freaks only! @csi-junkie - Tumblr Blog

sucker for a good cliché.

summary: you and steve have to fake-date after an awkward dinner at the wheeler-byers household—all while you're sure that he still wants nancy.

pairing: steve harrington x reader

word count: 6.9k

tags: (set before stranger things season 5 !!), fake-dating, friends-to-lovers, fluff & angst, requited unrequited love, miscommunication, awkward family dinners, robin = wingman, steve = clueless

cross-posted to ao3

a/n: had to rush this out before vol. 2 came out, just in case steve dies (if he dies, i die) — merry christmas if you celebrate !!

“I’ll give you twenty bucks if you admit it right now.”

“I’m broke, but I’m not that broke,” you shake your head, “Jesus, Rob.”

You’re mildly offended, but not remotely shocked, by the proposal. It’s easier to pretend to sort between The Jesus and Mary Chain and The Stone Roses and Modern English than to listen to Robin try to pry her way into your personal life; your fingers slide against the paper covers as you slot them back into their alphabetical placements. Even if your friend is well-intentioned, she’s completely out of her depth.

“A hundred bucks. A hundred bucks, and I’ll let you select the entire noon roster. That’s a bargain!” Robin rattles on, close on your trail; if she was any closer, she’d probably give you a flat. “Do you know how many times the boys have tried to get me to play The Cramps on-air this month? I’ve lost count. And, sure, the psychobilly stuff isn’t bad—but, hello, it’s the middle of December, not, like, Halloween night. What I’m trying to say is: it’s a pretty hefty deal I’m offering up here. Limited time offer.”

“You’d have to give me a thousand bucks. Or, put a gun to my head.”

“Dramatic,” she murmurs under her breath—not nearly enough to seem any less rude than it sounds, “Does that imply you’re only worth a grand?” You decide to let her think it out, but it doesn’t last for nearly long enough. Robin’s eyes flit from the ground, to the ceiling, and then back to you. She exclaims, “It’ll exponentially improve your mood if you just let it out. It’s psychologically proven!”

Though she’s been trying to convince you for the better part of a month, you still haven’t let up: you will not admit that you’re jealous of Nancy Wheeler. By no means is it Nancy’s fault. In fact, you adore her just a little bit more everyday with the way she takes lead on the crawls and makes sure that everyone’s in top shape for any major emergencies. The fact of the matter is that Nancy Wheeler is still the centripetal force of Steve’s affections. Steve sees her shaggy curls, the denim-jackets placed over floral blouses, the stack of metal bracelets, and his brain goes on the fritz.

The way that he looks at her makes you want to retreat into your own skin—siphon yourself out of existence—and still, you stick around to watch. A train crash you can’t bring yourself to look away from. Part of you wonders if it’s the nostalgia factor of it all—if Steve’s just one to reminisce about the good old days, still caught up on “King of Hawkins.” The worse, and fearfully more accurate alternative, is that Steve is in love with Nancy as she is now. Clever, witty, journalist Wheeler. The kind of gal to chew the ends of her pens and weasel the right information out of people. Strategist with a sawed-off shotgun. Though you’re not one for comparison, you’re sure that she must win in some way or another.

But, your harbored feelings for Steve are hardly anything new. Robin’s known about your little schoolgirl crush—you try to tell her, We’re early-twenties! Not early-tens, to no avail—since you started working at Family Video. You’re sure that’s when it started, because that’s when you had to start being around him five days of the week. Though you’d been a particularly good fly on the wall in high school, graduation swung around quickly. You needed a job to pool up a good sum of cash to move to some far-off city (the cliché smalltown transplant). Family Video was conveniently there. So were Steve and Robin.

Robin takes the record—U2, you think—gingerly from your hands and deposits it into the shelf in some off-place you’ll likely fix within the hour. She places both of her hands atop your shoulders. “Okay. You cannot tell me that you weren’t trying to laser-blast her with your eyeballs last weekend at the Wheeler’s. I saw it.”

You snort skeptically, “Why would I do that?”

“Because Steve was being all Steve. He offered to serve her plate and you were all weird and zoned and didn’t talk until Mrs. Wheeler started asking you about where you got your blouse.” Robin tugs at your collar—hung smile, like she’s got you all figured out—and it nearly makes your left eye twitch.

“Well, maybe, I’m just watching out for Jonathan. He gets all weird and jealous whenever Steve’s involved, and we kind-of, sort-of don’t have time for infighting.” You retreat from Robin’s touch, taking yourself into the little seating area the WSQK has set aside for breaks. You crash down on the coffee-stained orange couch, trying to be as leveled as possible with Robin; she lands just beside you, half-leaned on the back of the couch, legs crossed.

“There’s actually plenty of time for it. It’s been months with zero action in the Upside Down—minus the stupid patrols. Hop’s found nothing. You are scot-free to play this whole thing out. Finally!” Aside from Vickie and radio-hosting, you’re absolutely convinced that this is the only entertainment that Robin gets. “You are the master,” she claps her hands together, bows down to you just slightly, “of the long-game.”

You hate to think of it like that. Like you’d had some deliberate motive. For the first month of knowing Steve (Mr. Cologne-Heavy) in the flesh, you were just slightly dazed by the normalcy of him. He was just a guy—and, frankly, a bit of a dork. Clumsy sometimes, and easy-to-please. You weren’t nearly as serious about your little boy-crush then. Steve was just the nice back you got to look at during your morning shifts, you labeling the VHS tapes and him re-alphabetizing the romcoms.

You liked Steve; he was attentive. He knew that you liked to park your car under the fir in the backlot to keep the leather from frying up under the sun. He knew which customers you despised, and he knew when to step in. He knew that you wanted nothing but silence for the first hour of your shared morning shift—and was ready and willing to sort tapes conversation-less with you. He was your very good friend.

You sat through every single one of his failed matches with a strong-held despondence—even the desperate one-night stand he’d had with one Priscilla Allbright, a matchmaking scheme hatched up by Robin herself; she was the older sister of one of Robin’s theatre-kid buddies, but a tad too mean towards waiters—so it was easily one-and-done. And though Steve had rambled on about his continuous dry spell, you didn’t see it fit for you to throw yourself in the ring. It wasn’t until Steve’s dating ceased that you started to get concerned. He’d just stopped trying after Hawkins split in two. Nancy’s unintended doing.

Robin can’t help it. She wants more than anything to see the two do to shack up. She’s been making nothing but stupid bets and wagers for the past year—and even though she hasn’t made even a dime from it all, she still gets to revel in the satisfaction of you and Steve even being in the same room.

“I’m not jealous,” you affirm—easily ignored by Robin, who stretches her back left-and-right on the cushions.

“I don’t blame you. I’d be freaked too if Vick had some super-cool, fiery ex-girlfriend. No—I’d die!”

—

The next time the five of you get together—you, Rob, Nancy, Jonathan, and Steve—is at another one of those Wheeler-Byers dinners. This is the routine under your newfound militarized quarantine, especially when the Hawkins movie theater has tired of playing the same collection of movies five times over and you can only hit the same bar up so many times. All things considered, you think it’s a nice gesture that the Wheelers have offered up their home; it works out to have everyone under the same roof. They’re just as charitable when they host their little dinners, foldable chairs pulled from the basement and stuffed leg-to-leg at the dining table. Everyone pitches in to help prep—save for Mr. Wheeler, who slouches at the television box watching old tapes of football games from the year prior.

You have a decent spot at the corner of the table, wedged between Robin and Steve. Then, Steve next to Nancy, Nancy across from Jonathan… the usual. Steve has the tendency to jump his leg up and down underneath the table; the friction of his against yours isn’t easily ignorable, and yet you try to keep yourself quiet. In your peripheral vision, you can see the dad-looking sweater he chose for tonight, and his coiffed black hair.

You hate sitting next to Steve. It’s like this every dinner. You, getting passing whiffs of sandalwood and hairspray—trying not to look him in the eyes. Him, oblivious. There’s lots of ruckus; you’re pretty sure that there are four different conversations being shot across the table between the boys (save for a recluse Dustin), the parents, and you half-adults. Though Hop and El are still where they always are at the cabin, you’re sure that Joyce will bring them a well-packed plate the morning after. This dinner, Jonathan has persistently wrestled to pick up Nancy’s plate and serve her food; you’re very sure that she’s irritated by his insistence, because she gently scolds him with “I’m not a child.” Steve snorts, and you… don’t do a single thing. The chatter carries on, and you sit scooping peas over your mashed-potatoes.

You feel Steve lean his shoulder against yours, a too-warm attempt to get your attention. You’re too quiet for his liking. You crane your neck to look up at him, with a too-casual, “Yeah?”

“You know, the ‘indie’ stuff is really growing on me,” Steve chews, “I mean, I don’t really like how it’s all British—Go, Boston Tea Party, right?—but, they sound great.” You’ve been tossing in your personal favorites into Robin’s morning setlists. He’s clearly noticed.

You almost have to laugh. It’s a shocker, coming from him. “You like indie.”

Steve’s brows furrow, nodding his head along mid-question. “I do now. You’re, like, the connoisseur of the stuff. No offense, Rob.”

Robin beams. “Sure. None taken.” You hate sitting next to Steve. Especially when he acts like this.

The conversations carry on. Topics are restricted to normal, non-Upside Down, non-military—a house rule set by the kids. It’s like you’re spies. Steve picks up his reindeer-shaped ceramic mug—no thanks to the cup shortage (the Wheeler’s never hosted parties this big before)—takes a big swig of water out of the top. “You know what I miss? County fair.” Random. He continues, “I would kill for a churro. You guys ever ride the Zipper?”

Will diverts his attention from whatever pre-Calculus assignment Mike keeps moaning about to over to the other half of the table. “Jonathan threw up after the Zipper. Didn’t you?” Though he’s flat-faced, Jonathan’s clearly frothing with embarrassment.

“I did not throw up,” the older Byer brother insists, tone wavering just slightly. Will takes the win, turning back to the rest of the boys to continue rattling on about trigonometry.

“No throw-up talk at the table, please. Dinner,” Joyce warns, lifting her fork pointedly at Will and Jonathan. Tight-leash. You’re sure that she tries very hard to push good manners, especially under the Wheelers’ roof.

Steve carries on, trying to recall under his breath: “I took… Dana Mattey to the county fair? Think I won her a bear.”

“That was me, actually,” Nancy amends. Too loudly. Any existing conversation ruptures, leaving only the lingering silence of a dinner turned sour. Steve softens in his chair, looking at her meekly—before looking straight down at the table; he stops his jittery leg, eerily still. You’re very sure that you can see Jonathan’s knuckles whiten as he grips his fork. Mr. Wheeler grumbles some string of expletives that you can’t quite catch, and little Holly’s eyes flit between her parents and her siblings.

Mrs. Wheeler—already half wine-drunk—jumps to turn the conversation back around. She slurs, “The two of you aren’t seeing anyone?” The direction of her question toward the half-adult end of the table tells you that the question is pointed. The interrogatees: you and Robin. Steve is exempted, clearly. Mrs. Wheeler does this most nights, because Steve’s still very much her daughter’s preppy, popular high school ex-boyfriend.

Robin coughs up a bit—caught off-guard: “Oh. No. I’m not really looking for dates right now. Very career-focused. Radio’s, like, the new TV.” Robin lets out an affirmative, little “mhm!” before scarfing down too much food. Shitty liar. You try to give a nod in agreement, hoping that Robin’s response is satiating enough.

Mrs. Wheeler takes another swig of her wine, and then points lazily with her glass at you: “You?”

“Me.” You feel clammy.

She giggles coquettishly, “Well, you’re gorgeous. There’s got to be guys flocking to see you.” The wine in her glass sloshes left and right with the beat of her matter-of-fact explanation. You hear a little bit of a snort coming from the other half of the table.

“Lucas had a crush on you in middle school after you babysat him for Memorial Day,” Mike snickers, “Does that count?”

“Dude, shut up.” Lucas smacks Mike’s hand down into the table brusquely. You can see the two of them shove each other back-and-forth just beneath the sightline of the dining table. Robin gives you a nudge; the sole of her shoe juts into your calf, trying to urge a response out of you.

You’ve got a choice: tell the truth (you’re the modern-day equivalent of an old maid) or, opt for the easy way out. You choose the latter, replying wondrously—and maybe too proud: “I actually have a date on Saturday night.” Robin stifles her loud guffaw; she’s loving your improv. The rest of your friends—no, the entire table—look quite caught off-guard. Seems like everyone’s hushed up, save for the metallic scraping of forks against plates. It’s the puzzled tilt of Steve’s head that really does you in.

Though, Mrs. Wheeler is pleased enough with your response. “Of course you do, honey. Who’s the lucky guy?”

“He’s… uh…” Now, you’ve really dug your own grave. Your stammering dims her grin, and you’re afraid Mrs. Wheeler can see right through you.

It’s taking you far too long to spill. Robin brings her own drink slowly to her lips—wineglass, filled with apple juice—trying not to wear a sorry look on her face; it’ll only make it worse if she tries to come up with something for you. You’re just about to say a measly “boyfriend from Canada” joke, when Steve wraps his hand around your knee. “I’m taking her to Enzo’s.”

Robin makes a quick inhale-and-snort of her apple juice, and grabs for her napkin to try to wipe away the mess under her nose, dribbling down to her chin. The rest of the table reacts similarly—doe-eyed and curious. How did this happen? Mike murmurs a quick “Bullshit” under his breath, to which Nancy shoots out a stern “Mike!” By the looks of it, though, Nancy and Jonathan are the most confused out of everyone; after all, they spend the majority of the week with you guys at the Squawk, and they’d be able to see if you two were hooking up. And, it certainly doesn’t pair well with Steve’s here-and-there advances towards Nancy. The only person who’s mildly amused happens to be Will, who wears a proud, open-toothed smile on his face.

You try not to look as astonished as they do, but it’s taking a lot of work considering the fact that Steve’s hand is still landed on your knee—fingers edging toward your inner thigh. You’re so packed together in this dining room that you’re sure that the heat pooling off your cheeks easily reaches the other end of the table. You sum up just enough courage to look Steve in the eyes—maybe, to try and seal the deal, convince everyone that you are going out. Steve only gives you that tender, puppy-dog sort of look that he gives to pretty girls. You almost want to punch him for doing this for you. It’s too big of a lie.

When you swivel your head to look back at the rest of the table, everyone’s rather occupied by the sight of the two of you: Steve’s watchful eye and your electrified posture. You smile weakly, “We don’t have to talk about it right now. Lotta pressure.” An un-entertained Mr. Wheeler excuses himself to the living room (presumably, to watch last year’s baseball), and all the chatter resumes accordingly.

—

Robin’s the first to leave. A promise to Vickie to bring coffee for her late shift at the hospital gets her out the door promptly by nine o’ clock; she uses an easy excuse—need to make sure Grandma takes her meds. She doesn’t leave without giving you a wary look—you’ll get a stern talking to tomorrow—before she makes it out the door.

There’s a handful of things that run through your mind as you’re washing the dishes after dinner—up to your elbows in suds as you wash everyone’s plates. It’s Steve who insists on helping you dry them all off with a kitchen towel and file them back into the cabinets. Together, you create a two-person factory line. Wash-and-dry.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” you murmur to him—hoping that the sound of the sink running will drown out your voices. Everyone else is scattered back around the house by now, but you’re quite sure that the boys are gathered in the living room. Nosy.

Steve shrugs. He leans in to murmur back to you, “Isn’t that what friends are for?” Right. Friends. “And, besides, it’ll get old Jonathan off my back about being around Nance so much.”

Now, you’ve got a better picture. If Steve “dates” you, he’s not nearly as much of a threat to their relationship. You’re not sure how much you like the sound of it. “Yeah. It’s a… good trade.” It’s hard for you not to wince. You focus more ardently on scrubbing the fork in your hand. “But, if they ask about the date—“

Steve tosses the towel over his shoulder, leaning against the counter beside you. “You’re right. Enzo’s is a stretch; I’d pay for it if you wanted me to, but realistically, you’d probably insist that I not do that. We would probably go for fries and a shake at Dee’s. Then, a late showing. Top Gun.” It’s the same old routine you go through every other week: post-work snack and a movie.

You snort, trying not to spritz soapy water on yourself: “God, we’ve seen it like a trillion times.” Steve pops a grin, too—satisfied with making you laugh for the first time tonight.

He leads, “Which is exactly why we would totally go see it again. Boom: flawless plan.” As soon as you slot the last plate into the dish rack, Steve takes the towel over his shoulder and tosses it to you. After drying up, you toss it over the rack of the oven. “Let me walk you out to your car, babe?”

“Asshole.”

—

You’re on one of the wheelie chairs back at WSQK. Saturday opening shift—you and Robin. It’s still shivering-cold this time of year, and there isn’t a bit of insulation. Steve’s not due for thirty, so the two of you are stuffed into the sound booth wrapped in blankets pulled straight from Robin’s trunk. You talk about the dinner, and after the dinner, all while you’re queuing up the setlist and sound cues for today’s morning segment. Robin’s too excited—flailing her arms around, up and at ‘em, pacing back and forth in the studio—while you scribble hard on the clipboard on your lap.

“This is perfect!” she shouts. It makes your right eye twitch; her volume is fifty decibels too loud for six-in-the-morning.

“No, Rob. It’s embarrassing.” You check off cassette numbers, placing the janky plastic cases into their respective slots.

“Sure, he volunteered to be your boyfriend—fake boyfriend—to save you the embarrassment of being a perpetual single. That’s nice and all. But, if you guys keep this up—“

It’s a nightmare just to think about. Every Wheeler-Byers dinner spent with Steve pretending to coddle you. Now, you’re really feeling sick of the military quarantine; New York sounds especially appealing. Or, Antarctica. You have to interrupt her. “We can’t keep it up.”

Robin goes blank, dingy-old Converse glued to the rug beneath you both, before shaking her head with an especially sharp-edged stare. “Sure you can. You have to. Or, it’ll disappoint the hell out of everyone.” ‘Everyone’ and ‘Robin’ are somewhat interchangeable, you think.

“I don’t think he’s going to want to keep it up that long.”

“He might surprise you,” she says earnestly. You wonder if you should trust Robin a little bit more than you do with these matters; after all, she is his best friend as much as she is yours. She carries on, “And, he’ll eventually face the fact that you are the top-tier option. Can’t get better than this.” Robin tugs cheekily at your collar, flouncing your hair a bit. It isn’t until you hear Steve’s Beamer roll up onto the gravel out front that you begin to shove her wriggly hands away. “Okay, okay,” you tell her, “Cool it, Buckley.”

As you carefully smooth down your hair, Steve makes it through the metal front door with a carton cup holder balanced on one hand and his keyring swinging in the other. “Coffee delivery,” he shouts over to the two of you, shoving his keys into his back pocket.

“Robs,” he deposits the cup on the nearest surface by her: counter by the microphones. “Steve, equipment. We talked about this,” she squeaks out, picking up the hot drink and placing it outside of the booth on the sturdier surface of a coffee table.

“Sorry, sorry,” he spews out haphazardly, before sliding over to you. You prop the clipboard gently onto the floor so you can take the coffee cup from his grip. Leaning down to bestow the cup upon you, Steve mumbles, “Girlfriend.” Your hands tremble just slightly as he hands it over to you—fingertips pressing against yours. A strong grip around the coffee cup quells your shaking—but you feel extremely hot-faced. Through the waxed-glass window of the sound booth, you can see Robin flags you with a crazed, wide-eyed smile. You’re only thankful that Steve has his back turned away from her.

“You don’t have to fake it right now,” you tell him. He knows and you know and Robin knows. There’s absolutely nothing to hide amongst the three of you.

Steve tuts softly, “Well, I know that. I’m just trying to build a good habit. I don’t want to be the one who slips up.”

“Well, I definitely won’t be the slipper-upper,” you retort. It’s a half-competitive, half-truthful sentiment that urges you to stand up, shedding your blanket over the top of the rolling chair—still gripping your cup tight. This brings you and Steve chest-to-chest, you tilting your head up to meet his gaze. You swear to God that the sound booth usually feels a lot bigger than it does right now. Steve pulls at the hem of your shirt as he looks over you.

“Actually, speaking of,” Steve perks up, “I wanted to run something by you.” You try to keep it cool, letting a lowly breath pass your lips.

“Yeah?” You can feel heat fanning across your body.

“If any of our friends ask about our little movie-date—like the little P.I.’s that we know they are—we should probably make sure that our stories line up.” Right. Steve wants to make sure that you both have all your bases covered. Clever. You give him a curt nod, under the impression you’ll both just have a little study session after Robin gets off-air, when he says: “We’ll just go on it—the date. As friends.”

You’re not sure whether you should be pleased or frightened, but Steve looks rather adamant about carrying through with the whole ordeal. “Are you sure?”

“Well, yeah. We’ve already put in all this work to keep it up, so we can’t just back down now,” he tells you plainly, “I’ll even bring you flowers to seal the deal. Still, flawless plan.”

The thought of Steve showing up to your doorstep with his stupid cologne and bouquet of lilies is nice. Too nice. A part of you has to wonder whether he’s still doing it for you, or if he’s doing it for himself. Realistically, it’s a bit of both—and you’re not sure if you see this working out well for either of you. You want to tell Steve, No, you should just tell her that you love her, but the sound of Robin knocking over a stack of cassettes just outside the booth makes you falter.

“Flawless plan,” she crackly echoes, before ushering herself to the vinyl shelves. You’re certain that if she turns around to face the both of you, her face will be highlighted red from top to bottom. But, Robin merely huddles herself against the wall—face out-of-sight.

—

Steve doesn’t show up with lilies, because you both leave straight from the WSQK. The sappy offshoot: a couple of daisies picked off the lawn outside. Curfew in Hawkins means any plans are pushed back at least a couple of hours. So, your Saturday night date is more like a Saturday afternoon. The two of you roll up to Dee’s with a Daryl Hall & Oates cassette slotted into the player of his Beamer. It’s better this way, you think. More like you. You’re just glad it’s not Enzo’s, and that neither of you had to dress up. Steve spritzes his cologne, you spruce your hair up a bit. It’s comfortable.

Not too many customers at this hour—so you and Steve get placed at a booth in the corner right away. You wonder how it looks from an outsider’s perspective—if it looks right, the two of you sitting on the same side. The waitress sure buys it, with Steve ordering for the both of you with his arm scooped around the back of your seat. She takes your orders as quickly as she can so she can skitter away to the kitchens, out of sight—probably to smoke a cigarette out back.

Once she’s gone, you turn to Steve with a hint of a smile on your face. “Okay. We should have, like, a good anecdote. Something really cute.” You want to be able to make this whole thing believable for the entire clan that is your friends.

“Right.” Steve tries to think something up, hand rubbing his cheek, eyebrows furrowed. He’s sifting through the possibilities. Then, he gets it—finger successively tapping on the surface of the vinyl table: “This old couple sat right by us and told us that we reminded us of them.” He looks so exhilarated by the little made-up scenario, head perked up like a meerkat out of Nat Geo—that you almost don’t want to shoot it down…

Still, you shoot out: “...Yeah, that sounds like bullshit.” He’s just a little bit offended—shoulders dropped, huffing out in only slight irritation.

He nudges his shoulder against yours. “Go ahead, then. Come up with something better.”

“Okay—we… got bored and played hangman on the placemats,” you volunteer. It’s not a terrible lie; Dee’s has the plain-white paper placemats, and crayons in cups just behind the counter for kids. A pretty good way to stay entertained.

“Just as bad as mine,” Steve retorts, stretching back out with his arms folded by his head, extended against the back of the seat. You’re very sure that Steve has some kind of back issues from everything you’ve been through—he’s always complaining about knots—and it worries you every now and again. Twenty-one going on sixty. It worries you even more when he does the little stretch-and-groan, an occasional test of your self-restraint. You try your hardest not to flick your gaze down to the sliver of stomach that gets exposed in his movement. Steve grumbles out: “My God—that’s gotta be from a movie or something.” Absolutely clueless.

You keep your eyes locked on the table in front of you—hands locked neatly together. “It probably is. God knows how many bullshit romcoms we sped through back at Family Video. Probably printed onto our brains by now.” He snorts.

The waitress comes with the fries—a large plate of them for the two of you, and a cookies and cream shake with two straws plunged into the cup. You don’t remember Steve asking them to group it like that, but to ask the waitress to send it back sounds like so much of a hassle, and you’re already pretending—it would be weird if you didn’t split it. The image of the two of you sharing the shake, nose-to-nose, makes your palms sweat.

Steve doesn’t give you any flack for the panic setting in on your face, just scoots the shake towards you with a nod. You first. “I know you totally dig that stuff. You don’t have to lie,” Steve carries on, “Hots for Swayze big time.” Relief. You pull the straw into your mouth, sipping up a gulp of the shake. It cools you down, only by a bit, and you spend the next couple of seconds focusing very intently on mashing the cookies around the bottom of the cup.

“Swayze’s not my type,” you say. Too much conviction. You know your type well—got it all figured out. So, this piques Steve’s interest; his eyebrow raises up just a tad, and you can feel him eyeing you.

Steve tries again, not before chewing on a couple of fries. “Then, what is your type?” Tall, dark hair, loyal as a German Shepherd, maybe a little bit dense…

“Don’t have one.”

“Everybody has a type,” Steve insists, “I’ve got a type.” He drags the shake towards himself, out from your hands, to take a generous sip. You’re very sure that you have his type all figured out, too.

“Witty and unavailable?” Nancy Wheeler, in two words. This gets him straightened out, trying to check the validity of your suggestion. Steve mulls it over, while you find yourself grabbing for a messy stack of fries to shut yourself up. This is small-talk Hell, and you’re only making it worse for yourself.

Finally, Steve gives a noncommittal shrug—wick of black hair falling over his forehead. You’re even sure that his ears have turned a bit pink; the overhead lights of the diner are bright, not doing him any favors in concealing it. He hums, “That’s one way to put it.” Then, he slides the cookies and cream shake back over to you insistently: finish it. “You’re sure Swayze doesn’t do it for you? No? Okay. The, uh, the Indiana Jones guy,” he guesses.

“None of the above,” you retort, shaking your head with a faint grin on your face. Steve smiles to himself, only satisfied with the fact that he’s giving you a light bit of entertainment.

You spend the rest of the meal—as short as it is—thinking about his answer. It’s still daylight by the time the two of you make it out of Dee’s and back to Steve’s Beamer. On the drive to the movie theater, you’re still thinking about it. About him. It puts you into a bit of a crisis, really. Steve’s in love with Nancy, but he’s out on this date with you. It takes a bit of time to settle with it again: it’s fake, it’s a favor, and Steve’s only half-there on your behalf. He isn’t yours.

Your contemplative silence on the drive to the movie theater makes him only a little bit unnerved. Steve decides to drive the two of you around to the back of the theater—“knowing a guy who knows a guy who’ll let him park his car in the backlot.” You’re pretty sure it’s one of Steve’s old basketball teammates, but you’re not particularly inclined to call him on it. You know it’ll all be pretty patched-up once you make it through to Top Gun. Quoting lines to each other, all whispers and airy laughs, like always. Good friends.

—

You decide to go in one car for the next Wheeler-Byers dinner a week after. Robin’s already inside, planning some monthly interview for the WSQK with Nancy—so it’s just you and Steve in the Beamer, parked up on the end of the block. “Should I give you my sweater?” he asks you, shifting his gear shifting into park, “I feel like that shouts ‘We’re together now.’ You can leave your coat in the backseat, we’ll say you forgot it, and I’ll freeze my ass off. Totally sells it.” He doesn’t wait to hear your response, just slides out of the car and shuts the door soft behind him. Steve swings his keyring around his index finger, coming around to the passenger’s seat to open your door for you. He grabs your hand, helps you out of the car with a steady grip.

Once he shuts the door, you jump to ask him: “How long do you think we should keep this up?” Like a deer caught in headlights, Steve stares at you. He purses his lips.

Erring on the side of caution, he replies, “That’s a good question. How long do you want to keep it up?”

“Well, what if there’s somebody that you really, really like and we have to stage a massive fake-breakup?” A worst case scenario given Nancy breaks up with Ionathan. Even worse: “Or, what if they expect us to kiss?” So, maybe you sound a bit immature, but it isn’t out of the realm of possibility. There’s a chance that—given enough wine—Mrs. Wheeler will become just audacious enough to ask you about the more intimate aspects of your relationship; it’d be strange for you and Steve not to be all attached at the hip. And, other places. Steve seems to think it over, hands moving to rest on his hips. He looks troubled, tapping his sneaker against the sidewalk, eyes darting across your face like he’s trying to glean something off of you.

“Okay,” he decides, a short sigh—before sidling up closer to you. He tries to kiss you—and you let him. He leans in, plants his lips onto yours—your noses tentatively bumping against one another in the quick motion. Steve’s face is hot against yours, and you can hear him let out a guttural sigh as your lips move to meet one another. It’s like a dream, the way he walks you back against the Beamer, and runs his fingers through your hair… He stops as soon as he feels you push against his chest. Your lips brush for a second more, before Steve retreats away from you. “Shit. I’m sorry.” He peels off of you to lean on the side-door of the Beamer beside you. Steve’s hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, as he looks gravely down at both of your shoes on the concrete. “Stupid idea.”

You have your arms crossed, hand over your mouth. He just kissed you—hard. You can’t say you’re not pleased with it, because you are. Extremely so. But, you’re even more confused by it than anything else. “You’re in love with Nancy,” you spout.

Steve’s head whips up, dumbfounded. “No, I’m not.”

“Uh… yeah, you are. You hate Jonathan, you get all close and weird like you do, and you can never stop staring at her.”

“I don’t hate Jonathan. I love pissing him off,” Steve corrects you. The lack of reaction that you give him makes him startled. He backtracks, “Okay, okay—maybe, I thought I had a shot with her last year, but that was last year. I wasn’t thinking straight, I was all over the place. We’re friends and all now, but that’s it.”

“But, we were talking about—y’know, on Saturday,” you stutter out, “Nance.”

“I was talking about you,” Steve shakes his head, “You’re witty and unavailable and…” His train of thought takes him right up against the truth. Steve is nearly glowing with recognition—you don’t respond, reticent, face hardened with embarrassment: “You’re jealous.”

You almost feel like bolting down the edge of the street, ditching Wheeler-Byers’, and maybe even running home. You open your mouth to protest against the claim, and Steve’s astounded expression just makes you more fired up to prove him wrong. There’s a long string of “I’m not’s” and “You are’s” that passes between the two of you, enough to lose count—God, he’s so like Robin in his stubbornness. No wonder they get along—before you finally shut him up with a loud: “I am! I’m jealous of Nancy, and it drives me crazy. Happy?”

With a tilt of his head and a shrug, Steve murmurs, “I mean, yeah.” You can only reach out to shove him by the shoulder. He lets you push him back a couple of feet, soles scuffing against the sidewalk, before he plants himself more solidly on the ground. He’s trying very hard to conceal the growing grin on his face as you swat at his arms, all pissed and flustered. The second you let up, he grips you by your arms. “I should’ve just asked you on a regular date,” Steve admits, “I kept on putting it off because you’re just so…” He moves his hands to gesture over you. “You. And, with the whole dinner thing, I thought, ‘What the hell, why not take the easy way out of friendzone?’—even though I could’ve just asked you out months ago and solved the whole issue in the first place.”

“We’ve been dancing around each other for no reason,” you murmur.

“Not a lick of it,” Steve nods, shooing you aside a bit to pull open the backseat of the Beamer. “Now, toss your coat in the back.” You shrug your coat off of yourself, taking the heavy lump of fabric and tossing it haphazardly on the leather cushions. It’s shivering cold without it on, but the heat emanating off your face makes up for the lack of layers.

It doesn’t last for long. Steve shuts the door, before grabbing at the bottom of his sweater and pulling it over his head. He gestures for you to come closer to him, before tugging it carefully over your head. You slot your arms through the sleeves, well-wrapped in the warmth of the plush fabric. He makes sure the hem is straightened out, and fixes your hair accordingly. “You’re it for me. No fake-outs.”

You hook your pinkies into his belt loops, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. A flat “oh” slips past his lips as you pull him in, and he makes sure to place his hands around your hips as your lips slot together. Again. And, again. Steve’s wearing a smirk through each of your kisses, nothing but pleased about how it’s all played out. “Can’t wait to do this all the time,” he exhales.

“Let’s get inside. I know you’re freezing to death in just this.” You pull at Steve’s white t-shirt. His shoulders are tightened, arms quickly crossed, and you can tell very clearly that he’s trying not to shiver.

—

Entry into the Wheeler house isn’t anything but excitable. As soon as you're through the front door, Robin peeks the two of you from the staircase—Steve’s red face and your swollen lips; she nearly pushes Nancy over to tumble down the steps, inspecting each of you closely. “Holy shit,” she gasps quietly, “Holy shit! Did the two of you hook up? Say yes.”

“We kissed, you dork.” You have to slap her hand away as she pokes her index finger against your bottom lip. “Don’t say the H-word. There’s kids around.”

“Holy shit, or hook-up?” Steve asks. Neither of you respond.

“Well, I’m just saying that the credit for the H-word should be given where it’s due.” Robin points two thumbs in her own direction, and you reach up to noogie her hair. She yelps, trying to pry you off of her. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up,” she tells you, but you can see her divert her attention towards Steve with a devilishly pleased expression. Robin punches him without restriction on the arm with a cheerful “You did it, bud!”

Your eyes flit suspiciously between the two of them. She’s proud, and he’s sheepish. God, Robin’s a meddler, but you can’t be completely irritated with her. Nancy makes her way down the stairs behind Robin with a pleased smile—and a teasing “nice”—shot at all three of you before she passes through the hall. You follow her trajectory to the dining room, where you can see the rest of your motley gathering of family moving around to set the table. You’re not nearly as scared to play boyfriend-girlfriend with Steve—especially when you can feel his hand resting securely on the small of your back.

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