You're Gonna Carry That Weight

by kittenmittens

Summary:

Steve survives the final showdown with Vecna, but the aftermath is one he never saw coming: a flayed parasite implanted in his abdomen. One that can’t be removed, and happens to be looking more and more like a human fetus as it grows. Just as Steve’s coming to terms with that whole shitshow, Billy Hargrove inexplicably rises from the grave.

And guess which lucky guy gets to be his roommate?

Chapter 1: The Sting

Steve’s got one job.

All he has to do is hold this thing off for thirty more seconds until El can rip Vecna—Henry, One, Whatever’s—head off and end this shitshow for good. Yeah, well, easier said than done. Henderson can pull all the defensive tactics he wants out of his ass, but the one thing Steve knows to expect at this point is the whole plan will always, always go to shit. Like the molotov cocktails they’ve got stockpiled, because Vecna’s weak to fire, and the people-meat monsters hate the heat? Those run out fast. So now it’s just him, Robin, and Henderson, hauling ass in a way that seems far too familiar, like why the fuck does Steve get stuck on the menu for these things every goddamn ten months of his life? And Robin trips, because of course she does, so Steve pulls out the big guns, ‘cause it’s gotta be soon, right? El’s gotta be close to finishing this, and even if she’s not, Robin’s not getting ripped apart by a giant tentacle— not on his watch. 

Starting fluid in one hand, lighter in the other, he jams down on the nozzle, shooting a fireball right at the fucker. The thing screams— sounds like ten different horror movie voices at once, and Steve almost drops the can. 

The pavement shakes as it stomps its giant spider legs, but Steve holds his ground, flicking the lighter open and raising the can again— only to have it slapped clean out of his hand. He moves to grab it, then jolts. He looks down, and it feels like it happens in slow-mo. There’s this stabbing pain, his eyes struggle to focus on the fleshy tentacle buried in his gut, and he stumbles back as, a second later, it’s yanked away. Robin and Dustin both scream his name, and Steve’s legs instantly give out. 

“Oh God. Ohh… fuck.”

Steve feels like he’s watching his own life through a coke bottle, sitting up and slowly looking down at his stomach, the blood pooling around this big, nasty slice down his middle. 

“SHITSHITSHITSHIT—“ Henderson’s next to him, yanking Steve forward, and Steve pulls his eyes back to the thing that shanked him. It’s falling back, Robin torching it with her own flamethrower until the whole thing’s lit up like the world’s nastiest Christmas tree. 

“Steve. Steve.” 

Henderson’s pawing at his jacket, shaking him like he’s a million miles away. Shit, man. He kinda feels like it.

“We’ve gotta get it out, Steve. Now.” 

Steve’s tongue feels like a lump of gauze, and it barely moves when he tries asking what the hell Henderson is on, and then he feels it. And looks down.

Higher than the gash on his stomach, there’s a lump under his skin. And as Steve watches, it starts to squirm. What’s he supposed to do, not scream his fucking head off?

“STEVE!” Henderson’s trying to pin him down now, and even though his head feels less Russian-Truth-Drugs than it did a second ago, the kid’s words are not sinking in. “This same thing happened with El! Mike told me about it, we just have to get in the wound and dig it out before—“ 

Henderson doesn’t get to tell him before what. The ground stops feeling solid, and Steve, Robin, and Henderson all get bounced around like they’re inside a blender. Yeah, Steve’s getting real sick of how good he is at recognizing earthquakes these days. Not exactly a talent you’re supposed to be able to hone in fucking Indiana. It’s a big one this time, and the best Steve can do is sit up and try not to let his brain vibrate out of his ears as the whole world gets jerked around. 

This is it. The buzzer beater. The concrete starts feeling like pudding against Steve’s hands, the freaky red lightning storm lets loose all across the sky, the two-story meat monster that just stabbed him howls bloody murder while it burns to a crisp— 

And then it all… stops. Not, like, in two seconds flat or anything, but it’s a quick turnaround. The thing collapses, dead as a doornail, just like the demodogs in the tunnels. The ground gives a couple shakes, but then it stops, and starts feeling like you could walk on it. The clouds are a little less ‘portal to hell’—more ’overcast’. 

“Did she do it?” Robin’s whispering, like she thinks she’s gonna jinx it if she talks too loud.

They all hold their breath for a few seconds, and then Henderson scrambles to his feet, staring out across the rubble. He’s real quiet for a minute, but then he jumps straight up in the air, as if someone lit the seat of his pants on fire. “SHE DID IT!” Henderson kicks a chunk of rebar as hard as he can, then picks up a rock and chucks it in the other direction. “FUCK YEAH!” 

The three of them just sit there, panting, up until the part where he's got a giant hole in his stomach starts to catch up with Steve. “OhhhhGod, ow! Shit!” 

Henderson snaps out of his little victory dance, sprinting back over to Steve and dropping to his knees. “Okay, okayokayokay— so. I’m gonna have to cut into you and dig this thing out so you don’t turn into a flayed and melt into goo. Do you want something to bite down on?”

“Stopstop— what?” Steve tries to scrabble away from Henderson, but the kid’s already shoving him down. “Wait— Wait a second, man!”

“There’s no time! Robin, grab his arms.”

“Look, I am ordinarily all for senselessly torturing Steve, but—“ 

“Ahh, shit.” Henderson shoves a hand onto Steve’s stomach, forcing him to let out an oof. “We might already be too late. Steve, if you’re gonna scream, try not to rupture my eardrum.”

“I’m not gonna scre—Henderson, get your hands off m—“

Henderson’s finger digs into the wound. And Steve?

Steve fucking screams.

 

 

*

 

“Looks like one of you kids had fun playing doctor!” The head lab guy— Owens, that’s what his name-tag says— pulls on a couple of plastic gloves. Even though he said he’s not gonna dig in there like Henderson did, Steve flinches. “You’re not allergic to latex, are you?”

“Uh, no.” Steve sucks in air through his teeth as the guy pushes down on his skin, putting pressure everywhere but the gash. 

“Feel any type of movement? Deeper pain, or pain outside of the immediate area?” 

“Nnnnope.” Teeth gritted, Steve watches Owen’s fingers poke around. Man, does he not wanna see something crawling around in there, but it’s impossible to tear his eyes away. Like seeing a train wreck, or Robin trying to smooth-talk Vickie. 

“Good, good.” The guy holds up a tiny flashlight, shining it down at the hole in Steve’s stomach. “Honestly, you’ve been dealing with this subject for a while now. You could probably give me a few lectures! You probably already know, but these lifeforms die immediately when the connection to the Upside Down is cut. Even if you were to close a gate, then instantly re-open it, that wouldn’t reanimate whatever creatures happened to be running around Hawkins. I’ve also got my own theories, that there’s a sort of— how can I put this—radius, a— a tether that has a maximum length beings from the Upside Down can travel before they’re simply too far away to function. So, even if, say, a gate existed in another part of the world—“

Steve starts to sit up, but he only makes it a couple inches before that ‘I just got stabbed with a giant meat stinger’ feeling gets in the way. “Listen, man— I don’t wanna be rude, but can we skip to the part where you get this thing out of me?” 

“Here, try not to blink.” Owens moves the hand with the flashlight and blasts the light in Steve’s face. “I want you to follow the light. Good— that’s good!” Steve screws his eyes shut, shaking his head while Owens keeps blabbing. “Feeling any urges to do something hazardous— consuming toxic substances, household chemicals—“ 

“Not planning on it— are you—“ Okay, that’s it. He’s had enough. “Can you just tell me where this thing went, and can you get it out already?” 

“The thing about that, Mr. Harrington—“

“Just—” Steve waves a hand like he’s surrendering. “Just Steve.”

“Alright, Steve. The thing is, none of this is guaranteed. It’s all guesswork. We’re doing our best with the information we have from— from the last few years of cleaning up these messes. But as far as I can tell, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

This is the part where he tells Steve he’s got nothing to worry about because he’s gonna die, right? “… Bullshit.”

“No, no! Really!” The flashlight goes dark, and Owen starts peeling the gloves off, which— no. Why is he doing that? Steve doesn’t like how that seems like they’re done here, because they are not done here. “I brought up that whole ‘connection to the gate’ refresher because it’s important. See, the lifeform that stabbed you was very similar to the creature found in the Starcourt mall— the one made out of reconstituted human tissue. When that being wanted to reproduce, to make more— as Mr. Wheeler put it, flayed— it would inject a pseudo-larval piece of itself into the victim. However, that little piece is still entirely reliant on not only the connection to the Upside Down, but direct control being given by— by the ‘Mindflayer’, Vecna, what have you…” The gloves are all the way off, and Owens is full-on packing it up. “Without that, the sort of… control center telling it what to do, what to be… Well, it’s very likely it went inert and was then expelled back through the wound.”

“Gotcha.” You know what? Nope. Steve does not ‘gotcha’. “… What does that mean?”

“It means— and I’d like you to remember that this is a less-than-ideal situation for a medical exam, but… ” There's a pause while Owens snaps the latches on his first aid kit. “—I’m almost certain your little ‘slug-thing’ died moments after you were injected, and that you’ve already bled it out.” 

“Oh.” Not sure why he couldn’t have led with that. “Okay. Cool.”

“Of course, that’s the best case scenario. We could still be looking at a severe bacterial infection, becoming immunocompromised, or that wound turning septic…” Owens points towards downtown. “Now, it won’t exactly be the The Plaza Hotel, but my people are salvaging as much equipment from the old lab as we can, and cordoning off a wing in the hospital. I’d like to see you there in a few hours when everything’s ready— provided you don’t notice any huge changes before then. I’ll have someone patch you up in the meantime, and then we’ll make sure everything’s hunky-dory.” He pats Steve’s shoulder, slowly getting to his feet. “But— considering you’re not gulping down pesticides, I’m feeling optimistic!” 

 

 

*

 

 

“I’m not gonna lie to you, kid:” Jim Hopper stares Steve down from behind his desk, jiggling his hand over the ashtray like this whole idea is spiking his blood pressure. “I get the feeling you’ve got no clue what you’d be getting into. This isn’t like Police Academy. It’s a small agency, we can’t afford our own training grounds, so we rent out the space from another department, and cram as much as we can into as little time as possible to save on costs. You ever wonder why you see the same three faces every goddamn time anything happens in this town? Because ‘intensive’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. Most recruits don’t make it the whole six weeks.” Man—this whole ‘lecture out of nowhere because he had the balls to ask a question’ sure takes Steve back. Now, if Hopper was a giant douche, Steve’d think he was talking to his dad! “Everyone says it sounds easy enough, until they’re actually doing it. And look: I know what you’re thinking. How’s an obstacle course and learning to shoot hold a candle to going toe to toe with some of those things from the Upside down? Well, believe me, there’s more to it than that.”

“What, like— the test?” Sure, Steve’s not exactly the Honor Roll type, but it’s just one time and then he’s in—right? “You think I’m gonna flunk it?” 

Hopper leans back and takes a long, slow drag. “… The thought may have crossed my mind. But I think you’re missing my point. This isn’t your average shift at the video store. You’re not gonna have a life outside of this. It’s a month and a half of getting your ass kicked, from the butt-crack of dawn ‘til eight every. Single. Night. You’re learning weapons, deescalation, emergency response… You’ve gotta be on, for all of it, and you’ve got to be committed. You’re not up to snuff, and you’ll get dropped.”

“This, uh…” Steve drums his fingers on the armrest of his chair a couple times. “This training program. Has it—Have you guys… updated it in the last few years?”

Hopper raises an eyebrow. “… You’re asking this why?”

Steve cranes his head around, looking back through the open door, where the officer with the Groucho stache is telling the secretary that all the quakes were probably caused by too many people plugging in their hairdryers at the same time.

“… I see your point.” Groaning, the chief drags a hand down his face, then chucks the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray. “Alright, Harrington. I’m not gonna try and stop you— but this is not going to be an easy ride, you got that? I don’t believe in nepotism.” 

“So… “ Steve thins his lips together, staring at Hopper for a second. “… I’m in?” 

“No. But I’m not gonna bar your entry, either.” He jerks a thumb towards the secretary. “Go see Flo. She’ll get you an application.” 

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’m not sure I believe it, either.” 

“Oh, shit. Listen, I really appreciate—“ Steve jumps up, holding his hand out for a shake, but the chief waves him off. 

“Don’t mention it. Just do me a favor and clear out. I’d like to have a minute to myself before the next twenty meetings I have with people who swear they saw some kind of giant shadow monster running around during the quakes.” 

Steve nods, clearing out fast, and as he rushes out the door, Hopper yells after him.

“And make sure you STUDY!” 

 

*

 

“Ohhh, dear, sweet dingus. This may actually get you killed.”

That was Robin’s heartfelt vote of confidence, when Steve first pitched the whole idea of joining the force. And right now, as he’s running up the same flight of stairs for the seventh time, 180 pound dummy slung over his shoulder, those words are knocking around in his skull, because of course they are. Perfect timing.

“Out of my way, Harrington!” Barnes shoulder checks him about a second after, pounding up the steps past him. “If you’re gonna shit your pants and pass out, make sure you don’t block the whole staircase!” 

Steve growls under his breath, craning his neck up as Barnes clears the flight above him. “You’re a real class act, man! Anybody ever tell you that?” Robin may have mentioned to Steve that he’s been stuck on the ‘high school mentality’ for the last three years— yeah, whatever that means— but he’d looooove to see how she’d analyze this guy after being stuck in a room with him for two weeks. Five freaking people in this whole training program, and he’s gotta turn it into some kind of shitty competition with Steve specifically, just ‘cause he remembers Steve kinda had it going on when they were Juniors. 

And Steve… didn’t really remember Barnes, at all, which probably pissed him off. So— yeah! Now he’s living out the guy’s ‘Bitter Rivals’ wet dream, instead of just making it through this crap in one piece.

Hiking the dummy up higher, Steve puts on another burst of speed, sprinting up the last flight and passing Barnes just in time to reach the top, spin around, and dart past him on the way down. And if his dummy’s leg slaps the guy’s face, well, Steve’s not gonna beat himself up about it.

“Hey, Barnes!” he calls behind him. “If you’re gonna trip and fall on your ass, try not to block the whole staircase.” 

 

*

 

“So… you did it?”

“Yup.”

“And it’s— legit, right? Like, they didn’t hand you a certificate that said, ‘Thanks for Trying, Better Luck Next Time’, and you just didn’t read it carefully—“ 

“Yes, Henderson! It’s real, I passed, and I start next week. I mean—“ Steve gestures around the apartment, then throws his hands in the air. “How the hell do you think I’m even affording this place?”

“The thought of an extensive money laundering scheme involving Family Video did occur to me. I just thought it seemed a little above your… capabilities.” Robin tries to scoot the mattress forward, giving it a couple jerky shoves before giving up. “Jesus, this thing is heavy. Did you have to get a queen?”

“Yes, Robin, I did. No woman wants to spoon on a twin XL, which you would know if you and V—“ Steve catches himself just in time, eyes bugging out at Henderson. 

Too late. The little bastard is already gawking at Robin. “You and… Vee-Something?” Kid leans against the other side of the mattress and starts heckling her. “Vee-lentino? Vee-ctor? Vee—“

“Oh, look! Got my second wind!” A grin breaking out on her face, Robin steamrolls the mattress into Henderson, knocking him flat on his ass. 

“Okay. You two are total shit at this.” Steve shoves Henderson over with his foot, grabbing the other end and helping Robin slide it towards the bedroom door. “Remind me to never get your help with moving again.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Steve!” Curling up like a pill bug, Dustin rolls forward so he can start pawing through more of Steve’s stuff. “Besides, who else would take such lovingly good care of these issues of—“ Hand stuck deep in one of the cardboard boxes, Henderson shoves the contents around. “—People, and Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition, and— hello!” Henderson yanks one of the magazines out, breaking out in a huge grin as he starts to rifle through— 

Steve jolts, diving across the room so he can rip the Playboy out of Henderson’s greasy mitts. “WHOAWHOAWHOA— HEY! Not that one!” 

“Eughh, Steve. That is repulsive.” Robin scoots the mattress to the wall, putting her hands on her hips while Steve plays keep-away with the girly mag. “… Where’s the bed frame?”

Steve pants as he finally gets the Playboy away from Henderson, then bends and yanks the whole box out of his reach for good measure. “What bed frame?”

Robin gawks at him like he just made a pass at her. “You didn’t get a bed frame?”

“No?” Steve shrugs, lifting the box over his head with one arm and shoving Henderson back by the face with the other. “Why would I bother getting a bed frame?”

“You’re the one who just stressed the importance of appealing to any future female house guests!” She rolls her eyes, then jerks her arms towards the mattress, like Steve’s supposed to magically see what the hell she’s talking about.

“Yeah, I’m not following.” Steve groans, giving Henderson one last push before he carries the box over to the kitchen and sticks it up above the cabinets, completely out of the shithead’s arm reach. “Anyway, you are not gonna get to me today. I’m through the training, I got my check, my own place, I am finally out from under my old man’s thumb— things are looking up, people!” 

After a couple of useless hops where he tries to pull down the box, Dustin sighs and gives up. “You know, I admire your optimism, but pride goeth before a fall, Steve.” 

“It’s not pride, it’s just— “ Steve shrugs, pulling a box of plates over to him so he can load them into an open cabinet. “Karma! Right? I have been through way too much bullshit and babysitting not to rack up an insane amount of good karma, and I am finally cashing it in.” 

“I don’t think Hawkins cares about karma.” Picking up another box, Robin carries it into the kitchen and pulls out the plastic McDonald’s cup she finds inside with this grossed-out look on her face. “I know Vecna… Henry… One is dead, and the Mindflayer is equally deceased, plus all those gross monsters and people-meat-creatures, demogorgons, etcetera… But— I don’t know! I feel like we’re waiting for the regression to the mean.” 

Steve blinks. “The re… what now?”

“Regression to the mean.” Henderson pipes up, because of course he knows what the hell Robin means when she starts speaking in tongues. “It’s like— no matter how good or bad things get, they’ll always go back to just being… boring. Things always go back to normal.” 

“Right, but…” Robin turns around, and tries to two-point the Hamburglar cup into the trash. (She misses, and that, Buckley, is why you took band.) “You ever think that Hawkins’ version of normal is considerably more bizarre than the typical American suburb?”

“Ooookay. Both of you need to stop talking like that.” After swiping the cup off the floor, Steve sticks it in the cabinet with his shot glasses. “First of all, you’re ruining the moment. Second— you said it yourself, Robin! He’s gone! The burnt-up psychic zombie Hitler guy is deader than a doornail, the Upside Down is closed off forever, and there’s no way El’s opening up another portal even if it kills her. And even if she wanted to, guess what? There’d be nothing in there anymore! At least, nothing we can’t handle. So let’s put a pin in it, get back on track, and help me move the rest of my ghlp.” Steve clamps a hand over his mouth. He’s got about a half a second to think about the feeling that just came over him— lightheaded, guts burning, this jerking sensation in the back of his throat— before it blindsides him.

Next thing he knows, he’s doing a 180, turning and bending over the kitchen sink as he pukes his guts out.

 

*

 

“So, what would we like to hear first?” Owens flips through what’s gotta be Steve’s chart— guess he has one of those now—before setting the clipboard down on the desk. “Good news, bad news, or scientific marvel the likes of which we’ve never seen? Ah, who am I kidding, it’s a package deal.” 

“… And we’re talking about me here, right?” Steve sits with his legs hanging over the side of the exam table, nods, then shakes his head, muttering, “Jesus Christ.”

“Now—relax! Everything is going to be okay. Remember everything I said about your little worm ‘thingy’—“ The guy pulls out the air-quotes. “—going dormant and not being able to control your body?” Steve glances to one side, then nods again slowly. “That’s still true. Nothing like that is going to happen to you.”

“… Okay? And?” Steve starts jiggling his ankle nervously. “C’mon, man. I know there’s a ‘but’.”

“Smart kid.” Owens scoots back on his wheely stool, turning towards the desk and patting the thick manila folder sitting on it.. “We recovered as much as we could before Sullivan’s crew started to quarantine the area. Luckily, one of the specimens we’ve been studying was the big fella who got you.” Steve winces, the scar on his stomach throbbing from some kinda muscle memory, but Owens doesn’t notice. “So, the— what do you kids call them? The demogorgon reproduces by having its young germinate in dark, moist places. When it comes to humans, the larva will be implanted in their digestive system, and get vomited back up— or, if the victim’s deceased, the pollywog will find its way out on its own. Then you’ve got the ‘flayed’— the tentacles would inject the larva into the victim, which would eventually break down and be absorbed, taking over the host’s mind and body. 

“The creature that injured you, on the other hand, doesn’t quite fit into either category. The physical makeup was something like the ‘flayed’; it had components which, at some point, were most certainly human. But as for that little slug it tried to inject you with— it wasn’t meant to assimilate you. We think the end goal was more like… Well, have you seen that Alien movie? The one with Sigourney Weaver.”

“You kidding me?” It’s a certified blockbuster, and Steve put it on at least five times when he worked at Family Video. Besides: “She runs around without her pants on for half the movie, of course I’ve seen it.”

“Great! So, you know that part towards the beginning, with that awful crab thing that grabs John Hurt’s face? Remember how the alien baby just sorta—“ Owens mimes fireworks going off in front of his chest. “Explodes out of his ribcage?”

Steve’s stuck on why the guy’s going off on this weird tangent, and then… Then it hits him. “Oh, SHIT!” He sits up, panicking, and starts pawing at the front of his hospital gown. 

“Nonono— not ‘oh shit’!” The guy hops up, putting a hand on Steve’s shoulder and forcing him to hold still. “Relax, relax…” Once he’s sure Steve’s not gonna flip out again, Owens pulls his hands back and shoves them in his pockets. “Now, that is what would have happened if our very talented friend Eleven hadn’t managed to destroy One and sever all connection with the Upside Down. Luckily for you, she pulled it off. And, trust me, if that were still going to happen to you, we wouldn’t waste time sitting here, having this conversation.” 

“So… Why are we having this conversation?” Steve sputters, grabbing at his head and curling his fingers through his hair. “Why—Why am I hurling like a freshman every morning, like, non-stop— What… What’s wrong with me?” 

“I’m going to do my best to explain it in layman’s terms.” Owens says that real slow, like he knows Steve can’t catch half the big medical words and sciencey shit he talks about. “And I want you to remember, before we get into any more detail, you’re not in danger. This isn’t going to kill you, and it shouldn’t have many detrimental effects on your health.” With this big sigh, he goes on. “When that creature implanted that little chest-burster—“ 

Steve’s eyes roll back in his head. “Please call it something else.”

“Sorry, the larval form. Because this happened mere seconds before Eleven closed the gate and eliminated One, it never developed into its next stage. In fact, it started to sort of… deviate, drawing from its more human biology. Sort of like cells changing type after being given orders— except, they weren’t being given any. Honestly, it’s absolutely remarkable, this—“ It makes him kind of sick, watching this huge smile break out over Owens’ face. “The only way this could’ve ever happened would be the exact sequence of events, taking place in the exact window of time that they did—“ 

“H-Hey, I know this must be exciting for you, but this is my life we’re talking about. Can you PLEASE—” Steve swallows, throwing his hands up and ducking his head. Okay, breathe, Harrington. He stops shouting and starts toning it down. “… Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

“Hey, if I were you, kid, I’d just be happy to be alive!” The guy pulls his hands back out, miming as he finishes. “But, point taken. When the gate closed, that ‘worm’ lost contact with what amounts to its nervous system. And when that happened, it took a cue from its human biology and began developing on a different path. Which, for whatever reason, wound up being human stem cells.” 

“… What?”

“As far as I can tell, Mr. Harrington—“ 

“Steve,” Steve croaks.

“Steve. You’ve got human tissue growing in your abdomen. And from what I can make out in the ultrasound, it resembles… Well—a zygote.” 

Steve’s stomach drops out through his ass. What the hell is that, some kind of tumor? “So— get it out!”

“Trust me, that would ordinarily be the safest option. But this… really isn’t your typical, cut-and-dry case.” The stool creaks as Owen sinks back onto it. “This ‘zygote’ created its own protective barrier, and that's attached itself to your abdominal wall, along with a lot of blood vessels. If you weigh the risks between tying off a couple hundred of those in a three-hour surgery, versus waiting until the protective sack gets large enough to avoid cutting through that area altogether… Well, let’s just say your odds of survival go up the longer we wait.” 

“… S-So what, I just—” Steve’s throat’s drying out bad enough to make his voice come out all raspy. “I just wait and let this thing grow inside me?” And if he forces Owens to cut it out now, he could die? How the hell is any of that okay? “H-How long? How long until you can—”

“Let’s see…  You would’ve been infected— or, maybe implanted’s a better word—a little over seven weeks ago. As far as I can tell, the development’s about double the rate it would be in a normal gestation. But, like I said earlier, it’s still… human tissue! It doesn’t make a whole lot of logical sense, but hey, that’s our M.O., right?” Leaning forward, Owens clasps his hands together, and Steve’s just gotta say, whatever kind of bedside manner this guy has, it sucks.  “Now, how about this: you come back here every couple of weeks— sooner, if anything changes or if you’ve got any more concerns— and we’ll keep checking up on things. And if it looks like we might be able to remove it any earlier, then we’ll get something set up to do so. Sound good?” 

“Uh no.” Steve shakes his head, hands clenching on the exam table so bad, the weird tissue paper cover starts ripping. “No, it doesn’t— It does not sound good. It sounds like— like shit!” 

“Steve, I realize that this is a very challenging situation to navigate. But you’ve got to understand— I’m trying to please a lot of different people at once. Some of them being a lot higher up on the hierarchy than I am! I’m not going to lie to you, the opportunity to research and document what’s happened to you is something we’re very interested in— but everything I’ve said up until this point is also true.” The guy grabs the clipboard, clicking the pen and writing something down like he didn’t just ruin Steve’s life. “Removing this little… passenger would, at this point, be a high-risk and potentially life-threatening procedure. But if you want to take that risk, that’s your prerogative. And if the risk level goes down sooner than what I’ve predicted, you’ll be the first to know.”

“Yeah? And what are you… predicting right now?” He said it’d get safer to remove it eventually, no matter what— right? “When do I get this thing taken out of me for sure?”

“Provided the rate of development stays the same… three more months, give or take?” 

Steve thinks he’s gonna puke again. “Three months?”

“Well, at least it’ll still be coming out, am I right?” Owens finishes scribbling, and gives Steve this smile that’s probably supposed to make Steve feel better.  “Things could’ve gone very differently. So come in if you’ve got any questions. I wouldn’t recommend calling; not a lot we can discuss over the phone. Oh! That reminds me. You’re employed at— what was it? The Family Video?”

“I’m a cop.” Y’know, an hour ago, it would’ve felt good when Steve said that. “I mean— trainee.” 

“Oh! Well, congratulations!” Owens rolls back, nodding, and writes something else on a sticky note. “Anyway, you’re going to want to go on medical leave soon. It would be best for all of us if you could stay out of the public eye until this is resolved. We can have some documents sent over— but I’m sure the chief knows the drill by now.”

“… That’s— That’s it? You’re just gonna leave me like this?”

“We’re not leaving you with anything! A long time ago, I told a few of your friends that all those people— the ones who made those bad decisions that led to the Upside Down in the first place— were gone. This time, I don’t have the luxury of pinning the blame on them. This is our mess, but you’ve got my word, we’re doing everything we can to clean it up. That includes this situation.” The guy goes still all of a sudden, and for the first time since he got here, Steve feels like he’s talking to a real person. “You won’t be dealing with this alone. You’ve got my word on that, too.” He claps his hands together, perking up. “Alright! And on that note, I’ll grab you a print out of some possible symptoms to expect. Of course, we couldn’t get too into detail, we have to keep things under wraps, and you never know who might wind up getting a peek if you happen to lose track of ‘em, but— just try to read between the lines.” 

 

*

 

“Well, this is just thrilling.” Steve reaches under the chair, feeling around for the lever so he can make it recline. Then he catches the look on Hopper’s face and— ooookay, got it. No reclining.

“Would it kill you to tone down the sarcasm? I live with a sixteen-year-old, I’m overdosing on it.” Hopper drums his fingers on the dash, but he’s not looking at Steve as he talks. Nope— he’s busy staring down Mrs. Dunnigan’s flamingo infested front yard. “This is gonna be the highlight of our entire week, so please, try to contain your enthusiasm.” 

“I’m just saying— who the hell would waste their time doing something like this?” They got a call to catch whatever dipshits keep knocking Dunnigan’s birdbath over— even though it could just be, like, an extra fat squirrel— and instead of telling her, no, they can’t help, because they’ve got real police shit to do, they’re having an honest-to-God stakeout. Which is pointless, for about a hundred reasons, but mainly— “Seriously, it’s Friday night! Midterms just ended, there’s a kegger at Jason Lewis’s house, and I guarantee that meathead’ll give even the most pizza-faced Chess Clubber free entry as long as he swipes his dad’s Marlboros first. Nobody over the age of 14 is gonna be anywhere near this dump—” Wait, shit. He has to be diplomatic and crap, officer-civilian relations— “I mean, house. Nice, normal-looking old lady’s house.” 

Hopper does this big, dramatic sigh, taking another slug of his coffee. “Hate to break it to you, kid, but as for our Friday night? This is pretty par for the course.” 

“Okay, fine! So—let’s jumpstart this shit! We bait the kid, put a decoy out—“

Hopper looks at him like he’s braindead. “A decoy birdbath.”

“Yeah! One that looks— I dunno— extra tempting. Super ugly, maybe, one of the ones with a bunch of plastic animals on top. Anyway, kid’s just gotta smash it to pieces, and then— boom!” Steve mimes trashing an invisible birdbath, doing a little explodey motion when it hits the ground. “We got our perp.”

Jim gives him this look like Steve just told him they should piss in Dunnigan’s hydrangeas. “… I think we’re gonna need to go over the difference between a ‘stakeout’ and ‘entrapment’.” 

“No, see you’re not— you’re not visualizing it! Like— I get it, you’ve been doing this for forty years or whatever, you’re set in your ways, but, y’know—maybe some fresh blood, bringing in some new ideas.” Hands up in this kind of ‘gimme a chance’ gesture, Steve shrugs. “It might get the ball roll—“ 

He jolts, curling up as a wave of nausea slams into him. He tries to grab the door, get his head out the window, do something in time to save Hopper’s detailing, but it’s projectile. Worse than the night he got crowned keg king, worse than Russian truth drugs, Steve’s upchucking his whole dinner onto the floor of the cruiser. 

“Jesus Christ!” Hopper jerks back like Steve’s infected with the plague. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Harrington?” 

It takes everything in him to sit up and wipe his mouth, but Steve forces himself to do it. “I-I can explain!”

“You been drinking tonight? Getting warmed up for that kegger you mentioned?” Hopper’s hand tightens around the steering wheel. “I swear to God, if I find out you fudged your drug test and you’re on some kind of—“ 

“What? No! I’m not—“ Steve’s not trying to sound like the biggest square in Hawkins here, but— “I don’t mess with that stuff!” 

“Oh, so it’s just rapid-onset food poisoning?” Yeah, Steve recognizes that tone. It’s the ‘you seriously expect me to believe that crap’ one.

Steve’s starting to feel screwed here. He’s trying to wrap his head around how, exactly, he’s gonna say this to the chief in a way that makes sense, when— “W-Wait! The documents. Owens—The lab. The lab guys. They sent these documents over to you, right?”

With a groan, Hopper falls back against his seat, thumb picking at the steering wheel. “Damn it, kid! You know how many of those I get a week? There’s some new missing piece of equipment or lost sample from the Upside Down every other goddamn day— and they’re all full of this bullshit, read-between-the-lines type of crap to keep things classified.” Hopper swears under his breath, opening his door and stomping over to the front of Dunnigan’s house. Steve watches as he bends down in the garden, twists the faucet on, and drags a hose back over to Steve’s side of the car, yanking the door open. “I’m sure they sent something over, but even if they did, I couldn’t tell what the hell it says.” The guy motions for Steve to get out, then shoves the dripping hose into his hands. “Now: tell me what this has to do with you ruining the floorboard of my car— which, by the way, is coming out of your paycheck.” 

“Alright! Alright, just— chill out, okay? It was an accident.” With his thumb wedged into the hose to up the water pressure, Steve starts spraying the puddle at the foot of his seat. Great. He’s fuzzy on the details. The only part he feels like he gets is that it’s humiliating. But here goes. “So. When I got stabbed by that thing while all the ‘end of the world’ stuff was happening, Owens said it was supposed to kill me, and explode out of my guts or something, but El closing all the gates and offing Vecna made it die, basically, so I figured, alright, cool! Not gonna die, and now I have a sick scar that makes me look like a badass—“ Even though he’d literally never be able to tell any girls the full story. But that was fine, he was workshopping a pretty good cover up. “A-Anyway, I thought that was it, and then… a couple days ago, I did—“ He gestures to the puddle on the floor. “—that all over my new place, so I went to see Owens and—“ 

Okay, see, this is the part where Steve’s a little less clear on what Owens said. “I guess it’s not dead, but it’s not a slug— it might be a tumor? Like, a ‘zygon’ or something—“ That’s what Owens said, right? Steve’s not a medical professional, okay? Why would he know that shit? “And they can’t operate on me to get it out until it’s bigger, ‘cause otherwise I’d bleed to death, so that’s cool, but—“ He’s sensing some major motormouth energy coming from himself right now; Robin’s definitely infected him with something, but realizing that at least gets him to shut up. “It’s not gonna kill me, so. That’s the game plan. I guess.”

Hopper cranes his head back, closes his eyes, and lets out this long, pissed-off breath. “… And you didn’t think to tell me about any of this until after you projectile vomited in my car.” 

Steve shrugs, leaning into his side of the cruiser so he can get at the last few chunks from a better angle. “I didn’t think it was gonna come up.”

“You didn’t think it was gonna come up.” Hopper repeats. “You’ve been aggressively throwing up because there’s an Upside Down monster tumor growing in your stomach, and you didn’t think it was gonna come up. Wait— Wait a second.” Hopper slides his palm down his face and stops to grab at his chin. “Did you say zygote?” 

“My memory’s not exactly photographic, but—maybe? It was definitely zy… something.” Steve sticks his head out again to take a look at the chief. “Why?”

“Because, Harrington. A zygote isn’t a tumor, it’s a—“ 

There’s a crackle from the scanner that makes both of them jump, and suddenly Callahan’s voice is blaring out, “Chief, we got a 311, along with a possible 647g near the old Hawkins Lab. Individual was last seen heading up Collins Drive and seemed to be acting aggressively, proceed with caution.”

“Shit.” Hopper yanks the hose out of Steve’s hand and chucks it, stomping around the front of the cruiser and getting in. “This is not end of discussion, are we clear? We will be circling back.”

Steve salutes, sliding onto his seat as fast as he can without getting his shoes more puke-y than they already are, and as soon as he slams the door, Hopper floors it. They’re only half a mile away from the lab— probably why Callahan radioed them—and Steve wracks his brain, trying to remember those codes. ‘Public Indecency’ and… what was it? Trespassing? So, what? Probably a homeless guy having a little too much fun with himself outside what’s left of the lab, and the lab people got a little nervous and called them to come take care of things. Is Steve looking forward to hauling the guy who fits that description downtown? Not exactly, but it beats staking out grandma’s garden by a long shot. 

Hopper rounds the corner, and Steve scans past the headlights for anything unusual. There’s a mist coming off the swamp on the side of the road, and the visibility slowly turns to shit, until Hopper’s forced to slow down. Even though the guy’s barely going twenty, the shape of a person seems to pop out of nowhere in front of them. The brakes screech, and Steve lurches forward, catching himself on the dash in time to look up and see what— who— they almost hit. 

The guy’s definitely indecently exposed. Steve’s never been gladder that Hopper’s cruiser’s so far off the ground, otherwise they’d both be getting an eyeful of his ass crack. The perp’s buck naked, covered in some kind of greenish liquid, and after Hopper almost slams into him, the guy whips around and—

Steve knows he and the chief are on the exact same page. They’re both thinking it, but Hopper’s the one who actually manages to spit it out:

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” 

Steve’s gotta say, Hopper took the words right out of his mouth. Because the naked guy in the road, who is very clearly alive, is supposed to— not be. He’s supposed to be dead. Steve knows that because he’d recognize this freak anywhere. Kind of hard to forget the face of a psycho who smashed a goddamn plate over your head. But here he is, walking, breathing, and glaring through the windshield at Steve and Hopper like a loose tiger. 

Billy fucking Hargrove.

Chapter 2: The Reappearance of Billy Hargrove

Standing there, glowing in the Blazer’s headlights, is a dead man. 

Steve’s been to his grave. He’s seen the way Starcourt messed with Max’s head for two straight years. He knows Billy Hargrove is dead. But this guy? He’s the spitting image of Hargrove, right down to the perm and pornstache. The only things that don’t line up are the fact that he’s dripping with slime, buck naked, and alive.

The evil twin, or Billy, or whatever-it-is, stumbles backwards, squints through the brights for a second, then slams his fists down on the hood of the car. “Watch where you’re FUCKING GOING!” 

That wakes Hopper up. “…This is that Hargrove kid.” He’s not asking.

The last time they got up close and personal, Steve came to with a concussion and plate shrapnel in his hair, but even that didn’t wipe the memory of this douchebag’s face. “Sure looks like him.”

“Thought he died.” Chief doesn’t even sound phased at this point, calmly watching Billy go apeshit on the cruiser.

“Oh, no, he’s for sure dead.” Steve jiggles his foot against the floorboard, thinking. What— did they just drive into some kind of nightmare fog from the Upside Down that makes you hallucinate the biggest maniac you’ve ever met? As much as Steve hates, and he means hates Robin’s little theory that Hawkins is some kind of weirdness magnet, he’s gotta admit, a part of him thought she had a point. And now that the proof is staring him right in the face… Jesus. She’s gonna be such a pain in the ass about this. “I’ve seen where he was buried. Guy got turned into a kabob. He should not be alive right now.” 

“And if he keeps dinging up my hood, he’s not gonna stay that way.” Hopper snaps out of it, swinging his door open and climbing down, Hargrove rounding on him like a rabid animal. “Relax, kid.” He puts both his hands up as if he’s negotiating an armed robbery, but unless Billy’s got a pistol where the sun don’t shine, Steve can’t see him pulling anything on the chief. 

Steve cracks his door and starts to get out, too, but the second he does, Hopper barks, “Back in the cruiser, rookie.” 

“You’re kidding, right?” Oh, now he’s definitely exiting the stupid vehicle. “The one guy on the force who’s not gonna bat an eye at this, and you’re telling me to get back in the car?”

Hargrove lifts a hand to block out the high beams, sizing Steve up like he’s the undead freakshow. “Harrington?”

“You heard what I said.” Hopper answers without taking his eyes off Hargrove. “I am ordering you, as your superior, to get back in the car. I know you think you’ve got an encyclopedic knowledge of castrating demogorgons, but you’re in no physical condition to be out here should things go south.” Hands still up, he moves another inch forward. “Which, bringing into account what I know about one William Hargrove, seems… likely.” 

“Yeah, that checks out.” Steve’s just gonna ignore the ‘physical condition’ part. The way he sees it, if he gets too far into Hargrove’s personal space and winds up getting socked in the gut, maybe the Upside Down tumor-thing will resolve itself.

“You do this to me, Harrington?”

“What?” Steve’s not sure he heard that right.

“You and those little freaks Max is always screwing around with.” His voice is low, but the tension—the way he’s building it up… It’s the same energy he was giving off before he tried to murder Steve with the Byers’ dinnerware. “That shadow thing, that girl it wanted to kill, those shits locking me in the sauna—there’s always a fucking trail that leads back to you—” Hargrove acts like Hopper doesn’t exist, closing in on Steve, but Steve plants his stupid feet and holds his ground. “—those little shits—“ Hopper comes around the hood, but Billy closes the gap between him and Steve with one more step. “—and that Byers freak who fucked your slut ex-girlfriend. So I’ll give you time to clean the crap out of your ears before I ask you again.” 

Hargrove puffs his chest out, throws his shoulders back, leaning in ’til they’re nose to nose. Steve doesn’t budge, doesn’t even blink, just balls his hands into fists. That energy starts building until Steve’s ears start ringing, until— 

“What the FUCK did you DO TO ME?” Billy charges him, grabbing a couple fistfuls of Steve’s uniform and hauling him forward faster than he can blink. Steve brings his hands up, pushing against Hargrove’s shoulders with everything he’s got as the psycho bulldozes into him. But right before he headbutts Steve hard enough to break his nose, Hargrove gets pulled off him and pinned to the hood of the cruiser—hard. 

“OKAY! Okay, okay…” Hopper leans his full weight on the guy, which, sure, isn’t the death sentence it would’ve been a few years ago, but it’s enough to keep Hargrove prone. “Alright—we gave it a shot. Talking nicely, communicating like adults… Clearly not your strong suit.”

“Get—OFF ME!” Billy thrashes as the chief fights to slap a pair of cuffs on him. “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” 

“How ‘bout next time you try making demands before assaulting an officer?” Hopper jerks his head towards the cruiser, and Steve gawks like a dumbass for a second before jogging around the Blazer and yanking the backseat open. With one hand on Hargrove’s head, the chief pulls him back up by the wrists, then forces him into the enclosure. Even though Billy’s built like a brick shithouse and jerks around like he’s tweaking the whole time, Hopper almost makes it look easy. 

Steve slams the door once Hargrove’s through, only half checking to make sure his foot’s out of the way first. Hopper climbs back into the driver’s seat, and Steve copies him, hand slipping down to his holster as the chief screws with the radio. 

“Callahan… Powell! Powell, do you copy?” There’s a crackle loud enough to make Steve wince, then nothing but static. “Callahan, this is Hopper, do you copy?”

Steve jumps out of his skin as a crash shakes the chassis. “If you don’t let me the FUCK OUT OF HERE, I SWEAR TO GOD—“ Hargrove does it again, bashing his whole weight against the screen, yelling at the top of his lungs. 

The radio screeches again and Steve grits his teeth. “Yeah, I don’t think he’s copying, man.”

“I can see that, Harrington.” Hopper curses under his breath, screwing with the dials before grabbing the microphone and growling, “Powell, now would be a real great time to get off your ass and remember how to play deputy.”  

“Am I talking to myself here?” Billy body-checks the cage again, right behind Steve’s seat. “I know you assholes can hear me!”

“You wanna try screaming some more?” Craning his head back, Steve raises his voice over Hargrove’s meltdown noises. “I don’t think I’m totally deaf yet.” 

Hargrove mashes his forehead against the screen, staring Steve down from underneath his bangs and a gallon of what’s probably Mindflayer ooze. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Harrington, but when I get my hands on you you’re gonna wish I’d ripped your goddamn head off back in the Byers’ shithole.”

Hopper’s head whips around, chucking the microphone and getting into as much of Hargrove’s personal space as the barrier’ll let him. “KID. Hargrove. When I tell you you’ve got the right to remain silent, that means shut the hell up and stop digging yourself in deeper.”

Hargrove leans back slowly, then cracks a grin. Then starts chuckling, then full on laughing. Cool. Steve can already see where this is headed. Sure enough, like a switch flipped in his brain, Billy smashes into the barrier harder than ever. “LET ME OUT OF THIS CAR!” He hits it again. “I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!” Guy rears back over and over, pounding against the grate with each word. “LET—! ME—! OUT—“ 

Steve’s fumbling with his holster, but Hopper’s faster. The chief’s got his gun out, muzzle held up to the screen before Hargrove can throw himself again. One look and Hargrove freezes, waits a few seconds, then slowly sinks down on his ass. “Alright, kid. I am not gonna repeat myself, so you’d better listen real carefully.” Hopper talks slowly, eyes locked on Billy, who glares right back. “I don’t know what the hell’s going on here any better than you do. All I do know is that I’ve got a juvenile delinquent who should, by all accounts, be deceased, acting hostile and making threats towards me and my junior. So, unless you wanna make this miracle resurrection a real short one, you’re gonna sit back, calm the hell down, and let us ask the questions.”

Hargrove keeps glaring hard enough to melt a hole in Hopper’s skull, but at least he keeps a sock in it. (He also doesn’t go back to pile driving the barrier or melt into flesh goop and slip under the door. So, hey, could be worse.) 

“Harrington.” The chief jerks his head down, eyeing Steve’s holster, and Steve gets the hint, pulling his gun free and aiming it at Billy while Hopper slowly turns around and starts the car. “Now, the plan was to call somebody and make you their problem, but now we’re gonna have to hold off on that ’til we get back to the station. We clear?” Hopper doesn’t give him time to answer. “First question: are you Billy Hargrove?”

Hargrove curls his lip, like the chief just let one rip right under his nose. “You trying to be fucking funny?” 

“Answer the question.” Hopper shifts into reverse, guiding the cruiser through a three point turn and stopping to give Billy another dirty look when they make eye contact. “Otherwise, we assume you’re a hostile entity and start shooting.”

Alright. Hargrove’s not what Steve would call worried, but the way he keeps checking out the pistol aimed between his eyes doesn’t scream ‘confident’, either. Eventually he just slumps further down in the seat, exhaling through his nose like he’s trying to hold back another tantrum. “… Yes.”

“Where did you come from? What’s the last thing you remember?” Hopper keeps the questions coming, coasting forward at a snail’s pace. Steve’s not sure if the chief’s trying to cover all his bases, driving slow in case Hargrove goes Rambo on their asses, or so he doesn’t send Steve flying through the windshield, but the way Steve sees it, this road trip’s gonna last a fucking eternity. 

“I don’t have to tell you shit—“ 

“Sure, man.” Steve makes a big deal about taking the safety off, and even though he can see Hopper’s bug-eyed look out of the corner of his eye, the chief doesn’t call him on it. “Go ahead! See what not talking gets you.” 

Hargrove doesn’t react a ton, but Steve still sees the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. The bastard’s actually gulping! Like he’s scared! Ohh, Steve doesn’t even care if they get sliced in half by a Mindflayer tentacle now—he’s gonna enjoy this. Silent for a couple seconds, Hargrove looks from the gun, to the back of Hopper’s head, to the gun again, then mutters, “I woke up in a giant pile of glass and shit. Like—Like a building fell on top of me. I don’t know where the hell I was, I don’t know where I am—“ He swallows, and this time, Steve hears it. “Only thing I recognize right now is Harrington’s little bitch face, so I guess I’m still in Pigshit, Indiana.” 

Still capping off at twenty-five miles an hour, Hopper keeps the interrogation going. “What about before that?”

Billy’s face crumples in on itself, like he just took an invisible shot to the nuts. “What.”

“Go back further,” Hopper rumbles. “Before that— before you woke up today. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Hargrove’s breath starts coming faster, getting a workout from whatever mental gymnastics he’s doing. The handcuffs jangle as his arms twitch behind his back.

Steve taps the muzzle against the screen and Hopper tries again. “Hargrove. Last thing you remember before tonight.”

“Wh-What, What do you want me to say?” Billy’s eyes go wide and shell-shocked, and his voice gets louder and louder as he talks. But it’s not the psycho screaming he was doing a minute ago, it’s more like—Jesus, Steve doesn’t know. Panicky. “You want me to say dying? Getting sliced up by that fucking thing in Starcourt? My insides melting because I couldn’t hold my body together anymore? You wanna hear about that?”

Steve’s reply dies in his throat. Damn. Part of him really thought this was gonna be like that long German word. The one Robin taught him, where it feels good to somebody suffer ‘cause they’re a total dickhead. “So… that’s a yes.” He hears his own voice, and it kinda feels like he just said his thoughts out loud. “To the being dead thing.”

Hargrove’s been acting wary since Steve took the safety off, but the way he leans towards the gun tells Steve he’s getting over his fear. “You better hope this stupid cage holds up, Harrington.”

“Hey, refresh my memory.” Hopper’s talking lower now, but not low enough that Billy can’t listen in. That’s gotta be his geezer hearing; he definitely thinks he’s being quieter than he is. “Last time this kid was on the scene, wasn’t he a meat puppet for the Mindflayer?” 

“Mm, yep. Something like that.” Steve mumbles, even though it doesn’t matter— Hargrove’s barely a foot away from him. “He was, like, the main one.”

“Think he’s who he says he is?” Hopper’s finally made it to Main Street, but he keeps the Blazer at grandma speed as he turns. “I mean, if there’s nothing left in the Upside Down to control him…”

“Yeah, I don’t think we’d be sitting here talking about it if there was.” The streetlights overhead keep flashing over Hargrove, hitting the weird slime he’s coated in, then blacking him out as the glow passes overhead. For the first time since he laid eyes on the guy, Steve notices all the nasty, raised-up lumps across his torso—a bunch of dark pink scars, the skin all stretched like there was barely enough to cover the holes. “But even if this guy’s the real deal…” 

Welp. Steve’s not gonna call that a win. His grip on the pistol loosens, but he keeps the muzzle pushed through the screen. Hargrove’s slumped back in his seat, barely moving as he stares out the window. Only thing he does is wrinkle his nose after a minute, then take a couple quick sniffs before he mutters, “Stinks like puke in here.”

Hopper turns real slow to glare at Steve, but Steve’s got his back mostly to the guy, so he can pretend he doesn’t notice. Still feels like an extra fifteen minutes before they make it back to the station, though.

“Son of a bitch!” Hopper slams the gear into park and jumps out of the car. Steve glances back and forth, stumped for a second before he turns around and spots the scrawny kid standing in front of the double doors. With the driver’s side hanging open, Steve can hear the chief loud and clear. “Why aren’t you home?” 

El says something back that Steve doesn’t catch, but when he starts to get out of the car, Hopper turns around and snaps at him.

“Stand your ground, Harrington!” The chief makes another pissed off bear noise and stomps back over to the cruiser, El hot on his heels. “What are you doing here? It’s a school night.” 

“I know, but—“ Steve watches out of the corner of his eye as the kid stops and shrugs. “Billy.”

“Yeah, Billy. And how the hell did you know about Billy, huh?” When Steve turns to look, El’s got guilt written all over her face. Hopper groans and starts massaging his forehead. “God damn it. You were spying again.”

“It isn’t spying! It’s—“ El’s mouth pops open and for a few seconds before she lands on, “—‘Keeping the Peace’.” 

“Oh, yeah? That it?” Yanking the rear door open, Hopper leans in to manhandle Hargrove, grabbing at the guy’s wrists before he starts to pry him out. “I thought we agreed: no ‘keeping the peace’ while your old man’s on the job, because that’s what I’m already doing.” 

“I like making sure you’re safe.” El says that, and Steve can tell it’s a low blow from the way Hopper slumps. Steve slides out of the passenger side, and as he walks around the hood, El mumbles, “Hi, Steve.”

Steve glances down at her, feeling like he’s gonna get in trouble for not reading her the riot act, too. “Uh— Hey, El.” 

“Keeping the peace. Christ. You sound like one of those goddamn commies.” Hopper finishes wrestling Hargrove out of the Blazer, and El’s eyes pop out, dropping down— “HARRINGTON!”

“SHIT!” Steve slaps his hands around El’s eyes, hopefully before she’s got the mental image of Billy Hargrove’s junk spot welded to the inside of her skull. “Got it!”

“Getting— real— goddamn— sick—“ The chief starts flapping one arm, shaking his jacket partway off, then switches hands so he can get the other arm free while keeping a grip on Hargrove’s cuffs. He ties it into a lumpy toga around Billy’s waist, then elbows his back so he’ll get a move on. “—of—goddamn—Hawkins…” 

El reaches up, yanking Steve’s hands down. “Hop!” 

“What?” Hopper stops, one hand on top of Hargrove’s head, and Hargrove, for whatever reason, is a total deer in the headlights, rubbernecking at El like he just saw a ghost. 

“Do not call Dr. Owens.” 

Hopper deflates. “You’re kidding.” 

“No!” El gets that intense vibe, staring daggers at Hopper from under her eyebrows. “You can’t call him. Please.” 

“Actually, kiddo, I can call him, and I’m going to.” The chief jerks Hargrove back and forth like he’s the ugliest bass he’s ever reeled in. “This? This whole—back from the dead, Upside Down zombie bullshit? It’s above my pay grade. Owens, though? Hell, it probably came up in his interview.” 

“El, come on, the guy’s one step away from going full Bundy.” Steve doesn’t bother keeping his voice down. Billy’s not gonna give a shit if Steve calls him a nutjob. Hell, the sick bastard wears it like a badge of honor. “Just let the lab guys handle it.”

“Stop!” El squeezes herself between Hopper and the door to the station, pressing up against it and blocking their way. Pretty nice of her, since Steve knows she could’ve pushed ‘em back forty feet with one eye twitch. “I need you to listen to us.”

“Us?” Hopper’s head whips around as El nods at something behind him, and when Steve turns to look, a whole clown car of dipshits is climbing out of the tiny green Pinto parked a few spots away. “Jesus Christ. El, you didn’t.” 

Something about the smirk breaking out on El’s face tells Steve she’s over the guilt.

“Chief!” Sinclair’s leading the pack, but he stumbles and stops a couple feet away from Hargrove, with Byers, Mike and Henderson almost bowling him over. “We—I think we should talk. Before you, uh… do anything drastic.” 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.” Hopper shoves Billy’s head down after noticing the guy’s glaring at Sinclair like the kid masterminded his whole night. “No. NO. We are not doing this. Everyone go home. NOW.”

“Hop!” Joyce Byers brings up the rear, skirting around the sophomore squad and grabbing El’s shoulder. “A-Alright. I don’t have the full story, but we were talking on the way over here—“ 

“We think handing him over to Owens is a bad idea,” Mike adds.

“Really?” Hopper deadpans. Billy lunges, trying to make a break for it, but the chief yanks him back so quick the ooze on his feet leaves skid marks. “Does everyone know about this?”

“No, not—“ Sinclair works his jaw for a second. “Not Max.” 

Steve swears Hargrove’s head turns just, like, half an inch, and he wonders if anyone else caught it. 

“It was a pretty unanimous decision that telling her right now would be a shitty—ow!” 

Dustin starts blurting, but Byers clocks him.

“Not. NOW.”

“Well, this suspect’s been arrested for disorderly conduct and public indecency, which means…” Hopper fixes his grip on Hargrove’s cuffs, not even batting an eyelash when the guy starts cussing and squirming again. “No matter how much you want to have a nice, long talk about where to store this little shit, he’s still under my jurisdiction.” He yanks Hargrove forward, reaching for the door.

El gives Steve this look, like she’s asking him to reason with the chief, but Steve shoots a ‘don’t drag me into this’ look right back. “Can’t go against the chief, kid. It’s out of my hands.” 

“Hop, wait.” Mrs. Byers squeezes against El so now they’re both blocking the doors. The chief’s obviously pissed at having his fifth attempt at getting Billy in the building screwed over, but doesn’t force his way in. “Just hear what the kids have to say. That’s all we’re asking.”

Hopper looks at Mrs. Byers, then over to El’s ‘I will never forgive you for this if you don’t listen to me’ face, and folds like a house of cards. “… You’re really twisting my arm here. Scoot, kid.” El doesn’t budge, clearly not buying it. “We can talk, alright? But I’d like to move two feet without dragging a naked teenage menace with me. How’s this: I put him in a cell, get him some pants, and then we hash it out. Sound good?” 

“… Okay.” The kid finally slides to one side, and Mrs. Byers pulls the door open for Hopper to drag Billy through. 

Steve makes sure the chief and Hargrove make it inside, then looks down to see Henderson scoping out his uniform. “Whoa. You were serious about this cop shit, huh?”

“Yeah, Henderson, it’s called following through.” He fixes his belt, just to make sure the holster’s still on right after all the holding-at-gunpoint shit from earlier. “Maybe try it sometime.”

Henderson’s face breaks out in this huge, asshole grin. “You look like a total douche.”

“Oh, ha, ha, ha. Bite me, Gumby.” Steve lets Henderson start to follow the rest of the dipshits in, then swings his arm out, yanking the kid back by the shirt collar so Steve can get through the door first.

 

*

 

Five minutes later and they’re all packed into the hall by the holding cells. The tension’s thicker than Gordon Dunnigan’s prescription glasses, and Steve can only kind of enjoy Hargrove sulking on the bench, stuffed into the only pair of sweatpants they had on hand. (Neon green with a bunch of what Steve’s guessing are pee stains.) El gave him the all clear, scanning his brain for a few minutes to make sure there wasn’t any Mindflayer crawling around in there. Steve’s not sure he trusts her diagnosis, but they’ve got bigger problems than Billy subleasing his brain.

“So. Walk me through this one more time.” The chief’s pinching the bridge of his nose, probably working on a migraine, and Steve’s not far behind him. “What, exactly, is the problem with Owens? His people can test Hargrove, make sure he’s not a walking biohazard, and they’ll ship him back home once he’s got a clean bill of health.”

Hargrove gets up from the bench, dragging his feet over to the bars and glaring at everybody from under his slimy bangs. “I already told you. That thing isn’t in my brain anymore, I don’t need any pricks in lab-coats sticking needles and shit into me, telling me if I’ve got five minutes left to live. So let me out of this stupid cage so I can fucking leave.”

Mrs. Byers does that wide-eyed stare Will gets sometimes, glancing at Hargrove real fast, like she can’t believe somebody that scummy actually exists. Then she turns back towards the chief and goes on like she didn’t hear him. “Hop, even if he is alright, I don’t think they’d just let him back on the streets. When Will—When he wound up in the Upside Down, he kept having to go back again and again… They didn’t loosen their grip on him for over a year.”

“We don’t even know how Billy’s here right now,” adds Mike. “It could be the lab, or the Russians… Even if it’s just… somehow connected to the Upside Down, that means the lab would have to get involved. But if we send him to Owens, there’s no way he wouldn’t keep Billy locked up in there. He’d want to study him.”

“Billy saved me,” El whispers, and Billy stops squirming in the holding cell for a second. It’s almost like he’s hanging on her every word. “I never want to go back to the lab. I never want to live there again. He…” Kid looks like she knows she’s fighting an uphill battle, trying to get the rest of them on her side with this. “He should not have to live there, either.”

“Yeah, but— that Owens guy is…” Steve’s had more one-on-one time with him than he ever thought he would, and— “He’s normal, right?” Steve knows the first guy was kind of an evil control freak, but Owens seems pretty cool. Seriously; the idea of sticking Billy with the lab guys has Steve feeling bad for them more than anything. “Didn’t he… re-do the whole lab, and clear out all the asswipe doctors, so it’s nice now?”  That’s basically the gist of it. Steve looks over at El and asks, “I know the place messed you up pretty bad when you were a kid, but it’s gotta be different now, right?”

“The lab is like… prison.” El looks at him like he’s a moron. “And nice prison is still prison.”

“Owens is…” Mike shrugs. “Okay. But a few years ago, Brenner was still around, running things behind the scenes. There’s stuff Owens probably didn’t even know about. Or… maybe he did know, but he wasn’t allowed to talk about it. Even if Brenner’s dead now, and Owens seems like he’s in charge, that doesn’t mean he really is. It could be somebody else—somebody worse.”

“Sam Owens has been very transparent with us,” Mrs. Byers says. “He’s tried to help us as much as he can. So… if this—if Billy was something even he wasn’t allowed to talk about, then…”

Will hunches nervously, glancing at Hargrove. “Maybe we really weren’t supposed to know about him.”

“They’ll probably make us swear to secrecy,” adds Sinclair. “Or worse.”

Dustin gives this panicky hop. “Hey, I didn’t consent to this!”

Hargrove mutters behind the bars. “Shut up.”

“You literally did,” sasses Mike. “We all rode here together.”  

“We could be monitored for the rest of our lives! Or tortured, o-or given truth serum—“ Henderson starts babbling, then looks at Steve, panicking. “I have seen that first hand, and I do not want to partake!” 

Hargrove presses the top of his head against the bars. “I said, SHUT UP.”

“For Christ’s sake, how big of a secret could he be?” Swinging an arm towards the cell, Hopper argues, “We found him streaking through the swamp near the Christianson’s farm, that doesn’t exactly scream ‘classified’.” 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Hargrove fucking roars, loud enough that even the dipshits go quiet. “I don’t know what this lab shit is all about, but if you try to send me there, I start breaking noses.” 

“Alright,” the chief starts slow, like he doesn’t want the trouble of setting Billy off again. “How ‘bout this.  We—“ Hopper swipes his hands together. “—wipe our hands of it! Kid’s eighteen. We waive his bail, and whatever happens from there, happens. If the lab finds him, or if he winds up dead in a ditch somewhere, we’re not involved. As far as anyone knows, we never even saw him. Hargrove’s legally an adult. He can handle it solo.”

After a pause, Mike mutters, “Well, if you let him go, the lab’s definitely going to get him”

Byers does his best impression of a bobblehead, nodding real fast. “As someone who’s been ‘dead’ before… people are gonna notice if he’s suddenly back in Hawkins.”

Head snapping up, Hargrove growls, “So I don’t stay in Hawkins.”

Steve’s gotta hand it to the kid, the way Mike rolls his eyes like Billy’s barely worth his time is pretty fun to watch. “Well, they tracked El all the way across the country, so good luck with that.” 

Hopper shakes his head, clearly done with this bullshit. “It’s starting to sound like all roads lead back to the lab. What do you say we cut out the middle man and just call Owens?” 

“No!” El shouts, punching her fist down angrily enough to make the lights flicker.

“Well, what if he’s better off in the lab?” Hopper argues. “What if the kid needs some kind of life support or special pills to keep him from melting into goo?”

Hargrove sticks his face between the gap in the bars, sounding out the words like he thinks they’re all too slow to catch on.“If I die, then I fucking die.”

Steve cups his chin, really giving it some thought. “Might have to take that risk.” 

“Okay, okay.” Henderson does the ‘back up’ gesture with his hands, wandering towards Billy’s cage. “So—Lab bad. It’s like jail. I get that. But why, exactly, are we not in favor of sending this certified sociopath to some kind of prison, metaphorical or otherwise?”

The second he wanders close enough, Hargrove jumps at Dustin, grabbing the bars loud enough to make the kid scream. “Watch your hands, toothless.” 

“See?” Dustin squawks, darting behind Hopper. “He’s a menace to society! He needs rehabilitation! Government funded, safe-behind-bigger-bars-than-this rehabilitation.” 

Steve sticks his hand in the air. “Well, if we’re voting, I gotta side with Henderson on this one.”

“That make you feel like a big man, Harrington?” Billy crows from the cell. “Y’know, instead of where it counts—“

“Boys—“ Mrs. Byers starts.  

“Works for me.” Hopper’s hand goes up too. “All in favor?”

Henderson’s arm shoots into the air, but no one else budges. 

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Seriously?”

“Look, this isn’t about what we want!” Sinclair steps forward, then looks over his shoulder at Hargrove. “It isn’t even about what this asshole deserves. If living in the lab is like a prison… Even if it’s worse than prison…” He turns away with a weak shrug. “Sure, I can’t think of anybody who deserves that more than him, from all the stuff he did to Max alone.” Lucas looks back again, and his eyes lock on to Hargrove. The split second where they’re staring at each other has to be the most uncomfortable thing Steve’s witnessed since Henderson’s HAM radio duet. 

“Believe me, I hate this guy more than I’ve ever hated anyone… But if Max ever wants to see him again, even if it’s just so she can say good riddance to his face…” Sinclair looks around at all of them, this total helplessness on his face, and suddenly, Steve feels like garbage. Not for Hargrove—fuck no—but for Lucas. Max. For the way Sinclair’s gotta go to bat for the piece of shit rotting ten feet behind him, all because Max was stuck with the title of Billy’s step-sister. “If he gets locked up in the lab, she never will. I-I don’t know what she wants. I don’t know if it’d give her any— any closure, or if it’d make things worse, for her to see him, but…” Lucas’s bottom lip is bunched up, like he can’t handle giving his little speech for much longer. “I’m not gonna be the one to decide that. I don’t know why she’d want to see him. But if she does, and we took that chance away from her, I’d…” The next part feels like it’s what the kid’s been wrestling with this whole time. “I’d never be able to forgive myself.” 

Everybody’s dead quiet after that. Even Hargrove, back turned to the rest of them, doesn’t make a peep.

“He can’t stay in there forever.” Hopper says, grimly sizing Billy up.

Everybody looks around at each other, realizing they’re about to start the world’s shittiest game of hot potato. 

“Don’t look at me!” Henderson’s hands fly up like he’s under arrest. “My mom would have an aneurysm! Plus, last time I brought something home that defied the laws of nature, it ate my cat.” The look he gives Billy says he’s not sure it won’t happen again.

Mike wrinkles his nose. “My dad’s clueless, but he can still smell.” Steve’s not sure if he’s talking about the weird slime stink, or the cigarette funk that’s probably baked into Hargrove’s bones at this point, but either way—fair. 

“Our house?” asks El.

“Ohhh, no. Hell no.” The chief’s talking from behind his hand again, holding his face like his head’s about to fall off his neck. “We’ve got too many people stuffed in there already. Besides, the doctor’s been real generous about our whole… living situation, but Mike hit the nail on the head. He’s gonna be keeping tabs on you for the rest of your life. And if you don’t want this…” Hopper drops his hands and starts picking between a few choice words—probably ‘thing’, ‘scumbag’, ‘freak’—before he settles on: “… him to wind up locked in the lab for the rest of his life, he needs to stay somewhere Owens won’t be dropping in.” 

Everybody turns to Sinclair. Must have something to do with his pep talk from earlier. “You’re kidding, right? I vouched for the guy, that’s my good deed for the century.” He glances back over to the cell, probably expecting to see Hargrove whispering threats, but the guy’s back is still turned. “Besides, Erica can’t keep a secret— especially if the secret is that I tried to hide a whole-ass man in my basement.”

Okay, Sinclair’s out. Mike’s out, Henderson’s out, and Jim’s out, which means the Byers are, too… 

Ah, shit.

Steve turns to Lucas. “How long did you say you’d need before you tell Max?”

“I didn’t,” Lucas grumbles, then shrinks into himself. “I-I mean… I don’t know. I don’t know if I even will. I’m not sure she can handle it.” He turns to Steve— yeah, newsflash, kid, the puppy-dog eyes don’t work so well when you’re pushing 5’10.

“Well, that’s just great.” Good thing Steve’s a light sleeper. Honestly, he’s still banking on the freak melting into a puddle overnight. “Fine. But you owe me, Sinclair.” 

“Wait.” The Chief looks at him. “That might not be the best call.” 

“Hey, I’m not thrilled either, but I can handle it.” Not like they’re drowning in options here, and Steve gets the sense that Hargrove’s gonna require 24 hour surveillance. 

“No, you can’t.” Dustin pipes up. “Are we forgetting the part where he broke a plate over your head? Or beat your ass so bad we had to drug him?” Smartass does this little, condescending tsk-tsk. “I’m not always gonna be there to save your skin, Steve.” 

“You know I’ve got a taser now, right?” Steve pats his holster, then jabs a finger towards Henderson. “Not that I need it. Trust me, without you little shits distracting me, if there is a round two, it’s going down different.” 

“Ohh, yeah. For sure.” Henderson nods, then turns to mouth at the other snots, ‘There’s no fucking way.’

Steve glares. “I saw that, Henderson.” 

“If you’ll recall,” The Chief starts raising his voice, “not fifteen seconds ago, I mentioned that might not be the best idea.” Arms crossed over his chest, he jerks his head at Steve. “You wanna tell them why? Or am I gonna have to do it?”

Not that there was a ton there to begin with, but Steve feels the wind drop right out of his sails. “… Kind of feel like that’s on a need-to-know basis.”

“Rookie.” 

Shit. “So that— that time when the world almost ended? You guys… You guys remember that.” Steve looks around and. Yeah. They, uh— they remember that. “Anyway, that thing I was fighting stabbed me, and there was this worm crawling around, under my skin. Like whatever turned those people in Starcourt into filleted—“ 

“Flayed,” Henderson nitpicks.

“Yeah, that’s what I said. So— when the gate closed, and Vecna got offed, everything connected to the Upside Down was supposed to die, so the slug thing should’ve died, but because it was made of people, instead it got turned back into—“ 

“He’s pregnant.”

Everyone gawks at Hopper, Steve included. It takes him minute to stop choking on his tongue enough to talk.

“HEY! H-Hey, whoa— nobody— nobody said that.” Steve’s eyes dart around crazily as he wracks his brain, trying to remember all the doctor crap Owens told him. “It’s like—It’s like a tapeworm! It’s not Upside Down spooge anymore, so it’s not gonna kill me, but it’s growing on my organs and shit, so they’re gonna cut it out when it’s bigger. Owens even had a weird name for it, it was a— like a— zee… zy—“ 

“Zygote,” Hopper grunts.

“Yeah!” Steve snaps his fingers. See? It’s whatever that thing is. He just said it wrong earlier, and the chief got this batshit idea and ran with it. “Yeah, it’s that.”

“Ohhhh my God.” Henderson’s pale, looking ready to start rocking on his heels in full breakdown position. “Steve, there is no way you’re this fucking stupid.

“Can it, Henderson.” Look, Steve might’ve flunked Bio once, but that doesn’t mean everybody else speaks Dustin’s college textbook medical… mumbo-jumbo. “… Why.”

Mrs. Byers, who’s gotten real quiet, finally adds her two cents. “Steve, honey. That’s… That’s a baby.”

Steve blinks. “What.”

“Y-You’re sure he said that word? Exactly that— zygote?”

It sounds like she’s talking to him from a mile away. “Yeah?”

“That’s… That’s the stage before a fetus.” She hammers it in, just in case Steve’s still too dumb to get it. “A baby.” 

They’re fucking with him, right? “… No. That’s just—” Okay, well—then he must’ve heard Owens wrong! If it was that, the guy would’ve told him! Said… that word, instead of zy-whatever. That’s in all that… doctor-patient oath shit! Besides, what the hell is Steve thinking, taking Henderson’s word for this? He can count the number of boobs the kid’s touched on one fist, the hell does he know about making babies? “Okay, well, you’re wrong, so—“ 

Henderson clicks his tongue. “… Yeah, there’s no way we’re leaving you alone with Billy.” 

“I mean, I do have this now.” Steve whips out his taser and zaps the air a few times.

Damn, is that an insulting look on Henderson’s face. “Actually, no, I do not feel reassured by that, Steve.” 

“Well? What are we doing?” Is Steve deflecting because he doesn’t want to think about the whole fetus situation? Maybe! Who cares? “Sounds like we covered all our bases here. We tried! It’s no skin off my back if you wanna just—“ He mimes chucking a package out the back of a van. “—call Owens and ship him back to sender.” 

“If Max wants that? Fine.” Sinclair’s at it again, playing dirty. “But not until we know for sure.” 

“It’ll probably just be a couple of weeks.” Mrs. Byers adds some wishful thinking to the mix, giving Steve these sad, concerned eyes—even though she doesn’t offer to take Hargrove off his hands or anything. “We’ll all help out until we have a plan.”  

“No offense, Mrs. Byers, but did you miss the part where he almost murdered Steve? Oh, and the rest of us!” At least Henderson’s got his back, even if he has to humiliate him in the process. “Oh, and he helped the Mindflayer actually kill like a hundred people to use as a giant meat puppet to murder El!”

“That was not him.” El’s voice is barely a mumble, but it’s intense enough to be loud and clear. “He did not want to do that.” 

Everyone shuts up again. The only sound is Hargrove’s bare feet hitting the concrete as he paces his cell. Steve’s gonna bet they’re all thinking the same thing: everybody but El is ready to send Billy Hargrove back underground and never think about this night, or him, ever again. But nobody wants to be the one to make that call.  

Billy staying with anybody here would be a shitty match-up. It’s just that Steve’s just lucky enough to be the least shitty. And of course he is. He’s the fucking babysitter.

Hopper glares around the room, first at Steve, then at Steve’s taser Joyce, Sinclair, El—

Then he swears under his breath, stomping over to the cell. 

Unhooking the keys from his belt, the chief unlocks the door, then clomps over so close to Hargrove that there’s barely an inch between them. Steve has to say, he really enjoys the way Billy’s gotta look up at Hopper. 

“If you lay a hand on any of these kids, if you lay a hand on Harrington, if you use any kind of violence on anyone, period, and I find out about it—” The chief’s voice is calm, but each word comes out like he’s barely holding himself back. “—you’ll be on a one-way trip to the lab, strapped down to a table so they can play Operation with whatever’s left of you. Am I making myself clear?” 

Hargrove works his jaw, staring Hopper down and looking ready to fucking murder him. There’s a pause long enough for Steve to start holding his breath before Billy answers, exhaling slowly through his nose and growling a quiet, “Yes, sir.” 

Chapter 3: Gray Area

Steve can feel Hargrove glaring a hole through the side of his head as he reaches up and fixes the mirror, but like hell is he gonna look at the guy. It’s weird enough that he got in the Chevy at all. (Y’know, without Hopper having to knock him out and toss him in the trunk or something.) Guy’s taking up as much space as he can on the passenger side, and even though they chucked a towel in the holding cell so Hargrove could scrub some of that weird gunk off, Steve guarantees whatever’s left of it’s gonna get wedged into the cracks of the upholstery. 

Cool.

And you know what? It just figures, with Steve’s luck, that the first person he’s brought back to his place in a month would be Billy Hargrove. The last one was Ramona White, that night he bumped into her at Save-A-Lot in the middle of boot camp, and he actually managed to score dinner with her. Among… other things. (Night might’ve taken a weird turn when he got her back to his place—he had to pull some excuse out of his ass when she saw the weird puncture wound in his gut—but he’d take that conversation over rooming with Hargrove indefinitely in a goddamn heartbeat.)

The silence is starting to drive Steve crazy. Feels like the last time Hargrove shut up for this long, Steve had a gun pointed at him. But as long as he’s gonna sit there and sulk, Steve figures he might as well lay down some ground rules. “You can crash on the couch.”

Hargrove’s head twitches, like he was gonna look over at Steve, or at least react, but then decided it wasn’t worth the effort. 

“And don’t eat all my food. I mean, if you even need to eat anymore.” For all Steve knows, the guy might get by on sunlight and Metallica. “And if you’re gonna—“ 

“What, you think you can tell me what to do just ‘cause you’re a pig now?” Hargrove cranes his neck back, finally facing Steve and flashing this shit-eating smirk.

“No. I think I can tell you what to do ‘cause I’m the only thing standing between you and a lifetime in one of those giant test tube things.” What, was Hargrove completely tuned out for that whole game of ‘not it’ they played at the station? Does he seriously think he’s got people lining up to let him couch surf? “And if you mess with any of my stuff, or go ballistic and punch a hole through the wall, I’m calling Owens, he’ll get a whole hazmat crew over here to haul you away, and you’re gonna be his fucking problem.” 

Yeah, see, Steve’d love to show Hopper that he can handle this, and that the guy didn’t royally screw up by letting him on the force, but he’s got his limits. And one of them is not waking up to Hargrove trying to smother him with a pillow. “I don’t give a shit if El’s mad at me, or if Max lost some… make-believe opportunity to patch things up with you. ‘Cause guess what! We both know that shit’s not happening!” Steve follows the dotted line with his eyes. “She can just keep thinking you’re six feet under. It’ll be good for her.” 

Steve can picture a vein throbbing in Hargrove’s forehead, and the creep does another slow, deep inhale like he’s about to reach out and wring Steve’s neck. He doesn’t act on it, though. Either he doesn’t want to admit Steve got under his skin, or he knows that strangling Steve right now would total the Chevy and take both of them out. 

Slowing down, Steve turns into the entrance, driving all the way to the back of the lot so he can park under the one busted streetlight. He feels like a total moron, doing a scan of the empty parking lot as he steps out of the truck. As if he’s gonna see a bunch of lab people doing fucking reconnaissance behind the dumpster at one in the morning. Slamming the door, Steve trudges towards his place, not really he expecting to hear Hargrove’s bare feet on the asphalt behind him. He does, though— which is weird, since Steve expected the asshole to make a break for it as soon as the truck stopped.

“The trust fund run out or something?” Hargrove’s catching up, hands jammed in the pockets of the station’s communal sweatpants. He tilts his head towards the busted dumpster in the alley behind Steve’s unit. “Or is this just where you come to pick up chicks?” 

“Why? Does it look familiar?” Steve stomps up the steps to the second floor, not bothering to look back as he answers. “Maybe it’s where you got your crabs.” Unless being dead for two years got rid of ‘em.

Hargrove’s full of shit, anyway. “Hawkins Heights” is about the polar opposite of classy, but the worst thing Steve’s seen skulking around his complex is that possum Mrs. Dunham in 4B thinks is a cat. It doesn’t even hold a candle to the Forest Hills. Kinda ironic, considering that’s where Hargrove’s gonna be rotting in a few weeks if Max decides she wants anything to do with him. 

Steve pulls out his keys, taking his time thumbing through them, like he’s gonna somehow delay the inevitable. Hargrove stalks up behind him, grabbing the skinny metal railing on the edge of the landing and jiggling it back and forth with this rusty screech. Sighing, Steve unlocks the door and pushes his way in, muttering a quick, “And take your shoes—” before he remembers that’s not gonna be a problem. 

Hargrove barges past him, knocking Steve into the doorframe as he makes a beeline for the fridge. Steve slams the door and bolts it, kicking his shoes off so he can tail the guy. By the time he’s in the kitchen, Hargrove’s already cracked open one of his Millers, chugging it like he’s dying of thirst. 

“Hey! HEY!” Steve makes a grab for the can, but Hargrove pulls it back. “What’d I just say?”

“The fuck are you mad about?” Hargrove takes a second to down another third, then wipes his mouth on his wrist. “You can’t drink ‘em.” 

“What?” Steve squints.

“Stinks like cat piss in here.” Hargrove twitches his nose, then walks back into the living room. 

“Jesus Christ.” Steve keeps tailing him, because what else is he supposed to do, let the dickwipe turn his place into ground zero? Sure enough, Hargrove must have some kind of sonar for expensive crap; he’s already screwing with Steve’s tape deck. “My shit, man. Do not. Touch. My shit.” 

“This?” Hargrove pulls a fake surprised face, pointing. “You don’t want me to touch this?” He pops the compartment open, then looks Steve dead in the eye as he tips his can over and pours beer right into the tape well. “Oops.”

“HEY!” Steve thinks his life’s flashing before his eyes. He knocks the can out of Billy’s hand and shoves him back, pulling his sleeve over his hand and scrubbing the tape well like he’s doing CPR. “Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me?” Steve rounds on the guy, ready to smash the tape deck over his head, since it’s already broken—but holds himself back, fingers twitching as they ball into fists. 

Asshole’s not worth it. 

Besides, Steve signed up for this. Y’know—since nobody else would do it. Ha. Wonder why. 

Billy bends, picks the can up off the floor, then slurps the last teaspoon of beer, eyeing Steve in a way that says he’s not even bothered that he didn’t take the bait. “Where’s my car?”

“You want my best guess?” Steve pushes his hair back, too paranoid to try and sit down, or back up, in case Hargrove’s gorilla brain takes that as some kind of challenge. “Probably scrap metal by now.”

Hargrove acts like Steve manned the wrecking ball himself, clenching his jaw as his voice drops down an octave. “You wanna repeat that, Harrington?”

“Hang on, are you—are you actually surprised?” Yeah, Steve’s got no clue if Billy’s car was trashed, he just likes to think it was. Doesn’t matter if it’s sitting in the dump, or if his scumbag dad skipped town with it—point is, that Camaro’s history. “You’ve been dead for two years. They weren’t gonna keep your shit in storage, man. You weren’t on fucking vacation, they buried you.” 

Steve doesn’t even know if there was a body to bury. Even if he’d cared, he sure as hell wasn’t gonna ask Max and find out. Kid had enough to deal with.

Hargrove’s face slips back into the smirk he had on earlier. He drums his fingers on the Miller can a few times, then squeezes it hard enough to dent the metal. “Then I’ll give ‘em one hell of a homecoming.”

Hargrove heads for the door, and Steve doesn’t bother chasing him. “Alright, man, go ahead. See what happens.” God, Steve should just let him go, so he can find out the hard way. But after the night he’s had, Steve’s just gotta rub his face in it a little. “Bet whoever bought the place’d love to let some half-naked freak crash there.”

With a hand on the doorknob, Hargrove freezes. “The hell are you bitching about?” 

“Nobody lives there.” Well, not nobody, just— “Your dad screwed off and left town after you died. Max and her mom were broke, so they had to move to the trailer park.” Shit. Probably shouldn’t have said that part out loud. “And if you try showing up there, we’re gonna have a fucking problem.” 

“You gonna stop me, Harrington?” Hargrove’s hand slides off the doorknob and he turns, voice dropping to a whisper, ‘cause apparently that makes him feel like some kind of badass. “‘Cause I would love to see you try.” Guy shakes his head, does this dumb chuckle, like the whole idea cracks him up. “If that dump’s where they’re keeping all my shit—“ 

“Why the fuck would they keep any of your shit?” Steve’s just gotta know—does he hear himself when he talks? Or does he live in some kind of fantasy world where anybody in Hawkins actually liked him? “You treated her mom like crap—you made Max’s life a living hell.” Her words, not Steve’s. “I’ve watched that kid get dragged through the wringer, just from remembering the shit you used to do to her.” Steve’s not even gonna pretend he knows her that well—she’s not like Henderson, constantly shoving his face in Steve’s business. He’s not sure they’ve even had a conversation when the world wasn’t ending. But even Steve isn’t enough of an idiot to miss how badly Billy messed her up. “The nicest thing you ever did for her was die, so trust me—your stuff’s not gonna be over there.”

Maybe it really pissed Hargrove off that Steve had the balls to talk down to him like that, but the guy does not respond well. He’s in Steve’s face again before he can react, his eyes calm, but his body language is fucking furious. Steve’s hands snap back into fists, ready for a repeat of that night at the Byers. 

It can’t last more than two seconds. Feels like hours. And Steve’s ready for it, his heart pounding in his chest, wishing he’d snuck his taser home in his civvies, then thinking, fuck that, I don’t need it. Hargrove rears back, Steve moves to dodge—but the hit doesn’t come. Hargrove’s eyes flicker down, and he drops his fist at his side, muttering, “This is bullshit.”

Steve lets out a shaky breath, watching the guy turn on his heel and stomp over to his—no. “HEY!” Steve sees it in slo-mo, Hargrove stomping through the door to Steve’s room, over to his mattress—and then dropping down face-first on the comforter. “Not my bed, man!” 

Hargrove doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even lift his face off the mattress so he can breathe. Steve thinks, for one incredible second, that he might’ve keeled over dead, but then he catches the rise and fall of the dickhead’s back. Awesome. Even if Steve could move the guy—and he can’t, Hargrove’s got the body density of a rhino—the damage is done. He already got that weird goop all over Steve’s sheets. Steve stands there stupidly, watching Billy do an impression of what he’s been up to for the past two years, then turns on his heel and grumbles, “Yeah. Alright. Fine.” Steve flicks the light switch, leaving the door wide open—he should probably take the knob off, to be safe, but he’s beat. “Lights out, asswipe.” 

Fingers still twitching with this pent up energy, Steve drags his feet back into the living room, shooting a pissed-off look at his tape deck before collapsing on the couch. The numbers on the VCR clock feel brighter than a searchlight and Steve groans, flipping over on his side. Y’know, as much as he can with the 10 inches of space he’s got to work with. It’s way past midnight, and Steve’s supposed to have a check-in with Owens tomorrow morning. 

Yeah. About that.

Henderson’s gotta be full of shit. Here’s what happened: Owens said something to Steve, and it started with a ‘z’, and now everybody’s got the wrong idea because Steve didn’t remember the word right. Tomorrow he’s gonna clear things up with Owens, tell everyone it was a false alarm, and not have to hear the word ‘pregnant’ again until he’s settled down, gotten married, and done that to a girl. 

Flipping on his back, Steve glances at the bedroom real quick. Hargrove’s still facedown on the bed, breathing slower than he was a minute ago. Swallowing, Steve looks down, reaches for his shirt, and pulls it up over his stomach. 

He can’t see for shit, but everything looks the same. The glow of the streetlights through the blinds doesn’t give him a ton of visibility as he scopes things out, but Steve squints and watches for—he doesn’t know, something. Anything weird. He’s half sure he’s gonna see that huge, nasty slug—twice the size it was two months ago—suddenly push up under his skin and start slithering around. But after staring for a while, the only thing moving is the rise and fall of his stomach as he breathes.

The bites and weird rope burns Steve got from the demobats a year ago have healed up. He’s got a few scars left, but they faded out to basically nothing a while ago. There aren’t any new lumps under the skin, and when he arches his back, really checking out the shape of his stomach, it’s flat. The only thing that stands out is the gash where that giant flayed thing stabbed him. It’s still shiny and scabbed over, just under his belly button and a little to the left.

Steve would know, right? For Christ’s sake, how could he not, that’s not the kind of shit you just forget to mention to somebody! No way in hell it slipped Owens mind that he should’ve been all, ‘Hey, by the way, that thing growing by your kidneys that we can’t take out without killing you? It might be alive!’

See? It just doesn’t add up. Tomorrow, Steve’ll get the whole story. He’ll clear things up with Hopper and keep Henderson from spreading this crackpot story to everyone in Hawkins, and it’ll be one less thing on Steve’s stupid, way-too-full plate. 

He rolls over again, squints at the clock. 

12:56.

Now if he could get some fucking sleep before then. 

 

*

 

The next morning, Hargrove still hasn’t dissolved into a pile of jello. He didn’t pass peacefully in the night, either—unless Steve’s imagining the snoring shaking the walls of his bedroom. 

Seems like a shitty call to leave Hargrove alone in his place, but Steve’s basically screwed no matter what he does. He either leaves and Billy trashes his apartment, or the jackass bails while he’s gone and suddenly it’s Steve’s fault when he gets dissected by Owens’ eggheads. And, yeah, Steve’s not losing any sleep if that’s how things play out, but after that little speech Sinclair gave at the station, he just knows the kid’s gonna give him crap for the rest of his life if he screws this up. In the end, Steve settles for hiding all his good food in the veggie drawer, unplugging the VCR so he can slide it under the couch, and triple-bolting the door on the way out.

Twenty minutes later and he’s back on an exam table, hands in his lap, trying to figure out when he can ask the question that’s been melting a hole in his brain. “Is the get-up really necessary?” 

Seriously—does Steve have to have his ass out to the world every time they take his pulse? All it does is get his hopes up, and makes him think something must’ve changed, and it turns out that they can slice this thing out of him today. 

“It’s for hygienic purposes, Steve. You’d be surprised the sort of infections that can spread via clothing.” Owens grins and shoots Steve a thumbs up. “But don’t worry—you really know how to pull it off!” 

Christ, Steve hates the buddy-buddy doctor schtick. “Look—can we just cut to the chase?”  Now’s the worst goddamn time for Steve to forget how to talk, but it still takes him a minute to spit it out. “Is this… Y-You didn’t say it was, like—a baby, right?” Shit, even saying that word out loud makes Steve’s heart rate pick up. 

“What we’re working with is a bit of a gray area.” That shrug Owens does isn’t boosting Steve’s confidence much. “At this stage, making an exact diagnosis is tricky, but from what we’ve seen so far—” The guy wheels his stool over to the desk, picking through a few of those stupid folders until he finds whatever he’s looking for, sliding a couple sheets out and and holding one up for Steve. “Here’s an ultrasound of a fetus at about 13 weeks. Already pretty human shaped, right? And here—” He doesn’t give Steve a chance to answer, lifting another black and white print of what looks like those ink blob therapy tests. “—is the one I took of your abdominal cavity today.” 

“So it’s… a blob.” Steve’s eyes dart back and forth between the pictures until he feels nauseous, trying to spot the fucking difference like his life depends on it. Honestly, they both look like a couple of carpet stains, but holy shit, Steve does not like where this conversation’s headed.

“To the untrained eye? Sure.” Owens chuckles, like it’s cute. Like it’s some funny little in-joke. Meanwhile, Steve’s losing the feeling in his fingers and wondering if he’s about to pass out. And that’s before Owens starts pointing out little spots on Steve’s ink blob like he’s reading braille. “But look closer, and this seems to be a head… leg, fingers, toes… And, hey, lucky you! They’re all in the right spots.” 

Steve sits there, looking like a total mouth breather, gawking dumbly as Owens goes on and on, ‘cause apparently he missed his calling as one of those family planning doctors. 

“So it is a…” Steve tries to get the word out, but it’s not coming.

“Like I said—it’s a gray area. I don’t want to make any guarantees, especially with how unpredictable anything related to the Upside Down can be. Everything could change at the drop of a hat, which is why it’s so important that you—” Owens points his pen at Steve. “—keep coming in every week. The development could go in a completely different direction, the pouch might detach from your abdominal wall on its own and be safely removed—but as of right now, with everything we do know? I’d say there’s about a ninety percent chance this will be a functionally normal fetus.” Clicking his pen, Owens thinks for a second, then tacks on, “Other than the fact that it’s growing twice as fast.” 

Steve’s got nothing. He flashes back to Hargrove shattering a plate on his skull, because that’s the only thing he’s felt that comes close to this.

“I hope I’m not overstepping here, but this seems like a bit of a shock to you.” Fucking understatement of the year, right there. Owens eyebrows crawl up towards his hair. “Did I not… mention this the last time?” 

“Uh, no!” Is that Steve’s voice? Seriously—is that actually him talking? He hasn’t hit that octave since before his balls dropped. “Nope! You didn’t!” 

This is crazy. This is crazy, this is—insane! This is ‘sign him up for Pennhurst, because Steve’s officially lost his goddamn mind’. He thought it was a hunk of people meat! Like a tumor! Yeah, sure, a tumor with teeth and hair, and all that weird shit, but not—this! Steve’s two seconds from a total psychotic breakdown, and this guy’s asking if he forgot the to mention the little tidbit about it being a fucking baby!? Yeah, man! That might’ve been kind of important.

“Ah. My mistake.” After clicking his pen a few times, Owens puts his clipboard on his lap and holds out a hand. “Well, congratulations, Steve!”

Steve thinks he might cry. “… For what?”

Owens tilts his head, like it should be obvious, then grinds some salt into the wound. “On becoming the world’s first pregnant man.”  

 

*

 

Steve’s not sure how he makes it to the station without crashing his truck. It’s fake. Owens is screwing with him. Maybe he thought Steve couldn’t handle the truth, maybe the real story is that he has a couple weeks left before this thing poisons his bloodstream, or crawls out through his bellybutton and kills him. And, for whatever weird-ass reason, the guy figured this crackpot bullshit would keep Steve off his back just long enough to die and stop being a problem. 

Yeah, sure, Mrs. Byers would say Owens isn’t that type. But he still works for a place that did shit like kidnap random kids and traumatize them until they were psychic. Point is, Steve doesn’t buy it. 

“Alright. Medical leave.” Hopper wrinkles his brow, flipping through the packet of paper like it’s the first time he’s ever looked at it. “So… You get paid medical leave, provided you check in with the medical section every two weeks, in person. And the medical section is…” The chief flips through a few more pages, looks through his office window at the three other people working today, and sighs. “… Me.” 

“The, uh—“ Steve swipes a finger under his nose, staring at the coffee ring on Hopper’s desk. “The coming in part. Can we just… skip it?” Scoops Ahoy was bad enough. Seriously, Steve still has flashbacks about how girls would look at him in that getup. He doesn’t even want to imagine how much more of an eyesore he’s gonna be after another month of this shit.

“No can do, Harrington.” Setting the papers down, Hopper leans back in his chair ’til it creaks. “We can’t file this as… Well. The correct term, for obvious reasons. But you can stop reporting in a month before your…” Hopper looks like the word gives him a bad taste in his mouth, and Steve’s right there with him when he spits out, “… delivery.”

“Jesus.” Steve drops his head in his hands and groans. Should’ve aimed a little further—clocked his skull on the corner of the desk and knocked himself out. 

“I’ve gotta put something in the report.” At least the chief takes the hint and moves on. “Any thoughts?”

“Can’t I just say it’s a tumor?” Steve slides his hands down his face, shooting Hopper a ‘kill me now’ look from between his fingers. 

“A rapidly growing tumor that’s inhibiting your ability to work and requires invasive surgery in order to be removed…” Seems like Hopper’s whole attitude changes, just slightly. He goes from looking like he’d do anything to get out of this conversation to just plain tired. “Insurance company might wonder why you’re not getting chemo.” 

“Okay, so…” Steve sits up straighter, throws his hands in the air, then drops them in his lap. Whatever, man. He gives up. “Tell ‘em I…” Shit. What’d Dustin say? All Steve remembers is that it’s barely less of a nutshot than what they’re trying to cover up. “I’ve got… sir… rosis. Henderson said it’s—” 

“I’m familiar.” The guy pops the cap off his pen and starts writing, then notices the look Steve’s giving him. “…You have enough hops for breakfast, you start hearing about it.” With a sigh, Hopper hunches back over the paper. “That’ll work.” 

Five minutes later, Steve drags himself out of the chief’s office, just in time for a wad of paper to ding the side of his head. 

“Whoops!” Barnes shoots him a douchey grin from his desk. “My bad, Harrington! Missed the basket by—” He pinches his fingers together. “—thiiiis much.” 

Steve ducks and snatches the paper off the floor, gearing up to chuck it back, but freezes when Flo stops typing and shoots him a glare. Damn it. He drops it in the trash and she makes a little ‘mm’ noise, clacking away again.

“Heard you’re going on leave,” adds Barnes. “Tell me, how am I supposed to get through the next two weeks without watching you kiss the chief’s ass all day?”

Flo clears her throat—loud—and Barnes ducks his head. 

“The chief’s gonna, uh…” Steve shrugs at Flo, gesturing towards the office awkwardly. “H-He’s gonna… handle the rest.” 

Flo just nods, doesn’t even look up from her keyboard. Steve ducks his head, heading for the door—Hargrove’s probably bailed, or burned his apartment to the ground in the time Steve’s been gone, but he should get a move on just in case. 

Maybe Steve’s just losing it, but he swears that, right before he’s out of earshot, he hears Flo mutter a quick, “Good luck, hon.” 

 

*

 

The bright side—y’know, for Robin, anyway—is that Steve gets to chauffeur her to all her classes every time Vickie can’t take her. And, yeah, Steve’s not thrilled that she still doesn’t have a license—seriously, what is she blowing 240 bucks a month on, trombone polish?—but he also hasn’t seen her since move-in day. 

Hargrove was still passed out when Steve got back from the station. Anybody else, and Steve might’ve been worried, but the way he sees it, if the guy’s in a coma, that makes Steve’s job that much easier. 

He picks Robin up outside her parents’ place, and something’s off. She’s got a turtleneck on, and she keeps hunching her shoulders like it’s cold, even though the temperature’s pushing 75. She drops down in the passenger seat, going a mile a minute about her stuck-up prick of a Lit professor, and Steve sees it. Just for a split second when she goes to slam the door—a blotchy, red spot on the side of her neck.

“Oh my God.” Steve grins.

“What?” Robin whips her head around, checking her pants for cat hair or something before looking back up at Steve. 

“You and Vickie, huh?” He shifts the Chevy into drive and drums his fingers on the wheel, not even trying to wipe the smirk off his face. “Gotta say, it’s about time.”

“Could you elaborate?” Fumbling for the seatbelt, Robin finally gets it to click after the third try. “Because I’m not really following all this vague… smugness.”

Steve clears his throat, takes a hand off the wheel, and taps the side of his neck. 

For such a smartass, it takes her a minute. But then, after a couple seconds, Robin’s eyes get all huge and she turns firetruck red, slapping a hand over her collar. 

“Victoria McDonald. Who knew! I mean—” Steve leans over, trying to grab at the turtleneck to get a better look, but Robin jerks away from him like he’s got the plague. “—look at the size of that thing! She’s an animal.” 

Robin slides down in her seat like a pancake somebody threw at a wall. “Did it occur to you that maybe, possibly, the reason I wore this today was because I didn’t want the entire population of Hawkins theorizing about my love-life?” 

“Hey, we’ve been over this! This, right here—” Steve does this wide arc with his arm around the cabin. “—is like the fortress of secret-tude. Nothing leaves this car. Got it?”

Robin crosses her arms and does a pissy little grunt. 

“Okay, great.” Steve waits a second, rolling his tongue over his front teeth as he thinks. Honest to God, he tries to hold back, but— “Was she any good?” 

“STEVE!” 

“What! It’s just a question!” She doesn’t have to answer! Steve’s just curious, he’s allowed to be curious. 

“That’s none of your business!” Sputtering like a motorboat, Robin has to give it a couple tries before she gets the whole sentence together. “And even if I wanted to discuss the intricacies of our relationship with you, which I currently do not, don’t we have a more pressing issue?”

“What, did that guy in Campbell’s class try the yawn-and-stretch on you again?” Creep says he’s just trying to copy her notes, but every time Robin lets him, she loses another inch of personal space.

“No, actually. I was referring to the bombshell Dustin dropped on me at work yesterday.” Robin hikes herself back up, glaring up at the open vanity mirror before slamming it shut. “I had some kind of muscle spasm and broke a copy of E.T.. As in, shattered it. Keith’s taking it out of my paycheck, which means I’ll be broke for a month.” Hands thrown up in this ‘why me’ pose, Robin rolls her head back and moans. “I barely have any money for gas—how am I supposed to afford to take Vickie to see Masquerade? You of all people should know that a small popcorn and no drink does not a good movie date make.” 

“So take her to Skull Rock!” Yeah, Steve’s not seeing the problem here. “It’s free, plus she’s obviously—” Steve aims another jab at Robin’s neck, but she anticipates and grabs his wrist. “—an expert on what to do there!” 

“There would be other people at Skull Rock, Steve. People with eyes? Who might see us being ‘experts’?” Still gripping his wrist, Robin yanks his hand back onto the steering wheel. “Please tell me you understand why that might be concerning.” 

“Hey, man, I’m just trying to help!” Steve shrugs. “It’s not my fault you broke that stupid tape.”

“Actually? By proxy, it kind of is!” Robin argues. “If you’d told me about your immaculate conception before I went into work—”

“Oh, give me a break.” With a groan, Steve grinds the heel of his palm into his forehead. “Henderson? Henderson told you about that?” And she’s buying it? What, is he gonna see it written on the marquee at Hawk Theater next? “I’m gonna wring his scrawny neck.”

“Steve, I’m being serious!” Feels like Robin wants him to concentrate on what she’s saying, but he’s a little busy driving her ass to school. “This isn’t about some breach of trust in your weird little brotherhood with Dustin. This is—this is some huge, life-changing development that you didn’t even think to tell me about!”

“I know!” Steve slams his hands on the steering wheel, trying to force his heartbeat to calm down. Jesus. Why do they have to talk about this right now? Can’t today just be normal for five goddamn minutes? “I know, okay? Look, I’ll—I’ll chip in for E.T.” 

“This isn’t about E.T.!” Grumbling, Robin shakes her head “I mean—that sucked, I’m pissed about it, but…” Steve glances at her, watching her eyes dart around while she thinks. “What Dustin told me sounds insane. What if it’s really serious? Steve—what if this could kill you?” 

“It’s not gonna kill me, Robin!” Shit. He’s gotta stop snapping at her like this. Sounds way too much like his dad. “They said I’ll be fine. It’s just… If they try to take it out now, it’d be dicey.” 

“So you have to just… what?” There’s this nervous scratching sound, and Steve’s not looking anymore, but he’s gonna bet she started picking at that spot on the upholstery he’s told her to leave alone about a hundred times. “Wait indefinitely?” 

“Just… two and a half more months.” Give or take. “Unless something changes and they can take it out sooner.”

“Okay…” Robin’s voice is smaller than Steve’s heard it in ages. The last time was probably that night they were lying on the floor of that Starcourt bathroom. Great—like Steve didn’t feel shitty enough already. “So you make it through mostly unscathed, and they remove it. What happens after that?”

Steve shakes his head, not sure he wants to know what she’s getting at. “Then it’s over, and I’m—” He pulls a hand off the wheel again, echoing her with a couple of air quotes. “—‘mostly unscathed’.”

“Yeah, but…” The scratching stops. Robin sounds like this isn’t a conversation she even wants to have, and if they both feel that way, Steve’s not sure why it’s still happening. “Are you going to keep it?”

That black and white printout flashes into Steve’s head. God, he wishes he hadn’t watched Owens point out all those different body parts. Would’ve made this shit so much easier. “I don’t think I get to make that call. Pretty sure the lab’s got dibs on it.” Steve’s just spitballing here, but he figures he can’t be too far off. “If it’s even… normal, it’ll probably just wind up as some kind of lab rat.” 

But it’s not gonna be normal. Owens is a science geek, pretending to be a doctor so they can make sure this whole shit-show stays top secret. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about, there isn’t gonna be a normal kid at the end of this, and there’s no reason Steve—or Robin—should be worrying about an ‘after’. 

“Oh.” The way her tone gets all sad and raspy—Christ. Is she trying to torture him? “Poor little guy.” 

Steve’s throat goes bone dry. Fuck. They’re only halfway down Old 77. Five more minutes ’til they get to Manchester, and they never have to talk about this again. 

Robin speaks up again. “Do you think they’d ever let you—“ 

“Jesus, Robin! Can we be done?” Steve slams his hand on the dash, already fucking up and raising his voice again. “Can we be done with the third degree?” 

“Okay!” Robin yelps. “Fine. God.” She puts her elbow on the armrest, turning to stare out the window. For a minute, Steve really thinks Robin’s finished, but he should’ve known better. “Just—one more thing.” She must see the vein about to explode in Steve’s forehead, so she adds, “Not about this! I swear.”

Sure, man. Why not. Robin’s gonna ask him anyway. She might as well keep piling it on. “Fine. Shoot.” 

“Dustin…” Robin closes her eyes, takes one of those deep, calming hippie breaths. “…may have also told me about Billy.” 

 

*

 

By the end of the day, Hargrove’s awake and still bumming around, but Steve knows he didn't stay all the way put. The missing twenty from his nightstand, plus the pack of Marlboro Reds sitting on the coffee table didn’t happen on their own. But you know what? Steve officially doesn’t give a shit. If the guy wants to get thrown in the back of a van and carted off to the lab just ‘cause he couldn’t go two days without a hit of nicotine, Steve’s not gonna get in his way. 

He’s scrubbing his face in the shower when the phone rings. And rings. Goes off a third time— 

“Shit.”

Steve scrambles, almost slips, and yanks the curtain open, stepping onto the rug and throwing a towel around his waist. “HEY! Hargrove! You wanna get that?!”

Another ring. Yeah, Steve’s not sure why he even bothered to ask.

Throwing the bathroom door open, he sprints across the apartment. It’s gotta be Hopper—none of the dipshits use a landline besides Henderson, and it can’t be him since school’s still in session.

Hargrove’s sprawled on the couch, cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth while he opens the centerfold in one of Steve’s copies of Hustler. Guy doesn’t even look up as Steve hauls ass past him. Must’ve had a real busy day, smoking a whole pack, lifting the weights Hopper nabbed from the evidence locker and contaminating Steve’s skin mags. Maybe Steve’s just dense, but this isn’t seeming a whole lot different from jail.

He’s just inches from grabbing the receiver when the ring cuts off. He snatches it, puts it up to his ear, but all he hears is the dial tone. “Damn it!” 

Chucking the receiver back down, Steve hikes his towel up and stomps past the couch. “Hello? The phone?” He snaps his fingers a couple times near Hargrove’s head. “Are you deaf or some shit?”

“I’m supposed to be dead, remember?” Hargrove lowers the magazine, takes another deep drag, and stares Steve down like he’s thinking real hard about something. 

After a few seconds of Hargrove eyeballing him, Steve snaps, “What.”

Hargrove jerks his chin up, then waves the hand holding the cigarette towards Steve’s chest. “You’re starting to get tits.” 

Steve doesn’t look down, because Hargrove’s obviously full of it. But he might lift one hand up, once Hargrove’s eyes are back on the magazine, and press a couple fingers into one of his pecs. 

… Shit.

Chapter 4: Homecoming

The front door to the apartment slams and Steve jolts awake. 

For a second, he’s not sure what’s going on. He thinks it’s the neighbors, or maybe he left the door unlocked and somebody was blackout drunk enough to barge into his apartment. Or—God, what if it’s his folks following up on that ‘law enforcement isn’t a real career’ line of thinking, and they’re here to take back the Chevy? Steve sits there waking up for a few more seconds, and then everything that’s happened in the last couple of days starts to come crawling back. He doesn’t technically live alone anymore, and now he remembers why that noise he just heard is a problem.

Hargrove. 

Shit.

Steve moves to get out of bed, but something stops him. If Hargrove’s gonna bail—if he’s really gonna say ‘screw it’, and go on the lam… 

Steve could just let him, right? He could always say he tried to stop him, and just deal with the fallout from El and Sinclair later. Not like anyone else is gonna shed a tear if he loses track of the bastard. Besides, Steve’ll feel like an idiot if he chases the guy halfway across town just to find him buying a six pack at 7-11.

… On the other hand, it’s probably just a matter of time until Hargrove loses his temper again. And if he goes Rambo on some poor cashier’s ass just for mentioning how much he looks like a dead guy, Steve could be in some seriously hot water. 

Like he said: shit.

He slides off the bed, still in his clothes from yesterday, and races to the door, jamming his bare feet into his shoes. Bolting out onto the walkway, Steve scans the parking lot, checking down the stairs and around the corner—but it looks like Hargrove’s already AWOL. Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to talk himself out of it—because seriously, why should he even bother?—then darts back into his apartment, grabs his keys, and hauls ass down the steps to his truck. 

He drives around the parking lot a few times, but comes up empty. Unless Hargrove climbed into a dumpster to wait him out, Steve figures he’s not here. Next, he hits the 7-11 on the corner of Poplar and Beech, where the jackass probably slipped out the first time to get his smokes. He runs in and scans the aisles, tuning out the zitty sophomore kid at the counter asking if he’s gonna buy anything, then books it. Peeling out of the parking lot, Steve does a slow drive-by the front of the party store, trying to spot a sheepdog mullet or anybody violating the ‘No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service’ sign, but the place is a ghost town. 

Letting out a low, deep breath, Steve takes the Chevy around the block one more time so he can think. It’s 11:30, Hawkins has a grand total of 3 stores open, and for all he knows, Hargrove might’ve already hitched a ride out of the state by now. Not like he had any shit to pack before he left.

Wait. 

Steve coasts to a stop at a red light, drums his fingers on the steering wheel, then leans back against the headrest and groans. There’s one more place he could check. And as much as he’d like to believe Hargrove’s real destination is the ‘Adult Supercenter’ off of I-90, his gut says otherwise. So, when the light turns green, Steve heads left, turning down Kerley towards Forest Hills. 

He hasn’t been here in months. It always seemed weird to Steve that anyone bothered to rebuild it after Vecna. Half the park falling into the center of the earth seemed like it would’ve been a good excuse for everybody to grab their crap and move on to someplace less depressing. From the looks of it as Steve pulls in, a lot of people had the same idea. There are only three cars in the whole park—one of ‘em being Mrs. Hargrove’s old Chevy. Steve doesn’t pull all the way up the drive, stopping just before his headlights hit the side of Max’s trailer. 

Maybe Steve’s wrong about this. God, he hopes so. He keeps picturing Hargrove smashing the door down, giving Max’s mom a heart attack and sending Max straight into a nervous breakdown. He shuts the Chevy off and slips outside, keeping a hand on the door as he looks up at the glow through the living room window. He feels stupid enough for even telling Hargrove she’d be here—even if the psycho didn’t walk a mile to try and raid her place, if Max hears Steve doing recon outside her front door and asks why the hell he’s here, then Steve’s still up shit creek.

Max passes by the window as Steve creeps down the driveway and he freezes. She’s talking—to her mom, Steve figures—and smiling. She rolls her eyes at something her mom says, then moves out of view. Swallowing, Steve takes another couple of steps, finally noticing the dark shape squatted on the front stairs. 

The trailer park doesn’t have any street lights, so all Steve has to work with is the glow from the window above and the light at the end of Hargrove’s cigarette. Steve looks up—he can’t see much from this angle, but he can start to make out Max and her mom’s voices. Not any words, but whatever Max just said made her mom laugh. Steve knows the last time he saw Mrs. Hargrove, she looked more sober than she’d been in a year. 

Hargrove doesn’t say anything when Steve reaches the first step. 

“What, couldn’t find the spare key?” There aren’t any dents on the door, so Steve’s guessing he didn’t try to beat it down. 

Taking a long drag, Hargrove stares at the Chevy with this glazed over look on his face. “Take me back.” 

Steve looks at the window one more time.  He can see the top of Max and her mom’s heads, probably sitting together on the couch. The T.V.’s drowning them out now—guess they’re putting on a movie. “What?”

Hargrove springs up so fast Steve almost flinches. The bastard’s right in his face again, trying to burn a hole through Steve’s skull with his eyes. “Take. Me. Back.” Guy says it quiet, like he’s barely keeping his voice down, but Steve’s not sure why he’s bothering. Hargrove doesn’t strike him as the type to give a damn about public disturbances. “None of my stuff’s here, and I’m not walking back to your shitstain apartment.” 

“That right?” God, screw this. Steve’s over it. “And who says I’m gonna let you back in my ‘shitstain apartment’, huh?” He let Hargrove slime up his bed, bust his tape deck, and forced Steve to put together a one man search party to tail him all the way across town, and for what? Just in case there’s an off chance that Max might want to be within fifty feet of him again? Look at her, she’s happy! Actually happy. Steve’s officially seen her smiling more in the last twenty seconds than the rest of the three years she’s been in Hawkins put together. You know what? Sinclair doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about—there’s no ‘if’. Steve doesn’t need El’s brain invader powers to know there’s no way in hell Max wants to ruin the good streak she’s got going.

Hargrove keeps staring him down, eyes half closed. They look bloodshot, but maybe they’re always like that. Not like Steve would know. A few seconds creep by and Hargrove shoves past him, shoulder checking him on the way as he trudges towards the Chevy.

“Hey!” Steve’s voice comes out a little too loud, so he brings it back down to a whisper, stomping after Hargrove. “Hey! The hell do you think you’re doing?”

Hargrove doesn’t even look at him as he yanks the passenger side open, dropping into the seat and slamming the door. Steve gawks like an idiot, watching Hargrove glare out the window, the hand on the armrest still twitching around his cigarette. Steve turns to check behind him—maybe he’s expecting Max to have heard him and come running out to see what’s going on—but the only thing that’s changed is the lights have turned off. The window’s dark, flashing dimly every couple of seconds from the glow of the T.V.

Steve jingles his keys in his hands, weighing his options. Doesn’t take him long, since there really aren’t any. After closing his eyes, Steve says this pointless prayer that Hargrove’ll be gone when he opens ‘em, but it doesn’t work. When he looks, the guy’s still greasing up the inside of the Chevy, so Steve gives in. He stomps back to the truck, climbing into the driver’s seat and starting the engine. Hargrove brings the cigarette to his mouth again, inhaling deep and then shooting smoke out through his nose. Steve grits his teeth and reaches for the window controls, rolling the passenger side down.

Christ. It’s like fucking purgatory. Another drive with Hargrove, tension building the whole time as Steve waits for the guy to start raging or screaming his head off. But it never comes. He just sits there, eyes glued to the window, that hand holding the cigarette doing these weird, jerky shakes.

Halfway back up Kerley, Hargrove finally speaks. “I’d rather off myself than live in that shithole.” 

Steve can see that hand still twitching out of the corner of his eye. Yeah. Well. 

Maybe Steve’s a fucking moron, but he doesn’t buy that for a second.

 

*

 

“Late night?”

Steve runs a hand through his hair, trying to loosen up the parts that are glued to the side of his head. “Yeah, something like that.” He steps aside, opening the door wider so Hopper can get in. “You sure you're not up for a little trade off? You take Hargrove for a while, I get to…” Steve thinks for a minute, then shrugs weakly when he can’t come up with anything. “…not have him here?” 

“Y’know, I’d love to, kid,” Hopper starts, and Steve watches him drop a few folded up shirts and jeans on the arm of the couch. Gotta be from Mrs. Byers; Steve can’t picture the chief worrying about Hargrove’s wardrobe. “But we’re out of vacancy.”

“Worth a shot,” Steve sighs.

“Anyway, I’d hate to be disingenuous, but this isn’t just a wellness check.” The chief straightens up and crosses his arms. “You know that clean-up site off Randolph? Near the old lab?”

What, is Steve supposed to have them all memorized? Half of Hawkins is a construction site right now. “I mean, no, but—”

“Yeah, well, turns out the ‘quakes’ uncovered something.” Hopper’s eyes scan the room, landing on the balcony where Hargrove’s smoking his fifth cigarette of the morning. “Think we may finally have a point of origin for your new roommate.” 

“Six feet under?” Steve’s not saying Hargrove literally clawed his way out of the grave, but to be fair, he doesn’t think anybody checked.

“Try six stories.” Clearing his throat, the chief turns his eyes back on Steve, looking more stressed than Steve’s seen him in a while—and that includes the time he spent corralling Hargrove two nights ago. “Powell and I got down there and most of it was trashed. All these floor to ceiling tanks, smashed up, but nothing in them. The Soviets, they…” The chief clenches his jaw, eyebrows scrunching up as he pauses. “They had rooms like that. Bastards kept a whole wing of demodogs in tanks. Doing God knows what kinds of experiments on them. But this wasn’t their equipment.” 

“You sure?” Steve’s not trying to doubt the guy, but after the shit he went through under Starcourt, he wouldn’t count anything out. “I was down in that freaky base of theirs, it went on for miles. This could be part of it, or—”

“It was English,” Hopper grunts.

“Huh?”

“English, Harrington.” Hopper mimes like he’s gesturing to all the test tubes, and beakers, and other nerd crap Steve doesn’t need to know the names for. “The labels, diagrams, lab equipment. All in English.” 

Well, when he puts it like that. “…Yeah, okay. No Russians.”

“There’s more,” adds Hopper. “This bunker, or whatever you want to call it, was on Hawkins Lab property. But considering all activity was supposed to be shut down after ’84, along with the fact that Hargrove only just now appeared…”

“You think someone else was running it?” Not the Russians. No Germans or anything, right?Had to be somebody who speaks English. “What, like— Canadians?”

Hopper opens his mouth for a second, then shuts it, like it’s not worth telling Steve how far off the mark he is. “That’s a… theory. But I’m thinking it’s more along the lines of what Mike said. Owens wasn’t always top dog at the lab. Plus, he was displaced for a few years after that chemical leak story.” 

“So then…” Yeah, Steve’s not following here. “Who Frankensteined Hargrove back to life?” 

“The Lab was involved in a lot of shady shit. They’d kept most of it under wraps, very successfully, before Will went missing.” Either the chief thinks Steve’s place might be bugged, or he doesn’t want Hargrove listening in, because his voice is down to a mumble. “But I don’t think we’re dealing with a bunch of resurrected dead kids. Hargrove was probably a special case. The rest of what we found down there, it looked like…” Hopper shakes his head, staring somewhere past Steve’s shoulder as he thinks. “When I said it was like the Russians, what I mean is, I think they were studying things from the Upside Down. A lot of them. And I don’t think Hargrove’s the only thing that got out after the quake.” 

Steve stares at the chief dumbly, finally piping up when he finds the words. “But El closed the gate for good. We all saw her do it, Vecna’s a pile of ash.” He thins his lips together, this thought crawling into his head about how he would’ve popped like a meat balloon if El had been a minute too late. “That would’ve killed anything left in there, right? They wouldn’t have been connected to that… brain hive thing.”

“That’s how this is supposed to work.” His tone tells Steve that he’s not buying it. “But considering you’ve got a dead man walking around your apartment, I wouldn’t be too quick to rule anything out.”

 

*

 

“And this is…” Steve does the weakest, saddest gesture he can manage towards his chest. “…totally necessary?” He gets that the weird little scanner things aren’t gonna stick to hair, but he’s grieving. 

The corner of Owens’ mouth curls up. “You’ve asked that a few times already.”

“Sorry, just— seems like overkill.” Steve heaves a sigh, lying back on the exam table. “I mean, you already took my pulse, and my blood. While you’re at it, why don’t you stick a thermometer up my— OW.” He jolts up, ducking his head to hiss at the raw, red circle on his chest.

The sticker still in his hand, Owens winces and wheels backwards. “… How about I let you take the rest off.”

Gritting his teeth, Steve hunches forward, slowly peeling the other circles up, trying not to think about how the shaved part—so, basically his whole chest—is already starting to itch. At least if he focuses on doing this in a way that won't hurt like a bitch, he might not have time to look down at the rest of him. God, did Steve want to think it was all in his head, but Owens’ little comment about how the thing that’s growing in him has been pumping him with hormones just proves Steve’s not imagining it. That whole… region is definitely softer. Owens just plowed on like nothing happened, but Steve’s still trying to get over the fact that he’s starting to get fat guy boobs. 

“Everything seems hunky-dory so far.” Owens takes the rest of the circles from Steve, wrapping the wire part around his hand. “Although I’ve said that before, and it wouldn’t be the first time I've had to eat my words.” 

Steve groans, pushing up onto his elbows. “Oh, well, that’s reassuring.”

“Relax, Steve. Just trying not to jinx anything.” Arm swinging out, Owens stops him from sitting up. “Here, lie back down for me. I’d like to take another peek in the oven.” 

Falling back with an ‘oof’, Steve drops his arms at his sides. “Yeah, don’t call it that.”

“There are a lot of ways this could kill you, kid, but I promise—” Owens gets up from his stool, turning around so he can shove the ultrasound machine over. “Lightening up isn’t one of them.” Plopping back down, Owens fiddles with the dials, slaps on a pair of gloves, and then squirts some gel into his hand. “You know the drill by now. Cold.”

Steve winces anyway, folding his arms over his chest, even though it’s tender enough to make him think twice. No way in hell is he gonna watch while Owens rubs that thing over his stomach like a paint roller. Last thing he wants to see is how it slopes up now. Just a tiny bit, the same way it would if he took a huge breath and held it, except it never flattens back out. “Shit.”

“Don’t tense up so much, you’ll break something.” Owens presses the scanner into Steve’s stomach hard enough that Steve’s gotta wonder if he’s about to squish the thing he’s trying to look at. “Annnnd there’s our little stowaway. Not to pat myself on the back too hard, but I’d say my timeline estimate was spot on. Looks like the development’s somewhere around… eighteen weeks? Just from eyeballing it, of course. Otherwise…” The scanner rolls a few inches to the right. “No news is good news. Discounting the growth rate, this still looks like ordinary, uncontaminated human tissue.” 

Steve keeps his eyes on the ceiling, hating how loud it sounds when he swallows. “Is it still…”  

Even though Steve can’t seem to get the rest out, Owens catches his drift. “… Still not safe to operate, I’m afraid. But the other good news is, you’re just about halfway through." 

Jesus Christ. Is he supposed to clap or something? “Yaaay…” 

Owens clicks his tongue. “Hey, take your victories where you can get ‘em—this is still gonna be an uphill battle. If this process doesn’t slowly poison you, or fracture one of your hips, we’re technically coming out on top.” He moves the scanner to a new spot, and Steve wheezes. “Well, would you look at that!”

Steve can’t stop himself—on instinct, his eyes drop down to the tiny, grainy screen on the machine and he feels his heart smash against his ribcage when he sees, just for a split second, a bright white blob. “So, uh—” Steve’s mouth starts moving on its own—all he knows is he needs a distraction before he has a heart attack. “There’s… no way any of that Upside Down shit is ever coming back, right?” Fuck. Steve slaps a hand over his face. 

“It’s not impossible—the Upside Down still exists, after all—but both the Mindflayer and Henry are dead.” The guy doesn’t look back at Steve, still laser-focused on whatever he sees on the monitor. “And if someone were to open a portal, we’d know. So unless Eleven decides to create a brand new gate and lead an army of Demogorgons in some kind of teenage rebellion…” Turning around to face him, Owens shrugs. “I’d say we’re safe.” 

“But what if something came through, and the gate closed, and it— didn’t die? Like—” Steve’s hand waves around for a couple seconds before pointing at his gut. “— like, it didn’t die.”

“No, he certainly didn’t.” Nodding a couple times, Owens purses his lips. “That’s an interesting point, but… no. Like I said, your case is a one in a million. The only reason Junior here survived was the exact biological makeup—the human DNA, the fact that it was in a larval form—same stuff we already talked about.” Owens pauses, then reaches over to shut off the machine. “But it’s interesting you’d mention that. You know, Martin Brenner had some fascinating theories about lifeforms from the Upside Down having the potential to develop an immunity to our world. Or, rather, a resistance to being cut off from theirs. Of course, this was all before we knew about their relationship to the Mindflayer, but it was still pretty out there—” Swiping a few paper towels out of the dispenser, Owen leans over and hands them to Steve. “I mean, Martin was somewhere between being a visionary and absolutely off his rocker—God rest his soul. But if the project had gone anywhere, we could’ve made a killing in pharmaceuticals.” 

“What, like—drugs?” Steve winces. He can still remember hauling around Henderson’s ‘scientific find of the century’, plus the thirty pounds of slime it was covered in. And this Brenner guy wanted to shoot people up with that? “Ugh. Ew.” 

“Okay, whatever you’re thinking, you’ve got it wrong.” Owens wags his finger at Steve and goes on. “See, much of the fauna in the Upside Down—that is to say, the creatures that have existed there long before we ever made contact—are extremely physically durable. I’m sure you’re familiar with that, you’ve gone toe-to-toe with enough of them to realize they can take a beating!”

Steve wipes the goop off his stomach as fast as he can, yanking the hospital dress down the second he’s got most of it. “That’s an understatement.”

“And while they’re growing from the, uh—what’d the kids call it? The pollywog stage? They’re able to change their genetic structure dramatically over a very short time. So imagine if you could take some of that resistance, and combine it with the ability to essentially shapeshift… You’d wind up with some kind of healing factor, almost like a lizard regrowing its tail. We might’ve been able to study it for a while, make it safe for use on animals, and one day, people…” Arms resting on his lap, Owens twiddles his pen like he isn’t talking about the kind of shit that could them both shot with a sniper rifle. “You could heal someone from just about anything!”

“Th-That’s, uh.” ‘Heal someone from just about anything’? Maybe even from being dead? Christ, Steve hopes the guy can’t see how much he’s sweating. “Th-That’s… really… interesting.” 

“Of course, all this ultimately amounts to is gossip about a dead man. Brenner mentioned this concept years and years ago, but his focus was always more on Eleven and her siblings.” Owens grits his teeth as if he’s got a bad taste in his mouth. “That whole… shit-show. Besides, he never would’ve gotten the funding. I don’t need to tell you that demogorgons make for very poor test subjects.” 

“O-Oh. Yeah. For sure, for sure.” Holding back a gulp, Steve tries to keep his eyes from popping out of his head. Feels like the year after Barb died all over again. For twelve months, Steve couldn’t hear her name without losing his shit, looking over his shoulder and feeling like the lab was gonna make him disappear just from talking about her. And hey, not to be shitty to Barb’s memory, but when it comes to ‘things Steve really isn’t supposed to know about’, this feels like it’d blow Barb out of the water. “H-Hey, so. Um.” Hell, maybe Owens figures there’s no point in keeping anything under wraps anymore. Steve already knows about Vecna, and El, and all the shit the lab let in from the Upside Down over the years. But thinking that doesn’t exactly lower his heart-rate. “…Why’re you telling me all this?

Owens acts surprised, like Steve’s his old buddy, and he's wondering why he’d even ask that. “Oh! Well, obviously this doesn’t leave the room, but beyond that… Well, I trust you, Steve. You’ve got more experience with the Upside Down than I do at this point, and, frankly, you’ve helped clean up more than one of our messes. Just consider it a tit for tat thing. Besides—” With a wink, Owens points his pen at Steve’s stomach. “We both have things we’d like to keep confidential.” 

Steve picks at the paper sheet on the exam table. “…Fair point.”

 

*

 

“That’s it?” Henderson chucks his backpack on the floor like he’s trying to dent it. “That’s the ‘top secret intel’ you made me miss tech club for?” 

“And what if it is, Dustin? Huh?” Steve picks the backpack up and shoves it back in Henderson’s arms, pointing to the coat rack because, seriously, they’re not animals here. “What, are you worried you’re not gonna have enough girl repellent on your Harvard application?”

“First of all, chicks dig a guy with a well-rounded extracurricular schedule,” spits Henderson, “which you might know, STEVE, if you’d had a steady girlfriend in the last… how many years was it?” Kid waits ’til Steve opens his mouth before cutting him off. Little bastard. “Nope! Those two weeks with Stacy Karmichael don’t count. Meanwhile, me and Suzie? Still going strong. SECOND—”

“Alright, alright! Jeeeeesus.” Steve watches Dustin fight with one of the hooks, muttering, “Hit a nerve there.”

Henderson turns around and crosses his arms. “Do you want to hear what I think about your brilliant theory or not?”

Steve shrugs. “I mean yeah, sure, with all the build up you’re giving it—” 

“It’s crap.” 

“Excuse me?”

Henderson makes an ‘x’ with his arms. “It’s absolutely impossible.” 

“What, you think Owens just made it up for attention?” Henderson talks a big talk, but he’s got nothing! At this point, Steve’s convinced he’s just arguing to argue. 

“It’s not that part. I’d totally believe that Brenner freak was doing all kinds of fucked up shit behind the scenes.” Stomping over to the couch, Henderson drops down onto it like he’s had a hard day at the sheet metal factory. “Up to and including demodog vivisection!” 

“Hang on, I’m not following—” Steve waves his hands a couple times like he’s asking the kid to slow down. “So you don’t buy… which part, exactly?”

“The part where the demodogs would still be alive! And even if they were, if they all busted out of these underground tanks the same time Billy did, without eating him…” Henderson does a little scuttle with his hand, running it across the arm of the couch. “That was a week ago.”

And Steve’s lost again. “… So?”

“‘So?’” Henderson scoffs. “Are you for real right now?” 

“Yeah, Henderson! Actually I am.” Man, Steve keeps hoping for the day Henderson stops being a goddamn know-it-all, but it never seems to come. “Just… knock it off with the cryptic shit and skip to the cliff notes.”

“Hello? Dart?” Tapping his head a couple times, Dustin snaps, “We tracked him for two days, and by then he was the size of a Rottweiler! Not exactly flying under the radar. Do you seriously think a whole pack of demodogs were set loose in Hawkins and then just… poof! Disappeared without a trace?” 

“Okay, smartass, well— maybe they…” Okay. Disappearing. These things can do all sorts of freaky crap, right? “…turn invisible!” 

Dustin squints at him for a full ten seconds before asking, “…Is this that pregnancy brain thing? Or is this ‘Steve’s brain functioning at regular capacity’?”

Steve ignores the weird, panicky lurch in his gut, snapping, “Hey, how ‘bout you cram a fucking sock in it, Henderson.”

Hands flying up, Henderson echoes Steve from earlier. “Ooooh, I touched a nerveee…”

The bathroom door slams open and Hargrove stumbles out. Henderson jumps a foot and turns to watch him, eyes huge, looking ready to bolt like a prey animal on one of those nature shows. Hargrove glances up at him, then turns away and drags himself back to the balcony.

Henderson waits for the sliding door to close before he speaks up. “… Should you let him just… sit out there? All exposed?” 

“Hey, man, if he wants some lab goons to catch him and haul him away, it’s his funeral.” Steve pauses. “Uh. Again. Anyway, I said he could crash at my place—doesn’t mean I’m his goddamn bodyguard.”

“Yeah, if anyone needs one of those, it’s you.” Henderson snorts, staring at Hargrove’s back with a smirk. “I can’t believe he hasn’t killed you yet. Guess this is, like, the one line he won’t cross.”

“What?” Steve looks at Hargrove, too, then back at Henderson. “What line, what do you mean?”

Dustin heaves a pissy sigh, talking all slow, like Steve’s a total dunce. “He’s not going to beat your ass because you’re with child.”

“Aw, Christ.” Henderson’s got a pair on him, treating Steve like an idiot when he’s pitching that idea. “…Yeah, well, that can’t be it.” 

“It’s the only theory that makes any sense. Think about it!” Uh, no thanks, Henderson. Steve’s gonna pass. “Why else hasn’t he kicked the shit out of you?” 

Steve’s about to make a case for himself—like how Hargrove probably knows he’d be screwed in a fair fight without any dinnerware to chuck—but the sliding door opens again and Hargrove skulks into the kitchen. Somewhere out in the parking lot, there’s this earsplitting squeal, and a car pulls in to park under Steve’s balcony. “Hang on.”

Footsteps clunk up the steps as Steve heads to the door, yanking it open for Hopper as soon as he reaches the landing. 

Fist dropping down at his side, Hopper frowns at him, then barges past Steve. “Let’s make this quick, Harrington, I’ve got—”

“That's the water pump.”

Hopper freezes. Apparently he’s as shocked as the rest of them when he realizes Hargrove just spoke. “…I’m sorry?” 

Hargrove pops out from around the corner, cracking open a can of beer and staring Hopper down as he sips. Pretty ballsy move: even if the two years when he was dead count, the guy’s still underage. “I could hear it from halfway down the street. It’s the water pump. The bearing’s fucked up.” After that announcement, Hargrove slinks back over to his time out spot. 

Hopper watches him go, then mutters, “Huh…” Steve can tell the guy braces for the living headache that is talking to Henderson before turning towards him. “Alright, kid. Harrington says you’re the expert, so let’s hear it.”

“Hear what?” Henderson sasses.

Hopper double takes, then shoots Steve a confused look. “You told him, right?”

“Yeah, I told him,” Steve replies. “But wiseass over here thinks you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Whoa, hey, I did NOT say that,” Dustin blurts, then stops to make his case. “I just think assuming there’s a pack of demodogs running around would be super reckless—” 

Steve cuts him off. “Oh, you wanna talk about reckless? Yeah, remind me real quick—” He scrunches his face up, scratching his head all slow and obvious. “Who’s the guy who kept one of those weird slug things in a cage and didn’t tell anyone ’til after— after, Henderson!” Steve pounds his fist onto his palm a couple times. “Not ‘before’, or ‘until’. No—after it ate your cat?” 

Henderson rolls his eyes. “Okay, well if you’re just gonna throw something from three years ago back in my face, then maybe I should mention how you—”

“CHILDREN.” Hopper claps loud enough that Steve and Dustin jump. “I understand you two have some difficulty staying focused, but let’s try to get back on track.” 

“Got it,” Steve mumbles.

“You don’t think it’s demogorgons.” Hands on his hips, Hopper works through it slowly. “So… what? What do you think we’re looking at, exactly?”

“Uh, how the hell should I know?” Henderson huffs. “All I have to go off of here is Steve saying, ‘Ohh, Henderson, the chief found an extra secret lab underground and he thinks a pack of demodogs are on the loose! What do we doooo?’”

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dude, in what universe do I sound like that?”

Henderson breaks out in a laugh. “Oh, you so sound like that.” 

“In my opinion—” The chief half-shouts the ‘my’ so Henderson will reign it in. “It’d be best not to rule anything out. Do I know they were growing a whole roomful of monsters down there? No. Based on everything I’ve seen over the years, up to and including that Soviet hellhole, does it seem like the most likely explanation?” Hopper pauses, like he’s daring Dustin to interrupt, then goes on. “As a matter of fact, yes.” The guy lets out a breath through his nose and shakes his head. “If I’m wrong about this? Great. But it’s not gonna hurt anything to keep an eye out.” Shooting Henderson an annoyed look, he asks, “That work for you?”

“No?” Henderson spits that word out like it should be obvious. “I already told Steve, it doesn’t make any sense. So Owens said that Brenner might have been doing crazy experiments on demogorgons. So what if it was top, top secret, even to the rest of the lab.” Dustin shrugs and admits, “I guess if he’d been breeding lab specimens for years, maybe they could build up antibodies or some shit—hell, let’s even say they were in stasis or something, and they only woke up ‘cause the earthquake smashed their cages open. Those things grow fast.” Kid flops back against the couch like that settles it. “We’d already be seeing them all over town!”

“But these ones’d be different, right?” Yeah, Steve’s officially way too familiar with how fast shit from the Upside Down grows, but if they were sitting in a bunch of tanks for over a decade… “Maybe they grow really slow?” He scratches the back of his neck, adding, “Y’know. For demogorgons.” 

“Seems like it’d be getting rid of their biggest evolutionary advantage, but—” Dustin slouches enough to slide a few inches down. “Sure! Why not.”

Hopper’s got a hand on his chin as he thinks. “So it’s possible.”

“I—maybe?” Henderson throws his hands up helplessly. “You should seriously be asking Owens about this.” 

“Kid, he was barely any help the last time, and that was before he got demoted.” Jabbing a thumb towards the balcony, the chief adds, “Besides. Parading Owens around our little dig site might tip him off to the fact that Hargrove’s recently risen from the grave.” 

“Oh, well, we wouldn’t want that.” Henderson’s eyes roll back so far in his head, he might actually realize his brain’s not as massive as he thinks it is. “Okay, look: they hate light and heat, they normally grow to the size of a mature demogorgon in maybe a week, tops, and they’re attracted to raw meat.” Scrunching his forehead up, Henderson frowns. “…And chocolate. But that’s all I got!” 

“It’ll do.” Hopper tweaks his belt, then nods at Dustin as he starts to leave. “Any suspicious activity, you get a hold of me first. If you see something? You radio, immediately.” 

Steve nods. “That means first thing, Henderson. You call us. None of that ‘shoving it in a fishtank to see what happens’ bullshit.”

“Whoa, no. No, no, no.” Freezing with his hand on the knob, Hopper turns and jabs a finger at Steve. “Not you.” 

Steve throws his hands out at his sides. “Come on, man! Why?” It’s just the radio! What, he can’t forward calls now? 

“You know why.” Steve swears the guy’s voice drops a few decibels as he points again. “Don’t make me say it.”

Henderson watches the door slam, then sighs. “I know your self preservation skills are… negotiable, at best, but don’t you think you should try to be more careful since—you know—it isn’t just about you anymore?”

It takes Steve a second to realize Dustin isn’t referring to Hargrove. “Yeah, I don’t know what you think you’re implying, Henderson, but first off, I can take care of myself.” Steve swallows, stomach giving another dumb little jolt. “And second… you don’t need to be talking about that.”

“Feeling defensive, aren’t we!” Henderson whistles. “All I’m saying is, you’ll want to make sure you stay alive ’til June.” After that, the kid watches Steve with this shit-eating smirk, like he can’t wait for him to bite.

Christ. Might as well get it over with. “And what’s happening in June, exactly? 

A grin busts through Henderson’s smirk. “College gets out?”

It hits Steve and he reaches out on instinct, like he’s gonna shove Henderson’s words back in his mouth before they come out. “God, don’t—don’t say it, man.”

Dodging him, Henderson leans to the side and sing-songs, “Nancy’s coming baaaack.” 

Steve glares down at Dustin, then twists that stupid baseball hat over the kid's face so he can suffocate him.

Chapter 5: The Reunion

Notes:

PLEASE mind the tags, as this chapter contains extremely dubious consent! As in, we're REALLY toeing the line here. So if that's something you're not comfortable engaging with, please exercise caution and skip this one.

EDIT: To loosely quote a comment that has been cited on the fanlore page regarding dub-con, which summarizes the difference much more succinctly than I could hope to: stories where "the characters' ability to consent is impaired and/or the power balance isn't totally equal, and the sex is upsetting and some degree of traumatic, but they don't recognize it as being non-consensual" fall under the umbrella of dub-con, whereas "stories with forcible rape where one of the characters is clearly not giving their consent and the other character knows it but they rape them anyway" would be non-con. The following smut scene would be the former, not the latter, which is why I have tagged it "extremely dubious consent" rather than non-con.

(And I would absolutely link the comment here if Livejournal hadn't been dead for ten years.)

“Holy shit—Harrington?!” Barnes pops his gum in the side of his mouth, grinning like he can’t believe his fucking luck. “Thought you went crawling back to the video store.” Hands on his desk, Barnes shoves himself back in his chair and then wags his finger while he thinks. “Ope—no! Wait. It wasn’t a video store. You worked at a—gimme a second.” He waits, still giving Steve that dickhead smirk, then pats his stomach a couple times. “A donut factory?” 

Steve cranes his head back, rolling his eyes up to stare at the ceiling panels. “Alright, man. Keep it classy.” Far as Barnes knows, Steve’s only blimping out ‘cause he’s got some medical thing going on, but leave it to the biggest prick in the station to throw a few potshots anyway. 

He tries to tune out Barnes’ whistling as he steps into Hopper’s office, but there’s no hiding how pissed he is when he slams the door behind him. And the worst part is, it’s not like Steve doesn’t see it! He can dress in the baggiest shirt he owns, try to downplay it, but if someone like Barnes can pick up on how… puffy Steve’s getting, it’s officially noticeable. With that awesome thought looming over him, Steve clenches his jaw and drops into the chair in front of Hopper’s desk.  

Hopper’s writing something, and doesn’t even look up when Steve sits. “He was right.”

Steve looks over the shoulder at the door as he thinks, for one crazy second, that the chief’s backing Barnes up on the whole ‘Steve’s a fatass’ case. “What?”

“Hargrove.” Dropping his pen, Hopper finally looks at Steve. “Kid was right. It was the water pump.”

Steve glances aside and then back at Hopper, double checking to make sure he’s expected to give a shit. “Cool?”

“Saved us about forty bucks in diagnostics, so…” Guy gives him a pissy stare right back, deadpanning, “Yes, Harrington. Cool.”

After that, the chief gives him a real once over, probably thinking Steve’ll be too dense to catch it, but the thing is, he’s getting so used to seeing it from everyone, he anticipates the extra half a second where Hopper’s eyes pause on his gut.

Steve clears his throat.

The chief jolts, looking like he’s got something else to say before he shuts it down and shakes his head. “Nothing.” There’s a pause before he adds, “Any changes?”

Steve feels his eyes get all big and panicky. There’s no way in hell Hopper’s asking for the nitty gritty details, right? Like… the symptoms? Hearing Owens lecture him about this once a week is bad enough. Besides, Hopper’s got eyes. The guy can see for himself that Steve’s gone through a buttload of ‘changes’ already.

Hopper puts out a hand defensively. “Not—Not like that. I mean, you’re not getting anything removed tomorrow.” He waits, and Steve does a slow, miserable shake of his head. “Nothing’s changed, and this isn’t gonna kill you.”

Steve clicks his tongue, muttering, “Yeeeaaah, not too sure about that.” 

Pen back in his hand, the chief’s scribbling again, apparently done listening. “Good.” He finishes, then puts his elbows on his desk and leans forward. “Alright. On to the main event.” 

Steve cocks an eyebrow, finger tapping on the arm of his chair. Hopper was cagey with the details, but he made sure to call ahead of time for Steve’s stupid ‘check-in’. Said they had something else to discuss.

Voice dropping down to a whisper, Hopper mumbles, “Mrs. Anderson’s toy poodle died two days ago.”

Steve’s forehead scrunches up. Okay, so—what is he missing here? “Uh. That… sucks.” 

Hopper puts a hand over his mouth, maybe trying to muffle himself even more. “The grave, Harrington. She dug a grave for it in her backyard, and the next morning, it’s desecrated.” Steve’s stomach drops as the chief adds,“Body looks like someone put it through a wood-chipper. All these weird bite marks. And you wanna take three guesses as to what we found all over the dirt?”

The finger Steve’s drumming on the armrest amps up to about a mile a minute. “I’m thinking it wasn’t a bouquet.” 

“Try that weird, toxic slime those demodog things always seem to be covered in.” The guy’s staring past Steve at the wall, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “There were prints nearby; my gut tells me they’d be about the size of a cat. Maybe bigger.”

So, nowhere near a full-grown demodog. Not even the size of a dog, period. In other words, Steve called it, so in your fucking FACE, Henderson. 

“As of now, the story’s coyotes. Two or three got a little too bold and wandered into the suburbs, but we’re handling it.” There’s this tone Hopper gets when he says that; even though he doesn’t come out and say it, he’s basically telling Steve to stand down. “But here’s the part that involves you.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Steve perks up. Shit, man. He doesn’t even know what the job is, but as long as it’s not babysitting Hargrove, he’ll take pretty much anything. 

“The kids have this… theory. Henderson mentioned it yesterday.” Hopper works his jaw, looking like he hates to give Dustin any credit. And considering what a stuck-up ass the kid was last time, Steve doesn’t blame him. “He thinks they’re looking for some sort of… missing link. Mrs. Anderson’s place is right by Merrill Wright’s farm. You remember all those tunnels a few years back?” 

“Spent an entire night wrangling half a dozen shitheads down there, so…” Y’know, post concussion. “Yeah, man. It rings a bell.”

“Well, all the dirt getting tossed up from the ‘funeral’ might’ve brought out some old smells. I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a few traces left. Some of those chemicals, the particles in the air…” Pen back in his hand, Hopper twists it around in his fingers. “And Will’s been getting this… feeling. He and Henderson think there’s a chance these things might be drawn to anyone connected to the Upside Down.”

Steve frowns. “So—what? They’re gonna come after him?”

“Will, El, Hargrove…” Hopper lists them off, then gives Steve a glare, like he’s daring him to argue. “And you, kid.”

“Wh—” Steve’s about to ask why him, but then he remembers the whole reason he came down to the station in the first place. Jesus, it’s like he’s not allowed to forget about it, even two seconds. 

“Actually, that’s, uh…”Clearing his throat, Hopper gets this thousand yard stare, looking like he wants to put it off for as long as possible. “That’s why Lucas made the call.” Steve doesn’t even know what the hell the chief’s talking about at first. He’s got no clue why Hopper’s even bringing Sinclair up until he tacks on, “Came clean to Max.” 

“Oh, shit.” See, the thing is, Steve should be stoked. He’s been trying to get Hargrove out of his place for a week, and now it might actually happen! But… Fuck, man. Steve’s still not liking those odds.

“Yeah. I’m guessing he didn’t get ahold of you yet to give you the rest of the news, but…” The chief shakes his head again, chin down, then stares across the desk at Steve from under that caveman brow. “She wants to see him.” 

 

*

 

God, Steve wishes they didn’t have to do this in his apartment.

He’s not enough of a douchebag to bitch and moan about having to be there—don’t get him wrong, he’s not exactly thrilled, but he’ll put up with it. Same way he’s put up with all this babysitting crap for the past four years. But it just feels like something he shouldn’t be seeing, y’know? Steve’s never had anything to do with this bullshit, this… weird, screwed-up relationship Max has, or used to have, with Hargrove. Even if he trusted the bastard enough to leave him alone with her—which, hell no, he doesn’t—if Steve spent the whole time hiding in his room, then he’d look like a complete tool. 

Point is, he’s not getting out of this shit, and it’s gonna suck. 

Lucas decided to come with Max—they’re basically joined at the hip since Vecna. Steve’s not sure that’s the best idea, what with all of Hargrove’s… issues, but hey. It’s Sinclair’s funeral. Steve didn’t give Hargrove much of a heads up. Just four little words: ‘Max is coming over’. Since then, though, the guy’s been hunched over on the couch, staring at the rings he left all over Steve’s coffee table, his right arm tensing up and twitching while the rest of him stays perfectly still.

Steve leans against the wall, standing between Hargrove and the front door, as the knob twists and Sinclair steps inside. Hargrove jumps up so fast, Steve and Lucas both flinch, but the kid recovers quick. He looks at Billy, more than a little freaked out, but not about to shit bricks. Then he starts talking to Steve. “I thought I should come in first since she, uh…” The kid swallows, then does a tired shrug. “She doesn’t believe me.”

Look: Steve gets the skepticism, they’ve all been there, but— “Seriously?”

Sinclair shoots him a miserable look. “I mean, would you?” 

Mouth opening before he has an argument, Steve lifts his hand, thinks about it, then gives up and shrugs.

Glancing back at Hargrove, Lucas adds, “Just make sure you don’t—”

Hargrove cuts him off. “Oh no, Sinclair. You don’t talk to me like that.”

The kid’s Adam’s apple bobs nervously, but then he gets some kind of second wind. “Actually?” Sinclair straightens up, really showing off the fact that he’s almost as tall as Hargrove now. “Unless you want me to go right back down those steps and tell Max that we’re both gonna go home, and that this was all a really shitty prank, I do.” 

It’s fast—Steve’s not sure he imagined it—but Hargrove seems pissed. But when he blinks, the guy’s back to looking like the same smug piece of shit. “Mm.”

Sinclair keeps his eyes on Billy for another few seconds, and yeah, Steve doesn’t blame the kid. He’s not about to put his guard down, either. Eventually, though, he inches his way back out the door, closing it behind him. Steve watches him go, then peeks at Hargrove out of the corner of his eye. Christ, he’s hard to read. Or maybe he just doesn’t feel the same shit a normal human does. Guy isn’t smiling, exactly, but it’s almost like he’s getting some kind of sick thrill out of this. Like he thinks Max is gonna be stoked to see him. 

Lucas’s voice is getting louder as he comes back up the stairs. There’s another set of footsteps behind him, and Steve can make out the last part of his sentence, muffled from the other side of the door. “… you need to do is say the word, and we can go.”

The door swings open and Max stomps in first. “Look, if you’re not gonna tell me what this is actually about, could you at least—” She walks over to Steve, right past Billy, and then goes completely frozen.

Hargrove’s voice isn’t charged. It’s not like it was at the Byers, barely holding something back. But there’s a tone, almost like he’s ready to pick up right where they left off and start ordering Max around. “Max.”

It’s freaky. She doesn’t move at all, and Steve just stands there. So does Hargrove, Lucas stumbling the last couple steps after her. At first, Steve doesn’t see it, it’s so subtle. But she’s shaking. Not like a leaf, not a lot, but it’s there. She turns her head slowly, and Billy looks back at her, scoping her out. Swallowing, Steve inches closer, glancing back down at Max—and that’s when the wind gets knocked out of him. Her whole face is screwed up, looking like she’s in the worst pain of her life. 

Hargrove’s mouth twitches, head tilting down, and the smirk’s gone. Steve tenses as the guy moves half a step forward—

“DON’T.” Max jumps. Her hands fly up to her head and she shakes it a few times, eyes clenched shut. A couple of tears dribble down her cheeks and she chokes out a, “God.” 

It hurts to watch. Steve’s had a lot of shit in his life that’s been hard to see. That time when they were in fourth grade and Tommy broke his arm so bad, it bent in three different places, when Vecna got his claws into Nance’s brain and she went unresponsive in his arms, the fucking slug thing sliding around under his skin before Dustin tried to tweeze it out… 

Yeah, no contest. This is up there. It’s like it lasts for ages, none of them speaking up. Even Sinclair’s too twitchy and floored to reach out and hold her, even though Steve’s sure he wants to. It’s like they’re both thinking the same thing—if one good look at Hargrove has her this messed up, neither one of them wants to be the one to fuck up and push her over the edge by touching her. After the longest minute of Steve’s life, Max pulls it together enough to stop hyperventilating. Still takes her a few tries to look at Billy again and hold eye contact. She makes a sound, trying to say something, but it doesn’t come out. Doing this huge, shaky exhale, Max waits a few more seconds, then finds her voice. “I’m glad you’re not dead.” Kid’s still shivering—it must be taking everything she’s got just to hold it in enough to speak. Her eyes stay locked on Hargrove, and when she says the last part, her tone’s steady. “But I never want to see you again.”

Head ducking down again, arms wrapped tight around herself, Max turns and rushes out of the apartment. 

Lucas stares, jaw dropped. Guess he didn’t think she’d bail this fast, either. “I…” Kid realizes he’s fighting a losing battle, trying to follow that, and winds up turning on his heel and sprinting after Max. 

Steve gawks at the door as it closes behind Sinclair, then snaps his mouth shut and looks at Hargrove. If it were anybody else—somebody who didn’t deserve it—Steve’d be trying to think of some way to take the edge off. Instead, it’s like he walked in on a train wreck. Not a whole lot of shit he could do, even if he wanted to.

Hargrove scoffs, and that smirk is back. Guy runs his tongue over his teeth, looking down and shaking his head. “Little bitch.” 

His hand starts moving at his side, but it’s not the same shaky shit Steve’s been noticing. The fingers ball into a fist, then pop out again a couple times. When Steve looks at the asshole’s face, it’s almost twitching, like Hargrove can’t settle on an emotion. 

Then he snaps.

Screaming from the pit of his chest, Hargrove lunges for the coffee table, swinging an arm across it. The coffee mug, the magazines, the remote—everything on it goes flying, the mug smashing into pieces on the carpet. Prying his arms under the table, Hargrove chucks it, and it flips in midair, hitting the T.V. stand with an ugly crack. He goes after Steve’s busted tape deck next, ripping it off the cabinet and holding it over his head before hurling it down at his feet. It explodes, bursting into a bunch of screws and weird little pieces of metal. Hargrove attacks the bigger chunks with a vengeance, bringing his boot down over and over, like he’s trying to turn whatever’s left into dust.

Steve can’t move at first. He’s not scared—fuck no, Hargrove’s temper tantrums don’t really hold a candle to getting his face smashed into ground beef by a Russian psychopath. It’s more like he’s shocked that it’s happening. Hargrove’s losing his shit—you could see that from space—and this whole thing got under his skin big time. But what Steve doesn’t get is why.

Hargrove lets out another roar, fist swinging back, and Steve snaps out of it. He lunges over to the asshole, snatching his arm and pulling it down, hard. “HEY! REIGN IT IN!” 

Since Hargrove’s been back from the dead, Steve’s gotten hundreds of nasty looks from him, but the one he’s giving Steve right now blows all the other ones right out of the water. Steve can feel the heat coming off the guy, and a part of him’s surprised his face doesn’t melt off from looking at him. There’s a real tense couple of seconds while Hargrove’s eyes bug out at him, shoulders heaving, still breathing like a raging bull. Then he rips his arm out of Steve’s grip, feet pounding on the floor as he stomps over to the balcony, practically slamming the sliding door off its hinges as he smashes through.

As soon as he walks out, Steve realizes how hard his heart’s pounding. It’s like he got worked up for a brawl that was never gonna happen, and now he’s stuck with all the leftover adrenaline. “Holy shit…” Steve tears his eyes away from Hargrove’s back, turning to stare at the nuke that just went off in his apartment because, seriously, what the fuck did he get himself into?

 God. He should’ve fought this harder. Told El and Sinclair to shove it, because there was no goddamn point in sticking their necks out for this creep. For fuck’s sake, look what just happened! They could’ve saved themselves a headache—saved Max from having a heart attack—and called Owens right then and there. For Christ’s sake! Screw it, man—Steve’s calling him himself.

But the living room’s a goddamn minefield, and Steve’s not about to spend the rest of the night in the ER just ‘cause he stepped on a piece of mug shrapnel. Grabbing a trash bag from the kitchen, Steve starts picking up the pieces and chucking them inside. After that, he does the same with all the tiny bits of tape deck, then he flips the coffee table right-side up and shoves it back over to the couch. He drops the trash bag by the front door, too beat to walk it all the way down to the dumpster, then heads over to the phone. And he’s about to call, he’s almost got his hand on the receiver, but something pulls his eyes over to the balcony.

Thing is, Steve’s not sure why Hargrove went out there. He could’ve left, he could’ve fucked off and left for real this time, but he didn’t. He’s just standing outside, leaning out over the balcony so far that Steve double takes and has this batshit thought pop into his head. It’s not like Hargrove’s gonna jump, right? For fuck’s sake, it’s only the second story, it wouldn’t even do a lot of damage. Besides, he’s not the type.

… But Christ, man. Steve does not want that on his conscious. He groans, grabs his head in his hands, and tries to talk himself out of it. And when that doesn’t work, he breathes out real slow and drags his feet over to the balcony. “Yeah, sure. Why the hell not.”

The door’s definitely off the track a little when he opens it, but Steve’s gonna put a pin in that. Something tells him it’s not worth getting into tonight. Hargrove doesn’t turn around, or even look at Steve when he steps outside. The only part of the guy that’s moving is his right arm, twitching against the railing like it’s holding in all the bastard’s pent up energy. 

“What the hell do you want.”

Steve scratches at his cheek. Well, shit. Good question. “I dunno. You just bulldozed my living room, so…”

The guy doesn’t answer. Just shoots Steve another pissed-off look when he comes one step closer. His eyes are bloodshot again, and the way they flash in the streetlights makes ‘em seem almost wet. Which is insane, because there’s no way Billy Hargrove was tearing up over this crap. And Steve? Well, he likes being alive, so he’s not about to point it out. 

Doesn’t mean he’s not stumped, though. “…Why do you even care, man?”

Hargrove’s voice is just a rumble. “I don’t.”

“Okay, so that’s bullshit.” Hargrove’s eyes stay locked on him, but Steve doesn’t back down. “Look. I don’t know what your deal with Max was, but she was fucking terrified of you.” Steve’s not sure if he means tonight, or the whole time she knew Hargrove, but—does it even matter? “I mean—” It’s the fact that he’s out here, looking like this. The way that he trashed Steve’s fucking valuables like a rabid animal. ‘Cause Steve’s no genius, but even he can see that this shit doesn’t add up. “Do you even like her? Sounds like all she did was piss you off.” 

That night, back at the Byers, she was his patsy or something. Max was hanging out with Lucas, so that meant Hargrove had to—Jesus. Got to, more like—attack the kid. Break everything in the Byers’ kitchen, including Steve’s face. When he came looking for her, and everything he did after—she was an excuse to do it. “Shit, man. I would’ve thought you wanted her to hate you.” 

He should be happy, right? Or… smug. Whatever this freak feels instead of happy. If Max hates his guts, that just means things are back to normal.

For a second, Steve thinks the guy didn’t hear him. Or that he’s pretending not to. Then Hargrove clenches his jaw, turns away, and slams his fist against the railing so hard that Steve jumps. 

Steve watches the back of Hargrove’s head, waiting for him to say something. The quiet drags on for long enough that it’s awkward, and all the sounds he’d normally tune out—the traffic from I-90, the peepers that’ve invaded the complex’s pool, a dog barking a couple blocks down—feel amped up in Steve’s ears. Hargrove still doesn’t say jack shit, doesn’t even tell Steve to fuck off again.

It’s really getting to him. 

“Shit…”  It’s one of those times where Steve’s not sure why he’s talking. He’s not sure what the hell he’s trying to say, and he’s sure not trying to make Hargrove feel better. Maybe Steve’s still shaken up after watching Max lose her mind in there—maybe he’s just trying to move past that, he doesn’t know. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but… she was in a real bad place after you died.” Seemed like it was for a different reason depending on the day. Kid was miserable, sure, but whether it was ‘cause she hated Billy, or missed him, Steve couldn’t tell. Fuck, man. Maybe it was both. “I guess… she thought it was her fault.” 

Feels weird, talking about Max like this. Steve’s gotta be crossing some lines here, guessing how she feels, when the fact is, he doesn’t really know her. Not well enough to be talking about her, anyway. But if he’s gonna say crap behind her back, he might as well do her a favor, too. “If you actually gave a shit about her, maybe just—” Steve can’t look at the back of that fucking meathead anymore. He turns and starts giving a speech to the streetlamp. “Christ, I don’t know. Let her go.” 

Yeah, Steve’s talking to himself here. He knows it, and what he can’t figure out is why he’s even bothering. But he might as well finish what started. “She’s in a good place right now. She doesn’t need another guy like her step-dad screwing everything up.” 

Steve waits again, but… Nothing. 

Hargrove doesn’t dent the railing, but he doesn’t move, either, back still to Steve, like a statue. Steve waits one more time, still half expecting Hargrove to take a dive off the balcony, but in the end, all he does is fish a lighter and a smoke out of his shirt pocket. 

Steve shakes his head, then decides to stop standing there like a dumbass, heading back inside so he can leave Hargrove alone with his fucking pity party. 

 

*

 

Nance hasn’t been to the apartment yet, so Steve takes her after lunch. For some reason, he thinks it’s gonna be a mess when they get there, but it’s not. Nance gives him shit about his posters, she does that cute thing where she tilts her head down, looks up at him from under her lashes, and Steve’s putty. He ducks down, and she meets him halfway, and they’re making out like they used to between second and third period. Steve swears, he only blinks, and they’re in the bedroom. She’s on his lap, and the heat coursing through his stomach is torture, bad enough that Steve doesn’t wonder, for a while, why she’s so fucking heavy.

She hitches her legs, and Steve winces, because something’s not adding up, Nance is a hundred pounds soaking wet. He starts to come to, and everything’s still foggy, but the weight on his legs—and this heat hitting the nape of his neck—that’s real.

Hang on a second.

Steve groans, turning his head. It’s pitch black, he’s got somebody crushing him, and it smells like an entire brewery in his room, with a whole pack of Marlboros thrown in for kicks. He blinks a few times, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and the mattress creaks, the heaviness over him shifting as something pushes under his thighs. His brain finally puts the last couple puzzle pieces together, somewhere between something solid pressing against his ass and the boozy breath blasting his cheek. 

Holy. Shit.

“JESUS! Hargrove, what the fuck!?” The guy’s lip bumps against Steve’s neck, and it’s hot and slimy, and Steve thrashes, shoving both palms into Hargrove’s collarbones. Fuck. It’s like trying to move a semi. Steve jerks his knee up so he can squeeze it under the bastard and pry him up, but there’s barely an inch between them. “GET OFF, MAN!” 

“Sss… Wrongiff yer fuggin’ voice?” Christ, he reeks. Hargrove can’t even talk right, and his body’s dead weight on top of Steve, so Steve’s guessing he passed ‘wasted’ a while ago. The guy ducks his head, starts sucking on his neck, and Steve gags. “You godda… cold ‘er sumthin’?” 

So Hargrove wasn’t trying to smother Steve in his sleep. And apparently, he’s fucked up enough to forget where he is, what’s going on, and thinks Steve’s some hooker he brought home for round 2. “Wake up, dipshit! What the hell are you doing?!” Steve’s hands ball into fists and he starts swinging, pounding on Hargrove’s back like his life depends on it, and honestly, the stakes aren’t far off. “HEY! HEY, HARGROVE!” But Hargrove doesn’t even flinch, seems numb to his punches, prying Steve’s shirt up to his collarbone and then—

Steve’s vision goes white. He can’t see, his arms freeze where they are, and he sucks in a breath to stop from passing out. All Hargrove did was run a hand over his chest, thumb just grazing Steve’s—ah, Jesus— his nipple, and Steve’s whole body jolted with this crazy, turned on energy—or the last fucking thing Steve wants to be feeling right now. But for a split second, it takes him right back where that dream left off, all the built up heat burning in the pit of his stomach while Nancy takes his breath away except, holy shit, it’s wrong, it’s so fucking wrong, but his body isn’t getting the message. 

“Shhh… Jus’… shuddup for a ss… second.” Hargrove’s face comes towards him, and a scream gets stuck in the back of Steve’s throat when he realizes the son of a bitch is trying to kiss him. He jerks his head to the side, but Hargrove doesn’t notice, his way-too-wet lip swiping Steve’s cheek. The thumb on his chest pushes in again, grinds against this pad of fat that wasn’t there two weeks ago. Steve puffs, pulling a face like his life’s flashing before his eyes as his back arches on its own. 

“H-Hargrove. Get… your fucking…” Steve swallows, then yelps as Hargrove bends to clamp onto his— “OW!”Jesus Christ, this can NOT be happening. “Did you just bite me!?”

“Shh, shhhhush…” Hargrove shakes his head—shit, man. His eyes are barely open! Steve’s in shock—at least, he’s gotta be. That’s the only reason his body’s not responding, and he’s stuck watching this play out like he’s rubbernecking a bad accident as Hargrove peppers his mouth down Steve’s chest. Right when Steve gets the movement back in his arms, he grabs Hargrove by the shoulders, shoving with everything he's got, but then Hargrove’s lips curls around his—

Ohhh no, no, no. NO, man! Come on! Steve throws up a little in his mouth, even though the rest of his body goes traitor on him again, this electric buzz running straight down his spine, and a stupid, gross surge of pure, horny energy turning his legs into Jell-O. God, Steve doesn’t want to be thinking it, doesn’t want to be fucking—narrating it in his head. Hargrove’s mouth gives a tug, and Steve moans, even though his brain’s screaming at him, because this can’t turn him on, man! He can’t be getting hard, this is insane! 

Hargrove keeps it up, pulls at Steve with his lips, swipes a tongue over his nipple, and Steve can’t even pretend it’s not getting to him—forget hard, he’s in pain. His head’s swimming when Hargrove pulls away, spit hanging from his lips, and Steve watches like he’s drugged out of his mind as the guy straightens up and starts to pull his boxers down oh.

No.

“Oh, GOD! EUGH!”  Steve’s elbows are under him in a heartbeat, and he’s scrabbling on the sheets like a spider, trying to fling himself as far away from that as he can. That is Hargrove’s dick. His dick is out. Not in the showers after practice, with Steve trying not to glimpse it out of the corner of his eye while the bastard’s hazing him—dead ahead, in full view, and rock hard. “NO! No. No, no, no—get the fuck away, man!” 

Shit. It’s a hit to Steve’s pride just admitting this, but he’s not gonna be able to overpower the freak. But hey, if there’s a better reason to knee Hargrove in the balls—actually, there isn’t one. This is it. Steve jerks his leg up, misses, kinda… lightly grazes the area, God help him—and pries his calf between Hargrove and the bed, ready to bash his toes into Hargrove’s sack, right as the psycho pries Steve’s boxers down. 

“It’s me, dipshit!” See? Not like Steve wanted to flash Hargrove his package, but if that’s what it takes to stop the guy from touching him, Steve’ll take it. “I don’t know what the hell you think is going on, but I’m not a fucking gi—” 

Hargrove does this sloppy blink—one eye, then the other—and Steve’s not sure if he even looked, because he drops back over Steve like an anvil, mouth clamping onto Steve’s other pec and sucking ’til the rest of Steve’s words dissolve in his throat. Fuck, it’s too much. Maybe there’s something wrong with him—just seems impossible, that any part of his body other than his dick could have this much feeling tied to it. He wrestles with his brain for what seems like ages, finally choking out another couple of words. “H-Hey! HARGR—”

It’s too fast for Steve to see coming. One second, Hargrove’s making out with his chest, the next he’s got his mouth wrapped around Steve’s lips, and—God, what the fuck? Why’re his lips so soft? It’s burning hot, like he’s running a temperature, but it feels so much like a girl’s, way too close to a girl’s…

… Except for the pornstache. That’s not like any chick Steve’s been with—come on, dude! He had game! Has—he has game! Steve jerks his head away, skull buzzing, trying to talk, to say something, he doesn’t know what, it’s not like anything’s worked. And then he feels it. 

Something’s pressed up against his ass. 

“Hhhholy shit.” This isn't happening—this is—it’s not happening, Steve jolts up and— “Ah!” 

He’s choking on his spit, whole body clenching, every muscle pulled tighter than a rubber band, as Hargrove pushes inside of him. “SON OF A BITCH.” 

Holy shit, it hurts! It hurts—there’s a dick in him! There’s a fucking dick inside him, what the fuck!? He can’t even move, and if he breathes too hard, he feels like he’s gonna explode. There’s all this pressure, his guts are pressing up against the walls of his body, and if he so much as twitches, he might black out for real. And while he’s busy having a fucking aneurysm, Hargrove starts kissing him—actually kissing him, squeezing around Steve’s lips and taking the breath right out of him. Hargrove pulls back, those pointy corner teeth grazing Steve’s lip, and grabs at Steve’s thighs, moving him like he’s not paralyzed. He slides Steve’s legs up until his thighs are squeezed around Hargrove’s hips, then ducks again, the taste of Marlboros and about a hundred cans of Miller hitting the back of Steve’s throat as the guy plants another one on him, going at him like Steve’s tongue is the best thing he’s ever tasted. 

From a mile away, Steve feels Hargrove pry one arm under his back, and a whole new wave of pressure swells up in his middle, and it hurts, but when Hargrove’s other hand—callused and hot like a hundred degree fever—squeezes the bulk of his chest, Steve can’t fucking lie to himself. His dick jumps, and nothing, not even the thought that Hargrove’s probably drunk enough to think he’s playing with a real boob, slows down the feeling. And the thing he just mentioned? The literal pain in his ass? Hargrove hunches forward, bends—and he bucks his hips and—

That’s. 

Oh shit. That’s new. Steve’s never heard himself make that kind of noise. For one split, crazy second, he thinks someone’s watching porn in the next apartment, but no, it’s him. It’s him, he’s making that sound, and Steve’s trying to figure out how the hell he thought he knew what turned on feels like because this shit? There aren’t any goddamn words. Steve’s dick is throbbing, so pent up that it’s scraping up against his stupid pot belly, and then Hargrove does it again, rocking Steve slowly into the mattress until he has to throw his head back and groan. 

Forget talking: the best Steve can do is pant, hands slapping down on Hargrove’s back, nails digging in when the shithead rolls his hips again, and again… Steve feels high, trying to catch up with what’s happening as Hargrove puts his mouth on his cheek, trails it down the side of his neck, as he’s… Jesus. Fucking humping him. It’s—It’s good. Fuck, man. Why is it good? And each time he pushes into Steve, hitting a sharper angle and making Steve’s whole body pulse, it’s the best kind of miserable he’s ever been. He’s so built up it hurts, and God, Steve must be some kind of freak, or he’s fucked in the head—because, a minute ago, he would’ve given anything to get this psycho to stop touching him, and now? The only thing Steve wants, the only thing he can think about, is getting off. 

His arm slides down, maybe to grab himself, do something, anything to push himself over the edge—for Christ’s sake, he’s got tears in his eyes, he needs it so bad. But before he can do that, Hargrove grinds in deeper than ever, dragging out the arc of his hips so much that Steve slides a couple inches across the sheets. Then, right when Steve feels himself peak, Hargrove’s head snaps down and he sinks his teeth into Steve’s shoulder. “Ah, fuck!” 

That’s it, it’s over. Steve’s coming all over his stomach, every inch of him shaking, pressure crowding his insides again as Hargrove rocks himself over the finish line, bucking his hips through the aftershocks while Steve goes boneless underneath him. He can’t move, and his heart crawls into his mouth when he realizes Hargrove’s going limp over him, and oh shit, he’s still in there! In… Steve. The room’s spinning around him, and Steve’s panting as hard as he used to after drills, swallowing when this wave of nausea rolls over him. Hargrove wobbles above him, and the pressure fades, he—ah, fuck. Guy pulls out, and Steve’s spinning worse than the room, panic eating at him as he realizes how weak he feels. Hargrove’s arms seem to give out, and he drops down on the mattress—and before Steve has a chance to counter it, the dickhead’s arms are closing in around him like a bear trap. And he’s—

No, dude, come on. Is he passing out? Steve whips his head around to check behind him. Hargrove’s not sawing through a log this time, but his breathing’s slow, and every part of his body—except the arms, because that’s just typical—is relaxing. The guy’s motionless, that burning hot breath on the nape of Steve’s neck the only proof he’s still alive. Swallowing, Steve builds up his strength for a second, then thrashes against Hargrove’s straight-jacket hold with everything he’s got. 

Nothing.

Steve kicks the air and lets out a, “Fuck!”

 

*

 

Steve wants to tell himself that was the most screwed up dream of his life. He wants tell himself that it’s all that was. He knows it wasn’t, though. Wanna know how he knows? Because he didn’t sleep last night. Not for one single second. After his fight or flight finally kicked in enough to get him out of Hargrove’s grip, he left the guy in his bed, showered, and scrubbed every square inch of his body. (Especially his… Jesus. His ass.) No way in hell did he feel kosher crashing on the couch, or crashing at all, so he stayed up. 

All goddamn night. 

He watched the minutes on the VCR clock tick by, glancing over at Hargrove every time the guy rolled over and the mattress creaked, finally grabbing his keys and booking it the second it turned five to 10:00. 

Robin’s opening today—she never bugs him for a ride on Saturdays since that’s the one time Vickie can do it. And even though Vick knows Steve knows about them, and that he’s cool with the whole thing, Robin still calls it third-wheeling. He gets in the Chevy, but that’s the last thing he remembers before pulling into the parking lot of Family Video. The whole time, his brain keeps going rogue on him, and it’s like he’s back in 8th grade, making the fun little discovery that any stupid thing could have him pitching a tent in class. Except instead of Sarah Green wearing a spaghetti strap tank top in algebra, or that Octoberfest chick on the cover of his Social Studies textbook, it’s every time Hargrove planted one on him, or played with his chest like it was a fantastic rack, or shoved him so deep into the mattress that he—

NO. No, nonono—GOD. No.

Steve stumbles out of the truck like he’s drunker than Hargrove was last night, almost tripping over Vickie as she walks out of the entrance. She freezes, gives Steve a once-over, and shoots him that weird half smile like she’s trying to be friendly, but still doesn’t get what his deal with Robin is. “Oh! Hi, Steve.”

“Um. Hey.” Steve nods, awkwardly taking the door from her as she passes him. As soon as her back’s turned, he sprints into the store, tripping over his feet while he stumbles to the counter. 

“Whoa! Slow your roll, Harrington!” Robin leans back like she expects him to hurdle over the register. “Alright. Consider my interest piqued.” Sighing, she spreads her fingers on top of the counter and leans forward. “What, pray tell, was so noteworthy you had to be here the very millisecond we opened so you could talk to me?”

“Last night, I—” What, is he insane? Steve can’t tell her! This is the kind of shit you take to the grave, and burn all the evidence so nobody can figure it out after you’re dead. “I, uh…” Shit. He’s gotta say something, but this being the kind of crap you don’t talk about, it… It makes it hard to talk about it! Okay—middle ground. There’s gotta be some kind of secret code, or way he can… say it without saying it. And for some reason, the best he can come up with is, “… I got laid.”

Robin puts a hand over her mouth, gasping in a way that makes it hard for Steve to buy her claim that she never did drama club. “Thus ends the second longest dry spell of Steve Harrington’s career.” Reaching behind her, she snags a pack of Sugar Babies and slides them over the counter towards him. “I think you’ve earned this, soldier. And please: do spare me the details.”

Steve eyes the stupid yellow box, feeling like he’s tripping as he takes them and gives a dumb nod.

“I’ll bet your roommate made for an interesting roadblock.” For some crazy reason, it takes Steve a second to remember who the hell she’s talking about. “Did you lock him out on the patio just to be safe?” 

“He, uh… ” Steve opens and closes his mouth, leaving it shut until his brain finally kicks back on. “He was… cool about it.”

“Is that so?” Robin looks way too impressed, smushing her cheek against her palm. “Guess he’s less of a Neanderthal than I thought.”

“Yeah, well.” Ripping the box open, Steve dumps a few sugar blobs into his mouth, chewing a couple times before he mutters, “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”

Chapter 6: Fear

The good news is, Hargrove doesn’t remember.

Is Steve positive about that? Hell no, but what is he gonna do, man? Ask him? Jesus Christ. He’s just gonna have to trust his gut on this one. But Hargrove hasn’t said anything to him—hasn’t tried to make a move—so as far as Steve can tell, he’s either got no clue what went down, or he’s trying just as hard as Steve is to block out the memory.

That first day after he got back, Steve had to psyche himself up for ten minutes before he could open the door. The only thing that got him to bite the bullet and go in was thinking Hargrove might’ve bailed again. Steve didn’t get that lucky, but after he spent the whole night waiting for the other shoe to drop, nothing happened. Hargrove kept his eyes on the T.V. when Steve walked in, didn’t even pause mid-rep, just lifting his dumbbell up and down while he glared at a rerun of Cheers. 

A few days of that crap, and Steve’s starting to let his guard down. He still jumps when Hargrove actually talks to him, though.

“Harrington.”

Steve freezes halfway to the kitchen. “…What?”

Hargrove lifts his feet up, crossing ‘em on top of the coffee table as he leans back on the couch. “That girl at the station. Saw her around Max a few times. What’s her deal?”

“What, El?” That’s what he’s gonna ask about? Sure, he and Hargrove don’t really have ‘conversations’, but Steve didn’t think this’d be the first topic he’d pick. “What do you mean, ‘what’s her deal’? Didn’t you guys have, like… some kind of showdown at Starcourt?” That Mindflayer thing—or Vecna, Henry, whatever—had history with her, right? Guess it wasn’t Hargrove in the driver’s seat for a lot of that, but at this point, Steve wouldn’t be surprised if he knew more about El than Steve does.

“Mm.” Hargrove snorts, cigarette jiggling in his hand. “She likes Max, right?”

“I mean…yeah? So?” For fuck’s sake, the guy can’t take a hint. “Look, man, I already told you: forget about Max. Let it go already.” 

“You’re reading into it too much.” Hargrove takes a long drag, then adds, “Just don’t want her turning my sister into a dyke, that’s all.”

Steve rolls his eyes so far into the back of his head, they might get stuck. “Hhhholy shit.” That’s what he’s worried about? Just when Steve figured he couldn’t be any more of a scumbag. Turns out the bastard’s got some kind of talent for it. “Okay, Hargrove. Okay. You want my opinion?” 

“Oh.” Hargrove pulls this fake shocked face, then grins and darts his stupid tongue out. “Yeah, sure. Please—indulge me.” 

“Nahhh, you don’t care. Don’t—don’t do that fake shit.” Steve shakes his head—God, he’s already tired of this crap, and they’ve been talking for thirty seconds, tops. “It’s just—if it were me? If I was the biggest piece of shit on the planet, and El still… stood up for me, and told everybody else to give me a chance? Even though she’s obviously dead wrong—” And yeah, Steve doesn’t like admitting it. Feels like he’s punching down, but clearly the kid who spent half her life as a lab rat isn’t gonna have the people skills to see Hargrove for what he is. “—I’d be kissing her ass.” 

“Jesus, Harrington.” Hargrove waves his cigarette at Steve. “So sensitive all of a sudden. I didn’t remember you being this much of a pussy.” 

“Alright, man.” Steve chuckles, ducking his head, ‘cause Hargrove’s not gonna get to him today. “Talk shit all you want, it’s not gonna change anything. You’re just picking fights ‘cause you’re pissed off. Like that tantrum you threw the other day.”

“Oh, yeah?” Asshole’s got acting chops, Steve’ll admit it. He almost sounds like he means it when he asks, “And what am I pissed off about?” 

“I mean, dealer’s choice, honestly, but the main thing?” Steve works his jaw, wondering if he’s really about to go there. “You’re jealous.” 

“I’m—” Now Hargrove’s full on grinning, head tilting to one side, blinking a bunch like that’s the funniest thing Steve’s ever said to him. “—jealous?”

“Yeah! Jealous.” Fuck, man. Steve doesn’t care if it’s hitting below the belt—he’s owed Hargrove a shot to the family jewels for a while now. “‘Cause Max’ll talk to me.” 

Steve can see the switch flip; guy goes from thinking Steve’s response was gonna be a laugh, to steaming. His mouth doesn’t move, he’s still pulling that fake smirk, but his eyes are ice cold. “Huh.” He makes that noise, like he’s thinking on it, and turns his head. God, maybe Steve should just be glad he didn’t start breaking shit. 

“Christ.” Steve’s thinking out loud, barely talking to himself when he mutters, “What’d El see in you?” 

Hargrove answers anyway. “Not my fault the little freak’s obsessed with me.” 

“Yeah, sure. That’s what it is.” She’s ‘obsessed’, same way Hargrove thinks every chick who makes eye contact with him is. It’s got nothing to do with El thinking she owes some kind of life debt to the son of a bitch. “Get over yourself, asshole.”

“Y’know, I’d really appreciate it if you could stop taking all this female hysteria out on me.” Hargrove pushes out a sigh, as if it’s this huge chore to sit there and throw insults at Steve. “I mean, I get it, I’m the only one here. You gotta have somebody you can bitch at. But let me tell you something—it’s not my fault that this whole…” He scrunches up his face, like it’s gross to even talk about it. “…parasite situation is making you completely un-fuckable.” 

The worst part about that line is Steve knows he’s got a point. Owens said it himself; Steve’s barely halfway through this crap, and he’s already starting to look like a freak. He can’t imagine how bad it’ll be when it’s all over—won’t even let himself. “Hey, man, how ‘bout you do me a solid and eat shit.”

The pissy look is gone, and Hargrove’s back to having a great time as he whistles. “Truth hurts—don’t it, Harrington?”

Screw it. Steve’s not gonna take the bait. “How’d you do it, man? Did you brainwash her? Did you—Did you scream at her like she was Max? Freak her out on her until she’d actually vouch for you?” It just doesn’t add up. Hargrove got her on his side somehow, and right now, the only explanation Steve’s buying is that he blackmailed her. “She’s not a moron.” She’s been out in the real world for a while now, and Steve knows she dealt with plenty of shitty people in the lab. Why she can’t recognize the one stinking up his couch is beyond Steve.

For the second time, Steve knocked the smirk off Hargrove’s face. “I didn’t do shit.” Taking another puff, he growls around the cigarette, “You want to know what that schizo was thinking, ask her yourself.” 

Huh.

First time Steve can remember it happening, but Hargrove’s got a point. Steve’s been caught in this weird limbo, where the only thing holding him back from calling Owens was Max—and, shit, that ship has sailed. But maybe there was still some part of him that didn’t want to let El down. Well, Steve figures he gave Hargrove long enough to prove her wrong.

Walking over to him, Steve stares the bastard down for a second, then kicks his legs, knocking them off the coffee table so suddenly that Hargrove actually slips down the couch a few inches. Steve waits for the dickhead to make eye contact, then flips him off and heads out the front door.

 

*

 

It’s stupid, but Steve feels almost… guilty. 

It’s just, the last couple of times he was here, he was about to get his face sucked off by a demogorgon, or Hargrove had him pinned to the floor, punching his brains out. And he doesn’t want to be all paranoid, but it’s like he’s waiting for something to smash through the wall of Mrs. Byers’ place—now it’s Hopper’s place too, he guesses—and attack him. Makes it kinda hard to focus as he sits on the porch and tries to wrap his head around what El’s saying.

“I know he saved you—I know. Not trying to… downplay that. But…” Steve swallows, shrugging while he tries to figure out what to say. “The guy’s gotta have a limit, right? Maybe it was one and done.” He swipes his arm to one side. “He had it in him to do one good thing, and taking the hit for you? That was—That was it.”

El’s got her legs up to her chest, chin on her knees as she watches Steve. “No.” 

“No?” Steve echoes. “Just… no?” That’s it? “I-I don’t get it. I just… I feel like you’re being way too optimistic.”

“I think it’s…” El squints, turning her head to look out across the front yard as she thinks. “It’s hard to explain. In Starcourt before he died, I…” Her lips thin together and she looks so lost that Steve feels like a jerk for bringing any of this up. “I went into his memories.” 

“… Okay?” … She can do that? Did… Did Steve know she can do that?

“He was happy—really happy—when he was little. And his mom was there.” Forget lost, El just looks sad now, staring at her shoes as she mumbles. “But she left him alone with Neil. And he hurt him again and again.” Her face flickers, and now she looks pissed. “He was like papa.” 

“Your d—” No, not her dad. The guy before Owens. That, and the fact that he was a giant piece of shit who basically tortured El, is all Steve knows about him. “…The Brenner guy?”

El nods. “But I left. I got away from papa.” Her eyes are shiny when she looks up at Steve again. “Billy… never got away.” 

“Yeah, but…” Shit, man. Steve’s dad is a piece of work, too, but he’d never dream of doing half the crap Hargrove does. It sucks, sure. Steve’s not saying it didn’t, but… so what? Shouldn’t all that make him want to be less of a bastard? 

“I believe… ” Seems like El’s running through a few different options in her head. Finally, she settles on, “I believe he can be different. He never had a choice before. But I think… ” The way she says it—the way she’s looking at Steve—it’s like she wants to make sure he’s hearing her loud and clear. “I think Billy will choose to be better.”

Steve snorts before he catches himself. “… I gotta be honest here.” Good for El, he guesses. Obviously, she sees something the rest of them don’t. What else is new? “I think you’re gonna be disappointed.” 

The corners of her mouth turn up. “I think you will be surprised.” 

Steve pulls a grin and looks towards the treeline. “Sure, kid. Whatever you say.”

There’s a pause, and it takes Steve a minute to notice El’s watching him. “Steve?” 

“Yeah?”

Kid doesn’t blink a lot, does she? “Are you scared?”

“What?” Yeah, Steve can see how she’d think that. Hargrove’s a walking nuke—but it’s not like Steve didn’t know that already. “Nahhh, I’m not scared. I’ve been handling it.” Except for the incident Steve’s gonna take to his fucking grave, things have gone better than he would’ve figured.

“Not Billy. I mean…” Stretching her legs out, El leans back in her chair and slides her hand down over her stomach. It’s gotta be obvious that Steve’s not taking the hint, though, because she adds a little nod towards his gut.

Oh. Right.

“I…” Feels like Steve’s brain is broken. Just like anyone else mentioning it—or any of his check-ups with Owens—he’s fumbling, trying to come up with a way to change the subject as fast as possible. “It’s, uh…” He clenches his jaw, feeling like he can’t look at the kid all of a sudden. “Look, El, that’s…” Shit. He’s got nothin’. “I’m handling it! I’m handling it.” He says that, and same as everything else in his life right now, it’s bullshit. 

Her face tells Steve she’s not sold, but it’s still a weight off his shoulders when she doesn’t push it. “…Okay.”

God. Here she is, talking about Billy like he deserves even a speck of pity, and worrying about Steve even though they’ve maybe said a hundred words to each other. He knows the lab sucked, but El still came out of it a good kid. It can’t be that bad, right? 

Steve’s, uh. He’s not gonna say that out loud to her, though.

“… Wait here.” Steve jumps as El pops up, turning on her heel and running back into the house. He waits for a second, wondering if she’s gonna drag Mrs. Byers or Hopper back out with her, but she comes back a minute later by herself, but not empty-handed. With this huge grin on her face, she hands Steve a Capri-Sun, and he gets hit with this thought. There was probably a lot of stuff she never had as a kid, so crap like this is still a big deal to her. “To take the edge off.”

A laugh bursts out of Steve’s mouth before he can stop it. He shakes his head, stabbing the dumb little straw in and pressing his pouch against El’s. “Cheers.”

 

*

 

God, this sucks. Steve’s never had to think this hard about what he’s wearing in his life. Yeah, obviously he’d put enough thought into it to make himself look decent, but he sure as hell never had anything to hide. His pants officially don’t button—okay, technically they do, but only if he sucks it in as much as he can, and even then, it feels like his guts are being squished so hard he can’t breathe—so he had to wear his bootcamp sweats. In public. 

“Do me a favor.” It’s the first thing he says when Robin drops down in the passenger seat. She probably doesn’t even need anything for her dorm—half the time, Steve’s convinced she comes along just so she can talk his ear off about Vickie—but he’s gotta lay down some ground rules. “Don’t mention it.”

“Well, that could be conceivably anything,” she deadpans. “Don’t mention what, Steve?”

“I look like shit. I know I look like shit. Therego—”

“Ergo,” she nags.

Steve throws up a couple air quotes. “Ergo…” Shooting her a dirty look, he repeats, “Don’t mention it.”

“You know,” Robin starts, and that’s never a good sign. “Everything I’ve learned about pregnancy is straight out of a Stephen King novel—”

“Robin,” Steve groans, mashing his fingertips into his forehead. 

“And that’s if you’re a woman.” She just keeps going. Same shit, different day. “In other words, for whom this is allegedly normal?” 

Steve shifts the truck into drive, speeding towards the Save-A-Lot so he’ll have something, anything else, to focus on. “Christ. Just—”

“My point is, I absolutely do not blame you for dressing like a slob.”

Steve grinds the back of his skull into the headrest. “God, Robin—”

“It’s not even that bad! You just look…” Robin sizes him up and Steve starts white-knuckling the wheel. “Bloated.” 

“Oh, well, thanks. Thank you for that.” Steve coasts into the parking lot, settling on the first spot that looks close to the entrance and pulling in. It can’t be more than a couple seconds—Steve pulls himself together pretty fast—but he has to psyche himself up, stomp out all the thoughts about how ridiculous he looks. Something he hasn’t had to do since Scoops Ahoy, and unlike that stupid hat, he can’t take the gut off and chuck it in the back of the Chevy.

Robin’s already blabbing about something, but Steve’s trying not to feel like he’s headed into a warzone, stepping out of the truck and walking through the parking lot towards the sliding doors. Everything’s slow-motion as Steve scans the area, making sure nobody’s got their eyes on him. This voice in the back of his head’s convinced everybody in a mile radius is gonna be staring. He doesn’t really calm down until they’re in the middle of an empty part of the store, and, of course, that’s when Robin ditches him. “…Well, I don’t want you to be traumatized by the contents of Aisle 12B, so I’ll be right back.”

Steve watches her go, then drops his head with a groan. Christ, he’s being ridiculous. Yeah, Barnes was giving him shit for it, but that uniform fits like a glove! Of course he’d notice. Besides—Steve’s still got it! If Scoops couldn’t beat the charm out of him, then neither will this crap. He nods, pulls himself together, then heads down to the end of the aisle so he can grab a carton of milk. He turns to see if he can catch Robin at the other end of 12B when he almost trips over the person crouched by him.

The girl stumbles and almost drops her half-’n-half as she stands. “Sorry, I—oh!” Her whole face lights up. “Hi, Steve!” 

Steve’s arm jerks forward on instinct, and he yanks the carton right in front of his stomach with a jolt of panic. “Hey, uh—”Oh, shit. He knows her! C’mon, Harrington! Name, name— “Brenda!” 

“Oh my God, how are you?” It’s kinda wild how excited she is to see him, considering they went on a grand total of three dates, but Steve’s not about to complain. And you know what? Steve gets it, man! He’s a catch. 

“I—good! Good. Um.” Steve swallows and shakes his head, trying to dust off the skills he hasn’t used in months. “How are you?”

“Good!” Brenda nods, her giant earrings clacking against her chin. “I’ve just been getting my Gen Ed stuff out of the way at Manchester. My parents were on my ass.” 

It’s starting to come back to Steve now. She was a total airhead, but hey, she’s nice, and gorgeous—come on! Steve’s been so caught up in all the bullshit, he hasn’t flirted with a girl in months, and she’s flirting back! It feels great, and even better than that, it feels normal.  “Oh, yeah?”

She nods, twisting a curly blonde strand of hair around her finger. “Yeah. See, I wanted to take a gap year, just focus on myself, y’know? But my folks thought the whole thing was, like, totally bogus.”

“Oh—” Steve rolls his eyes and he feels himself start to smile. “—totally.”

“So what’ve you been up to?” 

“Just—same old, same old.” Steve shrugs. “I’ve, uh—I’m actually over at—” 

That’s when Steve’s whole body goes stiff, heart smashing into his ribcage as something moves under his skin. The carton drops at his feet, exploding and splattering milk everywhere while Steve chokes and stumbles backwards into a shelf. 

“OH MY GOD!” Brenda jumps a foot in the air, hands flying to cover her face. 

Steve sputters, eyes darting down. It’s his stomach, there’s something in there, moving—!

“Steve?” Robin’s voice is right by his ear, her hands grabbing onto his shoulders. “Steve!”

“I-I… I—” Steve can’t tear his eyes away from his shirt. He keeps expecting see it, this giant flesh worm bursting out of the fabric. 

“Oooohkay!” Fingers digging in, Robin starts to yank Steve away. “I’m sure it’s been wonderful catching up, Brittany—”

Brenda’s eyes go from the milk, to Steve, to Robin, mouth hanging open in shock. “It’s Brenda.”

“If you say so!” Robin claps her hands on his shoulders, starting to pull harder. “Annnnnyway, I’m just gonna borrow Steve for a minute, so you have a great time with your—” She cranes her head down, scoping out the inside of Brenda’s basket. “—Spaghetti-O’s.”

The whole time Robin tugs him along is a blur, and Steve trips and grits his jaw each time he feels another squirm. The second they’re through the doors, Steve hisses through his teeth at her. “I-I think it’s the slug—it’s—” Steve’s fighting to keep his voice calm, and not do that pitchy thing he does when he’s really freaked out, but… Yeah, he might be. “I-It’s coming out.”

“Ohhh God. Okay! Okay. Um.” Robin guides him over to the Chevy like a seeing eye dog, reaching for the driver’s side door.  “Let’s—Let’s go to the lab guy!” 

Steve’s voice jumps up even higher. “I can’t drive like this!” He falls into the seat anyway—screw driving, he’s not sure he can walk. 

“Waitwaitwait.” Licking her lips, Robin crouches down next to him, doing some sort of math equation in her head before she lands on, “… Let me see.” 

“What?”

Okay, Robin’s officially panicking, too, because she’s in full motormouth mode. “Maybe I can, like—slow the process down! O-Or salt it! Slugs hate salt, right? I could—I could try to push it back in!”

“Push it back in!?” Steve sputters, then slams his head on the roof of the Chevy when he feels it wriggling again. “FINE! Fine. Okay, uh—” Gulping, Steve peels his sweatshirt up, screwing his eyes shut with a groan. “Oh God, I can’t look.”

Robin’s dead silent for a second, and at first, Steve thinks it’s too bad to speak, but then she mumbles, “I don’t… see anything.” 

“Wha—are you sure?” Steve peels one eye open, glancing down at his gut and flinching when there’s another tap. “There’s—something is definitely going on in there!”

“Hang on…” Reaching out, Robin puts her palm right up against Steve’s bare stomach, and Steve flails like she hit him with 50 volts. She keeps it there for a second, thinking hard, face barely twitching when there’s another shift under Steve’s skin. Then she slumps, head rolling forward as she moans, “Oh my God. Steve.”

Steve’s heart won’t stop racing, and it’s throwing him for a loop how Robin’s so calm when his stomach’s about to pop like a giant zit. “What!?” 

Pulling away, Robin stands up and puts her hand on the top of the door, shooting him the same look she’d get whenever she filled out her stupid scoreboard at Scoops. “… It’s kicking, dingus.”

 

*

 

“Chief. Chief? Hey! We have a code yellow. I repeat, a confirmed code yellow. Do you copy?”

Steve winces, cranking the volume down as he picks up the radio. “Heeeey, Henderson. We copy.”

“Wha—Steve?” Yeah. Happy to hear from you, too, dipshit. “Stop clogging up the line!”

“I’m not clogging it! I’m—” Steve snaps a couple times, pausing ’til he comes up with something catchy. “—backup.”

“No, you’re in time out.” Mrs. Henderson always seemed like a nice lady, but Steve’s gotta wonder what kind of ship she runs at home, ‘cause Dustin’s got some real screwed up ideas when it comes to respecting his elders. “And your radio is for Billy and chestburster emergencies only!”

“Yeah—actually, Henderson?” Steve holds down the ‘talky’ button while he pauses, just so the dickhead can’t interrupt him. “I’m gonna use this thing however I want, and you? You’re gonna let me.”

“Oh, so you want me to take back my radio? Is that it? Because, again, Steve—it’s MY equipment that I am very graciously letting you use.”

“Whatever, man.” Kid thinks he’s so smart, but Steve’s about to run mental circles around his ass. “Look, just tell me what the deal is and I’ll call Hopper. I’ve got a direct line to his office and everything.” Is Steve gonna do that? Hell no! Look, this is a chance to prove he can still handle this shit, basically falling in his lap—he’d be crazy not to take it! 

“Fine. It’s not a confirmed hostile—” Okay, so it’s not even a demodog! Figures Henderson would jump down Steve’s throat over nothing.

Wheeler cuts in. “El sensed it, she and Max were—”

From the couch, Hargrove’s head jerks up, but Steve ignores him.

“I’m TELLING him!” Henderson snaps. “It’s a—”

“We don’t know what it is,” sighs Byers. 

“Oh, sure, just sell us completely short,” deadpans Henderson. “Maybe YOU don’t have any clue what we’re dealing with, but I—”

“Yeah, no one gives a shit about your theories.” Mike sounds like he was done with Henderson before they even called. “It’s definitely from the Upside—”

“SHHH! Shhh! Hello?” A couple muffled yelps—Steve’s gonna guess Dustin slapped a hand over Wheeler’s mouth and stole the walky. “Is the phrase ‘top secret’ completely meaningless to you?”

“Fine! It’s definitely from—” Wheeler pauses, probably to roll his eyes. “—Mordor. Now call Hopper and get him to come down here, STAT.” 

“Y’know, Wheeler, there’s this word. It’s, uh…” Steve drums his fingers on the wall. “Oh, yeah! Please. But hey, man! I’m in a good mood, so why not.” Steve nods a couple times, then does this sarcastic bow. “At your goddamn service.” … Hang on. “Wait, where are you?

“Behind the laundromat next to Bradley’s.” Will pipes up, then whispers, “Tell him to bring a lighter.” 

“Copy that.” Steve clips the walky to his belt loop, heading towards the coffee table and reaching for his keys.

Hargrove watches him, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. “So—what? You’re not gonna call daddy pig?” Steve can see the gears turning in the douchebag’s brain before he asks, “This some kind of coathanger situation?” Shooting Steve a psycho grin, he adds, “Probably’d be easier to chuck yourself down a flight of stairs, you know.” 

“Hey, one more minute with you, maybe I will.” Steve shrugs, turning towards the door.

“Oh, shit. You’re really going?” Hargrove hops to his feet, tailing Steve across the living room. “Now this I gotta see.”

“Whoa. Uh, no?” Pulling a 180, Steve squints at Hargrove. “Why would you be coming?” 

“Ooh, well—maybe it’s because you’re not the fucking boss of me, Harrington. Oop! Look at that!” Hargrove holds his hand up, dangling the keys to the Chevy between his greasy fingers. “How’d I get these?”

“HEY!” Steve makes a swipe for them, but Hargrove dodges.

“Better put some pep in your step, Harrington.” Swinging the door open, the bastard steps out onto the walkway and calls back, “I don’t like to wait.” 

“God damn it.” Steve sprints after him—and, hey! Great. Now he can’t even lock his front door! “Hargrove! Hey.”

By the time Steve gets down the stairs, Hargrove’s already at the Chevy, leering at Steve from halfway inside the driver’s seat. 

“NO! Hell no. Are you kidding me?” Steve skirts around the front of the truck, yanking the bastard out by the back of his shirt. “Shotgun, dumbass.” 

Hands on either side of his head like Steve’s got him in a stick-up, Hargrove walks around the trunk towards the passenger side, chucking the keys over the roof. “Yes sir, Mr. Harrington.” 

“Yeah, don’t try to be funny.” Steve wrinkles his nose, wiping off the seat just in case there’s corpse slime on it, then gets in. He starts the truck as soon as he slams his door—something tells him he shouldn’t bother to wait for Hargrove to buckle up—and peels out towards the laundromat. 

Hargrove sits still for about half a minute, then starts to screw with the radio, flipping through all the stations three times in a row, then cranking the knob up as far as it’ll go. After that, he stares at Steve with this dead-eyed look, blasting the sounds of a murder suicide loud enough for both of them to go deaf.

Steve reaches for the knob, slapping Hargrove’s hand away after the third or fourth try, finally turning the radio off once they’re parking in front of the laundromat. Groaning, Steve swings his door open, stomping past the front of the building as Hargrove tails him around the back.

“Wh—Steve?” Henderson’s hat pops out from behind the corner. “The hell are you—whoa, whoa.” Pointing, the kid’s head snaps back and forth between Steve and Hargrove. “Why is he here?” 

Hargrove doesn’t even look in Dustin’s direction, stepping past the kid and scanning the space behind him while Wheeler and Byers stand there, clueless. “Where’s Max?”

“She’s with El and Lucas.” Wheeler looks like he wouldn’t even give Hargrove the time of the day if he could help it, and yeah, Steve can’t exactly blame him. “They’re covering downtown.”

Steve frowns. “For what?”

“We had to make sure there weren’t any more of…” Byers shrinks into himself, then does a tiny gesture towards the ground. “… these.”

The alley’s deserted, and on his first pass, Steve doesn’t see anything. The bat’s in his trunk, and part of him’s wondering if he should go back and grab it as he tiptoes around, the shitheads almost tripping over themselves at his heels. Finally, after a minute of scoping out the whole perimeter, Steve calls it. “Okay, I give. What am I looking at, exactly?” 

“It’s right—Steve.” Henderson snaps a few times, then loses his patience and grabs Steve’s chin, yanking his whole head to the left. “Right there.”

“… Huh.” Well, Steve can see why he didn’t pick up on it the first time. He figured the vines and shit growing around the dumpster were just regular plants, but that thing in the middle… It’s almost like a dead, gray flower, but when Steve inches closer, he sees it’s got this weird, fleshy texture. Almost reminds him of the head of a demogorgon. Only thing is, it’s tiny. “That’s it?”

“I’m sorry, is it not impressive enough for you?” Henderson huffs, then jumps when Steve goes to poke it with his shoe, smacking at his shoulder ’til he backs off. “HEY! Don’t touch it.” 

“Ow!” Steve winces, shoving Henderson off him. “Jesus, okay.” 

Mike pops up at his other shoulder, mumbling, “At least tell me you brought the lighter.” 

Steve blinks. “Uh.”

Stepping past them, Hargrove pulls a lighter out of his shirt pocket and flicks it open.

Dustin gawks for a second, then grumbles, “Did you bring him just for that?”

Turning, Hargrove waves the flame in Henderson’s face, like he’s trying to catch the brim of his hat on fire.

Henderson trips backwards, flailing, then barks, “The plant, asshole! The plant!” 

“Watch your tone, shitbird. You’re already a fucking mush-mouth.” Grunting, Hargrove closes the lighter and squats in front of the plant. “I’d hate to see what you sound like after I knock out a couple more teeth.”

“Yeah, yeah. You can bolster your fragile masculinity by threatening me later.” Clapping, Henderson orders, “Let’s make with the bonfire!” 

Hargrove stops to shoot Dustin one last glare before he flicks the lighter on again and stretches his arm towards the plant.

Byers hunches his shoulders, reaching up to paw at his neck. “Guys?” 

“What is it?” Suddenly, Wheeler’s on high alert. “Do you feel something?”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together, and that’s when it hits him. “Hey, wait a sec.” The shape’s different, and it’s not the same color, but.. “Isn’t this one of those things from the tunnels?”

“What?” Henderson looks up at him.

“You know? The thing that shot a bunch of crap in your face, and you started rolling around on the floor, losing your shit?” 

Henderson sputters. “I didn’t ‘lose my shit’, okay, I—”

“Yeah, you did, actually.” Wheeler cracks a grin, throwing his arms around like he’s fighting off an imaginary swarm of bees. “You were screaming your head off like, ‘Ahh, it’s in my mouth! It’s in my mouth, you guys!’” 

“This is different!” Henderson yelps, then shouts at Hargrove. “HOLD IT.” Hargrove actually stops, turning towards Dustin with a face that tells Steve’s there’s nothing the guy wants to do more right now than burn something. “This thing could have a completely unrelated biology. I mean—yeah, that’s the best guess we have, and sure, it could be what those spore things look like if they grow in a different environment than the Upside Down, but…” Henderson trails off, losing his point a little. “But—we should still exercise caution.” Pausing, Dustin leans towards Steve and whispers, “Seriously. Are we actually gonna let the least stable person in Hawkins disarm what could essentially be a bomb?”

“Yeah, uh— good question, man.” Steve nods. “Follow up: do you want that thing exploding in your face again?” 

“Huh.” Henderson takes a second to relive the horror of choking on a mouthful of Upside Down crud, then admits, “Fair point, Steve.” 

“Guys!” Byers pipes up again, but the kid’s so jumpy all the time, they’re all just tuning him out. “I think maybe we should cover our m—” 

Hargrove holds the light out again, and the thing starts steaming over the open flame. Then it scrunches up like a sock puppet, the little head petals fly open, and a cloud of something spews out of it so fast, there’s no time to react.

“J-Jesus… Ch… Christ…” Steve chokes, coughing and stumbling back as he scrubs at his mouth. Ugh, God. Tastes like bleach and dust, plus some of that freaky electric burning that’s just textbook Upside Down. Henderson’s next to him, hacking up a lung, Byers is wheezing with his arms wrapped around his stomach, Wheeler’s doubled over and hocking loogies into the pavement, and—

Steve swears, all he did was blink, but suddenly those little shits are nowhere to be seen. “What the h-hell was…” Whole body freezing, Steve takes in the vines stretched over the ground, then cranes his neck back to gawk at the dull, red sky, ash floating through every square inch of the place. He barely mutters the last word. “… that.”

Head whipping around, Steve calls out, “Henderson?” He stumbles in a circle, almost tripping over the vines, heartbeat thudding in his ears. “Come on, man! This isn’t funny! Where the hell did you g—” Steve takes a few steps, the sky flashes with that crazy, silent lightning, and a shape way off in the distance catches his eye. “Oh, shit.”

The second he spots it, Steve knows what it is. It’s familiar in this sick, fucked-up way—something Steve’s seen before that he never wants to see again. It can’t be her, it’s not fucking possible, but when he breaks into a sprint, gets close enough for the details to take shape… He sees her dark curls, that same kind of striped sweater she likes to wear, and he knows.  

He drops to his knees the second he gets to her, pain spiking up his legs when they hit the concrete, but he barely notices. “Nance? Nance, what’re you—” Her eyes are open, totally blank, but it’s worse than last time. Now there are all these thick, black veins creeping under her skin, and God, her skin—“H-Hey. Come on, Nance, you’re okay.” Steve tries to swallow, but his throat’s full of sand, and his arms are weak as he reaches out, lifts her back off the pavement…

She’s always been light, but now, it’s like she doesn’t weigh anything, her whole body limp as a ragdoll when he moves her. She’s gray, her chest completely still, and when Steve gives her a desperate shake, her head lolls onto her shoulders in a way that makes his stomach heave. “Nance? Nancy, I—” His voice is breaking, eyes burning as he gives her another, rougher shake. “Please.” 

His vision’s starting to blur, hands twitching as he pulls her cold body to his chest, and then then there’s a thump—

Steve’s eyes dart back down. He’s standing. He’s not kneeling, there’s nothing in his arms, and he’s staring down at his feet. Mostly his feet. Gulping, Steve pants, wincing when another thump knocks against him from the inside of his stomach. 

Okay. Okay. 

So that was… That’s real.

And Nance… wasn’t. Heart still pounding so fast Steve can’t tell one beat from the next, he looks around. He’s back in the alley, next to the dumpster behind the laundromat. The toxic cloud’s gone, and when he turns, Henderson, Byers, and Wheeler are all standing like statues behind him. For a minute, Steve’s back on high alert—it looks like Vecna, the way they’re zoned out, eyes glazed over—but they’re not pure white, there’s no floating off the ground or bones snapping. None of that Exorcist shit. Frowning, Steve steps over to Dustin and waves a hand over his eyes, then snaps a couple times.

Nothing. “…Huh.”

Steve steps over to Byers to check him when this fucked up gurgling breaks the silence. Steve spins on his heel, eyes going wide when he spots Hargrove. The bastard’s flat on his back, seizing up on the cement as his eyes roll up in his head and he foams at the mouth. “HOLY—!”

Hargrove goes stiff as Steve drops next to him. Prying the bastard’s mouth open, Steve reaches his fingers down, trying to clear his airway. “HARGROVE!” God, fuck. “HEY! Dipshits! Wake up!” Steve’s head snaps back and forth between Hargrove and Dustin, then he slings his leg back and kicks Henderson’s ankle as hard as he can.

“Son of a bitch!” Henderson comes to with a scream, stumbling and hopping on one leg. “Steve! What the hell!” The kid groans and grabs his head, but Steve rips his eyes off him, turning back around. Hargrove’s stopped choking, but he’s completely still. 

“Oh no.”

“Steve?”

Steve throws an arm behind him, pointing. “Wake those two up! NOW!” 

“Wha—!”

“I SAID NOW, HENDERSON!” Steve grabs Hargrove’s wrist, pressing his thumb to a vein, then feels the blood rush out of his face. “Shit.” He hunches over Hargrove, folding one hand over the other, shoving the heels of his palm into the bastard’s chest as he counts. “Kick ‘em in the nads if you have to, just—wake them up!” Steve hits thirty, then tilts Hargrove’s head back, pinching his nose shut and exhaling as deep as he can into his mouth. 

“O-Oh, shit! Okay, uh—HEY!” Henderson does something to Wheeler and he yelps, then moans in pain. 

Steve pulls away from the second rescue breath and goes straight back into compressions, counting again. Just like the training, he pushes hard into Hargrove’s chest, remembers that the pace is faster, the whole thing’s harder work than he ever would’ve figured. If he’s not exhausted, he’s not doing it right. And even if he is, he has to keep going. Dustin says something—radioing Hopper, Byers howls when Wheeler slugs him… 

All that noise fades away, drowned out by the ringing in Steve’s ears.

Chapter 7: FREEWAY

Hargrove sure looks like he’s died twice, but he won’t quit it with the tough guy act, sitting up on the couch and probably trying not to hurl while he takes baby sips of his beer. Steve’s not even sure how he made it to the fridge and back without passing out, but if the bastard’s too stubborn to stay dead, he’s not gonna let a measly heart attack slow him down. 

Everything that happened behind the laundromat’s still a blur. Henderson woke the other dickheads up, somebody called Hopper, and Steve worked up the biggest sweat he’s had since bootcamp trying to get Hargrove’s heart up and running. Kind of wild, honestly; when they covered it in training, somehow Steve figured he was never gonna have to do it on a real person. Shit—even if he did, Hargrove would be the last guy on the list, and not just ‘cause he was dead at the time. But when Steve dropped down on the pavement, did compressions ’til his arms were about to fall off, and Hargrove finally twitched and took this huge, raspy breath… 

Fuck, man. Steve was actually relieved. 

They couldn’t exactly take him to the hospital, but by the time Hopper showed up, Hargrove was awake, answering questions, and pissed. Hopper gave him a once over and said he was stable, but if he croaked again, Steve was gonna have to make the call: either handle it on his own, or call an ambulance and let the professionals take care of it. That’s even if it’d mean Hargrove getting shipped back to the lab. After they cleared that up, Hopper let Steve have it—since, y’know, Steve wasn’t supposed to be out doing Upside Down shit, and Hargrove wasn’t supposed to be out, period. And apparently, telling the chief that Hargrove stole his keys wasn’t a good enough excuse. 

Henderson figured there was something about Hargrove’s new system that made him extra weak to the crap that thing was spraying. Something about Upside Down germs, or demogorgon blood, or whatever the hell. Steve doesn’t know. The point is, Hargrove basically overdosed and that’s why his heart gave out.

A couple days after hauling him back up to his apartment, Steve hears through the grapevine that Max wants to give it another shot. Like… she wants to see Billy. Guess the bastard dying twice really greased the wheels. 

Now Steve’s picking up the empty beer cans Hargrove chucked on the floor, tossing them into a plastic bag and getting déjà vu from the last time Max dropped by and Hargrove went apeshit. That reminds him:

“Alright, so… That whole part where you blew up and trashed the place?” Steve gestures around the living room, trying to get the message across that his apartment shouldn’t look like it exploded. “Don’t do that.”

Hargrove doesn’t budge, giving a thousand-yard stare to the corner of the room. 

Well, lucky for Hargrove, Steve’s being generous with the advice today. “Maybe don’t call her a bitch, either.”

Still nothing, but Steve’s gonna bet he’s not imagining the way Hargrove’s shoulders tense up. 

“And you’re probably not gonna want to scream at her, or—”

“I got it, Harrington,” Hargrove’s head snaps over to look at him, growling through his teeth.

Steve throws a hand up defensively. “Hey, man. Just trying to help.” Guy’s as much of a prick as he always is—didn’t even thank Steve for saving his life—but Steve thinks he might actually be nervous. Or whatever Hargrove gets instead of nervous.

“You wanna help?” Hargrove downs the last of his backwash and waves his hand towards Steve, like he’s gonna throw the can at him. “Go make yourself useful and fuck off somewhere.”

“What, so you can put a foot through my TV after you screw this up?” Steve clicks his tongue, tying a knot in the top of the bag. “Yeeeaah, I don’t think so.”

There’s a knock at the door as Steve chucks the bag into the kitchen, and when he heads over and opens it, Max and El are waiting on the other side. Max looks like somebody blackmailed her to be here, glaring from under her eyebrows and tightening her grip on the game station in her arms, but El looks stoked. Guess she missed the memo that this was supposed to suck.  

“Uh.” Steve steps back so they can come in. “Hey.”

Just for a split second—and Steve tries to ignore it, he really does—Max’s eyes dart down to the bump under his shirt before jumping back up to his face. “Hi.”

Steve’s just gonna speed past that. “Hey, you uh…” He lowers his voice so Hargrove won’t catch it. “You sure you’re up for this?” 

Max’s expression changes. There’s a tiny bit of panic, mixed with that tired, given up look she had for most of the year after Billy died. “I put up with him for ten years. I figure I might as well give it ten more minutes…” She drums her fingers on the game system nervously. “Worst case scenario, I’ll just… have proof.” 

Steve’s not sure he wants to hear the answer, but he asks anyway. “Proof?”

“That I tried. I mean, if he’s not—” Max catches herself getting louder and brings her voice down to a mutter. “If he isn’t going to change, if this goes south, then…” She shakes her head, the same thousand-yard stare that Hargrove had earlier coming over her face. “That’s it. I’ll know I made the right call.” 

“Hey, Harrington!” Hargrove shouts from around the corner. “You gonna talk shit about me all day, or you gonna let her in?”

“Coming, asshole.” Max winces, but she steps inside anyway, bending to untie her shoes. El barrels past her, then sees what Max is doing and clomps back a few steps to the entryway so she can copy her.

Steve heaves a sigh, swinging the door shut behind him as he follows the kids into the living room. 

Hargrove’s still looking like death warmed over, and forget what Steve said earlier—the son of bitch is definitely stressed out now. Takes him a while to even get one word out. “Hey.”

Max has these wide, crazy eyes as she sizes him up. “… Hey.”

“Hi, Billy.” El beams and—seriously? What’s her deal with him? 

Ripping his eyes away from Max, Billy glances at El. “Uh. Hey.”

“I’ve been in Max’s memories, too,” El rattles off. “When I piggybacked from a pizza fridge.”

Man. To Hargrove’s credit, Steve wouldn’t know how to follow that up, either. Guy just opens his mouth and leaves his jaw hanging for a second. “… What.” 

Max rolls her eyes. “Are we gonna play or not?” 

Something about how she says it seems to snap Hargrove out of his trance. Just like that, he’s back in douchebag mode. “Only if you’re ready to eat shit.”

Max bends down, putting the system on the floor and pulling all these wires out before she starts fucking around with the back of the TV. “Wait, wait—hang on.” Steve scrambles over to her, but the brat slaps his hand away when he tries to unplug the weird crap she’s shoving in there. “Is this gonna mess up my system?”

“Oh, yeah. It’ll infect the whole TV, and you’ll catch our gamer cooties.” She finishes violating Steve’s set, grabbing the remote and flipping to some weird channel Steve’s never used. Then she chucks a game… remote thing into Hargrove’s hand.

El drops down next to Max as she settles in on the floor, the two of them leaning against the front of the couch since Hargrove’s fat ass is taking up all the cushions. Steve works his jaw, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms, not thinking about how much give there is now, watching the screen boot up as it flashes the word FREEWAY. Hargrove’s got this weird expression when Steve glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Surprised, almost. Max hits the start button and Steve’s eyebrows crawl up. “Is that a… chicken?”

“Y-ep.” Steve can hear the smirk in Max’s voice, and right after she says that, she goes crazy with her remote thing. Suddenly, one of the chickens on the bottom screen bolts, dodging all the cars and trucks on the screen, speeding straight to the top of the freeway while Hargrove’s chicken fights to make any headway. Max’s point counter changes to 1 as Hargrove’s chicken gets plowed into by a semi, disappearing and then flashing at the bottom of the screen, back where he started. “Oof. Did being dead mess with your reflexes or something?”

Hargrove pokes his tongue through his teeth. “Mm. Coulda focused on this shit, or gettin’ laid. Tough call.”

Max shoots across the freeway a second time as Hargrove’s chicken gets steamrolled again. “Hey, tell yourself whatever you need to.”  

Steve can’t see her face from this angle, but her body language looks a hell of a lot less tense. Hell, she might even be smiling.

El leans over, whispering so quiet that Steve can barely catch it. “Happy screams?” 

Max gags violently, ramming her shoulder into El’s. “Ew, El.”

Hargrove snorts, then seems to get his second wind. He makes it to the top of the screen, at least. 

“Yeah, am I, uh…” Okay, Steve doesn’t get it. “This is fun? This is supposed to be fun? Am I missing something?”

“Shut it, Steve.” Max picks up speed, nabbing a third point. “Ooh, so close!” Craning her head back, she shoots a grin at Hargrove. “I could always close my eyes if you want it to be fair.”

“Alright—wait. Hang on a second, lemme fix something.” Hargrove leans off the couch, swinging his arm out a couple times before he gets his fingers around Max’s cord and unplugs her controller.

Max yelps, scrambling to rip the wire out of Hargrove’s hand. Hargrove finally lets go, cackling as he leans back and maneuvers his way to a second point. 

Clicking her tongue, Max shakes her head. “Annnnd we resort to cheating. Typical.” 

“Nah, that was a life lesson.” Hargrove shoves his knee against Max’s back, rocking her forward a couple times. “See, Maxine, I’m teaching you to stay on your toes.” 

Steve nods. “Yeah. I’m, uh—I’m sure this specific problem’ll come up a lot in real life.”

Hunching forward, Max puts the pedal to the metal, shooting up the screen and getting a fourth point. “Ooooh, too bad! Didn’t really help you in the end, did—hey!”

Steve looks up at the screen to watch Hargrove’s chicken blast around at super sonic speed. When Steve glances back at him, Hargrove’s just gawking at his controller, the stick thing spinning around crazily all on its own. Blinking dumbly, Steve turns to El when he notices her head jerking around in the same directions as the chicken.

“El!” Max tackles her, El giggling as she’s pinned to the floor. “You traitor!” 

Hargrove raises his eyebrows at the remote in his hand, then stares down at El, more thrown for a loop than Steve’s ever seen him.

“Oh, give me a break.” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose—forget cheating! She’s trying to butter Hargrove up or some crap so he’ll be less of a douche to Max. That’s—That’s real life cheating!

Gasping, Max pries herself off the floor. “Nahh. Not fair, I’m restarting.”

“Don’t be a little shit.” Hargrove breaks out of his weird trance, moving his chicken all on his own this time. “Oop. Hey! Look at that.” He makes it across, almost as fast as he did with El steering, and goes up another point. “Eat my fuckin’ dust, Mayfield.” 

“Well, I was taking it easy on you,” sighs Max. “Y’know, because you’re crippled. But since you insist—”

After that, it’s full-out war. Hargrove and Max are neck and neck until Max hits ten points and wins the whole game. She ropes Steve into trying it, but nerdy crap like this has always pissed him off, so he calls it quits after a couple rounds of getting turned into roadkill. Then El’s up, but she’s almost as bad as Steve is without her powers. By the time Max gets to her feet, Steve’s kinda shocked when he checks the VCR clock and sees that a whole hour’s gone by.

“Well, it’s been…” Max makes a face—clearly, she’s got no idea how to end that sentence. “A-Anyway. I’m meeting Lucas, so…” She shrugs, tossing her remote onto the carpet.

Steve jumps, hopping off the arm of the couch and stumbling over to her. “Hey, so…” He’s not sure if it’s kosher, to just come out and ask her if she’s gonna take Hargrove—especially with the bastard lying right there. But fuck, does Steve want a break. “Are you gonna… ?”

Max stares up at Steve for a second, then turns to Hargrove. “Listen…” Christ. Something about her tone feels like a mom talking down to her kid. Suddenly, Steve’s really not looking forward to whatever she’s about to say. “I don’t even know if you remember this, but…” She ducks her head, eyebrows scrunching up as she takes a second to keep it together. “Things used to be like this. But then you… I dunno.” Sniffing, Max lifts her head up and looks Billy dead in the eye. “Changed. 

“Honestly? Maybe you were always an asshole when I was a kid, and I just didn’t notice at first.” Her voice gets a hard edge to it, but this time, she’s not crying or shaking. It’s all coming out crystal clear. “But I’m not gonna sit around and let that happen again. If you go back to… to being like that, like you were when we moved here, I’m done.” Her hands ball into fists, and something about this whole scene takes Steve back to the time she stabbed a needle into Hargrove’s neck and threatened to smash his nuts with a nail bat. “Are we clear?”

Hargrove’s Adam’s apple bobs, this far-off, angry look washing over his face. It’s almost drugged out, his eyes half closed and red. He doesn’t say anything.

There’s a tiny quiver in her voice when Max repeats it. “I said, are we clear?”

It takes him a second too long to answer. Just enough for things to get so tense, Steve feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. When he finally echoes her, it sounds like a line. “… We’re clear.”

Max gives this small, stiff nod, then turns on her heel and heads towards the door. El pops up, glancing between Max and Hargrove a few times before chasing after Max. 

Steve watches her go dumbly, then snaps out of it, sprinting after her and trying to cut her off by the door. “Hey, I know he’s… I know it’d be a lot, but—”

“Not now, Steve.” Max buries her face in her hand, letting out a long, shaky exhale. “I don’t know what to tell you. I just—” She drops her hand, shooting Steve this miserable look. “If you’re asking what I think you’re asking, I’m…” Another deep breath. “I’m not ready for that. It’s… It’s gonna take some time.”

Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it when he can’t think of anything to say, in the end just muttering, “… Okay. Fair. Uh.” He swipes a thumb under his nose. “Time. Yeah. No problem.”

“I know you’ve got…” Max’s eyes slip down to his stomach again, getting all freaked out looking, and Steve winces. “… a lot to deal with right now. Sorry to… make you babysit him.” 

“Hey.” Steve shrugs, trying not to sound as bummed as he feels. Kid’s got plenty of shit to deal with, too—not like Steve needs to add on to that. “Basically my… fuckin’ job description.” 

She cracks a small smile, ducking her head. “… Kay.” She shoots Steve a salute and grabs the door knob. “See ya.”

El follows her as she swings the door open and heads out. “Bye, Steve.” 

Steve watches them go, this sinking feeling in his gut as he wonders if Hargrove’s about to void the warranty on his TV. “… Later.” 

 

*

 

Something’s off when Steve heads into the station. 

He makes it all the way to Hopper’s door before it hits him: he just walked across the room without anybody pointing out how circular he is. His head swerves over to Barnes’ desk, and it’s empty. No papers or coffee cups, either—almost like the guy didn’t even come in today. 

“I take it you noticed we’re down an officer.” Hopper looks up when Steve steps into his office. 

Jamming his hands in his pockets, Steve tries to play it off like that didn’t make his whole day. “Hey, I’m sure it was a tough call, but if you had to let him go—”

“He’s in the hospital.”

Oops. “Oh, shit.”

“Barnes totaled his car coming in on Monday. Broke a couple of ribs, but he’ll be fine.” Hopper motions for Steve to shut the door behind him. “Paramedics said he was hysterical, though. Wasn’t making any sense, kept talking about how he woke up in a casket with somebody burying him alive.”

One eyebrow cocked, Steve drops into the chair. “Okay, so he’s lost it.”

“Not quite.” Hopper leans back in his seat, fingers squeezing the armrests. “He didn’t remember anything about the wreck. Just kept insisting he was six feet under, someone shoveling dirt on top of him, and then he woke up in the ambulance. The doctors are saying it was a hallucination brought on by stress.” The chief jerks his chin towards Steve. “That whole scenario sound familiar?”

“The thing behind Bradley’s.” Swallowing, Steve blinks a couple times as that fake Nancy flashes into his brain. “It was like…” His leg starts doing this nervous jiggle. “It made you see your worst fears.” 

Hopper bobs his head. “And I’d be willing to bet that Barnes’ worst nightmare is being buried alive.” 

“Boy, sounds like he, uh—” Steve clears his throat, fighting to keep his mouth in a straight line. “Sounds rough. That really, uh… Really sucks.” He gives Hopper this wide-eyed nod.

“Oh-kay.” The guy sees through Steve’s bullshit in a second, but hey, worth a shot. “Cool your jets, Harrington.” Leaning over his desk, the chief tugs a map out from under a stack of binders and starts pointing. “Barnes was coming up Denfield when he lost control. Much as I hate to give the kid an inch, Henderson must’ve had the right idea to split up and go scouting for more of those weeds.”

Denfield, huh? Forget how they roasted the thing as soon as Hopper got on the scene—there's no way it could’ve been the same one behind Bradley’s. “So there’s more of them.” No problem! They can flambé these things like any of the other crap from Upside Down, so as long as you cover your mouth and you’re not Hargrove, it’ll be a piece of cake! “Alright, what’s the plan? Gear up and go on pest control?” 

“Don’t— Don’t say it like that.” Hopper slaps both hands over the map, like he doesn’t even want Steve to look at it. “You are not a part of this operation.” 

Steve slouches in his seat—sure, why not? Put the guy who saved everybody’s asses last time out of commission. That makes sense! “Hardass.” 

“Oh, yeah. I’m a real stick in the mud, not letting you get yourself killed at every opportunity. Speaking of which…” Steve slowly scoots higher in his chair, watching Hopper give him a once-over. “I think it’s time we talked about leave.”

“What? No—come on!” Steve scrambles to sit up. Look, forget the natural advantage Steve’s got against these things, if he and Hargrove are stuck in his apartment for that long, somebody’s leaving in a body bag, and Hargrove’s already got two strikes.

“Kid. There’s something going on with you that is not medically normal, and it’s starting to get obvious.” Shoving the map aside, Hopper puts his elbows on the desk and throws up a few air quotes. “You’re the one who didn’t want to be caught dead, and I quote, ‘blimping out in public’.”

Steve throws his hands out in front of him, like he’s trying to stop a runaway train. “So I stick to missions! Just… in and out, real fast, after dark.” He makes a little guy with his fingers, making him sneak around, maybe use a flamethrower on those freaky weed things. “Ninja shit.” 

Hopper glares at him just long enough for it to get painful, finally prying a binder out of the pile and flipping it open to some sort of document. He spins it around to face Steve and jabs his finger on the signature line at the bottom. “Sign it.”

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Steve waits a second or two, then snatches a pen out of Hopper’s cup and angrily scribbles out his name.

“From this moment forward, you are on full time medical leave. That means no demodogs, no ‘pest control’.” The guy leans in close, muttering, “You leave your apartment for your appointments with Owens only, and go straight back when you’re done. Understood?” 

Steve sniffs and tries not to glare too hard. “Read you loud and clear.”

Hopper sighs, deflating as he stops the pissed off grizzly bear routine. “And take care of yourself.” 

Steve nods, already zoning out. “Got it.”

Some of that anger comes back into the chief’s voice. “That’s an order, Harrington.” He slams the binder shut, gets to his feet and stomps past Steve—but not before he gives Steve’s shoulder a squeeze, so quick that Steve’s not sure it even happened.

 

*

 

Maybe, just maybe, if Steve doesn’t think about how this is gonna be his next month and a half, he won’t go insane. Sure, Hargrove’s been less of a shithead since Max was here the second time, but Steve’s still ready to unload him the second she changes her mind about taking him off Steve’s hands.

Man, what the hell. Maybe he should be happy he’s got something to take his mind off… the other crap. Feels like every day there’s some new, fucked up thing happening to his body. The way he has to lean back when he stands now, just to balance the heavy feeling in his stomach, or the— Christ. The squirming in his gut that makes him feel like throwing up if he thinks too hard about it, or even the fact that he’s almost winded by the time he climbs the two flights of stairs to his apartment. 

It’s getting harder to tune it all out. His feet are getting too fat for his shoes, and with how much of a pain in the ass bending over is starting to feel like—well, that crap’s not helping, either. Steve opens the door to see Hargrove hunched over the coffee table, screwing around with the system Max brought over. It’s been almost a week since the Bradley’s incident, and the guy’s looking less and less like a corpse.

A part of Steve dies a little when he has to step on the heels of his All-Stars just to get his feet out, and he winds up watching Hargrove so he doesn’t have to witness the carnage. “… You really like that stuff?” 

“Nah, but I’m stuck in this dump twenty-four hours a day.” Hargrove doesn’t even look up, the little blue car on the screen jerking back and forth. “Gotta find something to keep me from jumping off the roof.” 

“Mm. Alright.” Steve shakes his head, walking past Hargrove into the kitchen. He grabs a coke out of the fridge, looking out over the sink as he cracks it open. Hargrove’s in his own world, eyes glued to the TV, the remote thing twitching in his right hand. “Hey, why’s…”

Okay, actually? Steve’s not enough of an asshole to ask that out loud. 

“What.”

Hargrove sounds so pissed off, like he can’t believe Steve’s got enough nerve to try to talk to him, and it reminds Steve: Hargrove’s a piece of shit! Screw this guy’s feelings. “What’s up with your hand?”

Hargrove pauses the game, leaning back and pressing his lips together as he stares at his hand like he’s just now noticing the way it shakes. Finally, he just shrugs, letting it drop against the couch cushion. “Must’ve gotten fucked up when that thing killed me.” 

“Huh.” Steve swallows. The wild part is, it takes him a second to picture it all happening. Forever ago, when all of this started, he was terrified after Barb died—mostly that a bunch of government creeps were gonna wipe him off the face of the earth in his sleep for knowing the truth—but so much bullshit has happened since then, so many other people died… Jesus. It’s screwed up, but Steve’s almost started to tune it out. 

He barely knew Hargrove back then. Maybe he’d talked to the guy for twenty minutes in total. When he watched it happen… Man, Steve doesn’t know. It was fucked up to see somebody, anybody, die like that. And after Starcourt, he mostly felt bad for Max. Same way he felt bad for Henderson after Eddie. But now, even though he’s not sure he knows the guy any better, he’s gotten pretty used to having this bastard in his apartment. They’ve talked a handful of times, and it’s just… weird, knowing that he died. Even weirder with him sitting there, alive on Steve’s couch and having this conversation. 

“Listen, man. I…” Christ, is he really gonna say it? “Sorry.”

“Sorry?” Hargrove sniffs, plopping his boots down on the coffee table while he stares at Steve. “What’re you sorry for, Harrington? Illuminate me.”  

“Like—you’re a dick.” Okay, that’s—Look. Steve swears he has a point with this. “You were a huge dick, and you’re still a dick, but…” Hey, Steve’ll admit it! He’s not good with this kind of crap. Hargrove’s making this ‘where is this going’ face, and Steve just shrugs weakly. “Y’know. You didn’t deserve to die.” 

Mouth twitching, Hargrove watches Steve for a couple painfully long seconds. “You want me to say ‘thank you’ or something?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “Yeah—no shit, dumbass.”

“Ohhhkay.” Steve grimaces, taking a sip of his coke. Yeah, that went about as well as he thought it would. Tries to meet the guy halfway, and Hargrove spits in his face. He takes another couple of swigs, then dumps the rest of the can in the sink. The whole living room’s Hargrove’s territory these days, so Steve’s just gonna hole up in his bedroom for now. 

As he walks past, Hargrove freezes, dropping the remote and getting up off the couch. It takes Steve a minute, already around the corner and headed down the hall, before he realizes that Hargrove’s tailing him. He turns, about to confront the guy—and that’s when the bastard slams him up against the wall, pinning Steve with an arm across his collar. “Whoa, what the fuck!” Steve shoves at Hargrove’s shoulder, choking out, “What’s your problem, man?”

“I dunno. Guess you acting like a pussy made me realize…” Steve’s skin starts to crawl as Hargrove lifts his free hand, giving his chest a rough squeeze. Steve’s whole body tenses up—damn, is that sore. “It’s been a while. I haven’t blue-balled it this long since…” Hargrove sucks in a breath through his teeth, grinding the heel of his palm into Steve’s chest. “Well. I don’t like to kiss and tell.” 

“Jesus, get your—” Steve pries an arm between them, shoving Hargrove with everything he’s got, but it’s like trying to tip a cow. “—hands off me, man!” Steve’s brain is going a mile a minute, trying to figure out what’s happening. Hargrove’s awake, he’s not blackout drunk, and he’s trying to make a move. On Steve. He doesn’t think Steve’s some random chick in his bed, he knows exactly who he’s talking to, and he’s still—

Hang on.

Is… Is Hargrove gay? That’s—okay, sure, that’s last thing Steve wants to think about, he’d rather dig his eyes out with a spoon than picture it, but… He doesn’t have, like… a problem with it. Hell, it’d probably be the least screwed up thing Steve’s learned about the douchebag. But if he’s into men, that’s gonna be a problem, because Steve? Steve isn’t. “I’m not gay!” 

“And?” Hargrove pins him harder, pressing his forearm into Steve’s collarbone. “Do I look like a fucking fag to you?” He leans in, breath hot against Steve’s ear. “You’re knocked up, you’ve got tits…” Hargrove shrugs, hitching his hips against Steve and—oh come on! “I can make it work.” 

“Whoa, whoa—no!” That… That’s just a messed up muscle memory! If Steve’s getting turned on, it’s because he hasn’t been touched in months, and Hargrove’s enough of a psycho to take advantage of the situation! “Not making it work! This isn’t—haaaahhh…” Steve gulps, throat tightening up as Hargrove pries a knee between his legs, pulling the hand on his chest back just so he can shove it under Steve’s shirt and feel at his bare skin. “W-Working… f-for me, jackass!”

“It’s not?” Hargrove’s knee grinds up against his crotch and Steve grits his teeth, wincing when he feels himself start to get hard. “Then, uh—what’s this, Harrington?” Hargrove lowers his knee, not even bothering to pin Steve anymore as his other hand cups Steve roughly through the denim. “I didn’t know better, I’d think you were getting turned on by this. Like a little queer.” 

Steve swallows again—feels like a lead ball is in his throat. “God, f-fuck you, Hargrove.” His pride’s in the toilet when it hits him just how hard he’s got to fight to keep himself from grinding into Hargrove’s hand. Even then, he can’t stop this tiny, automatic jerk of his hips.

Hargrove tilts his head, licking his lips. “… Alright. Since you asked so nicely and all.” Steve hisses when Hargrove’s fingers pry into the tiny bit of space between his jeans and the underside of his stomach, trailing down and stopping just before his fingers hit Steve’s junk.

Breath catching in his throat, Steve closes his eyes and leans his head back until it bumps into the wall. “Christ.” This can’t be fucking happening.

Humming in the back of his throat, Hargrove mutters, “I can see the confusion, what with the rising from the dead shit, but…” He drags a thumb over Steve’s chest, the underside of his—damn it—nipple, and Steve gasps. “Guess again.”

With a groan, Steve turns his head. Why the fuck isn’t he fighting this? He should be pummeling this bastard with everything he’s got. There's no reasoning with this guy, but Steve should at least start kicking his ass! Maybe rip his balls off, do anything to make him stop. And Steve’s going to, he’s psyching himself up to give Hargrove the beatdown of his life, right up until the part where Hargrove’s fingers ghost over his dick. Then, Steve’s vision puckers, Hargrove’s burning hot hand still pawing at his chest, and Steve’s hit with the memory of that crazy soft mouth sucking on his skin.

“Harrington.” Hargrove pries his hand out from under Steve’s shirt, grabbing Steve’s chin and jerking his head down. “Look at me.”

Steve winces. “Come on, man.” Peeling his eyes open, Steve squints at the guy. What, is he gonna tell Steve’s it’s a fucking prank or something? Now?

“Listen. We’re stuck with each other. I can’t leave for long enough to get any tail, you’re not getting any, period…” Hargrove shrugs. “I say we go by prison rules.”

Steve double-takes. “What?”

“You know?” Hargrove looks at Steve like he’s the idiot. “Don’t drop the soap?”

“Jesus—no, man! I don’t know. I’m not—” Steve thrashes when he comes down enough to remember that, actually, this is insane. “—you, I don’t speak juvie.”

“Fuck, Harrington.” Leaning in, Hargrove grumbles, “I knew you were a waterhead, but do I really have to spell it out for you?” He presses his body into Steve without any kind of warning, pinning his arm between them and breathing against his neck. “You’re the only other person in this apartment, which, unfortunately, means you’re the best I can do right now. And I’m…” Hargrove chuckles, thumbing at Steve through his shirt. “Well, you could do a whole lot worse. But since you keep insisting you’re not a faggot…” Ducking his head, Hargrove puts his lips on Steve’s neck, sucking roughly, only pulling back when Steve’s muscles start loosening. “Well. You scratch my back, I scratch yours.”

“God… Just…” Steve’s arms aren’t listening to his brain, but at least his mouth still works. “Go to hell.” 

Hargrove wags his tongue and laughs. “Already there, amigo.” He slides his hand further down Steve’s pants, fumbling for Steve’s dick before closing his fingers around the length. Steve has this wild thought, about how it doesn’t even feel that good, almost like Hargrove’s never done this before. It’s clumsy and rough, but the thing is, Steve feels like he’s starving, already so fucked up from the last couple minutes that he can’t hold back a response, slowly bucking into Hargrove’s hand and hating himself for it.

Hargrove’s thumb ghosts over him, stroking ’til he plumps up in the bastard’s grip, and Steve jolts when the guy suddenly ruts up against his thigh. He can feel the semi Hargrove’s working on through his jeans, and the half-assed squirm Steve does as Hargrove tugs his shirt up over his collar doesn’t do much to slow him down. Christ. Forget Steve, what the hell’s wrong with Hargrove? Does Steve really look that much like a chick to him? And Steve’s—God. Steve knew he was desperate, but this is a new low. Probably would’ve folded like a house of cards under anybody, though—even Hargrove. 

Steve wants to slap himself when Hargrove pulls his hand out of his pants and he lets out this noise like he’s complaining, not even fighting when the asshole yanks his shirt up over his head. Steve’s eyes dart down, just a split second before he can stop himself, and his stomach drops. He tries not to look at the damage lately, not if he can help it, but it’s getting… bad. Fuck, does he wish he could say Hargrove’s full of shit. That he’s the queer, the one who’s stripping Steve right now because he’s so into men. But the thing is, he sees what the jackass is talking about. His stomach’s too high up, too firm, to be any kind of beer belly—forget the way he can actually see shit moving around under the skin if he looks for long enough. His chest keeps swelling, and Steve’s—

Damn it. He’s seen fat guy boobs, he’s seen a lot of girls’ tits, and what’s in the mirror looks a hell of a lot closer to one of those things than the other. Hargrove tosses his shirt aside, unbuttoning Steve’s fly and tugging at his jeans. Now Steve’s wondering if he’s drugged, watching in this far-off, lightheaded way, back sweaty enough to stick to the wall as he stands there and lets it happen. 

Hargrove works Steve’s boxers down around his thighs, and Steve’s dick just sorta… pops out. Fuck. There’s another problem. Steve doesn’t want to admit it, but there’s the proof right there: he is turned on. Hargrove grabs him by the hips, and Steve barely has time to hate the way he can feel how there’s this tiny bit of a slope to them now—another reason why he has to button his pants under the gut—before Hargrove starts sucking on the crook of his neck. All those bruises and marks had just started to heal up from the last time—ugh, Christ. Last time. God, does Steve hate that there was a last time. Guess now he knows what rock bottom feels like. (Turns out, Scoops doesn’t hold a candle to this shit.)

Hargrove trails his mouth down Steve’s shoulder, stroking at his nipple and squeezing the bulk of his chest until another moan slips out. That’s enough for Steve to want to bash his head against the wall, but Hargrove just chuckles, one hand on Steve’s hip sliding up to rest against the side of his stomach. There’s a flutter—this thrashing under Hargrove’s hand—and Steve freezes.

“… Holy shit.” 

He’s not sure if Hargrove sounds impressed—God, Steve hopes he’s not into what just happened. He sure doesn’t act grossed out, slinging an arm around the small of Steve’s back and hiking him up against the wall, bending his neck to put his mouth on the untouched side of Steve’s chest. His lips fold around Steve’s nipple, and after a couple pulls, a swipe from Hargrove’s tongue, Steve’s brain starts buzzing, this dumb, horny static drowning everything out as he bucks dumbly into the air. 

Hargrove laughs again, pulling away. “Jesus, calm down…” 

“Just—hurry up, man.” The words come out, and Steve freezes, not sure if he actually said that, or if he just got possessed.  

 “Yes, ma’am.” Hargrove snorts, then starts fumbling with his belt buckle.

Watching him do that brings Steve back to reality for a second because, God damn it, he does not want to see Hargrove’s dick again. God, if Steve can even see it over his stomach. He tenses automatically, and Hargrove pauses, then starts necking at him with a vengeance, waiting ’til each pull from his mouth has Steve panting, finally inching away just enough to lock eyes with Steve. And Steve’s heart might stop when it happens, because his brain decides that this is a great time to notice just how blue the bastard’s eyes are. That’s the one clear thought Steve has before Hargrove locks lips with him, kissing him in this rough, starving way that’s just night and day from anything Steve’s done with a girl. Nothing like those third period makeouts with Nance in the bathroom, or the times he’d sneak under the bleachers with Valerie Stewart during a football game. Not even those nights he got off work from Family Video and he’d sneak Heidi into his parents’ place while they were out of town. (They’d run up to his room and go at each other like animals, because that girl only had one thing on her mind.) It’s taking Steve’s breath away, maybe literally, Hargrove draining the air right out of his lungs, and the thing that gets to Steve—like, really pisses him off—is it's this, the kiss, that’s shoving him towards the breaking point, getting him so hard that he’s practically leaking.

“Hey.” Hargrove breaks away, grabbing at Steve’s thigh to hold him still. “Reign it in, shitbird. I didn’t get a turn yet.” 

He works his jeans down another inch, then tugs Steve’s down further, shifting his grip on Steve’s leg. The second Steve’s pants are around his knees, Hargrove yanks him up under the thighs and slowly pushes in. 

Shit, that hurts. Not as bad as last time, but Steve’s head clears a little, puffing and wincing as this pressure seems to crowd all his organs and push them up against his spine. He’s not fighting back the urge to cream his pants anymore, that’s for fucking sure, but he’s still hazy and tense when Hargrove starts kissing him again. Hargrove stays like a statue for a second, holding Steve against the wall, tugging at his mouth, and—is he… ? God, Steve’s an idiot for thinking Hargrove’s got it in him, but it’s almost like he's taking it easy on Steve, rocking him against the wall in this slow, careful roll of his hips. There’s this feeling, kind of faint, like Hargrove’s toeing the line. It’s close to the spot that had Steve losing his mind last time, but not quite there, and Steve groans into Hargrove’s mouth.

The asshole takes the hint, at least, still going slow when he pushes forward, but grinding in a little deeper, just far enough that Steve feels the muscles in his thighs buzz, dick twitching as that so-turned-on-it-hurts feeling threatens to pull him under. That’s when Hargrove picks up the pace, grunting as he bucks up. Steve realizes the guy’s holding him up off the ground at this point, and… Fuck, he isn’t gonna try and unpack the extra surge that train of thought sends straight to his junk. Hargrove’s body shakes against him, barely managing to hold back, one hand stiff against Steve’s chest with his thumb swiping over his nipple like an afterthought.

It’s enough to make Steve’s head spin.

Shit. Maybe Hargrove had a point. Prison rules, dumb animal instinct—it doesn’t matter. They’re both losing their minds, stuck in Steve’s apartment together with nothing better to do than screw each other. Hargrove rocks into him faster, teeth scraping Steve’s bottom lip as he pulls back to catch his breath, panting hard. Steve’s arms move on some weird impulse, flopping around Hargrove’s shoulders, his fingers curling when the guy clamps onto his mouth again. Another roll of Hargrove’s hips and he bottoms out, pushing so deep that Steve feels an electric shock pulse through him, dick scraping against the bottom of his stomach, friction bad enough his brain feels like it’s melting.

Hargrove hits it again, grinding up before Steve’s got a chance to recover, and Steve’s vision whites out. Suddenly, he’s folding up around Hargrove as he comes, thighs tensing up and face mashing into the bastard’s shoulder, noticing from a mile away how much his shirt reeks of tobacco. Hargrove keeps at it, bouncing Steve a couple times until he finishes with a shudder. Another wave of pressure hits him, and God, does Steve want to hurl, or punch Hargrove’s lights out, when he realizes the son of a bitch just came inside.

They hold that pose for a minute, Hargrove still pinning him to the wall, both of them catching their breath as the rush wears off. Then Hargrove slowly pulls out, Steve groaning as his back slides down the wall, barely catching himself on his jelly legs. He’s got pins and needles shooting through his thighs from the angle, there’s this shifting and turning in his stomach, and all he manages to do at first is watch dumbly as Hargrove hikes his pants back up. The guy’s buckling his belt when he glances over at Steve, probably about to ask what the hell he’s looking at—but all he does is laugh. 

Steve’d kill not to sound out of breath right now. “What?”

Hargrove smirks, reaching out and thumbing at his chest. 

Swallowing, Steve looks down, feeling dizzy when he notices something’s… coming out. “… What the hell?”

Bending, Hargrove grabs Steve’s shirt off the ground and chucks it at him. “Better hit the showers, champ.”

Notes:

I keep meaning to write something here about how grateful I am to those of you who take the time to comment on this fic. As always, it is a huge motivator and really inspires me to continue. Thank you for all the engagement thus far, and I truly hope you all continue to enjoy the story. I love hearing your thoughts and comments, they truly make my day!!

Chapter 8: The Play Date

Notes:

Some brief implied racism in this chapter, so a heads up on that! I didn't want it to be missed as a tag (and it didn't seem to be a commonly used one), so I'm adding a warning about it here. It's relatively minor, and I tried not to make it out of the realm of any of Billy's canon dialogue, but I didn't want anyone to be caught off guard or made uncomfortable.

It’s not that bad if he doesn’t have to look at it. That’s what Steve’s been telling himself, anyway. Does he believe it? Fuck no, but he’s not gonna sit there and gawk while Owens measures him like one of those thousand-pound pumpkins at the county fair. It’s bad enough his stomach’s so sensitive that the stupid measuring tape feels like sandpaper—he doesn’t need to be thinking about how he used to have a waist.

“Alright, we’re looking aaaat…” After what has to be way longer than he needed to touch Steve for, Owens finally pulls his arms away. “27 centimeters. Good, that’s good.”

“I’ll, uh…” Steve grits his teeth and tries to make nice. “I’ll take your word for it.”

“You’re a full centimeter ahead of the curve, Steve.” Owens pats his knee, either not taking the hint that Steve doesn’t want to chat, or just rejecting it. “Way to be an overachiever.” 

Jerking his leg away, Steve groans. “Give me a break, man.” What, like he wants to hear that? Congrats, Steve! You went the extra mile and got even fatter than you were supposed to be.

“Hey, I for one am thrilled that this hasn’t killed you or turned into some sort of…” Owens winds the measuring tape around his hand, wrinkling his nose. “Botfly situation.” 

It’s every week with this shit. Every goddamn week. And what can Steve say? It’s getting old. Of course Owens is happy this didn’t kill him. If Steve’s guts had exploded like confetti three months ago, he would’ve wound up like Barb, and somebody—probably Nance—would’ve made sure Owens and his people went through the wringer. That ‘chemical leak’ story on overdrive. But Steve, for one, is getting sick of acting like he’s got any reason to be excited. “Y-ep.” 

“Well, not yet, anyway.” Owens wheels the ultrasound machine over and grabs a bottle, squirting some of the gel onto Steve’s gut. Steve winces when it hits his skin; he’s sat through so many of these, the guy doesn’t even warn him that it’s cold anymore. Jaw clenched, Steve cranes his head back and stares up at the ceiling tiles, trying not to think about what’s happening. Today, guess he’s just gonna… count all those weird mildew stains that look like spilled coffee. 

The scanner thing presses into his stomach and Steve hears his own breath hitch, arms flat at his sides as one finger starts to pick at the paper sheet under him. Owens mutters to himself, rolling the scanner over Steve’s skin before he says, “Here we go…” He drags it along slowly, still talking. Still to himself, Steve’s guessing. Or hoping. “Development looks good… right on the mark for about twenty-six weeks. And hey!” Steve holds himself back from looking down automatically; the last thing he wants to see right now is that little screen behind Owens’ head. “Whaddya know, my hunch was right on the money. Perfectly normal male genitalia!”

“Oh, my God.” Steve slaps both hands over his face, dragging them down ’til his fingers are pulling on his eyelids. “Jesus Christ. Come on! I don’t wanna think about that shit being… in me.” 

“Y’know, Steve,” says Owens, “I’m starting to get the impression you would’ve preferred the worm.” 

Steve sighs. “Hey, if it was a worm, I would’ve been done by now.” 

“Done. Dead.” Steve can see the guy shrug out of the corner of his eye. “Same difference.” 

Steve doesn’t answer. He’s too busy checking out all the dead flies sitting in the glass under the fluorescents. When Owens shuts up, the only sound in the room is the clock on the wall, and, every once in a while, a beep from the machine. Oh, and Steve’s finger. Just… picking at the paper. Sounds pretty loud right now, and he kinda wonders if it’s getting to Owens. But if he looks at him to check, he might see that screen, and—yeah, Steve’s just not gonna look. “So… When this is over…” 

“Yes?” Owens moves his wrist, the scanner thing squishes into Steve’s gut, and he feels something move, almost like a reaction.

“Y-You’re gonna take it, right?”

“It?” He sounds confused. Why does he sound confused?

“Yeah, man!” Steve sputters, finally looking down—straight down, carefully—so he can jerk an arm towards his stomach. “It.” 

“Ahhh.” Owens’ hand pulls back, and Steve hears him flick a couple switches. “Suppose we haven’t had the ‘family planning’ conversation, have we?” Steve hears the wheels on the machine squeak as Owens scoots it away, and a second later the guy deadpans, “You can look now.” 

Steve glances up to see Owens dangling a handful of paper towels over him. Grunting, Steve works himself up onto one arm and grabs them.

Owens leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “Here’s the thing: right now, it—he—looks normal. Healthy. Doing fine. But for all we know, that could change. His development could shift, he may not be able to survive out of the womb—”

Steve gags. “Yeugh.”

“Okay, so it’s more of a vaguely uterine ectopic sac.” Owens corrects himself, like that’s better. “The point still stands. If nothing else changes, and if he’s able to survive… Say the rate of aging slows down once he’s out, and he’s functionally normal…” Seems like a whole lot of ‘ifs’, but hey, Steve’s not the mad scientist. “Well, who knows! He could live a perfectly ordinary life. You know, other than the fact that he’d need to be monitored for the rest of it. Sort of an Eleven situation. Tell you what—” Owens wheels his stool over to the desk and grabs some kind of card ring, flipping through a few pages. “I’ll put the word out today. See if anyone in the facility is looking to adopt.” 

“Whu—seriously?” That easy? “What if h—” Steve swallows. Tries that again. “What if it’s not… normal?”

Pushing out a massive sigh, Owens sets the card ring back down. “Kid, we’ve both got a lot on our plates already.” Clapping his hands on his legs, he adds, “Let’s cross that bridge when—if! We come to it.”

For a second, Steve wants to keep asking—feels like he needs some kind of follow-up after all the crap Owens just dumped on him. But that’d mean talking about it more, thinking about the exact type of shit Steve’s been trying to avoid, and for what? Owens just gave him the best news he’s gotten in three months: whatever the hell happens after he’s done isn’t gonna be Steve’s problem.

“We’ll take it one step at a time.” Owens swaps the address cards for a clipboard, uncapping a pen and starting to scribble. “And that includes any bumps that pop up along the way. We’re practically a team at this point!”

Steve rocks forward a couple times until he manages to sit up. “… You think?”

“Oh, absolutely. You, your friends—that chief of yours.” Nodding, Owens taps the end of his pen against the clipboard. “Now, I can’t legally say you’re the official clean up crew for our little slip-ups, but if you were, well…” He shrugs. “Can’t say I know many people who would do a better job of it.” 

“Yeah?” If they’re going off the lab’s track record, the bar’s not exactly high. “Bet the chief’d get a kick out of that.” In a ‘that’d piss him off’ kinda way, but still.

“You know, you’ve got a point.” The guy grins, and he doesn’t even sound sarcastic when he adds, “I should send him a gift basket.” 

 

*

 

Guess Owens wasn’t kidding about the clean-up crew line. If a bunch of government agents really were on the beat, somebody would’ve nabbed Hargrove ages ago. Forget the number of times he’s slipped out to buy a carton, lately Steve’s had to bribe him into getting his paperwork from the station now that he’s on leave. But nobody’s busted down the door of Steve’s apartment to throw a bag over Hargrove’s head, and if the guy came back with a tracking bracelet stuck on his ankle, Steve hasn’t spotted it.

Plus, as far as Max is concerned, he gets the feeling that now would be a real shitty time for Hargrove to get abducted.

Today, sitting on his ass, bored out of his mind, Steve’s gotta wonder: is this how Hargrove’s felt for the last month? All Steve’s done is make a hot pocket, watch whatever crap they air on daytime TV, and wait for some jackass to walk through the door. Seriously, Hargrove barging in with his files is the most excitement Steve’s had all day. The dipshit stomps over to the couch, slapping a manilla envelope down on the coffee table, and Steve sticks out his hand.

Hargrove rolls his eyes, digs through his pocket, then moves to hand Steve the keys to the Chevy. He acts like he’s gonna drop them into Steve’s palm… then stops short and lets them fall on the floor. 

“Oh, that’s helpful.” Steve grunts, bending over and doing his best to tune out the way he has to spread his legs just to maneuver around the gut. Luckily, he’s pretty distracted by the living nightmare of realizing he actually let this asshole drive his truck. Twice.

“Let’s face it, Harrington.” Hargrove copies him, making a bunch of fat guy noises as he pretends to paw at the carpeting. “You could use the exercise.” 

Takes forever, but Steve does get a finger through the keyring, picking them up and ignoring the way his lower back’s on fire now. “Jesus, what crawled up your ass and died?” Grunting, Steve paws at his spine, squinting up at Hargrove. “Hopper stick you back in the holding cell for a time out?” 

“Y’know—” Hargrove grabs the remote off the coffee table and starts flipping through channels, yanking it away when Steve tries to swipe it so he can go back to Growing Pains. “I don’t know where that pig gets off. Acts like he’s chief of somewhere other than Buttfuck, Indiana.” 

“Yeah, all that power just—” Steve makes a shwoop noise and swipes a hand past his shoulder. “Right to his head.” If Steve didn’t know any better, he’d think Hargrove’s still holding a grudge about Hopper tossing his naked ass around like a ragdoll.

“I get your stupid papers, and he’s got the nerve to pull me outside and spend twenty minutes bitching about what a shit-for-brains their mechanic is. Tell me, Harrington.” Hargrove leans in and jerks a thumb at himself. “What part about my face says I give a shit?”

Steve nods like he’s giving it some real thought. “Probably the nose.”

“If I’dve known he was gonna hold me hostage for that, I would’ve cut to the chase and blown my brains out. Just grabbed his gun and—” Making his fingers into a pistol, Hargrove aims at his temple and pulls the trigger, head jerking sideways. “Right when he handed me a smoke.” 

“Hey, man.” Arms folded behind his head, Steve leans back against the couch. “Always next time.” 

The guy’s totally zoned out, flipping through the same four channels another hundred times. “Had a Camaro out back.”

“What, like—” Hang on a second. “You think it was yours?”

Clicking his tongue, Hargrove stares at the staticky mess on the TV screen. “Said they got it in a coke raid.”

“Huh.” Steve shrugs. “So—maybe.”

 

 

*

 

Okay, Steve’ll admit it: this isn’t how he saw Max’s next get-together with Hargrove going. Whod’ve figured Max’s idea of a good time would be running around playing Whack-A-Mole with shit from the Upside Down? But the way Steve sees things, it gives him an excuse to get out of the house without any of the shitheads squealing on him—and Hargrove gets his supervised visitation time. Two birds, one rock, that kinda shit. Feels like déjà-vu when Steve starts tearing up his apartment looking for goggles, crap to cover their mouths, lighters, backpacks… 

The hairspray’s new, though. 

At the foot of the stairs outside his place, Steve jams the last of it into his bag. “You know, Hopper’s gonna be on my ass if he finds out about this.”

Max zips up her backpack and slings it over her shoulder. “Sounds like it’s not my problem.” 

“Well in that case, if he—” Steve jerks his head behind him, towards Hargrove. “—murders Sinclair while we’re not looking, I’m not taking the fall. Got it?” 

The kid just rolls her eyes, like Steve’s being unreasonable or some shit. “Relax, alright? I’m handling it.” 

“You’re just—” Shrugging the straps of his backpack on, Steve takes a second to figure out what he’s trying to say. “You’re moving kinda fast, don’t you think?”

Max stares him down. “No, actually, I don’t.” 

“I just feel like we should…” Steve shrugs weakly. “I dunno. Do some restraining order shit? Keep ‘em fifty feet apart.”

“Uh, Steve?” Sinclair pipes up from the other direction. “We can hear you.”

“Good,” snaps Max. She crosses her arms, chin tilted down before she starts lecturing. “Listen up. This is a stealth mission. We’re gonna burn as many buds as we can find in one night, without being seen.” She makes a big point of turning to look right at Hargrove. “If you screw that up, we will leave you behind. Understood?” 

Hargrove just stands there, looking bored out of his mind. Guess shutting up is already a full time job for him. Actually answering Max’d probably break his brain.

Max ignores Hargrove ignoring her. “If you want to come, that means no bullshit.” 

Steve grumbles, giving the kid a light push on the shoulder. “Cool it with the orders, alright?” He points to himself, adding, “I’m in charge of this shit-show. Understood?” First off, there’s no way Steve’s letting a couple of sixteen-year-old numbnuts make any calls, but more importantly, he’s got experience. This’ll be, what? His tenth time doing damage control for all this Upside Down shit? Max has two, maybe three jobs under her belt. Plus, hello? Steve’s a fucking cop now! He’s certified in handling it. “So. How do we track these things?” 

“Seriously?” Max scoffs. “Dustin says things from the Upside Down have a bunch of—“ 

“Negative Ions,” Sinclair pipes up.

“Yeah. Thanks.” Rolling her eyes, Max explains, “That means they give off a tiny bit of radiation. If we get near one of those plants, Dustin said this…” Swinging her backpack around to the front, Max fishes through it until she finally yanks out a smoke detector. “… should start going haywire.” 

“Got it.” Steve grabs the bandana hanging around his neck and yanks it up over his nose, motioning for Hargrove and Sinclair to follow his lead.

When he turns to Max, she’s staring at the spot where his shirt rides up to show a sliver of stomach. “Should you be doing this right now?”

Steve tugs it back down without missing a beat. “Why?” 

Max opens her mouth, then it slowly shuts it and shakes her head. “… Never mind.” 

They head out, avoiding the main streets and sticking to the side roads as they make their way towards Bradley’s. Every once in a while, Max or Sinclair laughs about something one of ‘em said, and Steve gives up on telling them to cram a sock in it after the third or fourth time. When they make it to the alley behind the laundromat, Max’s smoke detector’s still silent, and when Steve checks around the dumpster, nothing’s started to grow back. The whole root system’s burnt to a crisp. From there, they cut across the neighborhood off Oak and head down Denfield.

“So.” Hargrove finally says something, and Steve turns to watch him pry an arm between Lucas and Max. “You must think you’re hot shit, huh?” 

Lucas stumbles, eyes going wide. Just for a split second, he looks scared, but he hides it quick, grumbling, “Don’t touch me.”

“Y’know,” Hargrove continues, “I can see why you’re so attached to Maxine.” The guy’s got his bandana down around his neck, cigarette hanging out his mouth as he talks. “Girls like her don’t tend to… associate with people like you. Must’ve known it was your only shot to get with someone so far out of your league.” 

“Yeah, can it with the leagues bullshit,” Sinclair snaps. “Why don’t you just come out and say it?”

Hargrove’s expression barely changes. He freezes, then steps forward to loom over the kid, muttering, “Say what, Sinclair?” 

Lucas doesn’t so much as flinch, staring Hargrove dead in the eye when he snaps, “What this is really about.”

“… I’ll bite.” Hargrove pauses to take a long drag, then crowds Sinclair ’til there’s barely an inch between them. “What is this really about?” 

Steve shakes his head, moving to break it up. “Alright, that’s enough—”

“HEY.” Max beats him to it, stomping over to Hargrove and shoving him back with both hands. It’s gotta be the shock that makes him stumble, since there’s no way a kid as puny as her is moving a brick shithouse like Hargrove any other way. Hargrove makes this weird expression, blinking a bunch of times like he didn’t expect Max to get so far in his space. “If you’re gonna do this kind of shit, leave. Right now.”

She doesn’t say it out loud, but he’s probably blowing his one and only shot. Steve’s not about to forget what she said back at his apartment. And if he had to, he’d bet Hargrove isn’t, either. 

If you go back to being like that, I’m done.

Hargrove clams up again, with that same glazed-over look Steve’s been seeing a lot of lately. Then, like nothing happened, he fixes his face, ducking his head and chuckling to himself. 

“I mean it.” Max’s eyes have gotten all big and wild, and her words come out fast. “If you’re trying to do some stupid bullshit like—like make me pick… Don’t.” She takes a few steps back, ’til she’s side-by-side with Sinclair. “‘Cause it’ll be him. Every time.” 

Steve’s gotta hand it to the kid, Lucas at least tries to hide the stupid grin he gets after hearing that. Hargrove’s body language is familiar in the shittiest way possible, way too close to that time Steve punched him in the side of the head and tried to shove him back, told him to get out. Before he knows it, Steve’s holding his breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for Hargrove to go completely apeshit on all of them. A few seconds drag by, the three of them watching Hargrove like statues—

And then the smoke detector starts beeping.

“Shit.” Max gawks at it, then spins on her heel and starts waving it around like a compass before taking off. Sinclair’s in hot pursuit, and Steve, after glancing back at Hargrove, hauls ass behind them. Max crosses the road, sliding down the ditch on the other side. Steve follows her lead, pulling his goggles over his eyes and sliding down the slope on the soles of his shoes. The second he looks down, he knows they’re in the right spot. Must’ve been too bright to see when they found the one behind Bradley’s, but now, in the dark, Steve can spot this faint red spiderweb pattern glowing under his feet. Max clicks a flashlight on, waving the beam around until she finds the bud. “Okay. Who wants dibs?”

Hargrove’s shoving Steve out of the way before Steve even hears him coming, yanking the bandana up over his face. “Move.” He tucks his cigarette behind his ear, digs a bottle of hairspray out of his backpack and flicks his lighter open. One finger on the nozzle, Hargrove gets down on one knee and sprays into the flame, blasting the thing with a jet of fire. It catches instantly, and Steve, Max, and Lucas all jump when it does this freaky, horror-movie scream. There’s a puff of chemicals, but it’s not even half the size of the first one, and Hargrove doesn’t react at all. Steve waits, holding his breath all over again, but he doesn’t blink and wind up in the Upside Down this time. No nightmare vision of Nance, no Max and Sinclair going into zombie mode, and Hargrove finishes up, gets to his feet, and crushes the bud into dust under his boot without having a heart attack. 

Sinclair lets out a noise like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, gawking at the hairspray. “… Whose is that?”

Steve blinks at the white can in Hargrove’s grip. It’s Fabergé. Shit. “Uh—”

Hargrove turns to spit over his shoulder. “Your mother’s.” 

Max sighs. “Can’t believe Erica didn’t want to come.”

Eyes darting towards Hargrove and back, Lucas squeaks, “You think I’d let her?”  

They stare at each other for a second, then Max starts busting a gut. “Y-You think she’d listen to you?”

Hargrove watches the two of them, total deer in the headlights, and Steve scrubs the sweat off his forehead. Now he’s gonna spend the rest of his time in solitary wondering when Hargrove’s gonna give him shit about that can of Organics, but right now? Bigger fish to fry.  “Okay, okay.” Steve claps a couple times to get the asshole brigade back on track. “Let’s get a move on, people!” They’ve got a grand total of one of these things taken care of, which means so far they’re making shit time.

“God, fine.” Max moves to stomp past Steve out of the ditch, and he swipes the smoke alarm as she passes. “You don’t even know how to—give it back!”

“Oh, don’t know how to what? Hear noises?” Steve holds it over his head, tugging his shirt down again as he sprints up the incline.

Max snags the alarm back from him after they cross the road, just in time for it to start beeping. Kid does her weird Marco Polo routine, and soon they’re following her up Cherry Oak towards the old steel factory. Hargrove starts dragging behind, and when Steve glances back, the guy’s wound tighter than a spring.

“Y’know, they used to make Chevys here,” Sinclair says. “Before Brimborn bought it, I mean. They manufactured a whole bunch of Chevelles right in Hawkins.”

Hargrove’s got his bandana down again, the tip of his smoke lighting up as he takes another drag in the background. 

“Hmmm. Lemme check something…” Max cranes back to stare up at the stars, tapping a finger on her chin. Then she drops her head and shrugs, smiling. “Nope! Still don’t give a shit about cars.”

Scoffing, Hargrove jiggles the ashes off the end of his cigarette. “Figures, Sinclair. Ugliest rust-bucket they made would be right up your alley.”

“Whuh—are you kidding me?” Lucas does a double take, spinning around to gape at Hargrove. “Those things have the best big-block engine Chevy’s ever built. Four hundred and fifty horsepower! It makes the Camaro look like a go-kart.”

Steve tenses up, ready to throw himself in front of Sinclair when he realizes the kid just called Hargrove's car a pile of junk, but when Steve looks back at Hargrove, the guy isn’t even pissed. Hell, he almost seems impressed.

There’s a crunching noise next to him, and Steve turns to watch Max head towards the woods. “Max! Hold up!” Steve stumbles after her—Hargrove’s saying something to Sinclair that sounds suspiciously… not murder-y, but it’s hard to make out.

Max is only a couple of feet into the tree-line when Steve gets to her. The smoke detector’s tucked under her arm as she digs through her backpack, another glowing patch of roots just to the left of her sneakers.

“Hey, uh—” Steve checks over his shoulder for the faint outlines of Hargrove and Lucas. “Should we really—” Sure, she seemed cool with letting Hargrove tag along the first time Steve asked, but that was before he tried to rearrange Sinclair’s face. “… You think they’ll be okay?”

“For thirty seconds?” Alright, there’s the sarcasm. Steve was starting to get worried. “Yes, Steve. I think they’ll survive.” She keeps digging, pulling out a can of hairspray before she stops, just staring at it for a few seconds.  “… It’s stupid. But, uh—when Billy was…” With the bandana and the swim goggles, the most Steve can really see are her eyes, but her whole face seems to crumple underneath the layers. “H-He used to have, like, ten cans of Aquanet. He’d leave them all over.” She gives the can she’s holding a couple shakes. “This is my mom’s. Really had to dig for it, she hasn’t used it in a while. And she threw all the Aquanet out after…” Clearing her throat, Max gives a weak shrug. “Y-You know.”

Steve frowns. He’s not sure if Max is saying her mom didn’t want the reminder hanging around, or if it was more of a good riddance thing, but he’s not about to ask her to clear things up. “Hey, c’mon.” He leans in, getting a better look at the label. “‘Adorn’? That’s—Psh. You kidding? That’s basically rocket fuel, it’ll torch this thing no problem.” 

Max laughs, but it’s in this sad, wobbly way that makes Steve’s chest ache. “God, shut up.” She sniffs, going quiet for a second. Not lighting the bud up like a firework, not letting Steve tag in, just thinking. “… I think it was harder for her in a lot of ways. Not just because Neil left. I mean—fuck that guy. But… e-even though he could be shitty to her, she really cared about Billy.” She swallows. “When it happened, I—I think she felt like she lost a kid.”

Steve tries to think of something to say, but he comes up flat. Kinda seems like Max just needs somebody to hear all this, though. Last thing she wants is to watch Steve put his foot in his mouth. In the end, he just stands over her, trying not to look as stupid as he feels. 

“Yeah, I don’t get it either. I don’t know why I missed him. I guess—” She lifts her head to look at Steve, admitting, “I guess ‘cause it’s true, what I said. We used to be friends. Kind of.” She brings her arm up, sleeve rolled over her hand so she can pry a thumb under her goggles to wipe at her eyes. “That’s what made it so hard. Because there were—y’know. Good times.”

Steve’s said it before: he doesn’t know Max that well. Sure, he’s getting to know her better, thanks to all the Hargrove bullshit, but at the end of the day, all he can do is guess. Still. He gets the feeling she still cares about Billy a hell of a lot more than she wants to let on. Probably more than she wants to, period. Otherwise, there’s no way she’d be this torn up about him. Kid isn’t really the sensitive type. “Well, hey. You’re…” It’s still a bitch, trying to figure out what to say. “Tougher than I am.” 

Max lets out another laugh, startled. “What?”

“I mean, coming to see him. Going on an… extermination play-date with him.” Steve snorts, shaking his head. “You kidding? I couldn’t do that.” 

Smirking, Max corrects him. “You shouldn’t do that.” Hopping back up, she reaches out and tugs Steve’s shirt down, ignoring him when he swats her hand away. With a shrug, she bends again, finally getting to work on flambéing the bud. 

“Hey!” Hargrove barks, stomping across the gravel with Lucas following. “The hell’s taking so long? I have to listen to one more word about Sinclair’s Chevelle hardon, I’m gonna shove Farrah Fawcett up his ass.” He shakes the can of Fabergé like a shiv. 

Sinclair makes an ‘ohh’ noise. “And that’s how you know he’s losing the argument.”

Steve snaps his fingers. “Hey! Shitbirds. Shake a leg, we’re losing moonlight.” Steve steals the smoke detector again, waving it in the air as he walks backwards towards the road. “Next one’s mine.”

“What, so you can shit yourself trying to pop a squat?” Hargrove jogs over to him, prying the smoke detector out of his grip with a growl. “I don’t think so, Harrington. I’m not watching you crap that thing out tonight.” He clips Steve with his shoulder as he shoves past, stomping back towards Cherry Oak. 

Steve watches him go, then ducks his head and mutters, “Douche.” Yeah, it’s not exactly news, but Jesus, what a dick. Takes him a second, but he feels a pair of eyes drilling into his skull, and when he turns, Max is gawking at him. “What?”

Her head snaps back and forth between Hargrove and Steve, this look of total confusion written all over her face. “What the hell was that?”

Notes:

I continue to be knocked on my ass by the lovely comments and feedback I've received on this fic! I feel extremely lucky/privileged to have such kind individuals as my readers. An additional thanks to my beta, who is unflappably patient and gentle with their words, and who also leaves 10/10 comments in their edits, such as comparing Steve trying to get his keys off the floor to a giraffe preparing to drink water. 😂 Anyway, just know your blurbs etc. make my day.

I did do a little doodle of Billy and Steve in their extermination gear. And if you feel like you recognize the art style... NO you DON'T. 🤬 Shh. Got it??

Additionally, I've created a tumblr focused on Stranger Things content, and I'd love to chat or interact with more Harringrove folks over there. Or, hell, if you have any questions or comments you're not comfy posting here, my ask box over there is open! Thanks again, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Chapter 9: The Knockout

Another thing that sucks about being on house arrest is that Steve can’t pretend he’s not home when Hopper stops by. And since the chief’s some kind of glutton for punishment, he’s up at 6:30 AM, banging on Steve’s door the morning after they spent all night frying those bud things to a crisp. Steve’s running on about two hours of sleep, so when he drags himself over to the front door, Hopper shoves it open and barges past him without breaking a sweat. 

The chief walks out to the middle of Steve’s living room and stands there for a second, pinching the bridge of his nose. Then he rounds on Steve. “You… have an authority problem.”

Steve’s still so tired his eyes won’t focus, so he doesn’t exactly follow. “Huh?”

“There were 27 of those things.” Hopper crosses his arms and glares like he’s trying to set the spot between Steve’s eyebrows on fire. “Those little… Upside Down plants? El took me to every single one. You wanna know what we found each and every time?”

Steve gulps. Well, now he’s up. Okay, okay—just gotta play it cool. “I…” Steve fumbles, trying to come up with some kind of excuse, but man. He’s barely awake enough to talk, so doing a decent job of covering his own ass is definitely out of the question. “Some sorta…” He picks at his chin, eyes darting all around the room, looking anywhere but Hopper’s face. “I-I dunno. What?”

“Oh, you don’t know,” Hopper echoes, and when Steve finally looks at him, his brow’s hunching down to block out even more of his eyes than usual. “You don’t know, huh? So if I go to Radio Shack right now, and pull the CCTV footage for the back door, I’m not gonna see anything suspicious?” 

Hargrove, who’s crashing on the couch with his face buried in the cushion, groans and starts to move.

“Hang on, just—” Steve can do this. He can make the chief see his side of things, or think up a story Hopper’ll actually buy, he just needs a second. “I-I can explain.”

“I am going to spell this out for you slowly,” Hopper rumbles, “since, apparently, you were either too stupid, or too stubborn, to listen the first ten times.” He steps over to Steve and puts a hand on his shoulder, and man, it does not feel as friendly as it did last time. “You are not in any condition to be dealing with anything from the Upside Down. I don’t care how puny or harmless you think it is, when I told you to step down, that was an order.” Guy sucks in a breath through his nose before he adds, “And as your superior, if you go against my orders one more time, you’ll be hit with the boot so fast it’ll make your head spin. Do I make myself clear?”

“What!?” Is he for real right now? “This is—are you kidding me?” It’s not like Steve’s going three rounds with a fucking demogorgon, or getting his ass pummeled by a bunch of underground Russian nutcases. This shit’s just… pest control! “We were just—” Steve makes the hairspray noise with his mouth and acts it out, spritzing a few invisible plants on the carpet. Y’know, so Hopper can see how tame the whole thing was. “Chht. Boom. Burn it, done. That’s it.” 

“Harrington.”

“Look! If it was really that dangerous, d’you think I’d let the kids tag along?” Steve throws his hands in the air. “We know how to deal with ‘em now, those things are a total cakewalk.” 

Hopper’s face twitches and Steve… Uh. Steve probably shouldn’t have told him that. “You let the kids come?”

“W—No. I—” Shit, shit, shit. “The point…” Steve swallows, eyes jumping back and forth while he thinks. “The point is, if I thought they were gonna be in any danger, or if I thought for one second that we couldn’t handle it… we never would’ve gone!”  

“God damnit.” The chief’s rubbing at his temple now, head ducked like he can’t believe the migraine Steve’s giving him. “Alright. You’re clearly deluded. So let me put this another way. You think you’re in fighting shape right now? You think you can just—go toe-to-toe with whatever insane bullshit Hawkins throws at you?” Dropping his hand from his face, Hopper jerks a finger towards the floor. “Show me a squat.” He snaps and then jabs his finger down again. “Up and down, right now.”

“… Seriously?” When the hell is that gonna need to happen? “No, man! I’m not showing you a fucking squat.” 

“Well?” Damn, does Steve hate the look Hopper gives him. Like he knows he’s got Steve on the ropes. “I’m waiting, Harrington.”

“That’s—” Steve crosses his arms, ignoring how every time he does that, it hurts like a bitch. “Okay, in what situation am I gonna need to—”

“Harrington.”

Steve’s mouth clamps shut and he freezes, finally hunching his shoulders and looking away. Prick.

“And let’s not forget that he—” Hopper spins on his heel to glare at Hargrove, who’s finally sitting up. “—shouldn’t be coming within ten feet of those things.” 

Hargrove’s eyes are puffy, and he almost wobbles, probably taking a second to wake up a little more before he grumbles, “That’s a hell of a way to say ‘thank you.’” Scrubbing the crud out of his eyes, he adds, “The way I see it, we did your dirty work for you, but now, for some fucking reason, you’re barging in here to bitch about it.” 

Steve feels his eyes bug out. Jesus. He knows Hargrove’s a dick, but he didn’t think he’d be comfortable talking to Hopper like that. Y’know, not unless he’s getting thrown in the back of a cruiser again.

Hopper tenses up and doesn’t move for a second, finally taking a slow, stiff step towards Hargrove. It’s fast—real fast—and Steve almost misses it, but he swears the asshole flinches, this look almost like fear flashing across his face. The chief freezes a second time, staring at Hargrove for half a second before he turns back towards Steve. When he talks again, his voice is quieter. Less pissed off. “… Look. I know what you were trying to do. But I need you to hear me when I say, we have got it under control.”

This tight feeling bunches up in the pit of Steve’s chest. The chief sounds… Shit, Steve doesn’t know. Worried. Like he’s been freaking out all morning over what they did, wondering just how bad they must’ve screwed things up.

Man, does Steve feel like a jackass.  “… Okay. I mean…” He clears his throat, mumbling, “Yeah. Got it.” 

“You—” Hopper’s aiming a finger at him again. “—for all intents and purposes, are pregnant.” Steve flinches like the chief just knocked him upside the head, but Hopper doesn’t even seem to notice. “And I get it, alright? You were never… prepared to have to deal with this. But pregnant… people should not be running around, setting deadly plants from another dimension on fire. Tell me you understand that.”

“Y…” That tight feeling’s crawling up into Steve’s throat, and it’s hard to get the words out. In the end he just swallows around it and nods. 

“And you—” He faces Hargrove one more time, and the guy does another almost-flinch. Hopper’s jaw works for a second before he finally mutters, “You wanna be there for your sister, right? Then you have got to start taking better care of yourself.”

Hargrove’s voice is smaller than Steve’s heard it in a while. “She’s not my sister.”

“Fine.” The chief’s not having any of his bullshit, plowing right on ahead. “That redheaded kid you spent half your life with. Whatever… semantics you want to use. Whether you like it or not, you’re alive again, and she actually wants something to do with you this time around.” Taking another half-step towards him, Hopper looms over Hargrove. “So if you want things to stay that way, you will not be trying this shit again.” 

“Aright.” Jumping to his feet, Hargrove tries with everything he’s got to make up for the five inches Hopper’s got on him. “You can go.”

“Oh, I can go?” Shaking his head, Hopper grumbles under his breath, “For Christ’s sake.” The chief lets Hargrove stare him down for one more second, then steps back and heads for the door. Before yanking it open, he makes sure to glance over his shoulder and snap, “I mean it.” 

“Already heard you, man!” Steve sighs, arms dropping at his sides as he slouches. “Read you… loud and clear.” 

Hopper pauses by the open door, giving Steve a once over before grumbling, “… And I’m getting you some new shirts.”

Steve thins his lips together, tugging at his old PE shirt after Hopper slams the door behind him.  

Hargrove scoffs. “Alright, Harrington. You’re his little errand bitch, you tell me:” The guy stomps over to Steve to start waging war on his personal space. “Where the fuck does he get off talking to me like that?” 

“Look, can you just—relax, asshole!” Hands jumping up defensively, Steve leans back as Hargrove starts to crowd him. “He just—” Shit. Now that he’s gotta say it out loud, Steve can see why the chief was fed up. “—doesn’t wanna see us get killed.” 

Hargrove lets this puff of air out through his nose, like he finds it funny. “Oh, shit.” Tilting his head, he asks, “You really believe that?” Pointing towards the door, Hargrove lowers his voice, explaining it to Steve like he’s some kind of idiot toddler. “Nah—he saw that, for a split second, he didn’t have us pinned under his fucking thumb. And that pissed him off.”

“Jesus.” Steve can’t really say he’s surprised, but it still catches him off guard just how screwed up in the head Hargrove is. “Look, man. I don’t expect you to believe me or anything, but Hopper’s not the type.” Maybe Hop looks like Hargrove’s piece of shit dad or something, and that’s why Hargrove’s automatically got a problem with him. Or maybe Hargrove’s still got a chip on his shoulder from the chief bruising his rib over the hood of the Blazer. “He actually gives a shit about people.” Other than Steve, he might be the only one on the force who actually does. “I mean, worst thing he’s ever done was hire Barnes.”

It looks like Hargrove’s got more to say, but something takes the wind out of his sails. He stops, mouth open, then asks, “Barnes?” He blinks a couple times, jerking his head back like he can’t get what Steve just said through his skull. “Robbie Barnes? Senior, power forward—worst case of ‘pinhead’ you’ve ever seen in your life?”

Steve’s eyebrows inch up towards his hair. “Sounds like a match.” Holy shit. Steve never noticed the pinhead thing, but Hargrove’s right on the money. “He’s the other new recruit.” 

“God.” Pulling out that scumbag smile, Hargrove traces his teeth with his tongue before he adds, “So they just don’t give a shit if you hit anything with bullets—that it?” 

“Come on, man.” The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches. “Back in boot camp, guy got twice as many bullseyes as three pointers.” 

Hargrove wrinkles his nose. “You double zero, it’s still zero, dumbass.” 

“Oh shit, really?” Steve snorts. “You’re a fuckin’… math whiz.” 

Turning, Hargrove walks backwards away from Steve. “What’s your bar for, uh—‘math whiz’, Harrington?” He pauses, tapping his finger on his temple a couple times. “Two plus two?” 

Steve whistles. “Well, now you’re goin’ over my head.” 

Chuckling, Hargrove ducks into the kitchen, then pokes his head back out, squinting. “Jesus, it’s dark in here.” 

“Uh.” Glancing around at all the… broad daylight, Steve asks, “What?”

“Yeah—why else did you put the high beams on?” Hargrove skirts around the edge of the kitchen counter, then reaches out to flick Steve’s—

“OW!” Steve clamps back hands over his chest—Jesus, that hurt! Why was that almost as bad as getting kicked in the nads? “What the hell, man?” 

Hargrove snickers, disappearing into the kitchen again and opening the fridge. “Hey—Chompers bring by any milk, or are you gonna top off my cereal?”

There are a couple of amazing seconds where Steve doesn’t get it. And then—then it hits him. 

Son of a bitch.

 

*

 

Steve figures the person trying to break down the front door must be Dustin. The kid’s been delivering groceries and whatever crap Hargrove refuses to pick up when he’s on a document run, and Steve only had to bribe him a little. “Cool your jets, Henderson. I’m coming.” 

Steve has to fuck around for an extra second when he gets off the couch, and part of him’s real glad Hargrove isn’t here to watch him wobble forward a few times’ til he’s got enough momentum to make it to his feet. The knocking ramps up again—maybe Henderson’s about to crap his pants on the other side of the door—and Steve groans. “I said, COMING! Christ…”

He makes it over to the door, undoes the bolt, and swings it open. “… Robin?”

“Yes? Me Robin, you Steve?” Robin’s voice always goes all high and scratchy when she’s annoyed. “Has it occurred to you that we haven’t seen one another since your fetal movement meltdown in the parking lot?” 

“Ss—don’t…” Steve winces, arm jerking out like he’s gonna cover her mouth, even though it’s way too late. “Don’t call it that.” Grumbling, he steps back from the door. “What’s your point?”

“Vickie won’t drive me over here.” Robin pauses, purses her lips— “Well, she will, but when I ask her to drop me off at your place, she gives me this look. It’s, like, skeptical and judgmental and… ew. I don’t like it. So I walked here after my shift, which, by the way, is twenty minutes on foot, forty round trip—did you know that?” She shoves her way in past Steve, moaning, “It was so much easier when we could carpool.” 

Steve heaves a sigh, ignoring the flashbacks he’s getting to the last time had to work around his gut just to get behind the wheel of the chevy. “Well, I am just.. so sorry for inconveniencing you.”

“I could try to explain it!” Annnd she’s still on a tangent. Figures. “I’ve told her it’s platonic, we’re just friends, I feel nothing, and the idea of touching a man with romantic intent literally makes my flesh crawl—” Her arms jerk in, fingers curled up like she’s a dying pill bug. Then she pauses, eyes darting down to Steve’s stomach. “Did you get… bigger?”

Steve glares, slamming the door with a bang.

“Well, well, well.” Steve’s head whips around when he hears the screen door slide open, and Hargrove waltzes in. Ah, shit. Jackass probably saw Robin walking in from the balcony. Popping his gum, Hargrove asks, “Where’ve you been hiding this one, Harrington?”

Robin’s jaw drops, gawking at Hargrove like she’s wondering if she should start running. And yeah, Steve can’t blame her! That’s the right way to react when you realize Billy Hargrove is hitting on you. Eyebrows knitting together, Robin makes this quiet choking noise, then silently points to herself, making sure Hargrove’s actually talking to her. 

With a nod, Hargrove takes a couple steps towards Robin, slinging an arm up on the wall so he’s almost closing her in. “I don’t see any other knockouts in here.”

Robin lets out this shocked laugh—sounds more like a dog barking—and Hargrove’s smile shrinks, head tilting slightly to one side. This shell-shocked grin breaking out on her face, Robin clears her throat and turns towards Hargrove. “You must be Billy.”

Hargrove shrugs, still smiling, and does this ‘you caught me’ kind of gesture before he goes back to leaning against the wall. And—Jesus Christ! Ever heard of subtlety, dickhead? He’s totally checking her out! She’s not blind, man! How obvious can he be? Guy isn’t even barking up the right tree, and Steve’s not sure if that makes it more or less painful to watch. 

“Well. I’m, uh—” Robin looks over her shoulder at Steve, then back to Hargrove, jerking her thumb behind her.  “I’m just here for Steve, so…” She starts inching backwards, keeping her eyes on Hargrove the whole time like a mouse trying to size up a cat. 

Steve’s not sure if he’s ever seen Hargrove this stumped, and yeah, he feels for Robin, he really does, but watching this asshole get brutally rejected is just… fucking great. It even takes the dipshit a minute to figure out how to talk, dumbly echoing, “Steve.”

“That is his name,” Robin says.

“Alright. I’ll admit it. You lost me.” Hargrove pops his gum again, the arm he’s got on the wall sliding down until he can wedge both hands into the pockets of his jeans. “What?” He jerks his chin towards Steve. “You bring her here for a pity fuck? That it?” 

Robin’s jaw hits the floor.

“Christ.” Steve slaps a hand on his forehead. So much for the whole ‘not a piece of shit’ act. “Couldn’t even fake it for a minute, could you?” 

“A pity fuck? Did I—sorry, did I catch that right? A pity fuck?” Steve blinks, heart jolting when he realizes Robin’s talking back to Hargrove. “Oh, of course. Because that’s the only reason I could possibly turn down a Casanova like you, hm?” Cupping her chin thoughtfully, Robin copies Hargrove’s body language from earlier, leaning against the wall as she stares him dead in the eye. “Couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’ve known you for about two seconds and you’ve already offended three of my senses.” 

“Lemme guess:” Hargrove takes a second to push his gumwad around in his mouth. “Harrington fed you a load of bullshit about me. Told you a bunch of horror stories to try and hide the fact that he’s a whiny little pussy who can’t take a punch.”

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short!” Oh, shit. Steve’s seen that smile. It’s the same one Robin had his whole first month working at Scoops. Y’know, back when she still hated his guts and got way too much of a kick out of watching him strike out a hundred times a day. “You’re doing a great job of making yourself look horrible all on your own.” 

“Great! This is great and all, but—” Steve starts to wedge an arm between them, but Robin karate chops his hand back without even looking.

“That supposed to hurt my feelings?” asks Hargrove. 

“Feelings?” Now Robin’s fake-grinning, crossing her arms as she stares up at the guy. “Oh—pssh. I’m sure you don’t have those! Wouldn’t that be—and let me use your terminology for this—” She leans in to add, “’pussy shit’?”

Sniffing, Hargrove brings a hand up and waves it over his face. “Phew. Smell that? Sorta…” He purses his lips before guessing, “Coppery?” He tilts his chin down and mutters, “You bleeding, sweetheart?” 

For a split second, Steve thinks he’s making some kind of threat. Then it sinks in. “Oh, you’re fucking dead, Hargrove.” He moves to take a swing at the asshole, but Robin throws a hand out to block him.

“Wow. That is an impressive amount of sexism. Now, uh—clearly that didn’t come out of nowhere.” Okay, Steve’s lost. Robin sounds excited. Why does she sound excited? “By my guess, you got your heart ripped out by a woman at some significant juncture in your life. Only question is, who was it? If it wasn’t Max, I’d say it had to be an ex girlfriend—” Steve has no clue why, but his stomach drops. “—or your mother.”

Hargrove looks like Robin kneed him in the gut, but he’s doing everything he can to play it cool. Not exactly working out for him, though. The guy looks pale, tilting his head down and forcing a shaky smirk as he pushes his gum against his cheek. 

Jesus. Steve can’t act like he didn’t have it coming, but—shit. All that crap El said about how his mom left him comes flooding back into Steve’s head, and suddenly he knows why that line from Robin practically gave him a heart attack. Talk about hitting below the belt. 

“Sooo… Billy, was it?” Robin’s putting on this fake-happy voice, and Steve can tell she knows she got the last laugh. “Or do you prefer Hargrove?”

“Nah.” Hargrove clicks his tongue, then mutters, “Why don’t I leave you girls to it?” Reaching into his mouth, he pulls out his wad of gum, slowly smearing it on the wall while he locks eyes with Steve. “Maybe Harrington’ll lend you a tampon.”

Robin watches him stomp back out to the balcony, then turns to gag at Steve. “Eugh.”

Steve scratches the back of his neck, shoulders hunching. “Yeah, he’s…” He gestures weakly, and… Nope. He’s got nothing. “… Yeah.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been stuck with him for a month and a half,” mumbles Robin, giving Steve this dizzy look. “I can’t believe you’re both… alive.”

“I mean, that was—” Christ. Steve can’t believe he’s saying this—even though he’s not sure what the hell he’s even trying to say, but— “Okay. Yeah, that was—that was bad. But he’s… less shitty.” He clears his throat. “Usually.” 

“‘Less shitty’?” Robin repeats, gawking at Steve. “Are you hearing yourself?”

“No! I mean—I know. Okay? I know.” Heaving a massive sigh, Steve keeps trying to figure out what he wants to tell her, but… man. Easier said than done. “It’s complicated.” 

“I’m sure it is.” Well, she’s still talking to Steve like he’s a total nutcase, so that’s… awesome.

“Look. I know it doesn’t seem like it, but that?” Steve points to the balcony. “That right there is progress.” He waves at the gumwad Hargrove plastered on the drywall. “If that’s the worst thing he does after you start dissing his mom, then I call that a win.” Standing there for a couple seconds, Steve puts his hands on his hips, then groans and caves, stomping over to the wall and trying to peel the gum off. He gets his thumbnail under it, starts to pull it away, but it just stretches. “God damn it.” 

“Steve.”

“Robin.” Steve gives up on the gum with another groan, turning to look at her. “Can you just trust me on this? You haven’t been stuck in solitary with him, you didn’t watch him crawl out of that swamp six weeks ago. You haven’t even seen him with Max.” He gives Robin this look, and it hits him—Christ, he probably sounds insane. And Robin’s still looking at him like an idiot, which he hates, but… Shit. He knows he’s not exactly helping his case. “I know it doesn’t look like it, but—” His mouth flaps open and closed. It’s like he knows what he’s about to say, but some part of Steve wants him to bail on it. “I think he’s trying.” 

“Steve.” Robin pauses, mouth open, and God does Steve hate when she does that dramatic theater kid shit. “Are you actually defending the person who beat you until you were unconscious?”

“Ohhkay, okay.” Steve waves his hands in the air, like he’s calling a time out. “I wouldn’t go that far.” She’s reading into it too much! It’s not that complicated. “I’m not ‘defending’, alright? There’s no defense going on here. He’s less of a piece of shit than he used to be. Okay, Robin? That’s all I’m saying.”

“That’s a low bar,” Robin deadpans.

“Yeah, no shit.” Thinning his lips together, Steve pauses, face scrunching up as he remembers something. “Wait—Hang on. Why are you here, again?” Was it that crap about carpooling? 

“Well, Steve.” Lacing her fingers together, Robin announces, “I realize a lifetime of being surrounded by meathead jocks may have made this a foreign concept to you, but friends who give a shit about you? They like to, you know.” She bobs her head thoughtfully. “Check up on you once in a while. Make sure you weren’t murdered by the perverted barbarian living on your porch.”

“Oh.” Crap. Now Steve feels like a complete dickwad. Again. Robin already had to deal with Hargrove trying to get in her pants, and as soon as she dodged that bullet, Steve jumped down her throat for taking a pot-shot at the guy’s mom. “Uh. Thanks.” Glancing at the gum one last time, Steve decides to call it a draw, slowly sinking down on the couch and taking a second to hate the way he has to slide a hand under his gut so he doesn’t fall too fast or… knock into shit. 

“Yes, dingus. Thanks. And you’re welcome.” Robin joins him, flopping down next to him and bumping her knee against his. “So. How’s the, um…” Robin hesitates, then points a couple times towards Steve’s problem area.  “… situation?”

“God.” Steve drags a hand down his face, letting his head fwomp down against the back of the couch. “’S fine.” He doesn’t want to get into it, but he has the feeling that Robin’s gonna keep prying unless he comes clean. “Owens is taking care of it.” He glances at Robin out of the corner of his eye, and she looks all… sad. And worried. Jesus. “Whatever happens, if it turns out all… messed up. Even if it’s normal… I’m off the hook.” It almost sounds like somebody else is talking, and Steve’s not sure when his throat got so tight. “I checked.”

“Oh.” She sounds the way she did the last time they talked about this, right down to the part where she clams up, which is totally not like Robin. Steve wishes she’d say something already, the silence is killing him. Of course, when she finally does speak up, he takes it all back. “It’s funny.” She stutters, then blurts, “I mean, not… jokey funny. Just…” Steve feels the couch cushions move as she shrugs. “I thought you always… wanted kids.”

Steve turns and looks at her for real. There’s no way she knows, right? Well. Maybe she kind of does. That there were a couple moments, forever ago, where he’dve pictured doing that kind of thing with her. Before he knew she wasn’t… into him, or any guy. Before Vickie. Before he found out being anything other than friends was impossible. 

Yeah, Steve wanted kids. A big family. He wanted it with somebody like Robin, or Nance. The normal way, with a girl he’s crazy about. Marrying her, buying a house in the suburbs. White picket fence and all that shit. But not by himself, never like this. This… fucked up joke Steve wound up being the punchline for. After a second, he swallows and turns away, staring dumbly at the wall on the far end of the apartment. 

“… Yeah.” God, this sucks. “I did.” 

Notes:

Thanks again for reading and commenting! It always makes my day. I know this one was a bit of a shorter/breather chapter, but at least it had, at long last, the much anticipated Robin and Billy meeting with Robin demolishing his ass as nature intended. Anyway, I'm very excited for what's in store for the next few chapters, and I hope you all enjoy what's to come, too. :>

Chapter 10: The Home Stretch

Notes:

So, I've gotten a weird fixation with trying to keep this fic as canon compliant as it can be despite season 5 not being out-- which I realize is inherently ridiculous because this is a goddamn mpreg fic. But I did see the spoilers involving Steve's new truck, so in the interest of BOTH accuracy AND 'lol i bet it sucks to have to climb into a truck while pregnant', I've edited the rest of the fic and, going forward, there is no beemer, o̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶z̶u̶u̶l̶ the chevy.

“Your groceried items, my liege.”

Henderson does this twirly dipshit bow as he holds out a bag of milk, detergent, and toothpaste. When Steve takes it, he makes sure to grab the handles without touching the kid’s hand so he doesn’t catch whatever the hell Henderson’s got. “Thanks.”

“Wow! It’s just—so amazing, Steve!” Henderson starts shouting out of nowhere, craning his head back so he can yell in Hargrove’s direction. “I’m exhibiting basic human kindness! How crazy is that?”

Hargrove doesn’t even blink as he keeps chugging, halfway through a six-pack when he locks eyes with Dustin.

Henderson, meanwhile, has finally stopped pissing his pants at the sight of the creep, which sounds great on paper, except now he’s always trying to start shit. And guess who has to keep Hargrove from ripping Henderson’s head off? Steve. “I got it, man! Thanks.”

“Hey, no problem!” Hands planted on his hips, Henderson slowly turns around to talk at Hargrove. Loudly. “I mean, sure, somebody’s already down at the station all the time anyway, so there’s no good reason somebody couldn’t stop by the Safeway and pick up a gallon of two percent, but sure! I’ll crush my nuts and slam puberty to a screeching halt by biking all the way from my house—” Henderson waves his arm in the direction of each landmark he names, since he still has this thing with directions, apparently. “—to Save-A-Lot, to here, and back. That makes way more sense.” 

Finishing off his beer, Hargrove blows a burp in Dustin’s direction, putting on this geeky voice as he whines back, “Well, I can’t risk getting caught, now can I?” 

“Don’t give me that shit!” Henderson bristles like a cat. “You obviously don’t care. You go out all the time anyway! It’s not like Steve’s buying all that beer.”

Man, does Steve miss beer. He heaves a sigh, watching as Hargrove cackles. Okay, obviously all Henderson’s doing is charging up his asshole batteries. “Dude, don’t encourage him.”

Grumbling, Dustin follows Steve into the kitchen with the rest of the groceries, “All I’m saying is, if one of us has to be mauled to death by demodogs while picking up your baby aspirin, I vote for the douchebag who already got his bell rung twice.” Slinging the bags onto the counter, Henderson whispers, “Seriously, man! He’s used to it!” 

“Yeah, I wouldn’t count on that.” At this point, Steve’s not sure anything would put the big guy down. He slings the milk and a pack of coke into the fridge, then slams the door and starts to put the cereal in the cupboard before he… sorta stops. And turns sideways. (Jesus. If Henderson mentions how he clocked his gut on the counter trying to put away the Mini Wheats, Steve’s gonna give him some first-hand experience with a swirly.) “… That bad, huh? I mean…” Look, Steve’d like to believe him and all, but— “Has anyone actually, like… seen one?” 

Dustin huffs. “Steve?” 

“Yeah?

“Do not doubt me on this.” 

“Hey, man. There’s a fine line between confidence and getting a fat head. And you, Henderson? You are—” Steve mimes his head swelling up like a balloon. “—toeing that line, my friend.” 

“You can worry about my ego when I’m wrong, Steve.” Dustin’s getting that do not question my genius voice as he stacks cans of soup. “Which I am not.” 

“Sure, sure.” Steve bobs his head a couple times. “And what makes you so positive? What, you think they’re just biding their time, waiting to come out during the—the full moon, or some shit?” Groaning, Steve puts a hand on the counter, leaning some weight onto it so his ankles won’t explode. “We haven’t seen hide or tail of these things since that poodle got shredded.” 

“That’s because their biggest evolutionary advantage is totally out of the equation. If they’re growing at a slower rate—which, by the way, is your theory, dumbass!” Steve actually gasps at that one because, uh—rude? “They’ll be vulnerable to attacks, predators, getting run over by a car, for weeks! Their safest bet is to wait it out until they’re at least as big as Dart was. Maybe bigger.”

Alright, letting them finish their growth spurt is a bad call. Steve had his hands full with one of those things at that size, and back then, Steve was actually in fighting shape! Shit, not just fighting shape—we’re talking peak performance! “Okay, so—shouldn’t we get ‘em before then?”

Henderson gives him this nasty look, and Steve’s not sure if it’s because the kid thinks he’s that much of a moron, or if Steve screwed up big time by saying we. “That’s the idea. Our best shot would be to draw them out somehow. Get them all in one place, and take care of them while they’re small. And no—” Henderson shushes him like he’s a little kid and Steve rolls his eyes. “Before you ask, another ground beef trail’s not gonna do it.” 

Annnnd he’s lost. “… Why not?”

“Jesus, Steve.” Good fucking grief. So much for that ego staying in check, huh, Henderson? “You said it yourself, right? They’ve been totally MIA. They’re staying under the radar, only eating roadkill—no way they’re gonna go for obvious bait like that.” 

Steve drums his fingers on the counter. “Well, there’s gotta be something that’ll get their attention.”

“Easier said than done. They’re not like the others.” Henderson sighs again, and for the first time in a while, he actually looks kinda lost. “They might not even have a hive mind, and they probably don’t have any connection to the Upside Down. I mean, they didn’t even react when you guys went out and burned all those beholders!” 

“… Beholders?” Oh, for Christ’s sake. Is that—Is that another one of those stupid board game monsters? Really?! 

“The buds.” Dustin folds his hands into a flower shape. “Little plant things?”

Steve just shoots him a look. 

“So the name’s not perfect. It’s not a one-to-one comparison, alright?” Yeah, so not the point, Henderson. “Beholders can cast ‘fear’, these things conjure up your worst nightmare. They literally make you behold shit, it’s close enough!”

“Dustin,” Steve deadpans. “Nobody cares what they’re called, man.”

“Sure, Steve.” Reaching up, Henderson slams the cupboard for emphasis. “Just keep calling them plants. That won’t get confusing.”

“Just—chill. What’s your point?” 

“Everything in the Upside Down’s normally connected.” Reaching into one of the bags, Henderson pulls out a couple packs of gum and sets them on the counter. “If these demodogs were part of that hive mind, they would’ve come running to defend the beholders—like when the whole pack showed up to protect the tunnels, and then the gate.” He knocks one of the gums over, then slides the other one across the linoleum towards it. Steve hears him gulp, and when the kid looks up at him, he’s nervous again. “We’re gonna have to find some other way to lure them out.”

Steve starts drumming again. “Hopper got any ideas?”

Henderson cringes. “He’s… not exactly on board with the plan.” 

“Don’t tell me.” Yeah, Steve knows where this is going. He’s been cleaning up this shithead’s messes since 7th grade— he can read Henderson better than an article in Penthouse Forum. “You’re gonna do it anyway.”

“Whoa! I never said that.” Stumbling back a couple steps, Henderson turns and stomps into the living room, yanking his backpack off the floor and shrugging it on. “But this whole conversation—” He waves a hand in a circle, then jerks his chin towards Steve. “—stays between us. Got it?” 

“Ohh, no, no, no. You— ” Is he crazy? No, Steve’s not gonna let the kid get pulverized into dog chow to prove a point. Not on his watch.

“And I’m NOT—” Raising his voice, Henderson shouts over Steve. “—gonna let the guy who thought it’d be cool to use a flamethrower while pregnant give me a lecture on safety!” 

Hargrove starts busting a gut from the couch and Dustin flips him off before heading out the door. Steve turns to gawk at Hargrove—what, are they buddies now?

Shrugging, Hargrove gives him a ‘what?’ face, then folds his arms behind his head. “Kid’s got a point.”

 

*

 

Even driving’s a huge pain in the ass now.

Steve’s had to scoot the seat back as far as it’ll go, and even then, his gut’s dangerously close to laying on the horn when he gets in. … Or when he leans forward to turn the key, or tries to buckle his seatbelt. That has to go under his stomach, and to make sure it doesn’t take him an hour to make it click, Steve has to lift the gut out of the way.

Jesus Christ.

As far as trucks go, the Chevy’s not too far off the ground—not compared to the Blazer, anyway—but it’s still a workout climbing in and out. Steve’s just glad Owens was smart enough to make sure all his appointments are after dark; the last thing he needs when he’s fighting to get into his seat is to look up and see Mrs. Crockett from downstairs enjoying the freakshow. 

Between Hopper handling his leave, and Owens covering all the other bases, Steve thinks he’s got a real shot at keeping this a secret. Even his appointments have turned into this weird, incognito shit—Steve pulls up to this shady back alley behind the hospital, goes in some utility door on the side, and the whole wing’s full of a bunch of lab people. Steve’s not sure if Owens and his bosses rented it out after Vecna, or if they’ve always been there, but Steve’s not about to ask. All that matters is it’s a ghost town whenever Steve comes by—thank fuck. 

Today, everything was typical. As typical as smuggling an Upside Down parasite in his stomach is gonna get, anyway. Steve put on those hospital scrubs, Owens took his vitals, he got the most depressing workout of his life climbing onto the exam table…

And then Owens told him there was good news, and Steve sucked in air through his teeth, felt his whole body tense up because seriously? Steve’s learned by now he’s got some real messed up ideas about ‘good news’. 

But then he said he found some people. To, like… take it. It didn’t sink in at first, even though hearing that should’ve made it seem real, y’know? It wasn’t Steve’s problem anymore. He didn’t need to think about it. And Owens moved on pretty fast. Seemed like he took the hint that Steve didn’t need any details. And that feeling Steve got, like a giant rubber band stretched out in his chest? Shit. It was probably just ‘cause some part of Steve knew El was gonna hold it against him. Even though it’d be fine—she still doesn’t know what she's talking about, she’s just a kid. Owens is a nice enough guy, same as these people probably are, and Steve…

Christ. Hasn’t he been through enough?

He kinda held his breath for more good news—hell, maybe something in Steve’s insides got moved around and, turns out, it’d be safe to cut it out of him today. No such luck, though. And Steve… Shit, maybe he forgot, with that weight getting taken off his shoulders, or maybe he’s got some kind of thing for torturing himself, but he looked at that little screen. Again.

 He could really see it this time. Yeah, sure, he’s seen it before, but it was… He doesn’t know, different. The arms, legs, head—even the nose and the lips stood out. And Steve only looked for a split second, barely even that long, but it burned right into his brain and God.

He felt like throwing up. 

Steve still wanted to hurl when Owens gave him the paper towels to get cleaned up, told him the same spiel he’d gotten the last ten times.

Three more weeks, Steve, just hang in there. You’re in the home stretch.

And right now, Steve’s not sure how he makes it out of the Chevy without spraying chicken salad all over the pavement. He feels dizzy when he hikes his way up the steps to his apartment, leaning back so his fucked up center of gravity won’t make him fall. He can’t even see his feet anymore, and there’s something extra humiliating about how scared he is of tripping. His hips hurt constantly, so do his knees, his pecs are a disaster zone, and he’s mad. No, screw that—he’s pissed. Why him, huh? Why’d Steve have to be the one to get stuck with this shit, watching his body go all funhouse mirror on him? So, yeah, actually. Seems like the least Owens and his jarheads could do is make sure the end of this fucking nightmare is actually the end, and Steve’ll never have to think about it again once these three weeks are over.

Hargrove’s gone, so the place is empty when Steve trudges through the door. Hopper picked him up today since Steve had an appointment. The chief acts like he gets a kick out of keeping Hargrove under constant surveillance, and Hargrove must not hate it that much, since he let Hopper drag him down to the station to tinker with the cruisers, and only bitched about it a little. Steve pries his All-Stars off—he doesn’t even lace ‘em up anymore, it’s too much of a hassle—and zombie-walks to the couch, grabbing the arm for leverage as he forklifts himself down. His eyes feel like a couple of pool balls, cold and heavy in his skull, as he leans his head back against the wall with a groan. For about two seconds, there’s peace and quiet, and Steve gets to stop thinking for a while. But apparently, that means now’s an awesome time for the thing in his gut to start going haywire.

“Jesus.” Steve buries his face in his hands, slumping forward. “Give me a fucking break.”

He stays hunched over for a minute, then… pulls his hands away and looks down. And holy shit, is it stupid, but he still has a heart attack every time he glances at his stomach, like there’s still a chance that fucking worm’s gonna pop out and rip him apart from the inside. Even though Steve’s seen the screen, and he doesn’t want to see it, but… Y’know. He’s got proof. That picture on the screen’s a normal… ish… baby. Or something that sure looks like it. And, yeah, the worm, or the monster, or the—the tumor? It’s been way easier, thinking of it like that. Somehow, even though it doesn’t make any sense, it feels less fucked up. But shit, is it getting harder to do this denial thing. 

The shirts Hopper brought him are basically tents, and Steve’s been wondering if they’re actually the chief’s hand-me-downs. He can’t figure out if they do a better job of hiding what’s wrong with him, or if they just make him look like even more of a wide load. Steve pries his fingers under the collar, and then just… sucks it up. Doesn’t give himself a chance to think about it, yanking his shirt up over his head before hiding inside like a little kid.

His pecs are a trainwreck, and that trips him up for a second. (The hair still hasn’t grown back, and yeah, Steve has been mourning, thanks for asking!) From this angle, looking down at himself, it’s all just… ugh. Bitch-tits and fucking Buddha belly. And when Steve watches, like actually stares at the skin, he can really see it. Moving, he means. Even with the picture on the screen, and Owens telling him how normal it’s been turning out, Steve still sees a slug. It always… looked like a slug whenever he had the balls to watch his stomach move for more than a second. 

And it’s gross. ‘Freaky’ doesn’t even begin to cover it. Forget the meat monsters, the dead demodog he stuffed in Mrs. Byers’ fridge, or even Hargrove hurling black slime into the alley the first couple minutes after Steve got his pulse up and running—this crap is straight out of a horror movie. Even if it’s not a monster, or a tumor, even if it’s a—a human… thing, and fuck, that’s not much better than a worm if you ask Steve, but… 

If it is a kid, then… 

 Steve hears himself gulp, and watches his hands move on their own, like someone else is piloting. They slide up under the hem of his shirt, and slowly crawl their way up ’til they’re on either side of his stomach, and Steve tenses, waiting for it to burn like he’s touching a hot stove. And he does jump out of his fucking skin—even though it’s his skin, and Jesus, he should’ve seen it coming—when he feels a thump right under his palm.

I thought you always wanted kids.

Steve feels like shit. 

Not just from dealing with this crap for months on end, not just because his body’s been completely screwed, probably forever, but… Fuck. There’s this lead weight in the bottom of his chest all of a sudden, and he’s gotta wonder: what the hell's wrong with him? 

He’s frozen, stuck that way for another minute. Staring down at the gut, somehow not puking, that cold weight in his ribcage spreading out to his arms, legs… fingertips. 

Then he hears somebody stomping up the steps.

Steve flails, head popping out of his shirt as he tries to act normal—this looks casual, right? This is a casual pose!—as Hargrove slams his way in, whistling and spinning a keyring. It takes Steve a second before it hits him: Steve’s had the Chevy all day. So… What, did Hargrove just rob the chief? “Holy shit.” 

“Good news, Harrington!” Hargrove does this bow towards the left wide open door behind him. “I’m officially through with driving your shitbox.” 

Steve feels like he’s gonna regret it, but he cocks an eyebrow at Hargrove, then hauls himself to his feet, shuffling over to peek out the front door. Right at the bottom of the steps, crammed into two parking spots diagonally, is a firetruck red Camaro. Steve squints at the plate on the grill—short number, a faded mu stamped on the bottom… “That’s a…” 

A cop plate. And yeah, Steve can see how it’d be easier to keep tabs on the guy—at least, he’d probably stand out less than he would stealing Steve’s truck all the time, but… seriously? “Hopper gave you the coke raid wheels?” 

Hargrove puffs up like, somehow, that makes the Camaro even more valuable. “Y-ep.” 

So Steve might be in shock. Can anybody really blame him? Since when can this guy be trusted with police property? Screw the fact that, yeah, this thing’s basically an ankle bracelet on wheels, and sure, Steve’s not mad about the idea of Hargrove never laying a finger on his truck again, but… 

Wait. Steve turns to gawk at Hargrove when he realizes that the guy’s… here. The first few times Steve had him take the Chevy, he figured it was a fifty-fifty chance the asshole would drive it out of Hawkins and never come back. And okay, since Steve’s a cop, that would’ve been stupid even for Hargrove—they would’ve tracked him down in no time—but with this thing? The guy’s got a decent shot at getting out of town and going on the run if he really wants to, but… 

Guess he didn’t. 

And Steve’s not gonna bullshit himself. Hargrove’s been less of a dickhead to Max, Lucas—even to Steve. And it’s still weird, but Steve kinda means it when he says, “Y’know what, man?” He can tell Hargrove’s got no idea what to do with the rest of what Steve tells him. Guy probably didn’t see it coming, either. 

“Congrats.”

 

*

 

So, the thing is, Steve’s bed has been feeling… smaller lately. And part of it’s because he’s a complete fatass now, he gets that. All the pillows and crap he’s been piling on the mattress, just so his back doesn’t kill him from sleeping wrong—they don’t leave him a lot of real estate. Something’s always hurting, and he wakes up five times a night, either to take a leak, or because his kidneys are getting pummeled, so he’s used to waking up for no good reason at three AM. 

But tonight, it’s something else. Swallowing, Steve psyches himself up and shoves as hard as he can against the mattress, rolling over ’til he’s actually sitting up. And then he hears it again. This muffled crash coming from the living room. 

Steve’s still groggy, thinking back to that time Hargrove bailed in the middle of the night and hoofed it to Forest Hills. But whatever that noise was, it’s not the door, or something getting smashed into pieces. That’s a real bummer, ‘cause it means Steve’s gonna have to check it out. Rubbing at his face, he inches over to the edge of the mattress, swinging his feet over the side and counting to three before deadlifting himself off the bed. Everything settles for a second, the weight hitting his hips, his thigh bones—shit, now he definitely has to piss—before he shuffles over to the door, swinging it open and heading down the hall. 

The streetlight’s bleeding in through the blinds, and it’s enough for Steve to confirm that… yeah, nobody broke in. Hargrove’s still there, passed out like a rock on the couch, but then he—

Bang.

Steve jumps. Hargrove’s whole body seizes up, every muscle going tense enough to bulge up under his skin, and then he jerks, knocking the back of the couch against the wall. His eyebrows are scrunched up, he's breathing fast and quiet through his nose, and Steve can see his eyes going nuts under the lids. 

“What the hell?” Steve mutters. Shoving his hair out of his face, he inches closer, watching as that whole freaky routine plays out again. And then, finally, Steve’s brain speeds up enough to make it click. 

The asshole’s having a really shitty dream. And yeah, Steve thinks about leaving him like that. It’s not his problem, man! The bastard’s been a total living nightmare for Steve; the way he sees it, he’s got every right to look the other way. It’s just… 

Steve groans.

He’s turned into a real light sleeper, and that noise is definitely gonna keep him up. Plus, there’s some small, stupid part of Steve that’s hanging onto the dream that he might actually get his security deposit back, and that dream’s toast if Hargrove leaves a couch-sized dent in the drywall. So Steve grits his teeth, bends down, and shakes Hargrove’s shoulder. 

… And then he does it again, harder, since apparently Hargrove could sleep through a nuke going off. 

Steve yelps when the guy fucking swings, barely dodging as Hargrove flails and jerks forward, panting. Heart pounding in his throat, Steve wheezes, “Holy shit…” 

Jesus, man. Steve’s not about to ask, but there’s probably a reason Hargrove wakes up ready to throw a punch, and no way is it a good one. Hargrove’s eyes lock onto him, and in the glow from the streetlights, even the blue parts look pure white. “Uh.”

Hargrove squints at Steve, finally catching his breath enough to mumble, “Harrington?”

“Y-Yeah, hey.” Steve straightens up, ignoring the reflex telling him to stick a hand on his back when that makes it tweak. “You were, um.” He clears his throat, thumbing at the underside of his nose. “You were putting dents in my wall, man. Had to wake you up.”

Hargrove stares at him for another second or two, then grumbles, sinking onto his back and closing his eyes. 

Steve should go back to bed. 

It just… slips out, though. “… Bad dream?”

Hargrove’s quiet for long enough that Steve thinks he fell back asleep. But then: “… Nah. Not a dream.” 

“Uh.” Yeah. Okay. Steve’s not following. “What?”

“Last summer.” Hargrove croaks out, then groans. “Shit. Not… Not last. “ He shakes his head. “Eighty-five.” 

“… Oh.” Starcourt. Scoops. AKA, the summer Billy Hargrove died. Shit, man. Steve gets it now. He’d be flipping the couch over, too.

“Harrington.” Steve looks down and Hargrove’s eyes are shiny. “I need you to do something for me.”

Steve doesn’t answer right away because, for fuck’s sake, talk about a loaded question. But Hargrove doesn’t give him a chance to turn him down.

“If that thing ever gets inside my head again…” Hargrove sits up slow and painful, and the next words knock the floor out from under Steve. “I want you to kill me.”

Steve’s— “Uh, no.” Forget how messed up that is to ask somebody, it’s… “That’s stupid. I’m not doing that.”

Hargrove’s eyelids flutter, and he gawks at Steve like he just backhanded his mom in the face. 

“Besides, it’s not even—” Shit, wait. Time out. “That thing—we called it the ‘Mindflayer.’ I dunno, some… stupid crap Henderson came up with, but—it’s dead! Deader than dead.” Steve licks his lips, shoulders slumping as Hargrove stares up at him numbly. “El vaporized it, alright? Vecna too. Along with… half of the other shit in the Upside Down. It’s never coming back, man. Ever. Fuckin’—” Steve draws a sloppy ‘x’ over his heart. “—scout’s honor.” 

Eyebrows bunched together, Hargrove mumbles, “You’re lying.”

“No, man! I’m not. Look:” Steve stomps over to the phone, yanking it off the receiver so he can dangle it in the asshole’s face. “Don’t believe me? You can ask her yourself. El’s the one who pulled the trigger.” And for whatever reason, Steve knows Hargrove’s more likely to buy it from her. Just… not right this second. The whole grabbing the phone routine was just the heat of the moment; Hopper’ll bite his head off if he lets Hargrove call the kid at three in the morning. 

Hargrove watches him for a little longer, then sighs, rolling over so his back’s to Steve. “Alright, Harrington. Time for you to screw off.” He does this huge, fake yawn, adding, “Chief wants me at the station to rip out a carburetor in three hours, and your ass groove’s a fucking bitch to sleep on.”  

Notes:

Happy New Year's!

Steve 'communing' w his tummy is basically just Bobby in the episode of King of the Hill where he finds out he's a reincarnated lama and he tries to talk to his past self. (A visual aid.)

Chapter 11: The Countdown

Notes:

This chapter contains hand stuff so. Yeah.

Also, I'd like to clarify something in response to some comments I've received previously: this is a fanfiction! It is not a PSA on safe sex. If you are uncomfortable with the way sex scenes have been portrayed so far, and take issue with the fact that Steve and Billy aren't being safe about it, that's valid! However, if you do feel that way, this probably isn't the story for you.

There’s milk in the fridge when Steve checks. Which is… weird, because he hasn’t seen Dustin in a few days, and he sure as hell didn’t get it. So that just leaves Hargrove. Henderson’s smack-talk must’ve gotten under his skin. That, or the guy must really hate dry cornflakes. Figures he’d turn into a decent roommate right before he gets shipped off to do witness protection at Max’s place. And, okay, that part’s not official yet, but Steve knows they’ve gotta be getting close. He heard Max came by the station a few times, and Hargrove even let Sinclair watch while he rewired one of the cruisers. And Steve knows he wasn’t dreaming those couple of nights where he woke up and heard Hargrove talking to somebody who sounds a whole lot like Max through Henderson’s walky. 

The last hurdle’s probably gonna be Max’s mom. And Steve doesn’t wanna be the shithead who pulls Max aside and asks her, Hey, you think you can take Hargrove with you this time, or is that gonna be a one way ticket to Pennhurst for your mom? 

So. Y’know. No hurry. They’ve made it this far, right? 

He sits down at the table with his cereal, watching Hargrove zone out in front of the TV as he shovels Cheerios into his mouth. The longer Steve waits for shit to hit the fan, the more times he winds up stopping and thinking about how wild it is that Billy Hargrove’s in his apartment, and most days, Steve’s only a little pissed about it. 

Hargrove’s watching Top Gun, which is a surprise. Usually he digs out the crappiest tapes in Steve’s collection, or he’s blasting a VHS from Steve’s, uh—his other collection at top volume. Steve goes back into the kitchen and drops his bowl in the sink, doing a half-assed job of rinsing it out. Then he shuffles over to the living room, leaning against the wall since Hargrove’s taking up the entire couch.

Hargrove glares up at him like Steve ruined his whole day just by standing there, but Steve ignores him, watching as Tom Cruise chucks the dog tags into the water. “Y’know, they were gonna do this whole scene where he visits Goose’s grave.”

Hargrove glances at the screen. “What?”

“Yeah.” Pointing to the TV, Steve explains, “At the end. They filmed it and everything, it just didn’t make the cut.”

Hargrove doesn’t answer, but Steve knows he sees the guy’s eyebrows crawl up. 

“And the people flying the planes—like, the stunt guys?” Steve zooms his hand around like an F-14 taking a nosedive. “They’d do all these crazy maneuvers to try and make the actors puke.”

With a ‘huh’, Hargrove sits up, stretching his legs out under the coffee table. And, yeah, Steve’s feet are already bitching at him, so even though he knows the dipshit isn’t offering, he plops down on the empty side of the couch. “Sounds like a fuckin’ dream job.” Hargrove watches the credits start to roll, then looks at Steve again. “The hell do you know all this crap?”

“I worked at Family Video for like two years. Watched all the special features and shit. Where do you think I got all these tapes?” Steve slings an arm over the back of the sofa—nowhere near Hargrove, this isn’t a fucking yawn-and-stretch. Like, over the middle seat. Kosher. “They’re not cheap, man! That was, like, the only perk. Plus, y’know…” Steve shrugs, slouching against the cushions. “Had to do something after Scoops Ahoy exploded.”

“Oh, shit.”

Steve glances at Hargrove out of the corner of his eye. “What?” 

“You worked at Scoops Ahoy.” See, the way he says it? It’s not a question. He’s remembering. “I must’ve blocked that out.” Cackling, Hargrove taps the side of his head. “You in that faggy little sailor suit’s one of the last things I remember before I croaked.” 

“Jesus.” Steve ducks his head with a scoff. “Sounds like the Mindflayer did you a favor.”

For a split second, he wonders if that was a dick move. Cracking a joke about it, even if it’s about a guy like Hargrove. But then the asshole laughs, hard, and Steve? Guess he gets caught up in it or something, ‘cause he laughs too. Hargrove reigns it in, corner of his mouth still curled up, then hops to his feet, walking over to Steve’s box of VHS tapes and digging through it. “Alright.” Hargrove pops Top Gun out of the player, then wiggles his next pick in the air: The Terminator. “Bet you pansy ass never sat all the way through this.”

“I mean, it’s no Ridgemont High.” What, Steve’s supposed to pick Schwarzenegger over Phoebe Cates? Topless? It’s not even a competition, man!  

Hargrove makes a ‘tssk’ noise. “No taste, Harrington. None whatsoever.”

“Hey, we can’t all pull off the—” Steve runs his fingers through a head full of imaginary curls. “Olivia Newton-John.” 

“Nahh.” Hargrove stares him dead in the eye as he plops back down and crosses his feet on the coffee table. “You’re a little too busy rocking the ‘Rosemary’s Baby’.”

 

*

 

It’s official: Steve’s losing his goddamn mind.

He’s been awake for… what? Hours? The whole night? He’s not about to look at the clock and find out. It’s that stupid fucking movie, man. Hargrove put on Half Moon Street, and at first, Steve was fine! Made it through the whole movie no problem. He didn’t even bat an eye at those scenes—and even if he had some kind of reaction, the one plus side about Steve being a whale is there’s no way Hargrove would’ve been able to see him pitching a tent. After that, Hargrove went to the station, and Steve spent the rest of the night rewinding tapes. Hell, somehow he actually fell asleep even though it’s a million degrees out and his place doesn’t have A/C.

And he slept fine! At first.

Then he woke up. And what was the first thing that popped into his head? Sigourney Weaver’s tits. Every goddamn time he closes his eyes, there they are, full frontal, bouncing on that fucking exercise bike. And the thing is, Steve’s already on thin ice. He’s been pent up for like a month—even if Hargrove manhandled him a couple times, it’s not like that did anything for Steve! Hargrove’s the one who keeps jumping him like some kind of… sex freak. Steve’s just trying to forget it ever happened.

Groaning, he paws at his face a couple times. Door’s locked, Hargrove’s sawing through a log in the living room, so that means Steve can just… He’s just gonna rub one out real quick. It’s, uh… It’s been a while, though. There are times Steve’s been horny, sure—maybe even more than usual, which seems weird, right? Like, how is that supposed to make sense? Seems like all he’d need to do to kill his buzz would be look down. But when it hits him? Fuck, is it intense. 

Steve’s just gonna… take care of things so he can sleep. Grunting, he reaches around to tug his boxers down—that’s way more of a workout than he ever though it’d be. It’s June, and it’s already hot, so that’s not helping things. Steve fell asleep on top of the sheets, but there’s still a patch of sweat in the middle of his back, across the lower half of his stomach, and—God. Even under his chest. There’s enough weight now for there to be an ‘under’, and as Steve hunches forward to try and reach himself, his pecs sorta crease against the top of the gut. And the worst part is? The most screwed up thing about it? Steve’s still hard.

Fucking Sigourney Weaver.

He stretches his arm, squishing it tight against the side of his stomach, and… H-Holy shit. He can reach, but… holy shit. It’s, uh… 

It’s a stretch.

Steve swallows, muscles in his arm tweaking as he fights to get his fingers around his dick and give his hand a quick jerk. A puff of air shoots through his nose, and he thrashes on the bed, trying to change the angle. He moves his arm forward, back, kinda… further under his stomach, sweat breaking out on the nape of his neck as he tries to—to get the right angle, or build up some momentum, or fuck, just… stop panicking. Steve can make it work, alright? The gut’s not that much of a roadblock, he’s just… losing his shit a little! Okay, a lot. Losing his shit a lot, especially when he keeps trying and it keeps… not working. And Steve’s panicking now, he’s man enough to admit that. Can you blame him? He’s been pent up for a month, and it turns out he’s not gonna be able to get off for two more weeks—at least! And since he’s not gonna fuck a pillow—Steve still hasn’t sunk that low—it’s dawning on him that he’s… stuck like this. Sweating and flopping around on his mattress like a dying fish, so stupidly horny he thinks he might die.

Hargrove lets out a massive snore and Steve freezes. He lies there on his side, heart pounding out of his chest, sweat dripping down his forehead as he listens. Okay, uh—what if he just…

No. NO. Not happening.

Look. If Hargrove messes with him, if he—if he corners Steve, and uses some kind queer voodoo shit to brainwash him, that’s on Hargrove. Steve’s just the guy getting manhandled! He doesn’t even like men, but Hargrove happened to swoop in when Steve was already screwed up in the head from having this thing in his stomach, and he took advantage of all the weird chemicals it’s been sending to Steve’s brain. But if Steve… If Steve starts things, if he makes the first move, then… 

Jesus Christ. No matter how much of a nutcase Steve’s turned into, no matter how desperate he’s gotten, or how low—and he means L-O-W, low—his standards have gotten, it’d mean he wanted it. Like… wanted to fool around with Hargrove.

And that’s a screwed up thought. Probably the most screwed up thing that’s ever gone through Steve’s head, and it’s enough to pin him to the bed for an hour. Feels like that, anyway, as he breathes slow through his nose and tries to calm himself down, tries to get his boner to fuck off so he can sleep. But it’s not budging, and Steve’s still dying here, and his brain’s a goddamn traitor. Because now, on top of Sigourney Weaver’s tits, he keeps seeing stuff from the last time they screwed around. It’s so intense, he can almost feel it. And he can’t stop focusing on how, even if it’s the grossest thing Steve’s done in his entire life, it still made him forget. For a couple minutes, Steve actually forgot about how shitty he felt—how shitty he still feels, all the time. And Steve’d give anything to have it be a chick instead of Hargrove, some girl who’d actually be willing to touch him…

But Steve’s losing his mind right now. He’s not sure he’s gonna make it another minute, never mind the twenty years it’d take to find a girl freaky enough to be into whatever sideshow crap he’s got going. Shit, man. 

Steve can hate himself after he gets off.

His whole body feels like one giant, sore muscle as he strains to sit up. He scoots to the edge of the mattress, standing after he rocks back and forth a few times. Yanking his boxers back up as an afterthought, Steve winces at how fucking tender his skin feels. His dick’s aching, and the brush of elastic dragging over it practically hurts. Sucking in a breath, he pads over the door and down the hall, standing over Hargrove when he reaches the couch. Staring down at him, Steve sighs. There’s gotta be a bright side to this, right? At least Hargrove’s not the worst lookingJESUS. Steve’s eyes bug out of his head. The fuck was that!? 

Harrington, you are LOSING it.

Steve slaps his cheeks, shakes his head… then throttles the guy, shaking Hargrove awake. 

“FUCK!” Hargrove jerks forward, head whipping around like they’re in the trenches. “Wh-What the hell?” Squinting up at Steve, he mumbles, “Harrington?” 

“… Hey.” Steve, uh… Steve probably should’ve figured out a Step 2, huh?

Hargrove stares at Steve for another minute before he groans, ducking his head to rub at his face. “The hell’s your problem?” 

“I, uh…” Steve thins his lips together, shifting his weight—which is a ton, by the way—from one hip to the other, trying not to make it look like he’s got a killer wedgie. It’s just now hitting Steve that this—like, waltzing out here to try and beg Hargrove for help, might be the most humiliating shit Steve’s ever done. And hey, what do you know? Even that’s not enough of a turnoff to slow him down. 

Hargrove keeps glaring at him, eyes dropping down as Steve squirms. The asshole cocks an eyebrow, and he does this slow, obvious move, craning his head towards the floor until he can peek under Steve’s gut. He sizes up Steve’s crotch for a second, then bursts out laughing, wheezing up at Steve, “Y-You need a hand with that?” 

“God damn it.” Well that sucked, but the good news is, Steve finally snapped out of it. He doesn’t give a shit anymore! He’ll sleep this thing off, even if it takes a month, and then never leave his room again. “Fuck it.”

“O-Oh my God.” Hargrove scrambles to his feet, boxing Steve in as he moves to bail back down the hall. “What, are you too fat to reach?”

“I can reach!” Steve snaps. And he can! Just. Y’know. Not great.

“Barely.” Hargrove manages to get a word out as he tries to catch his breath, giving Steve’s stomach a douchey little pat. Steve smacks his hand away. “Just…” Sliding his palm down Steve’s side, Hargrove reaches around to squeeze his ass. “… couldn’t stop thinking about this, huh?”

“Well, I keep having nightmares, so…” Steve mutters, trying to pry Hargrove off.

“Couldn’t go one more day…” Hargrove’s fingers dig in harder, and Steve jolts as the asshole gives his chest a rough grab. “… without having your tits played with.”

“Jesus, man, can you shut up?” Steve punts Hargrove in the calf, but the dickhead doesn’t even flinch.

“Tell me it’s not true,” Hargrove whispers like it’s supposed to sound sexy.

“Okay! It’s not—” Hargrove waits until Steve starts to answer—fucking prick—and then grinds his thumb against Steve’s— “F-FUCK.” Steve jerks back, recoiling as his chest starts spooging all over his shirt.

“That’s what I thought.” Hargrove licks his lips and—ugh, dude. Seriously?! What the hell is wrong with this freak? Steve’s not sure if he should clock the guy, hurl, or both. The bastard ducks his head before Steve can pick, mouthing at the side of his neck with a vengeance. Hargrove takes a step, and then another, pushing against Steve until he stumbles backwards, stupidly letting Hargrove push him around. He knows he’s gonna hate himself after this—no shit, man! He already kind of does. But that mouth on the crook of his shoulder, that hand rolling the meat of his chest against the wet fabric… It’s been two seconds, but Steve already feels like he’s high. 

A few more steps and Steve’s legs are about to give out. Hargrove pulls back, and Steve’s knees wobble, and that’s when the psycho shoves him. Steve yelps, heart skipping a beat as he falls backwards onto the bed. (He kinda… bounces for a second, which probably wouldn’t have happened if he were less of a circle right now.) Hargrove snickers to himself, then rears back and jumps on the mattress, landing with enough force to bowl Steve over.

“Hey! ASSHOLE!” Steve flails, wobbling forward onto his hands and knees so he can sock Hargrove on the shoulder. “Knock it off! You’re gonna bust the coils.” This thing’s a Simmons—cost, like, half of Steve’s rent, and it’s not like Hargrove’s gonna pitch in for a new one.

Hargrove blows a raspberry, then shoves Steve down, pinning him on his side so he can curl against his back and what a goddamn hypocrite! All that crap he was giving Steve, and the jackass is already hard! And if Hargrove winds up creaming his pants, Steve can’t even gloat about it because, seriously? Who the fuck is he gonna tell!?

As soon as Hargrove’s fitted against him, the guy goes right back to slobbering on his neck, hiking Steve’s shirt up to roll a palm against his bare chest. Steve’s been boiling since he got up, and it makes Hargrove’s mouth seem that much hotter than usual. And, yeah, Steve hates that there’s a ‘usual’. Almost as much as he hates how worked up he’s getting. Hargrove feels up the outline of his chest, dragging his tongue along Steve’s neck before planting one behind his ear. Steve bucks his hips automatically, groaning in the back of his throat. If he keeps telling himself the same crap he did last time, it’s not so bad. All the stuff about how anyone could be touching him right now, and Steve’d still lose his mind. Because the idea that Hargrove might be decent in bed? Well, that’s just wrong.

Hargrove pries an arm under Steve, cupping at his stomach as he reaches over Steve’s side and yanks his boxers down. Steve’s so hard it stings, dick scraping against the underside of his gut as soon as it pops free. Could be how hard Steve’s heart is pounding, or the way he was spazzing out earlier, but the inside of his stomach’s going apeshit. It’s still not killing the mood, somehow, and Steve hitches his hips again as Hargrove reaches back to pull his own boxers out of the way. The guy presses his chest to Steve’s back, hot breath blasting on his cheek, and then… Hargrove pauses, going totally still except for these little twitches running through the palm holding Steve’s stomach up.

Steve’s not sure what the hell’s going on. All he knows is, when he thinks about all of this stopping—about Hargrove backing off, saying he’s not in the mood, some type of shit like that—Steve feels like strangling the guy. He doesn’t even try to hide how pissed he is when he hisses, “What?”

“You, uh…” Hargrove’s hand slides down the curve of Steve’s stomach, fingers spreading out against the tight skin. “Think I’m gonna… bump into it?” 

Bump into it? What the hell is he talking about? Bump into what? Steve’s completely lost, wracking his brain while Hargrove gives him a fucking tummy rub and oh. Oh man. “No!” So Steve’s not a biology whiz like Henderson thinks he is, and no, he didn’t memorize the fucking diagrams Owens showed him—so what? “I mean… probably not…” Steve cranes his head back, making painful eye contact with Hargrove as he mumbles, “Right?”

Hargrove swallows, and for one last second of pure torture, he stays frozen. Then, his whole face scrunches up as he growls, “God damn it.” Before Steve can react, Hargrove throws his other arm over Steve so he can reach down and grab him. “You owe me big time for this.”

“H-Holy shit.” Steve gulps, eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of somebody touching his dick for the first time in months practically sends him into a coma. It’s weird—duh! It’s a fucking dude’s hand, and Hargrove’s are big enough to palm a basketball, no problem. He’s got calluses on the insides of his fingers, and the pressure around Steve’s dick is so warm, he almost wonders if Hargrove’s running a temperature. It’s nothing like Steve’s felt before—nowhere near a girl’s hand, all soft and careful and small. Hell, it’s not even like Steve’s hand, way too rough and burning hot and—damn it—big for Steve to pretend it feels the same as jerking off.  

But Steve’s been about to explode for the whole night, more like two weeks, and that, plus the part where he thought he wouldn’t get off ’til he can fit into real pants again… So what if he’s a little desperate? Sue him! It doesn’t matter that Hargrove’s hands are like sandpaper, or that he’s… definitely never done this before, holy shit. (No, really. Compared to the guy’s other moves, Hargrove kind of sucks.) He’s moving all clumsy and rough… Jesus, maybe this really is Hargrove’s first time touching a dick. God, there’s another thing Steve really fucking wishes he didn’t know.

The dipshit's grip is weird—there’s not enough pressure, even though he’s too tense at the same time—but when he starts building up a rhythm, Steve’s breath hitches and it hits him like a freight train. Like Steve said, it doesn’t matter if Hargrove stinks at this, it’s still working. Steve swears his skin almost singes when Hargrove’s lips press against the corner of his jaw, trailing back down his neck before sucking at his shoulder. Hargrove’s other hand keeps playing with his chest, digging into the weight of it, and when the bastard’s thumb traces underneath his nipple, timed perfectly with the fingers stroking Steve’s dick, Steve almost whines. He needed this—fuck, did he need this, so bad that all these gross little details slip out of his brain as soon as he thinks them. He can’t focus on the way his chest’s leaking all over Hargrove’s fingers, or how Hargrove’s hand has to squeeze between his dick and the underside of his stomach, because Steve’s gotten big enough that it gets in the way… 

It’s all static. Steve can’t think about it for more than a second before it gets drowned out by the hand thumbing at his chest, or Hargrove’s teeth catching on his skin when he drags his mouth across Steve’s neck. It’s all pulsing through his spine til he can feel his dick throbbing in Hargrove’s grip. Steve’s sweating, Hargrove’s body is sticky up against his back, and his chest’s still dribbling… Fuck, these sheets are gonna be gross. And Hargrove keeps pumping his hand, picking up the pace until the friction starts feeling better than it’s got any right to, Steve’s heart fluttering in his throat as Hargrove’s fingers squeeze a little tighter.

Steve’s cheek bumps into the side of Hargrove’s head—he hears these high-pitched noises, and shit. That’s him. It’s him, isn’t it? He’s making all these weird sounds he’s never heard himself make before. Not alone, never when he was fucking a girl, but Hargrove must get a kick out of it, ‘cause he’s ramping up the rhythm until it’s almost too much. Suddenly, Steve’s fighting off the urge to jerk forward and pull away from the guy. His body keeps seizing up, tensing in weird spots as Hargrove folds in around him. Yeah, if Steve couldn’t tell the asshole was on board before, he sure can now. Hargrove’s leaving an indent in his ass cheek, rock solid and pressing against Steve as tight as he can.

Steve’s folks used to rent a cabin in the summer up on Lake Michigan, and the beach used to have all these signs that’d tell you to watch out for the undertow. This… thing that’d grab you by the ankle and drag you under, taking you way out into open water. It never happened to Steve, but he thinks he’s getting a pretty good idea of what it’d feel like. Because right now, he’s fighting to stay above the surface—hell, he’s fighting to remember to breathe, getting dizzier and dizzier as everything melts into one long, stupid blur. The hickey Hargrove’s working on, the electric shock that feels way too fucking good, spiking through him every time those rough fingers knead his chest. And Hargrove’s body, tighter than a spring, tensing up against his back. It’s wave after wave of pure, turned-on energy, crashing over Steve, crowding his brain and fighting for space against that perfect, addictive pressure of Hargrove’s hand. 

When Steve comes, it’s too fast. It’s like he wasn’t ready—like he had so much pent-up energy, he couldn’t get it all out. He lies there, head spinning, too zoned out to care about the spunk he got all over the comforter, or the way Hargrove keeps dry humping his thigh. Steve lets the guy rock into him, wobbling dumbly against the mattress until Hargrove clenches his teeth and finishes with a shudder against Steve. 

Steve really does forget—at least, he doesn’t give a shit about how much he’s about to hate himself. For a minute, anyway. Then he starts to come down, and actually? Yeah. Steve’s, uh… Steve’s gonna need a cold shower. He starts to pry Hargrove’s arm off him, slowly sitting up to—

“Whuh—Hey!” Hargrove yanks him back in, pinning Steve to his chest.

“Just…” The guy sounds out of breath, and there’s this weird shiver in his voice Steve can’t put his finger on. “Wait a second.”

“Uh—no?” Screw that! Steve’s gotta wash this crap off so he doesn’t wake up tomorrow glued to this dipshit. He starts to roll forward, only for Hargrove to pull him back again. “DUDE!” 

“Y-you owe me, alright? So just…” Hargrove coils around him, tight, and Steve’s so floored for a second, he doesn’t fight it. Plus, something about Hargrove’s voice, man. It just sounds… desperate. “Wait a second.” 

Steve starts to crane his neck back to get a look at the guy, but Hargrove twitches—if Steve didn’t know better, he’d think it was a flinch—and Steve stops right in his tracks. He licks his lips, thinks on it for a second, then drops his head back onto the pillow with a sigh. Another second ticks by, and Hargrove loosens up behind him. 

“… Yeah. Okay.”

 

*

 

When somebody knocks on the door, Steve opens it. He doesn’t even think twice—he knows it’s gotta be Robin or Dustin or Hopper. But he’s an idiot and he forgot that it’s June, so when he swings it open just a crack and sees Nancy—

He, uh—he panics. And slams the door in her face. 

“Steve?” Nancy starts banging on the wood like a jackhammer. “Steve! Steve, let me in! STEVE!” 

Steve bolts the lock, flipping around to press his back against the door as if Nancy’s got a shot at brute forcing her way in. Gulping, he slides down a couple inches as Nancy does her best impression of a battering ram, and he realizes something.

Steve can’t let her see him like this. 

The hammering stops, and Nancy speaks up, sounding so sad and—God, Steve doesn’t know—honest that he instantly feels like shit. “I just wanted to see you and make sure you’re okay.” There’s a pause like she’s thinking, then she adds, “I promise I won’t say anything.” 

You know what sucks about this? Steve knows that if he asked her—like, really poured his heart out and begged her to leave? She’d do it, man! She’d go. But Steve’d feel like even more of a dick than he already does if he did that. If it was anybody else? Sure, screw ‘em. But not Nancy. Steve lets out a massive groan, finally stepping back so he can unlatch the door, opening it a sliver so he can see her face. 

“Can I come in?” Nance is shooting these miserable doe-eyes up at him, but even with the kicked puppy routine, she still looks great. God, Steve missed her.

Steve works his jaw for a second, then weakly shrugs. “… Yeah, why the hell not.” Might as well do this, right? Take whatever’s left of his pride and strangle it. He sorta… stays behind the door as he opens it Nance walks inside. He knows it’s stupid, and that he’s not gonna be able to hide like a little kid forever, but he still lets himself savor the last few seconds before he scars Nancy for life. 

As he shuts the door, Steve can see the whole play-by-play run through her head. Turns out he can still read Nance like a book. It’s obvious she psyching herself up or something, telling herself not to act surprised once she got a good look at him, but for a split second, the mask slips, and Steve sees her jaw drop. She hides it fast, fixing her face before Steve can blink, but that split second still hits Steve like a sucker punch.

Steve can’t exactly blame her. For fuck’s sake, Steve’s had four months to get used to this shit, and even he can’t believe what he looks like. He just stands there, arms at his sides, wanting to cover himself, but who’s he kidding? There’s no point. He knows it’s bad. His stomach’s… huge, but it’d never pass for a beer gut. The skin’s way too firm, there’s no jiggle to it, and Steve’s barely put on weight anywhere else. The bulk of it’s gotten lower—Owens started this lecture about how, if Steve had all the right plumbing, it’d be the kid getting ready to come out, and he kept going ‘til Steve yelled at him to put a sock in it. That, plus the way his hips have stretched out, means Steve walks—and probably even stands—different. 

His pecs… His chest just keeps blowing up, and the worst part is, sometimes Steve’ll catch himself thinking about how it might’ve been a decent rack on a chick, and then he thinks about how he’s never gonna see a decent pair of tits again in his life. (Seriously, who the hell’s gonna touch him after this, other than a psycho like Hargrove?) And the worst part—no, really. Steve means it! The worst part is, he’s turned into a total slob! He’s stuffed into one of his old shirts—or, shit, might be Hargrove’s. (Steve just threw something on; it’s that asshole’s fault for leaving his crap all over the floor.) Anyway, doesn’t matter if it’s his shirt, or Hargrove’s; it’ll never fit either of ‘em right after Steve’s through with it.

He’s wearing one of the last three pairs of boxers he has that barely stretch enough to fit, no pants, and for some reason, a bathrobe at three-in-the-fucking-afternoon. He’s sweaty and sticky all the time, because hey! Turns out, being a goddamn mobile home during a record heatwave makes you a little toasty. 

Steve’s still been doing his hair, at least. It’s the only thing he can stand to look at in the mirror, and c’mon, man! It’s his hair. It’s the only thing he’s got going for him right now! But even that’s not enough to save this dumpster fire, and he knows it, so after Nance seems like she’s done taking it all in, he gives her this miserable look. He doesn’t have to say it out loud, because he knows they’re both thinking it: Yeah. It’s bad.

“Oh, Steve.” Nancy’s whole face crumples up. Somehow, she looks worried and relieved at the same time, and Steve jumps, arm flying straight out when she tackles him and pulls him into a hug. She has to fit around his stomach—shit, that’s embarrassing—squishing it between them, but Steve’s throat gets all tight, and his arms remember how to move again, folding over Nancy’s scrawny back with a sniff. “I didn’t know what to expect! It sounded so crazy—” She pulls away, staring up at him with big, watery eyes. “Are you okay? You’re not in pain, right?” 

“Pssh.” Steve bobs his head. “Nahh, I’m okay.” He pushes his hair back out of his face as Nancy lets go, gesturing down at himself. “I mean, I look like shit, but I’m okay.” 

“Oh, Steve Harrington admitting he looks like shit?” Nancy scoffs. “Trust me, that is a very big deal.” 

“Alright, don’t push it.” Steve actually starts to smile. Guess Nance is just that good, huh? “Uh—hey, can I… Want me to get you something? Coke, water?” 

Nance laughs. “I’m fine.” 

“So, uh—you and Jonathan still good?” Steve winces right after it leaves his mouth. Shit—why did he ask that?

At least Nancy doesn’t seem offended. “Yep.” She laughs again, adding, “It’s okay, Steve. We don’t have to talk about us.”

“Yeah—I mean. Pff. Cool.” Steve’s not super sure what to do with his hands, so he just… tries a few different places before jamming them under his pits. (Oookay, big mistake. It’s a swamp in there.) “Who needs to… hear about that!” 

Nance does her best to hide the way she’s cringing. “Actually? I think I will take that Coke.” She puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder, giving him a gentle shove. “Nnnope, I’ll get it. Why don’t you sit down?” 

“Nance—” Annnd too late. She’s already in the kitchen. Grumbling to himself—seriously, why does everyone keep saying that?—Steve eases down on the couch and watches as Nancy walks back out with a pop in one hand and a glass of water in the other. She sticks the glass on the coffee table in front of Steve, and he raises his eyebrows. “… Really?”

“What?” Nance puts a hand on her hip and bosses, “It’s good for you!” 

“Jesus Christ…” Steve groans, but leans forward and grabs the glass to take a swig anyway. Okay, yeah. Maybe he was thirsty. (Damn it.)

Nance takes the other side of the couch, leaving a little more space between them than Robin would—or even Hargrove, who usually leaves Steve the arm to sit on. “It’s cute!” 

Steve blinks. “What?”

“Your apartment. I like the…” Looking around, she winds up settling on the wall behind the stereo. “Truck poster.”

Steve follows her line of sight to see— “Oh, shit.” Flailing, he throws himself off the couch so fast he almost rolls, scrambling to his feet as he books it over to the poster. The… ‘Hauling Ass’ poster with four half-naked chicks standing in a truck bed. Gritting his teeth, Steve pries a hand under the back and rips it off the wall. “Y-Yeah, that’s. That’s not mine.” 

Nancy’s cracking up, wiping her eyes as she manages to get out an, “I figured.” 

Grimacing, Steve crumples the poster up in his hands, chucking it onto the floor as he wonders when the hell Hargrove even stuck it up there.

“Billy, huh?”

Steve hisses through his teeth. “… Yeahhh.” 

“I heard he sort of… pulled a Will?” Nance doesn’t go into more detail, but Steve’s just gonna assume she means the part where he’s not dead anymore.

“Somethin’ like that.” Steve kicks at the wadded up poster—shit, why did he do that? He forgot he’s too fat to even punt right. 

He watches Nancy’s eyes grow a couple sizes. “And he’s living here.” She pauses, then tacks on, “With you.”

“Well, we didn’t have a whole lot of…” Steve swipes at the bottom of his nose, then shrugs. “Uh. Room. To work with.” 

“Steve, that’s…” Seems like Nance still doesn’t know what to say. She cranes her head back, staring at the ceiling for a second before looking back down at him, doing this open mouthed smile like she just can’t believe it. 

Steve copies her face. “I know.”

“And you’re really okay?” Scooting to the edge of her cushion, Nancy whispers, “Blink twice if you’re not okay.” 

Letting out another groan, Steve pads back over to the couch and drops down next to her. “Nancy.”

“Sorry, sorry! It’s just—” She shakes her head, then grabs her knees nervously. “He hurt you pretty badly when you guys fought, right? And then there was the whole… flayed… situation.”

Steve doesn’t waste any time. “Yeah, he’s a dick.” 

Nance shoots him this offended look, like she wasn’t gonna go that far.

“What?” C’mon, he’s not gonna lie! He’s just… stating a fact. “He is! He’s a dick. But he’s…” Steve shrugs again. “… not the worst roommate in the world?” 

“Really?” Nancy scoffs, then shoots him her most sarcastic, “Wow.”

“Yeah, Nance.” Steve smirks back at her. “Wow.” 

“Well, I’m glad he’s a… not-that-terrible roommate.” Nancy’s smile gets more real, and Steve grins back. Man, she’s still gorgeous. He’s allowed to think she’s a bombshell in his own head, damn it! He knows he’s got no shot here, but a guy can dream. “And I’m really glad you’re okay.” 

Steve lets out a puff of air through his nose. “Thanks.” 

“And, hey! Only five more to go!” 

Annnnd she lost him. “What?” 

Nancy reaches out, and Steve’s shocked at himself when she gives the gut a pat and he… y’know. Lets her. “Five more?” Nance looks up at him, sees he’s stumped, and slowly adds, “One down? Out of six little nuggets?” 

“Oh.” That crappy little speech he gave her back in the RV. About California, and the road trip, and the… whole horde of Harringtons. “Oh.” Steve buries his face in his hands and slouches forward. “Oh my God.” 

Yeah, Steve’s never gonna recover from this one.

“Mm-hmm.” Nancy laughs, and he feels her squeeze his shoulder. Shit. Well, Steve probably deserved that.  “Doesn’t sound so easy anymore, does it?”

Steve moans through his hands, hides for a little longer, then takes ‘em off his face. “Alright—” He starts reaching for her pop, all while she cracks up harder and smacks at his arm. “You lost your Coke privileges.”

 

*

 

This is a bad idea.

This is a bad fucking idea, and Steve, for whatever reason—probably because he’s an idiot—is letting it happen.

So now Henderson, Max, and all the other shitheads, plus Nance, Robin and—oh, yeah! Jonathan, for good measure. They’re all crammed into his apartment, tearing up his living room so they can go over the plans for some kind of demodog D-Day. 

“We spend the next week stockpiling at the old junction by Tippecanoe.” Mike unfolds a map on the middle of the floor, then kneels and starts pointing. “It’s more open than the junkyard, so we’ll have better visibility, and there are a couple of abandoned boxcars in case we need to retreat.” 

Steve’s got a hand clamped over his mouth, foot thumping on the carpet while he watches Dustin crouch down next to Mike. “We have to do this now. We’re cutting it way too close as is!” The kid leans back, hands clenched into fists on his knees “Even by next week, they could be past the demodog phase. They’d be almost bipedal! Some sort of… demo-froglet.” 

Steve screws up his face in disgust. “A what?”

Henderson rounds on him and snaps, “A froglet, Steve. It’s the last stage between a tadpole and a frog. Basically a frog with a tail.” He heaves a sigh, turning around to look at everyone. “And a slightly smaller demogorgon with a tail is… pretty much what we’re looking at.”

Steve groans. “Okay, well—we’re not calling them that.”

“It doesn’t matter!” Mike snaps at him. 

Nancy’s got her thumb under her chin, staring at the floor while she thinks. If she’s nervous, she does a great job of hiding it. But Nance has always been cool under pressure. One of Steve’s favorite things about her. “How many do you think there are?”

“That’s the good news,” answers Henderson. “According to the chief, only seven of those cloning pods looked like they had something in them.”

“Only seven?” Jonathan gawks, and honestly, Steve’s right there with him. Henderson says that like it’s a small number.

Henderson huffs and crosses his arms. “Hey, compared to last time, this is amateur hour!” 

“Nancy, Jonathan and Robin will get ammo, we’ll set up the traps. El will keep tabs on the pack.” Mike starts giving orders, turning to face each person as he does roll call. “Once we have all the supplies and everything’s set up, we’ll meet at the junction.” He looks up at Hargrove. “Billy, you’ll—”

Hargrove’s lip curls up, like he’s offended Mike has the balls to talk to him like an equal, but he doesn’t throw a shit-fit. Yet. “I got it. I’m the bait.”

Steve hears somebody gulp—wait, shit. Was that him? Jesus, he hopes nobody heard that. This whole plan’s got him on edge, and the part where Hargrove’s got to slice his arm open so the demodogs’ll come out of hiding? Yeah, that’s just the icing on the cake. Dustin’s got this whole theory about how something in Hargrove’s system might make him smell like a demodog. And that means if Hargrove gets “hurt”, they’ll think a member of the pack is in danger and all come running. Problem is, when they get there and see Hargrove’s not one of ‘em, they’re gonna be pissed, and Steve’s not sure what the next part of the plan is. Y’know, after they cut Hargrove open and wait for him to get mauled. Steve pinches the bridge of his nose and groans.

There’s no way Hopper’s gonna be cool with this. 

Nancy puts a hand on his back. “Remember, we almost killed Vecna with half the people here. We can handle it.”

“And we’re on home turf this time. No demobats.” Henderson sounds choked up all of a sudden when he says, “That means no casualties.” Steve glances down at the kid and watches his fingers clench against the denim of Eddie’s old jacket. 

Steve’s trying to play it cool, man, he really is, but he hears his voice crack when he babbles, “Yeah, I mean… I was there last time, but—yeah.”

“Well, this time we have El here,” Max reminds him. “In person.”

“And Jonathan and Will.” Smiling, El bumps her shoulder against Wheeler’s. “—and Mike!” 

Sinclair smirks at Max. “And your psycho, undead brother!” 

Hargrove cracks his knuckles, jerking his chin towards Sinclair, who looks traumatized for a second… then starts laughing.

“Steve.” Steve turns to Dustin, and the kid’s got his game face on. “Hopper can’t know about this.” 

“But—”

“No buts!” Crumpling up the map dramatically, Henderson gets to his feet. “You know he’s not gonna go for this plan! There are too many things he’d try to veto.” The kid starts ranting, gesturing towards El, and then the Byers. “No way he’s gonna let El do this without him, or—or let his stepkids get ripped apart by demodogs—”

Sputtering, Jonathan throws his hands up. “Whoa! Whoa, we are not his—”

Henderson cuts him off. “We can’t afford to waste time coming up with some new, Hopper-approved plan of attack! Worst case scenario, we’ll have him on speed-dial.” With a shrug, he adds, “For backup.” 

Robin lets out one of those ‘I can’t believe this shit’ noises. “So you admit we’d be safer having him there, yet you refuse to let him in on the loop?” 

“Hey, ask forgiveness, not permission.” Henderson turns back to Steve, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Steve.” The game face is back, and Dustin glares up at him like he’s channeling the chief. “Promise me you’re gonna hold down the fort and stay here.”

Steve grumbles, “Yeah, man. I got it.” Apparently, the shithead’s still mad Steve went bud exterminating without him. 

“We’re all counting on you.” Dustin pauses, then gestures awkwardly at Steve’s stomach. “Even Steve Jr.” 

Steve gags. “Eugh, dude.” 

After that, it’s like the coach called a time out. Suddenly everybody breaks into groups for a huddle. Swallowing, Steve slides his hand down, feeling out the pager clipped to the waistband of his sweats. Owens gave it to him ‘just in case’. Even though everything’s on track exactly how the guy predicted, Steve’s supposed to call if anything happens, or if he feels off. Not sure what that means. All Steve knows is he doesn’t like the sound of it. 

And Jesus, couldn’t these assholes hold off on their plan for a couple more weeks? At least that way, Steve wouldn’t be too fat and slow to do anything other than sit here on his ass. But hey, Nance is in on it, Jonathan and Robin are gonna be on defense, and even Hargrove might make himself useful. They can handle it without him. Steve’s… 

Steve’s just gotta keep on telling himself that.

Notes:

Oooh boy, we're getting close! 👀 Steve's about eight months physically in this one. Some BIG THINGS happening in the next chapter, and I'm very excited.

Nancy finally appears!! I have to admit, I waffle about Nancy a lot. At times she can get on my nerves, but in those instances I really blame the writers for not utilizing her well. I think she, like so many of the characters, has a lot of potential they don't know what to do with. But I love the idea of Steve being her platonic bestie. It seems that S5 may be headed that way, so I am tentatively optimistic.

Like many people, I was NOT happy about the Stancy moments in S4; I would've been more forgiving if Nancy had rejected Steve outright, but you KNOW they wouldn't do that, cuz then they couldn't drag the love triangle out into the next season! 🤪 HOWEVER... as someone who loves torturing Steve, the lingering feelings he has for her DO work in my favor. Something about Steve, babied up and having hatesex with another guy, following Nancy around like a lost puppy and being delulu enough to think maaaaybe he has a shot... it's just too juicy!! Sorry, Steve.

Also, Steve is unsure in the actual chapter, but yes, he has Billy's shirt on. Another reason Nancy had gears turning in her head. She knows Steve doesn't listen to Metallica... 🤔

And finally, Billy's contribution to the apartment's decor... The Hauling Ass poster.

Thanks so much for reading! My heart is weak for all your comments and I really, really hope you enjoy what's to come!

Chapter 12: Arnie

Notes:

This is the chapter where the medical procedures tag becomes relevant, so heads up!

Everything’s gonna be fine.

Jesus, Steve wishes he could believe that, and that Henderson’s not full of shit, and that Steve’s not an idiot for letting all of this happen. But he is, man. He’s an idiot. You know that thing where there’s a wreck on the highway, and it’s so messed up you can’t look away? Steve’s got the—the sound version of that. Because he stashed away the walkie Henderson gave him months ago, and he never told the kid he still had it. Henderson never asked, so Steve’s… 

Steve’s been listening the whole time. 

Henderson had everybody switch channels so Hopper wouldn’t get wise, but for the last half hour, it’s been dead silent. Steve tried switching back to the main channel—figured that’s how Henderson would give the S.O.S if things went south. So as long as Steve doesn’t hear anything, that means the little shit’s plan went off without a hitch. Unless everybody’s dead, but, y’know. Steve’s trying to be optimistic.

It’s almost 9:00, and it’s getting dark. That means, any second now, Hargrove’s gonna slice up his arm and the whole pack of demodogs’ll come running. At this point, Steve’d be happy to hear anything come out of the stupid walkie. He had a feeling it was a bad call to let the shitheads do this on their own without ratting them out to the chief, but tonight it’s finally sinking in: Steve never should’ve let this happen.

Sure, Nance and Jonathan and Robin are gonna be there—hell, even Hargrove might make himself useful. Not to mention El’s a fucking powerhouse. But the longer that silence stretches on, and the more Steve sits there and thinks about it, the more it seems like that night in the junkyard all over again. In other words, they’re in way over their heads.

To top it all off, Steve’s either got food poisoning, or he’s so freaked out that his guts have been tying themselves in knots all day. His abs keep cramping like he’s about to get the shits, but Steve’s been tuning it out, carving a groove in the carpet from all the pacing he’s been doing. Hargrove was in peak asshole form—made sure to take the Chevy so he wouldn’t get demodog slime all over the Camaro. Steve didn’t fight him, though. The Chevy’s more reliable, and with the way Hargrove drives, safer, too. (Plus Steve didn’t want Max or Sinclair face-planting into a line of leftover coke that might be wedged in one of the seat cracks.) Anyway, Nance can handle herself fine, Jonathan can throw a punch when he’s pissed, and even if Robin’s gonna be a total load in a real fight, Hargrove seems like he’d be great at killing stuff. Those odds aren’t complete shit, right? Maybe Henderson knew they could handle it. Maybe they really are gonna be f—

“CHIEF!” 

Steve jumps about a foot, heart tackling his ribcage as he spins around. Henderson’s voice shrieks out of the walkie with a metallic screech so loud, it almost pops Steve’s eardrums. He freezes, just for half a second, then he books it over to the walkie, snatching it off the table and fumbling with it so bad he almost drops it.

“We screwed up, okay!” Dustin’s voice cracks, the panic in his tone making Steve’s stomach drop. “We’re—We’re in the junction off North Highway and we need backup! El’s been compromised, there are too many hostiles. REPEAT! We need backup—”

That’s all Steve hears before his ears start ringing. After that, it’s like time slows down. He doesn’t think about what to do. Doesn’t even think, period. He goes into autopilot as soon as he realizes there’s no way Hopper’s gonna get there in time. Steve sprints to his room—like, actually sprints, running better and faster than he has for the last month. Must be the adrenaline. He practically tears his closet door off its hinges, ripping it open and shoving his clothes to one side. And there it is, propped up against the back wall like it’s been waiting for him. Steve gulps, grabs the bat by the handle, and books it back to the living room. 

Shit.  

Steve’s hand clenches around the wood, palm already sticky with sweat. Hargrove’s got the fucking Chevy. But—

Hang on.

Hargrove doesn’t have the Camaro.

Steve practically flips the coffee table, sweeping everything onto the floor as he digs through the mess on top. No keys, nothing. With the muscles in his throat bunched up too tight to breathe, Steve scans the room, wracking his brains, trying to think of where the fuck that stupid asshole would hide his keys when he spots Hargrove’s dirty jeans on the floor. Scrambling over to them, Steve grabs them and, holding his breath, digs through the front pocket.

“Yes!”

Keys in one hand and the bat in the other, Steve slams out the front door, only to slide to a stop at the edge of the landing when this blinding light hits him. Steve turns automatically, staring stupidly at this huge, orange glow on the horizon. There’s a giant fireball in Hawkins, and at first, Steve’s heart really does stop. Then he realizes: that’s downtown. Opposite direction from where the dipshits are, and Steve? Well, right now Steve’s got bigger fucking problems. He shakes his head, tightens his grip on the bat, and goes flying down the stairs. He unlocks the Camaro and chucks the bat into the passenger side, only swearing a couple dozen times as he fights to drop down into the shitty, low cabin without crushing his nuts. Then he starts her up, throws it in reverse, and goes tearing out of the parking lot.

And man, Steve hates to admit it, but she handles like a dream. 

He floors it towards North Highway, brain going a mile a minute. All these gross, horrible, screwed up things keep popping into his head. The kids getting torn to shreds, Nance bleeding out on the ground like that freaky nightmare, Robin or Jonathan taking the hit for one of the brats and cracking their heads open on the train tracks. Christ, even picturing Hargrove biting the dust is enough to stop Steve’s heart all over again. 

Speeding down the road, Steve veers to the right just before he crosses the tracks, tuning out the asshole behind him slamming on the horn. He goes roaring across the gravel, following the tracks at breakneck speed, hands drenched with sweat against the steering wheel. And finally—finally—the headlights start to pick out the junction. 

There are all these flashing lights—Nance’s shotgun going off, a couple of those molotov cocktails arcing through the air and exploding on the ground—and as Steve starts coming in hot, it all turns into a slow-motion crawl. Nancy takes aim again, tensing up for the recoil. She’s next to Jonathan, and they’re standing between Mike, Will, with a couple of green-black, leathery shapes racing towards them. 

Demodogs.

Nancy fires again, and there’s a glint of light reflected in Jonathan’s hand. Steve recognizes it right before the guy buries this massive hunting knife into a demodog’s spine, pinning it and twisting just before it can get its claws into Will. As soon as Jonathan pulls back, Mike and Will are ready, Mike flicking on a lighter and Will spraying a blast of engine starter through the flame. Hargrove’s flanking the group on the right, winding back and smashing a tire iron into the closest thing to a skull a demodog’s got, one arm drenched in streaks of blood from the cut above his wrist. Sinclair and Max are hunched over something—shit, wait. Someone. El. She’s passed out on the ground, completely still, blood dripping down her face from a nasty gash on her forehead. Robin’s to Hargrove’s left, hands shaking as she and Henderson struggle to put together another molotov. They’re too focused—they don’t spot what’s happening a few yards to their right, the shape crawling out from under one of the boxcars. They don’t see the demodog come bolting towards them.

But Steve does.

He’s already pushing eighty, but he grinds the pedal to the floor. Robin, Henderson, and Hargrove look up as the headlights hit their faces, eyes huge. Hargrove’s probably flashing back to the time Steve t-boned him, but at the last possible second, right before Steve flattens him, he cranks the wheel as hard as he can to the right. The demodog slams into the grill with the grossest sound Steve’s ever heard—half crunch, half splat—and he brakes hard, tires screeching as he skids forward a few feet, almost cracking his head on the steering wheel thanks to the momentum. 

The car jerks to a stop and Steve slowly lifts his head, panting. “Oh, shit.”

His whole body’s buzzing, his head feels a mile away, but there’s a voice in the back of his head screaming at him to snap out of it, dumbass. He doesn’t have a whole lot of time to kill. Screwing his eyes shut, Steve shakes his head, gets his bearings, and throws open the door. Fumbling for the bat, he closes his fingers around the handle and slings an arm onto the roof of the Camaro. Teeth clenched, Steve strains until he manages to pry himself free, dragging the bat behind him as he takes a couple clumsy steps.

Dustin stumbles towards him, mouth hanging open as he squawks, “Steve!?”

“Yeah, hey.” Steve nods dizzily, then hears this clicking. It hits his ears louder than Nancy’s shotgun going off, and he whips around to spot another demodog—not the one he hit, that one’s a splatter mark on the grill—clawing its way onto the hood of the Camaro. “GET DOWN!” 

Henderson ducks, and Steve’s got no clue how he does it, but he brings the bat in an arc over his head. It connects, and he clips the thing hard enough to knock it to the ground. Could be that his heart hasn’t gotten out of overdrive for the last ten minutes, could be that, after this thing tried to maul Dustin, Steve just saw red, but everything sorta turns into a blur. After the first hit, the demodog’s barely dazed, thrashing against the gravel and trying to get its footing, but Steve winds back again and again, smashing the bat down over and over and over until all that’s left of the thing is a pulpy mess on the ground. Steve straightens up, struggling to catch his breath. That’s, uh… That thing’s probably not getting up again. He looks up and Henderson, Robin, and Hargrove are all staring at him. Steve winces, opens his mouth to say something, but—

“AUUUUuuUUGHhh…”

His hand flies to the side of his stomach, the other one still clenched around the bat as he doubles over. That wakes Robin and Dustin up, and they’re sprinting over to him before he can blink, Hargrove dragging behind like he’s sleepwalking.

“Oh my God! Oh my God—Steve!” Robin grabs his arm—ow, hard. Way too hard. “What’s wrong?” 

Steve gives his arm a jiggle, trying to shake her off. “Gnnh… ‘M fine. I’m fine, I just…” Grimacing, Steve balls his free hand into a fist as another spasm pulses through his stomach.  “Must’ve pulled something.” He groans, clenching his jaw and ducking his head because ooookay, that one, uh… That one hurt a lot.

“My car.” Hargrove says it so quietly, Steve’s not sure he heard him right.

“Steve, you colossal dipshit,” Dustin breathes, and Steve shoots him a glare. (Seriously? That’s how he talks to the guy who just saved his ass for the twentieth time?) Then he kinda… fizzles out when he notices how panicky the kid seems. “That’s a contraction!”

Steve frowns. “… A what?”

“W-Wait, how?” Robin’s going into freak out mode, too, reaching for Steve’s stomach before jerking her hands back. “That doesn’t even make sense! There’s no exit, I-I mean—where the hell would it even come out?” 

“You wrecked my fucking car,” mutters Hargrove.

Dustin grabs at his hat with both hands, weakly guessing, “His belly button?” 

Steve lets out this bad noise in the back of his throat, hunching forward again. Christ, this hurts. “Can everybody shut up!?”

“Harrington, what the FUCK!?” Hargrove finally manages to wake himself up, shoving Robin out of the way so he can scream in Steve’s face. “YOU TOTALED IT!” Steve’s eyes dart down to the tire iron still clenched in the guy’s fist. Probably not a great time to piss Hargrove off, huh? “A 1980 Z28 Camaro, eight cylinders, and you crumpled up the hood like a fucking tin can!” 

In the first second, Steve’s trying not to pass out from the pain while Hargrove shoots spittle in his eye. The next, Robin’s hand clamps down on Hargrove’s shoulder, she pulls him back, and, without missing a beat, slaps him clean across the face. Hard.

Hargrove freezes, mouth open, eyes bugged out in a thousand yard stare. Steve gawks, Henderson gawks, and even with all the shit going on around them—Nance gunning down demodogs, Jonathan shanking them, El still knocked out by the tracks—Steve knows they’re all a little terrified of what Hargrove’s about to do.

All of them except Robin, apparently.

“Oh my God, will you SHUT UP!?” Her voice gets shrill enough to crack a wine glass and Hargrove actually flinches. “Steve is having a medical emergency, and we’re under attack by a bunch of mutant hellhounds from another dimension! Nobody cares about your stupid, drug raid pussy-wagon! So either stop talking, or take that rusty tire iron and shove it UP YOUR ASS!” 

Hargrove looks like a fish, mouth flapping open and closed as he gapes at Robin, and man, even though Steve’s about to split right down the middle, this kinda makes him feel better! 

Well. For a second anyway. Then he remembers the part where this thing’s about to come out of him. “I-I don’t think I can drive.” This isn’t like the parking lot at Save-A-Lot, either. He means, like—for real this time. 

Robin’s head jerks back and forth between Steve and the Camaro. “U-Uh, okay! I’ll—I can do it! I’ll do it.”

Flinching, Steve tries not to think back to waking up with a concussion while Max mowed down mailboxes in the driver’s seat. Not that Robin’s gonna be worse than that, but— “Do you even know how?”

Hargrove snaps out of it again, pushing Robin out of the way a second time as he snaps, “Nobody’s touching my fucking car!” 

It’s around that time Steve realizes they’ve been talking for thirty seconds, and none of them have been eaten. But he can hear gunshots, sounds of some kind of scuffle—there’s no way they’re in the clear yet. “W-Wait, what about—”

Right behind him, a snarl breaks out. Heart dropping, Steve spins around, even though he already knows what he’s gonna see. Crouched ten feet back, gearing up to pounce, is another goddamn demodog. Steve gulps. He took down a couple, sure, but there’s no way he can handle another one. Not while his guts are getting shoved through a meat grinder. But he sucks it up anyway, raising the bat and tuning out the pain as he rears back to take another swing. The thing crouches down, muscles in its legs tensing, and—

It explodes. Like a water balloon. Guts and ooze splatter all over Steve and everyone behind him. Blinking through the slime, Steve turns around slowly. A couple yards away, El’s awake, sitting up with one hand held out, wiping the blood off her face with the other. Max and Lucas shoot each other these looks of pure relief, and then Max almost knocks her down as she tackles El in a hug.

“You know what?” Dustin blinks, then picks his jaw off the ground and looks at Steve. “I think we’re good.”

Steve nods as another wave of pain hits him, hissing through his teeth and letting Robin shove him to the passenger side of the Camaro. Despite Hargrove’s bitching, it’s still running, even after Steve’s little fender bender. Wincing, Steve slowly eases himself in, then chokes when Robin slams him into the dashboard trying to squeeze behind him into the back seat. 

“Sorry! Sorry.”

When Steve glances up, Hargrove’s just standing there at the driver’s side door. He’s staring at something, and at first, Steve can’t figure out what, but then it hits him. He’s watching Max, eyes locked on her as she and Sinclair help El stumble to her feet. Max seems to feel Hargrove’s eyes, and she turns to hold his gaze for a second before nodding her head and mouthing one word: ‘GO.’ 

Hargrove breaks free of whatever’s rooting him to the spot, shaking his head and sliding into the Camaro. “Let’s get this shit over with.” Cranking the gearshift, he floors it in reverse, spinning the car around fast enough to smack Steve into the window.

“OW! Son of a bitch.” Scrabbling his feet against the floor, Steve tries to unclip the pager, fingers shaking as he struggles not to drop it. He can feel his heart thumping in his ears as he clumsily types the code words he and Owens settled on ahead of time. Once he’s got it written out, he picks the only number on the contact list and hits send. 

<GO TIME.>

It takes Steve until they’re back on the main roads to remember he should probably tell Hargrove where they’re going. But as soon as they’re speeding towards the back alley behind the hospital, all Steve can think about is the disaster zone they just left. Those little shits had better be okay, because if any of them die, Steve’s gonna kill them. He’s already gonna hold it against Henderson for the rest of his dweeby life that no, actually, it wasn’t fine! They couldn’t handle it on their own! And now Steve might turn into meat confetti, same way that demodog did, all because he had to go and save everybody’s asses. Again. 

When they pull in next to the dumpsters, something else dawns on him. This is the last place in Hawkins that Hargrove should be right now. Steve’s not sure if Hargrove knows that, or if he even cares—he’s been out on the town so many times, maybe he thinks he’s in the clear. But Steve’s gotta admit, heading to the Fairmart to grab a Playboy and a carton of smokes has got to be less risky than walking straight through Owens’ front door. 

Steve fumbles with the handle, swinging the door open as Robin squeezes out from behind him, only half crushing him this time. She grabs his arm, straining as she yanks him to his feet, and Steve does his best to help her out, even as another cramp rolls through him. He tries not to put any weight on her, he really does, but the thing is, his legs aren’t working too great, and he only takes two steps before he starts to fall. His stomach drops and he barely manages to catch himself with a gasp. Behind him, Steve hears the front door of the Camaro creak open, and a second later, Hargrove’s roughly grabbing his wrist, slinging Steve’s arm over his shoulder and taking all his weight like it’s nothing.

“God damn it, Harrington.” Hargrove adjusts his grip with a grunt. “You suck so much.”

Robin scrambles ahead, yanking the back door open as Steve limps through with Hargrove dragging him along like a wounded soldier. They head down an empty concrete hall, stopping when they get to another door so Steve can type in the code. Robin pushes through first, and Steve blinks in the fluorescents as he and Hargrove shuffle past a handful of lab people. Every one of them is shooting them weird looks, and Steve’s stumped—half because the pain’s making him kinda hazy, half because this is the one place people don’t look at him like he’s a freak—but then he understands. They’re not looking at him. 

They’re looking at Hargrove. 

That knot in Steve’s throat starts tightening again. God, he screwed up big time, didn’t he? If he hadn’t taken the Camaro—if he hadn’t gone AWOL trying to prove he was some kind of badass—then Hargrove wouldn’t be here right now. He wouldn’t be walking into the one place in Hawkins that wants to throw him into solitary, six stories underground. It figures: Hargrove’s actually been getting his shit together, Max doesn’t hate his guts anymore, and he’s actually a… not-too-crappy roommate. The guy’s finally making some headway, and Steve went ahead and made tonight Hargrove’s last night of freedom.

Jesus, what a load of bullshit.

One of the lab people leads them over to some chairs lined up against the wall, almost like a waiting room, and says something about how Owens is gonna be there soon. Steve sinks down, and Robin starts talking his ear off, telling him to breathe, and to stay calm, and that everything’s gonna be okay. Honestly, Steve’s barely listening, watching Hargrove out of the corner of his eye instead. The guy looks like he’s scared shitless, and it’s taking everything he’s got to try and hide it. Suddenly, Steve gets this crazy thought. Maybe he should tell him to run, to—to bail. Shit, he doesn’t know. Would the lab people let Hargrove make it out of the building? Should he try anyway? Sure, they’re all watching him, but if Hargrove’s fast enough— 

The sound of footsteps breaks Steve out of his weird trance. He snaps his head up to see Owens standing in front of him. Guess he was too distracted to see him come in the door. He hasn’t noticed the pain as much, either, now that he thinks about it. Owens stares at Hargrove like he can’t believe what he’s seeing, and Steve’s heart starts hammering so hard in his chest he thinks he might cough it up on the floor. 

“Well.” Owens licks his lips. Blinks a few times. “This is unexpected.” 

“Y-Yeah, so—uh—” Steve’s choking on his tongue. It’s hard enough to talk, forget trying to think up some way to explain this shit. “The thing, um… The thing is—”

Owens turns to him, and Steve clams up. There’s something about the look on his face that’s throwing Steve off. It’s like he’s trying to be nice, but—hell, the guy’s always nice. At least, he tries to be, but—y’know. Doctor nice. This time, though, it’s more… real, and for the first time since Steve’s met him, he thinks Owens actually feels bad for him. “Steve, you look like you’ve had a hard night.” He gives Steve a once over, taking in the demodog guts he’s drenched in. “How about we table this discussion until later?”

Steve swallows. When he answers, his voice is so shaky he almost can’t believe it’s him. “… Okay.”

A few more lab people appear behind Owens and Hargrove stands to yank Steve back on his feet. Then it’s down another hallway to a wing Steve’s never seen before. Steve gets a hospital gown and hairnet in a plastic bag shoved into his arms, and so do Hargrove and Robin. Owens tells them to shower up fast and get changed before sending them all to their own rooms. If Steve thought his heart was working overtime before, it’s twice as bad once Robin—and shit, Hargrove too—are out of his sight. He tries to get scrubbed off and changed fast, and for once, he’s not even thinking about how gross he feels, or looking down at his body and wanting to gag. Instead, he’s just picturing Max’s face when he has to tell her Hargrove’s gonna be locked up for the rest of his life. And yeah, maybe that makes him feel like shit, but can anybody really blame him? 

Steve’s about to puke by the time he’s ready to go. For the last few weeks, he thought he was gonna feel different when the time came. Relieved, at least. Maybe even excited to finally, finally get it over with. Instead, he’s more nervous than he’s ever been in his life, and it’s some kind of miracle when they knock on the door and he doesn’t pass out. There’s still a jolt of embarrassment when a couple people in scrubs and masks wheel in a gurney, and they have to roll Steve onto it like some kind of fat, 80-year-old grandpa. (Steve stops worrying about the gurney real fast once they have to put the catheter in, though.) After that, they wheel him down the hall, and Steve stares up at a whole new set of fluorescents, trying not to get dizzy as they fly past him overhead. 

The next room’s gotta be the surgery room. Nobody spells it out to him, but Steve puts it together anyway. The lights are even brighter, there’s a huge sink and a metal table with a bunch of sharp things on top, and they wheel the gurney over to a black operating table on this big metal base. Owens is scrubbing some yellow crap up to his elbows in the sink next to two other doctors, but Steve doesn’t even recognize him at first. He’s covered head to toe in scrubs, an apron, a hairnet, and a mask. The only part Steve’s got a good view of are his eyes. Steve cranes his head around, looking for Robin, or Hargrove, or anybody he recognizes, and feels this spike of pure panic cut through him when he notices how empty the rest of the room is. But then the door swings open, and Robin scurries in, Hargrove trailing a couple feet behind her—and Steve breaks out in the world’s most panicky grin. 

Both of them are dressed up like Owens. There’s no way Hargrove got into all that gear without a fight; Steve wonders if they had to hold him at gunpoint, or if he’s just too terrified to argue. A couple sets of hands grab at Steve, helping to shove him onto the operating table, and that split second of relief when Robin and Hargrove came in, it fades fast. With the lights blinding him, the chemical smell, the thought that, oh yeah! He’s about to get cut open! Well, all that’s making it kinda hard to relax. And as somebody grips his wrist, muttering something he doesn’t catch before sticking the IV needle in, Steve realizes it’s not just Hargrove. 

He’s fucking terrified, too.

What’s really pathetic is, some small, stupid part of him wishes his mom was here. Hell, maybe his dad, too, even though Steve knows they would’ve disowned him about a hundred times over for all of this shit. (Y’know, once they figured out he wasn’t on dope or crazy or lying for attention.) One of the nurses, or doctors—Steve’s not really sure—puts these sheets over his legs, then starts to roll his hospital gown up. (Shit, he really hopes he’s not flashing Robin right now.) They spread something over his stomach, right under his belly button, and with this little scritch sound, Steve realizes they’re shaving him down. Robin tiptoes over to his side, ripping her eyes away from his stomach so she can look at Steve’s face. It’s like she wants to say something—yeah, no shit, she always wants to say something—but she can’t find the words. One of, like, three times that’s happened since Steve’s met her.

Hargrove’s a couple feet behind Robin, looking bored out of his mind, like he’d rather be anywhere but here. His fingers keep curling up and down at his side, like he’s dying for a smoke, but he doesn’t say anything, either. Then, after the longest five minutes of Steve’s life, Owens taps his shoulder and asks if he’s feeling numb ‘down there’. And Steve can’t even feel his toes, so, yeah. He nods stupidly, feeling like somebody’s touching his skin through three layers of blankets as they rub something else on his gut. After that, they put this curtain up, draping it under his chest, and Steve tries to reign in his panic when Robin grabs at his shoulder, digging in harder than she probably means to. Steve bites the inside of his cheek when he feels this jab, and he knows, uh… 

He knows they’re cutting into him. 

And Jesus Christ, it might not hurt, but he can feel it. He didn’t think he’d feel it, and now he’s really freaking out. He’s getting all lightheaded, the overheads are way too fucking bright, and he hears this far off mumbling about his heart rate from one of the doctors. Robin moves, and Steve’s eyes dart over to watch as she cranes her head around the curtain, peeking at the other side… before dropping to the floor in a dead faint.

Steve yelps. “HOLY SH—ROBIN!” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” In a daze, Steve watches Hargrove stomp over and grab Robin off the floor, flipping her over his shoulder like a rag doll. Then he stomps across the room to the desk in the far corner, flopping her on top of it like a sack of potatoes. 

Steve can’t help it—he laughs.

“Nooope, don’t do that.” Owens’ voice pipes up from the other side of the curtain. “No laughing while we’re using scalpels on you.”

That shuts Steve up pretty quick. But the wild part is, he kinda feels… better. Guess he needed the distraction. (Thanks, Robin.) After a minute, though, Steve goes back to noticing it all way too much. He feels nauseous when it starts sinking in. The way they’re cutting through everything. Like, skin, muscles, other stuff… Owens went over it with him a bunch of times, warned him it was gonna be intense, but it’s totally different being here and sort of feeling it. Hargrove moves over to where Robin was before she passed out, eyes bugging out of his head as he stares at whatever’s happening on the other side of the curtain. He’s not fainting, but he does look like he’s watching someone squeeze a massive zit, pulling all these weird faces under his mask as the doctors hack Steve up. 

Steve thinks his chest’s about to explode, he’s so tense and freaked out and—screw it! Fucking terrified. And that’s when they cut all the way through. Steve can tell, even though he’s numb from the waist down, because he swears he can feel the cold air hit his insides. And he really is about to faint, just like Robin, when these hands start tugging. It’s like they’re pulling his guts out through that hole, and he has this split second, this crazy moment where he thinks, holy shit, maybe they are. Maybe there never was a kid, and they’re just yanking out all his guts and organs—

And then it stops, and Steve can breathe again. 

For the first time in more than a month, this weight, this pressure on his insides, slips free. And it’s just… gone. Then, right when he takes his first big breath in ages, actually fills up his lungs all the way, Steve hears this sound. A wet, gurgly little cry. 

And it sounds normal.

“Congratulations! It’s a human.” Owens chuckles at his own joke, and Steve feels another surge of dizziness.

Hargrove’s head follows Owens across the room as he walks this red, slimy thing over to a tiny exam table. Then, before Steve can figure out why it’s suddenly hard to breathe again, Owens walks back around and pops up on his right. 

“Here—hold this for a second. Just while we’re closing you up.” 

Steve’s heart bangs in his ear as Owens drops something on his chest, and his arms flail for a couple seconds before going tight around this tiny bundle. He looks down, and it’s… Y’know. It’s a baby. He’s red, and crusty, and gross looking, but he’s—he’s a baby. 

He’s got a head full of hair—light blond curls—and even though his face is all scrunched up as he screams his head off, Steve can tell there’s something off about it. Okay, not—not off. Just… different. He looks all mismatched, like one of those Mr. Potato head dolls. Even his eyes seem like they’re different shapes, and when he stops losing his shit as much and opens them, Steve can see… Whoa. One’s blue, and the other one’s a real dark brown. The baby settles in a little more, and stops crying as hard, resting his cheek against the bare skin of Steve’s collarbone, and holy shit. It’s so soft. Like… the softest thing Steve’s ever felt in his life. And man, is he ugly, probably the ugliest baby Steve’s ever seen, but he’s, like, hypnotized or something. He can’t look away, not even when he feels them starting to sew his stomach up, or when someone reaches up to start taking the curtain down.

“Fuck, is that thing ugly.” 

Steve doesn’t answer. Maybe Hargrove’s trying to bait him or something, but Steve doesn’t give a shit. And even if he did, he’s not sure he could talk right now. He’s still looking at the baby, still hypnotized, or whatever weird crap is going on, but Steve knows he’s gonna have to let him go. He’s gonna have to give him to Owens in a second. As soon as he thinks it, Steve’s arms tense up, going tight and rigid around the kid as he squirms on Steve’s chest. And Steve knows he can’t do this. He can’t change his mind, man! That’s insane. He’s twenty-one, he’s already been out of his job for longer than he’s technically worked there—he can’t have a kid! He can’t raise a kid. That’s just crazy.

But his arms aren’t getting the memo, because they’re not budging. 

“Alright, Steve. Great job! I can take him off your hands now.” Owens walks over, reaches for the kid, and Steve flinches.

Hargrove’s voice is barely a whisper. “What.” 

Owens glances at him, confused, and Steve finally tears his eyes off the kid to look up at Hargrove, too. “Well, Steve here has decided it would be best if some of our people adopt—”

“You can’t do that.” Hargrove’s voice comes out fast. He’s pissed, but this is the quietest kind of mad Steve’s ever heard from him.

“Whuh—”

“You can’t do that.” Hargrove rounds on Steve, giving him this crazy, wide-eyed glare. And Steve’s got no clue why he’s got such a bone to pick all of a sudden, or why he cares, but…

Maybe Steve kind of agrees with him.

“Wh-What if, uh…” It’s like his mouth is full of cotton balls. It takes ages for Steve to put his tongue into the right shapes, and his throat’s so dry his voice comes out all raspy when he can finally talk. “C-Can I…” It’s a familiar fear. The same feeling Steve’d get when he asked his dad for something he knew was gonna turn into a lecture, or was gonna piss his old man off, except this is a hundred times worse. Steve must be going crazy. It doesn’t make any sense, it’s a complete 180 from how he’s felt for months. Seriously, how many times did he tell himself all he wanted was to never think about this shit again? But now, all Steve knows is that he’s terrified of Owens telling him no. “Can I… keep him?” 

Owens clicks his tongue, staring at Steve for way, way too long before he says something. “I’ve got to admit it, Steve. I did not foresee you having a change of heart.” 

Does that mean he’s screwed? What, was he already supposed to know he wanted the kid from the very beginning, otherwise there’s no deal? But—Christ, how was Steve supposed to know what he’d feel once he was actually looking at him? How the hell is any of this fair? Steve swallows, fighting off the quiver in his voice as he says, “Just answer the question, man.”

With a massive sigh, Owens ducks his head, peels his gloves off, and tugs his mask down. This whole night, Steve’s heart has been going apeshit. It hasn’t slowed down, not even once, and the way Owens is taking his sweet time giving Steve an answer? Yeah, that shit’s not helping. Owens turns to the other doctors, who freeze and stare back at him for a while. Then the old guy shrugs weakly and turns back towards Steve. “It wasn’t easy forging that birth certificate for Eleven, you know. Or should I say Jane?” He shakes his head and goes on. “I had to ask a lot of people to look the other way, went directly under some of my superiors’ noses.” He lets out a chuckle, but there’s nothing funny about it. “Now, that wouldn’t have only landed me in hot water. No—more like boiling.” This weird smile comes over Owens’ face and he looks like he’s lost in thought for a minute. Then he does another giant exhale and mutters, “Ah, what the hell. What do they say? ‘In for a penny, in for a pound’?” Slowly walking over to Steve, Owens plants a hand on his shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze. “Why not falsify two more documents for a couple of…” He cranes his head over to Hargrove, who jolts. “… decent kids.”

After that, Steve’s body is Jell-O. He relaxes, arms curling around the warm body on his chest, some kind of emotion Steve’s got no name for twisting in his stomach when the kid curls into the crook of his neck. At first, he doesn’t even make the connection. The whole ‘two documents’ and kids, plural. And then he figures it out. Unless he’s reading the room completely wrong, it sounds like Owens is gonna help Hargrove out, too. Steve kinda wonders if he knew about Hargrove the whole time, but he decided to play dumb. That’d explain why it barely took any convincing to get him to sweep everything under the rug.

A few nurses bring the gurney back over, and they don’t even give Steve a chance to scoot onto it on his own, lifting him and sliding him over before he can say anything. As they wheel him out of the room, Hargrove brings up the rear, scowling as he bridal styles a still blacked out Robin. They roll Steve into a room without any windows and move him one more time into a bed by the wall while Hargrove chucks Robin onto a second empty one. This place looks like some kind of torture chamber—concrete walls, musty curtains pulled back between the beds, and old, crappy lights that act like they’re gonna give out any minute—but Steve couldn’t give less of a shit. He’s stuck staring at the little guy in his arms, not bothering to look up until Owens walks in with a notepad. 

“Alright, Steve.” He raises his eyebrows and clicks his pen. “What are we putting on this thing?”

Steve’s got no clue what the hell he means by ‘this thing’, and then—well, he heard Owens say ‘birth certificate’, and he was talking about El, or Jane, and that’s when Steve remembers: oh yeah. Babies, uh—they usually get those when they’re born, huh? “Um.” Shit, shit, shit. The first name that pops into Steve’s head is ‘Nancy’, but—no way. He can’t do that, she’d kill him! Plus it’s a girl’s name. Okay, so… is there a boy name like Nancy? No, damn it! C’mon, Harrington. Get off ‘Nancy’. Steve? Steve Junior? No, fuck, that’s stupid— “Uhh…” 

“Jesus, Harrington.” Hargrove’s scrubbing his palms on his scrubs, like he’s trying to wipe off Robin’s cooties. “Just pick anything, it’s not that deep.”

“Whu—” Steve sputters, because seriously, what the hell does Hargrove know? “Then you come up with something, asshole!” 

Hargrove’s mouth snaps shut. Clearly the dickhead didn’t think Steve was gonna call him on it. Chewing his lip for a minute, Hargrove’s eyes dart around the room. Then, slowly, like he’s sounding out the letters, he grumbles, “… Arnold.” 

That sounds… familiar. Why is that familiar? Wait a fucking second. “Like the Terminator guy?”

Hargrove bristles, crossing his arms defensively. “Yeah, Harrington, like the Terminator guy.”

Thing is, Steve really wants to hate it, but he kinda… doesn’t. “… Huh.” 

There’s a long pause, then Owens purses his lips and asks, “Sooo… We going with Arnold?” 

Steve checks out the kid again, stupidly wondering if he looks like an Arnold. God, does Steve even care? He doesn’t hate it, right? And the Terminator’s badass! It’ll work. “Yeah. Sure, whatever.” 

Owens nods a few times, jotting it down, then puts the notepad in his pocket as he heads over to Steve. He holds out his hands, and the second Steve realizes he’s trying to to take the kid, he recoils, jerking back so quick he shocks himself.

Dropping his arms, Owens frowns, then puts on the same voice he had earlier. The one right before Steve went into surgery, where he actually bought Owens’ whole ‘nice old man’ act. “It’s alright, Steve. We’re going to do a few quick tests, just to make sure he’s healthy and stable, and we’ll bring him right back.” He sees that Steve’s still hunched away from him, so he adds, “Promise.”

Steve swallows, slowly uncurling around the kid and letting Owens gingerly take him. As Owens pads out the door, Steve follows him with his eyes, a little bit of that fear creeping back up his spine. It’s stupid, and he knows it’s stupid—especially since he’s got Robin, and this prick right next to him—but somehow, it feels like he’s totally alone. 

Hargrove grumbles something under his breath, and Steve turns to watch him flop down into the chair next to his bed. 

Okay. Well, that doesn’t make any sense. Steve glances aside, then cocks an eyebrow. “… Aren’t you gonna, like…” Didn’t Hargrove get the memo where Owens said they were cool? ‘Cause, as far as Steve can tell, Hargrove’s free to go. “… leave?” 

“After the stunt you pulled?” Hargrove shoves his hands in his pockets, hunching into himself like he’s hunkering down for the night. “I’ll be lucky if my car ever starts again.” He closes his eyes, then peels one open just enough to peek at Steve, growling, “You’re covering repairs. You know that, right?”

Steve sighs. “Yeah, numbnuts. I got it.”

He flops back against his pillow, watching Hargrove squirm one more time before he closes his eyes again. Honestly, Steve’s still a bundle of nerves. He hates that he’s so sure about this, but there’s no way he’s gonna sleep ’til he knows Arnold’s okay, and Steve has him back in this room. (Christ, are they really going with that? Arnold?) Steve’s got no idea why he winds up staring at Hargrove, though. He tells himself he should look at something else, anything else, and that he’s gonna seem like a total freak if Hargrove opens his eyes and sees Steve lying there, watching him like a stalker. But whatever weird hypnosis thing that came over him earlier, when he was holding Arnold—okay, actually, maybe just Arnie? 

Yeah. Arnie. Steve can work with that.

Anyway, it’s the same kind of feeling, and he can’t seem to tear his eyes away. Only instead of the kid, it’s this bastard. And Steve’s just watching him as his breathing gets all slow and quiet, and his eyelashes—long eyelashes, and man, Steve hates that he notices that, too—twitching as his eyes start darting around under the lids. He stares at Hargrove for what feels like ages, taking in his poodle-perm and one earring and wispy mustache, checking him out like he’s the most interesting thing in the entire room. Hell if Steve knows why. 

Must be a full moon.

Notes:

Yaaaaaaay!! Happy birthday, Arnie!! 🥳 🎉🎉🎉

BOY, lemme tell you. I have been visualizing this chapter since the very beginning, and I'm so excited to finally be able to post it! I know that basically none of the characters have canon birthdays, save Billy (great Aries rep tho amirite), but I've been picturing Arnie's as June 13th. Also, it may be quite close to Steve's birthday according to promotional material, which is fun! Obviously I tend not to do a TON of action scenes, and I frequently struggle with where to place characters and what I should have them DOING when there's a lot going on, so hopefully those parts of the chapter weren't too much of a slog to get through.

To those of you who thought Steve wouldn't be able to sit this one out... Yeahhh, you guessed it lol. Gotta give him at least one pregnant badass moment!

Also, nobody asked, but if you WANT to know the part of the soundtrack I imagine would be playing during the end of the chapter-- when Steve watches Billy fall asleep-- it would, of course, be Tammy, AKA the song playing when Robin comes out to Steve. (IK it's silly to get so emotional about a goofy ass mpreg fic, but I've been imagining this moment, soundtrack and all, since the very beginning. It's funny, and I do wonder-- maybe it doesn't even come off as that significant a moment in the actual chapter? Oh well. 😂)

Anyway, thank you all SO SO SO SO MUCH!! for reading and commenting! I can't tell you how much it lights up my day whenever I get to read your kind words. :> I had a nice long work break for the last couple of weeks, but I'm back to my regular schedule now, so updates may unfortunately slow down a bit. I thank you all for your patience and support, though, and ofc for reading!!

Chapter 13: Warm Body

Owens keeps him for another three days. 

Steve thought that was bullshit until he tried to turn over in bed and felt everything under the stitches sliding around. It hurt like a bitch, and he yelled loud enough to wake Hargrove up, and he started chewing Steve’s head off like he had a rough night. Owens did bring Arnie back, but Steve wouldn’t call it right back. By the time Owens walked back through the door with Steve’s kid, Hargrove was asleep again, and Steve had most of the feeling back in his legs, feeling almost as jittery as he was right before they cut into him. 

Owens and some other jarhead—it might’ve been one of the other guys who did the surgery, Steve couldn’t tell with the mask—gave him the rundown on what was up with Arnie. Apparently, it took so long because Owens was taking all these samples and running a bunch of tests, but he told Steve the important thing was that Arnie looked good. Healthy, normal, and if Owens was in the same ballpark he had been for everything else, the kid’s weird growth spurts were gonna slow down to ‘normal’ territory in the next couple of months. Steve just laid on his ass and nodded a bunch at everything they told him. He figured he should, y’know, at least try to listen, even though that batshit hypnosis feeling was creeping up on him again, and all he really wanted to do was zone out and stare at the ugly little gumwad in his arms. 

Then the other guy started talking to Steve about baby stuff—sleeping, pooping, baths, bottles. He told Steve he could probably feed Arnie the, uh… other way, but Steve shot that idea down real fast. Steve tried to memorize all the crap they were telling him, but his brain must’ve turned into a bucket with a bunch of holes it in, because everything leaked right back out of his head the second they moved on. And even though Steve felt like he was under a microscope while they stood there and watched him with Arnie, he got even more freaked out after they left. Sure, Steve wasn’t gonna do anything crazy with the kid, but Arnie was like a day old! Just felt like a lot of pressure, handling it on his own for a couple hours. (Seriously, aren’t these things supposed to be fragile?) But the craziest part was, when they stopped by again to take Arnie away and check on his heart, or make sure he wasn’t sick, or eating wrong, or melting, Steve’d feel worse than scared. 

He’d be terrified. 

Robin wakes up after sleeping through the whole night. She didn’t even budge when Owens gave his lecture, or Hargrove started bitching, or any of the times Arnie cried. But Owens said she was fine, and she didn’t bruise anything important, so they might as well let her rest. When she finally gets up, she starts groaning about her head, then gets out of her bed and stumbles over to Steve in this total hangover walk. Soon as she makes it, she leans over the prison bar things on the side of his bed to squint at Arnie, curled into the crook of Steve’s arm while he chugs from a bottle. 

“Oh, Steve.” She’s looking at Arnie like he’s the coolest thing she’s ever seen, and hey! Bonus! She only looks a little creeped out. “He’s… wow.” She ruffles Steve's hair, and Steve must still be kinda drugged, ‘cause he lets her. “For how much you rushed the production, I’d say he turned out pretty decent! I give him an A minus.”

“Yeesh,” Steve hisses, watching Arnie’s mismatched nostrils flutter while he drinks. (Kinda wild how he already knows how to eat without choking! Good thing, too, since the little shit’s reminding Steve of Hargrove flipped over a keg right now.) “Everybody’s a critic.”

“He looks like a hack job.” Hargrove stretches awake in his chair, cracking his neck and then squinting in Steve’s direction. “One of those…” He mimes cutting the air with a pair of scissors. “Y’know. Ransom notes with pictures.”

“A collage?” Robin deadpans. She rolls her eyes, leaning her cheek on her palm with a sappy look on her face. “I wouldn’t expect you to know this, since there’s no way in hell anyone has ever willingly let you near a newborn—but newsflash, shitbird! They all look like him.”

“Well, actually…” Walking in from the hall, Owens gives Robin this ‘glad you’re up, now don’t try to sue us’ smile and heads over to check on Steve’s IV. “According to the testing we did, Arnold’s genetic makeup has components from at least four or five different people.” He grins over his shoulder, as if he’s not telling Steve his kid’s a human jigsaw puzzle. “So the collage comparison isn’t too far off.” 

Hargrove jiggles his foot, fishing a smoke out of his pocket, only for Owens to swipe it out of his hand without missing a beat. Hargrove gawks up at him, snapping, “The hell’s your problem?”

“Just trust me on this.” Owens winks and Hargrove acts like the guy just spat in his face, tossing his head back and growling deep in his throat.

And yeah, Steve can see what he’s talking about—Arnie does kinda look like he’s made up of spare parts. But if you ask Steve, at least the parts on their own are pretty good looking! 

After that, it all kinda melts into this blur of crying, and bottles, and diapers, and the stuff inside the diapers that reeks so bad it nearly makes Steve hurl. Steve’s sleeping as much as he can, whenever he can, after he figures out he’s not gonna be able to do it for very long, ever, and also that Arnie won’t actually explode or drop dead the second Steve passes out. He barely remembers Robin saying she had to go, and he doesn’t even notice that Hargrove slipped out until the guy’s been gone for half a day. And Steve has this weird thought where he wonders when he’s gonna see the guy again, and then he wonders why he cares. Maybe that’s just what happens when you see the same douchebag every day for more than two months. That’s more than half of the time he was dealing with the bullshit that landed him with Arnie. Of course he’d get used to the guy. But him screwing off is good news. Now Steve can un-brainwash himself and go back to hating the bastard’s guts.

Hopper dropped by to read him the riot act, but after Mrs. Byers chewed him out because for God’s sake, Hop, the last thing he needs right now is you yelling at him, he calmed down enough to update Steve on the rest of the demodog disaster. Guess everybody made it out in one piece—El got a concussion, and Henderson was singed by the fallout from one of those molotov cocktails, but other than that, the rest went off without a hitch. 

But as soon as Mrs. Byers spotted Arnie, it was over. She lost her mind and spent the next twenty minutes rocking him and talking to him while Steve—and probably Hopper—sat there feeling like he might as well be in another room. 

And then Mrs. Byers went and asked Steve where his folks were. Like… Like it was normal, something they should’ve been there for. Steve figures she knows Robin and Nance and most of the kids’ parents aren’t in on any of this—the Upside Down shit, not just Steve’s… Uh. Arnie problem. But maybe something about his whole situation was serious enough that she figures he would’ve come clean to his mom and dad. Guess Steve never got the memo. And… Hey, nice thought and all, but Steve knows his folks. They’re not gonna take this shit well—and he doesn’t even mean the real story! He’s talking about the crazy ‘Steve got some poor chick knocked up without even knowing about it, and she dumped the baby at his apartment’ cover-up Owens pitched to go along with the birth certificate. (It’s just blank under the word ‘mother’. Steve didn’t even know you could do that.)

In the end, he says he hasn’t gotten around to telling them, and the way his voice cracks when he says that probably tips her off.

Then she hugs him. Steve goes stiff as a board, arms flying up like he’s showing Hopper he’s not armed, and when she keeps… hanging on, he slowly, jerkily brings a hand down to pat her on the back a couple times. Same thing he’s seen Nance and Mike do when Mrs. Wheeler forces them to hug. (As soon as he does it, he’s screaming in his own head wondering, What the hell was THAT, Harrington?) 

“Call us if you need anything.” Mrs. Byers pulls back, giving him a tired smile. “Okay, honey?” Then she gets this tone, all bossy while she fixes his blankets. “I mean it! Anything.”

“Or you could let the kid figure it out for himself.” Chief says it under his breath, like he’s scared Mrs. Byers’ll catch it.

Mrs. Byers narrows her eyes, but keeps smiling. “Ignore him, he’s just…” All of a sudden, she gets quieter, hunching into herself as she explains, “… not a fan of hospitals.” 

“Alright.” Steve can tell Hopper’s ready to be done, but for once, they’re on the same page. “Discharge is at 10:00 tomorrow?”

Steve nods. “Yeah.”

Hopper nods back. “We’ll pick you up then.” 

“Good luck, sweetheart.” Mrs. Byers corners Steve before he can get a good defensive play in, hugging him a second time. And y’know what? Steve thinks he handles it a little better. (Doesn’t do the stupid back pat, anyway.) 

“Uh. Thanks.” And he means it, even though he sounds like he wants to bail out the window, because he kinda does but—he’s not trying to be a dick, man! It’s just awkward. 

Steve watches the two of them leave, with Mrs. Byers lagging behind. At the last second, she leans back through the door and shoots Steve that ‘call me’ gesture with her hand. And then, just in case he still doesn’t get it, she mouths what Steve thinks is supposed to be, ‘I mean it! CALL US IF YOU NEED HELP!’ 

After that, they’re gone, and Steve’s on his own for another day. Kind of. He’d say he’s used to it, but the little shrimp screaming his head off for no reason every couple hours… Well, that’s pretty different. Seems like Steve puts his head down a couple times, takes some of those really shitty naps where he’s tossing and turning the whole time, and before he knows it, it’s the next morning. Steve gets changed back into his clothes—Jesus, his shirt really does feel like a tent now that the gut’s mostly gone—and sits there on his bed, trying not to look as desperate to get out of here as he feels. 

He’d just… really like to get home and down a handful of aspirin. Guess something about feeling like there’s still a knife in his stomach is making him kinda testy. And how Owens took one look at the stains on his chest—which got bigger, somehow, and keeps oozing gross shit every time Arnie cries—and went, Oh, don’t worry about that. It’ll stop in a couple weeks. Even though Steve didn’t exactly ask. So. Yeah. 

He’s ready to bail.

“Alrightyyyy.” Owens gets settled in for one last lecture, easing down into the chair by Steve’s bed so he can flip through some kind of stapled packet. “First off, no driving for a few weeks. Make sure to keep the incision clean—” He keeps rattling things off, and Steve forces himself to pay attention. “—wash it once a day, keep an eye on it. You can take some over the counter painkiller if you’re sore. No heavy lifting, no exercise, and—oh! The big one.” Owens leans forward, raises an eyebrow and gives Steve this hard to read look. “No sex for six weeks.” 

“WHOA—!” Steve chokes on his spit, almost jerking back to look at the empty chair behind him before he stops himself. Shaking his head, he throws his hands out in front like he’s trying to stop a runaway truck. “Whoawhoawhoa—hang on! Me and Hargro—I mean—Billy. That guy. He’s not—I mean, I’m not…” With a gulp, Steve takes a second to get his act together. “It’s not like that. I’m not, uh—gay.” Wait, does that sound shitty? Like, would Robin tell him he’s being an asshole right now? “Not that I have, like—like a problem with it! I’m… totally good with, uh… people. Who’re… into that stuff. I-I’m just…” Steve hunches his shoulders, trying to look casual, y’know? Not like he’s being a dick, more like he doesn’t even care! “Not.” 

Besides, it’s the truth! Just ‘cause they fooled around when Steve was crazy and desperate and losing his mind from being cooped up in his place 24/7 with that douchebag, it doesn’t mean anything! Forget how Hargrove’s the nutjob who kept going after Steve, why the hell would Steve be into it now that he’s got his head on straight? And Hargrove’s free to go, man! The guy can get laid for real now. He can go all over Hawkins chasing tail without Owens throwing him in the slammer. Hell, Steve’s might not even see him again! When he thinks that, he gets this gross burning feeling in the pit of his stomach, but hey—what’d he expect, picturing Hargrove’s sex life?

He realizes, probably too late, that he hasn’t said anything for a minute, and Owens is just staring at him, eyes bugging out, shooting Steve this look like he just hopped off the bed and started doing backflips. “… I meant in general.”

Now Steve’s eyes pop out. Holy shit. Hooooly shit, he is an idiot. “O-Oh. Yeah. Psh. For sure.” Hands folded in his lap, Steve wrings them together and tries to act normal, and… not like a psychopath, since he’s supposed to take a fucking baby home in a couple minutes. “I knew that.” 

When he thinks about it, though, it’s kinda pointless for Owens to give him that whole… heads up. Not like anyone’s gonna sleep with Steve now. The only person on the planet who’d be into that is Hargrove, and Steve’s not desperate enough to go down that rabbit hole again. (Not now that he can reach his own dick, anyway.) Even a girl like Robin, somebody who’s into other chicks—somebody freaky enough to be into the shit-show Steve’s got going on under the hood—they’re not gonna be cool with his dick! (Which is fucking crazy to Steve, ‘cause, not to brag, but he’s kind of packing.) And never getting any mileage out of it again? 

Jesus, it’s like those depressing poems they used to have to read in Junior Lit. Like a… tragedy. Yeah.

Mrs. Byers brought in a baby carrier yesterday, and Steve’s not really sure if it’s her old one, or if she went out and bought it, but Steve should probably make sure he pays her back if it’s brand new. He almost bites clean through his lip, he’s concentrating so hard as he takes Arnie out of his tiny, plastic bed and buckles him into it. It’s not like the idea of accidentally pinching his little finger clean off is the scariest thing Steve’s ever imagined, but it’s, uh… It’s up there. He didn’t exactly bring an overnight bag, so after Owens hands him a stack of those stapled together packets, guess that means he’s all packed up.

“Now, remember.” One side of Owens’ mouth curls up as he watches Steve lift Arnie off the chair like he’s handling hot lava, then he turns so he can walk Steve out. “He’s doing fine, he’s healthy, there’s nothing to worry about—”

“But?” Steve guesses, trying to figure out how to watch where he’s going and keep his eyes glued to Arnie at the same time. 

“But, you’re still gonna need to keep an eye on him. Look out for anything concerning. Keep in mind, his growth’ll be on the speedy side for the next few months, so don’t panic if he’s doing things a little early. But as long as he’s not crawling on the ceiling, or making his head spin around backwards, I wouldn’t worry about it.” They stop in front of the hall door, and Owens bends, smiling as he says to Arnie, “I’ll see you in a month for your next checkup, Arnold. Sound good?” 

Arnie doesn’t really… do anything, mostly just squirms with that same, pissy squint he’s had since they cut him out of Steve, but hey. Whatever floats Owens’ boat. 

“Hey, uh…” Steve feels this spike of panic in his chest when Owens looks up at him, and it starts to sink in how weird this is, and how weird it feels, but… Shit, dude. Steve thinks he’d better say it. “Thanks. For, um. Y’know. Taking care of him.” 

Owens smiles again, and maybe Steve’s never noticed before, but it’s like he’s seeing for the first time just how stressed the guy normally looks. Because, for whatever reason, when he smiles this time, he seems relaxed. Like somebody finally took this huge weight off his shoulders. “Any time, Steve.” 

He holds out his hand, and Steve shakes it, and you know what? He might even shoot Owens a smile, too. Not, like a big one, Steve’s never been this freaked out in his life, and he’s scared to move faster than a couple inches a minute, but it’s something. 

Owens holds the door for Steve, and Steve walks through like he’s carrying an extra touchy pipe bomb, holding his breath as he squeezes the handle of Arnie’s carrier tight, the folder with all those informational packets and Arnie’s birth certificate clutched against his chest. It takes him ten times longer than it normally would've to make it down the concrete hallway. He’s too scared of clocking Arnie on the wall, or jiggling his brains to try and speed walk. Plus there’s the fact that he’s running on three hours of sleep, his gut still hurts like a bitch, and he feels worse than that demodog he plowed into. So. Yeah. Definitely moving on the slow side. When he gets to the exit door, he presses his back against the crash bar to push it open, slowly turning around and tiptoeing down the alley towards the Blazer.

Mrs. Byers jumps out of the passenger side as soon as she sees him, and Steve doesn’t fight it when she gently tugs the carrier out of his hand so she can show him how to get Arnie buckled into the backseat. Hopper sits there on the driver’s side, letting out a pissy sigh every thirty seconds, drumming his fingers on the dash as Steve has Mrs. Byers show him how the carseat works. (A few times, ‘cause he—he wants to be sure he’s doing it right, okay?) Then Steve slides in next to Arnie, buckling himself in and trying not to double over when the way the belt rubs against his scar makes him want to barf. And as Hopper starts the Blazer up and rolls out of the alley, Steve realizes… yeah, man. He was right earlier. He really did lose his mind. 

Because the whole drive back to his apartment, Arnie isn’t doing anything—he looks less like pink roadkill, sure, but he’s still pretty ugly. And he’s just sitting there, being a dumb baby, and Steve still can’t tear his eyes away. He thinks he could watch Arnie do nothing for an entire day, and be fine with it. Hell, more than fine. Steve thinks he’d get an actual, honest-to-God kick out of it. Jesus, that’s messed up. 

Steve’s head jerks up as the Blazer stops. “Oh, shit.” Hopper’s parked already. When did that happen?

“What?” Mrs. Byers jumps, whipping around to look at him. “What’s the matter?”

“I-I don’t…” Steve gulps. God damn it. He’s an idiot. Took him three days, plus all the way back from the hospital for him to remember that, hey, turns out babies need a lot of shit that Steve doesn’t even have! And the last thing Steve wants to do is put Hopper and Mrs. Byers out even more than he already did, having ‘em chauffeur him around to a bunch of baby stores. But Mrs. Byers keeps staring at him with those big, sad eyes, and the words slip out all on their own. “I don’t, uh. Have… anything.” 

“Yeah, kid. We figured.” Hopper groans, opening his door with a creak and grumbling as he slides out of the car. “Save it.” 

Mrs. Byers breaks out in a grin, and Steve raises his eyebrows, unbuckling his seatbelt and scooting over to the door. He’s got no clue why Mrs. Byers is looking at him like Christmas came early, but he figures whatever she’s got planned, it can’t be all bad. And man, Steve’d love to say he’s getting the hang of all this baby straightjacket shit with the carrier, and the carseat. But Steve mostly just stands back and watches Mrs. Byers free Arnie from baby jail, only taking over when she stuffs his carrier back in his arms. 

“Come on.” Hopper motions for Steve to follow him, then he and Mrs. Byers head up the steps towards Steve’s apartment. 

“What’s, uh…” Steve trails off, eyebrows creeping up even higher when he glances over and spots Jonathan’s Ford parked next to the Blazer. And past that? Hargrove’s Camaro. (Steve might’ve thought it was somebody else’s, but that demodog shaped dent on the grill is a dead giveaway.) Frowning, Steve clenches his fingers around the handle on Arnie’s carrier, inching up the steps. After he makes it to the landing, Hopper winds up snatching his keys when Steve can’t seem to hold ‘em steady, turning the knob to show him that it’s already unlocked.

Groaning, the chief swings the door open, announcing, “Lucky for you, no one in this town throws anything away.” 

Steve only has to wonder what he means for about a second. Because, soon as he gets his head through the door, he sees his living room’s packed. Okay, not—not packed. He’s working with 700 square feet here, of course twelve extra people’s gonna turn his apartment into a sardine can. But there’s Nance, Jonathan, Henderson and the rest of the dipshits, and Robin, who looks way too happy about how whatever she just said to Hargrove has the guy about to pop a blood vessel. The only one who’s missing is El, but she’s probably the one person in rougher shape than Steve was after all that shit at the junction.

 A big baby crate is sitting in the middle of the room. (The play thing, not like… the thing you put dogs in.) Steve figures it must’ve been Holly’s, since it’s covered in flowers and pink kittens. One of those baby bouncers is on the floor next to it, and somebody cleared off the coffee table enough to stack a bunch of boxes and folded up baby clothes. There are packages of diapers, and bottles, and leaned up against the wall by the hallway is this giant box with a picture of a… 

Oh, shit. It’s a new crib. Steve’s talking brand new, never opened… Fuck, that had to be expensive. 

Steve’s so shell-shocked, he just stands there with his mouth hanging open, trying to get it all through his head. Did everybody really bring him all this shit? Steve clears his throat, but the best he can do is a braindead, “Uh.” 

Swallowing, he moves to set Arnie down so he can take off his shoes, then… kinda rethinks it. You know what? Steve’s just gonna… hang onto him so he doesn’t knock him over with his ass by mistake. He steps on his shoes until he can pry his feet out, knowing he’s got all eyes on him while he does it. “Hey.” He scratches the tip of his nose, then waves an arm around the room in this big arc. “All this, uh…” Steve clears his throat. “Is all of this for me?”

“No, dingus,” Robin snarks. “We’re running an underground diaper smuggling ring, and your house is base of operations.”

“Ooh!” Erica glances up from pawing through one of the boxes on the coffee table, following after everyone as they crowd around Steve. She pushes to the front of the pack and bends down, hands on her knees so she can get on Arnie’s level. “Oh.” She does this slow, grossed-out grimace, then makes eye contact with Steve. “Yeah, he looks like you.”

“Erica!” Lucas groans, burying his face in his hands. “You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Woooow. Okay.” Steve breathes in real sharp through his nose. “Off to a great start.”

“This is crazy. You actually had a baby.” Mike’s watching Arnie with this mixture of amazement and disgust, and honestly? Steve’s right there with him. 

 “He’s, uh…” Jonathan looks like he thought he’d have more time to come up with some way to end that sentence, so he winds up thinning his lips together and nodding awkwardly. 

Nancy elbows him lightly. “He’s adorable.”

“Reminds me of Billy’s baby pictures,” Max snickers, and Hargrove breaks away from his stare-down with Robin to shoot the kid a glare.

“Steve, he’s awesome.” Henderson shoves Erica out of the way, ignoring how she gives him this glare like she’s about to fine him for assault. Crouching in front of the carrier, the kid grins so wide, his face practically cracks in half. And Steve knows exactly what the dumbass is thinking. He’s not stoked because Arnie’s a baby, he’s stoked ‘cause Arnie looks like something he’d stick in an aquarium to gawk at all day. (C’mon, it’s written all over the shithead’s face! Probably used to give Dart the exact same look before his growth spurt.) “I can’t believe you grew him.” Straightening up, Dustin does this dreamy sigh before he adds, “He’s like a homunculus or something!” 

“Oh, eugh.” Gagging, Steve jerks Arnie’s carrier back, then winces and hopes he didn’t move him too fast. “Don’t say that… nerd shit in front of him. You’re gonna infect him.” 

“El’s gonna be so disappointed,” moans Will, and man, he’s right, isn’t he? She’s the only one who’s been stoked about this crap from the beginning.

“Ooookay. Let’s give Arnie some space.” Mrs. Byers puts on the mom voice, probably catching the way Steve’s blood pressure’s starting to skyrocket. She reaches for the carrier, and Steve gently hands it over, trying to remember he’s allowed to breathe while he does it. “I can hold him for a minute. Steve, how ‘bout you figure out where you want everything to go?”

Stomping to the other end of the room, Hopper turns and snaps his fingers. “Hargrove. Over here.” Putting both hands on the crib box, he gives it a shove down the hall. “Give me a hand with this.”

Hargrove’s gaze is locked on Robin as she sticks her tongue out, and he works his jaw, probably visualizing himself chucking her out the window before he turns on his heel and stomps over to help the chief. 

And just like that, the spotlight’s off Steve. Everybody goes back to whatever they were doing—Jonathan and Sinclair digging through boxes of hand-me-downs, Robin moving the rest of Steve’s old crap up and out of the way, Nancy peeling bubble wrap off some old glass bottles. Looks like Hopper had a point. Between the Wheelers, the Byers, and the Sinclairs, turns out Steve’s social circle has a serious packrat problem. 

On his left, Mrs. Byers lets out a tssk. She’s bouncing Arnie in her arms, staring down at Steve’s couch with her eyebrows furrowed. “God, we should really get you two a pull out.” 

Steve’s stomach drops, and he’s not sure why. “Uh. What?”

“It’s just—” She eases Arnie into the crook of her arm so she can gesture at the cushions, and Steve finally gets it. “I know you’re strapped for space, and trust me, you don’t want to be sleeping anywhere but a bed when you’ve got a newborn. But if you’re gonna have a houseguest…” She grits her teeth, probably ‘cause she knows calling Hargrove a guest is pushing it at this point. “Well, there might be a little less tension if Billy had a mattress to sleep on every night. Y’know, just ’til he can get settled.” 

“Yeah? Yeah! That’s, uh—” Is it hot in here? Steve feels like it’s really warm all of a sudden. There’s no way Mrs. Byers is a mind reader, she’s not gonna know that he and Hargrove have passed out in the same bed more than once, especially not after doing… other shit, but he must be acting freaky enough for Robin to notice. She slowly widens her eyes at him, and Steve just shrugs, mouthing a quick, ‘what?’, and trying to ignore how Nance watches that whole back-and-forth in a way she probably thinks is super stealthy. Coughing into his fist, Steve turns and nods at Mrs. Byers. “Sounds great.”

Erica frowns, eyes going from Steve, to Nancy, to Robin, before grumbling, “Okay, I don’t know what all of that was, but you people are freaks.” With a huff, she stands and stomps across the room, calling over her shoulder, “LUCAS!”

Looking up from the box of stuffed animals he’s sorting, Lucas snaps, “I’m literally right here! What?” 

“I saw the mutant baby and your girlfriend’s undead, psycho brother, so I’m leaving.” Kid practically skips the rest of the way to the door, slips on her high-tops, then fakes a smile as she waves. “Buh-bye!” 

“Erica! HEY!” Sinclair scrambles to his feet, chasing after her as she steps out the door.  “You said you’d help! ERICA!”

Smirking, Max rolls her eyes, then goes back to folding Lucas’s old baby clothes.

“Steve?” 

Steve looks over at Nancy dizzily. “Yeah?”

Clinking two bottles together, she asks, “Kitchen?”

Takes him a minute to understand that she’s asking if those can go there. (There’s a lot of shit happening, okay?) “Whuh—yeah! Yeah, that’s fine.”

As everybody gets into their own routine, moving stuff around and unpacking, Steve starts to wonder why the hell Hargrove’s here. He sorta figured he’d be gone by the time Steve got back, maybe leaving Hawkins for good—or hell, even moving into Forest Hills with Max. But maybe he and Max aren’t there yet, y’know? They could’ve broken the news to Mrs. Mayfield, and maybe she took it great, but Steve can’t really picture Hargrove helping out with any of this crap on his own—not even so he’ll stay on Max’s good side. Even though staying on her good side’s apparently enough to keep the guy in town. And it might be the only thing that is, especially now that Owens has cleared him to, y’know. Exist again. But Steve’s still betting they didn’t let Mrs. Mayfield in on the loop yet. Not if Hargrove’s still bumming around his apartment.

With a dozen people pitching in, things get put away fast. Before everybody heads out, Mrs. Byers tries to give Steve one more crash course in baby stuff, now that she can use the crib and the playpen for a demonstration. She goes over how to open the crib door, which way Arnie’s supposed to sleep, and how to give him a bath in the sink, and Steve tries to burn it all into his memory. Sure, he already got the textbook version at the hospital, but this time, it feels more real. Who knows if any of those lab geeks even have kids? Mrs. Byers has hands-on experience! And while she’s talking, Steve’s practicing holding Arnie without the carrier, standing up and trying not to have a heart attack, or picture himself dropping the kid when his arms stop working out of nowhere.

Nance gives him a hug on her way out, and Steve can’t help but notice how Hargrove looks at her in this funny way, like he can’t figure her out. (Maybe he tried the same shit he did to Robin on her. That’d explain it.) Mrs. Byers and Hopper are the last to leave, and the chief tells him that, if Steve wants to stay on the payroll after this, the best Hopper can do with his cover story is give him four weeks. Then Mrs. Byers pulls him in again, doing this slow, careful hug around Arnie. 

When she pulls away, she’s looking up at him like he just made her day, even though Steve’s not sure what the hell he did to deserve it. “Call us anytime.”

Shaking his head, Hopper grumbles, “Only for emergencies.”He points at himself, makes sure Steve is looking him in the eye, and repeats, “You hear me, Harrington? Emergencies. ONLY.” 

“Yeah, man!” Steve rolls his eyes. “I got it.”

The chief thins his lips together, looks like he’s trying to make up his mind about something, then finally adds, “Remember. You’ve got an extra set of hands.”

Steve glances down at Arnie. “Hands?” What, like… his?

“Seems to me the least someone could do—” Raising his voice, Hopper makes a point of looking past Steve at Hargrove. “—especially if that someone’s been hiding out in your apartment, rent free, for the last two months—” His eyes fall back on Steve. “—would be to take that kid off your hands for a couple hours here and there so you can get some rest.” 

Hargrove pretends to be clueless, nodding thoughtfully. “Oh yeah, that sounds great.” Walking up behind Steve, the dickhead claps him on the back and says, “Sure hope you find somebody to do that, Harrington.”

The chief pinches the bridge of his nose and lets out a long exhale. Finally, he shakes his head and recovers from Hargrove’s bullshit enough to look Steve in the eye. “Listen to me. You’ve kept those kids alive in situations their own parents would’ve had a conniption over. Now, this?” He points at Arnie. “This is gonna be harder.” 

Steve does a double-take, since there's no way he heard that right. “Wait, harder?” 

“It’s parenthood, Harrington.” And since he’s gotta rub it in, he reminds him, “Not babysitting.” 

“I mean, yeah, but—”

“But you’ll be fine.” The chief’s eyebrows scrunch down over his eyes. “That means absolutely no calling my private residence over any stupid, weird thing this kid does. Because there’s gonna be a lot of that.”

“Right.” Steve nods. “‘Cause he’s a weird Frankenstein guy.” 

Hopper stares at him long enough to make sure Steve can read the guy’s mind saying, ‘you are a dumbass’, then grunts, “No. Because he’s a baby. That’s what they do.” 

“W—yeah. Duh. Obviously.” Steve scoffs, trying to play it cool even though all he can think is what the hell, man!? Is Hopper trying to scare the shit out of him?

Hopper shakes his head, then turns to follow Mrs. Byers out the door. But just before he makes it, he seems to remember something else. He pauses, turns around, and makes sure Hargrove and Steve are both looking at him before saying, “And don’t kill each other.” 

Hargrove chuckles, grabbing Steve’s shoulder and rocking him back and forth. “You heard the man, Harrington.” 

 

*

 

Arnie’s been crying for an hour.

Steve knows that because he’s been looking at the clock, watching sixty whole minutes tick by as he tries everything he can think of to make him stop. He changed his diaper, fed him, burped him, made sure his dumb little outfit wasn’t cutting off the circulation in his cankles—nothing. No dice. Kid’s still screaming his head off like Steve rocking him is the worst torture he’s been through in his three days of being alive. It’s bad enough that even the neighbors stopped pounding on the wall—gave up after the first forty-five minutes. Steve’s about to tear his hair out—yeah, man! His hair! His hair. He’s losing it that bad. And what does Hargrove decide to do? Stomp into Steve’s room and start yelling at him, like it’s his fault Arnie doesn’t have an off button. 

“For fuck’s sake.” Hargrove slams the door open hard enough to make the doorstop twang against the wall. “Will you shut that thing up already!?”

“Oh, great idea, man! You’re a fucking genius.” Steve glares a hole through Hargrove’s forehead, bouncing Arnie as the kid kicks the shit out of him. “Why didn’t I think of that!?” Rolling his eyes, Steve asks, “Look, dickhead. We both know you’re not gonna help, so why don’t you shove it up your—”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” Hargrove reaches for Arnie and Steve jerks away, because, really? Rhetorical question, dumbass! Steve doesn’t want his help! He’s exhausted, not psycho. Hargrove frowns, getting this look on his face that Steve can’t totally read. Guy doesn’t have feelings, so it’s not like Steve hurt ‘em. Maybe he’s offended, even though Steve’s gotta wonder why Hargrove’s even surprised. “What the hell is your problem, shitbird?” 

“Seriously?!” Steve’s so stumped, he actually stops bouncing Arnie for a second. “You need me to spell it out for you?” Steve doesn’t give him a chance to respond. “You turned my living room into a scrapheap, you brained me with a dinner plate, you tried to put Sinclair through a wall—and that’s just the shit I know about!” Scrunching his face up, Steve shakes his head and snaps, “No, I’m not handing you a fucking baby!”

“Mhmm. Mhmm.” Hargrove nods, this muscle in the side of his jaw bunching up as he gives Steve that dead-eyed, pissed off glare. Then he lunges. “Gimme that.”

Steve yelps and pulls back, but somewhere between Hargrove trying to wrestle Arnie out of his grip, and Steve being terrified of holding on too tight and breaking the kid’s puny bird legs, Hargrove gets the drop on him. “HEY!”

“Shut up for a second.” Steve’s not sure if Hargrove’s talking to him or to Arnie—could be either, honestly—but he shoves the kid into the crook of his arm and starts rocking him. It’s rougher than Steve was doing it, but for Hargrove, it’s almost gentle. (Well. Steve’s pretty sure he won’t give Arnie that shaking baby syndrome, at least.) Steve’s arms flop against his sides while he watches, stumped, as Arnie slowly but surely settles down in Hargrove’s grip, finally going quiet with one last, gurgly whine. “See?” Shooting Steve a look so smug that Steve wants to punch him in the face, Hargrove puffs out his chest and brags, “Not that hard.”

Steve’s slack-jawed as Hargrove steps over to the crib and sets Arnie down. When he can finally talk again, Steve slowly asks, “… How did you do that?”

“I’m not a fucking idiot, for starters.” Hargrove crosses his arms with a shrug. “Who knows, maybe he just doesn’t like you.”

Steve wrinkles his nose. “Oh, yeah right.” Running his tongue over the inside of his teeth, he frowns down at Arnie. Alright, that better not be it. Fuck, man! He’s trying, okay? 

“Well, if you wanna pay me back…” Hargrove’s greasy smile gets wider.

Steve wrinkles his nose. “No, I don’t wanna pay you back!”

“You can take the couch.” Too late. Hargrove falls on the bed like he’s back-flopping into a pool, bouncing a couple times before folding his arms behind his head, spreading out to take up as much space as possible.

“Screw you, I’m not taking the couch.” Is this guy for real? Steve just had major surgery, he had his guts sliced through less than a week ago, and Hargrove’s stealing his bed? Steve knows he shouldn’t be surprised at this point, but Jesus Christ, how does this douchebag sleep at night?

“And I’m not moving.” Making a big deal out of settling in, Hargrove grinds his sweaty perm into Steve’s pillows and shoots him a grin—this look that tells Steve they both know there’s no way in hell Steve’s moving him. Even if he had the muscle to deadlift this dickwipe on his own, Steve’s not supposed to move anything as fat as Hargrove until he’s healed up, or else he’s gonna bust his stitches. 

Alright. Guess Hargrove’s not taking the couch. 

But neither is Steve. So, as soon as Hargrove closes his eyes, Steve jumps onto the mattress, making sure to land right on Hargrove’s stomach as he scrambles across the mattress. (See? Steve’s nice like that! He didn’t even aim for the guy’s balls.) Hargrove lets out an oof, curling up on one side of the bed as he groans, clutching his stomach while Steve eases down on the free side next to Arnie’s crib. 

“Bitch…” Hargrove wheezes. 

“Can it.” Lying down so he can face the crib, Steve flaps a hand over his shoulder at Hargrove. “I’m trying to sleep.” 

Hargrove doesn’t take the bait and fuck off, but after he swears under his breath for a minute, he does go quiet. And for a minute, Steve’s pretty pissed that Hargrove stayed put, but he gets distracted and winds up watching Arnie. Part of him wants to say it’s because he’s scared the kid’s gonna wake up again and go right back to screaming, but that’s not it. It’s more of the same shit from earlier, that freaky spell the kid’s got him under. Steve feels like he could watch Arnie all night, even though that’s a horrible idea, ‘cause he should really sleep whenever he can. That’s what everybody said, right? But whatever part of his brain’s messed up from having a kid doesn’t want him to stop looking at Arnie’s funky, mismatched eyes—how the one on the right has has longer, darker eyelashes, or the shape of his tiny nose and eyebrows, or that head full of fluffy, blond curls that make him look like one of those baby angels in a church painting. And maybe Steve really is losing it, but he could swear the kid’s getting a little better looking. Not what Steve’d call a high bar, but hey! He’ll take it. 

Steve’s starting to nod off for real when Hargrove flips around in bed and grabs him. Steve chokes on his tongue, biting back a yell as the jackass curls against his back, arms squeezing tight Around Steve’s chest. (Ow.) Swallowing, Steve cranes his head back, trying to find out what Hargrove’s game is, but the guy’s dead to the world, breathing slow and heavy in Steve’s ear. 

Oh. Yeah. Hargrove does weird shit in his sleep. Somewhere between the demodogs and the hospital, and the last three days of total insanity, Steve sorta… forgot. And Christ, is he warm. Why does he always run so hot? Steve should probably shake him off, and try to wake him up. Steve doesn’t want to stay pinned here all night, and it’s not like Hargrove’s doing this shit on purpose! For fuck’s sake, Steve’s seen how hard he sleeps! He’s basically in a coma right now. He doesn’t even know what he’s doing. And whatever screwed up, stuck with each other thing they had going on when Steve was… When he still had Arnie in him… 

It’s over, right? Hargrove’s free to leave, free to do this shit with anybody he wants. Hey, if anything, they should be celebrating! No more prison rules. And no reason Steve should be letting another dude spoon him.

… Huh. 

Hargrove snores less when he’s on his side. Steve doesn’t feel like his ear’s gonna melt off, anyway. Pretty different from having to listen to the bastard do his best impression of a chainsaw while out on the couch. And Steve’s tired, man. There’s no way he’s gonna overpower this prick, and even though he feels like he’s hit rock bottom when he admits it, he misses falling asleep with someone.

Guess he’s so desperate, it feels good being held by anybody, even Billy fucking Hargrove. And the bright side is, once Steve gets tired enough to fall asleep, he doesn’t even remember who’s holding him. 

Only thing that matters is the warm body next to him.

 

*

 

“Oh, for God’s sake.” Alright, so the chief was asleep. That’s, uh. That’s Steve’s bad. “Harrington?”

“Hey, uh—” 

“Five A.M.” Guy sounds like he gargled with gravel instead of mouthwash. “You made it to five A.M.” 

“S-Something’s wrong.” And Steve’s trying, he really is, but he can’t keep the panic out of his voice. “I think he might be dying.”

That wakes Hopper up fast. “What?” Steve feels his heart drop when that same panic gets echoed back at him, but then the chief seems to shake himself out of it, grumbling, “No, he isn’t. He’s not dying.”

“Yes he is, man!” Steve tries not to get all… shrill and shit, but his voice definitely climbs up there. “He can’t breathe! He’s doing this sorta— this—” Steve tries to make the noise as he stomps in tiny circles and tries not to get tangled up in the phone line. (And, yeah, he moved the phone to the bedroom! So what? He knew something like this was gonna happen, and if he had to take his eyes off the kid for too long to get help, Steve was gonna lose it!)  “Gnnnk sound, every time he breathes—”

“Harrington.”

“Shit, shit, shit! Is this that heart murmur shit? O-Or is he choking? What does baby choking sound l—”

“HARRINGTON.”

“I mean, he’s got all these different parts, right? What if they don’t work right, what if they’re too messed up to—” 

“STEVE.”

Steve stops in his tracks when Hopper uses his name. Like, his first name. Steve’s… not sure he’s ever heard the guy call him that. 

Hopper sighs in his ear. “Hold the phone up to him.” 

Steve gulps. “What?”

“Put the phone near him. Lemme hear this death rattle.”

Steve clenches his jaw, still frozen for a second, then shuffles over to the crib, slowly putting the phone down next to Arnie. And he doesn’t wanna say the chief’s full of shit or anything, but Christ, does he sound messed up. There’s no way that’s a normal baby noise! Maybe he’s mutating back into an Upside Down slug, or he stuffed something in his mouth that Steve missed, and now he’s got a marble yo-yoing in his windpipe. Now he’s just hoping the chief can hear him over Hargrove’s snoring. (Guy’s twice as loud now that he doesn’t have Steve suffocating under him.) Finally, after letting Hopper listen in for a minute, Steve snatches the phone back. “It’s bad, right?!” Shit, dude. He knows there’s bad news coming, but that doesn’t make it any better. He still feels like he’s gonna pass out as he moans, “Holy shit, it’s bad. He’s gonna die.” 

Hopper’s tone is bone dry. “He’s snoring.”

Steve blinks, standing there and looking so stupid, Hopper acts like he can see it on the other end of the line. “What?” 

“Snoring. Sawing through a log.” The chief yawns, and Steve hears the mattress creak as moves to sit up.  “Babies do that. Whod’ve figured?” There’s another, longer yawn, and Hopper grumbles, “You said it yourself, the kid’s a living Picasso. Bet one of his nostrils works a hell of a lot better than the other.”

“So he’s—” Every muscle that’s been knotted up in Steve’s back starts to unwind. 

“He’s fine.”

Steve does this massive exhale, shoulders slumping as he breathes out. “Oooookay. Cool. Cool, cool, cool…” 

“Now, unlike you, I’m not off duty. And I’ve gotta be at the station in…” The guy must look at his alarm clock, because the next sound out of his mouth is the same noise you make when you stub your toe. “Just do me a favor: try to make it through the rest of the day without calling.” 

Steve makes a pff noise, raking a hand through his hair and pretending he wasn’t about to go down harder than Hargrove in that alley behind Bradley’s. “Sure, man. No problem. You know me. I’m, like… super chill.”

Something about Hopper’s deadpan tells Steve he doesn’t buy it. “Super.” 

And with that, he hangs up with a click.

Notes:

Hey there, lovies!! I just wanted to say, I don’t know that I've ever written a fic that's received this many wonderful, kind, and reassuring comments. Your words have made me feel confident in my writing ability in a way that I’ve never experienced before, and goddamn, does it mean a lot to me. I truly hope I can continue doing each and every one of you proud.

 

I’m SUPER excited to share more from this universe! I have a lot of silly doodles I’ve done to accompany this fic. (Though I may be totally outing myself by sharing them, so if you recognize my art style… shhh! 🤫 That'll be our little secret.) I’d love to give a visual accompaniment soon so you can better imagine the cute, funky lil mans who is Arnie. I'll probably stick a link to some art in a note in the next chapter.

 

Speaking of spoilers… I have a few fics I’m working on for this universe. Not really sequels, but supplementary little drabbles that would take place after this story is completed. So, I suppose my question is, would ya’ll be interested in reading those? And if so, would you prefer I post them to a collection while this fic is still in progress, or would they be better saved for after its completion?

 

I loved reading all your theories about Arnie’s biology. The concept of Henry having contributed some DNA was so clever, but a total mistake on my part. I somehow forgot he had blond hair AND blue eyes. As I explained in some of the comments, Arnie’s made up of a bunch of flayed DNA that Vecna/Henry recreated as a flesh monster during the final showdown. So Arnie’s not related to Henry, OR Steve, for that matter… The cat’s out of the bag, and his beautiful blue eye is all Billy! As for the other DNA donors... Maybe ya’ll can guess the other MAIN one before I hint at it in story. 😳

 

Lastly, I saw on ao3 reddit the other day that some readers are unsure of whether authors are okay with having their work shared/rec’d, or having others make content for it. I just want to say not only am I fine with all of that, I’d consider it an honor!

 

WOOF. Sorry, I don’t know how these keep getting longer every time lol. Thanks to my wonderful, patient beta, thank YOU all so, so, SO!!! much for reading, and thank you again for all your support!

Chapter 14: The Interpreter

Steve really feels like he’s getting the hang of this!

He can make a bottle like a pro now—nails the temperature on the first try, every time. He can change a diaper in 10 seconds flat, and he’s even getting used to holding Arnie without a bunch of pillows stacked up under him for insurance. The snoring doesn’t freak him out anymore, he can burp the kid without feeling like he’s gonna hurl when Arnie spits up all over his shoulder, and even though Steve spent the whole time wound tighter than a spring, that first bath went off without a hitch.

So what if Hargrove’s so screwed up in the head that he’s trying to make this shit a contest? Who cares if he does all that crap Steve just mentioned, but he does it faster, and easier, and maybe even a little better than Steve? And so what if he’s rubbing Steve’s face in it? Constantly. Steve doesn’t give a shit! No way in hell is he gonna let Hargrove get under his skin. This first week still totally counts as a win. And right now, Steve’s got so much confidence, he’s actually multitasking, feeding Arnie his millionth bottle of the day as he answers the phone.

Arnie clamps down on the rubber thing, and Steve wedges the receiver into the crook of his shoulder. “Yello.” 

“It’s Hopper.”  Man, the chief sounds stressed. Not that Steve’s surprised—dealing with all of Barnes’ bullshit without any kind of buffer’ll do that to a guy. “You got a minute?”

“Hey—for you, man?” Steve knows he’s doing it again. That thing where he keeps opening and closing his mouth like a fish, as if watching him do that shit’s gonna make Arnie take the bottle better. “I’ll find the time.”

“… I’m honored.” Steve probably shouldn’t take the guy’s tone too personally. Maybe the chief’s still cranky from the last time Steve called when he was home. At two. (In the morning.) “Just wanted to update you on the arson case.”

Trying not to make it too obvious when he perks up, Steve asks, “Oh, yeah?”

“Well, we’ve still got the guy in custody. Had him in questioning for a while, but he went mute.” The last time they talked, all Steve remembers was Hopper saying they caught the guy right outside the fire station. Steve figured that was gonna be it, but his gut’s telling him he’d better buckle up for whatever bombshell Hopper’s about to drop on his head. “He seemed like a flight risk, so we’re keeping him until further notice.” Steve hears him move the phone around, and when he talks again, his voice is quieter, closer to the mouthpiece. Steve leans in, still watching Arnie like a hawk as the little asshole chugs his own bodyweight in formula. “Thing is… he’s Russian.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, shit.”

“Feeling’s mutual, Harrington.” Hopper must’ve put a hand over his mouth, ‘cause his voice gets even more muffled. “I told you we intercepted him at the fire station, but there’s more to it. He barely put up a fight. Almost came with us willingly. But as we’re cuffing him, he turns over his shoulder and starts yelling.” 

“Yelling?” What, like… in pain? “Yelling what? Why was he yelling?”

“Beats me. And it was in Russian, kid. Couldn’t exactly make it out.” Guy lets out a big sigh, and Steve can picture him squeezing the bridge of his nose as he drones, “I’ve got Murray Bauman coming by the station later today. See if he can make any sense of it.”

“Hey, Robin’s pretty good at—shit. Shit. Hang on.” Holding his breath, Steve yanks the bottle away when Arnie starts hiccuping, almost dropping the phone. “Don’t choke! C’mon dude, you got this…” With his tongue sticking out, Steve bounces Arnie at an angle a couple times ’til he stops. Then, half a second after the kid’s done hacking up a lung, Arnie starts whining and reaching for the bottle. (Jesus, what a porker!) “Oooookay. All good.” 

“No, by all means,” Hopper grumbles. “Take your time.”

“What I was gonna say is, Robin’s crazy good at this type of shit. She knows, like, ten languages. She even cracked that code they were using at Starcourt.” Honestly? Steve’s got no clue why Robin didn’t put him down as a reference. Listen to him go! He would’ve knocked it out of the fucking park. But hey, her loss. “We should bring her in on it.” 

The chief does this tired, old man grunt. “I don’t think that’s gonna be necessary.” 

“Hey, man, I’m just saying.” Steve shrugs. “Couldn’t hurt.” 

Now he’s groaning. Guy’s just running through all the grandpa sounds today, huh? “Fine. Got a pen?”

Steve turns in one spot, looking around the room. “Y—Uh. Yeah.” He glances down at Arnie, who’s kinda taking advantage of both his hands right now and… Okay, you know what? He’ll just write it down later. How complicated can it be?  “Alright, go for it.” 

“Probably butchering this, buuuut…” There’s the sound of papers getting shuffled around, then Hopper slowly says,  “Sounded kinda like… Osta… something… skritum. Togda… menya… Os… bodi… menya.” 

Steve lies through his teeth. “Got it.” 

The chief lets out another sigh. “That’s not the only thing I’m worried about. It was arson, no doubt about it. Our Slavic friend’s footprints are all over the scene.” Christ, Hopper actually sounds a little shook up, and Steve does not like the sound of that. “But there’s no point of origin for the blaze. Forensics can’t find a goddamn thing. No gas, nothing electrical—for God’s sake, not even a box of matches. It’s like it started out of thin air.” 

“Well, that’s freaky.” Guess the verdict could still be out—maybe there’s something forensics missed. But even if they passed over a couple of matches, that wouldn’t explain the fireball Steve saw that night. He chews the inside of his cheek, watching Arnie hork it down as he thinks. He barely spots Hargrove out of the corner of his eye when the guy walks by and stops in the middle of the doorway. 

“There was another set of prints, too. I’m thinking some sort of accomplice. And either this other guy’s tiny, or it’s a kid.” The way Hopper says it, it’s like he can’t believe it either. Like the Fire Station got burned to the ground by a pack of gnomes or some shit. “We’ve got Barnes combing the area, but he hasn’t landed on anything yet.”

Steve makes a sound like he’s giving that some real thought, mouthing the word, ‘shocker!’ to himself. Arnie finally wraps it up, and Steve gently pulls the bottle away. “Don’t worry about it, man. You’ll get him.” Leaning into the phone some more, Steve flips Arnie over his free shoulder, thumping him on the back until he burps. Hargrove’s still standing in the doorway like some kind of serial killer, so Steve glances his way. Guy’s staring at him, eyes huge, kinda… sweaty and red in the face. Was he working out? (Jesus, maybe the meathead popped some kinda blood vessel in his brain trying to lift one of those prison weights.)

Hargrove snaps out of it when Steve’s been staring for a minute, shaking his head like a wet dog before stomping out onto the balcony. 

“Yeah, Harrington.” Hopper’s tone is not giving Steve optimistic vibes. “We’ll get him.”

“That it?” Steve keeps patting Arnie between the shoulder blades on autopilot, then winces with his whole body as the kid pukes all down his back.

“Yes, Harrington. That’s it.” Hopper snaps at him, then goes quiet for a second. “… It’s just a hunch. I’m probably being paranoid.” 

“Okay?” Steve turns on his heel, slowly setting Arnie back in his crib before straightening up and asking, “What’s the hunch?”

“They locked me up in some kind of base overseas. You remember that, right? After all that shit under the mall?” He sighs, and there’s another pause before he goes on. “Hell, it could’ve been either one of those bunkers. But the way this guy was looking at me. The way he’s been looking at me.” Steve hears him swallow on the other end of the line. “Makes me wonder if he’s seen my face before.” 

“Holy shit.” Okay. Uh—Steve does not like that theory. He is not a fan of that theory.

“It’ll be fine.” It’s pretty obvious the chief’s trying to play it cool. He’s probably pissed at himself for even bringing it up. But the last time he tried to be all hands off, Steve wound up going toe-to-toe with a pack of demodogs the same night Arnie got evicted. So excuse him if he’s feeling skeptical! “I don’t mind keeping you in the loop, but that’s only if you’re gonna refrain from doing any more idiotic stunts like the last one. Your one and only job going forward is keeping that kid alive.” Okay, not a problem! Steve’s basically got it down, but he gets the feeling Hopper’s not gonna want to hear how much he rules at this shit right now. “You wanna help? Get used to him so you can stop calling me at three in the morning. Maybe then I can get a full night’s sleep.”

Steve sighs into the receiver, watching Arnie pass out like a sophomore at his first rager. “Copy that.”

Then he hangs up.

 

*

 

So. Hargrove’s still here.

Which is weird, right? Doesn’t the asshole have somewhere to be? Sure, he’s still going down to the station to work on whatever beaters Callahan’s been driving into the ground, but he always comes back to Steve’s place. Honestly, Steve thought about asking Max. Just… calling her up and figuring out what the ETA on Hargrove Going Bon Voyage is. But if she gives him another speech about how she’s still not ready, she needs more time, yadda yadda… Then what the hell does Steve do? He’d be stuck with Hargrove for who knows how long, and Max’d be pissed at him for trying to push the bastard on her. Hell, maybe she’d force Steve to room with him for an extra week out of spite. 

Besides, it’s not Steve’s problem. Seriously! He can’t fuck around babysitting Hargrove, he’s gotta focus on babysitting Arnie! No, damn it—parenting. Parenting Arnie. Steve’s not babysitting his own goddamn kid, even though Hargrove kinda makes him feel like he is. That  jackass must’ve stayed up three nights in a row, reading through a bunch of baby books, all so he can screw with Steve’s head. Seriously, how else does a total caveman like him even know which end of a baby goes up? Point is, Steve’s getting real sick of watching Hargrove find whatever’s bugging Arnie in under 10 seconds, just so he can spend the rest of the night chewing Steve’s head off about it. Like Steve’s the one making Hargrove play Mr. Mom.

So, yeah. Steve wouldn’t be surprised if Hargrove’s itching to move out.

God, maybe Steve can just ask him. They’re basically roommates. And hey, like he said to Nance, they might even be kinda decent at it! And if you’re gonna kick your roommate out, or if they’re gonna pack up and leave, somebody’s supposed to say something first. Even though Hargrove’s not paying rent, so it’s not like Steve’d be hurting for money if he did bail, but… 

But there’s still the couch! The pullout. Those things aren’t cheap. And no way is Steve gonna invest in one of those numbers if Hargrove’s a few days away from getting shipped off to Forest Hills. 

So Steve’s gonna do it. He’s gonna ask. 

He’s sitting Indian style on the floor, Arnie sprawled out over his lap as he tries to pick the kid’s eye boogers without making him go blind. (Christ, is this normal? Does he have all this extra eye slime because he’s a weird lump of ten people, or are all babies this crusty?) Anyway, Hargrove walks into the room on his way to the station, and Steve just goes for it.

“Hey!” 

Hargrove freezes, keeping his back turned as Steve sputters. 

“So, uh…”

Finally, the guy turns around, shooting Steve this look that tells him he’s gonna lose a finger unless he spits it out in the next ten seconds. 

So, obviously, Steve swerves. “How’s the, uh…” He clears his throat. “How’s the Camaro running?”

Hargrove wrinkles his nose and growls, “What?”

“Uh—Just, uh…” Shrugging weakly, Steve mumbles, “… checking.”

One of Hargrove’s hands balls up, muscles flexing while he clenches and unclenches the fist. “You’re not getting out of that five hundred, Harrington.”

“Yeah, I know! I got it, okay? I wasn’t…” Steve’s choking, man. He’s blowing it, big time. He can barely talk right now, forget figuring out which words don’t make him sound like a complete piece of shit. “It’s just— y-you know Max’s mom?”

Hargrove cocks an eyebrow, and Steve feels this jolt of nervousness. ‘Cause yeah, Hargrove’s come a long way and all, but the guy’s still got a temper. (He probably won’t punch Steve while he’s holding a baby, but that’s a ‘probably’, not a ‘definitely’.) “Susan?”

“Yeah?” Steve’s, uh. Okay. He never learned her name, he guesses. “She’s, uh… D-Does she know you’re… back yet?” Christ, he’s an idiot. Smooth like fucking sandpaper. 

“Back.” Hargrove echoes, sounding like he’s a mile away. 

“Like… not dead, man!” Steve just sorta… spills it, and then he keeps on spilling. “Does she know? Is she cool with it?” He feels like the answer’s right there in front of him, trying to burn a hole through the middle of his forehead. Well, Jesus. Screw him for wanting a little communication, apparently.

Hargrove takes forever to answer, finally grumbling this real suspicious sounding, “Why.”

“Because, dipshit! That was the whole point, right? You make up with Max, you go home, you’re not…” Steve’s throat dries out all of a sudden, and he’s got no idea why. Hargrove’s been complaining from the second he got here, and he’s been nothing but a pain in Steve’s ass. Why the hell does he feel shitty when he points out that Hargrove’s not— “Stuck here anymore.” 

“Fuck, you’re stupid.” Hargrove jabs a finger towards the south wall of the apartment. “That shithole on cinder blocks isn’t my house.”

“Yeah, man, I remember.” They’ve been over it before! Hargrove’s dad sold the old place, and no way is Hargrove gonna buy it back on an under-the-table police mechanic’s budget. (Actually, is he even getting paid? For all Steve knows, he’s still using a five finger discount on every pack of Marlboros he brings back to the apartment.) 

“You have any idea how many hoops I’ve had to jump through just so Max won’t freeze me out again?” Hargrove scoffs, throwing his head back like he can’t believe Steve’s got the balls to ask about this crap. Steve watches his Adam’s apple bob for a couple seconds, then Hargrove lowers his chin and snaps, “You’ve got no clue how much of a conniving little bitch she can be. For fuck’s sake, you’ve heard the way she talks to me!”

Wait, hang on. The way she talks to him? Steve has to hold himself back from doing a double take. What, like when she told him she wasn’t gonna sit there and take it while he screamed at her and broke shit?

“I make one wrong move, and she’s gonna use it against me for the rest of my life.” He puts his thumb between his teeth, gnawing at the nail, eyes looking kinda wild as he pauses. “Susan, she’s… She’s flighty. Dumbest type of shit’ll set her off. Why the hell do you think she hit the bottle so hard after Neil left her?” Oh, that’s classy. Real nice way to talk about his stepmom being torn up after he croaked. “Let’s say I walk into that dump of hers, back from the dead. She takes one look and hits the floor. You’re really telling me Max wouldn’t do some underhanded shit and act like somehow that’s my fault?” Guy does this dull chuckle, then spits, “So, uh, no, Harrington. I’m not in a hurry to give Max some brand new way to screw me over.” 

Steve just stares, the corner of his lip curling up while he tries not to gag in the guy’s face. He barely manages to mutter a sarcastic little, “Right.”

Hargrove’s not listening close enough to be offended, though. He’s staring at Arnie, that glazed over look creeping onto his face.

“What?” Yeah, Steve doesn’t like where this is going. Hunching forward, he tries not to make it too obvious when he puts an arm between the kid and Hargrove.

“Didn’t know you wanted that thing to be a cripple.” Hargrove stomps over to him, and Steve freezes as Hargrove grabs his wrist, yanking it over so Steve’s hand is cupping the back of Arnie’s skull. “Hold his head up, Harrington. For fuck’s sake.”

Steve watches dumbly as Hargrove does a 180, snatches his keys off the counter, then plows past him out the front door, slamming it behind him. 

Steve rolls his eyes, putting on this dopey voice when he echoes, “Euhgh, hold his neck up.”

Sighing, he glances down at Arnie, wondering why the hell Hargrove even knows this shit. Maybe the guy’s just got a bunch of bastard kids all over Hawkins. Yeesh, that’s a nasty thought.

And all that shit about Max… 

Christ, man. Does Hargrove even care? Well, yeah. Steve knows he does, in his own screwed up way. He wouldn’t be this paranoid about her cutting him off if he didn’t, no matter how much smack he talks behind her back. Shit. Steve’s gonna speak Hargrove better than Robin speaks Russian by the end of this. (That’s what he’d call depressing.) But at least that means he can translate, or read between the lines, or whatever. Hargrove doesn’t want to make Susan lose her shit and have Max hold it against him. Steve gets that! And hey, if he rose from the dead, he’d be worried about giving his folks a heart attack, too! (Not Henderson, though. Kid’d be stoked.) 

Hell, maybe Hargrove really doesn’t give a shit about Max’s mom. Maybe he’s good with seeing Max every once in a while, and bumming around Steve’s place ’til he can afford to move somewhere on his own. But that’s… 

Fuck, dude. The way Max was talking about her mom, how much she thinks Hargrove dying screwed her up… There’s no way Max wouldn’t want her mom to see him again. At least, not if he keeps being… Y’know. Less shitty. Even if she tells her mom Hargrove’s okay—even if she doesn’t think her mom could handle seeing him right there in front of her, in the flesh—just seems like it’d be important to her. And if Steve can figure that out, there’s no way Hargrove hasn’t put it together. 

Then there’s all that stuff El said about his mom. How she ditched him, left him with his bastard dad… When all that crap at the hospital happened, when Hargrove started losing his shit and telling Steve he couldn’t give Arnie up, Steve was totally lost. It didn’t make any sense, y’know? Why the fuck would Hargrove even care? But now… Steve’s still not sure if he’s on the right track, but he’s starting to think parents are this huge sore spot for the guy. 

Steve’s got no clue how Hargrove feels about Mrs. Mayfield. Only thing he’d be willing to bet on is that he was a pretty shitty stepson. (Seriously, if this is how he talks about her after he’s mellowed out a little, Steve doesn’t even want to imagine the kind of crap he must’ve said to her face.) 

But if the guy doesn’t hate her, if there’s even a tiny chance that he—that he cares about her in that same weird, screwed up way he cares about Max… 

Jesus Christ. Steve gets why he’s scared to blow his shot.

He shakes his head, finally snapping out of it and looking down at Arnie. “What do you think? Is Hargrove full of shit or what?”

Arnie makes this gurgly sound—holy shit, is he starting to get cute. Like, actually cute. Steve kinda hoped he’d even out some more, even though he wasn’t gonna hold his breath or anything, but man, is he relieved. Steve smiles, watching Arnie shake his little fists and let out a bunch of those gurgles… 

And then he barfs all over himself. 

Steve groans. “Oh, come on, dude…” 

 

*

 

“Just… take it! You know you want it…” Arnie jerks his head away from the rubber tip of the bottle, mouth clamped shut, even though it’s been, like, two hours since the last time he ate, so the little fatass has got to be starving.

“Y’know, I can’t really blame him.” Hargrove’s watching over Steve’s shoulder, and Steve’s not sure what’s worse—the way he usually snags Arnie and makes Steve look like a total screw-up, or the way he’s decided he’s just gonna stand back and do some sort of commentary. “Why would he wanna eat that canned shit when you’re waving the real deal in his face?”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Ignoring Hargrove hasn’t gotten him to shut up yet, but hey! Maybe today’s the day. Instead, he keeps talking to Arnie, trying to get the kid to see logic. “You know you’re hungry. I know you’re hungry. So just… put the bottle… in your…” Steve works the yellow tip slowly between his tiny lips, only for Arnie to spit it right back out. “GNGHH!” 

“I’m telling you, Harrington. Your whole waterhead act is getting real fuckin’ old.” Hargrove skirts around to stand in front of Steve, wrestling Arnie away from him—and Steve mostly lets him, since he doesn’t want Hargrove’s manhandling to break anything important. “How the hell did you being shitty at this become my problem?” 

“Yeah? Well, fuck you, too.” Hands clenched at his sides, Steve watches Hargrove scoot Arnie into the crook of his arm. It’s obvious that the kid’s in some kind of mood. Mrs. Byers told him that happens. Sometimes babies won’t settle down for anybody, and Hargrove’s just gonna have to learn the hard way that—

“Theeeere you go.” Hargrove chuckles as Arnie—what. What the hell!? He just… takes the bottle and starts drinking. Stops tweaking out and everything, hands curling against the glass as he snuggles against Hargrove’s elbow. “Ha! See? Least your brain’s not deformed.” 

Is he… Wait, is he actually talking to Arnie? It’s the worst thing Steve’s ever heard somebody say to a fucking baby, but still. Steve didn’t see that shit coming. 

All he can do is stand there and watch like a complete moron as Hargrove smirks down at Arnie, eyes shut, those weirdly long eyelashes of his—Jesus, why did he think that? Look, they just… They look like a girl’s, okay? And Steve? Well, Steve is clearly in desperate need of some female attention. Enough that he gets sorta lost in the way Hargrove feeds Arnie without looking like he wants to put his foot through the drywall. Steve doesn’t even notice that weird, itchy feeling in his chest that starts up the longer Arnie goes on making those little sucking noises. 

Hargrove finally looks over, then jerks his chin down, eyes on Steve’s chest. “Hey. Taps are leakin’.” With a whistle, he turns and starts to walk off, and Steve lets him go for a couple seconds before it hits him that he’s still got Arnie. Then he sprints after Hargrove, making it to his room just in time to watch the prick throw Arnie over his shoulder, burp him in half a second, and set him back in his crib. 

“Lucky you got me here, huh?” Hargrove closes the crib gate, then turns to shoot Steve a sneer. “Kid never would’ve made it through his first week on your watch.”

“Yuuuup.” Steve clicks his tongue, hands on his hips as he nods. “Steve bad, Billy good. Got it.” 

“He might like you more if you gave up the goods.” Hargrove shoves past him, casually dodging the punch Steve throws when the shithead honks one of his b—pecs on the way out. “Just saying.” 

Steve swears under his breath, peeling his wet shirt off as soon as he hears the front door slam. For a split second, he thinks about calling Mrs. Byers. Who knows, maybe she’s got a few pointers on how to stop your psycho roommate from brainwashing your kid. But he’s called her at least a hundred times since he brought Arnie home, and even somebody as nice as her… C’mon! She’s gotta have her limits. Besides, how much more is she gonna be able to teach him? Doesn’t seem like any of it’s sinking in. Christ, it’s like flunking through half his classes all over again, except ten times shittier, because it’s his kid, man!

Well. Hopper’s down at the station today, and the thing is, Mrs. Byers is never mad when Steve calls. So he winds up picking up the phone and dialing her anyway. And right before he remembers just how crappy this idea is, and how it’s so not Mrs. Byers’ problem, she picks up.

“Hello?”

“Uh—Hey.” Steve clears his throat. “Hey, Mrs. Byers.”

“Steve?” He doesn’t even have to say who he is anymore. She just recognizes his voice. “Is everything okay?” 

“Wuh—oh! Yeah!” Guess he usually calls her when he’s freaking out. No wonder she sounds like she’s on high alert. “No, uh. We’re good. Everything’s good.” Steve screws his face up. God, he feels like an asshole. It’s not Mrs. Byers’ fault he sucks at this! Least he can do is stop wasting her time. “I was, uh… I was actually gonna ask you something, but I remembered what you said, so—“

“Steve?” Steve starts to hang up, but Mrs. Byers says his name before he can put the receiver down. “Hold on a second.” Steve hears somebody talking in the background, and then Mrs. Byers asks, “I know this is… kinda sudden, but I was wondering if El and I could drop by?” She lowers her voice, then adds in this super serious mumble, “It’s just… she’s been getting real antsy, being stuck at home, and she’s been talking a lot about how badly she wants to meet Arnie.” 

“Uh.” Steve blinks. “Oh yeah?” Meet Arnie? “I mean… Sure. I can probably…” Rubbing the back of his neck, Steve gives his empty, dead quiet apartment a quick once over. “… make some room in my schedule.” 

“Sounds great.” She turns her head, says something to El that Steve doesn’t catch, then adds, “How about noon?” She doesn’t really give him a chance to answer, just tells him, “We’ll bring lunch.” 

“Nah, c’mon, you don’t have to—” Right after he hears the word ‘lunch’, Steve’s stomach lets out a growl, and he remembers—oh yeah! He’s not… awesome at remembering to eat now that he’s watching Arnie around the clock. “… do that.”

Christ, he hopes she didn’t hear that.

But it kinda sounds like she’s holding back a laugh when she tells him, “See you in twenty.”

Half an hour later, Mrs. Byers and El are walking through the front door, and Steve feels like he’s running a petting zoo when El makes a beeline for Arnie’s playpen, practically bouncing on her heels as she leans over the gate to stare at him. And it kinda hits Steve that, hey—not only is this the first time El’s getting to check Arnie out, it’s probably her first time seeing a baby, period. Okay, maybe she’s seen a few around town, or back in California, but Arnie’s gotta be the first one she’s getting up close and personal with, right? 

“Hi, Arnie.” Her voice is barely a whisper, like she’s terrified of waking him up.

“So, what do you think?” Steve pads over to the playpen, leaning one arm on the railing next to her. “You sensing any… crazy powers or anything?” And the thing is, Steve says it as a joke, but then he kinda starts wondering.

El laughs, scrunching up her face like she’s thinking really hard. “I don’t think so.” She turns back to Arnie, leaning her cheek on her arm, and Steve feels this funny rush of warmth in his chest. It’s like she gets it, y’know? Like she could gawk at Arnie all day, too. “I like his eyes.”

Steve grins. “They’re freaky, right?” And he means it as a compliment, the way Henderson talks about mutant lizards like they’re the coolest shit on the planet. (Ew, Jesus. Maybe Steve’s the one getting brainwashed here.)

Mrs. Byers starts getting the food set up at the kitchen table. Steve’s not sure what she brought, but it smells amazing. There’s a bunch of food in separate Tupperware containers—the same kind of home cooked stuff he only ever got at Nancy’s, or, once in a while, at some other girl’s place. Y’know, if they went out for longer than a couple weeks. “How’re you doing, Steve?”

“Hey, you know me. I’m…” Steve tries to lean against the playpen in this super casual way, then almost slips on the wood. He catches himself right before Mrs. Byers looks up and shoots a finger gun at her.  “… Totally killin’ it.”

“Good, good.” She finishes opening all the containers, and gives the plates and silverware Steve set out this confused look, like she didn’t expect him to do it. It’s just one of those things Steve’s folks would really drill it into him. He’d get a lecture every time he didn’t set the table, or ask to be excused, and his mom or dad would always say some shit about how, if he did that kind of crap at somebody else’s house, they’ll think we didn’t teach you basic manners. “C’mon, El. Time to eat!”

“Okay.” El says that, but she doesn’t move for a minute. Then, finally, she drags herself away from Arnie and follows Steve over to the table. 

“So.” Mrs. Byers drops a glob of mashed potatoes on Steve’s plate as he sits down. “What were you gonna ask about?”

Steve glances up at her. “What?”

“When you called,” explains Mrs. Byers. “You said you had a question, but you remembered.” 

“Oh! Oh. It’s…” Steve shakes his head, picking up a fork and staring down at his plate. “It’s not a big deal. Don’t worry about it.” He looks back up to watch Mrs. Byers reach over and tuck some of El’s hair behind her ear so it’s out of her face, and it just sorta explodes out of him. “Who gives a shit if he only likes assholes, right?”

“Whuh—who?” Mrs. Byers’ head whips around, like she’s gonna spot Hargrove crawling out from under the kitchen sink. “Who likes assholes?”

Steve chokes on his first bite of mashed potatoes, because holy shit. He did not mean to make her say that. And then she reaches over and starts smacking his back so he’ll spit up the rest of his food, so that’s, uh. That’s awkward. “A-Arnie’s…” Steve coughs into his hand, waving Mrs. Byers off. “F-Forget it.” 

“Well, sometimes it’s good to trust our intuition.” She reaches over again, giving his back one last pat. “If you’re worried about something, you might as well ask! It can’t hurt. And when it comes to babies?” She glances over her shoulder at the playpen, like she’s gonna jinx something if she talks too loud. Then she turns back to Steve, leaning in close and squinting at him as she whispers, “Better safe than sorry.”

“It’s…” Steve lets out a weak laugh. Christ, he feels like an idiot for even admitting it gets to him. “I-It’s stupid.” But Mrs. Byers still has this look on her face, like it’s serious business, so Steve pokes his tongue around the inside of his mouth while he mulls it over. “… I think he likes Hargrove more than me.” 

“Oh, Steve. Honey.” Mrs. Byers’ hand moves up to his shoulder, and Steve grimaces. That’s gotta mean bad news, right? She’s about to lay it all out—yeah, he totally hates your guts and thinks the sun shines out of Billy Hargrove’s ass. “He’s a baby. He doesn’t like anything.”

Steve grumbles, stabbing his fork through a green bean. “Oh, he likes Hargrove.” 

“Wh—how?” Mrs. Byers pulls her hand back to do the ‘slow down’ gesture. “What do you mean?”

“Guy has some weird… baby mind control, or some shit.” Steve’s not even eating. he’s just shoving his food around on the plate, the same exact crap his mom’d throw a fit over. “Every time the kid craps his diaper, or won’t stop freaking out—before I can even do anything, Hargrove’s…” Steve snaps his fingers. “Boom. Already on top of it.”

Mrs. Byers nods, eyes big enough to give Steve’s dinner plates a run for their money. “I see…” 

“But hey, man! I don’t care! Why would I care?” Dropping his fork, Steve slumps back in his chair, arms crossed while he jiggles his foot under the table. “Who gives a shit if my own kid likes some greasy douchebag more than me? Not me! I am…” Steve wrinkles up his nose, glaring at his plate like Hargrove’s face is etched into it. “Totally cool with it.”

“Steve,” Mrs. Byers deadpans, “Arnie doesn’t like him better than you.”

“Oh, sure.” Look. Steve knows she’s trying to be nice and all, but she doesn’t get it! She hasn’t seen the shit Steve’s seen! “Guess he just loves the smell of Hargrove’s B.O.” 

Mrs. Byers takes a bite of casserole, eyebrows scrunched together while she thinks. Then she swallows and bobs her head. “Mm. You know—Lonnie, my ex-husband. He was…” She hisses through her teeth.  “He was a real piece of work. But when the kids were little, they couldn’t always see that. They were just happy to have him around.” Man, this kinda feels like something Steve shouldn’t be hearing. Sure, it was years ago, but this is still the mom of the guy Steve tried to beat the crap out of, telling him all this personal shit from when Jonathan was a kid. But Steve feels like he can’t really tell her to stop, or that he probably shouldn’t be hearing it, so he just… sits there and listens. “And there was this one thing…” A guilty look flashes over her face. “He was pretty decent with technology. Once in a while, he’d show Jonathan a few things. Little tricks he could do with his camera. And—ooh, I just hated that.” The fingers around her fork grip it tighter. “It was the one thing I couldn’t do better than him.” 

Steve does this tiny nod, just to show he’s listening, while El shovels food in her mouth, staring at Mrs. Byers like she’s unpacking all the details from a juicy homicide. 

Mrs. Byers throws her hands in the air, her fork clattering onto the table. “It really got to me! At the time, anyway. But his behavior with the kids, it just got worse and worse. He was hardly ever around…” She does this sad smile and shakes her head again. “In the end, all that bullshit with the camera didn’t even matter. Lonnie was a horrible father. A couple of times where he was decent couldn’t make up for that.” The corner of her mouth twitches, and she ducks her head. “When they got older, the boys figured that out all on their own.”

Wait, so… Is she saying that Hargrove sucks, and Arnie’s gonna be able to tell when he’s older? But… the thing is, Hargrove doesn’t suck. That’s what’s pissing Steve off so much. “Okay, but—”

“Don’t overthink it.” Jerking a thumb towards the playpen behind her, Mrs. Byers says it again. “He’s a baby! He doesn’t like Billy more than you.” Then she puts her hand on top of Steve’s. “The only thing that matters in the long run is that you want what’s best for him, and that you’re trying.”

Steve still doesn’t feel like she gets it, but maybe he’s just gonna have to call it good. Letting out this massive sigh, he drops it. “Okay.” Leaning forward, Steve starts eating for real, trying not to look too bummed out while he chews. 

About a minute goes by, everybody shutting up while they eat, before Mrs. Byers says, “So. Billy’s body language.”

A casserole noodle almost lodges itself in Steve’s lung before he remembers ‘body language’ isn’t just about sex. “Mm?”

“When he’s taking care of Arnie, what does he look like?”

Steve frowns. The hell is that supposed to mean? Hargrove looks like Hargrove. The only difference Steve notices when the guy’s changing a diaper, or wiping baby barf off the back of his jacket, is how much he bitches the whole time. “Pissed off?”

Mrs. Byers makes this weird face. Okay, guess that’s not the answer she was looking for.

Steve tries to wrack his brains, really figure out what she means. “Full of himself!” Okay. That one’s a swing and a miss, too. Thinning his lips together, Steve thinks as hard as he can, back to that first night he got home with Arnie. How Hargrove finally got him to fall asleep. “I guess… he doesn’t swing him around by the ankle or anything.” There’s something kinda crazy about how talking like that still feels like he’s paying Hargrove a huge compliment. “I mean—duh, Arnie’s a baby, but…” Steve shrugs, swipes a thumb under his nose. “I never figured I’d trust a guy like that to be anywhere near my kid.” And the thing is, Steve kind of does. 

Billy Fucking Hargrove. Who knew? 

The way Mrs. Byers stares at him is giving Steve flashbacks to those three days at the hospital, with all those lab people watching his every move. “Hmm.” She finishes her food, then sets her fork down on the napkin. “Steve… Have you ever heard that expression, ‘actions speak louder than words’?”

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Well, he sounds like one of those boys who tries to be tough and macho all the time.” Yeah, see, Steve’s not sure he’d use the word tries. The guy’s a brick shithouse, Steve thinks he pulls ‘tough’ off just fine. “And from what Hop tells me, sounds like he’s had a real hard life. I think it’s sorta—” She puts her arms down at her sides and puffs her chest out like a gorilla, and Steve tries not to spit his milk all over the table. “—this way of protecting himself. Probably feels like he has to be just… an asshole out loud. But—” Mrs. Byers deflates, folding her hands in her lap, lips pursed. “I’d bet he doesn’t hate it as much as he says he does, otherwise he wouldn’t do it.”

Man, this is hard. Steve knows he shouldn’t be a dick to Mrs. Byers. She’s saved his ass more times in two weeks than Steve’s saved Henderson’s in five years. But if she thinks Hargrove likes babysitting, then Steve… 

Steve can kinda see why she’s got a reputation for being nuts. “Seriously?” 

“Trust me, sweetie.” She points at Steve’s plate, and Steve takes the hint, leaning over his plate so he can finish his food already. “You can’t make a boy like that do anything he doesn’t want to.” 

Notes:

Special thanks to my beta who was exceedingly patient with me. I was feeling particularly insecure about this chapter for whatever reason, and they were super reassuring. I hope all of you are able to enjoy it despite the struggles!

And, as promised/mentioned, here's a quick doodle of father of the year Billy and jus a baby!! Arnie. Although I'm only now realizing I forgot Billy's scars. RIP. 😔 And as I keep saying, if you think you recognize the art style... SHHHH!! (Please. 😭)

Finally, I know several of ya'll are justifiably worried that Steve's gorgeous tatas are tragically not getting the attention they deserve. I PROMISE this will be addressed in the next chapter. 😈 So... stay tuned. As always, thank you all so much for reading and commenting!! You truly make my day each and every time you interact with this story!

Chapter 15: Home Base

Notes:

This is the uhhh... This is the ME SUCKY SUCKY NOW MOMMY chapter. So. YK. If that's not your jam, might wanna skip it. 🫣

Hargrove’s doing this shit on purpose.

That’s gotta be it, right? He gets Arnie all used to him, makes a big fucking deal about how Steve sucks ass at this kid stuff, and then he bails. Right when Steve’s starting to think Hargrove probably won’t punt Arnie across the room like a football—when he starts, y’know, feeling like he can close his eyes for twenty minutes and trust the bastard with the tall order of not killing his kid—

That’s when Hargrove starts pulling a Houdini. 

And Steve really shouldn’t give a shit. Hell, maybe he got so used to pawning Arnie off on somebody once in a while that doing everything solo’s starting to get to him. But something about walking past the guy when he’s primping in front of the bathroom mirror, trying to make that perm of his look a little less deep fried while he pours on the trashiest cologne Steve’s ever choked on—it pisses him off!

It’s not like Steve needs his help. He’s getting pretty good with Arnie, and he hasn’t had a heart attack over some weird shit the kid’s done all week! Little asshole only wakes him up a few times a night, and Steve thinks his brain might actually be starting to turn on again. It shouldn’t get to him when Hargrove starts bitching about how he can’t bring any chicks back to Steve’s place because they’ll see Arnie, or how if they think that kid is his, they’ll never put out. How the hell is that Steve’s problem? It doesn’t add up. Except—oh, wait!

Steve’s never gonna have sex again in his life. He’s been over this, man! The only person who’s gonna watch him strip is Owens at his next physical, since Steve can’t exactly go to a normal doctor anymore. And unless he tries streaking at the next home game, the chances of a girl seeing him naked are fucking zilch. Maybe that’s why he’s feeling kinda testy. And man, Steve would love it if he didn’t care. If the thought of never getting touched like that again didn’t make him wanna shrivel up and die. 

But how the fuck is he supposed to be okay with it? How’s he supposed to watch Hargrove waltz in with a fucking stride of pride, buttons on his shirt all crooked, hickeys—Christ, scratch marks, too—across his chest, his shoulders, his neck… 

If Steve’d known he was never gonna touch a girl again, he would’ve made that last time count. Would’ve memorized every second of it. Soft thighs around his waist, squeezing. Heidi, or Brenda, or God, Nance, on her back, red in the face, mouth open while she tries to catch her breath. That perfect, drugged-out rush hitting both of them at the same time. It’d be written all over her face, and Steve’d know she was feeling it—would’ve been able to tell it was great for her, too. Then he’d bend over her, caught up in the afterglow, his whole body humming with this sort of electricity, and Steve’s… Steve’s never gonna feel that good again, is he? 

No wonder he wants to punch Hargrove’s teeth out. 

So when the shithead barges into Steve’s apartment and starts throwing a tantrum because he didn’t make it to home base for once? Yeah, well—Steve’s fresh out of sympathy. Guy slams the door on his way in, rips his jacket off and chucks it hard enough to leave a dent in the drywall. Steve has to stop him in the hallway, blocking him before the sound of his boots smashing through the floorboards wakes Arnie up. 

“Hey.” Steve darts to the right, blocking Hargrove when he tries to shove past him towards the balcony. “Slow your roll, asshole. He’s sleeping.” 

Hargrove doesn’t even lower his voice, lit cigarette jiggling in his bad hand. “Move.”

“Yeah, not happening.” Steve doesn’t break eye contact, tapping the side of one of Hargrove’s Doc Martens with the heel of his sock. “Now how ‘bout you go back over to the door, scrape the pubes off the bottom of your boots, and try that again.” Steve jerks a thumb over his shoulder towards his room, barely even whispering. “Maybe a little quieter this time?”

This gross squelch comes out of Hargrove’s mouth as he slides his tongue around in there, like he’s gnawing on the world’s wettest stick of gum. Guy’s about to pop a blood vessel, madder than Steve’s seen him in a while. The dark look in his eyes, the heavy breaths he keeps pushing through his nose… Steve thinks there’s a chance Hargrove might actually throw a punch. And Steve? Jesus—Steve might not even stop him. Hell, he might return the favor.

Hargrove does this raspy laugh, deep in the back of his throat, and then he jerks towards Steve. Steve flinches. It’s barely anything—all he does is blink and pull back half an inch—but it’s enough to make Hargrove laugh even harder. Asshole smirks and lifts his hands into the air like he just proved some bullshit point as he rumbles, “Whatever you say, compadre.” 

Then he drops his smoke on the floor, grinds it under his heel, and pulls a 180, clomping back into the living room.

Steve’s eyes bug out of his head at the black footprint on the carpet, and he’s about to lose his shit, man—he really is. But if he breaks Hargrove’s nose, or the guy fights back and throws Steve into the cabinets, it’s gonna wake Arnie up. Plus, Steve’s still paying off the damage to the Camaro. Probably shouldn’t add Hargrove’s hospital bills to his tab. 

He’s not touching that cigarette, though. Hargrove can go screw himself. Steve’s done cleaning up after this douchebag. When he walks into the living room, Hargrove’s got his feet up on the coffee table. No, sorry—boots. His boots are on the coffee table. 

Steve works his jaw, tries to keep his voice level when he asks, “So what happened, man?” He leans against the wall, talking to the back of Hargrove’s head as he starts going through the play-by-play. “Oh. Lemme guess. You got back to her place, got all her clothes off, and…” Steve groans like he’s back at practice, watching Doug Miller bomb the easiest layup on the planet. “Total strike out. Maybe the vibes were off, maybe Billy Junior didn’t get the memo, but the next thing you know, she’s lying next to you, looking at you like… ‘Was that it?’”

Apparently Hargrove’s gone deaf, so Steve keeps at it. 

He walks around to the front of the couch, holding his chin as he really mulls it over. “Nah, you know what? My timing’s probably off.” Hargrove’s more the overeager type, isn’t he? “Bet you got there early.”

Hargrove lifts an eyebrow at him. “Boy, you must’ve disappointed a lot of women in your day, Harrington.” He says it past tense. Like it’s over. 

“Well, maybe you can ask ‘em next time you’re out taking my sloppy seconds.” What, does Hargrove need his memory jogged? Forget how many girls Steve slept with before Hargrove ever slithered out of that Camaro back in ’84, Steve’s had another two years to rack up his score while Hargrove was six feet under. Hawkins isn’t a big town, man! There’s no way this isn’t some kinda double dip situation. 

Hargrove whistles. “Ooh, we got a temper tonight, don’t we?” Prick folds his arms behind his head, leaning back and scoping Steve out like he’s doing stand up.

“Jesus Christ. At least I don’t put a hole through the wall every time a girl won’t put out.” Steve jerks his head towards the front door, since he’s pretty sure Hargrove knocked it off its hinges, then scoffs. “Fuck, man. Thought you’d be used to that by now.” 

“Y’know Harrington, I am, uh—” Hand flopping over his chest, right on top of his heart—yeah, Steve wouldn’t believe he had one if it weren’t for the two minutes he spent getting it to start back up—Hargrove’s face crumples like he’s about to cry. “I am so sorry my sex life’s some sort of inconvenience to you. Y’know I have been getting so much tail, I guess I forgot about the little people. And tonight… I mean, striking out for the first time in…” Hargrove grabs the arm of the couch and hauls himself to his feet, muttering and sticking fingers up while he counts. Finally, he drops his hands with a shrug. “Well. For the first time. It’s got me thinking. Everything that little slut just put me through? Getting cock-teased for one night? That’s a drop in the bucket compared to your love life. I mean—shit! That’s your new reality.”

No matter how bad Steve wants to strangle the son of a bitch, he doesn’t show it. Keeps his face totally neutral, like he’s zoning out at the cash register in Save-A-Lot.

Hargrove sticks his thumbs through his belt loops, that same smirk plastered all over his face. “Me? All I have to do is give it a couple more months, and it’ll be business as usual. Hell, if I wanted to, I could go to the next town over. Check out the scene at one of the bars in Wabash. Nobody there’s gonna know I’ve got a rock with my death date on it. But you?” Hargrove looks him up and down like he’s checking out a gnarly fender bender. “Well, maybe if you get some poor dyke too drunk to see straight. But otherwise?” Guy snickers under his breath. “I’m not liking your odds.”

There’s something fucked up about how all that crap he just said sounds familiar. In a way, it’s all the shit Steve’s been thinking. Things he… kind of agrees with. But Steve’s not gonna tell Hargrove that. Not gonna admit he’s got a point, or that any of the digs he’s been taking are getting under Steve’s skin. “Hey. Why don’t you go to bed, man.” Steve doesn’t even blink, just looks over Hargrove’s shoulder at his crumpled jacket on the floor. “Bet you’ve had a long night.” 

“You gonna give me a curfew now?” Hargrove leans in, too close for comfort, and Steve wonders if let his guard down too soon. Shit, maybe they are gonna fight. You know what? Fuck it. Arnie gets enough sleep. “I know you’re dense, Harrington, but let me explain this to you one more time: it’s not my fault a woman’s never gonna touch you again.” Mouth open, tongue tracing under his front teeth, Hargrove’s eyes drop down.

And Steve, ‘cause he’s an idiot, looks down, too. 

Holy shit. Steve glances back up at Hargrove. Is… Is this dickhead checking him out? No, God—he’s not—he’s not checking Steve out. He can’t be. But he’s looking at Steve’s chest. His… pecs. And, uh. That’s another thing nobody warned him about. Turns out, if you don’t feed the kid the… that way, the area gets all… swollen. And it hurts. Like a bitch. 

Guess Hargrove noticed. 

“Lucky for you, though…” Hargrove slides his hand onto Steve’s waist, to the spot where it dips in since Arnie, and he does this slow, sleazy rub before Steve jerks away. “I’m a generous guy. I don’t care that you’re a queer, or a whiny little bitch. And since we’re friends…” Hargrove shrugs, throwing both arms around Steve’s waist, pulling Steve in and pinning him to his chest so tight, that it—OW. (That’s the pecs. That was the pecs.) “I’m still gonna help you out.” Ducking his head, Hargrove ignores the way Steve’s thrashing against him like a fish, sliding his hands down to grab a couple palmfuls of Steve's ass. “How’s that sound, mama?”

Steve freezes. It’s like his body hears it before his brain does, and for a good three seconds, Steve has no idea Hargrove meant to say that to him. And when it does sink in, he makes this freaky sound, half-laugh, half… yell, because there’s no way he heard that right. “… The fuck did you just call me?”

Hargrove slams Steve against him again, rough enough to feel like a kick in the nads, but, like… in his chest, and he starts attacking Steve’s neck like he wants to pull his skin off with his teeth. This deep burn flares up in Steve’s ribcage, and no matter how much he wishes he could tell himself it didn’t happen, that he didn’t notice it, the heat of Hargrove’s mouth on his shoulder sends a jolt straight down to his dick. “Whatever the hell I want.”

“Jesus, man. Get off me.” Shit, shit, shit. Steve’s brain is screaming at him, and he’s trying to make the right call, but all his body wants to do is cave. Guess whatever Hargrove did to him—all that time he spent training Steve’s body to fold like a house of cards—it’s still working. (Christ, it’s like that guy with the dogs and bells—all that mad scientist shit. Pablo or whatever.) Hargrove did something the first few times they fooled around, and now Steve’s brain is screwed up forever. The best he can do is this slow, wussy squirm, like he’s moving through pudding, trying to pry an arm between him and Hargrove so he can shove the guy off. Hargrove doesn’t even notice, one hand sliding down the back of Steve’s thigh before he grabs him—loops an arm under Steve’s knee and lifts his leg, almost like he’s coaching Steve to wrap it around his waist. The same exact shit Steve was just remembering—the shit girls used to do to him.

Fuck, this is like some kind of sick joke.

“In a minute.” Hargrove comes up for air, then locks lips with Steve, prying his tongue between Steve’s teeth and doing… something with it that feels better than it’s got any right to. Steve forgets to breathe half the time, sucking in air through his nose when he remembers to do it, lightheaded and way too warm, like he’s got a fever. Guess Hargrove figured out that Steve kinda turns into a statue when the bastard does shit with his mouth. It’s just so soft—soft  enough that Steve loses himself in it. Soft enough that he can almost pretend he’s kissing a girl. 

… When he doesn’t feel the mustache scraping him. Ugh. God.

Hargrove drags Steve towards the couch, and Steve stumbles, almost falling flat on his ass. Then, as soon as he catches himself, Hargrove knocks him down. Steve wheezes when his back hits the cushions, and he starts to get up, dizzy, face burning, and… damn it. Already turned on. But maybe Hargrove won’t spot his raging semi. (Not that Steve being totally flaccid would even slow the guy down.) Steve’s almost off the couch when Hargrove grabs his shoulder and shoves him flat against the couch, hard enough for Steve to clip his back on the armrest. Hargrove sits on the other end, grabbing Steve under the knees and dragging him over. Steve yelps as his back fwomps onto the cushions, Hargrove dropping Steve’s thighs on top of his knees.

Steve tries it again, hunching forward so he can get up, but Hargrove pins him, doubling over on top of him and clamping his mouth onto Steve’s. It catches him off guard, and he’s barely got it together enough to smack at Hargrove’s hands when the bastard starts trying to yank his shirt up. It doesn’t do shit, and by the time Hargrove breaks away to suck in air, he’s worked Steve’s sweaty tee high enough to roll it up over his head. (Fuck. Guess he’s picked up a few tricks from changing Arnie.) 

Steve freezes, and he knows his face is redder than Hargrove’s new Camaro. There’s this split second where he swears he can almost feel his chest, like… plop down after Hargrove gets the shirt off. Steve doesn’t even wanna look at the damage, eyes going anywhere but down, and when they stumble onto Hargrove, the guy’s jaw is on the floor.

“H-Holy shit.” He breaks out in a grin, laughing to himself, not even blinking as he takes in Steve’s… cans. “What the hell comes after a D-cup?” 

“Yeeeaah, okay. We’re done here.” Steve’s just gonna melt through the couch, but hey, at least Hargrove had the decency to totally blow it before Steve did something he’d regret. Y’know—again.

“Where’s the fire, Harrington?” Hargrove pins him a third time with a hand on his stomach, rough enough that Steve lets out an oof. Then he grinds up against Steve’s ass as soon as he’s down. (Oh, Jesus Christ. How is he already hard?) “We’re just gettin’ started.” 

“Uh, no, we’re n—” Hargrove cuts him off with another kiss, and Steve’s arms jerk up, ready to close his fingers around the jackass’s throat. But right before he can, Hargrove’s hand slides up along his ribcage to cup one side of his chest.  “—MMPH.” 

Hissing through his teeth, Hargrove breaks away and phones in a worried face. “That looks like it hurt.” He does it again, running a thumb over the underside before he grinds it in against the nipple. Steve winces and tries not to throw up in the back of his throat when that’s enough to push out a trickle of liquid. “How ‘bout that?” 

“God, you’re a piece of shit.” Swallowing, Steve jerks around under the weight of Hargrove’s fat ass, but he doesn’t make a lot of headway.

“Who, me?” Hargrove pretends to act surprised—even does this fake, offended gasp—then winks and squeezes Steve harder, bending to mouth at the crook of his jaw.

Clenching his teeth, Steve groans, wishing he could tune out the way his dick’s somehow getting harder as Hargrove fucking… milks him. Yeah, he takes it back—he’s not gonna hold it in anymore. If he pukes, he pukes. Hargrove works an arm under the small of Steve’s back, and Steve—it just happens automatically. His spine does this… girly little arch, and he can’t even freak out about it, because the hickey Hargrove’s working on, plus that hand kneading at his chest… Well, it still hurts like a bitch, but it’s almost starting to feel good. The thing is, Steve’s been sore for a while now. So even though he’s probably dripping on the fucking couch—even though he wants to gag when he feels the other side start to leak—Steve can’t do anything but lie there and take it. 

Hargrove moves his hand, grabs at Steve’s other pec, and Steve winces again, this small, pained noise muffled in the back of his throat. The longer Hargrove manhandles him, the more that pressure lets off, and the less the whole area feels like an open wound. Hargrove keeps sucking on Steve's neck, then moves to his shoulder, only stopping every once in a while to catch his breath, or drag his teeth along Steve’s skin. And Steve shivers, getting lost in it, letting Hargrove fumble with his sweats so he can tug them down before it hits him.

No way has it been six weeks. 

“Whoawhoawhoa—don’t—” Steve sputters, and—oh, what the hell. Is he seriously winded? From thirty seconds of foreplay? “I can’t—“ Swallowing, Steve forces himself to look Hargrove in the eye. And yeah, he hates telling the guy he has to stopwhoa. NO. Hold on a second. Steve does not hate telling Hargrove to stop, he’s just… he’s too turned on to want to quit now! That doesn’t mean anything! He’d be blue-balling it just as bad if he had to stop cold turkey in the middle of rubbing one out. “We can’t do anything.”

Wrinkling his nose, Hargrove makes a face when Steve says that. Then he straightens up, snorting and jerking his chin towards the tent Steve’s been pitching for the last five minutes. “You seriously telling me you don’t want this?” 

“No, dumbass. I mean—” Groaning, Steve cranes his head back, staring up at the ceiling so he doesn’t have to watch Hargrove’s reaction. “I can’t. Like… doctor’s orders, and all that shit.” 

“Mm.” Hargrove makes that sound, and Steve’s gearing up for… something. He doesn’t know! Maybe Hargrove throwing a shit-fit over Steve telling him to back off, or cracking up while he ditches, saying some crap about how it sucks to be you, Harrington. What he’s not expecting is for Hargrove to pry a hand under the waistband of his sweats so he can wrap it around his dick. “This count?”

Steve jumps a foot. Hargrove’s skin is so hot, it feels like Steve stuck his junk straight into a campfire. “Jesus! I-I don’t know, man!”

Hargrove laughs deep in his chest. Not the same psycho shit he was doing earlier, either. Like, a real laugh. Then he bends forward, close enough that their noses almost touch, tightening his fingers around Steve’s length and squeezing ’til Steve’s thighs tense up. “Then I guess we’ll find out.”

Hargrove starts stroking—doesn’t even wait for an answer—and Steve gulps, eyelids fluttering shut. Holy shit. He hasn’t been touched in weeks, almost a month, and he hates that it feels amazing. Hates that Hargrove’s the one doing it, and most of all, he hates that he can kinda tell the jackass is getting better at this. His back arches again, even though he’s yelling at himself not to do that, but Hargrove’s mouth is all over him, blocking every clear thought he has under a layer of radio static. Hargrove spreads one hand out on the cushion for leverage, the other one still teasing at Steve’s dick, giving these slow, light tugs. He slings a leg over one of Steve’s and flattens his whole body against him, close enough that Steve can feel the guy’s hard-on grinding into the meat of his thigh. (He’s got a little more give there since Arnie, and he guarantees this buttwipe gets some kind of nasty kick out of it.) 

It’s easy to lose himself in the feel of Hargrove’s hand. He’s not going fast enough to push Steve over the edge yet, but he’s not dragging it out so long that Steve loses steam. It’s just the right speed to piss Steve off. He’d do anything to get his tongue to listen to him, to be able to tell Hargrove to hurry the fuck up, but his brain’s not working too great. Neither are his arms—they’re doing shit all on their own, creeping up to wind around Hargrove’s back, this sad, pathetic way of telling the guy to stay right where he is. To keep doing what he’s doing. And every time Steve thinks he’s gonna get the pieces of his brain back together, that he might find a way to talk again, Hargrove pulls his head away. Takes his mouth off Steve’s shoulder, or his neck, or the top of his chest, and then kisses him hard, ’til Steve’s head is spinning. Almost like the son of a bitch is keeping him stupid, making sure he won’t fight back again.

Christ. That’s a fucking laugh. As if Steve hasn’t been half-assing those fights for a while now.

Hargrove raises his head, lips dragging across Steve’s before he pauses, the hand around Steve’s dick freezing. And it’s only a split second, but Steve’s already so pent up, he sees red—almost headbutts the bastard for stopping. And Hargrove just sits there, lips pressed together, eyebrows scrunched over his eyes, wracking his brain before he ducks down again— 

And licks a couple drops of white off Steve’s chest.

“Oh, DUDE!” Steve chokes, flailing and trying to climb up the back of the couch like a spider. “What the hell?!” 

“That any way to talk to the guy who’s doing you a favor?” Shooting Steve a crazy grin, Hargrove yanks him back onto the cushions and does it again. Steve turns his head and gags. “All I’m doing is cleaning up your mess.” 

“My m—AH.” Steve’s whole body tenses up, every muscle he’s got clenching up when Hargrove puts his lips around his—his nipple. And fuck! So what if he’s gone there a couple times? Doesn’t mean Steve has to think about it! And also? Uh, also—last time, Steve wasn’t spooging out of his pecs! But Hargrove doesn’t miss a beat, lips pursing as he gives a small tug. And man, it feels weird. Steve’s so shell-shocked, he can’t even react. Just lies there, a total statue, his brain misfiring as Hargrove does it again. He sucks, and Steve can feel it… coming out. Hargrove’s Adam’s apple bobs, and Steve’s got the urge to grab one of the couch cushions and suffocate himself. But each time Hargrove gulps, every time his lips pull at Steve, there’s a red-hot surge that shoots straight to his dick. 

He twitches in Hargove’s hand.

That makes the guy chuckle, and he pulls away, coughing a couple times before diving right back in. Jesus Christ. He’s, like… drinking. God, this is sick. This is sick, man! But Steve’s body doesn’t give a shit! Every time Hargrove swallows, or he drags his hand along Steve’s dick, it’s like a shot of nitrous straight to his engine. This buzzing, scary-strong rush is turning every square inch of him on. Steve hears himself start to pant, but Hargrove’s silent except for the sharp breaths he’s taking through his nostrils, and the—fuck—swallowing. Each time Hargrove grips Steve’s length, Steve’s nails dig into the freak’s back a little more. There are a couple times Hargrove slows down, almost stops, and Steve’s not sure if he just sucks at multitasking, or if he’s trying to drive Steve crazy, but either way, he feels like he’s been in limbo for half an hour by the time Hargrove starts getting him close.

  And shit, Hargrove’s gotta be getting close, too. Each time Hargrove loses his cool a little, grinding against the inside of Steve’s thigh, he can tell. Hargrove keeps at it, drawing out the end of each stroke, and pretty soon every flex of his wrist is enough to drag a noise out of Steve. And Steve… Steve’s not gonna last much longer. Hargrove pushes himself up on his elbow, lips slipping off Steve’s nipple, and it hits Steve that his whole chest’s warm, and wet, and covered in slobber. And Steve has this flash of panic, huge alarm bells going off in his head—‘cause that none of that’s turning him off. 

Hargrove doesn’t give him time to worry about it, though. He switches sides, wrapping his lips around Steve’s other nipple, sucking while he picks up the pace, tugging with this soft pressure that squeezes around Steve’s hard-on ’til he’s hanging on for dear life. And somebody else must be calling the shots, ‘cause Steve swears he doesn’t do it, doesn’t tell his hand to cup the back of Hargrove’s head, or wind the fingers through his stupid curls, but it happens. 

And… it’s softer than he thought it’d be.

Not as greasy as it looks, anyway. Hargrove keeps pumping his hand, swallowing, almost chugging—fuck, Steve never wants to think like that again. And a second later, he kinda gets his wish, because when Hargrove cinches tight around his dick, thumb tracing the shape of it before grinding into the underside of the tip, Steve whites out. He gets hit with the mother of all head rushes, and he could swear he’s falling straight through the floor for a couple seconds as this burn runs through him, wracking his whole body ’til his toes and the tips of his fingers are buzzing. 

He comes hard, spunk hitting his stomach, the bottom of his chest. He keeps on pumping his hips, jerking them up against Hargrove’s rock solid weight like he’s trying to chase the feeling, desperate to keep it going for as long as he can. Hargrove grinds in time with Steve’s weird little movements, hitting his climax right when Steve’s finished riding that last aftershock. The guy has to pull his head away, mouth popping off Steve’s chest so he can clench his teeth and groan. He hunches forward, burying his face in Steve’s shoulder, Steve softening up in his hand while he creams those crusty jeans. Hargrove groans, curling into himself and going totally still.

They stay like that for a minute. Guess it took it a lot out of both of them.

Steve’s catching his breath, Hargrove’s trying to hide the fact that he needs to catch his breath, and for a while, neither of them moves. Then Steve slowly pries his nails out of Hargrove’s shirt, untangles fingers from the asshole’s mullet, breath evening out as Hargrove slowly pushes off him. And Steve swallows, this freaky, nervous energy hitting him when he and Hargrove lock eyes. 

Man, blue eyes are creepy. At least, Hargrove’s are. When Steve’s got a moment to actually look at them—or maybe when his brain’s a pile of oatmeal, like it is right now—he swears he can feel them staring right through him. In the light from the crappy overhead bulb, half hidden under Hargrove’s bangs, they almost glow. 

Steve screws his face up, stuck on his back, paralyzed while the the guy straightens the rest of the way up and—oh, for fuck’s sake. Stops to wipe the cum off his hand and onto the side of Steve’s sweats. But then his hand stays there. On Steve. Inches up a little higher, fans out over his stomach, and Steve feels his thumb run across it. He sees Hargrove’s eyes dart down, like he’s surprised to find it there. 

Steve’s scar.

It’s mostly healed. It only hurts once in a while, and it’s nowhere near as nasty as it was those first few days in the hospital. It’s not red, or puffed up, or angry looking anymore. It’s just this thin, pink line cutting through the shaved stubble of Steve’s happy trail. Something flickers over Hargrove’s face, and Steve swears, that thumb sinking into his scar stings. 

Then Hargrove snaps out of it, whatever the hell it was, shaking his head and bending low over Steve again. Steve’s breath catches in his throat, and his heart does this funny throb, eyes still glued to Hargrove’s face. That’s when Hargrove mashes his hand down on the crown of Steve’s head, rough enough to put a crick in his neck. The douchebag’s giving him a fucking noogie, and he takes his best shot at ruining Steve’s hair before bending down to whisper in his ear,

“You’re welcome.” 

Notes:

OKAY!!! It happened!! Billy finally did something about all that milk! Are ya'll HAPPY now?!? JK, JK--you have no idea how much it killed me (in the best way possible) to have multiple comments bemoaning Steve's milk going to waste! Clearly, I've found my people, and those comments had me picturing ya'll waiting for the next chapter like this:

 

 

And Billy going out to get a bit of fucky... Perhaps a controversial opinion, but I feel like canon heavily implies Billy would never want to be tied down, even in a socially acceptable, heteronormative relationship. A real love 'em and leave 'em type. And whatever the hell he and Steve have going on doesn't even register as anything resembling a relationship for either of them. (Not yet, anyway.) They don't even want to admit they've fooled around, let alone that there might be something more going on beyond the physical side of things. They're just two guys being dudes!! And all Billy cares about is how he's finally able to chase tail again. Tooootally. Even if, for some mysterious reason, that pussy ain't hitting the way it used to... 🤔

Hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter! I think all of the smut chapters wound up being on odd numbered chapters, too, which I just realized and thought was kinda funny. As always, thanks so much for reading and sharing your thoughts! I swear, I get as excited about comments as I hope ya'll get about these chapters! I'm extremely grateful, and I feel so lucky to have all of you. 🥰

Chapter 16: Two Birds, One Stone

At the time, Steve kinda thought it seemed too easy. All the shit he went through keeping Hargrove under wraps, and when the cat was finally out of the bag, all it took was a couple of signatures before Hargrove could waltz back into the real world. Well, turns out it wasn’t that simple. Yeah, Hargrove’s allowed to exist again, and Owens isn’t gonna lock him in the basement as some kind of glorified lab monkey. But a couple times a year, he has to go back to the hospital. Let Owens make sure he’s not melting into goo, or that he won’t turn into a demogorgon on the next full moon. And a couple days ago, Owens called Steve and let him know that Hargrove’s got his first check-up scheduled right after Arnie’s. 

Owens always did seem like a ‘two birds, one stone’ type of guy.

Hargrove’s not happy about it. Practically put a hole through the Chevy’s floorboard on the way over with all his foot tapping. (The Camaro’s barely got a back row, and no way is Steve letting Hargrove in the driver’s seat within 20 feet of Arnie.) Steve couldn’t get him to put out his cigarette, either, so he had to settle for letting the asshole hang his arm out the window and blow his smoke into the breeze. 

At least Arnie gets a kick out of the drive. Steve keeps checking him out in the rear view mirror, and he’s just chilling in his carseat, watching the back of Steve’s head or checking out his feet like they’re the coolest things he’s ever seen. And he’s smiling! At first, Steve thought it was gas, but then he started doing it when Steve’d walk into the room, or—okay, yeah, he’d do it for Hargrove, too. But he’s smiling, man!

Wish he could say the same about Hargrove. The guy acts like he’s on death row when Steve parks the Chevy behind the hospital, swinging the door open slow enough to make the hinges groan. After he gets out, he just stands there spazzing ’til Steve gets Arnie buckled into his carrier before stomping past Steve towards the back entrance. He shoves through it fast enough that it slams behind him and almost clocks Steve in the face—yeah, thanks for getting the door, dickwipe! Muttering under his breath, Steve yanks the door open and follows Hargrove in, shoving the guy out of the way so he can type out the pin at the end of the hall. 

It’s emptier than Steve remembers, and nobody even looks up when they walk in. Steve heads over to one of the chairs, but Hargrove stands, hands in his pockets, looking ready to bail the second he hears a loud noise. (Jesus. He’s really scared of these people, isn’t he?) Owens doesn’t keep them waiting, though. He walks in a minute later, shakes Steve’s hand, and takes them back to the same room where Steve got felt up for four and a half months. Steve plops Arnie’s carrier down on the exam table, then tries not to to be a total creep as he hovers behind Owens, watching as the guy unbuckles Arnie and picks him up. 

“Well, somebody’s looking a little more symmetrical!” Owens chuckles, tucking Arnie into the crook of his elbow as he starts doing that baby-talk crap. “Oh, is it you?” Arnie eats it up, though, smiling and making grabby hands at Owens’ face.

“Thank God, right?” Steve’s kinda joking—obviously. C’mon, he would’ve loved the kid even if he stayed that ugly! But on the other hand, Arnie getting a boost in the looks department… Well, c’mon! It didn’t exactly hurt.

“See how he’s smiling?” Owens asks. “Responding to my voice, looking at my face…”

“Yeah?” Steve nods, even though he’s got no idea where Owens is going with this. But hey, it sounds important! Might as well make it obvious he’s listening. Paying attention to this shit’s probably like parenting homework or something. And no way is Steve gonna fail this class.

“That’s more in line with a two month old, which means his growth’s still accelerated.” He lifts his head to look at Steve, like he’s making sure Steve was paying attention the first time around. “But remember, that’s what we expected. And I’m still anticipating it’ll slow down to a normal rate in the next few months.” With this intense look, Owens says, “You know what that means.”

“Whuh—yeah.” Steve jumps. “Yeah! I mean. ‘Course I do.” Nah, he doesn’t. Steve’s stumped.

Owens winks. “You’d better make sure you celebrate this little guy’s half birthday, too.”

Steve feels this dumb sense of relief, like he found out he didn’t flunk Owens’ secret test to figure out whether or not he’s a shitty parent. He tries to get rid of this mental image of the guy snatching Arnie away, telling Steve some shit like, Nope, you suck, I’m taking this back, and forces a laugh. “G-Good one, man.”

Hargrove makes this pissed off teenager noise and rolls his eyes. The guy keeps giving Owens these paranoid glances, as if the guy’s doing some back-alley surgery instead of checking to see if Arnie’s ticklish. 

And that’s pretty much what’s happening, but Steve still holds his breath through the whole routine. Owens checks Arnie’s eyes, mouth, nose—he has Steve take his little onesie off and measures every inch of him. Before he moves on to the next thing, Owens stops and tells Steve exactly what he’s doing to Arnie. Steve’s not sure if Owens is giving him the rundown because he can tell Steve’s kinda freaking out, or if that’s just par for the course. 

Then he tells Steve that Arnie's heart, and lungs, and eyes—pretty much all of him—looks great. Even his hip bones, which is something you have to watch out for with babies, apparently. The guy says there are a bunch of tiny differences in all his body parts, which means the kid might wind up needing glasses for only one eye, or some weird shit, which is definitely freaky.  But for right now, all the separate pieces are fine, and Arnie’s body is working exactly how it’s supposed to. 

Owens asks Steve how Arnie’s been eating, and even about his poop, which is nasty. And even nastier, Steve’s actually got an answer for all his questions. 

“Alright, here’s the not so fun part.” Owens pauses, then lets the bomb drop. “He’s going to need a shot.”

Steve winces like he’s the one getting jabbed. “Uh. Okay.”

 Steve knows it’s gotta happen—it’s not like he wants Arnie to get polio or some shit—but he can tell it’s gonna suck. Even Hargrove snaps out of whatever daze he’s in, looking up as Owens turns to fiddle with some stuff on the counter. Then he has Steve hold Arnie, cleans his chunky arm with a wet wipe, and does it. And Steve swears, he’s this close to socking Owens in the jaw when Arnie starts screaming. But Owens keeps saying shit like, “it’s okay,” and “you’re doing great,” and the whole thing barely lasts thirty seconds. After he’s done,  Steve manages to calm Arnie down enough to get him back into his PJs, and then he holds him ’til he stops crying. 

“Now, uh—don’t worry.” Shooting Hargrove a grin, Owens yanks a fresh paper cover onto the exam table. “No shots for you. You’re all up to date.”

The joke doesn’t land and Hargrove doesn’t budge, staring Owens down with a look so intense, Steve wonders if the asshole’s gonna try and throttle him. 

The vibes are bad enough that even Owens catches on, and when he pipes up again, he sounds more uncomfortable than Steve’s ever heard him. “Okay, William. If you’ll just have a seat up on the exam table…”

Hargrove actually moves this time, but it’s like somebody else is pulling the strings as he plops down on the paper sheet, still trying to set Owens’ hair on fire with his eyes. 

“And, uh—I’ll need you to take the shirt off.”

Before he’s even finished with that sentence, Hargrove rips his shirt open. It’s the same type of move from when he tore his jacket off right before making Steve eat dirt in front of the Byers’. And man, Steve’d love to think Hargrove’s better than this, and that Steve’s not gonna have to break up the most one-sided beatdown in history, but this is ringing way too many bells for Steve’s liking.

It figures. He just got Arnie to stop crying, too.

Owens’ mouth is hanging open, this worried expression on his face as Hargrove drops his shirt behind him on the table. Hargrove’s body language is pure junkyard dog, still sizing Owens up so obviously that there’s no way the old man can’t pick up on it. But Owens must be pretty brave for a five-foot-even lab geek, because he keeps on charging ahead.  

“First up, let’s see how the old ticker’s sounding.” He gives Hargrove a wide berth until the last possible second, sticking the stethoscope in his ears and then pressing the metal part against Hargrove’s chest, next to the biggest scar he’s got. They’ve barely changed since that first night Hopper almost ran Hargrove over, still kind of pink and raised up. God, maybe they’re always gonna look that bad. Guess there’s only so much magic demodog juice can fix. 

Hargrove flinches when the metal touches him, and Owens mutters, “Sorry. Cold.” He slides the metal part around, thinking hard, but at least he doesn’t look worried—that’s good, right? And yeah, Steve doesn’t give a shit whether Hargrove’s got a sparkling clean bill of health or not, but he doesn’t want the guy to, like, drop dead again. “Deep breath for me.” Hargrove waits a second before doing it, like it’s such a goddamn chore to breathe on command. “Good, good. How do you feel?”

Somehow, Hargrove finds a way to sound offended. “What?”

“Physically,” Owens says. “Do you feel any different from, say, before you died?”

 This flicker goes across Hargrove’s face. If he was a normal person, that probably would’ve been a flinch, and Steve feels this weird urge to look away. He doesn’t know, man. Maybe he shouldn’t be seeing this. “… No.” 

“No fatigue?” asks Owens. “Heart racing, muscle pain… any problems with hearing or vision?”

Hargrove does this tiny, barely-there head shake. 

“How do you feel cognitively? Any memory loss, or confusion?”

Another head shake. Hargrove’s eyes look kind of wide, and he’s starting to breathe heavy through his nose.  

“I’d like to feel around your abdomen if that’s alright.” Owens waits for Hargrove to give him the okay—the puniest nod Steve’s ever seen—then reaches out and grabs Hargrove’s shoulder, pressing his fingers into one of his scars. “Does any of this hurt?” Hargrove shakes his head again, breathing like a racehorse but still trying to hide it. “How about this?” Owens moves his hand around, testing out a few more spots, and Hargrove shakes his head for all of them. “Good. That’s good.” Owens steps back, motioning for Hargrove to put his shirt back on. “… Other than the blood test, I’d say that’s about it. Do you have anything you’re concerned about? Any questions?”

“N—”

“Well, there’s— ” Steve freezes when Hargrove whips around to glare at him. Steve swallows, then looks dumbly at Owens. “I mean. Y-Your hand, dude. Right?” 

Owens glances at Hargrove again. “You’re having trouble with your hand?” 

Hargrove’s lips barely move as he grunts through clenched teeth. “It’s fine.”

Okay, that’s bullshit. Dickhead’s just gonna have to thank Steve for this later. He points to the guy’s right hand, explaining, “His right hand’s kinda… messed up.” 

“How so?” This time, Owens doesn’t wait for an answer. He just pulls Hargrove’s arm off the table and Hargrove watches him, looking like he got slapped across the face as Owens turns it over, spreads the fingers, and taps on the tips. Then, when he notices the way it's shaking, he frowns. “Try to make a fist.”

Hargrove’s got a vein bulging in his forehead, and Steve doesn’t have to be a genius to know the dumbass would love to make a fist for totally different reasons. He does it, though, and even from Steve’s point of view, it looks like a struggle. 

“I see.” Owens does this hum in the back of his throat. “Do you notice if the shaking gets worse during certain periods? Say, a lot of repeated movement, or moments of high stress?”

Hargrove seems to fight it for a second before he makes himself nod.

Owens hums a second time, finally letting Hargrove snatch his hand back. “Unfortunately, you’ll probably want to have a specialist look at that—and I’m no specialist. But, uh…” Eyebrows bunching together, Owens frowns again. “Making an educated guess here, I’d say you’ve got quite a bit of nerve damage. It could be that your injuries were simply too extensive for Brenner’s demodog concoction to fully heal, or maybe it was an imperfect formula. We’ll never know for certain without a sample to analyze, but it could be that some types of tissue were easier for the formula to repair than others. 

But, uh, regardless—not much we can do now.” Clapping a hand on Hargrove’s shoulder, Owens gives him a sorry smile, and Hargrove counters with this look that says he wants to chew Owens’ arm off. “If you like, we can get you set up with a physical therapist. Might be able to get some of that movement back—help alleviate the tremors.” Pulling his arm away, Owens steps back and sighs. “But I want to be transparent before I get your hopes up too high. When nerve damage is this extensive…” Owens’ mouth opens, and he can’t seem to find the words for a second. From the look on his face, Steve gets the feeling he’s not used to running out of things to say. “Well, it’s unlikely it’ll ever be good as new.”

Hargrove doesn’t answer.

“But hey!” Owens’ face breaks out in a bigger smile, and Steve winces, because come on, man! Read the room! “A small price to pay for coming back to life, am I right?” 

Steve can practically see the steam coming out of Hargrove’s ears as he grabs his shirt and yanks it back on, eyes locked on Owens as he gets up to leave. 

“Wuh—!” Sputtering, Owens takes a couple steps forward. “There’s still the blood test, so if you could—”

Making a point to ignore him, Hargrove buttons his shirt and walks out the door.  

“Uh. Well.” Smiling awkwardly, Owens turns and gives Steve an uncomfortable laugh, and Steve’s not sure if the guy’s talking to him, or to himself, when he mutters, “We’ll reschedule.” 

 

*

 

Hargrove called Owens every name in the book on the car ride home, but he’s in a slightly less shitty mood by the time some of the blockheads stop by. Guy just happened to be in the middle of making Arnie a bottle when they knocked on the door, and now Hargrove’s got the nerve to strut around like he’s the one who grew the kid out of an alien slug and some spare body parts. Dipshit’s just soaking it up while El and Max gush over Arnie, with Henderson in the back doing commentary. (Honestly, the smartass is probably only here ‘cause Arnie’s cooler than anything they’ve got at the zoo, with the bonus of being free to gawk at.) 

“He’s actually getting kinda cute.” Max is trying to cover her ass, but her face gives her away. Yeah, nice try, kid. Nobody smiles that much if something’s only kinda cute. “That, or I’m just getting used to his face.” 

El’s still doing this whispery voice, and Steve wonders if she thinks Arnie’s gonna curl up into a ball and hide if she talks too loud. “Hi! Hi, Arnie.”

Arnie gurgles, reaching for El, but Steve steps in to block him.

“Hey! Watch it, ladies.” He gently pushes Arnie’s hands away from El’s face. (He keeps cutting his nails, but they grow crazy fast. Just like the rest of him, apparently.) “Those things are sharp.”

“Can you guys quit hogging the chimera baby?” Henderson pries his way between El and Max with a grunt. 

Max does this double take, like she’s not sure if she needs to be insulted or not. “What did you just call him?”

“A chimera? You know—the creature from Greek mythology,” Henderson explains, and then goes on, even though nobody asked him to. “One third lion, one third goat, one third snake.”

“Uh, no,” Max scoffs. “I don’t know, actually.” 

“Okay, then you don’t know it’s also a medical term for people who merged with their twin in the womb.” Henderson keeps giving her this look, like he’s annoyed she didn’t have this lesson he’s pulling out of his ass memorized. 

“Can we skip it?” groans Max. “I don’t care.” 

“Well, you should care!” Stepping back, Dustin chops an arm towards Arnie as he drools all over himself and a little bit of Hargrove’s arm. “Arnie’s biology could be made up of—”

El cuts him off, practically vibrating when she steps in front of Henderson so she can ask, “Billy, can I hold him?” 

“Uh—” To the guy’s credit, Hargrove looks just as stumped as Steve feels, seeing El talk to him like an actual human being. “I don’t give a shit, knock yourself out.” Hargrove glances at Steve out of the corner of his eye, then looks away the second Steve makes eye contact so he can double down on his not giving a shit routine.

El doesn’t need to be told twice. She carefully lifts Arnie out of Hargrove’s arms, and Max instantly starts to help her.

“Here, try…” Shoving El’s arms around, Max helps her find a good pose and gets Arnie all settled in. And Steve's gotta wonder—what the hell is up with her and Hargrove? Seriously, where are they learning all this baby shit? “There. You have to hold his head up. Babies’ neck muscles are super shitty, and their heads are, like… huge, so…”

Henderson watches the show for a second, and at first Steve’s kind of impressed the kid’s listening to that little voice in his head telling him not to be a dick, but then he shakes it off and starts back up again. “Like I was saying, Arnie’s biology came from… what?” Turning to Steve, he asks, “How many people?”

That puts Steve on the spot, since he… doesn’t totally remember. “Uh… Five? No—seven?” Wait, did Owens even give him a number?

“Are you asking?” Henderson makes this grossed out noise, like he can’t believe Steve’s this clueless. “Jesus Christ, Steve! How can you not know? He’s your kid!”

“So?” It’s total bullshit, having to defend himself to Dustin here, but he guesses he can’t expect the kid to understand that there’s more important crap to worry about than Arnie’s kai… whatever problem. “I don’t give a shit how many people are in there! All I care about is his heart, and his lungs, and his brain… Like, his organs and junk.” Wait, did that sound messed up? Okay, well—Henderson goes cuckoo for creepy shit like that. He’ll probably understand it better if Steve puts it like a serial killer. 

“You’re not seeing the big picture here!” Henderson throws his hands in the air as he starts ranting. “Think about all the people who were flayed!” Hargrove twitches behind him and Max shoots Dustin a dirty look he completely misses. "More than thirty, at least, and that’s before Vecna conjured up another dozen during Armageddon.” 

“Okay, just—” Steve snaps his fingers so Henderson’ll give him the cliff notes because,  somehow, he doesn’t like where this conversation’s headed. “Get to the point, Henderson. You’re freaking me out.” 

“Arnie’s DNA could’ve come from anybody the Mindflayer killed.” The kid’s eyes get all wide and crazy, and Steve swears he can see the loose screws popping out the longer he talks. “That newspaper douchebag who tried to eat Nancy, or that lifeguard chick, o-or Eddie—”

El’s still in her own little world with Arnie, but Max’s face scrunches up like she doesn’t buy it. And yeah, neither does Steve. “But… Eddie wasn’t flayed.” 

“But Vecna killed him!” Henderson’s voice cracks, and he pauses. Then he clears his throat and goes on like nothing happened. “Those flesh monsters at Armageddon weren’t like the other flayed. Vecna didn’t make them out of dead people, he just… created them. And, FYI—” Henderson jabs a finger towards Steve. “—you of all people should be familiar with that, since one of them got you pregnant.”

“Oh, come on, man!” Max and El start busting a gut, and even Hargrove cracks a smile as Steve grumbles, “Don’t use the p word…”

Henderson gawks at him for a second, then snaps, “Seriously? You’re gonna get all sensitive about terminology now?” Clapping his hands a few times, he shouts, “You HAD A BABY, STEVE.”

“HEY, HEY! Shh!” Steve moves like he’s gonna cover the little shit’s mouth, but Dustin dodges. “Just—get on with it already. Jesus.”

Kneading the sides of his massive forehead, Henderson exhales, then talks real slow. “Vecna didn’t use any living people to make the monster that created Arnie. Or…” Frowning, Henderson drops his hands, since apparently the kid can’t follow his own logic. “Maybe he did. But—look! The point is, he obviously had access to the genetic codes of the people he’d already killed. Maybe that was true for anybody killed by the hive mind.” 

They’ve probably all got some idea of where Henderson’s trying to go with this, but Max picks up on it first. “… Like Eddie.” It’s not a question, but she looks down at Arnie almost like she’s checking for anything that’ll back up Henderson’s theory. 

“Yes!” Henderson’s getting that tone again. The one he gets whenever he thinks he’s the only one talking any sense. “Just look at him!” Dustin squats so he’s eye-level with Arnie as he wiggles in El’s arms. “I wasn’t sure the first time I saw him, but now? His right eye—kinda the nostril, too?” Okay, come on, Henderson. Who the hell notices a nostril? “It’s all Eddie!”

Steve recoils. “Eugh. Munson?” Nooooope. No fucking way. Henderson’s so far off base, he’s in the parking lot.

“What about his left eye?” El asks.

Dustin scoffs. “Who gives a shit?”

Arnie lets out a whine, thrashing in El’s arms for a couple seconds before he starts losing his cool. El freezes, panic all over her face—Christ, she looks ready to cry, too.

“Hey, hey! You’re good! It’s okay.” Steve’s mostly talking to Arnie, but he’s kinda talking to El, too. Listen—he’s not trying to scar her for life or anything. He pulls Arnie slowly out of her arms, and he’s got this feeling. He just sorta… has a hunch about what’s driving the little guy nuts. Arnie doesn’t like somebody holding him in one spot for too long. Makes him kinda jittery. Plus it doesn’t smell like he crapped himself, and the kid’s already fed and burped, so it’s gotta be that. Sure enough, when Steve slings Arnie over his shoulder and starts bouncing him by the butt—little freak loves that shit, for some reason—he winds up quieting down in no time.

“Wow, Steve.” Steve tries not to take it too personally when Max sounds surprised. “You actually know what you’re doing.” 

“Hey, what can I say?” Steve grins, shooting Hargrove a smug look, but the guy’s suddenly real interested in checking out the drywall. “Turns out I’m a natural.”

El beams, watching as Steve gives Arnie a dozen tiny spanks like it’s cooler than anything she’s done with her powers. “Hopper will be happy to hear that.” She does this little jump, then adds, “Oh! And he said to tell you he’s proud of you.”

Steve sputters, missing Arnie’s ass by a mile and almost socking himself in the chin. “What?” Alright—Steve’s not sure what she just said, but whatever Steve thinks he heard had to be way off. “R-Run that by me again?”  

“He’s proud of you!” El repeats, then explains, “Because you only call our house two times a week now, instead of every single night.”

Theeeeere it is. Yeah, Steve should’ve figured. “You can, uh—” Steve shakes his head, clears his throat, and tries again. “Tell him I said, ‘thanks’.” Steve can feel his face getting hot, but if the dipshits know what’s good for them, they won’t point it out. “Actually—forget it. I’ll see him in a couple days.” 

“Wait…” Henderson puts two and two together, looking down at Arnie, then back up at Steve. “You’re going back to work?”

“Well… yeah.” Somebody’s gotta pay for groceries, and it ain’t gonna be the douchebag on the couch who’s never shelled out for rent in his life.

“Who’s gonna watch…” The look on Max’s face slowly changes—she goes from confused to ‘witnessing a murder’ as her head whips around to look at Hargrove. Then she turns back to Steve, mouth hanging open like she can’t believe he’s serious. “Steve.” 

“What?” Hey, Steve’s not sure why Hargrove didn’t fight it more, but the guy’s here, and he’s willing. Plus, Steve’s starting to think he can get Hargrove to do anything as long as it’ll win him brownie points with Max. Watching the back of Hargrove’s head, Steve lowers his voice and mumbles, “I know he’s evil, but he’s not, like… hurt a baby evil.” 

“That’s…” Max winces all the way to her bones. “Optimistic.”

Hargrove doesn’t turn his head as he snaps, “I heard that, Maxine.” 

“Uh, Steve? I know there’s all that research that says stressful environments can make your kid tougher, but—” Henderson joins in on the whispering. “—don’t you think this is pushing it?” 

“Alright, new rule.” Hargrove hops off the couch and stomps over to break up the huddle. “Toothless here doesn’t get to critique my methods ‘til he’s old enough to get his dick wet.”

Dustin’s face is somewhere between pissed off and amazed, like he’s impressed Hargrove managed to diss him three times in one sentence. “Holy shit.”

“Y’know?” Steve wrinkles his nose, looking down at El, Max and Henderson—Hargrove one step away from throwing a tantrum in the background. “I think we’re gonna be okay.”

 

*

 

It’s a total shot in the dark. Seriously! It’s a crazy idea. Doesn’t even make sense. It’d be like if a guy wanted to make himself look less hung. No wonder Robin’s been giving him all these crazy looks for the last five minutes as he tries to figure out what the hell he’s even asking. 

Face in her hands, Robin doesn’t even lift her head as she croaks, “Steve. I never want to hear you say the word ‘boobies’ again. Can you…” Slowly looking up, she peeks between her fingers at him. “And I’m begging you here. Can you please put it another way?”

Steve opens his mouth, trying to put the words together, and then shuts it. He thinks for a minute, then tries one more time. “Like… Girls with big racks.”

Robin’s expression tells him no, Steve, that isn’t any better. 

Screw it. Steve’s gotta keep going, or he’s never gonna be able to spit it out. “Do they ever wanna look like they’re… flat?” Steve traces a line through the air. Whatever’s smaller than an A-cup. A minus, maybe? “Is there something that… does that?” And Steve’s really hoping Robin’s not gonna catch onto the fact that he’s not exactly asking for a girl.

“Let me get this straight.” One eyebrow slowly creeps up Robin’s forehead. “You’re asking me if I’ve ever encountered some sort of… boob girdle?”

Is she kidding? Steve’s not sure if she’s kidding. “I mean, if that’s what they’re called…” 

“No, Steve. That’s—” Robin throws her hands out in this ‘stop the bus’ kind of move, shaking her head. “Forget it. Why the hell are we talking about this?”

On one hand, Steve’s kinda shocked she didn’t put it all together with that genius brain of hers. But on the other hand, maybe… maybe it’s not that obvious? Maybe Robin, and everybody else, isn’t taking one look at him and noticing his chest’s a lot more… hefty than it used to be, before Arnie. Rubbing at the back of his neck, Steve cranes his head back, looking everywhere but at Robin. “Just, uh…” He shrugs awkwardly. “Just asking.”

When he does look Robin’s way again, she’s got her thumb under her chin, frowning as she checks Steve out from head to toe. “… Hold on. Do you… ?” Her eyes get wide, eyebrows shooting up again, and Steve feels his face start to get hot. “Oh.” 

Yeah, okay—Steve thought her eyes were already at maximum wideness, but sure. Why not. They get even bigger.

 “Ohhh… Um. Okay!” Robin hops off the couch, veering right into motormouth mode.  “Okay. So—boob girdles don’t exist. But shapewear—maybe we can do something with that? I think my grandma’s old sewing machine still works.” Pacing in circles, she keeps thinking out loud while Steve watches her carve a giant groove in his carpet. “If I cut up some Spanx, maybe I could grab some elastic from the craft store to make the back…” Robin looks up, locks eyes with Steve, and cracks a grin. “I think it’ll do the trick, and it won’t completely asphyxiate you.”

Alright, Steve’s lost again. He thinks he’s got some kind of vague picture, but… Is she really gonna do this for him? Before she gets started on any batshit ideas, though, maybe Steve should make sure they’re clear. “Whoa, whoa—hang on. What’re you—” Steve swallows, wishing for the millionth time today that he didn’t have to have this conversation, then asks, “What’re you saying?”

Robin’s grin gets bigger, and Steve has this moment where he’s kinda—it throws him off a little, y’know? She’s just… gorgeous, okay? And Steve knows he shouldn’t think that way, but when she looks at him like that, all out of breath and excited, he can’t help it! Robin’s the total package. How’s Steve supposed to ignore that? He’s got eyes, man!   

Of course, right when he thinks that, she pulls some kind of maneuver like she’s trying to suck her boobs back into her chest, and totally kills the mood. 

And Steve’s gotta ask— “What the hell was that?”

Robin beams like she just handed him a winning lotto ticket. “We’re gonna flatten you out.”

 

Notes:

I'm uploading this from a hotel room on a trip LOL, so hopefully it all goes fine. The next chapter may take a bit longer to get up as well, as I'm busy/traveling this weekend, which is normally my time to write and edit. 😭 Thanks for your ongoing support and patience!

Saurrrr, we at last have some canon hinting for Arnie's other main component! Some of ya'll guessed already, but Steve's still not buying it lol. Also, I just arbitrarily named the final battle that has yet to happen in season 5... The one that 'created' Arnie. I'm hoping it sheds a bit more light onto Arnie's origin explanation without sounding TOO ham-fisted. I thought about going with "The Final Boss" as opposed to Armageddon, for DND vibes, but it felt a little too obvious. (Watch them actually call it that in canon, just to spite me. 💀)

And props to Robin for inventing the first binder, possibly. SMH, girl, u should've patented it! 😔 Hope ya'll enjoyed the chapter! As always, I appreciate your feedback and comments so very much. Have a great weekend!

Chapter 17: The Hiccup

Notes:

Hello, all! Sorry for the delay between chapters, and sorry if the previous chapter was underwhelming or disappointing. I think most of you likely didn't take any issue with it, but just in case, I want to make it clear that you are always free to stop reading a fic if you dislike how the characters are portrayed, or indeed, for any reason. I think I speak for most authors when I say I would much rather lose a reader than receive a frustrated comment about how the characters should have behaved in something I wrote. Thank you so much for your understanding! Now onto the chapter. :>

When Steve walks into the station, Mrs. Dunnigan’s leaning over Callahan’s desk and tearing him a new one. But public relations isn’t really Steve’s specialty—plus he’s got better things to do on his first day back than take inventory on her garden gnomes. So he goes into ninja mode, creeping past with his head down while Callahan tries to convince her there aren’t any masked bandits hiding in the woods behind her house. 

“I know what I saw!” Mrs. Dunnigan snaps, jumping up from her chair. “If you’re not going to take me seriously, then I demand you let me speak to the chief!” 

Callahan doesn’t even react as she wags her finger two inches from his face. “Sorry, ma’am. He’s occupado.” 

Dunnigan falls back in her seat with a huff. “Doing what, exactly?”

“Well, he’s—uh—“ Obviously, the guy’s looking for an excuse, glancing all around the room before he lands on Steve. Shit. “He’s… helping our junior recruit get re-familiarized with the force!” Callahan shoots him a grin. “Isn’t that right, Harrington?”

“Wh—Yeah! Yeah.” Steve’s not too keen on Callahan chucking him under the bus, but if it’ll get him out of here, then what the hell. He’ll play along. Nodding, Steve jabs a thumb over his shoulder.  “Chief’s gotta get me all up to speed.” 

Callahan bobs his head, then spins in his chair so he’s facing Mrs. Dunnigan again, blabbing at her like Steve isn’t still standing there. “Harrington’s been out on leave for emergency surgery. Some kinda kidney thing. Then, right when he’s on the mend, some ex-girlfriend dumps a kid on his doorstep and skips town!” Flopping back in his chair, Callahan lets out this shocked laugh, doing that ‘mind blown’ gesture with his hands. “He didn’t even know she was pregnant!”

Mrs. Dunnigan’s eyes bug out, and she turns to Steve in slo-mo, shooting him the dirtiest look an old lady like her can muster.

“Well, I should…” Gritting his teeth, Steve winces and moves his arms weakly towards Hopper’s office. “Chief’s waiting for me, so—” Man, what can he even say? That he’s not some deadbeat who’s slept around enough to get a girl knocked up and not even notice? Not like he’s got a better cover story to work with! “I’m just gonna—” Sputtering a few more times, Steve finally gives up and turns on his heel, scrambling into the chief’s office. He slams the door behind him, letting out a puff of air as he slumps against the wood.

Hopper looks up from the paper football he was about to flick into the trashcan, grumbling, “What, you got a problem with knocking now?” 

“There was a—” Steve gestures dumbly behind him, then lets his arm drop down at his side. “Callahan, uh—Callahan said I should check in with you?”

Frowning, the chief glances somewhere past Steve, then hops up from behind his desk and walks towards the door. Steve slides to the left, but Hopper’s not leaving his office. Instead, he bends in front the window, pulling one of the blinds up so he can peek through. “Aw, shit. She’s still here.” 

Steve glances through the gap in the blinds. “Mrs. Dunnigan?” 

“She’s been on a tirade for twenty minutes. Says she keeps seeing men in gas masks in the woods behind her house, and that it must be connected to that ‘chemical leak’ we had five years ago.” With a groan, Hopper backs away, then claps his hands together. “I owe you one, kid.” Easing back behind his desk, he gestures for Steve to sit down. “Now let’s make this nice and slow.”

Yeah, Steve’s not going back out there ’til Dunnigan’s long gone, so… works for him! He drops into the chair in front of Hopper’s desk with a shrug. “You got it.” 

“How’s the new uniform working for you?” The guy cocks an eyebrow at Steve, and Steve… okay, man. He gets the gist of what Hopper’s trying to say.

A couple weeks ago, Steve asked him if he could… You know. Size up. Steve’s not, uh… Not totally back in shape since Arnie. And even though Robin kinda nailed the girdle thing—Hargrove stopping dead in his tracks and asking what the hell happened to his rack sure as hell convinced Steve— that’s not really his only… problem area. Steve’s been hoping if he sizes up, and dresses kinda baggy, it’ll hide everything else.

But he’s not about to tell Hopper all that, so he just shrugs. “Fits.” 

“Well.” The chief gives Steve a look, and Steve thinks it’s supposed to be his way of telling Steve he passes for normal. As close as Steve’s gonna get to it, anyway. “You pull it off, Harrington.” 

“Hey, that’s my specialty.” Besides, if it was that obvious—if Steve looked really off—Barnes would’ve smelled it a mile away! And Steve thinks he would’ve remembered hearing another dozen donut jokes as soon as he walked in the door. So unless Hopper took Barnes out back and threatened him, Steve thinks the chief’s right. He actually is pulling it off.

“Alright, don’t get a big head.” Hopper stacks up a few loose papers and lets out a deep sigh. “Now—you want the update on our little firestarter, or would you rather thumb wrestle for forty minutes?” 

“Whoaaa, hey.” Steve leans forward, raising his eyebrows. “What’s the scoop, man? Lay it on me.”

The chief locks eyes with him. “We’ve got a translation.” 

Steve lets out a small laugh. “Nice!” 

“Murray told me to take it all with a grain of salt. Said if I left any words out, the whole translation’ll be shot, and I’d better not hold him accountable for that…” Groaning, Hopper shakes his head. “Look, I didn’t listen all that closely. The important thing is, we’ve got confirmation on that sidekick.” 

“Oh, shit.” Steve leans in even closer, lowering his voice as he mumbles, “The other prints?”

“Bingo.” Hopper folds his hands on top of his desk. “That speech the perp gave when we were cuffing him wasn’t some kind of threat. He was giving orders.” The chief sucks on his teeth, going quiet while he thinks. Then, after a while he grumbles, “That was him telling his number two to fall back and wait for instructions.” 

“Lemme guess: still no leads?” The chief put Barnes in charge of the search, so Steve’s wouldn’t say he’s got high hopes. 

“No leads.” Letting out another sigh, Hopper leans far back enough in his chair to make the hinges creak, staring past Steve at the window. “If Dunnigan’s not full of shit, there could be some kinda connection there, but…” Turning to Steve, the chief rubs at the side of his forehead and groans. “For Christ’s sake. The woman thought all that noise from your scuffle at the junction was some kind of European dance party.” 

“Okay. So—” Steve swears he can feel his heart pick up because he’s back on the beat, man! He’s ready! Like—let’s go! Let’s do this shit! “Where do you want me?” 

Maybe Hopper’ll have him case the woods behind Dunnigan’s place, or send him back to the fire department. Check for signs of that accomplice Barnes totally missed. They always come back to the scene of the crime, right? That’s, like, cop shit 101. 

“First thing’s first, Harrington.” Hopper bends to grab something from under his desk, and Steve flinches when he drops a ten pound stack of paperwork on the desk in front of him. “How ‘bout you start making a dent in this backlog?”

 

*

 

All in all, Steve’s first day back was a breeze. 

Sure, Barnes made some crack every time Steve walked past his desk, but they were all about how stupid he had to be to get some girl knocked up and then get stuck raising her kid. The way Steve sees it, the guy’s just pissed there’s proof Steve’s getting more action than he is. Besides, he’s got more important shit to worry about. 

So Steve might’ve called Hargrove a few times.

… Okay, more than a few. Got to a point where Hopper pried the receiver out of Steve’s hand and slammed it down on the base. And it’s not that Steve doesn’t trust Hargrove—uh, no. Actually, that's exactly what it is. But Hargrove’s been Arnie-sitting on and off for like a month now. And yeah, Steve hates to admit it, but the guy’s kinda good at it. Hell, if Steve had to choose between leaving Arnie with Henderson or Hargrove, Steve might seriously consider Hargrove! Sure, he’s at the bottom of the barrel compared to, like, Mrs Byers, or Robin, or even Hargrove’s little sister, but he’s also the only asshole Steve knows without a real job and eight hours of free time every day.

And if Steve calls him every thirty minutes, so what? He’s gotta make sure Hargrove doesn’t have a change of heart and chuck Arnie out the window or some shit. Of course, by the time Steve makes it home, Hargrove’s got a giant stick up his ass from all Steve’s calling, but Arnie’s… fine! Still in one piece and everything. He’s stoked to see Steve, too—Christ, that’s more like it! Now we’re talking. Kid’s finally starting to get that he’s supposed to like Steve more than Hargrove.

After he makes himself some food, it feels like Steve blinks and it’s almost midnight. He puts Arnie down, gets ready to turn in, and finds Hargrove already crashed out in his bed. The asshole keeps doing that lately, even though he’s got a way better chance of sleeping through the night when his head isn’t a foot from Arnie’s crib. But Steve’s way past trying to figure out Hargrove’s weird little mind games, so, same as most of the shit the bastard does, Steve ignores it.

Besides, it’s not like he can move Hargrove without a forklift, so Steve just takes the sliver of bed next to Arnie’s crib and he’s out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow. Arnie wakes up a couple times overnight, and Steve takes care of it, but he thinks he slept a grand total of three hours by the time his alarm goes off. Hargrove’s dead to the world, facedown on the mattress as Steve starts shimmying into his work pants, and he still hasn’t budged by the time Steve’s scrambling out the door with a half-eaten bagel in his mouth.

So—y’know. Arnie’s totally in good hands.

As soon as Steve makes it to the station, Hopper shoves a lukewarm cup of coffee into his hands and has him jump in the Blazer. Next thing Steve knows, they’re parked across the street from Mrs. Dunnigan’s place, waiting to see if her masked men are gonna come wandering out on the woods in broad daylight. Steve’s pretty sure the chief’s just doing it to keep the old bag off his back, but on the other hand, if she’s actually onto something, it makes sense that Hopper’d want Steve here. Not like Callahan’s in on the full story.

Man, this is wild. It’s hitting Steve that they’re right back where they started before all the stuff with Arnie happened. Right where Steve was the night he figured out he was gonna, like… have a kid. And there’s this freaky moment where Steve thinks maybe he’s gonna jinx it—maybe, just because he thought about it, somehow he’s gonna start blowing chunks and the whole thing’ll start happening all over again. But Steve knows he would’ve remembered if there were three or four slugs squirming around in there. 

Ugh. He’s gotta think about something else.

But the only other thing Steve’s brain wants to focus on is Arnie. He’d kill to be able to radio Hargrove right now and make sure the kid’s still breathing. God, is it always gonna be like this? Is he gonna spend all day, every day, just picturing all the messed up shit that could go wrong? Steve’s hand jumps up to the armrest, and he starts picking at the old leather before he knows he’s doing it, chewing his bottom lip off as he stares straight ahead through the trees. 

“I take it you two miraculously haven’t murdered each other.” 

“What?” Steve’s hand freezes as he snaps out of it, whipping around to look at Hopper. It takes him a second, but it clicks. The guy’s talking about him and Hargrove. “Uh. Yeah. Guess not.” 

Honestly? Steve’s as surprised as he is. 

“ … And you really trust Hargrove with the little guy?” Ducking his head, the chief gives Steve a stare-down over the top of his shades. From the way that he talks, it’s like he thinks Steve’s pranking him. Like he’s trying to get a rise out of people by telling them he’s gonna leave his kid with a nutjob like Hargrove. But come on, man! Why does everybody act like Steve’s crazy?

“Y’know, I…” Steve wrinkles his nose. Okay, maybe he is crazy. Steve doesn’t think anyone’s gonna get it. Obviously they all think he’s got a screw loose because he lets Hargrove change a diaper every once in a while. Makes him feel like he shouldn’t say what he’s thinking, because it’s not like Hopper’s gonna understand. But Mrs. Byers knows what Steve’s talking about! Steve’s pretty sure she does, anyway. And if she thinks he’s doing okay, Steve can’t be bombing it that bad. “I think he kinda likes it.”

“That so?” Hopper looks like he’s losing a wrestling match with his eyebrows as they try to climb straight off his face. Yeah, Steve can’t blame him there. He wouldn’t believe it, either. “Remember—that kid’s got a temper.” Just like that, the chief’s face snaps back into serious mode. “You’d better make sure he keeps liking it.” 

Thing is, Hopper’s right. Steve knows he is. He’s seen Hargrove blow a fuse plenty of times, and it doesn’t take a lot to piss him off. But Steve’s never seen that side of him come out near Arnie. Not even when the asshole’s swearing like a sailor as he wipes puke off his leather jacket. Mostly, he just bitches at Steve, like it’s his fault whenever Arnie winds up losing his shit, or his lunch. And Steve’s about to tell Hopper that, and tell him he wasn’t wasted or braindead when he decided to leave Hargrove alone with his kid, but right when he figures out how he’s gonna say it, the radio starts blasting.

“All units report to Wabash County Community Correctional Institution. Possible 10-74, confirmed 10-82, requesting all available units to—”

“Holy shit.” Steve might be blanking on what a 10-74 is, but since they’re getting called over to the prison, he’s got a hunch.

“Picked a hell of a week to come back, Harrington.” Chucking his cup of coffee out the window, Hopper starts the Blazer and throws it into drive, spinning around the cul-de-sac before speeding down Holland towards the jail.

Steve’s heart starts pounding when Hopper puts the siren on, and there’s this moment where he’s sure he’s gonna blow it. He’s been gone way too long, and he’s got no idea what he’s doing anymore. For fuck’s sake, Steve was barely on the force five minutes before he took half a year off—who the hell is he kidding? He paws at his hip—Jesus, what if he forgot his gun, or his taser, or—

God, this is stupid. Steve freezes, jerking his hand away, eyes snapping back onto the road. He took on a pack of demodogs right before Owens yanked a whole human being out of him. What, he can’t handle a stupid little jailbreak? 

Nah. That’s bullshit. 

By the time they make it to Wabash Correctional, there a couple fire trucks parked on the lawn, but there aren’t any other cruisers. Steve could see the smoke rising from a mile out, and now that they’re here, the whole side of the building’s smoldering. There’s a hole in the wall you could fit a car through, and the edges are still red-hot. Kinda reminds Steve of the glass-blowing stuff he used to see on field trips to Hawkins Hollow—the only problem is, those melted parts of the wall are solid brick.

“Jesus Christ.” Steve can’t even take his eyes off it, fumbling to get out of the car and slam the door. “What kinda shit are they packing?” 

“If I had to guess?” the chief grumbles. “Grenades.”

Steve does a double take. “Wait, seriously?”

“If this was our guy, I’m not ruling anything out.” Hopper shuts the driver’s side door and starts making his way towards the front of the building, Steve jogging after him. “Those lunatics kept a demogorgon on retainer for crowd control. They don’t tend to be subtle.”  

Steve opens his mouth, shuts it, then settles on, “Cool.”

There’s a tire screech behind them, and Steve turns to see Powell and Callahan pulling in. Hopper starts barking orders the second they get out of their cruiser, telling Powell to check the perimeter before he turns and climb the rest of the steps. He doesn’t tell Steve to split, so Steve flanks him, reaching the front doors right as this twitchy looking guy in a suit and combover wobbles outside to meet them.

“Alright, Davis.” Hopper jerks his head towards the fireball on the side of the building. “What the hell happened here?” 

“U-Uh. Well, Jim… It’s, uh—” The guy—must be the warden—swallows and tries to get a handle on his stuttering. “The thing is, we think someone, uh…” He babbles like a broken record for a minute, then spits it out, “Somebody broke in.”

The chief doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes bug out as he mutters, “Excuse me?”

The Davis guy cowers like Hopper’s about to cuff him, and Steve’s seriously gotta wonder if this is the right line of work for somebody this jumpy. “Someone, er… Someone broke in. We’re not completely sure how.” He scratches at his neck, fingers going a mile a minute as he croaks, “The security footage shows him coming in through the vents, but to fit through them in the first place, he had to be tiny…”

So he’s a little guy, and he got in through the vents. As soon as Steve hears that, he has some kind of flashback to shoving Henderson’s ass into the ducts at Scoops Ahoy. “Oh, shit.”

Davis gives Steve a weird look, then goes back to rambling at Hopper. “As far as we can tell, he came in through the laundry room. He must’ve stayed low and then made his move when the guards were changing shifts. After that, he… He, uh…” 

“For God’s sake, Davis.” Taking a break to squeeze the bridge of his nose, Hopper groans, then jerks his arm towards the firetruck still parked on the lawn. “The damn building looks like somebody took a bite out of it! Spit it out.”

“H-He did something to the bars of the cell. Used some sort of chemical, or… or acid. Honestly, it’s like he melted right through them! And then he and his accomplice…” Davis stops to lick his lips, blinking a few dozen times. “The—the inmate, that’s whose cell it was…” He flops a hand towards the disaster zone. “They did that. They’d gotten through the wall and fled the scene by the time the smoke alarms went off.” Steve can practically see the guy’s brain starting to misfire, his mouth flapping open and closed like a fish. But in the end, all he can say is, “Jesus, Hopper. I don’t know. What the hell are we dealing with?”

“Well, about that inmate.” Hopper takes a step forward, and Davis jolts. “Was he an older guy? A couple scars on his face? Man of real few words? And, uh—this part’s important.” Hopper shakes his head, glancing down at the ground before his eyes dart up to Davis’s face. “Russian?”

Davis’s eyes are about to fall out of his head. For the first time since Steve’s met him, he goes totally still, gawking at Hopper for a good twenty seconds before he gulps.

“Looks like we got a match,” Steve deadpans.

Hopper steps back, then shouts over his shoulder. “Callahan! I want every officer we’ve got on site STAT. We’re starting a manhunt.” He turns to Steve and snaps his fingers. “Harrington! You’re with me.”

Steve nods, tailing Hopper as he heads straight down the steps and crosses the street. The houses down the block are all backed up against the woods, and far as Steve can tell, it’s got ‘perfect getaway’ written all over it. Hopper moves like he’s already got an idea of where they’re headed, so Steve follows him a ways out, only splitting up when Hopper starts to slow down. Even then, he makes sure he’s got eyes on the chief while he checks for prints or broken branches—any sign of someone passing through in a hurry. 

After a couple minutes, Steve looks up. He’s just trying to get a visual on Hopper, but when he gets a good look at the guy’s face, Steve freezes. The chief’s a million miles away, stress written all over his face, and Steve’s not sure why. Sure, Steve’s not too stoked about the psycho Russian guy with the super acid, but they’ve handled worse! He kinda figured Hopper’d be used to this shit by now. Steve is! Sucks and all, but at this point, Steve just… walks it off. It’s like his coach used to say—rub some dirt in it and you’ll be fine.

Christ, Steve doesn’t know. Maybe he’s missing something. 

“So, uh—“ Steve trudges back over to the chief, barely catching himself when he snags his foot on a tree root. “How’d you catch this guy the first time?” Hopper said it was easy, right? What gives?

“Like I told you, he didn’t exactly fight it. Practically put the cuffs on himself.” Sighing, Hopper looks up, glaring past the tree-line at the tiny trail of smoke still rising up from the prison. Then he shakes his head before looking at Steve. “Tell me something, Harrington. Why do I get the feeling we just played right into this bastard’s hands?”

Steve’s not sure how to answer that, but Hopper doesn’t really give him a window. Just lifts his arm and points somewhere over Steve’s shoulder. 

“Check for prints down by the riverbank. And if you find any…” The guy’s still acting kinda off, and Steve feels another nervous twist in his guts when Hopper adds, “Just pray they’re not headed towards Hawkins.” 

 

*

 

Right when Steve was starting to think it’d never happen, Max tells her mom. About Hargrove, that is. And Steve doesn’t have the full story—mostly heard it secondhand from Henderson—but apparently, it took a lot of convincing before Mrs. Mayfield bought it. Like, Hargrove being alive. But when Max whipped out a picture Lucas took of Hargrove plopped on Steve’s couch last Saturday, Max next to him on the floor—like, right-now Max, almost seventeen, holding up the copy of The Hawkins Post Steve had snagged that morning…

That was enough to bring her around.

Must’ve hit her mom pretty hard, though. She’d been sober for more than a year, and now that shit’s down the drain. But after she slept off the hangover, and got her head together, she told Max that she wanted to see Hargrove. So Max told Steve, and Steve told Hargrove. Most awkward conversation of Steve’s life—and yeah, he’s counting the time Owens told him about the whole Arnie situation. 

And Hargrove… didn’t say no. 

That’s why they’re here, pulling in next to Max’s trailer in Hargrove’s Camaro. For most of the ride over, the shithead drove like he was trying to flip the car and put both of them out of their misery, but he must’ve gotten cold feet, because they made it in one piece. Boy, Steve’d love to skip this entire shit-show, but Max blackmailed him into coming as some sort of insurance. Steve kinda gets it, though; Hopper’s busy, and if Hargrove goes into psycho mode, there’s no way somebody like Jonathan’s gonna be able to get a handle on him. Steve’s the only guy who’s got a real shot at taking Hargrove in a fight! And Max has gotta understand that on some level, otherwise she wouldn’tve asked him.

Okay, so—what she said was, ‘There’s no way Billy’s gonna beat you up now that you have a kid’. Only she didn’t say the ‘now that you have a kid’ part. She used a word Steve’s not gonna repeat. But whatever. 

Even though it’s a massive pain in the ass, Steve’s not enough of a dick to leave Hargrove alone with Max and her mom. Not ’til he’s positive Hargrove won’t go ballistic.

Steve dropped Arnie off with Mrs. Byers this morning, and then he and Hargrove headed straight over. Steve’s already stepping out of the car, by the time he notices Hargrove’s just frozen. He’s sitting there, thousand-yard-stare as he glares over the steering wheel, not moving a muscle.

Steve groans. “What, you gonna stay in the car?” 

Fine! Whatever, man. Steve’ll do everything himself. What else is new? He slams the door, turns on his heel, and starts stomping over to the trailer steps. Right before he reaches the top and starts knocking, the driver’s side door slams and Steve hears Hargrove dragging his feet up the walkway behind him. 

Steve knocks.

Max must’ve seen them coming, because the door opens so fast, Steve almost clocks her on the forehead. She looks tense—almost as bad as she did when Vecna put a target on her back—and it seems like it’s hard for her to look Hargrove in the eye as she moves over to let them through. 

Shutting the door after them, Max’s eyes dart down and she gestures towards the living room. “She’s in there.” 

Steve takes a couple steps forward, and Hargrove follows, moving like a zombie. His whole body’s stiff, just as tense as Max is, halfway between pissed off and scared out of his mind. Jesus. Steve thought he looked bad when Owens was testing out his arm, but compared to today, Hargrove’s check-up was nothing. 

Mrs. Mayfield’s on the couch, hands folded in her lap. If Steve had to guess, she didn’t get much sleep. Probably put herself together the best she could, but it’s not too surprising that she acts like she’s seeing a ghost when Hargrove limps into the room. She swallows, eyes huge, face white, then slowly gets to her feet, so careful Steve wonders if she’s worried she’ll scare Hargrove away by moving too fast. 

“Billy…” One hand flies up to her collarbone, bunching up the fabric in a fist as she mumbles, “You’re really…” 

Guess she can’t say it, so she stops there. She moves to hold her arms out a tiny bit, almost like some instinct is telling her to put them around Hargrove, but she stops herself, and they fall limp at her sides. 

Somehow, even though Hargrove’s in the middle of another heart attack, he manages to give the whole trailer a once over, this sour expression on his face, like he can’t believe how trashy it is. 

Nice. Off to a great start.

Mrs. Mayfield tries to say something, but she can’t get it out the first couple of times. Finally, she finds her voice. “Maxine…. Maxine told me everything.”

Hargrove doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even look at her, too busy glaring at a mildew stain above the TV.

“A-About how you’ve been reconnecting,” she goes on. “You’re really making an effort, and I’m…” She swallows again, voice starting to shake. She’s tearing up now, and man, is it hard to watch. “I-I’m so proud of you. You’ve become such a good big brother to—”

“You think I wanna hear that shit from you?” Hargrove’s eyes snap over to Mrs. Mayfield’s face. Whatever nerves he had, they’re gone. Steve can practically feel the energy coming off him, and he has to fight back the instinct to throw himself in front of the bastard to block his way. Something about what Max’s mom said got under his skin. Steve’s not sure why—it’s probably the only time in Hargrove’s life someone paid him a real compliment—but Steve’s stopped trying to understand whatever makes the guy tick. The point is, he went from ready to bail, to ready to throw a punch, and that’s kinda the reason Steve’s even here. 

“I-I just—” A couple of tears roll down Mrs. Mayfield’s cheeks.

“Don’t—don’t do that. Don’t talk down to me.” Hargrove shifts his weight from one foot to the other, eyes darting from Steve, to Mrs. Mayfield, to Max, like he thinks they’re all gonna dog-pile him. “Maybe you missed it, somehow, but Neil’s gone. Nobody’s forcing you to make nice, so you can cut the bullshit.”

Mrs. Mayfield loses her voice for another few seconds. Then she croaks out, “Billy, I don’t…”  

“God.” He turns to Max, throwing his hands in the air. “Great idea, Max! Plan of the fucking century!” 

“I was just trying to—” Mrs. Mayfield starts again, but Hargrove cuts her off.

“You know, you were always a good actress.” Hargrove slowly faces her and she freezes, mouth snapping shut. “Had to stay on Neil’s good side somehow, didn’t you? But if you think I’m gonna buy that you—what? That you want to see me? That you missed me? God—you know, that is rich!” Hargrove bobs his head, this dull smirk twisting his mouth as he gives Mrs. Mayfield a dead-eyed stare. “Let’s be honest here. You don’t want anything to do with me, and I don’t want jack shit to do with you. Alright? We clear on that?” Licking his lips, Hargrove says it like they’re already on the same page. “So no hard feelings.” 

“That’s not—” Mrs. Mayfield’s lip shivers, but she forces herself to keep talking. “That’s not true. I promise. I-I know we’ve had our differences, but I never—“ 

“Give me a fucking break, Susan.” Hargrove’s not even blinking, his words coming out slow and gravelly. “You wanna tell yourself otherwise? Make yourself out to be the fucking martyr? Fine. But keep me out of it.” Ducking his chin, he lets out a chuckle. “Jesus. If you think I’m actually gonna believe that shit, well…” Hargrove turns his head and spits on the carpet. “Guess you have been hitting the bottle.”

Mrs. Mayfield jerks back like Hargrove slapped her. She puts her hands over her mouth and lets out this horrible, muffled sob that makes Steve sick to his stomach.

Max rounds on Hargrove, so mad her whole body’s vibrating. “Billy—”

“NO.” 

Hargrove hits some kind of breaking point, and Max flinches when he shouts the word at her. As soon as Hargrove sees her wince, he freezes, and Steve swears the guy loses just a tiny bit of steam. Guess watching Max recoil got under his skin in a way nothing else seems to. He’s breathing hard and heavy, but Steve can’t get a read on him. He’s not sure what the hell Hargrove’s about to do, but Steve feels his muscles tense up, ready to jump him if he needs to. Then, after what feels like hours, Hargrove moves. He lifts an arm, jabbing a finger towards Mrs. Mayfield. 

“She’s not my fucking mom.” Hargrove’s face twitches, like he’s fighting to keep it blank, and he mumbles even quieter, almost talking to himself, “She never was.”

Hargrove takes a couple shaky steps backwards, then slams out the front door. Max is paralyzed for a second after, but then she bolts after him. Steve whips his head back and forth, watching Max chase Hargrove before turning to see Mrs. Mayfield collapse on the couch. And Steve’s—he shouldn’t leave her like this, right? That can’t be kosher. But if he stays here, then Max’ll be alone with Hargrove and—okay, that’s not happening.

Steve sprints out of the trailer.

“Billy, what the hell?” He hears Max screaming as he scrambles down the steps. She’s right on Hargrove’s heels, tailing him as he makes a beeline for the parked Camaro.

Hargrove doesn’t even bother to turn around. “Stay the hell away from me, Maxine!” 

“NO!” Steve jumps as he watches Max reach out and snatch the back of Hargrove’s jacket, yanking it hard enough to make him stumble. Max’s mouth pops open, eyes huge like she can’t believe she just did that, and Hargrove rounds on her. Then, when he doesn’t do anything else, just stays there looming over her, Steve swears something clicks in Max’s brain. She doesn’t back down. Doesn’t cower. Just starts ranting at him. “I told you before. If you start to act like this again, then—”

“Then what, Max?” Hargrove sounds out of breath as Steve trots up behind Max, as if holding himself back is the hardest workout of his life. “If I act like this again… then what?”

Max doesn’t respond. Steve skirts around her, not sure if he should pry an arm between her and Hargrove, but he winds up stopping dead in his tracks when he sees the kid’s face. It’s like she wants to tell Hargrove to fuck off—to tell him she never wants to see him again—and honestly, after all the shit he said, Steve’s rooting for her. But it’s not just that. Even if she wants to tell him this is it, it’s over, with everything she’s got… something’s still stopping her. And Steve’s not sure what it is.

God, this is shitty. Seems like this whole situation’s a total crapshoot. Doesn’t matter if Hargrove’s bumming around Forest Hills, or if he’s six feet under. Either way, Max is miserable.

Hargrove keeps glaring at her, still panting, but he doesn’t leave. Finally, Max whispers, “Why did you say all that shit to her?”

Hargrove’s eyes are red again. The muscles in his throat are tense, and his bad hand’s shaking like a leaf. It’s a good question, and Steve’s gotta wonder if Hargrove even knows the answer. “… All I did was tell her the truth.” 

He turns again and trudges the rest of the way to the Camaro. Max doesn’t stop him this time, watching as he gets in and starts it up, reversing like a lunatic before speeding down the dirt path.

“Wait, wait—shit!” Steve blinks, then bolts after him, skidding to a stop on the gravel when he realizes it’s pointless. With a groan, Steve smacks a hand against his forehead. “That’s my ride, man…”

There’s a weird sound behind him, and—oh shit. It’s Max. She’s bawling her eyes out,  crying harder than Steve’s ever seen—he means full-blown sobbing. (Kinda like Arnie, but with more teeth.) And Steve just stands there awkwardly, totally thrown for a loop. It’s not like she’s Henderson, or even El, so Steve doesn’t really feel like he can hug her without coming off like a total creep. But he’s gotta do something.

“Max…” 

Max sucks in a shuddery breath, voice shaking as she snaps, “I hate him so much. I swear to God, I—I fucking hate him.”

Steve’s not sure if he really buys that, but Jesus, dude. Now’s not the time to call her on it.

“He does this shit over and over again. He never learns, and all it does is make everybody miserable!” She shivers, jerking an arm towards the skid-marks Hargrove left. “Even him.” Lifting her hands, Max scrubs at her face for a few seconds, then stops and does this angry growl. “God, I’m so stupid. I actually th-thought he wanted to get better…”

“Hey, c’mon…” Damn, does Steve suck at this. He doesn’t get Hargrove at all, and he doesn’t want to lie about that just to make Max feel better, but… 

Okay—so today turned out like shit! So what? Steve’s not sure why, but something’s telling him Max shouldn’t throw in the towel. Not yet. 

“Listen. I don’t wanna feed you some bullshit about how he’s a changed man, and he’s not still the biggest piece of shit in Hawkins, but…” Steve shrugs. “I feel like this was a… a hiccup, y’know?”

Max squints up at him and yeesh, her eyes get puffy when she cries. “What?” 

“Just think about it for a second!” Steve sighs. “Okay, maybe I’m way off base here, but I swear the guy’s never been this nice before. Jesus—” Yeah, that’s a step too far. “Okay, not nice. We’re miles away from nice. But he’s—what? At least half the douchebag he used to be.”

Max actually kinda laughs at that, and Steve breaks out in a grin.  

“I guess so…” Thumbing at the corners of her eyes, Max gives it some thought. “Even in California, I don’t think he was ever this…” She keeps thinking, but ‘un-douchey’ isn’t really a word, so she settles on, “… relaxed.” 

“Man, I don’t know. It’s your call, but maybe we just…” Folding his arms, Steve shrugs again. “Take the loss and try out a new game plan in a couple weeks. Work out a better defense.”

“Ugh.” Max rolls her eyes. “Seriously? More sports shit?”

“Uh, yeah, more sports shit.” Steve scoffs right back at her. “Not my fault it applies to everything.”

Max shakes her head, scrubbing the last few wet spots off her cheek. “Huh.” She gives Steve a weird look, then says, “Maybe you should buy a basketball.”

Okay, she lost him. “Uh. Why?” 

“I dunno.” Picking at her chin, Max glances over at the world’s saddest basketball court sitting on the edge of the trailer park. “It might put him in a better mood. He’s always liked it.”

Steve grimaces. Yeah, Hargrove liked it, alright. Liked fouling people.

“I mean, what he really used to love was surfing.” For a few seconds, Max gets this far away look on her face, eyes kinda foggy with a half-smile tugging on her lips. And the way she said that—it keeps echoing in Steve’s brain for some reason, and then it finally hits him: that’s probably the first time anybody’s used the word ‘love’ in a sentence about Hargrove. “But basketball’s good, too.”

“Huh.” Steve’s not sure why he has to be the one to do it. Hargrove could get himself a stupid basketball any time he wanted. But screw it. Steve’ll try anything. (Maybe he’ll leave it lying around the apartment as bait, kinda like Mrs. O’Donnel when she sets cans of tuna out for the stray cats behind the dumpster.) Steve frowns, looking over his shoulder at the tire tracks Hargrove left, then turns to Max and jerks his thumb behind him. “So, uh. Think your mom could give me a ride?”

Max snorts and shakes her head—that’s not a no, right? Is that supposed to be a no? Then she walks back up the steps to her trailer, closing the door behind her. 

“… Max?” Steve watches her go, waits, then checks his watch, but there’s still no sign of her.

God damn it.

Steve groans, then starts stomping down the dirt road towards Kerley. 

 

Notes:

Firstly, I have been beating myself up for this, but I totally blanked on my author’s note for the previous chapter, because I meant to give a very special mention to THIS absolutely drop-dead gorgeous artwork I received for chapter 15! Heads up, it is NSFW and I believe you need a twitter account to view it! Thank you so very much to bluelikeyesterday!! I’ve been kicking my heels and giggling over this fantastic drawing for ages. (I see Steve’s gorgeous O face whenever I close my eyes. 😳) To think I’ve inspired someone enough for them to draw a scene from MY fanfic has me crying in the club, but in a GOOD way.

Secondly, shout out to my friend who volunteered to help beta this chapter. This fic isn’t necessarily their cup of tea, but they’re as obsessive about characterization as I am, and I know my writing is in good hands when they are looking over it. And shout out to my regular beta too, who is always willing to hype me up and give my chapters a quick inspection even when they have a crazy workload on their plate.

Now onto the meat of the actual chapter… Sorry for the ouchie scene. Maybe it wasn’t that ouchie from a reader's perspective though? When you've been mulling a moment over and over in your head for ages, it definitely feels more intense. Might just be me, though, lol. Only when I was editing the chapter did I realize how much it reminded me of a certain other scene from another show with a very Billy-esque character rebuffing his surrogate mother figure’s attempts to make amends. Woops. (I wonder if ya'll will see it too, so I won't say specifically what I'm talking about... But it's probably not subtle...)

 

As always, thank you from the bottom of my heart for commenting and sharing your thoughts. You have no idea just HOW MUCH your interactions inspire and motivate me.

P.S. — 10,000 VIEWS???!!!! I’M SHOOKETH!! SCREAMING!!! I AM NOT WORTHY! Never did I imagine I’d have 10k on a fic that hasn’t even been up for a year, let alone four or five. (I feel like my high-rolling fanfic friend, who used to have an entire fic server… Perhaps someday.) In the meantime, I did decide to dip my toes into blue sky and have made an account, so if you wanna pop over and say hi, or give me more people to follow, I’d love to hear from all of you! Thanks ever so much, AGAIN, for all your support!!! Hope ya’ll are having a wonderful spring! 🌸💐

Chapter 18: The Road Trip

Steve’s not sure what crawled up Hargrove’s ass and died, but he’s over it.

Back at Forest Hills, he thought Max was reading into things too much with all that stuff about Hargrove making himself miserable. See, he agreed with most of what she was saying, just not the part about Hargrove giving a shit. But after three straight days of the asshole getting on his last nerve, as much as Steve hates to admit it, maybe Max was onto something. It could be that Hargrove thinks she’s finally gonna cut him off for good, or maybe he has the tiniest shred of guilt about some of the shit he said to his step-mom. (Yeah, Steve doubts it.) But whatever it is, he’s been a complete bitch to deal with since that trip to the trailer park went off the rails. 

Every little thing sets him off. The prick can’t get through one sentence without making some sort of pot-shot at Steve. Whenever Arnie starts to cry, Hargrove’ll yell from the other end of the apartment, snapping at Steve to shut him up. But then the weird part is, Hargrove won’t let him. As soon as Steve gets near the crib, Hargrove’ll intercept him and snag Arnie first. Then he’ll turn around and say some crap about how he’s not even sure why Steve kept the brat, since he’s always making him “someone else’s problem.” And Steve winds up staring like an idiot, wondering where the hell Hargrove got that idea. Seriously, is Steve losing it or something? ‘Cause from where he’s standing, it looks like Hargrove’s the one that who won’t let Steve anywhere near his goddamn kid.

Okay, not—not literally. But Steve remembers having practice with the guy, and Hargrove’s absolutely using the same moves he did playing keep-away. 

The only time he’s in a decent mood is when he gets back from the grocery store, and even then, it’s just ‘cause he had Arnie strapped to his chest as a buffer. Half the time, he forgets to grab everything on the list ‘cause he was too busy getting drooled on by every girl with a pulse at Save-A-Lot. (Turns out, chicks dig guys with babies, even if they’re as slimy as Hargrove.) 

Of course, after the first couple of times, Steve had to lay down some ground rules. “Man, if you try to take my kid to some stranger’s house so you can bump uglies—”

But Hargrove had cut him off. “I know it’s—it’s hard, considering how massive it is, but try and pull your head out of your ass.” And Jesus, was it trippy watching Arnie nod off in his baby straight-jacket to the sound of Hargrove ranting. “You think I’m gonna get laid with this thing strapped to my chest? They all think I’ve got a girl at home.” 

“Wow, what a bummer.” Steve had rolled his eyes, and Hargrove flipped him off and went to put Arnie down before Steve got a chance to.

Then, that night, for the first time in a while, Arnie woke up and wouldn’t go back to sleep.

It felt exactly like his first night at the apartment. Uh. Arnie’s, not Steve’s. Right down to the part where Steve’s tried everything he can think of, pulled out all the stops, and the little shit still hasn’t chilled out. So when Hargrove yanks Arnie out of his arms, Steve’s stuck there for a second, total déjà vu, before he realizes he’s watching the creep's back leave the room.

“Whoawhoawhoa! Hey!” Steve scrambles after Hargrove, shouting over Arnie’s screams. “HEY! Asshole!”

Hargrove tunes him out, stomping into the living room and squatting in front of Arnie’s car seat so he can buckle the kid in.

“What the hell are you doing!?” Steve gets down next to him, trying to smack Hargrove’s hands away so he can get at Arnie, but the jackass is too fast, shoving Steve back and grabbing the handle of the carseat as he stands. Steve stumbles to his feet, voice cracking when he starts to panic for real. “Hey! HARGROVE! Where the fuck are you taking him!?” 

He lunges for the guy and the meathead slaps one big, sweaty palm over his face, pushing Steve away. Turns out, Hargrove’s a lot more slippery than Steve would’ve figured, and Steve can’t get a good grip on the car seat before Hargrove steps away from him and starts making a break for the front door.

“Wouldn’t have to do this shit if you knew how to shut him up!” Hargrove says it like Steve forced him to… do whatever the hell he’s planning, and man, Steve doesn’t want to go there, but he starts freaking out even worse. What the hell does that mean? Is he gonna chuck Arnie into the middle of the street? Drive out to somebody’s house in the middle of nowhere and leave him on the front stoop? Hargrove doesn’t do much to clear things up, just mutters as he shoves the door open and starts clomping down the steps, “Don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m handling it.”

Steve tears off after Hargrove, then skids to a stop in the doorway, heart practically smashing out of his ribcage when he realizes he’s not, uh—he doesn’t have… certain things… strapped down. But what the hell is he gonna do, let Hargrove kidnap his… kid? Not an option, so Steve settles for clamping an arm down over his chest, shoving his feet into his unlaced All-Stars, and tripping down the stairs after Hargrove. Even though it’s past midnight, Steve feels like he’s walking around under a spotlight, scoping out the whole parking lot as he skitters towards the Camaro, praying that everybody in the complex is way too boring to be out this late, ‘cause Steve does not want anybody to see… whatever the hell this is. 

“Hey! HEY!” Steve hisses, tripping over his laces and almost clocking himself on the Camaro’s side-view mirror. Straightening up, he watches as Hargrove opens the door and cranks the driver’s seat forward, Arnie still screaming in his carseat. “Whoooaaa, no. NO. Not happening.” 

Steve yanks the passenger door open and gets in, squeezing between the seats so he can reach back and get Arnie unbuckled at the same time Hargrove’s trying to get him strapped in. Hargrove slaps his hands away, hard, and Steve yelps. 

“Ow!” Did he seriously just do that shit? What is he, five? Steve recoils, wincing and mumbling under his breath, “Dick…” 

Hargrove moves to shove the driver’s seat back into place, and Steve’s stomach flips when he realizes the bastard’s actually gonna take off. Steve drops down on his ass, slamming the passenger side door and scrambling for his seatbelt as Hargrove climbs in next to him. And Steve knows he could try one more time to squeeze into the back row, yank Arnie out of his carseat, and bail before Hargrove starts the engine, but the chances of pulling that off before he guns it seem pretty slim. So Steve buckles up and grits his teeth, steeling himself for Hargrove to pull out like he forgot to bring rubbers, but the guy… doesn’t. Sure, Steve wouldn’t exactly call it slow and steady, but he backs up like…

Shit, man. Like there’s a baby in the car. 

“Uh.” Steve blinks half a dozen times, then raises his eyebrows at Hargrove. “What?”

Hargrove glances at him from the corner of his eye. “What?”

Steve’ll admit it. He’s stumped. “I didn’t know you could, like…” He turns to look out the window as Hawkins Hollow passes by at less than eighty miles per hour. “… drive good.”

Hargrove scoffs. “Yeah, well this is pussy speed.”

Arnie lets out another whine, but when Steve checks the rear-view mirror, the kid’s not squirming like he’s sitting on a tack anymore. That’s progress, right? “So. Where are we going?”

“Nowhere,” grumbles Hargrove.

“Fine, Jesus.” Guy can’t go ten minutes without reminding Steve he’s a douchebag, can he? With a groan, Steve grinds the heel of his palm into his forehead and mutters, “Sorry I asked.” 

Hargrove makes this pissy noise in the back of his throat, goes quiet for a few seconds, then mumbles, “I mean nowhere.” There’s another pause, and Steve’s gotta wonder why the hell he’s being so cagey, especially when he comes clean. “Not going anywhere, just… driving around.” 

“Oh.” Eyes wide, Steve nods towards the windshield like he totally knew that was Hargrove’s master plan the whole time. “Yeah. Love… doing that shit.”

There’s another weird sound from Hargrove’s side of the car, and Steve thinks it might’ve been a laugh, but come on! There’s no goddamn way. And sure enough, when Steve tries to sneak a peek at Hargrove’s face, the guy’s all tight-lipped and serious. 

“So, uh…” Steve stretches his feet out awkwardly, wondering if he’s gonna be able to scoot the seat back without Hargrove biting his head off.  “Just felt like taking a midnight road trip, or… ?”

 “Jesus, Harrington,” Hargrove snaps at him, then jerks his head back. “Look behind you.”

Steve’s at a loss, but he listens, turning to check over his shoulder and oh shit. Steve didn’t even notice the noise dying down, but Arnie stopped crying. He’s totally silent, sitting there in his carseat with his eyes half-closed, fat little head leaning on his shoulder as he watches the streetlights fly by. 

“Holy shit.” Jaw dropping, Steve spins around to gawk at Hargrove. “How did you… ?” 

Shrugging, Hargrove says, “It’s simple. You rock a baby to calm it down, right? So being in a car, that’s like rocking it at 3,000 RPM. Fools that little shitstain’s whole system. Trust me, all he cares about is the…” Taking a hand off the steering wheel, Hargrove flaps it a couple times, like he’s reaching for the word. “Movement. Drive around for long enough, and any kid’ll crash.” Bastard doesn’t even bother to dial down the smugness when he adds, “Thought everyone knew that.”

Thing is, though, Steve’s a little too… Okay, not impressed, that’s a fucking stretch. But maybe relieved? Yeah. He’s way too relieved to take the bait, so he just slumps against his seat with a, “Huh.” 

See, if it was anybody else? Seriously, anybody on the goddamn planet but Hargrove—Steve’d say thanks. But it is Hargrove. And Steve’s not gonna pat him on the back for being less of a colossal dickhead than usual. 

Taking one hand off the wheel, Hargrove pulls a smoke out of his pocket and sticks it in his mouth, then reaches down to press his finger against the cigarette lighter. And Steve gets ready to tell him to put it out, or at least stick his hand outside the car, but the guy takes one drag before he cranks the window down on his own, dropping his arm against the exterior with a sigh. 

It’s not too hot out. The breeze coming in from the driver’s side window is cool, and the ride’s so smooth, Steve almost forgets who’s sitting next to him. There’s only the sound of the wind whipping around Hargrove’s arm and Arnie’s slow, raspy breathing in the backseat.

It’s a nice night.

Steve can’t believe they’re almost through July. A few years ago, Starcourt would’ve just burned to the ground, and Steve would’ve barely escaped a lifetime of slinging ice cream for a living. God, that’s weird to think about. Not as weird as any of this shit, but still. 

Speaking of this shit… Man. Steve can never figure this guy out. He wouldn’t call that news, but tonight, Hargrove’s even more of a mystery than usual. It’s like, whenever he screws up bad enough—when he does something so shitty even he knows he blew it—Hargrove backpedals. He whips out some kind of Hail Mary where he actually manages to do something… 

Okay, Steve’s not gonna call it cool, but—decent, maybe? And coming from anybody else, it’d be the bare minimum, but for Hargrove? Kind of a big deal. It almost makes Steve wish that Max could see how he’s acting tonight, and not just ‘cause Steve thinks it’d prove his point. It’s tiny, it’s stupid—he’s just driving around past midnight with a baby in the back seat. Anybody could do that shit. But something about it’s really sticking with Steve, and he gets the feeling Max’d be on the same page.

Just seems like she’d feel better knowing Hargrove might not be a lost cause after all. 

Max. Huh. What was that thing she said? For some reason, Steve keeps going back to it—probably ‘cause he still can’t believe Hargrove even knows the meaning of the ‘l’ word. But that’s exactly how she said it: he really used to love surfing. 

“Hey, uh—” Steve’s mouth is moving before he even knows what’s happening, and by the time he realizes it’s a shitty idea, he’s already blurting the rest out. “California’s… nice, right?”

Hargrove turns his head slowly, and Steve’s expecting the asshole to start breathing fire, but the look on Hargrove’s face is more grossed out than anything, like Steve caught him in the middle of pissing his pants.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Steve screws his eyes shut and squeezes the bridge of his nose. “I was just trying to make small talk! Relax.” He flaps his hand towards Hargrove a couple times—same thing he does when he’s trying to shoo a stinkbug off the counter. “Cool it with the fucking evil eye.”

Hargrove’s quiet for so long, Steve thinks the jackass is ignoring him. Just… pretending Steve didn’t say anything while he sits there and stews in it. Letting out a sigh, Steve sticks his elbow on the armrest and drops his chin into his hand, watching Hawkins crawl by through the passenger window. 

Then, all of a sudden, Hargrove decides to talk.  

“… It never gets cloudy.” Steve hears him make another funny sound in the back of his throat, almost like he doesn’t want to keep talking. Like he’s fighting it. But at the same time, there must be a part of him that wants to keep going. Hell, maybe he’s just mad he’s stuck talking about it with Steve. “And the coast. I mean…” His tone’s all gravelly, same way it gets when he’s holding in a meltdown but calmer. “There’s nothing like it.” 

“Yeah?” Steve’s not sure when it happened, but he must’ve turned his head at some point, ‘cause now he’s watching Hargrove’s face, trying to get a read on him. The streetlights flash behind his profile, hitting the curve of his nose, the wispy hairs of his mustache, and really outlining his eyelashes… They’re so long that Hargrove’s eyes are almost hidden underneath, and man, does Steve hate how long he’s been staring at them. Hates looking at the bastard’s lips and knowing what they feel like. Christ, he’s screwed up. Has been ever since Hargrove crawled his way out of the dirt and moved into his apartment. “I bet.” 

Steve’s never been to the ocean. His folks have a place up on Lake Michigan, and Steve’s been to that cabin a few times over the years. It’s definitely something else, seeing how far the water goes on for—how you can’t even see the other side. But something tells him it doesn’t hold a candle to the ocean. 

Steve’s not sure why he does this shit. Whenever somebody fesses up to him—when they act all scared, like Robin in the bathroom, or Henderson talking about his stupid lizard…

Steve says something dumb. And maybe he’s trying to make people laugh, or distract them… He’s not really sure, honestly. It’s just some weird instinct he has, but he’s learned to go with it. At least, that’s what he’s gonna tell himself. Sounds a hell of a lot better than admitting the truth is, he can never shut up in time.

“I mean, it’s like a lake, but fuckin’… huge. And it’s got all that salt and shit.” Jerking his arms into the air, Steve does this kinda ‘beats me’ gesture. “What’s up with that?”

Hargrove turns to stare at Steve, and Steve’s heart flat-out stops. And then?

Hargrove laughs. Like, actually laughs. Steve nearly jumps out of his seat, he’s so floored, and he feels his mouth tug up on one side as he does that same goofy, open-mouthed smile Nancy gets whenever she hears a really wild story. And Steve’s gotta ask himself—has he ever heard Hargrove do a real laugh? Not just a douchey laugh, or that creepy serial killer chuckle, but a real, honest-to-God laugh? 

Has Steve ever… made him laugh? 

Shaking his head, Hargrove reigns it in, tapping his fingers on the outside of the door to ash his cigarette. “You’re somethin’ else, Harrington.” 

“Yeah, well…” Steve stretches, then folds his arms behind his head, wondering if he’s imagining it, or if he really does feel Hargrove’s eyes on him. “Try not to get jealous.” He stares up at the ceiling, just sitting there and listening to the road noise for a minute before he moves, craning his head around so he can peek into the backseat. 

Arnie’s completely knocked out, fat little cheek squished against the side of his carseat, whole body bouncing lightly with the motion from the road. And Steve feels this jolt—this instant, red-hot squeeze in his chest, all from looking at his kid for three stupid seconds, and he has to shake his head real fast, tell himself to snap out of it and turn around. (Probably not a good call, showing weakness in front of Hargrove.)

He sees Hargrove’s eyes flicker up to the rear-view mirror, and the guy must spot Arnie all crashed out, because he pulls a lazy u-turn and starts heading back towards the apartment. Hargrove doesn’t say anything the rest of the way back, and neither does Steve, but it doesn’t feel awkward. Christ, Steve doesn’t know. Maybe they’re both too beat to care. When Hargrove pulls into his usual spot, Steve gets out and shoves his seat forward, squeezing into the back row so he can unbuckle the carseat. Hargrove slams his door, and no, Steve’s not imagining it—the dumbass definitely does it way quieter than normal. Steve copies him, nudging the passenger door shut with a thump before he follows Hargrove back up the steps, carrying Arnie more carefully than one of those million dollar diamond eggs. He catches the door as Hargrove shoves his way into the apartment, stepping on the heels of his sneakers so he can pry them off and use his free hand to lock the door. 

He takes the whole carrier into his bedroom, setting it on the floor and unbuckling Arnie as slowly as he can stand, freezing and holding his breath every time the kid squirms in his sleep. But Arnie stays dead to the world while Steve’s unstrapping him, and he barely even sighs when Steve lifts him up and turns on his heel to set him down in his crib. Steve doesn’t realize it ’til he’s done tucking Arnie in, but Hargrove’s not looming over his shoulder. Maybe he finally put two and two together and figured out that crashing on the couch is the only way he’s guaranteed to get a decent night’s sleep. 

Steve flicks the lights off, then crawls onto the mattress, flopping facedown into his pillow. After a minute, he comes up for air, turning to watch Arnie’s chest rise and fall through the bars of the crib as his eyes adjust. At first, out of habit, Steve starts to curl up on one half of the mattress, but then it hits him. What, is he crazy? He’s not fighting for space with Hargrove’s fat ass—he’s got the whole bed to himself! Y’know, like he’s supposed to? See, somewhere along the line, after all the crazy bullshit, Steve sorta forgot that this is his bed. Grinning, he sticks his arms and legs out as far as he can reach, like he’s trying to touch all four corners of the mattress. Then he stuffs his face back in the pillow and sighs, ready for the best sleep he’s had in half a goddamn year. 

Except it’s kinda… taking a while.

Steve grunts, flipping onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. Okay, what gives? An hour ago, he would’ve given his left nut for thirty seconds of shut-eye, and now he’s wide awake? What the hell, man?! With a groan, Steve rolls onto his side, curling into himself and screwing his eyes shut. For a while, he stays perfectly still, listening to Arnie’s stuffy breathing and trying to relax. Eventually, he gets to a point where he’s close, brain foggy, fingers going limp against the mattress… He’s practically asleep, but he’s not all the way there, which is why he hears it when the door slowly creaks open. 

Steve almost bolts up and asks what the hell Hargrove wants, but he stops himself. Guy probably just forgot something, and it’s not worth getting chewed out by the dickhead when he’s in one of his moods, so Steve stays put.

Then the mattress dips down, and Steve’s heart jumps into his throat. The springs creak under Hargrove’s weight, and Steve stays frozen, fighting off the urge to hold his breath when he feels the guy creep over to him. The streaks of light bleeding in from the blinds gets blocked out, and Steve… Is Hargrove leaning over him? It’s like he’s checking to make sure Steve’s really passed out. After what feels like ten brutal minutes of Steve playing possum, Hargrove shifts, inching down behind him and slowly tucking an arm around Steve’s stomach. His hand, red hot like always, kinda slips under the hem of Steve’s shirt, fingers barely brushing up against the outline of Steve’s scar. Then he fits up against Steve’s back, close as he can get—seriously, no way there’s even an inch of clearance—as he works his chin into the crook of Steve’s shoulder. And man, Steve’s not sure what the hell is running through his head, or why he’s even bothering, but he tries not to tense up—not to let in on the fact that he’s wide awake. Well. He is now. 

Finally, Hargrove turns his head, burying his face in Steve’s hair as he takes a slow, deep inhale. Then he nudges his cheek against the outline of Steve’s jaw and just… conks out. 

Okay. Okay. 

So. The thing is, Hargrove does this shit when he’s asleep. Steve knows that, ‘cause he’s woken up in a bear hug he never signed on for every other night since Hargrove started squatting at his place. But this time, it feels… weird. Alright, weirder. Different. And then it hits him. It’s the first time Hargrove’s gotten all clingy when he wasn’t asleep, or blackout drunk, or right after he and Steve… Ah, Christ. Y’know. After they’ve screwed around. 

And Steve’s not sure what the deal is, but honestly? He’s not in the mood to try and figure it out. Not when, for the first time all night, he’s starting to feel like he could actually fall asleep. And no, man! Steve doesn’t want to think about what that says about him. He’s tired, alright? He’s got better shit to worry about.

So he lies there, listening to Hargrove’s breathing as it gets slow and even, feeling the meathead’s muscles loosen up, even though that arm on his stomach stays right where it is, looped tight around him. And Steve lets out this long, shaky exhale, finally letting himself relax. Bit by bit, his body goes limp against the mattress, any thoughts left in his brain getting drowned out by the sound of Hargrove’s breath puffing into his ear. 

And after a while, that sound’s the last thing Steve remembers before he passes out. 

 

*

 

A couple of days later, Hopper intercepts him on the way to work.

He’s waiting at the bottom of the stairs in front of Steve’s apartment, Blazer still running, and he tells Steve not to bother with the uniform because they’ve got a detour to make.

Okay, well that explains jack shit. But Steve’s trying to be a team player here, so he doesn’t ask questions. Just climbs in next to the chief and slams the door. They head through town, then down past the fair grounds before the chief turns right, driving up a dirt road Steve would’ve totally missed through all the trees. A minute out, Hopper pulls to a stop in front of a junky old cabin, and Steve scopes it out, wondering if he’s supposed to recognize the place or something. 

He reaches for the door handle, but Hopper sticks an arm out to stop him. Steve looks at the guy, but he doesn’t say anything, just motions for Steve to wait. They sit there in silence for a minute or two before Steve sees a flash of movement through the back windshield. He watches through the rear view mirror as a black Eldorado pulls in behind them. There’s something freaky about the way it drives up, almost totally silent, and Steve feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. But the chief acts like he’s got the whole thing planned, and when Steve glances over at him, he doesn’t seem on edge. Sure enough, as a couple of guys in suits exit the Eldorado, Hopper waves for Steve to follow him, then starts to get out of the Blazer.

“C’mon. Want you to meet a friend of mine.”

Steve doesn’t answer. He just slips out after the chief and follows him around the back of the truck, watching as a third person climbs out of the Eldorado and catches up to the guys dressed like the secret service. The other guy’s not wearing a suit—just a ratty old jacket and jeans—and he looks like he’s a few years younger than Hopper, with short hair and a wispy mustache that sorta reminds Steve of Hargrove’s. 

He pushes in front of the CIA guys, and he and Hopper throw their arms around each other, Hopper clapping the stranger on the back a couple times before he lets go. Hopper’s still laughing when he pulls away, shaking his head before he gestures to Steve, then back to the mystery man. “Enzo, this is Harrington. Harrington, Enzo.”

Steve raises his hand. “Hey.”  

The ‘Enzo’ guy gives him a once over, one eyebrow raised, then gives him this tiny, stiff nod.

“Enzo’s one of the only reasons I made it out of that Soviet hellhole.” Hopper lowers his voice, turning to Enzo as he jerks a thumb towards Steve. “And at this point, Harrington’s got more hands-on experience with the Upside Down than any of us.”

“Yeah, well…” Steve shrugs, and man, he really hopes Hopper’s talking about the times he’s made it out of that place alive, and not just, like… the Arnie stuff. “Kinda comes with the territory.” 

Guess he did sign up for all that ‘serve and protect’ shit. 

Enzo cracks a small smile. “I’m sure.” He reaches a hand out and Steve takes it, giving it a quick shake. 

“Now that introductions are out of the way…” Crossing his arms, Hopper clears his throat to get their attention. “I’ll admit it: I’m surprised you came.” He raises an eyebrow at Enzo. “Didn’t think you’d be willing to stick your neck out this far.”

“Well…” Enzo does a flat chuckle, muttering, “Ask me when this is over if I regret it.” 

Steve can’t help but glance past Enzo at the men in suits. They’ve gotta be government agents or something. They’ve just been standing a few feet back, arms folded behind them, not saying a word while Hopper and Enzo catch up. Jesus, that’s not creepy or anything. 

“Enzo knew how that gulag ran better than the generals,” Hopper explains, and Enzo does a modest shrug. “If anyone can tell us what these bastards are planning, it’s him.” 

Steve nods, sliding his tongue along the back of his teeth as he thinks. “So, uh…” According to Hopper, this guy’s the expert, so Steve’s just gonna ask. “Got any ideas?”

“Hard to say. After the gate here was destroyed, and your chief got loose in the prison camp, well…” Enzo pats at the front of his coat—Steve’s gotta wonder how he’s not boiling in that thing—then jams his hand into the chest pocket. “He is quite good at single handedly destroying massive government facilities.” He fishes around for a minute, then pulls out a cigarette. “After the base where we met was destroyed, all the scientists, generals—anyone tied to the project fled. If they were caught by the government, knowing what they did, they’d be—”

“Yeah, uh—lemme go out on a limb here.” Steve’s got first-hand experience with that shit. “Drugged? Tied to a chair? Tortured?”

Hopper whips out his lighter and holds it towards Enzo, and Enzo sticks the end of his cigarette in the flame, eyes flickering towards Steve as he grumbles, “If they weren’t killed.”

“I mean—” Steve’s mouth flaps open and closed a couple times. What, that wasn’t dramatic enough for this asshole? “I was gonna say that next, so…” 

Enzo gives him a tired look and doesn’t answer. Instead, he ignores Steve for Hopper. “My sources tell me the prison camps—the whole project, really—has been swept under the rug. The logical move for anyone involved would be to get out of the country. Go into hiding.” Nodding, Enzo wags his hand towards the cabin. “Not draw attention to yourself.” 

Letting out a ‘hm’, the chief slips his lighter back into his pocket and deadpans, “Now maybe I’m just easily impressed, but I get the feeling that melting your way through solid brick might turn a few heads.” 

“That’s the bit that doesn’t add up.” Breathing out sharply through his nose, Enzo cranes his head back, eyebrows knitting together as he stares up through the trees. “Causing such a scene, in the same town which held an enormous secret base… This is just asking for trouble.” He sighs and shakes his head. “Perhaps they have nothing to lose. Or whatever their goals are, they’re willing to take any risk.” Lifting his smoke to his lips, he takes a long drag. “And considering they came back to your town—a place they should, by all logic, avoid like a plague…”

“It doesn’t make sense. We got it.” The chief’s clearly losing patience, and Steve’s right there with him. Does this guy just hate getting to the point? Is it a Russian thing? “So what does make sense? If you’ve got another theory, let’s hear it.” 

“I think your man held a position of power in the project.” Flicking the ash off his cigarette, Enzo explains, “Means he would’ve lost status, money… And having to go into hiding, after all this? It would be shameful. As for why he’s come here…” The guy shoots Hopper a look so cold, it makes Steve’s stomach twist. “Well… I ask you, what did both of those bases have in common?” 

To his credit, the chief doesn’t look phased when he grumbles, “What?”

“According to the Russian government,” says Enzo,  “they were destroyed thanks to you.” 

“Oh, shit.” Something clicks in Steve’s brain, and he spins around to gawk at Hopper.  “You think these guys are after the chief?” 

“I’d say, if they aren’t, then it’s one hell of a coincidence.” Enzo gives Hopper a shaky smile. “Still. Might be a good time for a vacation, ah?”

Hopper nearly cuts him off. “Not happening.” 

“But—” Steve starts. Seriously, man? Did Hopper not hear the part where there’s a hit out on him? 

“I said, not happening,” Hopper growls. Adjusting his arms, he glances back at Enzo.  “What about the accomplice? Forensics are saying it might be a kid.” 

Enzo lets out a laugh, and it’s even more of a bummer than the smile. “I have a theory. But I’ll warn you, you’re not going to like it.” 

“Didn’t figure I would.” Seems like that’s the last straw, because Hopper finally caves and pulls out a cigarette of his own, lighting it and taking a drag. “I’m sure we’ve both got places to be. Spill it.” 

All of a sudden, the guy gets twitchier. Sure, Steve already got the feeling this is the type of shit they shouldn’t be talking about—for Christ’s sake, Steve’s more on edge than he was the year after Barb died! But whatever Enzo’s about to spill, judging by the vibes he’s giving off, it must be a whole new level of off limits. 

“These experiments with the, uh—the—” He mutters something in Russian, then seems to remember the English name. “The Upside Down. It’s not the first time Russia has…” Wincing, Enzo bobs his head a couple times before settling on, “Taken inspiration from America, so to speak.”

The chief squares his shoulders, and Steve can see his muscles tense up out of the corner of his eye. “That right?” 

Enzo waves him off. “But it’s nothing more than an urban legend. An old wive’s tale, even for those working in a top-secret government building.” He stands there, stiff as a board, like he thinks a sniper’s gonna take him out if he moves too fast. “The Dyatlov Program. Named after the deadly mountain pass.” Ducking his head, Enzo stares down at his feet, then glances up to lock eyes with Hopper. “I will see what my informant can find out, but… I fear I’ve already said too much.” Standing a little straighter, the guy moves suddenly, like he’s in a big hurry to get out of here—yeah, can’t really blame him—flicking his cigarette butt onto the gravel and stepping on it as he backs away. “But I’ll be in touch. And in the meantime…” He hurries backwards towards the Eldorado, calling out, “That daughter of yours!”

Hopper raises an eyebrow, suspicious when he asks, “What about her?”

The secret agent guys are hot on Enzo’s tail, climbing in the car the second Enzo reaches for the back door. “You Americans do this… ‘take your kid to work’ thing, no?” He grimaces, then adds, “Maybe give it a try this week.”

Steve frowns, eyes darting back and forth between Enzo and Hopper. Okay, he’s not following. Seems like police training’d be kinda useless for El, since—y’know. She can throw people through walls with her brain.

“Christ…” Squeezing the bridge of his nose, Hopper cranes his head back with a groan while the Eldorado quietly backs up and turns around.

Steve watches it glide down the driveway ’til it disappears, then offers, “Hey, man. If you want to take a vacation—”

The chief puts one giant gorilla hand in his face. “Can it, Harrington.”

Notes:

Hey, guys!! I know there wasn’t a lot a lot of Harringrove content in the previous couple of chapters, and for that, I apologize. When plotting it out, I wanted this fic to feel like it could potentially exist within the show, and therefore tried to treat Steve’s rapid onset scifi-horror motherhood like it could function as the B-plot of… what would still be the weirdest season ever. But I digress. 😅 I hope the more plotty chapters with the Russian stuff and the Billy drama are still enjoyable to read and haven’t soiled the fic for any of you!!

Also, thanks so much to my friends/betas for being so flexible and reassuring! I’ve felt very iffy about my writing as of late, and their support means a great deal to me. And I wanted to again mention that your interactions and comments give me SO MUCH serotonin!! 😭💖 I must confess that I obsessively reread them to motivate me whenever I am feeling shaky about this fic. You guys are my rocks!

Finally… a question. I don’t want to misuse the tag, but I think I had a comment or two describe this fic as a slow burn. What do ya’ll think? Would it be blasphemous to tag it as such since they’ve already banged like four times? Or, given that they’re barely starting to be flirty after 18 chapters and 100k+ words, would it fit under the umbrella? I look forward to hearing your verdicts. 😉

As always, thank you so much for reading!! 💖

Chapter 19: The Cover-up

At first, it was just gonna be Steve and Henderson.

Then Robin got wind of what they were doing, so she invited herself, and then she had the genius idea of bringing Erica. Because, and Steve’s quoting her here, she knows the layout, and she’s infuriatingly smart about this stuff. 

Well. She got the infuriating part right, Steve’ll give her that. 

And of course, even though Erica’s—what? Old enough to take Driver’s Ed? Sinclair still doesn’t trust her to do this shit on her own, or maybe Steve should say without him, so he had to come. And since Lucas and Max are glued at the hip, so did she, and the rest of the dumbasses didn’t want to be left out, so…. 

It just snowballed, okay? It snowballed. 

Now Steve, Robin, Erica, Hargrove, and all six Junior dipshits are climbing down the staircase from hell, seeing if they can reach whatever’s left of that stupid Russian basement before they all starve to death. 

Hargrove invited himself once he heard Max was gonna be there, and it turns out the pep talk Steve gave her must’ve totally ruled, because Max didn’t call the whole thing off when she found out he was coming. But when they made it out to what’s left of Starcourt, Hargrove froze, and Steve started to wonder if he gave Max a heads up for nothing. Looked like Hargrove wouldn’t even make it past the parking lot, because he was just standing there, rooted to the ground while the rest of them headed towards the building. Then, right when Steve thought they’d have to leave him there, something snapped the guy out of it. He must’ve forced himself to move, walking after Steve and the rest of the nerd patrol like he was fighting his way through a wind tunnel. 

Most of Starcourt’s still standing. Nobody managed to scrape together the funds to knock it down, and from what Steve’s heard, bulldozing it would cost almost as much as building it in the first place. And, uh—after all the crap that’s happened to Hawkins in the last few years, Steve’s pretty sure they don’t have much of a budget left for that shit. So the bones of Starcourt have been sitting on the edge of town, totally abandoned, since ’85. The only time Steve’s been out here since losing the sailor suit was when Hopper had him bust a couple kids who had nothing better to do than break in. When you’re not going head-to-head with a pack of fucked up lizard dogs every few months, guess breaking and entering’s the only thing that passes for fun in this town.

But hey! The way Steve looks at it, that just means somebody did the dirty work for them. Sure enough, some random juvie alum had taken a pair of bolt cutters to the chain blocking off one of the doors near the loading bay, and once they got in, Erica retraced her steps back to the elevator room pretty easy. There was no way they were getting that thing to run again, even if they wanted to, but Robin kept saying there must’ve been an extra set of stairs leading down to the base, for emergencies or whatever. Steve called bullshit on that, because since when do commie nutjobs care about emergency protocol? But Steve, Hargrove, and the kids stood there anyway, watching Robin scurry around for a minute before she found paydirt: this wide, flat metal sheet bolted to the tile outside the room. Steve and Hargrove worked up a sweat getting it off the floor, and what do you know? Once they pulled it up, bam. The longest, creepiest set of stairs Steve had ever seen in his life.

He’d crouched down and stuck his flashlight in, shining the light around to get a visual. The steps went down in a U shape, winding around a corner, and when Steve moved the beam to try and shine it in the space between flights, just to see how far down it went… 

 Pitch black. 

“Yeah…” He’d stood up with a groan and swiped a thumb under his nose. “This is it, alright.” Looking back at the herd of jackasses, he’d muttered, “If anybody’s gotta take a leak, do it now.” 

There weren’t any takers, so Hargrove chucked the metal sheet off to one side and everybody started down the steps. Steve and Henderson led the pack, with Robin in the middle and Hargrove bringing up the rear. Finally, after half an hour of cardio, and a couple almost-slap fights between Dustin and Erica, they reached the bottom.

Now Steve’s face to face with a huge metal door. It’s gotta be six inches thick, minimum. There’s no handle, no way in other than a keypad. And even if they knew the code, the power’s been dead down here for over two years. 

Awesome.

“Okay. We tried!” Steve throws his hands in the air, then turns and points up the staircase. “Everybody back it up. We’re gonna regroup.” 

“Whoawhoawhoa—no! No.” Henderson jumps, dragging Steve’s arm back down. “No regrouping! Steve—” 

“You kidding me, man?” Just to prove his point, Steve raps his knuckles on the door with a clang. “Look at this thing! What, you’re gonna tell me you have TNT stuffed in your backpack? ‘Cause I do not see us getting in here without explosives.” 

“So you’re just gonna give up?” Dustin sticks his hands on his hips. (Man, that looks stupid. Where the hell did he learn to do that?) “You know this directly affects you, right? Whose stupid little policeman mission was it? Oh, yeah! Yours.”

“Oh please, Henderson.” Squeezing the bridge of his nose, Steve points out, “Like you weren’t creaming your Star Wars undies earlier over a chance to paw through all that top-secret Russian conspiracy crap.”

Dustin adjusts his arms, crossing them over his chest so he can sulk. “I don’t see how that’s relevant.”

“Oh, you don’t? You don’t see how that’s relevant?”

“Guys?”

Steve and Henderson look up at the same time when Max cuts in. El’s standing next to her in full psychic mode, her chin tilted down, glaring out from under her eyebrows as she quietly orders, “Move.”

Steve flings himself out of the way, and Henderson scrambles to flatten his body against the wall on the other side. El winds her arm back, then swings it forward, palm open, and the door goes flying. The whole thing blasts clean off its hinges before hitting the floor with a boom that makes Steve’s ears ring.

El does a little nod like she’s calling it good, thumbing at the trickle of blood under her nose. 

Glancing back and forth between El and the tin can that used to be a steel door, Steve mutters, “… That’s one way to do it.” 

Sometimes, Steve kinda… forgets she can do shit like that. It takes him a second to stop gawking, but as soon as he gets his head straight, he makes sure he’s the first through the doorway. Sure, this whole place is probably abandoned, and Steve really doubts there are any Russians still crawling around after the fire, but there’s no way in hell he's letting his guard down ’til after they’ve all made it all the way back up to the surface. 

“Alright.” Steve waves for the shitheads to follow him as he steps over the busted door, walking a few feet into the empty tunnel.  “Let’s hustle, people! If I’m remembering this right…” Jerking his thumb towards the staircase, he squints down the mile-long hallway as the light from Henderson’s flashlight sweeps around. “That shit was just the warm-up.”

The last time they were down here, this leg of the trip felt like it lasted at least a day. Of course, part of that might’ve been Robin and Henderson going on and on about nerd shit ’til he wanted to bash his head against a wall, but even if they manage to cram a sock in it today, Steve gets the feeling the time’s not exactly gonna fly.

Guess they’d better get a move on. Steve heads out in what he’s pretty sure is the right direction, and for once, everybody follows without making a stink. Not even Henderson has some smart-mouth comment. (Now that’s more like it.) There’s rubble and scrap metal all over the floor—total mess, honestly—but it’s dead quiet, pitch black, and somehow even creepier than it was with all the soldiers.

A couple minutes in, Steve glances over his shoulder to check on Max. He’s trying to retire the whole babysitter thing now that he’s got his own kid to deal with, but after Forest Hills, having Max and Hargrove within five feet of each other puts him on edge. Sure, Hargrove shot himself in the foot pretty good already, but if anybody was gonna find a way to screw things up even worse, it’d be him. Steve’s just trying to do a little damage control! Make sure his last shot at getting Hargrove out of his apartment doesn’t go completely down the toilet. 

They’re a few feet apart, Hargrove lagging behind, and Max has this stiff body language, going out of her way to look at anything but Hargrove. Gritting his teeth, Steve slows down a little, letting Henderson take the lead. Sinclair must’ve gotten the same idea—even though Steve’s not… totally sure what the idea is, he’s just trusting his instincts—slipping between the two of them so he can grab Max’s hand.

That’s when Erica’s head whips over her shoulder as she snaps, “Lucas!”

Sinclair jumps. “What?”

“Did you even hear me?” Erica doesn’t give him a window to answer. “I said, if you keep clomping your giant-ass feet like that, every evil Russian security guard within a mile radius is gonna come running with an open can of whoop-ass.” Spinning all the way around to face them, Erica slides backwards as she hisses,  “Walk. Quieter.”

Henderson lets out a groan, backpedaling over to Erica. “Just so you know, the chances of anybody entering this base within the last twenty-four months are so astronomically low—”

“Well, low isn’t zero, is it?” Fists on her hips, Erica spins back around around to glare at Henderson. “If somebody gets strapped to a chair so those freaky scientists can shoot them up with giggle juice, it is not gonna be me.” Her arm shoots out behind her, pointing at Lucas without even looking. “So stop slapping your Keds on the damn concrete.” 

Steve looks past Erica, sees how much headway Robin and the rest of the dweebs are making, then jolts. “Hey! HEY!” Snapping his fingers, he jogs ahead, motioning for the stragglers to pick up the pace.  “Walk and talk. I am not losing any of you shits down here, you hear me?” 

Erica rolls her eyes, shoving past Steve. “Whatever you say, mom.”

Steve’s too busy dealing with that third degree burn to notice at first, but then it hits him. That noise he heard right after Erica went for the jugular? Yeah, that was Hargrove laughing. 

He’s still kinda smirking when Steve glares back at him, but the guy’s more focused on Lucas, shaking his head as he sighs, “That’s just sad, Sinclair.” 

“Why do I feel like I’m gonna regret this?” Lucas shoots Hargrove the same look he probably makes when he’s watching paint dry as he asks, “What’s sad?”

Max’s eyes crawl over to look at them before they snap forward. But it’s less thousand-yard-stare, more God, not this shit again, and if you ask Steve, that’s a step in the right direction! 

“Shouldn’t let her talk to you like that,” explains Hargrove. “Might give people the wrong idea.”

Sinclair wrinkles his nose like Hargrove just let one rip. “The wrong idea about what?”

“You know the front pocket of her little overalls?” Reaching out, Hargrove wags his hand in Erica’s direction. “That’s, uh—That’s probably where she’s keeping them.”

Lucas must be just as stumped as Steve is, because he hears him mutter, “Keeping… what?” 

Hargrove doesn’t miss a beat. “Your balls.” 

Sinclair gawks up at the guy as he walks, and Steve can’t read the kid’s face too well from this angle, but it’s still a shock when Lucas starts laughing. “Oh my God.”

Something flickers across Hargrove’s face, and Steve has to wonder if he’s disappointed Sinclair didn’t blow a fuse. But when he blinks, Hargrove’s got that shit-eating smirk again, so who knows.

Max’s mouth is twitching, holding back a smile, and Steve feels himself break out in a grin. Then he turns his head real fast ‘cause he doesn’t want to make it obvious he was listening. Just… feels like a private moment, y’know? Not really his business. He and Hargrove are… basically roommates, and Steve’s still not that buddy-buddy with Max. This is their private shit.

“Okay, first of all? Erica does whatever the hell she wants.” Sinclair says that, and Erica claps her hands and spins to point at Lucas with a now you’re getting it kinda nod. “She barely listens to our parents.” 

Man, Steve’s trying not to get involved, but he’s gotta make one tiny correction. “Uh—try anyone.”

“Oh, you got an issue with that, Harrington?” Erica shouts back at him, and Steve decides it’s a real good time to focus on not tripping. 

He looks back up and spots Max watching Hargrove, but a second after they lock eyes, Max rolls hers up to the ceiling and stomps ahead a few paces, joining Robin’s half of the pack so she can loop her arm through El’s. Hargrove makes a face, watching her leave as Lucas goes back to blabbing.

“I can’t make her do anything. And even if I tried to…” Sinclair shrugs. “I dunno. Put my foot down? Like, get really mad and yell at her?” The kid's voice gets scratchy, fingers curling up like even picturing it is giving him the creeps. “I mean, sure, she’s a huge pain in the ass, but… I couldn’t treat her like that.” He gets quieter, and Steve’s not sure he remembers Hargrove’s walking next to him, just staring off into space as he thinks out loud. “What if I really scared her or something? She’d never want to be around me again.” 

“I’m sorry—what did you say?” Erica backtracks a second time, letting out a fake laugh and shoving her way into Sinclair’s personal space. “You? Scare me?” She shudders with her whole body, and throws in a gag for good measure. “Puh-lease. Remember that spider you saw in the bathtub last week? The one you made me get ‘cause you were too chicken to even look at it?”

Sinclair’s voice gets all pitchy as he squeaks, “Hey, for your information, it was three inches long! A-And it reminded me of the Mindflayer!” Clapping a hand against his chest, he counters, “I’ve got trauma!”

Erica scoffs. “You know, now that Steve’s got an actual child at home, pretty sure the role of group crybaby is officially taken.”

Steve braces himself, ready for an earful from Hargrove, since there’s no way the jackass isn’t gonna have a fucking heyday with this conversation, but the guy’s totally quiet, face all dark and serious. He isn’t even listening to the Sinclair comedy routine, just glaring off into the distance as they trudge towards whatever the hell they’re gonna find at the end of this tunnel.

Max checks over her shoulder, sees Hargrove mulling it over like he’s got a new screw loose, and slips a couple steps back to hiss at Lucas, “What the hell did you say to him?” 

“What?” Lucas’s head snaps back and forth between Hargrove and Max a couple times as he swears, “I didn’t do anything!”

After another minute, Hargrove’s starting to trail, face still screwed up in that weird mix of pissed-off and totally stumped. Sighing, Steve drags his feet, slowing down ’til Hargrove catches up with him. 

“C’mon, man, keep up. You get lost in this shithole, you’re on your own.”

Hargrove blinks a few times and pretends to be surprised. “Did I ask?” 

Christ. Steve almost sprains something trying to hold in an eye-roll. “Actually? Scratch that. Take your time.” 

Right after he says that, there’s a giant bang from up ahead, and Steve sprints towards the rest of the group, Hargrove’s boots thumping behind him.

When they get there, everyone’s crowded around another heavy-duty door that El knocked to the floor, and all Steve can think is man, it would’ve been nice to have her around the last time they got stuck in this Russian hellhole. Everyone steps over the door and piles into the room on the other side, flashlights darting around so they can get a good feel for the layout. It kinda reminds Steve of that room where he tackled that soldier dude and beat his ass with a phone. (All in all, might be the one good memory Steve’s got from down here!)

“What are we looking for, exactly?” Byers’ eyes are huge, even in the pitch black room, and honestly? Sometimes Steve’s gotta wonder how the kid makes it anywhere without passing out.

Wheeler rounds on him. “Steve?”

Ah, shit. “Uhh—”

Henderson’s got him covered, though, listing things off like they’re grocery shopping. “Documents, files, employee numbers—anything that’d have official identification.” Shining the flashlight under his chin, he adds, “Pretty sure they’re not gonna have a wall with all those ‘Employee of the Month’ pictures on it, soooo…” He shrugs. “Maybe look for filing cabinets?” 

“Seriously?” No, come on. Why the hell would they make it that easy? “Be real, man. They’re not gonna keep that shit somewhere anyone could find it.” This place isn’t fifty stories underground ‘cause they like the view! Whatever happened to this crap being top-secret? 

“Steve. We just spent an hour climbing down hundreds of flights of stairs so we could walk another mile through a giant underground base.” Waving towards the busted door behind him, Lucas demands, “How is that easy!?” 

“You mapped all that out in your head?” Erica lets out a tssk sound. “Nerds are some seriously unhinged people.” 

“Wh—you played Eddie’s campaign!” Lucas jabs a finger at his sister. “Don’t act like you don’t count!”

While the Sinclairs start on round two, El, Wheeler, and Byers all head over to a desk covered in buttons so they can start digging through the drawers. Henderson goes to check out a bunch of rusty lockers, and Max follows him, crouching down to screw with the combination locks on the bottom row.

“Steve!” Robin calls, waving him over to the other side of the room. She’s standing next to this giant metal cabinet, knocked on its side on the floor, and as Steve’s eyes start to adjust, he realizes it’s blocking another door. “Help me move this.” 

Steve crouches next to her, braces himself, and they start shoving. There’s a screech, the whole thing groans, and they move it… maybe an inch. 

Hargrove stands above them, arms crossed as he laughs. “Y-You good, Harrington?” 

“Just—gnn! Shit. No, c’mon. On three.” Steve tunes Hargrove out, waits for Robin to catch her breath, then starts counting. “One, two, three—” He can feel himself straining every muscle he’s got while Robin’s sneakers scramble against the floor, but the stupid thing still won’t budge. “GNNGHHH!” Finally, they have to call it quits. Steve stands up straight, panting, while Robin doubles over with a moan. “Y-Yeah, man! Just… peachy!”

Hargrove’s full-on cackling at this point, busting a gut so loud that everyone else in the room stops whatever they’re doing to watch him be a dick. 

Soon as she’s done puffing, Steve motions for Robin to give it one last shot. They crouch down, shove as hard as they can, and move it another inch. Groaning, Steve stands and pops his back, glaring at Hargrove as he fights to catch his breath. “Y-You done?” 

“Wait, wait—one more.” Arm slung over his stomach, Hargrove wheezes, “One more time.”

“Alright, man. Do me a favor? Blow it out your ass.” Screw it. This thing weighs a ton, but Steve’d bet it’s a piece of cake to move if you’ve got psychic powers. “Hey, El—”

“Oh, now that is just depressing.” Hargrove snorts and claps his hands together, walking over and pushing El back when she steps in to help. “Lucky for you, there’s a man present.” 

“Okay, yep. I get it. ’Cause I’m not a man. Good one.” Steve taps his chin, nodding a few times before Hargrove shoves him aside. Whatever, man! Prick is gonna learn the hard way that this thing weighs a thousand pounds, minimum. Maybe if he’d watched Steve and Robin for five seconds instead of pissing his pants laughing the whole time, he would’ve figured that out on his own. In fact, if he was slightly less of a douche, Steve might even stop him so he doesn’t break something important. But after the last five minutes? Oh, like Steve’s not gonna relax and enjoy the show while Hargrove throws his back out. “So when it turns out you can’t move this thing either, does that make you a chick, or… ?”

Hargrove bends down, grabs the sides of the cabinet, and grunts, muscles bulging under his skin as he starts to pull. Steve shuts up and watches, jaw going slack as Hargrove gets to work. He doesn’t even try to slide the thing off to one side along the floor. Nope. Instead, he lifts it clear off the ground, pulling it towards him and slamming it down on the base, right-way-up and three feet to one side of the door.

Steve’s stuck where he is, gawking at Hargrove and the cabinet and trying to get his brain to kick back on. He’s not sure if everyone else saw that, but they sure as hell went quiet. Hargrove’s soaking it up, turning his head to spit before he dusts his hands off like one of those old-timey weightlifters. He grins, strutting over to Steve so he can clap him on the shoulder. “You were saying?”

Steve blinks, coming to with a groan. Jesus Christ, what a show-off.

The dipshits go back to whatever they were doing before Hargrove’s little stunt, and it looks like Max finally gets one of the lockers open because Sinclair and Erica quit chewing each other out so they can help root through it. Robin flips her backpack around, pulling out a pair of bolt-cutters and clipping through the rusty lock on the door. It falls to the floor with a clatter, and Robin pushes it open, waving for Steve to follow her as she creeps inside. Steve switches his flashlight on, shining it around as he steps in after her. The room’s bigger than Steve would’ve figured, and there’s barely any space to move between all the shelves and cabinets. The rest of the base was a mess, broken glass and metal everywhere, but this room looks like it’s barely been touched—everything’s just buried under a layer of dust.

“Whoa.” Steve cranes his head back, tracing the beam up the shelves and towards the ceiling. “Think we found Henderson’s file cabinets.” 

Robin looks behind her all of a sudden, and Steve automatically turns his head, too. She’s watching Hargrove stomp in behind them, frowning. Guy’s probably mad nobody kissed his ass just for moving some furniture around, and now he’s gotta make it their problem.

“So.” Steve can’t see her face, but shit, he knows what’s coming. It’s in her tone. Steve knows that stupid tone. She’s about to poke the bear. “Couldn’t raise the funds to make it out of Bumfuck, Indiana?” 

“Why?” After checking out the dozens of cabinets for a minute, Hargrove turns and pokes his tongue out at her. Ugh. “Would you miss me?” With a chuckle, he sticks his hands in his pockets and starts closing Robin in. Looks like Robin didn’t see that coming, though, ‘cause Steve sees her panic, freezing from head to toe as Hargrove saunters over. His voice gets all deep and rumbly, and Steve swears he sees Robin puke a little in the back of her throat when he mumbles, “’Cause there’s still time to make a good impression.”

Robin clicks her tongue, voice coming out all shaky. Understandable—it’s probably taking everything she’s got not to blow chunks all over Hargrove. “You know what? I think my schedule’s full.” She twirls around, eyes bugging out as she hops over to stand next to Steve. “So! Steve! Where’s Arnold?”

Steve raises an eyebrow at her. Seriously, why does she do the full name thing? “You know you can call him ‘Arnie’, right?” Robin hums like she didn’t hear that, so Steve sighs and deadpans, “He’s with Mrs. Byers.” 

“And you didn’t want to make this a permanent babysitting arrangement…” Mouth thinning into a line, Robin jerks her head towards Hargrove twice. Subtle, Robin. Real subtle. “… Why?” 

“I mean, she’s busy! She’s gotta work.” Steve shrugs, trying to get her to drop the subject. He’s just… He’s tired of explaining himself, okay? It’s worked out fine so far, and Arnie doesn’t hate Hargrove, for whatever dumbshit reason, so why mess with success? Besides— “Not like Hargrove has a lot on his plate.” 

“God—why does everyone act like this shit is hard?” Hargrove stops in the middle of scratching the shape of a dick into one of the cabinets with his pocket knife, flicking the blade shut and growling, “I could take care of Harrington’s pet snot with my eyes closed. Just ‘cause Harrington and ALL HIS LITTLE SHITBIRDS—” Hargrove belts out that last part, his voice bouncing off the walls loud enough to carry into the other room. “—suck at this crap, it doesn’t mean I do.” 

Robin wrinkles her nose, grimacing at Hargrove for a second before she shoots Steve the tiredest look she can manage. “Really?” 

Steve coughs into his hand. “I mean. Arnie likes him.” And hey, it’s just like Sinclair said! You can’t control what other people do! Not Steve’s fault his kid’s obsessed with this asshole.

Letting out a sad whistle, Robin ducks her head. “Poor Arnold. Guess there’s no accounting for taste.”

“Real big talk from somebody who turned me down.” Bending an arm, Hargrove cups the back of his neck and cranes his head to one side until there’s a crack. Steve watches his biceps tense, flexing under his shirt—wait. Is he… Oh, Jesus, he is. Hargrove’s still trying to put the moves on her. “You’ve got no clue what you’re missing.” Wagging his tongue some more, he puts his elbow against a file cabinet and reaches into his pocket, trading his Bowie knife for a stick of gum. He unwraps it slowly, slipping it into his mouth as he tosses the wrapper on the floor. He scans Robin head to toe, smacking his lips—okay, is that supposed to be attractive or some shit? “Ten minutes alone with me, you would’ve thought you’d died and gone to heaven.”

Robin turns into a statue again, and Steve thinks he hears her brain shatter into a million pieces. She pulls a pretty fast recovery, though, telling Hargrove, “What you’ve just described is my version of hell.”

Hargrove’s gum falls right out of his mouth, gears turning in his head while he tries to pinpoint why, exactly, his scumbag routine isn’t landing. Finally, after staring at her for a solid five seconds, Hargrove asks, “What are you, some kind of dy—”

“STEVE!” Steve’s heart’s about to fall right out of his ass when Dustin screams his name from the other room. Holy shit—Henderson’s timing couldn’t be better. “Get in here!”

Grabbing Robin’s wrist, Steve yanks her out of the storage closet, stumbling into the other room. Hargrove scowls, following behind them as they scramble over to the locker all the shitheads are crowding around. They break out of their huddle as Steve comes over, and Henderson stands up and holds out his arm. 

“Check it out.” The kid shoves a manilla envelopes into his face, and Steve winces, snatching it out of Henderson’s paws. 

He flips it open, staring down at the first sheet of paper inside as Dustin shines a light over his shoulder. It looks a little like those medical forms Steve had to fudge when he was on leave, except in Russian—yeah, no shit—with some kind of employee mugshot in the corner. This one’s a younger dude in glasses and a lab-coat, but after Steve flips through the first few, the rest are in military uniforms. Finally, about halfway through the stack, Steve gets to one that makes him pause. This guy’s a lot older than all the other pictures so far, totally bald and with a scowl so nasty, it makes Hargrove look like a teddy-bear. His uniform’s fancier, too, with a tie and these little leaf pins on the lapels. 

Makes Steve think back to what Enzo said. If their man really is out for revenge, it wouldn’t be one of the grunts. It would’ve been somebody who had a long way to fall. And this guy? 

This guy looks important.

Steve swallows. 

“Well. Gonna have to check with Hopper, but…” He slowly pulls the paper free, holding it out so everyone can get a good look. “Pretty sure we got our guy.”

 

*

 

After Henderson dug up those files, everybody squeezed into the closet together to see if they could find any more clues. Steve wracked his brains until he remembered the name of that project Enzo mentioned, and Robin led the search for any labels that had the Russian letter “D”. 

When they found a drawer with the letter that looked like a little chair, El picked the lock with her powers and Robin yanked the whole thing clean out of the cabinet. It was stuffed with papers and manilla envelopes, but since Steve was starting to feel like they were pushing their luck, he had everybody grab a stack so they could start hoofing it back to the never-ending staircase. An hour later, when they reached the top, Steve herded the dipshits over to the Chevy and had them dump the whole pile onto the floorboard. He blocked Henderson from trying to stowaway so he could paw through them, then got behind the wheel and made a beeline for the Byers’ place. 

The Blazer’s parked out front when Steve pulls in, so he climbs into the passenger side of the Chevy and stuffs as many folders as he can into his arms. Then he slides out of the truck, kneeing the door shut before wobbling over to the front porch. He tries to move his arm out from under the pile, just enough to knock on the door, but when he almost drops the whole load onto his feet, he freezes. After thinking it over, he grits his teeth and lifts one foot up to kick the door a couple times. (Jesus, he hopes they’re not gonna be able to tell he’s using his shoe.) The door swings open half a minute later, and Hopper’s standing on the other side. He pauses, eyeing the stack, then slowly leans his head to one side so he can see Steve.

“Alright, Harrington,” he groans, stopping to rub at his forehead before gesturing towards the mountain of papers Steve’s holding. “What the hell is this?”

“Oh, this?” Steve shrugs, keeping it casual as he says, “Just, uh—just top secret Russian shit from three miles under Starcourt.” 

Hopper lets out another groan, and man, does Steve feel unappreciated. “Of course it is.” He steps back, swinging the door wide open and waving Steve inside. “Well, bring ‘em in. I’m gonna need to make a call.” 

Twenty minutes later, Steve’s sitting on the Byers’ couch, Arnie plopped down on his lap while Hopper leads his emergency contact into the living room. Steve’s surprised when he actually recognizes the guy. Sure, he only saw him for about thirty seconds, tops, and it was more than two years ago, but he looks pretty much the same as Steve remembers: big glasses, bigger beard, and a crazy mess of hair.

Well—what’s left of it is crazy. 

He’s giving Robin a run for her money, talking Hopper’s ear off the whole way from the front door, not even bothering to look at Steve. 

“I just want to make it clear, I’m not calling you a liar. Obviously these places have considerably more lax security than I would’ve expected, but to waltz down there and rob an entire section of their most closely guarded secrets just seems a little far-fetched to— ” The guy skids to a stop when they reach the living room, ogling the stack of papers on the coffee table like it’s a centerfold in Playboy. “Oh.” Blinking, the guy—Murray, right? Murray Bauman. Anyway, he picks up the top folder, flipping it open so he can start thumbing through the papers. “Oh-ho-ho.” He breaks out in a massive grin, flipping through even faster.  

“Well?” Hopper jabs a hand at the pile. 

Bauman doesn’t seem to hear him, mouthing something under his breath as he scans the page. Finally, he makes himself stop, pulling his face out of the file and lifting his head up. “I’m happy to say, I spoke too soon.” He must notice Steve—probably for the first time—because he frowns, turns towards Hopper, then points at Arnie. His mouth flaps open and shut a few times, and he keeps doing these double-takes between Hopper and the kid. “You didn’t tell me you and Joyce—”

“Babysitting, Murray.” Hopper sounds fed up already, and Steve fights back a laugh. “We’re babysitting. The kid’s Harrington’s.” 

Clearing his throat, Steve wraps an arm around Arnie’s middle, then lifts his free hand. “Hey.” 

“Wait, wait. Harrington? Steve Harrington?” Wait. This guy remembers him? The only reason Steve remembers Bauman is because… Well, shit. Kinda hard to forget the weirdest guy you’ve ever met. “The kid who—” Steve’s eye twitches as Bauman holds his arms out over his stomach, miming the shape of a massive gut.

“Wh—” Voice cracking, Steve’s head snaps over to stare at Hopper, face red enough to give Hargrove’s Camaro a run for its money. “He knows?” Flinging one arm towards Bauman, Steve sputters, “Why the hell does he know!?” 

Hopper bobs his hand in a ‘settle down’ gesture. “Relax. Murray happens to have a talent for putting those lab people over a barrel.” Letting out a sigh, he tries to explain, “I just wanted to make sure, if anything were to happen to you—”

Bauman sets the documents back on the table like he’s handling fine china, inching around the coffee table and over to Steve the same way you’d creep up to a fly before you squash it. Steve grimaces when the guy crouches down in front of Arnie, trying not to be too obvious as he scoots the kid back towards him. 

“Well, hey there, little guy!” Sure, the asshole’s doing that cutesy baby-talk, but something about the way he says it makes Steve’s skin crawl. “How’s it feel, being first human ever born via asexual reproduction? Y’know, it really is incredible.” He beams up at Steve, like he’s supposed to agree with… whatever the hell Bauman just said, and all Steve can do is watch, wondering if he’s stuck in a nightmare as the guy eases up so he can flop down next to Steve on the couch. He leans away automatically, but Bauman doesn’t even notice, talking Steve’s ear off like he isn’t about to fall backwards over the arm of the couch. “Okay—I’ve gotta know. The implantation. Was it more of a stabbing? Did you feel it really digging in there, or was it more like a little prick?”

Steve grits his teeth. “Y’know, little prick sounds about right.” 

“And the kid. He’s—what?” The guy’s whole body curls forward like a shrimp as he gets on Arnie’s eye-level. Little shit isn’t even phased, the traitor, gurgling at Bauman and reaching out to try and to honk his nose. “Six? Maybe eight weeks, at the most?” Letting out a wild laugh, he slowly straightens up. “Looks like he’s twice that age!”

Hopper clears his throat. “Not what I called you here for, Murray.” 

“Right, right.” Throwing his hands in the air, Bauman hops to his feet and skirts back around the coffee table, bending to pick through the files again. “Remind me what we’re looking for?”

“Some sort of project. Enzo said it was named after a mountain pass.” 

“Dyatlov.” Bauman holds a hand up to stop Hopper. “You know, Jim, I think I’ve got a little bit of an edge over ol’ Dmitri on this one. He’s, uh…” Glancing over his shoulder, he shoots the chief a smirk and pats both sides of the massive paper stack. “Not what I’d call a conspiracy buff. Now let’s seeeee….” Suddenly, the guy switches into overdrive, grabbing folder after folder off the top of the pile and rifling through them before chucking them on the floor when, apparently, they don’t have whatever he’s looking for. “By the way, I am going to want a cut of these. Consider it a payment for my services.” 

Hopper heaves a sigh. “Save it for the end, would you?”

“Where are yoooou?” Bauman sing-songs as he tears up the joint, and Jesus, if this is how he treats the shit he thinks is valuable, Steve’d hate to see how he handles regular paperwork. “I know you’re in there somewhere! Annnnnd…” Bauman yanks out an extra thick manila folder, shoving the stack of folders aside so he can make room on the coffee table. “Here she is!” Kneeling, he flips it open and starts spreading out the papers, motioning for Steve and Hopper to lean in. Sticking a finger under what’s gotta be the title, Bauman starts reading. “The Dyatlov Program. Warning: the following transcripts may only be viewed by authorized personnel—not important—any willful violation of these terms will result in immediate extermination—yadda, yadda… Let’s skip to the juicy parts, shall we?”

Steve swallows, both arms going tight around Arnie as the kid sucks on his wrist. Hopper hunches further over the table, watching Murray like a hawk as he starts slapping page after page on top of the ring marks the table’s covered in. 

“The goal of said program? Expose still-developing human brains to ultrasonic sound waves.” Bauman slides a file across the wood, pointing to a picture of some kind of brain scan. “Awaken extrasensory abilities in responsive subjects.” Glancing up at Steve and Hopper again, Bauman gives a shaky grin. “That, uh—that means psychic abilities, Jim. I know you’re not familiar with the other terminologies.” The guy flips through a few more pages, frowning, then goes quiet. 

Hopper waits a second, then mutters, “Murray.”

“Sorry! Sorry. It’s just, uh—” Tapping at the side of his giant forehead, Bauman screws his eyes shut and shakes his head. “My theories from a few years back?” He puts a hand on top of his paper collage, tenting his fingers. “You do realize this means I was right on the money, correct?” 

The chief makes one of those tired old man sounds, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he rumbles, “Care to elaborate?”

“Children with telekinetic abilities being raised as living weapons for the Russians. Look, look—” Pawing through the documents, Bauman holds up a paper with a grainy photo of some little kids in jumpsuits. They’re all lined up against a brick wall, chins raised as they salute. “They trained them. Not just how to manage their powers, but how to use them lethally.” The guy lets out another laugh—Christ, sounds like he’s losing it—and Steve fights back a shudder. “This thing’s some kind of manifesto. For God’s sake, just listen to this!” He reads through more of it, pointing to the files with pictures as he goes, like he’s showing them some kind of fucked up slideshow. 

“No disobedience from subjects will be tolerated.” He points to a photo of this tiny, concrete hut with bars on the one puny window. Jesus, is there supposed to be a kid in there? “Any insubordination is to be immediately… corrected.” Finally, Bauman pries one last paper out of the pile, acts like he’s gonna slam it down for dramatic effect, then hesitates. Steve hears him gulp, and after psyching himself up for a few seconds, he carefully sets it down on top of the others. 

Steve and Hopper both flinch. 

It’s a drawing of an entire army, all dressed in the same jumpsuits as the kids from the other photo. They’re doing the salute, too, hundreds of them all lined up and facing a guy on a podium, with a bright red flag plastered over the background. 

Steve feels like the wind’s been knocked out of him, and his arms go even tighter around Arnie, stomach twisting as he mutters, “Holy shit…”

Bauman’s voice wobbles as he reads the tagline under the picture. “The Soviet Union. The Dyatlov Program. Together, unstoppable.”

It’s dead silent for a minute. The only sound comes from Arnie, who’s starting to whine thanks to Steve squeezing him too hard. Steve loosens his grip, dumbly letting the kid yank his thumb into his mouth so he can start gumming on it.  

After the pause, Hopper shakes his head and whispers, “You’re telling me they’ve got a whole army of these brats?”

“At least. I mean, if they—” Grabbing the envelope so he can flip through the rest of the file, Bauman freezes, then throws his head back, letting out a huge puff of air. “Oh! No. No, they don’t. My mistake—should’ve kept reading.”

“Wha—” Steve sputters. “You just said all that shit about these psycho Russian kids taking over the world! Now you’re going back on it?” Steve shoves his fingers through his hair, moaning, “Pick a lane, man!” 

“Okay! Understood.” Bauman heaves a sigh, admitting, “I may have gotten a little overzealous.” He pats the mess on the coffee table, explaining, “That was the manifesto. But these puppies…” Flapping the folder in the air a couple times, Bauman drops it on the table before starting to dig through it. “These are the experimentation logs.”

“And?” The chief’s tapping his food, already fed up with Bauman as the guy reads under his breath—and honestly, Steve’s right there with him. “What are we dealing with here? Because if there’s an entire squadron of super soldiers headed over on the next flight out, I’d appreciate a heads up.” 

“Don’t rush me, Jim. You want me to half-ass a translation and miss something crucial?” He holds his hand up to shush Hopper before the chief can answer. “No! You don’t. Now let’s see…” The guy pokes his tongue out as he starts reading, eyes scanning the page, going a mile a minute as he flips through the entire packet. His face changes as he reads, going from panic to… 

Well, Steve’s not totally sure what to make of it, but the guy almost looks sad. 

Bauman makes it through the whole thing, shutting the folder and shaking his head. “Alright. There’s no army.”

“That’s… good, right?” Man, Steve always feels like he’s jinxing it whenever he says this shit, but come on, people! Somebody’s gotta look on the bright side, and it sure ain’t gonna be the chief. 

“There is good news!” Bauman sets the folder back down, acting like he just finished a marathon as he groans. “… In a manner of speaking.” Holding up a stapled packet, Bauman explains, “Far as I can tell, there’s only one subject left.”

Steve swallows, feeling his heartbeat in his thumb as Arnie tries to gnaw it off. “What happened to the other ones?”

Bauman gets real serious all of a sudden, shooting Steve this dark look. “Either the experiments failed to produce any results, or the process, uh…” The guy works his jaw for a couple seconds, then mumbles, “… Killed them.” Shaking his head, he turns and taps the packet. “Their one success story—your little smelting enthusiast down at the county jail… Well, it wound up being too successful. The kid’s abilities were too strong to handle, even for the kid.” He flips through the packet until he finds the page he’s looking for, turning it around so Hopper can see. “Had to make one of these inhibitor collars just to keep his powers in check.” 

Bauman pulls his glasses off, sticking the end of one of the ear-piece thingies in his mouth so he can gnaw on it. 

“They dump who knows how many rubles into these kids, half the experiments are a bust, and the ones that aren’t kill the poor little bastards…” He shrugs. “If the best they could do is one kid out of fifty, and even then, they had to stick some sort of psychic training wheels on him so he could function…” Grunting, the guy rolls forward so he can slowly get to his feet. “Not what I’d call a good return.” Holding his arms up over his head, Bauman starts stretching, leaning from side to side. “Same thing Enzo said about that base overseas. Government must’ve shut it all down and swept it under the rug.”

“Jesus Christ.” Throat tight, Steve looks over at Hopper, and Hopper breaks eye contact with Bauman so he can look back. This is seriously messed up. Steve’s not crazy for thinking it’s messed up, right? “So that other guy…” Steve bites his lip, thinking for a second as Arnie switches to nibbling on his fingers. “He really is just a kid.”

“Yeah?” Doesn’t sound like the chief’s feeling all that sympathetic, crossing his arms and grumbling, “Well, that Vecna bastard was just a kid when he offed his entire family.” He gives Steve this look, adding, “We can’t afford to take it easy on him. Especially now that we know what he’s capable of.”

Steve thinks back to the wall of the jail cell, the hole melted clean through it, and knits his eyebrows together. Arnie tilts his head back, reaching up to paw at the underside of Steve’s chin, and Steve gives him a squeeze. 

“So, uh. Now that that’s done…” Glancing back and forth between Steve and Hopper, Bauman breaks out in an awkward grin. “How ‘bout a cup of coffee?” 

Notes:

Sorry this chapter was a bit delayed! Some things came up that pushed my schedule back a little, but the next one should be out much faster. ☺️ I hope you all enjoyed a bit more Robin and Billy time! I headcanon Billy as bi for non-goofy reasons, but admittedly i just love the idea of him thinking the only logical explanation for Robin NOT being into him is that she’s gay. (And proceeding to be correct about that for all the wrong reasons. 😂)

The next chapter will have a scene I’ve been planning since the beginning of this fic, along with an accompanying doodle of dad!Billy that happens to be one of the first things I ever drew with Arnie, so I’m excited to share that. Also, neither here nor there, but in the interest of avoiding using too many OCs, even as side characters, the scary Russian general dude is Stepanov, AKA the guy who was running the gate in the opening of season 3. The writers seem to not give TOO much of a shit about him, so…

 

 

As always, your comments mean the LITERAL world to me. I think about all the sweet things ya’ll have said nearly once a day, and I genuinely don’t know what I’d do without my lovely commenters and readers. Even if you’re just silently enjoying the story, knowing it means something to you is all I could ever want as a creator!! I really think the next few chapters are gonna be fun, and even though this is the wonkiest, out-of-order slow burn ever, we’re finally getting close to Steve and Billy (gasp!) sorta maybe enjoying each other’s company? Unthinkable!!

Sorry these notes keep getting longer and longer lol. I hope all of you are doing well. Okay, peace!! 💖💖

Chapter 20: Recon

Notes:

A few things of note in this chapter: first off, there's some brief scary stuff with Arnie in the first segment, but everything turns out fine! Read at your own discretion in case that's a delicate subject for you.

... Secondly, (mood whiplash 💀) there's some fingering. I've updated the tags, but I also wanted to mention it here so no one is caught off guard in case it's not your cup of tea. 🍵 Secondly, a very polite anon previously mentioned that they were only interested in bottom Steve, and wanted a heads up if that ever changed. I want to reiterate that Steve won't be topping in this fic, BUT he does briefly envision it in this chapter before Billy shuts him down. So if Steve fantasizing about topping Billy gives you the ick, proceed with caution!

Maybe Steve got too comfortable with it. 

Like—leaving Hargrove alone with Arnie. Not calling fifty times a day and letting himself think the guy might actually know what he’s doing. Steve let his guard down.

Yeah. Well, that was a mistake. 

When he gets home late Tuesday night, he’s starving. He doesn’t check on Arnie, or make sure Hargrove isn’t swinging him around by the ankles—he just goes right into the kitchen. All he does is glance in the living room real quick to see Arnie lying on a blanket on the floor, and Hargrove sprawled across the couch while he reads an issue of Motor Trend. Steve grabs a pot out of the cupboard, fills it with water, and turns the burner on. Then, the second after he sets it on top of the stove, he hears it. 

Before he can connect the dots, before he even knows what that sound is, Steve’s on the move. He doesn’t know what the hell he just heard, or why his heart-rate went from zero to a hundred. All he does know is that he’s in the living room before he can blink, sprinting across the apartment to get to Arnie. Arnie’s on his stomach, pushed up on his elbows, little face bright red and wheezing—no, Jesus.

Choking. He’s choking. 

Steve’s almost on top of him, practically diving to the floor, but before he can grab Arnie, Hargrove does. His arm whips out in front of Steve, snatching the kid and pinning him against his middle as he gives Arnie’s ribcage a brutal squeeze. Nothing happens, he’s still choking—Hargrove does it again, harder, then swears and jams a finger into Arnie’s mouth. He shoves it down Arnie’s windpipe, roots around for a second, and then, when he pulls his hand free, something flies out. Arnie gasps and starts coughing as the thing that was lodged in his throat skitters across the floor.

As soon as he’s taken a couple breaths, the kid bursts into tears, and Steve rips him out of Hargrove’s arms, hands shaking as he holds Arnie out to get a look at him. He’s still red, still hacking up a lung as he cries his little head off, but he’s breathing. He’s okay—Steve—he thinks he’s okay. It’s over, Arnie's okay, and he’s not choking. 

He’s okay. He’s okay. 

Steve wraps his arms around the kid, definitely way too tight, squeezing his tiny back as snot and tears soak through the fabric of his shirt. Jesus Christ, Steve’s never been this happy to have somebody screaming right in his ear. His heart finally starts to slow down, and his eyes wind up wandering over to the thing on the carpet. 

It’s a lighter. 

Steve puts two and two together pretty fast. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out whose that is. His head jerks up, hand splayed against Arnie’s back as he snaps, “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Hargrove’s face is pale, eyes wide—might be the first time Steve’s ever seen him look this freaked out, but Christ, does he ever not care. “It was an accident!” Hargrove stumbles to his feet, swiping the lighter off the floor and fumbling as he tries to stick it back in his shirt pocket. “I saved him, didn’t I?” 

“Yeah, from your fucking lighter, asshole!” Is this some kind of sick joke? What, does he want a fucking medal?

“You think I want to be watching that little shit?” Hargrove’s eyes are still wild, his face getting all splotchy as he snaps, “Call it what it is, Harrington. You have been blackmailing me into—”

“Are you kidding me, man?!” Steve shifts Arnie’s weight over to one arm so he can drag his fingers through his own hair, mussing it up—yeah! That’s right! Steve’s so messed up over this, he’s actually screwing up his hair. His hair! And he doesn’t even care! “Fine! I got it!” So this is Hargrove’s way of telling Steve he’s fed up? Almost letting his kid die over a vintage Zippo? “Message fucking received. I mean, I sure as hell don’t want you watching him now!”

Hargrove’s mouth opens, and after a pause, he shuts it again without saying a word. There’s this look on his face that Steve didn’t really expect. He’s not mad. Not exactly. It’s more like… offended? Or—or sad? No, Jesus, come on. Hargrove doesn’t get sad. And even if he does give a shit, then… why? A second ago, he was screaming his head off at Steve about how he’s only watching Arnie because Steve’s got him by the balls, or something. So—what? Now he’s gonna pretend he’s disappointed? 

Steve watches, feeling himself lose steam as Hargrove works his jaw, his bad hand starting to twitch. Finally, quieter than Steve thought he could get, the guy repeats, “It was an accident.”

Steve doesn’t buy it. Hargrove feeling bad just seems way too out there. It’s Hargrove. But honestly? The guy looks like shit. Guess even somebody like him isn’t proud of almost killing a baby. And yeah, Steve knows it wasn’t on purpose. Christ. Obviously. If Hargrove wanted to off Arnie, he’d have done it by now. But no matter how many times Steve’s blown a fuse picturing that exact situation, it’s never happened. 

Well. ’Til tonight. 

Steve doesn’t think he was lying about the other shit, though. There’s no way the guy would be sitting around babysitting unless he felt like he had to. And if Hargrove’s finally had enough of it—if he’s gonna start slacking so bad he lets crap like this happen, then… 

Christ. Maybe Steve should just, like… cut him loose. “Listen, man. If you really don’t want to watch him—” 

“Oh, give me a fucking break.” Hargrove jabs a finger at him, growling, “You’re only saying that ‘cause you think he’s gonna off himself on my watch.”

“No, dude. I mean it.” Seriously, Hargrove? Steve’s trying to be, like… Shit. What’s the word Robin uses? It has diploma in it, but it means you’re not gonna be a dick. That. He’s trying to be that. “If you don’t want to watch him anymore, then—”

“Cut the bullshit.” Hargrove’s face hasn’t really changed. He still looks like a kicked dog, sounding a little too much like he does whenever things go sour with Max. ”Stop acting like you’re doing me a favor and just say you don’t want me near him.”

Slapping a hand onto his face, Steve groans. “Jesus Christ, stop being so dramatic.” He grumbles into his palm under his breath, rocking back and forth and looking like a dipshit as he tries to get Arnie to settle down. The kid’s still hiccuping and sniffling and getting snot all over Steve’s polo, but at least he stopped crying. Steve takes his hand off his face and sighs, “You were right.” His eyebrows crawl up as he gives Hargrove this look. Kind of a big deal, y’know? Right here, right now, is the only time in this century Hargrove is gonna hear those words come out of his mouth. “Okay?” Steve chews on his bottom lip for a second, then screws his eyes shut, stuffing his pride way down in the back of his throat as he admits, “It was an accident.”

Hargrove rolls his eyes, muttering some shit about patronizing, which Steve is just gonna ignore. Then, after a pause, the dumbass sighs, too, taking a few rocky steps backwards before dropping onto the couch with a thud. Steve stands there, still bouncing Arnie kinda half-assedly, not sure what he’s supposed to do as Hargrove sits there with one hand over his mouth, staring off into space.

Back in the kitchen, Steve can hear the water starting to boil, but he stays put. Even though he’s not ready to let Arnie out of his sight yet, or maybe ever again, holding him over a hot burner doesn’t seem like a great call, either. 

Then Hargrove speaks up. It’s so quiet, muffled under his hand, that Steve almost misses it. “Neil probably would’ve let me choke.”

The messed up part—no, the really fucked up part is, Hargrove doesn’t sound sad when he says that. It’s like it doesn’t even bother him. Could be talking about the weather or some shit. 

Steve grimaces. His parents don’t even remember they have a kid half the time, but at least they don’t want him to walk out into the middle of the street and drop dead. Kinda puts it into perspective. The more Steve learns about him, the more he realizes—it’s no wonder Hargrove’s so screwed up. 

Okay. Okay, Steve can fix this. Well—not whatever the hell’s wrong with Hargrove’s family life, but the other stuff. The Arnie stuff. Christ, Steve can’t believe he’s about to do this. 

Hargrove better not make him regret it. 

“… Hold this.” Steve walks over to the guy and casually dumps Arnie into his arms, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal. “I gotta make dinner.”

He acts like he doesn’t notice the face Hargrove pulls, his mouth popping open in total disbelief as he scrambles to get his arms around Arnie. As Steve walks into the kitchen, he checks to make sure Hargrove actually got a grip and didn’t drop the kid, then heads over to the stove to see whether all the water’s boiled off.

After dumping the noodles into the pot, Steve looks over his shoulder, watching as Hargrove lifts Arnie up against his chest. Guy still has that thousand-yard stare as the kid pats one boogery hand against his face. Steve shakes his head, counts to ten, then turns around to grab a spoon. He’s just gonna try and focus on cooking for a few minutes and hope it doesn’t bite him in the ass.

But if Hargrove thinks Steve isn’t gonna watch him like a goddamn hawk for the rest of the night, he’s got another thing coming. 

 

*

 

Around the time Arnie’s really getting a handle on the whole “sitting up” thing, Hargrove starts bringing him down to the station. It’s mostly ‘cause Hopper’s convinced that Hargrove’s the only jackass in Hawkins who won’t screw up a V8 engine, but Steve knows the chief’s still not sold on the idea of Hargrove as a full-time babysitter, either. Hargrove’s already been in the building a couple times this week, and Steve swears, he’s never gonna get used to seeing the same guy who went completely postal on him stomping around with a baby carrier strapped to his chest. 

Yesterday, Hopper read Hargrove the riot act for smoking while Arnie was still attached to him. Steve only caught the tail end, but man, the look on Hargrove’s face when Hopper yanked the cigarette clean out of his mouth was priceless! Steve wishes he could glue it to the inside of his eyelids. Then Hopper had reached back and snuffed his smoke out on his desk before dusting off the top of Arnie’s head, grumbling, “Don’t you think that kid’s got enough problems without you using him as an ashtray?”

Hargrove came in again today, but Steve didn’t see any sign of him ’til the afternoon. He must’ve spent all morning working on the ECM in Powell’s Caprice, but the guy doesn’t even make it two feet into the building before Barnes lets out a wolf whistle and starts waving Hargrove over. Steve swears under his breath, almost spilling coffee down his shirt as he freezes and ducks back around the corner. Whatever the hell Barnes is about to say, Steve gets the feeling he isn’t gonna want to hear it. What he should do is turn, go back into the break room, screw around for five or ten minutes, then come back out like he didn’t hear shit. 

… And he will. Any second now. As soon as he tears his eyes off Hargrove’s reflection in Hopper’s office window. 

“Need somethin’, amigo?”

Barnes bursts out laughing. “Hoooooly shit.” He motions for Hargrove to pick up the pace. “C’mere. Let me get a look at it.”

Hargrove’s got his back to Steve—uh, the window—so Steve can’t see his face as he drags his feet the rest of the way over.

“I can’t believe Harrington’s got you babysitting his bastard. Must have some dirt on you, huh?”

Hargrove lets out a laugh. “Oh, you’re funny, Barnes. Real cut up.” Yeah, the thing about Hargrove is, Steve can’t even tell if he’s bullshitting when he says that.

But Barnes isn’t the type to let anything shut him up, and sure enough, he leans in to get a better look. Steve’s skin starts crawling, and he’s gotta hold back the urge to bolt around the corner and tell the jackass to get the hell away from his kid. But he stays where he is—something tells him Hopper’s not gonna appreciate the fact that he’s been standing there, doing some kind of… dickbag recon. “Jesus. What the hell’s wrong with him?”

Hargrove taps his foot like Barnes stopped him in the middle of some serious business, deadpanning,  “You wanna elaborate on that?” 

“God, where do I start? His eyes are all screwed up, for one. It’s like…” Scrunching up his face, Barnes puts his elbows on his desk and pretends he’s gluing a broken vase back together. “The two halves of his face don’t match.”

Callahan pipes up from his desk, face buried in his newspaper. “Hey, come on, man. That’s not cool. Don’t make fun of the baby.”

“I’m not making fun of him, I’m just stating the obvious!” Chuckling again, Barnes leans back in his chair with a squeak. “Come on, Callahan. You’ve got eyes, don’t you?”

The door to Hopper’s office flies open and Steve jumps, spinning on his heel and… facing the wall. He’s just trying to look like he’s—uh—fuck, man. Checking for mold? He doesn’t know! The chief passes by without noticing, though, and the second he does, Steve scoots back around, craning his head so he can watch Hopper’s reflection in his office window since, apparently, Steve’s some kind of glutton for punishment. 

“And if the kid looks this bad? Fuck.” Barnes doesn’t even seem to notice Hopper, ‘cause he goes right back to dissing Arnie like it’s in his job description. “Just imagine the mom. What, did Harrington get to the bottom of the barrel and go, ‘You know what? I can go lower.’”

“Hm.” Hargrove’s turned into a statue in front of Barnes’ desk. The only part of him that’s moving is his bad arm—must’ve worked it too hard on the Caprice or something, ‘cause it’s practically vibrating. Hopper seems to pick up on the conversation, though, and he shifts gears on his way to the garage, turning on his heel and stomping towards Barnes. “Alright! That’s enough.” 

“Hey, I’m just looking out for Harrington! Think he’d wanna know if his kid had a stroke.” Steve feels this red-hot surge of rage in the pot of his stomach as the piece of shit reaches out to poke Arnie’s forehead. “For fuck’s sake, the right side of his face looks like it’s melti—”

Hargrove snaps. 

It happens so fast Steve nearly misses it, but in a split second, the guy winds back and punches Barnes in the nose, hard. There’s a crack when his fist connects, and Hargrove hits with enough force to knock Barnes backwards into his chair with a yelp. 

Holy shit. Steve wouldn’t have gone that far. Okay, it’s not like Barnes didn’t deserve it, but Jesus. He knows from experience that Hargrove hits like a freight train. Steve forgets to play dumb, sprinting around the corner towards Barnes as Hopper runs in ahead of him. The chief grabs Hargrove under the arms, pulling him back with a rough jerk when the guy moves like he might try it a second time. 

“AUGH!” Barnes moans, hunching forward with both hands over his nose, face turning beet red as he swears. “Fuck! Jesus! What the hell’s your problem!?”

Hargrove thrashes against Hopper a couple times before he calms down enough for the chief to loosen his grip. He squirms free, snatching his arm away and muttering, “You had a fly on your nose.” After he says that, there’s this crazy moment where, even though Steve’s still bringing up the rear and can’t see the guy’s face, he can actually hear that fake, shit-eating-smirk. “Think I got it.” 

“Okay, kid.” Gritting his teeth, Hopper grabs Hargrove by the arm again, ignoring the way the guy struggles as he drags him towards the garage. “Let’s take this outside.” Apparently, by this, he means Hargrove, because he pulls the guy all the way out the door, Arnie still chilling in his carrier like he didn’t just become an accessory to assault.

Steve watches Hargrove’s back disappear after Hopper, and it takes him a minute to realize he’s been gawking. He finally snaps out of it when Barnes groans and curses again, ducking his chin to try and hide his dumbass smile. Then he spins on his heel, whistling as he walks back into the break room to grab an ice pack out of the freezer. He’s still whistling when he gets to Barnes’ desk and holds his arm out. “You’re gonna want to ice that.”

Barnes shoots him a dirty look, probably wondering just how much of that conversation Steve caught. He snatches the ice pack out of Steve’s hand, wincing and hissing through his teeth as he presses it against his nose. 

Steve can’t help it. He copies Hargrove, shit-eating grin breaking out all over his face as he warns the guy, “If your head swells up too much, it might start to look normal.”

 

*

 

Hopper sent Hargrove home after the incident. 

No surprise there, but Steve’s been watching that scene in his head on instant replay all day. Hargrove’s arm winding back, the release, him knocking Barnes’ nose to one side with a killer left hook before Steve even knew what happened. The way Hargrove jumps at a chance to fight dirty, you’d think the guy can’t punch for shit, but Steve’s got a permanent crook in his nostril that says otherwise. And Steve’s not saying Barnes had it coming, but…

Okay, no. He’s saying that. He’s saying the hell out of it. Barnes is the biggest prick Steve knows, and that’s coming from the guy who’s stuck rooming with Hargrove! So sue him for not being sympathetic when Barnes had to leave early to handle that broken nose. 

Steve can still see the punch while he’s driving home. The muscles in Hargrove’s arm tensing, the wind up, the release, Barnes’ face getting smashed in around Hargrove’s fist like one of those high-impact airbags. Lather, rinse, repeat. Steve’s finally gotten his fill when he climbs up the steps to the apartment and unlocks the door, and when he swings it open, Hargrove’s right there, sitting on the living room floor with Arnie on his lap.

It’s, uh… 

It’s not the first time he’s put the kid there. Kinda threw Steve off, the first time he saw it, but he was only dumb enough to point it out once. And of course, Hargrove got all pissy and started acting like Steve was a total dumbass for reading into it. Like he was nuts for thinking Hargrove might give two shits about his kid. ‘Cause obviously, he doesn’t. Well, maybe it’s the way he knocked Barnes’ teeth out earlier, or the fact that the meathead didn’t stand by and let Arnie choke, but Steve’s starting to think that’s a load of bullshit. 

Hargrove doesn’t even look up when Steve slips out of his All Stars and walks over, flopping down across from him Indian style.

“Hey, uh…” Steve chews on the inside of his cheek, eyes darting away from Hargrove’s face. “Thanks for…” He shrugs towards Arnie, trying to find the words before he settles on, “Y’know. Not letting Barnes talk shit about him.” 

“Yeah, I’m gonna stop you right there.” Hargrove leans back, letting his shoulder blades hit the front of the couch, one arm still tight around Arnie’s little pot belly as he picks something out from between his teeth with his pinky. He looks at it, flicks it off the end of his nail, and that’s when Steve knows that something is seriously screwing with his head right now, because he hardly even cares. “It’s not that deep, Harrington. Just didn’t like him talking about me like I’m your fucking nanny.” 

As he talks, Arnie starts to pass out, head squished into the crook of Hargrove’s elbow while his eyes flutter shut. He starts snoring, drool dripping down his cheek and onto Hargrove’s arm. Hargrove doesn’t even flinch, picking the kid up like a rag doll and flopping him against his shoulder as he climbs to his feet. Steve’s got the urge to follow him, make sure he doesn’t drop Arnie in his crib like a sack of wet cement, but he holds himself back. A minute later, Hargrove wanders out of Steve’s room, and Steve scrambles up, this nervous energy hitting him all of a sudden. It’s like he’s gotta move, or do something—he’s just not sure what.

Steve stumbles over to him, blocking the end of the hallway. Feels like his whole fucking body is buzzing—pins and needles everywhere. He’s nervous, and he doesn’t know why he’s so on edge, but he needs to figure out some way to stop it, ‘cause he’s not sure he can take this shit much longer. 

Hargrove must be able to tell that Steve’s off his rocker, because he shoots him a weirded out look. “… Yeah?” The guy shifts his weight from one foot to the other, almost antsy, like he thinks Steve’s about to throw a punch. “The hell do you want?”

Steve swallows. 

He’s standing closer to Hargrove than he meant to. The guy smells like old cigarettes and the grossest cologne he could probably find in stock. (Seriously, Fahrenheit? Steve’s not even sure they sell that shit anymore. Hargrove probably had to root around in a dumpster just to find any.) His hair’s kinda limp and greasy from working on squad cars all day, there’s motor oil wedged under his fingernails, and his bad arm’s still shaking just a tiny bit. 

He looks at Steve, and Steve looks back. Finally, Hargrove raises his eyebrows, and Steve realizes he’s been rubbernecking like an idiot. 

Hargrove smirks, shifting to put his arm against the wall, elbow crooked right above Steve. It’s the same pose he used to block Robin in—no, really. Steve’s got that move clocked by now, and there’s something extra humiliating about recognizing it. Knowing Hargove’s using it on him. You know what’s even worse, though?

It’s kinda working.

“You gonna say something?” asks Hargrove. “Or are we—”

Steve grabs his collar so fast Hargrove actually looks startled, and Steve feels the tension in the air. Honestly, he’s not sure if he’s gonna throttle the guy or do some other batshit thing. He feels his body move—sees it happen, like someone else is pulling the strings—and he doesn’t throttle the guy. Instead, he yanks Hargrove in and kisses him. Like, actually kisses him. 

And he does it first. Not after Hargrove’s been sticking a hand down his pants, forcing Steve to get warmed up and calling all the shots. Nah. Steve made the call this time, and he made it all on his own. 

Jesus. What the hell is wrong with him? 

Hargrove pauses for a second, then he leans into it, snaking an arm around Steve’s waist and opening his mouth so he can drag his lips across Steve’s. The hand Steve had around Hargrove’s collar slides onto his shoulder, and somehow, through the way his head’s spinning, Steve manages to start shoving the guy towards his room. He feels this prickle of surprise when Hargrove doesn’t fight him, not even when they make it through the door and Steve shoves the bastard onto his bed. Steve climbs on top of him, bending over Hargrove as the guy hits the mattress, grabbing his sticky face with both hands as he starts to kiss him again.

Steve feels like a stupid, horny animal. Barely three seconds of warm-up, and he’s already getting hard. Could be that Steve’s tolerance went to shit sometime after Arnie, since he hasn’t gotten any action other than Hargrove in half a year, or it might be because Hargrove gets under his skin that bad. Guess it doesn’t matter in the end, though, ‘cause Steve’s still getting tugged in. 

His knees are on either side of Hargrove’s waist, and as the bastard pokes between Steve’s teeth with his tongue, Steve’s hips give an automatic roll. Of course, after that, he has to tell himself to reign it in. Last thing he wants is for Hargrove to think Steve’s gonna come in his pants, or finish too fast, and fuck, is that ever stupid. It’s crazy that he cares about that. That he gives a shit about what Hargrove thinks of him, or his fucking technique. But somehow, through all the reminders of how screwed up it is, Steve wants this to be good. 

Watching Hargrove try to punch Barnes’ lights out must’ve knocked something loose in Steve’s head instead. He sure feels like he’s lost it, leaning one hand onto the mattress and sliding the other one up under the hem of Hargrove’s wife beater. He’s built so different from a girl—yeah, no shit—but Steve can’t seem to get over that, can’t stop pointing it out in his head every time they mess around. But the part Steve’s been trying not to think about is how he’s not too sure he, like… minds. The way Hargrove’s abs bunch up as Steve ghosts his fingertips over ‘em, or the way that, even though Hargrove’s skin’s smoother than Steve would’ve thought, it’s wound so tight. Every square inch of him feels heavy and dense and nothing like Steve’s used to. 

Hargrove’s soft in some places, but they’re never where Steve expects. His hand slides across the guy’s torso, feeling out the tiny bit of padding above his hip, wandering straight up to ghost over his chest, his pecs, and even though it’s like he’s feeling up an alien species, none of it’s turning him off. 

Jesus Christ. Steve thinks it’s actually making him hornier. 

Swallowing, he pulls back to get some air, still slumped over Hargrove as he inhales. Hargrove isn’t quite panting, but he’s breathing heavy, staring up at Steve with foggy eyes. Then he grins—yeah, still looks creepy—and reaches down, tugging his shirt up over his head and shimmying out of it before he chucks it on the floor. Then he flops back down, tongue rolling over his front teeth as he puts one hand on Steve’s hip. 

Feels hotter than an iron, and Steve holds in another swallow. Thing is, he still wants to bail. Or… shit. Maybe he just knows he’s supposed to want that. Knows he should want to get the hell out of here. But he doesn’t do that. Instead, he ducks back down, acting like he’s got an actual chance at pinning Hargrove as he clamps onto his mouth. The hand on his hip slides over, cupping the meat of Steve’s ass, and God help him, Steve doesn’t even fight it. He just keeps slobbering all over the shithead, giving his hips another slow, drawn out roll. Hargrove chuckles into his mouth, fingers digging in as he breaks the kiss, dropping the back of his head against the pillow with another laugh.

Steve feels a tug at the corner of his lips. “What?” 

“This is what you’re gonna put out for?” Hargrove mimes an explosion with his hand in front of his face. “Breaking Barnes’ nose?” 

Steve pauses, taking a second to watch that moment play out in his head just one more time. “I dunno, man.” He shrugs. “You should probably do it again—just to make sure.” 

Arnie whines and Steve freezes, head snapping over to stare, bug-eyed, through the bars of the crib. Kid’s still asleep—just does a tiny little squirm before he starts snoring again—but Steve starts to wonder… Shit, dude. Should they move? They should move, right? That’d definitely make him a shitty parent, if he screws Hargrove two feet away from his kid. 

Hargrove puts his other hand on Steve’s waist, giving his whole body a lazy tug. “We doing this, or what?” 

Steve groans and slumps forward, muttering, “Look, I don’t wanna wake him up. Maybe we should—”

“So be—” Hargrove sits up, roughly pulling Steve against his chest. “—quiet.” 

“Oh, give me a fucking break.” Steve shoves him down again. “You’re talking, too! You know that, right? That you’re talking right now?” Steve moves like he’s gonna cover Hargrove’s mouth, but the guy swats his hand away. “Dumbass.”  

Faking a shocked face, Hargrove says, “Very observant, Harrington.” Then he grabs the back of Steve’s head, yanking him in and prying his tongue between Steve’s teeth as he sucks,  hard. Steve’s eyelids droop shut, Hargrove still going to town on his ass as he swipes the inside of Steve’s mouth, tugging at his lips ’til Steve feels like his legs are about to give out. Finally, Hargrove pulls away, whispering back, “How’s that?” 

Steve knows he looks stupid—actually, try braindead. The muscles in his face aren’t working right, same way he felt after those freaky Russian truth drugs. All he can do is blink dumbly a couple times until he figures out how to talk again. “Uh.” He closes his mouth, clears his throat real quick, then shrugs. “Not, uh—not bad.” 

Hargrove lets out another smug laugh, but this time, Steve catches him off guard, pinning the jackass and planting another one on him. It’s just—Steve can’t let him think that he’s better at this, or some shit. That’s just wrong. So he locks lips with Hargrove for a while, feels the guy’s dick filling out underneath him as he puts some weight on the guy’s lap, and starts losing himself in the moment. Hargrove works his fingers under Steve’s shirt, and Steve pulls one hand away to fumble with his zipper ’til he can shove his jeans and boxers down around his thighs. Somewhere along the way, his knees wind up wedged against Hargrove’s legs, almost underneath them, and the feel of that is so familiar, Steve gets hit with this rush. A thought pops into his head, and before he can stop himself, he pictures it.

Every girl Steve’s ever been with—all the times he’s taken somebody to bed before Hargrove… It was night and day compared to the shit he does with this dickhead. Up until now, Steve’s just been getting himself through it. Telling himself whatever he has to, like how it’s all on Hargrove’s end, and Steve doesn’t really like any of it. That it’s out of his control. 

He never thought about if the tables were turned. If he’d ever want something like that. If he’d ever… want to do the kind of shit that Hargrove does to him. 

But then he sees it. 

Sees himself bent over Hargrove, with the guy tensing up and sweating underneath him, too turned on to even talk. That tight, hot, burning pressure squeezing around his dick as he sets the pace, grinds Hargrove against the mattress. Has him feeling so good, so close to losing it that he actually shuts up for once, and fuck.

 Steve wants that. He wishes he didn’t—wishes he hadn’t noticed how his dick twitched when he had that thought—but holy shit. He wants that.

It’s enough to make him grab the waistband of Hargrove’s jeans, fumbling with the button and tugging them down as he pries his knees further under Hargrove’s thighs. Steve’s mouth is dry, dick hard enough that it’s starting to get painful, but as soon as he works the guy’s boxers down, the second he reaches back like he’s gonna line himself up, Hargrove jerks forward. His hand snaps out and snatches Steve’s wrist, hard, and Steve freezes. 

“The hell do you think you’re doing?” 

“I was just…” Steve sputters, pointing back and forth between him and Hargrove a bunch I times. “I thought we could—”

“I’m gonna stop you right there.” Hargrove whips his arm back, yanking Steve by the wrist ’til he hits the mattress sideways. Before he can recover, Hargrove’s on top of him, flipping Steve onto his back so he can do the pinning. “I don’t do that shit.”

Panting, Steve stares blearily up at Hargrove for a couple seconds, then groans and rolls his eyes into the back of his head. “Come on, man!” Oh, this is just great. Steve didn’t even get to give it a shot, and now he’s gotta deal with the fact that he wanted to do that shit. And even worse, Hargrove knows.

Hargrove bends so low, he’s almost doubled over, snickering in Steve’s ear before asking, “You really thought I was gonna let you stick your thing up my ass?” He shakes his head with a ‘tssk’, then whispers, “That’s the difference between you and me, Harrington.” He shoves a hand under Steve’s shirt, peeling Steve’s chest-Spanx… thing up to his collarbone so he can grope one side of his chest. “I’m not a faggot.”

“O-Oh, yeah?” What, did he just check out all those times he’s touched Steve’s dick? ‘Cause, the way Steve sees it, that shit’s not exactly straight. “How do you figur—ah!” Hargrove grinds his thumb into Steve’s nipple and Steve yelps at the shockwave that runs through him.

Hargrove starts sucking on the crook of Steve’s jaw, trailing his lips along the side of Steve’s neck, down to his shoulder. And Steve feels a special kind of pissed off when Hargrove wedges his knees under his thighs and Steve realizes… Yeah, this is the exact same pose Steve just had him in, but reversed. That should be enough to get Steve to put a stop to it. For fuck’s sake, any of this should be enough! But no matter how much Steve agrees with that, agrees with his own brain making sense, he never ends up carrying through. He always gives in.

Sure enough, his arms wind up wrapped around Hargrove, one palm pressed flat against the small of his thick, sweaty back, the other one grabbing at the base of his neck. And when Hargrove scoots up some more, just enough to lift his ass off the mattress, Steve’s back arches on its own. 

Hargrove laughs, Steve tells him to shut up, and the sad thing is, Steve’s still turned on. Hargrove works his boxers down a little further, then silently coaches Steve to wrap his thighs around his waist before the guy bends and starts going ham on his chest. Everything turns into a blur, just a haze of Hargrove sucking and licking, turning all his attention onto that way-too-tender skin until Steve’s practically shivering, thighs twitching against Hargrove’s hips. His dick is so close to bursting that creaming his pants feels like a very real possibility. Hargrove attacks him, nips and kisses and drags his tongue over every inch of the soft, heavy bulk that used to be Steve’s pecs… Fuck. It’s like Hargrove can’t get enough of him or some shit, and when Steve thinks that—feels the guy pressing him to the mattress as he nips his way back up his collarbone to his chin, his lips…

It’s game over, man. Steve breathes in the kiss like he’s drinking water, like it’s natural, and easy, and he needs it. His hand slides up Hargrove’s neck, fingers slipping through the guy’s curls to cup the back of his head as Hargrove moves over him. He shifts his weight to one arm, and Steve feels him pull his hand away to reach back. His fingers ghost over Steve’s dick and along the inside of his thigh, right past his junk, and Steve has a couple seconds to wonder what the hell Hargrove’s doing before he pushes his finger—

Oh, God damn it.

Steve wants to hurl. No—Jesus. He… wishes he wanted to hurl. And yeah, his first thought’s something like what the fuck?! Get the hell out of there, man! But the combo of Hargrove’s mouth sucking the breath right out of his lungs, then ducking down to wrap his lips around Steve’s nipple, has him feeling too good to care, even when—shit. 

Even when Hargrove sticks his fingers where the sun don’t shine, apparently. Jesus Christ. Steve’d kill to have the right kind of reaction. To throw the guy off him, or knee him in the dick. Anything like that. But either Hargrove really knows what he’s doing, which—yikes, that’s a scary thought—or Steve’s way too wrapped up in his mind games, ‘cause when Hargrove slips another finger in, Steve moans.

Hargrove’s hips give this sharp jerk, like that sound has him too excited to hold back. He gives Steve’s nipple a couple lazy tugs before he pulls away, pressing his lips against Steve’s mouth instead. He curls his fingers, and Steve’s whole body twitches, one hand jerking up from Hargrove’s back, only to slap down again. Hargrove pumps his wrist a couple times, slow, almost lazy, and Steve’s gotta turn his head, breaking the kiss to groan as his hips give a weak little jerk. Steve’s practically falling apart, but the thing is, so is Hargrove. Steve can feel the way his body’s fighting to hold it together, wound tighter than a spring under Steve’s palm. And after a few more jerks of his hand, fingertips almost grazing the one spot inside him that makes Steve’s vision start to black out, seems like Hargrove’s had enough. 

He slips his fingers free, then loops an arm around the small of Steve’s back, lifting him halfway off the bed again. The guy’s at full mast, and he has been for a while, ‘cause Steve thinks he’s been getting scraped by his hard-on on and off since they got started. Steve braces himself automatically, trying not to tense up too much, but Hargrove doesn’t really force things like Steve’s expecting. He presses his mouth along Steve’s jawline, his free hand—Jesus, it better not be the one that was just up Steve’s ass—sliding up along Steve’s ribcage before cupping his chest, thumb rolling in these deep, drawn out circles against his nipple. 

Ah, shit. Steve’s been waiting for his pecs to feel less tender, for them to go back to feeling how they used to. Y’know, before Arnie. And sure, it’s gotten better, especially compared to how it was before Arnie was… outside. But it’s still not back to normal. At least, not normal for a guy. Not normal for Steve. And right now, Hargrove’s taking full advantage. The longer he messes with Steve’s chest, the harder Steve gets, ’til he can feel his heartbeat in his dick.

Steve’s gotta do something to get some relief. He needs it so bad, he thinks he’s actually gonna start tearing up a little. But Hargrove picks up on that, thank fuck. He finally starts to push in, and there’s the pressure, the ache—the way Steve’s guts start feeling crowded. It’s getting kinda familiar, and Jesus, Steve doesn’t want that to be true, but what the hell does it matter now? They’ve done this enough that Steve’s brain starts filling in the blanks, tells him what’s coming next—and he has to take these slow, choppy breaths so he doesn’t come the split second Hargrove bottoms out. 

“Hey. Hey, Harrington.” Hargrove’s lip brushes his cheek as he turns his head, hot breath hitting Steve’s ear when he whispers, “Hold it together.” 

Steve pants a few times, swallows, and tries to slow it down. He nods, head foggy, and cranes his neck back. His whole body’s throbbing around Hargrove, but somehow, some-fucking-how, he manages not to lose it. Hargrove waits ’til Steve relaxes a little, ’til he’s not about to explode, then slowly, almost carefully, rolls his hips. A heat starts bleeding into the pit of Steve’s stomach, and then, as Hargrove picks up the pace—rocks him steadily against the mattress—it turns into an ache. There’s only one thing Steve can think about. Only one thing he can do, and that’s focus on this feeling. How desperate he is to keep it going, how badly he wants more of it.

Hargrove’s hand falls away from his chest, bracing against the mattress as he clings to Steve, pinning him so close against him that Steve has this hazy, batshit thought, wondering if Hargrove’s trying to get them stuck like this. He bucks harder, faster, grinding into Steve until the whole world starts to go spotty. The room looks like TV static, and Steve’s dick is dribbling onto his stomach, the friction from Hargrove’s abs almost too much to handle. Hargrove buries his sticky forehead in Steve’s shoulder, hips pumping hard enough to drag Steve back and forth against the sheets. 

It hits Steve fast. Too fast, maybe. Is it ‘cause he hasn’t fucked anyone in over a month? Or—son of a bitch. Was the foreplay that good? Steve… Steve thinks it might’ve been the foreplay, and damn it, that pisses him off. But it got to him. All of it got to him, and he can’t hold himself back for another fucking second. Hargrove grinds up, hitting this angle and sending this perfect spike of electricity through Steve’s whole system. He forgets that he’s supposed to shut up, forgets that Arnie’s right there, and lets out this sound like he’s about to cry. His nails are digging into Hargrove’s back, into his scalp, and Steve’s legs are wound so tight around the bastard, he thinks there’s a real chance he’s gonna leave some bruises. 

He comes with a shudder, and Hargrove groans in the back of his throat, curling up around Steve as if the ceiling’s coming down on them. His bad hand’s shaking against Steve’s spine as he chases the last jolts of feeling, pumping fast and sloppy as he drags the moment out as long as he can. The last roll of his hips is painfully slow, but Steve keeps his arms where they are, not moving a muscle until Hargrove does. Finally, the guy lets go of him as he eases out, chest heaving, looking like a wild animal as he stares down at Steve. His hair’s a mess, eyes foggy and half-closed, and Steve can’t seem to look away.

He’s kinda shocked when Hargrove reaches out, jumping when the guy puts a hand in his face and pushes Steve’s hair out of his eyes. And Steve’s waiting for the asshole to make some kind of crack about it—tell him how it’s getting too long, how it makes him look like a chick. 

Whatever Hargrove has to do to make himself feel okay about what just happened.

But he’s silent. The guy doesn’t say jack shit. All he does is get up after a pause, backing away and rolling off the mattress before he climbs to his feet. He walks out of the room without another word, and a minute later, Steve hears the shower running. Groaning, he turns over slowly, moving like an eighty-year-old and trying to ignore the ache in his middle as he stares at Arnie through the bars of his crib. Little shit’s still passed out, thank God—kid sleeps like a rock, apparently.

Steve’s not too sure what he’s feeling right now. But he does know he’s not in the mood to try and figure it out. So he lies there for a while, zoning out to the sound of Arnie’s stuffy breathing until he finally decides what to do.

He’s just gonna grab the next shower after Hargrove’s finished and hope he doesn’t bump into the guy until tomorrow. 

Notes:

Well, NOW we’re really starting to get somewhere! We're nearly in the home stretch. (Also, the first even-numbered smut chapter? I don't know why I'm fixated on that. 😅) You may have noticed that this fic now officially has a finalized chapter count. I can’t say how long it’ll wind up being in words, but this is already the longest thing I’ve ever written, so I’m pretty stoked. I have a ton of fun, short little drabbles planned which also take place in this universe, and I’m very excited to share them. And who knows! Maybe I’ll wind up doing a slightly more slice-of-life sequel fic down the road! I have such an attachment to these boys and their peculiar little family, and there are so many milestones I simply can't include in one fic--but I want to share every aspect of their lives with you!

Fun fact, one of the very first drawings I ever did for this AU, right when I was starting to get a feel for the outline of the story and figuring out what Arnie looked like, was adapted into the scene in this chapter with Barnes. So here he is, in all his glory: trashy dad Billy!

As always, a special thanks to my beta! I am so grateful for everything they do, and for their positivity and kindness. Thanks to my friend, who has helped me scaffold this AU from the beginning and has given me so many wonderful ideas to include. And of course, an extra special thanks to all of you who read, kudos, share, subscribe (what am I, a youtuber? 💀) and comment on this fic. I have never felt so appreciated, nor have I ever gotten such a sense that my work is this loved by others. So thank you again, from the bottom of my heart. I can't wait to hear more from ya'll as the story progresses!! 💖💖💖

Chapter 21: The Assist

After Bauman dropped that Russian bombshell at the Byers’ place, Steve showed Hopper the photo and the chief confirmed it. So unless he’s got a twin, the old bald dude with the fancy uniform was definitely the same guy Hopper cuffed outside the fire station. A few days ago, Enzo stopped by and told Hopper that their perp was a major general. Now, Steve’s not an expert on military crap, but he thinks that means Hopper’s in deep shit. Apparently, Enzo felt the same way, and when he told Hopper he was screwed, Mrs. Byers happened to overhear, so…

Well. Long story short, Hopper’s grounded.

He gave Steve the worst stink eye in history when he called it that, but Steve’s just being honest! Mrs. Byers made him call the station and explain how that psycho who broke out of the county jail wants him dead. He left out a few details about the psychic kid and the Russian cover-ups, and told Powell he wasn’t gonna be downtown for a while. 

Like Steve said—the guy’s grounded.

And it looks like he’s already losing it. He told Steve it had been on the to-do list for a while, but if you ask Steve, he’s going stir crazy, and that’s why he’s decided he’s gonna build Mrs. Byers a real driveway out of the blue. But who does the chief get to help him? Hargrove. Guess it kinda makes sense—the asshole’s got nothing but free time, especially since Mrs. Byers can watch Arnie while he’s doing the grunt work. And unlike the other dipshits who’ve got the whole summer off, Hargrove isn’t a twiggy high school kid who couldn’t lift thirty pounds to save his life. 

Steve’s just gonna assume Hopper already wrote Jonathan off. Could be that he’s off hanging out with Nance—not that Steve gives a shit—but it’s pretty hard to picture the guy hauling anything heavy without, like… fainting.

When Steve pulls onto the lawn after his shift, Hopper’s already got the whole thing blocked out. Steve parks the Chevy near the road and gets out, slamming the door behind him as he walks over to Hopper. The chief’s coming around the front of the porch, a bag of concrete under his arm, and Hargrove’s behind him, carrying two bags, one slung over each shoulder.

Hopper sets his bag down on top of a pile next to the frame, then straightens up to shoot Steve a look. “Well? You gonna help or not?”

“Uh—yeah! Yep. On it.” Steve realizes he’s been standing there watching like a jackass, so he nods dumbly and follows Hopper and Hargrove around the far end of the porch. Sure, he wasn’t really expecting to get roped into this crap, but it’s fine! He’s in shape. He’s been working on his stamina since Owens gave him the okay to exercise, and besides, his scar doesn’t even hurt anymore! Plus the last thing he wants to do is hand Hargrove some brand new thing to give him shit about. He watches Hopper lean into the Blazer’s trunk so he can haul another bag out, and Hargrove cuts in front of Steve so he can grab two. 

Hargrove straightens up, adjusting the bags on his shoulders with a grunt, and Steve wrinkles his nose. “Eugh.”

Seriously? Ever since Steve watched him deadlift that cabinet under Starcourt, he’s known the prick has some kind of ‘roided up freak strength, but this is ridiculous. Like, what the hell is he trying to prove? Rolling his eyes, Steve leans in and grabs his own bag, dragging it out of the trunk and flipping it over his shoulder.

He lets out an oof when it’s, uh… It’s a little heavier than he figured it’d be, so he grits his teeth, takes a second to plant his feet before reaching for another one. Sure, Hargrove’s got some decent upper arm strength, but if he can handle two bags, so can Steve. 

He angles his free shoulder towards the truck, scooting the second bag over his bicep and— “Oh, shit.”

It’s too much. Instantly, he’s losing his grip, and after a second of fighting to hold onto both bags, his arm gives out. The second bag slides off his shoulder and lands on the ground with a thunk, and Steve winces, glancing after Hargrove and Hopper to make sure they didn’t catch that. He glares down at the bag of cement that almost broke his big toe, then groans, fixing his grip on the first bag and stomping around the porch towards the front of the house. He flips his bag onto the pile after Hargrove and the chief add theirs, ignoring the way his back tweaks when he bends at the wrong angle. 

They go back and forth a few times, adding onto the pile until Steve has to take a breather. He doubles over, fighting to catch his breath while Hopper starts fiddling with the concrete mixer. Even though Steve’s panting, Hargrove hasn’t even broken a sweat, stomping back around the house like a robot before popping up again with another few bags, the muscles in his arms all bunched up and tense. 

Swallowing, Steve straightens up, watching Hargrove dump his bags before turning around for more punishment. Man, suddenly he feels like a lazy sack of shit. Rolling up his sleeves, Steve follows the guy, psyching himself up as he scoots two bags across the flatbed. Screw it! He’s trying again. Just gotta… go at it from a different angle this time. Maybe if Steve holds ‘em in the front? Leans some of the weight onto his chest… ?

Hargrove stops and watches as Steve slowly drags the two bags into his arms, fighting to keep his balance, then breaks out in a grin. “Jesus, Harrington, don’t shit your pants.”

That’s starting to feel like a real possibility, but like hell is Steve gonna admit it, gritting his teeth and taking these tiny, careful steps as he turns around and tries not to get crushed. “Not gonna get to me today, man.”

Hargrove snorts, watching Steve tiptoe around the house, scooting the two bags he’s hauling around on his shoulders so he can rub in how easy this shit is. Hopper takes one look as Steve rounds the corner and rolls his eyes, snatching a bag out of his grip as soon as he gets close enough. Steve forces himself to look like he doesn’t give a shit, and not like Hopper just stopped him from getting a hernia, dropping the other bag onto the pile with Hargrove’s. Then he… 

Okay, he might collapse. Just a little, leaning on the stack of bags and breathing like a racehorse. He watches as Hopper bends down, pulling a cooler over and flipping the lid. He pulls a couple Millers out and, soon as Steve’s standing up straight, the chief tosses one his way. Steve catches it and grins—kinda nice, being officially legal—then cracks into it, tilting his head back as he gulps. 

Hargrove leans over, reaching towards the cooler, but Hopper closes it before he can get his hand inside. Hargrove’s whole face turns sour, and when he reaches for it again, the chief takes a seat on top. Hargrove’s eyes bug out and he backs away, throwing his hands in the air with this noise like he can’t believe this shit.

Hopper does one of those ‘ah-ah-ah’ sounds, shooting Hargrove a tired glare. “You’re—what? Eighteen? Plus the five months you’ve been defrosted.” He eases back, and the cooler creaks under his ass. “I don’t think so.” Jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the Byers’ house, he adds, “There’s Coke in the fridge.”

Steve’s grin gets even bigger. Suddenly, this day just got a whole lot better. He leans against the pile, slowing down as he takes another swallow, then lowering his can with a refreshed sigh. “Ahhh. Man, that hits the spot.”

“Mm. Okay. I get it.” Hargrove nods a couple times, eyes locked on Hopper. Then he rounds on Steve, shoving his hand over Steve’s face and pushing him back before he can react. Then, while Steve’s busy trying to get Hargrove’s greasy mitt off him, the bastard pries the can of Miller right out of his hand. 

“HEY!” Steve makes a grab for it, but Hargrove steps out of the way, turning his back to Steve as he starts drinking. He chugs it like it’s Tina’s Halloween party all over again—like it’s a competition or some shit. Ah, Christ. Steve doesn’t even want it anymore. Besides, unlike Hargrove, he can go into the party store and buy his own beer any time he wants! So who’s the real keg king, huh, asshole? 

Hargrove turns slightly, looking right at the chief as he finishes the rest of the can. Then he lifts it up, crushing it on his forehead before chucking it into the driveway frame, chest puffed out like he just made some kind of point.

Hopper doesn’t seem impressed. After sizing Hargrove up for a second, he turns to Steve and asks, “He always like this?” 

Steve shrugs. “Pretty much.” He crosses his arms and lets out a sigh. “Honestly? I’m starting to lose hope. Think he might be beyond help.” 

The chief’s eyes dart over to Hargrove again, watching as the creep shoots him another douchey smirk, like he’s trying to bait him and come on, man! Don’t bait the fucking chief! 

But then, out of nowhere, Hopper laughs.

Steve blinks. “Uh.”

Hargrove’s gotta be just as confused. He’s acting like he isn’t, face barely changing, but the way his grin shrinks makes it obvious Hopper threw him for a loop. 

After a few more seconds, Hopper reigns it in, shaking his head as he wags a finger towards Hargrove. “Kid, you are… some piece of work, you know that?” Chuckling again, Hopper adds, “But I think I finally figured it out.”

Steve raises an eyebrow. Like… Hargrove? The chief’s figured him out? ‘Cause honestly, Steve’s starting to think that’s impossible. But whatever, man. He’ll bite. “Figured… what out?”

Drumming his fingers on the side of his beer, Hopper explains, “I know why El’s always going to bat for you.” He stands up with one of those old man grunts, then bends and flips the cooler open. “Give or take about forty pounds and… a real shitty attitude.” He takes a swig of his Miller, then shrugs. “You’re two sides of the same coin.”

Steve looks back and forth between the chief and Hargrove. Hargrove’s mouth is all twisted up, like he thinks Hopper’s still trying to screw with him, and even though he’s got a straight shot to the cooler, he doesn’t try to grab another beer. 

“Yeah, man, I…” With a grimace, Steve shakes his head. “I don’t really see it.” The hell is Hopper talking about? Sure, El can be kinda scary when she’s, like, snapping people’s heads off, but other than that she’s a total cupcake! She and Hargrove are night and day.

The chief waves him off. “Well, agree to disagree.” Scratching at the side of his mustache, he adds, “But when you’re as old and decrepit as I am, you get pretty good at reading people.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see Hargrove’s got the same zombie look he had under Starcourt when Lucas said… something that psyched him out. But Steve’s just gotta make sure real quick— “You think he’s like… El.” Just so they’re totally clear. “As in, El. Eleven. The kid with the psychic powers. That El.”

“Sorry, I didn’t realize I was being so vague,” Hopper drones. “Yes, Harrington. That El.”

Steve tries to give him the benefit of the doubt. He really does, alright? He wracks his brains for a solid minute, trying to work out a single thing Hargrove and El have in common. But in the end, he gives up, shoulders slumping with a groan. “Yeah, I don’t follow. Uh—how?”

“Well, you’ve never been in an argument with her, for one,” answers Hopper. “Trust me, when she gets in one of her moods?” He stabs a finger at Hargrove. “Dead ringer.”  

“Okay…” Maybe if Steve pictures her when she’s going all out, screaming her head off and blasting somebody through a wall… and add a mullet…

Actually? He can kinda see it. 

“She was, uh…” Hopper clears his throat, and Steve feels his stomach twist when he notices how choked up the chief sounds. “She was damaged goods when I found her. Christ. Obviously.” He sniffs, glancing down at the scraggly lawn for a second before he goes on. “Had to be, coming from a place like that. Raised by a piece of shit like Brenner.” Tracing out the rim of the can with one finger, Hopper pauses, then looks up at Steve. “That first year, I wasn’t sure we were gonna make it. For God’s sake, I wasn’t… equipped to handle a kid like that! But she was only like that because of how she’d grown up. Once she was out—didn’t have that place poisoning her…” The guy nods, deep in thought for a while before he says, “She came around.” His eyes flicker over to Hargrove. “She’s a good kid.” A smile tugs at the corner of the chief’s mouth as he mutters, “Always was.”

This is, uh…

Shit, man. Why does this feel like more crap Steve shouldn’t be hearing? Even though the chief was looking right at him for ninety percent of it. Hopper bends and fishes a fresh beer out of the cooler, then takes a step towards Hargrove, who does this tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wince. 

“And you know what, kid?” Hopper holds the beer out and Hargrove, looking cagey, eyes it for a few seconds before he slowly grabs it. “I’d say that means there’s hope for you, too.”

“You said you’d pay for me to move some bags.” Hargrove cracks the beer open and takes a swig, grumbling, “Didn’t say shit about sitting through a fucking lecture.” 

“Good point.” Hopper lets out a puff of air through his nose, then claps Hargrove on the back. “So get off your ass and go back to work.”

 

*

 

Steve got the stupid basketball.

And, yeah, he saw Hargrove shooting hoops a couple times at the depressing little ten-by-ten court outside his apartment. But that was about a week ago, and since then, the guy hasn’t even touched the thing. Now Steve’s starting to think Max has no idea what she’s talking about. It’s not her fault—she hasn’t had to handle Hargrove’s tantrums in over two years, and before that, she probably couldn’t care less about the shit he liked to do. And honestly? Steve’s kind of on the same page. The list of crap Hargrove’s into is exactly the type of rabbit hole Steve does not want to go down. But he’s not too keen on letting Hargrove mope around his apartment for God knows how long, so he winds up calling Max to ask if she’s got a plan B. 

He can hear Max pouting on the other end of the line when he tells her the basketball’s not doing the trick. “What do you mean?”

“He just doesn’t seem into it. I saw him shoot a couple hoops on Monday, but since then?” Steve shrugs. “Nada.”

“Sooo…” Max drags the word out, like she thinks Steve’s too stupid to keep up if she talks too fast. “Did you play with him, or… ?”

Steve holds back a shudder—what, like he’s gonna sign up to get tortured? “Why the hell do I have to play with him? I got him the ball.” Steve held up his end of the deal, okay? It’s officially not his problem. “I did my job.” 

“Seriously?” Max does this bratty sigh, then grumbles something to herself that Steve doesn’t catch before asking, “Okay, one question: how do you play basketball by yourself?”

“I mean, you don’t—you don’t really play, you just… practice. Work on your dribbling. Do some layups, maybe…” Okay, damn it! He gets it. That’s not playing. “… Alright. I see your point.” 

“So go play with him.” Jesus, she sounds like she’s his mother. 

“Not a chance.” Steve picks at the waistband of his boxers, turning to watch Arnie as he rolls around on his blanket, babbling. (Kid doesn’t realize his head’s way too huge for him to roll in a straight line, so he’s just kinda spinning in one big, slow circle.) Anyway, he can hear Max revving up an argument, so he cuts her off. “Hey, I had to put up with his bullshit all through Senior year. I’m not stepping foot on a basketball court if Hargrove’s within fifty feet.” 

Max huffs. “Oh my God, you’re such a baby.”

“Whuh—” Steve sputters. “What did you just call me?”

“Listen—you guys are both home today, right?”

Steve squints. She better not be trying to get him to drop it, ‘cause they will be circling back to that baby comment. “Yeah? Why?” 

“Do me a favor and see if you can get Billy off the balcony for a while,” she tells him. “We’ll meet you in the parking lot in twenty.”

Then she hangs up.

Steve’s lost, glaring at the phone for a second before throwing his head back with a groan. He sticks it back on the receiver and rakes a hand through his air, grumbling under his breath. Not sure who Max meant by ‘we’, but he’s got a hunch. 

Twenty minutes later he’s managed to drag Hargrove downstairs. They’re standing by one of the picnic tables next to the court, Arnie plonked down on top in his carseat, when Max and Sinclair roll up. Sinclair puts up the kickstand on his bike, Max leans her skateboard against the table, and Arnie starts blowing spit bubbles all over himself as Steve and the big kids work out some ground rules.

“You want me…” Sinclair points to himself, then slowly moves his hand to point at Hargrove, like he’s terrified of making any sudden movements. “… to play against him.”

“Yep.” From Max’s tone, Steve’s guessing what she meant to say was duh.

Lucas sizes Hargrove up, then scoffs. “No way.” 

“Why not?” Max does a couple lazy hand flaps towards the court. “Just do a one-on-one.” 

“Look, I’ll play, but I need somebody to back me up. If I play him solo…” Lucas puts a hand up to block his mouth, whispering to Max, “Pretty sure he’d murder me.” 

Hargrove clicks his tongue. “Very astute, Sinclair.” 

Pushing against Steve’s shoulder, Max tries to shove him over to Lucas. “Okay, so—Steve. Go be with Lucas.”

Hissing through his teeth, Sinclair argues, “That wouldn’t really be fair—”

“Nah, we’re good. You and Harrington together?” Hargrove makes a picture frame with his fingers, closing one eye as he looks through it. “That just about adds up to a whole man.” 

“Jesus, dude. Get some new material,” Steve growls, grinding his palm into his forehead.

Lucas glances at Hargrove, then back to Max. He works his jaw for a second, looking kinda nervous before he blurts, “You should play.”

“Whoa—no, no, no.” Max jolts, hands flying out in front of her. “I don’t do basketball.” 

Hargrove snatches the ball off the table, spinning it on the tip of his finger. “Give it up, Sinclair. Maxine doesn’t have the cognitive brainpower for team sports.” Dribbling a couple times, he grins and sticks his tongue out at her. “Why else do you think she spends all day on her ass in front of those video games?” He scoops the ball back up, then wiggles his fingers in Max’s face. “Doesn’t have to think. She can just sit back and watch all the pretty, blinking lights.” 

Max smacks Hargrove’s hand away. Guess the guy struck a nerve or something, ‘cause she makes a grab for the ball. He lets her snatch it out of his hands, still smirking as she stomps across the court. “Lucas, you’re with me. Steve—”

“Nooooo way.” Steve scrambles to his feet, almost tripping when his shoe gets snagged under the bench. “Not a chance. I am not—”

Hargrove meows.

Steve freezes, eyes bugging out of his head as he wonders if he just had a stroke or if he actually heard that. But nope. Hargrove is… meowing. Guy does it a few more times—even Arnie turns and looks at him like he’s trying to figure the dipshit out. Then Hargrove asks, “Hear that, Harrington?” Cupping a hand around his ear, Hargrove listens for a second before he nods. “Sounds like a pussy to me.” 

“Yeah, okay. Okay.” Steve nods real fast, then flips Hargrove off. “How’s that. You like that?” He closes in on the dickbag, shoving his finger so far into Hargrove’s face that the dumbass has to lean his head back. He keeps that douchebag smirk, though, even when he starts swatting at Steve’s hand and Steve swaps it out for the other one. “Huh? What’s that look like?”

Max does this little ahem and Steve lets off just in time to watch her pass the ball to Lucas, who throws a jump shot over the top of their heads. The ball sails past in one smooth arc, swishing into the net and hitting the cement before bouncing off towards the parking lot. Steve and Hargrove both freeze, staring at Sinclair while he does this modest little shrug. Max laughs and jogs after the ball, picking it up and clumsily dribbling over to the center line. 

Well, shit. This isn’t gonna end well. 

But if Max expects Steve to play damage control for Hargrove, she’s crazy. He’s using the same court as the bastard, and technically playing on his team—that’s already pushing it. To prove his point, Steve stands back and watches when Hargrove lets Sinclair steal the ball just so he can get right in the kid’s face. He keeps jerking forward fast enough to make Lucas flinch, tongue hanging out of his mouth as he forces the kid towards the sidelines.

“Whoa! Hey! Ever heard of—” Sinclair’s whole face is screwed up, teeth clenched like he’s gonna be sick, and man, Steve doesn’t envy him. He keeps having to lean away when Hargrove makes a dive for the ball, trying not to get clocked by the prick’s forehead. “—personal space?” 

“Watch your feet.” Hargrove puts this switch in his step, and Steve tenses up. Lucas must be getting the same vibes Steve is, ‘cause he slows down and bends his knees, eyes darting towards the pavement every other second in case Hargrove tries to break his ankle. The asshole makes his move right after, sliding his foot forward like he’s gonna hook it around Sinclair’s ankle and trip him. But right before he follows through, Hargrove darts to one side, slapping the ball out of Sinclair’s hands legally, then speeding past as the kid stumbles and tries to catch himself.

Steve goes into fight or flight when Hargrove starts barreling towards him, but then the guy skids to a stop a couple yards away. He bobs his head down, and Steve does a double take when he realizes—wait, is he gonna… ? Is Hargrove about to pass the ball to him? 

Uh. Okay.

Didn’t see that coming, but Steve thinks he can work with this. He throws his hands in the air, waves ‘em around to show that he’s open while Lucas scrambles up behind Hargrove. Max catches up first, though, and she starts jumping around Hargrove like Carol’s yappy little dog, fighting to get a hand on the ball. Hargrove turns to Steve again, winding back a couple times like he’s trying to gauge the distance before he throws it… and then he does a fucking fake out. 

He follows through, aiming for Steve—makes it look like a pass and everything—but he hangs onto the ball. Then, when Steve moves to catch the air, Hargrove spins on his heel and takes the shot from the center line. And Steve’s thinking, Jesus, what a douchebag. That’s not really news to anybody, but this is just overkill, man. No way in hell is he making that shot! Which means Hargrove blew it specifically as a “fuck you” to Steve. But as Steve watches, this sick feeling of dread growing in the pit of his stomach, the ball sails across the court, barely brushes up against the rim, and goes in. 

Steve feels his jaw drop. Sinclair skids to a stop, looking dizzy, and Hargrove rears his head back and starts hollering. 

“WOOOOOOO!” After he’s finished, Hargrove busts a gut, still laughing as he trots after the ball. He picks it up and chucks it at Sinclair, hard enough to force an oof out of the kid when he catches it. (Mostly with his chest.) 

Max slumps with another groan. “Ugh.” 

“You know, I thought maybe I should hold back. Show some good sportsmanship. I know it’s been a while, and you’re… painfully rusty. But?” Sinclair thinks for a second, then shrugs. “Yeah. I’m over it.” 

He dribbles up to Hargrove all casual before he puts on a burst of speed and zooms around him. It actually looks like Hargrove wasn’t ready for that—he’s making a face that might even pass for impressed—but he covers it up before Steve gets a good look. Meanwhile, Lucas pulls off a pretty badass floater, shooting it straight through the hoop from behind the three point line. The ball barely even touches the rim—all Steve hears is the swish of the net. 

Hargrove watches, face dark and way too serious. Then he grins, and it’s like—God. The way he does it, Steve swears he can see a few of the guy’s screws coming loose. And since he definitely took Sinclair’s three pointer as a challenge, jackass probably thinks he gets a free pass to torture the kid for the next hour. Lucas throws Hargrove the ball and he catches it with one hand, lips pursed like he’s mulling something over. Then he squats, does a couple crossovers between his legs, and starts running at Sinclair like a freight train. But Sinclair throws him for another loop, standing his ground as Hargrove gets up in his face, even though the kid must be suffocating on the guy’s tar breath. After a minute of that, Hargrove gets it through his head that Sinclair’s not backing down, so he cranes his neck around, looking for an assist.

And for some reason—hell, maybe he just hates himself—Steve puts his arms up. “Hey, shit-for-brains! I’m open!” 

Hargrove glances his way, then turns to Max. She takes a break from digging the dirt out from under her nails to shoot Arnie a goofy face. The little guy’s babbling, waving his arms—check that shit out! Kid’s super into this. Arnie’s got, like, fifty sets of genes, right? One of ‘em has to be good at sports. He’s gonna be a natural, Steve can feel it! 

Anyway, before Steve or Lucas can make a grab for it, Hargrove slings the ball at Max, barely even giving her a, “Heads up!”

Max yelps when the ball smacks into her, then rounds on Hargrove with a growl.  “BILLY!”

Hargrove cracks up again, practically skipping after her as she chases the ball. She almost runs into him when she turns back around, and this tiny wince crumples her face. Hargrove stops laughing, shutting up for a second before mumbling, “Spread your fingers.”

“What?” She eyes Hargrove with the same type of face you make when you’re trying to figure out if that thing you stepped in is dog shit.

“Don’t squeeze them together like that. Spread them out.” Hargrove lifts his hand and flares his fingers to demonstrate. “And when you shoot the ball, don’t hold it on either side. Try to…” He reaches out, like he’s gonna scoot Max’s hands around, then steps back so he can show her with an imaginary ball instead. “Cup one hand underneath it.” 

Max looks positive Hargrove’s screwing with her, but for once, he isn’t. Steve can tell. He’s actually telling her how to fix her form, and Sinclair must pick up on that, too, ‘cause he jogs over to stand next to Steve, both of them just watching the show. Max frowns, then moves one hand under the ball, eyes darting up as she asks, “… Like this?” 

Hargrove nods, adding, “But don’t do that unless you’re ready to shoot, otherwise you’re leaving yourself open for a steal.” 

“What’s a—” Max starts, but Steve sees what’s coming from a mile away. Hargrove smacks the ball out of her hands, cracking up again as he sprints across the court with it. 

“HEY! You can’t do that!” Max chases after him a few feet, then gives up, frowning as Hargrove sinks another basket. “… Can he?”

“Technically?” With a grimace, Lucas reaches out and gives Max a sad little pat on the back. “Yeah. It’s legal.”

Steve gags, turning around so he doesn’t have to watch Hargrove whoop and hump the air. “… Somehow.”

Alright, Hargrove’s had his fun, but Steve’s not about to sit back and let him have all the glory.

The guy’s still focused on Sinclair, guarding him so close it’s embarrassing, and all Steve can think is, man. Is that how they looked on the court Hargrove’s first week in Hawkins? Sure felt like the bastard wouldn’t leave Steve alone, but after everything that went down at the Byers, Hargrove kept his distance for the rest of Steve’s Senior year. Hell, even when they did have a game, Hargrove was such a goddamn showboat, Steve tried not to look at him unless he had to. 

It’s funny, though. The guy might be fouling Sinclair left and right, but when he’s not busy busting the kid’s balls, he’s kinda… decent. Not amazing or anything—not like Hargrove ever made it to state, either—but, y’know. Good. He does a few trick shots, and even pulls off that maneuver where he shoots the ball from under his leg, even though Steve’s not sure who Hargrove’s trying to impress. Steve doesn’t give a shit, and neither does Sinclair. And Max? C’mon, she wouldn’t know a good fadeaway if it clocked her on the back of the head! 

Which, uh… Might’ve happened. But at least Steve apologized! 

He mostly snags the ball from Sinclair since it’s not like Hargrove’s ever gonna send it over to him. He steals it from Max once or twice, even though he feels like he’s picking on her when he does it. Once, towards the end of the game, Lucas has Hargrove boxed in pretty good, and after a minute of whipping his head around looking for an opening, the guy actually throws it to Steve. Like, for real this time. Steve’s not ready for it. His hands aren’t even up, and he barely manages to hang onto the ball when Hargrove whips it at him with no warning. But he does catch it, turning and making the shot right before Max gets over to him and shoves her baby carrot fingers in his face.

It hits the backboard, circles the rim for half a second, then—huh! Whaddya know. It goes in. 

They kinda babied Max after that. Well, Steve did. Hargrove kept bowling her over like she was the only thing standing between him and the championships. But since she and Sinclair were already trailing by 12, even Hargrove wound up yanking the stick out of his ass and giving her space whenever she got possession. They’d been playing for almost an hour, and she was getting pretty close to making it in the net. Then, right when Steve started to get out of breath, she got her second wind. She made it past Hargrove guarding her, skidded up to the center line and took the shot. Backed up, cupped one hand under the ball, guided it with the other, and went for it. 

And man. Seeing the look on her face? The way her mouth popped open when it shot up in a perfect arc and went in? It was almost worth being Hargrove’s sidekick for that. 

“I did it,” whispers Max, looking up at Hargrove and shooting him a real, honest-to-God grin. “I did it! It went in!” Wiping the sweat off her forehead, she asks, “How many points was that?” 

“Three.” Hargrove waits ’til she’s done basking in it, then smirks and jerks his thumb at himself. “… For us.”

Max’s grin disappears, head snapping around to look at the other basket as it hits her: she just made that shot on the home side. Ducking her head, she covers her face with both hands and moans. “Damn it.” 

Lucas steps up to rub Max’s back and Steve turns, making his way over to the picnic table. Arnie’s arms pop up as soon as he gets close enough, reaching for Steve and making a bunch of those sad whines. Steve unbuckles his carrier, lifts him up, and doesn’t even flinch when he leans in to sniff the kid’s ass. He’s clean, though—halle-freakin’-lujah—so Steve just plops him down on his lap and sits with his back to the table. Max and Sinclair come over and flank him on either side, and Hargrove stands, cracking open a beer and guzzling it down. Steve’s brain must be fried from the heat—he watches Hargrove’s Adam’s apple bobbing for a solid ten seconds before he snaps out of it. Max turns around next to him, hiking her legs over the bench so she can slump onto the table with a groan. She stays like that for a minute, then lifts her head again, frowning down at Arnie as he babbles and reaches for Lucas. 

Sinclair ducks his head and leans right in. “Hey, bud!” He nods, like Arnie’s firing off a lecture at him. Well, he might be, for all Steve knows. “Oh, yeah. Totally. I agree.” Arnie gets his fingers around the tip of Lucas’s nose and honks it, then starts trying to jam his fingers up a nostril. “Ope—ow. Yep. Okay—ouch! That’s my nose.”

Steve puts a hand on Sinclair’s forehead and shoves him back—gently. “Yeeeaaah, you’re not gonna want to let him do that.” Arnie can and will yank people’s nose hairs out. And Steve… does not want to talk about how he learned that. 

Max smiles, tilting her head to get a better view as Lucas swaps his fingers in instead, letting Arnie bend them in and out towards his palm. “I hate to say it, but I feel like Dustin was right.” She leans in even more, getting right on the kid’s eye-level, and Arnie zeroes in on her ‘cause she’s new and interesting. Lucky for Max, though, she manages to dodge before the kid starts using her face like a jar of Play-Doh. “His right eye looks a lot like Eddie’s.”

“Ew, man.” Steve feels his lip curl, grumbling, “Don’t say that…” His kid is so much cooler than Munson! 

Uh. May he rest in peace. 

Max sighs, straightening up and stretching her arms out over her head. Then she checks her watch and jolts. “Oh, shit.” Scrambling to her feet, she yanks on Sinclair’s shirt collar, tugging him away from Arnie. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late!” She grabs her skateboard, then pauses and turns around when she feels Hargrove’s eyes on her. She glances away, this uncomfortable look on her face as she explains, “Mom said she’d take us to see The Blob, so…” With a shrug, she turns and starts to head out, then peeks over her shoulder one last time, giving Hargrove a soft, “See ya.”

She drags Sinclair away by the hand as he fights to drag his bike and walk at the same time, Hargrove watching them go with this hard to read expression.

Well, not that hard. Maybe Hargrove’s getting worse at hiding this shit, or Steve, God help him, is getting better at spotting it. Look. He’s not positive on the details, but Hargrove’s definitely feeling something when he watches Max turn the corner and go out of view. Or… Man, maybe he just wanted to see The Blob. Seems like the type of gory shlock he’d go nuts for. 

Shaking his head, Steve stands up, setting Arnie back in his carrier and starting to buckle him in. “Hey, uh…”

Steve looks up to see Hargrove watching him. Yeah, okay. Steve takes it back—this son of a bitch is impossible to read. Is he pissed off? Annoyed? About to keel over from the heat? At this point, any of ‘em seem like a safe bet. It takes Steve a second to remember what the hell he was even gonna say, and there’s this part of him that wants to play it safe. Just…. shut up, or maybe say something different. Whatever’s gonna keep Hargrove from losing his shit. 

But the thing is, Steve can’t stop thinking about the guy passing to him. The whole year—or hell, maybe it was more than a year—but the whole time they played together when they were seniors, Hargrove never gave him an assist. Not once. And today, he didn’t foul Sinclair more than a couple times, he wasn’t a massive dick to Max, and for probably the first time in his life, he let somebody else take the shot.

So. Yeah. Feels like the right thing to do when Steve holds out his hand for Hargrove to shake. “Good game.”

Hargrove’s face shifts, squinting his eyes as the corners of his mouth slowly turn up. Then his hand snaps out, fast enough that Steve almost flinches. He grabs Steve’s palm and gives it a squeeze, then adds his other hand, too. One of Steve’s eyebrows pops up as Hargrove grabs his whole arm and bobs it up and down a couple times. Then, faster than Steve can blink, he slides one hand up to Steve’s wrist, grabs at his forearm with the other, and twists.

“Ow! OW!” Steve yells, trying to yank his arm free as Hargrove gives him a fucking Indian burn, but the son of a bitch just holds on tighter. “Knock it off, asshole! Let go!” 

Hargrove cracks up, finally loosening his grip enough for Steve to snatch his arm back. He slides his tongue under his teeth, shaking his head as Steve hisses over the red blotches on his skin. 

“You’re a pig now, shouldn’t you know better?” Leaning over, he puts one hand on the picnic table, inching towards Steve. He’s drenched in sweat, and Steve can smell that crappy cologne, and man, why doesn’t he reek? He’s completely drenched, so bad that the shirt he yanked off and threw on the sidelines ages ago still has pit stains—so he should reek, right? But he kinda… doesn’t. “You left yourself wide open.”

Steve leans back, face scrunching up as Hargrove tries to make him huff his BO or… whatever the hell he’s doing. Steve’s stuck right where he is, this heat crawling from the pit of his stomach up into his chest. His face is burning, too, and it’s not from running up and down the court fifty times. Hargrove stands there, two inches in front of Steve, damp bangs hanging over his eyes, dripping with the smell of sweat and old cigarettes and Fahrenheit…

Steve swallows, this fucked up muscle memory of the last time they… did shit popping into his head. The lead up to it, the way every inch of him got so warm, he could swear he had a fever. The pins and needles in the tips of his fingers, and how he couldn’t rip his eyes away from Hargrove no matter how hard he tried… 

Fuck, this is bad. This is bad. Steve can’t be feeling this kind of shit in public! Jesus Christ, he shouldn’t be feeling it at all. Anybody could look out the window of their apartment and see Hargrove leaning in, and think…

Well, shit. Maybe they wouldn’t think anything. Maybe it just looks like Hargrove’s standing too close because he’s an asshole who’s trying to catch Steve off guard before he throttles him. Nobody’s gonna see Hargrove getting up close and personal and think that he’s—Christ. What? Flirting? Nobody thinks about queer shit like that. That kind of crap never even crosses your mind in Hawkins. Doesn’t even really feel like it—like it exists.

Never did for Steve. Not ’til Robin, anyway. Not ’til he was lying on that bathroom floor listening to the way her voice cracked when she started talking about Tammy Thompson. And besides, Steve’s not…

It’s not like he’s…

God, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t even want to finish that sentence. But he’s been standing here like a fucking moron for way too long, staring Hargrove right in the face as he tries to get his brain to start up again. Finally, right when the silence is getting painful, Steve mumbles a quick, “Uh. Yeah.” 

He needs to leave, man! Just… back up and get the hell out of here.

Something flickers over Hargrove’s face, and all of a sudden, he gets real goddamn serious. He pulls back, this blank look in his eyes as he fishes his keys out of his pocket and steps away. “I’m gonna get some smokes.” He barely even mutters it, ducking his head as he walks around Steve and heads towards the Camaro. 

Steve’s eyes dart down—no, Jesus! Not… 

Come on, man. Not his ass. Groaning, Steve lets his legs give out, falling onto the bench and scrubbing the sweat off of his forehead. Fuck, he’s gonna be sick—if he doesn’t pass out first. Swallowing, he turns to look over his shoulder at Arnie. Not like there’s anyone else around he can ask. “… What the hell was that about?” 

Arnie’s real helpful. He gives it some thought, then blows a waterfall of spit bubbles down the front of his onesie. 

Notes:

Hello, all! Hope you're having a good one. ☺️ Guess who wound up frantically googling something every two sentences during the basketball scene because I don't know shit about sports? This bitch!! So, uh... I guess if there are any glaring Basketball Errors ™️, let me know. 😅 But on the OTHER hand, I'm pretty sure the show itself may not know shit about basketball either. Did you know that the 3 point shot didn't exist at a high school level until '86? AKA years after Steve mentions making one such basket in his laughably bad essay? True, that's such a minor detail, and it doesn't even come up in the series proper, but it really goes to show you--or rather, me--that it's ridiculous to stress myself out to the level that I do over characterization and plot and continuity when the SHOW ITSELF upon which this fic is based clearly doesn't give a shit. 😬 And yet, I know I'll continue to keep myself up at night wondering how I could nail Steve's voice better. C'est la vie...

Okay, I swear I had a point with this author's note. First off, I want to thank my beta as always! They left me so many cute and silly comments in their edit, which really made me smile and made me feel that this chapter was enjoyable. Thank you, pookie!! It's funny; when I first wrote the ending scene, my thought process for what was going through Billy's head was that he was sort of mirroring Steve. That is to say, realizing after he's already started flirting that he is, in fact, kind of flirting. And then proceeding to be horrified by that realization and bailing. But upon editing, I realized you could just as easily read it as Billy flirting with Steve intentionally, only to shut down when Steve doesn't reciprocate. So feel free to interpret it either way!

Next, I wanted to ask ya'll something again. 😅 I am very bad at summaries. In fact, I'm far from thrilled with this fic's summary. I've rewritten it at least once since posting, and I still don't like it. I might take another whack at the laconic version, but in the past, I've preferred to take the 'use a short snippet from the fic as the summary' approach. The only problem is, I deadass have no idea what snippet I'd even use from this fic. That's where you lovely, lovely people come in. Maybe this is still too tricky to pin down as of right now, since the fic isn't finished and is--let's face it--somewhat all over the place. But what do you guys think? Is there a section you feel is a good representation of the story? Or just a fun scene in general that may pique curiosity? Who knows, maybe the so-called 'perfect moment' hasn't even been posted yet. But if there is something that sticks out to any of you, I'd love to hear your opinions!

I'll sign off with another THANK YOU for all your comments and interactions! I have to be real, the first thing I do when I get up in the morning is check my email to see if I got any comments. (Even though I'm usually unable to reply, it just makes me so giddy!) I want to express that I genuinely don't know how I got as lucky as I did when it comes to the people who are enjoying my content right now, and have decided to share said enjoyment with me. I'm so grateful for each and every one of you, and I really hope you'll have fun with what's to come-- lots of plot threads to start wrapping up! I look forward to hearing all your thoughts.

Thanks again, and have a great long weekend!! 💖

VERY DUMB EDIT: I forgot to mention it and it's not pointed out in the narrative proper but I was absolutely imagining Billy in a stupid, slutty little crop top in this chapter. Do with that information what you will.

Chapter 22: Progress

Notes:

Heads up-- there is mention in this chapter of Neil's past abuse of Billy, as well as one incident involving Max. It's mostly discussed, but also briefly visualized by Steve. I've added the accompanying tag, but as always, I wanted to take time to add an additional warning before the relevant section.

At first, Steve doesn’t even notice Hargrove’s gone.

It’s not like he keeps track of the guy’s schedule when he’s not watching Arnie. Besides, the only places he ever goes are the station, the party store out past Holland, and the apartment. Even if Steve wanted to keep tabs on the guy—why would he? What the hell kind of crap could Hargrove even get up to? If he’s brawling with a bunch of Juniors out by the lake, or chucking old beer bottles off the overpass, nobody’s gonna bother telling Steve about it, or any of the shit Hargrove gets his rocks off to. The dipshit’s eighteen—that means, legally, he isn’t anybody’s problem. 

Well. He shouldn’t be. But the way things have been going, Steve’s starting to think that’s not true. ‘Cause for a while now, it’s been starting to look like he’s Steve’s problem.

Which might explain why Max decides to call him.

She doesn’t go into a whole lot of detail when Steve picks up. Just blurts out, “Billy’s here.”

“Whuh—hang on a second.” She sounds like she’s on edge, and for a second, Steve’s not sure why. She and Hargrove hung out a lot the last couple of weeks, and she’s been fine. But then he remembers where Max is calling from. “He’s at your place?” Steve seriously hopes he’s missing something, ‘cause this is not looking good. “Why?”

“I don’t know, he just parked outside.” Max pauses, and when she pipes up again, she’s barely whispering. “I think something’s wrong. He’s just sitting in his car.” 

“Uh, do you…” Steve might not be a hundred percent sure what Max wants him to do here, but man. He has a feeling. “Do you want me to… ?”

“Can—” She cuts herself off, then pauses before she asks, “Can you come over?” 

Steve lets out a huge sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose and hating that he’s… kind of already made up his mind. 

“Yeah.” Groaning, he throws his hand in the air. Fuck it. “Sure! Why the hell not?” Steve hasn’t gotten a break from Hargrove’s bullshit since he clawed his way out of that swamp. Why should today be any different? ‘Cause, as much as Steve’d love to wash his hands of this whole shit-show, Hargrove’s not what he’d call reformed. He had good couple of weeks, and he’s back on track with Max, but Steve still hasn’t forgotten the way he exploded at Mrs. Hargrove the last time he was at that trailer park. “I’ll be there in five.” 

He doesn’t wait around to hear what Max says. Just puts the phone back on the receiver and grabs Arnie, plus the bag full of crap you have to take everywhere when you have a baby. It’s looking more like ten by the time he gets Arnie buckled into his carseat—seriously, the thing’s a goddamn Rubik’s Cube—and makes sure he’s strapped in right. Then he hops in the driver’s seat and throws it into reverse, turning out onto Randolph and speeding towards Forest Hills. 

Sure enough, as soon as Max’s trailer comes into view, Steve spots the Camaro parked a few yards away from Mrs. Hargrove’s Chrysler. When Steve rolls up next to it, Hargrove’s still inside, one arm dangling out the window, the cigarette between his fingers almost burnt down to the filter. 

He doesn’t so much as glance up when Steve pulls in, and man, does he look like shit. His eyes are red, kind of glazed over—yeah, Steve knows the drill. It’s that same face Hargrove makes whenever he shuts down completely because he’s having feelings. God help him, Steve knows the whole goddamn routine. He rolls all the windows down so Arnie won’t cook in the back, then climbs out and stomps over to Hargrove, leaning over to look in the window. 

“Listen, man—”

“Fuck off, Harrington.” Hargrove still won’t look at him. 

“You know what? Uh—no. No!” Steve’s not proud of how quick Hargrove got under his skin, but he’s got more important shit to worry about. “I’m not gonna fuck off, asshole. Maybe you forgot, but uh…” Straightening up, Steve crosses his arms and takes a second before spelling it out. “You completely lost your shit last time. I mean, it honestly blows my mind that Max is still talking to you.” He taps his foot against the gravel. Suddenly, he’s wired, whole body filled up with this nervous, pissed-off energy. 

See, Steve would’ve figured he didn’t have a lot to say here, but it turns out that getting dragged back into the Hargrove-Mayfield soap opera makes him a little irritated. And whether he likes it or not, Hargrove’s gonna have to grow a pair and let Steve say his fucking piece because man, is he over this. 

“Yeah, I don’t know how many chances a guy’s supposed to get, but…” Steve pauses to chew on his bottom lip for a second, then decides, “This has got to be the last one.” 

So excuse him for being skeptical. 

Hargrove hasn’t moved an inch. He’s pretending Steve isn’t even there, shifting to take one last drag of his cigarette before hanging his arm out the window again. When Steve stays where he is, Hargrove works his jaw slowly, trying to be subtle, but it’s obvious Steve’s getting to him. Either he’s pissed about what Steve said, or he’s pissed Steve’s got the nerve to stand there and stare at him—dealer’s choice. But based on his track record, Hargrove’s gonna wind up losing his temper and peeling out of here again in no time. And honestly? Sounds like that might be for the best. 

But Hargrove doesn’t bail. Instead, he moves so fast that Steve jumps, chucking the butt of his cigarette aside and practically clipping Steve with the door when he swings it open. 

“God damn it.” 

He slams the door, shoulder checking Steve as he barges past him around the hood of the Camaro and up the Mayfield’s shabby dirt walkway. 

“Oh, shit,” Steve mutters. He starts to sprint after Hargrove, then skids to a stop because wait, nope, kid in the car. Pulling a 180, he scrambles over to the Chevy and dives into the backseat, getting Arnie unbuckled and hiking him up against his shoulder before following Hargrove towards the steps. He sees a flash of orange hair in the window—it’s Max, peeking out at them—and suddenly, he has this total déjà vu moment. For a split second, she looked just like she did that night back at the Byers, blowing her cover right before Steve got his ass handed to him. Some part of him’s left wondering if that’s a sign that this is gonna end the same way, with Hargrove knocking his lights out. 

… Well. Only one way to find out. 

Steve follows Hargrove as he bashes his way through the front door and stumbles in after him. He almost face-plants into Hargrove’s back when the guy stops dead in his tracks, face to face with Max and Mrs. Hargrove. 

This time, Mrs. Hargrove doesn’t seem ready to faint. In fact, she looks calmer than Max, somehow. She’s sad, but… God, Steve doesn’t know. Ready for things to go south. Like she’s already made peace with it. Max is jumpier than Steve’s seen her in ages, jaw tense, eyes locked on Hargrove. But even though she seems ready to bolt, she stands her ground, feet planted so she’s directly in front of her mom.

Hargrove almost seems to shrink in front of Steve, shoulders going limp as he takes it all in. Whatever lit a fire under his ass and got him in here, it’s gone. He doesn’t move a muscle as Steve steps around him, face blank, staring past Max and Mrs. Hargrove at the fake wood paneling on the wall. His expression’s so calm, Steve might’ve actually bought it—might’ve believed Hargrove’s really holding it together—but his nostrils give him away. They keep flaring as he takes all these sharp, fast inhales, breathing way heavier than he wants to let on. Finally, he clears his throat, and they all hold their breath, but a whole minute ticks by without him saying anything. 

Man, this is painful. It gets to the point where Steve’s not sure how much longer he can take, and that’s when Mrs. Hargrove moves. She inches towards Hargrove, and Steve’s muscles instantly tense up. Hargrove doesn’t react, though, so she gets a little closer, side-stepping around Max. Arnie whines in Steve’s arms, and Steve snaps out of it enough to realize he’s been gripping the kid like a teddy bear—way too tight. He glances at Hargrove, then skirts between him and his step-mom so he can shove Arnie towards Max. Max’s arms snap up automatically, and now she’s the one holding the kid like a stuffed animal, eyes huge as she watches Steve slowly back away. He gives Hargrove and his step-mom some room, standing off to the side, but still close enough to step in if shit goes off the rails. 

Again. Christ.

Mrs. Hargrove is quiet for a long time, wringing her hands together, eyes bugging out at Hargrove like she still can’t believe he’s really alive. There must be a lot running through her head, ‘cause it takes her ages to speak up, and when she does, her voice is so tight, Steve’s amazed she can get a single word out. 

“I missed you.” She swallows, takes a shivery breath, and forces herself to keep going. “That should’ve been the first thing I told you. When we… When we lost you, I—” 

She starts to break down all over again, and Jesus, is it hard to watch. For the hundredth time, Steve gets the feeling that he shouldn’t be hearing or seeing any of this shit. But he stays put, because what the fuck else is he gonna do? Leave Hargrove here and let him rip this place to shreds if things go sour? Yeah, Steve doesn’t think so. Hargrove’s not putting his boot through any TVs on his watch.

“I… I didn’t know. I didn’t know how much it was going to hurt.” She has to pause every couple sentences. Kinda… put herself back together again before she can say any more. But something—maybe the fact that Hargrove’s standing there listening—seems to help her get through it. Hargrove’s face is still a total blank, though, and if there’s one thing Steve remembers from that night the guy nuked his apartment, it’s that he doesn’t always have a tell. Sometimes, there’s no warning—Hargrove just snaps. “Sometimes, when… when things are bad…” 

Mrs. Hargrove trails off, lips thin. Whatever she was gonna say, it must not’ve felt right—or maybe she figured it’d set Hargrove off. Either way, she takes a second, then tries it from another angle. 

“When your father was here. When we were together…“ Her jaw trembles, and she looks so guilty all of a sudden. “I did something that no mother should ever do. I put myself first. I thought I was doing what I had to, to keep myself… a-and Maxine safe. And because of that, I… I looked the other way.”

Hargrove twitches, and bit by bit, that zoned out expression shifts into something else. The guy looks like he’s in pain, and fighting with everything he’s got to try and hide it, but shit. It’s a losing battle. He still doesn’t talk, or make any kind of sound, but he doesn’t leave. He stands right where he is, rooted to the spot while Mrs. Hargrove pours her heart out.

“I told myself there was nothing I could do to stop him. And that—that you were… beyond help. That you’d reject me, or lash out. Become… furious. I thought…” If she looked guilty a minute ago, now she’s a complete wreck, this brutal tone in her voice when she admits, “I thought you’d react… like him.”

Hargrove flinches.  

“I should have tried harder. I should have—God, I should have tried.” The tears start up again, but Mrs. Hargrove doesn’t wipe them away. Just keeps talking as they drip down her cheeks onto the carpeting. “After you died, I hated myself for never stepping in. For being so scared of that man.” Her eyes drop away from Hargrove’s face, words fading to a mumble. “For being scared of you.” 

Steve turns towards Hargrove, and fuck. The look on the guy’s face is enough to knock the air out of him. He’s not hiding shit anymore. The corners of his mouth are pulled down, his eyes are all scrunched up, and—Jesus, Steve never thought he’d be thinking this about Hargrove, but he looks like a sad, scared little kid. For a second, it’s like he’s a completely different person. And as Hargrove struggles to hold it all in, Steve could almost swear he sees a couple of tears leak out. 

The second after he spots it, Steve snaps his head back. See, he kinda likes being alive, and if he wants it to stay that way, he’s gonna have to take that shit to the fucking grave. 

“I wish…” Mrs. Hargrove’s voice is coming out clearer, like the worst part’s over. Man, does Steve hope she’s right. “I wish we’d found more common ground. I wish I could’ve seen past your anger, and… and helped you.” Thumbing at her face, she raises her chin and looks at Hargrove again. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you back then.” That quiver in her voice is gone when she says the next bit, her eyes locked on Hargrove. “But I care about you, Billy. I swear to God, I really do.” She shakes her head, adding, “And you don’t have to care back. You don’t have to—” Her arm waves towards the rest of the trailer. “—to ever come here again, if you don’t want to. But if you do. If you want to try again…” She takes a slow, deep breath and freezes for a minute, closing her eyes. But then she comes out of it, and when she does, she’s actually smiling. And it’s sad, and puny, but as far as Steve can tell, it’s real. “I’d like that, too.”

The next few seconds seem to stretch on forever. Steve, Max, and her mom all wait for Hargrove to say something. To react. To do anything. The guy’s face is still wet—probably let out a few more tears while Steve was turned away—and his face is back to being blank. His bad arm’s shaking, but other than that, there’s nothing to give him away. Dipshit could be reading a takeout menu and he wouldn’t look any different. Steve knows they’re all waiting for the other shoe to drop—the tension’s so thick, even Arnie seems to pick up on it. He’s staring at Hargrove too, totally quiet, not even trying to gnaw Max’s knuckles off. 

Finally, right when Steve’s starting to think he’s gone braindead, Hargrove mutters, “Two days from now, I’ll be back over here.” He lifts his bad arm, jabbing one jittery finger towards the floor. “I’m gonna look through this entire shithole with a fine-tooth comb.” He cranes his head around with this half-assed look of disgust. “Find out of there’s anything you missed when you were throwing out all my shit.” 

Mrs. Hargrove swallows, giving a weak nod. “Alright.” She doesn’t look too upset about Hargrove talking to her like a maid, and Steve wonders if she’s trying not to sound too excited. Maybe she doesn’t want to scare Hargrove off. God, that’s rich. 

Max’s head is whipping back and forth between Hargrove and her mom, her expression somewhere between freaked out and confused. Hargrove keeps his eyes on his step-mom for a little longer, then decides to add insult to injury, turning to walk out of the trailer without another word. He slams the door behind him, and Steve can hear him stumble down the steps like he’s drunk. Twenty seconds later, the Camaro revs up, followed by the sounds of Hargrove tearing up the driveway. 

“… Man, what the hell?” Steve’s still trying to wrap his head around what just happened, but he’s not having a whole lot of luck.

“I think…” Max stares off into space, slowly nodding to herself. Then she looks up at Steve, holding Arnie out for him to take. “I think that was progress.”

 

*

 

Steve’s gotta be honest—when he got back to the apartment, he didn’t expect Hargrove to be there.

He is, though. Steve sees him leaning on the balcony railing as he pulls in, and it looks like he’s already most of the way through another cigarette. Steve unbuckles Arnie’s carseat, carries him up the steps, and puts him down for a nap once he’s inside. Then he looks down the hall, takes a second to hate the way he can’t just walk by before biting the bullet and going out onto the balcony with Hargrove. 

He’s giving Steve the silent treatment when he steps out, but that’s not too surprising. The whole… vibe takes Steve back to that night five months ago after Max laid eyes on him for the first time since Starcourt. It’s not as tense—like, Steve’s gonna bet his coffee table’s safe this time. But even if Hargrove doesn’t blow a gasket, all that crap from earlier’s definitely eating at him. 

Jesus, what a baby. 

Steve still doesn’t really get what Mrs. Hargrove did wrong. If you ask him, sounds like she was scared shitless of Hargrove and his old man. Steve can’t really blame her for trying to turn a blind eye. And she really opened up today, put it all on the line to try and patch things up with Hargrove. But, for some reason, Hargrove’s the one who’s throwing a shit-fit. Like he said—Steve does not get it. He takes a couple steps forward and, on the off chance Hargrove zoning out isn’t an act, Steve decides to let the guy know he’s out here. 

“Hey, so…” With a shrug, Steve leans forward against the railing, kinda copying Hargrove’s pose. “Honestly? Your step-mom seems pretty nice, man.” 

“Well, you met her a couple times.” Hargrove snorts, and Steve wrinkles his nose. “So you’re the expert.” 

“I’m just saying,” grumbles Steve. “Don’t be a dick.” He drums his fingers against the railing, glancing down at the ashtray he stuck out here a few weeks ago. It’s chock full, which means Hargrove’s been out here smoking up a storm. Guess the whole reunion shook him up pretty bad. 

Ah, shit. 

Steve can feel it coming. That… That thing where he knows he’s gonna say something stupid, and the longer Hargrove’s quiet, the worse it gets. That urge to blurt out the first thing that pops into his head, just so it won’t be awkward and silent. 

“Y’know, when I was a kid, my mom would’ve never set foot in a place like Forest Hills.” Steve lets out a bitter laugh and shakes his head. “One time, when I was nine, I went to a birthday party in Sunny Acres.” It wasn’t even a trailer park, just an older neighborhood with a bunch of houses like the Byers’. But it might as well have been the county dump. “She wouldn’t even come to the front door.”

Hargrove looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and for a split second, Steve thinks the prick is gonna ignore him. But then his mouth tugs up in this tiny smirk. “Guess we know why you’re such a fucking priss.” 

“Cut me some slack, man!” Steve groans, acting like Hargrove really got to him. “I’m in recovery.”

Hargrove turns his head to stare out over the parking lot, maybe so Steve won’t spot how he’s still smiling. “Your folks were pretty strict, huh?” 

“When they were around, anyway.” Steve shrugs, explaining, “My dad’s off on a business trip every other month—usually goes with his secretary. Got a new one of those every couple of months, too. And my mom…” He slides his tongue under his teeth, getting lost in thought. These days, it’s pretty easy to play it off like he doesn’t give a shit. And he doesn’t, mostly. Not anymore, y’know. But even though it’s been years, even though he’s come to terms with it, or whatever the hell you wanna call it, his throat’s still dry when he adds, “Well, she tags along and pretends it doesn’t happen.” 

Man, this is weird. This might be the most Steve’s ever talked about his family to anyone besides Nance. It feels kinda wrong, almost, telling Hargrove about it instead of Robin, or even Henderson. But it’s not like Steve wants to get into this crap with them, either. He hates talking about this shit, and he’s not completely sure why it slipped out. 

Eh. Too late to turn back now. 

The sun’s starting to get low. Steve ducks his head and picks at that same loose piece of wood, then sighs and glances over his shoulder through the sliding doors. The other set that he never uses, ‘cause no way in hell is he letting a whole swarm of mosquitoes right into his bedroom. 

He can see Arnie in his crib through a little gap in the blinds. Hargrove must’ve set it up like that so he can keep an eye on the kid when he’s out here smoking, and man, even that feels like more work than either of Steve’s parents would’ve done. And Steve? Steve doesn’t fucking get it. He never did. He’s always wanted kids, he likes kids. And hell, maybe it was just so he could prove he could do better. That it wasn’t that hard to give a shit about something that—that came from you. And now that he has Arnie? Jesus. “Not getting it” doesn’t even come close. Steve’s not about to call his parents heartless or anything, but when he pictures half the shit they did—or didn’t bother to do—he can’t imagine being like that with Arnie. 

Not in a million goddamn years. 

“Sometimes, I…” Steve wishes he could figure out how to shut up, to stop getting into all this crap, but… Hargrove’s looking at him again. He’s, like… listening. At least, Steve thinks he is. And if he’s getting through to the guy for once, Steve owes it to Max—or maybe to himself after putting up with all of Hargrove’s bullshit—to keep going. “I kinda wonder why they even had a kid.” 

They must’ve had a reason. Maybe they thought it was gonna be different, or that Steve was gonna be different. But he always got the feeling that if there was a return policy, his parents would’ve jumped on it.

Hargrove makes this funny sound. Steve’s not sure if he’s laughing or just breathing out. Steve doesn’t want to call it a laugh, though. Nothing all that funny about any of this shit. “Sounds like Neil.” 

Steve peels the rest of the wood chip off and flicks it towards the parking lot. “Not a fan of kids, huh?”

Hargrove ashes his cigarette, turning to watch a rusty old Cutlass coast by. “Nah. Hated ‘em.” He reaches into his chest pocket, fishing out his lighter. It’s gotta be new—it’s massive compared to the old one. He starts playing with it, spinning it around against his palm as he thinks out loud. “Or maybe that was just me. You know…” Hargrove shrugs, and he sounds so casual about it. Even though Steve’s got the feeling he had it easy, compared to Hargrove, he still couldn’t keep his voice level when he talked about his folks. But to Hargrove, sounding like he doesn’t give a shit comes natural. He’s just… numb. “He didn’t even really want me around. It was just to fuck with my mom.” 

All of a sudden, Steve’s on edge. It doesn’t look like Hargrove’s about to throttle him, so maybe it’s all the shit Steve’s heard in bits and pieces about the guy’s dad. The way Hargrove said he would’ve let his own kid choke. How scared Mrs. Hargrove seemed when she was talking about him. 

Steve’s never seen Hargrove’s old man. Not like he would’ve gone out of his way to look for him. Even if Steve has seen him and just didn’t know it, he never would’ve recognized the guy. Hargrove never hung around his dad, or anybody who might’ve matched that description. Hell, the only guy around that age Steve’s seen Hargrove with is Hopper, and for the first few weeks, he acted scared shitless around the chief. And—

Oh. 

Oh… shit. 

Steve saw it happen a few times. Hargrove would flinch into himself whenever Hopper pulled a sudden move. He’d plant his feet and brace himself, like he was getting ready for the chief to throw a punch. And after all the shit Steve’s gotten himself into—all the times he’s been in a fight that ended with somebody trying to pulverize him—he knows what that looks like. 

And Steve had noticed it, sure, but he didn’t put too much thought into it. He figured a guy like Hargrove must’ve had a few run-ins with the cops already. But that’s not it, is it? 

Steve thinks he’s got the whole picture now, and Jesus Christ, he wishes he didn’t. 

For one crazy second, Steve almost wants to ask. But fuck, man. You can’t ask a guy if his dad used to beat him. And if Steve’s got it all wrong—if he’s reading too far into it—is Hargrove gonna go postal on him? Definitely seems like he’d get offended if Steve told him he was sorry. He’d take it as some kind of insult, like somehow Steve’s calling him a pussy. But Steve has to say something. He’s not sure why, but right now, he can’t handle the thought of leaving the guy hanging. 

“That… sucks.” Hargrove turns towards him and gives him a funny look. Maybe he’s getting a kick out of watching Steve squirm while he tries to navigate this minefield of a conversation. Yeah, well—at least one of them is having fun. “Must’ve been a massive piece of shit.”

Hargrove lets out a puff of air through his nose. It’s like he wants to laugh, but right now, that’s the best he can do. “Well, if you’re trying to sugarcoat it…”

Steve feels this surge in his chest, weirdly proud that Hargrove isn’t kicking apart his balcony right now. It’s like Max said: progress. 

“No wonder you’re so screwed up.” Steve grits his teeth, doing this slow-motion wince when he realizes what he just said. But the look Hargrove gives him is almost impressed. Which—yeah. That tracks, actually. The first time Steve saw the jackass get really excited about anything was right after Steve had punched him in the face. “I mean, having a guy like that for a dad…” 

Steve swallows, then tilts his chin down and shakes his head. He doesn’t finish that thought, but he thinks Hargrove’ll get the message: having a guy like that for a dad would’ve messed with anybody.

“Max, uh…” Hargrove stares down at his lighter as he passes it back and forth between his hands. His whole face goes tense, like he’s holding in a sneeze. Then, after a pause, he goes on. “One time, she tried to stand up to him. She got in front of me so he’d stop—” He ducks his head, screwing his eyes shut as he squeezes the lighter hard against his palm. For a while, he’s quiet, and so is Steve. Then, after a long silence, he finishes. “… So he couldn’t get to me.” He does this laugh, and it’s so loud and crazy that it scares the hell out of Steve. But on top of that, it’s fucking sad. Steve’s never had a pet, but whatever came out of Hargrove’s mouth just now sounded like a dying animal. “Didn’t work. He went right through her.”

Steve doesn’t want to picture it, but it happens. The image pops into his head before he can stop it, and he sees some bastard who looks like an older version of Hargrove as he stomps towards Max. She’s jumping in front of Hargrove with her arms out, trying to block his way, and Hargrove’s dad backhands her so hard she hits the floor. 

Suddenly, Steve’s got the urge to lean out over the balcony and throw up. 

He doesn’t, but he does hunch forward a little. He can feel Hargrove’s eyes on him, waiting to see how he’s gonna respond. And Steve’s not sure how the hell he’s supposed to follow that. He thinks he’s gonna need a minute, but he’s not about to say so out loud. Hargrove’ll find some way to call him a bitch for feeling bummed out that his dad used him and Max like a couple of punching bags.

… The thing is, it doesn’t make any of the shit Hargrove’s done okay. Steve’s not gonna go that far. But he thinks he gets it now. At least, kind of. Looking at the way Hargrove acts, how he blows up over the stupidest crap, it’s easy to call him a psycho. To call him a piece of shit, and a bastard—and the fucking anger issues? Jesus. Don’t get him started. But knowing all this crap about his past? About the guy who raised him? 

Christ. If the tables were turned, Steve’s not sure he would’ve turned out any better. 

With a sniff, he straightens up, staring past Hargrove’s shoulder at the neighbor’s windows. Finally, he swipes a thumb under his nose and then jabs it over his shoulder, back towards the sliding doors and Arnie’s crib on the other side. 

“Thanks. For, uh…” Steve tries to find the words, but he can’t, really. So he just does the best he can and hopes it doesn’t sound too stupid. “Thanks for not… being like that. With him.” 

It’s not lost on Steve that this is a batshit thing to say. But damn it, he actually means it. It would’ve been pretty easy for Hargrove to wind up doing things like his old man, that’s all Steve’s saying. So he’s… Okay, not proud, but he’s something. Things could’ve gone a whole lot worse that first time he handed Arnie over to Hargrove, and Steve gets that now.

Hargrove’s partway between having his mind blown and seeming… pretty entertained by Steve’s whole dumbass routine. Well, at least Steve’s good at something, even if it’s making himself look like a jackass. This time, when Hargrove laughs, it sounds a whole lot better. Doesn’t make Steve want to shit his pants, anyway. “We have got to do something about those standards, Harrington.” 

He says that, and Steve can tell Hargrove thinks he’s totally lost it. At least, he probably thinks Steve’s nuts, and an idiot—so, nothing new there. But what Hargrove doesn’t know is, Steve’s getting pretty good at reading between the lines. And man, as much as he hates to admit it, Steve thinks he’s starting to speak decent Hargrove.

And that right there? That shit he just said? 

Yeah, that was Hargrove for don’t mention it.

Notes:

Ohhh, boy. I think the season 5 trailer is supposed to drop today. Tomorrow? If it’s out, I haven’t watched it. Too stressful! AUGHHH!!! 😰 I stupidly thought I might be able to finish this fic before the season itself drops. Well, I guess I could still manage it... It’ll probably be cutting it close, though. I just know that, despite my very best efforts, this season’s going to tank my attempts at aligning with canon. Somewhere, somehow, some tiny thing is going to throw a massive wrench into the stupid plotline of my story. That’s what I get for being the only mpreg writer with this monkey on my back screaming, IT MUST BE CANON COMPLIANT!!!! 👹 Although, if the wrench thrown is Billy rising from the dead, I won’t be too mad. (Don’t think I have to worry about that happening, though. 🫠 )

Also, very strange coincidence... I don’t know if there was something in the air that made people feel inspired to remark on the previous chapter with Susan, but I think it’s so interesting that I got a few extra comments on that chapter specifically right as I was getting ready to post a follow-up of sorts. Speaking of, I really hope this chapter wasn’t too narmy! Susan barely even exists in the show, so I worry I’m breaking the suspension of disbelief by having her carry so much of this scene’s emotional weight. I just pray the whole chapter isn’t eye rolling levels of cringe—I know it’s a lot of emotion, but I’d like to think it feels earned. Well, I can only hope!

I’m super excited for many upcoming chapters and scenes, and I’m selfishly eager to see whether this fic reaches a wider audience once it’s finished and/or the final season airs. Although, honestly, it’s hard to imagine having a more wonderful group of commenters/readers than I already do. Thanks so very much to all of you for reading/interacting, and to my beloved beta, who is an actual angel, continuing to help me with this fic despite having so much on their plate.

Can’t wait to hear your thoughts, and I hope ya’ll are having a great weekend!!

Chapter 23: Strawberries, Chocolate, and Tammy Thompson

Hargrove’s still elbow deep in the Camaro when Steve gets back with the part he’s been asking for.

Alright—asking is a strong word. It’s more like he hounded Steve about it for a solid week because he can’t let the whole demodog thing go. And yeah, Steve would’ve loved to say he only did it so Hargrove would stop bitching, but the truth is, he feels kinda shitty about what happened. Guess it’s technically his fault Hargrove’s been rebuilding the engine from the ground up for the past couple of months. And a couple of months ago, Steve probably would’ve told Hargrove to go screw himself when he got on Steve’s ass about those parts. ‘Cause even if Steve did total his ride, Hargrove was a big enough douchebag to deserve it. 

But these days? Okay, he’s… Yeah. Still a douchebag. But the kind of douchebag Steve’s willing to buy a brand new countershaft for, or play a couple one-on-ones with, or—hell! Maybe—y’know, if you held a gun to his head—Steve could even admit that, when he isn’t shoving people to the ground like a toddler, Hargrove’s got a damn good hook shot. 

Steve wrestles Arnie out of his carseat, then straps him into the carrier… backpack… thing on his chest before walking over to Hargrove. He holds the countershaft out for him to take, but Hargrove doesn’t even look up, tugging it out of Steve’s hand without so much as a ‘thank you’. Sighing, Steve props an arm up on the fender, leaning in to watch as Hargrove digs around under the hood. After a minute, he glances up at Steve, slowly raising his eyebrows. Then he snorts. 

“You ever seen this part of a car, Harrington?” Straightening up, Hargrove grabs the oily rag draped over the grill and scrubs at his hands. “Might wanna back up a little. Wouldn’t want to get your nails dirty.” 

“Well, I’ve never really owned a junker, so…” Steve nods like he’s giving it some thought, watching how the gunk sticks to the cracks in Hargrove’s knuckles no matter how hard he wipes ‘em. “Guess I’m unfamiliar.” 

Oh, sure. Steve knows guys like Hargrove love to spend a whole Saturday with their heads stuck in an engine block, but Steve’s got better shit to do. Doesn’t mean he’s not good with cars. He got the Beemer in ’83, and had her running like a dream right up until… 

Ugh. Steve doesn’t want to think about it. 

The point is, Hargrove’s full of shit. And unlike some people, Steve’s never clipped a speed limit sign while going forty over.

Hargrove does this scummy laugh. “I knew it.”

There’s something extra sad about how Steve knows he’s gonna regret asking, but he does anyway. “Knew what, jackass?”

With a ‘tssk’ sound, Hargrove flaps his rag towards Steve’s truck. “You’re gonna run that Chevy into the ground. Guarantee it.” 

“The hell are you talking about?” Okay, Steve knows what he’s playing at, but the asshole’s way off base. “Listen, man. This shit?” Steve gestures to the grill of the Camaro and Hargrove rolls his eyes. “That was a freak accident. Doesn’t count. I’m great with cars.” He points to the Chevy, adding, “Seriously! Take a look. Not a scratch on her.”

Hargrove tosses the rag aside, even though there’s still a strip of motor oil under his nails. “You sound like Callahan right before he blew out his shocks.”

Steve flinches. Oh, Hargrove did not just compare him to Callahan. “Are you kidding me?” Groaning, Steve ignores the way Arnie’s suddenly wiggling hard enough to make his voice vibrate as he tells the guy, “Trust me, she handles fine.”

“Yeah?” Hargrove bends to fish something out of his toolbox, and no, Steve doesn’t know what it’s called, and no, he’s not gonna play some dumbass guessing game if Hargrove starts to quiz him. “When’s the last time you changed the oil?”

Alright, now he knows Hargrove thinks he’s a fucking dope. What, has the jackass never seen him get behind the wheel? Yeah, uh—that’s not true, because he’s still bitching about Steve’s little test drive with the Camaro.  “Couple weeks ago.” Steve heaves another sigh, cutting Hargrove off before he can make another smart comment. “That’s right, asswipe. Every 3,000 miles, on the dot.”

Sure, the Chevy’s not as easy on the eyes as the Beemer was, but Steve still babies the thing. He’s had that kind of attitude drilled into him since the first time his dad handed him the keys. Man, his dad loved lording it over his head. One tiny little slip-up, and the old man was ready to lock the Beemer in the garage ’til Steve graduated. 

“Ehhh…” Hargrove shakes his head, swapping out his tool for a wrench and reaching into the engine block again.

Steve glares at the back of Hargrove’s head, chewing on his tongue. He’s not gonna take the bait, alright? He’s not gonna say a word. Just gonna pretend he didn’t even hear Hargrove when he— “What.” 

God damn it. 

“Those 4 vortec engines burn oil like a bitch.” There’s a cranking sound as Hargrove tightens something just out of view. “You oughta be topping it off way more often than that.”

Of fucking course. Bastard has an answer for everything, doesn’t he? Hell, even if he didn’t, Steve’s betting he would’ve made something up—just pulled a random car fact out of his ass to screw with Steve. 

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Steve exhales through his nose. “Didn’t know I was talking to car Jesus.”

Hargrove shrugs his shoulders. “Kneel before your lord and maker, Harrington.” Without crawling out of the hood, he worms an arm free to point down at his toolbox. “Now hand me the thirteen.”

Steve looks down, spots the open case of socket attachments, and groans, squatting as carefully as he can with the wide load strapped to his chest. (Christ, he feels like he did when the kid was still… in him.) Steve checks out the numbers for a second, then grabs the one labeled “13”, standing with a grunt and passing it over to Hargrove. The guy straightens up a little, unscrews the old attachment, then pops it into Steve’s hand. Steve frowns and lets himself picture it—just chucking the stupid thing as hard as he can. But in the end, he sighs and decides to be the bigger man.

Y’know. Again.

Crouching with one arm on the bumper for leverage, Steve drops it somewhere close to the right spot, then stands back up, watching as Hargrove goes to town. It’s obvious the guy’s been working up a sweat—his shoulders are drenched, and the muscles in his arms tense up every time he cranks the wrench. But somehow, he seems almost… relaxed, going into some sort of trance as he chips away at the repair. And sure, Steve likes cars as much as the next guy, but this? Man. Hargrove’s on a whole different level.

“So, uh…” Steve swipes a thumb under his nose, wincing when he realizes he… might’ve rubbed some motor oil above his lip. “You always been car Jesus, or… ?”

Hargrove lets out a puff of air, like he was about to laugh, but mostly managed to stop himself. “Nah.” Crawling out of the hood, he stares down into the engine bay, still gripping the wrench. “Didn’t pick it up ’til I had my own car.” He scrubs the sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist, eyes still zoned out. 

The look on his face seems kinda familiar. It’s a little like the one he gets when he’s about to blow his top. But… different, y’know? It doesn’t have any of the same bite to it. Hargrove’s not trying to fake him out, pretending to be calm, he’s just… calm. And holy shit, is it like looking at a whole other person.

“Yeah, I mean…” Steve scratches his chin, then reaches down to grab one of Arnie’s hot-dog legs when the kid starts drop-kicking him out of nowhere. “Probably beats paying for repairs.” Steve’s not sure he’d want to screw his neck muscles up for life, all so he could fix a carburetor on his own, but hey. More power to Hargrove.

“It’s not…” This frustrated scowl flashes over Hargrove’s face, and he pauses for a second. “The money’s not even a factor, it’s more like…” Craning his head back, Hargrove watches the clouds, waggling the wrench as he searches for the right words. “I didn’t want anyone else to get involved. If I took care of it myself…” He pokes his tongue around in his mouth, then looks down and shakes his head. “It’d be off Neil’s radar.”

Huh. From the way Hargrove drove the old Camaro, Steve always figured it was his. “He buy it for you?”

Hargrove cracks a bitter smile. “For my sweet sixteen.” Fingers drumming on the fender, he looks over at Steve. “Susan didn’t like the way he’d been getting on my case. Only reason he bought it was to shut her up. Guess he wanted to prove he didn’t hate my guts.” The guy catches Steve off guard with another one of those psycho laughs, then mutters,  “Or maybe he was hoping I’d drive it off a cliff.” Well. Steve’s not about to say it out loud, but based on Hargrove’s track record, that feels like it would’ve been a real possibility. “Piece of shit almost landed me in the hospital a couple years prior, but—hey! Brand new Camaro, all paid off, makes everything better.” 

Nodding to himself, Hargrove goes quiet for a couple seconds. Then, before Steve can blink, he winds back and chucks the socket wrench as hard as he can towards the toolbox. It misses by a mile, hitting the sidewalk with this huge clang, and Steve stumbles back, arm wrapped around Arnie’s stomach when the kid lets out this sound like he might start to cry. But Hargrove doesn’t even notice, eyes drilling a hole through the pavement as he hisses, “Father of the fucking year.”

Steve pushes his fingers through Arnie’s curls on instinct, staring at Hargrove as he waits for his heart-rate to go down.  Seems like every time Steve talks to the guy for longer than a minute, he gets some brand new reason Hargrove’s the basket case he is. Now if Steve could figure out how the hell he’s supposed to respond to any of this shit… 

Well, that’d be cool. 

“I mean, uh…” Swallowing, Steve combs through Arnie’s hair some more, tuning out the way the kid starts whining and grabbing at his wrist after a minute. “I’m not much of a fix-it guy, but… If you ever need to fuck up a fender…” Eyebrows popping up, Steve bends and raps his knuckles against one of the headlights. “You know who to call.”

Hargrove does this double-take, like he can’t believe Steve’s actually this stupid. In fact, the guy’s quiet for long enough that Steve gets kinda antsy, wondering if Hargrove’s gonna chew him out all over again. But then he sees it. The way Hargrove’s got his lips thinned together, that little crinkle in his nose… 

The dickhead’s trying not to laugh. 

“Holy shit.” Hargrove pops a squat on the bumper, fishing his lighter and a fresh cigarette out of his shirt pocket. He sticks the smoke between his lips, mumbling around the filter as he lights it,  “Boy, you are real lucky that kid doesn’t share your DNA.” He waves a hand towards Arnie’s mop-top. “Hate to picture what he’d be working with in the brains department.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steve sticks his chin out, bobbing his head. “I’m a total dunce, man, I get it.”

Hargrove’s eyes linger on him, finally giving up the ghost and pulling a real smile. He takes another couple of drags, then leans back over the engine bay, pointing somewhere in the middle. “See that? The part where the alternator connects to the engine?”

Even though it feels like a trap, Steve leans in and takes a peek. Yeah, alright. He might not totally know what an alternator looks like, but whatever, man. He’ll fake it. “Yeah?”

Hargrove inches his hand over to the right. “And you know that countershaft you brought me?” 

Steve cocks an eyebrow. “Uh… Yeah?”

“Well, what you’re gonna do is slide the countershaft right in the middle of the serpentine belt. Then you’re gonna…” He lifts both hands in front of him, pretending to twist the belt around and around.  “… wrap the whole belt around it and stick it back in. Then you’re gonna get a power drill, cut a hole in the battery…” He keeps his eyes on Steve as he mimes it all step-by-step, making sure he’s keeping up. “And then, after you do all that, you’re gonna figure out that I… have been fucking with you.” With that, the smile Hargrove’s been wrestling with spreads out into a real, honest-to-God grin.

Takes a minute for everything to sink in, and Steve’s just standing there when it finally does. Hargrove told a joke. Or… something like that. But Billy Hargrove sat on the hood of his car, came up with a bunch of phony engine bullshit, all to get some kind of reaction out of Steve. And it’s so out of left field—so far from anything Steve would’ve pictured this bastard doing—that it doesn’t even matter if it’s funny or not. 

Steve laughs. He smacks a hand against the side of his head, feeling something snap in his brain. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Hargrove chuckles under his breath.  “Told you, Harrington. You don’t know shit about cars.”

Steve’s losing it, man. He has to bury his face in his hands to hide his stupid grin, muttering, “Jesus Christ, you’re a dumbass.”

“Yeah, well—” Arms shooting straight up above his head, Hargrove stretches, craning his neck to one side. “What can I say? Guess you bring it out in me.” He freezes, like he just remembered something, then slumps forward and points at Arnie again. “Kid’s lucky he didn’t get any genes from you, otherwise?” Hargrove snorts. “Short bus for sure.” 

“Man, shut up.” Steve wants to be pissed after that—and maybe he is, a little—but honestly? Part of him’s been hoping whoever Arnie got his smarts from had better grades than Steve. Y’know—somebody who actually knew jack shit about fractions.

“If he got some of the looks, though…” Finger bobbing up and down between Steve and Arnie, Hargrove squints at both of them. “That could’ve helped.” 

“Smooth, man. Nice recovery.” The words come out before Steve realizes Hargrove just paid him a compliment. Wait, shit. That… That was a compliment, right? And not a douchey one where he takes it back right after. And, yeah, he kinda threw Arnie under the bus, but— “Uh.” Steve’s throat is, uh… It’s real dry, all of a sudden. He coughs into his hand, looks at Hargrove again, and—actually? Forget it. Steve’s officially freaking out. He can’t—He can’t do this shit again. “I gotta—Robin.” 

Hargrove blinks a couple dozen times, head jerking back in confusion. “You mind repeating that?” 

“I—Robin. I have to… go. To Robin.” Steve thins his lips together, stares at Hargrove for a second… then turns and books it back to the Chevy, wrestling Arnie into his carseat before tearing out of the parking lot.

 

*

 

Steve doesn’t even check to make sure Robin’s at the counter when he pulls in—pretty sure he’s got her schedule memorized, anyway. He turns and squeezes over the console to reach back and pull Arnie out of his carseat, buckling him into the carrier on his chest before he kicks the driver’s side door open and sprints towards the entrance.

Then, uh… Then he does a 180 and grabs the keys real fast when he notices he left ‘em in the ignition. When Steve barges in for real, Robin’s leaned back in her chair with a magazine draped over her face. She sits up when she hears his footsteps, the issue of Popular Science—yeah, that’s an oxymoron—dropping to the floor. 

“Ooh, let me guess.” Robin lights up when she sees him, hopping off her chair and coming up to the counter. She ducks down and folds her arms, leaning out at Arnie’s eye-level. “We’re threatening mutiny unless Steve rents the full box set of Sesame Street immediately.”

Steve stops in his tracks. Christ. Does she have to get this weird right off the bat? Can’t she ease him into it once in a while so he doesn’t overdose? “What the hell are you talking about? Who’s ‘we’?”

“Arnold.” She shrugs. “And me, I guess, if he’s got a good enough argument.”

“Just—” Pinching the bridge of his nose, Steve grits his teeth and growls, “Arnie. Call him Arnie.”

“Mm.” Robin’s face scrunches up. “Sorry, Steve, but I don’t see a Keith name tag anywhere on your person. Which means…” She throws Steve a wink, and for a split second, all he can think about is Hargrove, right after their two-on-two with Max and Lucas. The way he winked at Steve after he tried to twist the skin off his arm, and fuck, why can’t he let this shit go? “You are not the boss of me.”

“Can you lay off for a minute?” Steve grabs at the back of his head with both hands, struggling not to lose his mind. “This is serious!”

“Ooh, okay. Gotcha.” Standing up straight, Robin puts her palms flat on the counter. “For you? And Arnold?” She laughs. “I’m all ears.”

“Hey, hey. Easy with the attitude.” Steve drops his arms at his side, shooting Robin a glare that tells her she’s got three seconds to cut the bullshit. “Look, I know they don’t do this shit in marching band, but I’m gonna need you to at least pretend to be a team player.” 

“For your information, I’m an excellent team player.” Robin goes all bug-eyed, asking, “Do you know how many times Cindy Mitchells flubbed the choreography and I still didn’t trip over either of her left feet?” 

“No, Jesus.” Steve grimaces. “Why would I know that?”

“Guess you’ll just have to take my word for it.” Sighing, Robin drags herself back across the counter and straightens up. “Now—what’s so serious that you had to drop everything sans Arnold and high-tail it over here?” 

“It’s…” Steve starts to say something, but, like… what the hell does he even say? He came here for a reason, right? And Steve’s pretty sure he’s gonna go insane if he doesn’t get some answers. Even if he’s, uh… Not totally sure what the answers are for. “I have this friend…” No, shit. Not that. Robin’s way too smart for that kind of crap. He’s gotta pivot. “Look.” Steve closes his eyes, forces himself to take a breath, then says, “I know this is coming out of nowhere, but… trust me. It’s important.” 

Robin’s eyebrows crawl up past her bangs. “Ohhhhkay?”

Steve swallows. Shit, this is hard. Why is it hard, man!? Maybe it’s ‘cause he’s hoping Robin’s gonna have all the answers. That she’s gonna tell him something, and it’ll make everything okay. She’ll know some super smart shit that’ll prove he’s overthinking it, and that he’s been losing his mind for no reason. And all the crap he’s been noticing about himself lately—the things he’s been thinking or feeling or doing… They don’t mean anything, and they sure as hell don’t make him some kind of queer. 

“How’d, uh…” Steve glances down, and it takes a minute before he can work up the nerve to look Robin in the eye again. “How’d you know you were into g—” 

Robin’s hand clamps over his mouth before he knows what happened. Damn. Has she had reflexes like that the whole time? And she didn’t play sports? Jesus, what a waste.

“Steve?” Her voice is calm, but also like she’s ten seconds from ripping his head off. “I’m only gonna say this once.” She gets even quieter, whispering so low that it’s hard to hear, and for the first time since Steve’s met her, he’s… kinda scared of Robin. “Not. Here.”

She jerks her head to the left, towards the office. The door’s closed, which means Keith’s probably hiding in there, so Steve slowly nods to show her he gets the message. Once Robin’s positive he’s not gonna blab, she pulls her hand away, and Steve winces. The whole store’s a ghost town—of course it is, it’s a Wednesday afternoon— but the thing about retail is, people like to pop up out of nowhere. And Robin’s love life? Yeah—kind of a sensitive topic. She and Vickie can’t even hold hands at skull rock without the whole town showing up waving torches and pitchforks, but here Steve is, just… laying it all out on the line.

Man, he feels like a jackass. “Uh. Okay.”

“Look, just—” Robin flaps her hand in Steve’s face, then freezes. “Code! We’ll do it in code.” She motions for Steve to come closer, leaning in to whisper in his ear. “How about instead of girls, you say…” Pulling back, she frowns, ‘cause apparently she didn’t have a pitch ready. “Uh. Chocolate.”

“Okay. Got it.” Girls are chocolate—Steve can remember that. “What about guys?” 

“I don’t think guys are part of this equation,” deadpans Robin. 

“Just—work with me here.” Steve snaps a couple times, repeating, “Guys, c’mon. How ‘bout guys?”

Robin glances to one side, thinking it over before dragging out the word, “… Strawberry.” 

Wait. Really? “Shouldn’t it be vanilla?” That’s, like, the opposite, right? Besides, nobody likes strawberry. But a lot of girls like Steve.

“Steve.” 

“Okay! Forget it. Strawberry works, I’m good with strawberry.” Steve puts a hand on his hip, thumbing at the top of his belt loop as he thinks. “So…” A few more seconds drag by before Steve asks, “When did you figure out you liked… chocolate?” 

Somehow, Robin seems kinda caught off guard. Huh. Maybe nobody’s ever asked her that. “I don’t know. I guess…” She folds her arms again, almost hugging herself as she stares down at the counter. “I guess I always knew that I liked chocolate. You know, a pretty… normal, platonic amount. But I didn’t figure out that I loved… chocolate until…” Her face starts getting pink, and her voice drops back down to a whisper when she adds, “Tammy.” 

It’s funny. She looks… sad, sure, but that’s not all there is to it. It’s like there’s some good with the bad—like she’s remembering that honeymoon phase when you’ve first got a crush, and man, does Steve know what that’s like. 

“It was completely different to anything I’d ever felt about… strawberries, and when I realized I liked chocolate, and not strawberries, it all sorta… clicked into place.” She picks up the pace, talking all hyper, the same way she got when she cracked that Russian code. “I wasn’t missing some key component that made me totally incapable of romantic attraction, it was just that I… only like chocolate. And once I became sort of—aware of my own feelings, it was like—” Her hands, which were moving a mile a minute, go totally still, eyes wide as she turns to Steve. “Oh! So… this is what everyone’s talking about.” 

“Huh.” Robin used to say Tammy would stare at him all morning, and Robin would stare at Tammy staring at him. So… when did she know she was doing that kind of staring? “So with Vickie—” 

Robin jolts like she’s been electrocuted, reaching out to slap a hand over Steve’s mouth again before stopping and throwing her head back with a moan. “Screw it! I can’t do this.” She turns and stomps through the half-door at the back of the register, skirting around the counter so she can grab Steve’s wrist and yank him towards the break room. 

Steve doesn’t fight it, and Arnie’s just enjoying the view, craning his head around to scope out the store as Robin drags him through the STAFF ONLY door. She shuts it behind them, locking it and triple-checking the bolt like it’s an interrogation room. 

“What, uh…” Steve works his jaw, leaning against the break room table as he waits for her to turn around. “What if you… did like guys?”

“Steve.” Robin shoots him this dead-tired look. “I’ve told you a million times, even if there was a minuscule, microscopic chance that I could see myself—”

“Relax, damn it! That’s not…” Steve throws his hands out defensively, the back of his neck starting to heat up. “That’s not what I mean.” Also, ouch. Didn’t have to be that harsh. (Besides, if Robin was into guys, they both know Steve’d be at the top of that list.) “It’s like—what if Vickie went back to liking guys?” 

“Okay, first—where’s all this coming from? Second…” Robin gawks at him. “What?”

“She was with Dan, right? And now you guys are—” Steve makes a sock puppet shape with his hands and taps them together like they’re kissing. “Y’know? But what if she…” He shrugs, sitting back with his palms flat on the table. "Started liking guys again?”

Robin’s hands fly up to knead the sides of her head. “She didn’t stop liking boys, Steve.”

“But…” Okay. Steve doesn’t follow. “She’s with you. She likes girls.” 

“And boys!” Robin snaps.

“She watched the Phoebe Cates scene on repeat!” Steve scoffs and leans forward. “You’re always saying we’re supposed to look for the evidence. Well, the evidence says…” Steve pauses, just to drive it home a little, then blurts, “She’s a fan of boobies.” 

“Stop—” Robin moves to cover his mouth again, but he jerks away. “Do not call them that. She can like boobies—” Screwing her eyes shut, Robin takes a second before she mutters, “God damn it.” After taking a long, deep breath, she snaps, “She can like those and still like… other things, too!”

Steve stares at her. 

Robin just told him the whole idea of dating and having a love-life seemed like bullshit ’til she realized she liked girls. That’s supposed to be the takeaway, right? So… it’s the same with Vickie. Sure, she had a boyfriend, but maybe she was just running out the clock ’til she could shack up with a girl. Come on! If you had the choice, why wouldn’t you pick a girl? “But not at the same time—”

Robin sinks towards the ground, curling up and burying her face in her knees. “Oh my God, Steve.“

There’s pounding on the door, and Robin’s head snaps back up.

“Buckley,” Keith grumbles on the other side. “We’ve got customers.” The guy heaves a massive sigh, then pissily sing-songs, “I don’t hear you attending to them.”

Robin moans, deflating a little before she drags herself to her feet. Waving for Steve to follow, she stands up and grumbles, “Time to evacuate.” She unlocks the break room door and Steve tails her as she shuffles up to the counter. Scooting over to the register, Robin starts to ring the kid on the other side up, but stops to glance at Steve when he tries to skirt past the counter. “Sure you don’t want to stay and catch the tail end of Spaceballs?” 

Steve looks up at at the nearest TV, watching as a short guy with some kinda bowling ball helmet stomps across the screen. Yeah, not really his scene. 

Man. Maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t tell Robin anything. Even though he’s, uh… still not sure what he hell he was even gonna tell her.

“Nah.” Steve forces a smile, wondering if Keith just did him a huge favor as he shakes his head. “I’m good.” 

 

*

 

“Oh, dude.” 

Steve’s been out of the room for less than a minute, but somehow that was enough time for Henderson to set up a bunch of black magic shit on the carpet. Steve scrambles over to him, shouting, “No! Nope. Not gonna happen.” 

“Waitwaitwait!” Henderson squeezes Arnie against his chest, dodging Steve when he tries to wrestle him away. “Steve, listen to me! It’s of absolutely paramount importance that you do not interrupt this.”

“Well, tough shit.” Steve stops to gawk at the lopsided ring of trash Dustin laid out on the floor and feels his skin crawl. “This whole… satanic circle you’ve got going on? It’s not getting anywhere near my kid.”  

He makes another dive for Arnie, but Dustin jumps back again and come on, man! The dumbass isn't even holding him right! Arnie keeps sliding down in Henderson’s grip, and then the dipshit has to pause and hike him up in his arms like a sack of flour.

“It’s not a satanic circle,” Henderson repeats that last part in a dopey voice, turning his back so he can block Steve from making any more grabs. “This is a totally legitimate test to see if my theories hold any water.” 

“Yeah, man—actually? I don’t think you’re gonna need to do a test.” The kid’s completely lost it, and for some reason, Steve has to deal with the fallout. “I can tell you right now! You’re full of shit.”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” Sweeping one arm over the mess by the coffee table, Dustin fights to keep his grip on Arnie as he asks, “Do you have any idea what you’re looking at?” 

“Jesus, dude. Just—” Steve tries a different maneuver, kinda… inching closer to Henderson before he makes another swipe, but the snothead scrambles out of reach one more time. “God damn it, gimme.” 

“No! You need to—” Henderson dodges him again. “—stand back and—” Okay, now Steve thinks he’s trying to jog, or whatever Henderson thinks is a jog, stumbling away as he circles the room. “—let me finish!” He keeps it up for maybe a minute, but after that, Henderson’s done, skidding to a stop and doubling over. He’s already huffing and puffing—that’s nerd stamina for you—but he tightens his hold on Arnie as Steve corners him. “E-Even by… standing there watching, you… c-could influence… Ah, shit.” Dustin holds a finger up so he can catch his breath, looking ready to pass out. 

Steve’s shoulders droop. “Really?”

“J-Just a sec.” Because Steve’s a generous guy, he lets Henderson take a breather. Hell, he’ll even let the dipshit give Steve his best pitch to try and win him over, even though there’s no way Steve’ll be on board with… whatever this is. “Whew.” With a gulp, Dustin finally stops panting and stands up straight. “Even the act of observing an experiment could change the outcome. So to make sure there’s as little interference as possible…” He points to the far end of the room. “Go stand over there!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on. Wh—” Steve squints and shakes his head, asking, “When the hell did I say you could do this?”

Henderson decides he’s not gonna answer that one. “You’ll thank me later, when we have indisputable proof that Arnie’s a living, breathing database!” He does this sassy little hand flap, trying to get Steve to back up again. “Just watch.”

Ugh, this kid. 

“Fine!” Steve groans, but he gives Henderson his space, scooting over to stand by the TV.  God, the crap he lets slide just so Henderson won’t throw a fit. He gets enough of that from Arnie. “But you owe me for this shit.” Henderson still doesn’t answer, so Steve raises his voice. “You got that, Henderson? You—” He points again. “—owe— ” He rubs his fingers together like he’s thumbing through a wad of cash, then points at himself. “—me.”

Henderson grumbles under his breath, glaring up at the ceiling as he bitches. “Scientific discovery of the century, but sure. Why not. I owe you.”

Steve nods. That’ll work. “Good. Glad we had that talk.” With a sigh, he slowly sinks down, sitting on the carpet Indian style before waving at the mess Dustin chucked all over his floor. “Now what?” 

Henderson instantly busts up laughing, and it’s so goddamn smug, it’s embarrassing. 

“Hey!” Steve claps his hands, bringing him back down to Earth. “Reign it in, man. Jesus Christ.”

The kid stops laughing, shooting Steve a look that says he’s being a total buzzkill. “Why are you so negative?” Steve shrugs, and Henderson pushes out a deep sigh. “Forget it.” He adjusts his grip on Arnie, explaining, “This is a test. Whenever a lama dies—” Dustin sees Steve’s mouth moving, so he cuts him off before he can make a sound. Dick. “Buddhist Lama, not the animal. Anyway, when a lama dies, the other lamas go and find the kid they think he got reincarnated as, and they put a bunch of stuff out on a blanket…”

Steve grimaces. “Okay. Not a fan of where this is headed.” 

“And whatever the kid picks up, if it’s the one thing that belonged to the old lama…” Henderson tunes him out, slowly setting Arnie down and stepping away… only to dart back in to catch him when Arnie starts to take a nosedive. “Oop!” So Henderson can’t even tell when a kid’s too shrimpy to sit up on his own, but sure. He’s a certified genius. “That proves he’s a reincarnation.”

“Seriously?” Is he screwing with Steve? ‘Cause Steve would love it if Henderson was screwing with him, but usually Steve’s not that lucky. “What happened to facts and logic and all that… scientific shit you’re so hard for? That doesn’t sound like a test, it’s just…” Steve grimaces at the circle of dead people’s junk. “Creepy.” 

“Yeah, well—there’s not exactly a precedent for this, Steve.” Reaching out, Henderson scoots a couple of things around on the carpet, keeping one hand on Arnie to prop him up. “There. I got as many things from as many of the flayed as I could. Plus, y’know… some other stuff.” Henderson’s trying to act casual, but Steve already spotted the stupid monster book from that game he’s obsessed with. And since, apparently, Munson used to play the role of king dipshit, it’s probably his. “Threw in some miscellaneous stuff to act as the control, and… boom. Here we are.” 

“Okay, so…” Steve frowns. He might’ve scraped by in Biology, but he can’t help thinking there’s a massive hole in Henderson’s game plan. “What if he doesn’t pick anything?” 

“Oh, he’ll pick something.” Henderson brushes him off like it’s nothing, but Steve’s not convinced.

“Ehhhh…” Gritting his teeth, Steve bends forward to look at Arnie. He’s pretty sure Arnie’s just gonna crawl over to him—y’know, if he can make it that far. Even with the freaky growth spurts, Owens said it’s pretty early for him to be crawling, which explains a lot, ‘cause he kinda sucks at it.

“Here we go.” Henderson pulls Arnie into his arms again—Jesus, he looks like a wet noodle from the way the dickhead just dangles him—and slowly turns in a circle. “Take a good look, Arnie. Really try to focus.” Henderson does another slow-motion spin. “Anything look familiar?”

“I’m telling you, man, this is bogus.” Steve watches, eyebrows inching higher as Dustin sets Arnie down one more time. And yeah, Steve can’t help noticing that Henderson does it right in front of Eddie’s shit. Like, he sure as hell didn’t stop in front of that old scrunchie Steve’s betting belonged to Chrissy Cunningham. But nah, Henderson’s not biased!  “Hey, maybe you should’ve set it up different. Like—” Steve draws a big rectangle in the air. “Make it so he can see everything at the same time?” 

Not that Steve’s saying Henderson’s doing this crap wrong on purpose, but he’s totally doing this crap wrong on purpose.

“Shut it.” Henderson makes a cranky noise when the first thing Arnie does is look up at him and shoot him some grabby hands. He kneels behind him, shoving Arnie’s arms down and tries to get him to focus. “No, c’mon—not me! The stuff. Look at the stuff.” Arnie finally takes the hint after Henderson scoots his butt forward a ways, turning to look at the crap spread out between him and Steve.

After a second or two, he flops forward, wiggling until he can get his arms and legs underneath him before high-tailing it towards Steve. Steve shoots Dustin a smirk, then watches Arnie crawl for his life. But right when he’s about to get past the circle, right before he’s home free, Arnie’s hand bumps into the monster book. His arm slides out from under him and he lands with a thump on his stomach. He lies there for a couple seconds, like he’s not sure what just happened, then squirms until he’s got enough momentum to flip over onto his side. His hand lands on the cover of the book, and for the first time, Arnie actually seems to notice it. He stares, then grabs at it with his clunky sausage fingers, leaning over to stick one of the corners in his mouth.

“HA!” Henderson jumps to his feet, head whipping back and forth between Arnie and Steve. “You see that?” 

“No! Nope! No way.” Steve gets up, too, signaling a time out. 

“He went for the monster manual!” Henderson laughs, like it’s a good thing. “Steve—”

“No, dude! He didn’t!” Steve rakes his fingers through his hair, snapping, “He fell on top of it and shoved it in his mouth.”

“Because it was familiar!” 

“No. Because he’s a baby!” Steve bends over and grabs Arnie, yanking him off Henderson’s freak manual with a pop. “That’s what he does, he chews on shit.”

“Here.” Henderson, definitely not reading the room, picks up the book and holds it out for Steve, breathless. “You’re gonna need it.” 

Steve recoils like Henderson’s shoving radioactive gunk in his face. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” 

“Fine! I’ll hang onto it. As in, temporarily.” Henderson grabs his backpack off the couch and unzips it, bending so he can chuck all the crap from Steve’s floor back inside. He adds the book last, then slings it over his shoulder, bending so he can tell Arnie in baby-talk, “And you can have it back as soon as you’re ready to plan a new campaign. Sound good?” 

Steve shoves Dustin’s head back with a groan. 

 

Notes:

Hooo boy. It’s been a bit longer than usual, hasn’t it? Sorry about that! Honestly, I was going through a mix of writer’s block, hating everything I'd already written for this chapter, and having too much free time to sit and over-analyze. (I work a different job in the summer, so I had a little break before it started, but I honestly work better with a deadline. 😰) All that really took the wind out of my sails. I struggled with this chapter in particular for some reason. I felt like the pacing and flow was just… crap. It took a lot to get it to a place where it felt presentable; hopefully that difficulty hasn't telegraphed to the final product.

The next few chapters definitely won't take as long to be posted. They’re completely outlined, I just have to go through and finesse them. And after that, only a few more chapters to go! In all honesty, the final chapter’s more of an epilogue, so I’m not really counting it in my head. 😅

Now, regarding the content of THIS chapter. I’ve always thought Neil bought Billy his Camaro as a sort of 'buying their love' scenario, or a manipulation tactic, but the idea that he might’ve done so as a way of getting into Susan’s good graces came to me while writing this fic. It gives Billy something positive he can attribute to Susan—however indirectly—but also implies Neil is shitty enough that the one “nice” gesture he made towards his son was more about getting laid.

Fingers crossed that Steve and Billy's flirting felt natural. Billy calls Steve pretty, that’s just canon, but implying his baby's ugly in the same fell swoop seemed in character, too. 😂 Steve’s inability to wrap his head around the concept of bisexuality despite he himself being bisexual is another idea I’ve had bouncing around for ages. And as for Robin not clocking Steve as a gaybo immediately, I’ve read many accounts—lots relating to the accuracy of Stranger Things itself—saying that the idea of your friend being gay simply didn’t occur to most people. And while Robin probably has way better gaydar than most, I do think Mr. jerk jock ladies’ man Steve Harrington would be the absolute last person she’d suspect. I did add a line to up her suspicion at my beta's suggestion, so hopefully it's clear that she is skeptical, even if she doesn't have the full picture yet. 😅 Steve can't hide forever!

Finally, I guess I’m physically incapable of NOT referencing that one episode of King of the Hill again. (In my defense, it is one of my favorites.) Is Dustin correct? Does Arnie gumming on the Monster Manual carry any real significance? Who can say! 🤗

As always, thanks to my beta, and thanks to all you lovely readers! I appreciate you so very much, and I look forward to hearing what you thought about the chapter. I appreciate each and every one of you, regardless of whether or not you engage, and I want to make that clear. 💖 Of course, I’m always super excited to get comments and they motivate me like nobody’s business, but even if you’re just reading and sending good vibes out into the universe, that means the world, too.

Chapter 24: The Bonfire

Notes:

I've added more tags to compensate for this, but be warned: there is some actual child abuse--as in, happens onscreen and is not merely referenced or implied--in this chapter, so please proceed at your discretion.

Barnes’ nose is starting to go back to normal.

It isn’t taking up most of the real estate on his face, anyway. Kind of a shame, honestly. Steve wouldn’t mind having a permanent reminder of Hargrove clocking him. But hey, maybe he’ll get lucky and Barnes’ nose will heal crooked. He kept shooting Steve dirty looks the whole time he was at the station, but he didn’t say a word. Guy probably thinks Steve and Hargrove are in cahoots or something, and yeah, Steve could tell him Hargrove decided to rearrange his face all on his own, but that seems like a lot of trouble. Besides—it’s not gonna hurt the dumbass to watch what he says once in a while. 

When Steve gets home, Hargrove’s lying on the couch with Arnie draped over his chest. The kid’s smacking Hargrove’s cheeks and babbling at him while Hargrove checks out an issue of Hustler he’s got propped up behind the kid’s ass.

Classy.

Steve slips out of his All-Stars, just watching the back of Hargrove’s head as he thinks. He knows it wasn’t really about Arnie. The punch, he means. When Hargrove said he got sick of Barnes calling him a nanny—yeah, Steve believes him. But there’s something that’s been bugging him for a while now. ‘Cause even if Hargrove does give a shit about Arnie—and Steve thinks he might, even though it’s not enough to sock Barnes over—he sure didn’t care two months ago. 

But he still lost his mind when he thought Steve was gonna give Arnie up. So… what’s the deal? Okay, looking back, Steve kinda loses his mind over it, too. It’s crazy to think he was that close to dumping his kid on a couple of faceless lab geeks. But Hargrove spent the first few weeks of Arnie’s life bitching about him non-stop. Seems like a pretty fast 180. And the thing about Hargrove is, Steve can’t just ask him.

So he tries to… Y’know. Get sneaky with it. Act like a ninja, but with his words.

He walks over to the couch, snagging Arnie off Hargrove’s chest, and the guy barely even reacts. He just cranes his head so he can still see the centerfold when Arnie’s hot dog legs block the page. Arnie’s stoked to see Steve—guess he was too into mapping out Hargrove’s face to notice when he came in, ‘cause he acts surprised. Then he starts yapping at Steve instead, since he doesn’t really understand that Steve can’t speak rugrat.

Steve scoots Arnie into the crook of his elbow, then says it all casual, like he’s just thinking out loud. Like he doesn’t even notice that Hargrove’s in the room. “Can’t believe I almost gave him up.”

Seriously! The whole idea almost bowls him over. Steve really can’t believe he was this close to… to not having Arnie. And as dumb as it is to have the wind knocked out of him after saying one sentence, it’s even weirder to glance up and see the face Hargrove’s pulling.

He looks worse than if Steve had pantsed him in the middle of a game. Shocked, pissed off, almost… humiliated. And since Steve didn’t even expect him to bat an eyelash, yeah. Kinda catches him off guard. 

“Jesus Christ.” Steve flinches, pointing at the situation Hargrove’s got going on above the neck. “The hell’s the matter with you?” Look—Steve knows Hargrove had some kind of issue back at the hospital on, uh… Arnie’s birthday, but he never thought there’d be a part two to the guy’s random freak out.  

As soon as Steve points it out, Hargrove fixes his face. All of a sudden, he’s a total blank again, deadpan when he mutters, “Nothing.” 

“Yeah, okay. My bad.” With a sigh, Steve eases down onto the floor, settling Arnie on his lap. Man, does he need to get a recliner or something. Not that he’d even have a problem if Hargrove knew how to sit on a couch like a normal person. “Not like you give a shit.”

“What?” Hargrove shoots him a funny look, like he’s one step ahead and he can tell Steve’s trying to weasel something out of him. Still doesn’t stop him from taking the bait. “You’d rather have that kid wind up as some government lab rat, getting pieces cut off of him for science?”

“No, damn it.” Steve lets out a groan. Okay, Hargrove already got under his skin, so this is off to a great start. He winces, stomach twisting as he pictures it. Not the leg-cutting-off part—Jesus, no. More the part about handing Arnie off to Owens. Steve’s pretty sure the guy wouldn’t have let anything bad happen to him, but it doesn’t stop Steve from squeezing the kid a tiny bit tighter. “I was gonna call it off way before you threw your little shit-fit. I just…” Fuck. Now Steve’s getting put on the spot, even though Hargrove’s the jackass who’d rather give up one of his nuts than talk about his feelings. “Wasn’t sure why you cared…”

When Steve glances at the guy, Hargrove’s wracking his brains. Alright—so Steve’s not getting a real answer out of the guy. Especially ‘cause Steve’s pretty sure he was on the right track with what he was thinking earlier. Hargrove didn’t give a shit about Arnie a few months ago. Steve’s got no clue why he lost it back then. Hell, maybe even Hargrove doesn’t know. 

Steve watches as Hargrove ducks his chin, staring down at his girly mag for a second before his head flops back against the armrest. He glares at the ceiling for a while, and finally, after a good minute, he answers, “Must’ve given me déjà vu.” 

“… What?” Is Steve supposed to know what that means? What, did Hargrove have to watch a baby get ding-dong ditched on somebody’s doorstep? Christ. Steve’s made a few cracks about Hargrove having a bunch of bastards loose in California, but he wasn’t serious. But maybe Hargrove’s talking about himself. After all the shit he’s heard about the guy, Steve could picture his old man trying to ditch him at the fire station after one too many screaming matches. 

Hargrove shrugs, but his answer doesn’t do a whole lot to clear things up. “That’s the shittiest thing you can do to a kid. You know that?” He works his jaw, and even though he’s keeping his cool so far, it doesn’t look easy. “Just… leaving ‘em on their own.” He shakes his head, adding, “Really caught me off guard, that’s all. Hearing how you were gonna pawn him off on the first people who offered.” He turns to Steve again, eyes half-closed, flashing that same kind of smirk he’d get in the locker room after practice. “Always thought you were better than that.”

“Whatever, man.” Steve scoffs, feeling this pissed-off burn in the pit of his chest. He almost wants to argue with Hargrove because, seriously—like he’d have done any better! If he’d wound up with some kind of Upside Down meat sack growing in his stomach, he’dve probably driven off the nearest cliff. Besides, Steve didn’t…

Well. Guess he technically knew that Arnie was gonna be—y’know. A kid. And he knew pretty early on. But he couldn’t wrap his head around it, and even when he started to come close, it was just… hard. If Arnie was some stranger’s kid, a totally normal baby somebody dumped on Steve’s doorstep—if things turned out exactly like Steve’s cover story—Steve’s not sure he would’ve kept him.

It’s real easy for Hargrove to pull that high horse type of shit—to act like it should’ve been so easy for Steve—but news flash, asshole! Sometimes life’s not that simple. 

Steve goes quiet for a while, letting Arnie bend his fingers and mess around with his hand, zoning out and handing the little guy his rattle on autopilot when he starts to reach for it. Y’know, maybe he’s reading things wrong. Maybe that whole déjà vu comment was Hargrove’s way of telling Steve this wasn’t the first time Steve’s let him down. Ruined whatever weird, fucked up version of King Steve lives in his head. Or maybe… Maybe Steve was closer the first time. One of his other guesses. They were just talking about Hargrove’s dad, and the guy ditched Hawkins as soon as Hargrove died. Probably didn’t even stay to help with any of the funeral shit, now that Steve thinks about it. That’d explain why Mrs. Hargrove hit the bottle so hard. 

And then there’s his mom. His real mom. 

Steve doesn’t know much about her other than what El told him. And that’s just a couple of sentences. But El said she left him too, right? She said Hargrove was all alone with his old man, for years. And Steve’s said it a few times now, but that’d mess anybody up. Guess it’s just one more piece of that puzzle. Both of Hargrove’s folks disappeared, and that really did a number on him. And then, when he watched Arnie… come out, not even a minute old, only for Owens to start talking about Steve’s plans to ship him off… 

It must’ve been too much for the guy to handle.

And Steve knows he would’ve said something. He would’ve stopped Owens and called the whole thing off, with or without Hargrove yelling at him. But in a weird way, Steve thinks Hargrove, like… helped. Made it easier for Steve to spit it out and tell Owens he wanted to keep Arnie. It’s crazy to think, but… maybe he kinda owes Hargrove for that. 

Not that Steve’ll ever tell the guy to his face.

 

*

 

Henderson has this crazy ability to weasel his way into Steve’s shit.

Been that way since the kid roped him into hunting Dart, and Steve still hasn’t gotten him to mind his own business. That’s why, instead of Hopper, or Powell, or even Callahan sitting shotgun while Steve stakes out the chief’s old cabin, he’s got Dustin. They’re supposed to keep their eyes peeled for any sign of the Russians, but what’s Henderson worried about? 

“Hey, can I—” Henderson reaches for all the bells and whistles on the dashboard, and Steve swats his hand away.

“NOPE. Nope. Look at me. Henderson?” Steve snaps his fingers and Henderson rolls his eyes before turning to face him. “Over here?” Steve points at the dash. “This shit? This is off limits for civilians. You got that? Guess what you are, dickhead.” 

“Oh, like I’m not ten times more equipped to deal with this shit than 95 percent of the population. And!” Sticking a finger up, Henderson argues, “On the force, for that matter!”

Steve slouches in his seat as he dangles an arm out the window. “Yeah, you keep telling yourself that.” He stares through the leaves for a second, then realizes he’s giving Dustin a window to fuck with the radio, so he snaps his head back over to glare at him. “I mean it! No radio, no siren, hands off the scanner at all times…” Letting out a breath, Steve asks, “You got that, or do I need to run through it again?” 

“Okay, first of all? You’re off the clock.” Dustin crosses his arms and pouts. “Second, you probably learned what a ‘civilian’ is like two months ago, so quit acting all high and mighty.” 

“Hey, you wanted to come!” Know what that means, Henderson? “If you’re gonna sit in my cruiser, and crash my mission, then you’re gonna follow my rules.” 

“Okay! Jesus.” Henderson huffs again, copying Steve’s pose as he mutters under his breath, “Prick…” 

Steve pushes his shades up over his eyes. “Gonna ignore that.”

Henderson’s quiet for a minute, then he leans forward to peek through the windshield. “So Hopper really thinks they’re gonna show?”

Steve shrugs. “I dunno, man. I’ve been out here every day for a week, but…” Shaking his head, he mumbles, “Nothing.”

As long as he’s at the Byers, the chief’s pretty sure he’s off the Russians’ radar. And El can do all sorts of freaky shit with her powers, like spy on people or jump into their brains—but Bauman seems to think the other kid’s not such a jack of all trades. And if he can’t spy on Hopper the way El can spy on everybody—Jesus, Steve hopes that doesn’t include him. But, uh—the point is, if they can’t track Hopper down using psychic shit, and he hasn’t been out of the house in weeks, there’s only one lead the Russians might have. 

Which is why Steve’s been staking out Hopper’s cabin, parked a ways off in an old cop car that could be the chief’s. But like Steve said, it’s been a week with no sign of ‘em. Steve’s starting to think they got cold feet after the jailbreak and went back to Russia. Which would be great—problem solved, right? Except for the part where Steve doesn’t have any proof.

So. Stake out it is. 

“You know, I’ve been thinking.” Henderson pipes up, and Steve bites back a groan. This isn’t gonna end well. “Arnie’s probably old enough, you’ve got Billy to babysit…” Henderson turns to him with this hyper, bug-eyed look. “It’s high time you put yourself back on the market!” 

“Uh…” Steve grimaces, staring out over the dash. “Yeeeaaah, I don’t know about that, man.” 

Henderson squints at him. “Who the hell am I talking to right now?” 

Steve waves him off. “Okay, calm down—“

“Hello? I thought I was talking to Steve. You know—Steve Harrington? Ever heard of him?” Henderson groans, the back of his melon thunking against the headrest as he flops backwards. “Ladies’ man of the century, and he doesn’t want to date!” 

“It’s not like that, man! It’s—“ Steve swallows, frowning. “It’s not like I don’t want to, I just…” Actually, uh… 

Does he… want to? 

He hasn’t thought about it in a while. Huh. Why hasn’t he thought about it? Christ. But Steve can’t get hung up on that right now—not in front of Rambo here—so he shakes his head, telling Henderson, “I just wanna… focus on Arnie right now. Y’know?”

“Okay, well—shouldn’t you focus on getting Arnie a mom? Pff.” Henderson says that, then breaks out in this goofy, shit-eating grin. “Uh. Another mom?” 

“Hilarious, Dustin.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Haven’t heard that one yet.” 

“Seriously,” insists Henderson. “You could have any girl in Hawkins wrapped around your finger. You spent the last, like, two years talking about how you had to find the one, and suddenly…” Throwing his hands in the air, he blurts, “It’s like you don’t even care!” 

“‘Cause I don’t, dude!” Steve works his jaw for a second, then adds, “It’s called growing up, alright? I’ve got more important shit to worry about.” Like his kid, for one. Y’know, the one he has to raise, and all that crap?

“Bullshit,” grumbles Henderson. 

Steve blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me! Bullshit!” Henderson leans forward again, getting right in his face as he explains, “There’s only one very specific set of circumstances where you stop chasing after girls—”

“Don’t say it, man,” Steve orders. “I’m warning you!” 

“—and that is when you’re hung on Nancy, or Robin, or whoever—”

“This is ridiculous,” Steve mutters, dragging a hand down his face. “This is ridiculous!” 

“You might as well admit it!” Henderson shrugs, like he just blew the whole case wide open. “So who is it?” 

“Nobody, jackass!” Dustin gears up to argue, so Steve cuts him off. “Honest to God, I’m just…” Steve wrinkles his nose, thinking for a second before he admits, “Not into the dating scene.” 

“Oh, yeah?” Henderson gives him this unimpressed look, then jumps and points across the dash. “Holy shit! What is that?” 

Steve whips around to check it out, and the second he does, Henderson’s on top of him, dragging his shirt collar down to show off the red splotch above his collarbone. “Ah-ha!”

“DUDE!” Steve jerks away, shoving Henderson back, but the damage is done. 

“Not into the dating scene, huh?” Henderson raises his eyebrows, looking so smug it’s practically coming off him in waves.

Steve fixes his collar, grumbling, “That’s different.”

“Nope.” Henderson makes a ‘tssk’ sound. “It’s not.” Folding his arms behind his head, Dustin falls back into his seat and says, “Trust me! You’re obsessed with her.”

“Uh, no, actually.” Steve groans, hunching his shoulders. “I’m not.” 

“You’ll feel better if you just admit it!”

Steve winces. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” 

“Well, I’m gonna find out who it is anyway, so—”

“You’re not gonna find out shit, man,” Steve growls. “There’s no mystery girl, alright? There’s nothing going on!” 

Dustin’s quiet for long enough that Steve has to look at him, and the second he does, Henderson’s eyebrows start crawling up towards the brim of his hat.

Steve’s about to bash his head into the windshield. “I mean it!”

Henderson keeps squinting at him, but then he seems to have some sort of breakthrough. With a groan, the kid slides down the seat again, shoes disappearing under the glove compartment. “Ohhh.” He taps the side of his head as he winces up at Steve. “Billy.”

Steve’s heart does a backflip. “Uh—what?”

“Hey, I may not have reached Harrington levels of casanova—yet—but I still know chick repellent when I see it.” Clicking his tongue, Henderson sits up and reaches out to pat Steve’s shoulder. Steve flinches, jerking away. “You gave up! And I, for one, completely understand.” Henderson pushes out a long, dramatic exhale, sadly adding, “I wouldn’t want to bring a girl within fifty feet of that douchebag, either.”

Steve pokes his tongue around in his mouth. He, uh… Never really thought about that. Like, even if he could get a girl who’d look past the whole… situation he’s got going on under the hood, Hargrove’d probably try and pounce on her the second Steve brought her through the door, same way he did with Robin. “Uh. Totally.”  

“But hey! Max said he hashed it out with her mom, right?” Henderson grins. “Bet he’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

“That’s…” Steve swallows. 

Right now, Hargrove’s over at the Byers, helping Hopper knock a wall out or some shit to keep the chief from going stir crazy. But most of the time, he’s back at the apartment, watching Arnie. And sure, Steve could probably start asking Mrs. Byers to babysit more, but her schedule’s not as flexible as Hargrove’s. It’s just… convenient, y’know? 

Steve feels his face screw up as he stares down at the floorboards, wondering why the hell it suddenly feels tricky to look Dustin in the eye. “It’s, uh…” Steve tries to keep his voice casual, maybe so Henderson won’t jump down his throat when he says, “It’s actually not that bad.”

Dustin’s stink eye is instant. Yeah, of course it is. “Uh. What’s not that bad?” 

“Like.” Steve sniffs, then swipes his thumb under his nose. “Rooming with him.”

Henderson scoffs. “Sure. I hear cancer doesn’t deserve such a bad rap, either.” 

“No, man! I’m serious.” Steve’s not sure why he’s ready to die on this hill all of a sudden. Maybe he’s just that fucking tired of everybody acting like he’s crazy for putting up with Hargrove. “It’s not that bad. And—just think about it for a second! Think about how much he used to suck. And like, he still sucks, dude. I’m not denying it. But he’s…” Steve thins his lips together, the words kinda crumbling away before he can get a handle on them. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and finally settles on, “I dunno. Better. I mean, look at how shitty he was before he died.” Hell, even that first night he came back. It’s like… yeah, he could still be better in a lot of ways, and he’s still the biggest asshole Steve’s ever met, but… Jesus. Compared to the guy Steve knew his senior year? It’s almost night and day. “… I never would’ve thought he had it in him.”

“Are you…” Frowning, Henderson reaches out to press a hand to Steve’s forehead. 

“Knock it—” Steve recoils. “Knock it off, man! I’m fine.” 

“You say you’re fine, but you do realize that, in a very roundabout way…” Henderson says it slowly, like he’s trying to convince himself, too. “You’re paying Billy Hargrove… a compliment?”

“Yeah?” Steve cocks an eyebrow. “Maybe I am, jackass!” He gestures to himself. “See how, miraculously, I’m still alive? Didn’t burst into flames? In fact—check this shit out!” God damn it. Steve needs to shut the hell up but apparently, his mouth hasn’t gotten the message. “I’ll take it up a notch. The guy’s got a killer jump shot. See? I did it again!” Steve drums his fingers on the dash, still ranting. “He’s got Powell’s Caprice running like new, he can change a diaper without losing his lunch—so take notes, Henderson.” And—hey! Would you look at that! Steve’s still going. “He drives like Nightrider, he can bench press 300 pounds, and you know what? I can admit it! He’s even a decent kiss—”

Steve’s voice dies in his throat, stomach twisting so hard it hurts when he realizes what he just said. 

Now he’s got the opposite problem from earlier—he can’t take his eyes off Dustin, hoping, begging, praying that the kid won’t put two and two together. That he doesn’t have a brain, maybe, or a working pair of ears. And Steve knows he’s been losing his shit about this for ages, terrified that somebody was gonna put all the pieces together and figure out that he and Hargrove have been screwing around. But the truth is, it’s not obvious. It’s never been obvious, because nobody was ever gonna think that. Nobody’s gonna guess anyone they know is a queer, or does queer shit. Not unless they sit there and spell it out for you, like Robin did—and even then, she was still kinda drugged up, and probably thinking she was about to die. But nobody—nobody—would count on that shit coming from King Steve. 

Not unless he did the same thing Robin did. Just… came right out and said it, straight to Henderson’s face.

Henderson’s eyes are about to pop out of his skull. His mouth’s flapping like a mailbox with a busted hinge, and all Steve can do is sit there, waiting to melt into the cracks between the upholstery. God. Is this how Robin felt when she told him? No wonder she looked so scared. And Steve—he’s terrified. For fuck’s sake, there’s a reason Steve never told Henderson about Robin. Forget the part where it wasn’t any of Steve’s business, that it wasn’t his job to tell the dipshit—honestly, part of him’s still surprised he never let it slip by accident. But even if she’d said it was okay, even if Robin had given him, like… permission, Steve never felt sure that telling Henderson would’ve been… safe.

And he never knew why he felt that way ’til now.

It’s like time’s been stopped for a year when Dustin finally says his name. “… Steve.”

Steve swallows. Christ. Actually? It’s more like he gulps. 

“Steve,” Henderson repeats.

Steve’s voice sounds horrible, scratchy and dry and somehow worse than it did after they sliced him open to get to Arnie. “H-Hey.”

Dustin throttles him. “WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU!?” 

“GCK!” Choking, Steve smacks a fist against the kid’s shoulder, trying to pry him off. “Get… off me, man! It’s not—” Okay, uh. Probably can’t take it back, huh? Honestly, the worst part is, Steve’s not sure he’s even surprised that Henderson’s going ballistic. Just… disappointed. “I-It’s not that big a deal!” 

“It’s a huge deal!” Henderson’s voice comes out all squeaky, to the point that Steve wonders if his windows are gonna hold up, especially when he screams, “You’re gay? With BILLY?!” 

“No, man! I’m not—” Swallowing, Steve finally wrestles Dustin off of him. “I-I’m not…” He’s… He’s trying to say that he’s not gay. He wants to say it. Holy shit, does he ever. All the times they messed around, Steve could blame Hargrove. And Steve could say he’s human, and he’s got needs, and it isn’t that deep. Prison rules. But the way Hargrove’s been talking to him lately, making him laugh… All that shit Robin said about Tammy, and Vickie. The way it felt different. The way Steve’s been going to bat for him, for no good fucking reason, getting all sweaty and twitchy around him, even jumpier than he was in a room full of Russian thugs about to pound his face in. “… I didn’t think shit was gonna turn out this way.”

“Steve?” Henderson sounds like he’s trying to wake Steve up from a dead sleep. “You’re insane.”

Steve feels a little stab of anger, because that shit’s just low. “Alright. Easy with the pot-shots, buddy.” 

“I mean it!” Dustin’s voice keeps cracking as he croaks, “I mean, where’s your self respect? This is…” Gagging, he whines, “Ugh. I think I’m gonna throw up.”

“Hey, hey.” Steve grabs at Henderson’s shoulder, fingers digging in. Jesus. Guess he made the right call, never telling him about Robin. “First off, you’re jumping to some batshit conclusions. Second…” Steve’s face twitches as he struggles with how to put it. “Even if it was… like that…” With a deep breath, Steve locks eyes with Dustin, adding, “Christ. I dunno, man. I just—I didn’t think you’d be so shitty about it.” 

“What?” Henderson wrinkles his nose, glancing away as the gears turn in his head. Then it seems like something clicks, and he looks back over at Steve. “I don’t care if you’re gay!” Steve flinches—okay, he’s not… that, so Henderson can stop saying it. It’s a complicated situation, alright? Henderson doesn’t have all the context! “I mean, no way was that on my bingo card, but come on! I don’t give a shit.” Getting this dry look, Henderson asks, “Do you have any idea how many species in the animal kingdom there are where homosexuality is perfectly normalized?” Henderson doesn’t wait for Steve to answer. Yeah, they’re both in agreement here: no way is Steve gonna know that shit. “I’m talking about Billy! He’s a psychopath!” With a gasp, Henderson lunges for Steve again, trying to yank down his collar a second time. “Wait, did he do this!?”

“Dustin! Hey!” Steve wheezes as the dweeb starts cutting off his airway, choking, “DUSTIN!” 

Henderson freezes, and he sounds half impressed, half nauseous, as he whispers, “Is this a hickey, or did he try to strangle you?” 

“Alright, Henderson.” Steve squirms. “I’m gonna give you to the count of three to—”

Steve doesn’t even make it to two. 

There’s a huge cracking sound and for a split second, the whole front of the car’s bathed in this blinding orange. Steve and Henderson freeze, then slowly turn to peek through the branches at the fireball eating away at the back of Hopper’s cabin. 

“Oh, shit,” breathes Henderson.

Steve shoves the kid back in his seat, flinging the door open as he steps out of the cruiser. “Stay in the car.”

“Uh, hello?” Henderson tries his door, and when Steve hits the locks, he scrambles out behind him on the driver’s side. “If you die, I die—remember?”

“Nobody’s gonna—SHH!” Steve stops and puts a finger to his lips, then jerks his head towards the cabin. The fire’s already dying down, almost like they put it out as soon as they made a big enough hole in the wall. Guess it makes sense. If the kid can create fire, he can probably make it disappear, too. Steve glances over his shoulder, motioning for Henderson to close the car door behind him, then turns back towards the cabin as he switches on his walkie. “This is Harrington. Got eyes on the perps.”

Crouching in the underbrush, Steve stays motionless as Henderson creeps over to him. There’s a long pause, and Steve’s starting to wonder if the chief even heard him when the walkie lets out a loud crackle. Steve jumps, slapping a hand over the speaker as he cranks the volume down. 

“Roger that.” Hopper’s voice comes through, muffled under Steve’s palm. “Stay covered, we’ll be on the scene in five.”

Steve winces. “Damn it.”

“What?” Henderson’s are huge. “Why ‘damn it’?”

“Because, they’re looking for the chief.” Steve leans out from behind the lower branches, trying to get a better visual through the leaves. “It’ll take ‘em—what? Ten seconds to figure out he’s not in there? They’re sitting ducks right now, and trust me—they probably know it.” Steve shakes his head, lips pressed tight together. “They can’t afford to blow twenty minutes casing the joint. If they don’t find any leads, they’re gonna bail. And if we lose their trail this time, that’s it, Henderson.” Breathless, Steve tries to ignore the way his throat’s going dry. “We’re not finding it again.” 

Either they take the Russians down today—right here, right now—or else these lunatics are gonna burn through Hawkins one block at a time ’til they track down the chief. Seems like they don’t have a whole lot of options, so Steve doesn’t even hesitate. He just crouches down, moving silently through the underbrush towards the cabin.

“Steve?” Henderson hisses after him. “Steve!” The kid swears under his breath, then follows Steve’s lead, stepping on every branch along the way.

Steve’s climbing onto the porch by the time Henderson catches up, flattening himself against the wall as he inches sideways towards the window. Panting, Dustin hauls himself up after Steve, squeezing in next to him. Heart flip-flopping in his chest, Steve makes it to the window, then slowly turns his head, leaning forward just enough to peek through the glass into the cabin. 

The first thing he spots is the giant, smoking hole in the back wall. That’s, uh… That’s a little hard to miss. It leads straight out into the woods, and the paneling around it’s burnt to a crisp, the edges still glowing orange. Standing right in front of the hole is the old guy, and a few feet to his left is the kid, and Steve has to remind himself to breathe as he watches them poke around the living room. Somehow, he wasn’t expecting to see ‘em in there. Guess he’s been hearing about them for so long, they started to feel… Jesus, he doesn’t know. Imaginary. But here they are in the flesh, this bald, scarred-up Russian dude, and a scrawny kid in a jumpsuit, stomping around the chief’s cabin like they own the place. The kid’s even got a gas mask on—same thing Mrs. Dunnigan was screaming at Callahan about a few months ago. 

The old guy’s definitely the same one from the picture in Starcourt, but it looks like he’s been through a whole lot of shit since it was taken. He looks at least ten years older—like he’s lost some weight, and even more sleep. When he turns to check for something behind the musty recliner, Steve spots this tell-tale bulge on his hip. Probably a holster, which means the guy’s armed.

The kid’s younger than Steve would’ve figured, but the jumpsuit matches the ones in that messed up poster Bauman slapped on Hopper’s coffee table. It’s in rough shape, covered in dirt and burn marks, and when the kid turns his head, Steve sees a flash of silver under the collar. At first, the kid makes his way over to the opposite side of the cabin, but as Steve watches, he freezes, turning all of a sudden and scurrying back over to the old guy. 

Huh. For a human flamethrower, he’s a lot jumpier than Steve would’ve thought.

Suddenly, Henderson’s breath is in his ear. “What are they doing?”

“Shh!” Steve motions for him to back up, whispering, “Nothing! They’re just…” The old guy bends to grab a picture frame off the floor, flips it over, then chucks it on the floor, hard enough to make the glass shatter. “… trashing the place.” Next, the creep walks over to the kitchen, flinging the cabinets open one by one. Then he turns and makes a beeline for the front window. 

“Shit.” Steve flips around, flattening himself against the wall, one hand pressed into Henderson’s chest so he knows to stay put.

The old guy stomps up to the kitchen table, muttering something as he paws through whatever crap Hopper left sitting on it. Steve swallows, heart going into overdrive as he waits for the other shoe to drop—for the guy to somehow sense that he and Henderson are huddled on the other side of the wall. The seconds drag by, Steve almost chewing his own tongue off while he waits, and then, finally, he hears the sound of boots walking off in the other direction. 

Exhaling, Steve takes his hand off Henderson’s chest and gets back into position, peeking through the window again. The Russian guy’s next to the bedroom door, picking through books on the bookshelf one by one. After a minute of skimming through pages, he gets fed up and grabs the back of the bookshelf, prying it away from the wall and tipping the whole thing over. Then turns towards the kid, yelling something at him in Russian as he makes his way towards the hole in the back. 

“Shit.” Steve doesn’t even stop to think. The next thing he knows, he’s passing by the window in full view as he sprints across the porch.

“Steve? STEVE!” Henderson yelps behind him, but Steve’s already in front of the door. “What the hell are you doing!?”

Rearing back, Steve slams his foot against the wood under the knob, kicking the sweet spot hard enough to bust the whole thing wide open. Pulling his gun out, Steve steps into the cabin, aiming at the old guy as soon as he’s got a clear shot. “FREEZE!” 

The Russian stops in his tracks, his back to Steve. For a couple seconds, he’s a statue, but just when Steve’s starting to wonder if the creep even heard him, he turns. He moves so slow that, at first, Steve thinks he’s probably shitting bricks. But then he sees the guy’s face. He’s not scared—hell, he’s not even surprised. The look he’s shooting Steve right now? Yeah, that’s pure rage. 

Fingers tightening around the grip, Steve growls, “This is private property, asshole.” 

“Steve!” Suddenly, Henderson’s through the door, coming in so hot he actually smacks into Steve’s back. Steve turns his head—barely, just enough to yell something at Henderson—and that’s when the Russian kid flings his arm out. A flash of neon orange jets across the room and Henderson screams, tackling Steve to the floor. “GET DOWN!” 

“Holy shit!” Steve chokes, sweat breaking out across his forehead as a fireball flies past the spot where his head was two seconds ago. There’s this crazy, tense moment as Steve watches the kid in the gas mask pause, the fire fizzling out as he realizes he missed. He starts to redirect, and that’s when Steve sees his window. He throws himself back up, taking aim at the kid, but the second he points the gun towards his head, something in Steve’s gut gives this horrible twist. 

He pauses, then slowly drags the barrel towards the old guy instead. “Okay, just—calm down! Everybody calm down.” Steve makes it obvious as he pulls the safety back, Henderson fumbling to get up behind him. “Put your hands up.” 

“Shit!” Henderson’s head is a blur in the corner of Steve’s eye, taking turns gawking at the fire burning on the ceiling, and the hold-up happening right in front of him. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Vy umrete ran'she chem uspeyete nazhat' na kurok.” The old guy shakes his head, letting out a chuckle that makes Steve’s neck hairs stand on end. “Vy libo glupy, libo samoubiytsa.”

“Hands in the air, you piece of shit.” Steve flicks the barrel of his gun towards the rafters, hunching his shoulders to help this asshole take the hint. “You understand that? Huh?” Gritting his jaw, Steve slides his finger through the guard, resting it against the trigger. “How ‘bout this?” 

The geezer’s eyes dart down to Steve’s holster, then back up to his gun. “Vy politseyskiy?” The smile slides right off his face as he growls, “Gde vash boss?”

Steve stays perfectly still, keeping his eyes locked on the old guy as he hisses at Dustin, “… What’s he saying?”

Henderson jumps a foot. “How the hell should I know!?”

Steve turns his head, groaning, “You’re the one who had that stupid dictionary, man!”

The Russian snaps his fingers. “Sozhgite ikh.”

The psychic kid’s arm flies up again, and Steve yells, yanking Henderson out of the way as the nutcase lets loose another fireball. It smashes into the door like a flash bomb, the heat from three feet away nearly knocking Steve on his ass. Henderson’s screaming his head off, and Steve’s reconsidering the whole don’t shoot the kid thing, but before the brat can fire off another one, the old guy snatches the arm of his jumpsuit. 

“Durak!” Steve watches, stomach twisting, as the bastard lifts his free hand and gives the kid a sharp slap upside his head. “Vy promakhnulis' na verst!” He shoves the kid forward, reaching into his pocket as he waits for him to stand upright. “Ubeyte ikh. Ne promakhnites' yeshche raz.”

“Hey! HEY!” The old guy pulls out this silver rectangle—almost looks like a kind of switch—and Steve flicks his pistol towards it. “I don’t know what that thing is, but if you don’t drop it, I shoot.”

The guy turns to glare at Steve, not even a little intimidated. In fact, he almost seems annoyed. Like Steve’s cutting in front of him at the bank instead of aiming a gun at his head. Somehow, it’s more nerve-wracking than the psycho kid trying to cook them alive. Steve stands his ground—doesn’t even blink—sweat dripping from the end of his nose as he waits for the son of a bitch to make his move. 

He doesn’t get a chance. There’s a crash behind them as the front door falls completely off its hinges, and then, through the doorway, Steve hears his name.

“Harrington!” Steve rips his eyes off the Russians as Hopper slips in through the smoke, Hargrove at his heels like some sort of bodyguard. The chief’s gun is already trained on the old guy, and he doesn’t look at Steve as he snaps, “Give me one day where you don’t try to get suspended, kid. That’s all I’m asking.”

At first, the Russian guy looks surprised. But by the time Steve blinks, his expression’s changed. Now he’s pulling the creepiest face so far, mouth curling in this nasty smirk as he slips the metal switch back into his pocket and sizes Hopper up. “Nakonets on poyavlyayetsya.” His smirk disappears, and before any of them can react, he’s whipping a gun out from under his shirt and aiming it right at Hopper.

The rest happens so fast, Steve can barely keep up. There’s a bang, Henderson screams, Hopper flinches—but he isn’t hit. The second the gun went off—hell, maybe right before—the Russian’s whole body crumples into itself. Next thing Steve knows, the old man’s getting thrown clean across the cabin. The gun flies out of his hand, skittering into the kitchen as his back slams into the far wall. Steve’s jaw drops, and after a second or two, his brain kicks back into gear enough for him to move. He turns around, watching dumbly as El steps out from behind Hargrove and Hopper. She’s got her arms straight in front of her, fingers curled towards the palms as she flattens the creep against the wood paneling. She takes a couple steps forward, moving slow like she’s fighting her way upstream. Her arms inch higher bit by bit, and the old bastard’s back scrapes against the wall as he’s dragged towards the ceiling, whole body twitching from the pressure El’s putting on him. 

“El!” Henderson lets out a hysterical laugh. “Holy shit, you have no clue how screwed we were.”

Steve bristles. “Hey, I was handling it!”

Henderson’s not convinced. “We almost got barbecued, Steve!”

Too late, Steve remembers the other Russian. He looks back in time to see the kid’s head flipping back and forth between the old man and El, hunching into himself like he’s got no idea what to do without someone screaming orders at him. The geezer lets out a groan, El’s powers squeezing the breath right out of his lungs, and suddenly, the kid grows a backbone. But lucky for Steve, he’s starting to crack the code—when he sees that little shit wind his arm back, Steve knows they’ve got about two seconds to hit the deck. 

Hopper beats him to it, shouting, “EL!”

Another wave of fire shoots straight towards them, and El pulls her arms back, letting the old guy drop a good ten feet to the floor as her hands fly up to cover her face. Steve’s heart stops, and he’s positive he’s about to see El go up in flames, but just before the fire reaches her, something stops it. It’s like El’s got this bubble around her, blocking the flames from getting too close. The fire’s pushed back into this dome shape, but it doesn’t give El a ton of coverage. The flames are only a few inches from her hands, and it looks like it’s taking everything she’s got just to keep them at bay. She’s gritting her teeth, sweat breaking out across her face, either from the heat or just how much raw power it’s taking to hold off the attack.

“Oh, shit!” Dustin yelps, scooting backwards to hide behind El, head craned up to stare at flames as they spread to more of the ceiling. “Shit, shit, shit—put it out! Put it out!”

“I’m…” El must be close to her limit, ‘cause she’s running out of patience for Henderson’s bullshit. “Busy!”

The chief checks to make sure the old guy’s still slumped over in the corner, then shouts, “Everybody back up!” He motions for Steve and Hargrove to follow his lead, squeezing in next to Henderson so they’re both behind El’s bubble. “Give her less ground to cover.”

Steve shoves Hargrove forward as he falls in next to Dustin, then double-takes when he sees the look on Hargrove’s face. He’s got a thousand-yard stare and he’s sweating buckets—seems like he’s barely holding himself together. And yeah, Steve never thought he’d get to see Hargrove come this close to shitting his pants, but he’s a little too preoccupied to enjoy it. The bubble around El looks like it’s getting smaller, but the Russian kid just keeps going, blasting El with enough force to start shoving her back. 

Henderson wheezes as Hopper squeezes up against him. “Jesus, doesn’t he have an off button?”

They’re packed together like sardines behind El’s bubble, and El’s lost enough ground that she’s practically on top of Hopper. Steve can feel the heat rising all around them, and when he sucks in another breath, it’s so dry and smokey that he starts coughing. More and more of the fire is making it past El’s bubble, singing Steve’s arms, his face—even the tips of his hair. The wall by the door’s totally up in flames, and the fire’s getting closer and closer every time Steve glances over. And… Jesus, what if this is it? What if this is how it ends? They’re all gonna cook in here, murdered by a Russian third grader, and that’ll be it. Steve’s never gonna make it out of this building. He’s gonna die in here, and he’ll never get to see Arnie again, or Robin, or—

El lets out a roar.

It’s so loud, Steve almost hits the ceiling. All he can do is watch, heart in his throat, as El wrenches her arms apart, almost like she’s tearing the room in half with her bare hands. And the batshit part is, it works. The fire splits like the fucking red sea, then putters out, the wall of orange that was ready to swallow them up just falling apart with a massive whoosh. The Russian kid’s shell-shocked, totally frozen as he stares at El through the eyeholes of his mask. El jerks her elbow back, and Steve jolts when he realizes she's about to pull the same maneuver she used on the old guy. But just before she follows through—before she sends the Russian kid straight through the wall—something stops her. She goes perfectly still, then slowly puts her arm down at her side, closing her eyes as she lets out a deep breath. 

“What the fuck are you doing!?” Hargrove’s voice is pure panic, and Steve wishes he didn’t get where he’s coming from.

El shushes him. “Shh.”

Heart thumping so hard it hurts, Steve looks at the Russian kid again. He’s still staring at El—at least, Steve thinks he is. (Kinda hard to tell with the mask.) But he’s not attacking, even though Steve’s more than ready to make another dive for it if the kid decides to turn up the heat.

A couple seconds tick by, but El and the Russian kid are still frozen. 

Steve frowns. “What’s—”

Henderson shoves a hand in Steve’s face, then waves at himself as he mouths… something. 

“Do I look like I can read li—” Steve tries to whisper, but Henderson elbows him.

Steve groans, rubbing at his ribcage while the dipshit starts to mime. Henderson does the “talking” gesture with his hand, then jerks a thumb towards El and the kid. Finally, he taps the side of his skull, and that’s when Steve gets it. 

They’re talking. 

El must’ve jumped into the kid’s head, same way she did with Hargrove and Max, and from the looks of it, they’ve having a pretty intense conversation. Steve’s barely even breathing, half because he can’t get any air in without a mouthful of smoke, and half because watching El try to negotiate with this kid is the definition of a nail-biter. It could be a minute, or ten seconds, but by the time something breaks the silence, Steve feels like he’s been staring at the back of El’s head for ages.

There’s scuffling on the other side of the cabin, and Steve looks up to see the old guy coming to with a groan. He pushes up off the ground, shakily rising to his feet, and Steve steps around El in an instant, drawing his gun again and aiming at the bastard. From the corner of his eye, Steve can see Hopper had the same idea, and now that he’s got two pistols locked on him, the Russian guy jolts and starts patting desperately at his side. When it sinks in that his weapon’s long gone, his head jerks up, this panicky expression flashing across his face before he zeroes in on the kid. 

“Chto vy delayete?”

The kid jerks out of his trance, chest heaving under his jumpsuit—guess the whole brain talk really took it out of him. He stares at El for another couple of seconds, then pulls away, stumbling backwards like he’s been shocked. 

“YA skazal tebe ubit' ikh!” 

The old guy raises his voice, taking a few steps towards the kid, only to think twice when Hopper clicks his safety off. He stands there, glaring at Steve and Hopper without a word, and for a while the only sound in the cabin is the fire crackling. Finally, the old guy’s eyes snap back over to the lab kid, and he growls another sentence through clenched teeth. The kid looks at him, then back over to El, his puny hands curling up against his chest like he’s too freaked out to make a move. Steve couldn’t say why—seems like that little snot’s the scariest thing in here. But when another ten seconds go by with the Russian kid’s still treating this like a stalemate, the old guy scowls, fingers creeping slowly towards his pocket. 

Steve tenses up, finger on the trigger as the old man pulls that silver thing from earlier out into the open. Apparently, it stayed put the whole time El was flattening him against the wall. Steve’s mind starts racing—that thing could set off a bomb, or one of those sound weapons Bauman was talking about, and Steve’s just starting to hope his trigger finger’s faster than the old man’s when the Russian kid starts losing his shit.

“Net!” He starts screaming out of nowhere, half-sobbing when he spots the switch, reaching under the collar of his jumpsuit to claw at the metal band around his neck. “Net! Pozhaluysta! Mne ochen' zhal’—net!” 

Steve doesn’t need to speak Russian to know what’s going on here. That kid’s begging, one step away from getting down on his hands and knees, and when Steve hears his voice hit that pitch, when he hears that pure, animal fear—

Jesus. Something in him breaks. His finger’s squeezing the trigger way before his brain can catch up, the kickback vibrating down his arm as he shoots clean through the old man’s bicep. 

“AUGH!” The son of a bitch barely keeps his footing, the blast hitting him with enough force to snap the whole left side of his body backwards. But somehow, even with the hole in his arm, the creep keeps a grip on that switch, fingers clenched around it as he fights to stay standing. Breathing like a racehorse, he squeezes the wound with his free hand, while the kid… 

“What the hell… ?” Steve’s jaw drops as the kid sprints over to the old guy, wringing his little hands together as he stares at the bullet hole—like he’s worried.

Well—no time to analyze that shit. This huge, drawn out creak shakes the whole room, and Steve swears time slows down to a stand-still as he cranes his neck back, watching as the beams above them start to buckle. The entire cabin groans, and then it’s like the Russians really did set off a bomb. A whole chunk of the ceiling comes crashing down in the middle of the room, hitting the floor with a big enough bang to make Steve’s ears ring. Most of the room’s burning by now, and seeing anything through the smoke is next to impossible. Steve can barely make out the silhouette of the old guy dragging himself towards the hole in the back wall, the kid scurrying along behind him. The general slips through first, but before the kid follows him, he freezes, standing at the far end of the room and glancing over his shoulder at El. Then he turns, stumbling through the smoke and disappearing out the back of the room. 

“El!” Hopper breaks into a coughing fit, barely getting the words out.“We need an exit!”

El snaps out of it, tearing her eyes off the other kid’s back and turning around. She doesn’t waste any time, just throws an arm out in front of her, and the wall, the window, plus whatever’s left of the kitchen table—it all breaks into pieces. Chunks of wood and glass go flying across the porch, leaving a good third of the wall open to the outside. Everyone bolts through the hole, speeding across the porch and tripping over their feet as they stumble down the yard. Once Steve makes it to the driveway, he doubles over, hacking and spitting into the dirt until he feels like he can breathe again. Then he straightens up, wiping his mouth and watching as the fire spreads to the edges of the porch.

“What the fuck was that?” Hargrove snaps as soon as he’s done choking. The guy sounds pissed to even be here, but for once, Steve can’t really blame him. 

El’s eyebrows are scrunched together as she thinks, rolling her sleeve over her hand to scrub at her nosebleed—ugh. Bad call. That’s gonna be a bitch to get out. “She didn’t want to do this.” 

“Whuh—she?” Henderson coughs a few more times, then sputters, “Who’s ‘she’?”

“She!” El points towards the woods behind the cabin. “That girl!” 

Everyone lets out an “ohh”, but Steve’s… Yeah, he’s still lost. Okay, so… boats are girls, right? Maybe the cabin’s technically—wait. 

“Like—the kid?” The Russian kid’s a girl? How can El, y’know… tell? What, do girls just smell it on each other? “Wait, wait, wait.” Steve pumps his hands in front of him, trying to get El to slow it down. “If she doesn’t want to do this shit, why the hell is she listening to that Scarface jackass? Why doesn’t she just…” Steve shakes his head weakly, pitching, “Blow him up? End of story.”

Then they wouldn’t be dealing with any of this shit, and Hopper’s cabin wouldn’t be a bonfire right now. 

Under the sounds of a fire engine way off in the distance, Hargrove lets out a groan. Steve glances at him out of the corner of his eye, and Jesus. Guy looks even worse than he did five minutes ago—y’know, when they were about to get deep fried?

Hopper frowns, studying Hargrove’s face for a second before he answers Steve. “Trust me, Harrington. Doesn’t matter if she could burn him to a crisp in ten seconds flat. Bet you anything she’s terrified of the bastard.” He points to his throat, adding, “Murray said that thing around her neck was to keep her powers in check, but I don’t think that’s all it does. You catch that remote the general was waving around?” The chief makes a face like something rotten’s under his nose. “They’ve got her in a goddamn shock collar.”

El nods, and all of a sudden Steve feels sick to his stomach. 

Sure, he knew the kid was… Well. Just a kid. And yeah, the lab where El grew up, right here in Hawkins—they treated her like crap. At least, they did when that ‘papa’ guy was running things. Steve knows all that. Hell, he’s known about it for ages. But hearing about all that shit years after it happened? 

It doesn’t hold a candle to actually seeing it. 

Hopper claps a hand on El’s shoulder, pulling her tight up against him. “Good call, trying to reason with her.” He raises an eyebrow. “Make any headway in there?”

El shoots him a small smile. “I think so, but… it’s hard.” She shrugs, explaining, “She doesn’t understand me very well.”

Steve nods. “Right, right. ‘Cause her powers are fire, and yours are all—” He mimes a bunch of junk flying through the air. “Fwoosh. Brain stuff.”

El snorts and shakes her head. “She… only speaks Russian.”

“Oh, well—yeah. That’s…” Steve rubs at the back of his neck, face heating up. “That’s probably part of it.”

El doesn’t answer. She and Hopper stay like that, holding onto each other, this sad, far away look on their faces while they watch the cabin burn. Hargrove stomps off towards the Blazer, and Steve wonders what crawled up his ass and died before Dustin finally breaks the silence. 

“So…” Henderson sounds like he isn’t too sure of himself—guess there’s a first time for everything—turning to Hopper and asking, “What happens now?” 

The chief hangs his head. “Damn it.” He stares down at the ground, groaning and pinching the bridge of his nose for a good ten seconds. Then he comes back up for air, glaring into the fire as he grumbles, “I’m gonna need to call Murray.”

Notes:

So I went to post the new chapter when I got home from work and you guys are never gonna guess what happened… 🧍 (Context for future readers: this chapter was posted after AO3 had been totally down/on fire for hours. Nearly the entire day, actually. At the time of publishing, this joke is very topical and clever and silly 🤗.)

Okay, back to business as usual. Hopefully this wasn’t too long of a gap between updates, as opposed to the previous chapter!

A little while back, I got a comment from someone wondering if they’d missed something explaining why Billy was so insistent on Steve keeping Arnie when he was born. Admittedly, even in story, it comes out of left field. I mentioned I’d probably cover Billy's reasoning in a future chapter, but explained my thought process/Billy’s motivations in my reply, anyway, just to be safe. I then checked my outline only to realize I’d already planned the follow-up to that particular plot thread months ago and completely forgot about it. Thanks for coming in clutch, past me! I guess I knew what I was doing the whole time. Maybe. Possibly. (This is barely relevant to the chapter, but I thought it was funny that I am simultaneously a fairly competent and totally incompetent fic writer.)

Now for the rest of the chapter's contents… Hope I didn’t scare ya’ll too bad with Dusty; I’d never make my boy homophobic! (Honestly, kinda feel like he’d be more informed and educated about queer issues than Steve himself, even though Steve's the bi one.) He is, however, Billy-phobic, and will be whispering duuuump hiiiiim in Steve’s ear, trying to influence his subconscious, for a good couple of years at least. And considering Billy almost ran him over and attempted to chuck one of his besties through a wall, perhaps that's fair.

Honestly, I’m so grateful to my beta and my faithful friend who has helped hash out MUCH of this AU and is always happy to give my chapters a once over. My beta’s comments crack me up in the most heartwarming way, and they also immediately picked up on the ☝️🤓 pose I had Dustin doing. Often times, some scenes feel so natural and effortless for me— in this case, it was the whole section with Steve and Dustin in the car—that the rest of the chapter starts looking shitty by comparison. Thank goodness I have friends able to reign in my overthinking and reassure me that the chapter reads okay, actually!

Finally, I know the “Samus is a girl” twist is overplayed, but I’m a sucker for it. So yes, little Russian pyrokinetic kiddo is a girl! And if I had to choose a musical accompaniment for her torching poor Hopper’s cabin, it’d probably be the painfully overused “Rasputin” by Boney M. What can I say? It’s a banger. 😂

The next chapter is one long scene I’ve been building up to for more or less the entire story. It isn’t the grand finale, but it is the emotional climax, at least for Billy, and it’s been the carrot at the end of the stick motivating me to continue for ages. I truly hope you guys enjoyed this chapter, and I ESPECIALLY hope you’ll like what’s to come! As always, I love hearing your thoughts and reading your comments, and I’m super grateful for all the kudos and good vibes sent as well. Thank you all! 💖

Chapter 25: The Rebound

Steve’s got the apartment to himself tonight.

Well, not himself-himself. Arnie’s here, so it’s just the two of ‘em. Steve’s got him sprawled over his chest while he lies on the couch—sans Playboy, he’s not an animal—and even though the kid fell asleep half an hour ago, Steve hasn’t had the heart to move him. So he’s been watching a rerun of Saturday Night Live, ignoring the weird crick in his neck as Arnie’s snoring drowns out every other line. 

It’s quiet. Not… literally, but sorta—what? Metaphorically? Jesus, Steve doesn’t know. It’s just weird, not having Hargrove doing something in the background. It’s quieter than it usually is.

Guess he oughta get used to it. 

Things have been going pretty well between Hargrove and Max. He even went back to Forest Hills and picked through the whole trailer—without losing his shit at Mrs. Hargrove. Steve wouldn’t have believed it if he wasn’t there to watch the whole thing. Max’s mom kept a lot more of Hargrove’s crap than Steve would’ve figured, and even though there are only two bedrooms, Mrs. Hargrove let it slip that she’s so worn out from work, she usually winds up crashing on the couch.

Yeah. Steve’s pretty sure she didn’t bring that up for no reason. 

And he’s not clear on when Hargrove’s gonna grab all his shit and pack up, but it’s gotta be soon, right? He’s with Max again tonight. Turns out one of the boxes his step-mom hung onto had an old key to the pool. It probably still works, too, ‘cause that’s where Max said they were gonna go, and it’s way after hours. Steve’s got no idea how long they’re gonna hang out there—hell, he’s not even sure Hargrove’s gonna come back here when they’re done. 

Kinda sucks.

Just… There’s no way Hargrove’s gonna watch Arnie after he moves. And Mrs. Byers doesn’t have the free time to drop everything and keep an eye on the kid, so… Y’know. It’s gonna be hard. There’s a lot of shit Steve’s gonna have to figure out. But he’s trying not to worry about it tonight. 

Every once in a while, he turns his head—real slow and careful, so he doesn’t jostle the little guy—and looks at Arnie. It’s crazy to think how much he’s changed. He looked like some kind of mutant raisin when he was a couple days old, and now he’s, like… a whole kid. Still pretty weird looking, Steve’ll admit, but Steve thinks he can pull it off. And when he watches Arnie, totally passed out and snoring, his bottom lip jutting out in that permanent pout babies get… 

It’s almost too much, the amount of shit Steve feels. Kinda terrifying. So he swallows and looks back over at the TV, and that’s basically been his routine for the night.

It’s not just Arnie, either. A lot of shit’s changed. Maybe that’s why the sound of a car tearing up Randolph at eighty miles an hour doesn’t even register at first. Steve doesn’t actually make the connection ’til he hears the screech of tires right by the apartment, and at that point, he’s still not sure it’s Hargrove. The guy hasn’t driven like a lunatic in weeks, even though he’s the first dipshit in the entire complex to leave skid marks in the parking lot.  But it puts Steve on edge as he rests a hand on Arnie’s back, craning his head towards the door to listen. 

A car door slams, and Steve hears footsteps stomping up the stairs towards his apartment. He thinks he left the door unlocked—he wasn’t sure Max’s mom had a space ready for Hargrove to crash, so he kinda figured he might be back, and sure enough, Hargrove doesn’t even bother with his keys. The doorknob jangles, like the guy’s struggling to get a handle on it from outside, and then the whole thing just slams open. Hargrove bashes his way in, hard enough to snap the door jam into the wall, and Arnie shifts against Steve’s chest, letting out a sleepy whine. 

“Jesus, dude.” Steve frowns, propping Arnie against his shoulder as he sits up, watching Hargrove storm into the living room. “Where’s the fire?”

Hargrove snaps at him instantly. “Shut your fucking mouth, Harrington.”

“Wh—”  Sputtering, Steve scrambles to his feet. “What the hell’s your problem, man?” 

“My problem?” Hargrove stops and throws his head back, letting loose one of those hyena laughs. “You wanna know what my problem is?” Glaring at Steve, he throws his arms out on either side, growling, “Gee, I don’t know! Maybe it’s the fact that everyone in this shithole’s bent on making me out to be the fucking devil!”

Steve screws his face up, trying to follow whatever Hargrove’s getting at. “The fuck are you talking about?” 

“I have had to work my ass off to get Maxine to trust me again. I had to get down on my hands and knees and beg that little bitch to take me back.” As he talks, Hargrove starts inching closer to Steve, shoulders hunched in a way that reminds Steve of a cornered dog. “Had to undo two years’ worth of lies, and bullshit, and whatever people like you and Sinclair and that fucking drunk kept telling her—”

Steve feels this jab of anger after that—at the way Hargrove’s trying to pin this crap, whatever it is, on him. “Hey man, I didn’t tell her shit—”

“And it didn’t even fucking matter!” Hargrove’s not listening, raking his hands through his hair to clutch at the back of his skull as he lets out another batshit cackle. “Oh, she’s perfect, Harrington. Did you know that? Hasn’t done a single thing wrong in her entire goddamn life.” He drops his hands at his sides, almost lined up with the coffee table as he snarls, “Couldn’t have been that little shitbird’s fault we had to move to this hick town, or that I got a needle stabbed into my fucking neck—” He points to his throat, teeth clenched, eyes wild as he adds, “—or that she took a bat and tried to castrate me!”

“Hey—here’s a crazy idea, dickhead!” Steve’s whole body feels like a rubber band about to snap, and he’s getting more and more pissed off the longer Hargrove talks. It’s the way he says all that shit, acting like he was a decent guy. Like Max, or his step-mom, or anybody forced him to be a fucking psycho.. “Maybe you had it coming.”

Hargrove licks his lips, face a blank slate—relaxed, almost bored. Empty in this familiar way that has alarm bells going off in Steve’s head. Then a chuckle bubbles up from the pit of his chest, and it might be calmer than the last couple, but it’s just as creepy. 

“Interesting, uh—Interesting take there, Harrington.” Hargrove wedges his calf under the coffee table, shoving it to the side as he gets up close and personal with Steve. They’re barely a few inches apart, and Steve wants to back off for Arnie’s sake, but he’s not sure he can do it without setting Hargrove off. Steve hasn’t been this paranoid around the bastard in months, and… Christ, it sucks. “What about when she locked me in that sauna while I begged her to help me. Huh? What about after, when she ran away and left me for dead? That sound fair?” Hargrove works his jaw, crossing over that last sliver of space between them. His eyes are drilling into Steve, not even blinking while he asks, “Or how about when she let that thing swallow me up from the inside—just sat back and watched me fucking DIE?”

Hargrove roars the last word at the top of his lungs, point blank in Steve’s face. It’s loud enough that Steve’s ears start ringing, and he swears he feels some spit land on his cheek.

Arnie starts whimpering and thrashing in his arms, and Steve finally stumbles back, tightening his grip on the kid. “Knock it off, asshole! You’re freaking him out!”

Hargrove lets out this puff of air—like it’s funny. Like Steve’s stupid for thinking that means something to him. He steps forward again, bending so he’s somewhere between Steve and Arnie’s eye level as he yells, “Who gives a shit?!”

Steve’s hand winds around the back of Arnie’s head, guiding it so the kid’s face is smushed into his chest, one hand over his tiny ear like maybe that’ll block some of it out. “You don’t give a shit? I hear that right? Oh! My mistake, jackass. Yeah, of course you don’t.” He shouldn’t be stooping to Hargrove’s level, raising his voice, yelling right back at the creep, but screw it. Steve’s not sure he’s ever been as mad as he is now, watching Hargrove throw a temper tantrum in front of his kid. “That’s gotta be why you’re screaming in my face right now, huh?”

In an instant, Hargrove’s whole face twists up, and Steve knows that got to him. Hargrove can’t even deny it—can’t pretend he’s got a handle on his emotions when it’s so obvious that Steve can pick up on it. And Steve should stop talking. Quit while he’s ahead, not put his foot in his mouth at the worst possible second. 

But Steve really doesn’t give a fuck anymore. 

“Y’know, maybe Max had a point.” Could be that Steve’s tired of trying to convince her things could get better. Or, hell—maybe he just doesn’t want to admit he was wrong. But Jesus, he has got to stop lying to himself. “You’re always just… one step away from turning back into the same old piece of shit.” 

The muscles in Hargrove’s face twitch, and he pulls back, shoulder angled away from Steve as he balls his hand into a fist. Steve winces on instinct, recoiling when his heart gives a sharp, panicky squeeze. Because Steve doesn’t believe for one second that Hargrove won’t do it—that he doesn’t have it in him to take a swing at Steve right now. He folds around Arnie, turning his body away from Hargrove, going into fight or flight as he gets ready to dodge, to shield as much of his kid as he can. Hargrove lets out this noise, and Steve’s not even sure what to call it, just belting it out from the pit of his stomach as he swings. 

Then, at the last possible moment, Hargrove pivots, burying his fist into the drywall above the couch. 

The second he does it, as soon as that bang shakes the apartment, this high-pitched, earsplitting noise drowns everything else out. When it first goes off, Steve can’t figure out what he’s hearing—he almost thinks it’s a siren—and then he realizes it’s Arnie. He’s crying—shit, he was already crying. But not like this. Steve’s never heard him cry like this. He sounds like he’s dying, tiny hands clawing at Steve’s shirt, curled up so tight against him, it’s like he’s trying to worm his way under Steve’s skin. Steve’s arms cinch around him even tighter, breath coming out in this shocked puff as he gawks at Hargrove. 

Hargrove’s frozen, fist still buried in the wall. Then, slowly, he starts to move. He pulls his arm back, plaster falling from his fist in chunks as he steps away. Then, while Steve’s heart is threatening to give out, Hargrove turns his head and looks up.

And Steve doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t to see Hargrove looking scared.

He’s pale, eyes wide, breath shaky as he stares down at Arnie for what feels like a solid minute. His hand drops down at his side, another little shower of drywall falling to the carpet. Then he stumbles backwards, eyes still locked on Arnie, bad hand twitching so fast it’s a blur. Arnie’s still howling in Steve’s ear, probably loud enough to cause permanent damage, but Steve can’t take his eyes off Hargrove. All he can do is watch as he turns and stumbles out of the apartment, slamming the door behind him. 

Half a minute later, Steve hears the Camaro start up again. It peels out while Steve stands there, shell-shocked, Arnie sobbing into his chest. He only snaps out of it when the sound of Hargrove driving like a bat out of hell completely disappears. And he realizes he’s basically been in a coma, just ignoring his kid as he loses his mind crying—Christ, what the hell is wrong with him?

Curling around Arnie, Steve squeezes him as close as he can without cutting off the kid’s air supply, stroking his white-blond curls while he mumbles, “Hey, hey… Shhh. ’S okay. It’s okay, bud.” He starts rocking back and forth—God, he hopes Arnie can’t feel how hard his heart’s hammering. “It’s gonna be fine, I promise. You’re okay. It’s okay.” 

He kinda wonders… is it always like this? Like—when you’ve got a kid, is it always just.. bullshitting? Arnie doesn’t even understand half of what Steve’s saying right now, but Steve still feels like he’s lying to him. Telling him what he wants to hear, faking like he actually believes it. He’s not sure what else to do, though, so he keeps it up, petting Arnie’s head and rocking him as he mumbles in his ear. And the weird part is, it kinda starts working on Steve. Maybe it’s ‘cause he knows his kid’s okay, and that whole shit-show’s over, but either way, when Arnie stops crying, nuzzling into Steve’s collarbone with a sad hiccup, Steve… 

Steve feels better, too. 

And eventually, even though it feels like it’ll never happen, Arnie falls asleep. Steve keeps holding him for a while, still rocking back and forth even though the kid’s certifiably knocked out. Maybe Steve’s just checking to make sure he really did calm down, and that he’s gonna sleep okay and not have any nightmares. (Jesus, do babies even have nightmares? Ugh, cripes. Steve feels like he’s about to find out.) But Steve’s, uh… He’s not sure he’s ready to let him go yet.

He does get there after a while, though, so he walks slowly down the hall and into his bedroom, setting Arnie down in his crib like one wrong move’ll set him off again. Then he stays there, staring down at the kid for another ten minutes while he sleeps, just to be safe. 

After that, he walks back into the living room and picks up the phone. 

He dials Max’s number. It rings four times before the answering machine gets it. Steve waits to see if Max is gonna pick up, or maybe her mom, but neither of ‘em do. He doesn’t try to leave a message, he just slams the phone down on the receiver and dials her again. And then again. And again. Steve’s not sure if he’s made it to the double digits by the time she finally picks up. She doesn’t even say anything at first—all Steve hears is a click, and some quiet crackling in the background—and Steve wonders if she thinks it’s Hargrove, calling so he can scream at her some more. Guess Steve oughta clear things up. 

“Max?”

He hears this huge, shuddery gasp on the other end of the line, and Max’s voice is raspy when she whispers, “H-Hey, Steve.”

Steve tries to work out what he’s gonna say, but his mind’s a blank. In the end, all he can think to ask is, “What happened?” 

“I don’t know, we just…” Max sniffs. “We were at the pool, everything was fine, but then he…” She lets out a shivery breath, muttering, “I never should’ve let him take me there.”

After she says that, this heavy feeling settles in the pit of Steve’s gut. “The pool?” 

“Y-Yeah.” There’s another muffled sniff as she wipes her nose. “He wanted to go. He seemed… fine, but when we walked by the sauna, he…” She pauses, and Steve bites his tongue as he waits for her to go on. “He thinks it’s my fault. That whole… stupid plan.” Max swallows, and the next part comes out in a rush. “I didn’t even try to stop it. A-And the worst part is…” She inhales all shaky and stuttering, like she’s about to start crying. “I think he’s right.” 

“No, c’mon. That’s…” Steve frowns, jaw tensing as he stares down at the carpet. He doesn’t know the details of that whole fiasco—he was probably a few thousand feet under Starcourt by that point—but from the gist of it, sounds like it wasn’t pretty. “Look. Even if you did try to shut it down…” Maybe she had a window to call it off, maybe not. But either way. “Wouldn’t have made a difference, right?”

Steve saw the thing that killed Hargrove. He saw what happened to the other people who got flayed, how they melted into goop the second Hopper closed that gate. And even if Hargrove seemed a little more solid than the rest, he was still one of them. Even if Max had managed to snap him out of it a little sooner, his body would’ve been too screwed up to fix.  

“I know, but…” There she goes. She breaks down, crying softly into the phone, and Steve’s heart squeezes hard enough to make his ribs ache. “If I’d tried, maybe he would’ve known that I…” She can’t force herself to say it, so she winds up trailing off with a hiccup.

Steve doesn’t make a sound, something in the back of his head screaming at him to shut up. 

“He would’ve known that…” Max chokes back a sob, taking a second to breathe before she spits it out, the words so tiny, Steve can barely hear them. “Th-That I loved him. Before he died.”

Holy shit. 

It hits Steve like a freight train, and Christ. Steve’s not really a crier, man. He’s never teared up in his life—at least, not since he was three. And it’s not ‘cause of some macho bullshit, it’s just not really in his nature, y’know? For fuck’s sake, he didn’t even cry when they cut Arnie out of him! But Max is, uh… She’s kinda pushing it right now, and it takes Steve a minute to work around the frog in his throat and speak up. 

“Well…” When he starts to talk, Max reigns in her crying, and Steve freezes. He has this feeling like he’s in a room full of people, all eyes on him, and all he can think is—Okay, Harrington. Whatever you do, DON’T screw this up. So he takes a deep breath and just… tries. “I know he’s a jackass, and he probably would’ve completely killed the vibe if you ever told him out loud, but…” Swallowing, Steve gives this weak little shrug. “I, uh…” He stops, picking at the back of his neck as he prays for the best, hoping he’s not giving her the shittiest advice known to man. “I feel like it’d be good for him to hear it.” 

“It’s just…” There are a few more rustling sounds, probably from Max scrubbing at her face. “It’s just hard. It’s so hard to want to… tell him that and mean it. Because—he’s gotten better. Like… a lot better, but…”  Her voice is all small and weak again as she mumbles through her sniffles. “I’m so scared he’s gonna go right back to the way he used to be. And tonight…” Steve hears her swallow. “… That’s exactly where he was headed.”

Steve winces. Yeah, he… He can kinda see it. Max hit the nail on the head, ‘cause Steve’s been feeling like that, too. Through that whole encounter with Hargrove, right up until he put a hole through Steve’s wall, and then… 

Huh. 

Maybe it’s Hargrove. Like, even talking about him’s enough to do it to Steve. Or maybe it’s Max. Maybe they both bring it out in him. But he doesn’t stop to think about it first. He just starts talking. 

“For what it’s worth, when he got back here, I…” Steve fumbles the last few words, almost stuttering. He stops to clear his throat—guess this shit’s still getting to him—and tries to push past it. “Okay, he freaked out. Lost his shit. I mean, that’s a given. But when it was over…” That face Hargrove made when he pulled his arm out of the wall, the way he’d looked up at Steve. It flashes into Steve’s head, and he has to screw his eyes shut and take a second to come down. “… I don’t think I’ve ever seen him that messed up about something. Like, he actually felt bad. I think he knows… he screwed up.” As soon as he says it, Steve groans, because seriously? Is this supposed to convince her or something? “Jesus Christ, this is a shitty argument. I mean, talk about a low bar. But honest to God, he—” Steve rakes his fingers through his hair, still kinda breathless when he says it, ‘cause part of him can’t believe he watched it happen. “It was like he didn’t know what to do with himself. He just… got all quiet and ran out the door.” 

No more breaking shit, no more screaming, no hitting the bottle. And Steve feels like that’s a big deal, but maybe he’s reading into it too much. Maybe he’s too used to Hargrove’s particular brand of crazy. For all he knows, Max is about to tell him that Hargrove bailing like a little kid is nothing special.

“Whoa.” Or not.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Yeah.” 

Max isn’t crying anymore. She’s quiet. In fact, the only reason Steve knows she didn’t hang up is because there’s no dial tone. “Well.” She sniffs one last time before admitting, “He said it like a dick, but… I guess he had a point.” There’s this small, frustrated sigh before she whispers, “I’ve felt like I let him down for years. He was just telling me what I already knew.”

“Hey, could be worse.” Steve taps his foot, chewing on the inside of his cheek before he blurts, “At least you didn’t dent his fender.” That’s more than Steve can say.

Max does this watery chuckle, and Steve feels himself smile. “Shut up.”

“You, uh…” Now comes the hard part. “You gonna be okay if he comes by your place? You want me to—”

“I’ll be fine.” Max cuts him off. “I’ll call if I have to, but…” She pauses to think before she decides, “I don’t think he’s gonna come home.”

The chokehold around Steve’s heart turns into more of a stabbing feeling, and Steve flinches, not sure why that hit him as hard as it did. But if Max is saying what Steve thinks she is—if she means Hargrove’s gonna run away for good this time—that’s fucked up. It’s fucked up, okay? It’s sad. Steve can admit it. The guy’s been through so much crap, shithead or not, and things were finally turning around for him before tonight. Steve’s allowed to be bummed out about that, even if he’s kinda… floored by how much it gets to him. “Alright.” 

“… Thanks, Steve.” Max doesn’t really give him a goodbye. Just says that under her breath and hangs up.

Steve stands there for a while, phone held up to his ear, listening to the dial tone ’til it clicks off and starts beeping. Then he hangs up, shuffling back down the hall and into his room. He collapses on the bed, landing facedown on the comforter, only bothering to flip onto his back when he feels like he's about to suffocate. 

Arnie’s snoring away in his crib. Steve could almost pretend the rest of the night never happened if he lies there and watches him. He does his best to take a leaf out of the kid’s book, zoning out as he tries to stop thinking and turn his brain off until morning. He forces himself to breathe slow, in and out, closing his eyes as he spreads his arms and legs across the bed. His body’s a lead weight, and his heart’s not going a mile a minute for the first time in an hour—he’s exhausted. So why the hell is he still awake? 

Jesus. Maybe he doesn’t know how to sleep on his own anymore.

Man, that’s a load of crap. Steve’s been on his own for most of his life. The only time he can remember having somebody else in his bed was after he slept with a girl, and that was just for one night. Even when he was with Nancy, she didn’t stay over much. Not ‘cause her folks didn’t buy her excuses or anything—of course they did, she was a good girl—but she’d always be too worried about getting enough sleep, or having to rework her whole schedule around spending the night at Steve’s. God forbid she was five minutes late for first period. 

On the nights he had her over, Steve slept okay. Sometimes he’d wake up in the middle of the night, ‘cause he wasn’t expecting to have to navigate around an extra set of legs, but it was fine. He would’ve liked to have her over every night, honestly, but she never went for it. 

So… Yeah. There were exceptions, but ninety percent of the time, Steve was in a bed by himself. In fact, Steve almost doesn’t buy it. He’s been used to sleeping on his own for basically his entire life, but all of a sudden he’s a freakin’ insomniac without somebody snoring in his ear? How the hell is he gonna do a 180 like that in less than a year? And how the hell is it because of a guy like Hargrove—because of a guy, period? 

God. Maybe Hargrove really is gonna skip town. Maybe this was it for him. And if it was, if tonight was the last straw, and he and Max are through… There’s nothing left tying him to Hawkins. 

Steve really doesn’t want to know why thinking that knocks the wind out of him. 

He sits up, feeling like his head’s a giant snow globe, with his brains sloshing around inside. Lifting his knees, he leans forward, grinding the heels of his palms against his eyes. He’s gotta stop thinking about this shit. But he can’t. The more he tries, the more his mind sticks it under a spotlight. Picking apart all the crap he’s been thinking about, or telling himself, for the last few months. That screwing around with Hargrove doesn’t mean anything. It isn’t like that, it’s not that deep, it’s just some kind of physical reaction. He only picks up on the bastard’s eyelashes, or his lips, or his ass because they remind him of being with a girl. Of being normal. The way he tells himself he only gives into it because he's brainwashed, or losing his mind, or screwed up permanently after Arnie.

Whatever works. Whatever seems like it works. 

But none of that covers the other shit. The shit he’s dealing with tonight. The way Steve’s scared, tonight, right now, that he’s never gonna see Hargrove again. Scared he’s never gonna talk to him again, or watch him almost spin out trying to do donuts in the empty high school parking lot, or hear him laugh without sounding like a psycho, or cracking another real, honest-to-God smile. 

Steve pulls his hands away from his eyes and drags them down the tops of his legs, staring at the light from the street bleeding in between the blinds. His eyes hurt. His head hurts. And he’s starting to think he might never sleep again. 

Then the front door creaks open. 

Steve whips his head around to look at the clock, even though he’s not sure why. Could’ve guessed it’s past one in the morning. He’s scrambling off the bed before he knows it, stumbling out of his room and rounding the corner at the end of the hall in time to watch Hargrove drag himself, inch by inch, across the living room. 

Jesus Christ, does he look like shit.

Actually? That’s putting it lightly. The guy looks like a corpse, worse than he did after having a goddamn heart attack. There are these dark, puffy bags under his eyes, his hair’s a rat’s nest, and the way he’s walking, Steve wouldn’t be surprised if his legs gave out in a second. His bad hand’s still shaking at his side, and this nervy feeling starts prickling at Steve’s insides, squirming up from the pit of his stomach as he takes a couple slow steps towards Hargrove. He tries to brace himself for… God. Anything, he guesses. Any of the crazy shit Hargrove’s been known to do after he loses his temper. But right when Steve thinks he’s starting to get a feel for the guy, right when he’s going through all the options on overdrive in his head, Hargrove throws him a curveball. 

He starts to walk right past Steve, like he doesn’t even exist.

And Steve? Well, he sees red. “Hey.” 

There’s no time for Hargrove to answer. The split second he starts to turn, as soon as he gives Steve an opening, Steve winds back and smashes his fist into the douchebag’s teeth. 

Hargrove’s head snaps back with a yelp. He stumbles into the coffee table, hands jumping up to cover his mouth as he spits, “What the fuck is your problem!?”

“Are you kidding me?” That comes out way louder than Steve meant for it to, especially with Arnie crashed out in the other room, but Steve’s too far gone to pull it back now. “You took a chunk out of my living room and probably screwed my kid up for the rest of his life! What the hell do you think?” 

Hargrove’s face goes dark, and the glare he gives Steve is enough to send another jolt through his stomach. Steve’s guessing he hit some kind of sore spot, but he so does not give a shit. Hargrove moves in the blink of an eye, no tells to tip Steve off ’til it’s too late. He grabs a couple fistfuls of Steve’s shirt, spinning him around and smashing him into the wall so hard that the breath’s knocked out of him, pain spiking through his shoulder blades like an electric shock. 

“You think I won’t do it, Harrington? Huh?” Hargrove yanks him forward, only to ram Steve against the wall a second time as he hisses, “Guess again.” 

Hargrove probably thinks he’s got Steve on the ropes, but there’s one thing the son of a bitch didn’t count on. ’Cause Steve? Yeah, he’s never been this pissed off in his fucking life. Hargrove scared the shit out of his kid, scared the shit out of Max, took a chunk out of his wall, slammed back into Steve’s apartment like he owns the place, and then he’s got the balls to give Steve the cold shoulder? Nah—he doesn’t fucking think so.

Steve leans his head back as far as he can, right until the back of his skull hits the wall, then he cracks his forehead straight into Hargrove’s nose. 

Hargrove lets out a noise that’s halfway between a choke and a scream, and Steve’s vision goes spotty, tailbone smashing against the floor when Hargrove drops him. Groaning, Steve clutches his head with both hands, but even though the floor’s turned into a fucking tilt-a-whirl, he doesn’t pass out. With all the times he got dropped as a kid, plus the times he’s had his head smashed against a concrete floor without getting anything worse than a concussion… Steve’s, uh—he’s starting to think he’s got a thick skull. And the second the world stops looking like it’s inside a blender, Steve wobbles to his feet, almost falling flat on his ass a couple times before he manages to stay standing. He squints at Hargrove as the guy pulls his hands away from his nose. It’s already swollen, blood gushing from both nostrils—it’s enough to give Barnes a run for his money. 

But that’s too bad, ‘cause Steve’s not done.

He winds back for another punch, but it’s sloppy. Hargrove’s hand flies up to catch his fist, fingers closing around it as Steve fights to pull it free. Even with his head pounding too loud to hear himself think, Steve knows he can’t go toe-to-toe with Hargrove when it comes to brute strength, so he switches tactics, taking a swing with his other arm. Hargrove recoils, head jerking to the side as his hand springs up to block Steve’s second punch. Now he’s got both hands closed around Steve’s fists, and no matter how hard Steve grinds his knuckles into Hargrove’s palms, the guy doesn’t budge. Steve pushes with everything he’s got, Hargrove fighting tooth and nail against him, switching between trying to get past Hargrove’s block and trying to yank his hands free. This goes on until they’re both panting, staring each other down—when Steve can get his eyes to focus, anyway—with their teeth bared, arms starting to shake from the strain.

In the end, Steve’s not sure who makes the first move. 

Because one second, Steve’s using everything he’s got left just to shove Hargrove back another inch, and the next, Hargrove’s all over him. Or maybe Steve’s all over Hargrove, or maybe they both snapped at the same exact time. Everything hit the boiling point—too much pressure, too much stupid shit, all of it piling on until they had to try to kill each other, and then… 

Do the opposite. 

Steve’s got his fingers jammed through Hargrove’s curls, cupping the back of his neck, sucking on his blood-soaked mouth in a way that tells him he’s one hundred percent lost it, because the coppery taste doesn’t even make him gag. Hargrove’s arms cinch around his waist, pulling him so close, Steve’s body might wind up leaving an imprint. Steve’s ears are ringing, and his head’s still throbbing so hard it’s got its own heartbeat, and he doesn’t give two shits, letting Hargrove paw at his thigh, looping an arm under his knee as he coaches Steve to wrap a leg around him.

Steve breaks away, barely putting any space between him and Hargrove, like he’s afraid to move too far, sucking in a quick breath before he folds his mouth around Hargrove’s one more time, pulling and sucking and dragging his teeth against the guy’s busted bottom lip. Hargrove jerks his head away, and Steve lets out this noise, and it catches him off guard—it’s this exhale, almost a sigh, like he’s disappointed. But then Hargrove’s planting kisses across his cheek, along his jaw, down the side of his neck before stopping to work on a hickey below Steve’s collarbone. Steve leans his head to one side automatically, fighting to keep his breath steady as he inhales, only to turn into a statue when a sound rings out from the bedroom. 

Arnie’s crying.

Honestly, Steve’s kinda shocked he didn’t wake up sooner. It’s, uh… kinda awkward, trying to stop in the middle of hashing it out, but Steve stumbles back anyway, landing on his feet weird since one of his legs is half asleep. He winces when the kid lets out another whine, craning his head to look over his shoulder. Christ, this feels gross. Going to check on your kid with a raging semi’s all kinds of messed up, but Steve can’t exactly leave him. At least Arnie’s not gonna be able to tell, right? Sighing, Steve turns back to Hargrove, and God.

He looks… Fuck, Steve doesn’t know. Small. And yeah, Steve might have half an inch on the guy, but if there’s one thing Hargrove isn’t, it’s small. Tonight, though? Right now? Steve’s never seen him look punier. There’s a look on his face that Steve doesn’t recognize. Some kind of expression Steve would’ve never believed Hargrove could make. Nervous, maybe. Or not sure of himself, for once in his life. 

Steve swallows. Then, after Arnie really kicks it into high gear, he waves for Hargrove to follow him. “C’mon man.” Still. Steve’s thinking he should put it in terms the guy’ll understand. “Don’t be a pussy.” 

Steve turns around, and he can’t even lie to himself. It feels good when he hears the sound of Hargrove’s boots on the carpet behind him. He leads the way back to his room, and Hargrove stops a couple feet from the crib. When Steve reaches down to lift Arnie out, part of him’s tense, wondering if Arnie’s gonna take one look at Hargrove and start crying twice as hard. But even if the guy deserves it after what he put the kid through, Steve…

Well, he doesn’t want to see that happen. 

Must be his lucky night, though. Arnie calms down as soon as Steve’s got a hold on him, wiggling into the crook of Steve’s arm as he pats his shoulder. Then he hits Steve with one last swerve. The kid turns his head to peek at Hargrove, hiccuping, then reaches out for him. 

It takes Steve back to that first night, right after he came home from the hospital. The way Hargrove had yanked Arnie out of Steve’s arms and almost given him a heart attack. Steve never would’ve thought he’d wind up trusting Hargrove with his kid. But in this stupid, batshit way that makes zero sense, Steve trusts him more tonight—as in, after that stunt he pulled with the drywall—than he did back then. 

And he doesn’t have to make a move. Hargrove steps over all on his own, picking Arnie up slower than Steve’s ever seen him do it. Handles the kid like he’s fine china, even though he’s twice as sturdy as he was three months ago. Steve stands there for a minute, watching the funny look on Hargrove’s face as he stares down at the kid, rubbernecking like a moron. Hell—more like hypnotized. Then Steve steps backwards, holding his arms out on either side like a scarecrow before falling onto the bed. He squints at the ceiling for a minute, then cranes his head forward, chin squishing into his collarbone while he stares at Hargrove.

Takes a while, but Hargrove finally feels Steve’s eyes on him and looks up. “What?”

Steve should probably tell him to put the kid down. Go clean the blood off his face. But he doesn’t. 

“Well?” Steve jerks his head to the left a couple times, eyes darting towards the open half of the bed before he looks at Hargrove again. “You comin’?” 

Hargrove ducks his chin, but it doesn’t do much to hide the stupid, shit-eating grin on his face. “Jesus.” He shakes his head, then turns and sits on the edge of the bed. He scoots up towards the headboard, slowly easing down onto his back next to Steve, keeping Arnie propped against his chest the entire time. “Neeeeedy.” 

“Oh, so we’re just—” Steve wrinkles his nose, flapping his hand at Arnie like Hargrove climbed into bed with a giant cockroach. “We’re just letting anybody in here, huh?” 

“You know, Harrington,” sighs Hargrove, turning to look Steve in the eye. “You’re a lot better looking with your mouth closed.” 

“Good one.” Steve’s gonna ignore the way the corners of his mouth keep twitching. He flips over, reaching out to turn the lamp off and giving Hargrove a half-assed kick in the shin. “Alright, can it. I gotta work tomorrow.” 

Notes:

GREAT GOOGLY MOOGLY. 😰 Could you guys tell this was chapter was The Big One? The emotional climax of the fic? (Not climax-climax, that's still coming. Promise! 😭) I know I’ve mentioned that there’s a lot of stuff I was excited to get to while writing, but this chapter contained most of it. Several elements I've wanted to include since very early into this fic’s run, one of which is thanks to your lovely comments, are finally reaching fruition!

Firstly, I may have mentioned it before, but I owe the messiness and (I hope!) believability of Billy’s character arc—that is to say, him backsliding and struggling every step of the way—to one tumblr post in particular that lamented how straightforwardly some have portrayed his redemption. While his growth was always meant to be a huge focus, I’m grateful to that user in particular for motivating me to give it my very best shot. I truly hope I've managed to portray him, and his clumsy path towards becoming a better person, well!

Second, the “My God, what have I done?” wall punch moment was inspired by my friend who has helped flesh out a lot of this universe. While throwing around ideas, I’d initially imagined said moment to be the scene where Arnie chokes on Billy's lighter, but I wanted a situation where Billy’s temper would lead to the inciting incident, and he’d frighten Arnie in a more direct way.

Lastly, the intense makeout scene is thanks to several of you guys commenting about the good ‘ole interplay of sex and violence. I’m embarrassed to admit I hadn’t thought about integrating it in a more obvious way until ya’ll brought it up, but I’m so happy you did! I feel like it fits these messy, messy idiots so well and winds up being the perfect resolution for the two of them after reaching their breaking point.

We’re getting pretty close to the end! I know some of you don’t want me to say that, but I’ve got plenty planned for afterwards, so please don’t worry. 😅 I honestly never expected this fic to grow to be this long, nor for it to get very much engagement, so I’m beyond grateful to all of you who interact with this fic, whether you’re a silent reader or you comment/kudos/leave fun little notes in your bookmarks. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter—I’m admittedly a little nervous it’ll fall flat because I’ve built it up so much in my head. But regardless, I’d love to hear your thoughts!

As always, thank you so much for reading. 💖

Chapter 26: The Talk

Steve should’ve made Max bribe him.

No, seriously. How the hell is he supposed to explain why he’d ever set foot in a goddamn arcade? Not like he can give anybody the real reason. Oh, yeah, he’s just here chaperoning his “roommate” while he goes on another play-date with his step-sister. Just gotta… make sure he doesn’t have another freak out and chuck a whole machine through the window. And sure, Steve feels like the chances of that happening are pretty low—even though he’s not sure why he’s so confident about it—but hey. Hargrove hasn’t gone nuclear with Max on Steve’s watch in a long time, so why mess with success? 

Besides, he’s been in the middle of the Hargrove-Mayfield shit-show for way too long now. Feels kinda nice to see them standing next to each other without it turning into a cage fight. Takes a weight off Steve’s shoulders. 

He’s got Arnie on top of one of the tables, still strapped into his carrier—not that he notices. He’s too busy gawking at all the bright lights and sounds, beaming every time somebody racks up a bunch of points at one of the pinball machines. Steve grimaces, scooting him around so he’s looking out the window instead. Probably not good for him to watch this junk for too long, right? He’s only got so much brainpower, and Steve doesn’t want to fill it up with, like… nerd shit and pizza grease. 

Anyway, Steve’s stuck here for now, and if he just so happens to hear whatever private conversation Hargrove gets into with Max? Well, he’s gonna file that under collateral damage and say it’s on Hargrove for needing a babysitter.

Speaking of Hargrove, the guy’s leaning on one of the games next to Max, not even bothering to play on his own anymore. “So this has been your life’s work the last couple of years?” 

Max scoffs. “Oh, like I’m gonna take lip from the guy who can’t even break a thousand on DIG DUG.” 

“Some great priorities there, Maxine. Now, uh—counterpoint.” Hargrove times it perfectly, waiting ’til Max is on the “high score” screen before he shoves her out of the way. Then he hunches over the buttons, crowding her out as he backspaces through MADMAX so he can change it into… SHTBRD.

“Billy!” Max lunges for him one more time, trying to wrestle that weird gear shift thing—like hell does Steve know what it’s called—away from Hargrove. But by the time she does, the dickhead’s already hit save.

“Y’know, if you went outside a little more often, got some sun…” Stepping back with a shrug, Hargrove tells her, “You might not still be a midget, and that wouldn’t have happened.”

Max stares at the word SHTBRD for a second, then throws her head back with a groan. Spinning around, she stomps over to the other side of the aisle and grumbles, “Guess that’s payback.”

This look flashes across Hargrove’s face—this little bit of confusion slipping out before he can cover it up. And Steve’s been trying not to turn his head, so it isn’t too obvious he’s listening, but now that they’ve got their backs to him, all bets are off. He flips around in his seat, slinging an arm over the back and watching as Hargrove walks over to stand behind Max.

“Payback for what, exactly?” Hargrove leans forward, bracing one hand against the flat part of the machine before Max swats it away. “This your bad karma we’re talking about? Because, let me tell you, that is an expansive list. You’re gonna need to be more specific.” 

“For…” Her voice stays casual, but Max’s shoulders tense up, and she shrinks away from Hargrove just slightly. “The sauna. All of that…” She shrugs, still trying to play it off like it’s no big deal even though she can’t keep this sad tone out of her voice. “… bullshit.” 

Hargrove, on the other hand, isn’t showing any cracks. “Hm.”

“I never should’ve done that to someone I—” Oh, shit. Steve chokes on his spit when he hears that, feeling this jolt of panic when he thinks Max might actually, like… say it. The “L” word. But she winds up bailing from it, and Steve… Okay, he can’t really blame her. Took Steve ages to get to that point with Nance, and she never even returned the favor. Baby steps, right? Besides, Hargrove’s smarter than he looks. Steve’s thinking he’ll get the message just the same. “Someone I care about.” 

“Boy.” Hargrove lets out a whistle, slinging an arm over the top part of the game as he ducks his head towards Max’s eye level. “Maxine, you are pushing it.” 

Max looks up at him, body language still kinda stiff, but Hargrove’s relaxed. There’s no meltdown coming, Hargrove’s nowhere near blowing his top—and yeah, Steve kinda hates how positive he is. “What the hell are you talking about?” 

“I know we’re not working with honor roll material up here—” Reaching out, Hargrove taps Max’s forehead before she growls and smacks his hand away. “But two years for that to sink in? Yikes.” He cranes his neck some more, trying to shove his face in front of Max’s so he can force her to look at him, but she keeps jerking from side to side so she can see the screen around his fat skull. “And we’re sure there wasn’t permanent brain damage when that thing tried to crucify you?” 

“Yes, get your—” Taking both hands off the controls, Max shoves Hargrove with everything she’s got. “Get your fingers out of my face, you prick.” 

“You’ve been staring at the screen too long. You’re seeing things.” Hargrove puts a hand two inches from Max’s nose, wagging his fingers back and forth. “Give it a second—your eyes’ll adjust.”

Max recoils, grabbing Hargrove by the wrist and yanking his arm out of her field of vision. “Holy shit, you suck.” 

“Oh, I beg to differ.” With this dead serious expression, Hargrove points to the game behind her—specifically, the one saying SHTBRD has the highest score.

Max moans, dropping her head forward so it thunks against the screen. Hargrove crosses his arms and smirks, eyes darting over to Steve, and all of a sudden, Steve decides he’s gonna focus real hard on the Double Dragon poster behind Hargrove’s head. 

Hargrove makes a sound like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out at first. Then he mutters, “Friday night…” 

Steve’s eyes snap back over to him. Just like that, he’s on edge, and it only takes him a couple seconds to figure out why. That was the night Hargrove went ballistic on Max. The night he lost his shit at Steve so bad there’s still a chunk of plaster over his couch that doesn’t match the rest of the paint. 

“Kinda makes you nostalgic, huh?”

Slowly lifting her head, Max scopes Hargrove out. Steve can see her reflection in the screen, staring up at the guy with this tense expression, almost like she’s scared to see where this is going, but… Man. Like there’s a part of her that’s still desperate to find out. 

“Just like old times.” There’s a shift in Hargrove. It’s barely even there, and Steve never would’ve picked up on it a few months ago, but he goes from chill to… Okay, not exactly pissed, but… less chill. But something’s telling Steve that Hargrove isn’t gonna snap today. He can’t really explain it, but it’s like the guy finally passed a milestone. Like—even though it’s crazy, and he’s got no proof, Steve just feels it in his gut. “You know, I would rather die than go back to living in that shack with Neil. You hear me, Maxine?”

Hargrove flattens his hand against the top of the game as he leans in again, and Christ, dude. Come on! Steve just vouched for the bastard! As soon as he hears the plastic creak under Hargrove’s palm, he’s on his feet, getting ready to jump in the second things go south.

“If he was still around, it’d be better if I’d stayed dead.” Hargrove sighs, backing out of Max’s personal space, and Steve unclenches the fist he didn’t even know he was making. “But there’s no way that piece of shit’s ever coming back.” Ducking his head, he lets out a breathy laugh, and for all the times the guy’s forced one of those stupid, fake chuckles—for once? Well, this wasn’t one of ‘em. “Guess I could start acting like it.” 

Max turns the rest of the way to face him, staring at the guy hard. The yellow blob she’s been scooting around the screen died a while ago, but Max doesn’t even notice. Her eyebrows are pinched together, fingers wrapped around the gearshift thing, probably trying to decode whatever message Hargrove’s sending her. Then, while Steve’s gawking at ‘em, Hargrove’s mouth curls up in this tiny, stupid smile. And after a few painful seconds where Steve’s still deciding if he should cut in, Max copies him. 

“Jesus.” Chin tilted down, she lets out a quiet laugh. “You could just say sorry, asshole.” 

“Now what would I be apologizing for, exactly?” asks Hargrove, since he thinks he’s a saint.

Max gives him a kick in the leg for that one, so Hargrove fakes like he didn’t feel a thing before he knocks her stack of quarters off the corner of the game. 

Babysitting duty gets kinda hands-off after that. Steve doesn’t have to break any brawls up, anyway, and by the time Sinclair swings by in his mom’s old Taurus, Max is still grinning. Hargrove shoots Sinclair the bird, and the kid gives him this sarcastic wave, like he spotted an old buddy while stuck in traffic, and suddenly Hargrove can’t be bothered to look in the kid’s general direction. 

Steve starts buckling Arnie into the middle seat of the Chevy, wrestling with the belt while he tries to figure out how to ask Hargrove about his plans. And it’s not like Steve wants to bug the guy, but he’d also like to know if he’s gonna have some free space on his couch for the first time in half a year.

“So, uh…” Straightening up, Steve grabs the top of the door and pretends he isn’t out of breath. “What’s the plan?”

“You wanna try that again?” Hargrove keeps his back to Steve, watching the Taurus’s bumper as it speeds away. “Not so… vague?” 

“Like…” With a groan, Steve adds, “Max, man. Are you gonna…” He stops, thinning his lips together as he stares somewhere past the top of Arnie’s curly head. Then he whips around to look at Hargrove again, fingers still tight around the door as he blurts, “Are you gonna move back in or not?” He puts a hand out, like he’s sure Hargrove’s gonna play dumb, but Steve won’t give him the chance. “I know your step-mom’s been hinting, and—”

“You trying to get rid of me, Harrington?” Hargrove snorts, glancing over his shoulder at Steve. “Oh, yeah. Why don’t I start boarding with the Mayfields! Maybe they’ll let me manage the calendar.” Rolling his eyes, the guy stomps around the back of the flatbed to the passenger side, yanking the door open as he deadpans, “I can start ticking off the days ’til their mensies sync up. Sounds like a hoot.”

Steve shakes his head, mouth twitching as he holds back a smile. Then he slides into the driver’s side so he can start ‘er up. “Hey, worth a shot.” 

 

*

 

Steve should’ve dropped Hargrove off first.

Would’ve added twenty minutes to his route, and Robin definitely would’ve been late, but Steve’s pretty sure she’d rather deal with a lecture from Keith than whatever the hell this is. 

In Steve’s defense, he tried to warn her! But before he could tell her that Hargrove’s already worn out the brake pads in the Camaro, and Steve’s on chauffeur duty today, she hung up on him. And Steve knows she didn’t get the memo when she bolts out of her house, yanks the passenger side open, and almost climbs onto Hargrove’s lap before she sees him there. 

“Buckley.” Hargrove’s mouth pops open in this scummy smile, and Steve takes a second to pinch the bridge of his nose. “If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve cleared off a seat.” Steve moves his hand just in time to watch Hargrove make a big deal out of spreading his legs for her. 

Robin’s got the same exact look she had when that dead spider fell out of the overhead light, doing this slow-motion wince at Hargrove before she glances at Steve. “Why is he here?” 

“I tried to tell you!” But hey, why would she listen to Steve? Nobody does that shit. “Camaro’s brakes are shot. Look, just—” He waves her in, shoving against the side of Hargrove’s ankle with his shoe ’til the jackass closes his legs. “Just get in the middle.” 

Robin’s smart—she’ll know the part where Steve’s gonna make this quick is implied.

After she tries one last time to melt Hargrove’s skull with her eyes, Robin hops up into the cabin and squeezes past him. Hargrove keeps a straight face, but his eyes follow her ass as she scoots by, staying glued to her jeans ’til she worms her way into the middle. The second her butt’s on the upholstery, Hargrove swings his left arm around her shoulders, and without missing a beat, Robin grabs him by the wrist and lifts his arm back up, chucking it into his lap while Hargrove starts busting a gut. 

“Hey!” Steve starts the Chevy and floors it, muttering under his breath, “If you two don’t play nice, somebody’s riding in the flatbed.”

With a long exhale, Robin settles in, trying as hard as she can not to let any part of her body touch Hargrove. And since the cabin’s already tight with two people, She’s basically flattening Steve against the door, so that’s… convenient. 

Things are quiet for a minute, long enough for Steve to let his guard down, but then he, like… senses it. That feeling right before lightning strikes. And as soon as he picks up on it, Hargrove opens the douchebag floodgates. 

“If you’re a dyke…” Well, shit. Robin’s whole body goes stiff the same second Steve’s hands tighten around the steering wheel. “And Harrington’s built like that since the kid…” Arms folded behind his head, Hargrove slouches, settling in against the upholstery before he asks, “That mean you’d make an exception for him?”

“Steve.” Steve’s eyes snap over to the rear-view mirror to watch Robin’s face turn green. “Pull over.” 

“What are you, crazy?” That’s a rhetorical question, they both know she’s toeing the line, but—c’mon! Hargrove’s a scumbag, sure, but he’s not gonna hurt her, or roll the window down and start yelling at the top of his lungs that Robin Buckley’s into girls. 

… Probably. 

He probably won’t do that shit, Steve’s not making any guarantees. Besides— “No, Robin, I’m not pulling over. Just ignore him.”

“So what’s the line?” Hargrove cocks an eyebrow at Robin, eyes drilling into the side of her head like that’s gonna force her to look at him. “Second base? Hey, you could always leave it at enjoying the view. Just use your thumb to kinda…” The asshole holds his arm out, one eye closed, sticking his thumb up like he’s using it to block out Steve’s dick. “Or maybe it’d be more of a…” Frowning, he thinks on it for a second, then switches fingers, holding up his pinkie instead.

“Oh, please. We both know you’d need the thumb, jackass. At least.” Shit. That just kinda… slipped out. But it doesn’t have to mean anything, right? Steve’s still good! That’s just locker room talk, man! That’s what you do, you bust each other’s balls, give each other shit… Besides, Hargrove’s seen him in the locker room, even if it’s been a couple years. And even if he, uh… definitely wouldn’t have been checking out what Steve was working with back then.

Uh. Steve hopes.

Either Hargrove didn’t have the same gut reaction Steve did, or he’s better at hiding it, ‘cause all he does is shoot Steve this lazy smirk as he sing-songs, “If you say so, Harrington.” He curls his pinkie in and goes back to having a staring contest with the side of Robin’s head. Robin blinks, gawking at Hargrove’s pinkie for another second before she bugs her eyes out at Steve.

Steve glances in the mirror again. “What?” 

Robin slowly turns back towards the road. “… Nothing.”

She slumps back into her seat, only to jolt when Steve makes a right turn onto Cornwallis, sitting up and doing a double-take out the rear windshield. 

“Steve? Did you hear the bit where my shift starts in five minutes?” She throws her arm out in front of his face to point, and Steve hunches down to see under it so they don’t slam into a telephone pole. “And unless you’re suffering from long-term memory loss, you should recall that Family Video is off of Church Street—” She twists her body around, staring out over the truck bed. “Which we are currently heading away from.” 

“Yeah, well—you wanna ditch him, or not?” Steve grits his teeth, turning on his signal as he rolls up to the Byers’ driveway. “Cool your jets, this’ll take five seconds.”

Hargrove lets out a ‘tssk’ noise as they glide down the asphalt up to the porch, and before Steve can put it in park, Hargrove swings the door wide open. 

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.” He throws Robin a wink, then hops out and tells Steve, “I’ll grab your rat.” 

“Wh—Arnold?” Robin whips around to look at Steve, whole face twisted up in disgust. “Tell me he doesn’t mean Arnold.” 

“It’s—” Wincing, Steve watches Robin scoot towards the window before she freezes, shoring herself up to sit on Hargrove’s side before sliding the rest of the way and buckling up with a shudder. “It’s like a pet name!” 

“Steve. I’m supposed to be at work in approximately…” Robin looks down at her watch, then covers her face with a whine. “Three minutes ago.”

“Oh, what? You’d rather carpool the rest of the way?” Yeah, that’s not the vibe Steve’s getting, so what the hell is she complaining about? Steve made the best call he could under the circumstances. Either Robin was gonna be a couple minutes late, on a Thursday, or she and Hargrove could tear each other to pieces ’til Steve’s head explodes. 

Robin decides she’s gonna check out her nails instead of answering him, so Steve looks past her, watching as the Byers’ front door swings open. Hargrove stomps back out, Arnie dangling in his carseat from one hand as he makes his way over to the Chevy. The kid’s loving it, cracking up—since that’s his favorite new trick, laughing—while Hargrove jerks him back and forth like a fastball. As he walks up to the truck, Hargrove holds Arnie out for Robin to take. Robin snatches the whole carseat out of his hand, setting Arnie down between her and Steve before she slams the door in Hargrove’s face. 

Throwing both hands up in the air, Hargrove does this jokey offended gasp, then cackles on the other side of the window. Robin keeps her back to him, huffing as she fights with Arnie’s carseat, but Steve winds up pushing her hands away when it gets obvious she’s got no clue how to work it. Steve takes over, strapping Arnie in before he starts the car again and throws it in reverse, backing up and watching Hargrove in the rear-view mirror as he climbs back onto the porch. 

Robin does a weird little shiver when they stop at the end of the driveway. “I feel like I’m having a premonition.” 

“Nah, you’re fine.” She could try saying normal words for once, but sure. Why the hell not, Steve’s used to it. “No partitions.” 

“Premonition, Steve.” 

“Tomato, tomah-to.” That’s basically what she said, right? Steve takes a hand off the wheel to snap his fingers a couple times, help her get to the point. “Just—what is it, and why are you having one?” 

“It’s like this… feeling.” Swallowing, Robin curls into herself, and Steve’s stomach does this funny squeeze. He slows down a little, just enough to glance at her, but she’s too busy staring at her knees to notice. “And I hope I’m wrong, but…” Groaning, she cranes her head back, then snaps, “Oh, who the hell am I kidding!” Suddenly, she breaks out in a grin, shaking her head as she rants, “I’m just… deluded, or projecting, or so desperate to have something in common with you that I let it completely cloud my judgement, to the point that I’m treating this insane theory as… anything other than that! Insane.”

Steve makes a noise in the back of his throat as he turns off Church into the parking lot, rolling up to the open space right by the door.  “Okay, you lost me.” Turning the engine off, Steve slings an arm over the top of the steering wheel as he faces her. “What, uh… What theory, exactly?” 

“Don’t get mad.” Robin’s lips are pinched together, like she’s trying to keep a secret and it’s killing her.

“Hey, I am… Officer Chill over here.” Steve shrugs. He’s cool! He’s relaxed. Whatever she’s gonna throw at him, he can handle it. “Shoot.” 

“It’s just… The way you were talking about your—” She wrinkles up her nose at the memory. “Your nether regions, and Billy’s unsolicited comments about…” Frowning, she hunches her shoulders and admits, “Okay. Everything. I thought…” It takes her a minute to get started, but once she makes it over that hump, she’s running her mouth, no problem. “I thought—just for a second! Trust me, this does not hold up under any scrutiny whatsoever, it was just a… momentary lapse in judgement! But I thought, uh…” Whatever that thought is, she can’t finish it the first time, so she clears her throat and gives it another shot. “Wouldn’t it be… funny if you and Billy had some sort of…” One hand clenched around her seatbelt, Robin finally looks him in the eye again, making a face like she’s begging him to laugh. “Romantic entanglement?” 

The inside of Steve’s chest starts collapsing and no. No, nonono—come ON, man! Why is this shit happening to him? As in, again!? He already swore Henderson to secrecy—oh, he is gonna kill that little freak if he squealed! 

Robin stares at him, and that’s when Steve figures out he’s been quiet for way too long. “… Steve?” 

“Oh—pssh. Yeah! That’s, uh…” Jesus—abort! Abort! Steve scrunches up his face, nodding and trying not to look like he just took a straight shot of vinegar. “That is… definitely something! Gonna, uh… Gonna book you a room in Pennhurst after that one.”

“What’s wrong?” Robin picks up on the weird vibes he’s giving off in a heartbeat. “Why are you making that face?” 

“Face? I’m not—” Steve swallows, waving a hand at her so she’ll give him some space. “I’m not making a face, man! It’s just—a guy? You’re talking about me, with another guy?” Steve chokes out a laugh. “Come on, that’s nuts! That’s… A-And Hargrove?” Okay, at least he doesn’t have to fake the next part. “Jesus, Robin. Way to pick ‘em.” 

“I didn’t—” Her eyebrows knit together, and Steve can tell her brain’s working overtime before the lightbulb goes off above her head. And Steve can see it hit her, her eyes getting all huge, hair practically standing on end and no, please, CHRIST. “Steve.”

“Listen, you’re already late, so… Might wanna…” Steve runs across the dashboard with his fingers. “… skedaddle.”

Robin’s head starts whipping around the cabin, same way it did in Starcourt when she finally worked out that Russian code, going from the wrinkles in the shirt Steve threw on this morning, to the pack of Marlboros sitting on the dash, to the blotchy red mark on his neck, taking it all in for a second before she whispers, “Steve.” 

“Whoa, okay! Hang on! Hang on a second. Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not like th—” Before he can pull any kind of excuse out of his ass, Robin winds back and pops him in the chest as hard as she can. Steve doesn’t have any time to counter it, plus he’s not gonna hit a girl, man! He’s not a criminal!! So she gets a good shot in, no problem, and damn it! Why does that hurt so much? Steve knows that whole area’s still pretty tender, but fuck. He doubles over, leaning against the door as he wheezes, “H-Holy shit.” 

Arnie absolutely loses it, giggling like crazy the second Robin’s fist connects, which is just the cherry on top. Kid learned to laugh like a week ago, and he’s already a fucking traitor! Steve slowly lifts his head, vision blurry as he squints up at Robin. 

She makes sure he’s looking before she squawks, “You and Billy?”

“Shit…” Steve drops his head with a grunt.

“No. No—Steve! You’re serious!?” He peeks at Robin again, watching as she grabs her cheeks and starts sputtering like a motorboat. “O-Oh my God. Oh my God. Steve!” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Arms wrapping around his chest, Steve grinds his forehead into the steering wheel. “Get it all out of your system.”

“This is insane! Have you two—” Robin starts to mime… something, but apparently she doesn’t have a gesture ready for the type of shit he and Hargrove get up to, so she gives up and drops her hands. “You’ve been safe, right?” When Steve doesn’t answer, she starts begging. “Please tell me you’ve been using protection. I mean, he could—”

“Look, whatever you’re gonna say, save it.” Sucking in a deep breath, Steve finally straightens up as Arnie’s giggles die down. “Pretty sure anything Hargrove could’ve given me died when he did.” 

“You’re pretty sure?” Her voice hits that high note, and Steve starts panicking. The parking lot’s empty, sure, but the sounds Robin’s making seem like they might carry for a mile or two. And out of the corner of his eye, Steve spots Keith wandering up to the front window. He flips the CLOSED sign to OPEN, pointing at it while he glares at them, but Robin doesn’t catch any of that. “You—the number one heartthrob of Hawkins High, serial ladykiller—are sleeping with another man. And not just any man, a man that’s been dead for the past two years, who also happens to be the biggest piece of shit to ever grace Indiana with his presence—”

“Jesus, will you keep your voice down?” Grinding his fingers against the window controls, Steve makes sure they’re all the way up as he tries to reason with Robin. “Just—the volume! Can you lower the volume?”

“You go through this huge, crazy, monumental change in your life, something nobody but me is really going to understand, and—” All of a sudden, Robin’s voice cracks, and the last few words come out sounding like she’s close to tears.  “—you didn’t think to tell me?”

The back of Steve’s throat starts burning. Alright, she wants to play the blame game? That how it is? Steve works his jaw, then blurts,  “Oh, like you would’ve ever told me about Tammy Thompson if you didn’t have a gallon of drugs in your system!” 

“Because, Steve!” Robin throws her arms up, hands thumping against the roof of the cabin as she snaps, “You were the quintessential popular jock asshole, and I had every reason to suspect you’d throw me straight to the metaphorical wolves!” Huffing, she crosses her arms and drops against her seat. “But unlike Steve Harrington circa Junior year, you know you can trust me!” Deflating a little, she stares down at the floorboards as her bottom lip twitches. “At least, I thought you did…”

Steve opens his mouth, then shuts it when he realizes… shit. He’s got nothing. After a while, he blows a puff of air through his nostrils, turning to look out the driver’s side window so he can think. 

“I guess…” With a weak shrug, he mumbles, “I guess I didn’t want to believe it.” It just felt so embarrassing, and weird. Of course he doesn’t want to be like… Y’know. That. Of course he wanted to think it was a fluke, or all because of some random, screwed-up situation he had nothing to do with. And that’s not even getting to the part where he’s starting to like Hargrove’s company on a regular basis. For fuck’s sake, Steve’d believe he’d graduate with a four point average before he ever thought he’d have a friendly conversation with the guy. “I mean, come on…” Steve shakes his head. “Do you think I would’ve picked Hargrove? Or—Jesus Christ.” Groaning, he rakes his fingers through his hair before letting his hand flop down against the upholstery, finally turning and shooting Robin this helpless look. “A guy? Ever?”

Robin’s quiet for a second, and Steve’s starting to wonder just how bad he blew it when she reaches out and puts her hand on top of his. “I guess this makes us even.” She pulls out this goofy smile, then gives his hand a couple condescending pats. “You know about Tammy, and I know about… Billy.”

“Ah, Christ.” Steve snatches his hand back so he can slap it over his face.

“And hey!” Robin scoots closer, awkwardly lying over the top of Arnie’s carrier so she can thump her head down on Steve’s shoulder. That burn in the back of Steve’s throat is still there, and now it’s spreading all the way to his chest, the muscles in his ribcage squeezing when Robin says, “He doesn’t sing like a muppet! He’s got that going for him.”

Damn it. Steve can’t hold back a snort. “Yeah, well—as far as you know.” 

“Mm.” Robin nods, thinking it over before she pitches an idea. “You know, I think you’re right. This warrants further investigation. We can call it Operation Oscar.” Dragging herself back onto her side, she looks down at Arnie. “What do you say, Arnold? Want to be our man on the inside?”

But right when Arnie starts giving her a piece of his mind, somebody’s knuckles rap on the passenger side window loud enough to make them both jump.

“Are you going over your final will and testament in there?” Honestly, it’s kind of a talent, how flat Keith can keep his voice when he yells. “No?” He yanks the door open, announcing, “Then I’m gonna need you to stop sucking face during store hours and clock in.” 

Robin lets out an ugh, moving to slide out of the truck as Keith steps back. When her boots hit the pavement, she pauses, grabbing the door and turning around to look at Steve. After a second, she nods a couple times, like she’s not sure what to say, kinda breathless when she settles on, “Good talk.” 

“I’ll, uh—” Craning around so he can see past Keith, Steve shouts after her, “I’ll pick you up at eight!” 

“I know!” Arms out at her side, Robin spins around again, walking backwards with a grin. “I trust you.”

Keith keeps his eyes trained on Robin, making sure she gets through the doors before he turns and frowns down at Arnie. 

His eyes dart up to Steve. “You had a kid?” 

“Uh.” At this point, Steve kinda figured everybody in Hawkins would’ve heard the cover story about him being a deadbeat dad. “Yeah?” 

“Hm.” Keith makes this noise like Arnie’s the third—maybe fourth—most interesting thing he’s seen today. Then he steps back and slams the door, tailing Robin inside.

Arnie’s giggling picks up again as he watches Keith stomp across the parking lot. Shaking his head, Steve slips an arm over the back of the seat as he turns around and starts to reverse. “Speaking of no taste.” 

Okay, fine—Steve might be able to let this one slide, but if Arnie winds up being a fan of Tammy Thompson’s singing? Well, they’re really gonna be in trouble. 

 

*

 

“I gotta say, man. Not your best idea.”

Steve’s not calling the chief crazy, but… hell, he doesn’t know. Seems like the guy’s finally cracked after being under house arrest for so long. And yeah, Steve’d get pretty sick of waiting God knows how long for the coast to be clear, but walking right out into the open with no idea where those Russian nutjobs might be hiding feels like he’s asking for trouble. 

Plus, Hopper’s been super vague since he called Steve out here—and had Hargrove tag along, so Steve’s, uh… He’s not following the chief’s logic. After he and Hargrove met him in the empty lot by the fairground, Hopper walked them out to this field near the foundation of what used to be his cabin. And Steve doesn’t really want to question the guy, but if the Russian kid comes barreling out of the tree-line to turn them into a human fireworks display, he won’t exactly be surprised. 

“It’s an idea, Harrington. Let’s leave it at that.” Taking his gun out of the holster, Hopper turns it over in his hands as he does a quick safety check. “El’s the only one who can really go toe-to-toe with that kid, and it’s gonna take all her attention. Which means it’ll be up to us to handle the general.” 

“Right.” Steve nods, then grimaces at Hargrove. “So, uh…” Lowering his voice, he asks, “What’s he doing here?”

“Training.” Jerking a thumb towards Hargrove, the chief orders, “Now give him your gun.”

Hargrove lights up instantly. Smirking wide enough to split his face in half, he holds his palm out like Steve’s handing out free booze. 

“What?!” Steve struggles to get his mouth to make words for a second, then snaps, “C’mon, man! I’m not gonna give him mine!” Why can’t Hopper put his weapon on the chopping block?

“Harrington.” All he says is Steve’s name, but the stink eye he follows it up with makes a damn good argument.

“Okay, God. Fine.” Pulling his gun out of the holster, Steve spins it across his fingers, then holds it out to Hargrove with a scowl. “You jam it, and your ass is grass.”

“Ooh, precious cargo.” Hargrove takes it, looking it over like it’s definitely not his first time before he grins up at Steve. “Relax, Harrington. I’ll take care of your baby.” 

Hopper taps his boot against the cardboard box by his feet.  “Do us a favor? Go set up some bottles.”

“Whuh—seriously?” The chief raises his eyebrows like he’s telling Steve to get a move on, and Steve heaves a sigh. “This is ridiculous.” Muttering under his breath, he hikes the box up against his chest and starts making his way through the long grass. “What am I, a joke? God damn it. Yeah, set up the bottles. Sure. Christ, why not?”

When he makes it to the fence, Steve takes his sweet time lining the bottles up on top, scooting them around once or twice before he throws his arms out at his sides. 

“There. Hap—” Steve yelps when Hargrove fires one off right next to him, jumping back with a, “SHIT!” He gives himself a pat down, making sure Hargrove didn’t hit him anywhere before he shouts, “HEY, ASSHOLE! You almost took my finger off!”

Hargrove can’t hear him. He’s too busy cackling, bent over and slapping his knee while Hopper glares down at him. 

“This what you were you trying to do? Huh?” Steve flicks a bottle over, yelling, “Yeah, nice one, Quick Draw. Didn’t even hit the freakin’ target.” 

“OKAY.” The chief shouts loud enough to drown Steve out. “Let’s try that again.” 

He moves to grab Hargrove by the shoulder, but Hargrove flinches and jerks back. Pausing, Hopper waits a second, then tries it again. He moves slow, doing everything short of telling Hargrove out loud that he’s about to touch him, carefully putting a hand on the guy’s shoulder and pulling him up straight. Hargrove’s done a total 180—you’d never buy that he was laughing a second ago—face blank as Hopper starts to pose him. 

“First off, fix your stance.” Keeping one hand on Hargrove’s shoulder, the chief steps behind him and taps the side of Hargrove’s calf with his boot. “Put your legs farther apart. You want to triangulate your posture.”

Steve’s not looking to get shot today—even though, with Hargrove’s aim, he probably doesn’t have to worry—so he books it away from the fence, stumbling back over to the chief as he puts Hargrove through his paces.

“And your grip. Here—watch me.” He bobs his head at Hargrove, who takes a second before following directions and looking at Hopper. “See how I’ve got my thumbs lined up? Almost on top of each other?” Hargrove waits, then does this tiny nod, and Hopper turns towards the bottles. “You’re never gonna have a perfect line of sight, but this way…” He squeezes the trigger, shattering one of the bottles with a bang. “You can get pretty close.”

Hargrove nods again, like he’s bored out of his mind waiting for the lecture to end. “Yeah, well…” He jerks his head to one side, cracking his neck. “Anybody can do it once, right?”

Hopper pushes his tongue around the inside of his mouth, and at first, Steve thinks Hargrove must’ve gotten on his nerves. But then he ducks his chin, and it hits Steve—the chief’s trying not to smile. Maybe he can’t believe Hargrove’s got the balls to talk to him like that, and he finally just… lost it. After pulling himself together, the chief gestures towards the bottles, and the message is clear: let’s see it, then.

Hargrove takes aim, squeezing the trigger hard. He shoots, misses, and starts to look pissed. “Shit.” He shoots again again, five or six times in a row, but none of ‘em hit. When he finishes that round, he’s definitely mad, bad hand twitching as he growls out a, “Damn it.”

It takes everything Steve’s got not to give Hargrove crap for this, but something tells him he doesn’t want to poke the bear. And even though he can’t believe he’s saying it, it kinda… slips out anyway. “Take it easy, man. It’s not that simple.” 

Steve had to train for weeks before he could hit a target, and just ‘cause Hargrove can shoot a decent three-pointer every now and then, it doesn’t mean he’s gonna pick this up any faster. 

“You’re breathing too hard.” Hargrove looks ready to bite the chief’s head off, but Hopper doesn’t even notice, explaining, “You’ve gotta calm down. Breathe normally, and then, right before you pull the trigger, you hold it.” He gives Hargrove a lazy wave. “Let’s see that stance again.” 

“For fuck’s sake.” Snarling in the back of his throat, Hargrove spreads his legs in a way that makes it obvious he feels like an idiot, and what’s Steve supposed to do, not be entertained? Besides, the guy oughta be used to it by now. Hargrove’s definitely gotten a few pat downs in his life. 

“Alright—now aim. Don’t shoot yet, just let me look at you.” Hargrove’s hands tense around the grip, but he listens, staying still as Hopper frowns and walks around to stand to his right. The chief reaches out, eyes darting between Hargrove and the gun as he carefully pokes at his trigger finger. “Scoot it back.”

Hargrove glances at the chief, looking positive Hopper must be fucking with him.

Slipping his pistol back in the holster, Hopper holds his hands up in front of Hargrove and points at his own index finger. “You want the trigger to be right here. Not the very end of your finger. Just past the third knuckle.” 

“I get it,” grumbles Hargrove, turning to spit over his shoulder. “You don’t have to tell me ten times, I’m not Harrington.” 

“Relax, dickhead.” Steve crosses his arms. “Not my fault you suck at this.”

Hargrove bristles, fingers tensing on the grip as he takes aim.  

“Freeze.” 

The chief steps behind Hargrove, waits a second, then sets a hand down on his arm. He inches down, double-checking Hargrove’s aim over his shoulder as he mumbles, “Keep breathing.” And Steve hadn’t noticed ’til Hopper said something, but it looks like Hargrove’s having a lot of trouble with that. His whole body went stiff when Hopper touched him, and he’s fighting like hell just to slow down his breathing, or relax his muscles. Right when Steve starts thinking he’s a lost cause, though—after a good half a minute of watching his brain stall out—Hargrove gets it together. His grip loosens up, his breathing slows down, and the chief makes this noise like he’s satisfied. 

“That’s it.” Hopper gives him one more second, then says, “Okay. Line it up.” Hargrove takes a slow, steady inhale, and Hopper reminds him, “Hold it.”

Hargrove listens to him, finger squeezing down on the trigger, and— 

The bottle next to the one Hopper shattered goes flying off the fence. It’s not a clean hit—honestly, Hargrove barely dinged it—but it’s enough to blow the top half of the bottle clean off, and Hargrove does a crap job of hiding how excited he gets. 

“That’s more like it.” He assumes the position and fires off the rest of the round, shooting down the length of the fence. Out of six shots, he hits two more bottles—so, hey! Not too shitty!  

“Harrington.” Hopper bends to pick up another cardboard box, shoving it into Steve’s arms before he’s got a chance to say no. 

“Jesus, dude.” Grimacing, Steve fixes his grip. “Is this the only reason you brought me?” 

“More or less.” Pushing Steve towards the fence, he adds, “And, uh—bit of advice? I’m not your dude.”

Dragging his feet, Steve makes his way to the other end of the field and starts setting up for the next round, keeping an eye out for broken glass, or another warning shot from Hargrove. Then he scrambles back over to the Blazer, watching as Hopper goes over the basics with Hargrove a few more times. He shows Hargrove how to reload, then watches as he lines himself up and starts shooting. Lather, rinse, repeat, ‘til they’re out of ammo. Once Hopper thinks he’s had enough, Hargrove’s close to making every other shot, so either the dipshit’s one fast learner, or Hopper’s just that good of a teacher. 

Grimacing, Steve checks himself for ticks before watching Hargrove fire a couple blanks into the sky before craning his head back with a howl. 

Steve’s just gonna double check with Hopper. “You sure you wanna arm this guy?”

Hopper pats him on the back. “Don’t get on his bad side, Harrington.”

Yanking the tailgate open, the chief fishes a cooler out of the back of the Blazer. He pulls it over to sit on the edge of the flatbed, flipping the lid and pulling out a beer. Then, after mulling it over for a second, he tosses it to Hargrove. “Think fast.” 

Hargrove’s arms fly up to catch it, but he doesn’t open it, staring at the chief like he’s sure this is some kinda trick as Hopper tosses a can over to Steve. Steve cracks it open and takes a swig, but Hargrove’s still gawking at Hopper with this look of pure confusion. And it’s funny, ‘cause Steve doesn’t see him get like that a lot. Hargrove always has some sort of poker face, and unless he’s pissed off, the mask doesn’t usually slip. But Hopper passing him that beer threw him for such a big loop, he forgets to hide what he’s thinking. Hell—it’s almost obvious.

After a while, Hargrove gripes, “You’d better not be trying to turn me into a pig.”

Hopper does a quiet ‘hm’. “Let’s see. Abiding by the law, protecting the innocent, keeping ne’er-do-wells out of little old ladies’ gardens?” With a snort, Hopper points out, “Doesn’t seem like your style.”

Steve’s not about to pretend he knows why, but Hargrove doesn’t seem to like that answer. He finally opens his beer, chugging it with a bitter expression. 

“And at least two counts of underage drinking in front of a police officer, well…” Clicking his tongue, Hopper decides, “That’s gonna be a bit of a roadblock.” He notices the glare Hargrove’s trying to melt the side of his head with and grumbles, “Jesus Christ, kid. It was a joke.” He pauses, taking a sip from his can before announcing, “I just thought you should know how to defend yourself, that’s all.”

Hargrove tenses up again. “Hey, I don’t need your—”

“Yeah, yeah. Spare me the debate, kid.” The look he gives Hargrove isn’t pissed off or annoyed—just intense—but it’s enough to shut Hargrove up. “It doesn’t take a genius to figure you out. Let me guess—your whole life, nobody’s really had your back. That sound about right?” 

Hargrove’s mouth twists up, nose wrinkling as he stares down the chief. 

“And I’d imagine it takes a long time to break free of that mindset. But things change.” Hopper walks over to Hargrove and puts a hand on his shoulder. And for the first time all day—shit, maybe ever—Hargrove doesn’t react. “Now you’ve got people who have your back, whether you like it or not.” He lets out a puff of air, like he couldn’t quite hold in a laugh. “So get used to it.” Giving Hargrove a quick jostle, Hopper turns to shove the cooler back into the trunk. Then he walks around to the driver’s side, drawing a circle in the air with one finger. “Alright, let’s pack it up.”

Hargrove hangs his head, and Steve must be losing it, ‘cause he swears the guy’s smiling as he follows the chief.

“Wait—hey! Dude!” Oh, he can not be for real. No way is Hargrove walking off with police equipment. “That’s my gun!”

Hargrove waves it over his head without bothering to turn around. “You snooze you lose, Harrington!”

Steve races after him, skirting around the dumbass and ball-tagging him so can wrestle his gun back while Hargrove’s busy clutching his nuts. “Annnnd I’ll take that.”

Hopper’s voice carries over the sound of the engine starting. “Today, if you don’t mind!”

Steve flings open the door as he scoots into the back seat, and you know what? He doesn’t regret a thing. Not even when Hargrove squeezes in next to him just so he can return the favor, jabbing Steve in the nads hard enough to make him see stars.

Notes:

Ya’ll, I am SO sorry. It’s been nearly a month since I updated, and I don’t think I’ve gone that long without a new chapter since starting this fic. 😱 I hope I didn’t worry any of you! Rest assured, the next few updates should be fairly quick. The remainder of the fic is written out in its entirety, and I just need to edit the chapters and send them off to my beta. Can you believe we’re this close to the finish line? I know I keep asking that, but it’s because I can’t believe it, either! 😳

I’ve taken some emotional damage this week thanks to one Monsieur Dacre Montgomery. The revelation that Billy won’t be in season five was upsetting enough, but to realize that this was orchestrated by Dacre himself was honestly devastating. 😞 I won’t belabor you with my personal hangups, but suffice it to say, Billy’s character and his relationship with Max hit extremely, extremely close to home and I haven’t been handling the fact that they’ll probably never get closure very well. But I suppose, along with my own weird brand of author appeal, giving Billy the ending he deserves is another reason this fic even exists. So I'm simply grateful he'll get that ending somewhere.

I truly hope this chapter is a decent one! My beta jokes that I have “fic dysphoria” and my chapters are never as messy as I’m convinced they are, but this one felt especially off. Like when you say a word a couple hundred times, ’til it no longer sounds like a word?🧍 So… the writing equivalent of that, maybe.

One last thing, I swear: as for the drabbles/one-shots I have planned for this universe, what method of publishing sounds best to you all? Each one-shot uploaded as a stand-alone fic added to a bigger collection, or one singular fic with each chapter being its own one-shot/drabble? Any input is highly appreciated! Again, I hope all of you liked this chapter, and I really hope you enjoy the conclusion of this story. Thanks so, so, so, SOOOOO!! much for reading and commenting. 😚 I am beyond privileged to have so many supportive and kind readers, kudos-ers, commenters, bookmarkers, etc. I love you all! 🥰💖💖💖💖

Chapter 27: Firestarter

Seems like this shit always happens whenever Steve starts to relax.

Things are normal for a while, everybody calms down, and then he sorta… forgets how crazy Hawkins can get. He’s not thinking about how there are monsters stalking around under their feet, or psycho Russians prowling the woods. All he’s focused on is, like… his life. His kid, his job, his… roommate, maybe? God—okay. Gonna put a pin in that one. Roommate’s not really the right vibe, but Steve’s not sure he’s ready for anything more accurate. 

Even a few years ago, when he was still in school, as soon as the world stopped being on fire, Steve’d be back to worrying about the game against Stockdale, or his college applications, or the fact that he hadn’t gotten to second base in months. Just felt more important, y’know? More in his face, anyway. So… yeah. Even though things have never really gotten back to normal—not permanently—Steve always falls for it.

This time isn’t any different. 

The guy who’s been trying to go Terminator on Hopper’s ass, and the kid who could light him on fire with a twitch of her head… They aren’t even on Steve’s radar. All he’s worried about is what to make for dinner when he climbs into the Chevy and sees a flash of metal just out of his field of vision. But part of him knows what’s happening way before he looks, whole body going stiff as his eyes crawl down to the floorboard on the passenger side.

It’s the Russian. 

He’s crammed down there like some sort of circus freak, shoved as far under the dashboard as he can get so Steve wouldn’t spot him on the way in, one arm angled weird to give him a clear shot at Steve’s head while he’s curled into a ball. At first, Steve’s brain whites out, but somewhere in the back of his head, there’s a voice telling him that he trained for this shit. They covered this scenario back in boot camp. Jesus, how could he forget? (Barnes got to roundhouse kick a pistol out of his hand, then spent the rest of the morning bragging about the bruises he left on Steve’s wrist.) 

Steve starts running through all the different moves he could make, brain going into overdrive as he flashes back to training, picturing all the ways you’re supposed to disarm a guy. Except that shit had Steve facing the perp head on, out in the open, not jammed under the glove compartment of his truck. And if Steve tries to knock the weapon out of his hand—if he fucks up, or he isn’t fast enough when he tries to wrestle that gun away from him—

That’s it, man. Lights out. 

Steve realizes he’s white-knuckling the steering wheel, a cold sweat breaking out along the back of his neck. There are pins and needles through his whole body, like he just lost a ton of blood, because Steve… can’t die. If his aim’s bad, if he’s off by half an inch, if he waits too long—Jesus Christ, who the hell is he kidding? He already has. But if Steve screws up, he’s dead. He’d be leaving Arnie on his own, without him, for the rest of his life. And something deep in Steve’s gut is telling him that if he tries to fight this psycho right now, he’s not gonna make it home.

What he needs is time. Another minute or two to come up with a plan, or get his head on straight—anything that’ll give him better odds. So when the general growls out an order, even though his accent’s so thick Steve can barely make it out, he doesn’t ask questions. He just listens.

“Drive.”

Steve takes half a second too long, and the old guy takes the safety off. That click hits Steve’s ear like a clap of thunder, waking him up enough to stick the key in the ignition and start the truck. He pulls out slowly, body on autopilot as he coasts along the parking lot. He can’t tell if he’s doing a decent job of keeping it together, or if he’s just in shock. Jesus, maybe he’s actually panicking so hard, he’s reached some weird kind of weird nirvana. Feels like he’s watching himself from a mile away as he rolls up to the street, and the Russian growls out a left before Steve can think to ask which way he’s supposed to turn.

It’s been a while since Steve’s been this scared. In a messed up way, guess he’s kinda gotten used to Hawkins’ bullshit. Sure, there were a few times where he flipped out—like, really flipped out. That first night he saw something from the Upside Down, or after they dropped halfway to China in that fucking elevator, plus most of the shit that wound up making Arnie. It all came pretty close to being more than Steve could handle. But somehow, he made it through, and none of that seems to stack up now. The situation he just walked into is a whole different beast, maybe ‘cause Steve’s actually got something to lose for once in his life.

So he lets the Russian take him across town, turning off Main and onto Cherry Oak, fingers clenching the steering wheel tight enough to make the leather creak. Once they’re past the city limits, the son of a bitch worms his way out of the undercarriage, pistol still trained on Steve as he slides his way up onto the passenger seat. He keeps the gun level with his waist, grinding the nozzle into Steve’s ribcage, too low for anyone to spot it through the windows. And all of a sudden, Steve pictures driving right off the shoulder. He could do it—twist the wheel at the last possible second and smash the passenger side of the Chevy into the nearest tree trunk. But he scraps that whole idea as soon as it comes to him. It’s way too big of a risk. The crazy part is, there’s no way Steve would’ve agreed with himself a year ago. Hell, he probably wouldn’t have thought twice before swerving off the road. But a year ago, he didn’t have Arnie. And Arnie’s waiting for him to come home. 

Plus he’s leasing the Chevy, and Christ, does Steve not want to be stuck making payments if he totals it. 

Without a word, the geezer lifts his other arm, pointing to the right up ahead, and Steve turns to look. They’re coming up on the old Brimborn place, and once they get close enough, Steve puts on his blinker and drives onto the lot. It’s just as dead as it was that night they fried those Upside Down weeds, and nobody’s around to see the old guy grab Steve by the shoulder and shove him against the door, barking at him to open it. Steve pulls the handle, sliding out of the truck with the old guy following behind him through the driver’s side. Then he presses his gun against Steve’s back, pushing him towards the building. It’s hard to remember how to put one foot in front of the other, and Steve keeps flirting with the idea of passing out, positive he’s gonna make the wrong move, or trip over a piece of concrete and watch it all fade to black. 

The loading gate’s wide open, so Steve heads for that, wincing when the Russian slams a hand against his back so he’ll pick up the pace. When he steps over the threshold into the dark, another wave of panic hits him. Maybe the guy just wants somewhere quiet and out of the way so he can take Steve out. Somewhere in the boonies, where he can kill Steve and then dump the body in one fell swoop. Maybe that’s been his plan the whole time, and when that clicks, Steve freezes. Then he puts his hands up—nice and easy—and tries, like an idiot, to reason with the maniac. 

“Come on, man. You don’t want me!” And Steve doesn’t like throwing Hopper under the bus, but for the first time since he got in his truck, he has a plan. “You want the chief, right? Yeah, well—I can take you to him!” 

No way is Steve actually gonna rat Hopper out, but this jackass doesn’t know that. All Steve needs is a window, just a couple seconds where this geezer lets his guard down because come on, this guy’s ancient! One good punch and he’ll fold like a house of cards! 

“Quiet.” Guess he’s not convinced. 

“Okay—English! You speak English. So… you understand what I’m saying, right?” Steve swallows, and shit. Is he shaking right now? He’s not sure if he’s freaking out, or if it’s just the adrenaline building up for when he tackles this deadbeat, but either way, he doesn’t like it. “We don’t have to do this shit, man. I know where the chief is. Hopper. That name sound familiar?” Steve stops and sputters, “Same guy who ruined your life!” 

He starts to turn around and look at the guy, only to freeze when the barrel of that gun grinds into the back of his scalp. He pushes Steve forward again, and Steve stumbles towards this dark shape in the middle of the room. Blinking a few times, he squints until his eyes adjust enough to make out what he’s looking at. There, surrounded by some old crates and rusted out pipes, is a wooden chair. Next to it, on the floor by one of the legs, there’s a bundle of rope and some metal tools Steve really doesn’t like the look of. 

The guy shoves him again. “Sit.” 

“Oh, you gotta be kidding me.” Steve’s voice cracks as he turns around, hands still up while he sinks into the chair.

“Arms behind back.” The Russian wags the gun at him. 

Steve grits his teeth, hanging his head and man, why does this shit always happen to him? He does what the bastard tells him to, folding his arms around the back of the chair. Then, real fast for such a dinosaur, the guy darts behind him and grabs the rope, tying it around Steve’s wrists tight enough to sting. 

And Steve’s been trying to keep his head in the game, not give this waste of space any tells, but he can’t hold in a groan when he looks down at the stuff on the floor that’s definitely about to make his face hurt. “Come on, man. Not this shit again…” 

Suddenly, the guy pauses, hands still pulling on the rope. “You know where chief is?”

Ripping his eyes off the torture weapons, Steve stutters, “Y-Yeah, man! Yes! Just—untie me, and we’ll go!” 

“No.” The Russian walks around to stand in front of Steve, reaching into his pocket. Steve’s stomach shrivels up when he watches him pull out a walkie. Not a force one, either—it’s one of Henderson’s. The same little number he’s been letting Steve ‘borrow’, that he never stops bitching about because, apparently, Steve uses it wrong. It’s been sitting in the glove compartment of the Chevy for weeks, and this nutjob must’ve found it after he broke in. “He will come here.”

Somewhere through the non-stop alarm bells going off in his brain, Steve feels this pissed-off little jolt. Obviously the guy saw through Steve’s offer to take him to Hopper—knew he couldn’t trust Steve to keep his word. So… what? He thinks Steve’s gonna do things on his terms, just ‘cause he waves a gun in his face a few times? Yeah, fat fucking chance. Barnes is scarier than this dickhead when he’s armed, and Steve has to deal with that shit on a daily basis! “Yeah, not likely. So how ‘bout instead, you take that walkie, pull your pants down around your ankles, and see just how far you can shove it up—“

The Russian slams the butt of his gun into Steve’s face.

Steve’s head whips back with a yelp, the sound coming out so loud that it scrapes the inside of his throat. It feels like the impact knocked his eyeball deeper into his skull by an inch or two, and the rebound’s enough to make his neck ache. “Jesus…” 

The old man rears back and smashes into Steve’s other eye, and Steve yells again, hissing through his teeth when the taste of blood stings his tongue. Then, as soon as he starts to recover, the second he sucks in a breath, the guy cracks his gun against Steve’s jaw.

Steve’s entire face throbs and he coughs, tongue poking along the inside of his gums to make sure none of his teeth are loose. The shithead gives him a minute, waits until his chest isn’t heaving as hard, then holds the walkie out under his chin. 

“Call him.”

Steve sucks in a choppy breath, trying to pick which Russian douchebag to look at, since right now, he sees two. “Bite me.”

That earns him another pistol whip, and the instant it connects, he feels his nose creak. Fuck. It might be be broken—these lights keep flashing in and out behind Steve’s eyes, and he’s not sure if it’s from the pain, or if this fucker’s been hitting him hard enough to mess with his vision. Blood’s pouring down the front of his face by the time the guy backs off again, and Steve glares up at him through the sliver he can still see through his black eye, turning to spit a gob of blood onto the floor.

“Last chance.” The Russian loops a finger around the trigger of his gun, sticks his arm straight up in the air, and fires. This metallic snap rings out when the bullet goes through the roof, which means it’s loaded. Once he’s sure Steve made that connection, the old man presses the nozzle into the center of his forehead. 

Every ounce of panic Steve felt earlier floods back into his body. The old guy’s hand is steady as he puts the lightest bit of pressure on the gun, and maybe Steve’s a coward—maybe having a kid turned him into some kind of pussy—but he can’t do this shit anymore. He can’t take the fucking chance. 

So he exhales, eyes fluttering shut, swallowing another clump of blood before he croaks, “Okay.” Jaw tensing, Steve lifts his chin, locking eyes with the bastard. “I’ll call him.” 

The Russian’s silent. All he does is lower the gun and lift the walkie, turning it on and holding it up to Steves mouth. But—Christ. What if the chief doesn’t answer? Sure, Henderson added him to the same channel as all the other dipshits after Mrs. Byers put him on house arrest, but if Steve’s got better shit to do than listen to the dork station bitch and moan about their learner’s permits, then the chief definitely does. And if he isn’t paying attention—

Well. Steve doesn’t want to think about where that leaves him.

“Speak.” The general holds down the comm button. 

“Uh." Steve gulps. “Chief, this is Harrington.” His stomach’s doing flips, and it takes everything he’s got not to sound too close to a meltdown when he says, “Come in, chief. I got a code red. Over.”

The seconds tick by so slow, it’s torture. Makes the beating he just got look like a walk in the park. He stares up at the commie freak, wondering if the guy’s at least gonna make it fast. If Steve’ll barely see it coming when he takes him out. Or maybe he’ll take his time, beat Steve’s face into even more of a pulp, then make him beg a little before he pulls the trigger. It’s really starting to fuck with Steve, picturing this shit while he waits for God knows what, and he’s breathing like a racehorse, this close to falling apart when the radio crackles.  

“I read you, kid.” Hopper’s voice is quiet, and there’s this tone to it Steve can’t quite put his finger on. “I need you to stay calm and tell me where you are. What’s happening?”

Steve’s tongue feels like a dead slug, dried up and useless as he struggles to get the words out. “I-It’s the guy who’s been after you. He, uh…” Swallowing, Steve keeps his eyes on the Russian. “He hid in my truck. Made me drive out to the old steelworks building.” Probably to kill him, before he gets to Hopper, but fuck that, man! This is bullshit. It’s total bullshit. And if it’s gotta be him, or Hopper—if the psycho’s gonna kill one of ‘em, and Steve was already stupid enough to get caught… “Listen, man. Whatever you do, you can’t—you can’t come out here. He’s gonna kill you.”

And Steve doesn’t know what the hell he’s gonna do next, but one thing’s for sure—he’s not gonna let that happen.  

The old guy’s face goes dark after Steve says that, but he doesn’t take his thumb off the button. He lets Steve get through his entire speech before he lets go. Then they both wait, Steve’s throat threatening to close up, still watching the Russian like a hawk. The way he sees it, if Hopper actually listens to him, then Steve’s about to meet his maker. He’s not sure if the chief’s gonna respond, but the waiting’s brutal, long enough for Steve to map out every wrinkled detail of the old prick’s face. 

Then the radio crackles again. “Tell him to hold off, kid.” And before Steve can choke out an answer, Hopper adds, “I’m coming.” 

A giant exhale rips its way out of Steve. He feels like shit for caving—for dragging Hopper back into this—but there’s this tiny, stupid part of him telling him that now, everything might be okay. The chief’ll have a real plan, way better than anything Steve could come up with, and he’s gonna take care of this shit once and for all. 

The Russian chuckles, flinging the radio off to one side with a clatter, and Steve tries to get his breathing under control. The creep glances down at his gun, casually turning it over in his hand before he slips it back into the holster.

“Ohhh, thank God.” Steve slouches against the chair, body going limp fast enough to make the wood creak. Holy shit. He’s in the clear? Grandpa here’s actually keeping his word. And yeah, didn’t see that coming, but is Steve gonna complain? Fuck no. 

The geezer sighs, looking disappointed while he zones out. Then he clicks his tongue, turning to shout into the dark. “Em. Idite syuda.”

Something moves just out of eyeshot, and after a pause, a small shape steps out of the shadows. 

Ice cold sweat prickles the skin on Steve’s back as the Russian kid walks over to stand next to the old guy, who gives Steve a smirk. “You have met before, da? This child—she, ah…” Frowning, he tilts his head up, staring at the ceiling ’til he remembers the word in English. “… hesitates to kill. This must be changed.” He smirks again, twice as big as before, spreading flashing Steve a sicko grin while one pruny hand curls around the kid’s shoulder. “Now, I think, would be good time for… practice.” 

Fuck. Steve’s arms flex against the ropes on instinct, that last sentence knocking the wind right out of him. Steve’s not safe just ‘cause this crackpot put away his gun. The Russian’s still gonna off him—only difference is, he’s forcing the kid to do his dirty work.

“Hey! Heyheyhey—no! Come on, man! You need me alive!” Steve thrashes against the chair, wood scraping across the concrete as he tries to scoot away from the kid-shaped nuke headed in his direction. “This hostage shit doesn’t work if you kill me!”

“You have called your chief here.” The old guy clicks his tongue. “If you are alive, if you are dead…” He shrugs, voice so calm, he might as well be doing his taxes. “He will still come.”

Steve gulps. “Shit.” He starts scooting for his life, even though it’s pointless, because where the fuck is he gonna go, man!? He can’t outrun a fucking fireball strapped to a chair! “Shit, shit, shit…”

The Russian guy shoves the kid forward. “Szhech' im.”

“Pozhaluysta…” She stumbles, looking over her shoulder at the old bag and talking to him in this voice so little, it stops Steve in his tracks. “Ne zastavlyay menya.” 

“ENOUGH.” The guy screams loud enough that both Steve and the kid jump. He snatches her by the back of the jumpsuit, voice low and gravely when he ducks down to her level. “A weapon does not argue. A weapon does not disobey.” Steve feels every inch of him go numb as the lowlife straightens up and takes his gun out of the holster, calmly pressing it against the side of the kid's head. “Kill him.”

She starts shaking like a leaf, this hiccuping sound coming from behind the mask, like she’s trying not to cry. Then she holds her hand out, and Steve can see the space in front of it getting blurry, this faint glow coming off her palm as the heat starts to build. Unless he thinks of something fast—like, right-STAT-now—Steve’s screwed. But all he can focus on is how she’s sniffling and God, she’s—she’s just like El, right? Real goddamn close, anyway. Some poor kid who spent her whole life cooped up in a lab, with some nasty old freak using her as an attack dog. 

And she might not be exactly like El. After all, even if they’ve got a lot of messed up crap in common, at least El got to be a normal kid after she got away. But if she’s enough like El, maybe Steve can get through to her. ‘Cause he knows this old fucker isn’t gonna give two shits about anything he says, but the kid… Well, she might care about this. 

All Steve can do now is hope she understands jack shit of what he’s about to say.

“WAIT! WAIT! Fuck, will you—just hold on a second! I have a kid! You hear me!? I have a baby!” Steve’s running on instinct, saying anything he can think of that might help him survive, but when all it comes pouring out… Shit, he really does break down. He was just trying to be convincing, to get the kid to buy it, but fuck. None of it winds up being an act. “Jesus Christ, please… Just… try to understand what I’m saying. You’ve gotta let me go, I have a kid.” Steve shudders, something trickling down his cheek and holy shit. He’s… Was that a tear? Steve just felt an honest-to-God tear, and it snaps him out of it, makes him stop right in the middle of what he was saying, because he doesn’t cry, man. He’s never cried. 

But he’s never been this scared, either.

And the crazy thing is, it actually works. The kid pauses, fingers curling into a fist before her hand drops limp at her side. Steve can’t see anything past that dumb gas mask, but her body language says a lot. She’s hesitating, starting to back down. and Steve knows she doesn’t want to do this. Guess El already figured that out, but now Steve can see for himself. Now he’s positive that old piece of shit is forcing her. Maybe she couldn’t make out what Steve was saying, but if El can hop into her head—if they can have a full blown conversation with their brains—maybe she can look inside Steve’s head, too. Maybe she can see Arnie.

But when the old man spots her flagging, he loses it. He doesn’t shoot her, but Christ. It isn’t much better. His whole face screws up as he swings his arm back and smacks her. Then he does it again, whaling on the poor kid, hitting her over and over until Steve forgets where he is—forgets the motherfucker took him hostage. 

He just starts screaming.

“Hey! HEY!” Gnashing his teeth, Steve hauls the chair forward, wood creaking against the concrete. “Get your hands off her, you piece of shit! You hear me?” 

He’s so desperate to get over to the kid that he forgets he’s still tied to a chair, swinging his body forward before he can get his balance. He falls hard, shoulder clocking the cement when he smacks into the floor. Moaning, Steve lifts his chin, room spinning while he squints up at the Russian, watching as he lifts the kid off the ground by the back of her jumpsuit. 

Somewhere past the ringing in his ears, Steve hears this weird tapping sound, and at first, he figures he must’ve knocked something loose when he fell. But it keeps getting louder, and in the same second his brain makes the connection that those are footsteps, the old fruitcake gets thrown twenty feet away. The kid goes flying, too, and the lunatic’s gun drops to the floor with a crack. Steve’s jaw goes slack, heart pounding as he cranes his head around to see El sprinting in through the loading gate. The cavalry’s right behind her, Hopper and Hargrove hot on her tail, and Steve’s stomach does this funny little swoop when he spots them. 

Hopper books it over to Steve first, kneeling with a grunt while he starts to untie him. “You’re lucky to be in one piece, kid.”

Steve winces while the chief cuts through the restraints—yep, there’s the rope-burn. “Yeah, well…” He might’ve had a tooth knocked out somewhere along the line, and his nose is definitely broken, but… “Close enough.”

There’s a bang as Hargrove takes a shot, and Steve’s heart ramps it into high gear again. He’s on his feet as soon as Hopper gets him loose, watching gramps grab the kid by her shoulder so he can yank her in front of him. Guess going from ‘human punching bag’ to ‘human shield’ isn’t that big of a leap for the asshole. 

Hargrove freezes, and for once, Steve can tell exactly what’s going on in his head. He doesn’t want to hit the kid, and he knows his aim’s not good enough to try and shoot around her, but after mulling it over for half a second, he decides it’s worth a try. Pointing towards the old guy’s head, Hargrove curls his finger around the trigger, but the son of a bitch ducks lower, whispering something in the kid’s ear. 

She hesitates, then throws her hand out again, and Steve gears up to ram into Hargrove and knock him out of the way once she goes into flamethrower mode. It doesn’t happen, though, and right when Steve’s starting to wonder if she’s out of juice, Hargrove howls. His gun hits the ground, and Steve’s eyes just about fall out of his head when he sees the grip’s orange, hot enough for the air around it to steam. Hargrove grabs at his wrist, hissing at the burns on his palm, and Hopper steps in front of him, body twisted to block his pistol so the same trick won’t work twice.

El scrambles in front of both of them, arms stretched out as she orders the kid to, “Move!” 

The Russian kid ignores her—if she even understands what El’s saying—blasting a jet of flame instead. El pulls off the same move she used back in the cabin, putting some kind of psychic wall up between her and the fire, and Steve ducks behind her, squeezing in next to Hopper so he doesn’t get singed.

Hopper cranes his head to look past Hargrove through the loading gate, snapping, “Where the hell is Murray?”

“Wh—Bauman?” They brought that guy? Steve turns, gawking along Hopper’s line of sight towards the parking lot. 

Through the gate, Steve can see the Blazer’s out near the Chevy, and next to that is Hargrove’s Camaro, parked sideways at the end of a trail of skid marks. The door’s hanging open, the passenger seat pushed forward, and that must be Bauman with his ass in the air while he digs through the back row. 

“Coming!” Bauman squirms out from behind the seat, spinning on his heel and sprinting towards them. “I’M COMING!” 

Ahead of them, El slashes her arm through the air, and Steve turns to see the Russian kid go skidding off to one, sliding across the concrete like a hockey puck. El sets her sights on the old guy, but before she can break his neck, the other kid finds her footing and goes barreling towards El. She throws her arm ahead of her, another blast of fire shooting from her palm, and El jolts, arms jumping up to block her face. 

“Hopper!” Bauman still’s squawking as he bolts across the asphalt, papers flying out of his arms. “Hopper, I have the schematics—” 

Hands balled into fists, El lets out this battle cry, flinging her arms to the right the same moment the blast makes contact. It dings off her shield like a pinball, shooting through the open gate and heading straight for Bauman. 

“DUCK!” Hopper roars.

Bauman lets out a scream, sounding weirdly like Henderson’s mom as he makes a dive for it, dropping the papers and belly-flopping onto the ground. Everything switches to slow motion as the fire sails over Bauman’s chrome dome, straight for the—holy shit, Steve’s not sure he can watch this. It hits the Camaro, blasting through the open door and colliding with the interior. Bauman’s still screaming, rolling around in the dirt for a minute, finally making it to his feet after the third try. Steve hears this hissing noise—realizes it’s him, he’s doing that—then braces himself before looking at Hargrove. 

The guy’s speechless, not even worried about the third-degree burns on his hand, gawking as his car goes up in flames in a matter of seconds. 

“It was, uh…” Wincing, the chief steps back, clapping a hand on Hargrove’s shoulder as Bauman crams his way into their huddle. “It was a ’79 Z28, right?”

Hargrove sounds like he’s about to cry. “… 1980.” 

“Talk…” El growls, flinging her arms out in front as she stops another blast from taking off the last of Bauman’s hair. “Later!”

She’s distracted by Hargrove’s pity party, though, and she doesn’t block as well this time. A tiny lick of flame makes it past the barrier and goes shooting up the length of her arm. El screams, snatching her hand in as Hopper grabs her by the shoulders and yanks her back. 

“El!”

Panting, El stares down at the shiny, pink burn on her arm, already tearing up, and Steve turns towards the Russians. The last thing he wants is to start yelling at El to get her shit together, but without that shield thing, they’re totally exposed, and Steve’s not sure what the hell they’re gonna do when the next wave of fire hits. 

Except the Russian kid isn’t attacking. She’s a statue, hands clutched in front of her chest, staring at El like seeing all that—watching El get hurt bad enough to cry—scared the shit out of her. She starts shaking her head, stumbling backwards a few steps, and a couple yards behind her, the old guy grabs at something in his pocket.

Hopper takes one hand off El to draw his gun, but he’s too slow. By the time he’s got a clear shot of the creep, the Russian’s holding up that little silver box. He doesn’t even hesitate, just flicks the switch at the top, and Steve’s insides shrivel up. The kid reacts instantly, this horrible scream ripping out of her, whole body twitching and jerking as she falls to her knees. 

“Hey!” Steve does a double-take when he realizes Hargrove’s the one who’s shouting. He’s not sure he’s ever heard the guy sound this freaked out, and that’s counting the last time they almost burned to a crisp. “What the fuck is he doing?!”

Bauman’s voice is wobbly, like he can’t believe what he’s looking at. “He’s…  electrocuting her.”

Steve swears he can hear it, too. This buzzing coming from the hunk of metal around her neck, so high-pitched that the insides of his ears itch. Her tiny body’s spasming, and she won’t stop screaming, so Steve can’t even blame her when she throws her hand out and does the one thing that’ll end the pain: attack.

“GET BACK!” Steve yanks Hargrove with him, ramming into Bauman as he scrambles away. 

Hopper tries to get in front of El, but she doesn’t let him, dragging him behind her with her powers before she turns all her attention to the kid. 

Well, Steve guesses the old bastard was telling the truth about one thing, ‘cause she was definitely holding back before. She hits El with a wall of fire, blasting them with so much power, it completely blocks the other half of the building from view. It’s like getting thrown in a volcano—even trying to breathe hurts, burning the insides of Steve’s lungs, and he knows the only reason he’s not a pile of ash right now is El. Dead ahead, she’s giving it everything she’s got, fighting off the flames as the whole room bakes. 

She’s holding it back for now, but she can’t keep this up forever. Jesus, forget about forever—Steve’s not sure she’ll last another minute. He’s not the only one who’s worried, and when the flames around El’s shield shrink a little, before the Russian kid gets her second wind, Hopper decides to take matters into his own hands. 

“Okay!” he roars, both hands on the grip as he aims for the kid’s leg. “That’s enough.”

El jolts, head spinning around to stare over her shoulder at Hopper. “Don’t!” 

“I realize this hits close to home for you, but we are out of options!” Hopper inches forward, snapping, “Do you understand that?” Face tensing up as he tries to get a good shot through the flames, he mutters, “This isn’t gonna kill her. All we need to do is incapacitate—”

“She doesn’t want to hurt people!” El’s voice cracks, looking back and forth between Hopper and the kid still busy trying to melt her.

“I know, damn it!” The chief swallows, getting quieter. “I know. But—”

“He uses that collar. He controls her.” El struggles to get the words out, and Steve realizes the fire’s flaring up again, which means they’re losing their window. And even if the Russian kid doesn’t want to do this—even if she doesn’t want to kill them—Steve’s pretty sure she doesn’t get a choice in the matter. Which means this is now or never, and Hopper needs to take the fucking shot. “Even if she’s stronger than him… she’s still afraid.” 

“Hey, uh—El?” Steve scrubs at his drenched forehead as he points out, “Yeah, I don’t know if you noticed, but that shit is not stopping her!” 

“Hey! Shitbird!” Hargrove shouts, and Steve’s not sure who the hell he means at first, ‘cause the only person here…. Wait, El? He’s calling El that? Guess that’s the thanks she gets for vouching for him this entire time. Man, why is Steve not surprised? “You can get in her head, right?” His voice is raspy, either from the smoke, or the tiny bit of emotion he’s letting out for once. “Tell her that shit! Then she fries the bastard herself—end of story!” 

“Easier said than done.” Flinching as the blaze swells up higher than El’s barricade, Hopper turns and swears under his breath. The window’s gone—the tiny, hazy spot where Hopper might’ve been able to aim’s disappeared, and he lowers his gun with a sigh. “El could give her the pep talk of the century, but she won’t understand it. Best she can do is show her memories. Feelings, maybe—”

Hargrove cuts him off. “Alright, Combover.” He turns to Bauman.

“Wait, wait. I’m sorry—is that—” Bauman sputters for a minute, then asks, “Are you referring to me?”

“You’ve got two choices. One, you translate.” Hargrove starts to crowd him like they’re on the court and Jesus, does this asshole have some shitty timing. He puffs out his chest, pretending Bauman doesn’t have a good few inches on him when he growls, “Or two…” Jabbing a finger towards the inferno past El, Hargrove's voice drops down to a rumble. “I throw you out there and see how much time it buys us while that little shit’s burning you alive.” 

“Okay, first of all—” Doing these rapid-fire blinks, Bauman jerks his head back and argues, “Do not threaten me. That is not how you incentivize me to cooperate.” 

“Murray,” Hopper warns.

Bauman ignores him. “Second, you’re speaking out of hurt, clearly. I feel for you, I do.” He gestures to the Camaro, still smoldering. “It was a beautiful model, mint condition. Obviously, you’ve got an eye for quality manu—”

“Jesus, will you get to the point!?” Steve rakes both hands through his hair as he rounds on Bauman.

“And third…” Bauman pauses, mouth open. Then he throws his hands up with a shrug. “All you had to do was ask.”

Hargrove shoots Bauman a look that could reignite his car. “I’m asking.”

Pursing his lips, Bauman gives Hargrove a once over, then flaps a hand at him. “Proceed.”

Somehow, Hargrove seems surprised, almost like he didn’t think he’d make it this far. He clears his throat, thinking for a second before he starts with, “Tell her, uh…” He swallows. “Tell her she’s stronger than that son of a bitch.” 

“Uh…” Turning towards the wall of fire, Bauman calls out, “Ty sil’neye… y-yego.”

Hargrove’s Adam’s apple bobs as he stares through the flames, not even blinking. “And she doesn’t have to take that shit.”

Bauman raises his voice a little, Russian words echoing across the building over the roar of the fire. 

“You hear me, you little freak?” Hargrove shouts, and Steve can see his eyes are shiny and red. … Holy shit. Wait a goddamn second. Hargrove doesn’t get choked up over kids. Not El, not Max—not even Arnie, and that's after he’s been taking care of the little snot-rocket for months. But sometimes, there’s this weird case of, like… overlap. And maybe it reminds Hargrove too much of the shit he never wants to think about. The shit he tries to pretend didn’t mess him up for life. But one thing’s for sure:

This isn’t about the Russian kid. 

“He’s an old, pathetic sack of shit, and he thinks he can control you?” Bauman’s still translating, stumbling over the words as he tries to keep up with Hargrove. And as Steve gawks at the guy, he could swear, out of the corner of his eyes, the fire’s dying down just the tiniest bit. “He doesn’t give a shit about you. Doesn’t know you’re alive unless you piss him off—that sound about right? Am I in the ballpark?”

Steve almost forgets he's cooking alive right now, he’s so caught up in watching Hargrove. The guy’s drenched in sweat, his skin almost orange from the glow of the fire, eyes wide and bloodshot. And the longer Steve listens to him talk, the more his chest starts to clench up, every word that comes out of Hargrove’s mouth feeling like a punch to the gut.

“You might be braindead, since they grew you in a fucking test tube, so I’m gonna spell this out.” He swallows again, and Steve starts to wonder if there’s a reason he isn’t blinking. If he’s imagining how shiny Hargrove’s eyes look right now. “Nobody who does the type of shit he just did to you… deserves to be alive.” Now Steve knows it’s not in his head. The flames are getting lower and lower, enough that he can see the Russian kid. She’s shaking again, and it only gets worse every time Bauman pipes up. “So quit holding back.”

Bit by bit, Hargrove was getting quieter. But suddenly, out of nowhere, he fucking roars. And if this kid could see into Steve’s head like El can—if she could see Arnie… Well, maybe she can see exactly what’s got Hargrove so upset. And even if she can’t, there’s no missing the rage in his voice when he belts out, “Make him fucking PAY FOR IT!”

The kid’s losing steam, shivering from head to toe, and behind the mask, Steve hears more sniffling. The fire’s not even half the size it was a minute ago, and while they’re all stuck gawking—before the old man’s got a chance to hit that switch again—El jerks her head to one side. Something heavy clatters to the floor, and the rest of the fire fizzles out completely.

Steve stares down at the concrete as it dawns on him: El broke the shock collar. Man, what if El just screwed them, big time? What if that stupid necklace was the only thing standing between them and seven layers of hell? The Russian kid’s frozen, staring down at the two halves of the collar by her boots, but before Steve can freak out, before anyone can make a move, the geezer takes this careful, quiet step in the background. 

Steve’s eyes dart over to him, and holy shit. He’s terrified, face white, eyes bulging out of their sockets. It’s the first time Steve’s seen him scared, and it shows. Bastard looks like a totally different person, moving the same way you’d try to sneak past a bear as he inches  further towards the exit. Okay—now Steve gets it.

They’re not the ones who should be worried. 

The kid slowly turns around, and the old guy goes stiff, breaking out in a greasy smile. “Now. Do not be rash.”

The kid’s silent. 

“Without me, you would be dead.” He puts a hand on his chest, smile twitching. “I… saved you. Rescued you from the ashes of the lab.” He slides one foot behind him, then the other, but the kid starts to follow, inching closer each time he tries to retreat. The creep’s doing a shit job of keeping it together, voice sounding flimsier with every step the kid takes. “I alone… cared for you. You have… made me proud…” When none of that seems to get through to her, he starts begging. Yeah, well—Steve doesn’t need to speak Russian to tell he’s full of shit. “Please. Zaynʹka.”

The kid pauses, head tilting like she’s thinking it over. The old guy’s grin flickers, and he seems to relax as she stands there for a second. Then she turns, glancing over her shoulder at Hargrove, or maybe El. Steve holds his breath, heart ramming into his ribcage as the kid ogles  them. Then, after the longest staring contest of his life, she makes up her mind, facing the old guy one last time before walking over to him. 

“Stop.” The guy flings his hand out in front, almost tripping over himself as he backs away. “I order you—stop. Stay! Stay where you are!” His face twists up, choking on his words as the kid raises her arm. “Stay back!” He doesn’t waste a second—just spins on his heel and bolts, making a break for the loading gate.

He never gets there. 

Halfway across the building, his whole body goes nuclear. Steve’s seen a guy in one of those stunt outfits—the fireproof ones they use for movies—on the special features of something he and Robin put on in the background at Family Video. It’s not the first time he’s seen somebody go up in flames. But this shit? It makes those special features look like a fucking joke. 

The Russian’s one giant ball of fire before Steve can blink, and the noise he’s making—holy shit. It takes everything Steve’s got not to cover his ears. He clenches his jaw, turning his head away, and out of the corner of his eye, he sees El and Bauman do the same. Hopper doesn’t budge, though, and neither does Hargrove. Steve hears him make this sound under his breath, almost like he thinks it’s cool, and Christ. Yeah—he would, wouldn’t he? 

It doesn’t last as long as Steve would’ve figured, but he’s not about to complain when the screaming finally stops. He looks up in time to watch the bastard’s body hit the floor, still smoking. The Russian kid’s head snaps back over to them, and they all jump a foot except for El. Honestly, when the brat starts making her way over to them, Steve’s trying not to shit his pants. But the closer she gets, the more Steve notices how puny she is. She’s gotta be—what? Eight? Nine, maybe? 

Guess he never had a second to stop and think about it. 

El’s smiling. Hell, she even laughs when the kid stops to stand in front of her, squeezing the hand Hopper’s got on her shoulder. 

“You, uh…” Okay, sure, Steve feels like an asshole for pointing this out, but somebody has to. “You sure she’s not gonna fry us?”

El cranes her head back to smile up at him. “Pretty sure.”

The kid lifts her hands, grabbing at her head, and Hopper’s hand jerks towards his holster. But she’s just taking off the mask, slowly peeling it over her head. Her face pops out, and Steve’s not sure what he was expecting, but it’s kinda crazy how… Man, he doesn’t know. Normal she looks. Her hair’s buzzed like El’s used to be, but a little more grown out and choppy, and there are a couple burn marks on her cheeks. Other than that, though? She could pass for any old third grader.

She stares up at them with these buggy green eyes, scoping them out for a minute while she hugs that gas mask to her chest like a teddy bear. 

Then, when she’s done taking it all in, she smiles. “Spasibo.” 

“She, uh…” Bauman clears his throat, then translates. “She says ‘thanks’.” 

Notes:

Told you it wouldn’t be too long before the next update! 😅 I know I say this every single time, but I really hope you guys enjoy this chapter. It’s been a learning experience, trying to balance character arcs with action sequences and mpreg/new parent zaniness, so it’s hard to tell whether I’ve hit the mark, especially since the action-y sequences always feel the weakest to me. But even if my intended meaning or allegory or whatever gets lost or goes over peoples’ heads, if the end result is still satisfying for you all to read, I’m happy.

Crazy to believe this fic is going to be complete it under a year. I never imagined it would balloon to this size, but I also never imagined I’d finish it in such a short amount of time. I’m beyond honored to have shared this journey will all of you— my wonderful, kind, dedicated readers! Especially considering I’ve gone back to reread the first chapter recently and… Jesus Christ. Respectfully, how did ya’ll let me go out in public like that… 🧍 I will probably be re-writing at least the beginning half of that train wreck at some point, but it makes me all the more grateful to those of you who’ve stuck around.

There’s a lot more content on the horizon! I have one sequel fic planned and I’ve already got lots of one-shots in the works, waiting to be published. I’d really appreciate it if you stay tuned. Thanks, as always, for reading, kudos-ing, commenting, enjoying. 💖💖💖

Chapter 28: The Move

Swapping units wasn’t as much of a pain in the ass as Steve thought it’d be. 

He stopped by the leasing office, schmoozed the receptionist a little, and boom! He’s got the two bedroom they just renovated three doors down. And with Hargrove finally getting off his ass and chipping in for rent, Steve didn’t even have to say goodbye to Cinemax. 

Arnie’s finally hit a roadblock when it comes to his growth spurts—which is a good thing. Steve doesn’t need Owens to tell him that, either. He’s just happy he’s not buying the next size up in onesies every other week. Oh, and that his kid’s still healthy. He’s stoked about that, too. Duh. 

Arnie’s gonna have a real bedroom now, with his own dresser and window and everything. And even though Steve’ll miss watching him crash, he’s not gonna miss, y’know—barely getting any sleep. 

After the code red down at the Steelworks building, Bauman really hit it off with the Russian kid. And she didn’t seem too weirded out by him, maybe ‘cause she’s never heard of “stranger danger”, so… 

Bauman was only supposed to watch her ’til Hopper and Owens figured out what to do with her, but it’s been a month, and Steve’s starting to think letting her bum around at Bauman’s place is the game-plan. Mrs. Byers said he even tried to name her, and when everybody he talked to shot down “Murray Junior”, Mrs. Byers talked him into the next best thing: Mary. 

When Mrs. Byers told Steve about it, Jonathan was choking on his spit trying not to laugh. And after he walked Steve through it a couple times, pointed out how El’s real name is Jane, if they name the other kid Mary, together that makes Mary Jane…

Okay. Steve might’ve cracked up, too.

Jonathan and Nance are out of state again, now that the semester’s started, but Steve thinks he’s still got a pretty good turnout for move-in day. Robin’s off on Mondays, so she came, and Henderson’s here, because that dipshit’s always here—but so are Max, Sinclair, and El. Steve’s been leaving the front door open while they move everything out of the old place; just seemed easier, since they’re only hauling shit a few doors down. 

Right when Steve’s done unpacking his new stereo, Max walks in carrying a bunch of cords, along with that game station thing she gave to Hargrove. 

“You know, if you ever change your mind…” She sets it down on the coffee table as she reminds Hargrove, “Forest Hills does sublease to assholes.” Straightening up, she does this sassy little squint at him. “I checked.” 

“Mm.” Hargrove copies her while he thinks on it. “Not sure I’m qualified to squat there.” He walks back into the kitchen to start stacking plates in one of the cupboards. “See, I’ve never had to live on cinderblocks. That’s your natural habitat.”

“Yep!” Max tries to act like she’s pissed, but Steve can see a smile threatening to break through as she shakes her head. “Still an asshole. Glad I checked!”

Hargrove’s head pops out of the opening over the sink so he can wag his tongue at Max. Then, when he catches Steve watching, Hargrove shoots him a wink. 

Steve wrinkles his nose. What, does he want Steve to flash him a thumbs up or some shit? “Eugh.”

That gets a chuckle out of Hargrove, and he ducks back into the kitchen. 

Behind him, Robin sighs before muttering, “Abandon subtlety, all ye who enter here.” 

“Why are you trying to get him to leave?” Lucas inches over to Max so he can whisper in her ear. “This shit’s good for him! He’s actually behaving!”

Hargrove’s voice rings out from the kitchen. “I heard that, Sinclair!” 

Grimacing, Lucas shoots back, “You sound like my mom.” Then he ducks his head as he mumbles, “She would’ve heard that, too.”

“As close as he gets, anyway.” With a snort, Max crouches down in front of the VHS player so she can fiddle with the wires she brought over. She stops halfway through plugging shit in, pulling her head out of the cabinet as she smiles at Steve. “I think he actually likes you, Steve.”

Henderson tiptoes past Steve with a box full of magazines, snickering under his breath.  “Oh, he likes Steve.”

“Yeah, well…” Steve turns around and snatches the box in one smooth move, making sure to clock Henderson with one of the corners in the process. Does he think Steve forgot there are dirty mags in there? Honestly—you, Henderson, are the polar opposite of slick. “We make it work.” 

“It just sucks you guys couldn’t afford a three-bedroom.” Max finishes wiring the… Look, Steve doesn’t know what the hell to call it. He’s just glad somebody else is doing it. Robin always handled the technical shit at Family Video. Steve’s a customer service guy, alright? He’s got a face people can stand looking at, he's got great taste in movies—he’d take care of the really important shit! 

El’s got Arnie sandwiched between her legs, his back propped up against her stomach while he babbles at her, cracking up whenever she wiggles his stuffed tiger in his face. “They don’t need three bedrooms.” 

“Yeah, but…” Max trails off, frowning as she tries to work out what El means, and Steve gets this weird swooping feeling in his chest. “Why does Arnie get his own room?” She sounds kinda stunned, and Steve can’t really blame her—guess they both know Hargrove would never take the couch without a fist fight. “Not that he doesn’t deserve his own room, I just…” It takes her a second to work out what she’s trying to say, but she finally admits, “I can’t believe Billy’s still sleeping on the couch.”

Hargrove yells from the kitchen. “Who says I’m sleeping on the couch? 

“Well, Steve’s not—” Max cuts herself off, probably ‘cause she realizes Hargrove’s definitely enough of a dick to make Steve crash in the living room. “Wait.” Turning to Steve, she asks, “Are you?” 

Steve blinks. “Uh.” 

“No.” El doesn’t skip a beat, answering Max without taking her eyes off Arnie. “They only need one bed.”

Steve swallows, stomach doing a panicky twitch. Kid, are you for real right now? How the hell does she even know about this shit? 

“Ooookay, stay with me here.” He draws a circle in the air, trying to reel in the dipshits and make ‘em focus. “Unpacking. You—” He  points around the room. “—are supposed to be unpacking my shit right now. That ring any bells?”

Max doesn’t hear a word of that, all worried as she mumbles at Steve, “Is he making you sleep on the floor?”

“No! Are you kidding me?” Jesus, this is exhausting. “It’s my name on the lease, man! He’s not making me sleep anywhere.”

“El, trust me on this,” Sinclair pipes up. “They’re not sleeping in the same bed. They’re a couple of grown men, it’d be…” His face scrunches in like he’s picturing it. “… weird.”

Steve slouches, glaring at the wall as he grumbles, “Tell me something I don’t know, Sinclair.”  

Henderson’s arm stretches around from behind him, but Steve jerks the box away before the lamebrain can reach the inside. “I think they’re onto you…” 

Steve elbows him. “If you don’t cram a sock in it, Henderson, I swear to God—”

“Unless…” El lifts her head, eyebrows climbing up as she stares at Max. “The bed is for happy screams.”

“What?” Okay, Steve remembers her saying that shit before. He didn’t have a clue what she meant back then, and he’s just as lost now, especially when El bursts into giggles. (Arnie joins her a second later, but that’s more ‘cause he laughs whenever anybody else does.)  

Max frowns again, pouting as her eyebrows knit together. She thinks hard for a minute, then goes stiff as a board, eyes getting bigger and bigger until they take up half her face. Then she jerks her head up to gawk at Steve. 

… Annnnnnd Steve’s still clueless. “No, seriously. I don’t get it.” He does a weak shrug. “What does that mean?”

“Oh, boy.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Robin turning around so her back’s facing the rest of the room. That’s the same shit she does whenever something’s so embarrassing, she can’t stand watching it. Wait, why is she doing that? What the fuck are “happy screams”?

Henderson starts cracking up with El and Arnie, finally doubling over as Hargrove strolls out into the living room and casually flicks Dustin’s hat off his head. Max is still rubbernecking, but now she’s doing it to Steve and Hargrove, and Steve can’t tell if she’s in shock or about to hurl thanks to whatever’s going through her head. Sinclair’s just as stumped as Steve is, eyes darting from Max, to Dustin, to Robin, and Steve’s about to say screw it, and just ask what’s so goddamn funny, when Hargrove creeps up behind him and slings an arm around his waist. 

“Alright, Harrington.” 

Steve turns on instinct, because he’s confused, man! He doesn’t see it coming—not by a long shot, and especially not in front of Robin and the rest of the mouth breathers. But the second Steve faces Hargrove, the jackass makes his move. He cups the back of Steve’s head, yanks him forward, and plants one on him before Steve’s got a chance to stop it.

Steve flings himself backwards, choking on his own spit, face neon red and burning hot. He looks over, even though he’s screaming at himself not to, in time to see Max and Lucas’s jaws hit the floor. El and Henderson start busting a gut, and Hargrove chuckles again, like Steve’s reaction was every bit as priceless as he hoped it’d be.

Then he shoots a finger gun at Steve with a chck. 

“Let’s get that bed frame set up.” 

Notes:

Well, this is it. I know it’s short, but I hope you all enjoyed the ending. Wrapping this story up—that is to say, posting the final chapter—has been more difficult than I ever pictured it being. I may have teared up a little… 😭 I never pictured this fic becoming such a massively important part of my life, and it’s hard to let go. But I’m really looking forward to hearing your thoughts and, of course, whether there are any moments you’d like to see explored in future snippets from this universe. I already have a lot of one-shots written up, and I’ve begun working on a sequel fic, so really, it’s not goodbye—just "see you later"! 🫂

With that… thank you all, from the very bottom of my heart, for reading. 💖