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You’ve been training yourself for months for this mission (not even counting the time you’d spent learning all the skills you would need in order to even make it a possibility), and now you’re finally here, so close to what you’ve been waiting for for so long… it almost feels too easy.

You’d spent weeks perfecting the software that let you into the Stark Industries mainframe so you could access the blueprints of the ventilation system. You’d taken great lengths to memorise the layout; you could recreate the map flawlessly if called upon to do so. You’d made a backup plan for absolutely anything and everything that could possibly go wrong.

And now that it’s working, it just doesn’t feel right.

As you slip into the elevator, pressing the button that will take you to the floor housing Stark’s workshop with a gloved hand, you have the distinct sensation of being watched. You send an uneasy glance around the elevator and are unable to detect any cameras, but you’re well aware that means nothing; there could be thermal scanners, pressure pads, or even something as simple as hidden cameras in the walls or ceiling. Stark is as sneaky as he is clever, and you’re the last one to underestimate him.

He is your hero, after all.

--

The elevator doesn’t make a sound as it reaches the workshop floor, nor as the doors open with a smooth glide, and it’s equal parts unnerving and impressive. You don’t waste time studying the elevator, though; you leave the elevator car, creeping down the hall until you come to a wall of glass.

All that’s between you and your goal now are a keypad and a shatterproof glass door.

You pull the hacking device you custom built and programmed from your belt and attach it to the keypad. Numbers scroll across the screen until, finally, the security code is displayed in blinking green.

You grin in satisfaction and press the appropriate numbers. The door opens.

You’re in.

You stalk into the darkened shop, padding across the floor without making a sound. You reach up and pull down a pair of homebrew infrared goggles.

Let’s see. If I was a super-genius, where would I keep a high-tech, flying suit of armour?

You see some display cases on the other end of the room -- you’re unsurprised to see that Stark preserves his old suits, considering how attached he seems to be to them -- and are preparing to search for the mechanism that will open the cases, but it’s not necessary; there’s a half-assembled suit laid out on one of the work benches, as though its owner left in the middle of performing repairs on it.

Jackpot! You hadn’t dared hope you would get this lucky; the newest model of the Iron Man suit, just laying there in the open, completely unguarded? This is better than anything you could’ve dreamed of!

You approach the workbench, stepping over and around other half-complete projects that Stark has left scattered around. There are what you assume to be deactivated automated assistants, too, arm-like structures with claw shaped grasping appendages on the ends.

Under different circumstances, you would love to stick around and see what this place looks like when it’s up and running at full capacity. You bet it’s amazing.

You shake those thoughts from your head. Focus on the task at hand, you remind yourself. Your window is incredibly small.

You carefully open the faceplate of the helmet and search for a data upload terminal. Once you’ve found it, you pull your scanner from your belt and attach it to the terminal, activating it. Your heart flutters giddily. You’re so close.

And then, a voice says, “Right, I think I’ve let this go a little too far. JARVIS, lights.”

The lights slowly start to come up. You hastily remove your goggles and turn to find none other than Tony Stark standing at the far end of the room.

He smiles and waves shortly. “Hi. I’d introduce myself, but,” he swirls his finger in a circle, “seeing as we’re here, I’m pretty sure it’s not necessary.”

You’re completely dumbfounded. You have no idea what to do, what to say -- how do you explain yourself?

You came up with a plan for every scenario, except for the one where you got caught.

“Uh,” you begin, “I… I don’t… I mean, I’m not-- It’s not--”

“You, on the other hand, have some serious explaining to do. You could start with who you are, for example, and why you’re in my house, and how in the hell you managed to build a bunch of shit that neutralised my security measures.” He points an accusatory finger at you. “You hacked me. Nobody does that, nobody has ever done that. How did you do that?”

You open and close your mouth, at a total loss for words. “W-Well, um, I… I just did?” It’s a terrible explanation and you know it. You kind of want to dissolve into the floor; this was not how this was supposed to go, not at all.

Stark looks incredulous. “You… just did. Huh. Okay. Well, I just thought I’d let you know I went along with this little charade because, if we’re being honest, I found the concept of someone smart enough to hack Stark Industries enticing. I figured I’d just wait and see where you were going with it. But, since you were just after the suit -- totally boring motivation, by the way, that’s been done like a thousand times by now, what is it, money or power? -- I’m gonna have to see you out now.” He pulls out a wafer-thin, see through card and taps on it. “Jay, let Happy know we have an interloper on sublevel--”

“Wait!” You cry out. “Wait, please don’t kick me out!”

He looks at you, quirking a brow. “And why should I not?”

You fidget awkwardly, feeling a little stupid in your thief getup. “I… I didn’t want the suit to sell it, or weaponise it, or whatever. I just wanted to see if I could… If I could make one better,” you admit, your face reddening.

Stark is silent for a moment, which you aren’t sure is a good thing. Then, he says, “Huh. Okay,” and the way he says ‘okay’ turns it into a four-syllable word. “So, you broke into my house, disabled all my security, and entered my private workshop without permission… because you were curious?”

You nod, a little embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, you know,” he says, with a hint of a smile. “Not so sure about the cat burglar.”

“But satisfaction brought it back,” you retort.

“And you’re feeling satisfied with yourself, are you?”

You shrug, starting to relax as you settle into the rhythm of the banter. “I could be. Depends whether or not you’re planning to call the cops on me.”

The hint of smile turns into an outright grin. “And ruin this thing we’ve got goin’ on? Now, why in the world would I do that?”

You laugh. “...Does this mean I get to look at the suit after all?”

Stark makes a show of considering your request. “We can work up to it,” he says. “After you show me what you’re really capable of.”

--

You spend what must be hours down in the workshop -- Tony Stark’s workshop! -- shyly explaining how your devices work, and then you move upstairs to the living room and spread out schematics across the table, trying valiantly not to explode on the spot when the guy you’ve had a crush on since you were, like, ten tells you your craftsmanship and code are just about as good as anything he’s ever seen, which is really saying something.

You’re so focused on trying to seem like you don’t care that much about his approval that when he says, “So, hey, how about next week, we meet up somewhere for a little intellectual conversation over coffee?” you nearly miss it. (‘Nearly’ being the operative word, of course.)

“I… What?”

“Unless you don’t like coffee. We could do lunch,” he continues, and somehow, he almost seems as nervous as you were just a moment ago.

The idea of Tony Stark being nervous to ask you for coffee or lunch -- you, of all people -- is laughable, so much so that it sends all your nerves running for the hills.

“Yeah,” you say. “No, I mean, coffee’s fine. I love coffee.”

He nods. “Good. Good, I’ll see you then. Hopefully this time you won’t break into my house beforehand.”

You fluster immediately at that, stammering, and he waves it off.

“Kidding,” he says. “I let you get in, remember? You’re fun, you’re a good,” he waves his hand as if trying to summon the words from nowhere. “Conversationalist. You grok me.”

You nod.

He slaps his knees and clears his throat. “Welp,” he says, standing up, “it’s been fun, but as everyone in my life loves to remind me, I have a company to run, so as much as I would love to spend the rest of the day talking about fun stuff, I sorta can’t. Walk you to the door?”

“Sure.”

He sees you out, reminding you not to forget about your “little rendezvous next week, I’ll pick you up and take you someplace swanky, my treat.”

You don’t feel nervous about it at all. You just met your idol, and all you had to do was break into his house and try to steal the plans for his top-secret superhero suit.

You aren’t a bad person.

All right, you’ll admit it: you have a bit of a short fuse, and sometimes you don’t have the best judgment because of it. But who doesn’t lose their temper every once in a while?

It just happens that you have a harder time keeping your anger in check than most people do, that’s all. That doesn’t mean you’re bad.

So you’re getting pretty tired of people telling you that you are.

“God, I just can’t believe you,” your mom says, pulling at her hair in frustration. “Every other week, you’re getting into a fight, or skipping class, or keying Mrs Dombrovsky’s car!”

“She kicked me out of class for ‘being disruptive’ even though literally everyone talks in her class! She hates me, Mom!”

“So that gives you the right to key her car?” Your mom shakes her head and sighs. She looks defeated. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

You cross your arms and look away stubbornly, setting your jaw.

Your mom stands there in silence for a moment, trying to ice you out you guess, before she gives up.

“I have to get to the diner. I’ll be home late, so you’ll have to find something to eat.” She waits for you to say something, and when you don’t, she takes a step closer and puts a hand on your shoulder. “Honey, I just want what’s best for you. I don’t understand why you don’t see that.”

You jerk your shoulder out of her grip. “Maybe because you never listen to me,” you fire back.

She looks hurt, just like she always does when you tell her the truth. You regret it immediately.

She sniffs and lifts her chin. “I’m leaving now. I hope you have a better attitude by the time I get home.”

She turns and leaves, grabbing her keys from the dish on the hall table without stopping. When she closes the door, the sound seems to echo through the house.

You stay there, standing in the middle of the living room, listening to the wall clock tick, for several long seconds. Then you sit down on the rug and cry.

--

When you get to the cabin, you knock on the door and wait -- you don’t try to go in because you know the door is locked.

When the door opens, revealing a girl with curly brown hair in baggy jeans and a flannel shirt, you say, “Is he here?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“Can I see him?”

“Yes,” she says again, stepping aside so you can enter the cabin.

The creaking of the old wood floors alone is enough to ease some of the tension in your shoulders. You breathe in the smell of wood and old furniture, and when you breathe out, the anger and the sadness isn’t gone, but it doesn’t seem so crushing anymore.

Hopper is in his recliner with his feet up, a half-finished beer on the side table. He looks over at you and seems surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

“Hey, kid,” he says. Then, because he’s always understood you better than anyone, he adds, “Bad day?”

You nod.

He nods back. He reaches down and throws the lever on his recliner back into its original position, and then stands with a grunt, leaning backwards a little to pop his back. Without saying a word, he heads for the porch, and you follow.

The two of you sit on creaky old deck chairs, looking out over the lake. Hopper takes a carton of cigarettes and a lighter out of his breast pocket, sticking a cigarette in his mouth. You hold out a hand and he raises an eyebrow.

“When’d you start smoking?”

You shrug. “Few months ago.” You keep your hand extended.

He eyes you for a moment before sighing and putting a cigarette in your hand. “Just this once, though. I want you to quit; ‘s a bad habit.”

“Really?” You say, putting your own cigarette in your mouth. He lights his and then hands you his lighter so that you can do the same. “I don’t think you get to lecture me about this , Hop,” you say, eyeing the lit cig between his fingers.

He chuckles and takes a drag. “I’ve been smoking since I was younger than you. I think I have every right to lecture you about it.”

You consider this for a moment, and then you shrug and nod. He does have a point.

“So, what brings you here on this lovely, overcast night,” Hopper drawls, turning to stare out at the horizon. You do the same, taking a long drag from your cigarette.

“My mom,” you say simply.

“Ah,” Hopper says. “Givin’ you grief again?”

You sigh. “Yeah. She’s pissed off because I got caught keying Mrs Dombrovsky’s car.”

Hopper whistles. “That’s somethin’. What’d Dombrovsky do?”

“She kicked me out of class for talking and wrote me up for being disruptive. Which is utter bullshit because everybody talks in that class, but I’m the only one who gets in trouble? Like, whatever, bitch, I know you hate me, I don’t care,” you roll your eyes and lift the cigarette to your lips again.

“She didn’t do anything else?”

You exhale smoke through your nostrils. “...Why do you ask?”

“Because that’s not the kinda thing that really grinds your gears, kid. The shit that really gets to you is more personal than that. You don’t key somebody’s car because they kicked you outta pre-calc.”

You hesitate. “She… She called me a burnout.”

Hopper nods, grimacing. “That sounds like Dombrovsky, all right. That woman had it in for me, too.” He looks over at you. “That all she said?”

You bite your lip and shake your head. “She said I was nothing but a burnout and a delinquent, and she didn’t want to see me in her class for the rest of the day if all I was going to do was distract the other students,” you say. The words are practically burned into your memory. Just thinking about it makes you so mad you want to punch something. “All I did was ask somebody to move so I could see what she was writing on the board.”

Hopper shakes his head. “I’m sorry, kid,” he says, and he sounds it, too. You know there’s nothing he can do about it, though; Hopper’s not your dad, and it’s not like he can arrest Dombrovsky for being a heinous bitch to you. At least he can be there for you, though.

The two of you are silent for a while, just listening to the cicadas and the gentle lapping of the waves on the lakeshore.

Then, Hopper says, “How’re your grades?”

You shrug. “Okay, I guess.”

He raises a brow. “‘Okay?’ What’s ‘okay’ mean?”

You pick at a loose thread on your shirt with your free hand and smoke to buy yourself time. “I have a C in English.”

“Uh huh.”

“...And a D in Spanish…”

“How come? And why do you have a C in English, I thought you liked English?”

You sigh in frustration. “I didn’t wanna do this stupid oral presentation in Spanish so I skipped class that day. And the book we’re reading in English is really boring, I can’t focus on it when we have to read at home.”

Hopper shakes his head, frowning. “Kid, c’mon, we’ve talked about you skipping school. You’re gonna get into trouble if you don’t stop ditching.”

You look down at your lap, feeling guilty, like you’ve let him down. “I know. ...Sorry.”

He sighs and takes a drag from his cigarette. “It’s fine,” he says, smoke trailing from his mouth and nose. “Just try a little harder, okay? I know school sucks and it’s boring, but you have to stick it out until you graduate. Don’t be like me that way, all right?”

You nod.

“You know, when I was your age, I was dealing with a lot of the same… issues you are. Shitty teachers, boring classes, parents who either aren’t there or aren’t listening to you. I was angry. Hell,” he laughs shortly, bitterly, and you know more than ever this man recognises something in you most other people never will. “Sometimes, it felt like I’d never stop being angry. But I want you to know it will get better. And if you ever start to feel like you’re all alone in the world… If that anger and hurt ever starts to feel too big…” He looks you dead in the eye. “I want you to come talk to me. Okay?”

You swallow thickly and nod. “Okay, Hop.” You feel wetness on your cheeks, and you swipe at them with your palm, sniffling.

Hopper notices and stands, wordlessly opening his arms to you. You accept gratefully, and he lets you cry into his chest for as long as you need before you pull away slowly, sniffing and wiping your eyes.

“Thanks, Hop.”

On Friday morning, you come into work early again, and you’re pretty sure that you’re going to throw up. Today is the first “check-in” with Chief Hopper, and even though you’ve been working your tail off, you’re so worried that it won’t be enough.

Joyce must be able to tell how you’re feeling (some kind of mother’s intuition or something, you guess), because she goes suspiciously easy on you for most of the day, keeping you on the register for the most part, and when you start to get too antsy to deal with customers, she takes over for you, ushering you away to take inventory.

You get so invested in cataloguing that you almost miss the break Joyce usually gives you to eat. Luckily for you, that’s exactly when Chief Hopper shows up.

(Oh, did you think ‘luckily?’ You meant unluckily, because you still pretty much feel like your stomach is about to make an emergency ejection.)

You hear his voice as you’re stepping out of the back, and you almost want to turn around and go right back in. Before you have a chance, though, he spots you and starts your way.

“Hey, kid,” he says, taking his hat off. “How ya been?”

You smile, uncertain. “Hasn’t Ms Byers told you already?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. But maybe I wanna hear it from you, too.”

You pick at the hem of your Melvald’s vest. “It’s been… fine. I’m handling it, I guess.”

“You guess?”

You drop the hem of the vest and scrub a hand down your face. “No. No, I really am handling it.  I just… Have a lot of other stuff to deal with, I guess. This is actually the one thing that’s going pretty well, believe it or not.”

Chief Hopper nods. “Well, that’s something, at least. Good to hear you’re trucking along.”

You swallow. “So… So I’m good, then?”

He nods again, putting his hat back on. “Yep. You’re good,” he pats you firmly on the shoulder a couple of times, and you feel the tension melt out of your body. As he turns to leave, he says, “See ya around, kid. Take the weekend off.”

You go back out to the front, and Joyce looks at you expectantly.

“Well? How was it?”

You sigh. “Good. It was good.”

--

There are six hours until the date, and Steve is definitely not freaking out.

Really, he isn’t.

...Okay, maybe just a little.

“Do you think these jeans are too tight?”

Robin rolls her eyes. “Steve--”

“Are sneakers too informal, should I wear something else?”

“Steve--” Dustin tries.

“Shit, this is a horrible idea, I should just call and cancel before it’s too late--”

“STEVE!” Robin shouts, effectively cutting off his panicked rambling. She grabs his face, squishing his cheeks gently. “It’s okay. Your jeans are fine, maybe swap those shoes for a less dirty pair, stop panicking.”

Steve takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay, you’re right. Sorry.”

“Look, you have six hours until the date,” Dustin reasons. “Even if you decide that you wanna wear something else, there’s still plenty of time -- too much time, even. You don’t have to have everything figured out yet.”

Steve sighs. “Look, Henderson, I don’t expect you to get this since Suzie lives in Utah and you only see her at camp, but when you’re going on a date you need to be prepared way in advance. It takes time to look good, dude. Besides, the first date is the most important date, I have to make a good impression.”

Dustin considers this and then shrugs. “I guess that makes sense.”

Robin shakes her head as she looks at them in disbelief. “You two have no idea how dating works, do you?” She looks at Steve. “How did you get Nancy to go out with you, again?”

“Oh yeah?” Steve put a hand on his hip. “How are things going with Tina, Ms Hypocrite?”

Robin’s cheeks reddened. “Fuck off.”

--

When you get home after your shift, you kick your shoes off and flop down on the couch.

You’d been so worried about the check-in with Hopper, and now, you almost feel like the build-up was all for nothing. Now, all you have to do for the rest of the weekend is relax.

It’s hours later when you start to get the feeling you’re forgetting something. You’re sure it’s nothing, though; if it was super important, you would have written a note for yourself somewhere to keep yourself from forgetting.

You have a hot shower to decompress, take a pit stop in the kitchen for some Froot Loops, and then immediately go back to the couch for some channel surfing.

At around 6:30, you realise what it was you were forgetting: your date with Steve is tonight.

And you only have half an hour until he comes to pick you up.

“FUCK!” You sit up so fast that you bang your knee against the coffee table, but you can’t feel it through the adrenaline. You dash to your room and start ripping through your closet. Eventually, you find clothes that are clean and seem date-worthy. You grab your favourite boots, and go to your dresser to dig up your lucky socks.

You finish getting ready as fast as you can. You’re about to go to the living room to wait for Steve before hesitating, eyeing the cigarettes on your desk.

You sigh. Went to the trouble of getting them. Might as well.

Grabbing the carton, you tamp the cigs, shake one loose, and tuck it into your sock, along with your Zippo.

--

When Steve gets to your house, he’s six minutes early -- which, he tells himself, is just way too early, and you’d probably be super annoyed if he rang the bell so soon.

Which, of course, gave him several minutes to sit in his car and overthink things.

What if this wasn’t a date? What if you just thought he was trying to apologise for being a jerk in Melvald’s? Shit, he should’ve been more obvious that he was trying to ask you out… But he was so nervous you would say no if he just asked outright. What if he told you it was meant to be a date, and you wanted to leave because you weren’t interested? He doesn’t want you to stop wanting to hang out with him just because he wants to date you.

By the time he’s come to the conclusion that he’ll just keep the date thing to himself and see what happens, it’s 6:58, and he figures he’s as ready as he’s gonna get.

He goes up to your front door and rings the bell.

You answer, and it feels like Steve’s heart is about to explode.

“Hey,” you say, a nervous-looking half smile on your face.

“Hey,” Steve replies breathlessly. After a beat of silence in which he realises he’s staring at you, he adds, “Uh, you ready to go?”

“Yeah. Where we goin’, by the way? You never said.”

Right. Steve knew he’d forgotten something. “W-- Uh, we could… We could go to the Hawk? See if there’s anything good playing? Or get dinner at Benny’s?” He feels for his wallet, pulls it out and peers inside. “...Shit. Um, we may have to stop by my house real quick first though, I don’t have my cash on me.”

You shrug. “Fine by me.”

Steve nods, a little jerkily. “Cool. Right, let’s roll.”

He walks you around to your side of the car and opens the door for you, and you smile at him, which gives him fucking heart palpitations, but it also makes him a little more confident in the whole date thing.

He decides to test his luck and does a bonnet slide, hoping you’re the kind of person who might think that looks cool.

When he gets in the car, you say, “Nice one, Harrington,” in a slightly teasing tone, and it makes his face feel warm. Score!

He turns the key in the ignition and says, “How d’you feel about rock ‘n’ roll?”

You grin.

--

Sitting in the passenger seat of Steve Harrington’s BMW, watching him sing along to Owner of a Lonely Heart, you feel more confused than ever.

You’d convinced yourself, sitting on your living room couch, not to think of this as a date, just in case -- because Steve never called it one, so maybe it wasn’t one. But with him opening the car door for you, and then the stupid (awesome) bonnet slide… maybe it is? You would be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want it to be, anyway.

On the other hand, he hadn’t really planned what he wanted the two of you to do. Maybe he hasn’t been nervous all this time because he wants to go out with you; maybe he’s just worried you’re mad at him for the thing at Melvald’s.

Before you can work yourself up about it any more, you’re pulling into the driveway of the Harrington’s veritable estate.

For a second, you’re so dumbfounded by the pristine state of the house and yard (not to mention the size) that you forget where you are. Then, you turn to Steve and say, “Uh, should I wait in the car, or…?”

Steve turns the car off. “Hm? Oh, nah, you can… You can come in. My parents aren’t home, but just so you know, Dustin and Robin are in there, and uh… Just, please don’t let anything they say reflect poorly on me.”

“Uh,” you say. “Okay.”

When the two of you get inside, you find the curly-haired kid and Robin Buckley standing in the foyer. The curly-haired kid -- Dustin -- has his hair coated in Pomade and neatly combed, and he’s wearing a suit and a comically obvious fake moustache. Robin has her hair pinned back, and she’s wearing a string of pearls, matching earrings, and white elbow-length gloves with her regular clothes.

It’s a ridiculous sight.

“What the-- What the hell are you two doing?”

Dustin and Robin turn to him, and they both grin.

“Ah, it’s our dearest son, Steve,” Dustin says, affecting an imitation of an adult man’s voice. “Welcome home, son.”

“Why, darling!” Robin says, her voice altered to sound like that of a cultured socialite. “It seems our little boy is on a date!”

Steve’s friends are pretending to be his parents. That’s actually kind of cute. (And, best of all, it confirms that this is a date, which really helps alleviate your anxiety.)

You glance over at Steve and notice that he’s blushing like crazy.

“Will you two cut it out?” He hisses.

They don’t pay him any mind.

“Make sure you have our Stevie back home by eight o’clock,” Dustin says, reaching up to twirl the ends of his fake mustache.

“Yes, of course, Mr Harrington,” you say seriously. “And might I say, Mrs Harrington, you look just stunning this evening.”

Robin guffaws loudly, holding a gloved hand up to her cheek. “Oh, aren’t you the charmer! This one’s a keeper, Steve, dear.”

Steve sighs. He ignores his friends, and to you he says, “I’m gonna go up to my room and grab what I need and then I’ll be right back, okay?”

You nod. “Yeah, sounds great. I’ll be here.”

The moment Steve is too far to hear, Robin says, “Hey, seriously, thanks for giving our doofus a chance. I know he comes off as kind of a dunce sometimes, but he means well.”

You shrug. “I get it. I’m not perfect, myself.”

Dustin interjects with, “Steve sure seems to think so.”

You aren’t sure what to think of that, so you just laugh awkwardly.

In the next moment, Steve comes racing down the stairs. He looks up and sees the three of you standing around not saying anything and squints critically.

“What’s going on? What did they say to you?”

You shake your head, forcing a plain expression. “Nothing.”

He looks between Dustin, Robin, and you again before saying, “Okay. Let’s go.”

As you’re leaving, Robin calls after you (foregoing the impression this time), “Make sure you use protection, Stevie!”

--

When you’re back in the car, on the way to the diner for dinner, Steve says, “Hey, I’m really sorry about them. They’re weirdos, they can’t help it.”

You laugh. “It’s fine. I think your friends are funny.” You look down at your lap, and then turn your head to examine his face while he drives.

He’s handsome, in a soft way. You’d never really noticed it in school, for whatever reason, but now, up close, it’s practically all you can notice.

He glances over and catches you watching him, and he smiles at you nervously.

“What’s up? Somethin’ on my face?”

“No,” you say softly. “Just… Looking at you. And thinking.”

He glances at you again, but keeps his eyes on the road, even though you can tell he really wants to look at you. “About what?”

You, you want to say, but it feels too honest to share. Instead, you say, “Why we never talked in high school. I feel like we could’ve been friends, if we hadn’t been running in different circles.”

He nods. After a moment, he says, “I feel bad. I barely remember you from high school. Probably because I was so focused on being ‘King Steve,’” he finishes bitterly.

The corner of your mouth quirks up. “And look at you now. Hanging out with a band geek and a freshman.”

He laughs, and it’s one of the most beautiful sounds you’ve ever heard.

“Yeah,” he says softly, looking over at you again, “look at me now.”

--

The diner is one of your favourite places to eat, so Steve is winning serious points bringing you here. (Not that he was short on points to begin with.)

The two of you grab a table by one of the windows, and a waitress comes over to take your order pretty quickly. You both order burgers and fries -- most people do at Benny’s.

“Hey, so, this is probably the worst thing to ask, but Nancy and Jonathan made me promise I would ask you about it if I got the chance,” Steve begins.

You sigh. “You wanna know about when I got arrested, huh?”

Steve purses his lips and nods. “You can say you don’t wanna talk about it if you want.”

“No, I guess it’s fine,” you pick at a crack in the table. “I… was stealing from Melvald’s. It was a shitty impulse decision and I shouldn’t have done it. But I just… Okay, so, you’re allowed to judge me for this if you want, but I smoke. Cigarettes. I ran out a couple weeks ago and I felt like absolute shit. I’ve been saving allowance money from my mom to buy another pack, but I forgot to bring it with me when I left the house. I already had the carton in my hand, so I just…” You shrug and put your head in your hands. “I didn’t even think. I just did it.”

Steve looks at you with his eyebrows raised. “Wow,” he says. “That’s… really heavy. I’m sorry.”

“I hope it doesn’t make you think of me any differently.”

He shakes his head. “No! No, no. I mean, I get it. I’ve done things I’m… not necessarily proud of, too. You don’t have to let your mistakes define you, or whatever.”

It’s exactly what you needed him to say.

Before long, your food comes. The two of you spend two hours talking over food -- telling stories, laughing at each other’s jokes. It’s amazing. It’s so much fun.

You want it to last forever.

Unfortunately, at around 9:30, you remember that you forgot to make dinner for your mom. You let Steve know you need to be home soon, and he seems disappointed, but he calls the waitress over to get the bill.

“I’ll be right back,” you say, pushing back from the table. “Bathroom.”

While you’re on your way into the bathroom, you bump into Hopper, who’s on his way out.

“Oh! Hi, Hopper!” You say, surprised, but not unpleasantly so.

“Hey, kid,” he says. “What’re you doin’ out so late on a weeknight?”

You grin. “I have a date.”

He arches a brow at you. “With who?” He looks past you into the diner, maybe trying to figure out which table you came from.

“Steve Harrington.”

His eyebrows climb up toward his hairline. “Really? Huh. Kid doesn’t really seem like your type.”

You shrug, feeling your face get warm and hoping it isn’t obvious in the lowlight of the hallway. “He’s cooler than he seems, I guess.”

Hopper hums. “Right. Well, have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” he pats you on the shoulder. 

As he leaves, you call, “I won’t!”

--

When Steve pulls into your driveway, he puts the car in park and keys the car off. Then, the two of you sit in silence for a moment.

Apparently, neither of you want the night to end.

“I’ll walk you to your door?” Steve says tentatively.

You nod.

He comes around and opens your door for you, offering a hand to help you up.

You lace your fingers with his, grinning cheekily.

The two of you walk up together, hand in hand, stopping in front of your door.

“So… Guess this is it, huh?” Steve says.

You bite your lip. “Hey, Steve?”

“Ye--?”

You lean in and kiss him on the cheek. He feels a warm flush bloom outward from the spot where your lips touched.

“I had fun tonight. I wanna do it again sometime. Call me?” You say. At first glance, you seem confident, but Steve can read the hopefulness in your eyes as easily as he feels his own.

“Yeah,” he says decisively. “Yeah, I’ll call you. Tomorrow?”

Over the days following your first shift, things get much easier. You’ve almost totally forgotten the exchange with Harrington and his friend. You might be able to completely, if it weren’t for their extremely obvious attempts to spy on you.

You think they’re under the impression that they’re being very sneaky, which means they probably don’t know that you’ve already caught on, but it also makes you feel a little sad that this is the best they can do.

You elect to do your best to ignore it; a nosy jerk and his little pal aren’t gonna get to you, not when things are finally starting to go your way.

“You’re cleaning that counter a little forcefully, there,” Joyce observes, carrying a box past you. When she emerges from storage, she asks, “Something on your mind?”

You consider the question. You stop scrubbing the counter like it’s done something to offend you and lean against it, the rag still under your hand. “Nothing. Just thinking about the meeting with Chief Hopper.”

Joyce walks over to a nearby shelf with an inventory checklist on a clipboard. “Uh huh. Okay. So what’s really bothering you?”

You purse your lips. Putting the rag and lemon scented Pledge you were using to clean under the counter, you follow Joyce over to the shelves, shoving your hands in your pockets.

“Steve Harrington’s friend and some kid have been following me,” you confess softly. “Every time I’ve left to go home for the past three days, I’ve caught them trying to spy on me. They’re probably gonna do it again today.”

Joyce looks genuinely concerned. “Steve’s friend? Who, what’s their name?”

You shrug. “Some girl. She was in here with him the other day, I think he called her Bucky?”

Joyce’s eyebrows shoot up toward her hairline. “ Buckley ? Robin Buckley?” She gestures with one hand to indicate a height of about five and a half feet. “This tall? Short brown hair?”

“Yeah, I guess that’s her.”

Joyce has a look of growing suspicion and confusion on her face. She lowers her clipboard to put one hand on her hip. “What did the kid look like?”

You frown as you try to remember. “Uh… a little shorter than that Robin girl, with curly hair, I think. At least, from what I could tell; he was wearing a hat.”

Joyce nods slowly. “...I think I know who we’re dealing with.” She looks you directly in the eye, and says, “Do you want me to tell them to leave you alone?”

You think about saying yes, just for a second. Then, you shake your head. “I’ll tell them to stop if it really starts to bother me. They haven’t realised it yet, but they suck at spying.”

Joyce laughs. “Okay, but if you change your mind, lemme know, and I’ll rough ‘em up for ya.” She smiles playfully, and you can’t help but laugh at the image of Joyce Byers fighting two children for bothering you.

“...Thank you, Joyce,” you say softly.

She gives you an odd look. “For what?”

“For… I dunno. For not being too hard on me, even though you were the one who caught me… doing what I did.”

She sighs, looking around to double check you’re still the only two in the store. “I won’t get into it too much since we’re still working right now, but… I used to be a bit of a wild child myself. I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. Plus,” she gives you a little nudge with her elbow, “Hop likes you. That counts for something in my book.”

You smile at her. “I guess it does.”

--

“You WHAT?”

Dustin and Robin look pleased with themselves, despite the fact that Steve is filled with a murderous rage.

“We’ve been following your crush to make sure the two of you would be compatible,” Dustin repeats. “To be honest, I don’t think you’re cool enough to land this one, but Robin seems to think you have a chance, so I’m gonna go with it.”

Steve points a finger angrily, about to defend himself and his infinite coolness, and then closes his mouth and folds his arms. “I don’t have to signify that with a response.”

Robin chimes in with, “I think you mean ‘dignify,’ genius,” which really doesn’t help their case with the whole ‘Steve-is-incredibly-angry-at-them’ thing.

He throws his hands up, frustrated. “Whatever, who cares! Why have you been following a person who I have zero chance of ever being in a relationship with to find out if we could date? That’s weird! And probably invasive, I think! Which means it’s also creepy!” He stalls out as he realises the possibility that you may have noticed his dunderhead friends creeping on you. “You haven’t been noticed, right?”

Dustin blows a disbelieving raspberry. “Psh! Please, you’re kidding, right? I think if we were able to successfully spy on a bunch of Russian soldiers without getting caught, we can do this, no problem.”

Robin smiles triumphantly. “Yeah, Harrington. Have a little more faith in our abilities.”

Steve shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. He prays that they’re telling the truth; otherwise, he senses some major embarrassment in his future.

Steve sighs, resigned. “Fine. Fine . I’ll let you two keep playing secret agent on my behalf. But if you get caught, lie your asses off about what you were doing, okay?”

They both promise not to put Steve in any more hot water with you than he already is, but it doesn’t fully lay his fears to rest.

“Oh, hey! You should come with us this time! We can fill you in on everything we’ve learned so far, and then you can watch the wild crush in its natural habitat,” Dustin says.

Steve frowns. “I dunno… Sounds like a bad idea.”

“No, I think it’ll be good. That way, if we do get caught, we can say it was all your idea,” Robin jokes. (Or at least, Steve hopes she’s joking.)

Which is how they all end up hiding behind Steve’s car, across the street from Melvald’s, waiting for your shift to end.

When the time finally comes and you’re walking out the door, they have to communicate via hurried whispers in order to coordinate their movements. Steve thanks their lucky stars that you’d walked to work that day.

They follow you down the street away from downtown. In the moments when it seems you’re about to turn around and catch them or you’re waiting to cross the street, they duck into alleys or alcoves, dive behind cars, or hide behind other people. Steve hates to admit it, even only to himself, but he sort of enjoys the exhilaration of sneaking around. He’d forgotten how much he enjoys it.

At the corner of 12th and Oak, after hiding behind a parked car, Dustin hisses, “Shit.”

Steve immediately snaps to attention. “Shit? What do you mean, shit? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know where--”

“Hey.”

Robin, Steve, and Dustin all yell in surprise, whirling around to find you standing behind them. You have your hands in your pockets, a rucksack over one shoulder, and a bland expression.

“...Hi,” Dustin says awkwardly. He looks around for a moment, apparently noticing for the first time the ramifications of his and Robin’s actions. “Uh, we can explain--”

You hold up a hand. “Don’t bother,” you point at Steve. “You had them,” you point at Robin and Dustin, “follow me, for who knows why and honestly who fucking cares. Please stop. You’re not great at stalking people.”

Ouch. Okay. Well, there’s a hard truth.

“Sorry,” Dustin says, looking genuinely dejected. Steve isn’t sure whether it’s because he upset you or because you said he’s bad at spying.

Your face twitches, like you’re trying to maintain your vaguely stern expression, and then it crumbles, and you sigh. “It’s okay. I’m not really that mad about it since you guys aren’t really bugging me that much, but just…” You run a hand through your hair. “Look, please stop following me around, okay? It’s weird, and a little creepy. I don’t know why you were doing it, nor do I want to know, nor do I really care. I’m just kind of over the weird shit.”

Robin and Dustin share a look before nodding, and Steve says, “Don’t look at me, I got roped into this at the last minute.”

You look confused, but you nod back. “Okay. Cool. Bye, then.”

You go around them and start to walk away, but before you can make it to the crosswalk, Dustin calls out, “WAIT!”

You turn to look back, one eyebrow raised in a silent question.

Dustin says the last thing Steve wanted to hear him say. “Can Steve get your number?”

Steve’s entire face feels like it’s gonna melt off. He’s absolutely going to run away and change his name; this is just too goddamn embarrassing.

Then, you do something that shocks Steve to his core: you laugh. It’s a full, rich laugh, and it makes his heart pound so hard he thinks for a second he might be having a heart attack -- but, like, for real.

And then , you say, “Damn, kid, you have a lot of guts. Sure,” you swing your bag off your shoulder and root around in one of the pockets before emerging with a pen and a small notebook. You scribble your name and number down before ripping the page off and handing it not to Dustin, but to Steve, who feels like he might combust.

“I get home at one o’clock every day for the next two weeks,” you say, with a crooked smile. “Call me any time after that.”

Steve nods, dumbfounded, and you turn on your heel and saunter away.

“Holy shit,” Robin says, laughing, as soon as you’re out of earshot. “I cannot believe that that somehow worked in your favour. You are either the luckiest guy in the world or more pathetic than I originally thought.”

Steve pays her no mind. Instead, he’s desperately trying to remember if there are any rules about when to call once you get the phone number. Do you wait a day, or call that night? Or maybe you wait longer than a day? Or do you wait for them to call you? Wait, shit, he didn’t give you his number. 

Why didn’t he give you his number?

“Steve, I can practically hear you panicking. Calm down, it’ll be fine,” Dustin says.

Steve’s head whips around. He stares at Robin and Dustin, considering his options, and then realising that his only other options are Nancy and Jonathan.

“I need you guys to help me land a date,” Steve says.

--

You spend a couple of hours at home doing nothing in particular. You read a couple pages of a book you pull at random off the shelf, but you can’t concentrate on it, so you turn on the TV and start channel surfing.

All the while, you’re also trying to pretend you aren’t waiting for the phone to ring.

You gave Steve Harrington your number. If you’re being honest, you think you may be  panicking a little, but you don’t really mind the idea of him calling you so much as you mind the fear that this is some kind of joke.

A part of you is very, very afraid that it’s a joke.

You sigh, putting the remote down and stretching out on the couch. You gave him your number; all there is to do now is wait for him to do the rest. No use stressing over it since it’s out of your hands.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. As the hours tick by -- as you make yourself dinner and put some in the fridge for your mom, as you watch a movie with your feet up on the coffee table and a bowl of ice cream in your lap -- you start to lose hope that Harrington ever planned on calling you at all.

Then the phone rings, and you almost drop your ice cream jumping up to get it.

“Hello?” You say casually, proud of the fact that you don’t sound out of breath from running to the phone.

On the other side, Steve Harrington says your name.

“Y-Yeah,” you say, and then clear your throat. “That’s me!”

“Cool, cool,” he says. “So, hey, uh… I was wondering if you wanted to hang out sometime?”

You chuckle. “Wow. That’s a little forward of you, isn’t it?” You’re thankful that he can’t see you blush through the phone.

“Oh. Is--Is that bad?”

You smile, a little charmed despite yourself. “Nah. I’ll give you brownie points for it, if you want.”

“Oh! Sure. I, uh, I love… brownies,” he finishes on a bit of a low note, so you decide to throw him a line.

“You wanted to hang out, Steve?”

“Y...Yeah. Yeah. Uh, if you want. I just… Wanted to give us the chance to get to know each other. Like, under the right circumstances, y’know?”

You hesitate for a moment. You have a feeling that he’s got more in mind than the arcade; after a bit of thought, you admit to yourself that you’re at least curious about where this goes.

“Sure,” you reply. “What did you have in mind?”

“I’ll meet you at your place at… seven on Friday night? If that’s cool with you, obviously. No pressure, y’know.” He sounds a little nervous, and you can’t help but feel for him a little. Poor guy’s clearly out of his depth.

“Yeah, Steve. That sounds great. I’ll see you then.”

It’s not until after you’ve given him your address and hung up that it hits you: you might, potentially, have a date with Steve Harrington.

Steve Harrington, who saw you get arrested.

When Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Robin head to the Byers’ later that night, Joyce is there, making herself a sandwich and smoking a cigarette in the kitchen.

“Jonathan, sweetie? That you?”

“Yeah, Mom,” Jonathan replies. “Nancy, Steve, and Robin are here, too.”

Joyce appears around the corner, a look of surprise on her face. “Oh! Hey, guys! Sorry, if I had known you were coming I would’ve cooked dinner, or--or gotten take-out, or something. Will is over at Dustin’s tonight so I was expecting it to just be me and Jonathan--” She cuts herself off to take a pull from her cigarette.

“That’s okay, Ms Byers, me and Robin were gonna get pizza later,” Steve says politely. He’s always been good with parents, moms especially, and for whatever reason Joyce seems to like him. 

He assumes that Jonathan has never breathed a word to her about all the shit Steve used to put her son through, otherwise he’d probably be eating all his meals through a straw to this very day.

“Hey, Mom,” Jonathan begins, in a characteristically unsubtle fashion, “we were wondering if we could ask you about something.”

Joyce smiles, somewhat unsurely. “Okay,” she says, with a nervous little laugh, “ask away.”

Jonathan and Nancy share a look before Nancy says, “We were wondering if you knew anything about what happened at Melvald’s earlier today?”

Joyce’s eyebrows draw together, a furrow appearing like magic on a face that Steve privately thought looked too young for all the stress Joyce Byers carries with her. “How do you all know about that?”

“Steve and Robin saw it,” Jonathan says.

“Uh, technically only I saw it,” Steve corrected. “I’m still not quite sure what it was all about, though, we were too far away.”

Joyce nods slowly, her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Well… I’m not sure how much I’m allowed to tell you. Technically, I’m supposed to keep it kind of a secret.”

“We won’t tell anyone,” Nancy says, and Steve can tell she’s trying her absolute best to look innocent and wide-eyed. “We’re very curious, is all. And, honestly, a little worried that something bad is happening again.”

Clever play, Nance. They weren’t worried there was another impending apocalypse -- not really. She’s just trying to appeal to Joyce’s instinct to comfort.

Sure enough, it works; that furrow in Joyce’s brow deepens as her conflicted expression melts into a look of concern. “Oh, honey, no. It’s nothing like that.” She bites her lip, mulling it over for a moment, before she says, “Okay, if I tell you, you all have to promise you’ll keep it quiet, okay?”

They all give various answers in the affirmative.

“Someone -- a teenager, around your age -- tried to steal a carton of cigarettes from Melvald’s. I spotted them right as they slipped it into their pocket and started to walk away. Powell and Callahan happened to be there, stopping by on their way to the station, so they took the kid in.”

“Seriously? They tried to steal cigarettes?” Nancy asks, her nose wrinkling with her distaste. “God, that’s so stupid. I’m glad you caught them.”

Joyce sighs. “I feel a little bad for getting them in trouble. It seems like it’s just a case of a good kid making bad choices. I mean, I remember myself at that age…” She shakes her head, taking another drag from her cigarette. She walks over to the coffee table and flicks ash into the ashtray.

“I mean, you did the right thing though, right? Just because they’re some mixed up kid doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have to learn from their mistakes just like anyone else,” Steve says.

Everyone, save for Joyce, turns to look at him.

“...Why are you all staring at me like that?”

Robin puts a hand on his shoulder. “Probably because that’s the most intelligent thing that’s ever come out of your mouth,” she says, giving his shoulder a little pat.

“Hey!” Steve exclaims, but everyone else is laughing, and he can’t help but smile.

Even though he knows it can’t possibly be true, because he says intelligent stuff all the time.

--

The morning of your first shift at Melvald’s begins with your alarm clock, which you set the night before to go off at five. Unfortunately, it never actually went off; unbeknownst to you, one of the breakers had tripped in the middle of the night, which reset your alarm clock.

You wake up from a blissful sleep and roll over to see the blinking red 12:00 . For a second, you don’t comprehend what you’re looking at, and then when it sinks in, you scramble out of bed so frantically that you go tumbling to the ground, tangled in the sheets, yelling, “SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT!”

You get ready faster than you ever have in your life, skipping breakfast and brushing your teeth in the kitchen sink while tugging on your clothes. As soon as you’re ready, you’re flying out the door, grabbing your bike, and peeling down the road that will bring you to Downtown Hawkins. You count your lucky stars that the only drivers out this early are the people driving to work.

When you get to Melvald’s, you chain your bike up at the bike rack and blow through the door like a hurricane, your cheeks bright red with exertion and your blood rushing in your ears. The tinkling of the bell over the door is almost mocking in its gentleness.

The store is almost completely empty except for a single woman in a uniform vest who appears to be pricing items. She looks over at you; you recognise her as Joyce Byers, the woman who caught you stealing the cigarettes.

“Oh! Hey,” she says, sounding surprised to see you.

“I’m so-- so sorry,” you pant, walking forward a bit to lean on the counter. “My… My alarm... didn’t go off, and I--”

She waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it. You’re actually early.”

You pause, your chest heaving, looking at her in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yep. By about…” She looks at a clock behind the counter. “Fifteen minutes, give or take.”

You let your head loll against your back. “So I skipped breakfast for nothing.”

Joyce smiled sympathetically. “‘Fraid so. Sorry. If it makes you feel better, Hop’ll definitely be happy about it.”

And, embarrassingly enough, it does make you feel a little better.

You’d like to say your first day on the job goes pretty well.

You’d like to say that, but if you did, it would be a lie.

It starts with the pricing gun, which miraculously stops working moments after Joyce leaves you to your task. She assures you that it’s just because the damn thing is so old and Gary refuses to replace it because of how expensive they are, which makes you feel a little better, but part of you still feels as though you broke it despite her reassurance.

Then, when Joyce offers you a break to go and grab lunch for the two of you from the diner, you almost lose the money she gives you thanks to a hole in your pocket that you hadn’t even realised was there. Thankfully, you’re able to make it with the cash still in hand, but the incident makes you so nervous that on the way back to the store you almost drop everything multiple times.

When you finally make it back, the store is unusually busy, so you’re forced to stow the paper take-out bags under the counter as Joyce attempts to teach you how to use the register. You frantically memorise as much as you can, and are somehow able to make it through the rush without missing a beat, but by the time it’s over and the two of you are able to take a load off, your lunch is stone cold.

“I’m sorry,” you say to Joyce, staring dejectedly at your cold fries. “I don’t know why I’m having such a shitty day today. I’m trying so hard but it feels like everything is going wrong.”

Joyce shakes her head. “Hey, no. It’s okay. Sometimes, you just have bad luck, no matter how hard you try. It’s not your fault.” She places a hand on your shoulder and squeezes.

You wonder why she’s being so nice to you, but you can’t work up the nerve to ask. Instead, you ask if there’s a microwave you can use to heat up the food.

Toward the end of your shift at around 12:30, Joyce calls you over from where you’ve been organising a window display and says, “Hey, would you mind going into the back and grabbing the boxes that have ‘ballpoint’ and ‘pencil - yellow’ written on them? I need to restock.”

“I’ll do it for you!” You blurt out. You can feel your cheeks flushing.

“Oh,” Joyce says, raising her eyebrows at you. “Okay. Uh, I’ll show you where they go and then that’ll be the last thing you have to do before I let you go for the day. Okay?”

You nod, too flustered to speak. You need Joyce to like you for reasons you aren’t totally sure of, and you hope with every part of you that you aren’t being too obvious.

Joyce walks you through restocking the shelves and then sends you on your way to retrieve the boxes from storage. They’re bigger than you thought they would be considering they’re just boxes of pens and pencils, but you guess it makes sense, since it’s not like the boxes are full of individual pencils and pens. There are three of them, standard sized cardboard boxes; you lift each one and find that you could probably carry two at a time, if you were careful. You stack the two boxes of pencils on top of each other on the ground, squat, and lift them up with a grunt of effort.

Now that you’re holding them, you realise it’s a little hard to see around the boxes. You have to angle your head awkwardly to peer around one side, which leaves you with a pretty big blind spot. You guess you’ll just have to trust that any customers nearby will be smart enough to stay out of the way.

You’ve made it almost all the way to the correct shelf before tragedy strikes again.

You glance down at the ground to make sure that there’s nothing you could trip over or slip on, and as you’re adjusting your grip on the bottom box, you hear a voice coming near you.

“--And stop nagging me! You’re not my mother, Buckley!”

Shortly following this is a shout of, “Steve! Watch where you’re--!”

You look up right in time to slam into someone.

The boxes fly right out of your hands. Boxes of yellow Ticonderoga pencils go flying, scattering across the floor. Some of the boxes even come open and pencils go rolling every which way. You end up flat on your ass in the middle of it all.

For a moment, you stare at the boxes of pencils all over the floor, gobsmacked. Once you’re able to tear your eyes away from the mess, you look up to find Steve Harrington looking down at you with his eyes as wide as dinner plates, but not one strand of hair out of place.

The two of you just stare at each other for a moment. Then, Harrington opens his mouth.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” he babbles, dropping to his knees and starting to pick up the stray boxes and escaped pencils. “That was an accident, uh-- shit, I swear I’m not usually this much of a klutz. I’m sorry, please, lemme help--”

“It’s okay,” you sigh, somewhat dejected. You’re probably going to have to stay after your shift ends to finish picking all this up and do what you promised Joyce. You glance at the clock and find your theory is confirmed, to your dismay. “I can handle it. It’s my job.”

“No, really, I…” He pauses after a moment, squinting at you. “Wait. Haven’t I seen you somewhere before?”

He has. The two of you went to school together for, like, your entire lives. That’s not what he means, though; he recognises you from yesterday, when he watched you get patted down and shoved in a cop car after making the dumbest mistake you’ve ever made in your life.

“We went to the same school for twelve years,” you say stiffly. Like hell are you gonna remind him if he actually forgot.

“...Oh,” he replies awkwardly. “Uh. Sorry. But, no, I feel like I’ve seen you somewhere else. Did you used to hang out at the mall? I used to work there. Oh!” He snaps his fingers. “Wait! I got it! You’re the one who got arrested yesterday, right?”

Before you can answer, a girl you vaguely recognise as being a high schooler a couple of years your junior appears at Harrington’s side, grabbing him by the arm and yanking him with surprising strength and an almost enraged expression.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” She hisses at him, before turning to you with a sunny smile. “I’m so sorry about him, he’s chronically stupid. We’re going to go before he says another dumb thing, right , Steve?” She has him by the ear, now, and you have to admit it’s kind of funny; she’s a couple of inches shorter than him, so he has to bend down to keep her from tearing his ear off.

“OW! Yes , Robin, jesus! Let go of me, I’m leaving!”

As you watch them go, you can’t help but feel disappointed. You’d kind of wanted someone to help you pick up the pencils.

--

When Robin and Steve are outside of Melvald’s, Robin finally lets go of Steve’s ear, saying, “Steve, what have we talked about? About thinking before we speak?”

Steve scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m trying. It’s not as easy as it sounds.”

Robin rolls her eyes. “I know, dummy. I had to learn it, too.” She sticks her hands in her pockets and glances back into the general store through the front window. “So, what was your angle with that whole spiel back there?”

Steve blanches. “What?”

“I mean , you’re not just nice to people for no reason all the time, even if you did something to them. So why were you being such a hardcore nice guy?”

Steve opens his mouth to say something and realises he doesn’t have any clue how to respond. He crosses his arms and shrugs, flustered. “I dunno. Maybe I just felt like it. What’s it to you?”

He starts to walk away, tired of the conversation, and Robin comes trotting after him, still yapping right in his ear. (He pretends to be annoyed, but honestly, his heart feels full to the brim with love for Robin. Before her, nobody has ever chased after him before.)

“Uh, you’re my best friend, dumb-dumb! That’s what it is to me! My nose belongs stuck right in your business!” She catches up to him and runs around to plant herself in his path, grinning broadly. “So, tell me what it is that has you so riled up.”

Steve gapes at her for a moment before shrugging again. “...I don’t know.”

Robin arcs a brow at him. “Seriously? You’re still not gonna tell me?”

“Robin, c’mon, I’m telling you I have no idea ,” Steve insists. He sighs, and lowers his voice. “Look, I just felt this weird… Urge to stay and talk? And picking up the mess that I caused anyway seemed like a good excuse at the time. Until I stuck my foot in my mouth, that is,” he sighs.

Robin gasps. “Steven Janine Harrington--”

“Not my name.”

“--Do you have a CRUSH?”

Steve feels his entire body burst into flames. He looks around frantically, saying, “Will you keep your voice down?”

Robin’s face takes on an expression of pure glee. “So you do! Oh my god, I didn’t think you were capable. So, are you going to pursue anything? Or are you more the brood-from-afar type?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Oh my god, will you shut up? You’re such an embarrassment. This is why I never take you anywhere,” Steve says, walking off in a huff.

One would think that, on the most important day in a person’s entire life, something special would happen -- there’d be a rainbow complete with gold and a leprechaun, or stars would fall from the sky, or farm animals would spontaneously sprout wings and learn to fly. Steve Harrington wouldn’t know; the only special things that have ever happened to him were armageddon, the end of the world, and doomsday, in that order.

The day that Steve’s life was changed forever (without anyone having to face certain doom this time), nothing unusual happened at all.

Well, almost nothing. Then again, Steve supposes there’s something a little less than usual about you.

--

You’re being dragged out of Melvald’s by Hawkins’ finest when Steve first lays eyes on you.

Your hair is disheveled, your face is flushed, and there’s a wild look in your eyes. You’re writhing in the hold of the cops gripping your arms, probably to keep you from running.

Though he isn’t sure why, Steve can’t help but stare.

Robin comes up next to him, taking a sip from a thermos of coffee. “Ho-lee shit, what’s goin’ on over there?”

Steve shrugs, his eyes still fixed on you even as you’re being read your rights and fitted with handcuffs.

Coincidentally, as Callahan has you bend over the hood of his patrol car so he can frisk you while Powell slaps the cuffs on, your head is pressed to the hood so that you’re staring right in Steve’s direction. The two of you lock eyes for what feels like forever before you’re being jerked upright by your arm and manhandled into the backseat of the car.

Steve feels a sharp, elbow-shaped pain in his side.

“OW! What the-- Why did you do that?”

Robin smiles, clearly pleased with herself. “Because you were being weird. Plus, I said your name, like, a bajillion times and you either didn’t hear me or you were pretending.” She squints critically at him. “What’s your deal, Harrington?”

Steve shakes his head. “Nothing. Nothing’s my deal, I don’t have a deal. You’re the one with the deal, elbowing me in the ribcage like that, you could have done some serious damage to my… ribs.”

Robin doesn’t seem convinced -- not at all, actually -- but she apparently isn’t that invested in finding out what Steve’s “deal” is, because she just shrugs and says, “Whatever. Let’s go get breakfast or something, I could eat a horse.”

A few minutes later, they walk into Benny’s Burgers only to find Jonathan and Nancy sitting in the booth nearest to the door. Nancy spots Steve and waves.

Steve nudges Robin and cocks his head in their direction. “You in?”

She shrugs. “Sure. Jonathan’s cool.”

Steve snorts. “Behave yourself, Buckley.”

“We’ll see,” she replies cheerily.

As they sit down, Nancy says, “Hey, did you guys hear about the commotion at Melvald’s earlier today?”

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but before he can even finish inhaling, Robin answers with, “We didn’t, but why don’t you ask Stevie here what he ‘heard’ about the ‘commotion at Melvald’s?’”

Both Nancy and Jonathan turn their full attention to Steve, and he mentally curses Robin so hard he’s sure she can hear it, based on the shiteating grin on her face.

“...Steve?” Jonathan says gently.

Steve sighs in exasperation, the force of it puffing out his cheeks. He shrugs and lifts a hand, splaying his fingers. “I… Sort of. Saw…” He hesitates, looking between Jonathan and Nancy, seeing their expectant expressions. He sighs again and runs a hand through his hair. Out with it, man. “I saw somebody getting pulled out by Callahan and Powell, all right?”

Nancy’s brow furrows. “Who? Why? What happened?”

Steve shrugs. “Dunno. Whoever it was, they definitely had a couple screws loose.”

Nancy says nothing for a moment. Then, she says, “Jonathan, do you think your mom would know anything about it?”

“Maybe. We can ask her when we go back to the house.”

Robin cocks her head. “Why are you guys so interested in finding out about this, anyway?”

Nancy and Jonathan share a look and then after a moment they turn back to Robin and shrug in unison.

Soon enough, the waitress is coming to take their orders, and the conversation turns toward other things.

--

While Robin and Steve are chowing down on brunch, you’re sitting in the Hawkins Police Department, waiting to find out how hard they’re going to punish you.

You wish you hadn’t stolen the fucking cigarettes.

You hadn’t gone into Melvald’s with the intention of stealing them -- you were going to buy them, you swear you were going to buy them. But you had realised after picking up the carton and reaching into your pocket to get your cash ready that you hadn’t brought any money with you.

And, of course, you knew you should put them back and leave… But you’d run out two weeks ago, and you couldn’t deal with the cravings any longer, and there were only so many times you could sneak from your mom before she started to catch on. So you’d slipped the carton of cigarettes into your pocket and headed for the door.

And then the woman behind the counter shouted, “Hey!”

You’d just panicked and started running, and… well, here you are.

The Chief of Police stepped out of his office and called one of the cops who brought you in over. They talked in hushed tones for a moment, looking like they were having a disagreement, and then the other cop -- Callahan, you’re pretty sure, the one with the glasses -- comes back over and takes your cuffs off.

“Chief Hopper wants you in his office,” Callahan says blandly, gesturing toward the door the chief is standing in front of.

You take a deep, shaky breath, trying to quell your fear, and then you stand up and go to face your doom.

Chief Hopper doesn’t say anything to you as you pass him on the way into the office. His face is a careful mask of neutrality, which makes you even more nervous than if he’d been staring you down -- at least if he was doing that, you would know what to expect.

As you go in, the chief follows you in and closes the door behind you, which just cements the knowledge that whatever’s about to happen isn’t going to be fun for you.

“Have a seat,” he says, pointing at the chair on the other side of his desk as he walks around to the other side to sit in his own chair. You do as he says, watching as he pulls out a carton of cigarettes and clamps one between his teeth. He looks up at you and offers the carton out to you. “Want a smoke?”

You swallow. You wonder if this is some kind of weird test. “No thank you, sir.”

“You sure?” He asks, the carton still extended across the desk. “From what I hear you’re pretty fond of ‘em.”

You feel your face flushing with embarrassment. You stare down at your hands for a moment and then, sheepishly, take a single cigarette from the proffered carton.

He lights both of your cigarettes with a Zippo he pulls from his shirt pocket and watches you from under the brim of his hat as you take a drag and exhale smoke on a relieved sigh.

“So,” Chief Hopper begins, smoke escaping from his mouth, “my sources tell me you were stealing from Melvald’s General Store. A carton of cigarettes and nothing else. First time you’ve ever gotten into trouble. Know what that tells me?”

You swallow and then shake your head, bringing your cigarette to your lips again for another long, slow drag. If you’re about to be locked up and have your parents told on you, you wanna savour this cigarette, because it could well be your last for a while.

Chief Hopper continues to look at you for a moment, and then he leans back in his chair. “That tells me that you’re not what we in the business call a bad apple. I don’t wanna put that idea in your head, or anybody else’s, and you spend one night in jail, that’s what’s gonna happen. You get me?”

“I…” You knit your brows. “I’m… not sure I do, sir.”

Chief Hopper sighs through his nose, making smoke stream out through his nostrils. “I’m saying that I don’t want to put you through the ringer just ‘cause you’re a kid who made a dumb mistake.”

You blink. “Are you-- You’re saying you’re letting me off the hook?”

“Not quite,” he says. “You still committed a crime. Wouldn’t look good for me if you just got to walk away without any consequences. No, you’re not off the hook, but I talked to the owner of the store and got permission to come up with an alternative method of punishment. As long as you accept it, that is. We can always just let you do time anyway, if that’s what you want.”

You shake your head immediately. “I’d prefer not to, sir.”

He nods, satisfied. “Right. You’re gonna be working at Melvald’s for the next two weeks. You’ll be working alongside Joyce Byers, and she’s gonna keep an eye on you, so make sure you stay out of trouble, okay?”

You arch your brows. “I’ll be working at Melvald’s?” You wonder how the hell he managed to work that out with the owner.

“That’s what I said. Think of it as community service; can you handle it?”

“Yessir,” you say, nodding.

“All right then. At the end of each week, I’ll be coming in -- off the books -- to check in. As long as you do as you’re told and keep your head down, this’ll all blow over before you know it.”

You feel tears welling up in your eyes, and you try to blink them back before the chief notices and thinks you’re a huge crybaby. “Thank you, Chief Hopper.”

He stands up and leans over the desk, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “It’s no problem, kid. Just don’t make me regret it, all right?”

As you stand up, you nod again, suddenly determined. “I won’t, sir, I promise.”

His lips quirk up at one side. “Call me Hopper or Hop, kid. Nobody I like calls me sir.”

You smile hesitantly. “Yessir… Hopper.”

As Chief Hopper is walking you to the door, you can’t help but ask what you’ve been wondering for a while now. “Ch-- Er, Hopper?”

“Hm?”

“Why are you doing this for me?” You pick at the hem of your shirt nervously. “I mean, not that I’m not thankful, I’m incredibly thankful, I just... don’t understand why I’m not being punished?”

He’s silent for a moment, perhaps turning your question over in his head, and then after what feels like an eternity, he finally answers with, “When I was your age, I made some pretty dumb mistakes, too. I never had anybody willing to back me up, and I ended up doing a lot of shit I’m not proud of because there was nobody there to bail me out when I got into trouble. When I come across kids who need that, now that I’m an adult myself, I tend to wanna help ‘em out.”

You can’t help but feel awestruck. Chief Hopper is nothing like the stories you’ve heard; he’s so fair-minded, and kind, and selfless, it kind of makes you feel like crying again. You feel visible in a way that’s almost uncomfortable. 

You kind of wish you could feel this way all the time.

“Thank you,” you say again.

“No problem, kid,” Hopper says, opening the door to his office. “Now scram; you’ve got about eighteen hours until you show up for your first shift at Melvald’s, and if you’re more than fifteen minutes late I’ll have someone escort you there every morning for the rest of the week.”