𝓛𝓪𝓾𝓻𝓪

The full moon loomed like a judgmental mother-in-law, watching Remus Lupin spiral into the depths of misery with each passing day. It wasn’t the full moon yet, not quite—but close enough to transform Hogwarts’ gentlest boy into a snarling, blanket-burrowed menace.

He was grumpy. Lazier than Sirius in History of Magic. And meaner than James when someone touched his hair.

Except to you. Never to you.

No one understood it.

“Oi, Moony, why’d you bite my head off for asking if you wanted toast,” Sirius grumbled, dodging a flying pillow, “but let her feed you chocolate by hand like you’re the damn Queen of England?”

Remus, nestled like a begrudging forest creature beneath three layers of blankets, didn’t bother replying. He just opened his mouth expectantly as you unwrapped another Honeydukes truffle.

You giggled, placing the chocolate delicately on his tongue, and kissed his forehead like you were tending to a wounded soldier.

“Because she’s my angel incarnate, and you’re an absolute pest,” he mumbled around the chocolate, glaring at Sirius like he’d personally invented the moon.

You stroked his hair lovingly. “There’s my poor little full moon muffin.”

James choked on his pumpkin juice. “Muffin?”

“Oh, he’s worse than a muffin,” Peter whispered, horrified. “He bit me for trying to take his blanket.”

“I snarled,” Remus corrected, eyes still closed. “There’s a difference. Do you want to see it again?”

“Merlin, no—” Peter backed behind James, who was laughing far too hard to be any kind of shield.

You hushed him sweetly, pulling him into your lap like he wasn’t six feet of annoyed werewolf and mood swings.

“Come on, love,” you cooed, cradling his head to your chest, “let’s not snarl at the boys today.”

He sighed like you’d offered him a lifetime of peace. “Only for you,” he murmured, snuggling impossibly closer. “You're warm.”

“You’re boiling, actually,” you teased, kissing his temple. “Like an overcooked potato in a jumper.”

He grumbled something about betrayal and roasted vegetables and hid his face in your neck.

James leaned over to Sirius. “That’s the fourth time he’s nuzzled her neck today. You think he knows he’s not a cat?”

Sirius, unimpressed, was flipping through Witch Weekly. “He’s marking his territory. Watch what happens when someone flirts with her.”

Right on cue, a sixth-year Ravenclaw walked past your cozy common room scene and offered a casual, “Hey, Y/N.”

Remus’s head snapped up like a wolf sniffing a trap.

You smiled politely, unaware of the murderous aura now radiating off the boy in your lap.

“Hey?” Remus said slowly, voice low and dangerous. “Hey?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Rem, please don’t growl.”

“I’m not growling,” he growled.

The Ravenclaw sped off like a man who just realized he’d flirted with Death’s favorite girl.

Remus stared after him, then curled back into you with a long, victorious sigh.

“Mine,” he muttered, satisfied. “All mine. Forever.”

You giggled, brushing his curls back from his face and peppering kisses across his freckled nose.

“Of course I’m yours,” you whispered sweetly. “You’re my moon-boy. My little grump.”

“You’re my starlight,” he murmured, eyes fluttering closed again. “My reason for not punching Sirius.”

“Excuse you,” Sirius called from the armchair. “I heard that.”

Remus didn’t even lift his head. “I meant for you to.”

James gave a dramatic sigh. “You know, we thought Moony couldn’t get any clingier. And yet.”

Peter snorted. “Next he’ll ask her to carry him to class.”

Remus sat up, deadly serious. “Would you?”

You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the box of chocolates. “Darling, you’re heavier than Sirius’s ego.”

“Impossible,” Remus muttered, falling back into your arms. “But if you insist.”

You tucked a blanket around him and brushed a kiss over his tired eyes.

The world melted away for him in those soft little touches. No moon. No pain. No growling. Just the whisper of your heartbeat and the scent of chocolate and comfort in your arms.

He clung tighter to your waist. “You’re not allowed to leave me ever,” he said dreamily.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you said with a smile, cupping his cheek.

“And no talking to other men. Except maybe James. Sometimes. On Sundays.”

“Even Professor Flitwick?”

“...He’s pushing it.”

You laughed and kissed his lips. “You’re an absolute menace, Remus Lupin.”

“And you love me,” he whispered against your mouth.

“More than anything,” you said softly. “Even when you’re a dramatic, clingy moon beast.”

He smiled that lazy, sleepy smile he only ever wore with you. “I love you more than chocolate.”

The Marauders gasped.

Sirius dropped Witch Weekly. “Blasphemy.”

You looked down at your grumpy boy, held safe in your arms, and smiled.

“Good. Because I bought you ten more bars.”

He gasped. “Marry me.”

James stood. “Right, I’m off to duel the moon and win my best friend back. Anyone joining?”

Peter raised a hand. “If it means no more growling—count me in.”

Sirius just sighed. “I miss when he was scary. Now he’s just a baby koala.”

You kissed Remus’s head again, holding him close as he drifted into a warm, chocolate-hazed nap against your chest.

Baby koala or not—he was yours.

And Merlin help the moon that dared take him from your arms.

You had learned how to brew Wolfsbane potion long after graduating Hogwarts and during the first wizarding war. Life outside its walls had offered a fragile kind of privacy, a quieter place where Remus no longer had to vanish in order to transform. 

Yet even that careful structure, built painstakingly between the two of you, had begun to feel increasingly insufficient, as though time itself were eroding whatever small mercy you had managed to construct.

The potion still did its work in the most technical sense. It kept the wolf from fully claiming his mind, from tearing away whatever fragment of recognition remained at the height of it. But it did nothing for the body. 

By morning, there was always blood seeping through his wounds to the point where recovery no longer felt like healing, only preparing himself to endure it all again next month. 

And over the years, that pattern had not lessened. It had only intensified.

It had begun to feel, in a way neither of you spoke aloud, as though the more he endured it, the more it demanded in return. Healing took longer. Recovery left deeper scars. 

Remus understood, that none of this came from a lack of effort on your part. You had been meticulous in your care, learning the potion and refining it until it reached a consistency that could be trusted. 

You prepared for each moon days in advance, arranging everything with precision. You stayed with him through the transformations in your Animagus form, close enough that he would not wake up alone.

Afterward, you remained without needing to be asked. You tended to him through the days that followed with attentiveness. You even made sure his wounds were cleaned and treated, his potions brewed and adjusted as needed, and every small change in his condition was observed with care.

It was not that your efforts fell short. It was that the situation itself had begun to exceed what care alone could contain.

There were moments, when Remus found himself entertaining thoughts he disliked almost immediately. 

The idea that perhaps it would be easier if the Wolfsbane failed entirely, if there were no partial awareness left to endure, no memory of what had happened after each transformation. The thought never lasted long enough to settle into anything resembling desire, because even in its most detached form it carried consequences that were impossible to ignore.

Especially for you.

So he kept it contained, as he did most things that felt heavy to speak of outloud.

Later, after another full moon, the flat carries the faint, lingering scent of iron and crushed herbs that no amount of cleaning removes. You find Remus curled beneath several layers of blankets, his body drawn inward in a way that suggests he’s in pain more than usual. 

The light coming through the window makes his condition easier to read than he would prefer; bruising spreads across his skin in uneven patches, some fading while others remain dark enough to look fresh, and overlapping scars trace older patterns beneath newer damage. 

Even the freckles you once pointed out to him at Hogwarts, tracing them across his shoulders with fondness, have begun to disappear into the accumulation of all his recent scars

You step closer without hesitation. “Remus,” you murmur, voice softened as you crouch beside him. “Are you sure a heating charm won’t help? It might lessen the bone aches, love.”

He exhales through his nose, and shifts slightly beneath the blankets. “I’m alright,” he says.

You spend the rest of the night tending to Remus, cleaning blood from his split skin and binding clawed-open scratches while dark bruises bloom violently across his body beneath your healing charms. 

By the time you manage to feed him a few spoonfuls of soup, exhaustion has already begun dragging him under completely.

He feels a little better, or at least better enough to convince you that sleep will handle the rest. That has always been the hope after transformations. A good night’s sleep. A few days of recovery. Another potion. Another full moon survived.

The night ends with you fluffing the blankets securely around him before climbing into bed beside him yourself, exhaustion pulling you under quickly enough that you fall asleep believing Remus has done the same. 

Remus spends the entire night awake, silently crying in pain.

He knows everything that used to work does not anymore when it comes to easing it. The truth is one cruel, harsh thing: he is getting worse.

And if you do not notice the tear tracks left across his pillow the next morning, well, you remain none the wiser.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

During their years at Hogwarts, Remus had gone through every full moon with the help of James, Sirius, and Peter.

Though that had been a lifetime ago now.

Back then, before the war took James and Lily, before Sirius was imprisoned for murdering Peter, things had been simpler. Not easy, but simpler in a way Remus found himself aching for more often lately. 

The full moons had still been painful then. He remembered far too many important moments spent curled up in bed in the boys’ dormitory or recovering beneath the sharp medicinal smell of the Hospital Wing while Madam Pomfrey fussed over injuries that never seemed to shock her anymore. 

The slow splitting of bone beneath his skin, the horrifying stretch of transformation, the knowledge that society viewed creatures like him as dangerous and unworthy; none of that was new.

One thing had been different, though.

The pain had been less.

The irony of it almost made him laugh sometimes, because if someone had told seventeen-year-old Remus Lupin that the transformations would someday become worse, that his body would continue finding newer and more unbearable ways to suffer long after adulthood, he was fairly certain his younger self would not have endured it nearly so long.

Standing at the kitchen counter making tea later that evening, Remus found himself relishing the memory of how much easier it used to be, even when those years had still been filled with pain. 

There was a particular sort of bitterness in realising your old suffering had once been the better option. It left him wondering whether, a decade from now—assuming he survived another decade at all—he would look back at this version of himself and wish for this pain instead.

The thought settled heavily in his chest as his eyes drifted across the small home the two of you had built together.

Everywhere he looked, there was evidence of a good life.

Photographs from Hogwarts lined the shelves, moving portraits of him and his friends grinning after graduation, Lily laughing somewhere in the background while James nearly knocked Sirius over trying to celebrate. 

Another frame held a much younger Remus sitting stiffly beside Lily while she carefully placed newborn Harry into his arms, his expression caught somewhere between terror and awe. 

There were pictures from the years after James and Lily died too, quieter and sadder ones, the first photograph ever taken of you and Remus together where neither of you quite looked like yourselves yet. Then came the later years. Harry growing older. Summer holidays spent in this very house. Scarves abandoned over chairs. His spare glasses left forgotten on tables. A broom leaning carelessly near the back door after Harry had visited last.

Evidence.

Evidence of love. Of survival. Of family.

Your yarn basket sat beside the sofa exactly where you always left it, overflowing with tangled wool and half-finished crochet projects. A collection of horribly misshapen mugs crowded the kitchen shelves because neither of you could ever bring yourselves to throw them out after you made them together one winter.

Remus stared at all of it and suddenly felt sick with guilt.

Because what sort of person looked at a life like this and still thought, I cannot keep doing this anymore?

The thought stayed with him for the rest of the evening, settling heavily beneath his ribs while exhaustion slowly wore down what little patience he still had left.

So when the argument finally happened later that night, it had really only begun with a careless slip of the tongue.

“How are you feeling?” you had asked gently from across the kitchen while Remus sat at the table nursing a cup of tea gone lukewarm in his hands. “Do you want me to make something for the pain, love? Or maybe I could—”

“There’s nothing you can do to help,” Remus had snapped, the words coming out far louder and sharper than he intended.

The silence afterward had been immediate.

You stared at him from across the kitchen, your expression caught somewhere between confusion and hurt, as though the outburst had physically struck you. Remus looked away almost instantly, jaw tightening the moment he realised what he had done.

“Well,” you had said after a moment, your voice noticeably more restrained now, “sorry for trying.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean, Remus?”

He exhaled heavily, dragging a tired hand across his face. “Forget it.”

“No, because you don’t get to bite my head off for asking if you’re alright and then tell me to forget it.”

“I said it came out wrong.”

“And I’m asking you to explain it properly.”

The exhaustion already sitting heavily in his bones made patience difficult to hold onto. Remus pushed his tea aside with more force than necessary before leaning back in his chair, visibly agitated.

“There isn’t anything you can do,” he said again, quieter this time but no less tense. “That’s all I meant.”

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You say that as though I’ve been trying to fix a bloody cold.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Remus said, sharper than intended, the words coming out clipped with exhaustion rather than real anger. “Bloody hell, that’s not what this is.”

“Then what are you saying?” you asked, frustration finally bleeding through properly now, no longer softened by patience. “Because every month you pull further away from me like I’m doing something wrong and I’m trying to understand where I’ve gone wrong here, Remus, I just don’t get it. You won’t let me help you, and if I am doing something wrong then just tell me so I can stop.”

Remus immediately shook his head. “You are not doing anything wrong.”

“You act like I am.”

“I don’t.”

“You do,” you shot back, voice rising slightly. “You barely speak to me after transformations unless I drag answers out of you, and half the time you won’t even tell me where it hurts. You just sit there pretending you’re fine until you can’t anymore, and I’m left trying to figure out what’s changed every single time because you won’t say it out loud.”

His expression hardened slightly. “What exactly do you want me to say?” 

“The truth would be a good start.”

Something bitter flickered across his face at that, quick and involuntary. “The truth?” he repeated more quietly now, almost as if testing whether it was worth saying at all. “Fine. The truth is I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

“I know that.”

“Clearly you don’t,” you snapped before you could stop yourself. “Because I have spent years trying to help you through this, through all of it, and lately it feels like you resent me every time I do. Like I’m making it worse just by being here and trying to help you get through it.” 

“Well, I didn’t fucking ask you to spend years taking care of me!” 

The second the words left his mouth, he regretted them. Your face crumpled for half a heartbeat before anger rushed in to replace it.

“Right,” you said tightly. “Because that’s the problem here, Remus.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Remus said at once, shaking his head slightly as if he could undo it by force. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“No,” you replied. “Apparently I don’t, because you refuse to actually say what you mean. You just say these things and expect me to somehow translate them into something else, and I can’t do that anymore, Remus. I can’t keep guessing what version of you I’m speaking to every time something goes wrong!”

The argument only escalated from there, both of you too exhausted and emotional to pull back once it had begun.

“You shut me out constantly now,” you said, your voice louder than before as you set your mug down against the counter with a sharp clatter. “Every single month I watch you suffer through this and you act like I’m some stranger hovering around you instead of the person who’s been beside you through all of it.”

“You think this is easy for me?!” Remus snapped.

“I think watching you slowly destroy yourself while refusing to talk to me about it isn’t exactly easy for me either!”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither is this!”

The words rang through the kitchen harshly enough that both of you fell silent for a second.

You looked furious now, but beneath it Remus could still see the hurt sitting there untouched.

“I don’t know what else you want from me,” you admitted, your voice cracking slightly despite your effort to keep it steady. “I’m trying my best, and somehow lately it still feels like I’m failing you.”

“You are not failing me because there’s nothing left to help!”

Your arms folded tightly across yourself as though holding yourself together. “James, Sirius, and Peter could help you through transformations,” you said quietly now. “You always talk about Hogwarts like the four of you got through it together, so clearly they managed something right that I can’t.”

Remus physically flinched at that.

“It isn’t about you not being enough,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Then why does it feel like it?” you demanded. “Because every time I try to help you lately you tense up like I’m doing you more harm than good.”

“That’s not what’s happening.”

“Then what is happening, Remus?” you asked, sharper now, because the uncertainty was starting to feel worse than the argument itself.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because the truth sounded too horrible once spoken aloud. That his body was getting worse faster than either of you realised. That every transformation hurt more than the last. That no amount of love or care or healing could stop what lycanthropy was slowly doing to him. And perhaps worst of all, that he had started wondering whether there would eventually come a point where surviving it simply was not worth the pain anymore.

Instead of saying any of that, Remus looked away from you and said bitterly, “You cannot keep acting like there’s some solution to this, Y/N.”

Your face fell immediately.

“I never thought there was a solution,” you said quietly. “I just thought I was helping.”

Eventually, the two of you spent nearly an hour apart cooling off in different corners of the house, the earlier shouting leaving behind the sort of silence that felt raw rather than peaceful. Remus remained in the kitchen long after his tea had gone cold, staring blankly at the dim light above the sink while guilt settled heavier and heavier in his chest with every passing minute.

In the end, he was the one who came back first.

You were sitting curled up in bed when he stepped quietly into the room, still looking exhausted, shoulders slumped with defeat that made him seem younger than he was. The anger had long since drained out of him, leaving only regret behind.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly after a moment, his voice rough from exhaustion and shouting alike. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

You looked up at him immediately, hurt still lingering faintly across your face despite how quickly you always tried to hide it from him.

“I just wanted to help.”

“I know.” Remus sat carefully beside you, every movement betraying lingering pain no matter how much he tried to conceal it. “And you are helping. Merlin, you help more than anyone ever has.”

Even if it was becoming less true every month.

You softened almost instantly at that, the tension in your shoulders finally easing as you leaned into him. Remus wrapped an arm around you automatically, holding you close while you settled against his chest, your fingers absentmindedly tracing the old scars scattered across his skin where freckles had once been more visible years ago.

“It scares me when you shut me out,” you whispered quietly.

Remus closed his eyes for a moment. “I know.”

“You’re going to be okay,” you murmured after a while, more to reassure yourself than him. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

He felt something inside him twist painfully at the certainty in your voice.

By then, you had already forgotten most of the argument entirely. You believed him when he said your care was helping. You believed the exhaustion would pass the way it always had before. You believed Remus was okay, or at least that he would be.

Somehow, your kindness hurt him more than your anger ever could.

Remus genuinely did not understand why you tolerated him and all the endless complications that came along with loving him, even—especially—the ones you did not know about.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

It had been nearly a week and a half since the previous full moon. Usually, this period served as recovery time for Remus, where you helped him slowly settle back into his regular routines and day to day life before the next transformation arrived to tear through it all over again. 

It was always a tumultuous stretch of time for him because although his body would gradually improve; the physical pain easing little by little with each passing day, the mental burden only seemed to worsen in its place.

It was a Friday, which usually meant you and Remus would head out for one of your little dates with Harry and his boyfriend Draco, a pairing Remus still struggled to fully accept despite how many years had passed. 

(He had insisted for ages that Draco was a “weird” fit for Harry, though he had never once stood in the way of Harry’s happiness. At this point, the stubbornness of it had become almost amusing).

Now, however, Remus stood in front of the full length mirror in your shared bedroom, supposedly in the middle of getting dressed, though he had not moved in several minutes. 

Half dressed and exhausted already, he could see every flaw reflected back at him with painful clarity. Every scar. Every faded freckle buried beneath damaged skin. The bruises still linger faintly yellow and purple along his ribs. Loose skin. The slight softness now settled around his stomach from the weight he had gained over the years.

And really, Remus could not help but feel like throwing up.

He looked repulsive; he looked like a monster wearing the shape of a man.

The thought struck him so violently that his breath caught somewhere in his chest, and suddenly he was crying before he even fully realised it had begun, harsh sobs forcing their way out of him as years worth of self loathing finally cracked open all at once. 

There was so much disgust festering inside him that he no longer knew how to contain it. So much bitterness and exhaustion and loneliness that had nowhere to go except inward, rotting quietly beneath his ribs month after month after month.

Because really, his entire life had become nothing more than a series of arithmetic checks designed to ration what little energy he had left: If I leave the laundry until tomorrow, then maybe I will have enough energy to cook dinner tonight. If I visit Harry this weekend, I will probably spend the following day unable to get out of bed. If the temperature drops tomorrow, my joints will ache worse. If it rains, the old injuries in my back will flare again.

If. If. If.

Everything had become a calculation.

It was exhausting constantly trying to predict whether his own body would betray him from one day to the next, and worse still was the humiliating awareness that half the time the calculations failed him anyway.

A few weeks ago, you had caught him sitting far too long at the kitchen table, quietly trying to plan the coming days around a stack of apothecary receipts and potion ingredients, and had teased him for treating something as simple as rest like a timetable. (“Remus, you don’t have to schedule everything like it’s an exam revision plan,” you had said, smiling as you leaned over his shoulder. “Merlin’s tits, do Muggles seriously plan their entire lives like a to-do list?”) 

Remus had laughed along with you at the time, forcing out some amused remark while something ugly twisted sharply in his chest. You would never have to think about these things. You would never understand what it was like to ration your own life in increments because one missed recovery day meant everything else unravelled after it; because agreeing to see someone meant paying for it in pain later, because even rest itself had to be carefully budgeted or it stopped working at all. 

Still, he had memorised every detail listed there anyway. He added all of it into the endless equation running through his head every waking moment now.

How badly will it hurt tomorrow?

It never truly helped, but the illusion of preparation gave him something dangerously close to control, even if that control was entirely fabricated.

The bedroom door suddenly swung open before he could stop crying properly, and you stepped inside still talking before you even looked at him.

“I swear the washing machine has a personal vendetta against me,” you rambled distractedly. “It ruined my dress completely, the threads along the sleeves are all coming apart and now I’ve nothing to wear tonight unless I—”

You stop abruptly once you notice him standing there.

Your eyes flicker from his tear stained face down toward the sweater clenched tightly in his hands, the old knit fabric stretched a little too tightly now across his frame.

“Oh,” you say quietly, immediately gentler. “Love, if it’s too uncomfortable I can charm it a little looser for you.”

And somehow, pathetically, that tiny act of kindness became the final thing that shattered him completely.

Remus broke apart with a noise so wounded it frightened even himself, sobs tearing violently out of his chest as he bent forward, one shaking hand pressed hard against his mouth as though trying to physically force the sound back down.

You were beside him instantly. “Oh, love, hey, hey, what’s wrong?” you murmur frantically, hands cupping his face before moving to steady his shaking shoulders. “Breathe for me, sweetheart. Remus, breathe. What happened?”

He could not answer.

“Remus, listen to me,” you continued gently, clearly trying to piece together what had upset him so badly. “Y’know it’s normal to gain a little weight in your thirties, right? You’re fine, really, the sweater probably just shrunk a little in the wash and—”

That only made him cry harder.

Because he was not crying over the extra weight.

God, he wished it were only that.

He wished this entire breakdown could be explained away by something as ordinary and fixable as weight gain or tiredness or stress from work. He wished he could simply laugh weakly and let you reassure him and move on from it like any normal person would. 

Instead, the tears kept falling harder and harder no matter how much he tried to stop them, humiliation curling painfully in his chest because he knew you still did not understand what he was actually grieving. 

Everything hurt.

It all hurt so much.

Remus had spent his entire life in pain in one form or another, but there had once been spaces between it. Small mercies; periods where recovery felt possible, where he could almost pretend the transformations had not left permanent damage behind each time they tore through him. 

Lately, though, it felt as though those spaces had disappeared entirely. The pain no longer arrived only with the full moon. It threaded itself through ordinary moments until even standing at the kitchen counter making tea could leave his back aching badly enough that he needed to sit down halfway through. 

And the worst part was how normal it had all started becoming. 

Remus could no longer remember the last time he had experienced a day completely untouched by discomfort. There was only manageable pain and unbearable pain now, and lately the line separating the two had begun narrowing in ways that frightened him. 

It was exhausting living like that.

Exhausting having to calculate every outing, every chore, every responsibility against how much pain it would cost him afterward. Exhausting pretending he was coping better than he truly was because the alternative meant watching concern settle into everyone’s faces all over again. Exhausting knowing his condition was getting worse while everyone around him still spoke about it as though recovery remained possible if he simply rested enough or took the right potion or waited for things to improve.

Things were not improving.

That was the part he could no longer force himself to ignore.

The wolf was destroying him slowly, and Remus had become painfully aware of it in ways he could not explain aloud without terrifying both of you.

A selfish part of him wanted everything to simply stop for a little while so he could finally rest, properly rest, without having to calculate and ration and recover endlessly. He wanted to wake up without immediately assessing what hurt that morning. He wanted enough energy to finish the mountain of unfinished work piling up around him. He wanted to be the person everyone around him believed he still was.

And somewhere beneath the panic clawing viciously through him, Remus knew some of this was simply the panic attack dragging him downward into its familiar spiral of despair.

Remus just wanted to be gone, whether that meant dying or disappearing or simply ceasing to exist for a little while. Anything, anything, so long as he no longer had to feel this way anymore. 

Your voice continues drifting toward him through the panic, gentle and grounding and desperately trying to pull him back, though for several horrible moments it does not seem to reach him at all. 

Remus can still barely breathe properly, his chest tightening painfully as tears continue spilling down his face no matter how hard he tries to stop them. The room around him feels distant and warped at the edges, every thought inside his head collapsing into noise until suddenly your hands are cradling his face firmly enough to force his attention back onto you.

“Remus,” you whisper shakily, your thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. “Look at me, love. Please look at me.”

And he does.

The second your arms pull him against your chest, something inside him completely breaks apart.

A sob tears out of him so violently it frightens even himself. The sound is rough and wounded and horribly animalistic in a way that makes humiliation immediately claw through him afterward because it does not sound human anymore. 

He can feel the way his breathing keeps hitching uncontrollably against you while you hold him tighter instead of recoiling, your hand moving shakily through his hair while you whisper soft reassurances against his temple.

“What’s wrong?” you ask quietly. “Remus, talk to me.”

For a few seconds all he can do is cry harder.

Then eventually, brokenly, he whispers, “I can’t do this anymore.”

You pull back just enough to look at him properly, immediate concern flashing across your face as you rush to reassure him.

“It’s okay,” you say quickly. “We don’t have to go see Harry and Draco tomorrow, love, it’s alright. I’m sure they’ll understand if you’re not feeling well enough—”

Remus shakes his head almost desperately before another sob catches painfully in his throat.

“No,” he chokes out. “No, it’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

His hands shake violently where they clutch weakly at your sleeves.

“I just can’t do this anymore,” he cries. “All of this, I can’t—I can’t keep—”

The realisation slowly drains the colour from your face. Remus watches the exact moment you understand what he actually means.

Without a word, you carefully lower both of you onto the floor until you are sitting together against the side of the bed, Remus half collapsed against your chest while he struggles to breathe through the sobs still wracking through him. Your arms remain wrapped tightly around him, one hand gripping his almost desperately now as though you are frightened he might disappear if you let go.

“It’s gotten worse,” he finally admits through broken breaths. “So much worse.”

You stay silent, letting him speak.

“It hurts every day now,” he whispers. “Every second. I wake up hurting and I go to sleep hurting and sometimes it feels like my body never recovers properly anymore.” His breathing stutters unevenly. “The transformations are worse and recovery takes longer and the pain doesn’t leave afterward like it used to. I thought it would pass, I thought maybe I was just exhausted or stressed or getting older but it just keeps getting worse.”

Tears continue slipping down his face faster than he can wipe them away.

“My knees hurt all the time now,” he admits shakily, the confession sounding pathetic enough to make him hate himself for it. “My hips ache after every full moon for days afterward and sometimes my hands shake so badly I can barely hold things properly and I’m so tired all the time.” 

A horrible, humourless laugh breaks weakly through another sob. “I keep trying to adjust to it and then it gets worse again and I have to learn how to live in my body all over again because this keeps becoming my new normal and I don’t know how much worse it’s going to get.”

By the end of it, he can barely get the words out at all.

Your own tears have begun falling quietly somewhere during his rambling, though you continue holding him through all of it, your thumb rubbing shakily across the back of his hand while he cries into your shoulder.

“Love,” you whisper brokenly once he finally falls silent. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Remus squeezes his eyes shut.

“I knew something was wrong,” you continue softly through your own tears. “I’m not a bloody fool, Remus. You’ve been shutting me out for months and refusing to tell me what was happening and I kept thinking maybe I was doing something wrong somehow, but you could’ve told me.” Your voice cracks painfully. “I would’ve been there for you.”

“I didn’t want to burden you,” he mumbles weakly. “Didn’t want to ruin whatever image you still had of me. At least the half decent one.”

You lean forward carefully and press a soft kiss against his damp cheek before resting your forehead against his.

“Remus,” you whisper, “I love you. Not whatever version of your body you think you’re supposed to be.” Your fingers intertwine more tightly with his. “Bodies change, love. Mine has changed too. That doesn’t make you harder to love.”

Remus cries quietly for a long while after that.

When the two of you finally crawl into bed later that night, his hips still ache, his knees still throb painfully beneath the blankets, and every joint in his body still feels bruised and raw from years of damage that no longer heals cleanly.

The pain has not disappeared.

Neither has the fear.

Though for the first time in months, the ache inside his chest feels just a little less unbearable than before.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

And as it turns out, the road toward being okay is a tumultuous one, painfully non linear in all the most ordinary ways.

It takes time for Remus to learn how to ask for help when he needs it instead of silently enduring until he reaches a breaking point. It takes time for you to learn not to immediately offer help every time you think he might need it, because sometimes the loss of independence stings worse than the pain itself. 

Most of all, it takes time for the both of you to learn each other all over again, for you to recognise the moments where he does need help even when exhaustion leaves him too tired or ashamed to verbally ask for it.

Eight months later, the two of you have fallen into something that cannot quite be called easier, though it is no longer as unbearable as it once was either. The pain still exists. Remus still has bad days where getting out of bed feels impossible, and the full moons still leave him aching for days afterward in ways neither of you can truly fix. 

There are still moments where frustration gets the better of him, where pain and humiliation twist together until they come out harsher than intended.

(“I can do it myself,” Remus had snapped once while trying to stand from the sofa after a particularly bad full moon, exhaustion making his hands shake with the effort. “I’m not a fucking toddler.”)

Other times, though, there are moments that would have once been unimaginable to him, moments where he finally lets himself ask for help.

(“Can you help me up?” he had whispered one winter morning after his knees locked painfully beneath him halfway down the stairs, his voice thick with embarrassment. “Please. I just… I can’t do it right now.”)

And there are some rare times where Remus had stopped pretending he was fine when he clearly was not, and you had stopped trying to fix every part of his pain, understanding now that sometimes all he needed was someone willing to sit beside him through it. It did not make the lycanthropy easier, nor did it stop him from getting worse, but somehow carrying it together made it easier for Remus to survive.

Slowly, very fucking slowly at that, Remus begins pulling himself out from beneath all the burdens that have haunted him for years. Not perfectly and not all at once, but enough that he starts noticing the difference in small moments before he notices it anywhere else.

He begins accepting what has happened to him and what continues happening to him in this painfully mundane life of his.

Because that is the thing about chronic suffering in the end. Most of it is not a cycle of great torture. It exists in ordinary moments. In aching joints while making tea. In needing help buttoning a shirt after a difficult transformation because his fingers hurt too badly to cooperate. In learning how to build a life around pain without allowing pain to become the only thing life contains.

More often now, Remus finds himself staring at the photographs scattered throughout your shared home, though the feeling they stir in him has changed. Once they had filled him with grief for everything he had lost and guilt for all the times he had wanted to surrender beneath the weight of it. 

Now they bring peace, or something close enough to it.

The memories of everyone he has loved and lost no longer feel solely painful. James and Lily smiling brightly from moving photographs, Sirius finally free and laughing so hard during Sunday tea that he nearly spills his drink across the table, even Peter lingering painfully at the edges of memory despite everything that happened; all of them remind Remus that his life has contained something meaningful enough to grieve in the first place.

It is bittersweet in a way he suspects life often is.

The glass is not entirely full, nor entirely empty either, and for the first time in years Remus finds himself capable of accepting that perhaps it does not need to be one or the other.

He has come a long way from the quiet, scrawny twelve year old boy crying in Madam Pomfrey’s office after full moons because he could not understand why this had happened to him. 

He is no longer the twenty one year old standing shell shocked at James and Lily’s funeral believing he had lost all three of his best friends in a single night. 

He is no longer the twenty five year old convinced he was ruining your life simply by remaining in it. 

He is not that thirty eight year old lying awake wishing he could die just so the pain would stop for a little while.

Now, Remus finds solace in the people who remain.

In meeting Minerva every once in a while and sharing grief neither of them ever fully learned to put down. 

In listening to Luna ramble happily about all her strange adventures across both the wizarding and muggle world with the sort of sincerity only Luna could possess. 

In sharing tea with Tonks while she animatedly complains about work and laughs halfway through her own stories. 

In watching Harry build a bright, beautiful life for himself despite everything that should have destroyed him. 

In accepting Draco slowly and reluctantly at first before eventually recognising the great devotion with which he loves Harry.

Most of all, Remus finds comfort in you.

In your patience. Your stubbornness. Your quiet insistence on loving him through every ugly complicated part of being alive.

And these days, when Remus looks around the home the two of you built together, his chest no longer twists with guilt alone.

Now it twists with gratitude—because somehow, impossibly, he found a group of people so deeply convinced he was lovable and worthy of care that they spoon fed the belief into him for years until eventually, one day, he finally learned how to feed himself.

And it is at that point, almost two years later, that Remus realises this had been the point all along.

Not on some grand life changing day either, nor during one of the dramatic moments he once believed revelations were meant to arrive within. 

The understanding comes to him quietly on an ordinary evening while he lays stretched across the sofa with your legs tangled absentmindedly with his own, watching you knit some sort of ridiculous mug warmer for his tea that he already knows he will treasure for the rest of his life simply because you made it.

You continue rambling softly about his upcoming birthday, asking what sort of gift he might want this year despite Remus insisting repeatedly that he truly does not need anything.

“It doesn’t have to be something big,” you tell him while counting stitches distractedly. “I just want it to be something you’ll actually like.”

“I’ll like whatever you get me.”

“That is not helpful at all.”

A smile tugs faintly at his mouth despite himself.

“You made me that scarf three years ago and I still wear it constantly,” he points out lazily.

“That scarf is falling apart.”

“And yet I continue wearing it.”

You laugh softly at that before finally looking up at him properly, and the expression on your face nearly undoes him where he lays.

Because your eyes are so unbearably full of love that it feels as though the feeling itself might spill over and drown him entirely if he stares too long. 

You look at him with such uncomplicated affection, such complete certainty, that sometimes Remus still struggles understanding how a person like you can exist at all. It is as though you carry some endless bright thing within yourself and insist upon turning it toward every monstrous, complicated, ugly part of him until even he cannot help but stand inside its warmth eventually.

And unexpectedly, his ribs twist painfully around his lungs, though not with the familiar agony of transformation. This ache arrives differently, softer and deeper all at once, and the realisation settles over him so suddenly it nearly steals the breath from his chest.

Just like his ribs twist and split beneath the full moon to form something monstrous, they twist for you too.

Just like his heart clenches in pain, it also clenches whenever he looks at you.

The feeling is not the same, and somehow it is exactly the same.

Because the wolf is made from his flesh and bones no matter how much he despises it, and love is too. The worst parts of him and the best parts of him come from the very same place. They exist within the same body, beneath the same battered ribs that have endured both agony and tenderness so profound it frightens him sometimes.

It reminds him suddenly of Eve being created from Adam’s ribs, of love itself being born from flesh rather than separate from it.

And perhaps that is what finally frees him; the thing he has hated most throughout his entire life is made from the very same parts of him capable of love.

The same ribs.

The same heart.

The same body.

For years Remus believed the wolf had made him fundamentally unworthy of being loved properly, as though suffering and monstrosity somehow cancelled out tenderness. Yet here you are beside him still, years later, knitting ugly little mug warmers and arguing with him over birthday presents and looking at him with enough love to make his chest ache from carrying it.

And so, Remus accepts it.

All of it.

He accepts the wolf even as he continues hating the pain it causes him every month. He accepts the scars carved into his body and the exhaustion that still follows difficult transformations. He accepts the strange fragile joy of being loved so thoroughly despite all the parts of himself he once believed impossible to live beside.

Most importantly of all, he accepts himself.

Remus feels almost foolish for only now stumbling upon something human beings seem to have instinctively known since the beginning of time: that accepting the love you are given requires accepting yourself enough to believe you deserve to receive it in the first place. That fear has a way of blinding people not only from happiness, but from recognising love even when it sits directly before them. That the entire point of loving another person is to allow yourself to be loved in return despite how frightening and vulnerable and immeasurable that exchange truly is.

Slowly, Remus reaches for you.

You pause your knitting immediately when he tilts your chin upward gently before leaning down to press a soft kiss against your lips. The expression you wear afterward is so fond it almost makes him laugh.

“I love you,” he whispers quietly.

You smile instantly, warmly, beautifully, as though hearing those words from him will never become ordinary no matter how many years pass between you.

“I love you too,” you whisper back with such overwhelming sincerity that he feels his chest tighten all over again.

His ribs contract once more beneath the feeling, though this time it is not from pain.

And although Remus knows they will ache again soon enough because of the wolf, knows another full moon will eventually arrive as it always does, he finds himself breathing through the feeling instead of fearing it.

His ribs are constant reminders of every pain he has endured, of every person he has loved, and of every ounce of love somehow returned back into his hands despite everything he once believed made him unworthy of receiving it. They ache with old grief and survival alike, though somewhere within that ache lives the proof that he was loved through all of it anyway. 

Remus Lupin has lived a hard, complicated, painfully ordinary life.

Though for the first time in a very long while, when he looks at it now, he realises it has also been a life filled with love. 

And finally, after all these years, he wants to keep living it.

─── ⋆⋅ ⏾⋅⋆ ───

despite all of that, gator spent the majority of his time there. when he wasn’t working or busy kissing his daddy’s ass at home, he was at your place.

tonight, you had the house to yourself.

gator was working, so you had a night in. dinner on the couch, binge watching reruns of some trash reality show until your eyes burned.

around 11:30, you decided to turn in for the night. your bones pop and crack as you stand up and stretch before you drag your feet down the dark hall to your bathroom.

you’re going through the motions of your night routine, washing your face and brushing your teeth, when you hear a thud come from outside.

you freeze, heart jumping in your chest at the sudden noise amongst the silent house. you listen, ears almost straining to pick up any other sounds.

you’re just about to reach for the faucet handle to turn the water back on when you hear it again, this time louder.

you toss your toothbrush back into its holder, next to gator’s you kept there for him, and wiped your mouth. you shut off the light and grab your phone, creeping out into the hallway.

you peak out in the living room and from there you can see a dark figure through the frosted glass on your front door’s window. an awful, hollow pit formed in your stomach.

maybe it was gator, you tell yourself. maybe he is stopping by while on patrol or got off early. but you knew that wasn’t true.

you curse under your breath and make your way to your bedroom, phone already dialing gator’s number.

you will him to pick up as you shut the door and lock it behind you. it rings a few times and you’re scared that he’s busy or in the middle of a traffic stop or call.

finally, the line on the other side clicks and gator’s voice hits your ear.

“hey, baby girl.” you could practically hear his shit-eating smirk on the other side of the line, no doubt thinking you’re calling because you miss him and want attention.

you wish that were the situation.

“are you at my door?” you rush out as you make your way to your bedside, grabbing the metal baseball bat you kept tucked between your bed and your nightstand.

gator’s tone turned serious in an instant. “no, i’m patrollin’ on the highway. someone at your door?”

you can already hear the charger’s engine turn over and the tires screeching as gator began flooring it down the road.

“i was about to go to bed and i heard a noise outside. i thought it was a animal or something then i heard it again, louder. then i saw someone at the door through the window.”

“get your ass into your room now. lock the door.”

“i am.” you say as you open your closet and climb inside. your heart pounded in your chest, making it almost impossible to hear gator.

“i’m on my way. don’t hang up the phone, ya hear me? i’m almost there.”

“i’m fucking scared gator.” you whisper shakily.

“i know, baby girl. i’m comin’. ain’t gonna let nothing hurt ya.”

you could hear your front door being hit and broken down. you curse, curling yourself into a tight ball. you knuckles had gone white on your phone and the bat.

the intruder had made their way inside, heavy footsteps thumping through your house.

“gate, please hurry.” you whisper, squeezing your eyes shut. “they’re inside.”

gator mutters a small fuck under his breath and his engine roars louder. “hang on baby, turin’ down your road now.”

the sound of drawers being rummaged through roughly, things being picked up then tossed down echo loudly, but the sound of police sirens coming closer were louder.

you don’t even think the person inside your house had much time to react before gator came barreling through your front door.

“county police! put yer fuckin’ hands up!” gator’s voice angrily reverberates through the house. everything else is a blur.

the sound of gator knocking the person down. the sound of his fist repeatedly connecting to flesh. he could’ve shot them, sure, but he was pissed. he needed to let it out. a shot wouldn’t have been as satisfying for him.

when he was satisfied, having beat the guy to a pulp and handcuffed him then calling for backup. gator rushed down the hall.

his heavy boots thundered towards your room, banging on the door. “babe?”

you could barely pull yourself up and out of the closet, let alone walk to the door. but you managed to put your shaky legs to use.

when you opened the bedroom door, your phone was still clutched in your hand, still connected the call with gator even though he’d left his phone forgotten in his car, and the bat was in your other.

when your eyes landed on gator, you let out a sob and fell into his chest. his arms held you tightly to him, lips pressing to the top of your head. the bat fell from your grasp, clanging loudly as it hit the floor.

you cried, understandably shaken up. and gator let you, running his fingers through your hair.

“i gotcha. don’t worry, baby girl. i gotcha.”

after a few minutes, you pulled back and looked up at him.

“’s all taken care of, darlin’. ‘s okay.” he say, holding your face in his hands. you manage a nod and gator presses a kiss to your forehead.

“got some back up comin’ to take the son of a bitch in. i need ya to pack a bag. whatever ya need for a couple of nights.”

“why?”

“you’re stayin’ with me. no ifs ands or buts. ain’t letting ya out my sight.”

“gator-“

“you ain’t comin’ back to this house. i’m a find a better place for us. where this shit won’t happen.”

this makes you pause, your lips managing to curl up slightly. “a place for us?”

gator frowns down at you, narrowing his eyes. “you think i’m gonna let ya live alone after this shit? like hell.”

“if you wanted to move in with me, honey, you could’ve just said so.” you smirk.

gator scoffs, rolling his eyes. “the fucks the matter with you, woman? jokin’ after this shit. i need to be able to protect ya. ‘s all.”

your smile softens, your fingers curling into his vest. you knew that was only half of the truth. that really, he wanted to live with you because he wanted to. he wanted to be around you all the time at home. but he would never admit that.

“gator?”

“don’t.”

you shake your head, smiling. “thank you.”

gator’s face softens slightly, and he nods.

“it’s my job to protect ya. don’t thank me.” he mumbles. still, you lean you and peck his lips before turning to pack a bag for your stay at the ranch with him.

until you found your new home. together.

“we’re gettin’ ya a gun, too.”

Then you came along.

And suddenly, Steve couldn’t go five minutes without feeling some part of you touching him. Your fingers curled into his sleeves to keep a tight hold on him, your head tucked beneath his chin whenever he sat down, your legs draped across his lap during movie night with the party. Half the time Steve couldn’t move around your place without you trailing after him like a shadow.

“Baby,” he laughed under his breath one late night, glancing back to catch you following him. “You know I’m just getting a glass of water, right? Go back to bed.”

You only rubbed your bleary eyes with a pout, wrapping your arms around his waist. “I can’t.” You mumbled into his soft sleep shirt.

“Why not?” Steve asked, furrowing his brows.

“Because the beds cold without you, and I already missed you.”

Steve nearly dropped the glass in his hand. Every single time. Every damn time you said something like that—a simple yet effective soft confession, his chest did this stupid aching thing.

No one ever looked at him like he held the whole world in his hands.

“Jesus, sweetheart.” He sighed affectionately, turning in your arms to pull you against him properly. “C’mere, baby.”

You smiled immediately, burying your face into his chest as you cocooned yourself soundly, Steve lifting you up to carry you back to the bedroom.

And the way you relaxed the second he touched you? It was a huge difference to people that recoiled away from him, like your body trusted him completely.

“Needy girl,” he teased affectionately, rubbing his hands up and down your back in slow motions.

The nickname stuck after that—his needy girl, and you loved it more than anything. Because you wanted to be his needy girl, to show him that you loved him deep enough for your heart to hurt.

“Needy girl, move over.”

“I love you even more, needy girl.”

“You tired, needy girl?”

And the party had no trouble noticing it immediately, especially Dustin.

“This is actually disgusting.” Dustin looked at you two curled up on the wheelers basement couch with a grimace. “You guys are attached at the hip like some kind of parasite from the upside down.”

Steve didn’t even look up from where he was absentmindedly playing with your fingers, rubbing featherlight touches over your knuckles.

“She likes me.”

Dustin rolled his eyes, groaning. “You’re literally holding her hands while she’s asleep.”

“She can’t sleep when she’s alone.” Steve responded, keeping his gaze on you. Your cheek was smudged against his chest as your hand remained clutched in his own.

“Do you hear how you sound right now? That’s crazy!” Dustin pointed out with disbelief.

“Don’t call my girl crazy.” Steve said almost threateningly, finally glancing upwards to glare at the younger boy.

If there was one thing Steve wouldn’t stand for, it was for anyone who shamed your relationship. There was nothing wrong with being attached to him, the truth was—he loved showing you off like this.

Loved when you sought him out first in a room.

Loved when you automatically climbed into his lap like that was your designated seat.

Loved when your hand reached for his without looking.

He loved that you depended on him. Not because you couldn’t do it yourself, but because you chose him constantly. And he used to be a man who felt replaceable every second of his life, but with you, he only knew what feeling permanent meant.

When the party left that night, you were still half asleep while he lazily stroked your hair.

“Stevie?” You asked.

“Hm?”

“Do you care that I’m clingy?”

Steve stared at you for a moment like the answer was the most obvious one in the world. Then he leaned down, pressing the softest of kisses to your forehead.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured against your skin. “You could cling to me forever and I still wouldn’t get tired of it.”

Your face flushed instantly, but his response sounded so genuine, relaxing you until your shoulders sagged.

You blink at him for a few seconds before mumbling through the gauze in your mouth. “Where was I?” You ask, pausing when you notice the unfamiliar feeling in your mouth. A panicked gasp leaves your lips, and you try to lift your head up, but it feels too heavy. “Where’s my tongue? I can’t feel my tongue.” You squeal, your shoulders rising with each panicked huff.

Steve stares at you and laughs, unable to form words, causing you to huff at him. “It’s not funny, Steve.” You whine dramatically.

He silently picks up the mirror from the side, turning it around so that you can see yourself. “Here, see, your tongue is definitely there.” He says, though you can tell he’s masking a laugh through the slight tremble of his lips.

The look of horror on your face is almost comedic, and you’re quick to reply to Steve. “Oh my God. I look like a newborn baby. Put that away.” You gasp, covering your face with your hands.

His hand comes to yours, gently pulling them away from your face. An annoyed huff leaves your lips, and you roll your eyes.

“How do you feel, baby?” He asks, a genuine, soft look replacing the sarcasm and teasing.

“Never felt better.” You mumble, though the look on your face says otherwise.

He flashes you a knowing look, raising his eyebrows.

“I can’t feel anything, like I have no limbs.” You sigh, letting your head tilt to the side.

“Is this how you’re asking me to carry you?” He asks, already slipping his hand down to your side before you even respond.

“Maybe.” You mumble.

Not even a second after, he’s gently sliding his hand under your lower back, pulling you into his arms and securing you against himself. For the sake of the public, if you weren’t on anaesthetic, you’d be refusing his offer, but you’re too tired to produce thoughts, so it’s not something you’ll think about until he brings it up.

He carries you out the room, whispering a ‘thank you’ to the dentists and the receptionist before exiting the building, supporting your head so you don’t strain your neck. He silently carries you to the beamer, settling you down in the passenger seat, guiding you to buckle your seatbelt before rounding the car to his side. The drive home was quiet, mostly because of the gauze restricting your speech, but it was unusual to Steve, because he was used to you rambling on for the whole ride.

Once he parks outside of his house, he wastes no time opening your door and helping you out. You lean your body weight against him as he slowly guides you to the front door. He unlocks the door with a quiet click and helps you step through the door. The keys hit the table with a clink, and he crouches down in front of you, gently holding your heel as he slips your shoes off.

“You’re going straight upstairs to bed to rest.” He decides, cutting into the silence, giving no room for you to argue. Not that you would argue anyway, because he was right, and you couldn’t properly form words anyway.

A defeated huff leaves your lips, and he earns a small nod from you.

“In around half an hour, we need to replace the gauze with a fresh one. I’m going to go grab painkillers for you.” He says, standing up and brushing his thumb over your cheek. “Are you up for eating right now? You’ll be sticking to soft foods for a little while, so I can make you a soup, or maybe a broth.”

You shake your head before mumbling. “Just want to get into bed.”

“Okay. That’s okay, baby. Do you need help getting up the stairs?” He asks.

“It’s okay. I can manage. I’m a grown woman, I can do it on my own.” You whisper with a defeated look, pulling at his heart strings.

You make your way up the stairs, tightly gripping onto the rail to keep yourself up right. Your feet drag along the carpet, and you push the door open, slowly settling yourself down under the covers. The sound of cupboards opening and closing downstairs fills your ears, and the heaviness of your eyelids starts to take over.

Steve walks into the bedroom, his arms filled with essentials for you, more than he said he would get. He carefully kicks the door closed with the back of his foot, then walks over to your side of the bed, settling everything down on your bedside table. You blink at the frozen bag of carrots, and then at him.

“We didn’t have frozen peas in the freezer, so frozen carrots will do, for the swelling. Got you a glass of water and a packet of painkillers. The spare gauzes are in the packet too, though I did end up dripping some water on the instructions, but it’s not too bad.” He says, grinning at you.

“Thank you, Steve.” You whisper, slowly reaching over to grab the painkillers and glass of water. He watches as you swallow the painkillers, and a small smile twitches at his lips.

“What food would you like me to go out and buy? Needs to be soft foods. I’ll make a list and go shopping after.” He whispers, pulling the sheets up and sliding in beside you.

You grip onto his bicep as if to prevent him from getting up, a concerned look washed over your face. “You’re leaving me?” You ask, frowning.

“No, no. I’m just going to go out and get you food. I’ll come back straight after.” He reassures, pressing a sweet kiss to the top of your head.

“Can I come with you?” You ask.

“I would love for you to come with me, but you need to stay in bed and rest.” He sighs, combing his hand through your hair, gently massaging your scalp.

“I don’t want to.” You huff, glaring at him.

“I know, baby. You’ll be thanking yourself after though.” He whispers.

Silence stretches out for a moment, only filled with your quiet breaths. “Could you get me a strawberry Greek yoghurt, please?” You ask.

“You’re not just getting a yoghurt baby. That’s not enough at all.” He says, raising his eyebrows.

“Get me anything, just make sure you get me that yoghurt, that’s all.” You mumble, pressing your cheek further into the pillows.

“Would you like chicken soup tonight?” He asks, earning a nod from you. “Okay. Should be good for the pain and swelling.”

“I can’t feel my legs. Do I still have my legs? Are they gone too?” You ask, pulling a laugh from him.

“Too?” He repeats. “I’m pretty sure you still have legs, baby. How else would you have gotten up the stairs?”

“Please check.” You say, and his hand gently slides down to your thigh, tracing slow circles and patterns. “What if I’m feeling a phantom feeling, and my legs aren’t actually there?”

He groans, letting his head drop to your shoulder. “Please don’t ask me if you have eyes next.”

“Not going to. Can clearly see you in front of me.” You grin, pausing before you speak again. “Hot.”

A breathless laugh leaves his lips, and he pulls you closer to him, letting his warmth envelope your body. Your hands rest on his chest, gently gripping at his shirt, making sure that he doesn’t slip away.

“I love you, even though you have zero idea what you’re saying right now.” He mumbles, pressing gentle kisses along your neck.

“Yes I do.” You mumble.

“Any normal person wouldn’t be asking if they have legs, baby.” He laughs, guiding you to adjust your position, helping you to settle more comfortably.

“I’m very normal.” You say with an offended huff.

“I’m glad you think you are.” He whispers, shaking his head. “Get some rest, baby. I’ll wake you up when you need to change the gauze, then I’ll go do some shopping.”

“Don’t move.” You say, holding him tightly in your arms, letting your eyes close after forcing them open for hours.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He whispers.

The room fills with silence, and he stays awake, keeping a watch over you to make sure that you’re comfortable. He wasn’t sure if you’d wake up and make an odd remark at him again, but all he could focus on was how peaceful you look, finally resting in bed instead of on an uncomfortable chair at the dentist.

Right now, things still suck. That part hasn’t changed but you are all so close to the finish line. Closer than you’ve ever been. Vecna, the source of all of it, the thing that’s been lurking behind every wrong turn and every broken piece of Hawkins, is finally within reach.

And these crawls? It’s the answer to how you will figure out the rest. Step by step. Dark tunnel by dark tunnel. You’ll do whatever it takes to end him for good. 

By now, everyone in Hawkins knows the military owns the town.

Curfews. Checkpoints. Armed patrols rolling through neighborhoods at all hours. Helicopters overhead so often nobody even looks up anymore. Entire streets blocked off behind fences and floodlights while government officials lie through their teeth on the news about “environmental contamination.”

Which means every Crawl has to happen in secret. They have to be quick. Quiet. Precise. That’s what Hopper calls it, like if he keeps repeating the words, the fear will stop leaking in around the edges. 

“Controlled,” is how he phrases it. 

Like anything about this has ever been controlled. You almost want to laugh when he says it because your hands don’t feel controlled. Your thoughts don’t feel controlled. And that quiet, irrational fear sitting under your ribs—the one that whispers you could die down there—definitely isn’t controlled. 

But then you think about why you’re still doing it. Your little brother, who got dragged into this mess long before he understood what it meant, to think he was just a little boy when it all started… and Steve, who somehow ended up in the middle of all of it like he was always meant to be there. The others too, all tangled up in something none of you ever asked for, none of you ever deserved. Sometimes you didn’t understand why the responsibility of saving the world had fallen on you and your friends. You weren’t a hero by any means. So was it selfish to wish this burden belonged to someone else instead?

When your mind dwells on it too much something in you hardens. It doesn’t matter what you feel. It doesn’t matter how fear sits in your chest like a weight. It doesn’t matter if you want to play hero or not, you have to. Because god forbid if something happens—It has to be you. Not them. Never them. You. 

You can’t let anything happen to them. You won’t. That part of you isn’t negotiable anymore. It is an instinct, sharper than fear, louder than reason. If something goes wrong down there, it should be you taking the hit, not them. That’s just how it is, you’ve made that up in your mind a long time ago. 

So you nod when Hopper talks about “controlled.” You follow the plan. You step into the Crawls anyway, even when everything in you is screaming not to. Hawkins is already too close to breaking, and they’re already too important to lose.

- -

Rain pours hard enough to blur the windshield as the van idles beside the abandoned access road outside Hawkins. The woods beyond the barricades are black and endless, lit only by the occasional sweep of military floodlights in the distance.

Inside the van, nobody talks before the Crawl. Maybe they did at the beginning—back when everything still felt uncertain in a different way, when the first few missions were more fear than experience and silence wasn’t something anyone had learned to rely on yet. But after too many close calls, too many mistakes that almost cost everything, staying quiet started to feel like the safest option, like saying less might somehow mean risking less. 

Still, it doesn’t make anything easier. Not when things are getting more serious, more real, and every time you get closer to Vecna it only gets more dangerous, like the Upside Down is learning you just as much as you’re trying to survive it.

The fear stopped being loud weeks ago. Now it sits there, quiet and heavy. It’s left exhaustion that settles deep into everyone’s bones.

“You remember the route?” Hopper asks from the driver’s seat for what feels like the third time, his grip tight on the wheel even though he’s trying to sound steady. He’s the adult, the one supposed to have this under control—but even he can feel it now, the weight of what they’re about to do settling in the van like a second body.

“Jesus, Hopper,” Steve mutters beside you, checking the shells in the shotgun across his lap. “We’ve done this one before.” Steve sounds rather angry in his tone, because that was his nerves talking, too. He’s not actually angry—he’s scared. For whatever reason, emotions tend to get the better of us in situations that put us on edge. Some people lash out in anger, while others fall into sadness. It’s just human nature.

“And Vecna adapts,” Hopper snaps immediately. “So yeah, I’m asking again.”

Suddenly, everyone goes quiet again, no one arguing after that. The weight of Hopper’s words cloud your mind like toxic gas you can’t escape. Rain taps steadily against the roof of the van, soft and endless, like it doesn’t care what’s waiting for you out there. 

In the dim dashboard light you catch a glimpse of your younger brother. Dustin somehow looks younger and older at the same time. You can’t help but think about how he’s too young for all of this, for the shaking hands and the radio packs he’s forcing himself to focus on. And all you can think about is how you still see him as that little kid with the missing teeth and the big, pearly, gummy smile that used to show up like nothing in the world could touch him, like everything was still simple enough to figure out, and all those innocent times when his only worry was about D&D and nerdy comics. 

You nudge his shoulder gently, careful, like you’re trying not to break whatever’s holding him together, and ask, “You okay?”

Dustin Henderson snorts. “Fantastic. Love risking my life in nightmare hell dimensions.”

“That's enough Dustin,” Steve says automatically as if Dustin’s sarcasm triggers him. 

You’d noticed that Steve and Dustin had been on edge with each other lately. The two people you cared about most in the world were too busy fighting to see how much it was tearing you apart. Under any other circumstances, you would’ve fought harder to make them stop, but with the possible end of the world hanging over all of you, nothing felt that simple anymore and it felt hopeless, exhausting even to waste your energy on something so stupid. 

Dustin stares at him.

Steve pauses.

“…Never mind.”

The truth is, nobody’s doing okay anymore. You know you’re not. Not after three months of Crawls. Three months of sneaking beneath military blockades and slipping into the Upside Down looking for Vecna while Hawkins rots from the inside out.

And Steve—

Steve’s gotten worse too. 

Not in an obvious way. He still joked around sometimes, still tried to keep everyone moving like he could talk the fear out of the room. You knew he thought that was his job too—keeping everyone else together, keeping them happy. God, how you wished you could make him understand that he was allowed to fall apart sometimes too.

But even now, he still threw himself between danger and the rest of you without a second thought, like protecting everyone was just another burden he’d silently decided to carry alone.

But it’s also in the way he watches you now. Every Crawl, every hallway, every breathless pause where something could go wrong. He’s always looking at you.

And the worst part is… you know why. Steve knows you. Knows you’d do anything to save your little brother. Knows you’d do the same for him, too, even if you don’t always say it out loud. He’s the same way, has been for a long time now—throwing himself into danger like it’s just part of the job.

But that doesn’t make it okay. It doesn’t make it less terrifying. Because understanding it doesn’t stop the fear from sitting heavy in his chest every time you step into the dark. He’s not just worried anymore.

He’s scared shitless of losing you.

And you could see it in the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention—like he was already grieving you before anything had even happened. Like some part of him was trying to memorize every expression, every laugh, every little thing about you in case it was the last time he ever got to see it.

He couldn’t survive losing you. Not now. Not when the two of you were finally so close to having something beyond all of this horror, a future, a life, something normal. He wouldn’t admit it but Steve had never really been afraid of dying for himself. He was afraid of living in a world that no longer had you in it.

Robin even pulled you aside once after a mission and said, “I’m serious, he looks like he’s five seconds from a nervous breakdown every time you get hurt.”

At the time, it had only been a twisted ankle.

But tonight feels different. You can tell the second Hopper kills the engine.

The air changes.

You know how people in murder mysteries always say they felt it coming? Like it was some sort of gut feeling that chose not to trust anyways. Yeah, well, you felt something too. You just didn’t know what it was yet.

“Alright,” Hopper says quietly. “We move fast. Military patrol passes in eleven minutes. We miss that window, we’re screwed.”

Screwed was putting it lightly. If any of you missed this mark, you’d be dead but no one admits that to themselves. 

Everyone grabs their gear.

Steve catches your wrist before you can climb out. “Stay close to me tonight.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I always do.”

“No.” His voice drops lower. More serious. “I mean it.”

There’s something in his face that makes your stomach twist. It's fear. Real fear.

Before you can respond, Hopper opens the van doors. “Move.”

The woods are freezing, cold crawling straight into your bones. Rain soaks through your jacket almost instantly as the group cuts through the trees toward the restricted zone. Somewhere in the distance, a generator hums beneath the crackle of military radios.

Floodlights sweep across the forest every few seconds, cutting through the trees in sharp, blinding arcs. Everyone ducks automatically. By now, the routine is muscle memory. And when you think about that too much, it hits in a way you don’t really let yourself sit with since it shouldn’t be like this. None of you should be here at all. Maybe in another life you’re just normal kids, worried about normal things, not carrying the weight of saving a world that keeps almost ending.

Hopper leads.

Nancy checks the rear.

Robin keeps track of timing.

Steve stays near you. Always near you.

“Same plan,” Nancy whispers. “In and out. We check the western sector for movement and regroup in forty minutes.”

Everyone nods. Then they descend—and you’re just left watching for a second longer than you should, hoping it won’t be the last time you see any of them come back up. Maybe it was wrong to think so negatively all the time, but who could really blame you? You’d all seen things no one was ever supposed to see, lived through horrors that went far beyond normal. After everything that had happened, “okay” didn’t even feel like a real thing anymore.

Crossing into the Upside Down never gets easier, no matter how many times you do it. The cold hits first, sharp and immediate, like the air itself is rejecting you. Then the smell follows. Rot. Blood. Wet decay that clings to everything the moment you breathe it in. If the “walls” could talk, you didn’t think you’d want to hear what they had to say.

And underneath it all, something worse—you can feel it before you even name it. The air doesn’t feel alive here. It feels wrong. Dead in a way that doesn’t stop moving.

You land hard beside Steve at the bottom of the tunnel and immediately hear the distant echoing groans somewhere deep underground. The Upside Down version of Hawkins stretches endlessly ahead in darkness and ash. 

Steve instinctively reaches for your hand for half a second before catching himself. Still, his fingers brush yours. “You good?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah.”

He studies your face like he’s checking whether you’re lying. Obviously he can see that a part of you isn’t fine but… who is right now? So he reluctantly nods. 

The group moves carefully through the ruined underground corridors beneath Hawkins High, flashlights dimmed low while spores drift through the air like snow.

No monsters.

No attacks.

No sign of Vecna.

Just silence.

That should’ve been fine. But nothing ever really was. Not when that evil son of a bitch Vecna always seemed to have another trick up his sleeve.

Robin notices first. “Do you guys hear that?”

Everyone stops.

Nothing happens. 

“That’s the problem,” she whispers.

Steve immediately lifts the shotgun.

The walls twitch, a sick ripple runs through the vines coating the ceiling. Then Nancy sees it first. Her whole expression changes. “Move. Now.”

But it’s too late.

The tunnel behind you seals with a wet, snapping snap of flesh and root and something alive deciding you don’t get to leave. Vines burst across the walls like they’ve been waiting for permission.

Dustin stumbles back. “Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding me!”

The lights overhead pop one after another, glass bursting into sparks before the tunnel is swallowed in darkness. Then the screaming starts. It’s a demogorgon. And it’s close. It’s coming straight for you all. 

It doesn’t just echo through the tunnel—it fills it. That wet, guttural screech tearing straight through the air as something massive drops from the ceiling in a sudden, violent impact.

“RUN!” Hopper roars.

Everything snaps into motion at once. Gunfire flashes through the dark in sharp bursts. Nancy fires blindly, hitting nothing fast enough. Robin swings her crowbar hard, metal striking something solid—but it barely slows it. The demogorgon moves wrong-fast, snapping forward and missing you by inches, claws raking sparks off the wall beside you.

Steve grabs your arm and yanks you forward. “GO!”

You run.

And it follows. Not rushing. Hunting. Deliberate. It drives all of you deeper into the tunnels instead of toward the exit. 

And that’s when it clicks to you. Vecna knows. He’s not just waiting. He set this.

“This is a trap!” Dustin shouts, voice cracking as he runs, barely keeping up as the darkness closes in behind you. The realization hits too late. A demogorgon drops from the ceiling.

“DUSTIN!” you scream. 

It lands directly in front of him with a yell so loud the tunnel shakes. Dustin barely gets his hands up before it slams into him, throwing him sideways into the wall hard enough to make the sound echo.

His flashlight skids across the ground, spinning uselessly through the dark. The demogorgon turns immediately. Straight toward him. Focused and ready to kill.

You don’t think for even a second you just act. You move quickly in front of him. “HEY!” while shouting you throw yourself between them just as it lunges.

Pain explodes through your side. Its claws rip across you so violently it feels like being torn open with burning metal. Your breath vanishes instantly. A scream rips out of you before you can stop it. You hit the ground hard.

Somewhere behind you, Steve goes completely silent as he is currently processing what the fuck just happened. 

Then—

“No. NO!”

The terror in his voice is instant. Raw. Unrecognizable. The shotgun blast detonates through the tunnel. The demogorgon jerks back with a screech, but it doesn’t go down. It barely even slows. It twists toward Steve for half a second before its attention snaps right back to you.

Like it chose you. Like that was always the plan.

“Get her up!” Nancy shouts.

You try. You really do but the second you push against the ground, agony tears through your ribs so sharply your arms collapse underneath you. The demogorgon lunges again.

Steve gets there first.

He throws himself between you and the creature with the nail bat raised, slamming it across the monster’s face with a roar that sounds more desperate than angry. “GET AWAY FROM HER!”

The creature shrieks.

Steve hits it again. And again.

He’s furious now. Reckless. Swinging hard enough to stagger himself.

“Steve!” Robin screams.

The demogorgon catches the bat mid-swing. Everyone freezes. For one horrible second, neither of them move. Then the creature hurls Steve across the tunnel. He crashes into the wall and drops hard.

“STEVE!” Your voice breaks on his name.

The demogorgon turns back toward you slowly. Its flowered face opens wider, revealing rows of teeth slick with blood. You try to move but the pain immediately tears through your side so violently you nearly black out.

The creature steps closer.

Steve gets between you and it instantly, torn nail bat raised with shaking hands. “Come on,” he breathes, voice cracking. “Come on, you want somebody? Take me.”

The demogorgon pauses. The vines twitch violently beneath its feet, and then, suddenly, the creature backs away. Not defeated. Not afraid. Called off.

At first, the retreat barely makes sense. Demogorgons don’t stop. They don’t hesitate. And then the realization crashes over the group all at once. Vecna never intended to kill anyone here. He wanted panic. Distraction. Chaos. A reminder, carved deep into your all your mind, of exactly how much power he still had and how easily he could unleash it whenever he wanted.

It was a warning not to mess with him anymore—or whatever it is that he’s planning. 

And judging by the blood soaking through your clothes, he got exactly what he wanted.

“Shit—shit, she’s bleeding bad,” Dustin says, voice thin with panic.

Steve drops to his knees beside you so fast he nearly slips. His hands hover over your body helplessly, terrified to touch you and terrified not to.

Your breathing comes out uneven and sharp. Everything hurts.

“Hey, hey, look at me.” Steve’s voice is trembling now. “Look at me, sweetheart.”

You try.

His face is pale underneath the grime and blood splattered across his cheek. His eyes look wrecked already.

Nancy kneels beside him immediately, ripping open the medical bag.

“We need pressure on it now.”

Steve presses his hand over your side carefully. The second he does, you cry out. His entire face crumples. “I know. I know, I’m sorry.” He sounds close to panicking himself. “I’m sorry.”

The vines around the tunnel pulse faintly again. Like Vecna’s still watching. Still listening. Steve notices too. And something angry flashes across his face. “Get us out of here,” he says sharply without looking away from you. “Right now,”

“We need to move.”

“She can’t walk,” Dustin says instantly.

“Then I’ll carry her!” Without hesitation, Steve slides one arm beneath your back carefully. The second he lifts you, you cry out. He looks devastated.

“I know,” he whispers frantically. “I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry.”

Sweetheart. In another circumstance it would make your heart melt but you were currently on the verge of what felt like, and probably was, death. 

The retreat is a nightmare. Everything hurts. Steve carries you through the tunnels while Hopper and Nancy clear the path ahead. Robin keeps checking behind them for movement while Dustin stays glued to Steve’s side, panic written all over his face.

“You can’t fall asleep,” Steve says for maybe the hundredth time.

“I’m tired,” you mumble against his shoulder.

“Hey, no— no, look at me. You can’t fall asleep yet.” His voice shakes. He’s pleading with you more than commanding, desperation bleeding through every word. “You stay awake. Okay? Stay awake for me, please.”

Blood keeps soaking through his jacket. You can feel it.

So can he.

And the more blood there is, the more frightened he becomes. By the time they reach the outside world again, Steve is breathing hard and it’s not from exhaustion but from panic. Real panic.

He nearly stumbles climbing back through the tunnel into Hawkins.

The rain hits all of you instantly. Cold and sharp.

Robin yanks open the van doors while Hopper starts the engine.

“Go go GO!”

Steve climbs into the backseat with you still in his arms. Dustin scrambles in beside him.

The second the van starts moving, Steve pulls you against his chest and presses both hands harder against your wound.

You gasp in pain.

“I know,” he says immediately, voice cracking again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

The drive to Hawkins Memorial feels endless. Rain pounds against the windshield while military sirens echo somewhere nearby.

Nancy keeps looking back from the passenger seat. 

“Steve,” you mumble, desperate for relief from something you can’t quite name—the pain, the fear, the awful feeling that everything is slipping away from you all at once.

He doesn’t answer. 

“Steve.” you plead again, you’re not sure how much longer you can stay awake.

His eyes are locked on you. Terrified. “You stay with me,” he whispers again. “Please.”

Dustin suddenly starts crying quietly beside him. Which somehow makes it worse.

“I should’ve seen it,” he chokes out. “I should’ve known it was a trap.”

“This isn’t your fault,” you whisper weakly. The last thing you wanted was to ever make your baby brother feel at fault. This was nobody's fault besides that evil son of bitch. 

“Yes it is!”

“No,” Steve says sharply.

Dustin looks up.

Steve’s face is streaked with blood and rain and tears. “This is not on you. You hear me?” His voice breaks harder. “None of this is on you.”

Then he looks back at you and completely falls apart again, because your eyes are slipping closed.

“No no no—hey.” He cups your face carefully. “Stay awake, you have to. We’re almost there.”

You try.

You really try.

But everything’s fading.

“I’m begging you. Just stay awake for a little longer, baby.” Steve whispers.

That word nearly destroys you, but somehow you force yourself to stay awake a little longer. One look at everyone’s faces tells you everything you need to know—this isn’t good. The fear in their eyes is impossible to miss and now you’re not sure you’re ready to die yet.

The hospital is in chaos. The military presence in Hawkins means every emergency room is overloaded already. Soldiers crowd the entrance. Backup lights flicker overhead. Nurses rush through the halls carrying supplies while distant shouting echoes from somewhere deeper inside the building.

The second Steve carries you through the doors, people start moving.

“Severe abdominal laceration—”

“She’s losing too much blood—”

“We need a room NOW.”

Hands pull you away from him.

Steve physically resists. “Wait—”

“Sir, let them work.”

“I’m coming with her.”

“You can’t.”

“She hates hospitals—”

“Steve.” Robin grabs his arm before he can actually fight somebody.

He looks wrecked. Completely wrecked. Your blood covers half his clothes, smeared across his hands and soaked into his jacket, and now that the doctors pulled you away from him, he looks utterly lost. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself if he can’t follow.

Dustin stands frozen nearby, looking completely numb. His sister had just thrown herself in front of a demogorgon to save him. That could’ve been him being rushed away by the doctors right now, bloodied and barely conscious, but instead it was you. That realization seems to hit him harder now that his brain is preoccupied. He can’t even bring himself to move, just stares after you with wide, terrified eyes like if he looks away for even a moment, something even worse will happen.

And for the first time since any of this started, Steve looks genuinely helpless. There’s nothing left for him to fight, nothing he can fix, nothing he can throw himself in front of anymore.

He can’t lose you. Not like this. Not after everything. And yet all he can do is stand there and watch as they take you farther away, like that possibility is happening anyway.

- -

Hours pass.

Nobody leaves—how could they? Not when their friend, girlfriend, sister is currently fighting for her life right here. Everyone stays rooted in place, because moving would somehow make it worse, stepping away would mean accepting something none of them are ready to accept.

Hopper eventually forces everyone into chairs while doctors move in and out of surgery doors down the hall.

Steve doesn’t sit. Not once. He paces endlessly through the waiting room, hands tangled in his hair. Every few minutes he asks for updates. Every few minutes he gets nothing.

Dustin eventually breaks around three in the morning. “I can’t do this anymore.”

Steve immediately crouches in front of him. “Hey.”

Dustin wipes angrily at his face. “What if she dies?”

Steve stops breathing for a second.

Just a second.

But it’s enough.

Enough for it to hit him all at once—because he hasn’t let himself say it out loud, hasn’t even let himself think it properly. Not you. Not after everything. Not after you just got dragged away from him with blood on his hands and your name still stuck in his throat.

Dustin notices first. His expression shifts like he already regrets saying it.

So does Robin. Her eyes flick to Steve immediately, like she’s bracing for whatever comes next.

“She’s not gonna die,” Steve says finally. 

Too fast.

Too desperate.

Dustin starts crying again anyway.

Steve pulls him into a hug immediately because it’s all he knows how to do right now. 

It hits Robin suddenly then, watching the two of them sitting there together in the middle of the hospital at four in the morning.

This is Steve’s family.

Not just friends.

Family.

And losing you would destroy him.

The doctor finally appears just before sunrise.

Everyone stands instantly.

Steve’s face has gone completely pale.

“How is she?”

The doctor pulls off his mask with a tired sigh but he reveals probably the best news of Steve’s life. 

“She made it.”

Silence follows. Nobody moves at first, like the words don’t fully register, like if they stay still enough they can keep reality from changing again.

Then Dustin breaks first, the relief hitting him so hard he starts crying. His worst fear— losing his sister—is pushed back a little farther into the distance. Not today. Fate doesn’t get to take you today. Vecna doesn’t win this time.

Robin lets out a sharp, disbelieving swear, half laugh, half shock, like she can’t decide whether to collapse or yell at someone for letting it get that far.

Steve doesn’t say anything. He just closes his eyes. And for a second, it looks like his whole body finally gives out on holding itself together.

“You can see her soon,” the doctor continues. “She’s stable, but recovery’s going to take time.”

Stable. Alive.

That’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. Steve has to lean against the wall suddenly.

Robin grabs his shoulder before he falls.

“You okay?”

“No,” he laughs shakily.

Then quieter:

“But she is.”

—

When Steve finally enters your hospital room, the sun is barely beginning to rise outside. Pale orange light spills through the blinds in thin stripes across the floor. It’s only been a few hours since the demogorgon attack, but to him it feels like days. Days since he last saw your face without blood on it. Days since he knew for sure you were still alive.

For a moment, he just stands there in the doorway staring at you.

You look exhausted. Pale. There are bandages wrapped tightly around your abdomen, machines humming quietly beside you, bruises scattered across your skin. But your chest is rising and falling steadily.

You’re alive.

Steve lets out a breath that sounds almost painful.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly.

That nearly destroys him again. 

He crosses the room immediately, grabbing your hand so fast it’s almost desperate. His fingers are cold, trembling slightly against yours.

“I thought I lost you,” he admits, voice cracking completely on the words.

And suddenly you understand.

Not just fear.

Not just panic.

Weeks of it. Months.

Every Crawl. Every fight. Every time the two of you stepped into the Upside Down together, Steve had been waiting for the moment something finally went wrong. Waiting for the second he wouldn’t be fast enough to protect you.

“You’re shaking,” you murmur softly.

He laughs once under his breath, completely wrecked. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Your thumb brushes weakly against his hand. “Steve…”

“No, because I need you to understand something,” he says quickly, eyes glassy. “When they took you away from me, I genuinely thought that was it. I thought the last thing I was ever gonna hear from you was you apologizing to me while you were bleeding out.”

Your chest tightens painfully. “I’m still here.”

Steve bows his head for a second like he physically can’t handle hearing that. He presses your hand against his forehead, breathing shakily.

“You scared the absolute hell out of me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” He looks at you immediately. “Seriously, don’t ever apologize for that.”

The room falls quiet for a moment except for the steady beeping of the monitor beside you. Steve keeps staring at you like if he looks away too long, you’ll disappear again.

Then the door opens quietly behind him.

Dustin steps in looking exhausted beyond belief, hair a mess, eyes red and swollen from crying. Robin follows right behind him carrying terrible vending machine coffee.

The second Dustin sees you awake, his whole face crumples.

“You idiot,” he says tearfully. “Do you have any idea how traumatic you are?”

You laugh softly despite the pain. “Hi, Dusty.”

He points at you angrily while already crying harder. “No, absolutely not. You do not get to ‘Hi, Dusty’ me after that.”

Robin snorts loudly from the doorway. “Thank God. One more hour with sad Steve and I was gonna lose my mind.”

Steve rolls his eyes without looking away from you. “Robin.”

“No, seriously,” she continues, setting the coffees down. “This man stared at a wall for like forty minutes. At one point I thought he died too.”

“I was thinking, Robin.” 

“You were having a breakdown.”

Dustin carefully hugs you a second later anyway, trying not to hurt you. The second he does, you feel him shaking.

“That could’ve been me,” he says quietly against your shoulder.

Your expression softens immediately. “But it wasn’t.”

“You shouldn’t have had to do that.”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat."

“Don’t say that.” His voice cracks instantly. “Please don’t say that.”

Steve looks away for a second, jaw tightening hard enough you can see it. Because he knows you mean it. That’s the problem. You would do it again if it meant protecting the people you loved.

Robin gently nudges Dustin after a minute. “C’mon, Henderson. She needs rest before you emotionally flood the entire hospital.”

Dustin wipes angrily at his face. “I hate everyone here.”

“You love us.”

“Unfortunately.”

Eventually, the room settles. Robin and Dustin fall asleep in uncomfortable chairs after hours of refusing to leave. Steve stays beside your bed the entire time. Even when exhaustion is visibly dragging at him, he refuses to let go of your hand.

At some point after dawn, you wake again to find the room quieter. The sky outside has turned soft gold with early morning light. Dustin is snoring against Robin’s shoulder across the room.

Steve is still beside you.

His head rests near your hand on the mattress, eyes closed for the first time in hours, fingers still loosely wrapped around yours even in sleep. Like some part of him is afraid you’ll vanish the second he lets go.

You gently brush your fingers through his hair.

Steve stirs immediately, blinking awake in confusion before his eyes find yours. The panic there disappears almost instantly.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey.”

For the first time since all of this started, you see something different settle across his face. Not fear. Not panic. Relief. Real relief. And when he smiles at you this time, small and exhausted and unbelievably emotional, it feels like maybe—despite everything—you all survived this one.

Steve leans his forehead to rest against yours for a moment longer than he probably realizes. Like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, reality will snap back and take you away again.

“You’re really here,” he says quietly, like he still needs confirmation.

“I’m really here,” you answer, just as soft.

His breath shakes a little. “Okay. Good. Because I swear, if I had to go through that again—”

He stops himself, jaw tightening, like he can’t even finish the thought.

Your thumb brushes his hand again. “Hey. It’s over. I’m okay.”

Steve huffs a short, disbelieving laugh. “You’re literally stitched back together and calling that ‘okay.’”

“You can’t classify anything as just ‘okay’ right now, but I'm alive and that counts.”

That earns a real laugh out of him this time, small, but real, and it breaks something tight in his expression. Just a little.

Across the room, Dustin stirs in his chair and groans. “If you two are gonna do emotional trauma bonding, can you do it quieter? Some of us are trying to recover from almost losing a sibling.”

Robin, still half-asleep, immediately throws a pillow in his direction without looking. “Go back to sleep, Henderson.”

“It hit my face.”

“Good.”

Steve doesn’t even look over. He’s still watching you like he’s afraid blinking will cost him something. Then his voice drops again, softer. “When they took you away… I couldn’t think. I just—” He shakes his head, frustrated with himself. “I kept replaying it. Like if I had moved faster, if I had grabbed you sooner, if I—”

“Steve.” You interrupt gently.

He stops.

You tighten your grip on his hand. “You didn’t fail me.”

His eyes flicker, like he wants to argue, like that thought has been sitting in him too long to just disappear.

But you don’t let him spiral.

“I did what I had to do,” you continue. “And I’m here because it worked. Because you all were there. Because we didn’t give up.”

Steve looks down for a second, breathing unsteady. “Still felt like I lost you.”

“I know.”

That quiet answer lands heavier than anything else. The room stays still for a moment after that, the kind of silence that isn’t empty—just full.

Eventually, you shift a little in bed, wincing at the ache in your side. Steve notices immediately, sitting up straighter.

“Do you need anything? Water? I can get a doctor. Or—wait—should I get a doctor?”

“I’m okay,” you reassure him quickly. “Just sore.”

“You’re allowed to be not okay,” he says immediately. “Like, medically speaking, I think you’re supposed to be not okay right now.”

“That’s not very comforting.”

“It’s honest.”

That makes you smile a little, tired but real. Steve notices it like it’s something he’s been waiting to see.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“That.” He squeezes your hand. “Your face doing that thing where you’re actually you again.”

You roll your eyes faintly. “My face has always been me.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I mean… before. Before I thought I lost you.”

The weight of that hangs for a second.

Then you shift your hand slightly, turning it so you can hold his properly, fingers interlacing more firmly.

“Steve,” you say carefully.

He looks up instantly.

You hesitate, because you can feel how much this matters to him. How much everything hinges on the next few words.

So you choose them slowly.

“I need you to listen to me.”

“I am listening.”

“No more blaming yourself,” you say. “For any of it. For what I did. For what happened. For any of this.”

His jaw tightens again. “That’s not how it works.”

“It is when I’m telling you it is.” That gets a small, almost stunned pause out of him. You continue anyway, quieter but firmer. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not blaming you. And I’m not going anywhere because of what you didn’t do fast enough.”

Steve swallows hard. “You don’t get it. I— I keep thinking if I lost you—”

“But you didn’t.”

Silence again.

Then Dustin, still half-asleep, mutters from his chair, “Can you two stop saying ‘lost you’ every five seconds? We get it, you almost died.”

Robin, without opening her eyes: “He’s right.”

Steve exhales something between a laugh and a sigh. “Okay, yeah. Sorry.”

But his grip on your hand doesn’t loosen. Not even a little.

The morning light shifts slightly in the room, brighter now, softer. The hospital sounds outside begin to pick up—distant footsteps, quiet voices, the normal rhythm of a world that feels way too ordinary after everything you’ve been through.

Steve glances toward the window, then back at you.

“You scared me,” he says again, but this time it’s not as broken. More honest. Grounded.

“I know.”

“And I meant it,” he adds. “You don’t do that again.”

You raise an eyebrow slightly. “That sounds like an order.”

“It is.”

A beat. Then you sigh lightly. “Fine.”

Steve blinks. “Wait. Really?”

“I said fine,” you repeat. “No more reckless hero moments. I would risk my life again like that.”

He looks suspicious immediately. “You’re saying that way too easily.”

“Because I mean it.”

He studies you like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.

Then you squeeze his hand again, softer this time. “I don’t want to scare you like that again either.”

That finally gets him. His shoulders drop a fraction, tension easing just slightly out of him for the first time since you woke up. “Good,” he says quietly. “Because I don’t think I can handle it twice.”

“I’m not planning on it, trust me.” you whisper.

Across the room, Dustin has fully given up and is now asleep again, slumped awkwardly in his chair. Robin is half-leaning against him, also out cold.

Steve notices and huffs a quiet laugh.

“They’re unbelievable.”

“You love them.”

“I do,” he admits. Then looks back at you. “But I was really focused on you for a while there.”

Your smile softens again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His voice drops. “Kind of still am.”

And for a moment, neither of you say anything else.

Because it’s not needed.

He just stays there, holding your hand like he’s decided that as long as he can feel you there, he can start believing in tomorrow again.