Chapter Text
Steve’s fingers dig deep into the dirt as he hauls himself out of the tunnel. He can feel it gather under his fingernails and he absently regrets removing his gloves to start the fire. Max and Lucas rush over and grab his elbows. Together they drag him over the ledge, through the soil, and onto the grass.
Steve’s legs tingle with phantom pressure, like the demo-dogs are still running past him, and it makes his chest wind tight. Heart hammering, he scrambles to his feet and rushes to Dustin’s side. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he takes a good look at the kid. He looks okay, if a little confused at Steve’s searching gaze. His chest loosens and he sighs out his first full breath since he woke up in the back of Billy’s Camaro.
He doesn’t think those dogs got either of them.
But if they weren’t sent to attack, where are they going?
Almost in answer, the headlights on the Camaro flare to life. Steve hisses as the light sears through his goggles and into his brain. The throbbing pain radiating from his left temple turns sharp. He lifts a hand, trying to block the light as it grows brighter and brighter.
Steve glances between the car and the kids, trying to figure out if anyone knows what’s happening. They look just as confused as he feels, all four of them staring blankly into the headlights. Steve looks back at the car as the lights grow even brighter. He’s squinting so hard he can barely see.
He’s starting to think the headlights are going to burst when the lights go out, throwing them into complete darkness. The relief is instant. His headache retreats, like it had in the tunnels.
A flashlight comes on, slicing through the darkness.
“What. Was that?” Max directs her light toward the group.
“Eleven.” Mike whispers. “It was Eleven,” voice louder now. “She did it. She closed the gate!” A smile breaks out across his face.
“How do you know for sure?” Lucas steps next to Max, the whole group moving to surround the circle of light on the grass.
“El’s powers cause surges!” Dustin pipes up from beside Steve. “Remember in the AV Room? When she fried the Heathkit?”
“Yeah…I can’t believe we didn’t get in trouble for that,” Lucas reaches a hand up to rub his neck, grimacing.
Steve and Max share a glance. What does any of this have to do with the gate?
“But what about Will…” Dustin is quieter than before.
Mike’s face twists briefly with worry before he shakes his head. “She wouldn’t have closed it if Will was still in danger.” He stands tall, voice strong. “We did it. All of us. It’s finally over.”
Relief washes over their features, but Steve isn’t really convinced.
“Wait, wait. Hold up.” Steve holds out his hands like he can physically stop the conversation. He reaches up and takes off his goggles, clenching his jaw when the strap grazes over his temple. “So the gate’s closed and Will is alright? And you three put all that together just because the lights went all wonky?”
“Yes, Steve.” Dustin turns to look up at him. “Weren’t you listening?”
He shakes his head at the sarcasm lacing Dustin’s response, but knows immediately it was a mistake. The motion makes the world tilt around him and he stumbles to keep his footing. He squeezes his eyes shut and goes to pinch the bridge of his nose, only to meet rough fabric.
“Woah!” Dustin is in front of him, one hand on his arm and the other reaching up to untie the bandana still covering Steve’s face.
“I’m okay.” The world rights itself, dizziness dissipating. “I’m good.” He gently shoves Dustin’s hands away, which weren’t making much progress anyway, and yanks the bandana down so it rests around his neck. His nose protests as the fabric slides over it. Something shifts under his skin in a way that makes him woozy and he sucks in a gasp through his teeth.
Dustin is looking at him warily, like he’ll collapse right here in the pumpkin patch. The others haven’t moved, but keep glancing between him and each other.
“We should go back to the house.” Max digs a set of keys out of her pocket and holds them up. “I’ll drive.”
“Oh, hell no.” Steve walks over to Max and snatches the keys out of her hand. She throws him a dirty look in response. “We barely made it here in one piece. What are you trying to do? Give me a heart attack before I’ve gotten to college? No, no. I’m driving.”
He reaches the driver’s side door, one hand resting on the handle, before he looks back at the group. None of them are moving, just staring at him like he’s crazy.
“What?” None of them respond. “Get in! Let’s go!” He opens the door and climbs behind the wheel.
The kids scramble across the field and, after untying the rope from the front bumper, pile into the car after him. Dustin hops in the passenger seat first, before anyone else can claim it. The others each find a spot in the back seat.
Steve puts the key in the ignition and goes to step on the break, except the break is a lot closer than it should be.
“What the…” Pushing the seat back, he shifts to glance down at the pedals only to see two wooden boxes. He can picture it now, Mike or Dustin or whoever tying the boxes onto the pedals to make sure Max can reach them. Reaching down, Steve yanks the boxes off the pedals before tossing them into the back seat toward Max. He watches her tuck them carefully under her seat.
“What?” She asks at his questioning gaze. “I told you, I’ve driven before. I use them for practice.”
Steve takes a slow breath as he turns back toward the wheel. That’s a conversation for another day.
Finally able to reach the break comfortably, he turns the ignition and the engine roars to life under his hands. The soft hum runs through him and he takes a moment to savor it, knowing he won’t have another chance to drive this car. Then, he slowly maneuvers them out of the pumpkin patch, making sure to give the tunnel entrance a wide berth.
They’re about halfway to the Byers’ house when Lucas and Max start muttering to each other in the back seat. He can hear Mike and Dustin join the conversation, but it’s coming through Steve’s ears like white noise. It was easy to ignore the pounding in his head and face when their lives were in danger. Now, the adrenaline is leaving him and it takes all his focus just to keep the car on the road.
By the time he finally pulls into the driveway, Steve feels like complete shit. His head feels like it’s going to split open, his face and nose throb where he must’ve taken the brunt of Billy’s beating, and his stomach is starting to turn like that time he rode the tilt-a-whirl at the county fair.
He throws the car in park and removes the key before leaning forward slightly to rest his forehead on the steering wheel. The car shakes as the kids scramble out of it and slam the doors closed behind them. Each resulting WHAM sets off fireworks behind Steve’s closed eyelids.
He just needs a minute. One minute of silence. Then, he’ll go inside to wrangle the kids and clean up before Mrs. Byers gets back.
A hand lands on his shoulder and he jumps to an upright position. The abrupt motion sends pain flooding over the left side of his head and down through his neck and shoulders. He presses a hand into his left eyebrow, trying to chase the pain away with the pressure.
Dustin still sits in the passenger seat next to him. His hand tightens on his shoulder, eyes blown wide.
“Steve, hey, you okay?” His voice is urgent and laced with blatant worry.
“Yeah,” it comes out automatically. He drops his hand hurriedly to make his case more convincing.
It’s mostly true, anyway. Steve recognizes a lot of these symptoms from that time he got a concussion playing basketball. They’re slightly worse this time around, he doesn’t remember the world spinning so violently last time, but Dustin doesn’t need to know that.
He clearly isn’t convinced. “Seriously, man, I’m fine. Just ready for the day to be over, y’know?”
Dustin’s face clears a bit. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” His gaze shifts to look through the living room window where the others are already gathering. Their silhouettes shift behind Mrs. Byers’ curtains.
“C’mon,” Steve braces himself mentally before moving to get out of the car. His hand slips over the handle, leaving dirt streaks behind. His fingers are slick with mud and slime and he grimaces against the nausea building in his stomach. “Let’s go inside. I want to wash some of this shit off my hands.”
Dustin gives his own grimace, rubbing his fingers together like he’s just realized how dirty they are, before opening the door.
Steve hauls himself out of the car, leaning on the frame for support as his dizziness gets worse. He stands there for a few seconds, static filling his ears, before the feeling retreats. A SLAM echoes into the night air, making Steve wince. Dustin crosses in front of the car, still watching him like a hawk. Steve shoves himself away from the car, closing his own door significantly softer than any of the kids, before following Dustin to the house.
The light spilling out of the front door sets Steve’s headache aflame. The throbbing in his neck and shoulders gets worse as he goes inside. He has to squint to see Mike, Lucas, and Max in the living room. They’ve each got a pile of blankets and pillows in their arms.
Looking over, he sees Billy propped up against the wall, fully unconscious. His gaze slips down to Billy’s split knuckles and his face throbs painfully at the reminder.
Walking over to the kitchen, he’s struck by the realization that he can’t really see out of his left eye. His vision’s gone fuzzy, like something is stuck in it. He reaches a hand up to rub at it, hoping to clear away the blurriness.
Maneuvering carefully around Dustin, who’s started picking the fridge contents up off the floor, Steve deposits the keys onto the kitchen table. They jingle softly when they hit the wood and Dustin looks up at the noise. He stares warily at him, but Steve waves him off before walking down the hallway and into the bathroom.
The lights are, mercifully, off in the small space. Steve’s head is still pounding and his face aches even worse, but the darkness helps in a way he can’t identify.
He stumbles over to the sink, turning on the faucet and letting the water run over his hands. He watches the dirt and grime from the tunnels wash down the drain and he scrubs to get the last of it off.
He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and freezes. His face is crusted with dirt, slime, and blood. Some bandaids have been placed hastily over his forehead and chin, which probably need to be changed now. Bruises are already forming around his eyes and his nose is swollen to nearly twice its normal size. He probes the swollen skin with wet fingers, recoiling when the pressure causes a spike of pain to shoot up his sinuses and fuel his headache.
The pain branches from his left temple and Steve thinks he remembers Billy hitting him with something by the sink. Wanting to get a better look, he tilts his head and gingerly parts his hair around the wound. It’s too dark to really see anything, but the thought of turning on the light makes his stomach turn so ferociously that he has to drop his hands over the sink edge to stabilize himself.
He closes his eyes to try and will away the feeling, but all it does is make him dizzy. He feels like he’s floating through empty space, which only makes the nausea worse, so he opens them again.
Sighing, he cups his hands under the running faucet, hoping the shock of cool water will act as a reset for his system. He leans down to splash the water on his face, except the world keeps tilting after he’s already stopped and Steve’s forehead bounces off the faucet’s curved edge.
It wasn’t a hard hit, but the consequences are immediate. The left side of his head is flooded with sharp pain. Water splashes back into the sink and onto the floor as Steve’s hands clumsily grip the sink edges to brace himself. The world still feels like it’s moving around him, spinning faster and faster like that damn tilt-a-whirl.
Everything is starting to feel slippery. Nothing is concrete enough for his mind to latch onto. Uneasiness rushes hot down his spine and it’s the last straw for his stomach.
He’s leaning over the toilet, knees aching, fingers clenching painfully on the edges of the bowl, acid coating his tongue, and no idea how he got here. Wasn’t he just at the sink?
His stomach flips and he’s heaving over the still water. Each gag makes his head flare with white hot agony. It’s like his brain is pushing against the inside of his skull.
His hair flops over his forehead and he wants to push it back, away from the bile leaving his system, but he’s afraid to move his hands from their braced position on the toilet. With the way the room is still spinning around him, he thinks he might fall over if he loses any support.
There isn’t anything coming up anymore, but his body doesn’t relent, stomach clenching painfully around nothing. His vision goes blurry with reflexive tears and he’s hit with a longing for his own home. His own bathroom. Where he could camp out on the floor with his comforter and nothing would matter.
The nausea finally starts to back off, heaves stopping long enough for him to take a full breath. He stays there for a few seconds, kneeling over the toilet. The room isn’t spinning quite so fast, and his headache isn’t as sharp now that he’s still.
His gaze shifts to the handle of the toilet and gets stuck there. He should probably flush it. The thought comes through slowly, like it’s stuck in syrup. He lowers himself carefully to sit on the cold tiles, hands dropping to his sides to anchor himself in the new position. Carefully, he shifts his weight to one side so he can lift a hand and flush the toilet.
Except, he misses the handle, fingers just brushing the edge of it. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and clear his vision. Opening his eyes, he tries again, aiming a bit more to the right. The handle goes down and a resounding Flush carries away the mess.
He’s starting to think something might really be wrong. His last concussion wasn’t like this.
A knock sounds off the bathroom door, “Hey, Steve! The Chief and Mrs. Byers radioed in and…”
Dustin’s voice blurs together. That slippery feeling is back and it’s impossible to focus on the words long enough to actually hear what he’s saying. The Chief? Mrs. Byers? They were closing the gate, right? Does that mean they did it? Is it over?
His head throbs in time with his heartbeat. He brings his left hand up over his eyebrow, fingers digging deep into the skin to try and lessen the ache. Dustin’s voice is getting louder through the door, making the pain worse as his volume increases. Steve can’t help the strangled groan that slips out after a particularly sharp throb pulses through his skull, and Dustin goes silent.
A few seconds pass before a quiet, “Steve?” filters into the bathroom.
Steve can’t bring himself to answer. The room is starting to spin violently again and all he can focus on is not falling over.
“Steve, answer me or I’m coming in!”
A few seconds pass before the handle turns and the door is thrown wide. “Holy shit!” Dustin practically falls across the floor in his rush to sit beside him.
Steve winces at his volume, fingers still pressed deep into his forehead. “Shhh, n’t so loud H’nders’n.”
“Shit, shit, shit.” Dustin glances at the open bathroom door before looking back at Steve. “Okay, okay.”
Dustin grips his shoulders, shoving gently to turn Steve toward him. The motion makes the dizziness worse and Dustin’s hand digs further into his shoulder as he tilts to the left. His own hand falls from his forehead and slams to the floor in an attempt to catch himself.
“Whoah! Steve, are you okay? What’s going on?”
He hears the question, but the meaning lags a few moments behind. “Dizzy.” Steve chokes out when the meaning finally registers. “Like ’m on th’ tilt-a-whirl.”
“Okay. Do you think you can scootch back? Then you can lean against the wall.”
Dustin’s hands are already pushing gently on Steve’s shoulders again and he just follows their direction, scootching backwards across the tiles until something solid hits his back. Steve unfolds his legs so they’re extended in front of him.
He squeezes his eyes shut against the light filtering in from the hallway. A soft tap on his face makes him open them again to see Dustin kneeling in front of him.
“Hey, good. Keep your eyes open.” He holds up a hand, right in Steve’s line of sight. “How many fingers am I holding up?”
Steve tries to focus on Dustin’s fingers so he can count, but his gaze keeps slipping right over them.
“Steve. How many fingers?”
The urgency in Dustin’s tone makes something heavy pool in his chest. He looks back at the hand held in front of him, willing the room to stop spinning long enough for him to give an answer.
Well, he can clearly see three fingers held out, but each digit has another finger trailing right beside it. So, six? But that doesn’t make any sense. Hands only have five fingers.
“Five?”
Dustin’s face shifts at his answer, eyes growing wide and mouth dropping open, and Steve knows he must’ve given the wrong answer. Dustin spins around toward the open door, “Mike! Lucas! Get in here! Something’s wrong with Steve!”
Steve brings his hands up to cover his ears, groaning as Dustin’s voice makes his head pound.
“Sorry.” Dustin’s voice is quieter now, and he offers a grimace in apology.
Footsteps come stomping down the hallway and into the bathroom. Chaos erupts the second the other two cross the threshold. They’re loud, voices overlapping as they talk over one another and gesture wildly in his direction.
The conversation moves too fast for him to really understand what they’re talking about, but he catches a few words. Something about Billy? Tunnels? The Chief and Mrs. Byers.
His chest grows tight at the reminder, and he needs to know. “Did they do it?” The kids fall silent. “Did they cl’se the gate?”
Dustin turns back toward him. He hears someone mutter a quiet, “Shit” by the door.
“Yeah, they closed the gate. It’s over.” Dustin kneels down in front of Steve again.
Relief unwinds the tightness in his chest and he feels his shoulders sag as he lets out a breath.
Dustin turns back to the others. “We should move him to the living room.”
He sees the others nod, but the words don’t click until Mike and Lucas are each grabbing one of his arms.
“Wait, wait.” He yanks his arms away from the kids, curling them protectively against his chest. “Can’t leave.” He can still feel nausea simmering in his stomach and doesn’t want to think about the look on Mrs. Byers’ face if he vomits in her living room.
“Why can’t you leave?” Dustin asks.
“Nauseous.” Which, really is only one problem of many on Steve’s list right now. “And th’ lights. Too bright.”
“Well, I can’t really do much for the first one. We can fix the lights, though.” Dustin looks pointedly at Lucas.
“Yeah, yeah. Totally.” Lucas leaves the bathroom. Muttering filters in from right outside the door for a few seconds before two sets of footsteps go rushing toward the living room.
When Lucas finally hits the hallway light, the room goes pitch dark. It helps again, in that way Steve can’t identify. The room still spins and his brain still feels like it’s going to leak out of his ears, but the darkness makes it better somehow.
Steve shifts slightly against the wall, trying to relieve the dull ache building in his lower back. How long has he been sitting on the floor? Maybe moving to the living room wouldn’t be such a bad thing. The couch would certainly be more comfy than the tile.
But he knows that moving that far is going to hurt.
Lucas and Max reappear in the doorway. “Lights are off.”
“Well, except for that light from Will’s room.” Lucas turns toward Dustin. “Y’know, the little one? I mean,” he glances back at Max, “we couldn't see anything out there with the lights off. Don’t want anyone to trip or something.”
“Okay, let’s move him.” Mike steps closer to Steve, hands reaching out to grab him.
Steve flinches back, out of Mike’s reach. “I got it.” The only thing that could make this situation worse is being carried around by a bunch of thirteen year olds. He honestly isn’t sure how they would get him out there, short of dragging him by his arms across the floor.
So, Steve takes a moment to brace himself, trying to will away the dizziness and the nausea long enough to stand up. His shoes scrape along the tiles, streaking dirt and slime in their wake, as he shifts to get his feet under him.
“Steve, I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Dustin moves forward, hands outstretched as if to catch him.
Steve stands. “It’s fine. I said I’ve–” Static rushes through his ears, his vision goes blurry, and his knees turn to jelly as lightning strikes through his head. His back slams into the wall behind him, body sagging under the force of the pain.
All four kids rush him at once, gripping him under the arms and around his chest to try and keep him standing, but it’s no use. Steve’s knees give out completely, sending him crashing back down to the bathroom floor.
A distant part of Steve feels the abrupt impact, but it’s like he’s floating somewhere just outside of his body. Voices filter through the blood still rushing in his ears, but they’re tinny, as if they’re talking through a bad radio. Steve can’t hold onto the words long enough to understand what they’re saying. Everything rushes past him, like a river flowing around a boulder.
Pressure circles under his arms and up around his shoulders. The voices are growing more frantic, but Steve can’t bring himself to care. The pressure tugs and the room moves around him, making him feel like he’s moving backward and tilting to the left. His head throbs in protest and it makes the floaty feeling retreat just enough that Steve can feel his limbs again.
Nausea churns in his stomach as the room keeps moving and he opens his eyes to try and anchor himself. His gaze shifts across the room for something stationary, but everything is moving. The ground slides under his outstretched legs and then he’s passing through the bathroom doorway, into the hallway.
The room isn’t moving around him. He’s moving through the room. The kids really are dragging him backwards by the arms.
The revelation does nothing to calm his stomach. Hot mortification mixes sickeningly with the nausea. He clenches his jaw and takes shallow breaths through his nose to combat the feeling.
He tries to focus on something, anything, other than the room moving around him. Mike and Lucas’ fingers dig deep into his shoulders as they haul him backwards toward the living room and Steve latches onto the feeling.
He only notices they’ve made it when his back hits something soft and squishy. The couch. Hands shift from his arms and shoulders to under his armpits and around his chest. He only has a second to register the change in position before Mike and Lucas hoist him up, draping him clumsily across the cushions.
His head screams from the change in elevation and his stomach jumps into his throat. His mouth floods with saliva and he hurriedly shoves himself somewhat upright to lean over the side of the couch.
Dustin, thankfully, shoves a trash can under his face right before he starts heaving. Each gag sends a wave of sharp pain rocketing across his skull. His back aches from the way he’s tensing, but nothing is coming up. The nausea only grips him tighter, body trying to expel anything left in his system.
A hand brushes over his forehead, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes, and stays there. The contact is nice, grounding. The room stops spinning quite so fast.
“Steve, breathe man.” Dustin says from beside him. “Slowly.”
He tries, but it’s like his body isn’t his own anymore. He manages a half breath before he’s cut off by another dry heave.
“Okay. You’re okay.” Dustin’s voice comes out tight.
Dustin’s other hand lands to rest between Steve’s shoulders just in time for his body to finally find something to expel. Bile splashes down into the trash can, acid coating his tongue as it leaves his system. He spits a few times to try and get rid of the taste. Taking deep breaths, the nausea finally abates.
The sofa creaks as Steve gingerly hauls himself up so he’s sitting properly on the couch.
“Woah!” Dustin reaches down to shift the trash can out of the way before gripping Steve’s shoulders to help him lean back.
He sinks into the cushions, slowly tipping his head back so it rests against the back of the couch. His head throbs in the new position, but now that the nausea has returned to a simmer and not a boil, Steve is struck by how tired he is.
Dustin’s hands leave his shoulders. A few seconds pass before he registers the sound of a car pulling into the driveway. He should probably go see who it is, make sure all the kids are safe, but his limbs are too heavy to lift. His eyes are just starting to close when he hears the front door open.