Chapter Text
Steve used to love being underwater.
That moment when he broke past the surface and everything was suddenly quiet and still made him feel at peace like nothing else could, blocked him from the chaos outside the safety of the water. He remembers sinking into the bathtub as a kid when his parents were fighting downstairs, and it muffled the shrill voice of his mother demanding where the hell his father had been, and whose perfume was that? He would use the backyard pool to escape the house without actually leaving, and it gave him the distance he needed. When he swam on the high school team, it was like his brain went blissfully offline, and the only thing he had to focus on was the way his arms cut through the water, the burn of his lungs as they missed the open air.
It’s different now.
Steve hasn’t gone near his pool since Barb, and since being dragged into the Upside Down at Lover’s Lake, it’s like his body freezes up when it senses water. Like it’s waiting for those vines to wrap around his legs and pull him under again.
He sits on the edge of the pool at his parent’s house, staring into the clear water. He can see right through it, there’s nothing that could possibly hide from his sight. But he won’t go in. Can’t.
It’s all different now.
Today Hopper came knocking on his door at seven thirty in the morning— which, in Steve’s opinion, shouldn’t even be a time — with a stern look on his face that made Steve immediately wary, because he’d seen that same look on his father countless times just before a lecture.
“Do you keep your phone off the hook?” he’d asked, and Steve had grimaced. In the days following the Vecna shitshow, he’d been fielding calls from half a dozen government employees, not to mention Robin and the gremlins, and eventually it had him so on edge that he had, in fact, taken the phone off the hook. The ringing made his head hurt, anticipating the ringing made his head hurt (and okay, maybe his head just plain hurt, but the phone calls sure didn’t help).
Hopper was there to drag him to the hospital at the request of Dr. Owens, who had somehow obtained his medical file and decided Steve was due for a post-Upside Down checkup. He supposes he should have seen it coming eventually— everyone with documented injuries had been called in at some point or another— but the thought of sitting in a white room with a government lackey posing as a doctor, pretending to understand what he’d been through, pretending to give a shit, just made his stomach turn. He’d hung up every time someone started a call with, “Hello, is this Steven Harrington’s residence?” He figured they’d give up after a while— seeing as that’s the only thing the government is good at, but they couldn’t even do that for him— but instead they started badgering Hopper, who had become the feds’ point person for all things Hawkins.
That’s how he’d ended up sitting in a white room with a doctor pretending to give a shit, Hopper standing silently across from him (as if he might try to bolt).
“Your chart mentions migraines?” said the doctor— Geisler was his name, though Steve couldn’t be bothered to commit it to memory—, and it sounded more like a question, despite the fact that it was already on the damn paper in front of him. He looked up when Steve didn’t answer right away. “Are you still experiencing them?”
“Yup,” Steve had replied, tone clipped. “You get knocked around as much as I have, it kind of comes with the territory.”
Dr. Geisler nodded. “Yes, you’ve had some head injuries over the last few years.”
“You’re telling me.”
“Would you walk me through those?”
Reluctantly, he’d recounted the stories to the doctor, his gaze flickering back to Hopper every time he got to an Upside Down bit, unused to telling the story to outsiders, even if they were in on the secret. He relayed his post-injury symptoms; the migraines that he’d started to get on occasion after his fight with Jonathan, and that only got worse with every new blow to the head. How, recently, he couldn’t really seem to focus on anything for longer than a few minutes at most. He was asked about mood swings (no), hearing or vision loss (yes, a little in his left ear, and Hopper frowned at his answer), dizziness (yes), memory loss (no). Dr. Geisler listened with practiced neutrality, occasionally asking a clarifying question, and making notes on his clipboard. When Steve was finished, he frowned at what he’d written with an unhelpful, “Hm.”
“How long do I have, doc?” Steve asked, trying for a wicked grin that came out as a weak grimace. “Go on, I can take it.”
Hopper gave him a flat look as the doctor removed his reading glasses. “Hm? Oh, yes. Sorry. I can prescribe you something for pain management if you’d like, for the migraines. You’ll want to monitor your symptoms, keep an eye out for anything new. Head injuries can be very tricky,”
With that, Steve was ready to leave. ‘Head injuries can be tricky,’— tell him something he didn’t know— but Hopper leaned forward in his chair, breaking his silence. “What kind of things should we look out for?”
Steve’s brain latched onto ‘we’. We , like they were in this together. Like Steve wasn’t going back to an empty house as soon as the appointment was over. The doctor shook his head, shifting on his stool. “Could be a number of things. More frequent headaches or migraines, memory loss, vertigo, aphasia— er, forgetting words. Significant behavioral changes, paranoia, nausea. Among others. But really, anything out of the ordinary should be brought to our attention. Certain conditions that arise following serious head injuries can be managed with medication. In fact, there are clinical trials going on all the time for these types of injuries if you’d be open to—”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Steve cut in, barely managing to keep the irritation out of his voice. He wasn’t about to let the government use him to study the damage they caused.
Dr. Geisler nodded again, lifting his hands up a bit in surrender. “Of course. Now, if you do notice any disturbing changes, or your symptoms get worse, you can reach me at my office between the hours of…”
Steve could feel himself zoning out, but forced himself to ask before they left: “Is it… permanent?”
He hated how small he sounded when he said it, and had to look at the floor to avoid both men’s gazes. The doctor hesitated for a moment, then opened his mouth, but Steve said quickly, “Just tell me. No doctor-speak crap.”
There was a beat of silence, the air growing uncomfortable. Finally, Dr. Geisler sighed and said, “I can’t say for certain, of course. The human body— especially the brain— seems to have a remarkable ability to heal itself given time. But in my experience… it may very well be something you’ll just have to live with.”
The pool water shimmers as the sun peeks out from a passing cloud, and Steve scoots a little closer to the edge, just enough to make his heart beat faster. Something he’ll have to live with. It’s a small price to pay for the safety of the people he loves, but it’s hard to remember the positives when it feels like his head is splitting open. Even the sliver of sunshine is enough to make him narrow his eyes to block out the light. Will it always be like this?
He thinks of Max, comatose in her hospital bed, still and silent and so un-Max that it makes something painful gnaw at Steve’s stomach. Will it ever get better?
When they pulled back into the Harrington’s driveway after the appointment, Hopper had put a hand on Steve’s arm to stop him from ducking out too quickly.
He nodded toward the house. “Your folks leave again?”
Steve bit his lip. Hopper was working under the assumption that they’d come back into town in the first place, to check on Steve, to make sure he was okay. They had done no such thing. His mother had called— a little annoyed with the cryptic phone message Steve had left— to ask if there was any damage to the house after the “earthquake.” Steve had been tempted to say yes, just on the off chance it would get her here, because even though he ached every time she looked at him with that devastating mixture of disappointment and irritation, she was still his mom . He still wanted his mom. But he didn’t lie, so she hadn’t come. It was probably for the best; Steve was in no mental shape to interact with his father, anyway. But the temptation had still been there.
“Yeah,” Steve answered softly, and it was only half a lie.
Hopper sighed, scrubbing a hand down his face. After a few moments, he said, “You call me if you need anything, all right? Or if the headaches— the migraines— get worse. If anything else happens, you call me . Understand?”
Steve swallowed around the lump forming in his throat. “Yeah, okay.”
The grip on his arm tightened. “We take care of each other. All of us. And that includes you, kid.” Hopper softened a bit, the firm line of his mouth curving up slightly with a wry smile. “Now get the hell out of my truck.”
Steve couldn’t help the amused grin that broke out on his face, and he turned away to hide it, climbing out onto the pavement. When he reached his front door, Hopper rolled down the window and said, “Call!”
Steve holds his breath and leans toward the water, dipping his fingers in and swirling them around. It’s cold, which feels pretty great as the weather marches on toward summer. Spring break was barely a week ago, but it already feels like he’s lived a lifetime in between. He lets his hand sink deeper into the pool, up to his forearm, making small waves. This isn’t so bad.
He bends over a little too far, pulling at the stitches littering his torso, which has him wincing at the sharp sting. The scars will be permanent, too, and no matter how many times Eddie and Dustin call them “metal as hell,” Steve isn’t sure he wants to live with the reminders of that night on his body forever. But what choice does he have? At the very least, he’s a walking PSA for what happens when you fuck around and find out with the Upside Down.
Suddenly, his arm feels tighter, like someone— something — has grabbed hold of it. In his mind’s eye, he sees dark tendrils snaking up his skin, latching onto him and tugging, then yanking , then dragging him down into freezing black water, into that awful place. Steve’s heart leaps into his throat and he pulls himself out of the water like it’s burned him, scooting away from the edge once again. His arm is fine, of course; nothing actually took hold of him. But the physical memory is still there tingling on his skin, a phantom fear. An echo of the evil he’s come face to face with.
The sun disappears behind a cloud again, and Steve’s breathing hard, unable to look away from the pool.
His body is stuck frozen there, caught in amber, anticipating. He knows it’s going to happen again. He’s going to have to fight again. He’ll watch the people he loves get hurt again. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he does.
No, things will never be the same.