Personal Lies
("Click, Flash", ch. 1, Stranger Things series re-write).
Summary: A couple bucks for a redo of Harrington's yearbook photo spirals into an unordinary arrangement. The laboratory down the street is something else entirely. Tags: Slow-burn, Friends to Lovers, Reader is Dustin's Cousin, Underage Drinking, no "y/n." Pairing: Steve Harrington x f!Henderson!Reader Word Count: 4k
A/n: I began writing this fic as a series of drabbles in the beginning of 2020. Assuming I'd never concretely "finish" it, but instead add to it indefinitely, I never aimed to publish it. But with the release of season five, and after literal years of aiming for impossible perfection, I've finally decided to publish it. With that being said, please comment below if you enjoy the fic, or message me if you have any drabble requests when the time comes! Please, enjoy!
"Smile. Three, two—" your fingers curl from one to a fist.
You snap the picture: Steve Harrington under a hot light, in front of a cloudy backdrop. His hair isn't combed through; his fringe doesn't sit right. He knows this, and what your trailing glare means, too. Like he's disrupted the class once again when he proposes, "Can we do that one again?"
Steve Harrington's holding up the line for a redo of his Hawkins High yearbook photo, 1982.
Quaffed hair, lights smoothing his cherubic skin, dark eyes sucking all the light in — you don't see the problem. On the other hand, the white-collar peeking over your sweater vest turns you into a high-alert bird. Your messy hair, rolled-up sleeves, and worn lip color should remind him of the middle schoolers parading down his halls. You've been filling in for their yearbook director since seven. Stomach flu, they said.
"Likely."
He asks politely, "Please?" but the stool is already his. With his foot firm on the ground, the only way you're getting Harrington off is by ripping it out from under him.
"Fine. You have five seconds. Five."
He snickers, charming, hand running through his hair. "What, like you're actually counting?"
"Four."
He combs faster. "Well, hold on—Wait."
"Three."
Combing faster. "Would you just—slow down!"
"Two." You smirk.
"You can't rush this kind of thing!"
"One." From a finger to a fist. "Smile!"
He snaps into an appropriate pose with the perfect grin, and a hair strand frozen for the picture. Before he can reappear from the flash, you turn to your sheet and check 'Steve Harrington' off the 11th-grade list.
"Thank you," you tut each syllable, lips ending in a purse as you assess the sheet. David Harrison is next, if the junior boys haven't knocked themselves out of order by now. You whirl around to call for the next, and startle away from Steve Harrington's shushing finger.
"Please. Please? Just one more, just one!"
"You're gonna have to pay with more than a half-decent photograph, if I have to pay with an extra minute that Mrs. Baker spends on my ass about wasting film." You point over your shoulder. "Out."
"Deal!" He fishes for his wallet and produces a crisp five-dollar bill.
You're stuck on it like a lure, ears almost drowned out by your own awe when Mrs. Baker shouts, "What's going on up there?" People are getting antsy in their best tights, stiff collars, and wool sweaters. You shove the bill in your back pocket and step past Harrington beyond the privacy curtain.
The lie, "Sorry, technical difficulties," slips convincingly off your tongue. Mrs. Baker's raised pitch, nearly offering help, cuts as you screech the curtain shut. You step over Harrington's outstretched leg as he settles on the stool.
"Let's try this again, hmm?"
One hand rakes through his hair while the other clutches his kneecap. He trails down your focused face to your pant cuffs. One cuff is stuck inside your boot. And there, he sees it. A glimpse of your compression wrap—a reminder of the last time you properly spoke. He tastes grass on his tongue.
Actually, that's a strand of hair.
"Are you ready this time?" you ask.
He spits it out.
But he hasn't fixed anything. This time he discovers the lights don't hit his nose right. The backdrop doesn't flatter him. He needs mousse to behave his hair again. And there you stand, able to see all of it—all of him.
He forces himself to nod.
"Okay, then. Smile." His wallet's back out before the flash can end.
He unravels another five-dollars.
You pluck it straight from his giving fingers, and your belt releases its pincers from your waist for the first time in hours.
"Wanna give it another go?" Finally, a real smile. He hasn't seen one from you all year.
That makes it easy to follow your command: "Smile!"
You've accrued fifteen dollars by the end of the 'shoot.'
Steve runs out of fives when Mrs. Baker runs out of patience. She rips open the curtains, but your stern "Ah ah!" freezes her where she stands, the blotted gray and blue pulled apart.
Mrs. Baker is struck blind by the flash, and Steve Harrington passes you his last five—for a total of twenty. He flees past the curtain and tucks away his wallet, just in time for Mrs. Baker to recover. You swat her from your camera and beckon the next kid onto the stool.
Stern grumbles of "I know, I know," and "I've got it under control," entice him again. He peeks through the curtain to watch you. Mrs. Baker stays put inside the makeshift room, even after you send two kids through.
He tries to assess things like you do, but he can't; not quite. He doesn't spot the tiny rotations of waists and wrists that you step in to fix; can't make out any of the names or faces you so easily check off your list. But he recognizes your game-ready expression as you gnaw your lips, and fasten on your subject. That's the face he likes to see; the fire you've been missing.
Johnnie Hughes, scrawny kid who flunked try-outs last year, scampers off his stool and knocks Harrington into a light.
You and Mrs. Baker whip around. She's furious; you're amused.
Steve straightens out the mess he's made, then flees from the gym with his shoes squeaking. The doors slam behind him and, breathless, he's got disheveled hair again.
He slumps against the wall, flinching when the next kid scurries past.
Steve Harrington opens his wallet.
He's been robbed blind.
The bell trills and Tina shoves a flyer against your chest.
The hallway rumbles on with footsteps and chatter that pull your focus everywhere but her. Only when her acrylic nail stabs your chest do you finally face her. You snatch the fine cardstock and wag it as you recover your bearings.
"What is this?" You pull it tight and trace the margins.
8253 Carlton Road—
You've completed essays in the cars of kids who exchanged your work for rides home; for kids who needed the work done the same night they needed to swing by Harrington's house. Of course you know his damn address.
"A flyer?" She pokes her head around. "To Steve's party. Tonight?"
"A flyer to a house party…? Did I forget?" You make a show of reading it over. "Are we still in junior high?" then you snicker, sending her eyes on a roll.
"Well, if you don't want to come—!" She reaches for the flyer.
You yank it away—"I don't, thanks.”—then shove it back to her.
Tina hurls your name down the hallway, her kitten pumps following with a quickness she has yet to display in the year you've known her. As a transfer from a nearby town somehow smaller than little Hawkins, and potential prom queen nominee, she's always high-strung—too high-strung to be seen tailing after someone. Yet she manages to glide somewhat effortlessly with the pace you force her to chase you with.
She's winded when she cuts you off and pins the flyer back on your chest. "Steve Harrington's. Tonight. Be there." Her authority transforms into mousiness and she whispers, "His formal request…"
She shyly looks ahead.
She shushes and swats you when you peer behind you, because there outside of Mr. Bradshaw's room is Steve Harrington and his goons.
The bell rings. The crowd scatters. They become a little clearer.
Steve Harrington, Tommy Hagan, and Carol Perkins all feign nonchalant glances in your direction.
"His 'formal' request, huh?"
"Very. Formal." Tina juts into your view and forcibly rotates your head toward her. She straightens out your small bag. "And bring this."
Your camera.
"You should've led with that."
Harrington's house reeks.
You move between guests into the recesses of the house. The crowd pushes in at every arrival to ogle as they shed their Hawkins High dress code apparel and fall coats at the door. Smoke and body heat force you to unzip your jacket as bodies press tighter and shoulders bump into your backside.
Harrington's assets of rural suburban luxury hide behind the crowd: his parents' plaid couches, the fringe beige carpet, the wood paneling from the late 70s.
You surface in the kitchen to sweet liquor and stale air, where your boots stick to the tile.
Vases full of soda and rum sit on the kitchen island. Bowls of sherbet with oranges, mint leaves, and limes sting your nose when you dare to look. Most of Harrington's parties suffice with stacks of six-packs and zero snacks except for what can be scavenged. But this is Carol Perkins' handiwork.
"You made it!" Tina suddenly cries and clings to you. The chemical product keeping her curls the size of coasters is stronger than the vodka on her breath.
"Get—" you peel her off "—off. You get one roll. One."
She scoffs at your emphasis.
With her arm twisted behind herself, she drags you through the crowd. "I'm not a con!" This is 'future valedictorian' you're accusing, the girl who can follow instructions by ear and 'expertly' deduce any and every equation under the sun.
A detour to the breakfast table turned snack buffet brings you close enough to shout in her ear, "Since when!"
"I paid you for that!" She has since insisted.
Future valedictorian-slash-prom queens with 'hard-earned' good grades still have to make it to every party. They still have to slice colored cardstock and make photocopies. And still have to find a way to pay the defiantly tongue-tied girl they ordered to do their homework for them on a whim, misled by their posse into thinking she was an easy target.
Every few paces, Tina pauses and shakes your shoulders to show you off to her classmates with the same sneer she first shot you when she mocked: "You got all that, right?" as the teacher wiped the chalkboard clean of dust.
"I had to corner you. And"—you contort through dancing bodies pressed tighter together than drywall—"say I'd go to the dean."
What 'valedictorian' can't even remember 7th grade curriculum?
"Okay? But you didn't, because I paid you. Also, I didn't even agree to pay you!"
Tina brings you to the back patio and pouts against the door, waiting for you to be done with it.
"I didn't 'agree' to do it for you."
"Well, you agreed to do this one!"
She yanks opens the door to three posed bodies blotted sinisterly by the green pool light.
Carol Perkins, with her orange curls, turns first, the gum in her cheek pulling her lips into a grin with every smack. "Look at you!" She mewls, closing in to graze your sides like you're a precious dress on a hook. Next, her letterman-wearing meathead Tommy Hagan turns with a drunk blush already overtaking his freckles.
Then turns that shiny head of hair, body clad in a cuff-sleeved polo. Steve—
"Harrington."
"Henderson." He rounds the pool and opens his wallet. "You came," He murmurs mistrustfully, like bet wages are being plucked straight from his grip. He gives you a twenty-dollar bill for your services. "What'd she tell you?" He asks Tina.
You answer for yourself, "A roll with developing costs."
Your gait wobbles forward, tipped unevenly by the camera equipment hanging by your hip, and more discreetly by the loosely healed fracture wrapped tightly within your boots.
Steve smiles wanly, recognizing but not addressing it. He moves on, "You develop your own photos…"
"Not these ones."
Steve can't tell if your brow wrinkles from irritation at the sight of him, or from your pained posture. His head tips, and he listens carefully, watching with bated breath as your limited voice graces him the most thoroughly it has since you bossed him around as yearbook director just a month ago.
Something about that gentle contempt charms him, even this long after the rare field practices your teams would indulge in together.
"I'm not getting any of you expelled if someone catches me developing these in the darkroom." You're always rushing to that out-of-bounds place, and always getting spat out of it right in front of him. "But, I still bought a new roll. All for you, Stevie."
He clings to your sarcastic sweetness. "All for me? Really?"
"Really." He swats at you and you gracefully stumble back toward the other side of the pool. You point at him. "That's thirty-six exposures, okay? Might seem like a lot, but it's not."
"I—" he scoffs "—I am familiar with film."
"Sure, you might be. But are your lackeys?"
"You mean, 'don't let Carol use them all up?'" She and Tommy scoff at your ability to pretend they aren't there.
Steve's suddenly keen to how their presence turns your posture stiff; to how you're compelled to raise your chin in defiance as Tommy glares at you on behalf of his girlfriend, who would use up the whole roll if she could.
Your coat, tied around your waist, feels like a frightened tail shoved between your legs.
Steve rounds the pool to block their sight of you. "It's okay. She won't," he utters so gently as if he's promising something more serious than friends getting pictures with each other. He's holding everything intimidating about himself back, all instilled in him by his father and Tommy and the basketball team. Knees bent just a little bit, and chin not up so high, he nods just to see if you'll nod back.
You do. "Okay then."
The contract is spoken.
You stop stroking the crisp edge of the bill he gave you and slip it into your pocket. As soon as it enters, Carol elbows her way between you.
"I get her first!” She drags you to your next hour as a lap dog.
You become an accessory to your camera. Your familiar sportsman stance from before your photography club days centers you steadily amidst the crowd like a human tripod. Shaken shoulders, elbowed ribs, and spilled punch don't deter you. You're brought from the kitchen to the dining room, to the cuddle pile on the couch, and back to the drinks table again.
The girls—Carol's friends and Tina's rallied voters—call your name and purr "Good girl," assuming they have a stronger grip around your leash than a finger.
Every "I can't believe you came," and "It's been so long since I've seen you!" punches straight into your gut.
Every camera flash whitens out the mess of red cups and beer bottles in the background.
Every shot brightens their painted lips and immortalizes their snickering grins.
Carol kisses Vicki's rouged cheeks with her plush lips.
Click, flash.
Tommy pulls Carol into his lap.
Click, flash.
Tina snaps between poses like the models do on TV, with tinsel stolen from the party's décor wrapped around her neck like a scarf—one half of Hawkins High's colors.
Click—You finger freezes before it can give in, as you lower your camera from your eye to watch Harrington shimmy into frame to fill glasses with ice and punch before he sneaks away. He flashes a sorry smile your way before he disappears out of sight.
You bring the camera back up to your eye.
Click, flash.
After tonight, you'll have enough saved to buy something handsomely expensive. Or, enough to become your little cousin's coin purse to brag about to his friends. Chinese takeaway and his favorite pizza (never yours, always his, but a sacrifice you're willing to make) become a phantom taste on your tongue.
As you protect Carol's drink, you swirl it into a whirlpool and wait to be beckoned again. You tip your head back for a taste, already in a haze from the heat, the low light, the stench of whiskey and vodka. Now it's in your mouth with all the sweetness of Hawaiian Punch.
Then Tommy rattles your shoulders and you nearly cough it all up. "C'mon, let's go! No slacking!" He jostles you around before parting the crowd as he hollers and beats on his chest.
"Tommy!" Carol yells. "I wasn't done with her yet!"
You sneak another sip of her drink and excuse yourself from her hyenas and flee into the closing sea of people.
You catch up with Tommy at the beer pong table. As if perpetually pocketing gum in his cheek, one corner of Hagan's lips curls as he nudges his buddy in the ribs at the sight of you.
"Well?" You raise your camera. "What do you want from me, Hagan?"
He shrugs and lingers to the opposite side of the table.
With the crowd closing in, whispering private conversations, you feel as though at the center of a prank. "I am not reffing,” you warn him.
Someone lifts your camera over your head. “You do t have to.” You turn straight into Steve's chest. He touches your back and faces you toward the table again. "Play."
"Harrington."
"Just one game, just one!" He dangles your camera high where you can't reach.
He sucked you in that way last time. One do-over. Just one more. Just another minute, or two, or three. Just until someone marched through the curtain and demanded to know, 'What's going on back here?'
You jab him. "I'm not drinking." The aftertaste of Carol's punch is enough.
"You don't have to. Go—I'm on your team." He wears your camera and sits it against his ribs. Your hard glare does nothing to him. He can’t say it ever frightened him to see you run the field with an iron fist, but it certainly got his heart palpitating. He grins, stroking his lips.
"Dammit, Harrington."
You’re accustomed to the pressure on every side of you, but Harrington’s breath on your shoulder and his tiny sniffles manage to distract you. You miss the ball Tommy chucks at you, flail to catch it, and do by some miracle.
Steve laughs in your ear, "Nice catch…Go on, make every shot count."
"So you two can be insufferable by the end of the night?" You practice your aim. Your hand-eye coordination could be better—you know. That catch was a fluke. Too long has passed without soccer balls soaring over your head, and without your cousin pelting Legos at you.
Bitterness and pain surge through you.
"No…" he hisses. "So we're too hungover to bother you tomorrow."
You look. His breath shortens. His Adam's Apple bobs in tandem with his flickering eye contact.
"Do you promise?" You ask.
"Sure. Let's just see how this goes first, deal?" He gives you only enough space to aim.
You bounce the ball off the table and it arcs high and crisply into Tommy's center cup with a splash. Small cheers and Steve's own relax you, but you shake your agitated foot out of habit. "Deal…Seems easy enough."
"Oh, don't underestimate him yet..."
Tommy gulps down his drink, burps, and while swaying lands a perfect shot into the tip of your pyramid.
You interrupt Steve's muted laughter by sliding the loser's drink to him.
It's five till twelve, and you're down to two cups on your easy front line while the tip of Tommy's pyramid remains unconquered.
For every congratulatory sip of his own beer, Steve tosses back the drinks you slide to him without complaint. Only his red cheeks and wide pupils (and how he leans on you more into the night) expose his intoxication.
His stare tickles your cheek, while your determination keeps your heart steady.
You mime your throw but can't commit with Tommy's drunk leer shooting you down.
"I don't think we're going to make it."
"Well…" Steve moves in closer somehow. "Don't doubt yourself now."
"How do you like our odds?"
His head bobs strangely. "I, uh, I like them?"
"Steve," you growl. He can't help but drive his hand up his beating chest to hear you actually say his name. You slap his chest because of that stupid grin on his face, and giggles bubble up his throat when he admits, "Alright, alright! Not a lot!"
"Shit." You push away from the table, and Steve drags you back.
"Relax! You have the sober advantage."
"Tommy knows how to do this drunk and sober."
He reluctantly shrugs. "...Fair point."
Only a table away, Tommy shouts, "How about this?" You each stand at attention. Tommy's words stagger as poorly as his feet. "You give up now…and you don't have to be my slave for a day!"
You cackle and Hagan shrinks. "You're supposed to imply that if we continue, then I lose, I have to be your 'slave' for a day."
He shouts to the crowd. "She said it, not me!"
Steve bows with you until your foreheads touch. His eyes encourage you to not fall for Hagan's taunts. But when your eyelids flutter, beginning to weigh down as the clock strikes twelve, you relent, "Alright, fine! You win. I have to get home, anyhow."
Tommy and his buddy holler and shove each other.
You reach to adjust your missing camera, when Steve clears his throat and slides the camera up over his head. He dangles the strap on his hooked finger still out of reach.
"Take a drink with me."
"Steve—"
He ropes you closer. He sets your camera on the table down the center, and slides your two remaining cups to either side of it. "Just one! One drink with me, then you're done." You shoot him a look. "I'm serious!"
You eye the murky beer sitting inside. "Why do you want to get me drunk?"
He breathes your name, not 'Henderson.' Warmth spreads through your stomach. You pretend it's from the crowd. "I just want to believe you actually had fun…"
"Well…Your friends kind of paraded me around."
He can't deny that. "Then, what about after that?"
After that? Playing beer pong with his chest on your back?
You opt to drink rather than let him see you smile. So, against the rim you mumble, "I guess it was fun."
"I'm glad you had fun…”
You drink together. You wince at the taste while Steve hums pleasantly. He laughs at the decent amount you’ve left—how you managed to drink only half of what couldn't have been more than an inch amuses him.
"Are you a lightweight or something?"
You snatch your camera off the table. "That's enough questions, Harrington."
"It's only one!" He shouts after you.
'Only one,' 'just one more,' 'just one.'
It's never just one.
But you don't mind that much.
A/n: I have already written the entirety of the season-one (and pre-series) rewrite, as well as the entirety of season-two. If received well, I'll continue publishing what I have written, and may even bulk-publish everything on Ao3 for binge readers. Maybe.
