Bee

With Steve Harrington you never have to worry about your hair care routine. Before him most times it was get into the shower, shampoo, conditioner get out. I mean sure, sometimes your hair would be frizzy and it annoyed you, but you also couldn’t be bothered. then you met Steve.

Steve Harrington who would rush to open any door for you, who would bring you flowers weekly and quite frankly go to the end of the earth for you.

Steve Harrington cared a lot about his hair. A

always doing his best to keep it nice looking, knowing all the tricks. He was shocked when the first time he took a shower with you and he saw your hair care (or lack there of) routine. so much so that he gasped out loud. you guys had been needing to get somewhere so as to cut time you both got in the shower together.

“sweetheart!!” he scolds playfully a look of mock horror on his face “what is this shampoo you’re using?? and no double shampoo, what are you doing??” he asks as you laugh “here let me” he says softly, using his own product. you guys ended up very late that day

from that day on every shower was with him and he insisted on doing you hair. afterwords he also washed and added minimal products. he even bought you a satin pillow case.

“Steve” you laugh “is this really necessary?”

“yes it is” he says matter of factly while sliding it onto your pillow “it’ll help keep your hair healthy and not damaged, and also helps your skin, not that you need it of course” it was just second nature for him to add the flattery in

“but i spend most the night on top of you anyways” you try but it’s not use arguing with him

he also bought satin scrunches and it became a nightly routine for him to sit and braid your hair for you.

small bonus thought:

Steve looks at you, his face a little flushed but he tries his best to look confused.

“What do you—”

“—you told your mom that we were ‘practising’ when she asked if we were trying for a fifth,” you say, beginning to bounce Maisie in your arms as she grew a little fussy—her big brown eyes locked on the buffet table ten feet away. “She just gave me some tips on how to conceive a boy.”

“Son of a—” Steve mutters, glancing down at Maisie before he stops himself. “—biscuit.”

“iscuit,” Maisie mimics with a small giggle. 

You look at Steve with a soft smile. “Nice save.”

“I told her to stop bothering you about that,” Steve mutters, gently taking Maisie from you as your daughter starts to try and wrestle her way out of your arms—completely fixated on that damn buffet. “The practising thing was a joke because we have so much—mommy and daddy time.”

Again, you try not to laugh at Steve self censoring. He had learnt from his mistake of saying ‘shit’ one too many times in front of your oldest, Ellie, who had nearly ruined your sister’s wedding by shouting out the word in the middle of the ceremony.

“Yeah well, you mom seems to think you won’t be happy until you have a boy,” you say, glancing in the direction of Steve’s parents. His dad looked as though he would rather be anywhere than at the twins' third birthday party while Steve’s mom seemed to be closely inspecting one of the cupcakes you made.

You don’t see it but Steve’s jaw clenches tightly, his eyes flicker down to your daughter in his arms and he wonders why the fuck people can’t see how happy he was. He had you. The love of his life, the woman who had been by his side through demogorgons, evil Russians and everything that came after that. The woman who gave him four little girls. Four perfect little girls.

Ellie, now nearly six years old, had an imagination so big that yours and Steve’s days were filled with tea parties, pretending to be mermaids in the inflatable pool and bed time stories that could last hours if Ellie had her way. Then there were the twins—Florence and Margot who were identical right down to their freckles but couldn’t be more different. Florence was quiet, liked to observe the world around her carefully and Margot? Well—Steve sometimes wondered if she had belonged to a circus in a past life. Margot would climb the walls if she could. And Maisie—who watched Margot run by with wonder in her eyes at her big sister—seemed to be following right in her footsteps. 

“I’m more than happy,” Steve tells you firmly, holding Maisie with one hand while the other cups the back of your head so that he could place a fierce kiss against your forehead. “Don’t listen to my mom. I’m more than happy to keep practising.”

You smile at him, you bump your ass against his hip and Steve wants nothing more to hand off Maisie to your mom to go upstairs and—

“Time for cake?” you ask Steve innocently and it makes him want to kiss you stupid. “Yeah,” Steve says softly, leaning in to press a determinedly chaste kiss against your lips. “Time for cake.”

The cake went as well as you had imagined it would—ending in orange and pink icing smeared in both the twins’ hair. Steve didn’t care that he had ended up with icing over his  brand new shirt, he just cared that his girls were smiling and that Margot hadn’t yet tried to scale the climbing frame (again).

The party was now dying down. You had taken Maisie up to bed an hour ago and your parents had taken on the task of rounding up the twins for a much needed bath. Steve had Ellie on his lap as he sat with some of his work colleagues outside. Ellie was happily drawing some—well, Steve wasn’t too sure what she was drawing. Some strange fusion of a dragon and a hamster, perhaps. Whatever it was, Steve thought it was a masterpiece.

“Good job, little lady,” Steve tells Ellie affectionately as he brushes her hair gently to the side. “We’ll have to get another fridge for all your drawings.”

Ellie smiles and shakes her head. “You’re silly, Daddy.”

“I’m not silly,” Steve gasps, feigning offence. “Your daddy is never silly.”

“Daddy’s always silly.”

Steve smiles before pressing a kiss to Ellie’s cheek. She squeals and promptly scrubs her cheek.

“You’re so good with them,” Mr. Matthews comments as the English teacher watches Steve with his daughter.

It was meant to be a compliment but to Steve, he was doing the bare minimum being a good dad. And so, Steve just smiles and turns his attention back to Ellie and her dragon-hamster hybrid.

“Don’t you ever wish for a boy?”

And there it was. The question Steve had been asked more times than he could count over the years.

“Don’t need one,” Steve says simply with a polite smile. “Got my girls. My wife. That’s all I need.”

It was what he always said and he truly meant every word.

“Don’t wish you were playing baseball instead of princesses?”

Steve stilled for a small second. If his daughter wasn’t sat in his lap, he may have snapped at Mr. Matthew’s causal sexism but he didn’t. Not in front of Ellie.

“Margot’s got a mean swing, actually.” Steve tells Mr. Matthews proudly. “Pretty sure she’ll be joining Little League this time next year.”

“She’ll be great!” Mrs. Willaims—the arts teacher—pipes up. “She’ll outrun all the boys in her class.”

Steve gives Mrs. Williams a grateful smile. She clearly thought Mr. Matthews was a sexist piece of shit too. Steve certainly felt relieved when Mr. Matthews retreated into the house to grab another drink.

The conversation flowed between Steve and his colleagues after that. Discussing lesson plans, what everyone was doing during the upcoming summer holidays. After the cake, the kids had (mostly) begun to settle down. Parents of the girls’ friends were taking their kids home with party bags filled with birthday cake, a bubble wand and some finger puppets. Steve was barely paying attention to the fact Mr. Matthews had taken well over five minutes to grab a drink.

“Um, I think Peter is piss—annoying your wife,” Miss Adams says to Steve suddenly.

The comment makes Steve turn sharply, Ellie shifting a little in his lap. He barely hears her grumble of annoyance as he sees you speaking to Mr. Matthews. He knows that look on your face, the quiet anger. The polite smile that masked the fact you wanted to smack the asshole stood in front of you.

“Oh—shoot. Rachel, can you keep an eye on—”

“I got her,” Miss Adams says with a smile as Steve gently lifts Ellie off his lap onto his chair. “Go.”

“Daddy? Where are you—”

“Daddy’s just checking on Mommy, okay? I’ll be right back, sweetheart.”

He says it so gently that Ellie just nods and turns her attention back to her drawing. But Steve felt anything but gentle as he walked right up to you and Mr Matthews.

“—I’m just saying—girls are great. Really. But he’s probably missing out on—”

“—what’s going on here?” Steve asks, resting a reassuring hand to your lower back, despite the fact that he had a pretty good idea what was going on.

“Peter here was just—”

“—just telling your wife how great having a son is. That’s all.”

Nevermind the fact that Mr. Matthews had interrupted you, nevermind what he was trying to insinuate but the way he had called you his wife as though that was all you were pissed Steve off. Now—Steve loved you being his wife. He loved it. He was immensely proud of it. But you weren’t just his wife or the mother of his beautiful children, you were so much more than that. You were the woman who once threatened to smack Billy Hagrove with a nail bat. The woman who was scarily good at beer pong. The woman who made Steve Harrington get his act together. 

“Well—quite frankly Pete,” Steve says with a forced smile as his hand on your lower back moved so Steve could wrap his arm around your waist. “I don’t much care for what you’re insinuating here. That my girls aren’t enough for me. They’re more than enough, more than I deserve. And I would appreciate it if you don’t talk to my wife like that.”

“I wasn’t—”

“—I don’t really give a shit. No one talks to her like that. No one. Especially not in front of me.”

Mr. Matthew swallows, glances at you who was looking determinedly down at your feet before he gives Steve a small nod.

“Right. Gotcha. Sorry Harrington, I didn’t mean to—”

“—but you did. And if you ever talk about my family like that again? I won’t be so forgiving.”

Mr. Matthews understood the dismissal. He nods once again, wordlessly setting down the unfinished can of Diet Coke onto a nearby table before he hurries out of the backgarden.

Steve watched him go, jaw set and posture tight. But when your hand found his arm, Steve blinked. He took a breath before looking back at you, eyes almost immediately softening.

“That was hot,” you told him with a smile and it was just what Steve needed. He laughs and feels the tension leaving his body as you run your hand up and down his arm.

“Really? That’s what does it for you these days?” Steve asks, both arms now encircling your waist. “You can be a real freak Mrs. Harrington, you know that?”

You roll your eyes before leaning in to place a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And you love it, Mr. Harrington.”

It took every bit of self control Steve had to note sweep you off your feet right there and take you upstairs. But there were still a few guests remaining, the kitchen and back garden needed to be cleaned and Ellie needed to go to bed. But after all that—

“Want to do some more practising tonight?” You ask Steve with a teasing smile as you pull away enough to look at him. “Because after seeing you defend me like that, I might need us to practise all night.”

“All night? Baby, you’re killing me.”

You smile at his whineiness. At the way his hands grip your hips a little, how he tugs you a little closer.

“Good,” you say, leaning again to press a sweet kiss to his lips. But to Steve, it felt anything but sweet. Especially that small swipe of your tongue—

But then you’re pulling away and leaving Steve breathless. Even after four kids, a simple kiss from you still made him feel light headed.

“I’m going to help my parents with the twins. You take Els to bed, okay?”

Steve swallows and nods. Honestly, he probably would have done anything you said while he was in this state. “Okay.”

You smile, sending him a subtle wink before heading back into the house. Steve watches you go, watches the way of your hips sway and the way the dress you were wearing lifts up just so—

“Daddy?”

Steve feels a small hang tugging on his jeans and he takes a few moments to come to his senses, looking down and smiling when he sees Ellie.

“Yeah, sweet pea?”

Ellie smiles and holds out her completed drawing for him.

“I finished it!”

Steve looks down at the drawing and smiles. He still had no idea what the creature was she had drawn. He didn’t know why the hybrid dragon-hamster’s wings were a violent shade of purple, he didn’t know why it was wearing a party hat but the smile on his daughter’s face meant everything.

“Oh, honey. This is incredible!” Steve exclaims, bending down so he could pick Ellie up. She smiled widely at the praise and wrapped her little arms around Steve’s neck. “Seriously. I might have to get in contact with someone from the Louvre—”

“—Daddy’s being silly again,” Ellie says with a shy smile. “Maybe,” Steve shrugs with a smile that absolutely nothing could ruin. Because Steve Harrignton may not have a little boy, but he was whole. Complete. As long as he had his girls, as long as he had you, he was happy. Ridiculously so.

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You're on his couch, legs tucked under you, some movie playing in the background that neither of you is watching. You're talking about your week, about work, about nothing important. And then you say it.

"Steve, I think we should talk about something."

Steve's stomach drops. Those words. Those three words that never, ever lead anywhere good. We should talk. His stomach twists.

He's heard them before. From Nancy. From his dad. From every person who's ever looked at him and decided he wasn't enough.

He doesn't want you to think he's not enough, too.

"Yeah?" He tries to keep his voice steady. Tries to ignore the way his heart has started pounding. "What's up, sweetheart?" The endearment slips out automatically, because that's who he is with you. Even scared, even spiralling, he can't talk to you without softness.

You're quiet for a second, looking down at your hands, and that silence is worse than anything. He watches you bite your lip, watches you gather your words, and every second feels like an hour. You're nervous.

"I've been thinking a lot lately," you say slowly. "About us. About where we're going."

Steve can't breathe. You're breaking up with him.

And I... I just — I don't know if this is—" You pause, shaking your head. "I'm not saying this right."

He doesn't hear the rest. He can't. Because all he hears is I've been thinking about us and I don't know if this is and his brain fills in the blanks with the worst possible words.

Working. What I want anymore. Worth it.

He stands up so fast you startle.

"Steve?"

He looks at you — at your confused, beautiful face — and even now, even with his heart cracking open in his chest, all he feels is overwhelming tenderness. He can't be mad at you, not even when you're breaking his heart.

"I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is soft, so soft, because he can't ever be anything else with you. "I'm sorry, angel, I just — I need a minute. Okay? I just need a minute."

He's moving before he knows it, grabbing his keys, heading for the door. He hears you call his name, hears the confusion in your voice, but he can't stop. He can't stay in that room one more second or he'll fall apart right in front of you.

But even as he leaves, even as he's running, he closes the door gently. Because it's your door. Because you're on the other side. Because he'd never do anything to hurt you, even accidentally, even now.

He makes it to his car. Sits there, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at nothing.

His chest hurts.

It actually hurts, like someone's reached inside him and is squeezing his heart in their fist. He can't breathe right. His lungs won't work. He tries to take a deep breath and it gets stuck halfway, a horrible stuttering inhale that does nothing to help.

You're leaving. You don't want him anymore.

The thought circles in his head like a song stuck on repeat. He knew this would happen. He knew it. People always leave. They always figure out that he's not worth the trouble. He presses the heel of his hand against his sternum, like he can physically push the pain away.

He should drive away. He should go somewhere, anywhere, and deal with this alone. But he can't make himself start the car. He just sits there, hurting, waiting for something he doesn't understand.

Then there's a knock on his window.

He looks up, and you're there. Standing in the driveway wearing your house slippers, your face worried and confused and... and not cold. Not distant. Not looking at him like he's something you're about to throw away.

"Steve." Your voice is muffled through the glass. "What's going on? Baby, please open the door."

He looks at you — shivering a little, eyes so concerned — and even through the fog of his own pain, all he feels is you're going to get cold. So he reaches over and unlocks the door.

You open it immediately, crouching down to his level. Your eyes scan his face, and whatever you see there makes your expression crumble.

"Steve. Honey. What happened?"

He laughs. It's not a nice sound. "You know what happened. You said—" His voice cracks. He has to stop, swallow, try again. "You said we needed to talk. About us. About whether this is—" He can't even say it.

But even saying that, even voicing his worst fear, he reaches out and touches your face. Just lightly, his fingers brushing your cheek, because you're right there and he can't not touch you.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I'm sorry I'm making this harder. You're trying to do this gently and I'm — I'm making it worse. You don't have to explain, sweetheart. I understand."

You stare at him for a long moment, looking entirely confused. "Steve. I was trying to ask if you wanted to move in together."

He blinks. "What?" What?

"I've been thinking about us," you say slowly, carefully. "About where we're going. And I wanted to ask if you'd consider — if you'd want to—" You take a breath. "I want to live with you. That's what I was trying to say. I just didn't know how to ask without sounding desperate."

Steve stares at you. His hand is still on your face. He doesn't move it.

"You want to move in with me."

"Yes."

"With me. Me, living together. With you?"

"Yes, Steve."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "I thought you were breaking up with me."

Your face crumples with realisation. "Oh, baby. Oh, no."

"I'm sorry," he says immediately, because you look upset and he hates that, he hates that he made you look like that. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I shouldn't have run. I shouldn't have — you were trying to talk to me and I just—"

"Stop." You cup his face in your hands, mirroring him. "Stop apologising. You didn't do anything wrong."

"I thought I was losing you." The words tumble out, raw and honest. "And I couldn't — I couldn't breathe. I still can't breathe." His voice breaks. "I love you so much. I couldn't even be mad. I just wanted you to be happy. Even if it wasn't with me."

You make a sound, something between a sob and a laugh, and then you're climbing into the car, into his lap, wrapping yourself around him.

"You idiot," you whisper against his neck, but you're crying, and you're holding him so tight. "You're an idiot, Steve Harrington. I'm not going anywhere. I'm staying. I'm right here."

Your arms lock around his neck, your face presses into the warm space where his shoulder meets his throat, and you hold him like he's the only thing keeping you upright.

He feels your breath against his skin, feels the dampness of your tears soaking into his collar. You're crying. For him. Because he's hurting.

"I'm here," you whisper against his neck, your voice thick but steady. "I'm right here, Steve. I've got you. I'm not going anywhere."

His arms come up automatically, wrapping around you, pulling you closer. His hands spread across your back, one cradling the back of your head, fingers threading gently through your hair. "Angel," he breathes, and it's barely a sound. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I ran."

You shake your head against his neck, holding him tighter. If you could, you'd crawl inside his chest and curl up next to his heart. You'd wrap yourself around every bruised, broken part of him and never let go.

"Don't be sorry," you murmur. "Just let me hold you. Okay? Just let me hold you."

He nods against you, and you feel his arms tighten around your waist. His shaking is subsiding.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands coming up to frame his face. Your thumbs trace his cheekbones, brush away the tears tracking down his skin.

"I love you," you tell him, slow and deliberate, because he needs to hear it, because he needs to understand. "I love you, Steve. You hear me?"

He laughs, watery and weak. "I hear you."

"Good." You press your forehead to his. "Because I need you to know it. I need you to believe it."

His hands come up to cover yours where they rest on his face. He turns his head, just slightly, and presses a kiss to your palm. "I'm trying," he whispers. "I'm trying to believe it. It's just hard when—" He stops, swallows. "When no one ever has. Stayed, I mean."

"I know." You kiss the corner of his mouth, soft and lingering. "I know, baby. But I'm not them. I'm me. And I'm staying."

He looks at you — really looks at you — and for the first time since you said those terrible, wonderful, misunderstood words, some of the tension leaves his shoulders.

"You're cold," he murmurs, because you are, because you're shivering in your house slippers and thin pyjama shirt.

"I don't care about cold."

"I care." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "Let's go inside, angel. Please."

You nod, but you don't move. You just keep looking at him, your hands still on his face, your eyes soft and warm.

"I'm okay," he tells you quietly. "I'm okay now."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He smiles, small and shaky but real. "You're kind of magic, you know that?"

You shake your head. "I just love you. That's all."

He shifts you carefully in his lap, getting situated, and then he's opening the car door and climbing out with you still in his arms. You don't protest — just tighten your hold on his neck and let him carry you.

He kicks the door closed and starts toward the house, cradling you against his chest like you're the most precious thing in the world.

"You're so warm," you murmur against his neck.

"You're freezing." He adjusts his hold, pulling you closer.

He carries you up the steps to the porch, careful and steady, then nudges the front door open with his hip. He carries you over to the couch and sits down carefully, settling you in his lap. You curl into him immediately, your head on his chest, your hand over his heart.

He pulls the blanket from the back of the couch and wraps it around both of you, tucking it around your shoulders.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. Then, "I love you," he whispers into the quiet.

You tilt your head up and kiss his jaw. "I love you too. So much."

He looks down at you, at your face soft and open and full of love for him, and something in his chest finally settles.

"So," you say, your eyes bright. "About that moving in conversation..."

Steve Harrington always knew he wanted a big family.

Maybe it was something to do with his own absent parents. Or the fact that he never thought he’d amount to anything. He didn’t know.

But in between fighting inter-dimensional monsters and being drugged by russian soldiers, the two of you always dreamed of making it out one day and starting a family of your own.

But that was all it was. A pipe dream.

Until it wasn’t.

So, when El sacrificed herself and broke all final ties between hawkins and the upside down, you and Steve said ‘screw it’ and got married. And nine months later, in the spring of 1989, you welcomed your first daughter, Jane Theodora Harrington.

Then, in the summer of ‘92, Ruthie Robin Harrington came along.

And now, in the fall of 1994, a weary Steve returned home after a long day of coaching baseball at the elementary school, closing the front door carefully behind him. He knew the girls were most likely asleep, and the last thing he wanted was to wake them up.

“Daddy!”

His tired demeanour softened, however, the moment he heard Jane’s voice, and he smiled as he turned to see his five year old daughter running towards him, little Ruthie trailing along behind her.

“Hey, there’s my girls,” He murmured, voice quiet as crouched down and pulled the two of them in for a hug, pressing kisses to the top of their heads,“You’re supposed be in bed.”

He looked up the sound of further footsteps, his gaze softening even more at the sight of you stood in the hallway, holding the two newest, smallest additions to your family in each arm, Penny and Junie Harrington.

“And you were supposed to be home an hour ago.”

“I know. I’m sorry, baby.” He smiled sheepishly up at you. “I had to give the boys a pep talk after the game. It turns out I can’t expect a bunch of ten year olds to play like the Yankees.”

You had to hold back a laugh, watching as he ruffled the girls’ hair and stood up with a small grunt, making his way over to you.

“Hey, Pen. Hey, June…” He cooed, running a hand over each of the twin’s heads before lifting it to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing gently over your bottom lip. “I missed you today.”

Your mouth twitched, your head tilting to the side. “You were gone for five hours.”

“Yeah, five hours too long…” He hummed, leaning in closer only to be tugged back by two pairs of tiny hands. When he glanced down, he was met with Jane and Ruthie staring back up at him with looks far too intense for that of a five and a two year old.

“Daddy, can you read us a story?”

Steve knew he should say no. That it was already way past their bedtime. But there was no way he could resist Jane when she stood there with those big Bambi eyes that he only had himself to blame for, and you both knew it.

His shoulders slumped in defeat. He shot you an apologetic smile before bending down to scoop up Ruthie, setting her on his hip and nodding towards Jane. “Come on, then. But just one.”

The little girl’s eyes lit up and she was sprinting up the stairs before he could even finish his sentence, her feet patting against the wood. Once they reached their bedroom, flicked on the light and set Ruthie down on top of her bed whilst Jane flopped down on hers with her legs tangled between the covers and her arms folded over her chest expectantly, a mannerism Steve was sure she’d gotten from you.

Once Ruthie was tucked under the duvet, he turned towards the bookshelf in the corner of the room that was topped with an array of stuffed animals. He didn’t need to ask what book they wanted, already scanning for the familiar spine of Charlotte’s Web and fishing it out.

He’d read it to them so many times now that he practically knew it word for word, not to mention he’d mastered the voices, but he didn’t care. Not when it made his girls so happy.

Just like every other night, he barely made it through the first chapter before they were both out, their soft breaths filling the quiet room, and the sight made Steve’s heart ache in his chest. He sat between their beds until he was sure they were asleep, before standing up and switching off the light, letting the warm glow of the night light spill over them.

He shut the door behind him and padded back downstairs to the living room, where you were sat on the couch with Penny asleep beside you and Junie in your lap, drinking blissfully from a bottle.

A small, tired smile appeared on his lips at the scene before him, and he pushed himself off the doorframe and wandered over, lifting Penny up, carefully and practiced, from her moses basket.

“Hey, sweet girl,” He murmured, his voice low. The baby let out a tiny noise of protest at the movement before relaxing against his chest, cheek squishing into his dress shirt.

You watched as he lowered himself down onto the cushions, one hand held protectively over Penny’s back. He was such a softie these days, and it was such a far cry from the cocky high school jock you first met.

“God, I’m tired…” He muttered, letting his eyes slip shut.

You laughed. “You won’t be wanting a fifth, then.”

“Oh, no, we’re having a fifth.” He hummed immediately, resting his head against the back of the sofa, “Just give me a couple of years to recover first.”

He may have had tendency to joke around, and he may have been running on four hours sleep, but something told you Steve was being serious.

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