered throughout the bedrooms. The whole house smelled like citrus peel, candle wax and Murray’s suspiciously cinnamon-heavy beard oil.
The couch creaked under the weight of you and Steve and Robin, the three of you tucked close on one side of the L-shape sectional. Steve leaned into you completely, chin against your shoulder, arms folded up close to his chest while your fingers stayed threaded in the short, warm strands at the nape of his neck. His headphones were still on, your mixtape still playing on low volume, just enough to give him some melodic atmosphere and drown out the thunder. Some music, some chatter, a nice blend of each. One track was a recording of Dustin yelling at Mike to shut the hell up. Another track was of Lucas and Will trying to freestyle a theme song for your group, with you laughing in the background while Eddie tried to music direct them. All of it pieced together and looped gently into his ears.
He wasn’t talking. Still hadn’t.
Not in six days.
But he was there. And when your fingers brushed a slow, absentminded line behind his ear, he leaned into it. That was something.
Across from you, Nancy sat with her knees up on the coffee table like a menace to society, reading her LIFE tiles aloud and then judging them with a furrowed brow. “I got a vacation home and a Nobel Peace Prize…” One of her eyebrows shoots up. “...but I lost my twin boys in a boating accident — what the hell kind of game is this?”
“Better question, why are you playing this seriously?” you asked, reaching for one of Steve’s untouched snack crackers and popping it into your mouth.
“She’s not,” Jonathan muttered, trying to discreetly hide his pile of money beneath the corner of the board.
“She is,” Nancy shot back, catching him. “And you’ve been embezzling from the bank since turn two. I knew it.”
“Wasn’t embezzling,” Jonathan defended weakly. “It’s creative tax structuring.”
Eddie gasped like a scandalized old woman. “Say it ain’t so, Byers. After all we’ve been through.”
You stared at Jonathan with theatrically widened eyes, cracker mid-way to your mouth. “Traitor,” you stage-whispered, chomping down on the saltine crunch.
“I’m the only player here who’s actually got a shot,” Jonathan boasts, cracking open a Coke.
“And yet you’re the one who married your cousin in round four,” Argyle added, completely straight-faced.
“I didn’t know she was my cousin when I spun the wedding space,” Jonathan’s damn near squeaked at the speed of a chipmunk.
You and Nancy hissed laughter through your teeth while Argyle shook his head.
“You’re really one to talk about integrity, dude,” the hippie mumbled through a mouthful of something that may or may not have started as a dried mango.
Robin let out another slow, soul-wrenched groan, placing her forehead against Steve’s bicep for dramatic effect. “Why is everyone’s life in this game so much better than mine?” she mumbled into his hoodie sleeve. “I have like forty-two dollars and a goat farm. That’s it. I didn’t even choose the goat farm, the damn goat farm chose me.”
Steve blinked slowly, eyes half-lidded. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t smile. But he watched her. He watched you, watched the way Eddie threw his hands in the air like he was announcing a concert, only to dramatically knock over his own car full of kids. He watched the way Argyle turned a simple game into a crisis of spiritual identity, and the way Nancy threw popcorn at Jonathan. The way you leaned forward to grab a drink off the table and instinctively pulled his body with yours as you moved, one hand on his leg to guide him so he wouldn’t tip forward too far.
Anytime that you settled back, he followed you. His hands fidgeted slightly, fingertips brushing your pant leg in rhythmic little taps, like he was just making sure you were still solid. Still real.
“You alright, Dingus?” Robin asked softly, glancing over at him. She didn’t expect an answer, or pause like it mattered. Just asked it with a kind of casual devotion as she tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear and gave him a little pat. “You’re winning at the game of not playing the game. Honestly, I respect it.”
Steve’s gaze flicked to her, eyes lingering. Then flicked back to you, and stared a little longer.
You just turned your face and kissed his temple, brushing your lips against his hairline. “You’re doing great, baby,” you whispered, quiet enough so only he could hear.
Another rumble of thunder.
And then the sound of someone descending the stairs with the weight of a thousand boots and a lifetime of grievances.
“You people eat like raccoons in a garbage fire,” Hopper grunted from the archway, arms folded, his hair an absolute bird’s nest as he blinked at the carnage of snack bowls, LIFE tiles, game money, pillows, mismatched mugs, and two open jars of peanut butter. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”
“Hi, Dad,” you called cheerfully, flicking a piece of popcorn in his direction.
He caught it, glared at it, ate it, then kept walking.
“Love you, Papi,” Eddie added for effect.
Hopper mumbled back something incoherent as he disappeared into the kitchen. Joyce appeared right as he walked through it, passing him with a tray full of — wait, what the hell were those? Deviled eggs? Sliced apples with peanut butter and chocolate chips?
“Argyle helped,” she offered kindly.
That explained it.
You beamed. “He sure ‘nuff did.”
“Nom nom nom nom nom,” Jonathan growled, practically drooling like an idiot and making toddler grabby hands as he helped her find space for it on the game table.
“Mrs. Byers, you’re a saint,” you sighed.
“I’ve got fishsticks in the oven,” she sweetly hollered as she made her way back to the kitchen, passing your uncle.
Murray had been seated in the corner, legs crossed, thick glasses on, buried deep in a book with a title so outrageous you thought it was satire at first: So You Think You Were Reincarnated as Joan of Arc: A Modern Guide to Past Life Retrieval.
He hadn’t moved in forty minutes. Not even to blink.
“Hey Murray,” Eddie called over the resumed game-play chaos, “What happens if you land on twins and you already have three kids?”
“You weep for the womb,” Murray answered dryly, still not looking up.
Nancy snorted so hard she nearly dropped her mocktail.
Steve turned his head toward the sound. Just a little. Not all the way, but enough to signal you of his awareness. Your hand found his again, curling it around his with that same promise you always gave him, with or without words: You’re here. I’m here. And I’ve got you.
His eyes stayed on the board. His brow furrowed slightly, just the hint of thought passing through, but he didn’t pull away or voice anything.
The thunder rolled again. Nancy’s eyes flicked over to the window on instinct, while Jonathan cleared his throat, as if to drown it out. Eddie shifted, a bit too focused on his hand of playing cards.
You inhaled deeply, allowing yourself to audibly exhale with a tiny stretch. “Alright. One’a you beautiful bastards, spin for me.”
“Word,” Eddie said immediately, doing the honors.
Outside, the ominous thunder kept growing. And inside Steve Harrington’s once-empty house, as if to counter it, the noise kept growing too. The warm, messy, ridiculous, soft sort of noise you could only find in the middle of a storm when everything else was just trying to stay steady. You could almost pretend nothing hurt. Not really. Not yet. Not now, especially as you leaned into Steve a little more. He leaned back with you, chin still perched into your shoulder.
The Game of Life has never felt so high-stakes. At some point, it stops being a game and starts becoming a full-blown war. You don’t remember exactly when it happens. Maybe when you draw your third “you had twins” card and Robin howls with laughter because Eddie insists you should name them after the two backup singers from Meat Loaf’s Bat Out of Hell tour. Maybe it’s when Argyle has an existential crisis over landing on the “you got fired” square and starts philosophizing about the moral bankruptcy of corporate America.
Or maybe it’s when Jonathan slams his hand down and calls you a capitalist swine for trying to buy another house.
“You’re the one who picked the career path with the highest salary, you emo landlord,” you snap back, practically climbing over the coffee table to jab a finger at him. “Don’t talk to me about ethics when you’ve got a yacht and I’ve got a third mortgage!”
“I fucking went to art school!” Jonathan shoots back, half-laughing, half-horrified.
“That’s your own fault,” you say, eyes wild, grin unhinged. “No one told you to major in vintage photojournalism, Byers.”
Argyle wheezes beside him as you both have a staredown, trying to crack the other one first.
“Bro,” Argyle wipes his eyes. “I forgot, you actually did go to art school.”
“Don’t.” Jonathan deadpans mid-staredown.
“Like in real life, not the game,” Argyle giggles.
“Drop it.”
Eddie is snorting so obnoxiously, he sounds like he’s dying. You almost crack, seeing Jonathan’s eyes stare down yours down while looking like an absolute maniac.
“Damn, my dreams are fucking crushed,” Robin laughs through her contribution to the Jonathan Byers roast-fest.
Jonathan flops back dramatically onto the ground, muttering something about you being a gremlin in paint slacks. You cross your arms like you’ve won the Pulitzer, snickering like an asshole as Steve bounces with every single shake of your shoulders. Eddie’s crying. Robin has collapsed sideways off the ottoman. Nancy is sipping her water with her pinky up, looking over the rim of her glass like she’s judging the entire group, and yet she still plays along, casually stacking fake retirement funds and whispering strategic advice to Argyle in a fake British accent.
The thunder booms again outside, louder this time.
Your shoulders twitch at the same time that Nancy’s do. Robin does a little flinch. Jonathan visibly swallows, while Eddie’s staring up at the ceiling, leaning back on his elbows and catching his breath from laughing. He’s grateful to not be looking at anyone right now.
The lights flicker once. Still, nobody acknowledges it.
And a bolt of lightning flashes, signaling a louder roll underway, you and Eddie only get louder.
There’s no rules anymore. You start speaking in fake accents. Eddie somehow manages to flip his Game of Life car upside down and then insists it means he crashed into a portal to the other dimension. You agree instantly, saying your twins are now part of a government time travel experiment.
“That’s why I need the fourth house,” you snap, moving your car back two spaces. “I’m housing my clones.”
Jonathan looks like he might actually combust. “You can’t just make up new lore—”
“Oh really?” you say, eyes gleaming. “Did I stutter, Jonathan?”
Robin wheezes, “Jesus Christ, you two are the same person with different eyeliner and opposing trauma responses.”
Argyle nods sagely. “Yin and yang, dude. Yin and yang.”
“More like beavis and butthead,” Eddie mutters as he tosses a popcorn kernel in your direction.
You snatch it out of the air without breaking eye contact with Jonathan, earning a barked laugh from both Eddie and Nancy. Robin pants like a hyena, getting brave and throwing a piece at Murray.
It bounces off his shoulder.
You’re grinning like an asshole, waiting. The others do the same.
But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Your uncle just turns a page in his book, slow and reverent, like he’s handling scripture. It makes you gape, and all of your friends have to physically restrain themselves from howling with laughter.
Another boom of thunder, closer now. The windows rattle with this one.
The game continues anyway.
You and Eddie start drawing new rules. Argyle joins in. Nancy eventually breaks and starts cheating. Jonathan gets betrayed. Someone, likely Robin, boldly declares “WAR CRIMES” at some point. And all of it is so beautifully stupid that your stomach actually hurts from how hard you’re laughing.
Steve hasn’t said a word. But his arm is still touching yours. His shoulder leans gently into your side, even as you lean forward, doubled over laughing with tears in your eyes. Every once in a while, you feel his fingers brush against your leg where your hand is resting. He’s not playing the game, or even watching it that closely anymore.
He’s simply watching you.
You catch him a few times, seeing his head slightly tilted, doe eyes soft and distant and low-lidded, like he’s somewhere between awake and dreaming. The headphones are still on. The storm isn’t reaching him. And yet you are.
Your presence is so much louder than all of it.
You’re so here, so alive.
Another laugh bursts out of you, chest tight from the pressure of it, and you curl forward with your hand clutching your ribs, your other hand still braced on Steve’s leg. You have to take a few wheezing breaths through your nose.
And then… his hand lifts. Without hesitation, without question, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, Steve places his palm gently on your chest.
Right over your heart.
You nearly gasp through your laughter, all your fingers going still against his thigh. Your laughter slowly dies down not because the moment is gone, but because this one is here, and it’s heavier and warmer and stiller.
Steve isn’t looking at your face anymore.
He’s staring at your chest.
His strong fingers spread apart gently, his palm flush over your sternum.
Feeling…
Searching…
Sure enough, he finds it. It’s there.
Steady. Strong.
Your heart had stopped for five minutes and seven seconds.
But now? It’s beating.
And now, it’s no longer uneven, or playing an uncertain, arhythmic tempo. It’s completely even.
Your breath catches in your throat. Your eyes sting. You glance down at him and he’s still watching, completely entranced, completely focused. For the first time in six days, he’s not disassociating. He’s not repeating words. He’s not echoing memories.
He’s here.
The thunder rolls outside again. Louder than ever. It rattles the whole house.
No one flinches this time. They barely hear it.
Murray finally looks up from his book. Nancy stops moving entirely. Robin’s lips are parted. Eddie has frozen mid-laugh, tears still drying on his cheeks, his hand halfway to tossing another popcorn kernel. Jonathan and Argyle are locked in place, wide-eyed. Even Hopper and Joyce, rounding the hallway with damp towels and new meds, stop short when they see what’s happening.
Steve’s hand stays over your heart. His eyes flick up to yours in gentle awe. And then, soft as the quiet that follows thunder…
“…Steady.”
Just that.
Not a memory. Not a mimic. Not an echo.
A word. His words.
You feel it crack open something in your chest. A sound escapes you. Half laugh, half sob. Your eyes meet his and he’s still holding that gaze like it’s keeping him tethered. You nod. Slowly…
“Yeah,” you whisper. “It is, yeah.”
You reach up and take his hand in yours, holding it tightly over your heart. Then, tenderly, carefully, you lift one of the headphones from his ear, just enough so he can really hear you. “It’s steady now,” you tell him again, like a promise. “I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re okay.”
He blinks. Slowly. And then? He leans forward and presses his head gently against your chest, letting the headphones fall around his neck.
You go completely still. So does the whole room. Steve’s listening. Not just to your heartbeat, but to you.
To the sound of you breathing.
To the warmth of your chest beneath his ear.
To the feeling of your hands in his hair and your body against his.
He’s not flinching at the thunder anymore. You don’t even know if he hears it. He’s just there. Quiet, present and listening.
Eddie rubs his nose roughly and coughs like it’s no big deal. “Man,” he says, voice hoarse. “Now I gotta blow my nose and commit a felony or something.”
Robin coughs a wet laugh into the sleeve at her wrist as she watches, eyes sparkling with painful love. Nancy swipes her glassy blue eyes as she leans against Jonathan, whose smile is so warm that it lights up the entire room while Argyle leans on his shoulder without comment.
Hopper and Joyce just… watch. Murray finally closes the book, eyes softening at the two of you.
You look at your uncle, pleading at him with your eyes to help you not cry.
And Steve?
Steve just stays leaned into you, hand still resting on your chest.
Heartbeat to heartbeat.
Steady.
CHAPTER NINE
Weatherproof
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The basement was glowing.
Literally glowing.
Soft twinkle lights line every rafter, every shelf, every corner of the space that… until just about a week ago now… was nothing short of a trauma site. But now it looks like a vision board brought to life, if said board were the result of a war between two girls obsessed with ambiance and four boys obsessed with snacks, wires, and nerd memorabilia.
It’s kind of amazing.
Max and Eleven had both gone feral with the fairy lights, layering them like they were building fortresses of safety. Meanwhile, Mike and Lucas had gotten deeply territorial over the “tech zone,” now housing a very lovingly rebuilt D&D table, while Dustin convinced everyone that the mini-fridge needed to be split between Capri Suns, chocolate milk, sodas, pudding and an absurd number of weird foreign snacks. There’s even a built-in sound system playing the most chaotic mixture of soundtracks known to man.
And then there’s the bar, which is still very much intact from when Steve’s dad still owned the place. Suave as hell. It now holds a disorganized but strangely charming combination of liquor bottles and kid-approved drinks, all crammed together like some kind of generational contradiction. A single bottle of tequila sits beside a family-size Hawaiian Punch, and there’s a whole jar labeled “Shirley Temple mix, but do it wrong and we fight.”
All the kids are down there now.
And not in a quiet way.
Someone’s already yelling about movie brackets. Someone else is trying to wrestle the remote from yet another someone’s lap. Eleven’s definitely curled into a pile of blankets and pillows with Max and Erica, watching all of it happen like a queen atop her throne of pillows. It’s chaos. Cozy chaos. And for now, blissfully, nobody’s worried about anything.
Upstairs, though?
That’s another story.
“Eleven-thirty,” Hopper mutters, standing at the kitchen counter, coffee in hand, eyebrows lost somewhere near his hairline as he stands near Joyce.
She doesn’t even look up. Currently? She’s elbows-deep in a bowl of dough, rolling something that might eventually become cinnamon rolls, but so far looks like structural carnage.
“Try twelve-thirty,” she corrects. “I caught Will brushing his teeth at 12:21.”
“Jesus,” Hopper grumbles. “When I was his age, my old man would’ve dumped a bucket of water on my head.”
Joyce gives him a look. “Yeah. And now you’re a guy who drinks five cups of coffee just to feel alive.”
He squints. “Is that your way of saying you love me?”
She shrugs, smug. “Just an observation.”
They lapse into an easy silence, one that’s filled only by the sound of distant thunder and the occasional screech from the basement. For once, the chaos sounds right. Not like it’s about to explode or implode. Just… normal. A whole house of kids being kids. Jonathan and Will, both just being boys again. Not soldiers. Not witnesses. Not survivors. Just boys.
Joyce breathes in the smell of cinnamon, flinches a little at the thunder, then lets it out slow. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen Will act like he’s fifteen in like…” She calculates for too long, finally deciding on, “ever.”
Hopper nods. “El too. She hasn’t used her powers once today. Not even to open a can of soda.”
“...Christ. That might be a miracle.”
They share a soft, startled little laugh. The kind that only exists between people who’ve been through the end of the world and lived to complain about lazy teenagers.
And then Murray walks in.
He’s holding a mug, but it doesn’t look like he’s taken a sip. His expression is tight, one foot planted in the room, the other still hovering in the hallway, like he’s trying to decide if he should just back out and go away entirely.
Joyce tilts her head. “You good?”
Murray opens his mouth.
Then closes it.
Then opens it again.
“Jesus Christ,” Hopper mutters. “Spit it out, Bauman.”
“I’m processing,” Murray snaps, insulted. “My thoughts. Before I unleash them upon the universe.”
“Unleash faster,” Hopper deadpans.
Murray takes a long breath, dramatic as ever. “The storm’s not just bad, it’s officially moving into nasty territory.”
Joyce frowns, setting the rolling pin aside. “Define nasty.”
“Nasty as in storm cellar nasty. Loud. Tornado warnings. Could lose power. Definitely going to lose signal. Definitely going to need to hunker down.” He pauses then, eyes flicking between them both, “...and the safest place to do that is downstairs.”
The silence that follows is heavy.
Because of course it is.
Because downstairs is… downstairs.
Steve hasn’t set foot in that basement since the invasion. Since the Soviets broke into their sanctuary, cuffed them all at gunpoint, and yanked Dustin into the center of the room like a prop in some kind of horror show, while Steve had been gagged and tied down, watching helplessly before they eventually pulled you — half-conscious, heart still doing its goddamn arrhythmic tango — down the stairs by your arms.
Since you were all dragged apart.
Since Dustin was almost taken for good.
Since you were almost done breathing for good.
Since Steve was screaming into fabric until his throat gave out and tore open.
Nobody talks for a long moment.
Then Hopper breathes out, rough. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” Murray says. “Shit.”
Joyce’s jaw tightens. “So what, you’re… saying we need to force him down there? Because that’s not gonna happen.”
“No,” Murray replies quickly. “God, no. That’s the last thing I want. The last thing he needs is to be back in that room in the middle of a panic spiral, especially not after the—” He gestures vaguely toward the living room. “—progress.”
They knew what he meant, having caught it just in time. You’d barely seen it yourself. The way that Steve had warily reached for you. The way that his hand had rested over your chest and found steadiness there, and his voice so subtly cracking, but finally calm. Eyes wide, but not lost.
His mind had finally found you again.
And now this storm might take that all away.
“We don’t move him,” Hopper says firmly. “End of story.”
Murray nods. “No… but if the storm gets worse, we do need to start boarding some things up. And if it comes to the basement option? We move everyone else.”
“Carefully,” Joyce adds.
Just then, the kitchen door softly swings open and Jonathan walks in, followed closely by Eddie, both of them tracking water on the floor and both wearing expressions that say bad news incoming.
“Hey,” Eddie says, brushing his dripping curls out of his face. “So uh… storm’s getting worse.”
“Like, worse-worse,” Jonathan adds. “We were watching the news in the den with Argyle. They’re saying it might turn into a 48-hour cell. They’re recommending boarding windows if you’ve got the supplies.”
Joyce stares. “Wait, that bad?”
“Winds are already pushing 50,” Jonathan nodded. “Feels like it’s just heating up. And I’ve seen Argyle freak out exactly twice since the California shootout. Once was when he saw a spider with wings. The other time was today.”
Eddie cleared his throat in the silence.
“And like… I’m not trying to be dramatic,” he adds, “but even I made Erica go over ‘tornado safety’ with me. Which is usually not my default.”
Hopper sighs, rubbing a hand down his face and giving it one last breath of thought. “Alright. We board up. I’ve got lumber in the shed. Been stockpiling ever since winter.”
“So we don’t need to make a run?” Jonathan asks.
“No,” Hopper replies. “But I’m gonna need help. You two in?”
“Duh,” Eddie says immediately. “Let me get my boots.”
“I’ll grab Argyle,” Jonathan adds.
“And Bauman squared,” Hopper says, turning to you, “She’s on building duty, too.”
Murray frowns. “Wait—hold on. You’re sure that’s a good idea? I mean—separating her from Steve right now…”
“Murr,” Hopper sighs sagely. “We need her.”
“Jim,” Joyce says gently. “I dunno….”
“She’s got way more experience than any of us with fast construction,” Hopper adds. “And I don’t wanna risk anyone getting hurt because we were short a pair of hands. The house is huge.”
“Steve would normally be the guy for the job,” Jonathan murmurs nervously.
“Schyeah,” Eddie puffed out, nodding. “Dude’s got stamina and strength out the ass, stealthy as fuck.”
“But given everything,” Hopper says, somberly nodding at them. “That’s not an option.”
Murray pinches the bridge of his nose but doesn’t argue further.
“...so,” Joyce begins slowly. “We distract the kids. Keep them down there. Happy. Safe. Oblivious.”
“Argyle can do that,” Eddie says. “He’s basically human noise-canceling. That guy can monologue for hours.”
“I’ll keep Steve distracted,” Robin says suddenly, from the hallway.
Everyone turns to see her leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, gaze sharp.
“I heard everything,” she murmurs, stepping inside. “And you don’t have to worry. I won’t let him near the windows. I’ll keep him talking. Or we’ll bake something. I’ll figure it out.”
Murray nods slowly. “Alright. Good.”
They all stand there for another moment. Rain slams against the windows. Thunder rolls deep and long. And the house, the one Steve gave to everyone, the one you all live in now like it’s your own private rebellion against the world, feels like it’s bracing itself.
“Okay,” Hopper says, clapping his hands once. “Let’s move.”
And so, they all do. Because the sky is turning dark, the wind is picking up, and the boy who gave you all his house, his heart, and every last broken piece of himself? Deserves to feel safe inside it.
No matter what the weather brings.
_____________________________________________________________
NEW CHAPTERS EVERY WEEKEND. (Yes, I now have scheduled drafts! ahhh!) mega godsend bc of my full-time job hehe
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