Chapter Text
Growing up, Eddie had never been so naive as to think he’d live a long and fulfilling life; not with his rotten genetics and tainted blood. The Munson name only seals his fate, hammering the final nail in the coffin with a fuck you for good measure. Clearly the majority of Hawkins is inclined to agree too, seeing as more than enough of them were willing to bring the prophecy to fruition.
So, as he laid on the cold hard ground in a sea of limp bats, he wasn’t surprised that he was dying before seeing twenty. The monsters and alternate dimension were a curveball, sure. But that’s not to say it didn’t feel right as his heartbeat slowed and his vision went dark. Eddie knew, deep down in the bones that were knitted through with his father’s DNA, that the Munsons aren’t underdogs. And they sure as hell aren’t the heroes.
He couldn’t help being disappointed, though. That he didn’t prove the bigots and assholes wrong, that he didn’t find some potential buried deep under the trailer park mud and trash. That he was gonna become a statistic just like his father.
He was, however, surprised when his death didn’t stick.
After the world faded to black and he was ready to be dragged down to hell (or up, depending on the mechanics of the Upside Down, because let’s be honest, that’s the only way he’s going up) he caught glimpses. Things that you shouldn’t see after you’re dead and cold.
Like terrified faces yelling words he couldn’t hear. Like the backseat of a dark car that smelled like copper and rot. Like fluorescent lights rolling overhead and so much white that he felt blinded. And a whir of strange faces that came into focus before something pricked his arm.
After that, he didn’t see anything.
Eddie’s learned to hate the quiet.
In his nineteen years of living he’s developed a staunch preference for all things blaring and pulsing; loud enough to make your ears ring in a way that flirted with permanent damage.
Silence unnerves him. It makes his skin crawl and turns his thoughts into pointed sharp assailants under its unforgiving pressure. He would take a deafening club over a stifled chapel any day.
Except for today.
Today, he wants to take whatever is making that banging noise and snap its neck . It burrows into his eardrums like a chisel to the skull, roughly yanking him out of unconsciousness and to the land of the living with a migraine to boot.
His eyes are too heavy to move, but the burning in his side pulses to the beat of the pounding. His body is dead weight, practically foreign to him as his mind rolls over like an engine trying to start, disconnected from his useless corporeal frame.
He’s so goddamn tired. He wants to pull the oblivion back over him like a warm blanket and leave all things living far behind. Useless, though, this proves to be. Once his mind is awake it’s nearly impossible to shut off. For him sleeping has never been the problem, falling asleep however is a battle he must fight every night with little victories to show for it.
He peaks an eyelid open but the bright light is nearly more assaulting than the noise. He squeezes his eyes closed once more only to hiss at the way his skin pulls, all taut and no longer able to stretch as it once did.
Suddenly opting to avoid the unpleasant task of rousing his body, Eddie instead finds himself wondering why Wayne is making so much noise when he should be knocked out cold and, probably more pressing, why everything hurts. It takes effort for Eddie to flip through his rolodex of memories of the night prior and he only succeeds in dredging up brief flashes, imprints of images from his mind’s muddy bog. Context slipping through his fingers like water, offering only a trickle of the larger picture. Of a guitar like a beacon against a red streaked sky. Of flimsy shields and a makeshift rope. Of a swarm of bats, swathing his vision in darkness.
Pain. He remembered the pain as the bats tried to tear their way in.
And Dustin, tears carving down his face as he said goodbye.
Eddie should be dead, that much is clear. But he isn’t, at least he doesn’t think so. Which begs the question, how the fuck— ?
He takes a wheezing breath, which proves to be difficult with the fat fucking frog in his throat, and braces himself before opening his eyes once more.
His vision is nothing but a blurry haze, revealing only unidentifiable blobs and figures; it feels like he’s staring at a living Rorschach test instead of the world . Once again the sun pierces his eyes with enough force to slash his corneas, nearly distracting him from the muffled voices floating around him. Does he have cotton in his ears as well as his mouth?
He barely registers movement on his left, a shadow passing through the light. Lolling his head to the side, he wars with his sight, eyelids flapping like a hummingbird, until finally the edges of his vision hone and the outlines sharpen.
He’s horizontal (unless there’s a new dimension called the Sideways), dumped on something lumpy and uncomfortable. Sunlight filters in through uneven slats in the wall, on the other side of which figures are moving and the light splays across a rickety table that is rusted to all hell with a backdrop of chipped wood paneling. It takes him a moment to realize he’s staring at a partially boarded up window, the last slab being slotted into place as the banging resumes, echoing through the desolate room.
All at once Eddie notices the open door—the most offensive source of blinding light—with a man standing at its threshold, backlit by the gleaming white sun. Skittish by nature (and nurture, now that he thinks about it), Eddie would’ve jumped if his lethargic body could have mustered the energy. As it stands he can barely lift his head.
He squints at the features that make up his visitor, unable to place the buzzed head and stubbled face, comprehension dancing just out of reach. He has to tread through the viscous and thick molasses of his thoughts, making slow and strenuous progress to piece together who he’s looking at.
It isn’t until the man speaks that Eddie realizes he can hear past the hammering, no longer feeling as though his head is submerged underwater.
“I used to think it’d be a blessing if I never had the misfortune of seeing you again, kid.” The man comes to his side, kneeling down with a ratty baseball cap crushed between his hands. “But I have to admit, I’m pretty damn happy to have your ass taking up space on my couch. Alive, even.”
All the clues suddenly converge as Hopper lays a heavy but gentle hand on Eddie’s shoulder.
“Aw, chief,” his uncooperative fat tongue slurs his words, “when’d you get so sentimental?” It sounds more like a cacophony of consonants than a real sentence, but from the smile that spreads across Hopper’s face, he gets the gist.
“I’ve been working on it. Turns out life is short.”
Remnants of flashing lights paired with deafening sirens push to the forefront of his mind. Of helicopters flying overhead while smoke billowed angrily in the distance, of a packed and somber funeral that was so stuffy it made Eddie claustrophobic. He’s pretty sure the chief should be six feet under right now.
“Aren’t you dead?”
Hopper sucks on his teeth. “Didn’t stick. I hear we have that in common.”
Before Eddie can untangle the meaning of that, fast, and uneven, clomping feet pound their way up wooden stairs and into the room. Dustin stands in the doorway, a boot on his foot with his curls mussed and chest heaving, paired with a slightly disheveled Steve Harrington hovering behind him.
“Finally!” Henderson shouts before barreling past Hopper—who politely removes himself from the room—and all but throws himself at Eddie’s bed—couch?—side while still holding himself back, just barely. “Are you really awake?”
Eddie pats down his body. “I think so?”
“Good. You’re a piece of shit, you know that?”
“Uh–”
“That sucked. Like, it sucked ass you doing that.” His eyes narrow into hard lines but it doesn’t hide the fact that they’re red rimmed and glassy. Eddie’s eyes sting a little in solidarity. “You’re not allowed to do that, like ever again. There’s no shame in running , huh? What the fuck is wrong with you?” His voice wobbles and something in Eddie’s chest shatters.
“I’d die for one of my sheep any day, Henderson.” He places a fond hand on Dustin’s cheek, wiping away a tear that breaks loose. Miraculously, Dustin doesn’t shove him off.
“What’d I just say, Eddie?” Dustin chides. “I forbid it. You have to promise, got it? Promise .” He’s demanding as ever, but Eddie doesn’t find himself in a position to refuse. Not with the way Dustin’s face is twisted in grief.
“Promise.” Eddie holds up his pinky but Dustin ignores it in favor of throwing himself at Eddie in a crushing, if not awkward, hug. It’s unexpected (although it shouldn’t be given Dustin’s sentimental proclivities) and jarring enough that Eddie makes a noise of pain, his wounded body protesting even as he longs to squeeze the kid back, just as hard, to confirm that he’s alive and safe.
Immediately, Dustin pulls away, face white.
“ Shit — sorry! Sorry. I forgot.”
Steve steps forward, pulling Dustin back by the shoulder. “He looks like he’s been through a meat grinder, genius. Be gentle.” The intent warms Eddie’s heart even if the observation is less than ideal. Steve meets his eyes with a look that communicates something to the effect of this kid .
Eddie attempts a laugh but the answering spasm in his chest is sharp enough to make the sound break off. “I missed you, Henderson.” He knocks back Dustin’s hat. “Just a little worse for wear at the moment, is all.”
Steve raises an eyebrow, even as the corners of his mouth curve up. “I told you not to be a hero, Munson. You have the listening skills of a toddler. Or Dustin.”
“I heard that .”
“Good to see you too, Harrington. Hope you didn’t cry over me too much.”
Something flashes behind Steve’s eyes, stormy and volatile, and his mouth pulls taut. “Not too much. My back might be fucked for good, though. You know, for being all gangly limbs you’re heavier than you look.”
Eddie wants to retort but his pathetic brain keeps getting tripped up on one specific revelation, a table scrap for his poor and starving heart, salivating at the arteries. “You carried me?”
Harrington puts his hands on his hips, the stance oozing with a sass and bitchiness that Eddie pretends not to lap up even as he wants to take a picture, pin it to his wall, turn it into a shrine, maybe. “How’d you think you got out? You were dead weight in Dustin’s arms.” Henderson flinches, Eddie will have to apologize for that again later.
He shrugs, ignoring how it sends pins and needles down his arms. “Dunno, kinda just thought it was divine intervention. Like some benevolent being saw I’d become satan’s chew toy and finally took pity.”
“I don’t think the Upside Down has, like, Glinda the Good Witch or something.”
Eddie doesn’t ask if that’s who Steve considers to be a divine being, but he’s tempted.
“Does that make you hay for brains or tin heart?” They all know who the Cowardly Lion is. Even has the mane to match.
“Dorothy,” Steve says easily.
The image of Steve in a gingham dress and ruby heels is almost enough to derail Eddie’s train of thought completely, luckily the absurdity of it is much more grounding. With a conspiratorial smile, and still not feeling like he has all his wits about him, Eddie points a loopy finger at Henderson.
“Toto.”
The puppy scowls.
Steve’s smile is worth the earful he’ll surely get later. It’s small and slightly tapered, as if Steve is trying to hold back, but Eddie swears he sees gummy pink and twinkling teeth. It refracts in his eye and makes the world burn white.
“Eddie!”
The freshly cracked voice pulls their attention to a slightly tanner Mike with a rare smile on his face and a new tension coiling through his usually somber shoulders. Over his shoulder Eddie spots a new face, one that is pinched with eyes darting between Mike and the rest of them, not to mention the unfortunate bowl cut. Eddie nearly hums in sympathy, remembering all the times his mom used to come at him with the scissors, pleading to let her try one more time—he always regretted it. Her shoddy styling skills were still better than his father with the razor, but not by much.
“You look like shit,” Mike says in that overly transparent voice of his.
“How sweet of you to say, Wheeler. I hope your vacation sucked.”
Mike snorts. “That depends, how do you rate getting shot at by feds and burying a body in the desert?” Eddie’s not in the proper headspace to fully absorb that so he offers a noncommittal hum of solidarity.
Mike comes to join them by the couch and his friend follows behind with light, hesitant steps, looking like he’d melt into the walls if he could. Unfortunately for him, Mike won’t let him. He snags the kid’s sleeve and tugs him ever so gently forward.
“This is Will. He came back with—”
“ The Will?” Eddie breaks in.
While before this year Eddie had known little about the kid outside of the infamous zombie boy , Mike made sure to change that by waxing poetic about little Byers almost as much as he moped about his elusive girlfriend. In fact, all the boys talked about Will often, acting as if he’d just stepped out to take a leak rather than having moved across the country. Mike, though, was in a league of his own. Nary a conversation could be had that he couldn't fit Byers into. Gareth had started proposing that they turn it into a drinking game—like Gareth could handle anything more than one lite beer.
“Yes?” The poor kid sounds even more timid than he looks. But Eddie recognizes that look in his eye, the one that betrays how he’s been hunted, some vulnerability easily sniffed out by others that he can’t ascertain himself.
“It’s an honor to finally meet you, Will the Wise. I’ve heard many great things.” Eddie does a jesterly wave seeing as he’s not in a position to bow, although he does try to imbue as much reverence in his hoarse voice as possible so the kid knows he isn’t being mocked. From all that he’s heard (against his will and repeatedly) he’s sure they’d get along like a house on fire, but the last thing he wants is to make the kid retreat further into his shell.
Will’s cheeks flush pink, eyes darting down to Wheeler by the couch and back.
“You have?”
“Everything short of sonnets sung in your name, but if you’d stayed away for any longer I’m sure those wouldn’t have been far behind. You’re a DM, right?”
“I– kind of. Well. I used to, before…”
“He’s the best,” Mike says, ignoring the look Dustin gives him, but Eddie’s not offended. You never forget your first, right? “He led us through, like, hundreds of campaigns and sometimes would even draw out the scenes for us. It was fucking awsome.”
Sonnets, as Eddie said.
Will’s face is even redder and his arms are folding in on himself, unsure what to do with the praise and so opting to disappear.
“Color me impressed, Sir Wise. I’ve never had much of an artistic hand myself, my drawings were always indecipherable, my writing’s worse. Hellfire could use some artistic flare, though. You’ll be able to take it in whatever direction you want when you take over.”
Will stands up straighter, momentarily forgetting his Houdini act. “Of Hellfire? Me?”
“Wait, where are you going?” Dustin’s voice is panicked enough that Eddie feels a prick of guilt, even if it’s just the kid being an idiot.
“Graduating, hopefully. Or were you lying about it being my year, Henderson?”
Dustin sags in relief, the fight going out of him as quickly as it came. “Just forgot you’d have to leave.”
Eddie lightly smacks down the bill of his hat, despite his arm feeling like it’s made of concrete. “Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be stuck in this town for a while yet.”
“Don’t sound so excited,” says a new voice, more lighthearted than he’s ever heard it.
Nancy walks into the room like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders. She still looks a little spent, tired beyond her years, but there’s no longer that anxiety coiling throughout her frame. She seems different, freer maybe. But she has so many walls up it’s hard to be sure. Close on her heels is Jonathan Byers.
Eddie’s probably never said more than two words to the guy. They’re both outcasts, sure, but losers of different flavors. He looks pretty much the same, apart from the longer hair and exhaustion sunken down in his face, but there’s a way he stands now. Less skittish, like a rat running for his hole, and more solid. Like he’s got a better foothold on his place in the world. But maybe that’s just the Nancy Wheeler effect.
“Save your tears. When I’m rich and famous, you can be my bodyguard.” Eddie shoots finger guns at her and even though she rolls her eyes, a small smile graces her face all the same. “Byers.”
Jonathan’s wave is lackluster, but Eddie’s never seen him be anything but. The way his gaze tracks over Eddie’s body with poorly concealed curiosity makes him feel like a mummy on display.
The way he’s laid out is eerily similar to a corpse in an open casket, he’s even got a line beginning to queue for the visitation, ready to pay their respects. Eddie can’t say he enjoys it.
Despite the fact that he hasn’t bothered to take inventory of his current state—too scared of what he’ll find (or won’t find, more likely)—Eddie braces his arms on the cushion, grits his teeth, and attempts to heave himself up with a core strength he’s never once in his life possessed.
He should expect the pain that lights like a flare under his skin, sparking from head to toe, but he doesn’t and so it knocks the wind out of him with a pathetic wheeze.
“Woah, man. Take it easy, would you?” Steve’s warm hand settles on Eddie’s shoulder, his touch melting through cotton and flesh, straight down to Eddie’s bones.
Eddie sags back against the cushion. “Didn’t think… sitting… would require… herculean strength.” It’s difficult to bring his lungs back under control, but as soon as he does he motions for Steve to help him up.
“You were like, regurgitated, dude,” Mike points out, kinda making Eddie want to grab him by the mullet and shake .
But then Steve’s hands are sliding down his biceps, gently guiding Eddie up into a sitting position like a doll, and it’s hard to focus on anything other than his sure touch. Steve even helps him reposition his legs so that his feet are planted on the debris ridden floor. Eddie wants to soak up the contact, but the discomfort of moving makes him wince and by the time he’s resettled he’s thoroughly winded.
Unable to muster the energy for a retort, Eddie settles for flipping the kid off and dropping his head back against the couch.
He needs a nap. Or a smoke. Hell, maybe just a warm bowl of soup.
“Do you want some water?” Nancy asks.
When Eddie cracks open an eye he sees a crease between her brows and a worried weight to her lips. Eddie wants to wave her off, tell her not waste any of that precious brain power over his well being—he’s not the only one who’s suffered this past week—but dammit if his throat isn’t drier than kindling.
“If you’re offering.”
With a nod Nancy disappears into the small kitchen and is back in what feels like a blink. He gives her what he hopes is an appreciative smile but feels more like a grimace. The water is warm with a slightly unusual flavor but it feels so good against his sore throat that he almost moans.
Eddie hasn’t even set the cup down when Hopper walks in, wiping an old rag on his hands.
“Got the water back on. But with how long it’d been shut off, I’d wait a while before using it.”
Nancy’s hair swishes as she whips to look at Eddie, face twisted into an apologetic wince. With the luck he’s had as of late (i.e. his whole life) Eddie can’t be bothered to do more than just accept it. He’s survived a witch hunt, a wizard on an ego trip, and bats of the demonic variant, ingesting a little metal or dirt can’t hurt too much.
Mike’s the one to snicker. “Too late.” This time Eddie does shove him over with his foot.
Hopper sighs. “Next time, let it run for a couple minutes, ‘kay?”
Eddie looks away from Mike feebly picking himself off the ground, huffing all the while, to give the chief a lazy salute. That’s when he notices the two strangers standing behind him.
“Oh. Uh, hi.”
The middle aged woman with a pinched face and kind eyes offers him a tired smile. “Hello, honey. It’s Eddie, right?”
Eddie can’t help but hesitate. Logically he knows she must be part of their rag-tag team and not just some loon who wandered in out of the woods, but with considering recent events you can’t be too sure.
“Yeah,” he draws out the word long enough that it sounds like a question.
For some reason that makes Jonathan snap out of whatever haze it’s clear he’s been living in lately. “That’s our mom, Will’s and mine.”
“You can call me Joyce.”
Eddie’s tripped up, just slightly. He has very limited experience with mothers. “I was under the impression this was a no adults allowed group.” He ignores Hopper’s sour expression.
Jonathan shrugs, some of his hackles raised. “She saved Will back… you know.”
“You should’ve seen what she did with the Christmas lights,” Dustin adds. “It was so cool.”
Joyce shares a look with Will and reaches out to pat down his hair. It’s so maternal Eddie has to look away.
“I would say I’m sad to have missed it, but.” The rational part of Eddie wishes he could have missed all of it. It’s his secret sentimentality and new insider status that muddy the waters.
He looks over Joyce’s shoulder and spots a girl hovering close by. Her head is shaved and, despite the weariness in her eyes, her stare is intense enough to make Eddie shrink back, just a little. He’s not one to be leery of little girls, but she’s more intimidating than just about anyone he’s ever met.
“And you are…?”
“That’s El. She stopped Vecna,” Mike says with no short amount of awe in his voice.
So this was their guardian angel. Eddie reevaluates her, the severe look on her face and the defiant set to her shoulders.
Yeah, she’s the coolest person he’s ever seen. She looks like she walked straight out of a comic book.
Eddie tips an imaginary top hat. “Pleased to meet your acquaintance, your excellency. I hear you’re our living saint.” He would’ve bowed but he’s not sure some of his intestines wouldn’t slip out. It feels like he’s held together by some glue and a wish right about now.
“You played the guitar,” El says, steady and matter of fact. “It was loud.” Eddie snorts and it pulls unpleasantly on something of the internal variety.
“Careful, you’re starting to sound like my neighbor. And that’s not a glowing comparison. She’s got bunions and a mean mug like you wouldn’t believe.”
El tilts her head. “What are… bunions?”
Eddie waves her off. “Best not to know. So you can do the whole,” he gestures to his head, “thing, right?”
El nods.
“Fucking metal. Thanks, um, for your service or whatever.”
Steve snickers from where he’s leaning against the couch and Eddie’s face heats. What the hell else are you supposed to say to a child supersoldier that’s saved the world time and time again?
“I like to help. Only the bad men should die.” El’s voice has little inflection but there’s enough raw intent behind the words that Eddie can feel her sincerity.
Well damn. “Right on, kid.”
Hopper pulls up a chair from the table and sits down across from Eddie, who sits back a little, not liking where this is going.
“We got some things to go over,” he grumbles in that no-nonsense way of his.
“Wait, I think we’re missing some bodies.” Even with the extra faces the party is still missing a few. “Where’s Sinclaire and Mayfield?”
“Max is in the hospital,” Dustin blurts like the words don’t make the ground sway beneath Eddie’s feet.
“Is she—?” He can’t even finish the thought. Red, with her bitter fire and stubborn nature, Eddie can’t imagine that light extinguished. He didn’t talk to her much before the world ended, but he used to nod to her across the way, exchange a few words here and there. He watched out for her, from a distance. Dropping off a pizza when her mom had been pissed for a week straight. Offering her a ride when she woke up late. She’d declined.
In a way, Eddie had come to think of her as his looking glass into the past. Lives similar enough that they pressed on old wounds, only everything was shifted slightly to the left. If he made it out but she didn’t, only one of them real and the other reflection, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself, looking out at a future that should have been hers.
The panic must be written clear as day over Eddie’s face because Mike smacks Dustin upside the head. Steve puts a hand between the two when Dustin makes to slap him back.
“She’s gonna be okay,” Steve clarifies and Eddie’s heart dares to start beating again, sent into overdrive to make up for the lost seconds. “A little beat up, a couple broken bones, but the doctors said it’ll be a full recovery. Lucas is with her.”
“Barely left her side in three days,” Dustin specifies.
“Three—?” Eddie shakes his head. “Have I been out that long?”
“They had you on the strong stuff at the lab. You were super disoriented.” Dustin says it like that explains anything.
“The lab,” Eddie repeats slowly. They only told him about one lab during their borderline incoherent debrief in the boathouse, but certainly the sadistic, human-experiment running, responsible for multiple deaths and coverups, government sanctioned lab is not the one they took him to in his hour of need. When no one jumps in to clarify, Eddie stresses, “ The lab?”
“There’s only one,” Mike points out, ever helpful.
“Hello!”
“We had to take you somewhere.” Dustin’s voice slips easily into more patronizing waters. Eddie grits his teeth.
“And there wasn’t anywhere—?”
“The hospital was a no-go, obviously . Where else is there, the vet?”
Eddie doesn’t say it, but a rabies shot probably would’ve been a good idea.
“There was no other option, Eddie,” Nancy soothes, sympathetic but unapologetic.
“After Steve lugged you out of the Upside Down—” Dustin starts.
“I didn’t lug ,” Steve pipes in but Dustin ignores him.
“—you were bleeding, like everywhere. You didn’t stick to the plan , which meant we had to do some quick thinking. And you’re not dead, so. You’re welcome.”
“They weren’t very happy to see us,” Nancy adds. “But we threw Owen’s name around and that got us through the door at least.”
“It was crazy in there. You should’ve seen it, Eddie. They were running around like ants.” Dustin makes scurrying motions with his hands.
“Running…?”
“They’re shutting it down. Like for good,” Steve explains. “Apparently Hawkins is dead weight and they’re finally cutting us loose. They only agreed to stitch you up, make sure you stabilized, then we were on our own.”
“Generous,” Eddie hums.
“As if this isn’t all their fault. Be thankful you were unconscious, though. That nurse had a mean hand.” Steve rubs at his abdomen with a grimace.
A laugh bubbles in Eddie’s throat, delirious and strained. “Guess being a sneeze away from death has a perk or two.”
“Back on topic—” Hopper starts.
“Hold on. And is that what happened to my clothes, then?” He looks down at the drab sweatsuit he’s wearing. The gray sweatshirt and matching pants are thinner than cotton ought to be.
“They, um, had to cut your clothes off of you.” Steve gives him a conciliatory smile.
“They were basically glued to your skin with all the blood. I hope you didn’t like that shirt, they threw all the pieces away.” Dustin pats his arm.
Eddie can’t even picture what he was wearing so evidently it wasn’t that important. Still, even with the gopher holes in his memory he feels a sense of loss. Not even left with the clothes on his back, damn.
At least they didn’t cut off his hair.
Inadvertently his eyes find El, then slide away guiltily.
“You know you can’t go back home, hm?” Hopper says, officially hijacking the conversation.
“I’m not an idiot,” Eddie snarks but Hopper makes a face like he begs to differ.
“Not just because of the killings. The trailer park isn’t what it was.”
“Yeah…” Dustin begins, slow and tentative. “It’s kind of, like, gone. Your trailer. Swallowed, technically. By the earthquake Vecna started.”
Ice freezes in Eddie’s veins. “Wayne?”
“He’s fine,” Steve assures and Eddie nearly passes out from relief. “Good, uh, as he can be, you know? He’s worried about you.”
Eddie nods, feeling disconnected from his body. “And Vecna. Is he…?”
“Dead? Hell yeah. Flayed alive,” Dustin grins with an enthusiasm that was honestly a little worrying. “Steve molotov’d him.”
Eddie glances over at Harrington with raised eyebrows. First the bat, now this? Eddie’s really gotta reevaluate his preconceptions if the King is full of this many surprises. Steve holds his hands up like it’s an accusation, somehow missing the tone of admiration that coated Dustin’s words.
“I just threw the thing. Nancy was the one who lit into him with the shotgun.”
Nancy rolls her eyes all humble, but Eddie sees the twinkle of satisfaction in them. “Not hard to shoot someone point-blank.”
“Still badass.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” she says demurely.
Eddie glances at Jonathan to see if he’s picking up a vibe, but the guy’s not batting an eye, gaze focused on his mom, who’s murmuring something to Hopper. Eddie can’t tell if his indifference is a good or bad sign, but based on the way it makes something in his stomach twist he opts to push it from his mind.
Eddie goes to twist the ring on his left hand, a habit many years old, only to find it empty. He glances down in a frown before remembering the vultures at the lab took all of his shit. He curses under his breath, somehow that small revelation is nearly the thing to push him over the edge. Pinching the bridge of his nose he wills away the sting behind his eyes and tries to focus on the problem at hand.
“I can’t go home.”
With a nod from Hopper, Joyce slips out the room, beckoning Nancy and El to follow her, and he returns his attention to Eddie. “No. And you shouldn’t be in public until we get this all taken care of.”
“So what, I’m supposed to camp out in the woods like a fugitive? Again?”
It’s a douse of ice water. Ignoring semantics and his life’s unsympathetic track record, Eddie had, somewhere in the back of his mind, been soothing the constant stream of existential panic with the quiet promise that if he just made it through this things would go back to the way they were before. To Wayne and their crappy one room trailer, to Hellfire and their overly intense campaigns, to the band and their consistently low turn out.
But that’s all gone. Of course it is, he was stupid to ever hope otherwise. He’s Hawkins’ new boogeyman. A serial killer convicted in the court of public opinion. Nothing was ever going to be the same and his reward for living—for dying —is ripped out of his hands before he even gets the chance to grab on.
“You’ll stay here, lying low.” Hopper draws Eddie’s focus, his voice reserved and stable, safe from the emotions crowding Eddie’s mind. “Just for a few days while I work on getting the charges dropped.”
Eddie thinks he nods, he can’t be sure. His head might not even be attached to his body anymore.
“You’ll need someone to stay with you.” The words are matter of fact and shuts down any attempt to argue. Hopper gestures to Eddie’s body, severely battered with more bandages showing than skin, which, okay, point taken.
“And who will have the good fortune of being appointed my keeper?”
It takes only a brief look around the room to conclude the list of potentials is short.
The kids are out immediately, not even awarded a consideration despite Dustin’s adamant protests to the contrary. Eddie wouldn’t trust the little shits to feed his goldfish, much less nurse him back to health, and he makes that opinion known.
“Dustin kept a mini demogorgon as a pet and let it eat his cat,” Steve offers as further proof.
“Wrong! I didn’t let Dart eat Mews, he did it behind my back. It was an accident . And Dart saved our lives, if you’ll remember.”
“No, you just distracted him from eating our faces off with nougat,” Mike grumbles.
“Yeah, so a resounding no, then,” Eddie decides.
And there’d be nothing quite as humiliating as having a fourteen year old become his guardian. Repeating senior year three times and having pubescents make up the majority of his friend group is bad enough, no need to keep stomping until his pride is fully squashed. Plus there’s the simple fact that none of the kid’s parents will let them out of their sight for more than two hours. Which eliminates a large chunk of their group as the same stands for Nancy and, according to Steve, Robin, who wasn’t even able to get clearance to leave her house today.
The only natural progression has the name Byers being thrown around and while Eddie’s existed in parallel if not intersecting circles with them for years, he’s not sure how he feels about being burdened onto near strangers like a baby found in their trash. Eddie shouldn’t be so quick to turn up his nose considering they very well could be the only thing keeping him from a pyre or the streets, but he’s always been prone to discontentment. It runs in his blood, wanting more, wanting that which is not meant for him, even as he’s denied it again and again.
Ungrateful as it is, Eddie can’t help but feel a little relieved when their name comes and goes, Jonathan having to take their hat out of the ring.
“We’re flying out tomorrow night to pack up what’s left in California.” He offers Eddie an apologetic shrug, but it is what it is.
That leaves them right back at square one, brainstorming options except for the fact that no one else is left.
Dustin looks at Hopper. “You have experience hiding runaways.”
“My hands are already full getting him out of the electric chair.” Eddie feels nauseous. “And come back to life myself.” The look he levels on Eddie is unsurprisingly guilt-free and final. “Sorry, kid.”
Eddie waves him off. “Shacking up with a pig wouldn’t be a good look for me anyway. I’d probably get the shit kicked out of me for that alone, everything else notwithstanding.”
“So what do we do? He can’t stay alone .” Dustin’s fretful in a way that Eddie finds faintly infantilizing.
Before Eddie can open his mouth to point out that he can actually take care of himself believe it or not, Steve raises his hand. “I can do it.”
The words die on Eddie’s tongue. His eyes bounce between Dustin and Hopper, each offering their own expressions of blatant skepticism.
“You?” Dustin repeats.
“Sure. Why not?” Steve’s eyebrows furrow.
“You’ll have to hole up in the cabin for days. Possibly a week,” Hopper clarifies.
“I could use a break. I’ve been taking care of the gremlins for years, how different can it be?”
“I’m not a child,” Eddie feels the need to point out. He doesn’t need a babysitter. Someone to help him stand and maybe ferry him to the can for a leak, sure, but not a nanny . He would be offended if not for the faint surprise that Steve is volunteering at all.
“You’re kind of like a big kid. It’s why you get along so well with Dustin.”
Eddie doesn’t bother defending himself seeing as it’s probably true. Dustin, however, is affronted. “I’m super mature for my age, thank you very much.”
“Your bedtime is ten o’clock sharp.” Steve crosses his arms.
“It’s eleven now!” Dustin’s voice always raises three octaves when he’s defensive. “ And this is Hawkins for God’s sake. It’s not my fault my mom cares about me.”
Steve flinches. It’s a slight, subtle movement. Barely a twitch, just nerves jolting up his neck. But Eddie notices.
He watches for any other quirks. Any tells that will grant him a glimpse at the cards Harrington always holds so close to his chest. But his mask doesn’t crack again, his aloof demeanor slipping back into place with well practiced ease, his hand tucked away once more.
“You’re such a mama’s boy.” Steve rolls his eyes. “Point is, I can do it.”
Hopper sucks on his teeth. “You sure you’re up for it?”
“Aren’t you, like, concussed or something?” Mike asks.
“The scientist lady said I was fine.”
“You still should’ve gone to a real hospital,” Dustin says in what sounds like an old argument. Apparently the lab is more than satisfactory for Eddie but not up to snuff for the likes of a Harrington. Eddie bites his lip to keep from saying something petty and taunting considering the guy is offering to help him right now.
Eddie has a bad history with gift horses.
“There was no point. It’s barely a few scrapes.”
“You’ve got stitches, right?” Hopper asks.
Steve adjusts his shirt as if trying to hide the evidence. “Just a couple here and there. Doesn’t matter. They’re not even infected anymore.”
Eddie doesn’t see how that is in any way encouraging, but Steve offers it up like a get out of jail free card.
Mike, for some reason, is the one who digs his heels in. “You can’t even win a fight. How will you protect him against a mob?”
Eddie’s face scrunches imaging homicidal protestants hiding in the trees, ready to tear him limb from limb. He wonders for the first time just how isolated Hopper’s cabin is.
“I can protect him fine! I kept you shitheads alive more than once, and that was in active danger.”
“You got yourself beat up, Steve. Multiple times,” Dustin says sagely. “Not the same.”
Steve puts an indignant hand on his hip. “You didn’t get hurt, did you?” Dustin weighs his head back and forth, but he doesn’t have a counter argument. Steve throws an arm out, overly smug. “Exactly!”
Hopper looks at Eddie, like he has the final say, as if there’s any other option available. Even if there was, Eddie’s not sure he would choose it. Insufferable as King Steve was back in the day, his reign has long come to an end and standing before Eddie now is a man in desperate need to be useful, who clearly thinks of himself as disposable. Who also evidently employs a no man left behind mentality to his own detriment and has a way of disarming Eddie with just a few words.
If given the chance to choose, Eddie has a feeling he wouldn’t have been strong enough to ignore the Harrington pull. Not with the way a single look can make Eddie’s heart hopscotch in his chest. Eddie was already pathetic when Steve was nothing more than a godlike piece of shit, to be appreciated and longed for from a distance, lest you wanted your nose broken. However, the revelations brought upon by recent events (i.e. the fact that Steve has a soft spot for ungrateful kids, and is more than half-decent, and has a bleeding heart too big for his chest) has only further complicated Eddie’s feelings.
Really, it’s not a choice at all, not when Steve is placed before him, within reach, just asking to be taken hold of.
“Got a nurse's uniform under that polo?” Eddie asks by way of answer.
Steve’s chuckle is unexpected but soft and Eddie swears he hears a breath of relief within it.
“All right, kid. If you’re up for it,” Hopper relents.
Steve’s eyes find Eddie’s and a small, wholesome smile spreads across his face. If Eddie didn’t know any better he’d say Steve was looking forward to their forced exile. Dangerous feelings flutter in Eddie’s gut and if he was a stronger man he’d run off into the woods, away from the man who elicited them and the heartbreak they foretell. But Eddie’s weak and he’s stupid, so he ignores the warning signs cautioning harm and emotional mutilation. Munsons never have been known for their self-preservation.
Hopper delves into logistics, orders about windows and daylight that Eddie tunes out in favor of attempting to not get ahead of himself. Eddie may be sarcastic more than he is serious and operate under a healthy dose of cynicism, but really, at his core, he’s a hopeless romantic.
Wayne’s the only one who’s figured it out and Eddie hasn’t known peace since. Maybe it’s growing up in the sticks covered in the mud of the lower class with a lineage that can be considered more of a rap sheet, but the draw of idealism has its hooks in him, pulling him along, sometimes letting his feet lift off the ground.
It’s definitely gotten him in more trouble than it's worth, encouraging him to make the same mistakes again and again expecting different results, but he’s never been able to kick it. Sometimes he thinks it’s the last bit he has of his mother left in him, but maybe that’s just him getting carried away again. Painting the shit of his life in shades of rose and calling it art, labeling it misunderstood. As if that will change its nature.
Still, he isn’t surprised when he can’t wrangle his mind enough to keep it from wandering to greener pastures, where he can find daydreams of Steve in a nurse’s uniform with an indulging smile and soft touches. The dutiful caretaker that waits on him hand and foot, maybe even offering a sponge bath or two.
Maybe Eddie should ask Nancy to shoot him.
At least in years past Eddie’s romanticism was kept in check by the reality of Steve. His royal status and douchebaggery made him unattainable and honestly unlikable, which allowed Eddie to take solace in the fact that his infatuation was based purely on lust and an overactive imagination.
Now, though. Now Steve is attainable, in some respects. Maybe not romantically, but he’s sure as hell here in the flesh, sharing trauma and smiles with Eddie. Hell they might even be friends now, which is possibly the most unbelievable part of this whole thing. And to top it all off, Steve’s not who he used to be.
Which means that Eddie’s previously simple, egregiously sinful feelings have now full garden bloomed into the complicated matters of the heart.
If Eddie had better common sense this development would make him put his guard up and establish fresh boundaries, but as it stands the addicting thrill it sends up his spine only acts as incentive.
He watches Steve, the face he makes when he’s listening intently. The slight downturn of his lips when Hopper says something condescending and vaguely insulting. His hands on his hips, fingers digging into the denim that Eddie wishes he could reach out and touch, a belt loop that’s just begging to be tugged. His hair, big and stupid with a strand falling over his eyes just so, making Eddie’s fingers itch.
Yeah. He doesn’t stand a chance.
“I got it, alright.” Steve ticks off his fingers, “Don’t let Eddie die, keep the doors locked, and don’t go outside. Message received loud and clear, Hop.” His voice is bitchy enough that Eddie has to bite down on his lip to keep from smiling.
“Don’t do anything stupid,” Hopper warns.
“You can trust me. Jesus.” Steve’s mouth presses into an indignant firm line.
Before Hopper can respond, Joyce returns with Nancy and El behind her.
“Tripwire’s all set up,” she says, brushing off her hands.
Eddie narrows his eyes. “The—?”
Dustin waves him off. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Mike,” Nancy calls, “we have to head out. Mom wants us back by three.”
“That’s such bullshit, I was all the way across the country just last week.”
“And the world nearly fell apart. Come on.”
Mike rolls his eyes but gets up all the same. He hesitates by the couch. “Feel better, Eddie,” he settles on, as if Eddie’s got nothing more than the flu.
“Don’t annoy your sister too much.”
“No promises,” Mike grumbles following after her.
Before they slip out the door Nancy looks back with an awkward but encouraging smile. “Let us know if you need anything.”
“Will do, Lieutenant,” he says, saluting her off. Jonathan follows them out and Joyce takes his place next to Will, putting her arm around him.
“Time for us too,” Joyce squeezes Will’s shoulder. “Got a meeting with Jackie.”
Hopper scoffs. “Don’t let her talk you into buying some shitty fixer-upper. I will not renovate your house.”
Joyce smirks. “We’ll see. With so many people getting out of dodge we might have our pick of the lot.”
Hopper grunts, doubtful, and leads Joyce and Will outside, the former stopping to tell them bye before slipping out the door.
El pauses on her way to join them. “Dustin?”
He pushes to his feet. “I’m coming.”
Before he can get too far Eddie snags his sleeve, ignoring how it makes his side pinch. “Dusty Bun—”
“Shit. Who told you about that?” Dustin’s face wrinkles like a raisin.
“I hear things,” Sinclair, “but that’s not important. I need a favor.”
Dustin’s blank stare is anything but accommodating. “I think it’s you who owes me a favor.”
Eddie rolls his eyes. Was this kid gonna hold a grudge for the rest of his life? “After this I’ll owe you two . C’mon, Henderson. I need your help.”
Dustin’s icy exterior melts fractionally. “With what?”
Eddie picks at the hem of his sad hospital issued shirt, trying to bat away the emotion that threatens to clog his throat. “Can you just… talk to Wayne for me. Don’t, you know, tell him anything. But just– just make sure he knows I’m not dead. That I’ll be home soon.” He meets Dustin’s eyes. “Please.”
The shine in Dustin’s eyes is almost enough to do Eddie in, so he quickly averts his gaze.
“Yeah, okay.” Dustin’s voice is thick but strong, imbued with all the earnestness he gives every quest, no matter how big or small. Eddie is damn grateful to have him in his corner. “I’ll talk to him.”
Eddie sounds small when he says, “Thanks, man.”
Dustin places a familiar weight in his hand and Eddie is surprised at how comforting it feels to hold cold plastic. The walkie looks the same as the last time Eddie saw it, only a few more scratches to show for its troubles. He turns it over, admiring how it links him to the people that have quickly become some of the most important in his life. Help waiting at his fingertips, no matter the time or danger. A village, the likes of which he’s never had before.
“Keep it on. Always,” Dustin instructs with an authoritative look in his eyes.
Eddie puts one hand on his chest and the other in the air. “Scouts honor.”
“You weren’t a scout.”
“I went to a few meetings,” Eddie lies, but Dustin raises his eyebrows skeptically. Eddie wishes he knew Dustin when he was cherub-adjacent and gullible. Although that probably would’ve only made the kid more endearing than he already is. He’s not sure he can take any more.
With that he slips out the door, leaving just two.
“I’m gonna make a quick trip to mine and pick up some stuff. Want me to grab you anything?” Steve asks, fishing his keys out of his pockets.
Considering he has no way of knowing what possessions of his aren’t sucked down into the underworld or confiscated by the secret service he shakes his head. At this point he’d rather not know. A clean slate may be just what he needs.
Steve waits a moment to see if Eddie will change his mind, but when he doesn’t he nods and heads for the door. Eddie only gets a moment alone before Hopper reappears.
“The generator is up and running. As I said, the water is on. It’s not the Ritz, but it’ll be enough.”
“This is possibly the most accommodating jail cell I’ve ever been in. Solid four stars. Had to deduct a bit since I drank the bog water.” Eddie lets his head fall back against the cushion.
Hopper sighs, annoyed and tired. “It’s for your own good. You don’t like it, the holding cell in the station is much worse.”
Eddie knows that’s true. “Hey, it’s good to broaden your horizons, right? Open yourself up to new experiences. At least that’s what the school counselor says.”
“I think you kids have had enough experiences for a lifetime. It’s time to embrace the ordinary.”
“Just waiting on you, chief.”
Hopper hums enthusiastically. “For me to do my part, you have to do your’s.” He spouts off a list of rules and warnings, as if Eddie wasn’t listening earlier. It all seems to be a mute point when Eddie can’t do anything more than hobble from one side of the room to the other in his current state, clutching his side like a zombie.
“Got it?”
“Memorized and highlighted.”
“Repeat it back to me.”
Hopper is looking at him expectant and stubborn so Eddie complies with only a little bit of sarcasm slipping out.
“Don’t step out into the treacherous great outdoors, for even the smallest ray of sunlight may send me up in flames, creating a beacon with which the mob can follow—”
“No.” A vein protrudes from Hopper’s forehead. “Don’t go outside, period . Day or night. Just because it’s dark doesn’t mean some jackass can’t see you.” He puts his cap back on his head. “Be smart.”
Given his track record and the pile of unsatisfied feedback from his teachers, Eddie finds that to be a hefty ask. Some might even say impossible. He’s learned to agree with them. Eddie nods along nonetheless, aware that cooperation is the fastest ticket to getting the chief out of his hair and on the road—hopefully down to the station to begin his dirty work.
“Aye, aye, captain.”
Hopper mutters something under his breath and although Eddie can’t decipher the words, the air about them is derogatory enough to understand the sentiment. But Eddie doesn’t have time to formulate a snide remark before Hopper is approaching the couch, his mouth set in a hard line.
“I’m trusting you with this, kid. Only because I know the alternative is damn near inhumane. I don’t know the full extent of your history, and I’m sure you’d like to keep it that way, but keep your head on straight and don’t make me regret this.”
Eddie doesn’t know what to do with such an impromptu speech and has even less idea what it all means. That is, until Hopper pulls two orange pill bottles from his pocket. He holds them in front of Eddie, wedged between forefinger and thumb.
“This is what the lab put together for you, I imagine they’re a bit more potent than the label suggests. It says twice a day each, got it? No more. Cut back if you need to. Overdosing is a painful way to die and I doubt your condition would make it any more pleasant.”
“Your faith in me is touching.”
“Our previous conversations made that faith rocky at best. Our mutual buddy Rick doesn’t help.” Hopper’s knowingly disappointed look is enough to make Eddie peeved but still he tries to keep the bite out of his voice.
“Didn’t know you had friends, chief. Rick and I, on the other hand, are just acquaintances, passing ships on this river we call life.”
“Mhm. Do you have yourself under control? Or do I need to give it to Harrington for safe keeping?”
“I’m sure the mad scientists gave him his own.”
“Eddie.”
“Christ, I’m not some junkie, Hopper. Hand the pills over.” He holds out his hand out palm up.
Hopper stares at him for another beat, then finally passes off the bottles. Eddie gives the labels a cursory glance—twice a day like the chief said—and figures it’s close enough to morning. He pops open the first and fishes one of the white capsules out, then does the same with the second. He swallows them dry and snaps the lids closed.
He smiles sardonically at Hopper. “Happy? I’m a bonafide rule-follower now.”
“A regular goody two shoes.”
The purr of an engine ebbs closer to the front door and Hopper peaks through the slats of what used to be a window. It’s barely a second before he pulls away disinterested.
Eddie sits up straighter. “The warden back?”
“You should count your pills. If I were him I’d start slipping some for myself. God knows he’ll need it.”
Eddie doesn’t bother to respond because then the door is opening and Steve comes strolling through, several duffle bags hanging off his arms with groceries and sodas cradled against his chest.
“You leave any clothes at your house?” Eddie asks as Steve lets the duffles thwack to the ground.
“I like to be prepared.”
If he had any money to his name Eddie would bet Steve was a boy scout in his baby-faced youth. He probably looked adorable in the uniform, neckerchief and everything. Just a preppy cherub learning how to tie knots, only to one day actually have to fight for his life against beasts that no club could’ve prepared him for. In another life, maybe it all happened when Steve was Will’s age, maybe he was the one taken with only a badge sash left behind as evidence. Eddie almost tears up.
He glances down at the pill bottle, wondering if he’s made a mistake.
Hopper hands a slip of paper to Steve. “Joyce’s number. Call her if you need anything, she’ll get the message to me.”
Steve tucks the slip in his pocket. “Thanks.”
“The less often you leave the better. And be careful of the trip wire, there’s one in each direction.”
Steve nods like that’s normal.
“I’ll let you know when the storm’s passed. Until then—”
“Stay inside,” Eddie finishes. “Roger that, sheriff.”
Hopper releases a deep breath, then squeezes Steve’s shoulder. “Good luck.”
The door closes with a final bang that drops like a dead weight in Eddie’s stomach. He lets his head fall back against the couch and closes his eyes. All the fight from the past week dissipates from his body, leaving him a sad little rag doll.
The cushion next to him dips.
“How’re you feeling?” Steve asks, close enough to whisper in the yawning emptiness of their shack.
“Like I got the shit beat out of me.” A pounding has taken up residence in his skull and his skin feels raw. His body is stiff and sore, beginning to atrophy from the still position he has been occupying since he sat up. Although he’s pleased to report that the pain is starting to fade, blotted out by those pills. It’s made the cabin turn a little fuzzy too, everything a little more mellow.
Yet, always prone to fidgeting, he longs to stretch out his legs and peel himself off of the lumpy mass of the couch but fears the fire that will light up his nerves in retribution, mystery drugs be damned .
“You get used to it.”
Eddie chances a glance out the corner of his eye, just enough to see Steve rubbing at his temple. Eddie wants to press, to finally ask what happened in ‘84, and again last summer. But his skin already feels too tight on his body and he doesn’t have the strength to add whatever emotional weight Steve’s been carrying around on his shoulders too.
“God, I hope not,” Eddie settles on instead, the familiar bitter acidity of cowardice burning his tongue.
Steve’s eyes meet his and Eddie’s jump away like he’s been shot, guilty and red-handed. Suddenly self-conscious with the tortuous awareness that they’re now completely alone in what could be a romantic getaway if they were two different people or this was one of Eddie’s grossly wholesome fantasies, Eddie pulls a piece of hair over his face, as if he can slip away unnoticed.
The offputting texture of his hair with some disturbing layer of residue nearly makes Eddie gag. Dirt and blood and Upside Down juice have coalesced to make a new substance that is both matted and crunchy. With a grimace he flips the strand ( chunk ) away.
“Does this place have a shower or am I gonna have to get hosed down out back?”
Steve snorts but by the look on his face Eddie isn’t too far off. “There’s a bathroom through there.” He points to some poor excuse for a hallway that Eddie hadn’t noticed before.
“Perfect.”
Eddie grits his teeth and gets in position, preparing for the pain that’s about to ricochet through him. Just leaning forward awakens every nerve in his mangled body. He doesn’t even get any airtime, though, before Steve is in front of him, arms extended to either stop or help, making all sorts of noises in protest that Eddie would love to hear if the ringing in his ears would just die down.
“Hey, man. Hold it. Let me help you.”
“I think I can get off the couch on my own, dear faithful knight. I’m not a fresh legged fawn,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes, trying to disguise how labored his breathing has become in a failing attempt to put all his weight on his legs.
“More like it’s mother who just got hit by a car,” Steve snarks back and Eddie wants to laugh but instead redirects the burst of energy to smack away Steve’s hands and propel himself off the couch. It pulls on everything it probably shouldn’t and he feels a particularly nasty stab in his stomach, but he’s standing. Even if the floor sways precariously beneath his feet, but thankfully Sir Steve is there to catch him.
His hands are firm on Eddie’s arms. With a smirk he says, “What was that about a knight?”
Eddie digs his fingers into Steve’s wrist. “That they’re to be seen and not heard?”
Steve gives him a look but helps him move towards the bathroom at a snail’s pace like the dutiful nurse. His sides scream with lessening severity the whole way but as they walk Eddie finds his land legs and is mostly able to do it on his own (slow and steady, slow and steady) by the time they reach the door. That doesn’t stop him from leaning into the warm weight of Steve’s hand on his hip though.
Inside, Steve gently deposits him against the sink and goes to inspect the shower, swiping open the curtain and turning on the valve to test the pressure. Even from here Eddie can tell it’s shit, but what can you do. They’re in a glorified outhouse in the middle of the woods.
Accepting that it’s not gonna get any better, Steve lets it run like Hopper instructed and turns back around.
Eddie waits for him to wish him luck and make a beeline for the door, but instead he just stands there. Hands on his hips, looking at Eddie expectantly like he has any clue what’s going on.
When Eddie just raises an eyebrow Steve sighs.
“Do you need,” he waves his hand towards the shower, “like, help or something?”
As much as the thought makes Eddie’s pulse jump, he shakes his head. He may have self-preservation issues and have a penchant for making things worse for himself, but that doesn’t make him suicidal. He’s trying to get his life back, not watch it swirl down the drain.
“Don’t have a coronary, Harrington. I think I can handle standing in place and rotating at a negative speed all on my own.”
Steve tilts his head, assessing him in a way that Eddie wants to memorize, maybe chisel its likeness into stone and construct a new Parthenon to house it.
“Take off your shirt.”
Eddie’s heart flips. “What?” he asks, mouth dry.
“Think you can handle it by yourself, big boy? ” Heat floods Eddie’s face at the callback. “So prove it. Take off your shirt.”
Eddie’s tempted to flip him off and tell him to leave something to the imagination, anything to distract from the flush that threatens to flood his cheeks. Because he can’t do it, he knows that. He’s one wrong breath from keeling over, just lifting his arms above his head will probably make him pass out.
Of course, he tries anyway.
As the boys in Hellfire long ago figured out, a challenge is the best way to get Eddie in a compromising position, and apparently dealing in death and demons hasn’t made him any wiser. His eyes smart as he reaches back for his shirt, the stitches along his arms and down his flanks stretching angrily—with something of the abdominal variety protesting vehemently—and it’s when he tugs the collar over the back of his head that an undignified noise slips out, pitiful and pained.
Suddenly he feels calloused hands stalling his arms. With one smooth tug, Steve pulls the shirt over Eddie’s head and frees him from his cotton torment. Eddie doesn’t even have time to let the tension in his shoulders dissipate before Steve is swooping down to yank off his paper mache pants. Eddie inhales sharply, biting off a curse. He spares one moment to offer thanks to the deities above that he’s wearing boxers. Frankly, that was a risky gamble for Steve to take, with very little payoff seeing as the best outcome is still Eddie standing before him in his underwear.
But Eddie’s gotta hand it to the guy, Steve knows how to get pants off in record time with little fuss.
By the time his heart catches up to his eyes, Steve is done and taking a step back to admire his work.
Eddie stands there, shivering a little despite the heat coursing through his veins, terribly exposed even as he’s covered in more gauze than skin. Deflect, deflect, deflect his mind chants, spurring Eddie to blurt, “So you gonna tease me out of my underwear too or am I allowed to do that myself?”
No sooner are the words out of his mouth than he’s biting his tongue, hard, hoping maybe he can sever it clean off and save himself any future trouble.
With a burgeoning pink hue to his cheeks Steve clears his throat, opens his mouth to say something equally snippy, no doubt, then pauses. He reaches out, thumb swiping over the bandage on Eddie’s stomach. Disoriented, Eddie looks down and sees a pink splotch welling up under the gauze.
“You’re bleeding.”
Eddie has to look away. “I’m sure it’s fine. That’s what wounds are supposed to do, right?”
Steve frowns at him. “We need to check, make sure you didn’t rip a stitch.” Eddie swallows thickly, feeling a little nauseous suddenly. “Jesus, Eddie. You’re pale.”
“Thanks.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “Not a big fan of blood. Ironic, for a child-sacrificing cult leader.”
Steve doesn’t laugh, Eddie pretends not to appreciate it.
“Sit,” Steve says, steering Eddie onto the toilet lid. Eddie ignores the impulse to mouth off about having just finally stood up and complies. “I’ll look at it, just. Don’t pass out. I’ve been sworn to send out an SOS if you so much as cough wrong.”
“Sorry to inconvenience you,” Eddie grumbles, staring at a fixed place on the wall and using all his willpower not to watch as Steve unwraps his torso.
“Don’t be stupid. I just— they don’t need to be any more worried than they already are. Sit still.”
Eddie doesn’t point out that it’s hard ( ha ) when Steve’s feeling him up—even if it’s by and large more clinical than sensual, but Eddie will take what he can get—and tries not to shiver under Steve’s hands. Eddie feels the cold air touch his stitches more than he can see it, but he watches Steve’s face, hungry for clues.
“So?”
Steve prods at the sensitive skin, gingerly spreading it this way and that. “It doesn’t look ripped. I think it might just be spotting. I’ll clean it and get a new bandage to be safe.”
“You ever think about becoming a doctor?” Eddie watches as Steve wets a towel.
Steve scoffs. “A question no one’s ever asked before. I could never get into med school.” And it’s his tone, so final and set that makes Eddie sad. It’s obvious that Steve has an issue with seeing himself clearly, as someone more than the sum of his parts. Eddie’s tempted to pick up the gauntlet, make it his mission in life to prove to Steve he’s worth forgiveness and grace.
But then Steve runs the rough cloth over his stitches and Eddie has to bite down on his lip to keep from cursing him out. The pain is electrifying, as shocking as it is abrasive. Eddie’s muscles only unclench once Steve finally places a new dressing on, quick and seamless. Fuck the pills, those lab rats should’ve sent him off with a morphine drip.
Eddie heaves. “Asshole.”
“Took it like a champ.”
Eddie focuses on the ebbing pain and doesn’t let his mind go where it wants to.
Steve sits back on his haunches, seemingly satisfied with himself. Eddie glances at the blood speckled cotton, bile gathering in his throat.
“Be honest with me. How bad was it?”
“Like I said, just a little spotting, but that’s norm—”
“No. No, I mean how bad was it back there ?”
He’s not sure he’ll ever muster the courage to look at the evidence head on. He remembers the bats, they’re pretty damn hard to forget, but the memory plays out in separate frames, with pieces missing and jumping from one point to the next. He hasn’t looked in the mirror but he feels the bandages on his throat, the one across his cheek. He can feel the rolling hills of cotton covering expanses of shoulder, chest, and thigh.
The looking will make it real in a way the pain doesn’t. The discomfort will fade, with time; the scars won’t. The missing chunks won’t regrow and the skin won’t smooth over. He’ll carry the Upside Down with him not only mentally, in the shadows and the associations, but on his person, in the mirror.
He’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to reconcile the person he was before with what the bats left of him, the remnants abandoned in the aftershock of death.
Steve looks up at him, those heartbreaker eyes big and dark. “Not that bad.” Eddie wants to thump him on the head. He wants to hide in his arms.
“I said be honest, sweetheart. The truth?”
Steve swallows. “Okay. It was bad. Like, really—” he chokes a little, “really bad. There was blood everywhere and your skin was…. it was shredded , all red and muscle with bone peeking through—” It must be obvious that Eddie is about to pass out. “But now ! Now, it’s not anything I don’t see in the mirror.”
That sends a jolt through Eddie, the idea that they match. Together part of their own set forged and sculpted in the fires of hell. Their scars, their disfigurement, their pain. He considers the bandage at Steve’s throat. Maybe that’s all he needs is to see the bravery of Steve’s scars when he looks at his own. Not a reminder of his failed attempt at martyrdom, but a connection welded and fought for, a family worth saving.
No matter what the future looks like for Steve and him, a house in a cul de sac or prison, respectfully, he’ll always know that somewhere out there is a boy with marks that match his own and shared memories branded underneath.
It’s almost too much to bear, the intensity of it overwhelming.
“We’re just two guys that look like they dove into a cheese grater.”
Steve laughs as he stands up, the noise filling Eddie’s head with an exhilarating little buzz. “Come on. We need to wrap you up. Your bandages can’t get wet.”
Eddie takes in his mummified body with a heavy dose of skepticism. “Good luck with that.”
Steve holds up a role of Saran Wrap with a smirk and internally Eddie mourns his dignity, which by the end of this will be lying in tatters all around them.
Steve’s a little too smug for Eddie’s taste (factually impossible) as he sets about covering him nearly head to toe in plastic. When he grabs a roll of packing tape Eddie’s hand shoots out.
“ Nuh uh .”
“It’s all Hopper has,” Steve says and he could do to sound more remorseful. “C’mon, I’ll be careful.”
“Town’s got it wrong, you’re the sadistic one.”
“No, just desperate.”
If only it were so simple.
With every rip, wrap, and plaster Eddie feels increasingly like a piece of fine china preparing to make his transcontinental journey. But after the fourth or fifth time he starts to enjoy the comforting repetition of Steve’s sweet manhandling, it seeps into his muscles like honey and if he closes his eyes finds it’s practically a massage. Eddie relishes the contact and lets his mind wander to happier places, where Steve’s touch is hungry and wanting. He knows he’s approaching dangerous territory— landmines, do not enter! —but can’t be bothered to save himself.
As if in holy retribution, it’s then that Steve misplaces a piece of tape, and, without warning, rips it off. The adhesive makes a sick noise as it tears from flesh and the arousal is punched right out of Eddie’s body. The string of curses that roll out of his mouth are passionate and a tad excessive, but Eddie can’t help it when he’s being flayed alive .
When he opens his eyes, blinking back tears, Steve’s face is pink and he’s sucking on his lips in a poor attempt to hold back a laugh. “Sorry.”
Eddie drops his head back, running his hands through his hair. “No you’re not, you fucking bastard.”
“I wasn’t thinking.” It’s offered in the tone of contrition but Steve’s still got a smirk tucked into the side of his mouth. He sweetly pats the tape, now in the correct place on Eddie’s stomach, as if that’s enough to make Eddie forget.
It almost works.
They finish with no more mishaps, leaving Eddie’s skin in-tact ( well— ) and thoroughly protected.
“There. Perfectly waterproofed.”
Eddie feels like a toddler with pool floaties. “A dream come true.”
They stand there, Eddie in his plastic wrap and boxers, Steve fully clothed and puzzled. The sudden dawning realization that they’re in uncharted territory.
“So now what?” Eddie asks, bravely foisting the burden of leadership squarely on Steve’s shoulders.
Steve looks him up and down and Eddie tries not to fidget. “ Can you get your boxers off?”
Eddie finds it hard to breathe, his lungs seizing as his heart sputters, chokes, and dies in a puff of smoke. Knowing the answer but unwilling to accept it Eddie swallows his mortification and bends over only to have the attempt met with protests from every part of his body, not a single inch spared in the hail of godly fury rained down on him. He tries to straighten as fast as possible without ripping a stitch and nearly passes out in the process.
“Yeah, I’m gonna say no,” he mutters when the dots in his vision clear, breathless.
They’re at a loss. And just as Eddie is about to give up on his pride and tell Steve to get it over with, Steve spins on his heel.
Abandoning me already , Eddie thinks woefully. But Steve just grabs a large towel from under the sink and faces him again. He holds it up like a surrendering flag with a contradictory sparkle of victory in his eyes.
“I’ll pull them off for you, then you just grab the towel.” He sets on the sink within Eddie’s reach.
Eddie purses his lips wondering if Hopper has a spare paper bag lying around somewhere he can hide his face in. “Any option that’s not that?”
“I’ll close my eyes, man. It’ll be fine. C’mon.”
Without even waiting for a response Steve gets down on his knees—Eddie’s breath catches—and promptly closes his eyes.
It’s a sight that is more awe-inspiring than anything the greatest artists could have made. The Sistine Chapel pales in comparison to the sight of Steve Harrington down on his knees, waiting for instruction.
None of it can possibly be real.
Maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the situation, or maybe Eddie’s finally learned how to dismiss his own misfortune, but looking down at him Eddie almost laughs. Overwhelming fondness with a light touch of humiliation commingling together to brew something verging on hysteria.
Sealing his fate, Eddie grabs Steve’s hands, making him jump slightly, as if he’s not the one that went running full speed into action without thinking any of it through, and guides them up to his waist. The tips of Steve’s fingers skim Eddie’s bare hip bones before hooking into the elastic of waistband and Eddie can’t suppress the shiver that rolls through him.
His eyes return to Steve’s face—they’re rarely anywhere else—to the way he’s got his bottom lip between his teeth and his eyebrows drawn. He feels something more somber than longing; something more akin to grief.
Eddie knows he’s waiting for permission, so he says, “Light’s green, Harrington.”
With a slight nod, Steve tugs the boxers down, keeping his hands safely at the sides so that his knuckles only brush Eddie’s thigh. The sensation has Eddie’s body flaring beet red, his stomach swooping down with the boxers, and when they hit his feet he steps out of them and swings the towel around his waist.
“All clear.”
Steve cracks open an eye to confirm it’s safe then sits back on his haunches with a slightly quicker pace to the rise and fall of his chest. “See? Like a charm.”
Eddie can’t bring himself to meet his eyes, just nodding noncommittally and hoping that’s the last of it.
Steve balls up the boxers and tosses them out of the way. Eddie doesn’t have the energy to mention that considering they’re his only pair, maybe they should save them. Hell, he’d be more than happy to walk around in a towel for the rest of his stay if it means he doesn’t have to endure that a second time.
Before Eddie can thank Steve for his services and remind him that he knows where the door is, Steve hooks Eddie’s arm and leads him to the shower, helping him step over the lip of the tile. Ignoring the fact that he feels geriatric, Eddie bites his tongue and tries to soak in the sensation of Steve’s arm against his. He pretends not to notice when he loses their steady warmth.
With Eddie in the prime spot, the drizzle from the shower head just hitting his feet, Steve steps back, one hand on the curtain.
“Tell me if you start to feel woozy or something.”
“What, not gonna lather me up, Harrington?”
“Wasn’t planning on it, but if you need me to, I can help.”
Eddie hastily stomps down on the embers sparking to life in his gut, fanning out the smoke and praying nothing catches fire. It doesn’t mean anything , he reminds himself. He needs to save himself before he’s too far gone, already standing at the dangerous precipice of before and after the point of no return. Steve’s selfless streak and mother hen tendencies will be the final nail in Eddie’s coffin, finishing off what the Upside Down started.
“Don’t look so green, your highness,” Eddie says, despite the way Steve’s eyes shine with the possibility of being needed. “I won’t make you do the servants’ work.” It’d only be a punishment for them both and Eddie isn’t really in a masochistic mood today.
Steve rolls his eyes. “I’ll stay here in case you need me. Hand me your towel when I close this.”
Eddie pretends that the promise of Steve only a couple feet away doesn’t make the tension in his muscles dissipate; that it’s not comforting in all the ways it shouldn’t be.
With the scrape of metal on metal, the curtain closes and Eddie obediently unwraps his towel and hands it off to the other side. Steve’s hands find him immediately, accepting the parting gift.
Eddie steps forward into the water’s spray, sputtering out in a staccato rhythm. It’s lukewarm at best and the pressure leaves something to be desired, but nonetheless feels heavenly on Eddie’s mottled body, despite sensation on more than half of it being barred behind plastic. He stands there for a moment, just soaking it in. Water that isn’t murky and freezing with a hell portal humming at the bottom. The hush of the nozzle’s spray rather than the rolling smack against the hull of a boat.
Slowly, Eddie lathers up his upper body, minding the spots Steve so meticulously covered. He lets the suds trail down his hips and legs, deciding that’s as good as it’s going to get when he can’t bend over without all of his lights turning off. As the soap meanders, Eddie turns to his hair, more than happy to make use of whatever overpriced shit Steve put in here for him. The label is too small to read in the poorly lit bathroom, but it’s pink and smells like strawberries.
“Did you raid your mom’s bathroom or something? What is this stuff?” Eddie asks over the hissing of the shower, squeezing out a healthy glob of shampoo.
“Brought it from mine,” Steve answers, close enough that Eddie guesses he’s just been sitting on the lid of the toilet, waiting. “Figured Hopper wouldn’t have more than a bar of Irish Spring if we were lucky. It’s nice, isn’t it?”
Eddie doesn’t think about how the sweet scent always cloying to Steve is apparently strawberries or the fact that he will now smell the same. Just another thing that links them, the margin of separation continuously shrinking.
The glob makes a splat as it hits the ground when Eddie goes to put it in his hair, his movement restricted by the plastic wrap and his arm not able to survive the trip anyway. It sends a spasm up his shoulder, hence the splat.
“Hey, Stevie?”
“Yeah?”
“About that lathering…” he sticks his head out the curtain. “Mind shampooing me?” He brandishes the bottle with an attempt at an innocent smile capable of provoking altruism—something he’s never been able to pull off.
But of course, Steve just grabs the bottle with an amused twist of his lips. “Lean down.”
Eddie hangs his head so Steve can work the product into his scalp, deft fingers massaging it through his roots so nicely Eddie has to bite back the pleased sigh that wants to slip out. He’s careful to make sure none of the soap goes in Eddie’s eyes, repeatedly wiping the runoff from Eddie’s forehead, an action gaining more favor than it warrants.
When he’s all lathered up, and the smell has made Eddie feel like he’s trapped in a jam jar, Steve flips his hair back and guides his head back up.
“Need help washing it out?”
Eddie shakes his head. “I’ll just let it run down.”
Although with water pressure this shitty it’s unlikely to all rinse out. He can’t be bothered to care.
He sticks his head back under the stream, letting the suds all wash down. For as cursory as this shower has been, Eddie can’t deny how much better he feels to have the majority of the gunk and dried slime washed away. Even as soap sticks to his curls he feels infinitely better, weightless almost.
When he’s finally bored and his fingers are starting to prune he shuts off the water and tugs on the curtain.
“Towel, Jeeves.”
With a huff Steve’s arm pokes through the curtain, towel in hand and Eddie finds—romantic hangups notwithstanding—he could get used to this.
Eddie grabs it, wrapping it himself.
“I’m decent, fair maiden.”
Steve pulls back the curtain, eyebrows raised, but when Eddie holds out his hand expectantly Steve takes it without complaint.
“I think this makes you the fair maiden,” Steve points out while helping him out of the shower, mindful of the slick spots on the tile.
“Nonsense.”
Steve grabs another towel, holding it up in question and when Eddie doesn’t protest, too intrigued to see what follows, Steve begins the gentle process of drying him. He blots excess water from Eddie’s hair, chasing the drops that trail down Eddie’s back. Eddie remains as still as possible, keeping the goosebumps and flush at bay with a stick like feral dogs.
Steve must pick up on the tension coiling under Eddie’s skin because he makes quick work of it and doesn’t let his hands linger, as much as Eddie equally wishes and dreads it. Once done he tosses the towel on the floor to mop up any spilled water.
“Time to unwrap you. So…”
Ah, yes. Access to the bandages littering his thighs once again.
Eddie swallows a sigh. “Round two but reversed?”
“It’s probably easiest. Let me grab you some clean clothes.” He disappears out the door and Eddie laments whatever leftovers from Hopper’s wardrobe he’ll be forced to don.
“I’m not sure I can pull off the lumberjack look so nothing plaid!” Eddie yells after him, then has another thought. “Also no Hawkins P.D. rep, I’m not twinning with pigs—”
Steve reappears with an armful of clothes that look cleaner and brighter than Eddie would have expected of Hopper.
“Where’d you find these?”
“Brought them from my house. I figured they’d fit you better and wouldn’t be eaten by moths. Nothing Hawkins P.D., but I hope the swim team is okay?” Setting the majority of the heap on the counter, Steve brandishes a gray shirt with the mascot's face in the center bordered by Hawkins High School Swim Team in a bland font.
Eddie eyes it, his heart making a racket in his chest.
“Your clothes. From your house.”
Steve glances down at the shirt, worrying his lip. “Is that okay?”
Ignoring the spreading heat in his chest, Eddie reaches out for the sweet offering like it’s a bomb. “It’s not my usual aesthetic, but I suppose it’ll do,” Eddie says just to be a dick and place himself back in familiar territory.
“I brought a whole duffle, so feel free to take anything you want.”
Eddie can only smile at the token generosity he’s come to associate with Steve.
In a moment of weakness Eddie says, “Thanks, Steve,” letting too much tenderness seep through his voice, threatening to ruin his cool and aloof image. Steve, on the other hand, brightens like the sun.
“Anytime.” He sets down the shirt and picks up a fresh pair of boxers. “Now lift your leg.”
Steve returns to his spot on the ground and opens up the boxers on the ground so Eddie can step through them, then closes his eyes once again. Eddie finishes patting himself dry before discarding the towel.
“Okay,” he says, trying hard (!) not to think about the fact that these are Steve’s boxers. No, not even a blip on his radar.
Steve slides them up, his fingers grazing leg and thigh. There are a few more hiccups this time, Eddie has to be quick about tucking his dick in and the waistband catches on his ass, but with a little wiggle and Steve’s expert ability to self-correct they successfully return Eddie’s modesty.
He does have to tell Steve to stop though before he gets bisected via wedgie.
Eddie sends up a silent prayer of thanks that he survived before Steve opens his eyes and then they’re moving on like it’s no big deal. To Steve it probably isn’t, used to years of locker rooms and open showers, but for obvious reasons those settings have been historically intimidating and violent places for Eddie. Just one look at the gym showers is still enough to send a shudder through him.
“I’ll try to be careful getting the tape off. But, uh. No promises.”
Eddie shuffles to lean against the sink, gripping its lip in his hands, and thinks this is too similar to a dream he had once. Although he doubts this one is likely to end in swapped spit and happy afterglows but a guy can hope, right?
“Do whatever you need to, Harrington. I’m yours.”
Steve blinks at him for a moment, pretty eyelashes bouncing off golden skin. But then he’s setting into motion, choosing the largest bandage on Eddie’s left side he gently rolls up the edge of the tape then wets a finger under the faucet, using it as a lubricant against the seam between tape and skin. Slowly, he chases against the edge until each piece of tape is removed. It’s not the most pleasant sensation, but it’s leaps and bounds better than ripping it straight off and taking more skin with it. The legs are a bit awkward, but Steve is so focused on the task at hand that the discomfort fades away.
When Steve finishes, tape and plastic wrap having been meticulously added into a thick wad each time he handed Eddie the excess, he straightens up, triumphant. Eddie has to admit, he’s impressed. It never hurt more than a pinch.
“Am I redeemed?” Steve asks.
“Your job is safe. For now.”
“Considering the current lack of demo-bat wound nurses, I’d say I’m your only option.”
Eddie throws the plastic ball at his face.
He doesn’t say that he’d never have the strength to send Steve away himself—doomed to hold on to everything he wants with a white knuckled grip until they force him to let go, tearing his fingers off to free themselves—but that doesn’t make it any less true, hypothetically poor nursing skills be damned. Thankfully, Steve is annoyingly competent at apparently any task needed of him, god forbid he makes anything easy on Eddie.
His bedside manner could use a little bit of work, though. Eddie tells him as much.
“Beggars can’t be choosers, Munson. Now let’s get you dressed.”
Putting the rest of his clothes on is somehow, paradoxically, more intimate. Gently guiding Eddie’s arms through the sleeves, smoothing the shirt over his head, rolling up the pant legs for him to step into. Throughout it all Eddie finds himself staring at Steve adoringly, helpless to stop himself. Not in the face of his steadfast focus and constant concern for Eddie’s comfort.
It’s sweet and cute and not really helping with the whole crush thing. He’d been hoping it’d prove to not be much different than the common cold: annoying but easy enough to power through, non-life threatening, temporary . Instead it’s intent to linger, a virus spreading, contaminating, until every cell in Eddie’s body is infected. Laced with Harrington, down to his DNA.
But he’s becoming too head over heels to care. A protective and heroic Steve was one thing, adding doting and generous on top is a lethal concoction his already weak body is ill prepared to handle.
“Look at that. All put back together,” Steve says with satisfaction.
Eddie stands before him, in clothes that aren’t his, with wet hair dripping down his shoulders, and a cologne he’s becoming increasingly partial to wafting up his nostrils. He doesn’t feel like his old self, especially with his body wrapped up ten ways to Sunday, but he feels much better than he did before, so that’s something.
“Not sure how well those pills will work, but if you remember to move slow and don’t throw yourself at any monsters again, you’ll be good as new in no time.”
Eddie didn’t really plan on throwing himself at them the first time, but hopefully that means it’s out of his system now and it’ll be smooth sailing from here on out.
“How come you’re so good with all this?” He asks as Steve packs up the supplies from the first aid kit.
“Not my first rodeo. Nearly die a few times and it all becomes routine.”
Eddie still finds that fact hard to believe. “So you’ve really been hunting monsters for, like, three years?”
Steve tucks the kit under the sink before returning his attention to Eddie, leaning his hip against the sink to face him. “On and off.”
“And that’s why you’re…” Eddie’s not sure how to say it. Different, better, socially conscious, a goddamn savior sent to heal Eddie’s wounds with a touch that cauterizes.
“Why I’m what?” Steve looks sheepish, like Eddie will say something mean. Like there’s even one modicum of resentment Eddie could hold against him anymore, with the holy light he now sees Steve perpetually basked in.
“Why you’ve hung up the crown and handed off your scepter. Why you’re suddenly decent-ish.” It’s a gross understatement, but Steve has spent far too long getting his ego blown to the moon. He could stand to work for it a little.
The amused hitch of his mouth makes Eddie almost wish he’d committed, gone full throttle on the compliments, really waxed poetic. Laid out how he owed Steve his life and was even happier to give it to him. He’d probably make better use of it than Eddie has so far.
“I wouldn’t chalk that up to the monsters, but facing off a demogorgon back in ‘83 with Nance and Byers made me realize we’re all just people trying to make it from moment to moment, even the losers and the freaks.” Eddie’s not sure if he should feel flattered or insulted. Steve shrugs. “And people die. So things like parties and prom and social clout don’t really seem so important anymore.”
The earnest undertone to his voice is sweet and genuine, a true perspective shift the likes of which Eddie previously never would have thought Harrington possible of. But Eddie also can’t help himself.
“It took you until you were sixteen to realize that people are just people?”
Steve drops his head back. “Fuck off.”
“Were you dropped on your head as a baby?”
Giving into a temptation that Eddie has never been equipped to resist, he reaches out and ruffles Steve’s hair, thrilled to find it’s just as soft as it looks. He expects Steve to duck from his touch, to shove Eddie’s hand away with a good-natured laugh. But instead Steve leans into it, just barely, seeking the contact of Eddie’s palm.
“Actually, yeah,” Steve says, making no attempt to get away.
Eddie gives him one last pet, threading his fingers through pretty locks, then pulls back, trying not to mourn the loss.
It takes him a moment to catch up. Steve; baby; dropped. “Oh.” He blinks. “Well. Way to catch up.”
Steve raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “Thanks, Mr. Super Senior.”
“Please, Mr. Super Senior was my father. Call me Walking Disappointment.”
Steve’s laugh is warm and settles comfortably in an artery close enough to Eddie’s heart to threaten future blockage, but for now he just makes room for its residency, sure he’ll hear its echoes even after this moment is long gone.
“I can think of a lotta other jackasses that I’d call walking disappointments. Not quite sure you’d make the list, though,” Steve confesses.
“Oh, but I am a jackass?”
Steve shrugs, heading for the door. “Of course. Same type as Dustin.”
Slowly, Eddie hobbles after him. “And what type is that?”
Steve waits out in the hall, hands at the ready in case Eddie needs any help. He tilts his head. “The endearing kind.”
Eddie chooses to focus on putting one foot in front of the other rather than letting his mind unpack and obsess over three measly words. And for his troubles he’s able to make it across the room and to the couch all without help. Steve watches him ever so slowly lower himself onto the frayed cushion with a pinched expression that Eddie can tell means he’s fighting back every instinct to take control, manhandling him and laying him down on the couch himself.
Eddie certainly wouldn’t be opposed.
He sighs in relief once his body is stationary, swiping wet curls out of his face.
Steve purses his lips. “Do you want to do something to your hair?”
Eddie inspects a clump that is starting to frizz. “Why? Is it not up to Harrington standards?” Not everyone has the patience, or focus, to spend an hour on their hair each morning.
Or the physical mobility. Eddie would be beyond impressed if he could even put his hair in a ponytail right now.
“No, it’s not that. But, um, don’t you have to do stuff to curls? Put product in it or something?”
“Normally I do a little bit of zhuzhing,” Eddie admits. “But seeing as this place is short a salon, I think I’ll have to rough it.” Eddie sure as hell can’t do any primping himself at the moment.
“I can braid it for you,” Steve suddenly offers and Eddie blinks.
“Huh?”
“Between Robin and Erica’s badgering I’ve learned. It took a few days, but I’m pretty good now. Dustin even let me practice on him once. I’d asked Max first but she looked like she’d rather cut off my hands, so.”
Eddie cannot comprehend the words he is hearing right now. Images flit through his mind like his life flashing before his eyes. Steve watching intently as Robin demonstrates technique, copying the movements alongside her with his own hands. Strong arming Dustin to be his guinea pig. Styling Erica’s hair with colorful beads and clips.
“You’re serious.”
“Yeah? Scoot back,” he instructs, coming around the back of the couch. Tensely Eddie does as he’s told. Anticipation submerges his body so thoroughly that he almost flinches when Steve touches him, pulling all of his hair off his neck.
Meticulously he sections off Eddie’s curls, starting at the crown of his head.
“Your hair is soft,” Steve muses.
Eddie shivers at his touch, somehow different from the shower. More tender, more indulgent.
“Probably just your fancy-shmancy shampoo. My girl’s used to the ¢50 crap.”
“That explains the split ends.”
Eddie flips him off. It’s easier to ignore the soreness that ripples down his wounded arm, now blunted and fading.
In his braiding, like with most things, Steve is quick and efficient. In no time he is working on the tail, making Eddie bereft of the soothing touch on his scalp. In vain he tries to expel the memory of the weight of Steve’s fingers and the drag of his movements. With an elastic produced from thin air Steve ties it off and drapes it over Eddie’s shoulder for inspection.
“How does it feel?” He pets a hand down Eddie’s hair one last time.
“Heavenly,” Eddie croons. “Who knew you were a budding cosmetologist?”
With a light pat on the shoulder Steve abandons his post and ventures into the sparse kitchen, only to pause and twist back around, fishing a hand in his pocket.
“Oh. I almost forgot. Here you go.”
He grabs Eddie’s hand and drops in it a few pieces of cold metal. Eddie can scarcely believe his eyes when he opens his palm to find all of his rings staring up at him.
“I thought they were gone…” he says, quiet and awe-filled.
Dumb as it was, considering there are far less replaceable things, Eddie had felt the absence of his rings like a missing limb. They were a part of him, a piece of the armor he suited up in every morning. They may not have scared away the bigots and bullies but it definitely made them think twice, as well as pack a mean punch should the need arise. Then they became just one more thing he’d lost, leaving him vulnerable, adding to his disfigurement.
“When the lab goons started putting their hands all over you I figured I’d better take them off for safe keeping. They were kinda gross, so I cleaned them the best I could. There are a lot of tiny little details though and the blood was really crusted on there—”
“Steve.” Steve’s mouth closes with a click. “I— thank you.”
Steve rubs the back of his neck. “Short of stitching you up myself, it was all I could do.”
Eddie sniffles, willing the pressure in his sinuses away. “I dunno, I think you probably did more than those frankenstein freaks.”
Steve breathes a laugh. “Don’t let them hear you say that.”
Eddie slips the rings on all the appropriate fingers, feeling some semblance of normalcy seep back into his body.
“I mean it, man. Thank you.”
“Just happy I’m able to give ‘em back to you.” He trots back to the kitchen, clapping his hands together. “Now. What do you want for dinner?” He starts pulling items out of the fridge that he must have picked up earlier. “We’ve got hot dogs, chicken, soup, or…” He unlatches the freezer, “mysteriously old Eggos.”
“As delightful as that last one sounds, maybe we save it for a night we’re feeling particularly adventurous.”
“Copy that.” Steve chucks it back into the freezer unceremoniously and slaps the door closed. “Out of the rest?”
Hungry as Eddie’s sure he probably is on some level, all food sounds kind of bleh right now. “Chef’s choice. Surprise me.”
Rinsing his hands, then drying them off on a hand towel he has slung over his shoulder, Steve says, “You got it.”
For a while Eddie just watches in content silence as Steve dashes around the kitchen. Rummaging through every cabinet, pulling out pots and pans, grumbling when Hopper is missing something he needs. It’s amusing in a way Eddie never thought cooking could be, his idea of a home cooked dinner is usually frozen or microwavable by nature.
Anything that requires him to boil water is immediately vetoed. Poptarts and canned soup have been his longest standing relationships. That being said, he’s sick as fuck of them. But convenience is a tough quality to beat and Eddie has found that taste fatigue is not enough to make him jump ship.
Then again, someone cooking for him? A wet dream really. Good food without having to lift a finger has been the cause of Eddie proposing marriage on more than one occasion—met with varying results. And, all things considered, he’s positive this time will be no different. Not when Steve looks so cute rushing around, tongs in hand, concentration drawing his eyebrows together, making that sweet divot between his brows appear.
Eddie wishes that Hopper had an apron lying around somewhere to make this moment truly perfect. But he’s ninety-nine percent sure that Hopper is allergic to domesticity and Eddie’s willing to bet there’s not even an oven mitt to be found in this hole. Probably for the best, his heart already gave out once in the past forty-eight hours, no need to have a repeat occurrence.
“You know, I’ve never given the idea of having a housewife much thought, but you’re making me realize the errors of my ways, Harrington.”
Steve looks over his shoulder as he stirs something on the stove. “Based on what Dustin’s told me, you’ll need one.”
“Well I’m taking applications if you’re interested.” Although Steve doesn’t need one, he could submit a paper with just his picture on it and Eddie would stamp approved all over it.
“I do already have a job, you know. That little thing called a video store,” Steve says with enough sass for Eddie to get drunk on.
“Hm.” Eddie taps his chin theatrically. “Nope. Not ringing any bells. Must be a pretty shitty place.”
Steve scoffs. “You can say that again.” He points a finger at Eddie, “Don’t tell Keith I said that.” Eddie crosses his heart and Steve nods, satisfied. “Food’s done.”
Before Eddie can mentally calibrate how in the world he is going to get up without nearly passing out like last time, Steve is standing in front of him. Dishrag still over his shoulder, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his hands reaching out.
“Want a hug?”
Steve’s lips quirk. “Maybe later. Right now I’m helping a smart aleck get across the room. Unless you want to land on your ass again.”
“I didn’t fall.”
“Cause I caught you.” Steve wiggles his hands impatiently. “Up.”
With a frown and a skip in his chest, Eddie holds out his arms like a baby waiting to be lifted. Using one hand to grab Eddie’s and the other to wrap around his bicep, Steve carefully helps Eddie up, making sure to take his weight. Eddie winces as the effort makes the muscles of his torso stretch just enough to be uncomfortable, but once he’s stable on his feet it dies down, becoming nothing more than a faint throb. Confident that Eddie won’t keel over, Steve lets go, his hand trailing down from Eddie’s bicep to his wrist before vanishing.
“There you go.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a certified nurse. Now let’s eat, I’m starved.”
He trails Steve to the table and refuses the hand Steve holds out to help him sit. Despite the incessant hovering, Eddie watches in amusement as Steve plates their food. He carries it over with a sheepish expression, his cheeks faintly pink.
“Okay. I know it doesn’t look very appetizing, but I only realized we didn’t have buns after I started cooking them and just eating straight hot dog seemed sad. So here.”
He places the food down so Eddie can see what he put his blood, sweat, and tears into. It’s a bowl of mac and cheese with cut up medallions of hot dog mixed in. Out of all the food combinations Eddie has had throughout his life, this one is tame. Hell, he probably ate this once or twice growing up. And he’s not a picky eater anyway, can’t be when you’re raised off food stamps and junk.
He looks up to find Steve watching him, worrying his lip as he awaits Eddie’s judgment. “Better than anything I could’ve whipped up.”
The relief that washes over Steve’s face is subtle and does little more than smooth out the worry lines on his forehead, but Eddie would say anything just to see that smile that Steve shines down on him, like he’s got watts to spare. It’s bright and genuine and makes his eyes crinkle in a way that threatens to melt Eddie’s cold, cold heart.
After the first bite, Eddie’s appetite comes back in full force. He’s forced to go slow, as his throat fights against each swallow, but he makes his way steadily through the plate with no complaints.
He’s scooping up every lost crumb and noodle when the static of a walkie catches their attention.
“This is Gold Leader to Han and Ozzy. Do you copy?”
Dustin doesn’t get any points for creativity. Eddie raises an eyebrow at Steve, who rolls his eyes and retrieves the walkie from where it’d been discarded among Steve’s bags.
“Yeah, Dusty Bun, we copy.”
“You know that’s not my code name. It’s Gold Leader .”
“Alright, Gold Eagle. What’s up?”
“ Leader , Steve! Leader.” From the shit eating grin on Steve’s face, he’s aware. “How’s the patient?”
Steve looks at Eddie, consideringly. “A little worse for wear, but he’s still kicking.”
Eddie frowns, stealing the walkie out of Steve’s hand. “Don’t listen to Dr. Solo, I’m on the up and up. I’ll be back to my usual self, running marathons and such, in no time.”
“I know you’re lying. You’re using your dungeon master voice, Ed– I mean. Ozzy.”
“Smooth,” Eddie says sarcastically.
Steve takes the walkie back. “I’m taking good care of him. Got him cleaned up and just fed him some dinner.”
“I’m not a dog.”
Steve smirks. “You eat like one.”
“Make sure he doesn’t over exert himself and he’s still not allowed to go outside, okay?” As if Hopper hadn’t already given them this spiel.
Grabbing Steve’s hand, but not bothering to take the walkie out of it, Eddie presses the button. “These instructions are beginning to feel repetitive.”
“Apparently you need to be told what not to do more than once.”
Eddie rolls his eyes but a pit forms in his stomach. Dustin is such a condescending pain in the ass, but Eddie can still distinctly remember the feeling of losing consciousness in his arms. The idea of never seeing the little shrimp again is disturbing enough that it makes him embarrassingly emotional to be berated by him again.
Even though Dustin is the current mouthpiece, Eddie knows the others are likely listening in on their receivers. Their very own hivemind, one pure of heart and packed full with gooey affection and innocent intentions. Not a group Eddie ever thought he’d be a member of. It’s ridiculous how happy it makes him, though, to be in on it, even with the traumatic initiation.
But it does make him wonder what’s wrong with them all, to keep him around. After everything he’s put them through. He still can’t quite shake the feeling that it’s all his fault. Not just the momentarily dying, but all of it. From Chrissy on. Maybe if he just hadn’t entertained her drug foray, she would have gone with Carver instead and made it through, gotten some real help. Maybe everything would have been different.
Not that he can change any of it, a fact that will surely haunt him until he finally kicks the bucket himself. Throat a little tight, he says, “Yeah, alright. I hear ya.”
“Good. Radio if anything happens. And I mean anything , Steve.”
“You got it, Golden Retriever.”
There’s a dramatic sigh over the line. “Gold Leader out.”
Realizing he’s still holding on to Steve’s hand, Eddie awkwardly lets go so Steve can place it on the table with a resolute tap.
“Kid’s gonna lead a space expedition or something one day,” Eddie says, if anything just to fill the sudden silence that has fallen over the cabin.
Steve’s eyes sparkle with pride. “NASA won’t know what hit ‘em. You done?” He motions towards Eddie’s empty plate, practically licked clean. Eddie nods and Steve whisks it away, carrying his own over to the sink as well. He starts to rinse them off, adding the pots from the stove into the queue.
Eddie’s never been one for chores, but something about watching the guy who just cooked you dinner also do all the dishes seems in bad taste. In an attempt to stave off any additional guilt (god knows he has enough of that already) Eddie pries himself out of his chair, using the table as leverage.
“Where are you going?” Steve asks, turning the water off to hear better.
“To offer a lone busboy my services.”
Steve gives him a dazzling smile. “I’m pretty sure manual labor isn’t gonna help you recover. Do you want your intestines to slip out?”
Suddenly it’s clear Dustin’s condescending nature wasn’t so much built in at birth, but obtained through osmosis. And still, Eddie prevails. “No one ever said anything about manual labor, sweetheart. You wash, I dry.”
Surprisingly Steve relents and hands off the dishrag on his shoulder. “No spotty work now, Munson.”
“Dry is dry, Harrington. It’s you who has to make these dishes sparkle .”
It’s peaceful, watching Steve’s calloused hands wade through soapy water, suds clinging to his wrists. Quiet except for the sounds of the running facet. Eddie wants to reach around him from behind, to run his hands down the soft skin of Steve’s forearms, until he reaches slick wrists and can interlock their fingers.
It’s not the most erotic thought Eddie’s ever had, but it still makes his heartbeat kick up, painfully pathetic. He can’t possibly be this enthralled by the simple act of washing a dish. Christ.
And each time Steve hands him a plate or utensil, when their fingertips brush, Eddie holds his breath, as if Steve steals it from him. It doesn’t help that Eddie’s been a little short of breath ever since he woke up. Steve may kill him via chore.
Thankfully, Steve seems to be none the wiser, devoting all of his attention to the task at hand. It’s both relieving and disheartening that he’s not as affected by such a simple thing, the brush of hands, the same way that Eddie is.
This is Steve Harrington, Eddie reminds himself. Chronic womanizer, although Eddie hasn’t seen a girl by his side in ages, with more than enough experience under his belt and, not to mention, very straight . Not in the slightest. He has absolutely no reason to be affected, unless he’s recoiling from Eddie in disgust. Which, admittedly, Eddie is also grateful he doesn’t do.
Ostensibly out of curiosity, but really just to punish himself, Eddie says, “Gotta admit, Harrington. I’m surprised you’d willingly sign up to babysit the town-satanist-slash-super-senior.”
Steve looks up from where he’s scrubbing the macaroni pot thoroughly. A strand of hair falls in front of his eyes and Eddie so badly wants to brush it away he almost irreparably bends the fork he’s drying.
“What, you save a guy’s life then are never allowed to see him again?” A hint of that smirk pulls at Steve’s lips again.
Refusing to even glance at those luscious pink traps, Eddie swats him with the towel. “Just figured you’d want to spend your time somewhere with a better view. One with rolling hills like a bouncy perm and stars like sweet doe eyes.”
Steve pauses his washing, his hands braced against the lip of the sink. “You know you just described yourself, right?”
Eddie’s stomach fizzes like a shaken can of soda, making his hardwiring short circuit. With a tremendous effort he wishes the world would recognize and appreciate, he forces exasperation out of his mouth, “I do not have a perm . This ball of frizz is au naturel . Out of all the defamation I’m facing, that, I think, is the worst one.”
Steve holds up his hands. “My bad.”
“You know what I’m saying. Don’t act dumb, man.”
Steve turns back to the sink, finishing the last pot before handing it off and pulling the drain. He sighs in a way that makes Eddie think he’s had this conversation many times before. “Can’t prefer the view if the ship’s already sailed far away. Me and Nance are long over.”
Considering their little show in the hell dimension, Eddie begs to differ. “But—”
“I know what you said in the woods, but you were wrong. It wouldn’t even matter if you were right. Nance and I just aren’t meant for each other like that. It’s taken me a while to see it, but I do now. Crystal clear.”
Eddie overanalyzes his voice, looking for any cracks in the resolved but firm tone. He doesn’t find anything except an exhaustion that seems to be dredged up by the topic. Eddie relents, ignoring the hope that catches in his chest.
“Alright, man. If you say so.”
Steve breathes out in relief, the tension in his shoulders unwinding.
The sun has long since set when they put away the dishes, making quick work of it in their silent teamwork. Eddie is exhausted from the physical demands of the day, the kind that settles bone deep, making it difficult to keep his eyes open. Add that to the pain that’s starting to ebb back in, pulsing stronger as his first dose of meds wears off.
He cracks open the pill bottles, swallowing them dry again, too lazy to hobble to the fridge for a drink to wash it down.
“Okay, let’s get you to bed.”
At any other time Eddie would have smiled and taken the bait to make an easy innuendo, but the promise of sleep detours the Harrington Train his mind has been stuck on all day. With a hand on the small of Eddie’s back, Steve steers him into the old bedroom.
The bed looks only marginally better than the couch, but it still beckons Eddie to nestle in its dated sheets. He almost throws himself on top of it, only refraining for his stitches’ sake.
“Joyce changed them before she left, but they still don’t look great, huh?” Steve comments as he pulls back the quilted comforter.
“As long as there’s nothing living inside of them, I don’t really care.”
Eddie moves to the other side and copies Steve’s unmaking. It’s oddly domestic, folding down sheets together, fluffing pillows. Like they do this every night and remake it every morning. Sleepily, Eddie wonders if this will become their routine in the brief time they’re trapped here.
He hopes so.
When it’s properly prepared for Eddie to crawl in and sleep for a thousand years, Steve takes a step back with a hand on his hip and his thumb hitched over his shoulder. “I’ll be just out there if you need anything. Feel free to wake me up or just give a shout, I’m a pretty light sleeper.”
For a second Eddie is too stunned to say anything, but when Steve reaches the threshold of the door he’s finally able to unglue his tongue.
“Don’t be stupid. Sleep here.” It comes out like a demand, but Eddie can’t help the indignation that rises in his throat, the fog of exhaustion momentarily dissipated from his mind.
“After everything you need a good night’s sleep. The couch is a pull out, I don’t mind.”
And Eddie can tell, from the earnestness in his eyes to the slight furrow in his brow, that Steve means it. He’d sleep on that abomination, no question, no complaint, no hesitation. Eddie wonders if the idea of sharing a bed with him really is so horrible that Steve would choose getting a crick in his back just to avoid it.
It only makes Eddie as equally offended as he is irritated.
“Fuck no, you’ll wish you were dead in the morning. The bed’s big enough for two.” It’s a queen, maybe minus a few inches, but Eddie’s used to his ratty twin back at the trailer, he can keep to his side.
Steve scratches the back of his neck. “Really, it’s—”
With a wave of his hand Eddie cuts him off, this conversation making him more tired by the second.
“Just because you can shower on your own doesn’t mean you didn’t almost die too. We both need to sleep for a goddamn week. We’re sharing the bed. Don’t make me haul your ass over here, getting up right now might kill me.”
As Steve looks at him, amusement twinkling in his eyes and a smile held back on his lips, Eddie wonders if he didn’t shoot himself in the foot here. Ah, but what’s life without a little bit of danger? He already nearly lost his life this week, why not also make it completely unbearable. It’ll be great.
“Okay.”
Eddie nods once. “Good.”
Making himself comfortable against the pillows, he watches Steve carry in his duffles. He places the walkie on the dresser across from the bed, like the dutiful babysitter he is, then grabs a change of clothes and disappears into the bathroom.
When he returns Eddie has to close his eyes against the onslaught of cozy Steve. Decked out in a soft white t-shirt that pulls taut against his shoulders and boxers that reveal an indecent amount of thigh, Eddie decides he’s definitely flown too close to the sun, bringing about his own undoing. He has to look away as Steve pulls back the covers and crawls into bed next to him, the image too much like something Eddie longed for in secrecy when the dreams taunted far bigger feelings than lust.
His chest burns like melting wax.
Steve clicks off the lamp and then they’re laying quietly, side by side. The silence feels like a third person in the room with them, an elephant based on how heavy it is, and searches for some way to break it. He wonders if Steve feels it too or if it’s just another thing unrequited.
“I promise I won’t kick,” Eddie settles on after a few minutes of debate.
Steve snorts. “I find that hard to believe.”
Eddie’s foot darts out and nails Steve in the calf.
“Fucking—!” Steve scrambles to get his legs out of the line of fire.
“Don’t piss off a vivid dreamer before bed, I might knee you in the crotch now.”
“God, you’re like Dustin. He flails all around in his sleep.”
Eddie would expect nothing less. “Dreaming sweet dreams of hitchhiking to Utah I’m sure.”
Steve laughs quietly enough that most of it gets swallowed up by the darkness. “Probably.”
Eddie wants to look at him out of the corner of his eye, to see Steve sprawled against the pillow, hair smashed and body curled, but he keeps his eyes glued to the beam on the ceiling. Clearly, he needs to preserve his sanity somehow.
He tries to fall asleep but can’t quite shake the feeling that something’s waiting for him, in his dreams. Waiting for the moment when his control slips and his mind is laid out, vulnerable and ripe for the picking. It feels like forever before he works up the courage to ask, giving voice to the fear nagging at his mind, but he whispers in case Steve has already drifted off.
“Steve.”
Eddie is surprised to hear him respond with a weak, “Mm?”
Eddie swallows. “Do you think he’s really dead?”
Steve doesn’t waste time asking who. The bed squeaks as he shifts to face Eddie. “We put him down. El made sure of it.”
Eddie fists the bedsheets, resisting the urge to reach out and touch warm skin, to anchor himself against the worries that try to sweep him out to rougher waters.
“Goodnight, Steve.”
A beat. “Night, Eddie.”
Sleep finds him quickly after that, but Eddie wishes it didn’t.
There’s meat hanging from the rafters.
Cows and pigs, even goats and horses in distant rows. Large masses strung up by their legs, skinned and dripping onto the floor, now such a deep red it’s reflective. When Eddie looks down he sees himself staring up, painted in shades of crimson, his eyes filled with blood.
The room is long, extending so far he can’t see the end, and lit up with a stark white light. It hurts almost to have his eyes open against the harshness of it, but then again, maybe that’s from the death hanging all around him.
It takes him a moment to notice the steady pound of a drum. It echoes through the room, making the bloody floor ripple.
He follows it. Wading through the shallow gore, passing what’s left of the livestock, he notices that their bodies slowly lose color. Fading from the bright pink of muscle and sinew to muted tones, then pale shades until they’re nothing but gray husks, indistinguishable from the hooks that suspend them. Conversely the pounding gets louder as the color dipletes, as if one must consume the other.
When he’s surrounded by slabs of gray and the thumping ricochets through his skull like a mallet, he sees her.
She’s rich in the monochrome that encompasses her, the scarlet of the ground only heightening the effect of her dangling form, meat hooks punctured through her shoulders, suspending her above. Blood runs in rivulets from her nose and ears, dripping from her closed eyes like tears.
It’s she who is beating, her heart, which is inverted so that it clings to the outside of her chest, pumping rapidly, arduously.
Bile rises in his throat, burning his nose, but he swallows it down, submerging it along with the tears in his eyes.
“Chrissy,” he says, mournfully. The beginning of a eulogy, a word of repentance.
He doesn’t expect her eyes to open, shot through with red.
He jerks back, almost falling into the liquid that laps at his ankles.
“I was awake,” she whispers,, the words barely uttered yet he hears them clear as day, through the broken jaw and all.
“What?” He chokes out.
“Paralyzed but watching. Watching you gawk,” her voice starts to rise. “Watching you hesitate. Watching you flounder,” it’s loud now, the sweetness of her voice slipping into something sinister. “Watching you RUN.”
She shouts it with such force that this time Eddie does fall. He lands with a splash, only the ground never meets him and he’s sinking down, through the thick viscosity of the blood, so deep that the light can no longer penetrate.
As his limbs are flailing, thrashing and trying to propel him back to the surface, something wraps around his ankle. He kicks once more before it’s pulling him further into the abyss below.
Only it’s not the below anymore, but the above.
His feet breach the surface first, his body following as the thing spits him out, slapping him against the unforgiving ground. The tentacle slithers away, back into the puddle it emerged from.
Eddie coughs up blood onto the dirt, wiping the remnants out of his eyes. He lays there, gasping as the land beneath him turns from brown to red. His lungs shrivel and jerk, his nose burns, his arms shake.
He pauses at the black dots that drip into the puddle he’s made, runs a hand through the developing constellation before realizing their source.
The wounds that litter his arms and body have split open and they all bleed black.
He doesn’t get a moment to panic before boots obstruct his vision. They’re muddy and torn and a size too big, but those are the laces with which Eddie learned how to tie and those are the soles that he’d be able to recognize anywhere.
His gaze follows the boots up to their owner.
Wayne looks down at him with pity in his eyes and disappointment on his mouth, chiseled onto his face like a stone inscription.
“You never did know when to quit, kid,” he sighs, tired, resigned. “Only thing you know how to do is make every punch land harder, make every pain hurt worse. Just like your father.”
A sob tears out of Eddie’s throat. “No.”
The flapping of a thousand wings beat overhead, getting louder with every second. Over his uncle’s shoulders Eddie watches them descend, a horde of black death.
“You wanted this, Eddie.” Wayne bends down. “It’s time to let it end.”
His hands wrap around Eddie’s neck as the bats woop in and the world shatters.
“Eddie!” A disembodied voice pleads but he only breaks through the blankness that incapacitates him when the shaking starts.
He comes to with a gasp. His whole body is trembling, making it hard to breathe alongside the panic that grips his chest in a tight fist. His eyes adjust from the blue dusk light to the dark room of their cabin. Steve is leaning over him, hair mussed and falling in his face, both hands holding Eddie’s shoulders.
Steve must see a new clarity in Eddie’s eyes because he sags a little, letting his head fall.
“Jesus, Eddie. You’re okay. You’re okay.” He lays down beside him, wrapping a protective arm around Eddie to pull him against his chest. Eddie can feel his heart pounding on the other side of the cotton and flesh.
“ What –” Eddie can’t even get the question out, his throat shredded to ribbons from the jagged edges of his screams.
“You had a nightmare,” Steve says, the details of which are already fading from Eddie’s sleep-addled mind like wisps of smoke. “You were thrashing and I thought you— thought he— I just. Didn’t want you to hurt yourself.”
Eddie feels the wet tracks of tears down his face and he’s gripped by the desperate need to check if they’re black. He can’t remember why.
A dangerous feeling hums under his skin, making him jittery and restless. Panic blocks his throat and he feels like he’s suffocating. He grabs Steve’s hand, pulls it against his chest, and holds on tight. His grip is intense enough to bruise but Steve doesn’t complain, he just covers their hands with his other one.
“Breathe, Eds. That’s it. Just breathe.”
Eddie tries but it’s hard and staring up at Steve’s kind, pitiful face isn’t helping. He squeezes his eyes shut, but not even embarrassment can shoulder through the adrenaline and grief suffocating him. He hears Steve model a long deep breath and after the second time, Eddie joins in. Trying to match Steve with each inhale and exhale.
Slowly, the anxiety subsides and the fatigue sets in, pulling Eddie’s body deeper into the bed.
“That sucked ass,” he finally mutters, voice still gruff.
Steve’s responding chuckle is light, but frayed at the edges with sleep.
“They’re evil little shits, the nightmares.”
Eddie peaks an eye open, daring a glimpse at the beautiful man holding him, watching his face like he can translate the language hidden in every minor movement.
“They ever get better?” Eddie asks quietly, scared of the answer.
Steve considers for a moment, which doesn’t bode well. But when he nods, Eddie’s muscles unwind just enough that the pressure can begin to seep out.
“Not very quickly and not all at once. Some nights are manageable, some aren’t. But eventually, with time, they come less often.” Eddie will take it, anything that shines a light against the hopelessness he feels. “At least, until the world ends again. Which, hopefully it won’t. Fourth time’s the charm.” Steve holds up crossed fingers.
It isn’t the most encouraging pep talk, but it does chase away some of the cold that’s settled into his bones and he’s too exhausted to fully internalize it. “According to clovers, lucky too.”
It takes him a minute to realize he’s still holding onto Steve’s hand with a vice grip and he
reluctantly lets go, surprised Steve hadn’t stolen his hand back sooner.
“Get back to your beauty sleep, Harrington,” Eddie says in lieu of examining how perfectly their hands felt together or how empty his palm feels now.
With a sad smile and a commiserative shoulder squeeze, Steve retreats to his side of the bed so that they’re no longer on top of each other, and lays on his back. “I’ll be here if you need me,” Steve offers, as if Eddie could forget.
Eddie doesn’t move, watching Steve in an attempt to tether himself to the real world. If Steve notices his staring, he doesn’t mention it, and only once his bed mate’s breathing has evened out, slow and steady and sure, does Eddie say, “Thank you, Steve.”
Because despite his best efforts, the man just keeps on saving him.