Things Only Get Stranger

by hughescookingfan

Summary:

Steve Harrington just wanted to go for a drive the night of November 6, 1983.

Just a drive.

He didn't expect to stumble across Will Byers running alone in the woods, let alone an inter-dimensional flower faced monster out for blood.

He definitely didn't expect to be dragged into something so much bigger than him that would flip his life upside down forever.

Chapter 1: Definitely NOT a Squirrel

Notes:

Hello!

So...it has been a super duper long time. I said so very long ago I was going to completely rework this series and then I never did. I'm sorry about that but I watched Vol. 1 of season 5 and I just KNEW I had to rework this and explore this entire story/plot again. I really do love this story and it has literally been YEARS since I have written anything and published it but I have grown as a writer and I really wanted to rewrite this story (maybe even finish it off but I make no promises!)

So here is Chapter one, completely rewritten. It is the exact same plot, just more literate. I will be reposting chapters as I go, I hope you enjoy!

Steve Harrington was just driving. That’s all it was meant to be: a drive. It was all he needed, a nice long drive through Hawkins to clear his head with the radio buzzing just enough to drown out the consuming thoughts swirling in his head. His father and mother had made an unexpected return home, and let’s just say Steve needed to get out of there. They’d found out about his midterm grades, the highest being a B-. His father hadn’t taken it well and Steve had, thankfully, managed to slip away before another beating took place.

But who knows what will be waiting for him when he arrives home.

His thoughts came and went with a dizzying frequency. Steve was barely staying afloat through the soupy sea of his thoughts when he heard it.

A soft rustle before a shark snap of a twig.

His gaze snapped from the road, scanning around the dark and misty side of the road. Only then did Steve realize that all the street lights had flicked out which was…odd. The darkness seemed to creep in and consume his vision, forcing him to squint against it. Another sharp snap came again again, this time accompanied by a sound of distress.

Steve pulled over, and opened his door, slowly stepping out. Fear coiled tight in his stomach as he slowly stepped away from his car.

“It’s probably just a squirrel. Steve muttered as he cautiously made his way around the back of his car. A sudden and deep growl came from down the road, freezing Steve in his tracks. His breathing began to pick up as his gaze flicked up, nothing visible in the unlit fog.

“So not a squirrel… great.” Steve huffed out under his breath. He squinted at the side of the road, gaze lingering longer as it finally adjusted to the dark.

He spotted a small lump laying on the side of the road. His breath caught sharply in his throat as he hesitantly crept towards it.

As Steve approached, he slowly reached down, grabbing a branch, just in case something happened. He moved forward in slow, measured paces. He was a few feet from the lump when it leaped up from the ground and began racing into the woods, causing Steve to jump out of his skin, nearly taking himself out.

The lump turned out to not be just a lump after all. It was a person. A very small person, who had just abandoned their bike on the side of the road. Steve looked up from the bike and dropped the branch and ran after the kid, following him into the woods.

“Hey kid! I don’t want to hurt you! I want to help!” Steve called breathlessly. The child whipped his head around so hard Steve was worried he’d given himself whiplash. But the kid slowed to a stop, panting and breathless.

Steve caught up to the kid, breathing hard as he looked at the kid.

It was Will Byers, the freak…Jonathan’s brother. Steve bent down, hands resting on his knees so he was eye-to-eye with him. Will started right back, eyes wide and nearly bulging out of his head, terrified out of his mind. He was taking in panicked breaths at a dizzying rate.

“Hey,” Steve took his voice down to a gentle tone. “It’s okay. Do you want to tel-” Steve was cut off by Will gripping Steve’s arm tight enough to bruise before tugging him forward as he sprinted forward.

Steve could hear the frightened gasps that Will was making. He turned his head, glancing back and what he saw made his heart drop into his stomach like a stone.

There was someone, no…something following them. The thing was way too tall for it to be a human.

Steve didn’t have much time to try and decipher what creature that was stalking them like they were prey. Steve whipped his head back around and saw a house. It was small, one story and looked to be a little rundown.

Will dragged Steve to the door and swung it open. They rushed inside together. Steve was greeted to the slightly stale air. It wasn’t much warmer inside than it had been before they’d entered the house. Will snapped the lock in place, breathing heavily.

“Will…” Steve spoke in a slow measured, slightly breathless tone. It made Will startle, almost like he had forgotten Steve was even there, “what is that?”

Will didn't speak, just looked at Steve with this petrified expression that made his heart hurt. Steve kneeled down in front of him, holding his shoulders tightly and locking his eyes with Will’s.

“It’s going to be okay, Will. I’m going to keep you safe, okay?” Steve told Will, not sure himself if they were going to be okay. All he knew is that he was going to protect this kid no matter what.

Will swallowed thickly before nodding and letting out a shaky breath. “Okay.” He whispered.

Suddenly, his eyes lit up and he spun away from Steve, running further into the house.
“Jonathan?! Mom?!” Will called as he began looking in the rooms. Steve followed closely behind, but he couldn’t keep himself from staying within view of the front door as a sinking feeling stayed in his stomach.

The pair was startled when the phone mounted on the wall started ringing, its shrill call echoing in the silent house. Steve grabbed onto Will’s hand, dragging him over to the phone.

With a trembling hand, Steve picked the phone up and lifted it to his ear.

“Hello?” Steve called into the phone, only to be hit with a deafening screech coming from the other side. He flew away, shoulders pulled tight as the shrill screech continued without an end in sight.

Will grabbed Steve’s arm tightly as his eyes stayed locked on the front door.

“Who is this?” Steve demanded loudly into the phone, terror overtaking his senses. “Hello? Who is th-”

He was cut off by Will tugging harshly on Steve’s arm and pointing to the door.

“It’s here!” Steve’s stomach sank at Will’s words. His head snapped to the front door, phone still held tightly in his hand. “It’s coming! Steve look!”

They both watched in absolute, unadulterated horror as the lock slowly undid itself. Steve’s eyes widened, nearly popping out of his head as his grip on the phone faltered and it slipped from his hand.

Steve grabbed Will’s hand before dragging him along until he came across the backdoor. He yanked the door open, slamming it open hard enough to make the whole house shake.

The two sprinted through the small backyard, the fog even heavier now in the darkness that seemed to have intensified. They arrived at a small rickety shed on the other end of the backyard. Will pulled the door open as Steve rushed in. He pushed Will behind him as he turned and jerked the door shut. He caught a glimpse of a dog, who he hadn’t even realized had been with them the whole time.

Steve turned back around to face Will, who had gotten a gun down from where it had been mounted on the wall and was trying to load it with some clips he’d slipped over the work bench. The boy’s hands were shaking so harshly he could barely line up one of the clips to reload the gun.

Silently, Steve took the clips and the gun, pushing Will out of the way as he snapped the gun closed with the ammo inside. His eyes kept flickering to the door, waiting for that thing to break through, splintering the door.

Once the gun was loaded, Steve stepped in front of Will, shielding him from the door as he lifted the gun up aiming it directly at the center of the door. The shed quickly fell into an eerie silence. It made Steve’s nerves feel like they were on fire. The only sound was Will’s frantic and uneven breaths bouncing through the walls.

Without looking back, he didn’t dare to, Steve said in a gentle voice, “Will, buddy. You gotta try to take some deep breaths, okay? In and out. In and out.”

Steve adjusted his stance, letting the gun rest more comfortably against his body. A sudden small metallic jingle made both boys leap out of their skin as Steve’s car keys fell from his pocket, hitting the wooden floor.

Then a sound Steve would never be able to unhear came from behind them. It was otherworldly and sickening. He whipped around, stepping in front of Will, placing himself directly between Will and the creature.

Steve was finally able to get a good look at the creature. The sight of it nearly made the gun almost slip from his grasp as his arms slowly lowered down. Will grabbed onto Steve’s arm in a death grip.

The lights swelled, growing to get too bright and too hot, Steve was forced to squint his eyes against it. It seemed to get impossibly bright, momentarily blinding both the boys.

The light suddenly dimmed to normal and they were gone. As if nothing happened.

—

That next afternoon, Chief Jim Hopper had two missing cases and two pieces of evidence. Steve Harrington and Will Byers and Steve's abandoned car with his keys in the Byers shed and Will’s lonely bike.

Chapter 2: Castle Byers

Steve woke up groggy, his mind felt heavy and clouded. His thoughts weren’t forming properly, the confusion was dizzying. His throat burned and ached with each breath that dragged against it. He slowly blinked his eyes open and was only greeted by a blurred mirage of dull color. His body felt like one big bruise.

He groaned as he made an attempt to lift his head, only for it to loll to one side. Steve’s head pounded, blood rushing in his ears as he began to lift his arm only to stop when he felt something clinging to it. He squinted down at his arm to find the Byers kid’s hand latched onto it.

He smiled to himself, as he took in how the kid had pressed himself into Steve’s side. The smile soon fell from his face as he remembered what happened.

The running. The panic. The phone call. The gun. The monster.

Steve shot upright, adrenaline pumping, and looked around. Slime was oozing down the trees, spilling over the ground in a thin sheen, some places had pools. It had already begun to soak into both Steve and Will’s hair and clothes, clinging to their skin in a cool gel. Every surface was covered in tendrils, snaking and weaving over itself like a half-done knitting project. Small grey particles danced in the non-inexstant wind as they bobbed around the air. Steve turned to Will, gently shaking the kid’s boney shoulder.

“Hey. Will? You gotta wake up for me, okay?” Steve spoke in a hushed whisper, not wanting to attract anything that might be living in this place. He glanced around after his words, making sure nothing was coming.

Slowly, Will blinked his eyes open and, deliriously looking around before settling on Steve’s face. Will’s grip tightened on his arm as he remembered all too well what had happened. He lifted his head and looked around as tears flooded to his eyes and his breathing began to pick up.

Steve placed a gentle hand on his shoulder making Will’s head whip around to look into his eyes.

“I-I’m sorry!” Will choked out around his panicked breaths. “I didn’t know w-what to do! I was just so scared when I saw that… that thing in front of me!”

The guilt in his voice made Steve’s heart tighten as he pulled Will into a tight hug. After a few long moments, he slowly pulled himself away from Will, who remained pressed tightly to Steve’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault, Will. I promise I won’t let anything happen to you.” Steve said fiercely to Will, who gave a little nod against him.

They sat in a few long seconds of silence before Steve’s eyes widened slightly as he realized he had never introduced himself to Will.

Steve cleared his throat lightly. “My name is Steve Harrington. I know who your brother, Jonathan is, and I’ve seen you around Nance’s little brother.”

“I know who you are.” Will said quietly, still not lifting his head from Steve’s shoulder.

“We should get moving. It’s not safe out here.” Steve said as he glanced around once more, taking in their surroundings. Will nodded his head slightly as he pulled away from Steve, who was slowly pushing himself onto his feet. Will stood up briskly next to him.

A shiver traveled down Steve’s spine, making the hair on the back of his neck stand upward as he realized how cold it was. He pulled his arms up to his biceps and slowly rubbed his hands up and down his arms, trying to warm himself more. Will pulled himself closer to Steve. Steve wasn’t sure if it was from fear or cold.

Or both.

They slowly began taking tentative steps through the woods, trying to be as quiet as possible. The ground would squelch beneath their shoes with each step, slime bubbling under their weight.

They had walked through the woods that seemed to be a place of decay for about 10 minutes before Will gasped and froze in place. Steve’s heart dropped violently, assuming the worst.

“I know this place…” Will murmured, slowly looking around with wide eyes.

Steve’s head snapped toward Will. “What? Where are we?”

Will tugged him to their right, pulling him in that directly as they continued to walk.
He led them to a small fort of sticks in the middle of the forest. It sat in between two thick trees. It was a little lopsided, some gaps in the sticks larger than others. It had a blue tarp that should’ve been brighter than it was pinned over the top, acting as a roof of sorts.

Steve cocked his head to the side as he read the three signs nailed over the entrance to the small shack.

‘All Friends Welcome’

‘Home of Will the Wise’

‘Castle Byers’

Steve followed Will inside, pushing the blanket hung over the entrance out of the way. Will had already settled himself on the small mattress pressed against the back side. There were some soggy papers pinned to the walls, some soaked blankets and pillows were strewn haphazardly across the floor and mattress.

Steve slowly walked the few steps to the mattress and lowered himself onto it beside Will. It made a nauseating squelch as he did. Once he was sitting, the tension bled from Steve as he closed his eyes and let his head rest on the wall of stick behind him, sighing.

It had been a hell of a day.

A small wet cough made Steve open his eyes. He turned his head to Will, who was the culprit for the noise. Will had let go of Steve’s arms, having wrapped his arms tightly around his torso. His knees were drawn up close, his forehead resting on the tops of them. He was shivering so violently the mattress vibrated with it. He was taking slow, measured breaths but the particles floating through the air made it impossible.

Steve pushed himself up right, placing his hand on Will's shoulder, which made Will lift his head and stare at Steve with wide eyes.

“You can get some rest. I’ll make sure everything's okay, alright?” Steve said with a kind smile. The kid looked about ready to pass out sitting up.

Steve could already see the toll this place was taking on him. Will kept looking at him, his doe eyes staring directly into Steve’s.

After a few seconds, Will nodded, “Okay.”

Steve gave a relieved nod, shifting so he was laying on the mattress, leaving his arm beneath his head, giving him some sort of leverage to be able to see through the doorway, but still be laying down. Will quietly laid his head on Steve’s stomach, so his head would be supported by something and stay a bit warmer. Steve placed his hand on Will’s back, rubbing slow circles to provide some type of comfort.

Will fell asleep as soon as he was horizontal. Steve stayed awake, gently rubbing his back while he watched the doorway.

It could’ve been hours or minutes but far too close for Steve’s liking, came muffled footsteps. Steve’s eyes widened as he pressed a hand over his mouth and nose and held his breath. His eyes squeezed shut as a few tears escaped them.

It’s so close.

It must be looking for them.

Steve sat in silence, listening to the footsteps. He stayed there, silent and terrified, for a long time after the footsteps faded away in the distance.

Then came new footsteps but these weren’t the heavy, booming steps from earlier. These ones were panicked and quick. They were scared and accompanied by panting and panicked gasps.

“Help! Nancy! Anyone! Please! Help me!”

Will jolted awake at the screams for help, his hand shooting out to grab onto Steve's shirt, tightly balled into a fist. Steve’s heart flew into his throat at the thought of Nancy being in this place too.

There was an inhuman growl.

Then a terrified, gurgled scream.

And then nothing.

—

Mike Wheeler has a GIRL in his basement, a weird girl at that. Hopper had two missing cases, now he has one more. Barbra Holland.

Chapter 3: (Not So) Holly Jolly

Steve’s throat had been burning and agonizingly dry for a few hours. Him and Will haven’t found any food or water for the past three days that they had been stuck in this place. Yet, he still couldn’t believe that Nancy could be stuck here too.

Will had a difficult time going back to sleep after being woken up by the bloodcurdling screaming and Steve really couldn’t blame the kid, but he had managed to get Will to sleep for a bit longer.

The sounds of the monster were haunting and terrifying whenever it wandered too close for comfort. It seems to be getting closer and closer over the past few days. It must be figuring out where they are.

Steve knows that now is the time for the two of them to move, since they haven’t heard the monster for the past few hours. They really needed food and water and he doesn’t think they can risk going without it for much longer.

He lightly shook Will’s shoulder, trying to gently awaken him but the kid immediately jerked upright. A strangled whimpered, cutting through the air as he looked around, terrified and panicked. Steve steadied him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Shh. Will, we’ve gotta get moving.” Steve said, hoping Will would understand.

Will still looked terrified but nodded anyway, “Okay. My house is really close. We could go there.”

“Alright, that’s fine with me. I don’t know about you but I’m thirsty.” Steve said, trying to lighten the mood but it wasn’t all that funny considering they both had cracked and peeling lips from the lack of water.

Both the boys stood from where they’d been sprawled on the mattress. Steve had to crouch slightly, as his head would hit the top of Castle Byers if he didn’t, and they walked through the doorway.

The world was just as dull, wet, and deadly as it had been three days prior. They began their walk to Will's home.

Steve really hoped that they might find clothes that were dry and not covered in slime to change into.

But the main and dire concern was getting water.

He doubted that there would be any sort of food or water that would be somewhat edible. A sudden thought flooded Steve’s head. Melvald’s would surely have something.

The hope froze before it had even truly begun to flourish when he remembered Will. He couldn’t bring the kid with him. God knows what could happen out there. It must be a thirty minute walk from Will’s house and there wouldn’t be many places to hide. Steve assumes Will could hide in the house if the monster came but if something were to go wrong and Steve wasn’t there–

He shook his head, knocking the thought out of it. He couldn’t think like that. He’d made a promise to look after Will and he wasn’t going to let some monster get either of them.

The walk wasn’t long but being exposed and out in the open made Steve’s still crawl as he followed Will through the woods toward the house that, only a few days prior, they had been abducted in.

The front door put up a bit of a fight, the edges scraping against the slimy ground, causing the rug to bunch. Steve pressed his body against the door, forcing the door open wider. He and Will stepped inside, taking in the house. It looked haunting. The tendrils snaked over the walls and furniture, particles floated in stillness.

Steve licked his lips, feeling the peeling and dry skin. He winced, knowing they desperately needed water. He glanced down at Will, who was walking silently beside him.

Steve cleared his throat slightly, wincing at the sound tore at his throat like sandpaper.

“Hey Will,” Will turned his head toward Steve, looking at him with wide eyes, “We really need some water and I think it might be the best, since that monster-”

“Demogorgon.” Will cut Steve off suddenly.

“What?” Steve blinked, confused on what the word meant that had seemingly tumbled out of Will’s mouth.

Will suddenly looked shy, glancing down at his feet. “It’s a demogorgon. Like from Dungeons and Dragons. I figured that it should have a name. So we don’t keep calling it the monster.” he explained, “Sorry I shouldn’t have cut you off, but I…”

“I get it, Will, but I really need you to do this for me okay?” Steve asked. Will looked up at Steve.

Steve took a deep breath, his lungs burning slightly. “I need you to stay in your house and hide so…” He paused, trying the new name out on his tongue, “the Demogorgon can’t find you while I get water for us.”

Will’s eyes widened at Steve’s words. His mouth opened and closed a few times as the kid searched for what to say.

He was quiet before he gave a small nod.

“Okay. I will.” Will answered.

The kid looked around the room before he started toward a small cabinet that was nestled in a bookshelf against the far wall. Steve followed as Will crouched and popped open the cabinet doors. The area inside was small but big enough for Will to fit. He crawled inside, pulled his knees up against his chest as he rested his back against the side. Steve crouched down next to him, craning his head down so he could see inside easier, grabbing the knobs of the cabinet doors.

Before he could close it, Will grabbed Steve’s arm.

“You promise to come back soon, right?” Will asked, his voice quivering as tears threatened to spill over. Steve grabbed Will’s hand with his hand, patting it gently.

Steve nodded deeply. “I promise. I’ll be back soon-” He was cut off by Will launching forwards out of the cabinet, arms wrapped tightly around Steve’s neck. He hugged Will back.

Will pulled back, swiping at his eyes and nodding. He was ready for him to close the doors.

Steve sat back, giving a tense smile as he closed the cabinet doors. They clicked shut with finality, dread settling in Steve’s stomach, before he stood and walked out of the house.

—

The road wasn’t much better than walking along the soggy ground in the woods. The concrete was almost spongy and springy. This was the same road Steve had driven on when he found Will.

The road that had gotten him into this whole mess.

He blankly wonders what his parents were doing. What they thought.

Before too long, Steve found himself entering the town of Hawkins. The usual bright colors were dulled in a way that looked sick, like the town itself had a bad cold. The tendrils twisted around the street lights, which barely gave off any light. There were no moon or stars in the sky.

Oh God, the sky.

The sky looked like someone smeared blue and gray mud all over it before occasional red streaks lit up the expansive void above.

Steve looked up at the sign above the entrance of what he knew was Melvad’s General Store. He walked up to the door. The glass was smashed, leaving shards sprawled across the floor. He pushed the door open slowly, careful of the creaking of his shoes over the shards, and cautiously walked inside.

The lights above were burnt out, only a few scattered bulbs flickered with barely there light. He slowly moved through the isles, eyes scanning each shelf for something he and Will could use. He looked through all the shelves and found some first aid stuff, but he wouldn’t be able to carry that.

He found a couple thick rolls of bandages, which were soggy but could be usable. He scoured the rest of the store, feeling each shelf and, thankfully, he wound up finding three plastic bottles of water and a small backpack.

The water looked suspicious to say the least. It was foggy and clouded but it seemed to be safe for the most part. He couldn’t complain, it was better than nothing.
It would do the trick

He cracked open the bottle, he smelled it cautiously before taking a few tentative sips. It tasted a bit odd but it was water and it would do. He couldn’t contain himself after those first few sips. He practically downed the whole bottle, panting as he stopped drinking.

He needed to get back to Will.

Steve quickly placed the bottles of water in the backpack, tucking the first aid bandages in before he zipped the back up, slung it onto his back before sprinting out of Melvald’s, taking off toward Will’s house.

Suddenly, a familiar shadow passed further up the road. Steve skidded to a stop, his heart thundering in his chest.

The Demogorgon.

His whole body locked up, hoping it hadn’t noticed him. Its faceless grey head was angled in Steve’s direction as if it were listening intently. Steve didn’t dare move or breathe as he stood, frozen, staring at it.

Slowly, it turned its head so it was facing Steve entirely before standing up to its full eight feet of height and he knew it had sensed him. Steve took off into the woods, abandoning getting to Will for the time-being.

The ground was slick under his sneakers, bubbling and gurgling with each step. He could hear the thundering steps behind him as the sky flashed a sickening shade of red.

He glanced over his shoulder, the Demogorgon was closing in. There was no way he could possibly outrun this thing. He scanned the trees, desperate for one he could get high enough to hide.

He spotted one, hoping it would do the trick and sent up a prayer that he could get up before the Demogorgon reached him.

He began the climb, his sneakers and hands were still slick as he clambered up branches in desperate and terrified movements. He glanced down and saw the Demogorgon had reached the tree. He watched as its long, boney arm swung upward, directly toward him.

His heart clenched as he watched, not knowing if he’d make it back to help Will.
Steve heard the impact before he felt it. He heard the deep, sickening crunch and pop as the force of the Demogorgon’s arm hit his shoulder. His body swung to the side, he barely managed to catch himself on a close branch to stabilize himself before he tumbled to the ground.

He was dazed as he clung to the branch when the sudden white hot, all-consuming pain flowed through his left arm. It dropped limp and useless at his side. He clung desperately to the branches, tears flowing in rivets down his cheeks.

The pain was so consuming, dull and slowing his thoughts down. He couldn’t think through the thick fog of agony. It was electric and sparking as he somehow got his mind to corporate. He needed to get high into the tree.

He somehow, against all odds, managed to shakily climb further up the tree in a dazed haze. He only stopped when he found a solid branch he could sit on so he could lean against the trunk.

He cradled his arm against his chest as he felt his consciousness slip entirely from his body and he fell into a consuming void of darkness.

—

That night, 2 bodies were recovered. Will Byers and Steve Harrington.

Chapter 4: You Have To Run

The first thing Steve Harrington became aware of was heat blazing through his arm. It molten, searing heat. It dragged him back from unconsciousness. He stifled a groan that scraped his dry throat, and forced his eyes open.

The world bled in slowly, unfocused and wrong. Everything was gray and fuzzy, white particles floated in the dim air. For a second, Steve floated in the fog. Then the pain flared sharply in a bright, white-hot wave and his breath hitched.

His head lolled to one side, then the other, vision swimming as he tried to make sense of where he was. The bark of a tree pressed against his back, cold and wet enough to bite through his shirt. Tendrils veined up its trunk and across the branches.

A tremor ran up his arm and he sucked in a sharp breath, stifling a gasp as best he could. It throbbed violently in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat, each pulse sending waves of pain through his shoulder and chest.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, half-upright and trembling, before awareness fully sharpened. But once it did, he forced himself to move.

Steve braced his good hand against the trunk, pushing himself into a sitting position. His back slid up the bark until he was resting against a thick branch jutting over his shoulder. Every small shift made his arm scream. He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood but didn’t let the sound rise. He couldn’t risk the Demogorgon hearing.

He peeled his shirt off his arm with shaking fingers, fabric sticking uncomfortably to his skin. The moment the injury was exposed to the air, the pain skyrocketed. Icky fingers dug into the wound, whiting out his vision for a split second. His vision tunneled. His stomach coiled tightly. Tears flooded his vision instantly, hot and humiliating.

“Jesus…” he whispered through clenched teeth.

He made himself look.

It almost made him puke.

His bicep was swollen grotesquely, the skin stretched tight and purple, so dark it was nearly black. The bone—God, the bone—pressed up beneath the flesh like it was desperate to break free. His left shoulder sat lower than his right by at least an inch, dipped awkwardly forward. Angry bruises sprawled down the length of the arm, some black, some an ugly sickly yellow near the edges, as if the dimension itself had stained him.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. Tears spilled freely down his cheeks.

He knew enough from locker-room mishaps, basketball injuries, and practice. He’d seen shoulders popped back into place before, heard the awful scream that came after. He could do it himself.

Probably.

But one glance at the bone straining to split through his skin told him that was a horrible idea.

Steve knows that once he and Will are rescued, his arm will be taken care of. So he decides at that moment he’ll just leave it, even though deep down he knew leaving it like this was stupid. Dangerous. But so was touching it. So was doing nothing at all. His body wasn't listening to him anyway, not with such pain running through his arm.

He swallowed hard and reached for his backpack lying crookedly on the branch. The zipper felt slippery under his shaking fingers. He fumbled with it, gasping when his injured shoulder twinged again. Finally, the bag opened and he dug through the contents until he found the half-empty water bottle.

He drank the last swallow, the warm cloudy liquid tastes like plastic and dirt. It did nothing to clear the dryness from his mouth or the panic coiled in his chest.

Next he searched for something he could use as a bandage. His fingers brushed over the rolls of gauze. Not much, but enough to try.

He looped the bandage around his bicep, gritting his teeth hard enough that his jaw ached. The pressure sent sparks of pain bursting. He let out a quiet, strangled noise and had to stop, breathing unevenly. Tears blurred his vision again, slipping down his face.

The second roll became a makeshift sling. Getting it around his neck and under his arm was harder.

Much, much harder.

It was hard enough that at one point he let out a strangled gasp, his whole body curling forward at the pain. By the time it was all set and done, he was shaking from the effort, breaths coming in rough pants.

He sat there a few long moments after, head bowed, letting the fresh wave of tears track down his cheeks. The pain didn’t stop, but it eventually dulled into a steady roar instead of a piercing electricity.

He blinked the rest of the tears away.

He had to focus. He had to find Will. That was the only thing that mattered.

Steve leaned over the edge of the branch he was perched on. It wasn’t too high, maybe a ten-foot drop. With the help of his fuzzy, dulled-down brain, he convinced himself he could jump it. Not gracefully, but… land on his feet.

Probably.

He eased himself down slowly, using his good hand to brace against the tree as he found a couple of footholds. He managed to get two feet lower before his injured shoulder protested violently, a bolt of pain shooting all the way to his spine.

“Okay,” he breathed shakily. “Okay. It’s just a jump. You can do that.”

He pushed off.

His feet hit the ground and then immediately gave out.

His knees buckled. His vision tilted violently. Before he could catch himself, he crashed sideways, landing full-force on his injured arm.

A white-hot explosion went off under his skin.

Steve screamed, raw and pulled right from his throat. The world went black at the edges. His head spun so fast he almost passed out again. Pain shot through his entire body turning every thought into static.

He curled in on himself, cradling his injured arm as much as he could. His breath hitched and stuttered, each inhale shaky and wet. He lay there on the cold, slime-covered ground for what felt like a year. It was long enough for the agony to recede from unbearable to manageable.

Eventually, once his heartbeat slowed, he squinted his eyes open. The world stretched around him in its haunting, quiet way.

Steve didn’t move. Not yet.

He just lay there, swallowing back nausea, waiting for the pain to loosen its claws even a fraction.

Only then, only when he could get a lungful of air back into his lungs, did he even think about trying to stand.

He then pulled himself into a sitting position, tears flowing in rivers from his eyes. He took a breath to steady himself and, slowly and much more cautiously, stood on his shaking legs. Steve cradled his left arm in his right and started the route back to the Byers’ house.

Steve kept glancing over his shoulder as he walked, each motion stiff and twitchy. His good hand hovered near his battered torso like he was trying to steady himself even when he couldn’t. The pain in his arm had blurred into a constant, nauseating pain. It was so bright and overwhelming that it drowned out everything except fear.

He told himself he was being aware, checking for the Demogorgon, watching for movement in the drifting particles or the slime dripping off trees. But he knew the truth, even with his mind foggy.

If the thing was here, if it was close, he probably wouldn’t notice until its claws were already in him. Pain made his thoughts slow and sticky like molasses. His ears rang. His vision was fuzzy at the edges. He knew he couldn’t trust anything. Not sounds, not movement, not his own instincts.

But he was aware of the ground.

Too aware.

Every step sank slightly, the corrupted earth squishing around his sneaker like stepping on rotten fruit. It bubbled with wet gurgles that made his stomach curl in disgust and something like panic.

He grimaced, trying to step only on places that looked solid but there nothing was solid.

Steve was staring down so hard at the pulsing tendrils lining the ground that he didn’t realize where he was until he nearly walked straight into the wooden porch.

He jerked backward, shoulder jerking painfully, and snapped his gaze upward.

The Byers’ house loomed in front of him.

For a heartbeat, relief punched through him so sharp it almost knocked him to his knees.

“Will…” he whispered.

He stumbled forward up the porch stairs, pushing the sagging door open with his shoulder.

Steve limped toward the cabinet, fingers clutching at the frame to steady himself as his injured arm throbbed violently. He yanked the doors open. He let out a relieved exhale.

Will was there.

Curled small, chin to his chest, arms wrapped around his knees like he was trying to keep himself warm. He was so still Steve’s heart stopped for a split second before he saw the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He looked pale with dark, heavy bags under his eyes that made him look so tired. Stringy slime clung to his nose and mouth, shining faintly in the dim light.

Steve swallowed hard and knelt down, placing a gentle hand on Will’s shoulder.

“Will? Hey…” His voice cracked, thin and tight with pain. “It’s Steve. I’m back.”

Will woke slowly, like waking from a dream. His eyelids fluttered open, pupils unfocused as he looked around in confusion. When his gaze finally landed on Steve, his eyes widened with something between relief and fear.

“S–Steve?” his voice shook. “Why were you gone so long?”

The kid’s voice was so small and terrified.

Before Steve could stop him, Will wrapped his arms around Steve’s neck in a weak, shaky hug. Will barely touched his injured shoulder, but even that gentle brush sent a bolt of pain screaming through him. Steve winced, body tensing despite himself.

“I got… uh—got a little held up, that’s all.” His voice was raw. He forced a smile through the pain. “But I’m back now. And I’m all good, okay? We should get back to the fort.”

He pulled away, too quickly, but Will nodded.

Steve slipped the backpack off his shoulder, nearly crying out as he did so. His teeth sank into his lip, biting hard, trying to stifle the sound. His vision briefly danced with spots before he forced himself to breathe through it.

He fumbled with the zipper, pulled out a water bottle, and handed it to Will, who downed the entire thing in seconds.

“Easy…” Steve murmured, but he didn’t have the heart to scold him. Will needed it.

Steve took the empty bottle and shoved it back into the bag. When he tried to sling the backpack onto his shoulder again, the pain was too sharp and too sudden and this time the cry pulled out of him before he could stop it.

Will’s head snapped up.

“What happened?” His voice shifted immediately from scared to concerned.

Steve shook his head quickly. “Nothing. Just got a little banged up—”

“Steve,” Will interrupted, his tone too direct, too knowing. “You fought the Demogorgon, didn’t you?”

Steve hesitated.

Will didn’t need an answer. He already knew.

“Yeah,” Steve finally admitted. “But it wasn’t—it wasn’t that bad.”

“Steve.” Will looked him straight in the eyes. “What happened?”

Steve’s jaw clenched. He sank down onto the floor beside Will, the ruined house groaning faintly around them.

“I was coming back after getting the water,” he said quietly. “And I saw it. It came at me, so I ran. Climbed a tree. It hit my arm and shoulder but… I fixed it.”

Will’s frown deepened. He didn’t buy that for a second.

“Can I see it?” he asked, gesturing toward the wrapped bicep and makeshift sling.

“No.” Steve’s voice was soft. “Will, it’s… it’s bad. You shouldn’t see something like that.”

Will nodded, lips pressed together. He didn’t push.

“But you’re not gonna bleed to death, right?” he asked.

Steve let out a tiny, breathy laugh.

“No. Just a broken bone.”

Before he could say anything else, something echoed—distant but clear.

A voice.

“Mom?” Will whispered, too loud.

Steve’s stomach dropped.

“Will? Will?” The distorted voice called again, vibrating through the walls.

Will stumbled to his feet, running to the rotting wallpaper. He pressed his hands against it but the pounding came from inside it, deeper, like fists hitting the wall from another world.

“Will?” the voice screamed.

“Mom?!” Will cried back, collapsing against the wall. His small body shook violently.
Steve forced himself up, wobbling, and laid his good hand on Will’s back.

“It’s okay. I’m here,” he whispered.

The wallpaper peeled back—slowly, revealing a pulsing red membrane, like a fleshy window. Through it, distorted and blurred but unmistakable, was Joyce Byers.

“Will!” she cried, tears spilling down her face.

“Mom!” Will sobbed, pressing both hands against the barrier. Steve wrapped an arm around him, holding him upright. Joyce slammed her hands against the membrane, desperate.

“Baby—Will!”

Steve’s chest twisted painfully. He wanted nothing more than to push Will through, shove him into his mother’s arms, get him out of this nightmare.

Then footsteps.

Heavy. Wet.

A low growl rolled across the floorboards, vibrating through Steve’s bones.

Will froze.

“Mom,” Will whimpered, “it’s coming!”

Joyce panicked, hitting the membrane harder. “Tell me where you are!”

“It’s like home!” Will sobbed. “But dark. It’s so dark and empty! Steve’s here too! Mom! MOM!”

Steve grabbed Will’s wrist, pulling him back.

“Mrs. Byers!” Steve shouted. “I’ll keep him safe! I promise! I’m Steve Harrington!”

Joyce’s eyes snapped toward him, desperate and overflowing. “Listen to me, both of you. I’m going to get you. I swear. But you need to hide! Now!”

The footsteps got louder. Closer.

“Mom! Please!” Will screamed.

Steve pulled him harder. “Will, come on, we have to go—NOW.”

The membrane began sealing back up, the wallpaper curling inward.

“No! No—listen!” Joyce cried. “Run! RUN!”

The bubble closed.

And the growl was right outside the house.

Steve yanked Will away, adrenaline shoving the pain aside, and the two of them tore out of the Byers’ house, out the backdoor, and into the forest. They sprinted, the ground slick and uneven beneath their feet. Will cried the whole way, breath hitching harshly. Steve’s own vision blurred as tears mixed with dizziness, the world spinning around him.

They didn’t stop. Not when Steve’s lungs burned. Not when his legs shook. Not when his arm pulsed dangerously.

They ran until Castle Byers loomed in front of them.

Will dove inside, collapsing onto the mattress, sobbing for air. Steve followed, stumbling, barely able to think around the crushing ache in his shoulder.

His adrenaline finally bled out.

The pain came back full force.

White-hot. Blinding. Explosive.

Steve groaned, low and hurt, and the world tilted. His knees buckled. He fell onto the mattress beside Will, breath shaking, vision going black around the edges.

He didn’t fight it. He couldn’t.

Everything dissolved into darkness, pulling him under.

—

Hopper knows something the town of Hawkins doesn’t. The bodies of Steve Harrington and Will Byers are fake.

Chapter 5: Passing Out Isn’t Getting Sleep

Steve’s head felt like it had been stuffed with wet cotton balls; heavy, soggy, and dense. Every thought came slowly, like it had to swim through molasses before reaching him. The world pulsed in and out behind his eyelids, the dim blue-red glow flickering like a dying lightbulb.

He felt fingers, shaky and small, pry gently at one of his eyelids, peeling it open. Steve blinked, confused, squinting against the sting of the air. Everything was blurry at first, the world smeared like watercolor left in the rain. After a few blinks, things sharpened but not fully, just enough that shapes and colors made sense again.

“Steve?”

The voice came from his left, frail and strained, like Will’s breaths were wilting away. Steve turned his heavy head toward him.

Will looked awful. Worse than before, if that was even possible. His hair stuck out in rigid, greasy clumps from the particles in the air. His skin, which was already pale, had faded to a ghostly, bloodless shade. New grime coasted his cheeks, and Steve wasn’t sure if it was dirt, dried tears, or the slime that seemed to coat everything here. Will’s vest swallowed him whole now, hanging off his shoulders like it belonged to someone twice his size.

‘You’ve lost weight too, Harrington,’ Steve thought, but he didn’t dare say that out loud.

Still, he mustered a soft smile for the kid, his eyelids drooping.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve said, voice hoarse and papery. “How’re you feeling?”

Will only shrugged, which for him, was saying a lot. “Okay, I guess. Kind of sick though.”

The simple admission shot adrenaline through Steve. He straightened up a little despite the stabbing pain traveling up his arm and shoulder.

“Sick how?” Steve pressed, trying to hide the panic rising inside him. “Like stomach sick? Cold sick? Are you—”

“I don’t know,” Will mumbled, looking frustrated with himself. “Just… sick.”

Their eyes met, and Steve could tell the kid genuinely didn’t have the words. That scared him more than anything Will could’ve said.

Will shifted the focus quickly. “What about you? How are you feeling?”

Steve forced a breathy laugh. “In pain, but other than that? Guess I’m fine.”

It was half a lie. His bones felt like they were grinding against each other. His stomach clenched with hunger so fierce it almost hurt more than his arm. His entire body buzzed with cold. But Will needed reassurance, not the truth.

“You should sleep,” Steve murmured, playing it off with a little nudge of his knee against Will’s leg. “I’ve had my fair share, believe me.”

Will stared at him, eyes dead serious. “Passing out is different than getting sleep, Steve.”

Steve raised a brow. “Wow, calling me out like that?” But he gave a lopsided shrug—just one shoulder, because the left one was screaming at him. “You look like you’re about to pass out yourself. Just try and get some sleep.”

Will finally gave in, curling up next to Steve like he had earlier. His head rested lightly on Steve’s stomach, far gentler now, mindful. Steve lifted his good hand and threaded his fingers through Will’s messy hair, brushing it back.

Why does someone this sweet have to go through something this cruel?

The thought burned.

Steve reached blindly into the backpack and pulled out the last water bottle. It was the final piece of anything remotely helpful they still had. He unscrewed the cap with his teeth and took a few tiny sips, trying to ignore how much he wanted to chug the whole thing.

He’d save some for Will.

He stared at nothing, mind drifting. Tommy and Carol…they’re probably having sex right now.

A dry laugh escaped him, too loud in the silent air.

His thoughts jumped. They always did when he was sleep-deprived.He desperately hoped Nancy was okay. He hoped she wasn’t stuck in this place. She’d never survive seeing it—what it smells like, the way the air feels on the skin.

For a moment, he let himself picture her face. The thought brought a sharp ache to his chest.

He really hoped Joyce would find them soon. He wasn’t sure how much longer they’d make it.

He shifted slightly and instantly regretted it. His arm exploded with pain—deep, nauseating pressure that made his heartbeat throb inside his head. Steve clenched his teeth, breathing hard, willing the bone to stay still.

His thoughts spiraled further. What were his parents doing now? Probably spreading gossip like butter that he’d run away. Or pretending to care for the show. Or drinking.
He rubbed his watering eyes on his collar, embarrassed at the tears but unable to stop them.

Then Will coughed. A wet, thick sound.

Steve looked down just in time to see globs of slimy, translucent muck slip out of Will’s mouth and onto the mattress.

“Oh— dude, ew.” Steve whispered, stomach twisting.

No wonder the kid didn’t want to explain how he felt. Something from this place was inside him.

Steve swallowed hard, then reached out to shake Will gently. “Hey. Will, buddy. C’mon. Wake up for a second.”

Will stirred, blinking slowly.

“That’s it. I know you’re tired, but you gotta drink. Just a little.”

Will pushed himself up enough to take the bottle. He drank a few sips, small and shaky, before he handed it back with trembling fingers.

Steve took a sip too, then screwed the cap back on. Half left. Maybe.

Will curled back into him and fell asleep again almost instantly. Steve tucked the bottle away and zipped the bag.

He had to admit he was getting better at doing things one handed. He leaned his head back against the cold wooden sticks of Castle Byers and closed his eyes.

Just a few minutes. Just enough to feel human.

He drifted.

—

Heavy footsteps that were close. Too close.

Steve snapped awake like someone had poured ice water down his back. The dread in his stomach was instant, sharp, anxious. He grabbed Will’s shoulder and shook him hard.

Will woke immediately this time, eyes blown wide with fear.

Steve pressed a finger to his lips and put his arm around Will’s shoulders, pulling him close.

They stayed completely still as the footsteps circled outside, slow and hunting. The growling followed, low and guttural, vibrating through the squishy ground.
Steve didn’t breathe for thirty whole seconds. Neither did Will.

Then, finally, the sounds faded. The presence passed. The air shifted back to its usual wrong stillness.

Both boys exhaled shakily.

Will wiped his nose with his sleeve. “Y-you should get some sleep now…”

Steve shook his head immediately. “Nah. I’m good.”

He absolutely wasn’t.

Will gave him a look so unimpressed and earnest it almost made Steve laugh. “Steve. Please. You need sleep. Just for a little.”

Steve stared at him. The kid’s face was drawn, tired, sick, but those big brown eyes… yeah, Steve didn’t stand a chance.

He sighed, defeated. “Fine. But only for a few minutes, okay?”

“Okay, Steve.”

Steve gave a sleepy half-smile. “You should smile more. Looks good on you…”

His words blurred together as consciousness slipped away from him, the world fading into merciful dark.

—

That day a funeral was held for Will Byers. No one planned one. No one asked. No one wondered. Only five people in Hawkins knew the truth, that Will and Steve were alive. And they were going to prove it, they just had to learn how to become the flea.

Chapter 6: Why Were You There?

Steve was pulled back into awareness by the eerie silence.

Not just quiet, silence. A thick, unnatural absence of sound that pressed against his eardrums like a vacuum. It felt wrong. Much too still and too empty. Like the entire dimension was holding its breath.

Steve lay there for a moment, disoriented. His head felt stuffed to the brim with fog, pain buzzing on each of his nerves. He blinked up at the ceiling of tangled branches and tendrils, listening.

Nothing.

No wet animalistic growls. No distant footsteps. No shifting vines.

Just the slow, heavy thudding of his own heartbeat, loud enough to echo in his ears.
Steve’s breath stuttered as the cold bit deeper. A ripple of dread slid down his spine as a thought punched through the foggy haze.

Where is Will?

He jerked upright so fast that the world tilted sideways. Pain knifed through his arm and shoulder, dragging a choked gasp out of him, but he didn’t care. His breath was already coming too fast, too sharp.

Where’s Will?

Steve scanned the cramped shelter only to be greeted by simple shadows, the lumpy mattress, soggy decaying leaves, the backpack, the faint particles drifting lazily. No sign of a small kid curled up beside him. No shaky breathing. No mop of dark hair.

“Will?” Steve whispered, voice cracking. No answer.

Panic slammed into him like a punch. His vision tunneled, black creeping in at the edges as his thoughts spiralled downwards.

Oh my god. He’s dead. Something took him. He wandered off. He’s dying somewhere, alone—God, no—

Steve stumbled to his feet on weak, trembling legs. His knees almost buckled, but he forced himself to stay upright.

“Will?!” he called, voice too loud, too desperate.

Still nothing.

Steve didn’t think. He just bolted out of Castle Byers, heart hammering, breaths shallow and ragged. Cold, stale Upside Down air hit his face. He spun wildly—

And collided with a small body.

Both of them stumbled. Will flailed backward, nearly falling.

Steve released a ragged, choked off sound as relief crashed through him so hard it made him dizzy. He grabbed Will with his good arm and hauled the kid into a tight, trembling hug, pulling him close enough to feel every sharp rib beneath the too-large vest.

‘Oh thank god. Oh thank god, he’s okay.’ The words bounced around in his head, his muscles sagged with the force of it.

Will didn’t hug back. His small hands hung uselessly at his sides, shaking.

Steve pulled back. That’s when he saw Will’s face properly.

The kid looked wrecked.

His hair was plastered in every direction with sweat and grime. His cheeks were hollowed out, pale as bone. The red around his eyes stood out starkly against his ghost-white face. Tears had carved clean, glistening tracks down the dirt on his cheeks.

Steve’s chest tightened painfully.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice softening immediately. “Hey, hey… c’mere.” He gently guided Will back inside Castle Byers, careful not to push too hard. They settled on the mattress. It creaked under their combined, although light, weight.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked quietly, crouching to level with the boy. He softened his tone even more. “Talk to me, buddy.”

Will took a shuddering breath, one of those breaths that sounded like it might dissolve into sobs at any second.

“I-I went back to my house,” Will whispered, voice wobbling. “I thought maybe… I thought maybe I could talk to my mom again. Like before. When she could hear me.”

Steve’s heart sank.

“But when I got there…” Will’s voice cracked. “My dad was there.”

Steve froze. Lonnie Byers. Great. He was notorious around Hawkins.

“They were fighting,” Will continued. “About me. My mom kicked him out and then she started crying.” His voice broke entirely. “I… I just wish I was with her.”

A painful, choked sob ripped out of him. Will curled into himself, arms wrapped around his stomach like he was trying to hold himself together.

Steve didn’t hesitate. He placed a steadying hand on Will’s back and rubbed slow, reassuring circles, grounding him.

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “I know what you feel like.”

Will blinked up at him, eyes swollen and bewildered. “Really?”

Steve swallowed hard. He hadn’t meant to say that out loud. But Will deserved honesty, especially right now.

“Yeah.” Steve nodded slowly. “My parents… when I was little, they would fight all the time. Now the only times they’re home, they fight about what’s ‘best’ for me. Which, trust me, neither of their ideas are good ones.”

Will listened, wide-eyed.

“My mom leaves for hours. Sometimes all night. My dad gets drunk and… takes his anger out on me.” Steve’s voice stayed oddly steady, but it felt like something sharp was lodged in his throat. “Then they both leave again. For weeks. And repeat it.”

Will stared at him, heartbreakingly worried for someone who was barely holding himself together.

“So… is that why you were there? That night?” Will asked.

Steve nodded. “Yeah. Guess it was kinda a good thing, though.” He managed a tired smile. “Otherwise you’d be here alone and I’d be at home.”

Will gave a small, watery laugh. He sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.

Steve squeezed him closer, rubbing his shoulder gently, trying to warm him. The kid let out a wet, rattling cough and a splatter of that awful slime hit the floor.

Steve jerked back instinctively.

Jesus, he’s getting worse.

Will sagged sideways, pressing himself into Steve’s uninjured side. Steve wrapped his arm around him again, gentler this time, protective.

The kid’s breathing eventually softened. His head lulled until it rested on Steve’s shoulder. Steve let his chin rest lightly atop Will’s hair.

After a few minutes, Will slipped into exhausted sleep.

Only once he was sure the boy was out cold did Steve slowly untangle his arm and ease Will down onto the makeshift mattress. He held his breath, waiting. Will didn’t stir.

Good.

Time to deal with his own arm.

Steve moved to sit at the end of the mattress, bracing himself. His fingers were shaking as he untied the makeshift sling. The moment his arm dropped from the fabric support, a wave of white-hot pain surged through him.

Steve clamped his jaw shut to stop a cry from escaping.

His arm hung unnaturally at his side, heavy and useless. He swallowed hard, then carefully tugged the shirt sleeve up—

A quiet gasp punched out of him at the sight.

Had it looked this bad before?

His shoulder was bulging unnaturally, a sickly palette of black, deep purple, and ugly yellow-green bruising spreading from the socket down to where the bandage had been wrapped. His bicep looked warped and wrong. Like the inside had been rearranged.

He was terrified to unwrap the bandage.

But he had to know.

Tears pricked at his eyes. “Suck it up, Harrington,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

He inhaled shakily through his nose and began to unwind the bandage. Every turn loosened the pressure holding the broken bone somewhat in place.

Pain flared violently.

His vision swam.

Tears spilled down his cheeks.

Finally, the bandage fell loose.

Steve forced himself to look.

And instantly wished he hadn’t.

The skin around the break bulged unnaturally. Dark, mottled bruises spiderwebbed across his entire upper arm. He could see the faint outline, the actual shape, of the snapped bone pressing against the skin. The muscle around it looked torn, angry, warped. The skin was stretched so thin that he could almost see white beneath it.
His stomach lurched.

Then he felt it, an itching, crawling sensation radiating from the break. Like fire simmering under the skin. He reached out and touched the swollen lump with trembling fingers—

A bolt of pain shot through him so intensely he nearly blacked out. A strangled sound escaped his throat as he leaned forward, clutching his knees.

He was literally going to pass out.

Somewhere far off, he thought he heard someone calling “Jonathan!” Not distorted the way Joyce’s voice sounded. Clear. Familiar.

Nancy.

His heart jolted.

Nancy’s here?

He needed to rewrap this. Now. Before trying to find her. Before he passed out again.
Steve forced his shaking hands to work. He grabbed a bandage strip and wrapped it tightly around his arm. Too tightly. A sharp yelp tore from him as the pressure stabbed into the break, but he kept going. He tied it off with trembling fingers.

He glanced behind him.

Will hadn’t woken. He only shifted slightly and settled deeper into the mattress.
Steve dragged in a long breath, wiped his wet cheeks against his shoulder, then pulled his shirt back down to cover his shoulder. The fabric scraped across the bruised skin.

He hissed loudly.

Last step: the sling.

He tied the bandage strip around his neck, maneuvered his useless arm into it, and nearly collapsed from the pain. For a moment the world went black at the edges. He swayed.

But he stayed upright.

Okay. Okay. Just… breathe.

He rose on unsteady feet.

His arm throbbed with every heartbeat.

“Let’s go find Nancy,” he murmured to himself.

And with one last glance at the sleeping kid he swore to protect, Steve stepped out of Castle Byers and into the dim, cold unknown.

Ready (or not) to face whatever came next.

—

Nancy now felt what it was like to be in the Upside Down. If only she had searched more because she might have found Steve and Will but she only left the two boys, struggling to survive.

Chapter 7: You Can Run, He Can’t

Steve searched the forest for what felt like hours, stumbling over twisted roots and patches of slimy ground. Every tree looked the same, every shadow felt like it was watching him. He kept calling Nancy’s name in a hoarse whisper, hoping for anything, even the faintest response. But the woods stayed silent except for the low hum of the dimension, the constant drone that wormed its way under his skin.

Eventually, the truth pressed down on him like a weight: Nancy wasn’t here. Or if she was, she had gone farther than he could track. Steve stopped walking and rested a hand against a dead tree. His breath shook out of him, visible in the cold, stagnant air. He swallowed hard.

He needed to get back to Will.

Steve turned in place, trying to get his bearings, only to freeze as his stomach dropped.

He couldn’t remember what direction Castle Byers was.

He blinked, spun again, and his heart thudded painfully against his ribs. The decaying trees swayed in a slow, nauseating way, and he couldn’t remember where he had started, which path he had taken. His head still felt foggy from exhaustion and hunger, and everything looked wrong in the dim blue glow.

Oh shit.

Steve spun around faster, panic growing sharp and icy in his chest. He tried to retrace his steps, but all the ground looked the same, littered with dead leaves, slicked in slime, distorted.

He glanced in the direction he assumed he’d been heading in and decided the opposite way would do.

He had no better plan, so he forced himself to start moving, desperate for any landmark, any hint that he was close.

Steve hadn’t made it far before the echoing, guttural sound rippled through the air, distant, but unmistakable. Steve’s blood turned to ice.

He didn’t want to turn around.

But he did.

Slowly.

Carefully.

His breath snagged in his throat.

Just ten yards behind him, the Demogorgon stood with its back turned, towering and skeletal, its petal-like jaws unfurled as it hunched over something on the ground. Steve couldn’t see what it was eating, but the noises—

Oh God, the noises.

Wet tearing. Bones snapping like twigs. Deep, thick slurping.

Steve gagged, hand flying to his mouth. His stomach lurched, and he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

Please don’t be Nancy.

His vision swam as he leaned just a little more around the tree, heart in his throat.
He tried to peer closer, but his numbed legs buckled beneath him and he stumbled forward, catching himself only by shooting out a foot.

Unfortunately, his foot landed directly on a twig.

Snap.

The sound shattered the stillness.

Steve’s entire body jerked. He slapped his back flat against the tree, breath trapped in his chest.

The crunching stopped.

A low growl filled the air.

He needed to run.

Steve pushed off the tree and sprinted, lungs burning instantly, his injured arm screaming with every jarring step. He wove between trees, sneakers slipping in patches of slime. Every breath felt like nails in his throat.

He didn’t dare look back. Not at first. Not until the hot nausea of terror forced him to risk it.

He glanced over his shoulder.

The Demogorgon was following.

Far—but not far enough.

Steve pushed himself harder, forcing his shaking legs to move faster. He had to keep going. Every beat of his heart echoed inside his skull.

He didn’t know how long he ran before the woods finally broke open and the outline of Hawkins appeared. The wrong distorted version, but familiar enough that he almost cried.

He stumbled into the first alley he saw and collapsed against the wall, sliding down until he hit the ground. His lungs felt like they were full of glass. His arm pulsed with agony.

God—why does everything hurt so much?

Then it hit him like a punch to the chest.

He had left Will.

He hadn’t told him. Will would wake up alone. Scared. Sick. Vulnerable.

Steve forced himself to stand, legs trembling violently beneath him.

He pushed through the streets, weaving around floating particles and cracked pavement. Twice he almost fell to his knees. Once he actually did and had to claw his way back up using a broken street sign.

Finally, finally, he reached the woods that led toward Castle Byers. His vision kept blurring in and out, the trees bending strangely as he fought dizziness and nausea. Twice he had to stop and lean over, palms braced on his knees, gasping.

‘This place is killing me,’ he realized numbly. ‘Killing both of us.’

When he finally saw the silhouette of Castle Byers through the haze, relief weakened his legs so fast he nearly fell again. He pushed the blanket-door aside—

And Will practically collapsed into him, wrapping trembling arms around his waist.

Steve’s heart clenched. He hugged the kid tightly, burying his face into Will’s hair.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’m okay,” Steve whispered, his voice hoarse. “I just went to look for… something.”

He couldn’t say that Nancy could be dead. Tears burned his eyes at the thought, but he blinked them back. Will didn’t need to see that.

He guided Will back to the mattress and they sank down together. Will rested his head limply against Steve’s shoulder, and Steve rested his chin on Will’s scalp, breathing in the faint, sour smell of sickness and the musty scent.

They both drifted off, exhaustion swallowing them whole.

—

Steve jerked awake at the heavy thud of footsteps outside. His blood froze instantly.
Will’s eyes snapped open too, wide and glossy with fear.

Steve stared at him.

He needed to get it away from him. Will can’t run. Not far. Not fast. He’ll pass out.
Steve leaned in close, whispering urgently, “Will. Listen to me. I’m going to distract it so you’re safe. I’ll find you after, I promise. But you have to stay here. Please.”

Will stared, horrified. “What? No—I’m not letting you do that.” His small hand grabbed Steve’s forearm, weak but desperate.

Steve cupped the back of Will’s head with his good hand. “Will, please. I’ll be okay.”

Will’s eyes filled again. But after a trembling moment, he threw his arms around Steve’s waist in a small, fierce hug, then grabbed the backpack and lay down quietly, trusting him.

Steve swallowed hard.

Then slipped out.

The sight hit him like a physical blow.

The Demogorgon was only a few yards away.

Steve’s heart nearly stopped but he forced himself forward, sprinting several feet away before turning, waving his arm wildly over his head.

“Over here!” he shouted, voice cracking.

The creature’s head snapped toward him.

Steve spun and ran.

His arm blazed with fiery pain. His lungs burned. His legs felt like jello. Everything in him screamed to stop, to collapse, to give in.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Melvald’s. He just had to get to Melvald’s. It was small, cramped. Good hiding places. The Demogorgon couldn’t squeeze in there.

His chest was heaving by the time the storefront came into view. His legs felt like wet noodles, his shoes slipping on the slick ground.

Steve threw himself through the door—

And immediately slipped on the slime-coated floor.

His feet flew out from under him.

His head smashed brutally against the ground. White-hot pain exploded behind his eyes. His vision flickered. Nausea tore through his stomach in a wave.

Steve didn’t move.

Couldn’t move.

Fine. Let it come. Let it end here. At least Will would be safe.

But the monster never came.

Steve lay there for what could have been minutes or hours, time really didn’t exist here. He felt like he was floating and sinking at the same time, freezing and burning all at once.

When he finally cracked his eyes open, the pain in his skull was so sharp he almost screamed.

He rolled to his side, too fast, and gagged as the world spun violently. He leaned forward and vomited bile onto the floor.

He collapsed back, panting.

God. This sucked.

But he needed water. Needed something.

Steve pushed himself up slowly, swaying dangerously. His vision fuzzed at the edges. When he reached for the shelf beside him, his hand barely obeyed, fingers numb and clumsy.

Using the shelf to brace himself, he pulled up onto shaking legs.

He scanned the store through his blurred sight. There—a shape. A square shape. A box.

Maybe a cooler? Please be a cooler.

He staggered across the store, catching himself every few steps, until he reached it. With trembling fingers, he fought the slider—

Until it finally opened.

His hand brushed cold plastic.

A water bottle.

Steve unscrewed the cap with his teeth and chugged it, the lukewarm liquid felt like heaven on his dry throat.

He slumped back against the wall, sliding down it until he was seated.

Every part of him hurt. His head throbbed painfully with every heartbeat. His arm pulsed like it was on fire. His legs trembled uncontrollably.

Just sleep. Just for a little. Then he’ll find Will.

His eyes drifted closed, heavy as lead.

His thoughts slowed.

He’ll sleep just for a little while.

Then everything went dark.

—

Joyce and Hopper knew where Will was, they were about to go get the boys from the hell they were stuck in.

Chapter 8: uʍoꓷ ǝpı̣sdꓵ ǝɥꓕ

Steve woke up to pain.

Not just a dull ache, not a bruise-throb, but a full-body, bone-deep surge of agony that rolled over him like a wave breaking on jagged rocks. His first real thought was that his arm hurt—hurt so badly it felt like someone had poured molten metal down the bone. His second was that his head wasn't far behind, pulsing in slow, heavy hammer-blows that made the darkness behind his eyelids flicker.

A groan escaped him before he could stop it. His eyelids fluttered open, but the world didn’t greet him so much as smear itself across his vision. Everything was blurred, not hazy—smeared, like someone had dragged the heel of their palm across wet ink.

Then his stomach lurched.

The nausea hit so suddenly and so violently that Steve barely had time to turn his head before he pitched forward. His whole torso seized, and the little water he’d managed to drink earlier came rocketing back up, splashing onto the dusty floor beside him. The retching tore through his ribs and sent sparks of pain up his fractured arm.

When the heaving finally stopped, Steve collapsed backwards, slumping heavily against the wall. His body felt wrung out, like something had grabbed him by the spine and shaken until it was satisfied.

“Jesus…” he muttered, voice raw.

The pulsing in his head intensified, blooming like a bruise behind his eyes. He shut them again, squeezing his face tight and breathing slowly through his nose as the nausea dragged its claws down his throat and settled, uneasily, back into a simmer.

How long had he been out? The thought drifted up sluggishly, struggling through the fog in his brain. Had it been seconds? Minutes? Hours? Days? Weeks? Months? Years?

He didn’t know.

He didn’t like that he didn’t know.

Eventually, painfully, the nausea ebbed enough for him to risk moving. He planted his good hand against the floor and pushed. His arm shook under him, trembling like he’d just come out of a fever. Steve managed to get onto his knees, then onto his feet, but the moment he was upright, the world dipped sharply.

His head spun. His vision fuzzed out at the edges. His knees wobbled. He stumbled and braced himself against the wall, forehead resting against the cold surface while he tried to regain some sense of balance.

He stayed there for a long moment, breathing slow and shallow, waiting for the worst of the dizziness to pass. When it finally did, Steve straightened up, though his spine protested the movement and his head felt like someone had wedged a chisel behind his eye socket.

Only then did he force himself to actually look around.

He was in Melvald’s. The back left corner, right next to one of the coolers. Its glass door was smashed in completely, the shelves inside humming faintly. Steve blinked hard until the blurry shapes steadied enough that he could make them out. Inside the cooler, sitting lonely and frost-bitten, was a single mini water bottle.

Thank god.

He opened the door and snagged the bottle, the plastic cold and stiff in his hand. His throat felt like sandpaper, gritty and dry, and he suddenly understood the desperate, animal instinct to just chug the entire thing.

But—

Wait.

What about Will?

Panic jabbed him in the chest, quick and sharp.

No. No, he left him the other bottle. Steve had drank his already. Right. Right—he did that. He didn’t leave him alone without water.

His thoughts were slow, dragging, like they were wading through syrup.

Steve tried to unscrew the cap with his good hand, but even that simple task felt like his fingers were made of wet clay. After several shaky tries, he managed it. He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank half of it in one go, desperate and greedy.

Halfway through, his stomach lurched again. He gagged, hand flying to his mouth, fighting to keep the water down. His entire body seized with the effort. Somehow, barely, he managed not to throw up again.

When he blinked his eyes clear, he realized with a start that he was…sitting. Back on the floor. Legs folded awkwardly. Spine slumped.

When did that happen? He had no memory of sitting down.

He pushed himself upright again, moving carefully this time. His head didn’t immediately spin but it still throbbed fiercely, and his vision was still fuzzed around the edges, like an old TV losing signal.

One slow, cautious step away from the wall. Then another. He swayed but stayed upright.

Okay. Okay. He could do this.

Steve made his way through the aisles, moving silently, wincing every time one of the flickering lights buzzed too loudly. His senses felt off. Too sharp and too dull at the same time. When he reached the entrance door, he tilted his ear toward it, listened, then squinted, scanning the area outside.

Quiet. Nothing snarling. Nothing moving.

Steve let out a thin, shaky sigh of relief and slipped through the door, quietly closing it behind him.

The air outside was colder than he remembered. Damp. Heavy. The sort of cold that settled into your bones and didn’t leave. Instinctively, Steve wrapped his good arm around his stomach. His ribs jutted painfully beneath his fingers. He could feel each one as though they were carved from stone under thin, stretched skin.

Jeez… how long has it been since he’d eaten?

Time didn’t exist here in the same way anymore. But the hunger was real. A gnawing ache that had been scraping at his insides since day three. His body felt wrung-out, drained, beaten down in ways that didn’t feel normal.

Melvald’s disappeared behind him as he walked the familiar road—one he’d paced, crawled, staggered down so many times since they woke up in this nightmare.

He’d never walk it when they got back home.

If they got home.

The trees swallowed him as he stepped into the woods near Castle Byers. The ground sucked at his shoes, damp and sticky. He moved slower now, body protesting every twist and turn.

Then—

Voices.

Clear ones. Not distorted. Not warped like everything else in this place.

Human.

Steve froze, breath locking in his chest. He turned toward the direction they were coming from and crept forward, weaving between trees until—

“Oh my god…” he whispered.

Two human figures stood among a pile of shattered sticks and crumbled branches.

No. No. No.

Castle Byers was destroyed. Completely leveled.

Steve’s knees weakened. His heart slammed painfully in his chest. He stepped back instinctively, right onto a dried twig that cracked like a gunshot under his sneaker.

Both figures stiffened.

“Hop… did you hear that?” The voice was female. Strained. Familiar in a way that stabbed straight through Steve’s chest.

Hop.

Hopper.

Steve’s breath caught. His eyes burned as violent, overwhelming relief washed over him. Tears gathered instantly.

They’re here. They came. They actually came.

His legs nearly buckled as he stepped out from behind the tree. A flashlight swung toward him, blindingly bright. The light stabbed into his skull like a knife, and he groaned, lifting a shaky hand to shield his eyes.

“Steve?” The voice trembled now. Disbelieving.

It took him a moment—his brain sluggish, fogged—to place it.

Joyce.

Joyce Byers.

Steve choked on a sob, the tears spilling over. He failed her. He failed Will.

“I—I’m sorry,” Steve blurted, the words cracking apart as they left him. “Mrs. Byers, I—I’m so sorry. I w-was trying to save him, I tried to lure the Demogorgon away, I—I didn’t know it would come back, I didn’t know—”

His knees gave out and he dropped, hand catching the dirt as he sobbed. Something—someone—moved toward him, arms coming around his shoulders.

Fingers brushed his dislocated shoulder.

White-hot pain ripped through him. Steve cried out, jerking away instinctively.

“Steve, sweetheart—hey, hey, it’s okay,” Joyce murmured, voice thick with grief and fierce maternal instinct. “I’m not angry. You helped my boy. You did everything you could. You hear me? Everything. Now we find him. Together.”

A larger shape loomed above him.

“Steve,” a gruff voice said. Hopper. “Are you hurt anywhere?”

Steve forced himself upright, pulling away from Joyce’s embrace long enough to sit straighter.

“I… yeah,” he rasped. “I’m pretty sure my shoulders dislocated and…something in my bicep is broken. I wrapped it and made a sling.”

Hopper nodded, studying the makeshift bandages.

“What else?”

“I, uh… slipped in Melvald’s when I was distracting it. Hit my head. Really hard. Everything was spinning. Still is.”

Hopper didn’t wait. He shined his flashlight straight into Steve’s eyes.

Steve hissed and jerked away, squeezing them shut.

Hopper’s voice hardened. “His pupils are different sizes.”

He crouched down, gripping Steve’s good shoulder firmly.

“Did you pass out after you hit your head?”

Steve blinked, confused. “What?”

“Did you pass out?” Hopper repeated, sharper.

“Not… right after. But I think I did. I drank water and then I… fell asleep. And when I woke up I threw it up. A few times.”

Hopper and Joyce exchanged a tense, worried look.

Hopper exhaled. “Okay. Listen. If you feel like you’re gonna go down again, you tell us immediately.”

Steve nodded weakly.

Then Hopper began removing his helmet.

Steve frowned. “What are you doing?”

Hopper pulled the oxygen mask free. “You need this more than I do.”

“What? No—”

“Kid,” Hopper snapped, but his tone wasn’t unkind—just urgent. “You’ve been breathing this shit for a week.”

The number hit Steve like a punch.

A week.

They’d been gone a week.

Joyce placed a hand on his back, rubbing slow circles. “Steve, honey. Let him put it on. It’ll help.”

Steve swallowed, throat tight. “…Okay.”

Hopper guided the mask over his face. The sudden rush of clean air made Steve’s head jolt back, dizziness sweeping through him again. A steady hand cupped the back of his skull, holding him upright until his body adjusted.

Something clipped at his waist. He looked down and saw the oxygen belt Hopper had been wearing, the tube from the mask plugged into it. The air tasted sharp and clean and almost too cold.

“Alright,” Hopper said firmly. “We find Will. Now.”

Joyce stood. Hopper helped Steve to his feet; he stumbled immediately, but Hopper caught him before he could fall. They positioned him between them—Joyce on one side, Hopper on the other—and headed back toward the ruins of Castle Byers.

Joyce gasped suddenly, hand flying to her mouth.

Steve followed her gaze.

Blood.

Every instinct in him recoiled.

Hopper traced the flashlight across the ground, revealing a thin, winding trail that led away from the crushed fort.

Back toward town.

The three of them followed it, Hopper and Joyce close enough that Steve couldn’t fall without being caught.

Then it hit him—

He was going home. Home, after a week in this hell.

A shaky breath escaped him. He let himself lean closer to Joyce, warm against the freezing air.

They stopped abruptly. A hand rested on his shoulder. He lifted his head.
They were standing in front of the public library.

“Hey,” Hopper said quietly, squeezing once. “Don’t fall asleep, kid. You gotta stay awake. No closing your eyes.”

Steve nodded—even though his eyelids felt like they were made of lead.

The three of them moved toward the library’s front steps at a pace that barely counted as walking. Steve’s feet dragged over the tendril-covered concrete, each step sending a shock of pain up his bad arm and through his skull. The world tilted subtly every few seconds, like it was trying to slide out from under him, and the only thing that kept him upright was Joyce’s hand hovering anxiously at his back.

The staircase felt like climbing an entire mountain. Hopper went first, boots sinking into the ashy ground that covered everything here. Joyce helped steady Steve up the last few steps, and he nearly tripped on one—his depth perception was shot to hell—but she caught him with a light pressure between his shoulder blades.

Hopper reached the door and yanked it open. The hinges screamed in protest, a metal shriek that ricocheted down the hallway inside. Steve flinched hard, stumbling back like something had jumped at him. His breath hitched sharply inside the oxygen mask.

Joyce’s hand immediately pressed firmer against his spine.

“Hey—hey, you’re okay,” she whispered, even though her own voice trembled. Her eyes were wide and full of terror, but beneath it was that fierce, warm determination, something motherly and grounding. For some reason, it made Steve’s lungs loosen just enough that he could take another breath of the filtered air.

He nodded shakily, forcing himself to step forward. His legs felt like someone else’s legs. They were rubbery, weak, slow. The moment he crossed the threshold, the air changed. It was colder, thicker, buzzing faintly in his ears like static. The vines clung to the walls and ceiling, pulsing.

His head throbbed like something inside his skull was trying to punch its way out.
Hopper guided them through the narrow corridor, flashlight beam cutting through thick clumps of drifting particles. Every corner was another opportunity for the Demogorgon to lunge out, and Steve found himself constantly checking the ceiling, the doorway behind them, the shadows they passed.

His pulse hammered in his ears.

They entered a larger room—huge, cavernous, but swallowed in darkness except for Hopper’s flashlight. Joyce stepped closer to him, her breathing quick and uneven. The room smelled like rot and damp stone and something metallic that made the back of Steve’s throat burn.

Then Joyce let out a sharp, strangled gasp, the kind that was both disgust and sorrow and pure shock.

Hopper stopped so abruptly that Steve almost walked straight into him. He caught himself on the nearest shelf, and pain shot like lightning through his left arm, white-hot and nauseating.

Slowly, Steve followed Hopper’s beam of light as it slid across the ground—

And froze on a body.

Steve’s stomach lurched violently.

Nancy’s friend. The one who was going to come to his party before he’d disappeared. He hadn’t talked to her, not really. He remembered her sharp eyes, her quiet politeness, the way she always seemed slightly annoyed at him. He couldn’t remember her name? Barbie? No—no—Barb.

Barb.

Barb, who was now—

His breath hitched sharply.

Her half-open eyes were glazed, white-gray and unfocused, staring at nothing. Her skin was a waxy pale underneath layers of sticky black slime clinging to her clothes and hair. Her mouth hung open, lips cracked and stained with the same foul muck that dripped down her chin.

And then—

The ribs.

Oh God.

They jutted straight through her torso, punched violently outward from the inside. Skin torn. Fabric shredded. Blood—old, dark, dried—painted everything around her in awful splatters.

Steve yanked the oxygen mask away just in time.

His whole body convulsed as he doubled over, violently retching onto the floor. There was barely anything in his stomach to bring up, just burning liquid and spit, but his body acted like it was trying to turn itself inside out.

His vision swam. His ears rang. His knees buckled.

Hopper turned at the sound, jaw tight, but didn’t speak. Steve wiped his mouth, pulled the mask back on, and dragged in a shaking breath that tasted like chemical plastic.

Nancy… she’d trusted him. She’d asked him for help. And her best friend was lying dead in front of him, twisted and torn apart like—

He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the thought away before it spiraled.

Then Joyce’s voice shattered the air.

“WILL?!”

Steve’s head snapped up, and Hopper swung the light toward the back corner of the room.

Steve’s stomach plummeted.

Will was slumped against the wall, suspended by living vines wrapped around his arms and legs. His head drooped forward. He was deathly pale, so pale he looked almost blue. And something, a long, wet, pulsing tendril, disappeared into his open mouth.

Steve staggered, one hand shooting out to brace himself against the wall as his vision tunneled with panic.

Hopper rushed to Will first, ripping at the vines, cursing under his breath as he tore the tendril from Will’s throat. The sound it made was wet and slick and awful. It made Steve gag again, and he turned away, leaning his forehead against the cold stone wall. His head spun so violently he thought he might pass out right there.

He only forced himself to look back when he heard the sickening thud of a slug-like creature hitting the ground and the crack of Hopper’s gun as he shot it.

Hopper lowered Will to the ground, and Joyce was suddenly kneeling beside her son, yanking off her helmet, her shaking hands cupping his face.

“He’s not breathing! He’s not breathing!” she screamed, voice raw and breaking.
Steve felt his chest collapse in on itself.

No. No, no, no. Not after everything. Not after a week of keeping him alive. Not after Will trusted him. Not after Steve promised he’d protect him.

He failed him. Steve let him die. He’d killed him.

Hopper ripped off his gloves and shoved Joyce’s trembling hands aside gently but firmly.

“Joyce—listen to me. Listen to me. Listen to me!” he barked, voice sharp as hers was spiraling.

He placed both hands over Will’s small chest and began compressions—strong, rhythmic, and forceful.

Joyce was sobbing uncontrollably. “What do I do? What do I—?”

“Lift his chin,” Hopper instructed, keeping his voice steady even as sweat dripped down his temple. “Tilt his head back.”

“Okay. Okay. Okay,” Joyce babbled, doing exactly what he said.

“Good. Now when I tell you, you’re gonna pinch his nose and breathe into his mouth.”

Hopper’s voice dropped lower. Controlled. Focused. “We’re getting him back.”

Steve slid down the wall, legs giving out entirely. His arm throbbed, his head pounded, his vision pulsed, and his heart was beating so hard it hurt. Hopper counted compressions under his breath, voice tight with effort.

“Twice. One second. Pause. One second.”

“Okay,” Joyce cried again, hands shaking so hard she kept missing Will’s chin.

Time slowed. Stretched. Warped. Steve felt like he was underwater, watching a nightmare through glass.

Hopper shouted, “NOW!”

Joyce leaned down and breathed for her son. When she pulled back, Will’s chest stayed still.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Joyce’s sob tore through the silence. “Oh god! No—no—no…”

Hopper moved instantly back into compressions, his arms pumping with brutal force. “Come on, kid! Come on, kid!”

Steve’s tears spilled freely now, burning hot down his frozen cheeks. His vision blurred.

“Will! Will, baby, it’s me!” Joyce sobbed, voice cracking, shaking. “We love you—your mom loves you so much—more than anything! Please, please come back to me!”

Hopper kept going. Compressions coming harder, faster, more desperate.

“Come on kid!” he shouted again, voice cracking.

Steve staggered to his feet without realizing he’d moved. He swayed instantly, dizziness washing over him so violently he had to put a hand on the wall to keep from dropping. He felt like he was intruding on something unbearably intimate—like he shouldn’t be seeing a mother watching her son die, again.

“Please wake up! Please—Will, come on!” Joyce sobbed. “Come back to me—come back—please—!”

Hopper slammed his fist into Will’s chest with one last violent punch.

And then—

A sound.

A tiny, wet gasp.

Will arched, coughing violently, gagging on air as his lungs restarted.

Joyce wailed, not in fear this time, but something raw and relieved and disbelieving.
“That’s it! That’s it—that’s it, baby!”

Steve gasped, a shudder shaking his entire body. His knees buckled and he stumbled back into the wall behind him, breath collapsing inside the mask.

Will was breathing.

Alive.

Alive.

—

Hopper rushed to slip Joyce’s oxygen mask over Will’s face, hands shaking only once before he forced them steady. The plastic hissed softly as oxygen filled the mask, and Joyce bent over her son with a broken, breathless sob, cradling his head as if afraid he’d vanish again if she let go. She pressed her face into Will’s hair, whispering something too soft for Steve to hear, voice cracking every other word.

Hopper sat back on his heels for half a second—long enough to take one breath, long enough to register that Will was breathing on his own—and then he turned. His flashlight beam cut across the room and landed on Steve.

Steve was pressed against the wall, sliding down it inch by inch, his entire body shaking so violently the light tremored across his silhouette. His good hand was clamped over his mask as if trying to hold himself together, and the other hung uselessly at his side, twisted, swollen, and wrong. Sobs wracked through his torso, sharp and silent at first, then louder when he couldn’t hold them in anymore.

“Joyce,” Hopper said softly, “we’ve got to go. We have to get them to a hospital. Now.”

Joyce nodded with frantic determination, wiping her face roughly with the back of her glove before moving to gather Will. Her hands trembled so badly she nearly fumbled the straps of her mask, but she forced herself through it, pulling Will gently into her arms and adjusting him so she could carry him piggy-back.

Hopper pushed to his feet and moved toward Steve, who's legs gave out the moment Hopper said his name.

“Hey—shit, kid!” Hopper lunged forward and caught Steve around the waist just before he hit the ground. Steve still yelped, a strangled, raw cry muffled by his oxygen mask as Hopper’s arm accidentally brushed his shattered left arm. Hopper felt the unnatural shift of bone beneath Steve’s shirt.

He lowered him carefully onto the sticky, spongy ground, trying to do it slow and gentle—but even the slightest movement made Steve’s breath catch in pain.

Joyce looked back and forth between the two boys, torn—her hand tightening protectively on Will’s shoulder. Hopper met her eyes and nodded firmly, signaling her to keep going.

Joyce adjusted Will’s weight and continued toward the doorway.
Hopper turned back to Steve. The kid was still awake—barely. His eyes, foggy and unfocused, flickered up to meet Hopper’s. His lips were trembling behind the mask.

“Hey, hey,” Hopper said softly, placing a gloved hand against Steve’s cheek to ground him. “We’re going to get you and Will out of this hellhole. But I need you to help me a little, okay? If you can walk, even just a bit, I can keep the gun up in case that thing comes back.”

Steve swallowed thickly. His breaths were shallow and wet-sounding. “I—I don’t think I can,” he slurred. “Not… not without help.”

Hopper’s stomach twisted. Steve sounded worse than five minutes ago. More slurred. Slower.

The concussion was getting ahead of them.

“Alright. That’s alright.” Hopper slid an arm under Steve’s back and lifted him a few inches. Steve sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, face going white under the blood and grime, but he didn’t throw up—which Hopper was genuinely thankful for. “We’ll go slow.”

With a grunt, Hopper got Steve upright. The kid listed sideways immediately, gravity pulling him toward the ground like a puppet with cut strings, but Hopper tightened his arm around him.

“Just breathe, kid. That’s it.”

Steve’s legs trembled violently as Hopper got him standing—more draped than standing, really—but he stayed up. Barely.

Hopper pressed Steve against his side, looping his own arm under Steve’s good one, supporting almost all his weight. Steve used every ounce of strength he had to stay upright. Hopper could feel the kid’s rapid heartbeat thudding against his ribs—panicked, exhausted, weak.

Before leaving, Hopper reached back, grabbing his gun with his free hand. Then they moved.

Slowly.

So damn slowly.

The hallway stretched ahead of them, claustrophobic, dripping, alive. Vines curled across the walls, pulsing faintly like veins. Steve kept flinching every time something creaked or shifted in the dark.

Behind them, Joyce’s voice rose and fell in soft, trembling whispers—comforting Will, urging him to hold on.

A quarter of the way to the gate, Steve muttered something too low to catch.

“What was that, kid?” Hopper asked quietly.

The question seemed to pull Steve back into himself. His head lifted a few inches. Through the fogged-up mask, his half-lidded eyes blinked a little wider.

“Y-you sure you got Will? ‘S he… ’m’kay?” Steve mumbled, voice thick, barely shaped into words.

The sheer concern in his tone—concern stronger than the pain, concussion, exhaustion—hit Hopper like a punch to the chest. These kids… these two boys had survived together. Fought together. Suffered together.

Steve wasn’t scared for himself.

He was scared for Will.

Hopper glanced back. Joyce had Will on her back again, holding tight to one limp hand, tears streaming silently down her face. Will was ghost-pale, but breathing.

“Yeah,” Hopper said, voice softer than he meant it to be. “We’ve got him. He’s gonna be alright. And so will you.”

Steve nodded, barely. Then his forehead dropped onto Hopper’s shoulder, his breath fogging the side of Hopper’s helmet.

A jolt of fear shot through Hopper.

“Hey, hey—don’t go to sleep on me, kid. Eyes open.” Hopper jostled him gently. Steve blinked up blearily. “Not good for you to sleep right now, okay?”

“‘M not… goin’ to sleep,” Steve slurred, sounding exactly like someone who was absolutely going to sleep.

“Good. Keep talking to me.” Hopper squeezed his shoulder. “Tell me about yourself.”

Steve groaned weakly. “Do I gotta?”

“Yes,” Hopper said simply, guiding him over a patch of thick vines. “You gotta stay awake. So talk.”

Steve tried. He really did.

Words came in slow, clumsy drips. “’M kind of… an ass’ole… but with Will… felt like… like an older brother. Wanna be like that more. Don’t wanna be… an ass’ole anymore.”

Hopper’s throat tightened. He already knew too much about Steve’s home life. He’d pieced it together from police reports, bruises that didn’t match fights, and a house always empty when he stopped by. He’d wanted confirmation—wanted the kid safe—but now wasn’t the time.

Later, Hopper promised himself. If Steve survived this, Hopper would get him out of that house. No kid deserved to go back to that.

Somewhere during those thoughts, Steve kept rambling—slurring stories about the boys he hung out with, about Nancy, about stupid things he’d done. Hopper barely caught half of it, but he let Steve talk, letting the steadiness of his voice (even mangled and fading) prove he was still conscious.

Then—

Light.

The faint, flickering glow of the lab ahead.

“We made it,” Hopper whispered. Relief drenched him.

Steve lifted his head, swaying. “’Opper? You even… listenin’?”

Hopper huffed out a tired laugh. “Yeah, kid. I’m listening. We’re almost out. Keep talking.”

“Do I haveta?” Steve whined, eyes drooping.

Hopper shook him—firm but gentle.

“Yes, Steve. You have to.”

Steve groaned but obeyed, muttering about his hair, his car, whether anyone fed Will in the real world—

They reached the lab doors just as Steve’s knees buckled again. Hopper hauled him through, holding the door for Joyce. The elevator was slow. Too slow. Steve struggled even stepping in, and Hopper had to stop twice for him to breathe.

Once the elevator doors shut, something in Steve changed.

He realized he was going home.

And he started shaking harder. Tears slid down his cheeks, mixing with grime. He was freezing. Hopper put a steadying hand on his right shoulder.

Across from them, Joyce held Will’s hand tightly, whispering to him through her tears.
Steve murmured again, voice wet and muffled. Hopper leaned in.

“What was that, kid?”

“‘S Will… still ‘m okay?” Steve breathed, slurring worse.

“He’s alright,” Hopper assured. “You will be too. Hospital’s close.”

The elevator dinged. The doors opened.

They walked. Slowly. Silently. The hallway lights weren’t flickering, thank god.

At the gate room, Joyce helped steady Steve as Hopper pulled open the fleshy barrier. The gate peeled like taffy, revealing a crack of normality. Hopper shoved his arm through, then his head, then pulled himself and Steve through. Steve gasped, body spasming at the cold, clean air of reality.

Hopper turned back immediately to help Joyce and Will through.

No sooner had the four stepped out than lab workers swarmed them like a hive erupting.

Hopper and Joyce pushed forward viciously—elbows, words, pure adrenaline.
They reached the hazmat room. Hopper lowered Steve onto the table, the kid half-slumped, legs dangling off the edge. Joyce carefully lowered Will, resting his head against Steve’s stomach.

Steve blinked in surprise—but then lifted his good hand and began running his fingers weakly through Will’s hair, half asleep and half protective.

A doctor approached.

Joyce slapped his hand away before he could touch Will.

“Ma’am, we need to start treating them—”

“No,” Hopper snapped, stepping between the boys and the doctors. “We’re taking them to a real hospital. One that isn’t run by people who let this happen.”

“They’ll die before you get there,” another doctor blurted, panic rising in his voice.

Hopper stared him down. Rage radiated from every inch of him. “They survived a week in that living hell. They can survive a few more minutes. So back. The hell. Off.”

He threw his helmet on the ground, ripped off the rest of his suit, and turned to the boys.

He lifted Will—careful, gentle—and transferred him onto Joyce’s back. Steve tried to protest weakly but couldn’t get the breath.

Then Hopper helped Steve sit up, then stand. Steve swayed so hard Hopper nearly dropped him.

They pushed through the labs. Outside was dark, silent. Hopper finally let Steve collapse to a sitting position.

“Kid,” Hopper said gently, crouching, “you’re gonna ride on my back to the car. You can’t walk anymore.”

Steve nodded miserably.

Hopper kneeled. Steve used the wall to drag himself up, then slumped onto Hopper’s back. Hopper hooked his arms under Steve’s legs and stood. Steve’s forehead fell onto Hopper’s shoulder, ice-cold and trembling.

He weighed nearly nothing.

Hopper jogged to the cruiser, opened the passenger door, and set Steve inside. Steve curled inward, shivering violently.

Joyce was already in the back with Will across the seat, whispering to him.
Hopper slid into the driver’s seat, checked Steve’s breathing—still shallow but steady—and started the car.

And they tore off toward the hospital.

Hopper gave a quick glance at Steve just to make sure the kid was still with him — and his stomach dropped. Steve’s eyes had fallen shut again, lashes pressed against his cheeks, his face slack in a way that set off every alarm in Hopper’s head. No smart remark. No groan. No twitch of movement. Just stillness.

“Kid—?” Hopper reached across the seat, his big hand landing on Steve’s thigh, giving it a firm squeeze. His voice came out rougher than he intended. “Hey. Steve.”

Steve fought his way back up through the fog, his eyelids peeling open to two thin slits. He turned his head weakly toward Hopper, pupils sluggish, unfocused.

“Wh—what’s it ’opper?” Steve slurred, the words mashed together like someone had taken sandpaper to his brain. Hopper exhaled, a quiet sigh of relief that still held a tremor.

“Keep talkin’ to me, kid. I know you’re tired — hell, I bet you can barely keep those eyes open — but you gotta stay awake a little longer. Just a few minutes, alright?” Hopper said, voice gentler than usual, as if he were speaking to a scared animal. “Then you can sleep.”

Steve breathed out shakily through his nose, the mask fogging a little with the exhale.
“I dunno what I—what I ‘hould talk ‘bout…” Steve whispered, blinking slowly like each blink weighed ten pounds.

Hopper opened his mouth to give him a topic — literally any topic — but Steve beat him to it.

“’M tired,” Steve murmured, barely above a breath.

His eyes slipped shut completely — no fluttering, no resistance — and his whole body sagged sideways, going limp like someone had cut a string inside him.

“Steve? Steve!” Panic spiked sharp and immediate through Hopper’s chest. He grabbed the kid by the shoulders, giving him a quick shake. “Kid, you gotta open your eyes for me. C’mon.”

Steve didn’t even twitch. His head lolled to the side, mask still strapped on, breath fogging the inside. Hopper placed two shaking fingers against Steve’s wrist, searching desperately. There — faint but steady. And the gentle rise and fall of his chest reassured him further.

Hopper swallowed hard. Okay. Unconscious, but breathing. Concussion hitting full force.

“Hang in there, kid,” he muttered, more to himself than to Steve.

The rest of the drive blurred into one long knot of dread. Hopper’s hands were white on the wheel, eyes darting between the road and the rearview where Joyce sat hunched over Will’s tiny, unmoving body. Every minute stretched into an hour. Every breath from either boy felt borrowed.

Then — finally — the glowing sign came into view.

HAWKIN GENERAL HOSPITAL

Hopper released a shaky breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.

He skidded into the first open parking spot, threw the gear into park, and was out of the car before the engine fully stopped rumbling. He yanked open the back door, sliding his arms under Steve’s legs and back, lifting him carefully but urgently. Steve’s head slumped against Hopper’s shoulder like a ragdoll.

Joyce was right beside him with Will, and together they charged through the ER doors.

The doors slammed open so hard the entire waiting room jolted, heads snapping up as Hopper’s voice bellowed, “We need two doctors, over here! William Byers and Steven Harrington!”

Chaos rippled outward instantly. Two nurses appeared with gurneys, eyes wide as they took in the scene — the dirt, the vines clinging to Joyce’s suit, the pale, lifeless boys in their arms.

Whispers spread through the room like wildfire.

“Will Byers? Isn’t he dead?”

“Didn’t they hold a funeral?”

“Wait, Steve Harrington? Didn’t they say he was found with him?”

Hopper ignored every voice, every stare. He and Joyce laid the boys down, stepping back only when nurses shoved past them, wheeling Will and Steve deeper into the ER.

Joyce tried to follow, but the front desk secretary intercepted her with a practiced smile.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t go in with them. I do need you both to fill out these forms with the patient’s information.”

Joyce’s voice cracked instantly. “But that’s my boy, I need— I need to be with him, please—”

The secretary’s lips parted to reply, but Hopper gently slipped a hand onto Joyce’s shoulder.

“Joyce,” he murmured. “She’s right. And we need to call everyone. Let them know we’re back.”

Joyce trembled, tears streaking down her face, but nodded.

Together, they moved to the phones.

Joyce called the Wheelers, the Hendersons, the Sinclairs, and her own house, her shaking voice barely holding up as she repeated the same sentence, “Will is alive. He’s at the hospital. Get here.”

Hopper called the station, reporting the boys’ return and tell them he’d file the full report later. He called the Harringtons five times. Six. Seven. Each time the phone rang and rang and rang. No answer.

Back at the secretary’s desk, they retrieved clipboards and paperwork. Hopper filled out what he could — which wasn’t much. Father’s name. Mother’s name. Home address. Allergies.

He left half the Harrington section blank. He just didn’t know.

Minutes passed in a heavy, silent fog.

Then the ER doors burst open again.

Karen Wheeler. Ted Wheeler. Mike. Dustin. Lucas. All of them frantic, pale, eyes wide.
A few minutes later, Jonathan Byers and Nancy Wheeler rushed in — both red-eyed, breathless. Jonathan flew into Joyce’s arms, shoulders shaking. Nancy stayed slightly behind, hugging herself, tears sliding quietly down her cheeks.

Nearly an hour later, a doctor stepped into the waiting room.

“William Byers is stable,” he said. “He is being treated and can be seen by immediate family only until he wakes up.”

Joyce and Jonathan practically ran after him.

Hopper and Nancy stood up at once.

“And Steve?” Nancy asked, voice small and trembling.

The doctor sighed. “Steven is in surgery for his right arm and shoulder. There’s a fracture in the joint, and we’re addressing internal bruising and potential ligament damage. It may take up to seven hours.”

Nancy inhaled sharply, pressing her knuckles to her lips. Hopper’s jaw clenched.
The doctor led Joyce and Jonathan down the hall, leaving Nancy and Hopper in the waiting room with the others.

Hopper walked to the phone again. Dialed the Harringtons.

Voicemail. Again.

He hung up, staring at the phone like he could force it to ring.

Hopper really hoped he could get Steve out of that house.

He sank back into his chair.

Within an hour, Jonathan returned.

“He’s awake,” he said breathlessly. “Will’s awake. He wants to see you guys.”

Mike, Dustin, and Lucas stampeded past him, practically tripping over each other in their rush. Their excited voices echoed down the hallway until Karen stuck her head in and scolded them to leave Will alone.

She came back shaking her head. “Nancy, sweetheart, we’re going. It’s 2 A.M. You’re exhausted. Let’s get—”

“No.” Nancy’s voice was steel.

Karen blinked. “Honey—”

“No.” She wiped a tear with the back of her hand. “I’m not leaving until I see Steve. I need to see him.”

Ted stepped forward, irritation already rising. “Nancy, listen to your mother—”

“I can drive her back to your house,” Hopper cut in quietly. “Once she sees Steve.”

Karen blinked, surprised by the softness in his voice.

“You really don’t have to do that,” she said. “I don’t want to make you—”

“It’s no trouble. I’m waiting for Steve anyway,” Hopper replied. "Might as well give her a ride.”

Karen exhaled, shoulders slumping. “Thank you, Chief.”

She gathered her sons, Ted trailing behind them, grumbling under his breath.
Nancy sat back down next to Hopper, arms folded tight under her ribs.

Her voice cracked the quiet.

“Was he… was he in really bad shape?”

Hopper looked at her, brows knitting. “What?”

“When you found him,” she said again, eyes shining with fear. “Was he really hurt?”

Hopper hesitated, choosing his words. “…He wasn’t in his best shape. He broke his arm, dislocated his shoulder, and he’s got a concussion.”

Nancy stared at the floor, one tear dripping off her chin.

“But he’ll be fine,” Hopper added firmly. “I can tell he’s a fighter.”

A soft, shaky laugh slipped out of her — half relief, half heartbreak.

They fell into silence, side by side, waiting for the next doctor to appear.

Waiting for Steve.

—

It took eight long hours of waiting. Eight hours of stale coffee, flickering fluorescent lights, restless pacing, and the constant, low-grade dread humming in the air before the doctor finally pushed through the double doors and approached the group. Hopper stood up so quickly his chair squeaked loudly against the linoleum. Nancy jolted upright beside him, her eyes wide, exhausted, and rimmed red from crying.

The doctor’s expression was neutral, practiced, but gentle enough to tell them that this wasn’t the worst news. Still, Hopper’s stomach tightened.

“Steve is out of surgery,” the doctor began, flipping through the chart in his hands.

“He’s stable, and he’s been moved to a recovery room.”

Nancy let out a shaky breath like she’d been holding it for hours.

The doctor continued, tone shifting into that methodical cadence doctors use when the words matter.

“We had to reconstruct the humerus bone and place a metal plate where the break occurred. The break was severe—complete displacement. When the bone fractured, it caused several third-degree compression tears to the muscle in his bicep. We repaired the muscle tears, and assuming his healing goes according to plan, his arm should fully recover in roughly eight to ten months.”

Hopper nodded slowly, jaw tight. Nancy held her hand over her mouth.

The doctor moved on.

“We were able to do a closed reduction on the shoulder joint, but he also had a fracture in the shoulder socket. We placed screws to reinforce the area.” The doctor looked up. “He has a grade three concussion. He’s very lucky—another inch or two of force and he might have had a cranial fracture. But there’s no permanent neurological damage we can see at this time.”

Nancy’s eyes filled again, but this time with relief.

“He’s still unconscious from the anesthesia,” the doctor said. “He should begin waking up in the next forty minutes or so. Once he’s more lucid and the medication wears off, he’ll likely experience typical post-concussive symptoms such as headache, dizziness, memory fog.”

Hopper’s arms folded across his chest, protective, stressed.

“There were additional complications,” the doctor added. “From what you told us, Chief, the circumstances make sense. When he arrived, he was malnourished, dehydrated, and we detected an infection in his bloodstream—likely from exposure to contaminated environments.”

Nancy winced. Hopper closed his eyes briefly.

“He’s on IV fluids—saline, sterile water, broad-spectrum antibiotics, vitamin supplementation. He’s responding well so far.”

Nancy stepped forward before the doctor even finished.

“Can we see him now?” she asked, voice trembling but impatient with fear. She didn’t care about protocol. She just needed to see him breathing.

The doctor smiled kindly at the intensity in her voice. “Of course. Follow me.”

He led Hopper and Nancy down a long hallway, their footsteps echoing sharply in the quiet. The closer they got, the stronger the smell of antiseptic grew. Hopper felt sweat gather in his palms.

When they reached the room, the doctor pushed open the door and Hopper froze like someone had put a hand to his chest and shoved.

Because there Steve was.

Two IV catheters taped to his forearm; his shoulder wrapped thick in white gauze; his left arm secured against his chest in a real sling this time. His hair was matted with dried sweat, his face pale and slack with exhaustion. Machines hummed and clicked around him, steady and indifferent.

Hopper’s vision flickered.

Steve.

Sara.

Sara in her bed, swallowed in tubes and wires and tiny hospital gowns. Sara with the beeping monitors, the sterile walls, the helpless way she used to breathe when she was too tired to fight anymore.

The image slammed into him so hard he had to blink his eyes rapidly to clear it.

Nancy hesitated in the doorway too, one hand over her chest, as if the sight physically hit her. But she moved forward first, small and determined, taking the seat at Steve’s right side, near his IVs, without hesitation.

She reached for his hand immediately, gently threading her fingers through his, stroking her thumb softly over his knuckles like she was afraid he’d vanish if she let go.

Hopper swallowed hard, forced himself forward, and dropped into the chair on Steve’s left. He deliberately kept his gaze on Steve’s face, not his arms. Not the tubes.

Nancy brushed hair from Steve’s forehead with trembling fingers. Hopper let himself smile at the sight—it was sweet, painfully so, two kids who had just been to hell and still chose tenderness.

And now, there was nothing to do but wait for Steve to wake up.

—

Steve woke like he was swimming upward through thick fog. His thoughts moved slowly, syrupy, tangled. Everything felt heavy—his head, especially. Like someone had stuffed the inside of his skull with cotton.

He’d never felt like this before.

He faintly wonders if his mom is there but he knows, in all seriousness, she wouldn’t be there even if he were dead.

His eyelids dragged open halfway and the bright fluorescent hospital lights assault his skull like white-hot bats.

“Ugh—wh’re the l’ghts so br’ght?” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut again.

Somewhere to his right, a voice gasped softly.

“Steve? Are you awake?”

He knew that voice. Knew it in his bones.

“Nance?” he slurred, blinking his eyes halfway as he turns his head a little.

Her face swam into view through the grainy edges of his vision. Tears gathered in her eyes—real ones, overflowing fast. She laughed, breathless, relieved.

“You’re an idiot, Steve Harrington.”

Steve frowned, confused. Why was she crying?

“You’re beautiful, Nancy Wheeler,” he whispered, lifting one shaky hand to brush his thumb across her cheek, smudging her tears. She let out a helpless laugh, leaning into his touch as she gently swept his messy hair back from his forehead.

He smiled faintly before the exhaustion yanked him under again, eyes drooping shut.

When Steve woke the second time, the pain was clearer—sharper. His shoulder pulsed in time with his heartbeat, and every throb sent a dull wave up his neck.

He cracked his eyes open, immediately regretted it, squinted against the light.

“Kid? You awake?” a low voice murmured from his left.

Steve blinked until Hopper’s broad silhouette came into focus. The sheriff leaned forward in the chair, tired but smiling.

Steve turned his head right and saw Nancy curled in the chair, sleeping with her arms tucked around herself.

He looked back at Hopper.

“Thank you, Hopper,” Steve whispered, voice scratchy, dry. Hopper reached out and patted Steve’s leg, giving him a nod.

“Where’s Will?” Steve asked, anxiety creeping into his voice.

“He’s recovering,” Hopper reassured him. “Few rooms over. And before you ask—no, you can’t go see him yet.”

Steve nodded, sinking back.

“You should get some more sleep,” Hopper murmured but Steve was already drifting off again, eyes falling shut.

When consciousness returned the third time, Steve was sharply aware of everything—the throbbing in his shoulder, the soreness of his arm, the hazy ache in his skull, the uncomfortable way his head was tilted to the side.

He shifted slightly, trying to adjust, and forced his eyes open.

The lights felt blinding. His gaze flicked right—expecting to see Nancy.

But the chair was empty.

And suddenly he was back.

The tendrils. The darkness. The shadows crawling along the walls. The air thick and rotten.

His breath hitched violently.

No. No no no no—

His eyes squeezed shut, chest lurching as panic surged through him. The room spun.
A hand settled on his right shoulder, firm and grounding.

“Kid? It’s okay,” a steady voice said. “You’re safe.”

Steve dragged his eyes open, panting. Hopper sat beside him, expression calm but filled with concern.

Steve let out a shaky breath. He wasn’t there. He was here.

“Hey, kid,” Hopper said gently. “How’re you feeling?”

“Like I spent a week in hell,” Steve muttered.

Hopper huffed a laugh. “Can’t argue with that.”

Then Hopper’s expression shifted, turning serious, almost painfully so. Steve stiffened instinctively.

“Steve,” Hopper said quietly, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “I know everything’s happening fast. But I need to ask you something. And I need you to be honest.”

Steve nodded warily.

Hopper inhaled. “During the investigation, about you and Will, some of your friends told me some things. About your parents.”

Steve’s stomach dropped.

“They said your parents are rarely home. And… that when they are, there are problems.” Hopper met his eyes. “Kid, I need you to tell me if that’s true.”

Steve stared at his lap, jaw tight.

“Do your parents neglect you for long periods of time,” Hopper’s voice softened, breaking slightly, “and/or do they hurt you?”

The silence stretched. Steve didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

Hopper tried again, gentle but firm.

“I want to help you, kid. But I need you to tell me. Do your parents neglect you… or hurt you?”

Steve finally lifted his eyes.

And Hopper saw the answer there—the quiet devastation, the years of it.
Steve nodded once.

Hopper exhaled slowly, sadness flickering across his face. “Thank you for telling me, kid.”

He stood.

Steve panicked. “Where are you going?”

Hopper turned. “I’m guessing you want to see Will?”

Steve blinked. “Yes—”

“I’m getting you a wheelchair.”

As Hopper walked out, Steve’s gaze wandered the room. The walls were stark white, washed in harsh fluorescent brightness. The bed he was lying on was the only real piece of furniture besides the cheap plastic chairs lining the walls.

On the bedside table sat a single yellow rose in a small vase. Steve stared at it—soft petals, warm color—so strange against the sterile backdrop.

He blankly wondered what the hell he was supposed to do now. Would he be sent off with a random family? Would he live alone? What was he supposed to do?

The uncertainty twisted in his gut.

When Hopper returned, rolling a wheelchair, Steve tried to sit up. The IV lines tugged at his arm in protest. Hopper stepped in immediately, helping him upright and adjusting the blankets.

Steve swung his legs slowly over the edge, realizing he was barefoot and wearing only a thin, drafty hospital gown. The cold air hit his skin and he shivered without meaning to.

Hopper steadied him, one arm around Steve’s back while the other supporting his good arm as he guided him to stand. Steve’s head swam, vision going spotty for a moment.

He nearly crumpled, but Hopper held him firm.

They made it to the wheelchair. As soon as Steve sat, his whole body trembled from effort and cold.

Hopper frowned. “You want a blanket? I can get you one.”

Steve tried a halfhearted shrug. “Nah, I’m fine.”

Hopper stared flatly. “You sure? Doesn’t bother me grabbing one.”

Steve opened his mouth to insist but his body betrayed him, shivering violently.

Hopper’s lips twitched in a tiny smile. “Well, there’s my answer.”

He stepped out to fetch a blanket.

Left alone, Steve lifted a hand to his ribs, trying to hug himself to feel a little warmer, and froze.

He could feel every rib. Every bone. Sharp. Protruding.

He swallowed hard.

Then he caught the faint reflection of his face in a picture frame mounted to the wall.

He leaned slightly to see it better.

He barely recognized himself. Jaw too sharp. Cheeks hollow. Eyes sunken and shadowed. Pale. Sick. Exhausted. He looked like someone who had been gone a long, long time.

Steve’s head snapped around at the soft thud of footsteps behind him, his heart momentarily leaping into his throat before he saw who it was. Hopper stepped back into the room, the harsh fluorescent lights catching on the deep blue fabric folded in his arms. The sheriff’s face was drawn tight, his mouth pulled down at the corners in a grimace that said ‘this was the best he could get.’

“Sorry, kid,” Hopper muttered, shutting the door with his boot as he crossed the room. “They didn’t have any thicker blankets.”

His voice was gentle, apologetic in a way Steve didn’t hear often. Hopper shook the blanket out, thin, but warm enough, and carefully draped it over Steve’s lap, being extra cautious around the tangle of wires taped to his chest and the tubes hooked into his good arm. He worked the blanket around Steve’s shoulders next, adjusting it so nothing tugged or pinched, his movements surprisingly soft for someone built like a tank.

Once everything was tucked around him, Hopper stepped behind the wheelchair again, gripping the handles. He gave Steve a moment to settle the fabric under his injured shoulder before pushing him through the doorway and into the hall.

The hallway felt twice as bright and twice as loud. Doctors and nurses moved past them, shoes squeaking on the linoleum, pagers beeping, carts rattling. The sound swirled around Steve’s foggy brain, making his head throb. He shrank into the blanket, breathing shallowly against the rising panic.

Will’s room wasn’t far, only a few doors down. Close enough for Steve to see the cluster of machines through the window, close enough for his stomach to knot.
He didn’t know why dread started crawling up his throat. Well he did. He knew exactly why.

What if Will hates him? What if seeing Steve again makes everything worse? He let Will get taken by the Demogorgon. Twice. He’s the reason this happened.

Hopper raised a hand to knock on the door, but the movement barely started before Steve’s trembling fingers curled around the sheriff’s wrist. Hopper paused instantly, the muscles under Steve’s touch going rigid with concern.

Steve’s voice came out thin, breaking. “I don’t think I can do this.” He swallowed, his throat tight and burning. “What if he hates me?”

Hopper looked at him for a long, steady moment, then lifted his hand and set it on Steve’s good shoulder. His grip was warm, grounding.

“Steve,” Hopper said firmly, “this kid loves you. You protected him for days in that hell.” He leaned down a little, softening his tone. “While you were asleep after surgery, I went to see him. First thing out of his mouth was ‘Where’s Steve?’. He’s been asking for you nonstop.”

Steve blinked, stunned. Hopper continued before he could choke out a question.
“He wants to see you. But if you’re not ready—”

“No!” Steve blurted, too loud, the sound echoing down the hallway. His cheeks flushed and he lowered his voice quickly. “No… I want to see him.”

Hopper’s lips twitched into a small, proud smirk. He knocked lightly on the door and moved behind the chair again.

Soft footsteps approached, and the door cracked open to reveal Jonathan Byers. He gave Steve a small, relieved smile but Steve barely noticed. His eyes immediately slipped past Jonathan, searching the dim room beyond until he found the bed.

Hopper nudged the chair forward, and Jonathan stepped aside, letting them enter.
The sight hit Steve like a physical blow. Will lay propped against pillows, pale as paper and thinner than he had been even a week ago but alive. Breathing. Real. His chest rose and fell steadily under the hospital gown.

A wave of dizzy relief washed through Steve so strong he felt his entire body shake.
Joyce looked up from Will’s bedside and smiled in a way that was tired but full of warmth. She brushed her hand over Will’s shoulder and whispered his name, just loud enough for him to stir.

Will blinked awake slowly, like dragging himself back from the bottom of a dream. He looked at Joyce first, confused, then followed her quiet cue and turned toward the doorway.

His gaze met Steve’s.

And then—Will smiled. A wide, exhausted, genuine grin that seemed too big for his little worn-out face.

Steve couldn’t breathe.

Jonathan came back around the bed, and Hopper gently pushed Steve closer.
Steve swallowed hard. “Hey, buddy. How’re you feeling?” His voice cracked halfway through, but Will didn’t seem to mind.

“Fine, I guess.” Will shrugged, still smiling at him. Then his brow furrowed. “Why are you in a wheelchair?”

Steve froze. His mouth opened, then closed again. Why was he in a wheelchair?
He looked helplessly at Hopper, then at Joyce.

Joyce leaned forward. “Honey,” she said softly, rubbing Will’s arm, “Steve’s in a wheelchair because he had surgery. It made him a little dizzy. He needs time for it to wear off.”

Will’s lips parted, his eyes flicking to his brother for confirmation. Jonathan nodded gently.

He looked back at Steve, worry filling those newly clear eyes and something inside Steve snapped.

Seeing Will’s eyes, alive again, hit him harder than anything he saw in there. The relief mixed with guilt until it overflowed. His throat tightened, his eyes burned, and a hot tear slipped down his cheek before he could stop it.

He dropped his head, hair falling forward to hide his face. He didn’t want Will to see him cry, didn’t want to scare him.

But Hopper saw. Of course he did.

The sheriff moved quietly to Steve’s side and crouched down, speaking softly near his ear. “Hey, kid. Why don’t we go take a quick break, okay?”

Steve didn’t look up, but he nodded, a shuddering breath escaping him. Hopper straightened and gently turned the wheelchair toward the door.

A small sob broke loose from Steve’s throat as they slipped back into the hallway.
Hopper pushed him a little farther down the hall, away from the windows, away from the noise, until they reached a quiet corner beside a vending machine. The fluorescent light buzzing overhead flickered slightly, throwing shadows across the floor.

When Hopper stopped the chair, Steve folded in on himself, both hands gripping the blanket as he shook.

“Kid,” Hopper said softly, kneeling again, “what’s wrong?”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut. “It was the first time I’d seen his eyes in days,” he choked out. “He could’ve died because of me.”

His voice broke completely, a sob ripping through his chest. Hopper sighed, not with frustration but with tired empathy.

He waited until Steve raised his teary eyes.

“I get it, kid—” Hopper began.

“No, you don’t,” Steve whispered, turning his face away.

Hopper let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Kid, you clearly don’t get what I’ve seen.”
Steve blinked at him through tears.

“I look into people’s eyes who could’ve died because of me every damn day,” Hopper said quietly. “When I see one of my officers, I feel it. When I see my friends, I feel it. When I look at Will, I feel it. Every cop I know carries that weight. So trust me, there’s no one better to talk to about this than me.”

Steve’s tears spilled faster, his chin trembling as he looked down again.

“Does it ever go away?” he whispered.

Hopper exhaled slowly. “I don’t know, kid.”

Steve nodded, barely.

Hopper stood up, brushing off his knees. “Why don’t we go say goodnight to Will and get you back to your room?”

As soon as he said Will’s name, Steve jerked his head up. His eyes were wide, filled with fear.

Hopper read the message instantly.

“No?” he clarified gently.

Steve swallowed, ashamed. “I… don’t think I can,” he whispered.

The sheriff nodded slowly. He didn’t push. “Okay. I’ll tell them you’re done for today.”
Steve sagged back in the chair with a long, shaky breath.

Hopper turned the wheelchair around and pushed him back toward his room, his steps steady, patient, unhurried. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t make Steve feel guilty or weak.

He just got him somewhere safe.

Chapter 9: I’m Glad You Chose Me

Once Hopper had Steve settled back into the hospital bed—blankets smoothed over him, the monitors adjusted so nothing tugged—he gave the kid’s good shoulder a gentle squeeze and stepped out. The hallway felt even brighter now after the dimness of the room. Hopper wheeled the hospital chair back to its designated spot against the wall, locking it in place before heading toward Will’s room.

Joyce had been perched at the edge of Will’s bed when Hopper eased the door open. She looked exhausted but alert, her hand moving in slow circles over her son’s back. Will’s eyes were halfway closed again, drifting in and out.

“Steve needs some rest,” Hopper said quietly. He didn’t give details—Joyce didn’t press for them. She simply nodded with a mother’s instinctive understanding, brushing Will’s hair out of his eyes.

When Hopper returned to Steve’s room, he paused in the doorway. Steve was sitting upright, hunched forward slightly, his head cradled in his right hand. His fingers trembled against his temple. He looked impossibly young like that. Small. Alone.

“Hopper?” Steve’s voice cracked as he spoke. He lifted his gaze slowly, eyes rimmed red but determined. “What… am I supposed to do? Once I’m out of the hospital?”

Hopper’s heart clenched. He hadn’t expected the question—not yet, not while the kid was still gray-faced and shaking from pain—but he understood why Steve asked. The future must’ve looked like a black hole from where he was lying.

Hopper took a breath. “Kid… you really only have two options.”

He hesitated only a second, but it was enough to know the decision was real, permanent, and bigger than he’d planned for. Yet something inside him had already settled on the answer long before he walked into the room.

“You can either enter the foster care system and go to a foster home… or you can stay with me until you get a job and a house of your own.”

Steve jerked his head up so fast his face twisted in pain before his expression softened into shock. His eyes widened—big, disbelieving, vulnerable. The thought hit him so hard it practically showed on his face:

Someone actually wants to help him.

“I know it’s happening really fast,” Hopper started, “but—”

“I’ll stay with you.” Steve blurted it out, breathless, almost panicked. Hopper blinked, surprised at the speed. “I mean—if you’re okay with it.”

Hopper’s mouth tugged upward in a small, warm smile. He pulled a chair closer to Steve’s bedside and sat down next to him. “I’m glad you chose me, kid.”

Steve tried to smile back, but pain sliced up his arm so sharply his face twisted. He sucked in a ragged breath, leaning forward, his mouth parting in a silent groan. His eyes squeezed shut as he braced against the bedrail.

Hopper shot to his feet instantly. “Hang on—I’ll get someone.”

He strode out the door and down the hall, his boots thudding against the floor. Within moments he found a doctor and nurse and practically pulled them along behind him.
When they returned, Steve still hadn’t moved from his folded position, and the blankets beneath him were soaked. Bile pooled on his gown and dripped in streaks down the sheets. Thin strings of saliva hung from his lips as he dry-heaved weakly, barely conscious.

Hopper grimaced—not in disgust, but sympathy.

The doctor approached immediately, glancing at the monitors before pushing a syringe into the port of Steve’s IV. “Morphine,” he explained as a soft click of the plunger released the dose. “He should feel it soon.”

He asked Steve a few quick questions, which got slurred half answers, then left once the crisis was under control.

The nurse stayed. She handed Steve a small, crinkly puke bag and rubbed his shoulder gently. “Here you go, sweetheart.” She guided him upright with a practiced, calming touch.

Then she gave Hopper a nod, signaling for him to come help.

Hopper stepped forward without hesitation as she tugged the soiled blankets off Steve’s legs. He slid an arm around Steve’s waist and helped him swivel his feet over the edge of the bed. Steve sagged against him immediately, dead weight. His eyes were shut tight, his skin clammy and cold.

He could barely stand.

Hopper tightened his hold, stabilizing him as the nurse stripped the bed. The smell of bile clung to the air, but she worked quickly, unfazed, folding the ruined sheets into a neat pile on the floor.

“’M sorry,” Steve mumbled, his words mushy. “I di’nt mean to.”

“It’s alright, hun.” The nurse gave him a soft smile as she crouched to pull new sheets from a small cabinet under the bed. “Nothing to apologize for. You can’t control something like that.”

Hopper watched her smooth the fresh linens with brisk, efficient movements. She knelt again, pulled out a clean blanket, shook it out, and spread it across the bed with a practiced motion.

Finally, she lifted the pile of soiled sheets, nodded at Hopper again, and slipped out of the room.

Hopper maneuvered Steve back onto the bed, one hand on his shoulder, the other steadying the back of his neck. Steve was already half asleep by the time his head touched the pillow, the morphine dragging him under. He sank into the mattress with a ragged sigh, eyelashes fluttering before they stilled.

Hopper lingered for a moment, making sure the kid’s breathing evened out, making sure there was no sign of another wave of pain or nausea. When he was certain Steve was deeply asleep, Hopper finally stepped back.

The clock on the wall said he’d been in the hospital nearly fourteen hours.
He exhaled long and heavy.

Leaving the room felt wrong, like turning away from something fragile—but Steve needed rest, and Hopper needed ten minutes to collect his thoughts before he fell apart.

He walked through the sliding doors and into the crisp evening air. His cruiser waited in its usual spot, quiet and unassuming. Hopper climbed inside and let the door shut behind him.

Before he could even turn the key, he dropped his forehead onto the steering wheel with a soft thud. ‘You just adopted a kid, Jim. Not just any kid, the Harringtons’ kid. A teenager. An abused teenager.’

The weight of it pressed down on him like a cinderblock. He sat there for several minutes, forcing slow breaths, letting the reality settle into place.

Finally, he turned the key and the engine rumbled to life.

He drove to the station and didn’t acknowledge a single person as he passed through the front doors. He beelined straight to his office, closed the door hard behind him, and collapsed into the chair at his desk.

Paperwork greeted him like a brick wall.

He grabbed Steve’s parents’ file first, flipping it open and pulling a pen from the cup. His handwriting was jagged at first, adrenaline still racing as he filled out the details he had. Officer to go to the Harrington house. Track them down. Contact social services.

He paused, rubbing a hand over his face.

He doesn’t even know if the phones are even safe to use yet.

When he finished the Harrington file, he set it aside and opened the one labeled STEVE HARRINGTON / WILL BYERS. He stared at the redacted lines. The lab will be sending over a cover story. They have to.

He left that file empty for now. Guessing would get someone killed.

He pushed back from his chair and walked out into the main bullpen.

Flo immediately latched onto him like a hawk. “Hop! Why weren’t you in on time today? We had—”

Hopper didn’t even slow down. He made a straight line toward Powell and Callahan, who were playing poker at their desk like the world wasn’t falling apart.

“Jeez, you look like hell, Chief,” Callahan snickered, glancing up from his cards.

Hopper didn’t dignify it with a response. He thrust the Harrington file at Powell.

“Take this case. Steve Harrington confirmed his parents were neglecting him and hurting him when they were home. Get to the house. Find them. Both of them. And bring their asses down to this station.”

Powell blinked. Callahan’s grin faltered.

“Steve Harrington?” Powell asked. “The one that’s dead?”

Callahan barked out another laugh. “Yeah, Chief, his body was found with Will Byers—”

“I know,” Hopper snapped, shutting him down instantly. “I need you to go to the damn house and figure out what’s going on. Drive to New York if you have to. Just find them.”

Callahan and Powell exchanged a look—half confusion, half dawning concern.

Hopper didn’t stay to hear whatever dumb comment Callahan would’ve added. He stormed out the front doors of the station and headed for his cruiser.

He checked his watch.

4:23 p.m.

Without another thought, he started the engine and drove toward his grandfather’s old cabin.

—

Steve’s brain clawed its way up from the soft dark of sleep, drawn by a voice that floated somewhere above him, distant and muffled, like someone speaking through water. His instinct was to sink back down into the quiet, but curiosity jabbed at him, urging him upward. What…what are they saying?

He forced his eyelids to lift. The world stabbed at him in return. The hospital lights were harsh, flat, and endlessly bright burning white spots into his vision, and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes as he squinted through the glare.

When his sight finally cleared, he realized someone was sitting in the chair beside his bed.

Jonathan Byers.

Steve almost laughed out loud, at least in his head. Of all people, Jonathan was the last person Steve expected at his bedside. The guy barely spoke more than five words on a normal day, and none of them were ever directed toward Steve. But Jonathan didn’t seem to notice that Steve was awake. His elbows were braced on his knees, his fingers pulled together anxiously, his gaze fixed on the floor as he spoke in a low, shaky voice.

“—it’s just… everything you’ve done for Will,” Jonathan spoke softly, unaware that Steve’s eyes were open. “It’s really… it’s really something. That you would do that for him. You risked your life for my brother. I don’t know how to repay you, but I’ll—”

Jonathan froze mid-sentence as he finally lifted his head and met Steve’s gaze full-on. His whole body jolted, eyes wide, mouth falling open. He stood so fast his chair screeched backward. He opened and closed his mouth—once, twice, again—clearly unable to figure out what the hell to say now that Steve was watching him.

The tension spread thick between them, oppressive and awkward. After several seconds that felt like hours, Jonathan turned stiffly toward the door.

“Wait!” Steve blurted, flinching at how loud his voice came out. Pain pulsed through his chest with the shout. Jonathan stopped, shoulders hitching so high they nearly touched his ears.

“Yeah?” he answered without turning fully, sounding like someone who desperately wanted to flee the situation but was too polite to bolt.

Steve swallowed. He didn’t even know why he called out. Panic? Habit? Loneliness?

“Uh… how’s Will doing?” he asked, wincing at how pitifully awkward that sounded. He mentally smacked himself. ‘Smooth, Harrington.’

Jonathan stared down at the floor before responding. “He’s doing… okay. I guess.”

After a beat, trying to be polite, he added, “How’re you?”

The question somehow made the awkwardness worse.

“I’m… fine. I think.” Steve shifted against the pillows, trying to figure out where his body hurt and where it didn’t. “Honestly not sure.”

Jonathan nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching in something that wasn’t quite a smile. Silence swelled around them again—heavy, uncomfortable, circling the room like a fog neither of them could cut through.

Finally, Jonathan pointed lamely toward the hallway and cleared his throat.

“Uh, I’ve gotta… you know… go back to my brother…” he said, stumbling over every word like his brain was sprinting to the exit.

Steve let out a breathy, pained little laugh. “Yeah, I get it. Go ahead.”

Relief washed over Jonathan’s face so fast it was almost comical. He nodded once, jerky but grateful, and practically escaped the room.

The moment he was gone, the room felt too large, too silent. With nothing and no one to distract him, the stillness pressed against Steve’s skull. His thoughts, held back by the dam of conversation, surged forward all at once.

Memories crashed over him. Shouting, gunfire, running through the dark woods, Will’s scream, cold slime, blood, pain, terror, then nothing but silence and the panic of not knowing if he’d live or die. His breath hitched. His eyes squeezed shut.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

His own name echoed in the back of his mind.

Steve.

Steve!

“Steve!”

His eyes flew open as he jerked backwards, gasping like he’d broken through the surface of a deep lake. His chest burned. His vision swam. Someone’s hand landed on his forearm warm and gentle.

He blinked rapidly until the blur softened, sharpened. Joyce Byers came into focus, sitting at his bedside with a worried frown etched deep into her face. Her hair was frizzy, her clothes wrinkled, exhaustion carved into the dark shadows beneath her eyes. She looked like a woman who hadn’t slept in days.

“Hi, Mrs. Byers,” Steve said weakly, trying to steady his breathing, trying to not sound like he’d just snapped awake from a nightmare. “What—uh—what are you doing here?”

Joyce’s eyes softened even further. She saw right through him. Right through the forced casual tone. Right through the too-bright smile he plastered onto his face like armor. At school, Steve had perfected that mask, no one ever seemed to notice the cracks.

But Joyce did.

“Jonathan told me you were awake,” she said, voice gentle but loaded with something more. “And I wanted to come say thank you.” She paused, then added quietly, “But when I walked in, you were muttering in your sleep. And… are you okay, sweetie?”

Steve’s throat tightened.

“Stupid question,” Joyce muttered, shaking her head. “I just meant—do you want to talk about it?”

He stared at her—really stared—and something inside him buckled. Joyce Byers, whose son he’d almost failed to save, cared about him. Worried about him. Spoke to him with warmth and softness that felt… foreign. Uncomfortable. Safe.

His eyes filled instantly, tears spilling so fast he didn’t even have time to look away.

“Oh, honey…” Joyce breathed.

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him with such careful, motherly tenderness that Steve broke completely. A sound escaped him—small, wounded—and he clutched weakly at the front of her sweater as he cried into her shoulder. She rocked him gently, one hand cupping the back of his head, the other rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades.

It only made him cry harder.

He didn’t know how long she held him, minutes or maybe longer. Eventually, his body went limp, exhaustion dragging him back toward sleep. Joyce eased him down, brushing his hair gently off his forehead, her touch so soft it ached.

That was how Hopper found them three hours later when he returned from the cabin. Joyce half-asleep in the chair, Steve soundly passed out, his face blotchy but peaceful, Joyce’s hand still resting over his forearm.

Hopper paused in the doorway, taking the scene in. He didn’t interrupt. He let Joyce stay with him a moment longer before gently sending her back to Will—because Hopper had his own kid to sit with now. His own responsibility.

His own boy.

Steve.

Chapter 10: Season One: Epilogue

“Something is coming,” Mike intoned, lowering his voice into a dramatic rasp that made Lucas snort and Dustin lean forward eagerly. “Something angry. Hungry for your blood. It is almost here.”

The boys crowded closer to the middle of the table, elbows knocking, dice clattering. Will’s eyes were wide, bright with both nerves and excitement.

“What is it?” Will asked quickly, gripping his character sheet so hard it crinkled. Across from him, Dustin and Lucas exchanged the long-suffering look of friends who have had this exact argument approximately a thousand times.

“It’s the Thessalhydra, I’m telling you,” Dustin insisted, nodding like it was obvious. Lucas rolled his eyes with the force of a kid who’d been proven right too many times to tolerate this again.

“It’s not the Thessalhydra,” Lucas said flatly, turning toward Dustin with a look that said 'Buddy, we’ve been here before.'

“Yes it is! I’m telling you it’s—”

Dustin didn’t get to finish, because Mike suddenly whipped his binder around with theatrical force and slammed a miniature onto the table.

“The Thessalhydra!” Mike declared triumphantly.

Will jolted forward in excitement. Lucas threw his arms into the air in exasperation.

“Damn it!” Dustin groaned, folding his arms and glaring down at the seven-headed creature like it personally betrayed him by being right.

“It roars in anger!” Mike bellowed, leaning over the table, eyes locked on Will. “Will, your action!”

Will’s pulse surged. His hands fluttered uselessly over his dice. “What should I do?! I—”

“Fireball him!” Lucas said immediately, pointing at the monster like he could scorch it just by thinking hard enough.

Will looked at Dustin, searching for confirmation, their little silent tradition.

Dustin tapped his chin like a strategist in a war tent, nodded solemnly, then grinned.
“Fireball the son of a bitch.”

Will grinned back, grabbed his twenty-sided die, and rolled. The die clattered across the map, bouncing once, twice.

Mike leaned around his binder, squinting.

“Fourteen!” Dustin shouted before Mike could.

The basement erupted.

Lucas let out a full-body cheer, pumping both fists into the air. Will nearly knocked his chair over as he jumped up. Dustin grabbed his shoulders and shook him in triumph.

“BOOM!” Lucas shouted, miming an explosion with both hands.

Mike took the chaos as an invitation to launch into full performance mode.

“DIRECT HIT!” he cried. “Will the Wise’s fireball slams into the Thessalhydra!”

He stood from his chair, hunched over, and began to enact the monster’s fiery demise, limbs flailing dramatically.

“It makes a painful—RAAAAAA!” Mike roared, shaking his whole body.

Then he dropped to the carpet with a theatrical crash, landing sprawled on his back as he stared up at them. “Its clawed hand reaches for you one last time. And. And. And. And…”

He let his head fall back with a dramatic groan.

The boys exploded again, whooping and jumping in circles around the small table, high-fiving, chanting incoherent victory noises. Their celebrations filled the basement with the kind of raw, electric joy only middle schoolers playing D&D can produce.

Mike climbed back to his feet, dusting carpet fuzz off his shirt. “Lucas cuts off its seven heads,” he narrated, and Lucas made sword motions as he sat back down, “and Dustin places them into his bag of holding.”

Dustin mimed lifting an invisible sack over his shoulder and gave a solemn, victorious nod.

“You carry the heads out of the dungeon,” Mike continued, falling back into his DM voice, “victorious. And you present them to King Tristan. He thanks you for your—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, that’s not it, is it?” Dustin interrupted, hands up, squinting suspiciously.

Will and Lucas both turned to Mike with the same expression.

Mike blinked. “…There’s a medal ceremony?”

“Oh, a medal ceremony?” Dustin repeated dramatically. “What are you talking about?!”

“Yeah, man. The campaign was way too short,” Lucas said, waving his hand.

“Yeah!” Will chimed in enthusiastically.

Mike stared at them, horrified. “It was ten hours!”

“It doesn’t make any sense!” Dustin argued.

“It makes sense!”

“No! What about the lost knight?!” Dustin countered.

“And the proud princess?!” Lucas added.

“And the weird glowing flowers in the cave!” Will threw in.

“I don’t know! It’s—” Mike sputtered.

The basement door opened with a creak, cutting him off. Jonathan stepped down the stairs, sniffing dramatically.

“Jeez,” he said, grinning, “what’s that smell? You guys been playing games all day or just farting down here?”

The whole party dissolved into laughter.

“No, that’s just Dustin,” Lucas said, pointing.

Dustin turned slow, betrayed, glaring daggers. “Dude.”

“Dustin farted!” Lucas announced, already sprinting around the room as Dustin lunged after him.

“Very mature,” Dustin huffed as Lucas continued making loud, obnoxious fart noises, followed by Will snorting and Mike trying not to choke on his laughter.

Jonathan watched them for a moment, warmth softening his tired features. Then he caught Will’s eye and nodded toward the stairs. Will sighed but smiled, gathering his binder and dice.

“Bye, guys!” Will said happily, swinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“Bye, Will!” Lucas called, still swatting Dustin.

“See ya, Will,” Mike said with a soft smile.

Dustin and Lucas immediately devolved into playful smacking and wrestling, Mike watching with an amused grin.

Then he turned toward the blanket fort behind him.

And the smile vanished.

The blankets sagged where El used to sit. Her pillow was still there from the last time she’d been over. Mike’s chest tightened. He swallowed hard and looked away, blinking fast.

He wished she was here. He wished she could see all of this — their victory, their laughter, their stupid arguments. He wished she could sit around the table with them like she used to.

He wished she wasn’t gone.

—

“Hey, Nance?” Steve said softly. “I’ll be right back. I’ve just gotta do something quickly.”

Nancy looked up from where she was sitting with Karen’s wrapping paper pile, her expression brightening when she saw the small, secretive grin on Steve’s face.

“Okay,” she said knowingly. “Are you going to give him the—”

Steve’s grin widened, almost childish, and Nancy laughed. She knew exactly what he was planning.

He slipped away from her side and headed toward the foyer.

Jonathan and Will were putting on their jackets, getting ready to head home in the cold December air. Steve hesitated only for a second before stepping forward.

“Hey, Jonathan?” he said quietly. “I, um… I heard something broke when I was… gone. And I just wanted to give you a gift. As a thank you.”

He grabbed the wrapped box from the little table, holding it awkwardly in his good arm. His injured one was still stiff, still healing from everything that happened a month ago.

Jonathan blinked, caught off guard. “Uh—thank you. You really didn’t have to.”

Steve shrugged lightly. “It’s fine. Merry Christmas.”

Jonathan’s expression softened into something small and genuine. “Yeah. Merry Christmas.”

Will lifted a hand to wave at Steve as they stepped out into the chilly evening.

Steve watched the door close behind them, then glanced at the clock on the wall.

7:47 PM.

His smile slipped. Hopper should be home by now. Hopper should’ve done it.

Time to check.

Steve made his way back into the kitchen, where Karen Wheeler was pulling a batch of cookies out of the oven, the smell of sugar and cinnamon filling the warm house.

“Hi, Mrs. Wheeler,” Steve said, polite as always. “Could I maybe use your phone for a minute?”

Karen smiled instantly. “Of course you can, Steve. Use the one in the other living room, you’ll have more privacy there.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Wheeler,” he said softly, slipping into the quieter room.

He picked up the phone. His hand trembled just slightly, not from fear, but from nerves. From hope. From the weight of what he was asking Hopper to do tonight.

He dialed the cabin.

Two rings.

Then Hopper’s gruff voice rumbled through the line.

“Hello? Jim Hopper speaking.”

“Hi, Hopper. It’s Steve.” He said it out of politeness, though they both knew Hopper recognized his voice immediately.

“Yeah, I know it’s you, kid,” Hopper replied, gentle under the gruffness. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” He swallowed. “I just wanted to know if… you’ve done it?”

There was a small sigh on the other side. Tired. Heavy.

“I did, kid. I put both out there.”

Relief and dread and strange hope all tangled in Steve’s chest.

“Okay,” Steve breathed. “I just wanted to make sure.”

“Call me again when you’re about ready to leave and I’ll come pick you up, okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll be ready to leave in about 20 minutes.”

“Okay, kid. I’ll be there in 20.”

“Bye, Hopper. See you soon.”

“See ya, kid.”

The line clicked.

Steve took a quiet breath, bracing himself, then headed back into the living room. Nancy sat waiting for him, soft-eyed and warm, while Ted Wheeler snored faintly in his recliner.

Steve eased down beside her, wrapped his good arm around her shoulders, and let her lean into him. The lights from the Christmas tree glowed over both of them, soft and golden, as the muffled sounds of Lucas and Dustin wrestling downstairs drifted faintly upward.

For the first time in a long time, Steve allowed himself to feel something like peace.

—

“Hopper? Could we go check and see if she took it?” Steve asked quietly, barely three minutes after sliding into the passenger seat of Hopper’s cruiser. His voice was too hopeful, too fragile, as though the question itself might shatter if Hopper answered wrong.

Hopper didn’t look away from the road. “Kid, you know she might not have found it yet.”

“But she found the last one,” Steve insisted, frustration pushing through his exhaustion. It came out louder than he meant, his breath hitching at the sudden movement of his arm. His bandaged shoulder pulsed with a dull ache.

Hopper blew out a long sigh and flicked on his blinker, turning sharply into a random driveway so he could make a U-turn. Gravel crunched beneath the tires.

“Okay,” Hopper said, resigned. “Fine. We’ll go. But we’re not staying out there more than five minutes. Got it? You’re barely cleared to be out of bed, let alone wandering around the woods again.”

Steve nodded quickly, too quickly, wincing as the motion tugged on the healing muscles in his neck. But he smiled anyway, small and secret, staring out the window as the trees blurred past. His knee bounced with restless energy he didn’t really have.

They drove in silence for a while in that thick, charged kind of silence where both were pretending neither cared as much as they did. Hopper tapped the steering wheel. Steve kept swallowing, throat tight.

When they finally pulled off the road and into the familiar patch of dirt, Steve exhaled shakily. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

They trekked into the woods, Hopper keeping a hand lightly on Steve’s arm every time he swayed or stepped unevenly. The cold air bit at Steve’s nose, the pine needles crackled under their shoes. It felt eerie, almost sacred, returning here.

The slanted wooden box sat exactly where they’d left it.

Steve knelt slowly, carefully because sudden movements still made his vision swim and opened the lid with both hands. His fingers trembled.

He looked inside.

And froze.

Nothing. Not a note. Not a scrap. Not a crumb. Empty.

A soft, startled sound broke out of him. He turned to Hopper instinctively. Hopper’s brows rose, eyes going a little wide, his whole posture going alert.

For a moment, neither spoke. The empty box seemed to echo in the space between them.

Then Steve scrambled to his feet, pressing one hand to his bandaged side. “She—she must’ve been here. She must’ve taken it. She—Hopper, she was here.”

Hopper didn’t argue. He just glanced around the clearing, shoulders tight, scanning the trees as though she might walk out any second. “Let’s look for tracks. Anything. But stay close.”

They searched — far longer than five minutes. Hopper didn’t even bring it up again; he could see the way Steve’s eyes kept darting around, desperate, pleading. Steve’s breathing grew uneven, but he pushed himself anyway, moving branches aside, checking between roots, scanning the dirt for footprints.

Nothing.

No disturbance. No signs. No sounds.

Hopper’s expression softened. He stepped beside Steve and placed a steadying hand on his good shoulder. “Kid… I don’t think she’s here anymore.” His voice was quieter now, gentler. “We should go back home. We’ll come back tomorrow. Fresh eyes.”

Steve swallowed hard and nodded, though his chest ached with disappointment. They turned and began heading back toward the cruiser, pushing through the brush.

They only made it ten feet.

A rustle behind them cut through the quiet, a soft, shaky sound, like someone shifting their weight on frozen leaves.

Both of them turned instantly.

A small figure stood half-hidden by the trees, breathing hard. The oversized pink dress hung crookedly, the thick, worn winter jacket swallowing her narrow shoulders.

A fur hat sat low on her head, curls sticking out wildly around her cheeks.

Her face was thinner, her posture tense—like a frightened animal ready to bolt—but unmistakably, undeniably her.

Hopper froze, hat sliding off his head as his mouth fell open.

Steve stopped breathing.

The world seemed to hold still.

And then Steve whispered, voice breaking before he could stop it:

“El.”

Chapter 11: Just Seeing Him

Notes:

Here is the beginning of season 2! I'm going to make this "series" just one big long document so here is the first chapter of season 2!

“Hi. El? El? Are you there?” Mike’s voice was already shaking, even though he tried to steady it by gripping the supercom with both hands. The plastic was warm from how often he held it, how many hours he’d spent talking into it like a prayer.

“It’s me again. It’s Mike.” He swallowed, his throat tight. “It’s day three hundred fifty-one, and… today was okay, I guess. Not the best.” He let out a thin, humorless laugh. “Kinda stupid, really. I just… I miss you. I wish you were here.”

His voice cracked, and he pressed his eyes shut, willing them not to overflow. “If you’re out there, please let me know you’re okay. I know you’re not dead, but I need to know that you’re not hurt.”

Mike held the supercom to his ear, breath caught in his chest. He listened. Hard.
Only static answered him—soft, crackling, endless. The same sound he’d heard for almost a year. The same sound that had become a soundtrack to him falling asleep, waking up, doing homework, pretending everything was fine.

“El?” he whispered one more time, like maybe the softness would coax her out.

Nothing.

Defeated, he pushed the antenna down with a shaky exhale. He shifted, about to crawl out of the blanket fort he’d built in the basement for Eleven nearly a year ago, a fortress of old couch cushions and quilt walls, when—

“Mike,” a voice said in his ear.

Mike’s entire body went rigid. His lungs forgot how to work, his mouth fell open, and he sat frozen, electrified.

El.

It had to be El.

“Mike? Mike, do you copy, over?”

His stomach plummeted. Dustin.

The static cleared completely, snuffing out every spark of hope. Mike’s heart thudded painfully. He pulled the antenna up again, trying not to sound devastated.

“Yeah,” he said, voice tight. “I copy.”

“What the hell are you doing on this channel?” Dustin snapped, crackling through the com so loud Mike pulled it away from his ear.

Mike stared down at his lap, cheeks burning. “Nothing.”

“Well, Lucas and I have six bucks total,” Dustin said. “What’s your haul?”

Mike’s head shot up.

Shit.

The arcade. He completely forgot. Lucas and Dustin were going to kill him.

“S–shit! I don’t know yet!” he sputtered, scrambling upright and knocking over a pillow.

“What do you mean you don’t know yet?!” Dustin shrieked through the supercom.

Mike winced. “Hang on! Call Will!”

He slammed the antenna down and exploded out of the blanket fort like a launched projectile.

He sprinted through the basement, taking the stairs two at a time. In the kitchen, his parents and Nancy all turned their heads as he shot past like a panicked squirrel. He didn’t acknowledge them. He flew up the second set of stairs, nearly slipping, then barreled into Nancy’s room and slammed the door behind him.

He went straight for her dresser.

Drawers yanked open. Clothes flying. Fabric tossed over his shoulder and onto the floor in frantic handfuls. Nancy’s jeans, Nancy’s sweaters, a tangle of bras—he didn’t care, he didn’t even register what he was touching. He was on a mission.

Where is it, where is it, where is—

His fingers brushed smooth ceramic. Pink.

There.

Nancy’s piggy bank.

He snatched it and hopped onto her bed, jamming his thumb against the cork in the bottom. It popped out and hit the carpet. He shook the pig violently, quarters raining onto the sheets like metallic hail.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Nancy shouted.

He whipped around, startled. She stood in the doorway, jaw hanging open, eyes bulging with fury.

“I’ll pay you back!” Mike blurted, scooping two handfuls of quarters into his pockets and bolting for the door. “Bye!”

“Mike!”

He thundered down the stairs with Nancy right behind him, her footsteps slamming like gunshots.

“Mike! Mike!” Nancy shrieked.

He cut around the banister and tore through the kitchen.

“Hey! No running in the house,” Ted muttered as Mike shot past him, Karen, and Holly. None of them moved to stop him.

Nancy ignored her father entirely and sprinted right after her brother.

“What is going on?!” Karen called out, baffled.

Mike didn’t answer. He was already pushing through the back door.

He grabbed his bike, half-running, half-dragging it up the driveway. Nancy was only seconds behind him.

“Mike!” she barked, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

But he was already mounting his bike, shoving off the pavement. He pedaled hard, pumping his legs until the wind ripped at his hair and the houses blurred.

“Asshole!” Nancy yelled behind him.

Mike didn’t stop. Didn’t look back. Couldn’t.

The arcade lights glowed in his mind like a beacon. Lucas and Dustin were waiting, and Will was probably sitting awkwardly between them, pretending not to worry.

He just had to get there.

—

Steve sat cross-legged on his bed, a college essay open in front of him. His pen hovered above the paper, forgotten mid-sentence. Hopper wasn’t home. Again. That wasn’t unusual—the man practically lived at the station—but it always made the cabin feel bigger, emptier, quieter.

Too quiet.

The TV in the living room murmured faintly, channel-hopping every few seconds as if someone uncertain was holding the remote, until it landed on the plain static.

The static has become just another noise Steve had learned to tune out. It used to annoy him, making him grind his teeth until his jaw ached but he’s grown used to it.

Steve rubbed at the healed but tender scar on his arm. It still itched sometimes. His concussion healed fine, but the fracture… that had been a nightmare. The joint still cracked when he moved it wrong, a reminder of the Upside Down he couldn’t shake.

Physical therapy had helped. The infection after getting the plates and screws removed had been worse—fevers, stitches reopened, Hopper’s panicked yelling as he helped Steve back to the ER—but eventually, the muscles returned.

Most of them, at least.

The mental ones… not so much.

Tommy’s hospital visit had been the final straw. The stupid jokes. The lack of empathy. Steve saw himself in them and hated it. He’d walked away from all of it—Tommy, Carol, the hollow popularity. All of it.

He was still well known. Still respected. Just in a less arrogant, cocky way.

A small, strangled cry drifted from the living room.

Steve’s head lifted immediately.

That wasn’t the TV.

He set his papers aside and moved quietly, eyebrows laced together tightly as he eased open his bedroom door.

El sat on the floor in front of the static-filled TV, shoulders trembling. A blindfold lay limp in her lap. Blood trickled slowly from one nostril. She didn’t wipe it. She never did.
Steve’s face softened.

“Hey,” he said gently, stepping into the room. “Mike again?”

El squeezed her eyes shut and nodded, her breathing uneven.

“Says day is okay,” she murmured in her clipped, careful way. “Not best. Miss me.” She looked up at Steve, her eyes big and warm and hurting. “Needs me.”

Steve exhaled. He wished he could give her what she wanted. He wished the world was safer. He wished she wasn’t stuck in hiding like a ghost.

“Do you want me to check on him?” he offered quietly.

El’s eyes flickered—hope, then fear, then pleading.

“El… you know you can’t.” Steve rubbed her back. “I wish I could bring you to see him, I really do—”

“Do it.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“Bring me to Mike.” Her voice didn’t waver. “Don’t need to talk. Just see him.”

Steve stared at her. Thought of the risks. Thought of her loneliness. Thought of Mike talking into static for nearly a year.

She just wanted proof. To see with her own eyes that her friends were alive and okay.

“Well…” Steve sighed. “We could make that work. If he doesn’t see you. If you don’t talk to him.” He held his finger up. “And if Hopper doesn’t find out.”

El’s eyes lit up, absolutely beaming. She lunged forward and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing tight. Steve stumbled but hugged her back, laughing under his breath.

“But you gotta promise to keep it a secret,” he said.

“Se-cret?” she echoed.

“A secret is something you don’t tell anyone. We keep it just between us. It's a promise not to say.”

El nodded firmly. “Promise.”

Steve ruffled her curls. “Good. Now how about Eggos and a bad soap opera?”

El clapped softly and followed him into the kitchen. Steve opened a box—one of the many stacked like golden bricks in their freezer—and dropped two waffles into the toaster. El sat on the couch, flipping through channels until she landed on a melodramatic scene: James clutching Dorine’s hands, declaring undying love with tears streaming dramatically.

Steve chuckled.

Then—

A noise. Outside.

A crack. A shift. A shadow passing too close.

Steve froze, every muscle in his back going rigid. His eyes snapped toward the windows. His brain flashed between here and the Upside Down—tendrils, darkness, something breathing behind him. Its breath creeping down his neck—

The toaster popped.

Steve jerked violently, almost knocking it over.

He sucked in a shaky breath, grounding himself. He was in the kitchen, which was in the cabin, which was in the real world.

He grabbed the Eggos and forced himself to walk normally back to the couch. He handed El her waffle.

She smiled at him, that soft, trusting little smile, and Steve’s pulse slowed.

He sat beside her, finally letting himself breathe as the soap opera played on.

James and Dorine fell into each other dramatically, and for a moment, the world outside felt just a little less dangerous.

—

Steve yawned hard as he woke up to a light and an almost reluctant knocking on his bedroom door. His eyes drooped shut again out of protest, and he sprawled his arm over his face, letting out another weak groan. His body still felt heavy and thick with sleep, warm under the blankets—and he might’ve gone right back under if not for the voice that followed.

“Kid? You’ve gotta get ready for school. Me and El are making Eggos and cereal, so it’s your pick.” Hopper’s familiar, gruff call came through the door, muffled but unmistakable.

Footsteps retreated down the hall, slow and heavy, and Steve exhaled as he pushed himself upright. The blankets slid off his chest and pooled around his waist. His room was cool from the night, just dim morning light seeping through the curtains. Steve rubbed a hand down his face before finally swinging his legs out of bed with a faint shiver.

He moved to his dresser, pulling out a burgundy collared shirt with white stripes—the one that made his hair look a little more golden in the light—and a normal pair of jeans. Socks, belt, the essentials. He gathered the little pile in his arms, grabbed his Farrah Fawcett spray, and padded down the hall to the bathroom.

The hot shower felt like a shock at first, then a slow thaw. Steam fogged up the mirror, and Steve leaned his forehead against the shower wall for a moment longer than he needed to, letting the water run through his hair and down his neck. By the time he stepped out, the bathroom smelled faintly of citrus soap and his signature spray. He brushed his teeth while still half-asleep, then did the sacred four puffs into his damp hair—precisely four, always—fluffing it with his fingers before it set.

Once he was dressed and awake enough to function, he headed back to his room, tossed his pajamas onto the bed in a lazy ball, and returned the can of spray to its place on the dresser. Then he followed the sound of clinking forks and Hopper’s rumbling voice toward the kitchen.

El and Hopper were already seated, El with a neat little tower of Eggos drowned in syrup, Hopper with a large bowl of Life cereal that looked more like a mountain. Steve smiled faintly at the scene—domestic, chaotic, familiar.

“Hey, Steve,” Hopper greeted around a mouthful of cereal.

Steve stepped forward—but felt something crinkle under his foot. He frowned and glanced down to find a white sheet of paper lying near the table leg. He bent down, picked it up, and blinked at it, confused.

Before he could ask, El glanced up at him, deadpan. “Halfway happy.”

Steve… had no idea what that meant. He shrugged, dropped the sheet back onto the floor, and moved to make himself a bowl of cereal. He poured, stirred, and took his seat at their small folding table, the legs squeaking slightly as he sat down. The warmth of being part of a morning routine—not alone, not ignored—settled somewhere soft in his chest.

Hopper watched him for a moment, chewing thoughtfully, before clearing his throat. “So, I have a quick question for you, Steve.”

Steve looked up mid-bite, eyebrows raised. “Sure. Ask away.”

Hopper set his spoon down, leaning back just slightly. “Joyce called me this morning. Said Will had another one of his… episodes. Just wondering if anything happened last night.”

Steve felt his body go rigid before he forced himself to relax, his expression smoothing over instinctively—learned behavior that was embedded deep. His eyes widened in concern, though, at least that part wasn’t a lie.

“No, nothing happened… but is he okay?”

Steve’s voice was steady. The lie slipped out so easily it barely felt like one, just… autopilot. Years of practice. Years of necessity after living with the Harringtons.

“Yeah, Will’s okay,” Hopper reassured, and El visibly relaxed. “But Joyce is taking him to the lab just to be sure.”

Steve nodded, pushing a piece of cereal around with his spoon. He hated the lab. Will hated the lab more. But if Joyce thought it was necessary…

Hopper continued, voice softer now, almost careful. “Will already gets really anxious when he has to go. He seems to stay calmer when you go too. So I was wondering if you could come with us?”

Steve felt a tug in his chest—responsibility, affection, protectiveness. A hundred things at once.

“Yeah, I’ll come. What time?”

That earned him a small, ghostlike smile from Hopper—one he only gave when he was relieved or genuinely grateful.

“Joyce said 12:30. I’ll call the school and let them know you’re leaving early. I’m guessing you want to drive yourself?”

Steve nodded, smiling. “Yeah. Thanks, Hop. I’ll be there.”

Hopper and El both seemed subtly lighter at that, and breakfast carried on quietly but comfortably.

—

Later, Steve tugged on his blue jacket with the soft collar and frayed edges before getting ready to head out. He told El he’d be home late, and she nodded in that calm, knowing way she had. Steve unlocked the ridiculous number of locks on the cabin door, balancing his keys and bag which was stuffed with his college essay, textbooks, and homework he was convinced he’d probably bomb again.

He stepped outside, shut the door behind him, and carefully crossed over the tripwire before the forest swallowed him in its chilly morning air. He got maybe fifteen feet before he heard the cabin door slam again.

“Hey! Kid!”

Steve turned, confused, as Hopper jogged toward him, slightly out of breath and definitely not dressed for work yet.

“Hi, Hop…? What’re you doing? I thought you didn’t have work until eight.”

Hopper shook his head, slowing as he reached him. “That’s not what I came out here for.” His voice was different—lower, more serious. “I really need to know something.”

Steve’s stomach dipped.

Hopper took a breath. “I’ve gotten to know you over the past year. And I need you to trust me and tell me the truth.”

Steve swallowed, hard. He kept his face neutral, but his pulse jumped.

“Did anything happen last night at about eight? It doesn’t have to be a… flashback. Could’ve been you heard something, saw something in the woods. Did you?”

Steve hesitated.

He trusted Hopper. He really did.

But trusting someone and burdening them were two different things.

And Steve knew he was a burden.

“No. Nothing happened.” His voice didn’t waver. “If something did, I would’ve told you. I promise.”

Hopper searched his face for a long second. Then he gave a small smile, one of acceptance, or maybe belief, or maybe hope, and patted his shoulder.

“Okay, kid. I’ll see you at 12:30. I already called the school, so get going.”

Steve nodded, turned, and started walking again. But after several steps, he froze and turned back around.

“Hopper?”

The chief paused on the cabin stairs. “Yeah, kid?”

Steve opened his mouth, heart hammering, mind weighing whether to say the truth.
But the learned instinct won.

“Uh… bye.”

Hopper’s expression softened. “Bye, kid. See you soon.”

They both turned away again, going in opposite directions, the forest swallowing the space between them.

Steve exhaled shakily as he reached his car. He gripped the door handle, pausing, guilt and doubt twisting in his stomach.

“You made the right decision, Harrington,” he muttered under his breath. “Hopper has enough on his mind. He doesn’t need your problems.”

He climbed inside, started the engine, and drove off toward school, the lie settling like a stone in his chest.

—

- August 17, 1984 -

Dustin was scanning the shelves for a book about NASA’s space shuttle program—something thick, something with diagrams he could drag Mike and Lucas into later—when he spotted Steve Harrington sitting alone at one of the small wooden tables near the back of the library.

Steve wasn’t lounging like usual, or half-asleep, or flipping his hair at a girl. No, he was hunched forward, scribbling furiously on a piece of lined notebook paper. His jaw was tight, brow furrowed, lips pressed together like whatever he was writing was either really important or really stressful.

Dustin paused mid-step, clutching two encyclopedias awkwardly to his chest. It was weird seeing Steve in a library at all, let alone looking like he was solving a physics equation or writing a manifesto. Dustin glanced around before cautiously approaching, the rubber soles of his sneakers squeaking faintly on the waxed floor.

“Hey,” Dustin offered, voice cracking just slightly out of nerves.

Steve looked up immediately. His eyes softened when he saw who it was, and some of the tension in his shoulders released.

“Hi,” he replied, giving a quick smile before starting to look back down at his paper.
Dustin panicked.

“How are you?” he blurted out way too loudly.

Steve’s head jerked back up, blinking like he’d been slapped—not in a bad way, just in a why is a middle schooler asking about my emotional state kind of way.

“Uh… I’m good,” Steve said carefully. “How about you?”

Dustin ignored the question completely, his brain already moving on to the real reason he’d approached.

“Can I talk to you about the… whole… um…” He looked around dramatically, even though no one was close enough to overhear. Then he leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper. “Upside Down thing?”

Steve’s smile twitched into something real, warm in a quiet way. “If it’s safe,” he said softly, “then I guess so.”

Dustin nodded eagerly.

They navigated through the library, weaving past tall bookshelves and hushed groups of high school students, until they reached one of the small private study rooms in the back. Steve shut the door behind them, and Dustin hopped onto one of the chairs, dropping his backpack onto the table with a thud.

They talked for a while—longer than Dustin expected. Steve listened intently as Dustin explained what he and the others had learned, nodding in all the right places, asking questions Dustin didn’t expect someone like Steve to think of. It felt strangely easy, natural even.

And then Dustin’s mind drifted.

“Did anyone tell you about Eleven?” he asked suddenly.

Steve’s expression shifted—something complicated, uncomfortable flickered across his face. He leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Yeah, I mean… not very much.” Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “Hopper told me what she did, but he didn’t really… know her. Not like you all did. What was she like?”

Dustin felt something warm and sad bloom in his chest. He couldn’t even say El’s name without it tugging at him.

“Well,” he started, voice softening, “she didn’t really know a lot of English words, but she was really nice. Mike started calling her ‘El,’ short for Eleven, and I honestly thought it fit her perfectly.”

Steve listened, elbows on the table, giving Dustin his full attention.

“I really liked her,” Dustin continued. “But Lucas didn’t trust her at first. He called her a freak, but—well, you know—” Dustin shrugged loosely, “I guess us freaks gotta stick together.”

That earned a gentle snort from Steve.

Dustin went on—about the compass mission, the vans, the walkie talkies, the way El could flip a two-ton van with her mind. About her eating Eggos like an addict. About how her nose bled every time she used her powers. About the way she disappeared.

He talked for twenty straight minutes without realizing it, his hands waving wildly, his words spilling out like a dam had broken. He wasn’t even sure Steve blinked during most of it.

Finally, Dustin caught himself mid-sentence—“and then she, uh, exploded the monster, and Mike was crying, but she—” and he stopped short.

“Oh God.” He slapped a hand over his mouth. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to ramble.”

Steve shook his head, smiling in that soft, tired way he had when something genuinely mattered to him. “It’s fine. It was really… nice, actually. Talking to you about all this shit.”

Dustin grinned—bright, toothy, genuine—until he glanced at the clock mounted above the door.

His soul left his body.

“Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. My mom is going to kill me!”

He jumped from the chair, scrambling to gather every book he’d touched in the last hour, stuffing them into his backpack at random angles. Papers stuck out the sides. The zipper caught twice. He started muttering to himself in rapid-fire panic.

“Hey,” Steve said, but Dustin didn’t hear a single word.

“Hey,” Steve tried again, louder.

Still nothing.

“HEY!” Steve finally barked, clapping his hands directly in front of Dustin’s face.
Dustin froze like a startled raccoon.

Steve raised one eyebrow. “I can drive you back to your house, shithead.”

Dustin blinked. Then his entire face lit up again.

“Really?!”

Steve shrugged with that signature ‘Hair Harrington’ confidence, even if he didn’t fully mean it. “Why not? I should get going anyway. Come on.”

The two grabbed their bags, left the little private room, and stepped back into the quiet library before heading out into the chilly afternoon air.

They climbed into Steve’s car—Dustin practically vibrating with relief and excitement—and with that, an unlikely friendship, an unspoken alliance, a brotherhood, really… began.

Chapter 12: MADMAX

“It’s crap, I know,” Steve muttered, the words pushed out on a breath that sounded more like defeat than anything else. The good-natured confidence he’d carried all morning evaporated the longer Nancy flipped through the pages of his essay. He watched her eyes track line by line, but she stayed silent—and silence from Nancy Wheeler was never, ever good.

Steve slumped deeper into the driver’s seat of his car, staring out the passenger window as if the pine trees outside could somehow save him from embarrassment. The late afternoon sun hit the glass, reflecting a faint outline of himself: tired eyes, bruising still faint under them, hair messier than usual. Great. Perfect. College essay crisis on top of everything else.

“No, it’s not crap,” Nancy finally said, lifting her head.

Steve didn’t even blink. He just stared at her, unimpressed. “Nance, you’re literally the worst liar.”

Nancy’s cheeks puffed slightly as she fought a guilty wince. She looked back down at the stack of papers, flipping between the staples, throat bobbing before she forced a smile.

“‘S not good,” Steve repeated, voice low, resigned.

“But it will be.” Nancy perked up, pushing her shoulders back the way she did when she was trying to convince both someone else and herself. “It just needs… some reorganizing.”

Steve met her eyes. Brown on blue. He didn’t say a word, just stared long enough that Nancy’s smile wobbled and she gave a tiny cringe. He sighed—long, loud, and hopeless.

“Can I mark on it?” she asked, voice soft, almost shy.

Steve shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess.”

Nancy dug into her backpack, pulled out one of her pens (one of the ones with the neat clean black ink she preferred over blue), uncapped it, and leaned over the pages.

“So, in the first paragraph, you… um, you use the basketball game versus Northern as a metaphor for your life. Which is great!” She underlined the sentence with a swish of ink. “It’s actually a really strong opening.”

Steve blinked, hopeful for a split second, nodding.

“But then… here.” Nancy circled a sentence toward the bottom of the page. “You jump to talking about your grandfather’s experiences in the war.”

She trailed off, scanning the sentence again. From the side, Steve watched her throat tighten as she searched for a gentle way to say 'what the hell is this transition?'

“And… uh… I just don’t really see how they’re connected?” Nancy admitted, looking up.

“They’re connected because…” Steve lifted his hand, tapping his chin like he was deep in thought—even though his brain was utterly blank. “Because… they both won?”

Nancy bit her lip, stifling a laugh, and turned back to the page as Steve’s cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“Do you think I should start from scratch?” he asked, bracing himself for the answer he already knew but desperately didn’t want to hear.

“No!” Nancy said quickly—too quickly. “I mean… no, I think you can fix it. It just needs… help. Um. A lot of help.”

Steve groaned internally. Perfect. Wonderful. Fantastic.

Nancy cleared her throat. “When’s the deadline?”

“Tomorrow. For early applications.” Steve shifted in his seat, rubbing his palms along his jeans. “Can you come and help me tonight?”

He said it before his brain remembered—

“No, Steve. We have our dinner tonight. Remember?” Nancy reminded him gently.

Steve’s entire body deflated. He collapsed back into the seat like a dying plant. “Oh. My god.”

“We already cancelled last week,” Nancy added softly, wincing.

Steve dropped his head against the headrest and made a strangled, frustrated sound. A noise that fully conveyed 'I am losing my mind.'

“You don’t have to come,” Nancy said quickly. “Just—just—”

“No. No.” Steve grabbed the papers, crumpling them into a ball so tight his knuckles went white. “What’s the point?”

“Steve,” Nancy murmured, calm but firm, “let’s take a breath.”

“I am calm.” He wasn’t. “I’m calm, I’m just—being honest, okay?”

Nancy watched him, worried.

“I’m just gonna end up working at some shitty place around here,” Steve continued, voice wobbling between sarcasm and something sadder. “Like, that’s it. That’s the whole picture.”

“That’s not true,” Nancy countered immediately.

“But is that such a bad thing?” Steve mumbled, eyebrows furrowed. He looked down at the crumpled ball of paper in his hands. “I mean… if I did get a job here, then I could be around for your senior year.”

Nancy’s face softened. A tiny smile appeared—small but real.

“Steve…”

“Just to look after you,” he added, the words spilling out before he had time to second-guess them. “Make sure you don’t forget about this pretty face.”

Nancy laughed—an honest laugh—and looked out the windshield, shy warmth glowing in her cheeks.

“Nancy, I’m serious,” Steve whispered.

She turned her head, and their eyes locked. Slowly, almost nervously, they leaned in. Their lips met, soft and warm and familiar. Steve kissed her with a kind of desperation, like she was the only good thing he was absolutely sure he hadn’t screwed up.

When they pulled apart, Steve smiled with his entire face.

“I love you,” he said—quiet but certain.

Nancy’s smile bloomed. “I love you too.”

They sat there, lost in each other, until—

A sharp rev of an engine cut through the quiet.

Both of them jerked their heads up, scanning the almost-empty Hawkins High parking lot.

A blue Camaro tore into the lot at a speed that would’ve gotten anyone else instantly suspended. Tires screeched. Dust flew. The California license plate glinted under the cloudy Indiana sky.

Steve and Nancy exchanged a look. California? That was… weird. People didn’t come here from there.

The passenger door swung open. A girl—maybe 13—jumped out, fiery red hair flying in every direction, skateboard tucked under one arm. She kicked off, rolling fast toward the middle school without looking back.

Then the driver stepped out.

Blond curls. Mullet. Denim jacket. Muscles for days. And yeah—one hell of an objectively impressive ass. People in the lot stopped to stare—half shocked, half curious, some outright drooling. Carol, who’d dumped Tommy for the tenth time that month (before first period), audibly gasped.

“Jesus…” Nancy whisper-breathed.

Steve nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

They reached back into Steve’s car at the same time, grabbed their bags, and shouldered them. Still staring at the new guy as he strutted toward the school like the main character in a movie.

Together, they walked toward Hawkins High.

—

Steve suffered through the school day like normal, though “normal” had been a relative term ever since November. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton half the time, like every hallway was too bright and too loud, and every sudden noise made something tighten in his chest. He’d gotten good at hiding it — leaning against lockers, shoulders loose, smile casual — but it was an exhausting performance.

He checked the clock every fifteen minutes. By fourth period he was practically counting down the seconds until lunch, and by lunch he was just counting down until he could go home and sleep off the headache starting behind his eyes.

At exactly noon, the intercom crackled.

“Steve Harrington, please report to the office for early dismissal. Steve Harrington.”

A few kids turned in their seats. Steve immediately shoved his books into his bag in one motion, more than ready to leave. The stiffness in his ribs from the bat attack ached as he stood, but he ignored it and forced himself to jog down the hall like everything was fine.

He made a detour to his locker, spinning the combination quickly. Papers, a textbook, and Tina’s obnoxiously glittery invitation to her Halloween bash all went into his backpack. He slammed the locker shut, shouldered the bag, and took off toward the office with a quiet sigh of relief.

He signed himself out at the front desk, scribbling his name so fast the signature barely counted. He was already halfway to the door when the secretary’s voice caught him.

“Steve?”

He froze mid-step, jaw clenching just slightly. He turned around.

“Yeah?”

“The Chief of Police called about ten minutes ago,” she said, adjusting her glasses. “He asked that you drive down to the station. He’ll take you to your appointment.”

The annoyance stung immediately — sharp, hot, childish in a way Steve hated. He forced a smile.

“Thanks for letting me know, but I really should get going,” he said, edging backward toward the entrance. The second she looked back down at her paperwork, Steve slipped outside.

Cold air hit him, waking him up a little as he headed for the BMW. He yanked open the driver’s side door and tossed his bag into the passenger seat with more force than necessary.

Did Hopper seriously not think he could handle this? It wasn’t like Steve was some helpless kid. He’d survived the Upside Down. He’d fought a goddamn monster. He could drive himself to a post-trauma checkup.

With a full-bodied, dramatic eye roll at the universe, Steve sank into the seat, shut the door, and stuffed the key into the ignition. The engine rumbled alive. He backed out of the school parking lot, hands tight on the steering wheel, and headed straight for the Hawkins Police Station.

—

“Hop, why? I thought we agreed that I was driving myself!” Steve burst out the second Hopper turned onto the road. His voice cracked the way it always did when he was pissed but trying not to sound pissed.

Hopper didn’t react, didn’t snap back. He just gave a rough sigh through his nose and kept his hands steady on the wheel.

Steve knew why he was mad. He knew it too well. He hated being treated like he couldn’t take care of himself — hated when people hovered, when they assumed he’d break. He was seventeen, turning eighteen in a few weeks. Practically an adult. He didn’t need a babysitter.

“Kid, calm down. I’m not trying to piss you off,” Hopper said finally, keeping his tone low, measured. “I just wanted to take a few extra precautions.”

Steve huffed, folding his arms across his chest like he was trying to hold in the storm of emotions clawing around inside him. He turned to stare out the window, teeth grinding quietly. He didn’t respond.

They drove in silence for a while, passing the familiar corners of Hawkins — the gas station, the empty football field, the stretch of woods that always seemed darker now.
Hopper glanced at him again.

“Steve,” he said, softer this time. “I get that you want to be treated like an adult. And you deserve that. But Dr. Owens said it’d be best if someone drove you in — just to be safe. Everyone’s just trying to look out for you.”

His voice had that weary honest edge that made it hard for Steve to stay angry. Slowly, Steve looked back at him. The tension in his jaw eased. His chest loosened.

The guilt hit a second later, heavy and uncomfortable. Hopper wasn’t trying to control him. He was trying to help him. And Steve had been… well, kind of a brat.

He lowered his head, sighing quietly.

God, he was acting like a total shit.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but Hopper beat him to it.

“Don’t apologize, kid.” Hopper said without looking away from the road. “I get it. I really do. Just… know I’m gonna be here if you ever need to talk to somebody. Or yell at somebody. Or… whatever.”

Steve blinked, startled by how gentle the words were — how earnest. His lips lifted into a small smile, something warm settling behind his ribs.

“Thanks, Hop,” he said quietly.

Hopper reached over, gave his leg a firm, reassuring pat — the kind that didn’t make Steve feel weak, just… supported.

“Sure, kid.”

The rest of the drive stretched out easy, quieter. The kind of quiet that didn’t hurt.

—

“Hey, Will.” Steve greeted lightly as Joyce’s station wagon rolled to a stop and both she and Will stepped out. Will offered a small, polite smile—one of those thin-lipped, slightly forced ones that never quite reached his eyes. The kid looked pale, bundled in a jacket a little too big for him.

“Hey, buddy,” Hopper added warmly, shutting the door of his cruiser. Will gave a half-eye-roll, not disrespectful, just… tired. Like he’d heard the same greeting a thousand times and wasn’t sure how to react to it anymore.

Steve bit back a grin at the interaction and fell into step beside them, letting Hopper and Joyce lead the way. Hopper subtly moved, stepping behind Joyce so Steve naturally ended up walking next to Will.

Will’s hands were shoved deep into his jacket pockets, shoulders tight and hunched. Steve could hear it—the soft, continuous pop-pop-pop of knuckles cracking under pressure. Will always did that when he was anxious, like he had too much electricity built up inside him and needed somewhere to put it.

Steve brushed Will’s arm with the back of his hand, gentle. Just enough to let him know he wasn’t alone.

Will glanced up, eyes glassy with nerves. Steve gave him a lopsided, goofy grin—the one guaranteed to make at least one Wheeler or Henderson roll their eyes.

Sure enough, Will brightened. A real smile, this time. Small but genuine.
But the second the lab doors hissed open, swallowing them inside with that sterile chemical smell and too-bright lighting, Will’s smile evaporated like it had never been there at all.

—

They were led through a series of bland hallways into a small, neutral-colored room with two beds, a few chairs, and a counter covered in medical equipment. A nurse immediately approached Will.

“Will? We’ll get your vitals before the doctor comes in.”

Joyce hovered close, wringing her hands. Hopper stayed solidly behind her like a guardrail.

Another nurse appeared at Steve’s elbow.

“Hi, Steve,” she said warmly, like she’d already seen him a dozen times. And she had. Every time Will was brought in, Steve was too—because the Upside Down didn’t leave its marks on just one person.

“Vitals,” Steve muttered with a tight little sigh, but he followed her to the room next door without protest.

He sat on the exam table. The paper crinkled loudly under him.

“Please lift your tongue,” the nurse instructed, sliding the thermometer into place. Steve obeyed, jaw sore from clenching in anticipation he didn’t admit to.

She wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm. It squeezed tight, too tight, and Steve’s breath stuttered for a second before he forced his shoulders down. He hated the cuff more than the thermometer; it made him feel trapped, pinned, held in place.

The nurse checked the results, scribbled on a chart, and waved him back toward the larger exam room.

When Steve stepped back inside, Will was already sitting on the hospital bed. Electrodes covered his temples and forehead, wires dangling like strange mechanical vines. He looked so small like that, so breakable. Joyce hovered at his side, rubbing slow circles on his back.

Steve drifted automatically to Hopper’s side. Hopper glanced over and offered him a small nod, the kind that meant ‘you’re good, kid.’ Steve exhaled quietly in return.
Every few seconds Will’s gaze flicked to Steve. And every time, Steve gave him a reassuring smile—gentle, steady, as if silently saying ‘I’m here. You’re okay.’

Finally, the door swung open.

Doctor Sam Owens swept into the room, cheerful as always.

“Sir Will!” Owens greeted grandly, as if announcing royalty. “How are ‘ya?”

Will gave a tiny shrug.

Owens turned to the others, gesturing politely. “Mom. Pop. Brother.”

Hopper and Steve exchanged a quick, bewildered look. ‘Brother?’ They both mouthed it almost simultaneously. Joyce stifled a chuckle.

Owens took a seat beside Will’s bed, flipping through a sheaf of papers and rolling closer on the small wheeled stool.

“Let’s take a look here, hmm?” he murmured. “Ah—I see you shaved off a pound since last time we saw you. Making room for Halloween candy?”

Will exhaled like the weight of the world rested on his small shoulders. “I guess.”

Owens didn’t let up. “Favorite candy? Desert island candy if you had to pick one.”

“I don’t know.” Will murmured, clearly not appreciating Dr. Owens.

“Come on,” Owens pressed further, “Life or death situation, what would you pick?”

Steve caught Joyce subtly mouthing a suggestion at her son. Will’s eyes flicked to her, then back to Owens.

“Reese’s Pieces,” he said softly.

“Good call. Good call.” Owens nodded approvingly. “I’m a Mounds guy, myself.”

“Clearly,” Steve muttered under his breath before he could stop himself.

Hopper elbowed him sharply, though a grin tugged at his mouth. ‘Behave,’ the elbow said. ‘Funny,’ the smile said.

Owens, oblivious, kept going. “But yes, peanut butter and chocolate—hard combo to beat.”

He set Will’s file aside and leaned forward slightly.

“All right, Will. Tell me about this episode you had?”

Will’s fingers twisted in the gown on his lap.

“Well… my friends were there. And then they just weren’t. And then I was just… back there again.”

Owens’s voice gentled. “In the Upside Down?”

The words made Steve’s stomach tighten. Hopper must’ve noticed because his hand came to rest between Steve’s shoulder blades, grounding him. A silent reminder, ‘you’re here, not there.’

Will nodded.

“Alright, so what happened next?” Owens prompted.

“I heard this noise,” Will murmured. “So I went outside. And it was worse.”

“How was it worse?” Owens asked, leaning in.

“There was this… storm.”

A sharp beep from the EEG made Steve’s eyes snap over. Will’s brain activity spikes tore across the paper in jagged waves.

Owens kept his voice calm. “How did you feel when you saw the storm?”

“I felt… frozen.” Something in Will’s tone had changed. It was flat, distant. Like he was reporting from somewhere very far away.

Steve shifted again, and Hopper’s hand steadied him with slow circles.

“Heart racing?” Owens asked gently.

“Just frozen.”

“Frozen, cold frozen? Frozen to the touch?”

“No,” Will whispered. “Like how you feel when you’re scared and you can’t breathe or talk or do anything.”

Joyce’s face twisted in pain. Hopper’s jaw tightened. Steve swallowed hard.

Will kept going.

“I felt… I felt this evil. Like it was looking at me.”

The EEG lines spiked again, frantic little hills.

“It was evil?” Owens echoed softly. “Well, what do you think the evil wanted?”

Will’s eyes went dark and empty in a way that didn’t belong on a child.

“To kill.”

Owens paused. “To kill you?”

Will didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just stared past him, into some memory only he could see.
“Not me.”

Owens’s gaze flicked immediately to Steve. A silent question.

Steve’s stomach dropped.

“Steve?” Owens prompted carefully.

Will didn’t even look at him.

“Not me,” he repeated, voice hollow. “Everyone else.”

The room went impossibly still.

Steve felt the chill all the way to his bones.

—

Will and Steve sat shoulder-to-shoulder on the narrow wooden bench outside Dr. Owens’ office, beneath a flickering fluorescent light that buzzed faintly overhead. The waiting area smelled like antiseptic and old paper—too clean, too quiet. Down the hall, a cart rolled by with a squeak, but otherwise everything felt frozen.

Will’s feet didn’t even touch the floor. He swung them idly, toes scuffing the bench leg in soft, rhythmic taps. His head hung low, chin tucked almost to his chest.

Steve, hands pressed between his thighs, watched the kid out of the corner of his eye. Will looked like he wanted to disappear.

Steve nudged him gently with the back of his hand and gave a small, lopsided smile. Then he patted Will’s leg—just a light press.

Will lifted his head, those big dark eyes meeting Steve’s like he was surfacing for air.
“You okay?” Steve asked, voice soft, warm. He didn’t want to spook him.

“Yeah.” Will looked down again, shoulders hunching. “I just don’t want to be here.”

Steve snorted knowingly. “Yeah, I get that. Medical places suck. All the needles and wires and the weird hospital smell.”

That earned the tiniest grin.

Steve leaned back against the wall. “Hey, I’m guessing you’re going trick-or-treating tomorrow night?”

Will perked up just enough to look at him again. The smile returned—shy but real.
“Yeah. We have a whole plan. Dustin mapped it out. Max said the Wheeler’s neighborhood gives full-size bars, so we’re starting there—”

Steve grinned, listening as Will animatedly explained their route: which streets they’d hit, who was dressing as what, which houses to avoid because last year they gave out raisins. Will talked fast, words tumbling out, excitement mixing with leftover nerves.

But then mid-sentence, his voice faltered. His smile just… dropped.

Steve noticed immediately. He leaned in. “Hey, hey. Why’re you upset?”

Will’s shoulders curled inward. “It’s dumb,” he muttered.

“It’s not dumb,” Steve said instantly.

“My mom’s making Jonathan come,” Will sighed. The annoyance in his voice cracked a little, like it was resting on top of something heavier.

Steve forced a reassuring grin. “That’s not dumb at all. But who knows—maybe he’ll let you go just with your friends. Or maybe he’ll hang back a—”

The office door creaked open before he could finish.

Joyce stepped out, her face tired and red around the eyes. Hopper followed behind her, looking heavier than when he went in. No one said anything. They didn’t have to—Steve could read the truth on their faces.

He gave Will’s knee a quick squeeze before they all stood.

—

“What’d he say?” Steve asked the second he and Hopper were out through the lab’s gate, walking back toward Hopper’s cruiser. The late afternoon air felt colder, sharper, like the lab had drained color from everything.

“What?” Hopper asked, pretending to act casual but sounding too distracted.

“Doctor Owens. What did he say about Will?” Steve demanded, eyebrows pulled together.
Hopper rubbed his jaw. “He said… it’s gonna get worse before it gets better.”

Steve’s stomach turned.

“He said Will’s gonna have more episodes. More PTSD symptoms. And then”—Hop’s voice softened—“he’ll hopefully get better.”

Steve nodded, jaw tight. He looked out the window as Hopper drove, watching Hawkins blur by—telephone poles, bare trees, small houses with jack-o’-lanterns already lit on their porches.

But his mind wasn’t on the decorations or the approaching holiday.

It was on Will’s voice. The deadness in it. The certainty.

‘Not me. Everyone else.’

Steve’s chest tightened.

“I don’t think Will’s episodes are in his head,” Steve blurted. The words burst out like he couldn't hold them back any longer.

Hopper’s head jerked slightly in surprise. His eyes widened, and for a moment he didn’t even blink.

“What?” Hopper asked quietly, the tone so controlled it was almost dangerous.

“Will’s episodes,” Steve repeated, voice firmer. “They’re real.”

Hop stared at him in disbelief. “How do you know that, kid?”

“Didn’t you hear the way he talked about it?! It wasn’t made-up. He wasn’t confused. He was describing it like… like he was really standing there again. He couldn’t have invented that.”

Hopper gripped the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles turned white.

Steve kept going, breath picking up. “I don’t believe Owens. He’s trying to calm Joyce down. But Will—Will was in it. And whatever he saw? It was looking back.”

Hopper didn’t answer. Instead, his jaw clenched hard enough that Steve heard the faint grind of his teeth. He just kept driving, staring straight ahead, as the silence settled over the car like fog.

Steve knew that silence. It wasn’t dismissal.

It was fear.

—

Back at the station, Hopper parked and clapped a heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder before heading inside. Steve slung his bag over his shoulder and walked back to his car.

“I’m picking Nancy up,” he told Hopper through the open cruiser door. “We’re going to the Hollands’ for dinner. I won’t be back ‘til at least 9:30 or 10.”

Hopper grunted in acknowledgment. “Drive safe.”

Steve nodded, slid into his car, and pulled away from the station.

By the time he reached the Wheelers’, the sky had deepened into a soft purple, the neighborhood glowing with porch lights and leaf piles. He parked in front of the house, cut the engine, and hopped out, brushing his hands on his jeans before heading up the driveway.

He knocked.

It took only a minute before Karen Wheeler opened the door, face warm and pleasant like always. Steve couldn’t help but smile back.

“Steve! It’s nice to see you again,” Karen greeted with her soft, motherly voice.

“Hi, Mrs. Wheeler,” Steve said politely. “It’s good to see you too. Is Nancy here? I’m picking her up.”

“She’s upstairs. Come in, dear.” Karen stepped aside with that gracious Wheeler-mom air. “I made some cookies—they’re still cooling, but go ahead and have one. I’ll go get Nancy.”

Steve walked toward the kitchen and eyed the cookies—soft, golden, perfect. A little steaming even. The Wheeler house always felt warm in a way his own home never had. Lived-in. Cared for.

He wished, not for the first time, that he’d grown up in a place like this. A mom who baked. A house that smelled like vanilla. Someone who asked where he was going and when he’d be back because they actually wanted to know.

He picked up a cookie absentmindedly, still warm from the tray.

Footsteps came down the stairs.

“Hi, Steve.” Nancy appeared in the doorway, dressed nicely for dinner. She gave him a small kiss on the cheek.

Steve smiled. “Yup. Let’s get going.”

Karen descended the stairs behind her daughter and offered another sweet smile. “Bye, mom,” Nancy called.

“Bye, Mrs. Wheeler,” Steve echoed politely.

They were nearly out the door when Karen’s voice called after them.

“Wait, Nancy!”

They both stopped. Nancy turned halfway back. “What?”

“What time will you be home?” Karen asked in that careful, mother-knows-best tone.

Nancy shrugged casually. “I don’t know. Nine or nine-thirty. But I’ll see you when I get back.”

Karen nodded, satisfied.

“Okay, bye you two.”

Steve gave her one last smile before stepping outside with Nancy, the door clicking shut behind them.

—

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t get to cook,” Marsha said, her voice a little too bright, a little too brittle as the four of them sat around the Holland dining table. The awkward tension in the room was so thick it felt humid, like it was clinging to Steve’s skin. Marsha had arranged the KFC buckets and sides neatly on the table as if placement alone could make the fast food feel less like a failure.

“I was going to make that baked ziti you guys liked so much,” she continued, smoothing a napkin that didn’t need smoothing. “But I just forgot about the time, and before you know it—oh my god—it’s five o’clock!” She laughed, a thin, nervous laugh, and the others echoed it weakly.

“It’s fine,” Nancy said, smiling with practiced politeness. Steve nodded along, trying to match her tone.

“Right,” he added. He and Nancy exchanged a quick glance; both of them knew it wasn’t fine.

“It’s great,” Nancy said again, with a little more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. She darted her eyes from Barbara’s mother to Steve. Steve mirrored the movement, unsure where to land his focus.

“I love KFC,” Steve offered, trying to lighten the mood as he scooped up an oversized spoonful of mashed potatoes. The texture turned grainy instantly in his mouth, but he forced himself to swallow. He couldn’t be picky tonight—not here.

Marsha’s smile wavered.

Nancy cleared her throat softly. “So, I noticed a ‘For Sale’ sign out in your yard.” Both she and Steve turned toward the Hollands. “Is that the neighbors’? Or…”

Marsha and Mr. Holland shared a silent conversation with their eyes—hesitation, a pulse of fear, maybe hope—before Marsha’s lips curved into a small, tentative smile.

“You wanna tell them?” she asked her husband gently.

Mr. Holland paused, jaw tightening as though he were holding something back, then gave a curt nod. “Go ahead.”

Marsha folded her hands on the table. “We hired a man named Murray Bauman. Have either of you heard of him?”

Nancy’s eyebrows drew together. She glanced at Steve before answering. “No.”

Steve shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“He was an investigative journalist for the Chicago Sun-Times,” Marsha explained, just as Mr. Holland reached into his pocket. He pulled out a slightly worn business card and handed it to Steve with stiff fingers.

“He’s pretty well known,” Mr. Holland added, and Steve didn’t miss the undercurrent of desperation in his voice.

Steve took the card, flipping it over between his fingers. Nancy leaned closer, shoulder brushing his, both of them scanning the bold name printed across it.

“Anyway,” Marsha continued, her voice thin but trembling with excitement, “he’s freelance now, and he agreed to take the case.”

The words hit Steve like a punch to the stomach. A cold, rolling nausea surged upward. Suddenly the scent of coleslaw, gravy, and fried chicken was overwhelming. The room tilted just slightly.

Marsha and Mr. Holland both noticed the shift immediately—their smiles faltered, concern knitting their brows as Steve’s face blanched.

“Um…what exactly does that mean?” Nancy asked, looking between them, trying to keep her tone neutral.

Marsha looked down, twisting her wedding ring with one hand. Mr. Holland’s knuckles whitened around his fork.

“It means he’s gonna do what that lazy son of a bitch Jim Hop—” Mr. Holland started sharply, anger snapping through his voice like a whip.

Marsha touched his arm quickly and cleared her throat—a warning. Most everyone in Hawkins knew Steve was practically a Hopper now. Mr. Holland clamped his jaw shut, blinked hard, and tried again.

“Sorry.” He inhaled slowly. “It means he’s going to do what the Hawkins police haven’t been capable of doing. Means we have a real detective on the case.”

His eyes landed on Nancy with painful intensity, and Steve felt his stomach plummet even deeper, as if dropping past his ribs, past his hips, toward the floorboards.

“It means…” Marsha breathed, her voice trembling with a hopeful thrill that made Steve’s chest tighten, “we are going to find our Barb.”

Her eyes shone—hopeful, determined, so sure—and Steve’s breath caught in his throat. The image of Barb’s gray, lifeless eyes flashed so vividly behind his eyelids that his vision blurred for a moment.

A wave of heat washed over him. His pulse jumped. He barely had time to push back his chair before nausea seized him.

“I—sorry—where’s your bathroom?” he blurted out. The words slurred together, frantic.
All three of them stared at him—wide-eyed, confused, worried.

“Down the hall,” Marsha said quickly. “First door on the right. Are you alright?”

But Steve didn’t stay to answer. He nearly stumbled in his rush down the hall.

He slammed the bathroom door behind him and dropped instantly to his knees. His hands gripped the cold edges of the toilet as his stomach lurched. He didn’t even have time to take a breath before he was violently sick, the sound echoing harshly off the tiles.

Tears stung the corners of his eyes—unwanted, uncontrollable. His chest spasmed with each heave, and he gasped between them, trying to pull air into his burning lungs.

When the retching finally slowed, Steve slumped sideways, leaning his back against the cool wall. His skin was clammy, his shirt sticking to him. His throat throbbed. His stomach twisted.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but all that accomplished was making Barb’s face appear more clearly—the stillness, the emptiness.

A soft knock interrupted the spiral.

“Steve?” Nancy’s voice filtered through the door, quiet but tight with worry.

Steve didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. His eyes were still shut when he felt the subtle shift of the door opening.

Nancy stepped inside, wrinkling her nose slightly at the smell but immediately kneeling beside him. She placed a gentle hand on his knee.

“Hey,” she murmured. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Steve shook his head weakly. “Nah.” His voice was hoarse. “Can we just leave? I honestly don’t think I can handle any more of that tonight.”

Nancy nodded. “Yeah. That’s a good idea.” She stood carefully, wiping her palms on her jeans. “Do you need help getting up?”

“No,” Steve whispered. He braced a hand on the sink and pushed himself up, legs shaky but holding. He flushed the toilet, washed his hands twice, splashed cold water on his face, and finally let out a long, trembling breath.

Then they walked back to the dining room.

Marsha and Mr. Holland both rose halfway out of their seats when they saw him, worry etched into every line of their faces.

“Steve’s not feeling too great,” Nancy said gently. “So we’re going to get going.”

Steve kept his eyes on the floor, cheeks flaming with embarrassment—vomiting in your missing friend’s parents’ home was a new level of awful.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Marsha said with genuine concern. “We hope you feel better. Send our best to the chief.”

“Thank you,” Steve said softly. “I—I hope everything works out.”

He wasn’t sure if he meant it or if he was apologizing again.

They headed toward the door, Marsha walking behind them out of politeness.

At the threshold, Nancy turned back. “Thank you, Marsha.”

Steve mustered a faint smile. “Yeah, thank you so much, Mrs. Holland.”

“You’re very welcome,” Marsha said warmly, though sadness clouded her eyes. “I hope we’ll see each other again.”

She closed the door, and Steve and Nancy stepped out into the cool night air.

It had been one hell of a night.

—

The porch steps creaked under their feet as Steve and Nancy walked toward the car. The sun had long since set, leaving Hawkins wrapped in a cold, still October dark that seemed too quiet for how loud Steve’s mind felt. It was like the air itself was waiting for something to crack.

Steve unlocked the car, and Nancy slipped in, shutting the door with a soft thud. He circled around and got into the driver’s seat. Nancy glanced sideways at him.

“You sure you’re okay to drive home?” she asked gently, hand hovering near his arm but not touching, letting him decide.

Steve nodded, though the motion felt sluggish. “Yeah. I’m fine. Just—” He swallowed, the back of his throat still burning. “Just need a minute.”

He didn’t start the car. She studied him—his pale face, the faint sweat on his brow, the leftover tremble in his hands. She’d never seen Steve Harrington like this. Not even after everything.

“You don’t have to pretend,” she said quietly.

Steve stared out the windshield, watching the Hollands’ porch light glow warm behind a window curtain. He imagined Marsha Holland straightening the tablecloth, collecting leftover napkins, trying to hold her world together. Trying to hold hope together.

But Barb wasn’t coming back. And every time he saw that hope, it felt like a hand closing around his throat. He couldn’t speak.

Luckily, Nancy filled in the silence.

“I just…” She forced out a breath. “I keep seeing her.”

Steve went still.

“In the woods?” He asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Nancy shook her head. “No. How Hopper said she looked when you guys found her.” She closed her eyes. “Her face. Her—” Her voice cracked before he could stop it. “She didn’t deserve that. And they think someone’s gonna find her alive. They hired a guy. An actual guy, Steve. They’re selling their house.”

Steve’s eyes softened with a sorrow too old for someone his age. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Nancy let out a shaky breath. “I lied to them. I lied to their faces. I told them she was fine that night. I left her, just assuming she didn’t want to keep looking for you. And then—” She gestured helplessly, like her hands could shape the guilt sitting on her chest. “And then Hopper told me what that place did to her.”

Steve reached over and took her hand this time, squeezing it tight, grounding her.

“You were a kid,” He said. “A scared kid. You were just trying to find me. You didn’t know what was happening. None of us did.”

“Doesn’t change anything,” Nancy whispered.

Steve’s thumb brushed over her knuckles. “It changes that it wasn’t your fault.”

Nancy didn’t respond. Steve didn’t say anything else. Not because he disagreed, but because his throat was closing again with a pressure he didn’t trust himself to speak through.

Steve waited another few seconds—patient, steady, and so desperately in love—before finally starting the car.

—

The drive back to the Wheelers’ was quiet. The radio stayed off, the streetlights passing in slow gold flashes across Steve’s face. Each time they hit one, Nancy could see more exhaustion in him—like something had been scraped raw inside him.

When they pulled up in front of her house, she didn’t get out of the car immediately. She turned to him.

“You’re gonna talk to Hopper, right?” she asked. “About Murray. About everything.”

Steve blinked at her. “You sure? Hop doesn’t even want me talking about Will’s episodes, he—”

“Steve.” Nancy’s voice was firm. “This isn’t optional. If the Hollands are digging, someone needs to steer them. Or this is going to blow everything wide open in the worst possible way.”

He nodded slowly. She was right. But the idea of more digging into Barb—into that night—made his stomach twist all over again.

Nancy slid a hand along his jaw, gentle. “Go home. Shower. Sleep. You look wiped.”

“Might have been the puking,” Steve muttered weakly, attempting a smile.

Nancy huffed a soft laugh and leaned forward to kiss him—a warm, lingering brush of lips that made his chest loosen just a little.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she murmured after pulling back. “Promise.”

Steve nodded, kissed her cheek, then stepped out of the car. He watched her go inside, waited until the door shut—until he knew she was safely inside—then sat there for a moment. He gripped the steering wheel for a second, just breathing.

One hell of a night didn’t even begin to cover it.

And deep in his stomach—somewhere beneath the leftover nausea and the burn of tears he wouldn’t let fall—was a sinking certainty:

Things were only going to get worse from here.

Chapter 13: Day 352

Mike picked up some of his toys— or “hunks of plastic,” as his dad called them— and dropped them into the half-crushed cardboard box with YARD SALE scribbled across the side in thick black marker. The movement was mechanical, empty, like he was unplugging pieces of himself and tossing them away one by one. A tiny clatter echoed each time something hit the bottom of the box. He could feel the sound in his chest.

His breath hitched when his hand closed around Roary.

The familiar smooth plastic. The chipped paint on the tail. The tiny button on the belly that he used to press a thousand times a day when he was eight.

He didn’t mean to, but his thumb pressed down on the button—almost like the toy had guided his hand itself.

“RRRAAAHHHR!”

The mechanical roar filled the living room, tinny and distorted from age, but exactly the same in all the ways that mattered.

The sound snapped something open inside him.

Mike’s eyes stung as Roary’s roar overlapped with the memory in his head—El holding the toy awkwardly, like she wasn’t sure how hard to squeeze it, her wide-eyed smile when she heard it come alive, her amazed little laugh.

His smile faltered. Then died completely.

He set Roary beside him on the couch, almost reverently, like the toy might crumble if he wasn’t careful. He swallowed hard, blinked rapidly, and turned back to the shelf.

He grabbed the giant Millennium Falcon model—bigger than his torso, plastered with stickers he’d carefully placed at age nine—and lowered it into his lap. The weight of it made his knees ache. Mike traced a finger along one of the chipped plastic corners, remembering El’s fascination with the blinking blue lights and the way she’d said Falcon like it was a spell.

He bit down hard on his lip to keep the tears from spilling.

His gaze drifted across the room, landing on the blanket-and-pillow fort he’d kept assembled way past the age where that was normal. He stared. The Falcon. The fort. The Falcon. The fort.

He placed the ship gently next to Roary.

Then he walked—slowly, like the air had thickened— toward the fort.

Mike crawled inside, folding himself into the small space like he’d done a hundred times over the past year. His knees bumped the old patterned rug. He grabbed the SuperCom, pulling the long extendable antenna all the way up until it clicked.

He pressed the speaker button and raised it to his mouth.

“El? Are you there? El?”

His voice sounded too small. Too hopeful. Too pathetic.

He pressed it to his ear, listening so hard it made his head hurt. All he got was static hissing like an angry wind.

“It’s me,” he whispered. “It’s Mike. It’s day 352…” He glanced at the digital clock glowing on his desk. “7:40 p.m.”

The lump in his throat swelled until he could barely speak.

“I’m still here.”

He listened again. Static. Only static.

“If you’re out there, say something. Or—or give me a sign. I won’t even say anything. I just… I wanna know you’re okay.”

A few beats passed. Hope wilted inch by inch.

Nothing.

Just the empty static, the same sound that had been gnawing at him for nearly a year.
Mike let out a shaky sigh and collapsed backward onto the fort’s blankets. He pushed the antenna down sharply—like punishing the com for failing him—and placed it back where it belonged. He crawled out of the fort, legs wobbling, chest tight.

“I’m so stupid,” he muttered, brushing at his eyes as he walked away.

He’d barely taken two steps when—

“Mike.”

A voice. Faint. Warped. But real.

Mike froze.

The com whispered again, “Mike?”

His heart stopped.

He spun around so fast he nearly slipped, dove into the fort, yanked the com up, and snapped the antenna back open.

“Hello—El? El?!”

“Uh… Mike?” The voice came sharper this time. “Dude, what is your problem?”

Mike’s breath collapsed inward.

It was Dustin.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Of course. Of course it was Dustin.

“Mike?” Dustin tried again. “What’re you doing on this channel? I’ve been trying to reach you all day. We were right—Max is Mad Max!”

Mike rolled his eyes even though Dustin couldn’t see it and pressed a hand over his face.

“Yeah, I’m busy.” He pushed the antenna down with a snap.

“But—” Dustin’s voice cut off.

Mike sat there in the quiet of the fort, shoulders trembling, eyes burning.

“Stupid,” he whispered. “So stupid.”

—

- November 12, 1983 -

“Go back to the beginning,” the man across the table said, his tone flat, rehearsed. He smelled like coffee and stress.

Mike clenched his jaw. “I told you everything.”

The room was cold. Too cold. The metal chair was freezing through his jeans. There were no clocks. No windows he could see.

The woman across from him folded her hands, trying to look sympathetic. “I understand this is difficult, Michael.”

He huffed—loudly—because he’d heard that same sentence on repeat for days.

“I don’t know where she is,” he snapped, leaning forward. “And even if I did, I’d never tell you. I would never tell you.”

His voice cracked on ‘never.’

The man frowned. “She’s dangerous. The stories she told you weren’t—”

But Mike’s gaze slid past him to the mirror on the wall.

Or was it a window?

His breath stilled.

For a moment, for a fraction of a heartbeat, he saw her—El, standing behind the glass. Pink dress. Hopper’s jacket. Buzzed hair.

His pulse exploded in his ears.

Was it real? Was he dreaming? Was his brain eating itself from stress?

He stared. Unblinking.

“Michael.” The man moved into his line of sight. “We’re asking for your cooperation.”

Mike’s eyes snapped back to the window—

—and she was gone.

His stomach dropped.

He wasn’t sure if the disappearance or the possibility she hadn’t been there at all was worse.

—

- November 14, 1983 -

Steve sat alone in his hospital room, the sterile hum of the hallway buzzing faintly through the door. His head throbbed in a dull, persistent way that made him want to crawl out of his own skull.

Hopper was on shift. Joyce was with Will in the next room—Steve could hear muffled voices through the wall sometimes. Hopper had brought him books, cards, snacks, anything to keep him from going stir-crazy.

But with a concussion, he wasn’t allowed more than 30 minutes of reading or television. Which meant he was nearly insane already.

He was three pages from the end of his reading window when a soft knock sounded. Steve looked up, eyebrows raised.

Mike Wheeler stood in the doorway.

Awkward. Stiff. Hands fidgeting at the hem of his shirt.

Steve gave him the gentle smile he reserved for kids like Will. Mike blinked, then returned a smaller, hesitant smile, like he wasn’t sure permission had been granted.

“You can come in, y’know,” Steve said, lowering the book. “I could use some company.”

Mike shuffled in and took the chair beside the bed, sitting like he was afraid the furniture might bite him.

Two solid minutes passed. Silence. Not even the comfortable kind.

Finally—

“Thank you,” Mike said suddenly.

Steve blinked. “For what?”

Mike’s ears went pink. “For helping Will. Helping him in the… you know…”

Steve let his expression soften. “Yeah. Of course.”

Silence fell again, heavier this time.

Steve searched for something—anything—to break it.

“Hopper told me about El,” he said gently. “She sounds really badass.”

Mike’s face folded—grief, shock, longing all tangled together. “Yeah,” he whispered. “She was. She always got it. Even stuff I couldn’t explain. I wish she was still here.”

His voice cracked. He swiped at his eyes, but not fast enough to hide the shimmer of tears.

Steve reached over and patted his arm—gingerly, because he remembered being fifteen and hating pity.

“She’s out there,” Steve said. “I’m sure of it. And when it’s safe, she’ll find you.”

Mike swallowed hard. That tiny sliver of hope flickered across his features.

“I should go see Will,” he murmured. “I promised I’d bring him homework from Mr. Clark.”

Steve snorted. “I’ve never met anyone who voluntarily asks for homework.”

Mike managed a shaky laugh and headed for the door.

Steve picked his book back up—

“Steve?”

Mike stood in the doorway again.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

Steve smiled, warm and genuine. “Anytime. Seriously. Even if we don’t know each other that well.”

Mike nodded, then disappeared down the hall.

Steve leaned back against the pillows, book forgotten, feeling strangely proud and strangely protective all at once.

Chapter 14: Halloween

The next morning, Steve went through his routine with slow, careful movements. He brushed his teeth, splashed cold water on his face, and tried to shake off the clinging threads of the nightmare that had followed him halfway into the shower.

When he opened the bathroom door, still toweling the water out of his hair, he nearly passed away on the spot.

A figure stood directly in front of him—a half-grown, human-sized apparition draped in a white bedsheet, two eye holes punched out crookedly.

Steve’s heart skyrocketed.

“Jesus! What the hell?!” he yelped, stumbling back. His toiletries clattered from his arm—comb, deodorant, aspirin bottle—scattering loudly across the wood floor. His free hand flew to his chest, trying to contain the painful thunder of his heartbeat. For a split second, he swore the eye holes were moving closer because of course they were, that was his life now, everything trying to kill him, including the laundry.

“Halloween. Trick or treat,” the ghost said in a muffled monotone, and Steve blinked hard because he knew that voice.

Hopper stormed in from the kitchen with a plate still in his hand.

“El, what did I say yesterday?” he barked, exasperation dripping from every syllable. “You can’t go out. So don’t ask Steve just because I said no.”

The ghost let out a little annoyed huff, actually offended, and yanked the sheet off with a surprisingly sharp motion. Underneath was a very grumpy Eleven, curls still growing in, eyes narrowed at both of them like they were the unreasonable ones.

Steve blew out a shaky breath, lowering his hand, but his fingers trembled slightly. Hopper didn’t miss it.

El stomped to the small kitchen table, plopped down, crossed her arms so tightly it looked painful, and slid dramatically down in her seat until she was almost horizontal.

Hopper turned back to Steve, his expression softening the second he noticed how pale the kid looked. Steve was still pressed against the bathroom door like he expected the sheet to come back to life.

Hopper stepped closer and laid a broad, heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder.

The instant contact made Steve flinch—not wildly, but enough. His eyes darted up to Hopper’s, startled, almost guilty, and then he forced a shaky smile.

“You okay, kid?” Hopper asked quietly, concern warming his gruff tone.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine,” Steve said far too quickly, his voice pitching high at the end. “El just spooked me.”

It was the kind of answer that was supposed to sound casual, Harrington-level confident, but left a crack right down the middle. Hopper could see it. Hell, anyone could. But Steve straightened his posture, tucked the towel tighter around his neck, and put on that dumb little charming smile he used when he was trying to pretend nothing hurt.

Hopper exhaled, unconvinced but unwilling to start the morning with a fight.

“Okay, kid,” he said, squeezing Steve’s shoulder before withdrawing. “I made some french toast. When you’re ready, come get some.”

He walked away, leaving Steve blinking after him.

Why didn’t Hopper interrogate him?

That was new. Usually there was a whole routine—questions, reassurance, then more questions disguised as casual comments. Hopper must’ve been tired. Or maybe he was picking his battles.

Steve let out a long breath, threw his pajamas in a heap on the bed, and forced himself toward the kitchen.

El was stabbing her breakfast with unnecessary force. Hopper was pretending not to notice. Steve grabbed a plate, dropped two slices of french toast on it—though he usually took three—and slid into his seat.

He didn't really taste the food. His ribs ached. His heart still hadn’t entirely slowed.

—

Steve sat beside Nancy at one of the long tables, pencil tapping against the margin of his English paper. He was doing his best to focus—really—but Nancy’s critiques from yesterday echoed through his head, and every time he reread a sentence he felt like it had somehow gotten worse.

Across from him, Nancy was hunched over her own work. Her pencil snapped with a sharp crack. Steve lifted his eyes. Nancy let out a quiet sigh that sounded like it came from the bottom of her ribs and then pushed back her chair, retreating toward the wall-mounted pencil sharpener.

She sharpened.

And sharpened.

And kept sharpening.

Five minutes. Maybe more. Long enough that the scraping sound carved into Steve’s nerves.

He glanced up again and froze.

Nancy was still sharpening. The pencil hung loosely in her fingers. She stared off to the side, eyes glassy, her face drained of color, expression hollow.

A look Steve recognized. A look he saw in the mirror sometimes. The look of someone falling backwards into a memory.

He immediately stood, heart tightening.

“Nancy?” he asked gently.

No reaction.

He stepped closer. “Nance?” Still nothing. Just her breathing, shallow and too fast.
This time, he laid a careful hand on her shoulder.

Nancy jolted, just slightly, but her eyes snapped toward him, fear flashing across them before melting into something exhausted and empty.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?” he whispered.

Nancy didn’t answer. She just turned her head toward the librarian across the room—Mrs. Lazar, watching her like she was a student misbehaving.

And it clicked.

It hit Steve so hard his stomach dropped.

“This about Barb?” he murmured.

Nancy’s breath hitched. Her eyes snapped to his again, and they were raw.

“Steve…” she whispered, voice cracking.

He didn’t let her finish. He took her gently by the arm and guided her toward the small tutoring room at the back of the library. He closed the door, then, after his instincts screamed, locked it. The tiny click echoed.

Nancy released his arm and drifted toward the far table, bracing herself against it like she needed the support to stay upright.

Steve approached more slowly, leaning one arm on the tabletop as he searched her face.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Nancy said suddenly.

Steve blinked. “Doing what?” he asked, honestly confused. He knew she felt responsible, so did he, but what exactly did she mean?

Nancy looked at him like she couldn’t believe he didn’t see it.

“Pretending everything’s okay,” she said, her jaw tightening to hold back more emotion. “Pretending like we’re fine.”

Steve stared back, throat tightening but still radically confused. “What are you talking about?”

“Barbra.” She forced the name out. “It’s like everyone forgot. It’s like nobody cares.”

Steve looked away, jaw clenching. The air in the room felt thinner. His ribs tightened painfully, heat creeping up the back of his neck. He hated this. Talking about that night in the Upside Down. Hopper never pushed him. Joyce definitely didn’t. Even the kids seemed to instinctively avoid making him think about it.

And Nancy—his girlfriend—needed this conversation. So he swallowed and stayed.

“Except her parents,” Nancy continued. “And now they’re selling their house.”

“Nance—” he tried, but she steamrolled right over him.

“And they’re going to spend the rest of their lives looking for her.”

Steve exhaled shakily through his nose. He ran a hand through his hair, pressing down on a rising wave of dizziness. The memories were right there, scraping at the edge of his mind. Barb’s face. The blood. The Demogorgon rushing after him—

“I know,” he whispered, voice nearly breaking. “I know.”

“It’s destroying them,” she added, tears finally gathering at her lashes.

Steve blinked hard, eyes tearing up from the pressure of holding everything back. He needed her to stop. Just for a second. He needed room to breathe.

“I know. Okay?” he whispered. “I get it. But listen, there’s nothing we can do about it.”

Nancy stared at him like he’d slapped her.

“Yeah,” she said slowly, “we could tell them the truth.”

Steve’s chest seized. He bit his tongue before he said something too sharp.

“Well, you know we can’t do that,” he said softly.

Nancy looked down, tears teetering at the edge of falling.

“We don’t have to tell them everything,” she murmured, voice barely above air, desperation clinging to every word.

The room suddenly felt colder. Steve stood straighter, something fearful and protective snapping awake inside him. His voice dropped into a lower, more serious tone—one he almost never used with her.

“This isn’t some game, Nance,” he whispered. “If they found out we told any—”

He stopped. Eyes darting. A sudden, overwhelming feeling of being watched crawled up his spine.

He turned abruptly, walked to the window, tugged the shade down instantly, then returned to her.

“They could put us in jail, okay?” he said, voice tight. “Or worse—destroy your family. Hurt Hopper. They can do anything they want. So just… think about what you’re saying.”

Nancy finally met his eyes. And for the first time in this conversation, Steve saw it—how scared she was too. How alone she felt with all this guilt.

He immediately felt horrible for saying what he had as a tear slipped down her cheek.
“Hey, hey,” Steve murmured softly, touching her arm. “It’s… hard. I know. Believe me, I know. You have no idea how many times I wanna yell at Tommy and Carol about what happened. But I can’t.”

He exhaled, shoulders slumping slightly.

“It’s really hard. But let’s… just go to Tina’s stupid party,” he continued. “Wear our stupid costumes we spent a stupid amount of time on. And just pretend. Be stupid teenagers for one night. Not the badass monster hunter you are. Just—stupid teenagers. Can we do that? Just for one stupid night?”

Nancy’s lips trembled. Then she nodded.

“Okay.”

“Come here,” Steve whispered.

She stepped into his arms, and he wrapped her tightly against his chest, pressing his cheek to the top of her head. Her breathing hitched as she held onto him.

“What about your flashbacks?” she whispered after a moment. “What if it happens again?”

Steve tensed but held her closer.

“Like I said,” he murmured, forcing a smile she couldn’t see, “stupid teenagers don’t have stupid flashbacks. It’ll be alright.”

They stayed like that—quiet, holding each other—until the bell rang and reality forced them apart.

—

Steve and Nancy pulled up to Tina’s house at 7:20, though it felt later somehow. The sun had dipped just far enough that the neighborhood sat in that awkward, too-dark-for-daylight, too-orange-for-night glow — and Tina’s house was lit up like a warning beacon. Cars were jammed along both sides of the road, stretching so far down the block that Steve had to park almost at the intersection. Even from there, the bass thumped through the steering wheel, the kind of bass that made your ribs vibrate.

This was his first real party since…everything. Since the Upside Down. Since he’d learned what it felt like to die on a cold tile floor. Since he’d woken up shaking in Hopper’s cabin more nights than he’d ever admit. Just the idea of walking into a place packed with loud, sweaty teenagers he didn’t trust made his stomach twist in on itself.

He swallowed hard, turned off the ignition, and tried to breathe, but each inhale came out shallow and thin. His fingers trembled against the steering wheel.

Nancy immediately popped open her door.

Steve wasn’t ready. He needed another second. Maybe two.

He closed his eyes, tried again.

In. Out. In. Out.

Didn’t help.

Then Nancy leaned back into the car, bending at the waist, hair falling forward. Her brows knit together the way they always did when she was seconds away from worrying out loud.

“Steve? You okay? You look a little pale.”

Her voice was soft, careful. And he hated that. He hated being something fragile people had to handle delicately.

So he forced a smile — too wide, too bright, a little crooked — and shrugged like this was nothing. Like his heart wasn’t pounding against his ribs so hard he swore she could hear it.

“I’m great. Let’s go.”

He pushed his door open before she could say anything else.

They shut the car doors and started down the dim road toward Tina’s house. The closer they got, the worse it got — music, yelling, flashes of light from the windows. People already stumbling around the yard in costumes. Steve shoved his trembling hands deep into his pockets to hide the shake. He clenched his jaw so tight a pulse throbbed along the side of his face.

The dark road didn’t help. Every rustle in the bushes made him twitch. Every crack of a twig made him whip around. His brain kept sending him flashes — those same dark woods, that same night, those same heels digging into dirt while something growled in the dark behind him.

He kept walking anyway.

By the time they reached Tina’s house, his whole body felt wired, jittery, buzzing with the wrong kind of adrenaline. The house practically pulsed with noise. People spilled out onto the porch and lawn, laughing, yelling, shoving.

Nancy pressed into his side gently, hooking her hand into his. Her fingers tightened around his when she felt the tremor in his.

“Are you sure about this, Steve?” she said, almost yelling over the music.

He flashed her another smile — smaller, softer, but still trying.

“Stupid teenagers, Nance,” he said, and managed to make it sound playful.

He opened the door.

The heat and smell hit him first — beer, sweat, cheap perfume, the sticky-sweet scent of spilled soda soaking into carpet. A wave of bodies moved in front of him, dancing and shoving and laughing. Steve froze. His brain stalled. His breath stuttered.

But he kept going, pulling Nancy in behind him.

Thank god for the sunglasses. They hid the tears gathering in his eyes, the panic behind them.

“Stupid teenagers,” he muttered under his breath.

He held tight to Nancy’s hand, swallowed hard, and walked deeper into the crowd.

—

Bullshit.

Steve slammed the bathroom door behind him so hard the mirror rattled. His breath came in violent, uneven gasps — the kind that scraped painfully at the back of his throat. His eyes stung, overflowing before he could even wipe them. His nose burned. He felt like he might throw up right there in the sink.

He needed air. Real air. Not the suffocating beer-and-sweat air of a bathroom filled with pumpkin-scented candles.

He barreled through the crowd, shoulders knocking into people he barely registered. Someone yelled something at him, but it came through muffled, underwater. He shoved past them, desperate, frantic.

He slammed directly into Tommy H.

Of course. Perfect. The universe choosing the most humiliating timing possible.

‘No, you. You’re bullshit.’

The words slammed through him again — Nancy’s words. Said in that voice. Said about him. With that look.

‘Pretending like you and I didn’t kill Barb.’

It carved into him sharper than any Demogorgon claw.

Steve fumbled with the front door handle, tears blurring the knob into a gold smear. When it finally clicked, he stumbled outside into the cold night air. It still wasn’t enough.
He walked to the farthest corner of the yard and sank into the grass. His knees hit the ground first, then his whole body followed. Nausea rolled through him, hot and sour.

Come on. Breathe. Just like Hopper said. Long breaths. Slow breaths.

But his lungs wouldn’t open. Nothing went in. Nothing came out. He felt like someone had tied a rope around his ribs and was pulling tighter and tighter.

‘Pretending like you and I didn’t kill Barb.’

He squeezed his eyes shut as the tears finally spilled, hot and relentless.

‘You could’ve saved her. You heard her and didn’t do anything.’

His breath hitched violently. His hands shook so hard he had to curl them into fists.

He thought Nancy loved him. He really thought—

God, he was so stupid.

‘Like we’re in love.’

Something inside him cracked.

His lungs were collapsing again, air refusing to come in. He curled in on himself, forehead pressed to his knees, fingers digging into the grass like the world might rip him backward at any moment.

‘It’s bullshit.’

He didn’t know how long he stayed that way.

Then—

A sound. A low rumble. A distant cry. The world flickered.

He looked up.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And the lawn wasn’t the lawn anymore.

The world snapped into that sickening blue-gray hum of the Upside Down. The sky pulsed with ash-like particles floating aimlessly. A massive shadow moved across the clouds—stretching, towering, unreal.

Steve’s heart leapt into his throat.

“Will?” he choked out, chest tight, breath trembling. “Will!”

He stumbled around the side of the house, eyes fixed upward, panic surging hot and electric through his veins.

“Steve?”

The voice grew louder. Closer.

“Steve!”

Hands grabbed his shoulders and Steve jerked backwards, gasping. Reality snapped back in a harsh jolt—Jonathan in front of him, his face twisted with worry. He was the last person Steve expected to see here.

“Steve? Hey—hey, look at me.” Jonathan’s voice was gentle, steady in a way Steve didn’t expect. He guided him back to the grass, helping him sit before he collapsed. “What happened?”

Steve tried to speak but a sob ripped out instead. He bent forward, hands over his face, his entire body shaking. Jonathan just sat beside him, silent except for the occasional soft rub between Steve’s shoulder blades. Not pitying — grounding.

It took a long time. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe an hour.

When Steve finally managed to breathe normally again, he wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve and stared at the ground.

“Please take her home,” he said quietly, voice cracking. “Please.”

Jonathan hesitated. “Are you sure? I don’t mind but—”

“Please. I can’t… I can’t look at her tonight.”

Jonathan nodded. “Okay.” A pause. “Do you need help getting to your car?”

Steve almost laughed. It came out more like a shudder. Jonathan was so painfully kind it almost made Steve cry all over again.

“No. Just go. She’s in the bathroom.” His voice was small, tired. He pushed himself to his feet despite the tremble in his knees.

“Thank you,” Steve added, barely above a whisper.

“Of course,” Jonathan said, giving him one last steady look before heading inside.
Steve walked alone down the street back to his car. The night felt colder now. Sharper. His hands shook violently as he opened the door.

He sat in the driver’s seat and sagged forward, forehead against the steering wheel. He inhaled, exhaled, forced the breaths to stay steady.

He checked his watch.

8:30.

If he hurried, he could grab a bag of candy from Bradley’s and get back to the cabin in time to join El and Hopper for their horror movie marathon. Pretend none of this ever happened. Pretend he wasn’t seconds away from falling apart again.

He turned the key in the ignition.

As he drove past Tina’s house, he saw Jonathan carefully carrying Nancy down the walkway toward his car.

Steve’s throat tightened. His eyes burned again. He forced himself to look away.
He kept driving. Toward town. Toward somewhere quieter. Somewhere safe.

Toward home.

—

Steve turned off the engine and sat for a moment in the quiet hum of the cooling car, staring out at the stretch of dark woods that led to Hopper’s cabin. The gravel crackled softly under the tires as the last vibration died, leaving only the distant hum of crickets and the faint rustle of wind through the trees. He frowned when he noticed that Hopper’s truck wasn’t parked anywhere in the clearing. Hopper was almost always home by now, especially on nights when he’d promised El he’d make it back early.

Still, Steve grabbed the strap of his school bag and swung it over his shoulder before pushing the car door open. The cold hit him immediately, sharp and biting against his overheated face. He walked around to the back of the car and popped open the trunk.

Inside lay his odd assortment of essentials: jumper cables coiled in a messy loop, a faded blanket, a jack and lug wrench, the bag of candy he’d just bought, and the nail-embedded bat. The bat sat diagonally across the trunk, the nails catching faint glints of moonlight. Jonathan had handed it to him with this careful, almost ceremonial seriousness, explaining that Mrs. Byers didn’t want it in the house. Steve wasn’t sure why he’d kept it, but he always did.

Just in case.

He grabbed the candy and shut the trunk gently, letting the silence settle again before he headed toward the woods. The leaves crunched under his shoes as he walked, and the damp smell of pine sap hung thick in the air. Each step seemed to erase another piece of the party clinging to him — Nancy’s voice, the yelling, the heat and sweat, the flashbacks — until all that was left was a dull throb in his chest and the fog of exhaustion wrapping around his brain.

By the time he reached the small clearing, the soft glow from the cabin windows was almost comforting. He knocked the secret pattern on the door. Metal clicked and scraped on the inside — three locks sliding open.

When he pushed through the door, Steve expected noise, maybe Hopper’s booming voice or the muffled sound of whatever movie El had been insisting they watch.

Instead, El sat alone on the couch, small and curled in on herself, tears clinging to her lashes. She looked up at him with those huge, wounded eyes, and Steve didn’t even think — he dropped his bag by the door and crossed the room in three steps.

“Hey, El,” he said softly, kneeling beside her. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

El pointed a trembling finger toward the radio Hopper left for her.

“Late,” she whispered, her voice cracking. She leaned into him, pressing her forehead into his side like a kid hiding from a storm. Steve wrapped an arm around her shoulders instinctively.

“Aw, shit,” he murmured, brushing a thumb across her arm in slow, comforting circles. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” El’s voice was tiny, but then she pulled back and really looked at him. Her brows pinched with concern. “What is wrong?” she asked, her tone abruptly protective. “Eyes. They are red.”

It hadn’t even crossed his mind that he looked like he’d been crying. Steve rubbed under his eyes, embarrassed.

“I’m okay, El. Something happened with Nancy, no big deal.” Of course it was a big deal — his chest still hurt from it — but he didn’t want to dump it on her. Not tonight.

El didn’t look convinced in the slightest.

Before she could press further, Steve forced a smile and gently tapped her arm. “Hey. How about we move the TV into your room and watch scary movies in there? I brought candy.”

Her face brightened — not fully, not like usual, but enough. She nodded, stood, and padded to where he’d dropped the candy bag.

Steve gave himself one second, just one, to let his shoulders sag as he exhaled. Then he forced himself up and crossed to the TV. He crouched, wrapped his arms around the bulky set, and lifted. His arm clicked unpleasantly from how the weight shifted, but he bit his tongue and carried it carefully toward her room.

El followed clutching the candy, then helped guide the cords through the doorway. It took effort, a lot of awkward shifting, tangled wires, and Steve muttering curses under his breath — but eventually they got it set up in the corner of her room.

El immediately climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged while she tore the candy bag open. Steve flicked through channels, wincing at commercials, until he passed The Shining… then Halloween… and eventually landed on Ghostbusters. El perked up instantly.

He climbed onto the bed beside her and leaned back. She scooted over until she could lay her head on his chest, placing the bag of candy between them like a peace offering. Steve rested an arm lightly around her shoulders as the opening music filled the little room.

For a moment—a long moment—everything was okay.

—

They were about forty minutes into the movie when the secret knock sounded at the front door.

El didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just rolled her eyes dramatically and burrowed further into Steve’s side.

The knock came again. And again.

“Hey, kid. Open up, all right? Look, I know I’m late—” Hopper’s voice rumbled through the house, crouched somewhere between sheepish and irritated. El still didn’t budge. “I got candy here, all right? I got all the good stuff.”

El didn’t even glance toward the door.

Steve sighed. “El… come on. You don’t have to talk to him, just ope—”

He didn’t get to finish.

“Please, will you open the goddamn door? I’m gonna freeze to death out here!”

El groaned, then flicked her head. Locks clicked open by themselves. The front door swung wide, and Hopper stumbled in, brushing off snowflakes while she slammed her bedroom door shut with the same telekinetic force.

A beat later, Hopper approached the door gently.

“Hey, kid,” he said softly. “Open up, would you? I got… stuck somewhere, and I lost track of time. And I’m sorry.”

El didn’t react. Steve felt her shoulders trembling and wrapped his arm around her protectively.

“El?” Hopper tried again. “Would you please open the door? El?”

When she still didn’t move, Hopper sighed and stepped back.

“All right,” he muttered. “I’m just gonna be out here by myself, eating all this candy. Gonna get fat. Very unhealthy to leave me out here.” Steve snorted despite himself. “Could have a heart attack or something. But, you know… do what you want.”

Finally, El turned her head slightly and looked at Steve. “Talk to Hopper.”

He swallowed. The way she said it… she wasn’t asking. She was issuing a direct order from an emotionally volatile telekinetic. Steve nodded and slid off the bed.

“I’ll come back soon, and we’ll finish the movie, okay?” he said.

El didn’t look up, only nodded as she reached for her blindfold.

Steve stepped out and closed the door behind him. Hopper jumped up from the couch when he entered the room.

“Hey,” Steve said awkwardly.

“Hi, kid. How was the party? Thought you’d still be there.” Hopper offered him candy like a peace treaty.

Steve shrugged. “It was… pretty shitty actually. And really loud.”

“What happened?”

He wished Hopper hadn’t asked. His throat tightened.

“Just… stuff with Nancy,” Steve said, eyes dropping.

Hopper’s expression softened. “Shit. Sorry, kid. But nothing with your flashbacks, right?”

Steve hesitated. Not ready for that conversation. Not even close.

“No,” he lied gently. “But I, uh… saw something weird in the sky. A shadow.”

Hopper stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It was huge. And it was moving.”

Before Hopper could respond, a quiet sob echoed from El’s room.

They both stood instantly, but Hopper only made it half a step before Steve touched his arm.

“I’ll go,” Steve said. “She’s… pretty pissed.”

He knocked softly. “El? I’m coming in.”

Inside, he found her curled on the floor, arms around her knees, crying silently. Steve’s heart cracked. He closed the door behind him and knelt, gathering her into his arms.

“It’s okay,” he whispered into her curls. “It’s okay, El.”

They stayed like that a long time before she finally pulled back. Her eyes met his with a seriousness far too old for her face.

“Mike.”

“What about Mike?” Steve asked gently.

“See him.”

“You want me to check on him? I can to—”

She cut him off with a look sharper than any words. Determined. Heavy. Heartbroken.
And then Steve remembered the promise.

“Tomorrow. I see Mike. In real life,” El said. “You promised.”

Steve closed his eyes for a moment. He’d never broken a promise to her. He wasn’t starting now.

And what harm could there really be… in letting her see him?

Chapter 15: You Really Can't Handle Your Alcohol

Steve sat stiffly on the couch in the small living room, backpack at his feet, car keys turning over and over between his fingers. Every few seconds he shifted, or his knee bounced, or he wrung his hands together—his entire body telegraphing the anxious, restless churn inside him. He’d barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes the same things replayed in loops: Nancy’s voice, Hopper’s rules he was about to break, the promise he made El, the shape in the sky he thought he’d seen.

And, under it all, the quiet dread of facing school again.

It was still dim outside, barely sunrise, the cabin glowing faintly orange from the stove lamp. The air carried that early-morning chill that made everything feel sharper. It was such a small space, but right now, it felt too big and too quiet.

Hopper slowly pushed El’s door open. The hinges gave a soft creak. Steve didn’t look—he could feel the tension stretching across the cabin like fishing line ready to snap.

“Rise and shine,” Hopper tried, voice artificially bright.

Steve winced. Even from the couch, he could feel the cold wall of silence behind that cracked door. El wasn’t going to answer. She hadn’t forgiven Hopper, not even close.

Hopper let out a long breath. “So that’s it, huh? You’re still not talking?”

Still nothing. Just the hush of blankets shifting slightly and the faintest exhale from the girl inside.

Hopper glanced over at Steve for backup. Steve lifted his eyebrows helplessly and shrugged. He wasn’t going anywhere near that minefield—El’s wrath was already aimed squarely at Hopper.

Hopper muttered something under his breath, turned back to the doorway, and retreated.

“All right,” he said, louder now, “I guess me and Steve are going to have to enjoy this triple-decker Eggo extravaganza all on our own.”

He said it with a kind of forced cheer that made Steve’s stomach twist. Hopper brushed past him with a smirk that was way more confident than he felt and went straight to the table. He sat down, dramatically placing his plate in front of him like he was onstage.

Steve pushed himself up off the couch—and nearly jumped out of his skin when El suddenly appeared in the doorway behind him. Silent, pajama-clad, hair messy, face unreadable. Except for one thing:

The smallest flicker of a smile when she saw him.

Steve let out a tiny, secret breath. She wasn’t mad at him. Thank God.

He nodded toward the table, and together they crossed the room. The spread Hopper had set up was… frankly impressive. Eggos stacked high, whipped cream piled like tiny mountains, chocolate syrup, jelly beans, candy pieces—basically a sugar-induced heart attack disguised as breakfast.

El didn’t even spare Hopper a glance. She sat, immediately tearing into her Eggo tower. Steve sat across from her, looking from one to the other like the world’s worst referee.

Hopper shot Steve a helpless look.

Steve raised his eyebrows again, shrugged again, and started eating.

Hopper began making exaggerated noises of delight—loud “mmm!”s and dramatic forks slapping against his plate. It was embarrassing. But also so Hopper.

El paused just long enough to shoot him a look of pure, quiet judgement before going back to eating. Steve had to hide a smirk behind his fork.

“Good, right?” Hopper tried, looking to Steve for validation.

Steve nodded, mouth full. El ignored him.

“You know the great thing about it?” Hopper continued, “It’s only 8,000 calories.”

Steve huffed out a laugh. El didn’t even twitch.

Hopper tapped his fingers against his mug, resigned. “Okay. Fine.”

Steve checked his watch. His stomach clenched.

Time to go.

He pushed his chair back and carried his plate to the kitchen. The tension in the cabin pressed against him like the walls were inching closer.

“I’ve gotta go,” he said, clearing his throat.

El paused mid-bite, looking at him instantly—eyes soft, worried, still a little guarded but safe with him. Hopper’s eyes followed too, but Steve didn’t look directly at him.
He grabbed his backpack from the couch, keys jingling nervously in his hand. Before stepping out, he turned back to El.

“I’ll see you after school,” he said softly. Then added, with deliberate weight: “I promise.”

El’s expression changed immediately—her eyes lifting, a tiny smile curling her lips. She understood. She always did.

Hopper didn’t.

Steve gave Hopper a normal, casual smile anyway, pulled open the cabin door, and stepped into the sharp fall air. Leaves crunched under his shoes as he disappeared into the trees.

“Jesus Christ, Harrington,” he muttered to himself as he walked, “If Hopper finds out, you’ll be actual dead meat.”

—

The sun had fully risen by the time Steve was driving into Hawkins, knuckles white on the steering wheel. His nerves were a constant hum beneath his skin, but he was doing okay—until he saw a curly-haired blur biking like a madman across the street.

Steve squinted.

No way.

Dustin Henderson was pedaling uphill toward the library, the biggest backpack Steve had ever seen bouncing behind him.

Steve pulled over sharply and leaned across the passenger seat.

“HENDERSON!” he yelled out the window.

Dustin nearly fell off his bike. He swiveled around, eyes wide, curls flying.

“Steve?”

Steve got out of the car, one hand on his hip, giving Dustin the 'what the hell' stare.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

Dustin beamed—beamed—and sprinted over to him, half-panting.

“Hey Steve! What’re you doing here?”

Steve ignored that. “You’re supposed to be in school. Why’re you here?”

Dustin’s smile faltered, then reignited twice as bright. He darted a look around, like he was checking for spies.

“I may have just made a scientific discovery,” he whispered dramatically. “A new species.”

Steve stared at him.

“Wh—what?” he said, blinking. “What does that even—? Dustin, why are you at the library?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Dustin said, dismissive. “But I’ve gotta confirm it’s unidentified before I show Mr. Clark.”

He looked from the doors of the library back to Steve.

“If I want to get to school on time, I really need to go. Bye—”

“Wait, dickhead.”

Dustin stopped dead.

“I’m not letting you skip school,” Steve said, walking around the car. “Get your nerd books. I’ll drive you.”

Dustin froze, jaw dropping. “Really?”

Steve scoffed. “Yeah. I’ll get your bike. You go get the books.”

“Oh my God—thank you, Steve!” Dustin practically squealed before running inside.

“Yeah, yeah, sure, shithead,” Steve muttered fondly as he lifted Dustin’s bike and started back toward his car. “Just get the damn books.”

—

Steve had tossed Dustin’s bike into the back of the car—well, more like wrestled it in—and now he sat in the driver’s seat, fingers tapping a steady, anxious rhythm on the steering wheel as he waited. The morning sun cast long slanted beams across the dashboard, dust motes floating in the air like tiny drifting stars. Steve stared past them, eyes unfocused, lost inside his own head.

He was going to see Nancy soon.

Just the thought made something in his chest twist painfully. He’d spent all night trying not to think about it, but it kept hitting him in waves—that she didn’t love him, that she’d said things she couldn’t take back, that she blamed him for Barb.

Worse? He blamed himself too.

He had replayed that night a thousand times, every angle, every second. He could’ve gotten up. He could’ve gotten off that stupid mattress to check it out. He could’ve, at least followed the sound, or called out, or anything. Instead he’d stayed…scared and stupid. And Barb had…

Steve shut his eyes, breath shuddering out of him.

He let his forehead fall against the steering wheel, the cool worn leather pressing against his skin. His fingers curled on the wheel as he tried to steady his breathing. His throat felt tight, and for a second, he wondered if he was going to throw up.

The sound that shattered the quiet wasn’t subtle.

“STEEEVE!”

A high-pitched screech tore through the air. Steve lifted his head so fast his neck cracked. He squinted toward the library doors—

Dustin Henderson came barreling out like he was being chased by the entire U.S. military, a massive stack of books clutched to his chest. His curls bounced wildly, eyes wide with panic.

“TURN ON THE CAR! GET READY TO GO!” Dustin screamed, voice breaking on the last word as he sprinted across the grass.

Steve blinked at him. “What—?”

“TURN IT ON!” Dustin shrieked again, somehow louder.

Steve fumbled for the ignition, the engine sputtering before roaring to life. He leaned over and shoved the passenger door open just in time for Dustin to practically hurl himself inside. The kid collapsed across the seat, slamming the door shut so hard the mirror rattled.

“GO!”

Steve hit the gas, pulling away from the curb so fast the tires squealed—because Dustin’s voice wasn’t just loud; it was terrified.

“What the hell, dipshit?” Steve demanded, speeding toward the main road. “What happened? Why were you screaming like someone was murdering you?”

Dustin sat up, panting, tightening his hold on the mountain of books. His eyes were huge behind his curls.

“She tried to take away my curiosity paddles,” he said breathlessly, like that explained anything.

Steve’s face went blank. “Who tried to take away your… what?”

“My curiosity paddles! My tools of scientific inquiry!” Dustin repeated, scandalized. “I had to flee.”

Steve shook his head, defeated. “You know what? Whatever, Henderson.”

He focused on the road, driving the kid toward the middle school, wondering—not for the first time—why the universe kept making him responsible for children.

—

Steve managed to avoid Nancy for the first few hours of the day—sort of a miracle considering how small Hawkins High really was. Each time she approached, he ducked into a classroom or walked faster, pretending he didn’t hear. His heart felt like it was lodged somewhere in his throat each time he saw her brown hair flash at the end of a hallway.

Now he stood in the boys’ locker room, peeling off his shirt for basketball practice. The room smelled like sweat, old cologne, and that weird mildew smell every locker room had. He shut his locker with a soft clank—just in time to hear the familiar sound of Tommy H.’s obnoxious laugh.

He didn’t even have to look to know trouble was brewing.

“-he lost it last year,” Tommy was saying loudly to the new kid. “Total sissy now. Doesn’t give a shit about anything anymore. You gotta give him hell during practice.”

Steve’s shoulders tensed.

He turned just enough to see Billy Hargrove lounging against a row of lockers, leaning back like a lion watching prey. Billy’s eyes tracked Steve from behind a screen of metal doors, the corner of his mouth curling into a slow, mocking grin. His eyes gleamed with something—challenge, cruelty, excitement.

“Don’t worry,” Billy said, voice smooth and venomous. “I wanna see what the real King Steve is like.”

Steve clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. He slammed his locker shut, the sound echoing off the walls.

This was going to be a long practice.

—

Steve came to a very firm conclusion: Billy Hargrove was a dick. Like, a cosmic-level dick. A dick hand-crafted by the universe for the sole purpose of ruining Steve Harrington’s day.

Billy had body-checked him, elbowed him, tripped him—seven times.

Seven.

And every time Steve hit the floor, Billy grinned like it was Christmas morning.

Steve was panting hard, sweat dripping down his face. His ribs ached. His head throbbed.

And then—

Nancy appeared in the gym entrance.

The second he saw her, everything inside him clenched painfully. His chest tightened. His stomach knotted. His throat felt dry.

He straightened, dropping his hands to his sides, and jogged toward his coach.

“Whaddya want, Harrington?” Coach mumbled, eyes still on the scrimmage.

“I’ve gotta take care of something,” Steve said, breathless. “I’ll be back in ten.”

Coach waved him off without even looking.

Steve jogged toward Nancy, schooling his face into something neutral, something unreadable. She looked serious—tight jaw, furrowed brows, lips pressed together. No softness. No warmth.

He followed her outside without a word as she led him into the small alley between the gym and the main building. A quiet place. A hidden one.

He hated that he already knew why she chose it.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asked, tone flat.

Nancy shot him a look—part annoyance, part disbelief.

“Why do you think? Where were you this morning? I missed first period looking for you. I thought something might’ve happened at the party.”

Steve let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. “Jonathan. You remember him?”

Nancy’s face creased in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

Steve scoffed, shaking his head, looking down at the concrete as he wrapped a towel around his neck.

“Jesus, you really can’t handle your alcohol,” he muttered before speaking louder. “Okay, let’s see. You remember going to Tina’s party last night, right?”

“Yes,” Nancy said quickly.

Steve nodded tightly. “And then what?”

“I remember dancing and… spilling punch. You got mad at me because I was drunk. And then you took me home.”

“No.” Steve exhaled sharply. “See, that’s where your mind gets fuzzy. That was your other boyfriend.”

He winced, eyes closing for a second before he forced himself to go on.

“That was Jonathan.”

Nancy blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s pretty simple, Nancy. You were just telling it like it is.” His voice softened, almost unwillingly. “Or telling how you really feel.”

Nancy frowned. “What?”

“Uh, apparently, I killed Barb,” Steve said, voice breaking a little. “And that I don’t care. And that I’m bullshit… our relationship is bullshit… everything is bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.”

He swallowed hard.

“Oh yeah. And you don’t love me.”

Nancy’s face hardened. “I was drunk, Steve. I don’t remember any of that. Did you have a flashback or—?”

“So that makes everything you said… what? It’s bullshit too?” Steve cut her off, voice rising.

“Yes,” she said, firm.

Steve stared at her. Something in his chest cracked cleanly in two.

“Well then tell me.”

Nancy’s brows drew together. “Tell you what?”

“You love me.”

Nancy froze, lips parting just slightly. Not to answer—just to stare.

“Really?” she said, almost amused. Like it was ridiculous. Like he was ridiculous.

Steve waited.

Seconds passed.

Nothing.

Because she didn’t love him.

Steve inhaled, sharp and painful, then turned and walked away before she could see the hurt on his face.

“Steve, wait!” Nancy called after him.

He didn’t.

He just kept walking.

Chapter 16: 2:40

As a senior, Steve was allowed to leave school a few hours early. That didn’t usually matter—normally he hung around until Nancy was done, or until Dustin or the kids needed something, or until he convinced himself he didn’t mind wandering around campus like a ghost.

But not today.

He stormed out of the school, jaw clenched so tight it hurt, and marched straight toward his car. His footsteps echoed too loudly in the mostly-empty parking lot, each one pulsing with the same awful mixture of humiliation and heartbreak sitting like stones in his chest.

He yanked open the driver’s side door, practically threw himself inside, and slammed it shut. The sound was sharp and hollow, vibrating through the small space. He didn’t even start the car. Just rested his elbows heavily on the steering wheel and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

His breath stuttered out of him in short, explosive huffs of anger—anger at Nancy, at himself, at the entire damn world—and tears of frustration burned the corners of his eyes.

Nancy didn’t love him.

She really did blame him for Barb.

She had said it. Maybe drunk, maybe confused, but she said it.

And the awful part was…Steve kind of believed her. He always had. He could’ve gotten up. He could’ve checked. He could’ve done something. But he didn’t. He’d just…listened. Like an idiot.

His chest tightened until he felt like he was breathing through a straw. He let out a harsh, bitter sound—not quite a sob, not quite a laugh—just raw, bottled-up emotion finally leaking out.

Before he knew what was happening, his hands were moving. Turning the key. Shifting into reverse. Pulling out of the parking spot. The car lurched forward and Steve blinked, only barely processing the fact that he was already driving away from the school.

He didn’t remember choosing a direction. Didn’t care. He just needed to move. To not feel trapped. To not think.

The world smeared past his window in early-afternoon sunlight, and he kept going.

—

Steve had no idea where he was going. He was driving completely on autopilot, letting muscle memory take over while his mind floated somewhere far behind him—still stuck back in that alley, still hearing Nancy’s voice say bullshit again and again.

He didn’t snap back into himself until he realized he was pulling into a familiar clearing—the place where he and Hopper parked their cars when they were at the cabin. The tires crunched over gravel, the trees around him tall and dark and quiet.

Of course he came here.

This place was safe. This place had rules. This place had El.

Steve got out of the car, the cool air hitting his overheated face, and grabbed his bag from the backseat without thinking. His walk up to the cabin was a blur—branches brushing his arms, the ground soft under his shoes, the world somehow too quiet and too loud at the same time.

Before he could even ask himself why he was here—why he hadn’t just gone home, or driven in circles until the sun set—his knuckles were tapping the door in the coded pattern Hopper had drilled into him.

He barely had time to second-guess it before the locks clicked and the door swung open.
El stood there, curls hanging around her face, eyebrows knitting together the moment she saw him.

“Early,” she said, voice simple but firm. “Why are you early?”

Steve blinked down at his watch. He’d only been at school for four hours before he bailed. He cleared his throat, trying to gather himself, trying to stitch together something that didn’t sound pathetic.

“Oh, I… I could leave early,” he said, forcing a small shrug. “’Cause it’s my last year of school and all.”

El narrowed her eyes, reading him better than most adults ever did. She looked unconvinced—because she was—but she still stepped back and opened the door wider, letting him in.

Steve slipped inside quickly, the familiar scent of wood and dust settling something deep in his chest. He walked straight to his room, practically tossing his bag onto his bed before he made his way down the hall to El’s room.

She was already back in her spot, legs folded, eyes glued to the TV as some brightly-colored show flickered across the screen.

Steve leaned against her doorway, exhaling.

“El…” he said gently.

She glanced up with the tired annoyance of someone who’d just been interrupted during the best part of her show.

“We can go at 2:40, okay?” Steve continued. “You’re going to see Mike today.”

El’s entire face lit up. The transformation was instant—shoulders straightening, eyes widening, the biggest grin spreading across her face. She shot up from the bed and practically launched herself into him, her arms hooking tight around his ribs.

“Thank you,” she whispered into his shirt, voice barely there.

Steve closed his eyes and hugged her back, a real, soft smile stretching across his face. He didn’t care if Hopper skinned him alive. He’d take the yelling. El deserved to be happy—really happy—for the first time in months.

At 2:30, El came bounding out of her room with her hair bouncing and a look of pure excitement on her face. Steve was sitting on the couch, hands clasped between his knees, anxiety churning quietly under his skin.

“Mike,” El announced, like that single word explained everything.

She grabbed a large flannel—one of Steve’s, because of course she did—and shrugged it on before standing stiffly by the door, waiting like a soldier awaiting orders.

Steve couldn’t help laughing under his breath as he got to his feet.

“Okay, El,” he said, masking his nerves with big-brother authority, “before we go out, we need to follow some rules, alright?”

El nodded immediately, though her eyes were still sparkling with eagerness.

“You have to stay with me,” Steve said. “Unless someone’s talking to me. Then you hide, and when they’re gone, you come back. Don’t ever leave me. Always have me in sight.”

El’s nod slowed a little, more serious now. She understood the danger better than anyone.

“And El…” Steve hesitated, hating that he had to say this, hating that he was about to disappoint her. “Please don’t talk to Mike. Don't let him see you. You can look at him, but don’t talk to him. Not yet anyway.”

El’s face fell—not dramatically, but enough. Her eyes dropped to the floor. She had probably expected these rules, but disappointment still tugged at her expression.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

Then she turned, unlocked the door’s many latches with practiced precision, and swung it open.

Steve stepped beside her quickly, slipping his hand into hers. Her small fingers squeezed his back as they stepped out together into the woods—two shadows moving carefully through sunlight and secrets, toward something dangerous but hopeful.

—

El had to sit in the back of Steve’s car as they drove through Hawkins—somewhere she didn’t belong, not yet, not safely. The old seatbelts clinked every time they hit a bump, and she kept fussing with the strap, adjusting it like she wasn’t used to sitting in a real car seat, which… she wasn’t.

Steve hated making her sit back there, like she was cargo he was smuggling. But the second he glanced in the rearview mirror, his guilt melted a little.

El was smiling.

A tiny, cautious smile. But a smile.

Her forehead was pressed lightly to the window, curls bouncing every time the car rattled. She watched every storefront, every cluster of houses, every dog being walked like it was a moving painting. The world outside was rushing by too fast for her to follow, but she tried anyway.

Steve swallowed tightly. For a moment—just a moment—everything felt worth it.

It took around ten minutes for them to pull into the huge parking lot of Hawkins Middle. The chain-link fences, the faded paint, the rows of buses—all of it looked like normal, boring, everyday life.

But to El, it must’ve looked like the gates of a strange new kingdom.

Steve parked near the back of the lot, far away from the main doors, hoping fewer people would see them. His anxiety spiked the second he turned off the engine. His fingers shook slightly as he pulled the keys out, and when he looked back at El—he saw the same fear reflected in her eyes.

“You ready?” he asked quietly.

El swallowed once. Hard. But she nodded, moving toward the door like she was walking into battle.

Steve rushed out of the car so he could guide her, stepping around quickly and offering his hand before she could get overwhelmed. El grabbed it immediately, her fingers curling around his like she was afraid he would disappear if she blinked.

They stepped inside together.

—

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as they walked through the front entrance. The smell of floor cleaner and cafeteria food hit Steve like a wall. To him, it was familiar. To El… it made her stiffen beside him, her entire body reacting like she’d been thrown into cold water.

Her grip tightened—so tight Steve felt his pulse against her palm.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered gently as they walked past the office, “just stay with me. You’re okay. I promise.”

El nodded, but her eyes darted everywhere—every locker, every doorway, every poster, every shadow. Memories Steve couldn’t even imagine flickered behind her gaze. She was seeing more than the present. She was seeing last year. The labs. The electricity. The men in suits. The running. The hiding.

Steve hated that for her.

They made their way deeper into the hallway, El practically glued to his side. It was nearly empty—school had been out for hours—but echoes traveled strangely through the space. Every distant footstep made her jump.

Then Steve heard it—footsteps behind them. Heavy ones. Fast ones.

He turned sharply.

And froze.

Billy Hargrove was strutting down the hall with that smug, predatory swagger, shoulders bunching as he cracked his knuckles.

“Shit,” Steve muttered under his breath.

Without hesitation, he grabbed El gently but firmly and guided her into the nearest side hallway. Her breathing was fast now, shallow and panicked.

“Stay here,” Steve whispered, crouching slightly so they were eye-level. “I’ll come back as soon as I deal with this guy. Okay?”

El’s eyes were wide—fearful, worried—but she nodded with a quiet determination. She trusted him. Fully. Completely.

Steve flashed her a quick, brave smile he didn’t actually feel, then straightened and stepped back into the main hall.

Billy was already waiting for him.

“Harrington,” Billy drawled, smug grin stretching across his face. “Didn’t ‘spect to see you here. What’s a hot shot like you doing in a dump like this?”

His voice oozed mockery, dripping with every ounce of venom he carried.

Steve rolled his eyes, trying to look bored. Trying not to show how badly he wanted Billy to just disappear.

“Could say the same about you,” he shot back.

Billy’s grin widened. Too wide. Like a lion baring its teeth before it lunged. He rolled his tongue over his teeth in a slow, deliberate motion that made Steve’s entire body cringe in disgust.

“My little shitbird of a sister’s still here,” Billy said, stepping closer until Steve could smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket. “Our parents told me to find her.”

“Yeah?” Steve fired back. “Maybe if you’d be a better brother, you wouldn’t have to go around hunting her down.”

Something dark flickered in Billy’s eyes. Something dangerous. His eyebrows raised, taunting.

“You wanna go there, Harrington?” Billy’s voice dropped lower. “You couldn’t even handle that bear that dragged you into the woods.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. His heart hammered against his ribs. His fists curled.

Before he could open his mouth—two things happened simultaneously:

A loud, metallic bang echoed from somewhere far down the hall. Followed by terrified screams—

—and Billy lunged.

His hand fisted in Steve’s jacket collar and slammed him backward into the wall so hard the back of Steve’s skull cracked against the concrete. Stars burst across his vision.

Then Billy was gone.

It was like he’d vanished—darting away toward the noise, toward the chaos, leaving Steve sliding down the wall until he hit the floor, stunned and breathless.

He sat there for a moment, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to bite back the wave of dizziness. He needed to be calm. El needed him calm.

He forced himself to his feet, swallowing pain, and turned toward the hallway where he’d left her.

He took three steps.

Then froze.

El wasn’t there.

The hallway was empty.

Dead silent.

She was gone.

Chapter 17: Oh Shit

Steve shot to his feet so fast his knees almost buckled. His heart slammed painfully against his ribs as he whipped his head left—right—behind him.

El wasn’t there.

Not leaning against the lockers. Not pressed into the corner. Not hiding behind the trash can like he’d told her to.

“Jesus—El—” Steve muttered, panic flooding through every nerve. He told her to stay put. He told her. Why didn’t she—

He sprinted down the hallway where she’d been, shoes slapping the linoleum, scanning every open classroom and shadow. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Steve bolted up the small flight of stairs at the end of the hall, two steps at a time. His vision blurred at the edges from the adrenaline. He looked down one long hallway—empty. The other—just as empty.

“No, no, no, no,” Steve breathed, voice shaking as he barreled back down the stairs and tore through another wing of the school. His pulse roared in his ears so loudly he barely heard his own footsteps.

He rounded a corner at full speed—

—and a small body slammed into his chest with enough force to knock him back a step.

“Steve?” a familiar, high, slightly squeaky voice said.

Dustin.

Of course it was Dustin.

The kid blinked up at him with wide, confused eyes. “Why’re you here?”

“Uh—” Steve stumbled, mind short-circuiting between ‘find El’ and ‘don’t freak out Dustin.’ “Yeah, I’m here. What’re you doing? And what’s with that headset? It really clashes with the hat, buddy.”

Dustin’s jaw dropped. Offended. Utterly offended.

He opened his mouth to fire back, defend both his fashion choices and his dignity, but before he could, his walkie-talkie crackled loudly.

“Dustin? Do you know where Will is?” a worried voice fractured through the static.

Dustin’s brow furrowed in confusion. Steve barely had the space to register it—his eyes kept darting down the halls behind them, searching desperately. El could be anywhere. Anywhere.

“No, I was heading to the southside bathroom,” Dustin answered quickly. “Will said he saw Dart there. He’s not there?”

“He’s not here.”

The voice was trembling.

Steve’s stomach dropped.

Will was missing too.

“Shit,” Steve and Dustin muttered at the same time.

“We’ll be there soon,” Dustin said into the com, voice cracking just a little. “Radio when you find him.”

Then Dustin grabbed Steve’s arm with surprising strength and yanked him down the hall, practically dragging him. Steve stumbled twice, almost face-planting the second time, before he finally caught the rhythm and kept pace.

“Before you start on that shit, Steve,” Dustin said breathlessly, not even looking back at him, “we’re going to find Will.”

—

They searched three classrooms. Three empty, silent, echoing classrooms. Steve checked behind every desk, under every table, inside every closet.

Still no El.

Still no sign of her.

His nerves were shot. His chest felt tight, like something was squeezing him from the inside.

“Come on, El,” Steve muttered under his breath as he swept the fourth room with frantic eyes. “I know you’re here. Come on, kid…”

He nearly jumped out of his skin when Mike’s panicked voice exploded through Dustin’s com:

“He’s on the field! I think he’s having an episode!”

Steve felt the blood drain out of his face so fast he swayed.

Will was having an episode. El was missing. Billy was loose in the school. Something had banged earlier—something big.

It was too much. All of it—too damn much. His heart pounded hard enough that he felt it in his throat.

Before he could spiral, Dustin grabbed his arm again and yanked.

“Come on, Steve!” he screeched, voice hitting a level only Dustin could reach.

Steve jerked his arm free—only to grab Dustin’s wrist instead, turning the momentum so he was leading. Dustin shot him a confused glance but didn’t question it, letting Steve pull them into a fast sprint.

It grounded Steve. Just a little. He needed to lead. He needed control. He needed something—anything—to anchor him through the chaos.

They tore down the main hallway, feet pounding in unison, when a small red-headed girl skidded into their path. Steve vaguely recognized her as Billy’s sister—Max.

Dustin stepped in front of Steve protectively, puffing up even though he was out of breath.

“Max?” Dustin wheezed, toothless lisp louder than usual.

Max’s nose wrinkled as she eyed Steve like he was a grown-up intruder. “Who’s that? And why’s he with you?”

Normally Steve would’ve had a sarcastic answer lined up. But right now? His entire brain was nothing but static and terror.

Not important.

El.

Will.

El.

Will.

“Not important. We have to find Will,” Dustin said for him.

But Steve wasn’t listening anymore.

He heard a door squeak open. Heavy, hurried footsteps entered the school.

Steve’s instincts snapped taut—he grabbed Dustin’s arm and yanked him toward the noise.

“Steve! What the hell!” Dustin yelped as he was dragged along like a rag doll.

They rounded the corner—

And Steve nearly collided with Joyce Byers.

Her face was pale, drawn tight with panic. Her eyes darted from Steve to Dustin to Max like she was trying to process ten things at once.

“Mrs. Byers?” Steve said at the same time she blurted:

“Steve? What’s going on? Where’s Will?”

Before Steve could answer, Lucas burst through the side door, gasping for breath. His eyes were wild, frantic.

“The field,” he panted. “Come on!”

He didn’t wait—just turned and sprinted back outside.

Steve and Joyce locked eyes for just one second—one awful, understanding second—before they took off after him.

—

Steve and Joyce led the pack up the small hill toward the field. The grass rustled under their shoes, wind biting at their faces.

When Steve reached the crest, he stopped so suddenly Dustin ran into his back. Will stood in the middle of the field.

Frozen.

Stiff.

Like a statue.

Eye fluttering like they couldn’t quite open.

Mike gripped his shoulders, shaking him, voice frantic.

“I just found him like this!” Mike yelled the second he spotted the others approaching. “He won’t move!”

Steve’s lungs tightened painfully as they got closer.

Then he heard it.

The sounds Will was making—tiny gasps, choked breaths, sharp little pants of fear and distress.

And something inside Steve cracked.

It was the same noise Will had made in the Upside Down. The same trembling breaths. The same tight panic.

Memories slammed into him—dark tendrils, cold air that burned, the distant screeches echoing through those empty halls. Will shaking. Will suffocating. Will barely clinging to consciousness.

Steve almost froze.

Almost.

But the kids needed him. Will needed him. El—God knows where she was—needed him too.

He forced himself forward, heart pounding harder than ever.

Steve and Joyce met on either side of Will, each of them gripping one of his shoulders as if grounding him by touch alone. Joyce’s fingers trembled just barely, but her voice remained steady, the kind of mother-tone that had held together a thousand moments scarier than this one.

She leaned close, her eyes searching his slack, pale face. “Will, baby, c’mon. Open your eyes, honey.”

Her voice had that tightness underneath the calm—fear simmering low, right at the edges.

Steve bent down a little, trying to see Will’s expression from below his bangs. The kid’s head hung heavy on his neck, his breathing shallow, his lips faintly parted. Every instinct in Steve’s chest screamed that something was wrong—more wrong than usual.

“Will, buddy,” Steve murmured, shaking his shoulder lightly. “Hey. Wake up, man. Look at us.”

The wind pushed across the field, rustling dead grass against their legs. The sky felt too big, the air too still—wrong, wrong, wrong. They tried calling Will’s name over and over, both their voices soft but urgent, filling the silence around them. Thirty seconds stretched like forever, each second heavier than the last.

And then—

Will’s whole body jolted.

He sucked in a deep, rattling gasp—like his lungs had been locked up and suddenly came back online. His back arched, his fingers curling into trembling fists. Joyce let out a cry, half relief and half panic, and she immediately yanked him into her arms.

“Oh my god, Will!” she gasped, pressing his head to her shoulder. She held him with both arms, one hand smoothing through his hair shakily. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Steve froze for a second, hands hovering in midair. He wasn’t sure if he should touch Will again, or give Joyce space, or run for help. So he watched. He watched everything.
Because something about Will… wasn’t right.

Over Joyce’s shoulder, Will lifted his eyes toward Steve. His pupils were blown wide, almost swallowing the brown. They looked glassy—not like tears, but like… emptiness. Like he was looking past Steve instead of at him. The breath Steve had been holding punched out of him. It made his skin crawl.

The other kids must’ve seen it too. Mike, Dustin, Lucas, Max—each of them slowly drew closer, bunching up behind Steve like a pack seeking safety. No one said a word. They just stared.

Joyce whispered something into Will’s ear—too soft for anyone else to hear. Something meant just for him. His rigid shoulders eased a fraction, and she pulled back while keeping her hands on either side of his face.

She pasted on the bravest smile she could manage, though her eyes were shiny and terrified.

“We’re going to get going, kids,” she said, steadying her voice. She looked up at Steve then—really looked—and the tremble in her exhale was barely noticeable unless you knew her. “I’ll have Hop tell you anything,” she said, and reached out, giving Steve’s arm a small squeeze. A thank-you. And maybe a silent plea.

Steve swallowed, throat tight. He managed a nod. Anything else, he wasn’t sure he could say.

Joyce wrapped an arm around Will and guided him off the field. Will leaned heavily into her side, stumbling once, and Steve felt something inside him twist sharply.

He didn’t like this. He didn’t like this at all.

—

They all stood frozen, watching Joyce get Will into the car. The engine rumbled. She glanced back only once—her eyes tight with worry—before pulling away from the school parking lot.

Steve stared long after the taillights disappeared.

A weird feeling pooled low in his stomach, cold and prickling. Will’s episode had been… wrong. Different. Too deep, too still, too empty. Steve didn’t know how he knew that—he just did. It buzzed under his ribs like a warning.

Suddenly Dustin popped up right in front of his face, making Steve jerk back a step.
“You okay, Steve?” Dustin asked, brows drawn tight. Max, Mike, and Lucas hovered behind him, all wearing variations of the same expression. Worried. Confused. Scared.

Only Max looked more confused than terrified, glancing between the boys like she’d missed half the movie.

And that’s when it hit Steve like a punch to the chest.

El.

She was still somewhere in the school. Alone. After that bang. After Billy. After all the chaos.

Steve shut his eyes for half a second. Hopper is literally going to bury me alive.
He forced a breath and pulled out his keys, holding them up so everyone could see.

“Alright, shitheads,” he said, aiming for his usual Steve-tone but hearing the strain beneath it. “Let’s go. I’ll drive you guys home.”

Mike looked like he was about to protest—eyes flicking toward where Joyce and Will had disappeared—but then he just closed his mouth and nodded. For once, even he sensed this wasn’t the moment to argue.

They all moved toward Steve’s car, feet dragging a little, heads down. The air felt heavy.
But as Steve stepped forward to open the back door for them, he froze.

His stomach dropped out.

Someone was already inside.

There, curled up tight on the backseat—knees to her chest, chin resting on her arms, hair half covering her face—was El.

Her eyes were wide. Exhausted. Shiny with leftover tears she must’ve shed alone. She looked like a kid hiding in a closet during a storm.

And the kids behind Steve would have a perfect view.

Steve’s face drained of blood.

Shit.

Chapter 18: Consequences

Her eyes were wide. Too wide. The kind of wide that said fear came first and exhaustion came second. They were glassy with tears she must’ve shed alone in silence, in the dark, in whatever hollow place she’d been hiding all this time. She looked small—smaller than Steve remembered—curled in on herself like a kid hiding in a closet during a thunderstorm, waiting for someone to tell her it was over.

And the kids behind Steve…if they looked into the backseat right now, if they leaned just a little—

They would have a perfect view of her.

For a heartbeat, Steve’s entire body went cold. Not scared. Not surprised. Cold. Blood draining out of him so fast he felt briefly weightless.

Shit.

He spun on his heel so fast his vision flashed white at the edges. Instinct shoved him between the open car door and the group of kids like a human shield. He pressed his back against the window of his own BMW to block their line of sight, trying to keep his breathing even. Calm. Normal.

“Change of plans, shitheads,” Steve said, clapping his hands together like a coach calling time-out. “You’re gonna have to bike home.”

It was dead silent for two full seconds.

The kids stared at him like he’d just sprouted antlers. Like he’d sprouted antlers and was also speaking fluent Russian. Long enough that Steve wondered if they genuinely forgot he existed.

Then—

“What do you mean?”

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“Why can’t we just go with you?”

The chorus of outrage hit him all at once, bouncing off the concrete like someone opened the gates of hell and let loose a pack of angry middle-schoolers.

Steve sighed dramatically and gave them his most innocent shrug—the one he’d perfected after years of dealing with suspicious teachers and even more suspicious parents. “Sorry, guys. Completely slipped my mind that Hop asked me to help him in the office today.” He lifted his wrist and stared blankly at the watch he wasn’t wearing. “I’m actually already late. Crazy, right?”

Lucas stared at the ground, scuffing his shoe against the pavement. Max folded her arms, brows pulling together—not angry, not disappointed, more like she was trying to decode him like some human puzzle. Mike rolled his eyes so hard Steve thought he might actually injure himself.

“Come on,” Mike huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets as he stomped toward the bikes. Lucas followed after a moment. Max shot Steve one last sharp look, then turned to go.

Dustin didn’t move.

He stood there, rooted to the spot, staring right at Steve. His expression wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even annoyed. It was…calculating. Confused and suspicious all at once, like he had one piece of the puzzle and was about to demand the rest.

Steve forced a little shrug. “Sorry, kid.”

Dustin’s eyes narrowed slowly. He lifted one finger and jabbed it toward Steve’s chest like he was accusing a murderer in the final act of a courtroom drama. “Don’t think I’m not onto you, Steven.”

Steve blinked, throat going dry. “I… what?”

Dustin kept backing up, squinting his eyes and never breaking eye contact, expression hard and eerie in the way only Dustin Henderson could pull off. Steve felt like bugs were crawling under his skin.

Then the kid finally turned, hopped on his bike, and pedaled after the others.

Steve watched the gangle of pre-teens wobble away, their helmets bobbing as they disappeared down the road into the distance.

Only when they were fully out of sight did Steve exhale. His shoulders sagged. He turned slowly, carefully, and looked into the backseat again.

El hadn’t moved.

She was still curled up, knees hugged to her chest, eyes huge and swollen and shining.

He shook his head, opened the driver’s door, and sank into the seat. He closed the door gently, like even the sound might scare her.

His hands gripped the steering wheel—tight, white-knuckled, so hard the leather dug into his palms. He tried to breathe through the panic still buzzing through his nerves.

He looked into the rearview mirror.

El’s eyes met his instantly. Red-rimmed. Watery. Silent.

He swallowed hard, steadying himself for her sake.

Then he slid the key into the ignition.

—

Steve pulled the BMW into the wooded clearing and felt his stomach drop straight through the floor when he spotted Hopper’s cruiser. The damn thing looked enormous. Judgmental. Like a cop car from a nightmare.

He glanced back at El.

She was still curled up, smaller now somehow. Her hands were clasped together so tightly her knuckles were colorless. Her gaze was glued to her sneakers like they were the only stable thing she had left.

Steve ran a hand over his face.

Hopper was actually going to kill him. Kill him, bury the body, and then resurrect him just so he could yell at him some more. And honestly? Steve couldn’t even blame him.

He turned in his seat to face her. Her eyes flicked up, tired and wary.

He gave her a crooked, pathetic excuse for a smile. “You ready for this?”

El didn’t react—not with a nod, not with a frown. Just stared, unreadable.

They walked in heavy silence—the longest five-minute walk of Steve’s life. Every crunch of leaves underfoot echoed like a gunshot. Every cold breeze made his stomach twist. The cabin appeared between the trees like something out of a horror movie.

Hopper stood on the porch like a storm cloud ready to burst, arms crossed, cigarette burning between his fingers. His face was set in the kind of expression that made grown men rethink their life choices.

Steve froze for a second, the cold night air seeming to stop in his lungs. Anxiety coiled tight in his stomach like a fist made of barbed wire. His fingers twitched at his sides, instinctively wanting to move, to smooth down his jacket, to do something that made him feel less like prey under a hunter’s gaze.

El—so much braver than him in moments like this, braver than anyone her age should ever have to be—didn’t hesitate. She didn’t even blink. She continued walking forward with a steady, purposeful stride, her boots crunching softly against the gravel. Her expression remained carefully composed, almost unnervingly calm, eyes fixed on the front door instead of the man standing before it.

Hopper stood on the cabin porch, the glow of the weak porch light highlighting the scowl carved deep into his face. He flicked his cigarette down toward the railing, jaw clenched so hard Steve thought the muscle might crack. Hopper ground the cig out with a sharp, irritated twist of his fingers, a harsh breath of smoke escaping his nose like a bull preparing to charge.

El kept moving. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t even slow. She reached out, grabbed the door handle, and pulled it open with the same casualness a kid might use coming home from school—not someone expecting a confrontation with a furious parental figure.

Hopper moved the second she crossed the threshold. His boots hit the porch with heavy, furious thuds. His shoulders were tense and squared like he was physically holding back the urge to yell right there. He stomped after her, and when he reached the door he ripped the screen door shut behind him with a bang that echoed across the clearing.

Steve stood at the bottom of the steps, shoulders tight and drawn up toward his ears. The crisp air bit into his skin, but his nerves burned hotter. His legs finally unfroze and he jogged up the steps after them, trying not to let his imagination spiral into worst-case scenarios.

Hopper’s voice hit him before he even reached the door.

“Friends don’t lie.”

The words were sharp, loaded, and unmistakably dangerous. Steve winced as he pulled the screen door open, stepping inside with as small a footprint as possible. He shut the solid wooden door behind him, the thunk reverberating through his ribs as Hopper stormed toward the table. Hopper slammed his hat down, the brim bending from the force, before he barreled down the hall after El.

“Isn’t that your bullshit saying?” Hopper threw over his shoulder, voice rising, bitterness dripping from every syllable.

El stepped into her room without acknowledging him, her movements calm—too calm—like she was trying to pretend she didn’t hear him. She began to shut the door with the same slow, defiant deliberation.

“Hey!” Hopper snapped, lunging forward. His boots pounded against the hardwood as he reached her door and shoved it open with such force that it banged against the wall with a loud crack. “Hey, hey!”

He planted a hand against the doorframe, blocking her escape. “Don’t walk away from me!”

El exhaled sharply through her nose, her eyes narrowing just slightly. She looked at Hopper the same way someone might look at a buzzing fly—annoyed, inconvenienced, impatient.
Steve stepped away from the front door, swallowing hard. He knew this wasn’t going to end well. Hopper’s temper was simmering just below a boil, and El’s stubbornness was already sparking.
Hopper leaned against the doorframe, pinching the bridge of his nose and breathing hard, clearly fighting to reel himself in. Steve winced again, the tension in his shoulders crawling up his spine.

Steve stepped forward, voice barely a whisper. “Hop—”

Hopper’s head snapped toward him, eyes sharp for a moment before they darted back to El. “Okay,” he said, voice low and dangerous, “where’d he take you on your little field trip, huh?”

Silence.

El didn’t answer. Steve didn’t either. She calmly shrugged off her flannel, as though she were just getting home from errands—not sneaking out, not breaking rules, not risking everything. Steve’s jaw tightened. His mouth opened halfway, then closed again, useless.

Hopper clenched his teeth. “Where?”

El finally turned to look at him. Not afraid—never afraid—but guilty. Her eyes shone with it. Steve saw Hopper recognize that in an instant.

“Did you go see Mike?” Hopper asked, voice tight as wire.

El hesitated only briefly before looking away. “He didn’t see me.”

“Yeah, well, what I need to know is”—Hopper stepped fully into the room, crowding her space, leaning against her bedframe so they were inches apart—“did anyone see you?”

El stared at him, unblinking.

“Anyone at all?” Hopper snapped, then he turned to Steve, who lingered in the doorway like a shadow trying to disappear. “Did anyone see her?”

Steve gave a small, helpless shake of his head—then stopped. Realizing. He didn't know. Not really. He had no idea if she’d been spotted.

“C’mon,” Hopper barked. “I need you to think!”

El abruptly leaned in until her nose brushed his, a direct challenge.

“Nobody saw me,” she said, voice steady, firm, absolute.

She pulled back with her eyebrows drawn together in growing anger. Hopper scrubbed a hand over his mouth and began pacing the length of the tiny room, boots thudding unevenly. “You both put us all in danger,” he said, voice slicing between them. “You realize that, right?”

His gaze landed on Steve like a blow.

“And I can’t believe you’d do that.”

Steve flinched internally, shoulders curling inward. Hopper’s large frame towered over him, casting him in shadow. Steve felt thirteen again. Small. Shrinking. Cornered.

“Steve—”

“You promised…” El interrupted, and both of them snapped their heads in her direction. Tears were gathering fast in her eyes, shimmering, swelling. She jabbed a finger toward Hopper, voice cracking with raw betrayal. “I go.” She pointed toward the wall, stabbing the air as her face twisted in anger.

“And I never leave!” Her voice exploded, wild and furious.

“Nothing ever happens!”

“Yeah,” Hopper roared back, veins standing out at his temples, “nothing happens and you stay safe!”

He slammed his fist against the door beside Steve’s head. The crack of skin-on-wood echoed like a gunshot.

Steve jerked violently backward, eyes locked on the chipped spot where Hopper’s fist had landed. His breath stuttered, his mind short-circuited—

—and suddenly, he wasn’t in Hopper’s cabin anymore.

He was in the Harrington house.

Dad towering. Spit flying. Fist slamming into wood. Steve’s back hitting wallpaper. A late curfew. A B-minus. A missed shot.

The world split open.

The three of them stood suspended in that tension—El bristling with anger, Hopper practically shaking with rage, Steve silently drowning in memories.

“You lie!” El shouted, slicing through the silence.

Hopper jerked forward. “I don’t lie.” He was trembling with fury now. “I protect and I feed and I teach!” He stepped even closer to her, chest rising and falling faster. “And all I ask of you both is that you follow three simple rules. Three rules. And you know what?”

He paused between them, eyes blazing, but Steve didn’t see Hopper anymore.

He saw Richard Harrington. Red-faced. Towering. Shaking with fury.

“You can’t even do that!” Hopper roared.

Steve blinked, but the cabin blurred with flashes of the past.

Then Hopper shoved past him, knocking Steve out of his frozen trance, storming toward the kitchen.

“You’re grounded,” Hopper barked, yanking the fridge open. “You know what that means?” He grabbed the Eggos and threw the boxes violently onto the floor. “It means no Eggos.” He slammed the fridge shut hard enough to rattle the shelves. “And no TV for a week.”

He stormed to the TV and gripped the sides, trying to lift it—but it didn’t budge.

He turned sharply to El.

She was standing with her jaw set, nose bleeding steadily. A thin trickle of red ran over her lip and down her chin.

She was holding the TV in place with nothing but her mind.

“Alright, knock it off,” Hopper grunted. “Let go.”

El didn’t move.

He tugged again. Nothing.

“Alright, two weeks.”

He tried again.

Still nothing.

“El,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Let go!”

“No.”

Her voice was low, furious, unwavering.

Hopper nodded once, the gesture so controlled it was almost frightening. “Well congratulations,” he muttered, stepping behind the TV. “You just graduated from no TV for a month, to no TV at all.”

He yanked hard on the cable behind it.

The TV flickered—then died.

“No!” El screamed, launching herself toward it. She clawed at knobs, at switches, desperately trying to resurrect the dead screen.

“You have got to understand that there are consequences to your actions,” Hopper said, pacing again, breathing hard.

El spun toward him, pointing with shaking fury. “You are like Papa!”

Hopper froze.

Then he let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Really? I’m like that psychotic son of a bitch?”

He jabbed a finger at the phone. “You wanna go back in the lab? One phone call and I can make that happen.”

El’s eyes widened with horror. “I hate you.”

“Well, I’m not so crazy about you either—”

Steve’s ears buzzed, ringing as if someone had pressed headphones of static onto his skull. He couldn’t hear clearly anymore. He was frozen in place, breath lodged painfully in his chest. He knew Hopper wasn’t his dad—logically. Knew Hopper wasn’t a threat. Knew Hopper loved El.

But his body didn’t know it. His body remembered fists. Remembered screaming. Remembered fear.

Steve blinked hard and forced his mind back.

He heard the thud of items being thrown. The crash of a shelf falling. El’s scream as she stormed into her room, slamming the door telekinetically with such force the walls shook.

Hopper lunged after her, slamming his hand against the door. “Hey! Open this door!”

He pounded on it again. “Open the damn door!”

Steve forced his legs to move.

“Hopper.” His voice shook despite his best effort. “Stop it.”

Hopper ignored him, rage still pulsing hot. “You wanna go out in the world?” He punched the door again, knuckles striking wood. “You better grow up!”

Steve reached for Hopper’s arm, trying to pull him back. “Hopper, stop it!”

Hopper jerked his arm free. “You better grow the hell up!”

“Hopper!” Steve screamed, voice cracking with emotion he didn’t have time to sort through.

Hopper froze.

A split second later—the windows detonated outward.

Glass exploded like shattering stars as El’s scream echoed through the entire cabin, rattling the rafters.

Steve and Hopper instinctively ducked, covering their heads as shards rained down, the wind surged inward, and silence fell thick and heavy.

When they straightened, the cabin looked like a war zone.

Hopper’s face twisted with guilt—but Steve’s face twisted with something else entirely.

“Why the hell are you even blaming her?” Steve demanded, voice raw. “It was my idea to bring her there. I’m the one who lost sight of her.”

Hopper softened instantly. “Kid, I didn’t—”

“No, you didn’t think!” Steve snapped, voice rising. “You shouldn’t have blamed the damn thirteen-year-old for this!”

His chest heaved. His hands shook.

“Blame me! You can blame me!” He slapped a hand against his own chest. “I’m the adult here!”

Hopper’s expression crumbled further. “Steve… you know I wouldn’t do anything to hurt either of you.”

Steve flinched violently at the word hurt.

He jerked away when Hopper reached out. “Guess what? You did hurt her. You told her you’d send her back to those people.”

His voice broke on “those people.”

Steve turned away, pacing a few steps, hands in his hair. “Jesus, Hopper. I can’t believe you’d say that to her.”

His breathing was ragged now, trying and failing to steady itself.

He grabbed for his keys, checking his pocket like he needed something to ground him.

Then he moved toward the door.

Hopper took a quick step forward. “Steve, don’t go.”

Steve didn’t look back.

“I just don’t know who you are right now.”

The door slammed behind him, hard enough to shake the frame.

—

Steve had already had the longest and shittiest day of his life before PE class even started. It was almost impressive, really, how thoroughly the universe seemed committed to grinding him down. He’d slept in his car — or rather, failed to sleep in his car — which he hadn’t even bothered to move after storming out of the cabin the night before. He’d pulled into a dark stretch of road, slammed the door a little too hard, crawled into the back seat, and curled up with only his jacket as a blanket, trying to convince himself he didn’t care. Trying to convince himself he wasn’t still shaking.

He’d woken up every half hour, jerking upright, breath caught in his chest, because he kept thinking he heard the demogorgon’s screech — that awful, wet, animalistic sound that lived somewhere in the back of his skull now. The rustle of leaves outside his windows, the creak of the cooling metal frame, even his own heartbeat thudding in his ears… every noise tricked some feral part of his brain into believing he was back in that house again, bat gripped in his hands, waiting to die.

Once he’d woken at six a.m., head pounding, throat dry, back aching from sleeping twisted across the back seat, he’d realized the truth: there was no hope of going back to sleep. His entire body buzzed with exhaustion and leftover adrenaline, but he felt wired and sick at the same time — an awful combination. So he’d driven to Melvald’s to grab a few morning essentials.

Luckily, he kept clothes folded in a duffel bag tucked away in his backseat. A weird habit Hopper didn’t quite understand, but Steve knew better. He’d had that bag packed since the moment Hopper got guardianship over him.

Hopper wouldn’t kick him out—at least Steve was pretty sure he wouldn’t. But after living under Richard Harrington’s roof for seventeen years, after being told countless times that his presence was conditional, that one wrong move would mean losing everything… Steve wasn’t capable of being completely certain about any adult.

Not even Hopper. Especially not when he’d raised his voice the night before. Steve’s stomach twisted at the memory.

And Steve wasn’t going to risk it.

He brushed his teeth in the 7/11 bathroom, trying not to make eye contact with his own reflection because he looked wrecked—pale, eyes half-lidded, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions. He scrubbed at his hair with the cheap shampoo he’d picked up from Melvald’s, leaning awkwardly over the slightly rusted faucet, cold water dripping onto the counter and soaking the front of his shirt. The air smelled faintly of bleach and stale cigarettes, and someone had drawn a crude smiley face on the mirror with what looked suspiciously like sharpie.

Then, already operating on fumes, he’d gone to school—and promptly received a C on an English test he’d spent a whole damn week studying for. His head pounded so violently during the entire period that when the teacher slid his test onto his desk, Steve had thought she was handing it to the guy behind him by mistake. By math class, the ache behind his eyes felt like someone was wedging a screwdriver into his temples. He barely registered a word his teacher said about Algebra II.

And now, somehow, he’d ended up here: in PE class, sweat-slick gym floor under his sneakers, fluorescent lights glaring overhead, and Billy Hargrove in front of him — the cherry on top of a day already designed by Satan.

Someone on Billy’s team passed him the basketball, and Steve lunged toward him, trying to knock it out of his hands with a burst of energy he absolutely didn’t have.

Billy twisted away easily, quick and cocky, and their teammates sprinted toward the far end of the court, leaving the two of them isolated near the center line — a standoff that felt way too personal.

Billy cackled as he dribbled, bouncing the ball with a rhythmic smack that reverberated painfully through Steve’s aching skull. “All right! All right, all right!”

Steve stayed locked in his defensive stance, shoulders hunched, vision fixed on the ball even though each dribble sent a sharp jolt through his temples. He wished he’d taken some Advil before class. He wished he’d slept. He wished he were anywhere but here.

Billy tilted his chin up, theatrical and mocking, holding out a hand like he was introducing royalty. “King Steve! King Steve, everyone! I like it.”

Steve clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. He didn’t look up, didn’t react, because reacting only made Billy worse. He kept his eyes pinned to the ball, muscles taut.

“Playing tough today,” Billy drawled, eyebrows raised.

Steve scoffed, jerking his head in irritation, one hand flicking out defensively.

“Jesus!” he yelped, annoyance bubbling over. “Do you ever stop talking, man? C’mon!”

Billy laughed — loud and delighted — before straightening as he dribbled lazily.

“What?” he mocked, cocking his head. Steve stayed in his stance, feet fluttering lightly, weight shifting as he braced for Billy to move. “You afraid coach is gonna bench you ’cause I’m here? Huh?”

Billy lunged, moving sharply—a burst of speed and muscle. His shoulder slammed into Steve’s ribs in a brutal body check that knocked the air from his lungs and sent him sprawling onto the court.

Billy didn’t even glance down as he ran and hooked his arm around the metal rim of the basket, slamming the ball through the net with a satisfying swoosh.

Steve remained on the ground for a moment, arm curled around his ribs, waiting for the ache to settle into something manageable. His breath came in short, shallow bursts. His vision wobbled. He tried to push himself upright, but the pain made him wince.

Billy approached slowly after high-fiving one of his teammates, the echo of palm-slaps ringing around the gym. He stood over Steve, shadow cast across him by the overhead lights. Then, unexpectedly, he leaned down and extended a hand.

Steve blinked up at him, confused, suspicious. Billy never offered kindness without a cost. But lying there on the floor felt pathetic, and the coach was already shouting at them to “get moving,” so Steve hesitated only a second before taking Billy’s hand.

Billy yanked him upward — but not fully. He held Steve suspended halfway, leaning in close, voice dropping low near Steve’s ear.

“You were moving your feet,” he murmured, tone dark and instructive, almost intimate in a threatening way. “Plant them next time, draw a charge.”

Then he let go abruptly, dropping Steve back onto the court like a sack of bricks.

Billy walked away without another glance.

Steve stared after him, frustration burning hot under his skin, making his head pound even harder. He pushed himself up to his feet, chest still tight from the hit.

—

Steve let the hot water run over his body, grateful for even this small relief. The shower plastered his hair against his forehead, steam curling around him as the pounding in his head finally started to dull. He grabbed the small bottle of soap from his locker, squeezing its watery contents into his palm before washing efficiently — chest, arms, stomach, legs — moving through the routine like muscle memory. He massaged the suds into his hair, scrubbing hard, trying to wash away the day.

His eyes slid closed as he let the hot water pour over him, soothing muscles he hadn’t realized were clenched.

A sudden hiss of water beside him made him crack one eye open.

Billy appeared next to him, towel slung over his shoulder, sniffing once before turning his shower head on. He tilted his head back, water cascading down the length of his hair before he glanced sideways at Steve.

“Don’t sweat it, Harrington,” Billy said casually. “Today’s just not your day, man.”

Steve shook his head, ignoring him as he worked shampoo through the ends of his hair. His morning had been so awful he genuinely didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to deal with Hargrove’s bullshit.

Tommy chimed in from the other side, voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Yeah. Not your week.”

Steve stared at Tommy, annoyance flaring hard. After everything that had happened — after all the ways Tommy had twisted the knife these past few months — even hearing his voice made Steve’s skin crawl.

Tommy raised his eyebrows tauntingly. “You and the princess break up for one day and she’s already running off with the freak’s brother.”

Steve froze.

His breath hitched before he forced his expression back into something neutral. He hadn’t known that. He hadn’t known anything, really — just that Nancy hadn’t shown up to school today, and he’d been telling himself it was normal, that she was sick, that it was no big deal.

But Tommy knew him too well. Too many years of friendship. He could see Steve’s reaction even when Steve tried to bury it.

“Oh shit,” Tommy grinned, wicked. “You don’t know.”

Steve swallowed hard, feeling heat crawl up his throat. He kept washing off mechanically, pretending not to care.

“Jonathan and the princess skipped town yesterday,” Tommy continued gleefully. “Still haven’t shown.”

He leaned forward, voice dripping with cruelty. “But that must be a coincidence, right?”

He laughed as he turned off the water and walked away.

Steve stood still, water beating against his shoulders, eyes squeezing shut.

“Don’t take it too hard, man,” Billy said from beside him, tone oddly gentle and mocking at the same time. He leaned back against the tiled wall, arms crossed, as though giving advice to a younger teammate. “A pretty boy like you has got nothing to worry about.”

Steve continued ignoring him.

“Plenty of bitches in the sea,” Billy added.

He reached out and twisted Steve’s shower knob off, forcing Steve to look up at him, water dripping down his face.

“Am I right?” Billy asked, lips stretched into a smug grin.

Steve gave him a flat, unimpressed look.

Billy nodded once, satisfied, then grabbed his towel, clapping a hand onto Steve’s back—hard enough to sting—before walking away.

“I’ll be sure to leave you some.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. He pressed his tongue to his teeth to stop himself from saying something that would definitely start a fight.

He stared at Billy’s retreating back, then squeezed his eyes shut again, chest tightening.

Jonathan and Nancy were gone.

He didn’t feel like he was on the brink of death — not from being dumped, not from jealousy, but from the crushing exhaustion and dread twisting around his ribs. He seriously didn’t think he could go home again tonight. Not after last night. Not after yelling at Hopper. Not after the look Hopper gave him, half-hurt and half-angry.

He slapped the shower knob again, water blasting out hotter now—scorching the top of his shoulders—but he stayed under it, letting it burn. Letting it drown everything else out.

He didn’t care.

He just needed something to hurt that wasn’t inside him.

Notes:

OMG, first new chapter in literally like 5 years, isn't that insane lol
I'm struggling with the plot and figuring things out, so if I missed anything I previously established I will try to catch it as I re-read and write coming chapters. I have some plans but this was all I had for the Will the Wise episode. Next one will have Steve and Dustin duo, which is exciting!!

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 19: Dig Dug

Steve woke up squinting as a beam of light sliced across his face, stabbing straight through his eyelids. For a moment he didn’t even remember where he was. All he registered was brightness, ache, and the sour taste in his mouth. He flinched and threw an arm over his face, blinking hard as his dry eyes watered.

The cramped interior of his BMW slowly blurred into focus around him—familiar but foreign in the early morning light, coated in a cold, grey stillness. His neck throbbed. His back felt like he’d slept on concrete. He realized he was sprawled across the reclined driver’s seat, jacket bunched under his shoulder like a useless pillow.

He groaned as he forced himself upright, each muscle protesting. His head throbbed so sharply he actually winced, lifting both hands to rub at his eyes and temples.

God. He smelled like sweat, anxiety, and yesterday’s exhaustion.

He sighed, letting the breath deflate out of him as he surveyed the car. The passenger seat was a mess of his duffel bag, crumpled receipts, and the empty wrapper of whatever he’d eaten last night—he couldn’t even remember. His phone lay dead-faced on the dash. Through the windshield, Hawkins was washed in pale morning light, quiet and indifferent.

He couldn’t bring himself to go back to the cabin last night. Couldn’t face Hopper. Couldn’t face El.

Every time he pictured Hopper’s expression—tight, tired disappointment—his stomach twisted. Every time he thought of Eleven’s eyes flashing hurt at him, it was like something splintered behind his ribs.

He’d caused that whole disaster. He’d agreed to take El to see Mike. He had been the adult who should’ve known better, except he wasn’t really an adult, not in the ways that mattered. But still—Hopper trusted him. El trusted him. And he broke that.

Steve wouldn’t blame either of them for hating him.

He leaned forward, resting his forehead briefly on the steering wheel until the cool leather eased some of the heat buzzing behind his eyes.

As if that wasn’t enough, Nancy was off with Jonathan doing God knows what. His chest tightened painfully at the thought. Jealousy slid cold and sharp through him, humiliatingly automatic. He wished—selfishly, stupidly—that she’d come to him instead. That she’d let him be the person she ran to.

But she didn’t. She chose Jonathan. Again.

He exhaled shakily and let his head fall back against the seat.

It was Saturday—thank God. Steve didn’t think he could handle another run-in with Billy after a night like this, or the humiliation of walking into school looking like he’d climbed out of a dumpster. Again.

He lifted a hand and dragged it over his chest, fingertips brushing the spot over his sternum where the old, familiar ache lived. It wasn’t physical—it was the heaviness of memories tugging at him, unbidden. Hopper and El fighting with him, the sense of being unwanted, being a burden… it all scraped against something vulnerable inside him.

Maybe it was that. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Maybe it was the fact that it had been almost a year since he’d last seen his dad—since their last screaming match that had left Steve trembling in places no one ever saw.

He didn’t know why, but he felt suddenly, compulsively drawn to drive by the old house on Loch Nora. Just to see. Just to… check. Just to prove to himself that he didn’t care.

His fingers shook slightly as he turned the key in the ignition.

—

As Steve turned onto the familiar street, his heart thumped unevenly. The world outside his windshield looked almost staged—perfect lawns, neatly trimmed hedges, houses with crisp paint and symmetrical windows. Hawkins’ wealthiest bubble.

He slowed as the red door of his old house came into view.

It looked exactly the same. Too much the same.

The red door was closed tight, glossy and immaculate. The hedges were trimmed to the exact height his father always demanded. The flower beds near the garage were neat, though the autumn chill had wilted the blooms slightly. Someone had clearly been tending them—Steve felt a small, unexpected sting at that.

The drapes in the front windows were drawn, swaying slightly in the air currents inside, shadows shifting behind them.

And then he saw it. Two things, actually.

The first made his heart drop like a stone.

A big white 'FOR SALE' sign staked into the perfectly manicured front yard, rocking faintly with the breeze.

The second punched the air out of him. A car parked in front of the garage.

But not just any car.

Her car.

His mother’s. The one that was always in the garage, dusty from lack of use. The one she only drove on rare occasions because she preferred martinis to errands. Something cold and hot at the same time pooled in Steve’s chest. Before he fully realized what he was doing, he had pulled into the driveway—into his usual spot—his breath coming shallow and uneven.

Then he was out of the car.

Then he was walking.

Then he was standing at the red door he never thought he’d see again.

His hand lifted without permission.

Three sharp knocks echoed through the house.

He held his breath. Listened. He heard nothing. No footsteps, no movement, no rustle of fabric—

Until the door swung open in one smooth motion, and Steve found himself staring at Eliza Harrington.

His mother.

His breath vanished. His vision tunneled, locking onto her face—perfectly made-up, perfectly emotionless, perfectly her. Blonde hair twisted into a flawless bun. Bangs swept down over her forehead. Red lipstick smeared at the corner in a way that told Steve exactly how full her wine glass had been when he knocked.

Her eyes had that glossy, unfocused sheen he knew too well.

“Steven?” Her voice was cold, flat, familiar in the worst way—but wobbled with a sliver of shock. Her grip on her wine glass tightened.

Steve felt the world narrowing to a pinprick. He didn’t even know what he’d been expecting. Certainly not this. Certainly not her.

He forced a swallow down his tight throat. “Hey, Mom.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again, like she was flipping through internal scripts and couldn’t pick the right one. Steve braced himself for a slap, or a hiss, or a cold dismissal.
Instead, she stepped aside, drifting back slightly. Her shoulder hit the wall. She swayed, catching herself clumsily. In a way that was so sharply not her.

“Come in, Steven.”Her voice was soft, airy—drunk and confused and dangerous.

Steve hesitated at the threshold. Every part of his body screamed at him that this was stupid. This was unsafe. This was the house that had crushed him over and over. This was the house he’d barely escaped with his sanity.

But he stepped inside anyway.

—

“Would you like some water? Maybe some tea?” Eliza’s tone wavered as she drifted toward the living room, gesturing for Steve to follow.

Everything looked exactly as he remembered.

The white floral couches. The matching green floral armchair where he used to sit when he was sick. The too-orange paneling on the fireplace. The pristine porcelain lamp. It was all preserved, unchanged, like stepping into a perfectly maintained nightmare.

She hummed softly as she shuffled toward the kitchen, heeled slippers scuffing against the hardwood. “You always did love Earl Grey tea.”

He didn’t. He never had. But it had been the least awful flavor at those luncheons they’d dragged him to, where being polite was mandatory and affection optional.

“Water’s fine, Mom.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

Eliza made another absent little hum, disappearing around the corner. Silence washed over the room—a heavy, suffocating quiet that felt alive. Steve’s breathing seemed too loud, too obvious.
He scanned the living room, eyes gliding across every surface he once knew intimately. His attention snagged on a folded letter sticking halfway out from beneath a glossy magazine. It looked out of place—not arranged neatly, not perfectly aligned. Crinkled. Handled. Wrong.

He leaned slightly, head tilted just enough to skim the visible part of it.

A letter. Signed by someone whose name began with Dr—

“Your father is on business in Nevada, something the company needed to keep under wraps.”

Steve jerked upright, heart pounding.

His mother entered the room, two glasses in hand—his water and a freshly refilled wine glass. She set the water down carelessly before collapsing onto the couch with a sigh.

Silence stretched taut between them. Eliza lifted her wine glass, took a long swallow, and crossed her legs at the ankle.

Then her eyes cut to him, sharp and irritated. “Are you going to sit down, or have I invited you back in here for you to stand there?”

Steve startled, nodding quickly as he lowered himself into the green armchair. His hands shook slightly where he clasped them in his lap.

Her face softened once he was seated, settling back into its usual chilling composure as she pulled her robe tighter.

He cleared his throat. “So… you’re selling the house?”

Eliza scoffed. “Yes, Steven.” Her voice snapped tight around his name. “After your little stunt getting your father and me arrested, we’ve decided Hawkins is no longer the place for us.”

Steve’s jaw clenched. He swallowed his words, choosing to keep quiet.

She stared at him—cold, distant.

“I still cannot believe you turned out this way. You were my little boy… always following me around. My little gentleman. Carrying groceries. Making sure I got to bed.” She sighed dramatically. “Now I’m packing up my home because you decided you’re too good for us.”

Shock flared into frustration so fast it burned his throat.

“Is that really what you think? That I think I’m too good for you and Dad?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Isn’t that what you’ve always thought?” Another snappy sip of wine. “After everything we did for you—basketball camps, trainers, tutors—you decide to say we abused you?” She scoffed, shaking her head in disbelief. “You always were dramatic, Steven but I just never thought you’d go that far.”

Steve’s breath hitched. “I wasn’t dramatic. You and Dad screamed at me. You threw things. You hit me. You—”

Blank stare.

Nothing.

His voice rose, cracking. “Not to mention you’d leave me for weeks with no one to take care of me!”

Another eye roll.

“Oh please, Steven. You were old enough to take care of yourself.”

“I was eight!” He shot to his feet, fury shaking his voice. “You and dad left for two weeks in New York and didn’t even tell me! You left a note and a credit card!”

Eliza surged up too, wine spilling onto the carpet. “Don’t you turn this on me! After a little time alone—which you never complained about, considering you threw parties every night—we suddenly abused you?!”

“You did!” Steve screamed. “You hit me, Mom! You hurt me!”

“We disciplined you!” Her voice broke into something shrill, hysterical. Most wine slipped over the lip of the glass. “It was what you needed!”

Steve’s voice went raw. “I needed to be loved!” Tears blurred his vision. “You never loved me!”

Her face contorted. “Is that what you think? That I never loved you?”

Steve stayed still, fists shaking as he stared at her through his blurry vision.

“Of course, I loved you, Steven!”

“Then you should’ve acted like it!”

Silence snapped between them, electric.

Steve shook his head, chest heaving. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

He turned toward the door.

Eliza took a stumbling step toward him. “Don’t you walk away from me, Steven!”

He froze. Hopper’s voice layered under hers. His pulse spiked painfully.

“Mom—”

“Don’t you walk away from me!” Her scream cut the air like a blade.

He turned slowly, tears streaming.

“Mom, please stop.”

Eliza screamed again, stamping her foot down.

“I gave you everything I could, Steven! I wanted you and I tried and tried and this is what you give me!”

Her hand swung blindly toward the coffee table. She grabbed—

Not her wine glass. The glass of water she’d brought him.

“I loved you, Steven!”

She hurled it.

Steve flinched hard, throwing his hands over his face, bracing for shattering glass—

But nothing hit him.

Slowly, trembling, he opened his eyes.

The glass hovered in midair.

Frozen.

Suspended.

What was going on?

Eliza stared, wide-eyed and pale. “It wasn’t supposed to have worked.”

And Steve’s blood went cold.

“What wasn’t supposed to have worked?”

She staggered back, robe hanging loosely, wine glass slipping from her shaking hand and shattering on the rug, red wine spilling over the rug like hot blood.

Steve took a trembling step toward her. “Mom… what wasn’t supposed to have worked?”

His head spun. His nose dripped—warm. Wet.

He reached up—

Blood.

Red and slick on his fingers.

Panic exploded in him.

Steve’s gaze snapped to his mom, who was trembling where she stood a few feet from him. He felt hysterical as he took another wobbly step toward her, holding his bloody, shaking fingers towards her.

“Mom,” His voice shook as his gaze flickered between her face and his bloody fingers. “Please tell me what this is.”

Her breathing quickened, short and panicked. Her eyes darted—toward the letter.

Steve followed her gaze and his stomach flipped violently.

Those familiar initials.

On his father’s letters.

The signature he saw his entire childhood.

Dr. MB.

MB.

Brenner.

His knees nearly buckled.

“Oh my God.”

The water glass dropped behind him, splattering the floor.

Suddenly his mother’s hands clamped onto his arms, grip iron-tight. So tight they could bruise. He looked up, expecting to be greeted by his mother’s cold expression. This time, it was terrifyingly full of emotion.

“Steven, you need to leave.” Her voice shook, but she forced control over it. “You mustn’t tell anyone. They will find out. You must leave right now.”

Suddenly, Steve’s moving. His mother dragged him—physically dragged him—toward the door, her robe sleeve swiping under his nose, now smeared with his blood as she pulled him down the steps, stumbling across the driveway.

She yanked open his car door, head sweeping over her should as her breath came in terrified gasps.

“You cannot tell anyone, Steven.”

Then she slammed the door shut.

And she disappeared back inside, leaving Steve trembling, bleeding, spiraling alone in his car.

—

Steve is pretty sure he breaks at least five traffic laws as he speeds in the direction of the cabin from the Harrington residence.

The BMW jolts every time he hits a pothole or takes a curve too sharply, but he barely registers any of it — only the wild, frantic pounding of his heart and the shaking in his hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles gleam white. The needle on the speedometer jumps past what he’d normally dare hit on Hawkins’ back roads, but slowing down isn’t an option; not with his lungs seizing and his mind replaying his mother’s trembling face again and again and again.

He needs to get to El. He needs to get to her right now.

He needs to talk to her before the burning in his chest erupts into a full cardiac event.

His car skids into the clearing where he and Hopper typically park and dirt sprays up behind the tires in a gritty wave. Steve barely manages to shove the gearshift into park before he’s flinging the door open so hard it bounces back at him. He’s out of the car in an instant, feet slipping in the dirt as he launches himself toward the path. His brain can’t keep up with how fast his body is moving; his thoughts are a jumbled, chaotic tangle of El knows something — El might know — Hopper must know — something is wrong, something is so wrong.

When the cabin comes into view, his heart lurches in his chest with painful force. His throat feels tight, dry; he panting like he’s been running for miles.

He jumps over the tripwire Hopper had set up all those months ago to keep El safe, barely clearing it. The rope rubs slightly against his jeans as he passes it, but he doesn’t stop.

He stomps up the stairs, nearly tripping over his own feet, and bangs on the door hard enough to make his palms sting. His voice comes out cracked, borderline hysterical.

“El?”

The cabin absorbs the sound like a dead, empty cave. No movement. No footsteps. No answers.

He bangs on the door again — harder this time, panic leaking into every sound. “Eleven, please open the door!”

The wood rattles under his fists; his chest heaves. He bangs a couple more times before he realizes she isn’t opening the door — she isn’t even inside. The realization chills him so fast he sways for half a second.

His instincts shove him into motion.

He bolts off the porch toward the window to his bedroom—the one that still hasn’t been fixed since Eleven blew the glass out. The shards and frame edges glint in the slanted fall sunlight, like a jagged mouth waiting to bite.

Steve hurdles over the windowsill, but his foot catches on the uneven wood. The world pitches. He goes down hard, crashing onto the floor of his bedroom with a loud thud that echoes through the otherwise silent cabin. A sharp, dull ache bursts across his ribs and chest from the impact, but adrenaline swallows it whole.

He’s back on his feet almost instantly, ignoring the bloom of pain entirely.

“Eleven!” he yells, voice sharp and edged with terror as he runs out of his bedroom and into the small open living space.

It looks similarly to how he'd left it two days ago—maybe even eerily identical, like time hasn’t passed at all. Glass still litters the floor, catching the dim light in harsh glints. The couch is still out of place, shoved slightly away from the wall where he’d thrown it aside during the last fight. The bookshelf, though, is upright again. The games and books sit neatly on its shelves as if someone tried to restore order in the middle of chaos.

His heart clenches painfully when his eyes catch the section of floorboard that’s been removed, a weathered cardboard box sitting beside it. God knows what it is.

Steve’s stomach twists violently.

‘That can come later,’ he tells himself, even though his eyes can’t stop flickering back to it.

Right now, he needs El. He needs her explanation. He needs her memory.

He needs something.

“El?” His voice cracks as he looks into her room, pushing open the door with shaking fingers, but he sees nothing — no blankets mussed, no shoes abandoned, no sign of the girl at all. He scours the entire cabin—his room, the tiny bathroom, the cramped living room, the closet—and there is no El.

His stomach curls tightly with anxiety, curling and burning and knotting into something acidic. She’s snuck out.

She’s out there alone.

Steve’s breath shudders out of him as panic rushes up his throat.

He can worry about that later — he tells himself, even though every bone in his body screams that he should be searching the woods right now. He just needs El or Hopper. Someone. Anyone.
He runs to the radio tucked in the corner of the living room. His foot clips the box again and he nearly goes sprawling, only catching himself by grabbing the edge of the table. His heart tries to punch itself out of his chest as he snatches up the handheld radio.

“Hello? Hopper? Come in!” he says breathlessly into the radio, his voice trembling.

Static greets him. Harsh, empty, uncaring static.

He presses the talk button again, harder, as if pressing will force Hopper to materialize. “Hopper, please. It’s Steve.”

Static.

He can feel panic clawing up his throat, scraping his insides raw.

“Please, this is major. I need you.”

The radio hisses with the same blank static, indifferent and loud.

Steve slams the radio down on the table, the crack of plastic echoing like a gunshot.

“Shit.” He breathes out, voice breaking as he drags a shaky hand through his hair, tugging at the strands.

He racks his brain, rummaging through the fog of fear clouding every coherent thought.

He needs someone—someone who knows El, someone who's seen her powers, someone she might have run to.

Hopper clearly wasn’t available.

El was gone.

Nancy was out of the picture—

Wait.

The Wheelers.

Mike could be there, and if Mike is there, El could be there too.

Steve is sprinting out of the cabin before the thought even finishes forming — running like the ground is burning behind him, like if he doesn’t reach her now, something terrible will happen.

—

Steve’s pretty sure he makes it to the Wheeler’s in record time.

He doesn’t even remember half the drive—just a blur of neighborhood houses, mailboxes flashing by, the tightness in his chest making every breath feel stretched thin. His fingers ache from clenching the wheel so hard. By the time he turns onto the Wheeler’s street, he’s practically shaking.

His car skids to a stop on the edge of the driveway, tires squealing sharply against the pavement. The momentum rocks the car forward, but Steve is already shoving the door open, foot hitting the ground before he’s technically even in park.

Steve’s hopping out of the car before he even put the thing in park. The door slams behind him, echoing across the quiet suburban street. His mind is running so fast he’s not even aware of the sound—only the desperate, frantic, ‘please let her be here, please let her be here’ mantra pounding against his skull.

He runs a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky breath. His lungs feel too small for his body. His throat feels thick.

He makes a beeline across the lawn toward the front door, moving so fast he almost trips over the little concrete lip at the edge of the driveway. He’s trying to keep his breathing calm and steady—trying not to look like he’s falling apart—when a voice cuts through the air and makes him jump.

“Steve.”

Steve whirls around so fast he nearly loses his footing on the grass.

He’s met with curly-hair, who’s walking toward him with his headset sitting over his hat like he’s in the middle of some mission, some secret operation Steve wasn’t invited to. Dustin’s face is serious. Too serious. Focused in a way that sends a new spike of anxiety through Steve’s stomach.

Steve slows to a stop, turning fully to face Dustin, feeling like he’s basically vibrating out of his skin. His fingers twitch restlessly at his sides. He tries to swallow, but his mouth feels dry.

“Are you here for Mr or Mrs Wheeler?” Dustin asks as he approaches Steve.

Steve squints at him, confusion somehow overtaking the absolute consuming panic he’s been feeling. ‘Why the hell would he be here for the Wheelers?’ part of his brain asks.

But out loud he just manages: “No.”

Dustin gives a sharp nod, like that answer confirms something important. “Good. Come on.”

Before Steve can make sense of that, Dustin reaches forward and snags Steve’s keys right out of his hand—clean, practiced, lightning quick—and begins walking toward Steve’s car like he owns the thing.

“Hey!” Steve yelps out in surprise, chasing after him with wide, frantic steps. His heartbeat rockets even higher. “What the hell? Hey!”

Dustin glances over his shoulder at him, already looking annoyed. “Nancy isn’t home. Neither is Mike.”

Steve’s heart drops hard — like it physically punches down into his stomach. He feels the sudden swoop of dread, cold and hollow. ‘Of course,’ he thinks. ‘Of course things get worse.’

“Okay, where are they?” he forces out, voice tight.

“Doesn’t matter.” Dustin pops open the passenger door before leaning against it casually, like he’s not delivering life-changing information. “We have bigger problems than your love life.”

‘We sure do.’ Steve thinks bitterly. If only Dustin knew that Steve’s “love life” was currently the least of his worries—that his entire life feels like a bomb about to detonate.

Dustin doesn’t wait for a response. He just barrels forward.

“Do you still have that bat?” he asks, looking at Steve like he’s an inconvenience—like Steve is slowing him down.

Steve’s brows pull together tightly. “Bat? What bat?”

Dustin rolls his eyes dramatically.

Then he puts his hands up in a mocking manner, voice going all sing-song-y, “The one with the nails.”

The image flashes in Steve’s mind—blood, dark hallways, the sound of something snarling in the shadows. His throat tightens. He knew what Jonathan had used that bat for while he was in the upside down.

“Why?” he asks.

“I’ll explain on the way.” Dustin tosses Steve his keys before nodding with his head at the car. Like Steve should’ve already understood what was happening.

“Now?” Steve asks, catching the keys easily—the one thing today his body hasn’t dropped or fumbled.

But Dustin is already in the passenger seat, headset bobbing slightly as he adjusts himself. The kid huffs out an annoyed breath. “Now!”

Steve rushes to the driver’s side, heart pounding all over again. If he couldn’t figure out where Hopper or El is, his best chance—stupid as it feels—is staying with Dustin.

Maybe whatever this kid was onto would help get him to the two people he needed most to sort this shit show of a life out.

And maybe, just maybe, he’d get answers before he completely falls apart.

Notes:

Okay, a little out of left field I know. I'm quite proud of this chapter and I hope you all enjoyed it, we'll be going back to canon conversations and events for season 2 now, do not worry!

I hope you all enjoyed!

***SPOILER FOR VOL1***
Since Will got his power reveal and Steve had joined him in the Upside Down, I say why not? Will (if I make it that far with this AU) will get his reveal but Steve needs to join in too! Duh!

Chapter 20: The Spy

Steve is partly grateful for Dustin sweeping him into all this when he did, because if the kid hadn’t physically redirected him into his car and started barking orders, Steve is pretty sure he would’ve ended up having a full-blown meltdown in the Wheeler driveway. His chest had been tight, his vision too sharp at the edges, his hands shaking in a way he was trying very, very hard not to acknowledge. Dustin’s chaos, for once, was a lifeline—something loud enough to drown out the panic swelling in Steve’s ribcage.

The story Dustin was telling him as they drove toward the kid’s house, though, wasn’t helping his blood pressure in the slightest. Steve kept glancing between the road and Dustin’s frantic hand gestures, trying to make sense of whatever fresh hell the universe had decided to add to his “terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.”

‘Hammer to Fall’ hummed through the car speakers—one of the only noises filling the cramped space between them. The volume was just low enough that each strum felt like a heartbeat under Steve’s ribs, grounding but also mocking him because… yeah. Hammer to fall. That was pretty on-the-nose.

Steve furrows his eyebrows together and glances at Dustin after they’d fallen into a brief silence. His nails tap anxiously against the steering wheel, and he tries to find some clarification in the kid’s expression—anything to decide whether Dustin was exaggerating or if the universe actually hated him today.

Wait a sec,” he says slowly, tilting his head toward Dustin, trying to sound patient but barely masking the fraying edge of desperation in his voice. “How big?”

Dustin sighs again—the dramatic, long-suffering kind of sigh that only a thirteen-year-old can manage—and he shoots Steve an unimpressed look that somehow slices straight through what little patience Steve has left.

Dustin holds up one hand, fingers pinched together with only about an inch or two between them.

“First it was like that.”

Steve stares at the space between Dustin’s fingers, trying to match it mentally to what Dustin had been describing. He gives a tiny nod, though it feels more like muscle memory than actual agreement. His brain is too loud to focus. He glances back at the road, swallowing hard.

Then Dustin lifts both hands about two feet apart, stretching his arms wide like he’s fishing for the world’s biggest compliment.

“Now he’s like that.” His voice rises with the kind of emphasis that says ‘why aren’t you freaking out yet, Steve?’, and Steve’s stomach drops even further.

Steve really doesn’t remember seeing anything like that in the Upside Down last year. Not even close. Nothing that went from mouse-size to toddler-size in less than twenty-four hours. And he definitely doesn’t need Dustin overreacting and dragging him across town right now when he could be out searching for El—searching for actual answers to the disaster unfolding in his life.

He lets out an annoyed huff, dragging both hands down his face before running one through his hair hard enough to sting his scalp. “I swear to God, man, it’s just some lizard, okay?”

“It’s not a lizard, Steven.” Dustin snaps, sharp enough to hit Steve like a slap.

Steve physically flinches. The name—Steven—shoots straight down his spine. He knows Dustin is just using it to make a point, to be a little shit, but after hearing his mother snarl it through clenched teeth earlier… yeah, he’s not built to survive hearing it again without shaking apart. His grip on the wheel tightens.

“How do you know?” Steve fires back, irritation spiking hot beneath his skin. He shakes his head, overwhelmed and exhausted and way too close to tears for a conversation about reptiles.

Dustin’s head whips toward him so fast Steve hears the headset shift against his hat. His eyes go wide—comically wide—and his eyebrows practically launch off his forehead.

“How do I know?” he repeats, like Steve just asked him why water is wet.

Steve’s frustration spikes, pressure building in his chest. God, he could be searching for El right now. He could be doing something productive, meaningful, something that didn’t involve debating zoology with an eighth-grader.

“Yeah, how do you know that it’s not just a lizard?” Steve yells, voice cracking upward with the effort of holding everything else inside.

Dustin gives his head a quick cock to the side, his entire expression flattening into the most insulted look a human child has ever given another person.

“Because his face opened up,” Dustin says, crisp and deadly serious, “and he ate my cat.”

Well.

Shit.

Steve’s mouth falls open. Not dramatically. Not comically. Just slowly, defeatedly, like his brain tapped out for a second.

Definitely not a lizard, then.

Steve purses his lips, nodding with a grimace. “Yeah, that’s… definitely not a lizard.”

Dustin gives an amused huff, a smirk tugging at his lips like he’s finally, finally being taken seriously. Steve kind of wants to throttle him. And hug him. And throw up. Everything all at once.

They drive a couple more feet before Dustin scoots up in his seat, tension rolling off him like static electricity.

He points sharply. “It’s that one.”

Steve flicks the blinker on—mostly out of habit; there’s no one else on the street—and turns into Dustin’s driveway. The tires crunch on the gravel, and Steve feels the panic he’s been holding at bay swell up again, trying to claw its way into his throat. He puts the car in park and cuts the engine, the sudden silence so loud it rings.

Before he shuts the car off completely, he turns to Dustin with a flat, exhausted stare.

“If I have a heart attack today,” he says, voice dry as dust, “I’m blaming you.”

Dustin gives him the most truly disgusted look Steve has ever seen, like Steve has personally offended the very concept of heroism by even implying a child could be responsible for such a tragedy.

In all honesty, this whole operation with Dustin—cryptic warnings, dramatic gestures, monster stories and all—was the one thing keeping Steve from collapsing under the weight of everything else. From the truth cracking open his life. From the fear that was settling in his bones like sharp chill.

He was really trying not to think about how his whole damn life seemed to be stacking up into one big, unraveling lie.

And following Dustin Henderson into whatever monster circus awaited him in his storm cellar?

Yeah.

It was still somehow the easiest part of his day.

—
“Holy shit.” Dustin breathed the words out like the air had been knocked clean out of him, his voice small and stunned, the syllables hanging in the cool night air as he and Steve stared down at the thing lying in the trunk. The menacing bat looked even more unhinged in the harsh yellow beam of Dustin’s garage light. The slightly red nails—sharp, uneven, maybe blood, maybe rust—caught the light and shimmered in a way that made Steve’s stomach twist uneasily.

Steve swallowed hard, then tossed his keys toward Dustin without breaking his gaze from the weapon, like the thing might wake up and bite him if he glanced away for even a second. His hand automatically lowered toward the bat’s handle.

Its familiar weight settled into his palm, grounding and dangerous all at once. The moment it was in his grip, something in his chest eased—just slightly—like his panic finally had something concrete to cling to instead of spiraling freely inside him. He rotated the bat once, fingers adjusting around the taped grip.

This was his first time bringing it out against something otherworldly. Last year it was Jonathan who stood in a ruined house and swung this thing until his muscles screamed and the world smelled like blood and rot and fear.

A faint phantom ache flickered up his arm, an echo of his run in with the demogorgon last year. His muscles remembered even if he wanted to forget.

Steve looked over at Dustin, finally dragging his stare away from the trunk. He stepped back and raised an eyebrow at the kid—half a warning, half a question—before slamming the trunk shut. The sound echoed off the siding of the house like a gunshot.

Dustin pointed vaguely toward the side yard, nerves bleeding into his stiff posture. “It’s that way.”

Steve didn’t waste time. He brushed past Dustin with a quick, purposeful motion and took the lead, the flashlight beam slicing through the darkness ahead of them. Night had fully settled by now, a thick, cold quiet pressing down on the yard as they moved around the house toward the storm cellar doors—old, heavy, and ominous as hell in the shadows cast by the single porch light.

Steve stopped in front of them, tilting his head slightly, listening. Listening hard.
Listening for anything—scratching, breathing, movement, anything that would justify the panic sitting in his throat.

“I don’t hear shit.” He said in a breath, taking a step back from the doors and shooting Dustin a quick sideways glance.

Dustin raised his eyebrows, clearly annoyed, but his voice came out softer, almost hesitant, “He’s in there.”

Steve looked back at the cellar doors, shifting his weight, a shuffling motion that betrayed the nerves tightening across his shoulders. He inhaled once, then lifted the bat slowly and tapped it against the door.

The nails scraped across the metal with a harsh, grating screech that made his teeth clench.

Steve sighed, tension rolling through his shoulders as he ran his tongue over the back of his teeth. He adjusted his grip, muscles tightening, before he lifted the bat and slammed it against the metal.

The impact rang out through the yard.

Silence answered.

Steve sighed again—longer, heavier—and turned toward Dustin, raising the flashlight and pointing it directly at the kid’s face.

“Alright, listen kid—” Dustin immediately squinted and recoiled from the beam like it physically hurt.

“I swear, if this is some sort of Halloween prank,” Steve said, voice sharp and stretched thin with stress, “you’re dead.”

Dustin huffed, his annoyance practically radiating off him. “It’s not.”

“All right?” Steve’s tone was tight, his heartbeat louder in his ears than the wind. He was coiled so close to snapping that if Dustin was screwing with him, Steve wasn’t entirely sure he wouldn’t lose it.

Dustin rolled his eyes, shoulders tensing in a sulky hunch. “It’s not a prank.” His voice broke into a whine, then he waved a hand, irritated. “Get it out of my face.”

Steve kept the light on him a second longer—more out of spite than necessity—before sighing.

“You got a key for this thing?”

Dustin nodded once, then turned and jogged toward the house, almost tripping over the edge of the walkway in his rush. He disappeared inside, leaving Steve standing alone in the cold dark, the silence suddenly louder without the kid’s nervous chatter.

Steve blew out a frustrated breath, his shoulders sagging slightly. He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe—a slow inhale, an even slower exhale. Just one second to steady himself.

A twig snapped somewhere far off in the yard.

Steve’s eyes snapped open instantly.

He straightened, bat in hand, pulse spiking. He couldn’t let his guard drop—not when Dustin insisted the thing down there wasn’t just dangerous, but possibly a baby demogorgon.

He’d already been mauled by one of those things. There was no way in hell he was letting that happen again.

“I got it.”

Steve practically launched out of his own skin. Dustin’s voice came from directly behind him, close enough to feel breath on his neck.

He whipped around so fast his shoes scraped on the concrete, flashlight snapping up and—

Right back into Dustin’s face.

Dustin yelped, screwing up his face and slapping his hands over his eyes. “Jesus! Can you stop that?”

Steve exhaled sharply and handed Dustin the flashlight, holding his other hand out stiffly for the key. Dustin slapped it into his palm with exaggerated annoyance, jaw set, eyes still half-closed.

Steve crouched in front of the cellar doors, the key cold between his fingers. He slid it into the lock, twisted until he felt the satisfying pop of the mechanism releasing, then unwound the chain with tense, deliberate movements. Metal clinked against metal in the quiet.

He pulled the doors open carefully, the wood groaning, the hinges squealing like something alive. He set the bat beside him only long enough to get both hands on the doors.

The darkness inside the cellar was thick and heavy. Almost physical.

Steve reached for the bat immediately, fingers curling around the handle before he’d even fully stood. His eyes didn’t leave the void below.

Dustin crept up beside him, flashlight beam trembling in his hands. The shaky light flicked wildly from spot to spot, bouncing across shelves and steps and shadows. His façade of annoyance cracked under the tremor in his arms, revealing the very real fear buzzing underneath.

Steve held a hand out without looking away from the steps. “Let me see that.”

Dustin handed him the flashlight with no argument—rare—and Steve took it, steadying the beam as he aimed it down the steps.

Nothing. Just shadows. Just cold.

“He must be further down there,” Dustin murmured. His voice was thin, but steady enough to soothe the knot in Steve’s stomach—just barely.

Dustin cleared his throat as Steve craned his neck, leaning forward slightly, trying to catch any flicker of movement.

“I’ll stay up here in case he tries to escape.”

Steve froze.

Straightened.

Then slowly—very slowly—turned his head toward the kid.

This kid did not just say that.

Dustin stared back at him, chin lifted, trying to hold a brave face that didn’t match the shaking hands from thirty seconds ago.

Steve let out a long, tired breath and shook his head, turning back toward the cellar opening. Honestly it was probably safer for Dustin to stay up there anyway.

Slowly—painfully slowly—Steve rises fully onto the first step, lifting the bat in front of him like a shield. His other hand grips the flashlight tight enough that his knuckles blanch, the beam jittering for only a second before he forces it steady. He moves downward one careful step at a time. Every nerve in his body feels peeled open, raw, the cold air of the cellar drifting over him like static.

His skin prickles. The hair on his arms stands up. His pulse hammers so hard it rattles the breath out of him in short bursts. He’s already fried from the day—emotionally, physically, cosmically—and now this? His brain is nothing but high-voltage, white-hot anxiety coiled electric around every nerve.

He sweeps the light across the walls, the beam cutting through the stale darkness. The cellar smells like damp earth, metal, and old cardboard. The flashlight catches something thin dangling from the ceiling—a string. A chain, actually. Attached to a single bare bulb.

Steve steps close enough to lightly tug it.

The bulb flickers once, twice, then clicks to life with a low nauseating buzz. The cellar glows in a weak yellow halo that makes everything look worse, somehow. Shadows deepen. Corners turn into pits. The whole place feels like it’s holding its breath.

Steve turns slowly in a circle, scanning the shelves piled high with dusty jars, paint cans, old tools, boxes sagging from age. And that’s when something wet catches the new light—a glisten on the ground.

His stomach drops in a sickening swoop.

He moves closer, crouching despite the fact his knees want to give, and the smell hits him—damp, earthy, wrong. And the sight? It’s unmistakable. A clump of gooey, viscous material clinging to the dirt floor, pulsing faintly under the bulb’s glow.

Upside Down.

He knows it immediately. Knows it the way someone knows the scar on their own skin. He lived inside this slime for a week—breathing it, stepping in it, trying not to drown in it. His whole body remembers it before his brain catches up.

He grimaces as he lowers the bat, letting the nails graze the sticky film. They catch with a faint, wet suction as he lifts the smallest clump. It stretches, then snaps back with a grotesque squelch that echoes too much like the sound under his sneakers that night in the tunnels with Will. His stomach flips. His vision goes hot, then cold.

Yep. Dustin was right. This is definitely something.

Steve stiffens, whipping his head around, lowering the bat into a ready stance. He expects—no, prepares—for the tiny demogorgon to leap at him from the dark. He’s not about to get mauled again because he got distracted by Upside Down snot.

But the cellar is empty.

Mostly.

That’s when he sees it.

A gaping hole clawed into the side wall of the cellar—fresh earth, broken boards, and a tunnel burrowing straight out under the house. Big. Too big.

Steve’s heart sinks in a cold, absolute way.

“Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me,” he whispers to no one.

The thing didn’t get trapped in here. It got desperate. Desperate enough to dig its way out—into someone’s yard, someone’s street, someone’s town.

He hears Dustin’s voice faintly yelling his name from above—fear threading through the usual sharpness—and Steve backs up toward the steps, shining the flashlight upward. He accidentally blinds Dustin again, but honestly? He doesn’t have the mental capacity to care.

Dustin practically launches himself away from the entrance.

“Get down here,” Steve breathes, the words leaking out of him like he’s lost all his air. His voice sounds thin, scraped out.

Dustin doesn’t argue. He rushes down the steps, sneakers thudding too loudly in the eerily quiet cellar, and stops beside Steve. Steve angles the flashlight downward again, showing him the bat first.

Dustin’s eyes widen at the slime still clinging to the nails. “Oh,” he whispers, breath leaving him. “Shit.”

Steve tilts the flashlight toward the hole.

Dustin’s face drops entirely. “Oh, shit! Steve, what—what—”

Steve leads them toward the tunnel, both crouched now, peering into the earth. The tunnel stretches deep into the dark, like a throat leading straight to hell.

“No way,” Dustin breathes, voice cracking. “No way. No way.”

Steve huffs out a humorless little laugh. “You could say that again, Henderson.”

Dustin actually does—several times—hands flying to hold his headset as if it might rattle off. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh—shit.”

He’s spiraling. Full meltdown.

Steve feels his own fear flatten, sinking under instinct. Protect. Reassure. Keep the kid from losing it.

He sets the bat down gently, moving so he can rest a steadying hand on Dustin’s shoulder. “Hey. Hey. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay!” Dustin whips toward him, eyes huge. “Steve, Dart is out there! He could eat someone! He’s bigger now—last time it was a cat but next time—next time it won’t be a cat or baloney slices! He’s hungry and—and—”

“We’ll come up with a plan.” Steve forces his voice to be level, solid, even though his heart is trying to punch out of his chest. “Okay? We’re not going to let him hurt anybody.”

Dustin inhales shakily, still on the edge but not falling off it anymore. Steve can practically see the kid’s brain working at high speed under the panic.

Steve thinks fast. “You said he likes baloney slices?”

Dustin nods rapidly.

“Okay. Tomorrow, we get a shitton of meat. Lay a trail. Lead him somewhere he can’t hurt anyone.”

That snaps Dustin into something almost focused. “I know a place. There’s an abandoned scrap yard by the tracks—like, a mile or two away. It’s got old cars and a bus we can hide in while we wait.”

“Perfect.” Steve claps his shoulder lightly. “I’ll be here at seven. Sharp.”

Dustin’s face drops like Steve just told a toddler Santa died.

“Wait—you’re leaving?” His voice thins in fear.

“I mean… yeah? I gotta sleep before we deal with the cat-eating lizard.”

Dustin hesitates, then speaks small. Really small. “What if Dart comes back? He might be mad I locked him in the cellar.”

Steve pauses. “Is your mom home?”

Dustin shakes his head fast enough the headset shifts. “Overnight shift.”

Steve closes his eyes, exhaling one long, exhausted breath. He should go. He has to find El. Hopper. He needs answers. He needs help.

But Dustin is staring at him with terrified, wide eyes. And suddenly all Steve sees is Will. And Steve’s just… not the guy who leaves a scared kid alone while a monster might come home.

He sighs.

“Alright,” he mutters. “You got a couch I can sleep on?”

—

Dustin practically lights up the night with his smile the second the words leave Steve’s mouth. Relief pours off him so visibly it almost makes Steve flinch. The kid nods enthusiastically, already scrambling back up the cellar steps like he’s afraid Steve might change his mind if he moves too slowly.

Steve follows with a weary, dragging pace, every part of him heavy. The moment he steps out into the crisp night air, the exhaustion hits harder. His muscles ache from adrenaline whiplash. His head swims. The weight of the bat in his hand suddenly feels doubled, and he’s pretty sure he could fall asleep standing up if he wasn’t careful.

He’s crashing from the absolute shitshow of a day.

Dustin shuts the cellar doors with a nervous glance over his shoulder and locks them again—like it’ll do anything if Dart decides to return. Steve doesn’t comment. He just gives the kid a quiet pat on the shoulder and follows him toward the house.

The porch light flickers above them—a little too reminiscent of Upside Down activity for Steve’s comfort—but he keeps his mouth shut. No need to add fuel to Dustin’s fear spiral. When they step inside, the warm, lived-in smell of the Henderson home hits him: laundry detergent, dog kibble, a hint of vanilla air freshener. The house feels small but comforting in a way Steve hasn’t felt in a long time.

Dustin toes off his sneakers in the hall and gestures for Steve to do the same.

“Mom hates shoe prints,” he mutters before noticing the slime drying on Steve’s bat. He grimaces. “Uh… maybe leave the bat by the door.”

Steve leans it carefully against the wall, making sure the nails don’t scratch anything. Dustin eyes it like it might spring to life on its own.

Steve can’t blame him.

“Water?” Dustin asks, already padding toward the kitchen without waiting for an answer.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “Please.”

He wanders into the living room and sinks onto the couch. His body melts into the cushions almost immediately. He didn’t realize how tense he was until he stopped moving. The room is dim and quiet, only lit by a small lamp and the hum of the fish tank in the corner. Steve lets his eyes close for a second.

Just a second.

He hears Dustin return, breathless for no reason, carrying two glasses of water that he sets down on the coffee table.

“You okay?” Dustin asks, flopping beside him with all the grace of a bowling ball.

Steve opens his eyes again and huffs out a tired laugh. “Yeah. Just… long day.”

Dustin takes a sip of his water, staring at him over the rim. His expression softens. “You’re freaked out, too.”

Steve scoffs. “I mean—yeah. Sue me, Henderson.”

Dustin shrugs, small and thoughtful. “You don’t have to pretend with me, dude.”

Something about that hits Steve in the chest harder than the demogorgon ever did.

He clears his throat and looks away. “I’m not pretending.”

“You’re always pretending,” Dustin says matter-of-factly, legs kicking out in front of him like he’s discussing the weather. “You get all protective and bossy and you think if you act confident enough, nobody will notice when you’re actually terrified.”

Steve stares at him, face scrunched up. He was not enjoying being picked apart by an eighth grader.

Dustin doesn’t look away.

“Thank you,” Dustin says softer, nudging his shoulder lightly, “I feel safer with you here.”

Steve looks down at his hands. The calluses. The faint scars he tries not to think about. The tremor in his fingers he hopes the kid doesn’t notice.

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” Dustin answers without hesitation. “You survived one of these things last year, Steve. You protected Will. You literally saved his life last year. So… yeah. I want you here.”

Steve swallows hard. His throat feels tight.

“Okay,” he says, voice low. “Then I’m here.”

Dustin grins wide enough to crinkle the corners of his eyes before popping up from the couch. “Awesome. I’ll grab you a blanket.”

He runs off down the hallway, leaving Steve blinking at the empty space where he stood. The house feels strangely quiet now. Safe. Familiar. So achingly similar to the cabin with El and Hop.

He leans back, letting his head fall onto the armrest, and exhales slowly. Dustin returns with an armful of blankets—way too many blankets—and tosses them onto Steve like he’s trying to bury him alive.

“Dude—Jesus—”

“You sleep on the couch,” Dustin declares, hands on his hips. “But the couch is old so it sinks in the middle. So you get extra padding. It’s a courtesy thing.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah, thanks for the hospitality.”

Dustin narrows his eyes. “You can sleep on the floor if you prefer.”

“Nope. Couch is great.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Dustin flicks on the TV to some late-night movie he clearly has no intention of watching, then climbs into his own recliner with a bowl of popcorn he’s produced from thin air.

Steve watches him settle, the kid’s shoulders finally loosening, the tension draining out of his face.

The house feels peaceful.

Too peaceful.

“Hey,” Steve says after a minute, voice soft but firm. “We’ll figure this out. Tomorrow. The scrap yard. The trail. All of it.”

Dustin nods slowly, eyes on the TV but not really. “You promise?”

Steve shifts on the couch, pulling the blankets around himself. “Yeah. I promise.”

And for the first time all night, Dustin actually looks like he believes him.

A full minute passes before Dustin speaks again.

“You snore?”

“Go to sleep, Henderson.”

—

Steve wakes with a jolt.

For a second he doesn’t recognize the ceiling above him—too low, textured, chipped in one corner—but then the smell of Dustin’s house hits him: reheated popcorn, dusty carpet, the faint aquatic tang of the fish tank, and the vague sweetness of whatever air freshener Mrs. Henderson hoards.

His neck aches. His back aches. One of the throw pillows has somehow migrated under his knees. And the blankets have slipped halfway off the couch. He groans.

The TV glows a soft blue. Some infomercial is playing at low volume. The house is still dark, only the thin blue of early morning pressing weakly through the curtains.

Then he hears it—soft, congested snoring.

Steve shifts, lifting his head, and finds Dustin passed out on the recliner, curled sideways in a way that looks distinctly uncomfortable. One arm is dangling off the side, headset still on his head, mouth slightly open.

The kid must’ve stayed up as long as he could.

A warmth spreads through Steve’s chest—fondness, maybe. Or maybe it’s the pit in his stomach from yesterday, the desperate fear he’d been avoiding. It feels softer now. Less suffocating.

Slowly, Steve pushes himself upright, rubbing at his eyes.

Seven a.m. sharp. He promised.

He glances at Dustin again. The kid won’t wake up on his own anytime soon. So Steve stands, bones popping, and crosses the room to nudge his shoulder gently.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Rise and shine, Henderson.”

Dustin snorts awake with an ungodly sound, sits bolt upright, and immediately looks around in panic.

“Is he in the house—”

“No,” Steve deadpans. “Your demogorgon didn’t break in and murder us in our sleep. You’re welcome.”

Dustin blinks. Twice. Then rubs his face with both hands.

“Oh,” he mutters. “Morning.”

Steve snorts. “Barely.”

—

Mrs. Henderson’s kitchen is spotless—minus the fact that her freezer is packed with every type of meat imaginable. Steve helps Dustin haul out packets of bologna, deli ham, ground beef, and, inexplicably, three full chickens.

“Does your mom plan on feeding an army?” Steve asks, stacking packages onto the counter.

“She cooks for the nurses and doctors at the hospital,” Dustin says, shoving more meat into a duffel bag. “It’s some communal potluck thing she always volunteers to do.”

“Fantastic. Inspirational.”

Dustin ignores him, zipping the bag closed with both hands and staggering slightly under the weight. Steve takes it automatically.

“I got it,” he says.

Dustin doesn’t argue—just grabs a smaller cooler, stuffs bologna packets into it, and snaps it shut. His movements are quick, nervous, but determined, the sheen of fear from last night replaced by something more focused. Steve recognizes it. He saw it in himself last year.

He pretends not to think about that.

When they’re finally ready, Dustin straps on his headset like it’s armor and gestures toward the door. “Let’s roll.”

Steve stares at him, pulling on his jacket. “What?”

“You know. Like the A-Team. Or—never mind.” Dustin sighs dramatically. “Let’s just go.”

—

The sun is barely climbing over the horizon as they load everything into Steve’s car. The meat, gloves, metal buckets, and, of course, the bat. The air is crisp enough to sting Steve’s lungs—late autumn sharpness, the kind that warns winter is around the corner.

Dustin climbs into the passenger seat, immediately buckling up as if preparing for a rocket launch. Steve tosses the duffel of meat into the back, along with the cooler, and settles behind the wheel.

The road is quiet as they pull away from the Henderson house. Fields blur past. The sunrise paints everything soft gold, a strange contrast to the dread chewing at Steve’s insides.

After a full minute of silence, Dustin speaks.

“You think we can catch him?”

Steve drums his fingers on the wheel. “We’re gonna try.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I’ve got.”

Dustin nods, quiet for once. His knee bounces, nervous energy leaking out.

“All right,” Steve says, glancing at him. “Tell me about this scrap yard.”

“Oh!” Dustin straightens immediately, flipping to mission mode. “It’s huge. Like, two acres of old cars and junk and machinery. There’s a bus near the back. You can actually get inside it. The party would always go there.”

Steve raises a brow. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No, but it’s perfect for an ambush. High ground, sightlines, the whole deal.”

Steve tries not to smile. The kid is too much sometimes.

“And the trail?” Steve asks.

“We spread the meat leading from the tracks to the yard. Dart’ll smell it. Follow it. Boom.”

“Boom,” Steve echoes softly.

He wishes he felt as hopeful as Dustin sounds.

—

They park on the shoulder of a narrow backroad, trees leaning overhead like they’re trying to listen in. The air is cool enough to bite at Steve’s arms the second he steps out of the car. Gravel crunches under his sneakers. The sun hasn’t fully pushed through the clouds yet, leaving everything washed in pale gray light.

Apparently, they’re about a mile and a half away from the scrap yard. Far enough that Steve can already feel the dread settling into his spine.

He goes to the trunk and starts hauling everything out—mostly because Dustin keeps getting distracted. Steve crouches with his backpack open, carefully sliding in two pairs of yellow rubber kitchen gloves and wedging the gasoline tin they’d stopped to buy along the side. The metal clinks softly against the bottle as he adjusts it.

Behind him, Dustin suddenly turns away, standing heroically with his hands on his hips.

“Well, well, well. Look who it is.”

Steve doesn’t have to look to know that Dustin is wearing that smirk. The one that means he’s about to either brag or gloat. Or both. Steve exhales sharply through his nose, the ghost of a laugh shaking loose despite the tension winding through his chest.

He keeps working, focusing on zipping the backpack with the bat slipped neatly inside, half-listening as Dustin talks into his walkie—Lucas, judging by the tone.

“Well, while you were having sister problems, Dart grew again,” Dustin says, voice dripping with theatrical annoyance. “He escaped, and I’m pretty sure he’s a baby demogorgon.”

Steve flinches at the memory of the slime still stuck to the bat. Baby or not, it wasn’t cute.

He closes the backpack fully and slings it onto one shoulder, trying to ignore the sickening twist in his stomach. He’s still operating on not enough sleep and way too much emotional suppression. Every time his brain gets too quiet, something like a wave swells behind his ribs—threatening, waiting for the moment he stops moving so it can crash.

Dustin keeps talking. “Meet me and Steve at the old junkyard.” He doesn’t even inhale before continuing. “And bring your binoculars and wrist rocket.”

“All right,” Steve mutters, shutting the trunk with a dull thud. He adjusts the backpack straps, rolling his shoulders to settle them. Dustin turns toward him just in time to grab his bucket of meat—slightly lighter than the one Steve picks up.

“Just be there, stat. Over and out,” Dustin says dramatically before clicking the walkie off.

Steve lifts a brow. “That Lucas?”

“Yeah,” Dustin says brightly. “He should be coming. Hopefully he can get Mike and Will too.”

Something in Steve’s chest tugs. Hard. Mike and Will. Nancy might be with them.

Nancy, Mike, and Will might know where Hop is. Maybe even where El is.

And that… that matters more than Steve has let himself even think about since last night.

He forces the feeling down—deep, deep down—like he’s trying to trap it under a locked lid.

They walk to the tracks, and Dustin points to the right.

“It’s that way. About a mile and a half.”

Steve inhales. Slow, steady. “All right. Let’s go then.”

—

The tracks stretch ahead like a long, rusted spine. Every few feet, Dustin tosses down a chunk of meat. Steve follows behind by about five feet, doing the same—his motions slower, heavier.

He needs the distraction.

“Wait,” Steve finally asks, “so why’d you keep it in the first place?”

Dustin makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan. “There’s this girl—”

Steve internally groans. Of course.

“She just moved to Hawkins. She beat my high score in Dig Dug at the arcade and, since girls don’t play video games and definitely don’t get the high score in Dig Dug, we followed her. She seemed super cool and Lucas seemed to really like her too.”

He tosses another chunk of meat. “I figured Dart would maybe impress her.”

Steve throws down his own piece, raising a brow. “All right, so let me get this straight.”

Another toss.

“You kept something you knew was probably dangerous in order to impress a girl… who you just met?”

Dustin whips around, looking outraged. “All right, that’s grossly oversimplifying things.”

Steve snorts, raising both eyebrows, unimpressed.

“I mean, why would a girl like some nasty slug anyway?”

Dustin smiles wildly, not understanding how Steve couldn’t see how ridiculously awesome Dart was. “An interdimensional slug. Because it’s awesome.”

Steve scoffs. “Well, even if she thought it was cool,” Steve feels inclined to tack on, “which she didn’t—” He hesitates, trying to be gentle despite the topic chewing at the edges of his brain. “I just… I don’t know, I feel like you’re trying way too hard, man.”

Dustin glances back, a defensive lift in his shoulders. Steve moves up to walk alongside him, trying to be more direct.

“Yeah, well not everyone can have your perfect hair, all right?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s not about the hair, man.” He tosses another glob of meat. “The key with girls is just… acting like you don’t care.”

Dustin blinks rapidly. “Even if you do?”

Steve nods like he’s giving ancient wisdom. “Yeah, exactly. It drives them nuts.”

“Then what?” Dustin asks immediately, leaning toward him with intense curiosity.

Steve tosses another chunk on the ground, trying not to flinch at how weird this feels—like a crime against common sense. “You just wait until, uh…” He trails off, glancing around, playing it off as tossing another chunk behind them. It feels wrong, and slightly illegal, trying to explain this to a thirteen year old.

He gestures vaguely, searching for the right wording. His brain feels foggy, overloaded, still half stuck in panic mode from everything happening outside this stupid trail of deli meat.

He taps Dustin’s shoulder. “Until you feel it.”

Dustin frowns. “Feel what?”

Steve exhales long and slow. “It’s like before it’s gonna storm, you know?” Dustin nods quickly. “You can’t see it, but you can feel it—like this, uh…”

He snaps his fingers, triumphant.

“Electricity.”

Dustin lights up as he tosses a piece of meat on the ground. “Oh! Like in the electromagnetic field when the clouds in the atmosphere—”

“No,” Steve interrupts quickly. “No, no, no, no. Like a…”

He trails off briefly, feeling wrong saying it.

“Like a sexual electricity.”

Dustin’s eyes widen into perfect circles.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Steve tosses another chunk before pointing at Dustin. “You feel that and then you make your move.”

Dustin nods like a soldier receiving orders. “So that’s when you kiss her?”

Steve stops dead in his tracks. “No—woah, woah. Slow down, Romeo.”

“Sorry.” Dustin mutters, tossing another piece down.

“Sure, okay. Some girls like aggressive,” Steve explains, waving his hands around like he’s conducting a very confusing orchestra. “Strong, hot, and heavy. Like a…”

He brightens at the perfect comparison.

“A lion.”

Dustin hums, listening.

“But others, you gotta be slow, stealthy, like a…” Steve’s smile falters as the example hits. “A ninja.”

“What type was Nancy?” Dustin is looking at him like he hung the moon, which just makes Steve know he didn’t ask to be malicious.

Steve still sucks in a sharp breath. It hits him right in the ribs.

“Nancy’s different,” he says quietly. “She’s different than other girls.”

Dustin nods along, speaking softly. “Yeah, she seems pretty special, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, voice soft. “Yeah, she is.”

“But,” Steve wasn’t expecting Dustin to start talking. “This girl is special too, you know. It’s just…something about her.”

The tone Dustin uses—hopeful, earnest, a little dreamy—makes something cold settle under Steve’s skin.

He stops. “Woah, hey.”

Dustin blinks. “What?”

Steve points at him accusingly, a piece of meat in his hand. “You’re not falling in love with this girl, are you?”

Dustin’s voice jumps an octave. “No, no.”

Terrible liar. The worst Steve has ever seen.

Steve stares at him long enough for Dustin to wilt.

“Okay, good,” Steve says, starting forward again. “Don’t.”

Dustin’s voice softens, like he’s trying to soothe Steve, not the other way around. “I won’t.”

Steve stares straight ahead, jaw tight.

“She’s only going to break your heart, and you’re way too young for that shit.”

Dustin goes silent. Really silent. Like he’s swallowing something heavy.

Steve glances at him subtly. His face is all scrunched up and Steve instantly regrets it. Dustin has been holding Steve together more than Steve wants to admit—giving him something to focus on, talk about, latch onto so he doesn’t spiral into the tornado in his chest.

So Steve throws him a bone.

“Fabergé.”

Dustin looks up, startled. “What?”

Steve runs his tongue along his teeth, then points to his hair. “It’s Fabergé Organics.”

Dustin gasps like he’s just been handed nuclear launch codes.

“Use the shampoo and conditioner, and when your hair is damp—” Steve points at him seriously. “Not wet. Damp.”

“Damp,” Dustin repeats reverently.

“And then you do four puffs of the Farrah Fawcett spray.”

Dustin’s head jerks so fast the fabric of his hat shifts. “Farrah Fawcett spray?” He giggles, trying to muffle it.

Steve stops, turning to face him fully. “Yeah. Farrah Fawcett.”

He jabs a finger at Dustin’s chest. “You tell anyone I just told you that and your ass is grass. You’re dead, Henderson. Got it?”

Dustin nods quickly. “Yup.”

Steve smirks, something warm flickering in his chest—almost like when he teases El for mimicking the soap operas on the TV.

“Okay.”

They keep walking. Dustin stays close behind him, smiling again.

“Farrah Fawsett, really?” He asks, genuinely curious but also a little teasingly.

Steve shrugs. “I mean, she’s hot.”

“Yeah.” Dustin agrees wholeheartedly.

—

By the time Steve and Dustin trudged up the gravel-strewn rise overlooking the junkyard, the sun had already dipped low enough to make Steve’s skin crawl, knowing dark would soon fall. They’d been walking for hours—hours of tossing meat every few feet, hours of Steve’s brain running laps around itself, hours of Dustin chattering and then falling silent and then chattering again. And in that time, their buckets had gone from full to nearly scraped clean, just a faint smear of pink juice at the bottom swishing with every step.

Steve’s feet throbbed. His lower back twinged. The air smelled like rust and oil and old rainwater sitting too long in the dents of crushed cars.

But the scrap yard?

It was perfect.

Steve took it in with a slow exhale. A graveyard of broken-down trucks and half-eaten sedans stretched out in front of them like some kind of metal forest. The bus Dustin had mentioned sat crookedly near the center, paint peeling, windows cracked, but still solid. Still workable. Still something that could keep a monster out—or at least give them a chance.

“Oh yeah,” Steve murmured, almost to himself. He reached up and slid off the sunglasses he’d put on halfway through their walk, wiping a smear of dust off the lens. “Yeah, this’ll do. This’ll do just fine.”

He turned to Dustin, who looked like he might actually levitate from pride alone.

“Good call, dude.”

Dustin’s entire face lit up—big grin, puffed chest, shoulders pulled back. That little moment of pride almost made the knot in Steve’s gut loosen.

Almost.

They walked side by side toward the bus, scattering the last small handfuls of meat along the gravel. The clumps hit the ground with wet thunks. A grim reminder of what they were trying to lure.

Steve nodded to a spot just left of the bus door. “Let’s put the rest in a pile here.”

“Got it.” Dustin crouched beside him, and together they tipped the buckets, dumping the sad, slimy remnants of their offering into one last mound. Steve wiped his hands on his jeans, grimacing at the smear left behind.

Then—

“I said medium-well!”

A distant shout snapped both of their heads up.

Lucas stood on the other side of a scrapped pickup truck, waving one hand over his head and bracing his bike with the other. Beside him stood a girl with wild red hair, ripped-knee jeans, and an arm in her hoodie pocket. She offered a small, polite smile.

Dustin inhaled like the air had been punched out of him. He froze.

Steve blinked, glancing between the girl and Dustin.

“Who’s that?” Steve asked, voice dropping cautiously.

Silence. A long, stiff, practically crunchy silence.

Steve looked at Dustin again—who was staring at Lucas and the girl like this was the end of the world. And then—

Oh.

It clicked.

This was her. The girl. The reason Dustin kept a demogorgon tadpole in his bedroom like a total psychopath.

Steve’s heart pinched for him. He knew that look. He knew exactly what it felt like to see someone you liked show up next to someone else.

He gave Dustin a small, understanding nod. No teasing. No questions. Just—he gets it.

By then, Lucas and the girl reached them.

“Hey,” Lucas panted slightly, dropping his bike to the ground.

The girl lifted two fingers in a lazy salute. “Hi. I’m Max.”

Steve nodded, forcing a friendly-but-we're-in-a-life-or-death-situation tone. “Steve.”

Max looked him up and down like she was appraising a used car. “You’re Dustin’s babysitter?”

Dustin made a strangled noise. “He’s not—well, kinda—okay, yes.”

Steve put his hands on his hips. “Just helping him not get killed by a demogorgon.’”

Max snorted.

Lucas stuttered, “S-so, um, what’s the plan? Dustin said it was…important.”

Dustin’s eyes flicked between Lucas and Max, that tight, crumpled expression on his face getting worse by the second. “Yeah. Dart roaming around. He’s…big now.”

Lucas pinched the bridge of his nose. “Why are we doing this in a junkyard?”

“Because it’s smart,” Dustin said, a little too sharply, desperation creeping into his voice. “Plenty of cover. One entrance. High vantage points. Metal structures for reinforcement—”

Steve cut in gently. “And because if Dart shows up and gets hungry, at least he’s not eating some random guy walking his golden retriever.”

Max’s eyebrows shot up. “That happened?”

“No,” Dustin muttered. “Well, not yet.”

They stood in a small circle, tension radiating from all four of them. The wind rattled a nearby stack of fenders.

Steve clapped his hands together, decision made.

“All right.” His voice slipped into that adult tone he hated but couldn’t shake. “We’ve got maybe an hour until it’s dark. Probably less. We need to reinforce the inside of the bus before Dart gets here.”

Lucas perked up. “Reinforce it how?”

Steve pointed toward a row of collapsed, stripped-down car shells. “We got those doors off. Build a barricade inside. Windows, doors, anything that could break—we cover it.”

Max nodded, thoughtful. “Like a bunker.”

“Exactly,” Steve said.

Dustin straightened his headset. “Let’s do it.”

Steve looked at their tiny, exhausted group of children and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Okay. Lucas, you and Dustin start pulling those doors off the blue sedan over there. Max, help me drag that truck bumper. And be careful—everything here either cuts you or tetanuses you.”

Max grinned. “Cool.”

They moved together.

And the sun kept sinking behind them.

—

They used every last bit of daylight—every minute, every sliver, every fading touch of sun—to turn that rusted bus into something that might actually hold against a demogorgon. Steve had no idea how the hell three middle schoolers and one frazzled twenty-year-old managed it, but somehow, they did.

Car doors shrieked and groaned as Lucas and Steve ripped them off their hinges. Dustin dragged twisted bumpers across gravel, grunting dramatically with each tug. Max tested every window to see which ones rattled and shoved scrap metal against the weak points with a fierce determination Steve secretly admired.

By the end, the inside of the bus looked like a bunker.

Metal was layered over metal—rusted doors, fenders, sheets of aluminum—all hammered, wedged, or shoved into place. Every crack was blocked. Every window covered. The doors had two layers. The walls had three. Even the floor had a couple of makeshift panels arranged near the escape hatch.

It still didn’t feel like enough.

When the sun finally slipped under the horizon, darkness fell hard. Not a peaceful darkness either—a heavy, suffocating one that held its breath. By the time they settled into the bus, something like fog had begun to spread through the junkyard. A pale, low-creeping haze that wormed its way between the tires and scrap piles. It made the metal structures look like shadows creeping closer.

The faint, nauseating smell of gasoline clung to the air. Somewhere in the distance, a chain clinked in the wind. But otherwise?

Silence.

A silence that pressed at their ears and made every breath feel too loud.

The four of them had spread out across the cramped bus interior. Lucas sat cross-legged on the escape hatch, perched like a lookout gargoyle, binoculars glued to his face. Max had sunk into one of the old cushioned seats near the back—arms crossed, legs swung up, trying to look relaxed but tapping her foot every few seconds. Dustin was pacing in looping, restless circles around the narrow aisle.

And Steve…

Steve sat on the floor with his back pressed against a long red sheet of metal they’d wedged against the windows. The nailed bat lay beside him, the familiar weight a small anchor in the rising tide of dread. He flicked his lighter open, then shut. Open. Shut. Each tiny flame helped him ground himself. Click. Click. Click.

But his mind kept drifting backwards. Back to yesterday. Back to his mom’s face—the way her expression had cracked open with fear. Back to the glass in their kitchen floating—actually floating—hovering in midair like reality had ripped at the seams.

Back to her voice, breaking as she pushed him toward his car. “You have to go, Steven. Now.”

His stomach twisted, a cold pit sinking deeper and deeper.

He needs Hopper.

He needs El.

He needs her help. Her support.

His dad.

His dad had worked with Dr. Brenner.

His dad—who’d never told him anything, who’d never acted like anything was wrong, who’d treated him like he was a burden 95% of the time—was involved with Hawkins Lab? With that man? With whatever the hell they’d been doing to kids?

What else had he lied about?

Steve’s throat tightened. The lighter flame flicked once, twice—

“So you really escaped one of these before?”

Max’s voice pulled his head up. She was watching him with eyes that were braver than she realized, her arms crossed tight like she thought it would keep her safe.

He swallowed, forcing his face into something calm. He gave her a slow nod, not trusting his voice not to crack. Then he flicked the lighter again, letting the spark settle his pulse.

“And you’re like totally, 100% sure it wasn’t a bear?” Max pressed.

Steve actually felt a weak laugh threaten to escape. God—the cover story. The stupid Hawkins Lab “bear attack.” He exhaled slowly through his nose. Before he could answer—

“Shit.” Dustin snapped from the far end of the bus. “Don’t be an idiot. Okay?”

Max’s head jerked around, startled. Even Steve blinked in surprise. Dustin never talked like that—at least, not to anyone but Steve.

“Dustin…” Steve warned gently.

“It wasn’t a bear,” Dustin said sharply, turning fully to Max. His shoulders hunched up, defensive. “Why are you even here if you don’t believe us? Just go home.”

He resumed pacing, muttering under his breath like she’d personally offended the fabric of the universe.

Max scoffed. “Geesh.” She stood, heading for the ladder to the escape hatch. “Someone’s cranky.”

She shot Dustin a smirk. “Past your bedtime?”

Steve bit his lip, stifling a smile. She had guts.

Max climbed the ladder, joining Lucas on the roof.

When she was out of earshot, Steve nudged Dustin with his knee and murmured quietly, “That’s good.”

Dustin glanced at him. Steve lowered his voice further. “Just show her you don’t care.”

But Dustin’s face collapsed, like Steve had just stepped on his heart with cleats.

“I don’t,” he said flatly.

Steve blinked. Okay… definitely not the reaction he expected. Maybe Dustin felt stupid for using Steve’s advice. Maybe more was going on.

Steve tried a tiny wink—just to lighten the mood, just to let him know he wasn’t alone in whatever storm he was riding.

But Dustin turned toward him with deep betrayal.

“Why’re you winking, Steve?”

Steve shrugged innocently.

“Stop.” Dustin snapped.

Steve held up both hands in surrender, letting Dustin spin away in a huff. He went back to flicking his lighter.

But the silence that followed cracked something open inside him.

His thoughts tunneled.

Fast.

Too fast.

Powers. Actual powers. And he never knew. Why didn’t he know? Why didn’t anyone tell him? Had he been watched? Tested? Was this why he’d always felt—off? Why he’d get déjà vu that stuck too long? Why he’d flinch at noises other people didn’t hear until a second later? Why he’d felt electricity crawl under his skin sometimes, especially when he was angry or scared?

How long had it been there? Since he was a kid? Since before? Did his mom know? Did she keep it quiet to protect him—or because she was scared of him?

And his dad—God. His dad. Working with Brenner. Did that mean he’d been part of the experiments? Did he help? Did he work with El? To all those missing children? Was Steve supposed to be one of them? Was he meant to be thrown into a lab room too? Or had his dad kept him away? Or sold him out?

His heart hammered painfully. His hands trembled. His breath came too shallow, too fast.

What if this wasn’t the first time something happened? What if something else had happened that he’d forgotten? Or that they’d taken? What if—

A sound tore through the scrap yard.

A roar.

Not an animal roar—not a bear, not a dog, not anything that belonged in this world.

A demonic, guttural, bone-deep sound that vibrated through the metal walls around them.

The hair on the back of Steve’s neck stood up so sharply it almost hurt. He pressed closer to the metal as he scanned the fog-drowned junkyard, Dustin sliding into place beside him, shoulder brushing his in a way that betrayed how scared the kid was.

There wasn’t anything there.

No movement.

No shape.

Just fog—thick, rolling, swallowing the world whole.

“You see him?” Dustin whispered, voice thinned to a tremble. His shoulder pushed harder into Steve’s, like Dustin subconsciously needed to anchor himself.

Steve kept his eyes forward and shook his head. “No.”

Dustin exhaled shakily, then turned toward the ladder. “Lucas!” he shouted up. “What’s going on?”

The sound echoed strangely in the fog, like it got absorbed instead of carried.

Steve stayed glued to the window slit in the metal plate, scanning the junkyard for Dart. The fog was moving unnaturally, like something big kept shifting the air just outside of view.

Still… no Dart.

“Hold on!” Lucas called back from the roof, voice partially muffled by the fog and metal. Steve pictured him frantically sweeping the binoculars across the dark.

Steve forced himself to inhale, slow and controlled, like he’d learned to do when he felt the weird flicker of his abilities beneath his skin. He wasn’t actively using them—not yet, not on purpose—but he felt them. Throbbing faintly. Buzzing under the surface like static electricity beneath his ribs.

His heart hammered anyway.

“I’ve got eyes!” Lucas suddenly shrieked from above. Steve and Dustin whipped toward the window again, hearts stalling in their chests. “Ten o’clock! Ten o’clock!”

Steve’s gaze snapped left. There—between two half-crushed trucks—the glistening, slick skin reflected a streak of moonlight.

He’d know that shape anywhere.

He pointed immediately. “There.”

Dustin leaned in closer, practically pressed to Steve’s side as if proximity might help him see better. They both stared out into the fog, breath fogging the metal.

And Dart… didn’t move.

“What’s he doing?” Dustin murmured, still half leaning on Steve.

Steve shook his head again. “I don’t know.”

The demogorgon’s chittering rattled softly through the fog, squeezed and distorted by the metal of the bus. It was faint, but the sound slammed into Steve like a memory—castle walls of junk and sticks, Will trembling in his arms, the demogorgon’s growl sliding past in the dark, close enough to touch.

His stomach flipped.

His breathing went tight.

He forced his jaw to unclench.

Dart stayed still.

The seconds stretched into something suffocating and slow. Steve felt the panic trying to claw its way up his throat.

“He’s not taking the bait,” he whispered, looking briefly at Dustin before snapping his focus back outside. “Why’s he not taking the bait?”

Steve began rocking gently on his heels—a small, automatic movement he didn’t even realize he was doing until Dustin shot him a side glance.

“…Maybe he’s not hungry?” Dustin offered weakly.

Steve blinked.

Something clicked.

A cold, measured calm washed over him—the same unnatural calm he’d felt last year whenever a plan required him to be the distraction. The same feeling he’d felt just before swinging the bat outside the Byers’ house. And the same calm that curled now around the flicker of power in his chest, steadying his pulse.

“Maybe…” Steve murmured, stepping back from the window, “…he’s sick of cow.”

The realization solidified in his chest like ice.

They’d planned for the wrong hunger.

And there was only one other thing Dart was guaranteed to want more.

Steve backed up fully from the window, breathing deep and fast as the plan reshaped itself in his mind—terrible and reckless and probably the only chance they had.

He grabbed his bat.

“Steve?” Dustin’s voice cracked. “Steve, what’re you doing?”

Steve turned, pressing the lighter into Dustin’s hands. The weight of the bat felt right, familiar, grounding.

“Just get ready,” he whispered.

Before Dustin could argue, Steve was already moving toward the door. He pulled it open slowly, and the reinforced metal shrieked in protest—like it sensed what he was about to walk into.

He stepped down into the darkness.

The fog swallowed him instantly.

Dart’s silhouette stood still at the junkyard’s edge, faint, like something drawn in charcoal.

Steve stepped off the bus, sneakers sinking slightly into the damp grass. The cold air slapped his face, and the demogorgon’s chitters vibrated through the ground.

He raised the bat.

The door creaked shut behind him—Dustin retreating into safety.

Steve moved slowly. Deliberately. His pulse synced with the buzz under his ribs—the strange, wrong-but-right sensation of something he’d inherited but never understood. Something that felt like it wanted out.

He whistled sharply.

“C’mon, buddy.”

The fog curled around his ankles. He twirled the bat once, loosening his grip, settling into it like second nature. Like muscle memory.

He whistled again.

“C’mon, buddy. Come on.” His voice dropped into a coaxing, almost gentle tone. “Dinner time.”

Dart lowered himself as if preparing to strike.

“There we go…” Steve whispered.

Another whistle. Another taunt.

“Humans taste better than cats, I promise.”

Dart growled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated the air.

Then the fog shifted.

A patch cleared just enough for the moonlight to catch Dart’s yellow markings.

The jaws unfurled slightly.

A warning.

A promise.

“Steve!” Lucas screamed from the roof. “Watch out!”

“A little busy here!” Steve snapped without looking away.

“Three o’clock! Three o’clock!”

Steve flicked his gaze sideways—

Three more demogorgons perched on the surrounding cars, silhouettes tall and predatory, glowing faintly through the fog.

His heart crashed into his stomach.

Oh.

Shit.

The kids started yelling inside the bus. The metal door screeched open, begging him to run.

“Steve! Abort! Abort!”

Steve turned slowly in a circle, realizing how perfectly they’d been lured. How perfectly he’d been lured.

He wasn’t the hunter.

He never had been.

Dart roared—loud, guttural—and his face bloomed open into that monstrous flower of teeth.

Steve braced.

Dart sprang.

Steve threw himself sideways, rolling over the hood of a half-crushed Buick just as another demogorgon launched at him from the opposite side. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his chest.

A demogorgon lunged again.

He swung the bat.

Hard.

The nails tore into its shoulder with a wet, sickening rip. The creature shrieked, stumbling back in a spray of black blood.

“Steve!” the kids screamed.

Yeah.

Fuck this.

Steve didn’t think—he just ran.

He sprinted from behind the car, shoes slipping in the muddy grass, lungs burning, the demonic shrieks behind him growing louder—closer—wrong. Wet footsteps pounded after him, claws skittering over metal, and the sound alone nearly tripped him.

The bus door was a rectangle of salvation in the fog.

He launched himself toward it.

“Steve, come on!” Dustin screamed.

Steve dove inside. His shoulder slammed hard into the floor as Dustin yanked the door shut so violently it nearly caught Steve’s leg. A split second later—

BOOM.

Something massive rammed into the door from the outside, almost knocking Dustin backward.

“Are they rabid or something?!” Max shouted from the back, voice shrill with panic.

Steve didn’t answer—he was already grabbing a thick slab of metal from the dashboard. He shoved it against the door as another violent slam rattled the entire frame. The whole bus shook like a tin can in a storm.

He planted his sneakers against the door, back muscles screaming as he braced all his weight against it.

The demogorgons hit again.

The metal plate jolted loose—Steve had to jerk forward, slamming his shoulder and legs into it to keep it from dislodging entirely. The force rattled his bones.

“Steve!” Dustin yelped.

“I got it!” he barked, voice breaking.

But he wasn’t sure.

No—he knew he wasn’t going to be able to hold this forever. Dart hit it again, harder, and Steve felt something deep in the bus’s frame bend.

Panic punched him in the gut.

He had one option left.

He had to try.

Steve clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt, pressing his hands flat against the metal, forcing every muscle in his legs to lock. He dug deep—past the fear, past the pain, down into that thrumming, buzzing well beneath his ribs. The one he did not in the slightest understand.

His vision narrowed.

His focus solidified on holding the door.

His breathing stuttered.

Please. Just work. Just this once.

The air around his hands warmed—no, vibrated. His fingers shook violently as if electricity crawled under the skin. His heartbeat synced to the metal under his palms, every pulse slamming like a hammer strike.

The metal shuddered.

Then… held.

A thin line of blood dripped from his nostril, trailing hot down his upper lip.

“Steve?” Lucas’s voice wavered from somewhere in the bus. “You got it?”

Dustin cut him off with a strangled yell into his headset. “Mike? Will? Hopper Somebody! Anybody!”

The kids scattered. Max tripped into a seat trying to reach the lighter. Lucas fumbled for his wrist-rocket like that would somehow help, panic scrambling his thoughts.

Another shriek.

A horrible metallic screech erupted from the back of the bus. Max screamed, and Steve’s head snapped up instinctively—just in time to see sharpened claws tear through a weak spot in the metal paneling near the rear exit.

He lost focus.

The pressure he was exerting cracked for a millisecond.

The demogorgons instantly sensed it.

The slamming at the front door stopped.

Everything went silent.

The sudden stillness was worse—terrifying. Steve staggered upright, adrenaline drowning his system. His vision tunneled from the strain, the edges of the world fuzzing.

He grabbed the bat, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his wrist.

A thumping sound hit the roof above him.

Then again.

Then a third time—harder—leaving shallow dents in the ceiling.

The guttural growl that followed made all four of them snap their heads upward. The hatch rattled.

Max shrieked, scrambling backward. Dustin and Lucas grabbed her arms, trying to pull her away.

Steve ran to them.

“Out of the way! Out of the way!” He shoved them aside, raising the bat toward the hatch.

“You want some?” he yelled, voice shaking but fierce. “Come and GET this!”

A demogorgon’s head pushed through the hatch, jaws fully unfurled, petals stretching wide enough to swallow a whole person. It reached downward, claws scraping the metal.

Steve stepped forward, bat poised—

And then—

The demogorgon froze.

Steve blinked.

It wasn’t looking at him anymore. Its head jerked toward something outside—toward the woods beyond the junkyard. Its whole body tensed like a dog hearing a distant whistle.

In one sharp movement, it pulled back out of the hatch.

Then it howled.

A deep, rolling, awful sound that shook the entire bus.

The others outside answered, howls echoing, growing distant—like a wave receding.

The demogorgon leapt off the roof with a massive thud, rocking the bus side to side.

Then… nothing.

No howls.

No pounding feet.

Just their ragged breathing.

Steve, shaking so hard his knees nearly buckled, stepped toward the front door. He pulled it open slowly. The metal banged loudly, making him jump a foot.

“Jesus…” he muttered.

He stepped outside. A few demogorgons scrambled away into the treeline, growling low before disappearing entirely.

The kids filed out behind him like shadows.

“What happened?” Lucas asked, voice barely more than a squeak.

Max shook her head, eyes huge. “I—I don’t know.”

Dustin stared at Steve. “Think Steve scared ‘em off?”

Steve shook his head immediately—too fast. The motion made the world tilt. His brain felt like someone had stuffed cotton into it.

“No. No way.”

He pressed his lips together, trying to steady the violent tremor in his fingers.

“They’re going somewhere.”

Dustin disappeared into the bus and reappeared with their backpacks, tossing Steve’s toward him. Steve caught it—

And nearly fell over.

The edges of his vision darkened weirdly, like the world was closing in. His ears rang. A high, buzzing whine that made it hard to hear anything else.

Max stepped closer, frowning. “…Steve?”

Her voice cut through the fog in his head, and the boys stopped talking immediately.

Steve swallowed hard, leaning heavily on his bat. The tip dug into the dirt as he tried to keep himself upright.

He remembered what El said.

About overusing her powers.

“I—” Steve’s voice cracked.

He tried again.

“I think I just… need to sit down for a sec.”

He didn’t.

He was unconscious before he even hit the ground.

Notes:

Okay, this actually was my favorite chapter to write. I loved writing Dustin and Steve, they're literally so fun and just amazing. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! I really love this one!

Chapter 21: The Mind Flayer

Steve clawed his way back to consciousness like he was swimming upward through cement. First came the ringing. A shrill, endless whine that felt like it drilled straight through both eardrums. Then the light. White and blurry and painful, like someone had shoved a flashlight directly into his brain.

Then the headache—God, the headache—a crushing, stabbing, jackknife sensation right behind his eyes, pulsing in the same rhythm as his heartbeat.

He groaned, throat raw, head lolling weakly to the side. Something brushed his cheek—small, frantic hands patting at his face, then his arms, sliding down his legs. Someone was shaking him. Someone else was muttering in a frantic, shaky voice.

Steve blinked, trying to clear his vision. It barely helped. The world just spun a little less violently.

The ringing finally dulled enough for the other voices to push through.

“Do you see anything, Lucas? Bites or scratches?” Dustin’s voice—sharp, bossy, terrified.

“No, there’s no blood,” Lucas snapped back, voice tight with panic.

“Well what’re we going to do?” Max fired back.

God, they all sounded scared. And Steve hated that. Hated that he had caused it.

He blinked again, realizing only then that his eyes had closed without him noticing. When they opened, his vision cleared enough to see shapes—Lucas crouched near his calf, hands shaking slightly as he inspected him. Max and Dustin hovered above, shadows leaning over Lucas’s shoulder.

Steve wanted to just slip under again. Let the fog swallow him whole. Let the world dim to silence. His brain felt like it was melting, and every inch of his skin tingled from overuse, like his nerves were misfiring.

But their faces—those terrified expressions—dragged him painfully back into the moment.

He forced a hand beneath himself and pushed up.

The kids all jumped like he’d been resurrected from the dead.

“Jesus Christ!” Dustin screeched, stumbling back so fast he slipped on the dirt. Lucas clutched at his chest, scooting away like Steve had shocked him. Max’s eyes went wide enough to pop out of her head.

Steve swallowed hard as his stomach lurched violently upward. He pressed his lips together, trying—not very successfully—to keep it down. His skin went clammy; sweat prickled the back of his neck.

He tried smiling. It probably looked pathetic.

“…Hey.”

Dustin stared at him like he’d grown a second head.

“You pass out on us after probably the dumbest”—he pointed accusingly—“but also the most awesome stunt that could’ve killed you. And you say hey?”

Steve almost laughed. It came out as a strangled exhale.

Lucas scrambled forward again, eyes darting across Steve’s face. “Are you okay?”

Steve forced another smile, though it twisted into a grimace quickly as another wave of nausea hit him.

“I’m good, kid.”

He was not good. He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. His limbs were shaking. His nose still stung from the dried blood crusting inside one nostril. His head throbbed like it was trying to split open.

He ransacked his spinning mind for a believable excuse—something that wasn’t ‘Hey guys, turns out I have powers like El and I just fried myself using them.’

“Just—” He licked his cracked lips. They felt like sandpaper. “Adrenaline crash.”

The kids exchanged looks that said we’re not buying this but we’ll pretend we are because you look like you’re dying.

Lucas dropped his backpack to the ground and rifled through it with frantic hands.

“You were only out for a couple minutes,” Dustin said, moving around to Steve’s other side as if anchoring him in place with sheer proximity. “But Dart is probably long gone. We should probably just go back to your car and see if we can find anyone else.”

Steve tried to focus on Dustin’s words—tried so hard—but his head felt like it was splitting open the more he attempted to listen. His brain fuzzed in and out like a flickering TV.

Something cool pressed into his hand.

A metal canister.

Steve blinked bleary eyes up at Lucas, who looked like he might cry.

“You uh… forgot to drink water,” Lucas said lamely, trying to sound non-chalant through the absolute terror that Steve could hear.

Steve stared at the canister for a few seconds before his brain finally caught up.

He lifted it to his mouth and took a few small sips. The coolness against his tongue was almost enough to make him sigh in relief. His throat relaxed. The pounding in his skull receded half an inch. His brain felt a little less fogged and stupid.

Still awful but manageable-awful instead of dying-awful.

“All right,” Steve muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his shaking hand. He handed the flask back to Lucas.

Lucas frowned hard. “Uh… Steve. Maybe keep sitting for a little while.”

Dustin opened his mouth to agree—

But Steve was already forcing himself up.

“Wow! Wow! Okay!” Dustin yelped, lunging forward as Steve staggered upright like a newborn deer. Lucas scrambled up too, arms out like he expected Steve to face-plant.

Steve stumbled back, but Max was already there, planting her hands on his arm and shoulder to steady him.

He exhaled shakily, blinking rapidly as the world spun, blurred, then resettled into something mostly stable.

“All right,” he said again, quieter, swallowing the nausea burning up his throat.

All three kids stared at him like they weren’t sure whether to hug him, smack him, or tackle him back to the ground.

Steve tightened his grip on the bat, using it as a balancing cane, and nodded vaguely toward the train tracks—or what he hoped were the train tracks. His sense of direction was a mess.

“Let’s get back to the car, shitheads.”

His voice wobbled. His knees wobbled.

But he started walking anyway.

Because he had to.

Because they were looking at him.

Because hurting or not—powers or not—Steve Harrington was not letting these kids get eaten tonight.

—

“You’re positive that was Dart?” Lucas asked for what felt like the hundredth time.

Steve let out a stifled groan, the sound rough and gravelly in his throat as he closed his eyes, letting his head fall back just slightly with each sluggish step they took along the uneven railroad tracks. The cold night air bit at his cheeks, making the pounding behind his eyes feel sharper. Max walked just behind him—close, like she expected him to faceplant any second—while Lucas stuck stubbornly at his side. Dustin marched ahead, flashlight bobbing like an overly enthusiastic beacon.

The flashlight in Steve’s hand felt heavier than it had earlier, like someone had replaced the batteries with bricks. Every pulse of light made his aching skull throb. His whole body felt like it was filled with wet sand—heavy, dragging, too slow—and the kids kept talking, talking, talking.

Dustin sighed at Lucas, exasperated. “Yes.”

He sounded so annoyed that even Steve, who barely had two coherent thoughts to rub together, mentally nodded along. Lucas’ questions were starting to make even Steve twitchy.

“He had the exact same yellow pattern on his butt.”

“He was tiny two days ago,” Max added, jumping in before Lucas could repeat the question again.

Dustin huffed again, shoulders rising sharply before dropping. The kid was all dramatic movements and fraying patience.

“Well, he’s molted three times already.”

Steve blinked over at Dustin, trying—failing—to follow that. His head throbbed like someone was rhythmically kicking it from the inside.

“Malted?” he echoed dully, because that was all his foggy brain could grab onto. Like a malt ball?

Dustin sighed. Again. Steve didn’t think he’d ever heard the kid sigh this many times in one conversation.

“Molted.” Dustin glanced over his shoulder at Steve to make sure he was tracking, his flashlight beam jittering with every step. “Shed his skin to make room for more growth like hornworms.”

A sudden owl coo—from somewhere deep in the trees—cut through the night. It sounded close enough to make Steve’s heart shoot up into his throat. He whipped his flashlight toward the dark underbrush, pulse hammering. The beam trembled in his hand. God, the last thing he needed was for Dart to circle back with his friends. He didn’t have another burst of power in him—he didn’t really trust himself to be able to keep them in check if he tried again. His limbs felt weighed down, the world tilting each time he blinked. His tank wasn’t even empty—it was negative, and he wasn’t sure how long he could keep pretending he could keep them safe.

“When’s he going to molt again?” Max asked, leaning forward a little toward Dustin.

“It’s gotta be soon.” Dustin’s voice cracked in stress, the words coming out tight. “When he does he’ll be full grown, or close to it.” He glanced back at Max and Lucas, face tight. “So will his friends.”

Steve let out a soft, humorless huff. Despite how awful he felt, the absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on him. “Yeah, and he’s gonna eat a lot more than just cats.”

All three kids froze mid-step.

Suddenly Lucas shot forward in front of Dustin, planting a hand on Dustin’s shoulder and shoving him to face him. His eyebrows were practically in his hairline.

“Wait, a cat?”

Dustin flipped around so fast his backpack swung. “Dart ate a cat?”

Dustin shook his head immediately. “No, what? No.”

Steve dropped his chin a little, blinking slowly. Did Dustin seriously not remember? Or was he playing dumb?

“What’re you talking about?” Steve asked, brows furrowing. Even exhausted and nauseous, he remembered—and Mews wasn’t even his cat.

Lucas looked toward Steve, waiting.

Steve shrugged, slow and unsteady. “He ate Mews.”

Max scrunched her nose, confused. “Mews? Who’s Mews?”

“It’s Dustin’s cat.”

Dustin’s eyes bulged so wide it almost looked painful.

“Steve!” he yelped.

Oh.

Right.

Dustin didn’t want Lucas to know he kept Dart.

Lucas shoved Dustin’s shoulder, spinning him back to face him. His voice went sharp.

“I knew it!” Lucas yelled, frustration bursting out of him like a shaken soda bottle. “You kept him!”

“No!” Dustin yelled, voice cracking up into a whine at the end. Steve let out a tired laugh through his nose. Dustin might actually be the worst liar on Earth. “No.”

Lucas stared him down, unimpressed. Waiting.

“No, I…” Dustin stalled, gears clearly turning at full speed. “He missed me. He wanted to come home.”

Lucas gave him a flat, disbelieving stare. “Bullshit!”

Dustin rolled his eyes so dramatically his whole head moved. “I didn’t know he was a demogorgon, okay?”

Lucas threw his hands up. “Oh, so now you admit it?”

Steve closed his eyes again as the argument volume doubled. The shouting pulsed through his skull like someone striking a gong.

Max let out a long, exhausted sigh behind him. “Guys, who cares? We have to go.”

Lucas’s mouth dropped open like she had personally insulted the concept of honor before he whipped back toward Dustin.

“I care!” he yelled, shrill with emotion. The pitch stabbed through Steve’s brain. Lucas jabbed a finger at Dustin. “You put the party in jeopardy! You broke the rule of law!”

Dustin’s eyes blew open in outrage as he jabbed right back. “SO DID YOU!”

“What?” Lucas squeaked.

Steve turned away, done. Just done. He’d take an actual monster over this noise at this point. He trudged off the tracks, stepping into the small patch of clearing beside them, the arguing echoing off the trees.

Dustin flung an arm in Max’s direction, flashlight nearly blinding her. “You told a stranger the truth!”

Max scoffed. “A stranger?”

Steve rubbed a hand across his forehead, trying to massage away the pounding. His head felt like it was going to crack open. He shook his head and stepped further into the trees, putting distance between him and the yelling.

And then he heard it—a distant, guttural screech carrying through the night.

His whole body froze.

He snapped his head up, pointing his flashlight toward the sound as he took a wary step toward it.

“Hey, guys?” Steve called, but the argument continued, still escalating.

He spun around, raising his voice. “Guys!”

The kids all stopped mid-shout and whipped toward him, their flashlights jerking. The screeching sounded again—louder, closer—and he watched their expressions drop in unison as they all heard it too.

Steve tightened his grip on the bat, fingers digging into the tape around the handle. His pulse kicked up again—not quite adrenaline, not quite panic—but the closest thing he could muster to focus.

He turned and walked toward the noise.

Shoes scraped behind him like hesitant shadows.

“No, no, no.” Max’s voice trembled. “Hey, guys, why are you headed toward the sound?”

Steve raised his eyebrows slightly, silently agreeing with her. Valid question. If only his dumb sense of responsibility would let him stop.

“Hello?” she snapped when none of them answered.

Steve nearly turned back, but he heard her huff and then another set of footsteps followed after them.

They walked in tense silence, all four flashlights slicing through the dark trees, beams converging like searching fingers. The roars echoed faintly ahead. Steve’s adrenaline kicked in just enough to dull the stabbing in his head, enough to let him focus as he guided the kids toward the small cliff-like incline that opened into a clearing.

They stopped at the edge.

Steve’s stomach dropped straight through the ground.

He scanned the darkness stretching out below them, but the demogorgons were nowhere in sight. The empty space felt worse.

“I don’t see him,” Dustin offered unhelpfully, and Steve had to physically stop himself from groaning.

Lucas pulled out his binoculars with quick, shaky hands, putting them to his eyes as he scanned the clearing below, searching.

In the stillness, Steve’s thoughts flickered to Hop and El—how badly he needed to talk to them, how much he hoped they were safe, how messed up all of this was getting.

Lucas sucked in a sharp, audible breath.

“It’s the lab.”

Steve felt his heart drop twice in the span of one minute.

Lucas lowered the binoculars, face pale and stunned.

“They were going back home.”

—

Steve and the kids must’ve been walking for miles, or at least that’s how it felt in his bones. Each step sent a dull shock up through his legs and into his spine, rattling the headache that had already made itself at home behind his eyes. He wasn’t entirely sure how much longer he could keep going without either face-planting or passing out. Maybe both.

At least the kids were finally—finally—quiet.

The silence wasn’t comfortable by any means. It sat between all four of them like thick fog, heavy and smothering. Max, Lucas, and Dustin were each clearly pissed at one another, simmering in three separate pockets of preteen rage. But to Steve, who felt like someone was repeatedly punching his skull with a crowbar, the quiet was an absolute blessing. A win. A miracle. He’d take it.

They had to be close. He prayed they were close. His legs were shaking, his steps uneven. His vision kept trying to gray out at the edges.

“Hello?” a voice called suddenly from in front of them.

All four of them jerked violently like a single organism. Steve’s heart slammed against his ribs hard enough to make him stumble. Anxiety tripled instantly, a cold burst of adrenaline flooding through his limbs.

“Who’s there?” the voice added.

The group continued forward, slow and cautious, boots crunching lightly against the dirt as beams of their flashlights jittered ahead. Steve swallowed, throat tight. If worst came to worst…

If something jumped out of those trees…

He knew he could use his powers again—or the bat—until he inevitably crashed back into unconsciousness. Hopefully long enough to buy the kids a chance to run. Hopefully long enough to matter.

The treeline broke suddenly, and their flashlights swept forward, flooding two silhouetted figures standing near the security gate with harsh white light.

Steve squinted, trying to make sense of who—

“Steve?!” both figures shouted at the same time.

Oh.

Oh, he knew those voices.

He dropped his flashlight, letting it hit the dirt as his head cocked to one side in disbelief. “Nancy?”

“Jonathan,” Dustin echoed behind him, breathless.

Steve started forward, the kids trailing behind like ducklings unsure whether they were marching into comfort or doom.

Nancy looked pissed. Not just annoyed—really, visibly, vibratingly pissed. Her arms were crossed, shoulders tense, jaw tight.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice sharp as glass.

Steve raised his hands slightly, baffled by her tone and even more baffled by the fact that she was here at all. “What’re you doing here?”

“We were looking for Mike and Will.”

Steve’s stomach dropped like someone had cut the floor out from under him.

Oh.

No.

Dustin looked toward the lab, dread tightening his features. His voice trembled. “They’re not in there, are they?”

Nancy followed his gaze—her brows knitting together—before looking back at Dustin.

“We’re not sure.”

Steve saw the way Jonathan’s expression collapsed, his face draining of color. Panic moved through him like a shockwave. Steve felt something similar in the pit of his own stomach—fear and guilt mixing unpleasantly with nausea. Please, please don’t let Will be in there. Not again. Not alone. Not with those things.

Then, deep inside the lab, a horrific screech tore through the night.

The sound jolted every single one of them.

Oh.

They’re in there.

“Okay,” Jonathan said, spinning around so fast he nearly tripped. Terror lit up his eyes as the group instinctively formed a tight circle. He looked wildly between each of them. “When was the last time any of you saw Will or Mike.”

The kids began talking all at once.

“We haven’t seen Will—”

Steve forced his voice louder than theirs, desperate to quiet the jumble of noise rattling in his skull. “I haven’t seen him since—”

“The power’s back,” Nancy cut in sharply, staring toward the now fully lit lab.

Before anyone could process that, the entire group sprinted toward the security gate. Jonathan basically vaulted over the hood of his car, sliding and stumbling into the security booth as he started slamming random buttons.

The gate didn’t move.

Steve let out a long, pained sigh, eyes falling shut. The throbbing behind his temples was relentless. He just—God—he wanted all of this to be over.

“Let me try,” Dustin said, squeezing into the booth and shoving Jonathan over with surprising force. He began pounding on buttons with the confidence of someone who absolutely did not know what he was doing. Steve was pretty sure Dustin just hit the exact same sequence Jonathan had—and shockingly got the exact same result.

A beat of silence.

Then Dustin sighed, dramatic and defeated. “Son of a bitch! You know what—”

Steve’s hand twitched. He was this close to just using his powers on the damn gate. At this rate, Nancy and Jonathan could drive the kids to safety if he passed out again. It wouldn’t even be that stupid, strategically speaking. He started to close his eyes, pulling in a breath to focus—

Bzzz.

The gate slid open.

“I got it!” Dustin announced proudly, turning around with a smug grin.

Steve let out a tiny sigh of relief. Thank God. One more minute and he truly would’ve passed out trying to be a superhero.

He nodded toward Jonathan and Nancy, stepping forward to grab Max and Lucas by the shoulders, guiding them out of the direct path of the car.

“Go. I’ve got the kids.”

Jonathan gave him a tight, grateful nod as Nancy rushed around to the passenger side. The car tore up the driveway in seconds, vanishing into the dark.

Once again, Steve was left with the kids.

He let out a huff and walked back toward the security stand. Leaning heavily against the metal wall, he tilted his head back and shut his eyes, pressing the back of his skull to the cold surface. It helped. A little. Not enough. Everything hurt—his head, his stomach, his legs. Everything.

The kids paced anxiously in the small patch of pavement in front of him, flashlights bouncing erratically. Their fear radiated like heat—loud and obvious even without words.

God, Steve really hoped Will and Mike were okay.

“Guys?” Max said suddenly, her voice sharp and alarmed.

Steve’s eyes flew open instantly.

Engines.

Multiple.

Fast.

Revving hard.

Headlights burst through the darkness, blinding them. Steve straightened up as fast as his rattled body allowed, instinctively shifting in front of Max.

Horns blared, loud and violent.

Shit—they’re about to get run down.

“Get back!” Steve yelped, grabbing the kids and shoving them toward the small alcove beside the booth, out of the incoming vehicle’s path.

Jonathan’s car blew past them without slowing.

A second car screeched to a stop directly in front of Steve and the kids.

Steve’s heart stopped entirely for half a beat as he peered into the driver’s window.

Hopper.

The Sheriff leaned toward the glass, eyes sharp with determination—then softening instantly when he saw Steve. He jerked his hand toward them in a firm beckoning gesture.

“Let’s go.”

Steve sprinted toward the cruiser, yanking the passenger door open before turning his back to it. He threw an arm out.

“C’mon, get in!”

The kids scrambled into the backseat in a flurry of limbs and panic. Steve waited until the last of them tumbled inside before he leapt in himself, slamming the door shut.

He leaned halfway out of the open window, scanning behind them for any movement—any sign they were being followed.

Hopper floored it.

They shot down the road like a bullet.

Everyone in the cruiser was panting hard, breaths sharp and uneven as Hopper floored it away from the lab. The cruiser jolted over a bump in the road, tires spitting gravel, the engine roaring louder than any of them had ever heard it. Every second they put between themselves and the lab felt like a miracle, but no one relaxed. No one even blinked too long.

Steve kept twisting in his seat to glance out the rear window, vision hazy with adrenaline and the pounding behind his eyes. His chest felt tight, lungs burning like he’d sprinted a mile. He couldn’t even tell if the tremor in his hands came from the cold night air rushing through the cracked window or from sheer exhaustion.

Hopper checked the rearview mirror, eyes darting fast between the road and the three wide-eyed kids in the backseat. Then he flicked his gaze sideways, landing on Steve. Without taking his eyes fully off the road, he reached out and clasped a firm, steady hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“Everyone okay?” Hopper asked, voice gravelly but trying to be gentle. He squeezed Steve’s shoulder, grounding him. “You okay?”

Before Steve could even attempt to answer, Dustin immediately exploded from the backseat.

“No! Nothing about this is okay!”

His voice cracked in a way that would’ve been funny on any other day. Tonight, it just sounded scared.

Hopper didn’t respond, just shot the kid a look in the mirror before turning his eyes back to Steve, waiting—really waiting—for an answer.

Steve swallowed hard.

He wasn’t okay. Not even close. His head was pounding so viciously it felt like something alive was clawing at the inside of his skull. His stomach swirled in slow, nauseating circles. His limbs felt like sandbags tied together with string. That constant pressure behind his ribs ached.

He couldn’t get into it. Not here. Not with the kids stuffed into the backseat, clinging to every word. Not with demogorgons still out there, somewhere. Not with his powers burning under his skin like a lit fuse.

So he did the only thing he could do.

He nodded.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, voice barely holding steady. “Yeah, I’m good.”

Hopper looked at him—really looked at him—and Steve could see, clear as anything, that he didn’t believe a single word. But he didn’t press. Instead, he turned back to the road as they barreled down the driveway toward the Byers’ property.

The cruiser shot into its usual parking spot like Hopper had rehearsed the maneuver a hundred times. Jonathan’s car sat crooked in the yard, headlights off, all the doors wide open. Steve could picture them—Jonathan, Nancy, Joyce, Mike, and Will—running into the house without even shutting them, desperate to escape the monsters lurking.

Hopper killed the engine and twisted in his seat to face the kids.

“You all go directly inside. Do not stop, just go.” He paused, eyes locking on Steve with meaning. “We’ll be in in a minute.”

Dustin’s mouth flew open immediately, inhaling sharp like he was about to launch into a monologue-length protest.

Hopper shut that down instantly.

“No,” he snapped. “You go inside. Now.”

The kids froze for one stunned second before scrambling out of the cruiser like startled birds. Their sneakers slapped against the pavement as they bolted for the front door, disappearing inside in a rush of fear and urgency.

The door thudded shut behind them.

Silence fell like a heavy blanket.

Steve remained in the passenger seat, staring at Hopper across the dim interior. He had no clue where to start—no roadmap for this conversation, no idea how to explain the mess twisting inside his chest.

Hopper broke the silence first.

“I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry.”

Steve blinked, confused… until memory washed over him like a punch. That night. Hopper yelling. The fight. The fear, the anger, the painful sting of betrayal he didn’t want to think about.

Hopper’s face tightened with regret, eyes glistening in the dim glow from the house.

“It wasn’t about you and it wasn’t about El,” Hopper said softly, shaking his head. “I was just scared thinking about what could happen to either of you if someone found out. I don’t want either of you to get hurt and I can’t lose you both.”

His voice cracked. He looked away, staring down at his hands in his lap. “I’m just sorry. About everything.”

“It’s okay, Hop,” Steve said quietly, and his voice was sincere. Small, but sincere.

Hopper looked back at him, eyes watery. Steve offered him a little nod—one that said everything he didn’t know how to put into words.

“It really is,” Steve continued. “I promise, I haven’t really thought about the fight or anything.”

He took a deep, steadying breath, then winced when the inhale made his head pulse painfully. He lifted his gaze, finding Hopper watching him with concern etched in every line of his face.

“I found something out,” Steve murmured.

He closed his eyes for a second, swallowing hard. His throat felt thick. His chest felt too tight.

“And… it’s something really, really big.”

—

Hopper dragged both hands down his face, then scrubbed them over his beard, exhaling one long, shaky breath. He stared at Steve like he was seeing him for the first time — really seeing him. Not the kid who he adopted a year ago from that abusive household, not the kid who got dragged into this mess by accident a year ago, not the kid he yelled at out of fear.

A kid—his kid—who had been carrying something enormous.

Alone.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Hopper finally said, voice low and worn thin. “That’s… that’s a hell of a lot.”

Steve opened his mouth, probably to make some self-deprecating joke or say he was fine again, but Hopper held up a hand.

“No,” Hopper said firmly. “Don’t do that. Don’t give me the Steve Harrington Special I’ve let you get away with before. I need you to tell me the truth.”

Steve blinked at him, thrown off. “What—? What do you mean?”

Hopper gestured at him—at the way Steve was slumped against the seat, pale, eyes glassy, sweat glistening on his temples.

“How do you feel right now?”

Steve looked away, jaw tightening. For a long second he didn’t answer. Hopper waited. Hopper didn’t budge.

Finally Steve said, quietly, “I feel like shit.”

Hopper nodded once. No judgement. Just acknowledgement.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That tracks.”

Steve swallowed thickly. “Everything hurts. My head won’t stop pounding. My stomach’s rolling. And the more I… think about it —” His voice cracked, barely audible. “—the worse it gets.”

Hopper didn’t hesitate. He reached over and set a heavy, warm hand on the back of Steve’s neck, grounding him gently.

“Hey,” Hopper said, voice softer than Steve had ever heard it. “Look at me.”

Steve forced himself to lift his head.

“You are not a monster,” Hopper told him. “You’re not some… weapon Brenner made or some accident waiting to happen. You hear me? You are a kid who’s been dropped into shit no kid should have to deal with, and you’ve handled it better than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Steve’s breath shook. Hopper squeezed the back of his neck once before letting go.

“That said,” Hopper continued, sitting back but keeping his eyes on Steve, “we’re not doing this alone. Not again. You are not burning yourself out like that.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“You’re not using those powers again,” Hopper said plainly. “Not until we talk to El. Not until she tells us more on how it works, what it costs you.”

Steve frowned, rubbing at his temple. “Hop, we might not have a choice. If something happens—”

“No.” Hopper’s voice hardened in that sheriff-on-a-mission way that shut down every argument. “If something happens, we’ll figure it out another way. I’m not risking you collapsing again or bleeding out of your damn eyes because you pushed too hard.”

Steve winced. “I—I wasn’t bleeding.”

“El has mentioned it happening to her before,” Hopper grunted. “And don’t think I didn’t notice how you could barely stay upright.”

Steve flushed a little, embarrassed. “I… yeah. It got kinda bad.”

Hopper let out a humorless huff. “Kid, you passed out cold in the middle of a junkyard surrounded by demogorgons. That’s not ‘kinda bad.’ That’s ‘scared ten years off my life.’”

Steve opened his mouth again, but Hopper shook his head.

“And we’re not telling the kids. Or anyone for that matter.”

That made Steve actually jolt. “What? Why not?”

“If they know, they’ll expect you to use it again.” Hopper leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “They’ll want you to use it again. They’ll expect you to be experienced like El. And you’ll try. You’re wired that way.”

Steve swallowed.

Hard.

Hopper’s voice turned gentle. “Let’s keep this between me and you for now. Once we talk to El, once we see if she knows anything—if Brenner mentioned you, what your dad was involved in—then we make a plan.”

A heavy silence settled, but it wasn’t the unbearable kind this time. Steve’s shoulders lowered a fraction. Enough to show he wasn’t holding tension like a live wire anymore.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Yeah. Okay.”

Hopper reached out again—slower this time—and clapped a warm hand on Steve’s shoulder.

“You’re not alone in this, kid. Not anymore.”

Steve didn’t say anything, but the way his breath hitched—just once—was enough for Hopper to tighten his grip, solid and steady, before letting go.

“Come on,” Hopper said finally, voice softening again. “Let’s get inside before those little shits come back out here looking for us.”

For the first time in what felt like hours, Steve managed a small, worn-out smile.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Okay.”

They stepped out of the cruiser together.

And for the first time since the junkyard, Steve didn’t feel like the ground was going to fall out from under him.

—

Steve stood frozen in the middle of the Byers’ living room like the floor had just dropped out from under him. Even with the pounding behind his eyes and the nausea threatening at the back of his throat, he couldn’t look away.

The drawings—God, the drawings.

Black and blue frantic strokes covered every inch of the room, twisting and spidering like giant veins. Crawling along the walls, swallowing the frames of old family pictures, dripping over the ceiling. Even the floorboards were streaked with papers, like the house itself had cracked open and bled.

Will had done this. Will, quiet soft-spoken Will.

Steve’s eyes stung instantly.

Speaking of Will—

The kid lay curled on the couch, so small he barely made a dent in the cushions, wrapped in one of those sterile white blankets from the lab. His skin was pale, almost translucent, and his arms were scattered with tiny dark bruises—clear little fingerprints of needles, restraints, medical gloved hands.

Jonathan hovered over him, one hand stroking Will’s hair in slow, careful sweeps, murmuring soft reassurances Steve couldn’t hear. Nancy stood behind him, her palm resting on Jonathan’s shoulder, her thumb rubbing slow circles into the fabric of his shirt.

The sight hit Steve straight in the chest.

He remembered another Will—trembling violently in the Upside Down, breath shallow and rapid, eyes terrified. Steve holding onto him for dear life while the air rotted around them. While the tendrils pulsed and the world decayed.

He remembered Will shaking in his arms, remembered whispering, “I’ve got you, buddy. I’m right here.”

He remembered thinking he wouldn't let anything hurt this kid again.

And here they were.

Steve bit hard on his lip, fighting the burn in his eyes. He ran a hand over his nose, trying to look casual, like he wasn’t on the verge of breaking down. When he turned toward Hopper, the distraction was almost welcome.

The sheriff was pacing near the wall, phone clenched so tightly in his fist the cord jerked with every step.

“Sam Owens,” Hopper snapped into the receiver. “Dr. Sam Owens.”

He shot Steve a look—one that said ‘Can you believe this bullshit?’. Then he shook his head, muttering under his breath.

Steve drifted past him, the room tilting slightly under his feet. The migraine behind his eyes pulsed harder, like something pushing outward from inside his skull.
He was so goddamn tired.

And he really, really overdid it.

“I don’t know how many people are there!” Hopper barked suddenly, making Steve flinch. “I don’t know how many are left alive! I am the police! Chief Jim Hopper!”

Steve braced a hand against the kitchen sink, bowing forward. The porcelain was cold under his palms, grounding him as a wave of dizziness washed through him. His stomach twisted violently—not enough to puke, but enough to make him groan quietly.

He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing through the pain.

Behind him, the phone slammed loudly into its cradle. Hopper’s grumble of irritation echoed in the room.

Steve rocked slightly, head hanging.

God. Just five minutes without feeling like his skull was going to crack apart from the inside. That’s all he wanted.

“They didn’t believe you, did they?” Dustin’s voice piped up.

Steve lifted his head a fraction, turning just enough to see Dustin, Mike, Max, and Lucas clustered at the dining table like a little council of chaos.

Hopper let out a heavy exhale. “We’ll see.”

“‘We’ll see?’” Mike repeated instantly, voice sharp with anger. His hair was sticking up in seventeen directions, and he looked one breath away from combusting. “We can’t just sit here while those things are loose!”

Steve glanced at Hopper — whose jaw clenched so hard Steve was surprised his teeth didn’t crack.

“We stay here,” Hopper said, low and firm. “And we wait for help.”

He shot Steve a look before he turned and headed down the hallway to check on Joyce.

The second he was gone, Mike whirled around.

“Can you talk to him?”

Steve blinked, confused. “About what?”

“About doing something!” Mike threw his hands up. “Anything! We can’t just sit around on our asses waiting for those things to show up!”

Steve pushed away from the sink, slow and careful. The world still wobbled slightly.

“Listen,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned living with Hop for a year, it’s that you don’t go against him.” He pointed at Mike. “Ever.”

Mike rolled his eyes so hard it was almost impressive.

“Plus,” Steve continued, straightening a bit, “I’d rather not have to go back into the Upside Down to drag one of your asses out when you get yourselves kidnapped by a demogorgon.”

That shut Mike up fast.

His face drained, guilt clutching at his features as he remembered exactly what Steve went through last year. Dustin sank lower into his chair. Lucas stared at the table. Even Max’s expression softened.

A rare, eerie silence fell over the four of them.

Steve leaned back against the counter, closing his eyes for a second. His head throbbed relentlessly, a pulsing ache behind his forehead. The ibuprofen he’d taken was doing absolutely nothing. If anything, it felt personal — like his brain was punishing him for pulling that stunt in the junkyard.

He wanted so badly to lie down. Just for a minute. Just to take the pressure off.

But he couldn’t—not with demo-dogs loose in Hawkins. Not with Will sick. Not with the kids looking to him like he was supposed to have some kind of plan.

Mike’s voice cracked through the haze.

“Did you guys know Bob was the original founder of the Hawkins AV Club?”

His tone was small, gentle. Nothing like the usual bite.

Steve opened his eyes, heart squeezing.

Mike stood at the edge of the living room, back half-turned toward them, staring at one of the scattered items Will had dropped — that all-blue Rubik’s Cube.

He must’ve told the others what happened to Bob. Steve could only imagine what Mike saw in that lab — what he lost.

Lucas let out a soft gasp. “Really?”

Mike nodded, still staring down at the cube like it was something sacred. “He petitioned the school to start it. Had a whole fundraiser for the equipment. Mr. Clarke learned everything from him.”

He walked back toward them slowly, the blue cube turning gently in his hands.

“Pretty awesome, right?”

Lucas and Dustin nodded.

“Yeah,” they echoed.

Mike set the cube down in the middle of the table, fingers lingering on the plastic.

“We can’t let him die in vain.”

Dustin huffed. “Well what do you wanna do, Mike? The chief’s right on this.” Steve nodded a little, even though the kids weren’t looking at him. “We can’t stop those demo-dogs on our own.”

Max’s brow furrowed. “Demo-dogs?”

Everyone turned to Dustin.

He lit up instantly. “Demogorgon. Dogs.” He smushed his hands together. “Demo-dogs.” He waited. Max blinked at him. “It’s a compound word—”

“Okay,” Max cut in flatly.

Dustin deflated.

“Look,” he continued, redirecting to Mike. “I mean, when it was just Dart, maybe—”

“But there’s an army now,” Lucas finished grimly.

Dustin nodded. “Precisely.”

Mike’s eyes shifted then—darkening as an idea bloomed, something big and dangerous clicking into place. Steve straightened unconsciously, head clearing through the fog.

“What?” Steve asked slowly.

Mike glanced around, voice hushed. “His army.”

The room stilled.

“Maybe if we stop him,” Mike said, “we can stop his army too.”

They all stared at him, wide-eyed, gears turning behind their expressions.

Then Mike jerked his chin toward the hallway.

“Come on,” he ordered, already moving.

And despite the migraine, despite the nausea, Steve pushed off the counter and followed.

The five of them spilled down the narrow Byers hallway, feet thudding softly on the worn carpet, shadows stretching long behind them as they moved toward Will’s room. Each step felt heavier than the last, like the air itself thickened the further they went. Steve could feel his heartbeat pounding in his skull again—a dull, persistent throb—but he ignored it. The kids were moving with purpose, urgency, and he wasn’t about to fall behind.

Will’s bedroom door creaked open as Mike pushed inside. The room was cramped, swallowed by piles of drawings, stacks of half-finished sketches, and scattered sheets of printer paper. The air felt heavy, like the room itself was holding its breath.

They squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder. Max pressed near the doorway. Lucas and Dustin moved automatically toward the center. Steve stood behind them, towering but quieter, observant.

Mike didn’t hesitate. He beelined toward Will’s desk, yanking a page from the disorganized pile. He spun back around, hair bouncing, eyes wide and alight with the spark of his newest terrible idea.

“Here,” Mike said breathlessly, shoving the page out.

Dustin snatched it, flattening it between their hands so everyone could see.

Steve leaned over Dustin’s shoulder, squinting past the brim of his hat. The drawing was unmistakably Will’s—usual clean lines, dark shading, haunting edges. It showed a massive figure looming over the woods behind the Byers’ house, towering, spindly, wrong.

Steve felt a chill crawl down his spine.

“The Shadow Monster,” Dustin said, voicing exactly what Steve was thinking.

Mike nodded sharply, glancing between them. “It got Will that day. On the field.”

The room went still again.

Everyone turned to Mike as he continued, voice tight. “The doctor said it was like a virus. It infected him.”

Max’s eyebrows knit together slowly, like she was piecing together a puzzle she didn’t realize had missing pieces. “And… this virus connects him to the tunnels?”

Mike’s face lit up—and not in a good way. It was that dangerous kind of excitement. The kind that reminded Steve of the look kids get before they blow something up in shop class.

“Yes,” Mike said. “To the tunnels. The monsters. The Upside Down. Everything.”

Steve’s head swam for a second. His hand came up instinctively like he was telling a toddler to stop running with scissors.

“Woah, woah, slow down. Slow down,” he said.

Mike shoved the drawing into Steve’s hands. Steve stared at it—the twisting limbs, the towering body, the dark, oppressive presence of the thing. He felt his stomach tighten.

“Okay,” Mike said, rolling straight into lecture mode. “So the Shadow Monster’s inside everything.”

Steve tore his gaze from the paper long enough to look at Mike.

“And if the vines feel something like pain,” Mike continued, “so does Will.”

“So does Dart,” Lucas added, his voice steady but shaken.

Mike nodded vigorously. “It’s like what Mr. Clarke taught us. The hive mind.”

“Hive what now?” Steve echoed. His brain was already mush—now there were mind words involved?

Dustin turned, launching into explanation mode as if he’d been waiting for this moment his whole life. “A collective consciousness. It’s a super-organism.”

Mike jabbed a finger at the shadow monster in the drawing. “This is the thing that controls everything. It’s the brain.”

Steve blinked. Hard.

Dustin’s eyes went huge, lighting up the way they always did when he made one of his Dustin connections.

“Like the Mind Flayer.”

Mike and Lucas’s heads snapped up toward him at the same exact time, identical ‘holy crap’ expressions crossing their faces.

Steve and Max stared between them.

“What?” they said in unison.

Lucas snapped and pointed at Dustin like he’d just discovered fire. “Holy crap.”

Mike spun around the room like a ferret hopped up on espresso, searching for something—papers, notes, another drawing—Steve couldn’t tell.

He dove back toward Will’s desk again, muttering, “Hold on, hold on, hold on—”

Dustin turned to Steve and Max with wild urgency.

“Get everyone,” he said, already moving to help Mike dig through the desk. “We’ll explain.”

Steve and Max exchanged a look — half confused, half alarmed — before stepping out of the room.

Behind them, they could already hear paper shuffling and Mike ranting excitedly about “interdimensional neurological networks.”

Steve rubbed his temples.

Oh yeah.

This was definitely going to turn into something big.

—

Dustin slams this giant-ass book down on the dining table so hard that the plates rattle and Steve flinches at the sharp thud. The kids, Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Hopper drift in like gravity is pulling them toward Dustin’s excitement. Everyone crowds around as he flips to a specific page and jabs a finger at a drawing.

“The mind flayer,” Dustin announces, already breathless, shoulders hunched over the book like he’s guarding treasure.

Hopper leans in just enough to glance at the image before straightening again, unimpressed and tired. “The hell is that?”

“It’s a monster from an unknown dimension,” Dustin says, as if Hopper asking is the dumb part. “It’s so ancient it doesn’t even know its true home.”

Mike nods beside him like he’s heard this from Dustin five times already. Lucas folds his arms, peering over Dustin’s shoulder. Max makes a face. Nancy leans forward, elbows on the table. Jonathan drifts behind her, tense.

Steve tries to follow all of it, but his head is throbbing in this slow, wet, painful rhythm that makes everything sound like it’s underwater.

Dustin keeps going, voice climbing with confidence. “Okay, it enslaves entire races of other dimensions by taking over their brains using its highly developed psionic powers—”

At “psionic powers,” Steve glances at Hopper, the knot of anxiety in his stomach tightening. Hopper’s jaw twitches.

Hopper sighs and looks away, rubbing both hands over his face. “Oh, my God. None of this is real. This is a kids game.”

Dustin’s whole body reacts—hands thrown up, dramatic sigh unlocked. “Uh, no. It’s a manual, and it’s not for kids.” He gives Hopper a pointed, almost challenging look. “And unless you know something we don’t—”

Steve glances at Hopper again, then drops his gaze to the floor as his head throbs harder.

“—this is the best metaphor—”

“Analogy,” Lucas corrects sharply, not missing a beat.

Dustin wheels on him. “Analogy? That’s what you’re worried about right now?” Then he shakes his head, exasperated beyond measure. “Fine. Analogy for understanding whatever the hell this thing is.”

Nancy gives her head a small confused shake, like she’s trying to make the pieces stack in her mind. “Okay, so this mind flammer thing—”

“Flayer,” Dustin interrupts with almost offended precision. “Mind flayer.”

Nancy exhales loudly through her nose, annoyed in the most Nancy Wheeler way possible.

“What does it want?” she asks.

Dustin looks back down at the picture, tracing the outline with his eyes. “To conquer us, basically. It believes it’s the master race.”

Something clicks sluggishly in Steve’s brain. He lifts a hand and makes a vague gesture. “Oh, like the Germans?”

Everyone turns to stare at him like he’s just sprouted a second head.

“Uh,” Dustin tries. “The Nazis?”

Steve nods, feeling heat crawl up his neck. His brain feels like soup. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, the Nazis.”

Dustin shrugs. “Uh, yeah. If the Nazis were from another dimension, totally.”

Hopper mutters something under his breath and paces a few steps away, running a hand through his hair. Steve watches him with concern—Hopper’s hands are shaking slightly.

“It views other races, like us, as inferior to itself,” Dustin continues, his voice shrinking a little.

Mike jumps in quickly, like he’s been waiting for the opening. “It wants to spread and take over other dimensions.”

Lucas adds, leaning forward. “We’re talking about the destruction of our world as we know it.”

Steve turns away, dragging a hand down his face. The weight of their words presses down on him, sharp and overwhelming. His headache spikes. He lets out a long, frustrated sigh that seems to come from somewhere deep in his chest.

“That’s great. That’s great. That’s really great. Jesus.” He presses the heel of his hand into his eye socket, trying to dull the pain. Then he wanders to the fridge and presses his forehead against the cool porcelain, desperate for relief.

Behind him, Nancy leans further over the book. “Okay, so if this thing is like a brain that’s controlling everything, then if we kill it…”

The sentence hangs there. Everyone looks at Mike, Dustin, and Lucas like they have the cheat codes.

Mike nods sharply. “We kill everything it controls.”

“We win,” Dustin says, putting his hands on his hips like he’s presenting the conclusion to a science fair project.

“Theoretically,” Lucas tacks on.

Hopper walks over to where Steve had been standing at the fridge, glancing at the older boy with a mixture of concern and impatience before grabbing the book and flipping it toward himself, using his body to cover Steve the rest of the group. He reads the blurb under the picture, face tight.

“Great,” Hopper mutters. “So how do you kill this thing? Shoot it with fireballs or something?”

Dustin lets out an involuntary giggle, then composes himself. “No, no, no fireballs. Uh…” He starts gesturing vaguely. “You summon an undead army, because zombies, you know, they don’t have brains, and the mind flayer, it—”

Hopper gives him a stare that could burn a hole through the table.

Dustin deflates. “It likes brains. It’s… just a game. It’s a game.”

Hopper slams the book back down. Everyone jumps, but Steve jerks the hardest, almost losing balance. “What the hell are we doing here?”

Dustin throws his hands up. “I thought we were waiting for your military backup.”

“We are!” Hopper shoots back, louder than he probably intended. His anger spills over into the room like electricity.

Mike steps forward, chin raised. “Even if they do come, how are they gonna stop this? We can’t just shoot this with guns.”

“You don’t know that!” Hopper fires back. “We don’t know anything!”

Mike points toward the front door, eyes blazing. “We know it’s already killed everybody in that lab!”

“And,” Lucas says quickly, “we know the monsters are gonna molt again.”

“And we know,” Dustin adds, voice low and cracked with fear even though he tries to sound confident, “it’s only a matter of time before those tunnels reach this town.”

“They’re right.”

The entire room turns toward the voice.

Joyce stands in the hallway, her shoulders hunched, eyes red and swollen, hands trembling slightly. She looks hollowed out. Shattered. Steve feels something twist painfully in his chest just seeing her.

“We have to kill it,” she says. Her voice breaks, barely holding together. “I want to kill it.”

“Me too,” Hopper says immediately, stepping toward her and gently placing a hand on her arm. “Me too, Joyce, okay? But how do we do that?”

Joyce shakes her head, breath shuddering. Hopper keeps his hand firmly on her arm.

“We don’t exactly know what we’re dealing with here,” Hopper admits.

“No,” Mike says, turning toward the couch. “But he does.”

Everyone follows his gaze.

Will sits bundled in blankets, pale, his eyes dark and distant like he’s looking through them instead of at them.

“If anyone knows how to destroy this thing,” Mike continues quietly, “it’s Will. He’s connected to it. He’ll know its weakness.”

Max crosses her arms. “I thought we couldn’t trust him anymore. That he’s a spy for the mind flayer now.”

“Yeah, but…” Mike says, stepping closer, voice gentler than it had been all day. “He can’t spy if he doesn’t know where he is.”

—

Steve bites his lip hard, trying to force his focus onto anything other than the pounding in his head as he drives another staple into the wooden frame. The metallic thwack rattles through his skull like someone’s knocking on the inside of it. He pauses, fingers gripping the stapler a little too tightly, and breathes through the pain.

The Byers’ shed smells exactly the same as the last time he was in here—dust, motor oil, old wood. But the memories hit completely differently now. He hasn’t set foot inside this place since last year, when he and Will had been dragged into the Upside Down’s gray, horrible mirror of it. Back when everything had first spiraled out of control.

He’d thought that was the peak of crazy. Apparently not.

He still can’t wrap his head around how much has changed in just forty-eight hours. How fast everything went from bad to apocalyptic. His whole world feels flipped upside down again, shoved sideways, stomped on. He can feel a pressing, heavy tension sitting beneath his ribs, like the air is being squeezed out of him every time he thinks too hard. Ever since the glass had frozen in midair, that feeling hasn’t left—like a warning bell that won’t shut up.

He shifts his weight on the old rickety chair he’s perched on, trying not to make it wobble. The thing creaks like it might collapse out of spite. Beside him, Nancy tears off a long strip of duct tape with a sharp rip, her fingers working methodically to reinforce the tarp they’re trying to secure over the window.

Steve bends down slightly to position the next corner, and the world tilts for a second—pressure changing, pain blooming in the side of his head. He tries to hide the wince, blinking hard to steady himself.

“Hey.” Nancy’s voice comes soft, careful.

Steve glances down at her. She’s standing close, the dim, dust-filtered light of the shed catching on her features. And she’s looking at him with those eyes—wide, sad, too understanding. The eyes that always see more than he wishes she could.

He waits, quiet, bracing.

She gives a small, tentative smile. “What you did, um… helping the kids.” She hesitates, searching for the right words. “That was really cool.”

Steve looks away for a second, throat tightening. “Yeah,” he mutters. It doesn’t feel cool—it feels like he’s been giving himself a brain aneurysm for the past two days. But sure. Cool. Heroic babysitter cool.

He steps back onto the chair to staple another section of the tarp, lifting the stapler above his head. His arm trembles faintly. “Those little shits are real trouble, you know?”

Nancy snorts, an actual laugh—short but genuine. “Believe me, I know.”

Steve can’t help smiling at that, at the way her voice warms on the words. He slams another staple into the wood, focusing on the sharp metallic sound instead of the throbbing behind his eyes.

He can feel her watching him again—her gaze soft, searching—but he decides to act like he doesn’t notice. It’s easier that way. Cleaner.

Maybe they could make this work.

Just friends.

Just this steady, quiet thing between them—no expectations, no old wounds reopening, no sharp edges left over from the last time they tried and crashed.

He keeps working. She keeps helping. The shed stays quiet except for the rip of tape and the thunk of staples—simple, almost peaceful in the middle of everything falling apart.

Maybe just friends is enough.

—

Together, the group moved like they’d done this a hundred times before—even though none of them had. There was no talking, no arguing, just quiet urgency as they coated every visible inch of the Byers’ shed. Blankets were draped over walls and windows. Towels stuffed into cracks. Tarps overlapped each other until you couldn’t see daylight or old wood. Candy wrappers, torn-up cardboard, newspapers—anything with texture or color—were taped or tacked in place. Even Max grabbed fallen leaves and handfuls of dirt from outside, rubbing them against the tarp to distort any recognizable shapes beneath.

The air inside grew warm and dusty from all the movement. The smell of duct tape, old cloth, and damp tarp clung to them as they worked. Steve’s arms trembled each time he reached up, the pounding in his head deepening, but he kept moving. Everyone did. It didn’t matter how exhausted, overwhelmed, or terrified they were—this had to be perfect.

When they finally stepped back, the shed looked nothing like a shed anymore. It looked like a smothered, homemade cocoon—unrecognizable, chaotic, but safe. A blank canvas waiting for whatever came next.

Jonathan and Nancy slipped out quietly, heading inside to grab Will. The rest of them—Steve, Dustin, Lucas, Max—were ordered to stay inside the house with Nancy, away from the shed while the others tried to break through to Will.

Steve inhaled slowly, trying to settle the tightness in his chest and the pounding in his head. He gave a sharp nod, switching into his babysitter-general mode. “Let’s get inside, shitheads.”

Dustin rolled his eyes dramatically. Lucas muttered something under his breath. Max smirked at him like she finally understood why the boys listened to Steve. They all fell into line anyway, quick footsteps crunching through leaves as they exited the shed.

Steve was right behind them, about to step over the threshold, when a firm hand suddenly wrapped around against his forearm.

He froze and turned.

Hopper stood there, expression unreadable—something between concern, calculation, and a weariness that matched Steve’s own. Hopper tipped his head toward the door, silently asking Steve to follow.

They stepped just outside the shed, away from the others. The fading light hit Hopper’s face, carving deeper shadows into the lines around his eyes. He looked… tired. And scared. Which scared Steve.

Hopper exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I want you to lay down, kid. Rest while you can.”

Steve shook his head immediately. “Hop, I can’t—”

Hopper cut him off with a curt, commanding shake of his head—the kind that meant there was no arguing. “You need to, Steve.” His voice dropped low, hushed in a way that made the air between them feel heavier. He leaned closer. “If you need to use those powers, I don’t want you passing out.”

The words hit Steve like cold water.

Hopper wasn’t just making a suggestion. He was preparing him.

Preparing for the possibility that Steve might have to use them.

Even though Hopper had strictly forbidden it. Even though they agreed not until El knew what she was doing. Even though Steve could barely stand some moments without swaying.

Steve’s eyes widened. The back of his neck prickled. If Hopper was warning him he might need them… then things were a hell of a lot more likely to go wrong than anyone had said out loud.

He swallowed hard. “Okay,” he breathed.

Hopper gave a small, tight-lipped smile—an attempt at reassurance, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He hesitated, gaze flickering over Steve’s pale face, the way he kept rubbing his temple like the pressure was too much.

Then Hopper suddenly stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

Steve stiffened in shock—Hopper wasn’t a hugger. Not like this. Not full-bodied, solid, grounding.

But the moment the tension in Hopper’s arms registered, Steve melted into it, a breath of relief leaving him without permission. He closed his eyes, clinging just a little, letting the warmth and steadiness of the sheriff anchor him for a few precious seconds.

Hopper pulled back first, hands heavy and warm as he settled one on Steve’s shoulder—gentle but firm.

“Go take a nap, kid.”

Steve nodded, throat tight, and Hopper gave his shoulder a last, soft squeeze before turning back toward the shed.

—

The Byers house was unnervingly quiet—too quiet. A suffocating kind of quiet. The kind that made every creak in the walls feel like a warning. Not long ago, the place had been vibrating with shouts and running feet and frantic instructions. Now it felt like everyone was holding their breath at once.

Nancy stood with her back flat against the wall, one shoulder pressed to the window frame as she stared out at the shed. The bright, unnatural light spilling through the cracks sliced across her face in sharp lines. She didn’t blink, didn’t shift. She was completely still—like if she broke eye contact, something horrible would happen.

Dustin couldn’t stand still. He paced from the kitchen to the dining room to the living room and back again, muttering nonsense under his breath, tugging at his hair, staring at the floor, then the ceiling, then nothing at all. His sneakers squeaked quietly on the linoleum.

Lucas and Max sat cross-legged on the hallway floor, pressed shoulder to shoulder. They whispered, but even their whispers were soft and thin—like they were afraid the house might hear them.

Steve sat at the dining table, elbows propped up, head resting in his palm. His eyes were closed—not fully asleep, just hovering in that half-dreaming haze where everything felt distant and floaty. The pounding in his head had dulled to a thick, heavy throb, and the worst part was knowing it wasn’t gone. It was waiting.

Coiled. Ready.

If Hopper was right—and Steve had a horrible gut feeling that he was—then Steve would be the only thing between this house and the demo-dogs if anything went wrong.

No pressure.

The sudden, crackling buzz of electricity ripped him awake. His eyes flew open. Lights sputtered, flickering overhead. The bulbs hummed and shook like something was rattling them from the inside.

Nancy pushed off the wall immediately, stepping toward the window. Steve forced himself upright, every muscle coiled tight, and moved beside her with Dustin practically breathing down his neck.

A scream—raw, animalistic, nothing even remotely human—echoed from the shed and shot straight through the walls of the house.

“That’s Will,” Dustin whispered. His voice barely existed, but it still sounded too loud in the quiet room.

The lights kept flickering, each flash slicing shadows across their faces. They watched the window as if something might burst through it. The screams ebbed, slowly dissolving into silence. As the noise faded, the lights steadied—almost perfectly in sync.

Then… nothing. No movement. No voices. No indication that anyone inside the shed was alive.

Nancy gave a small, hollow shrug. “I guess… everything’s okay?”

She didn’t sound convinced. She didn’t even sound hopeful.

Dustin exhaled shakily and went right back to pacing. Steve blinked through the dizziness and drifted back toward the table, but Nancy caught his arm gently.

Her eyes flicked toward the hallway. “You should lie down in Will’s room.”

Steve shook his head, jaw tightening. “Nance, if something happens—”

“Then I’ll come get you.” Her tone was firm. Confident. Stronger than Steve felt by a long shot.

Before he could second-guess it, he nodded. Her smile was tight, but real, and Steve headed toward the hallway. Lucas and Max lifted their legs out of the way as he stepped past them, both watching him with wide eyes until he disappeared into Will’s room.

—

Steve bolted upright to the shrill BRRRRING slicing through the house. His heart slammed against his ribs. For a second he couldn’t even tell where he was. Then he saw the Star Wars wallpaper and remembered.

He threw his legs over the bed and stumbled into the hallway—just in time to see Dustin sprint to the phone and slam the receiver down. It rang again instantly.
Nancy lunged forward, ripping the entire phone off the wall and hurling it to the floor.

Silence.

No one moved. No one breathed.

“Do you think he heard that?” Max whispered, her voice trembling.

Steve swallowed hard and shook his head. “It’s just a phone. It could be anywhere.” He tried to sound sure. He wasn’t. “Right?”

But the house moved before anyone could answer.

They sprinted to the window facing the shed. Through the shifting shadows, they saw Hopper, Mike, and Jonathan emerging slowly, turning in circles, searching.

A shrill, distant scream tore through the night.

Steve and Nancy whipped toward the front windows, stomachs dropping. The scream didn’t sound far enough away.

“That’s not good,” Dustin said, barely any sound behind the words.

Mike, Jonathan, and Joyce burst inside, breathless and wild-eyed. Jonathan carried Will slung over his shoulder like dead weight and sprinted him down the hall. Mike rushed to the couch, Lucas and Max scrambling after him.

They pressed their faces to the glass, watching for movement.

Steve grabbed the bat leaning against the wall and moved beside Nancy and Hopper.

Hopper crashed through the back door with two guns in hand.

More screeches rippled through the air—closer this time.

Hopper met Steve’s eyes. One curt nod. Then his gaze snapped toward the kids.

“Hey! Hey! Get away from the windows!” he barked.

They jumped away from the glass instantly, huddling near the far wall. Jonathan and Joyce reappeared down the hall, looking shaken and terrified.

Hopper shoved one of the guns at Jonathan. “Do you know how to use this?”

“What?” Jonathan stammered. “I—”

“Can you use it?” Hopper demanded.

Jonathan hesitated.

Nancy stepped forward, calm but pale. “I can.”

Hopper tossed it to her. Steve tightened his grip on the bat, stepping into place beside them. The three of them made a solid barrier—guns, bat, bodies—between the kids and the windows.

The thudding of heavy paws pounded across the porch. The floor vibrated under their feet. Hopper glanced sideways at Steve, and Steve could hear his own pulse roaring in his ears.

He closed his eyes. He reached inward toward that pressure behind his ribs—the coiled, burning knot that lived there now—and pushed outward with his mind.

He forced the pressure outward, pushing the demodogs away.

“Where are they?” Max cried from behind them, her voice cracking.

Steve winced at her voice, distracting him but focused harder. The demodogs snarled, claws skittering just outside. He pushed harder, teeth gritted, and felt the strain ripple from his chest to his skull.

Warm blood began to leak from his nose.

More flickers of movement. More rustling. A sound from the side of the house made all of them jerk.

“What are they doing?” Nancy whispered, breathless.

Steve realized with a sick jolt that he couldn’t hold the whole house at once. He shifted his focus toward the side wall—pushing desperately.

A heavy snarl shook the front porch.

Shit.

He reeled his focus forward again, shoving with everything he had. More blood spilled hot over his lip.

Then—

A pained howl. Then another. And another.

Steve gasped, distracted by the noise, and lost his grip on the power entirely.

For a split second, his stomach dropped.

He had just royally fucked this up.

The window exploded inward with a thunderous crash.

The demodog burst through, glass flying in every direction, and Steve reacted purely on instinct—no thought, no fear, no time.

He shoved, flicking his chin up.

Hard.

The creature sailed backward through the window it came from, slamming into the yard outside with a sickening crack.

Silence fell like a blanket.

Steve stood trembling, bat in one hand, blood dripping from his nose, staring at the unmoving monster outside the shattered window.

“Holy shit,” Dustin whispered behind him.

Hopper’s gaze darted from the demodog to Steve, shock and frantic concern mixing sharply in his eyes.

Slowly, Hopper moved toward the window. Steve followed numbly, heart pounding as he watched for any twitch of movement. Nancy eased in behind them, gun raised but trembling.

“Is it dead?” Max asked, her voice small.

Before anyone could answer, a creaking sound groaned through the porch.

Everyone spun toward the front door.

The house went silent. The only noise was their breathing—fast, panicked, uneven.

The lock clicked.

The chain slid.

Steve raised the bat, though he channeled focus as he prepared to fight with everything he had left. Hopper lifted his gun. Nancy steadied hers with both shaking hands.

The door opened with a slow, drawn-out creak.

Hopper froze.

Nancy lowered her gun.

Steve blinked hard, vision swaying, but relief crashed through him like a tidal wave.

Eleven stood in the doorway, blood trickling from her nose—matching the streak down Steve’s face.

Steve let out a shuddering, exhausted breath.

God, he needed her.

Notes:

I hope you all enjoyed! This took a while because I had a stressful travel day yesterday but it turned out fine and I managed to get it out! I hope you all liked it!

Chapter 22: The Gate

Mike stepped forward, moving toward Eleven in slow, desperate strides, his trophy slipping from his fingers and clattering to the floor without him even noticing. The sound barely reached him; he was fully locked onto the small, trembling figure in the doorway.

“Eleven?” His voice shook violently, cracking halfway through her name. His hand lifted, hovering in the air between them like he was reaching toward a ghost, like he wasn’t sure if she’d dissolve the second he touched her.

El’s face crumpled, her lips trembling as her eyes filled instantly with tears—huge, heavy ones that clung to her lashes before streaking down her cheeks. A smile tugged its way onto her lips anyway, soft and shaking and desperate.

“Mike.” She gasped the word, voice thin and breathless with relief, before they both surged forward at the exact same moment and collapsed into each other’s arms. Mike nearly folded over her, arms wrapping so tightly around her shoulders it looked like he feared she’d vanish. His head dropped to her shoulder, his whole body shaking hard with sobs. El held him like she had been waiting for this exact moment for almost a year—arms around him, rocking them gently back and forth.

“Is that…” Max whispered, glancing between Lucas and Dustin, her voice hushed like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to talk during something so raw. Lucas and Dustin stood completely frozen, their expressions mirror images of shock and awe.

Steve allowed himself a tired smile at the sight of Mike and El clinging to each other. For one brief second, the world felt steady. Then the smile wavered as he suddenly felt the hot, sticky blood sliding down the curve of his upper lip. He subtly wiped it off with his sleeve, hoping no one saw the smear of red.

“I never gave up on you.” Mike’s voice was so soft Steve could barely hear it over the roaring pulse in his ears. The static in Steve’s skull crackled louder, so he gave his head a small shake to clear it, wincing as the motion made the room tilt.

“I called you every night. Every night for—”

El interrupted, her voice cracking open. “Three hundred and fifty-three days.”

Mike’s face fell, his confusion hitting him like a physical blow. His mouth opened, then closed again, like he was trying to fit her words into something that made sense.

“I heard.” El gasped, pain threading through every syllable.

Mike sounded so small it made Steve’s heart squeeze painfully. “Why didn’t you tell me you were there? That you were okay?”

Hopper sighed—a long, world-weary sound—as he stepped forward. “Because I wouldn’t let her.”

Mike turned toward Hopper, the confusion on his face deepening, twisting. He pulled away from El like he needed space to comprehend what he was hearing as Hopper came closer.

“The hell is this? Where have you been?” Hopper demanded, voice low but burning.

El’s retort was immediate, sharp, defensive. “Where have you been?”

Hopper tugged her into his chest, wrapping her into a tight, protective hug.

Steve watched Mike’s face closely, saw confusion melt into something darker—anger rising hot and fast. His breathing picked up, face screwing into something tight and betrayed.

“You’ve been hiding her.” Mike’s voice trembled with fury.

The room froze.

Mike’s anger was a storm cloud, almost visible, swelling and darkening with every breath. He moved toward Hopper in a sudden burst, slamming his small body into him with surprising force. “You’ve been hiding her this whole time!”

“Hey!” Hopper barked, catching Mike by the collar before he could collide again. Steve’s stomach jolted in fear until Hopper’s expression softened, gentling. “Let’s talk. Alone.”

He released Mike and guided him down the hallway toward Jonathan’s room. Mike stomped the whole way, each footfall sharp and loud; Hopper’s heavier steps followed. The door shut behind them, and muffled yelling began almost immediately.

Dustin and Lucas didn’t hesitate—they rushed straight toward El, throwing their arms around her like they were afraid she’d slip away again. Both boys had watery eyes, blinking furiously as they clung to her.

Steve could feel the adrenaline draining out of his body now, leaving him with nothing but trembling muscles and a vision that was starting to go soft and grainy around the edges. He just wanted to give El one hug before he completely fell apart.

Lucas’ voice tugged him back. “We missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” El whispered, gripping both boys tightly before pulling away.

Dustin’s smile stretched wide across his face. “We talked about you pretty much every day.”

El’s smile softened, warm and fond, but then her expression sharpened. She reached up abruptly and pressed her thumb against Dustin’s teeth.

“Teeth,” she said simply.

Dustin blinked in confusion. “What?”

El tilted her head, inspecting him. “You have teeth.”

Dustin broke into a proud grin, nudging Lucas with his elbow. “Oh. You like these pearls?”

He let out a strange, loud purr-like noise. El jerked back, startled, and Lucas grimaced in disgust.

Steve huffed a short laugh, though the sound felt distant. His vision wavered again, his knees feeling suspiciously soft.

Then El’s head snapped toward him, eyes widening and a fond smile found its way onto her lips as she looked at Steve.

“Eleven?” Max said from the front of the group.

El turned back.

Max stepped forward, smiling warmly, extending a hand. “Hey. Um, I’m Max. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

El blinked twice, expression unreadable. Without a word, she turned around and walked straight to Steve instead.

She wrapped her arms around his middle, hugging him tightly. Steve blinked a few times—Max’s face was just a fuzzy ginger blob now—but then he looked down at the top of Eleven’s head and hugged her back.

“Hey, El,” he breathed, his voice thin. His head felt light, floaty, like a balloon tied to a fraying string.

El squeezed him tighter. “Missed you, Steve.”

Steve hummed, letting his eyes drift shut as his legs weakened even further. Everything felt distant—like he was underwater.

El pulled back slightly but kept her hands on him, tilting her head up. “Steve?” Her voice echoed strangely in his ears. There were two of her now, overlapping as they stared at him. The two El’s making him feel dizzy.

Some more shapes stepped closer. More people said his name—or something close to it, maybe just words—but the pounding in his ears drowned everything out.

His vision swims violently, the ringing in his ears reaching a peak.

Then, suddenly, his legs gave out.

His body dropped, but arms caught him under the shoulders before he hit the floor. His vision spun, black eating out the edges, and the only sound he could muster was a low, pained groan.

Then everything went entirely, completely dark.

—

“Jonathan—catch him!” Nancy’s voice split the air, high and panicked, just as Steve’s eyes rolled back into his skull like someone had flipped a switch inside his brain. His body went slack, all the tension draining at once. El yelped, nearly toppling with him, her fingers clutching at his sleeve to keep him upright, but she was too small to hold his full weight.

Jonathan lunged before Steve hit the floor. He caught Steve around the shoulders—barely—his arms trembling as the unexpected weight pulled him off balance. His shoes scraped across the living room floor as he fought to steady them both.

Dustin, Max, Lucas, and Joyce all rushed in at once, a tangle of chaotic footsteps and panicked voices, just as Jonathan managed to ease Steve down, lowering him awkwardly but carefully until he was lying on the carpet.

“Holy shit!” Dustin yelped, his voice cracking as he leaned over Jonathan’s shoulder. His eyes were saucer-wide, darting all over Steve like he expected something to explode.

Lucas scanned up and down Steve’s clothes, his expression tightening with every second. “This can’t be adrenaline again!” His voice pitched up, almost shrill.

Joyce’s head snapped toward him, her own eyes going huge. “Again?”

Dustin nodded so quickly it looked like his skull might rattle loose. “In the junkyard! He passed out after we saw Dart!”

El didn’t react to the explanation. She was locked onto Steve’s face, staring with deep, laser-focused concern. Her brows knitted together, lips pressed tight, like she was trying to feel his pain through the air.

Joyce dropped to her knees beside Steve, her own breathing shaky. She reached out with a trembling hand and gently tapped Steve’s cheek, her touch feather-soft and terrified.

“Steve?” she murmured. “Steve, honey, can you hear me?” She searched his face like she was afraid of what she might find there.

She lifted her head toward Jonathan. “Get Hop, please.”

Jonathan didn’t hesitate. He stood and rushed toward the hallway, footsteps heavy and fast, disappearing as he ran to get Hopper.

Dustin sank to a crouch behind Joyce, folding down onto his calves. His face—usually bright and expressive—looked crumpled with fear. “Is he going to be okay?” he whispered, his voice high and tight like a stretched string ready to snap.

Joyce glanced back at him, her mouth opening to answer—but before she could form a word, Steve let out a low, pained groan and rolled slightly toward her. His eyelids fluttered weakly, like they weighed more than his entire body.

El immediately scooted closer, pressing herself against Joyce’s side as she leaned in over Steve.

“Steve?” she whispered, desperate.

Thundering footsteps burst from down the hallway, pounding like a stampede. Hopper rounded the corner a second later, eyes blazing, chest heaving, scanning the room until he locked onto the sight of Steve on the floor.

He rushed forward, dropping to a knee. Then his gaze snapped toward Nancy. “Keep them in one of the bedrooms.”

Nancy’s eyes widened, startled. “What—?”

“Now,” Hopper barked.

Nancy swallowed hard and nodded.

“No way in hell am I leaving him!” Dustin exploded, scrambling like he expected to throw himself over Steve’s body to protect him.

Nancy grabbed Dustin’s arm in a tight grip, dragging him backward despite his squirming. “Come on—Dustin—Dustin!”

“No!” he shouted, trying to dig his heels into the carpet.

Lucas and Max rushed in, grabbing Dustin’s other arm and pushing him forward until he was forced into motion. Mike and Jonathan trailed just behind, their faces pale as they cast lingering looks over their shoulders toward Steve.

The group disappeared into Will’s room, the door shutting behind them, leaving Hopper, Joyce, El, and Steve in the suddenly too-quiet living room.

Hopper knelt down on Steve’s other side, leaning over him. Steve let out another groan, his face contorting like even consciousness hurt him.

“Steve,” Hopper said, voice low and steady but laced with urgency. “Kid. You fried yourself, but you gotta wake up.”

Joyce and El stared at Hopper, both of them picking up on something in his tone. Something that said he knew more. Something heavy.

“Hop.” El’s voice was low, serious, trembling with the kind of fear she rarely showed. She looked up at him with wide, demanding eyes. “What is wrong with Steve?”

Hopper’s jaw tightened. He looked away from Steve’s face, glancing between Joyce and El with an expression that said he was deciding just how much of the truth they deserved—or could handle—right now.

And the air grew very, very still.

And Hopper explained everything.

—

Steve’s consciousness clawed its way upward like it was swimming through wet cement. He wasn’t sure which part of him ached first—his head, his stomach, or the weird heavy emptiness settling deep behind his ribs. Everything felt wrong. Slow. Pulled under.

A low groan slipped out of him before he could stop it.

His eyelids fluttered, then squeezed shut again as the world’s brightness stabbed into his skull like needles. His stomach churned warningly. His ears were ringing—not just ringing, but screaming—and every throb made his vision pulse behind the darkness of his lids.

He tried again, squinting. The shapes hovering over him were blurry silhouettes at first, haloed by light. His brain couldn’t place them. Couldn’t place anything.

A voice cut through the fog—warm, firm, familiar.

“Steve?”

He blinked harder, forcing his eyes open wider until the shapes sharpened: Hopper’s worried scowl, Joyce’s trembling mouth, El’s wide, frightened eyes.

They were all staring at him.

Like something was wrong.

Really wrong.

Steve frowned, his eyebrows knitting together. He looked between the three of them, confusion twisting inside his fogged brain. Everything was too bright. Too loud. Too… much.

He shifted, trying to push himself upright—but the moment he lifted his shoulder, a huge steady hand pressed against him.

Hopper.

“Whoa.” Hopper’s hand stayed planted on Steve’s shoulder, firm but gentle. “Let’s lay back down for a bit, kid.”

Steve blinked up at him, dazed, like he wasn’t entirely sure what “lay back down” meant. He didn’t think he was laying down. But he let Hopper guide him back to the floor anyway. His muscles felt mushy, unreliable.

Joyce leaned over him, her face tight with worry. She smoothed his hair back with trembling fingers. “There you go, sweetheart,” she murmured softly. “You scared us.”

Steve swallowed, throat dry. His tongue felt too big in his mouth. “Sorry…” he mumbled, barely audible.

Then he turned his head—slowly, woozily—toward Eleven.

She sat close, knees tucked in, staring at him like he was a ghost or maybe a mirror she hadn’t expected to see herself in. Her lips parted just slightly.

“Like me,” she whispered.

Steve’s breath hitched. His eyes watered—not just with emotion, but from how damn hard it was to keep them open. He nodded slowly, head wobbling a little. He didn’t know how she knew but he was glad she did.

El’s face softened with something warm and aching. A tear rolled down her cheek. She reached out and took Steve’s limp hand in both of hers, holding it tightly, grounding him.

“Missed you,” she said softly.

 

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth despite how awful he felt.

Eventually—slowly, with Hopper supporting his back and Joyce steadying his arm—they got Steve upright and onto the couch. He slumped against the cushions, head drooping forward. Joyce pressed a glass of water into his hands. He took a sip, though it nearly sloshed onto his lap from how much he was shaking.

Hopper settled on the coffee table in front of him, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Okay,” Hopper said quietly, glancing at Joyce, then El, then back to Steve. “We gotta talk. Before the kids get any wild ideas.”

Steve’s brow furrowed again. “The kids…” he croaked.

“We’re not telling them,” Hopper said firmly. “Not yet. They don’t need to carry this on their shoulders yet.”

Steve nodded tiredly. “Yeah… yeah. I don’t… want them freaking out.”

Joyce looked between Hopper and Steve before turning toward El. Her voice was softer, but urgent. “We’re trying to figure out how to stop all of this. The tunnels. The rot in the ground. The monsters. That… thing controlling Will.”

Steve’s eyes barely focused, but he saw El’s sharp nod.

Joyce swallowed hard before continuing. “You opened this gate before, right?” Her voice was gentle, but the question trembled with fear.

El nodded slowly. “Yes.”

Steve blinked hard, managing to piece the implication together through the slowly receding fog. Joyce took a deep breath, leaning toward El.

“Do you think…” Joyce hesitated, breath shaky. “If we got you back there… do you think you could close it?”

El didn’t hesitate this time.

She nodded.

Firm. Certain.

Steve exhaled shakily, relief and dread swirling together in his chest.

Hopper rubbed a hand across his face. “Alright. Then that’s the plan. But we’re keeping Steve’s powers quiet until this is all over with and we understand them more.”

Steve let his head fall back against the couch, vision warping again at the edges. Joyce set a hand on his knee, grounding him. El kept hold of his hand.

And Steve—exhausted, bruised, fried both inside and out—just nodded weakly.

“Okay,” he whispered. “Let’s do this.”

The weight of what was coming settled over all of them like a shadow.

—

The sound of pounding footsteps echoed down the hall before anyone even reached the living room. Steve had barely managed to sit upright on the couch—El anchored to his side like a protective little shadow—when the kids burst through the doorway.

They practically tripped over each other, a chaotic tangle of limbs and backpacks and voices.

“Steve!”

“Are you okay?”

“Jesus, you look terrible—no offense—”

“You looked like you died—”

“What happened—”

Steve blinked slowly, head still foggy around the edges. All the noise washed over him, almost dizzying, but it made warmth bloom under his ribs anyway. He couldn’t help smiling.

He held a hand out as if that would stop the stampede. It didn’t.

Dustin launched himself onto the couch hard enough that Steve actually wobbled. “Seriously, dude—you need to figure out that adrenaline thing because what do you mean you just pass out after everything?!” Dustin shouted right in his ear.

Steve snorted and elbowed him lightly. “I know, kid. Trust me, it’s not on purpose.”

Dustin huffed like Steve had personally inconvenienced him by nearly dying again.

Behind them, Hopper walked in with Nancy and Jonathan trailing behind him. He shook his head as if disappointed but not surprised by the absolute disaster of children gathering on and around the couch.

“Alright, hey—hey.” Hopper clapped his hands once. Everyone snapped their heads toward him, the room falling into instant silence.

“We gotta do this. Soon.”

That sobered everyone up. Steve straightened a little, the dizziness settling into a dull hum behind his eyes. El’s hand slipped into his, squeezing.

Hopper looked directly at her. “The gate’s not like it was before,” he said, voice low. “It’s grown. A lot.”

A ripple of fear passed through the room. Even Steve felt his stomach twist.

Hopper swallowed hard and stared at the wall like he could still see the massive, pulsing tear in reality. “And that’s… assuming we can get in there. That place is crawling with those dogs.”

“Demo-dogs,” Dustin corrected automatically, shifting like he was about to start a presentation.

Hopper blinked at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

Steve bit his lip to hide a laugh, raising his water cup like he was toasting Dustin’s impending doom.

“Demo-dogs,” Dustin repeated, earnest as hell. “Like Demogorgon and dogs? You put them togethe—”

“How is that important right now?” Hopper cut in sharply.

Dustin visibly flinched, shoulders lifting toward his ears. “It’s not. I’m sorry.”

Before anyone could respond, a quiet voice cut through the tension.

“I can do it.”

El’s chin was tilted up, her eyes sharp and determined. The room stilled around her.

Steve squeezed her hand again, firmer this time. He knew that look. That resolve.

She took a breath. “Even if it is big,” she whispered, “I can do it.”

Mike’s face pinched. “Even if El can, there’s still another problem.” He looked around helplessly. “If the brain dies, the body dies.”

Max frowned. “I thought that was the point?”

“It is,” Mike said, wincing. “But if we really are right… if El closes the gate and kills the Mind Flayer’s army—”

“Will’s a part of that army,” Lucas said grimly.

Mike nodded, throat bobbing. “Closing the gate will kill him.”

Silence. Heavy and suffocating.

Joyce stared at the floor like she was seeing something the rest of them couldn’t. Her breath hitched before she abruptly turned and disappeared down the hallway toward Jonathan’s room.

Jonathan followed immediately, eyes wet but jaw tight. Hopper went next. El stood, tugging on Steve’s hand gently.

“C’mon,” she murmured.

Steve pushed himself up. His vision swayed for a heartbeat, darkening at the edges, but he steadied himself with El’s hand in his. Dustin hovered nervously behind them, glancing back every few seconds to make sure Steve didn’t face-plant into a wall.

They filed into Jonathan’s room where the air felt different. Heavy. Cold.

Joyce stood near Will’s bed, staring at her son like she was trying to memorize every inch of his face. Then her gaze drifted to the window.

“He likes it cold,” she whispered.

Hopper blinked. “What?”

“It’s what Will kept saying. He likes it cold.”

She crossed the room and shut the window, almost violently. Turning back to the group, her voice sharpened. “We keep giving it what it wants.”

Nancy swallowed hard, eyes on Will. “If this is a virus, and Will’s the host, then…”

“Then we have to make the host uninhabitable,” Jonathan finished.

Joyce nodded once—decisive, fierce, terrifying in her resolve.

“So if he likes it cold—” Nancy said carefully.

“We need to burn it out of him.” Joyce’s voice dropped to something dark, trembling with fear and determination.

Mike stepped forward. “We have to do it somewhere he doesn’t know..”

“Yeah,” Dustin agreed, hugging his arms around himself. “Somewhere far away.”

Hopper stepped toward Joyce. “Yeah. I know a place.”

He pulled the blanket from the bed, wrapping Will tightly—protectively—before lifting him into his arms. Will looked impossibly small. Hopper’s grip tightened.

“If we want this thing out of him,” Hopper said, meeting Joyce’s eyes, “we need to move now.”

He turned to Jonathan next. “I’ll tell you where to go. Let’s move.”

—

Steve braced a hand on the cold siding of the Byers’ house as he stepped outside, the late-afternoon air biting at the raw edges of his nerves. His balance wobbled for a second, but he steadied himself before Nancy could notice. She was already kneeling in the grass, rifling through the chaotic sprawl of shed junk littered across the yard—old boxes, tangled wires, tools, broken decorations.

The space heaters had to be out here somewhere.

Steve lowered himself beside her with a shaky exhale, knees hitting the frosty ground. His head swam dizzy-dark for a moment, but he blinked it away and started sorting through a pile of extension cords and paint cans.

Nancy brushed aside a mound of fallen leaves, her movements sharp, focused… worried.

Steve’s fingers closed around a dusty space heater buried under a coil of rope. He lifted it, glanced at Nancy, then cleared his throat.

“You should go with him.”

Her head snapped up. “What?”

“With Jonathan,” Steve said, keeping his voice steady even though his chest twisted. He set the heater aside and reached for something else to keep his hands busy. “You should go.”

Nancy stared at him like she didn’t understand the words.

“No, I’m—” She shook her head stubbornly. “I’m not just gonna leave Mike.”

Steve huffed out something that wasn’t quite a laugh. “No one’s leaving anyone.”

He grabbed a bundle of Christmas lights, froze, then tossed them aside with a shudder. No thank you. He’d had enough of glowing red lights outlining portals to hell.

Nancy shifted a heavy crate, struggling to lift it because a second heater was trapped underneath. Steve moved automatically—too fast—stumbling slightly as he rounded the pile to get beside her. Together they lifted the crate, Steve’s arms shaking almost embarrassingly under the weight.

They dropped it aside, and Steve crouched to grab the heater beneath it. His hands trembled violently against the metal, but he forced a grin as he straightened up.

“I may be a pretty shitty boyfriend,” he said, his voice coming out softer than he intended.

Nancy’s expression faltered immediately.

Steve swallowed, then continued with a crooked smile. “But turns out I’m actually a pretty damn good babysitter.”

Her face cracked—guilt, affection, sadness all tangled together in her eyes. She hadn’t expected him to make this easy.

Steve held the heater toward her like an unspoken truce… or maybe a quiet goodbye for now.

“Nance—” she started, voice catching.

“It’s okay,” he said gently, nudging it toward her. “It’s okay.”

She hesitated before reaching out, their fingers brushing for a moment before she took the heater from him. Acceptance. Trust. Goodbye.

Steve nodded—short, decisive, before his emotions could show—then turned and headed back toward the house. Toward the kids. His kids. His job. His place.

His hands were still shaking as he pulled open the back door, the screen creaking in protest. He stepped through into the yellow glow of the kitchen lights.

Hopper stood by the outer porch, arms folded, jaw tight. Outside, just a few feet away, Mike and El sat together on the wooden steps, talking in hushed voices—Mike leaning in close, El looking down at her hands. They both looked so impossibly young and impossibly old at the same time.

Steve moved beside Hopper slowly, carefully, as if approaching a drop-off. Hopper didn’t look at him at first—he was watching the kids, worried in a way Hopper rarely let anyone see.

Finally he spoke, eyes flicking to Steve. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?”

Steve nodded, even though his stomach churned and his knees felt like they were made of water.

“Yeah.” He swallowed hard. The words crawled up from somewhere raw and unguarded. “Just… be careful, okay? I—I don’t want to lose you.”

Hopper’s breath hitched. It was small, but Steve heard it.

The man’s expression softened—creased with exhaustion, fear, and the love he’d grown for Steve for the past year of being his guardian. Then Hopper stepped forward and wrapped a big, warm arm around Steve, pulling him into a tight, grounding hug.

For a moment he stood frozen, then he sagged into it, forehead dropping to Hopper’s shoulder.

“We’ll be back soon, kid,” Hopper murmured. “I promise.”

Steve nodded against him, the motion jerky, and then forced himself to pull away before he could embarrass himself by getting emotional.

He straightened his posture, wiped his palms on his jeans, and gave Hopper one last firm nod.

“Go do this thing.”

Hopper’s jaw tightened, his eyes resolute. He squeezed Steve’s shoulder once before heading down the steps toward the waiting car.

And Steve stayed behind—shaky, tired, scared—but ready to protect the kids with everything he had left.

—

Steve’s head was pounding—like someone was inside his skull with a crowbar, prying at the edges every time someone raised their voice. The kids weren’t even yelling yet; they were just talking over each other like always, but even that was enough to make the pressure behind his eyes throb so hard his vision pulsed with it.

“All right,” Dustin said triumphantly as he tossed the last of the condiments—three jars of pickles, a bottle of mustard, and something green and gelatinous—onto the counter. The Byers’ fridge now looked like it had been mugged. “It should fit now.”

Steve stood there panting, the dead demo-dog sliding slightly in his arms as the blanket around it soaked up the cold slime. His muscles trembled from holding it so long, but every time he breathed, the pounding in his head seemed to tighten.

He stared at Dustin flatly. “You sure about that?”

“Positive,” Dustin said, nodding like a little professor delivering a thesis.

Steve exhaled slowly, trying to swallow down nausea. “Is this really necessary?” He was praying—begging—that the answer was ‘no.’

Dustin planted his hands on his hips. “Yes, it is necessary. This is a groundbreaking scientific discovery. Do you want to be the guy who tossed the first ever semi-domesticated demogorgon specimen into a shallow grave? Because I don’t.”

Steve rubbed a hand across his forehead—big mistake. The pressure spiked, almost dizzying. “All right, all right, all right, okay,” he muttered, mostly to get this over with.

He lifted the demo-dog and immediately regretted it as a cold ribbon of slime drooled over his wrist and ran down his forearm.

“God—ugh.” He grimaced and glared at Dustin. “But you are explaining this to Mrs. Byers.”

Dustin puffed his chest. “Happily.”

Steve tried shoving the creature into the fridge. The head bumped the shelf—hard. “Sorry, buddy,” he muttered to the corpse, then immediately felt ridiculous. He tried again, angling it sideways, but the fridge made a loud slurrrp sound as the saliva smeared along the edge.

“Oh, Christ.” Steve gagged. He glanced back. “Help me out!”

Dustin rushed forward. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Get the door, man!” Steve barked, shoulder shaking as he angled the demo-dog’s head down. His arms were jelly. He could feel his heartbeat in his temples, sharp and hot. “Hold it open!”

Dustin grabbed the fridge door. “Door!”

“Good!”

Bad timing—more slime drooled down Steve’s arm, colder than ice, sliding toward his elbow.

“Ew—shit—EUGH!” Steve jerked his arm back, nearly dropping the corpse. “Jesus Christ, that is foul.”

Dustin waited until Steve had shoved the carcass fully inside, then slammed the fridge door shut. The latch clicked. Blessed silence.

Steve let out a shaky exhale, leaning a hand on the counter. His head pulsed behind his eyes—sharp, rhythmic, demanding. He swallowed and forced a smile, reaching out to pat Dustin on the head. “Nice work, kid.”

Dustin beamed.

Steve staggered toward the sink, grabbing a hand towel and scrubbing frantically at his arm. He heard the other kids sweeping glass in the living room, chattering over each other about the demo-dog crash and El appearing out of nowhere. He could hear Mike pacing—the sharp little step-step-step-step that was drilling into his skull like a nail gun.

He stepped into the doorway just in time to see Mike running a groove into the floorboards.

“Mike, would you just stop already?” Lucas groaned. Even he looked tired of it.

“You weren’t in there!” Mike snapped, voice cracking, turning on Lucas. “That lab is swarming with hundreds of those dogs!”

“Demo-dogs!” Dustin yelled over everyone, making Steve flinch from the volume right beside his ear.

Steve followed him inside, rubbing at the side of his head discreetly.

Lucas tried again. “The chief will take care of her.”

Max rolled her eyes. “Like she needs protection.”

Steve sighed, stepping in before the argument escalated. “Listen, Mike, a coach calls a play in a game, bottom line, you execute it. All right?”

Mike spun on him. “Okay, first of all, this isn’t some stupid sports game.”

Steve blinked, trying to think through the static fuzzing the edges of his thoughts.

“And second,” Mike added, glaring fiercely, “we’re not even in the game. We’re on the bench.”

“Right—” Steve started, then paused. His thoughts felt sluggish, like they were wading through mud. “So my point is…”

The kids all stared at him. Waiting.

His headache throbbed.

“…We’re on the bench,” he repeated slowly, “so… there’s nothing we can do.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Dustin chimed in.

Steve closed his eyes. God, please don’t do this right now.

“I mean, the demo-dogs are in the hive mind,” Dustin continued. “They respond when the mind flayer calls them. Like at the junkyard!”

Lucas nodded. “If we get their attention—”

“Maybe we can draw them away from the lab—” Max added.

Mike’s eyes lit up. “Then clear a path to the gate!”

Steve stared at them like they’d grown extra heads. “Yeah, and then we all die!”

Dustin shrugged. “That’s one point of view.”

Steve’s jaw dropped. “No, man—that’s not a point of view. That’s a fact.”

Mike shoved past him, dropping to his knees at the fridge to point at Will’s map. “This is where the chief dug his hole. It connects to here—”

He traced the paths with his finger, eyes widening. “This section is the hub. If we set this on fire—”

“No,” Steve said immediately. “Oh yeah? That’s a no.”

Dustin gasped. “The mind flayer would call away his army!”

Lucas grinned. “They’d all rush to the fire!”

Steve rubbed his forehead harder, but it only made the ache worse. “Guys.”

“We circle back to the exit—” Mike said.

“Guys—” Steve tried again, voice cracking slightly.

“By the time they realize we’re gone—” Mike pushed on.

“Hey!”

No one listened.

“El would be at the gate,” Max said, excited now.

“Hey. Hey! Hey!”

Steve clapped loudly, the sound echoing off the walls, making his headache spike white-hot. The kids all whipped toward him.

“This is not happening,” Steve said firmly, trying to keep the room from tilting.

“But—” Mike began.

“No. No buts. I promised I’d keep you shitheads safe and that’s exactly what I’m doing.” He looked between them, voice stern, fatherly, tired. “We’re staying here. On the bench. And waiting for the starting team to do their job. Does everyone understand?”

They all stared.

“I need a yes,” Steve insisted, leaning his weight on the table because the pounding behind his eyes had turned into a slow, sickening throb.

Before anyone could speak, an engine revved outside—loud, aggressive, way too fast.

Headlights washed through the window.

Steve’s stomach dropped.

Max darted to the couch, Lucas right behind her. “It’s my brother,” she whispered. “He can’t know I’m here. He’ll kill me. He’ll kill us.”

Steve’s headache vanished under a new kind of dread.

He straightened up slowly. “Stay in here,” he said quietly, jaw setting tight. “I’ll take care of this.”

The kids froze as Steve walked to the front door, shoulders squared, though his hands shook. He opened the door and stepped onto the porch, closing it behind him.

The night air hit his overheated skin like a slap. Billy killed his engine and climbed out of the Camaro, lit by the harsh headlights.

Steve planted his hands on his hips, trying to look steady.

Trying to look unbreakable.

Trying to ignore the pulsing in his skull.

“Let’s get this over with,” he muttered under his breath.

Billy leaned against the door of his Camaro. He took a slow, showy drag off his cigarette, smirking like he was starring in his own damn movie.

“Am I dreaming,” Billy drawled, exhaling smoke in a lazy plume, “or is that you, Harrington?”

Steve’s head throbbed at the sound of his voice—something about Billy’s tone was like sandpaper grinding right into his temples. He forced a smirk, though the movement tugged painfully at the muscles around his eyes.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Steve said, voice flat. “Don’t cream your pants.”

Billy chuckled, flicked ash onto the pavement, then peeled off his jacket in one smooth, aggressive motion. He tossed it into the front seat, slammed the door hard enough that the sound made Steve’s headache spike, and stepped toward the porch.

Steve walked down the steps slowly, one hand on the railing for a moment longer than he meant to. The ground felt… tilt-y. But he kept moving until they stood only a few feet apart.

Billy cocked his head, eyes glittering. “What’re you doing here, amigo?”

He flicked his cigarette onto the driveway, grinding it under his boot.

Steve crossed his arms, hoping it looked casual instead of “I’m using my arms to keep from falling over.” His head pulsed again—each beat a hammer.

“I could ask you the same thing…” He let the pause hang, then tipped his head. “Amigo.”

Billy smirked. “Looking for my stepsister.” He jerked his chin toward the house. “A little birdie told me she was here.”

Steve jutted his bottom lip out, pretending to think. “Huh. Weird. I don’t know her.”

Billy raised his hand to Max’s height. “Small? Redhead? Bit of a bitch.”

Steve sniffed, unimpressed. “Doesn’t ring a bell. Sorry, buddy.”

Billy huffed a laugh and shook his head, looking down at his feet like he was trying to keep from grinning too hard.

“You know,” he said, waving his fingers in a lazy motion, “this whole situation? It’s giving me the heebie-jeebies.”

Steve blinked slowly through the pounding in his skull. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

Billy widened his eyes, as if the answer were obvious. He glanced over his shoulder toward the house. “My thirteen-year-old sister goes missing all damn day… and then I find her with you in some stranger’s house. And you lie to me about it.”

Steve scoffed, shaking his head—immediately regretting it when the world swayed slightly. “Man, were you dropped too much as a kid, or what?”

Billy laughed—quiet, sharp, teeth flashing.

“I don’t know what you don’t understand about what I just said,” Steve said, tone dropping low, dangerous. “She’s not here.”

Billy stepped closer. Close enough Steve could smell his cologne and cigarette smoke. His eyes flicked past Steve’s shoulder.

“Then who is that?”

Steve turned.

And there they were.

Four idiot kids flattened against the window like they’d been pressed there by a hydraulic machine. Max’s unmistakable red hair was front and center.

All of them froze under Steve’s horrified stare.

Then they dropped like bowling pins.

Steve’s stomach plummeted. “Oh, shit.”

He turned back toward Billy. “Listen—”

That was as far as he got.

Billy shoved him—hard.

Steve’s headache exploded, white-hot and blinding, and his equilibrium vanished. His feet slipped, the porch seemed to tilt, and he hit the ground flat on his back. The crack of impact sent fresh pain ricocheting through his skull.

Billy loomed over him like a storm cloud.

“I told you to plant your feet,” he said, voice low. Then he lifted a foot and drove it into Steve’s stomach.

Air blasted out of Steve. Pain folded him in half, sharp and nauseating. His head throbbed with every heartbeat.

Billy stepped over him, heading for the porch steps.

Panic shot through Steve like electricity.

He can’t get to the kids. He can’t get inside.

Steve forced himself onto his hands and knees, gagging on the pain in his ribs. His head pounded so hard his vision blurred at the edges.

Billy lifted his foot toward the first step.

Steve focused on the ankle—hard.

He jerked his head to the side.

Billy’s foot shot out from under him like he’d stepped on a patch of ice. He crashed sideways onto the driveway with a loud, ugly thud.

“What the—?!” Billy scrambled back up, eyes wild. “The hell—?!”

He spun in a frantic circle, looking for what tripped him.

Then he saw Steve on the ground.

And froze.

His face shifted—confusion, then a flicker of fear, then anger.

“How the hell’d you do that, Harrington?” Billy spat as he stalked toward him, stopping right in front of him.

Steve lifted his head, smiling faintly despite the pounding pain behind his eyes. He shrugged.

Billy’s expression darkened. He raised his fist and slammed it onto the back of Steve’s head.

White-hot pain detonated—Steve saw stars, then black spots that danced across his vision. He choked on a gasp, grabbing the concrete to keep from collapsing.

Billy backed away, keeping his eyes locked onto him, making sure he was down and not about to pull any tricks.

Steve lifted his head, vision swimming. His head felt like it was splitting open, but he pulled the power forward anyway—tight, coiled, hot behind his ribs.

Billy froze mid-step. Like someone had paused him. His eyes went huge. Terrified.

“Harrington,” Billy breathed, voice cracking. “What the hell are you doing?”

Steve swallowed hard, blood slipping from his nose. He tasted metal.

He gave another small shrug.

Then flicked his chin forward.

Billy flew backward like he’d been slammed by a truck. He hit the steps with a bone-jarring crash. The back of his head clipped the top step with a dull thump. His eyes fluttered, then rolled back as he slumped unconscious.

Steve let out a shaking breath. The pressure in his head dropped from “exploding volcano” to “someone drilling behind his eyes.” Still horrible. But survivable.

He let his head hang, hair falling into his face. He sat back on his heels, panting heavily. Blood dripped onto the driveway from his nose and the back of his head. His arms trembled to keep him upright. His vision swam again.

There was a loud bang—the Byers’ front door flying open—and Steve jerked up too fast, making the world tilt violently.

Light spilled across the porch and four panicked voices shrieked in a jumbled chorus.

“Steve!”

“Holy shit, he knocked Billy out!”

“Oh my god—Steve!”

“Is he bleeding?! Someone get a towel—Mike, go !”

Suddenly hands were on him—small, frantic hands.

One on his shoulder.

One on his back.

One brushing his hair aside to look at the gash where Billy’s punch had landed.

“Steve—hey—hey, can you hear me?” Lucas’s voice, sharp with fear.

“His nose—oh my god—he’s bleeding a lot in his hair—” Max said.

“Steve?” Dustin tapped his shoulder urgently. “Steve, man, come on—say something—”

Steve hummed weakly.

That was all he could manage. His head felt like it was floating off his neck. His stomach rolled. Everything dimmed at the edges.

He wanted to say ‘Hey, I’m fine. Just give me a second.’

But instead—

His body slumped forward.

A small body caught him with a startled shriek before all the kids tumbled backward, trying to break his fall.

And Steve finally passed out.

—

The first thing Steve notices is the weight.

His whole body feels like it’s been filled with wet sand, bones soggy and muscles refusing to work. The pounding in the back of his head pulses so violently that for a second he’s sure someone is actually hitting him.

He lets out a low, broken groan. The sound makes the throbbing spike. His ribs seize with the motion, pulsing in time with his heartbeat — sharp, rhythmic, too fast. He can’t tell if he’s breathing weird, or if the car is moving weird, or if everything is weird. His body is rocking, jostling, shifting, and he can’t tell why. Nothing is responding properly; his fingers feel numb, distant.

He forces his eyes open to a thin squint, blinking through a thick fog that refuses to lift.

Darkness. Blurry shapes. Blonde? No… no that’s a shadow. Or maybe a lamp. Or outside? He can’t tell. The fuzziness smears everything together like someone smeared Vaseline across his eyes.

Then—

A loud sloshing to his left snaps through the static in his ears.

He turns his head too fast — which really just means his head rolls heavily to the side — and there’s a form beside him. A person. A red can of gasoline in their lap, the red bright and bleeding into all the shapes around it. Big dark eyes staring at him like he’s a ghost.

It takes a long, confused moment before the blur solidifies enough for him to recognize the face.

“…Mike?” Steve breathes, barely audible.

Mike wheels around like he’s been waiting for the moment. “Dustin, he’s awake.”

A hand taps at Steve’s cheek, gentle but insistent, and Steve jerks minutely at the contact, disoriented and slow to track it. He turns his head right — slower this time — and Dustin’s face swims into view like someone rising through murky water.

Dustin is leaning close, eyes wide, relief spreading across his face as soon as he sees Steve actually looking at him.

“Hey, buddy,” Dustin says softly, like he’s trying not to spook him. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

Steve opens his mouth, but his tongue feels too heavy and the words get stuck. Okay? Okay from what? Why was everything shaking? Why did it feel like he was swaying?

Before he can ask, another voice pipes up from directly in front of him:

“Okay,” Lucas says, and Steve can barely turn his neck enough to see him, hunched in the passenger seat with a map spread across his knees. “You’re gonna keep straight for a half mile, then make a left on Mount Sinai.”

…Passenger seat?

Steve blinks hard — once, twice, again — trying to clear the fog. He’s in… a car? They’re moving. Someone is driving. Who is driving?

His stomach lurches violently.

“What’s going on?” he croaks, voice thick with confusion. “What—who’s—?”

His gaze drags forward like it’s stuck in mud.

Behind the wheel, red hair flickers in the dim light. Concerned eyes glance at him in the rearview mirror.

Max.

Max is the one driving.

“Woah—” Steve’s stomach flips fully, his heart dropping straight into his gut as he snaps into a sudden bolt of terrified clarity. “Oh—oh my God.”

“Steve, relax,” Dustin murmurs quickly, one hand bracing his shoulder. “She’s driven before.”

“Yeah,” Mike mutters tightly, “in a parking lot.”

Lucas whirls around. “That counts!”

Steve’s entire chest goes tight, the air wheezing out of him. “Oh my God—”

The car hits a bump. Steve feels like he leaves his body for a second, floating, and the panic spikes hard.

“No, no—” he gasps, reaching out blindly, “please—stop the car! Slow down, slow down!”

Mike grabs his flailing arm, pinning it against his own chest. “Steve, calm down!”

“We’re almost there,” Lucas insists, his smile overly bright and extremely unhelpful. “It’s okay!”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut as the world tilts nauseatingly. His head throbs with every beat of his heart. He feels like he’s underwater, spinning, drowning.

“Please,” he whispers, “stop the car…”

“Everybody shut up!” Max snaps, knuckles white on the wheel. “I’m trying to focus!”

Lucas looks down, eyes widening. “Oh—wait—that’s Mount Sinai. Make a left!”

“What?” Max yells.

“Left!” Lucas screeches, pointing violently.

Max jerks the wheel.

The car slams through a trash can.

Steve’s entire body slams sideways.

Mike and Dustin both grab him at once to keep him from launching forward.

Max rips the wheel hard and the car lurches into a dark field before screeching to a stop.

Everyone sits there panting, shaking.

“Whoa!” Dustin laughs breathlessly.

“Incredible,” Mike says.

Max smirks, tugging the keys out. “Told you. Zoomer.”

The kids bail out instantly, all adrenaline and excitement, leaving Steve blinking in the backseat, still trying to remember how his legs work.

He attempts to push himself upright.

His legs immediately buckle under him, dumping him onto the ground beside the car.

“Guys,” he groans, forehead nearly on his knees, trying to get their attention. “Guys—wait—”

No response. They’re too busy gearing up, bandanas, goggles, grabbing supplies like a group of extremely stupid professionals.

He forces himself up using the car door, body trembling.

He sees the hole Hopper dug just ahead.

“Oh no,” he mutters. “Guys.”

Mike brushes past him with the gasoline.

“Hey—hey, where do you think you’re going?” Steve demands, reaching out and missing Mike’s arm by a full foot.

No one answers him.

“What are you, deaf? Hello?” Steve snaps, voice cracking desperately. “We are not going down there. I made myself clear.”

Max and Lucas move past him too, completely ignoring him. Steve grabs for one, misses entirely, almost falls again.

“There’s no chance—no chance—we’re going into that hole, all right?!”

He turns to Dustin, who’s rummaging in the trunk.

Steve limps over, snatching a bag Dustin is reaching for.

“This ends right now!”

“Steve!” Dustin shouts, startling him so badly he flinches. “You’re confused, I get it. But the bottom line is—”

Dustin points toward the hole where the others are securing a rope to the front of the car and hauling gasoline.

“A party member requires assistance. And it is our duty to provide that assistance.”

The words hit harder than a punch. Steve stares at him, breath shaky.

Dustin grabs his backpack — the one with the bat strapped inside — and holds it out.

“Now—I know you promised you’d keep us safe,” he says gently.

“So keep us safe.”

Steve stands there for a long moment, wobbling, vision still hazy around the edges.

Then he lets out a long, defeated breath.

And takes the backpack.

—

Steve hit the tunnel floor hard.

His sneakers slammed into the wet ground and his knees buckled immediately, trembling under the sudden weight of his own body plus the backpack. For a terrifying split second he pitched forward, the world tilting in a dizzy blur—but he clung to the rope, fist locked tight around it, and forced himself upright.

The ache in his head flared from dull to white–hot. His ribs throbbed from the impact. Even breathing hurts.

He stood still for a moment, letting his legs steady beneath him, blinking against the suffocating dark.

Then the kids’ flashlights flicked on behind him. Thin beams cut through the thick black, scattering light over slick walls and pulsing growths.

And Steve’s stomach dropped.

“Holy shit…”

Because it wasn’t a tunnel. Not really. It was exactly like last year, just more contained.

The thick, drifting particles floating lazily in the air. The glossy black slime coating every surface like a living skin. The smell — damp rot, electricity, and something sweet in the worst way.

For a heartbeat, it wasn’t this tunnel he was standing in — it was the one in the Upside Down, the one he’d been trapped in with Will. The one where he thought he would die with a twelve-year-old boy clinging to his jacket.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself out of the memory before it swallowed him whole.

A rustle to his left. Mike, hunched over something, shining his light down at a piece of paper.

A map. Right. The map.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure it’s this way,” Mike announced, pointing down the tunnel wall like he’d just chosen a hallway in a mall and not a vein of the most horrifying ecosystem in existence.

Steve drifted closer, trying to steady his breathing as he leaned in. His hands shook as he adjusted the backpack straps — nerves, anger, pain, everything wrapped together.

Dustin sighed sharply behind them. “You’re pretty sure, or you’re certain?”

Mike shot him a look. “I’m one hundred percent sure.” He turned, raising his flashlight dramatically. “Just follow me and you’ll know.”

He took a step to lead the way—

Steve caught him by the shoulder instantly.

“Whoa, whoa. I don’t think so.”

Mike turned back, confused and a little offended. “What?”

Steve gestured at the tunnels, the map, the whole fleshy, pulsing nightmare-scape around them.

Then at the kids.

“Any of you little shits die down here, I’m getting the blame.” He laid a hand over his heart, emphasizing how he’d be attacked if one of them dies. He genuinely thinks El might kill him. “Got it?”

He wasn’t proud of how sharp he sounded, but he’d been kidnapped, concussed, dragged into hell, and forced to ride with a fourteen-year-old driver — so frankly, he felt justified.

He turned to all of them, flashlight raised. “From here on out, I’m leading. Come on. Let’s go.”

Mike shoved the map into his hand reluctantly.

Steve angled his flashlight over it, studying the crude lines before taking the lead. The kids filed behind him like anxious ducklings, each clutching a gasoline canister that sloshed with every step.

They moved quick and quiet, as quiet as a group of excitable teenagers could manage.

Steve’s heart hammered the whole time. He knew what lived down here. He’d heard its breathing. He’d seen what its claws could do.

The tunnel opened suddenly into a weaving tangle of branching paths, all converging around a swollen, pulsating cluster of vines.

Not the hub — but close.

“God,” Max murmured behind him, disgust dripping from her words. “What is this place?”

“Don’t think about it,” Steve said, eyes locked on the map. “Just keep moving.”

He guided them into the next tunnel—

—and suddenly Dustin’s scream ripped through the air behind them.

A very real scream. Sharp and terrified.

“Shit!”

Steve spun so fast his vision blurred, sprinting back toward Dustin. The kid was rolling desperately on the fleshy tendrils coating the floor, flailing, scrambling, gasping.

“Help! Help—” Dustin choked, scrambling toward them before collapsing again. “It’s in my mouth! Some got in my mouth—shit!”

Steve reached him first, dropping to his knees, grabbing Dustin by the shoulders.

“Dustin! Dustin—what happened?” Steve gasped, heart in his throat. “What’s wrong? What happened?!”

Dustin thrashed in panic, eyes huge and wild.

“It got in my mouth!” he cried. “It— it— I— Steve, I—”

He coughed once. Twice. Then spat something tiny and wet onto the ground.

Everyone froze.

Dustin blinked up at them and gave the smallest little smile.

“I’m okay.”

Steve stared at him. Silent. Then his arms dropped to his sides with a soft slap.

“Dude,” he groaned, nearly collapsing backwards. “Very funny, man.”

He pushed himself up onto unsteady legs and gestured sharply ahead.

“Nice. Very nice. Let’s go.”

Max scoffed as they resumed walking. “Jesus. What an idiot.”

From behind them, Dustin hustled quickly. “Hang on—hang on! Wait up!”

They turned a corner, and Steve slowed instantly.

The air changed into something colder. He lifted his flashlight and—

“Oh shit,” he breathed. “All right, Wheeler… think we found your hub.”

The kids crowded behind him, flashlights sweeping over the massive room. Tunnels branched out from it like the spokes of a wheel. The floor pulsed underfoot with shifting, breathing vines.

Mike nodded once, jaw set. “Let’s drench it.”

The group split, unscrewing their canisters and pouring gasoline carefully over every inch of the floor. The smell filled the air, sharp and chemical over the rot and wetness.

Steve stood guard at the exit, lighter clutched in his palm so tightly his knuckles hurt. If anything came for them—anything at all—he had to get them out before they were torn apart.

One by one, the kids returned, empty canisters clattering softly onto the ground.

They gathered behind him.

“You guys ready?” Steve asked, voice low, lighter held tight.

Mike swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Ready,” Max and Lucas echoed.

Dustin looked up at Steve. “Light her up.”

Steve flipped the lighter open — paused for one split second — and muttered,“I am in such deep shit.”

Then—

He flicked the flame to life and hurled it into the center of the hub.

The lighter disappeared into the darkness and a heartbeat later, the world erupted.

A violent WHOOMPH shook the chamber as flames burst outward in a star-shaped explosion, racing along the gasoline-soaked tendrils like living fire serpents. The vines convulsed, whipping in the air, glowing orange as they shriveled and screamed in sizzling, popping bursts.

The heat smashed into them like a physical shove.

Steve instinctively threw an arm up over his face, stumbling back as the air went blistering hot. His shoulder slammed into Dustin’s chest, knocking a surprised grunt out of the kid.

The flames grew brighter, hotter, hungrily devouring the nest.

Steve didn’t wait for the full force of panic to settle over the kids.

He spun, voice cracking. “Go! Go—go, go!”

The kids didn’t hesitate. Max bolted first, Lucas right behind her. Mike shoved past Dustin, shouting “Let’s go!” over and over again, voice rising with every second the fire roared louder.

Dustin was the slowest; Steve shoved him lightly but firmly forward, practically herding him. The blast of heat on Steve’s back was so intense that his eyes watered, but he forced himself to give it one last look and saw the tendrils writhing still, curling in fiery agony, twitching toward them as if trying to follow.

Nope. No thank you.

He sprinted after the kids.

They tore through the tunnels, feet slapping against the wet floor, each breath ragged and uneven. Steve took the lead within seconds, gripping the map tightly in one hand, flashlight bouncing wildly in the other.

His lungs burned almost as much as his ribs. His vision pulsed at the edges with his heartbeat. But none of that mattered.

He needed these kids out. Now.

He forced himself faster, taking the first left, then a right, checking the map at every turn. The small convergence appeared ahead—a twisting junction of tunnels with slick walls that reflected their flashlights dimly.

“Hey! This way!” Steve barked, pointing as he sprinted.

Footsteps thundered behind him.

Then—

“Help!”

Steve’s entire body seized. That was Mike’s voice. A voice full of raw, choking fear.

“Help! Help!”

All four kids turned back at once, screaming Mike’s name. Steve skidded so hard he nearly fell, swinging around to find Mike sprawled on the ground, kicking helplessly, the flashlight wobbling wildly in his hands.

Lucas reached him first, grabbing his arms and yanking, Dustin pulling at his coat. Max tried to wedge herself under Mike’s shoulder.

Steve burst forward and shoved past them and froze at the sight.

A thick, veiny tendril wound brutally tight around Mike’s ankle, pulsing as it dragged him inch by inch toward a darker tunnel.

“Oh hell no—”

Steve ripped his bat off his back and charged.

“Back! Everybody back!” he roared, voice echoing like a gunshot.

He swung the bat down with all the strength he had left.

A wet, explosive splurt burst into the air, flecking his face and shirt with blackish-red fluid. Mike screamed, trying to pull his leg away.

Steve hit it again, harder—

And on the third blow, the tendril recoiled violently, shriveling back into the floor with a sickening hiss. Mike was released so suddenly he fell backward into Lucas.

Steve crouched, grabbed Mike’s arm.

“You good?” he demanded, voice breathless.

Mike’s breathing stuttered, but he nodded—barely.

Steve stood, turning—

A guttural, animalistic growl rolled through the chamber.

The kids froze.

Slowly, they all pivoted toward the tunnel they needed to take.

And there, in the beam of their flashlights, crouched Dart—larger than before, skin glossy and wet, yellow patterns glowing faintly along his back. He hissed, mouth trembling open just slightly, preparing to—

Steve raised his bat—

But Dustin slid in front of him before he could swing, arms outstretched protectively.

“Dart,” Dustin breathed.

The creature answered with a throaty, garbled purr, the sound wet and rumbling.

Steve grabbed Dustin’s shoulder, pulling him back sharply. “Dustin—hey, hey—”

But Dustin stepped forward again.

“Trust me,” he said to the others without breaking eye contact with Dart. “Please.”

Steve’s heart slammed painfully against his ribs. His palms were slick around the bat handle. His brain screamed ‘bad idea, terrible idea, worst idea,’ but he didn’t move. He couldn’t—not with Dustin inches away from a creature that could kill him in seconds.

Dart slowly crept forward. Dustin lowered his bandana, offering a small, familiar smile.

“Hey,” he whispered. “It’s me… it’s just your friend. Dustin.”

He pulled his goggles up too, exposing his whole face.

Steve edged one foot forward—silent, ready—just in case this went sideways.

Dustin lowered to one knee and slipped his backpack off, careful, gentle. “You remember me?”

Dart’s head tilted like a curious dog.

“Will you let us pass?”

Dart suddenly snarled, jaws peeling open in a grotesque flower of teeth.

Max gasped. Lucas yelped. Mike jerked back.

Steve lifted his bat instinctively but Dustin didn’t move.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” he said quickly, voice soft like he was soothing a tantruming toddler. Miraculously, Dart hesitated, jaws closing midway. “I’m sorry about the storm cellar. That was… yeah, that was kind of a pretty douchey thing for me to do.”

Steve blinked, stunned.

Dustin unzipped his bag.

“You hungry?”

Dart’s entire body shifted with unmistakable interest.

Dustin giggled. “Yeah?”

Lucas whispered, “He’s insane.”

Mike hissed, “Shut up.”

Dustin pulled out a Three Musketeers bar. “Look—our favorite. Nougat.”

Dart crept closer as Dustin unwrapped it, broke it into pieces, and laid one gently on the ground.

“Here. Eat up, buddy.”

Dart lowered his head and began devouring the candy. Dustin waved frantically behind his back.

Steve nudged Max, Lucas, and Mike forward. They crept past Dart, barely breathing. Steve followed last, keeping his eyes locked on the creature.

Dustin placed a second bar, then eased to his feet, lifting his goggles back over his eyes.

“Goodbye, buddy,” he whispered.

Steve clapped his shoulder once, quick and firm.

Then they ran.

They twisted through the final tunnels—then suddenly the ground trembled violently, almost knocking Steve off his feet.

The kids fell hard. “Jesus!”

A distant, echoing roar rolled through the tunnels.

Max leapt up. “What was that?”

The roar came again—closer.

They turned as one.

Shadows moved on the walls—many shadows, shifting, loping, fast.

“They’re coming,” Mike whispered, trembling. He screamed suddenly, loudly, “Run! Run!”

Steve didn’t need telling twice.

He sprinted, shoving the kids forward.

“Go! Go! Let’s go!”

Their screams echoed everywhere—high, panicked, terrified.

The rope came into sight—

“There, there!” Lucas shrieked.

“Go!” Steve bellowed. “Move!”

He skidded to the base of the rope, tossed his bat aside, and grabbed Max’s calves, shoving her upward with all his strength. She scrambled up, hands clawing at the dirt.

Lucas next—Steve lifted him practically like a sack of potatoes. Max caught his arms. They hauled him up.

The roars filled the tunnel now, deafening.

Steve grabbed Mike and threw him upward into Max and Lucas’s waiting hands.

Then he turned—

—and the demo-dogs were there.

Filling the tunnel. Leaping. Snarling. Barreling toward them with murderous speed.

Steve shoved Dustin behind him and stepped forward, heart racing, pulse roaring in his ears, terror crashing over him—

He knew what he had to do.

He closed his eyes—just for a second.

The world muted. The pain sharpened. The pressure inside his chest blossomed outward like a coiling, burning spring winding tighter and tighter—

He raised one trembling hand…

And focused everything he had on holding the demo-dogs back.

—

“No!” Dustin screamed behind Steve, voice cracking and high, arms thrown over his head as he braced for teeth and claws and pain.

But nothing touched him.

No wet growl.

No impact.

No tearing flesh.

Just—silence. A horrible, buzzing silence broken only by Dustin’s own gasping breaths.

He cracked one eye open.

Then the other.

Slowly, he lowered his hands.

And instantly wished someone else were here to confirm he wasn’t hallucinating.

The demo-dogs were frozen in mid-lunge, their bodies straining forward, claws digging deep furrows into the tunnel floor. Their jaws gaped open, strings of drool trembling in midair, suspended like someone had hit pause on reality.

Dustin’s breath punched out of him.

Steve stood in front of him, planted between Dustin and the monsters, body shaking like he was holding back a tsunami. His fingers were splayed open, left arm extended, palm trembling violently.

A thin, bright line of blood slid from Steve’s right nostril.

Dustin’s stomach flipped.

No.

Way.

His eyes flew upward—Mike, Lucas, Max were leaning over the rim of the tunnel, faces pale, eyes saucer-wide. Max’s hand was slapped over her mouth. Lucas stared in shock. Mike kept whispering “holy crap” under his breath like he couldn’t stop himself.

Dustin slowly turned back to Steve.

Steve wasn’t just holding them back.

He was crushing the space around them, something invisible and dense, like gravity turned inside-out. Every vein in Steve’s neck stood out sharp. His jaw was clenched so hard Dustin thought a tooth might break. His knees wobbled like they might buckle at any second.

“Steve?” Dustin whispered.

Steve didn’t hear him.

Instead, his fingers curled—first one, then another, then his whole hand, twisting slowly upward. His wrist rotated like something inside him was guiding the motion, not thought but instinct.
The demo-dogs screamed—if that choked, gurgling sound could even be called a scream—as their bodies writhed against the invisible force compressing around them.

“Steve—Steve—” Dustin’s voice broke, but Steve was somewhere far away. Excitement buzzed under Dustin’s skin.

On the final flex of his fist, the creatures’ bodies jerked, convulsed—

And went still.

Just…dead. Mid-air. Like puppets with their strings cut.

Dustin’s mouth fell open.

Steve kept holding the fist clenched, even as every muscle in his body shook with the effort. He looked like one strong breeze would knock him over—but the monsters didn’t drop.

Not until Dustin crept close and touched his elbow, voice small and steady even though his pulse was rioting.

“Steve, buddy… we’ve gotta go. You can let go of them now, okay? It’s over. You did it.”

Steve blinked like someone had just shaken him awake. His glazed eyes flicked to Dustin, then back to the demo-dogs.

He let his arm fall.

The bodies hit the tunnel floor with dull, wet thuds.

Steve swayed like the world tilted sideways.

A long, trembling breath fell out of him, then another. He looked at Dustin like he wasn’t sure where they were anymore.

Before Dustin could say anything, hands wrapped under his legs—Steve hoisted him up, staggering as he lifted Dustin toward the rope. Dustin felt Steve’s whole body shaking through the grab on his legs. Lucas and Mike grabbed Dustin’s arms, yanking him upward from above.

Dustin scrambled up onto the dirt, twisting to look back down through the opening.

Steve was below them, one hand still loosely on the rope, chest heaving like he’d run ten miles. His pupils were blown wide; his head tipped slightly like everything inside him was floating off its axis. A thick smear of red traced from his nostril to his lips.

Dustin’s heart lurched as he realized the adrenaline crashes weren’t adrenaline crashes. Steve had been frying himself over and over again to keep everyone safe.

And he’d just done it again.

“Oh my god,” he whispered. “Guys—guys, we have to get him up. Now. He’s gonna pass out.”

Max blinked hard. “What? Why—”

“Just help!” Dustin snapped, already leaning dangerously close to the hole. “Steve? Buddy?”

Steve blinked up at him slowly, like Dustin’s voice traveled through water. His fingers flexed weakly on the rope.

He hummed—just a tiny, lost sound—and Dustin’s stomach twisted. That was not a Steve sound. That was a sick sound.

“Can you climb a little so we can pull you?” Dustin called, trying so hard not to freak out.

Steve hesitated, then nodded. He coiled and jumped, grabbing higher on the rope—but his hands slipped almost immediately. Only Lucas and Dustin grabbing his left arm kept him from falling. Mike and Max grabbed the right, and together the four of them hauled backward with every ounce of frantic strength they had.

“Pull—pull!” Dustin shouted.

They strained, heels digging into dirt, backs arching, arms shaking—

And inch by inch, the kids dragged Steve out of the tunnels.

They all toppled backward the moment his boots cleared the edge, landing in a tangled, gasping heap.

Dustin rolled over immediately, crawling to Steve.

Steve was on his hands and knees, head hanging, shoulders shuddering hard with every pant, bandana having been ripped from his face somewhere in the tunnels. Dirt clung to his cheeks where sweat had soaked through. His fingers trembled so violently Dustin couldn’t tell if he was trying to push himself up or if his muscles were just done.

“Steve?” Dustin whispered.

Slowly—achingly—Steve lifted his head.

His eyes were wide, pupils blown, lashes stuck together with sweat and dirt. And beneath one nostril was the bright, unmistakable streak of blood.

Dustin’s breath left him.

Mike whispered, “Holy crap.”

Lucas muttered, voice shaky, “Dude…”

Max looked like her conscience had just been uprooted and turned inside out.

And Dustin—despite the terror, despite the adrenaline crash threatening to knock him flat—felt a grin stretch across his face.

Because yeah.

He picked the coolest babysitter ever.

Notes:

Hey! One more chapter for season 2 and then we're onto season 3! Super excited about this one, I hope you all liked the reveal to the kids!

Hope you all enjoyed!

Chapter 23: Season Two: Epilogue

Hopper shouldered open the door to The Hideaway, the hinges groaning in protest. A sharp gust of Hawkins’ late-November air shoved in behind him before the door swung shut, leaving the bar’s warm, dim interior buzzing with muffled chatter and the soft hum of a jukebox in the back.

Hopper paused just inside, stamping his boots once against the welcome mat. His shoulders hunched instinctively from the cold still clinging to his coat. His breath fogged faintly in front of him, and he rubbed his hands together vigorously as he scanned the room.

There—in the far corner, half-sunk into the shadows of a flickering neon sign—sat Dr. Sam Owens, looking like a misplaced academic in a place filled with flannel and beer bellies.

Owens lifted two fingers in a small wave. Hopper exhaled and made his way toward him.

He unzipped his coat as he approached the booth, tossing it into the seat beside Owens before sliding in with the familiar grunt of a man who’d been on his feet all day.

Owens smiled warmly. “Chief-o.”

Hopper’s gaze immediately dropped to the pair of crutches propped beside the booth and the heavy brace strapped around Owens’ leg.

“How’s the leg?” he asked, gesturing vaguely as he settled.

Owens looked down at it like he’d forgotten it was there. “Better,” he said, tilting his head thoughtfully. “Pretty sure my football career is over.”

Hopper snorted—more of a rusty, amused huff than a laugh. “Tragic.”

Owens reached for the sandwich on his plate, lifting one half before nudging the remaining portion toward Hopper with the back of his knuckles.

“Want some? No way I’m finishing it. I’ve already disappointed my doctor for the day.”

Hopper pushed it back. “No. I’m on a diet.”

Owens blinked at him, incredulous. “You’re a better man than me.”

They shared a quiet grin, the kind only people who’d survived something terrible together could manage.

Then Owens leaned sideways, reaching into the bag tucked beside him in the booth. Papers rustled. Hopper watched him closely—something in Owens’ movements felt deliberate, careful.

“I’ve got a little something for you,” Owens said.

Hopper sat straighter, hands unconsciously coming together on the table. He watched as Owens sorted past file folders and loose documents until he retrieved a small, unmarked envelope.

He slid it across the table with two fingers.

Hopper’s brows knit. He picked it up, rough thumb dragging across the sealed flap. He eased the papers inside out just enough to read the top line.

Certificate of Birth.

Jane Hopper.

Owens smiled, eyes warm and mischievous. “Congratulations, Pops.”

Hopper stared at the document like it might disappear. Shock wavered across his face before he tore his gaze upward.

“I thought—” He swallowed, throat thick. “I thought that wasn’t going to be possible.”

Owens shrugged lightly, picking up a chip and crunching down. “Sometimes I even impress myself.”

Hopper sat there breathing in quiet disbelief, thumb brushing the corner of the envelope before sliding it safely into his inner jacket pocket. His hands came together on the table, fingers fidgeting.

Owens leaned back. “Still… I’d let things cool off for a while, if I were you.”

“How long is a while?” Hopper asked warily.

Owens considered it like he was doing mental math. “Want to be safe? I’d give it a year.”

“A year?” Hopper blurted, louder than intended. A couple heads turned from the bar. He lowered his voice, jaw tightening. “El’s not gonna like that.”

He glanced at the abandoned half-sandwich again—then gave in, grabbing it. Stress-eating counted as dieting if he didn’t enjoy it too much.

Owens chuckled as Hopper took a bite.

“What about one night out?” Hopper asked through chewed bread.

Owens blinked, confused. “One night?”

“Yeah,” Hopper said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “How risky would that be?”

Owens narrowed his eyes. “What’s so important about one night?”

Hopper held his stare steadily. He couldn’t explain—not out loud, not here. But he owed El the Snowball. He owed her this one normal thing, after everything. Owens caught the look. Recognition flickered in his eyes like a match being struck. He leaned back, thinking, weighing, calculating.

“I suppose if she’s careful,” he said slowly, “and you’re with her… one night wouldn’t be the end of the world.”

Relief sagged Hopper’s shoulders. He took another huge bite of the sandwich, nearly finishing it in one go.

But Hopper wasn’t done.

“And Steve?” He asked, wiping his hand on a napkin, voice dropping low. “Any news?”

Owens’ expression sobered. He glanced around the bar—scanning the nearby booths, the bartender, the two men playing pool—before leaning slightly closer.

“I managed to remove the files that primarily mention Richard, Eliza, or Steve before anything was taken into the wrong hands,” he murmured. “I can’t guarantee his safety, but… as long as no one knows the experimentation worked, he should be safe.”

Hopper let out a slow breath he’d been holding since the tunnels. His chest eased a fraction.

“And the files?” he asked.

Owens tapped the side of his own jacket, eyes sharp and serious. “With me. Safest place they can be.”

Hopper nodded slowly, jaw set with determination and gratitude all at once.

For the first time all day, he felt like maybe—just maybe—his kids had a real chance.

—

Steve shoulder-checked the cabin door open with a hip, arms overflowing with shopping bags. The cold wind rushed in behind him, snow swirling across the threshold. He kicked the door shut with his heel.

El, who’d been curled up on the couch flipping through a worn issue of Tiger Beat, jolted upright like she’d been electrocuted. Her eyes were huge, hopeful.

Steve didn’t say a word at first.

He just grinned. Wide. Bright. Borderline unhinged. “Owens said yes.”

For a second, El didn’t move. Her face went blank—processing—before her jaw dropped open, and then she burst into a radiant, trembling smile. She launched off the couch in a blur of socks and curls, running straight at him.

Steve barely had time to brace before she collided with him, arms thrown tightly around his middle. He huffed out a laugh, ruffling her hair with the only hand not full of bags.

“All right, okay, whoa,” he laughed, gently untangling from her so he could drop the bags onto the dining table. “We got work to do, kid.”

The moment the CVS bag spilled open, El froze.

Makeup—so much makeup—cascaded across the wooden table: pink eyeshadow singles in plastic compacts, tiny blush pots, lip gloss tubes with warm-toned glitter suspended in thick gel, mascara, little applicators, sponge wedges, a cheap drugstore brush set, and a full tube of Steve’s favorite hair gel.

El stared like she was witnessing ancient treasure being unearthed.

Her eyes went even wider, if that was physically possible. “All this… for me?”

Steve puffed up a little, proud. “Yeah. I mean—probably don’t wear it everyday or Hop might kill me.” He shrugged. “But for the Snowball? You deserve to look awesome.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Steve guided her into one of the mismatched dining chairs, turning it so it faced the light from the window. El sat stiffly at first, nervous excitement bouncing in her shoulders.

“Relax,” Steve said gently, popping open the pink eyeshadow compact. “I’ve done this, like… a million times. On Carol.” His grin softened. “And on Nancy once, but don’t tell her I said that.”

El swallowed a smile.

Steve leaned in, concentrating. He swept a soft pastel pink over her eyelids with the small sponge, tilting her chin up with careful fingers. The color suited her—bright, youthful.

“There you go,” he murmured. “Pretty subtle.”

He paused, then snorted. “…Okay, not subtle. You’re gonna blind Mike from 20 feet away. But that’s sort of the point.”

El giggled.

Next came blush. Steve dipped the brush into the little pot, blew excess powder off dramatically, then tapped it over the apples of her cheeks until they glowed warm and rosy.

El blinked at herself in the little mirror. “I look… different.”

“Different in a good way,” Steve corrected gently, smoothing one last swipe. “You look excited. That’s a good look on you.”

Then came lip gloss. Steve twisted the applicator open, the bubblegum-sweet smell filling the room instantly.

“Okay, hold still. This part is important,” he teased.

El held still—so still she could’ve been using her power on herself.

He brushed a shiny layer across her lips. “Perfect.”

Her lips shimmered, catching the light when she smiled.

“Hair time,” Steve announced. “My area of expertise.”

He scooped a small amount of hair gel into his palm, rubbing his hands together until it warmed. Then he worked his fingers gently through El’s short curls, coaxing them upward at the crown, teasing a little volume at the sides.

Her curls sprang up adorably under his touch, and Steve sculpted her hair until it had that effortless, tousled bounce—soft but styled, cute but not childish.

He stepped back, hands on his hips, nodding as if inspecting a masterpiece.

“There,” he declared. “You look like…incredible, El.”

El stared up at him with a soft, blooming smile that tugged painfully at Steve’s heart.

She whispered, “Thank you.”

Steve looked away quickly, swallowing something in his throat. “Don’t thank me yet. There’s one more thing.”

Steve reached for the boutique bag—the one he’d guarded with his life through the entire ride home. The bag was delicate, blue tissue paper poking out the top.

He handed it toward her like it was made of glass.

“Go try it on,” he said, nodding toward her bedroom. “I, uh… really hope you like it.”

El took the bag in careful hands, fingertips trembling against the paper. She looked up at Steve, eyes shining.

Then she darted down the hallway, disappearing behind her door as it clicked shut.

Steve let out the breath he’d been holding.

“Please like it,” he muttered. “Please, please like it.”

He began nervously picking up the makeup compacts she had nearly knocked over in her excitement.

Then he waited.

And hoped.

—

Hopper walked through the door, the hinges groaning in protest against the cold outside. He stomped his snow-damp boots against the mat, brushing frost from his shoulders as he shut the door behind him. The warmth of the cabin washed over him—woodsmoke, chili still simmering in the crockpot, and faint hairspray.

He glanced up and spotted Steve standing awkwardly near the dining table, arms crossed tight over his chest like he couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. There were bags on the table—CVS, the local boutique, and one that looked suspiciously like it came from a shoe store—spread out in chaotic disarray.

“El getting ready?” Hopper asked, hanging his coat on the hook. He moved toward the kitchen, grabbed a glass from the cupboard, and filled it at the sink, the tap squeaking.

Steve nodded, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Trying on the dress now.”

Hopper took a sip of water, nodding, ready to settle into the chair—when El’s bedroom door creaked open with the softest, most tentative sound. Steve snapped upright instantly, like someone yanked an invisible wire in his spine. Hopper set the glass down and stepped out of the kitchen doorway so he could see her fully.

El stepped out slowly, hands clasped in front of her. She wore a dusty blue dress with muted pink polka dots sprinkled across the fabric like tiny petals. The neckline and hem had soft pink piping, subtle but pretty, and a matching pink ribbon belt tied neatly around her waist. Her pink flats clicked softly on the wood floor as she nervously shifted her feet.

Her short curls—now gently defined with gel—framed her face, and the light dusting of blush and faint shimmer of pink eyeshadow made her brown eyes look impossibly bright.

She tugged lightly at her fingers, looking between Steve and Hopper with wide uncertainty. “Do… do you like?” she asked in a tiny voice, the kind that suggested she already feared the answer.

For a moment, neither man could form words.

Both Hopper and Steve stared at her—Hopper with open-mouthed surprise, Steve with a look bordering on proud big-brother awe.

They both nodded, completely struck dumb.

“You look great, kid,” Hopper finally managed, his voice a little softer, a little warmer than usual. El relaxed a fraction, a shy smile pulling at her lips.

Steve nodded vigorously. “You’re gonna knock ’em dead, El.” Then he happened to glance at his watch—and his whole face went slack with horror. “Shit! Dustin! I was supposed to help him get ready!”

He scrambled for his jacket, nearly tripping over one of the CVS bags on the floor. He shoved his arms into his sleeves, snatched his keys from the bowl by the door, and spun toward El.

“I’ll see you tonight, all right?” he said, breathless and frantic.

El nodded, smiling with that bashful pride again. Steve grinned back at her before bolting out the door, leaving a gust of cold air in his wake.

The cabin fell quiet again.

Hopper let out a deep, amused huff and took another sip of water as he eyed the now-chaotic, abandoned explosion of makeup supplies on the table. He looked back at El, who was smoothing the skirt of her dress nervously.

“What’re we gonna do with him, El?” Hopper asked, shaking his head, affection thick in his voice.

El giggled, still glowing. “Keep him,” she said simply.

Hopper smiled. “Yeah. I think we’re stuck with him.”

—

Steve knocked on the Hendersons’ front door, shifting his weight from foot to foot as the cold air nipped at his ears. Inside, he could hear Claudia Henderson calling down the hall, her voice muffled but cheerful.

“Dustin, sweetheart? Steve’s here!”

The door swung open a second later and a rush of warm air hit Steve square in the face, carrying the familiar smell of coffee, fabric softener, and something sweet baking in the oven. Claudia Henderson stood there beaming, a tiny white kitten tucked into the crook of her arm. Tews peeked over her sweater sleeve, blinking sleepily.

“Steve, good to see you!” Claudia said brightly, stepping aside.

Steve smiled back, genuine and soft, as he toed off his shoes. “Good to see you too, Ms. Henderson.”

Claudia clicked her tongue. “How many times do I have to tell you, Steve? It’s Claudia.”

Before he could answer, a frantic voice echoed down the hall.

“Mom! Send him in here!”

Claudia sighed long-sufferingly. “That boy,” she muttered fondly, then smiled at Steve. “Bathroom’s down the hall.”

Steve nodded and headed off, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He stopped in front of the bathroom door and lifted his hand to knock—

—but before his knuckles even made contact, the door flew open.

Dustin stood there, eyes blazing like Steve had personally committed a war crime.

“Where the hell have you been?” Dustin snapped, grabbing Steve by the sleeve and yanking him into the bathroom.

Steve stumbled inside, barely avoiding a collision with the sink, and crossed his arms over his chest once he recovered. “Sorry I didn’t see the time, Henderson,” he said dryly. His gaze flicked over Dustin, taking him in. “You had it figured out though. Look at you.”

Dustin glared, unimpressed, arms crossed tight in imitation. The kid looked sharp—brown slacks pressed clean, green collared shirt tucked in just right, bow tie sitting proud at his throat. The plaid blazer hung wrinkle-free on the back of the bathroom door, clearly steamed with care.

Dustin jabbed a finger at his head. “My hair is a disaster.”

Steve snorted. “It’s damp. That’s right.”

“It’s wrong,” Dustin corrected.

Steve sighed dramatically and turned toward the counter where the can of Farrah Fawcett hairspray sat like a holy relic. He picked it up and shook it once, eyeing Dustin in the mirror.

“All right,” Steve said, already slipping into his hair-stylist persona. “Sit still. And if you complain, I’m giving you the Karen Carpenter.”

Dustin’s eyes widened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I absolutely would.”

Steve combed his fingers lightly through Dustin’s curls, tilting his head, studying angles like this was a matter of life and death. “You realize you’re already gonna be the best-dressed nerd in the room, right?”

“I don’t want to be best-dressed,” Dustin muttered. “I want to be… appropriately dressed.”

Steve smirked. “Aim higher.”

He lifted the spray can. “Okay. Four puffs. No more, no less.”

Dustin squinted at him. “Seriously though, why four?”

“Because that’s the perfect number,” Steve said solemnly. “Any more and you look greasy. Any less and gravity wins.”

Pfft.

Pfft.

Pfft.

Pfft.

Steve sprayed carefully, fluffing Dustin’s hair between each burst, stepping back to assess his work like an artist. Dustin watched his reflection, eyes darting nervously.

“Well?” Dustin demanded.

Steve nodded, satisfied. “Boom. Perfection.”

Dustin reached up, touching his hair reverently. “You’re sure?”

“I stake my reputation on it. You’re Dustin ‘The Hair’ Henderson.”

“That’s… not reassuring.”

Steve grabbed the blazer off the door and held it out. “Arms.”

Dustin slipped it on, shrugging into it while Steve adjusted the shoulders and tugged the lapels straight. He brushed imaginary lint off Dustin’s sleeve and stepped back again.

“Okay,” Steve said, clapping his hands once. “You’re ready to knock the middle school population dead.”

Dustin rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself. “Thanks.”

Steve pretended not to hear the softness in his voice. He grabbed his jacket and jerked his head toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s hit the road before you start overthinking this.”

Dustin grabbed his shoes and followed, already buzzing with nervous energy.

From the hallway, Claudia’s voice drifted in. “You look wonderful, honey!”

Dustin beamed.

Steve smiled to himself.

—

Steve eased the BMW into the Hawkins Middle School parking lot, tires crunching softly over the thin layer of gravel and salt left behind from the last snowfall. He slowed as the gym came into view, the building glowing like a warm pocket of gold against the cold night.

Through the wide windows and glass double doors, yellow lights were strung in loose arcs across the entryway, casting soft halos against the walls. Paper snowflakes and tinsel glinted every time someone moved inside. Steve could see silhouettes shifting and spinning—kids already dancing, laughing too loud, hands waving in the air like they hadn’t a care in the world.

The BMW rolled to a stop right in front of the doors.

Steve shifted into park and killed the engine. The sudden quiet felt loud.

“All right, buddy,” Steve said gently, breaking the silence. “Here we are.”

Dustin didn’t answer.

He sat frozen in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead at the doors like they might bite him. His hands were clenched loosely in his lap, bouncing once, twice, before going still again. Steve had never seen him this quiet—not before a science fair, not before the fight, not even before Dart.

Steve glanced over at him, softening his voice. “So… remember, once you get in there—”

He let the sentence trail off, giving Dustin room to finish it himself.

Dustin finally turned, nodding slowly. “Pretend like I don’t care.”

“That’s right.” Steve nodded. “You don’t care.”

“I don’t care,” Dustin repeated, like he was committing it to memory.

“There you go.” Steve nodded again, solemn. “You’re learning, my friend. You’re learning.”

Dustin exhaled and reached up, tilting the rearview mirror down toward himself. He stared at his reflection, eyes flicking over his hair, his bow tie, the set of his mouth. His expression was complicated—half proud, half terrified.

Steve watched him for a second before reaching up and nudging the mirror back into place.

“Hey.”

Dustin frowned slightly, fingers immediately going to the curl Steve had styled just so. “What?”

Steve shook his head, softer now. “Come on. You look great, okay?” He adjusted the mirror fully back to where it belonged, forcing Dustin to look at him instead. “Okay?”

Dustin hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Okay.”

Steve straightened, inhaling like he was about to give a locker room speech. “Now. You’re gonna walk in there—”

“Yeah,” Dustin said quickly, voice loud and brimming with forced confidence.

“You’re gonna look like a million bucks.”

Dustin nodded harder. “Yeah.”

“And you’re gonna absolutely slay ’em dead.”

Dustin’s mouth twitched into a grin. “Like a lion.”

Then—God help Steve—he made that weird little purring noise.

Steve winced immediately. “Yeah… no.”

Dustin froze. “What?”

Steve shook his head, pointing at him. “Don’t do that. Not in there. Ever.”

Dustin pressed his lips together, embarrassed. “Okay.”

Steve held out his hand between them, palm up, giving him a nod like a general sending a soldier into battle. “Good luck.”

Dustin took it, gripping Steve’s hand tight for just a second longer than necessary. Then he smiled—small, real—and opened the door.

Cold air rushed in as Dustin climbed out, tugging his jacket straight and squaring his shoulders. Steve stayed where he was, watching as Dustin crossed the short stretch of pavement toward the glowing doors.

Dustin reached out to pull one open—

—and before he could touch the handle, the door swung open on its own.

Dustin spun around, eyes wide, then broke into a huge grin when he saw Steve and his car still there.

Steve lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug, already wiping the thin smear of blood from beneath his nose like it was nothing. He put the car in gear and pulled away from the school.

In the rearview mirror, he caught one last glimpse of Dustin stepping inside, swallowed by warm light and music.

Steve smiled to himself as he drove off.

Totally worth it.

Notes:

Season Two is done!!! All the love you guys gave for the last chapter was so sweet and I appreciated it sm! Now we're onto season 3!

Hope you all enjoyed!

Chapter 24: Suzie, Do You Copy?

Steve sat hunched over the metal prep table in the Scoops Ahoy backroom, elbows braced on the cold surface, shoulders rounded in a way that made him look smaller than he ever should’ve. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed faintly, bouncing off stainless steel and pale blue tile.

The seam of his Scoops Ahoy uniform scratched irritatingly at his bicep and thigh, the stiff fabric refusing to let him forget he was still technically on the clock. His stupid sailor hat sat abandoned on the table beside a stack of papers, the anchor staring up at him like it was judging every life choice he’d made since graduation.

The air was freezing—one of the few real perks of working an ice cream shop in the dead heat of a Hawkins July.

Starcourt Mall had opened in the spring, right before Steve’s graduation, which had felt like a small miracle at the time. A brand-new mall meant jobs, and jobs meant money, and money meant not having to ask Hopper awkward questions about college.

The downside, however, was Robin Buckley.

She was smart and sarcastic and had absolutely no mercy. She thrived on chaos and, more specifically, on watching Steve fumble every single interaction he had with girls who came through Scoops Ahoy. She called it entertainment. Steve called it psychological warfare.

His eyes dragged over the same paragraph for what had to be the sixteenth time.

Expected Family Contribution… repayment deferment…

None of it made sense.

The entire packet from Ball State University might as well have been written in another language. He’d committed in May—Miller College of Business, Muncie, Indiana—but the closer summer crept in, the more unreal it felt. Like he’d checked a box without fully understanding what it meant.

Three hours away.

Three hours from Hopper. From El. From the kids.

From everything that had quietly become his whole life.

His thumb rubbed at the edge of the paper, mind drifting despite himself, remembering that conversation with Hopper in May.

Hopper had been sitting at the small kitchen table, coffee gone cold, papers spread between them like they were plotting a bank heist instead of a future.

“You got in,” Hopper had said, gruff but unmistakably proud. “That’s not nothing, kid.”

Steve had stared down at the letter, heart pounding. “It’s just… Muncie’s far.”

“Three hours isn’t far,” Hopper scoffed. “I’ve driven longer for worse reasons.”

Steve hesitated. “What about El? The kids? You?”

Hopper’s expression had softened in a way Steve hadn’t been expecting. “They’ll be okay. And so will you. You don’t stay because you’re scared. You go because you earned it.”

Steve had swallowed hard. “What if I screw it up?”

Hopper had leaned back, crossing his arms. “Then you learn. But you don’t not go—”

“Hey, dingus,” Robin’s voice cut sharply through the memory, loud and smug from the front counter. “Your children are here!”

Steve flinched, blinking hard as the backroom snapped back into focus.

“Jesus,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he pushed back from the table and stood. The chair legs screeched faintly against the floor.

The kids had discovered the mall’s back hallways weeks ago. Now they used them to sneak into the AMC nearly every other day. Steve had warned them—repeatedly—to stop abusing it, especially after his boss had walked in once while they were lurking back there like raccoons.

He rounded the table to the sliding windows and yanked one open, immediately met with Mike Wheeler’s unimpressed face.

“Again?” Steve asked, scanning the lineup—Mike, Max, Lucas, and Will. “Seriously?”

Mike pouted and, without breaking eye contact, slammed the bell on the counter.

Ding.

Steve sighed. “I swear to God—”

Ding.

He stared at Mike for a long moment before jerking his chin toward the door leading into the back. “Fine. In. Now.”

The kids broke into grins instantly, already moving around the counter like they owned the place. Steve slid the window shut and leaned back against it, crossing his arms.

As they reached the back door, Steve flicked his chin upward.

The door swung open on its own, holding itself there.

“I swear,” Steve said mildly, watching them file out, “if anybody hears about this—”

“We’re dead!” all four of them chorused without even looking back.

Steve watched them disappear into the hallway, shaking his head despite the faint smile tugging at his mouth. He released his hold on the door and let it swing shut with a soft click.

The backroom felt quieter again.

Colder.

Steve dropped back into his chair and picked up the financial aid packet, staring down at the words like maybe this time they’d finally start making sense.

College.

Three hours away.

He sighed, rubbing his face with both hands before squaring his shoulders and reading on.

He wasn’t backing out.

Not now.

Not after everything.

—

Robin slid the window open with a sharp clack, leaning halfway through it like she owned the place.

“Harrington,” she said brightly, “need you out here. Pronto.”

Steve let out a slow, tired sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose before gathering the papers in front of him. He squared the edges carefully, tapping the bottom of the stack against the table until everything lined up just right. It was a pointless habit, but it made him feel a little more in control.

He glanced back up at Robin, who hadn’t moved an inch.

She was still staring at him.

“What?” he asked flatly.

Robin’s mouth twitched into something dangerously smug. She cocked her head. “Nothing. Just that they’re babes, and I’m extremely excited to see you fall flat on your face again.”

Steve groaned. “You live for my suffering.”

“Absolutely,” she said, shutting the window with finality. “It’s my primary food source.”

Steve shook his head, muttering something under his breath as he reached a hand out toward his backpack. He didn’t bother standing up—didn’t have the energy for it. The bag slid obediently across the table and into his grasp.

He stuffed the financial aid papers inside and zipped the bag shut before leaving it behind on the table. One deep breath, shoulders back—customer service face on.

He stepped through the door behind the counter.

Robin was already chatting up two girls at the register, leaning casually against the counter like this was the easiest job in the world.

“One strawberry in a cone,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at Steve, “and a chocolate.”

Steve plastered on a tight, polite smile and grabbed his scooper. “Coming right up.”

He’d barely dipped the scoop into the strawberry when the lights flickered overhead.

Once.

Twice.

Steve froze.

A familiar, awful drop settled in his stomach. Flickering lights never meant anything good in Hawkins. His eyes flicked upward, tracking the fluorescent panels just as—

The lights cut out completely.

The shop plunged into dim emergency glow from the hallway beyond.

“Well,” Steve said after a beat, voice carefully neutral, “That’s weird.”

Robin snorted, glancing around.

Steve walked over and flicked the lightswitch up.

Nothing.

Down.

Still nothing.

He turned to Robin, who was watching him with arms crossed, expression deeply unimpressed.

“That isn’t gonna work, dingus,” she said flatly.

Steve tilted his head. “Oh, really?”

Well, if she insisted…

He flicked the switch again. And again. Faster now. Aggressively. No pauses. Just rapid-fire clicking as he stared straight at her, eyes narrowed in challenge.

Robin sighed loudly. “You’re insufferable.”

He pulled his hand away—

Boom.

The lights snapped back on, flooding Scoops Ahoy with harsh fluorescent brightness.

Steve blinked, then slowly turned back to Robin with a grin that was entirely too pleased with itself. He lifted both hands theatrically.

“Let there be light.”

Robin stared at him for a long second before deadpanning, “I hate you.”

Steve beamed and returned to his scoop, which was still half-buried in the strawberry ice cream.

—

Steve dragged his feet as he opened the door to the cabin later that night, shoulders slumped, exhaustion settling into his bones.

Hopper was already home, planted in his recliner with a bag of tortilla chips balanced on his stomach. He glanced over, chewing loudly.

“How was work, kid?” he asked around a mouthful.

Steve shut the door with a flick of his wrist and headed for the kitchen. “Fine,” he said, grabbing a glass and filling it with water. “Same stuff.”

Hopper watched him with narrowed eyes. “You don’t say ‘fine’ like that when things are fine.”

Steve shrugged, taking a long drink before collapsing onto the couch. “Just… paperwork. Financial aid stuff for school.”

Hopper grunted knowingly. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”

Before either of them could say more, El’s bedroom door flew open. She marched straight over and plopped down beside Steve, turning her body fully toward him.

Steve smiled at her automatically. “Hey, kid.”

She didn’t smile back.

“Take me to Dustin’s tomorrow morning?” she asked seriously.

Steve blinked. “Wow. No ‘hi.’ No ‘how was your day.’ Straight to the demands.”

She shook her head. “Will you take me?”

He laughed softly. “Yeah, sure. He’s back tomorrow, right?”

El nodded, face lighting up instantly. “Mike says we will surprise him. We will scare him.”

Steve’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, I like where this is going—”

Hopper cleared his throat loudly. “Of course you’re talking about Mike.”

El rolled her eyes so hard it was impressive.

Hopper leaned forward. “Care to tell Steve about your little stunt?”

El crossed her arms. “We read magazines. And the door closed on accident.”

Hopper raised an eyebrow. “Accident?”

“Yes,” El said firmly. “Accident.”

Steve glanced between them, wisely staying out of it. He set his glass down and stood. “I’m going to bed before I get dragged into whatever this is.”

He looked down at El. “Be ready at eight-thirty.”

She nodded immediately, smiling again.

“Night,” Steve said to both of them.

“Night, kid,” Hopper replied.

“Night, Steve,” El echoed.

—

El practically vibrated in the passenger seat the next morning.

“You excited?” Steve asked, smiling as he drove.

“Yes,” she said. “Very excited.”

“So what’s the plan?” he asked casually.

El grinned. “We have a banner. We jump out.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully. “Solid. But—”

Her head whipped toward him so fast he almost swerved.

“What if,” he continued, “you use your powers on some of his action figures first?”

Her eyes widened.

“Make them move,” Steve said. “Lead him into the living room. Then—boom.”

El gasped. “That is a very good plan.”

Steve laughed. “You gotta let me know how it goes.”

She nodded eagerly as he pulled into Dustin’s driveway. Bikes were already scattered across the lawn.

Before she shut the door, Steve leaned over the console. “Hey.”

She looked back.

“Tell Dustin I said hi. And that I’m sorry I missed him. I’ll see him soon.”

El smiled softly and nodded before hopping out of the car and shutting the door behind her.

Steve watched her go for a moment before pulling away, heart aching a little more than it had been all summer.

—

“Alrighty!” Steve announced, forcing brightness into his voice as he carefully balanced a scoop of chocolate ice cream on top of the cone. “One scoop of chocolate. That’s a buck twenty-five.”

He handed the cone across the counter to the girl—Lauren, he was pretty sure. Algebra class. Second row. She smiled politely as she reached into her purse, and Steve’s eyes flicked down to the Purdue lettering stretched across her sweatshirt.

Purdue.

Huh.

Steve straightened a little, shoulders rolling back instinctively. If he was going to keep striking out, he might as well at least try.

“Ooh,” he said, nodding toward the sweatshirt, “Purdue?”

Lauren looked down and smiled, clearly pleased. “Yeah.”

“Fancy,” Steve said with a grin that he hoped came off as charming instead of desperate.

She laughed softly. “Yeah, I’m excited.”

Steve glanced down at the register, fingers moving automatically as he rang up the sale. The drawer popped open with a cheery ding. He took the cash from her and started counting out change, heart doing that stupid hopeful flutter it always did right before things went wrong.

“You know,” he said, hesitating, then rushing the words before he could lose his nerve, “we should kind of, like—”

She looked up at him, curious.

“—hang out sometime,” he finished weakly. “This weekend or… something.”

And right on cue, the change slipped from his fingers.

Coins clattered loudly against the counter, one of them spinning near the edge before Steve lunged to stop it from falling.

“Oh—sorry,” he muttered, cheeks burning. “Sorry.”

He scooped the coins back up, deliberately lowering his hand this time as he placed them into her palm. Lauren’s smile had gone a little tight.

“Thanks,” she said quickly.

She turned away almost immediately, her friend already tugging her toward the exit. Steve watched them go, shoulders slumping as soon as their backs were turned. He let his head dip forward, staring at the counter like it had personally betrayed him.

The window behind him slid open.

“And another one bites the dust,” Robin sing-songed.

Steve huffed out a humorless laugh and turned around. Robin stood there with her stupid whiteboard and her stupid smug grin. The board was completely lopsided, the ‘You Suck’ column filled with tally marks like a criminal record.

She glanced down, uncapped her marker, and added another slash.

“You are oh-for-six, Popeye.”

Steve nodded tiredly. “Yeah, yeah. I can count.”

“You know,” Robin said solemnly. “That means you suck.”

Steve leaned his elbows on the counter. “Yup. I can read too”

She gasped dramatically. “Since when do you read?”

He sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “It’s this stupid hat.”

Robin paused, eyebrows knitting together as she slid the whiteboard aside.

“I’m serious,” Steve said, gesturing vaguely at the sailor cap perched on his head. “It completely ruins my best feature.”

“Your personality?” Robin offered.

“My hair,” Steve shot back. “And—and it kills my charm. Like, I can feel it.”

Robin nodded, deadpan. “Yeah, company policy is a real drag.”

She studied him for a moment before adding, “You know, wild idea here, but have you considered… being yourself?”

Steve frowned. “I am being myself.”

“No,” she said calmly. “You’re being Scoops Ahoy Steve. There’s a difference.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Robin’s expression had softened, just slightly. Not mocking. Not teasing.

“You’re a lot less shallow and self-absorbed than you pretend to be,” she said. “Which is honestly confusing.”

Steve blinked. “Did you just… compliment me?”

Robin didn’t answer. She was staring over his shoulder.

“Hey,” she said quietly. “Twelve o’clock.”

Steve turned.

A girl about his age walked into the shop with her friends, laughing, sunlight catching in her hair.

“Oh shit,” Steve muttered. He swallowed and nodded to himself. “Okay. Okay. I’m going in.”

He turned back toward Robin, hesitating for half a second before reaching up and yanking the sailor hat off his head. He tossed it through the window into the backroom. Robin leaned away just in time to avoid getting smacked.

“Screw company policy,” Steve declared.

Robin stared at him. Then she smiled, slow and entertained.

“Oh my God,” she said. “You’re a whole new man.”

Steve gave her a little shimmy before turning back to the counter.

He didn’t remember exactly what he said to the girl. Or how it ended. Only that when he finally glanced back at the whiteboard later, there was a fresh tally mark waiting for him under ‘You Suck’.

Robin caught his eye and shrugged.

“Progress is a journey,” she said.

—

After another long, shitty day at Scoops Ahoy, Steve couldn’t even bring himself to open the door with his hands.

He stood on the small porch of the cabin for half a second, staring at the wood grain like it had personally offended him, before giving a weak flick of his chin. The lock clicked and the door swung open on its hinges, a little too hard. He stepped inside and tilted his head just enough to pull it shut again behind him.

It latched with a soft thud.

Steve exhaled, shoulders slumping as the day finally caught up with him.

He dropped his backpack right beside the door, not bothering to kick it out of the way, and shuffled into the kitchen. The cabin was quiet in that way that made the space feel bigger than it actually was. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet and filled it with water, leaning his hip against the counter as he drank like he’d been stranded in the desert.

He glanced toward the living room, mouth already opening to ask Hopper what he’d made for dinner—

—and froze.

Hopper’s recliner was empty.

No crinkling chip bag. No gruff muttering at the television. No boots kicked off halfway across the rug.

Steve frowned, lowering the glass. That was… weird.

He set the glass in the sink and walked down the short hallway, stopping in front of El’s door. The light was on beneath it. He knocked gently, careful not to startle her.

“El?”

The door flicked open almost immediately. Steve leaned in to find El sitting cross-legged on her bed, a comic book open in her lap.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Where’s Hop?”

El looked at him, brow furrowing like she was trying to work through something complicated. “Taking Mike home,” she said slowly. “His nanna is not okay.”

Steve’s stomach dropped.

“What?” He stepped fully into the room and sat down on the edge of her bed. “What happened? Is Mike okay?”

El shrugged, small shoulders lifting. “I do not know. Hop didn’t say.”

Steve nodded, lips pressing together. He didn’t like not knowing. He didn’t like the idea of Mike scared or worried or hurt. And he definitely didn’t like the idea of El worrying about him.

“I’m sorry, El,” he said quietly.

She nodded, staring down at her hands for a moment.

They sat in silence for a bit, the hum of the cabin settling around them. Steve rested his elbows on his knees, fingers lacing together, letting the tension in his shoulders ease just a little.

Then he glanced at her, tilting his head. “Hey.”

El looked up.

“Did Dustin like his surprise?”

Her face lit up instantly, like someone had flipped a switch.

“Yes!” she burst out, scooting closer on the bed. “Very much. He screamed.”

Steve laughed softly. “Of course he did.”

El launched into the story, hands moving as she talked. She described the banner, the kids had worked together on it, how she made the toys move, how Dustin sprayed Lucas in the face with hairspray and scmreaed before realizing what was happening.

“He thought it was a monster,” she said proudly. “Then he was happy. And confused.”

Steve grinned, leaning back slightly as he listened, nodding along, chiming in with the occasional “No way” or “That’s amazing.”

The exhaustion from Scoops Ahoy—the annoying kid customers, the stupid hat, the whiteboard—started to fade into the background. Sitting here, listening to El animatedly recount the day, made it all feel… manageable.

He smiled to himself because coming home to this was worth every shitty shift.

—

-November 5, 1984-

Steve woke up with the awful certainty that the earth wasn’t underneath him anymore.

His body was shaking—hard, uncontrollable tremors that rattled through his chest and down his limbs—but his eyes refused to open, like they were glued shut. Panic surged through him all at once, sharp and cold, his brain catching up before the rest of him could.

The tunnels.

Dustin screaming.

The weight in his head, the pressure behind his eyes, the feeling of holding something back with every ounce of himself until there was nothing left.

Oh God.

He sucked in a breath that came out too fast, too shallow, and tried again to force his eyes open. It took more effort than it should have. When they finally obeyed, the world came back in fragments—dark shapes, dim light, the low hum of a house settling.

Steve blinked rapidly, chest heaving.

The shaking didn’t stop, but his mind finally did.

He was on a couch.

A familiar, sagging couch.

Relief flooded him so hard it almost made him dizzy.

The Byers’ living room came into focus piece by piece. A blanket was tangled around his waist, warm and heavy. Hopper was slumped in an armchair beside him, mouth slightly open, dead to the world. On the floor, Dustin, Lucas, Mike, and Max were scattered in uneven piles of blankets and pillows, limbs thrown over each other like they’d simply collapsed where they stood.

Steve let out a shaky breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Safe.

They were safe. He was safe.

His hands were still trembling, fingers curling uselessly into the blanket. He noticed, distantly, that he wasn’t cold. The shaking wasn’t from that. It was something deeper—his body finally realizing it could stop.

“Steve?”

The voice was quiet, barely more than a whisper, but it startled him enough that his shoulders jumped.

He turned his head toward the kitchen doorway.

Will Byers stood there, half in shadow, half in the soft glow of a lamp. He looked small, hovering like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to come closer. He wasn’t in the hospital gown anymore. He wore loose pajama pants and a sweater that hung a little too big on him, sleeves brushing his hands.

Steve felt something in his chest loosen.

“Hey, Will,” he said softly, his voice rough but gentle. He kept it low, careful not to wake anyone else.

Will hesitated, then slowly crossed the room, each step cautious. He sat on the edge of the couch beside Steve, knees drawn up, hands fidgeting in his sleeves. His eyes were wide and searching, fixed on Steve’s face.

“Are you okay?” Will asked.

The question wasn’t casual. It was careful. Worried. The same tone he’d used in the Upside Down last year when everything had been dark and wrong.

Steve swallowed and nodded, even though his body still wouldn’t listen to him and continued to shake violently. “I’m okay, Will,” he said quietly. “Promise.”

Will studied him for another moment, like he was checking for cracks. Then he gave a small shrug. “Okay.”

Steve glanced at him. “How about you?”

Will lifted one shoulder again, smaller this time. “I’m… okay.” It was clearly not the whole truth, but Steve didn’t push. He knew that look. He’d worn it himself.

After a few seconds of silence, Will leaned sideways, slow and tentative, resting his head against Steve’s shoulder like he wasn’t sure Steve would let him.

Steve’s arm moved on instinct, wrapping around Will and pulling him in just a little closer. Will relaxed immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission.

They sat like that, listening to the quiet breathing of the room.

“I heard you were really awesome in the tunnels,” Will said softly.

Steve let out a small huff of laughter, careful not to jostle him. “I don’t know about awesome. I passed out right after, so I think that disqualifies me.”

Will shook his head against Steve’s shoulder. “No. You saved Dustin. And everyone else.”

Steve went still.

“You’re incredible, Steve.”

The words hit harder than any thank-you ever had.

Steve didn’t know what to say. Compliments still felt strange, especially coming from someone like Will, someone who meant every word. Slowly, he tilted his head and rested it gently against Will’s, careful and protective.

“Hey,” he murmured. “You’re incredible too, you know.”

Will smiled, just a little.

Steve squeezed his arm. “You’re the best, Will the Wise.”

Will’s fingers curled into the fabric of Steve’s sweater.

For the first time since the tunnels, the shaking started to ease.

Notes:

Here is the beginning of season 3! Each chapter will correlate with one episode and until things really start to pick up I'm thinking of adding a flashback to the end of each chapter, not sure if that will continue but who knows! This one is short but they'll gradually get longer. Things are going to start deviating from the canon plot of the show soon :)

Hope you all enjoyed!

Chapter 25: The Mall Rats

Steve sat hunched in the backroom, elbows on the table, face buried in his hands. The metal table pressed cold against his elbows, and the steady hum of the freezer units buzzed in his ears. Seven hours. He still had seven hours left in his shift, and the stupid sailor uniform itched everywhere it could possibly itch.

At least Robin had kicked him off the counter.

It was only eleven in the morning, and the mall was still waking up—slow trickle of shoppers, mostly parents with strollers and older couples power-walking for air-conditioning. Robin had waved him off with a dramatic shoo earlier, telling him to “go brood artistically in the back like a Victorian orphan,” and honestly? He’d taken the win.

He exhaled slowly, dragging his hands down his face, trying to shake off the bone-deep tiredness that never really left anymore.

Then—

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

Steve frowned into his palms.

There was something… weird about that exchange. Robin’s voice had that polite, customer-service lilt to it, but the pause afterward was awkward in a way she usually avoided. Like she didn’t quite know how to proceed.

“I’m Dustin.”

Steve froze.

His head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash.

No. No way.

He strained to hear over the hum of the machines, heart suddenly pounding. He told himself it was impossible—Dustin was supposed to be with the rest of the kids for his second day back, running wild through Hawkins, not showing up at Scoops Ahoy at eleven in the morning like some kind of fever dream.

But then the voice kept going.

That unmistakable lisp. That specific cadence. That Dustin Henderson energy that somehow managed to sound enthusiastic even when just saying his own name.

Steve shot to his feet, chair legs screeching against the floor. His foot caught on the metal table, and he stumbled forward with a muttered, “Shit—” barely catching himself before faceplanting. He didn’t even care. He bolted for the backroom door.

He flicked his chin forward, sending the door flying open so hard it banged against the wall.

And there he was.

Dustin Henderson in all his glory—cap on crooked, grin already forming like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. Will stood just behind him, smaller but smiling just as brightly, his eyes lighting up the second Steve appeared.

The exhaustion vanished instantly.

Steve’s face split into a grin so wide it almost hurt. “Henderson!”

Dustin laughed, that loud, unrestrained laugh that carried halfway across the food court. Steve bounced on the balls of his feet like he physically couldn’t contain himself.

“Henderson is back!” Steve announced, throwing his arms wide like he was introducing a headliner.

Will snorted behind Dustin, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

Dustin straightened, puffing out his chest before giving an exaggerated bow. “Why thank you, Sailor Steven, for the introduction!”

Steve didn’t hesitate. He stepped forward and wrapped Dustin in a tight hug, lifting him just slightly off the ground. Dustin hugged him back just as hard, arms locked around Steve’s waist like he hadn’t seen him in years instead of… what, a month?

Robin leaned over the counter, watching the reunion with open fascination. “How many children are you friends with?” she asked, eyebrow arched.

Steve shot her an unimpressed look over Dustin’s head.

He released Dustin and immediately pulled Will in with a one-armed hug, squeezing him gently. Will hugged him back, soft but earnest, the kind of hug that lingered a second longer than expected.

“Hey, Will,” Steve said warmly. “You guys giving Dustin the grand tour of Scoops Ahoy? Gonna catch a movie?”

Will and Dustin exchanged a look.

It was quick—but loaded. A shared glance that held way more meaning than a simple answer would suggest. Steve caught it instantly.

Dustin flicked his eyes briefly toward Robin, then plastered on a smile that was just a little too practiced. “Nope! Just… here to be with you!”

Will nodded a beat too fast. “Yeah.”

Steve narrowed his eyes slightly.

Uh-huh.

Something was definitely up—but whatever it was, it didn’t seem bad. Just… secretive. Very on-brand for these kids.

Steve tilted his head toward the ice cream display, letting it go for now. “Well,” he said casually, “either of you want anything?”

Dustin’s grin widened instantly.

“Oh, absolutely.”

Steve nodded toward a booth tucked back near the wall, half-hidden behind a plastic palm tree and a Scoops Ahoy promotional poster curling at the edges. It was about as secluded as the place got.

“Head over there,” he said, thumb jerking in that direction. “I’ll bring something for you both.”

Dustin nodded so hard Steve genuinely worried his head might detach and roll across the tiled floor. Steve snorted under his breath and reached out on instinct, patting the top of Dustin’s hat—

—and the world dropped out from under him.

There was no warning. No gradual shift. No sense of falling or drifting.

Just—

wrong.

The bright blues and whites of Scoops Ahoy shattered like glass, light stretching and warping until it snapped into something colder. Darker. Wind howled in his ears, sharp and real enough to sting.

Steve staggered—or thought he did—but there was no body to stagger with.

He was there.

He stood on rough dirt and dead grass at the top of a hill under a wide, star-choked sky. The air smelled like metal and cold stone. Ahead of him loomed a crooked satellite tower, rusted and skeletal, wires hanging loose like exposed veins. It hummed faintly, an off-key vibration that crawled under his skin.

Dustin was there.

So was Will.

They looked exactly like they did now—same faces, same clothes Steve recognized, but something about the edges felt fuzzy, like he was watching through warped glass. Dustin clutched a radio to his chest, breath puffing white in the cold. Will stood beside him, shoulders hunched, eyes anxious as he glanced back down the hill.

“I’m sorry, Dustin,” Will said quietly. “It’s late.”

The words hit Steve like a physical thing.

Dustin shook his head hard. “No. No, just—just wait. She said—”

Static burst from the radio, loud and sudden. Both boys flinched, then scrambled closer, crouching over the device as Dustin twisted the dial with frantic fingers.

“Suzie?” Dustin yelled into it, voice cracking with hope. “Suzie, is that you?”

Steve’s chest ached.

The static shifted, thinning, breaking apart. Dustin and Will froze, staring at the radio like it might bite them.

Then a voice came through.

Not Suzie’s.

A man’s voice. Calm. Controlled. Speaking in a language Steve didn’t recognize—sharp consonants, clipped rhythm. Definitely not English. Definitely not American.

Dustin’s smile faltered. Will’s face drained of color.

They looked at each other, fear blooming fast and raw between them.

And suddenly Steve felt it.

Panic slammed into him full-force—hot, dizzying, like too much air sucked out of his lungs at once. The desperate hope curdling into confusion. Will’s anxiety wrapped around it, quieter but deeper, a low hum of dread that never really went away.

Steve tried to step back.

He couldn’t.

The tower groaned. The radio crackled louder. The man’s voice continued, steady and wrong, and something about it pressed against Steve’s skull—

He gasped sharply, vision snapping back into place.

Scoops Ahoy slammed into focus all at once: fluorescent lights too bright, the sugary smell of ice cream too strong, the world spinning like he’d stood up too fast. His knees wavered and he staggered slightly.

Air burned on the way into his lungs.

“Steve—?”

Warm wetness slid over his lip.

He lifted a shaking hand and touched his nose. His fingers came away red.

Robin’s eyes went wide. “Oh—shit.”

She was already moving, snatching a napkin from the dispenser and pressing it into his hand before he could protest. “Okay, okay, don’t get blood everywhere. Jesus, just—hold that.”

Steve wiped the napkin under his nose, breathing through his mouth, heart hammering so hard it made his ears ring. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

Dustin and Will hovered in front of him now, faces tight with concern.

“Steve?” Will asked softly. “Are you okay?”

Dustin tilted his head, frowning clearly about to ask if he’d used his powers but thought better of it as he glanced toward Robin. His tone was measured as he spoke. “Did you, like… hit your face or something?”

Steve swallowed hard, blinking until the world steadied. He forced his shoulders to loosen, wiped carefully at his nose, and gave them what he hoped passed for a reassuring look.

“I’m fine,” he said quickly. Too quickly. “Just—I'm fine.”

Neither of them believed him.

He waved a hand toward the booth, pushing past the moment before anyone could press further. “Go sit. I’ll make you a banana split.”

They hesitated, eyes lingering on him like they wanted to argue—but eventually, they turned and headed toward the booth, glancing back over their shoulders more than once.

Steve waited until they were out of earshot before dragging in a deep breath.

His heart was still racing. His head still buzzed.

And no matter how hard he tried to shake it off, the image wouldn’t leave him—

Dustin and Will on that hill.

The radio.

The man’s voice.

What the hell was that?

How did he see that?

—

“No, no. No way.” Steve shook his head, leaning back against the vinyl booth as Dustin and Will sat shoulder-to-shoulder, demolishing the banana split with the kind of focus usually reserved for high-stakes science experiments. “Hotter than Phoebe Cates? Absolutely not.”

Dustin snapped his head up like Steve had just insulted his entire bloodline. “Incorrect. Factually incorrect.” He jabbed his spoon into the melting ice cream for emphasis. “She’s brilliant, and she doesn’t even care that my real pearls are still coming in.”

Will snorted, trying to suppress a laugh as he scooped up some whipped cream—but the next sentence got him.

“She says kissing is better without teeth,” Dustin continued proudly, nodding to himself like he’d just delivered a Nobel Prize–worthy revelation before digging back into the banana split.

Will choked.

Steve froze, mouth hanging open a second too long, spoon paused halfway to his own lips. “I—” He stopped. Restarted. “Okay. Wow.”

Will coughed, face burning red as he pressed a napkin to his mouth. “Dustin—!”

“What?” Dustin asked innocently. “She’s not wrong.”

Steve stared at the table for a second, then leaned back with a slow exhale, hands finally steady again after—whatever that had been earlier. Banter like this always pulled him back down to earth. Dustin’s voice. Will’s quiet laughter. Normal. Familiar.

He nodded solemnly. “That’s… great, man. Really.” He winced. “That’s ro—” He tripped over the word, cleared his throat. “That’s kinda romantic.”

Will shot him a look. Sharp. Confused. Mildly horrified.

Steve shrugged back at him, silently communicating ‘I don’t believe my words either.’

Dustin hummed contentedly, clearly pleased with himself, staring down at the banana split like it was proof of his superiority. “So,” he said after a beat, glancing up, “you really just get to eat as much of this stuff as you want?”

Steve tipped his head side to side. “Yeah. I mean—technically. Probably not the best idea for me, though.”

Both boys looked at him.

Steve gestured vaguely at his torso. “Gotta stay in shape. For the ladies.”

“Yeah,” Robin called from behind the counter without looking up, wiping her hands on a towel. “And how’s that working out for you, Stevie?”

Steve groaned. “Ignore her.”

Dustin nodded thoughtfully, glancing at Robin and then back at Steve. “She seems cool.”

Will nodded, smiling. “Yeah. And funny.”

“She’s not,” Steve said immediately, shaking his head. “She’s a menace.”

Robin smirked at him as she scooped ice cream.

Steve turned back to the boys. “So. Where are the other knuckleheads?”

Dustin’s spoon slowed. Will’s smile dimmed.

They exchanged a look.

Steve felt it instantly, that drop in his gut.

“They ditched us,” Dustin said flatly.

Steve straightened. “They what?”

Will nodded once, eyes down before adding, “His first day back, too.”

Steve’s chest clenched. He sat forward, forearms braced on the table. “No way.”

Dustin scoffed. “Can you believe that shit?”

Steve couldn’t. He actually couldn’t. He seriously couldn’t believe El would leave her friend on his first day back after a month.

Dustin’s annoyance melted into a grin, sharp and conspiratorial. “Oh, they’re gonna regret it.”

Will smiled softly, nodding. “They won’t get to share our glory.”

Steve blinked. “…Glory?”

Dustin scooted closer, lowering his voice like this was classified information. “So. Last night. Me and Will were trying to contact Suzie.”

Steve nodded slowly, stomach tightening. “Right.”

Will glanced at him—quick, searching—before looking back at Dustin.

Dustin cupped his hand around his mouth and whispered something so quietly it disappeared into the mall noise.

Steve squinted. “What?”

Will motioned for Dustin to try again.

Dustin leaned in even closer, whispering again though it never graced Steve’s ears.

Steve sighed. “Buddy, you gotta talk louder—”

“We intercepted a secret russian communication!” Dustin blurted at full volume.

Every head in the shop turned.

Robin froze mid-scoop.

Will buried his red face in his hands, groaning. “Dustin…”

Steve’s heart slammed against his ribs.

Oh.

Oh no.

That hill. The tower. The radio. The voice that wasn’t English.

Steve swallowed hard, forcing his expression into something neutral. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “Okay. That’s… what I thought you said.”

Robin stared at them from behind the counter. “I’m sorry—what?”

“Nothing!” Steve said quickly, shrugging at her. “Their middle school drama.”

Dustin puffed up. “We could be heroes, Steve. True American heroes.”

Steve nodded slowly, mind racing. “And… what does that mean, exactly?”

Dustin’s grin sharpened. “It means we need your help.”

“With what?”

Will hesitated, then reached into Dustin’s backpack and pulled out a thick red book, sliding it onto the table.

‘Romanov’s Russian–English Dictionary.’

Steve stared at it.

Dustin smiled sweetly. Dangerously.

“Translation.”

Steve leaned back, exhaling through his nose.

Of course.

Because apparently being a babysitter, ice cream sailor, psionic power user, and–apparently— occasional psychic wasn’t enough.

Now he was apparently on translation duty for intercepted Russian spy transmissions.

He glanced between the boys—Dustin vibrating with excitement, Will watching him carefully, worried—and nodded once.

“Okay,” Steve said quietly. “Let’s hear it.”

—

Steve paced the length of the Scoops Ahoy backroom like a caged animal, sneakers scuffing against the linoleum with each turn. His head was cocked slightly to the side, jaw tight, eyes unfocused as he moved back and forth, back and forth, like motion might somehow shake the answers loose.

At the table, Dustin and Will sat rigidly still, tracking him with their eyes.

Will clutched the whiteboard to his chest, fingers smudged with marker ink. It was covered edge to edge now—Cyrillic letters carefully written out in neat rows, English equivalents scribbled beside them. Some letters were circled. Others crossed out. Arrows pointed nowhere. The whole thing looked less like a codebreaker’s tool and more like the aftermath of a mental breakdown.

They’d finally let Steve listen to the recording.

Not because they wanted to—Steve could tell by the way Dustin had hesitated, thumb hovering over the play button—but because they were out of options. Out of theories. Out of time. And maybe, just maybe, because some part of them believed that whatever the hell had happened to Steve earlier meant he could somehow just know.

The recorder crackled, that familiar wash of static filling the room before the voices came through. Harsh. Clipped. Sharp syllables that scraped against Steve’s ears.

He tried to focus.

Tried to line up the sounds with the letters on Will’s board. Tried to remember what little he knew—prefixes, rhythms, anything.

But his attention kept snagging.

Dragging.

Because underneath the Russian—buried deep, almost like an afterthought—there was music.

Low. Tinny. Warped by distance and interference.

Dustin cut the recording off abruptly, the sudden silence ringing louder than the noise had.

“So?” Dustin asked, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “What do you think?”

Will’s eyes were fixed on Steve now, wide and intent. Expectant. Like Steve was about to open his mouth and casually recite a perfect translation, start to finish.

Steve stopped pacing.

He stood there for a second, chest rising and falling, mind still half stuck in the echo of the sound.

“The… uh,” he started, then frowned. “It sounded familiar.”

The reaction was instant.

Dustin and Will snapped to face each other, eyes going impossibly wide.

Will turned back to Steve slowly, disbelief written all over his face. “What?”

Steve nodded toward the recorder on the table. “The music. At the end.”

Will visibly deflated, shoulders sagging.

Dustin dragged a hand down his face. “Why are you listening to the music, Steve?” His voice pitched up, sharp with frustration as he jabbed a finger at the recorder. “Listen to the Russian. We’re translating Russian!”

“I am listening to the Russian,” Steve snapped back, irritation flaring. “But there’s music, and I’ve definitely—”

The door slammed open.

Steve jumped back instinctively, nearly colliding with a shelf as Dustin and Will startled in their seats.

“All right,” Robin announced, barging in like a force of nature, scooper raised like a weapon. “Babysitting time’s over. You need to get back out there.”

She paused mid-rant, eyes locking onto Will and the whiteboard in his arms.

“Hey—!” Her gaze sharpened. “My board! That had important data on it, shitbirds.”

Dustin pursed his lips, unimpressed. “I guarantee you what we’re doing is way more important than your data.”

Steve nodded immediately, crossing his arms in solidarity.

Robin arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?” She tilted her head. “And how do you know these Russians are up to no good anyway?”

Will froze.

Dustin’s head whipped toward Steve, mouth falling open. “How does she know about the Russians?”

Steve shook his head quickly. “I don’t know!”

“You told her—”

Steve looked genuinely offended. “It was not me.”

“Hello?” Robin cut in loudly. “I can hear you. Actually, I can hear everything. You two are incredibly loud.”

She glanced at Will, shaking her head, letting him know that she knew he was not to be lumped into Steve and Dustin’s loudness.

“Let me guess,” Robin said, clearing her throat theatrically. “You think you’ve got evil Russians plotting against our country on tape. You’re trying to translate it. And you haven’t gotten anywhere because you haven’t realized Russian uses a completely different grammatical format than us.”

She looked between them.

“Sound about right?”

Steve swallowed.

Hard.

Dustin stared at her like she’d just pulled the words straight out of his brain.

Will dropped his gaze to his lap, cheeks burning.

Robin smirked and reached for the recorder.

Steve reacted instantly, lunging forward and snatching it up, clutching it to his chest. “Whoa! What do you think you’re doing?”

“I want to hear it,” Robin said with a shrug.

“Why?” Steve, Dustin, and Will said in unison.

Robin rocked back on her heels, rolling her wrist lazily. “Because… maybe I can help.” She grinned. “I’m fluent in four languages, you know.”

Dustin’s chin dipped. “Russian?”

Steve’s mouth fell open as Robin launched into something rapid and unfamiliar—definitely not English, her voice smooth and confident as she rattled it off.

Steve turned, grinning at the boys—until—

“Holy shit!” Dustin gasped.

Robin smiled sweetly. “That was Pig Latin, dingus.”

Steve scoffed, playing off his belief by slapping Dustin lightly on the shoulder. “Idiot.”

Robin pulled out the chair next to Will and dropped into it, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “But I do speak Spanish, French, and Italian.” She tapped her temple. “And I’ve been in band for twelve years.”

Steve squinted at her.

Robin raised an eyebrow. “My ears are little geniuses, trust me.”

Steve hesitated, glancing at Dustin and Will—both of whom were watching Robin like she’d just descended from the heavens.

“Come on,” Robin whined. “Your turn to sling ice cream. My turn to translate. I don’t even want credit. I’m just bored.”

She held her hand out expectantly.

The bell rang at the counter.

Steve sighed, defeated, and gently placed the recorder into her palm.

“Don’t break it,” he muttered, already turning toward the door.

As he stepped back into the brightness of the shop, one thought kept looping in his head:

‘I know that music.’

—

Steve stared blankly at the register, knuckles white where his hands gripped the edge of the counter. The numbers on the display meant nothing to him. He’d been staring at the same total for at least a minute now, leaned back against the cool metal like it might ground him.

It didn’t.

The music was still there.

Not playing—not really—but echoing. A fragment. A melody just out of reach, looping over and over in his head like a skipping record. He knew he’d heard it before. Not years ago. Not even months.

Recently.

That was the part that bothered him.

His foot tapped against the floor, heel thudding softly as he squeezed his eyes shut for half a second, trying to place it. Car radio? A commercial? Some dumb jingle from—

A burst of giggling cut clean through his thoughts.

Steve startled, blinking hard as the sound bounced off the tile and glass of the shop. He pushed himself upright, forcing his mouth into a polite customer-service smile as he looked up.

“Hey, welco—”

The words died in his throat.

El and Max stood in front of the counter, framed by neon lights and colorful menu boards like this was the most normal thing in the world.

El. His adopted, superpowered, supposed-to-be-laying-low sister was standing in front of him in the busiest spot in town.

Steve just stared.

His brows knitted together instantly, confusion and alarm tangling in his chest as his gaze flicked between the two girls. Hopper had not said anything about this. He was pretty sure Hopper would have said something about this. There were rules. There were lists. There were at least three separate speeches about not being seen in public places with large crowds and—

Max cocked her head, utterly unfazed, smiling sweetly like she hadn’t just short-circuited his brain.

“We’d like a strawberry,” she said, then gestured toward El, “and a vanilla with sprinkles and extra whipped cream.”

Steve continued staring at her.

Max raised an eyebrow. El smiled, eyes bright and a little mischievous.

After a beat, Steve exhaled through his nose and slowly turned toward the ice cream case, grabbing the scooper on pure muscle memory. His movements were automatic now—dip, press, lift—even as his mind screamed ‘this is happening, this is happening, Hopper is going to kill me.’

The girls giggled softly on the other side of the counter, whispering to each other like they were getting away with something—which, of course, they were.

By the time he’d finished shaping the scoops and adding an arguably irresponsible amount of whipped cream, the backroom window slid open behind him.

Steve turned just in time to see Robin’s face appear, eyes sharp with excitement.

She raised an eyebrow. “We’ve got our first sentence.”

Steve perked up instantly, leaning closer to the window. “Oh, seriously?” He flicked a glance over his shoulder at El and Max, who were now examining the toppings with intense focus.

Robin lowered her voice dramatically, putting on a thick, exaggerated Russian accent. “The week is long.”

Steve blinked.

“Oh.” He said flatly. “Well. That’s thrilling.”

Robin shrugged, completely unbothered. “Hey, progress is progress.”

She slid the window shut directly in front of his face.

Steve snorted, shaking his head as he turned back around, cones in hand.

“Okay,” he said, stepping forward. “You’ve got strawberry… and vanilla with sprinkles. Extra whipped cream.”

He carefully passed the cones over the counter, making sure El had a good grip before letting go.

“Thanks,” El and Max said together.

Steve watched them for a second longer than necessary, his brows pulling together again as the question he’d been holding back finally slipped out.

He tilted his head at El. “Did Hop approve this?”

El and Max immediately locked eyes.

Steve saw the whole conversation pass between them in about half a second.

When they looked back at him, El’s face broke into a guilty, giddy grin that answered the question loud and clear.

Then they turned and bolted, laughter trailing behind them as they disappeared into the mall crowd.

Steve shook his head, helpless and fond all at once.

“I won’t tell him, by the way!” he called after them, smiling despite himself.

He turned back toward the backroom window, the music still tugging at the edges of his mind—longer now, clearer somehow.

‘The week is long.’

And for the first time, Steve got the sinking feeling that none of this was a coincidence.

—

“The week is long,” Steve, Robin, Will, and Dustin recited together, voices uneven and tired as they stared at the whiteboard bolted to the wall. The black marker stood out starkly against the white surface, the words boxed in and underlined like they might suddenly explain themselves if stared at hard enough.

“The silver cat feeds, when blue meets yellow in the west.”

Silence followed. Thick. Heavy.

Steve squinted at the board, then shook his head sharply like he could physically dislodge the nonsense from his brain. He turned away first, grabbing his keys from the hook and slinging his backpack over his shoulder.

“This is stupid,” he muttered, breath puffing out of him. “What does that even mean?”

Robin hummed thoughtfully, head tilted as she leaned back against the counter. “Well. We’ll be here tomorrow. We can figure it out then.”

Steve snorted, glancing at Will and Dustin as he held his keys up between two fingers. “You guys need rides?”

They both smiled at him — small, hopeful smiles that made the decision for him.

“Yeah,” Dustin said, already stepping toward the door.

Steve sighed, resigned but fond. “Alright. Let’s go then.”

Closing Scoops Ahoy was usually mindless. Muscle memory. Wipe down counters, shut off machines, flip switches, count drawers. Tonight, though, the silence felt louder than the mall itself.

Steve moved through the routine beside Robin without speaking, his thoughts looping back to the same things over and over — the words on the board, the tone of the recording, the way the message felt wrong. Not threatening. Not urgent.

Just… hidden.

And beneath all of it, threading through his thoughts like a stubborn hook he couldn’t shake loose, was the music.

He didn’t know when it had started bothering him this much. Maybe it was when Robin translated the sentence. Maybe it was when El showed up at the counter. Or maybe it had been there since the moment his hand brushed Dustin’s head and his world cracked sideways.

Steve finished wiping the last counter and followed Robin toward the exit. He paused, then turned back, grabbing the metal gate and pulling it down with a rattling screech. He knelt, locking it into place with a sharp click, his jaw tight.

“I mean,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else, “it just can’t be right.”

Robin sighed above him. “It’s right, Steve.”

Dustin shrugged from where he stood with Will just outside the store. “Honestly? I think it’s great news.”

Steve stood up, scoffing as he joined them. “How is this great news? It’s total nonsense.”

Will shook his head, curls bouncing slightly. “It’s not nonsense. It’s too specific.”

“It’s obviously a code,” Dustin added quickly.

Steve frowned. “A code?”

Dustin stared at him like he’d just admitted he didn’t know what the Cold War was. “Yeah. Like a super-secret spy code.”

“That’s a stretch,” Steve said flatly.

Robin tilted her head. “Is it, though?”

Steve looked at her, genuinely startled. “You’re buying into this?”

“Listen,” Robin said, holding up a hand. “Just for kicks, let’s say it is a secret Russian transmission. What did you think they were gonna say? ‘Fire the warhead at noon’?”

Will smiled a little at that, nodding.

“Exactly!” Dustin said, triumphant.

“And my translation is correct,” Robin continued. “So why would anyone talk like that unless they were hiding what they actually meant?”

Will’s smile widened. “Exactly.”

Steve tilted his head, slowly conceding the point — when something caught his eye.

The coin-operated horse sat just off to the side of the walkway, paint chipped and faded, frozen mid-gallop. Indiana Flyer was stenciled across its flank in peeling red letters.
Steve stopped walking.

The others didn’t notice. They kept moving, voices overlapping as they talked through theories and possibilities. Steve lagged behind, his gaze fixed on the horse.

Something tugged at him. Not a thought. Not a memory.

A pull.

He swallowed, glancing at the others’ backs, then sighed and turned fully toward the ride. Slowly, like he was approaching something that might bite, Steve reached out and placed his hand against the cool porcelain.

The world lurched.

It was like being shoved through a tunnel sideways — sound and color smearing together as his stomach flipped violently. His vision blurred, edges fuzzing like an old television with bad reception.

Then—

A child. Small hands gripping the pole. Laughter ringing too loud, too close. A woman’s hand appeared, slipping a coin into the slot.

The horse jolted to life beneath him, moving up and down in stiff, mechanical motions. Lights blinked. And the music—

Steve’s breath hitched.

That music.

It was clearer here. Tinny and looping, cheerful in that eerie way carnival rides always were. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache.

And then he was ripped back.

Steve stumbled, gasping as he snapped fully into his body, knees buckling slightly. He brought a hand to his face, the back of his hand coming away slick with blood.

“Shit,” he muttered.

He fumbled into his pocket with shaking hands, pulling out loose change. Coins spilled from his grasp, clattering to the floor as he frantically searched for one specific weight.

“Steve?” Will called, worried.

Steve looked up at the three of them staring at him.

Robin cocked her head. “What are you doing?”

“I—” His brain felt like static. “I need—” He held up a dime uselessly. “Do you have a quarter?”

Robin laughed, jogging over. “Sure you’re tall enough for that ride?”

“Quarter,” Steve snapped.

She tossed one to him, still amused. Somehow, he caught it.

Steve dropped to his knees beside the horse and shoved the coin into the slot.

The ride jolted to life.

The exact same motion. The exact same rhythm.

And the music poured out.

Steve listened, heart pounding.

“You need help getting up, little Stevie?” Robin asks with a sharp smile. Dustin giggles slightly, glancing at her.

Steve shushes her before gesturing to the horse. “Would you two just shut up and listen?”

Robin, Dustin, and Will stared. Will moved first, scrambling for the recorder as his eyes bulged. He hit play.

The Russian transmission filled the air — and beneath the voices, the same looping melody played.

Dustin’s eyes went wide. “Holy shit.”

Robin shook her head slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s the same song,” Dustin said, pointing.

“Maybe they have horses like this in Russia,” Robin offered weakly.

Steve stared at the painted letters on the horse’s side.

“Indiana Flyer,” he said quietly. “Yeah. Doubt it.”

He looked back at them, certainty settling cold and heavy in his chest.

“This code didn’t come from Russia,” Steve said, nodding once. “It came from here.”

—

The mall lights faded behind them as Steve guided the car out of the parking lot, the windshield catching the last glare of neon before the road stretched dark and quiet ahead. The bikes rattled softly in the trunk with every turn, a faint, uneven rhythm that somehow made the silence feel louder.

Will sat in the passenger seat, knees pulled in slightly, staring out the window like he was replaying something he couldn’t quite put words to. Dustin sprawled in the back, unusually still for once, chin tipped down as he watched Steve through the rearview mirror.

Steve’s hands were tight on the steering wheel.

His head felt… wrong. Like it had been shaken too hard and hadn’t settled yet. Every time he blinked, there was a half-second where he expected the world to slip sideways again — colors smearing, sound warping, that awful weightless feeling of being somewhere else without meaning to go.

He hadn’t even done anything today.

And yet—

He’d seen things.

Dustin and Will on a hill under the stars, the cold air biting, Dustin’s voice crackling with static and hope.

The porcelain horse jolting beneath him, tinny music drilling straight into his chest like it recognized him.

Steve swallowed, jaw tightening.

It didn’t feel like his powers.

It felt like… falling into something by accident.

“So.”

Dustin cleared his throat loudly, breaking the quiet. Steve glanced up, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

“So,” Dustin repeated, voice carefully casual in the way it never really was. “Are we just… not gonna talk about how you apparently used your powers twice today and literally nothing moved?”

Steve’s fingers flexed against the wheel.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly.

Will turned his head, studying Steve’s profile. “What do you mean you don’t know?”

Dustin leaned forward, resting his arms on the back of the seat. “Yeah, Harrington. That’s not an answer.”

Steve exhaled through his nose, debating. He could brush it off. Make a joke. Tell them it was stress or exhaustion or that weird thing that happens when you work too much and eat too much ice cream.

But these kids had seen him at his worst. Bleeding. Terrified. Failing and still showing up.

So he sighed.

“When I touched your head,” he started slowly, “I—this is gonna sound insane—”

“Try us,” Dustin said immediately.

Steve glanced at Will, then back to the road. “I think I saw you two last night. Like… I was there. You were up on a hill with that radio, trying to reach Suzie. I heard the static. I felt how freaked out you were.”

The car went very quiet.

“And then,” Steve continued, heart thudding harder now, “when I touched the Flyer, I swear I was watching this kid and her mom use it. Like I was inside the memory. I heard the music before it even started.”

He forced a laugh that didn’t quite land. “So. Am I crazy, or…?”

Neither of them answered.

That was worse.

Steve glanced sideways, skin prickling as the silence stretched. Dustin was staring at him like he’d just dropped a nuclear bomb into the backseat. Will’s mouth was slightly open, eyes unfocused like his brain had kicked into overdrive.

“Guys,” Steve said carefully. “You’re freaking me out.”

Will blinked, then shook himself like he’d just resurfaced from deep water. “No. No, you’re not crazy,” he said quickly. “You’re not. That—” He swallowed. “That actually makes sense.”

“Maybe it’s a latent ability,” Dustin cut in.

Steve frowned. “A what?”

Will turned fully toward Steve now. “Like… something that was always there, but never activated. Like how your telekinesis didn’t show up until November.”

Steve chewed on that, nodding slowly. “Okay… maybe.”

Dustin’s eyes lit up suddenly. He snapped his fingers. “Darth Vader.”

Steve almost missed a turn. “—What?”

Will’s face lit up too. “Oh my god, yeah.”

Steve stared at them both. “You are going to have to explain that.”

“In Return of the Jedi,” Dustin said rapidly, leaning forward again, “Vader uses Force-based mind probing on Luke. He literally goes into his head, sees his emotions, his fears, his memories—and that’s how he figures out Leia exists.”

He pointed at Steve like he’d just solved an equation. “You probed my mind.”

Steve’s stomach flipped.

When Dustin said it like that… yeah. That was exactly what it felt like. Like he’d slipped past the surface and landed somewhere private without meaning to.

“But,” Steve said slowly, “that doesn’t explain the horse.”

Dustin didn’t even hesitate. “Johnny Smith. The Dead Zone.”

Will nodded. “He gets visions when he touches objects. It’s called psychometry.”

Steve blinked. “You guys just… have these examples ready?”

Dustin shrugged smugly. “Pop culture is educational.”

Steve let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “That… actually sounds right.”

The knot in his chest loosened just a little. At least he had an answer now.

Dustin leaned back into his seat, grinning wide. “You really are cool, Steve.”

Will nodded, smiling softly. “Yeah. You are.”

Steve laughed under his breath, warmth blooming where the fear had been. He pulled into Dustin’s driveway, the porch light already on, familiar and safe.

Will popped his door open, grabbing his bag. “I’m staying here tonight.”

Steve nodded, stepping out and heading for the trunk. He hauled the bikes out, handing them over as the boys wheeled them toward the house.

“I’ll be back at eight-thirty,” Steve called. “Don’t be late.”

They both nodded.

“Thank you, Steve!” Will called before the door shut behind them.

Steve stood there for a moment longer, hands on his hips, staring at the quiet house.

Two new abilities.

Neither of them under his control.

He wasn’t sure what scared him more.

Notes:

The first major plot divergence from the show! Will has joined the Scoop Troop!

Hope you all enjoyed!