her chateau.

You close your eyes, breath stuck in your throat. He's so close, his fingers lingering on you as he waits for an answer. Someone bumps into your shoulder and brings you back to reality. You almost thank them for their rudeness on your way out of your head.

Instead, you lift your chin, nose gently skimming on his jaw, and Harrington smells so good.

“I'll go with you.” you say.

Steve's hand travels from your back to your arm, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps on your waistline before he reaches your palm and interlocks his fingers with yours. The gesture lasts less than nine seconds, yet it leaves you dizzy through the path out of the club. Thankfully, Steve is a human shield, pushing people out of the way as he pulls you gently behind him.

The security guard slams the door open and you sigh, relief engulfing you like the midnight breeze. the club's songs are muffled as soon as the door closes behind you, but the walls keep vibrating and you know Robin and her band are killing it. But for now, no longer a bunch of sweaty bodies pressing against you on the dancefloor, no more head buzzing with the rhythm of the music. Your body finally relaxed, etched to Steve's hand.

He hasn't pulled away yet.

You aren't complaining.

Harrington seems oblivious to his many effects on you. He slides his free hand into his pocket, taking out a pack of Malboros. You furrow your brows as you watch the scene unfold; Steve using his thumb to open it, then shaking the pack just enough to lift the cigarettes before leaning in to grab one between his teeth.

It's skilled enough to be a party trick. One of those things guys do to seem effortlessly cool. Glimpses of Robin and Steve himself talking about his high school days flash through your memories. Nonetheless, that's not what your mind focuses on.

The cigarette remains between his lips as he slides the pack back into his Levis’s pockets.

“I didn't know you smoked.” you say, watching as Steve grabs a lighter. He sets fire to the edge of the cig and puts the bic back into his jacket.

He shrugs, a smirk wrapped around the white stick before he takes the cigarette between his fingers, “Only when I drink.”

You snort. You didn't think that three drinks would make a number on a guy like him. You had gone through one cocktail (it was terrible, zero sugar), two shots, and something red that you didn't remember the name. Still, you were just fine.

A bit clumsy with your feet, dragging out words, and standing a little too close to your roommate's best friend while thinking about how hot he looked with a stupid cigarette between his pink lips, but completely normal.

“That's like, the worst excuse ever, Harrington.”

Steve shrugs. The sly grin doesn't leave his face as he takes a smoke, you watch as the grey haze fades into the night. The smell is disgusting, but Harrington pulls you closer by the hand and his fragrance overthrows that cancer propaganda.

“Want a drag?” he asks softly, thumb gently grazing your knuckles.

Steve had always been touchy. Not only with you, though. He was always hugging Robin, or shaking hands with the waiter, or brushing against your skin. You liked it a lot. But tonight? He was bolder than ever. All those cotton-candy flavored drinks stripping away any barriers at your acceptance.

Your gaze darts to your latched palms. His hand was so big, yet so gentle. You shouldn't be getting horny over this, God, why were you feeling your pussy throb?

You clear your throat, “No, thanks. I don't like smoking.”

“Oh.” Steve frowns. Something about the way you lay out your dislike instead of just saying you don't smoke makes him feel guilty immediately. “I'm sorry.”

Without a second thought, Harrington throws the cigarette on the floor and stomps on it. You're thorn between feeling bad for raining on his parade and breathing way better after he puts it out.

“Hey, wait.” You try. Sure, he can't have that one back, but there's still a whole pack untouched in his pocket. “You don't have to do that. You can smoke.”

“You don't like it,” Steve shrugs, “So why would I do it?"

He says it like it's that simple. A matter of the fact. The sky is blue, the earth is round, and Steve Harrington wouldn't do something you disliked. No arguments.

It's adorable in its own way. Sure, maybe he isn't the only one getting braver by the alcohol rushing in his body, because you squeeze his hand and take a step towards him.

“Small town boy with a big city attitude,” you whisper, the words marinating between you two before any move is made. The cat and mouse game is fun, but, at some point, someone is gonna get eaten. “You are really cute, you know it?”

You notice how Steve's eyes go wide at the sudden shift, but he quickly keeps up with the pace.

“Yeah?” he asks, sly grin etched to his face as he leans down, “What do you do with cute boys in the big city?”

You laugh, an attempt to play off the swirls in your stomach, “Don't know if you can handle it, Harrington.”

“Mhm, I'm sure I can.” Steve guarantees and licks his bottom lip, you don't even try to look anywhere but his mouth. Such perfect pink lips, such a filthy tongue. “You know, maybe I can show you how good a small town boy can be to you.”

There's something that sounds like I bet there's nothing small about you on the tip of your tongue, but any snaky remark dies as you see Harrington turn his head and spit on the ground, a clear joke about the stereotypical hick.

It's not supposed to mean anything. It's not supposed to turn you on. It's just a guy making a lark out of ignorance. You wet your lips as you watch his soir on the concrete and holy shit.

You want it in your mouth.

“Do it again.”

Steve frowns in pure confusion, “What?”

“Spit out.” you explain, a bit impatient. The line between his brows only gets deeper, yet he nods in agreement.

Harrington starts moving his body to do it on the ground again, “Oh, okay—”

“No, don't waste it,” you whine, shame thrown out of the window. “Spit in my mouth instead.”

Steve just glares at you for a moment, mouth agape as the wheels in his brain overload and then start working again. Did you really ask him to do that?

It sounds so nasty in the best way possible. His cock twitches inside his boxers and Harrington has to rely on his self-control not to rub it through his pants.

“Are you sure?” he finally asks, just to make sure even though he's already half hard from thinking about it.

“Yes.” You nod eagerly; if you were sober, you'd feel embarrassed by how needy you are. Good thing you aren't, and your company seems to thrive on it.

Harrington gives you a lopsided grin, using his free hand to cup your cheek, thumb tenderly brushing your lower lip. “Open wide, pretty girl.” he says quietly, though his voice leaves no room for discussion. You do as he says, “Yeah, that's right. Wide and wet for me.”

Steve's adam's apple bobs at the sight. He can't wait to mark your naughty mouth with his spit, but he's still a gentleman of sorts. Harrington leans in, hair lightly falling on his forehead as he presses a gentle kiss to your upper lip before pulling away and spitting into your mouth, his saliva dripping directly onto your tongue.

You close your eyes, savoring the moment, savoring him.

“Swallow my spit, baby,” Steve mutters, his voice heavy with need. “You were the one saying not to waste it.”

He doesn't need to ask twice. It's dirty, it's wrong, and you love it. You open your eyes, glaring straight into his as you swallow every drop of it.

“Tastes so good, Steve.” It comes out more like a whimper than a sentence, but you don't care. Your heart is beating so fast, the pervert act tarnished by his sweetness, and still only getting hotter because of it. “Next time, I'll spit on your cock before you fuck my mouth with it.”

He almost moans at it, his cock kicking at the thought. The image of your mouth wide open and so fucking inviting for him. The sounds you'd make as he fucked your throat. You on your knees and begging for more.

“Shit.” Depravity swells his mind. Steve looks around, noticing some people getting in the club, the knowing glance of the guard, and then turns to you. “You can't say things like that.”

You grin like the devil, and he's ready to sin.

“Shut me up then.”

And Steve would. In every way he could.

LIKE & REBLOG to support your writer. steve harrington master list here. taglist/requests are open. tell me what you thought <3

steve's bat (taglist): @sunshine-daydreams0809

Even the crude part of it gets him hard, maybe especially that. How his face smells like your pussy afterwards, the way your flavor lingers on the tip of his tongue, how his nose brushes just right against your clit if he eats you out in that perfect angle, how you two become one in the dirtiest way possible. Harrington loves to get lost in your senses, it's the only place for him to make a home at.

Nothing makes Steve Harrington feel more like a man, more like a king than when he's between your legs, attached to your pussy like a madman who might starve to death if he doesn't put his mouth to good use.

Steve can't stop it. Some would call it a vice.

He just calls it being a good boyfriend.

( and if you love the way he looks completely wrecked when he raises his chin from between your legs, big brown eyes, his pinky lips swollen not from kissing but from pussy eating, his messy hair, and the sweat tarnished with the evidence of your early arousal on his face? )

Well, you agree with Steve. He's just a really good boyfriend.

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a/n: this one had been sitting in my drafts for ages, so I polished it (twice because tumblr deleted it the first time) and here you are! It's good to put the writing wheels to run again. it's a small blurb, but it was fun! especially because I just know this man is an eater. I'm just coming back to writing, so the next stuff will be better! (we hope)

You shift in your sleep, a tiny, unconscious movement, burrowing just a fraction closer into his warmth. A soft, helpless sound escapes him—a quiet coo, purely instinctive.

His arm, already draped loosely over your waist, tightens gently, tucking you more securely against him. He presses his nose into the crown of your hair and inhales.

Steve feels you begin to stir, feels the change in your breathing. He waits until your eyes flutter open to murmur, "good morning, sleepyhead," by your ear.

You make a soft, non-committal hum, still mostly asleep. It’s the most adorable thing he’s ever heard.

“Are you hungry, angel?” he asks, his lips brushing your temple. “I promised you pancakes.”

You nod against the pillow, hungry but too tired to move. With a quiet, fond chuckle, Steve shifts, sliding his arms under you. One arm slips beneath your knees, the other cradles your back.

“Up we go,” he murmurs, his voice a soft rumble in his chest as he lifts you effortlessly against him.

You let out a little sigh, your head lolling to rest in the hollow of his shoulder, your arms looping loosely around his neck. He carries you from the bedroom, his steps slow and deliberate, as if transporting something infinitely precious.

In the kitchen, he sets you down on a stool at the counter, hands lingering at your waist. When he's sure you're not going to topple over, he lets go reluctantly, but not without a kiss to your temple.

You’re still soft with sleep, absently kicking your heels back and forth against the stool’s rungs.

He watches you for a second, his head tilted. God, you’re adorable. Everything you do feels like a gift.

He turns to the fridge, pulling out eggs, milk, the little bowl of blueberries. As he cracks eggs into a bowl, he glances over. You’re watching him, your chin propped in your hand.

“You’re staring, Harrington,” you mumble, a ghost of your usual teasing in your tone.

“Can’t help it,” he says simply, without a trace of guile. He whisks the batter, the rhythmic scraping filling the comfortable silence. He pours the first pancake into the sizzling butter, then comes around the counter to you.

He doesn’t say anything. He just bends down, cradling your face, and presses a slow, sweet kiss to your forehead. Then another on the tip of your nose. You scrunch it, and a quiet laugh rumbles in his chest. He kisses each of your sleepy eyelids.

“Gotta check on my pancake,” he whispers, his voice full of a fondness so deep it’s dizzying, and drifts back to the stove.

You watch him go, a soft smile touching your lips. “It's not even been thirty seconds," you tease gently.

He shoots you a grin over his shoulder, a quick, bright thing. “Gotta be perfect for you.”

Finally, he turns off the stove and brings a plate over. He sets it down in front of you with a quiet, proud flourish.

The pancake is a perfect, golden circle. Two plump blueberries are nestled close together for eyes. A careful, curved line of smaller, wild blueberries forms a soft, unmistakable smile.

The kind of smile you realise, with a sudden ache, you haven't seen on his own face in a very long time.

He’s given your pancake the smile he's trying to find for himself again.

The care of it—the silent promise—hits you square in the chest. It’s so purely him, the him that exists beneath the anger and the hurt. The him that carries you when you’re sleepy and fixes your coffee just right and wants so badly to be good.

He's just trying.

Your heart warms, followed immediately by a sharp, sweet sting behind your eyes. You blink rapidly, trying to hold it back as best you can, but a single, traitorous tear escapes, tracing a hot path down your cheek.

Steve’s soft smile vanishes, replaced by instant, tender concern. He’s around the counter in a heartbeat, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs swiping away the tear.

“Hey, no, angel, don’t cry,” he murmurs, his brow furrowed. “Did I mess it up? Is it the blueberries? I can make a new one, it’s okay, I can—”

You shake your head, cutting off his worried ramble. You cover his hands with yours, holding them against your cheeks. “It’s perfect,” you say, your voice thick.

Steve blinks at you, then softens. He doesn't say anything else, he doesn't need to. He just leans in and kisses you, softly, on the lips. It tastes like forgiveness and maple syrup yet to come. When he pulls back, his own eyes are suspiciously bright.

“Eat it, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion. “Before it gets cold.”

You take a bite. It’s fluffy and sweet and perfect. He watches you, leaning his hip against the counter, his gaze unwavering. He reaches out, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering.

“I meant what I said last night,” he begins, his voice low and earnest. “About working on myself. It’s… it’s not just words. I have a plan.”

He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself, but his eyes never leave yours. They’re wide, honest, begging you to believe him.

“I called that therapist this morning. While you were still asleep. Got an appointment for next Thursday.” He says it like a confession, like he’s handing you a fragile, hard-won truth. “It’s… it’s a start, right?”

Your heart squeezes. “Steve…” you start, but he shakes his head gently.

He reaches for your free hand, lacing his fingers through yours. His grip is warm, solid. “And the big one… my dad.” He swallows hard. “I’m writing a letter. Saying everything I need to say. And then I’m mailing it, and I’m done. I’m done letting him live in my head, rent-free, making me feel like I’m… like I’m not enough.”

His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “Because I wanna be enough, angel. For you. For me.” His voice drops to a hushed, fervent whisper.

“I wanna be the guy who makes you smiley-face pancakes every morning, not because he’s sorry, but because he’s just so damn happy you’re there to eat them. I wanna be the guy who comes home and talks about his day, instead of just… shutting down. I wanna be able to carry my own weight, so when you have a bad day, I can carry yours too. Properly.”

He brings your joined hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to your fingers. His eyes are shimmering with unshed tears, but he’s smiling, a hopeful smile.

“I’m gonna learn how to be soft,” he whispers. “Not just for you, but… because I think maybe... I deserve to be soft, too. And I want you there to see it. If you’ll still have me.”

The tears are back in your eyes, but they’re different now. They’re warm, overflowing with a pride and a love so fierce it steals your breath. You slide off the stool, pancake forgotten for a moment, and step into the space between his arms. You wrap your arms around his waist, burying your face in his chest.

“I’ll have you,” you murmur into the soft cotton of his t-shirt. “However you are. However you’re learning to be. I’m not going anywhere.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, a sound of profound relief, and his arms come around you, holding you so tightly it feels like he’s piecing himself back together with your embrace. He rests his chin on the top of your head.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “For being patient. For… for seeing me, and not running.”

You pull back just enough to look up at him. “I’ll always see you, Steve. You're my favourite person.”

He leans down to kiss you again, a softer one, starting at the corner of your mouth and lingering. When you finally break apart, he rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, just breathing you in. “Your pancake’s getting cold,” he murmurs, a soft laugh in his voice.

“You’ll make me another one tomorrow,” you say, smiling.

Trisha steps out of the car now. Her heels click softly on the pavement, somehow so elegant in the chaos of it all. A cashmere scarf wraps tight around her neck. Her lips are pale, despite the rouge. Her eyes are glass. Like a mannequin from Sax Fifth, slowly fracturing.

“Richard,” she says quietly. “Don’t.”

He ignores her. “This town is a ticking time bomb. And you wanna be the guy holding the match.”

“I wanna be the guy who doesn’t bail the second it gets hard,” Steve snaps.

“Bullshit.” Rick’s voice slices cleanly. 

There’s that word again.

Bullshit.

Bullshit.

Bullshit.

“You wanna be the guy who plays ‘hero.’ You think this lowlife town makes you brave. You think staying ‘means something.’ You wanna be the noble kid out in the ashes while the rest of us go rebuild somewhere safe and cushy and live our best little privileged lives—”

“Never said that.”

“You’re not brave, Steve. You’re a stubborn little punk who thinks pain equals purpose.”

Tricia flinches that one.

Steve opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

Rick exhales hard, pinching the bridge of his nose the way that Steve always does… but it’s not the same. 

They’ll never be the same.

“Jesus Christ, you’re just like her.”

That’s what does it.

Steve takes two steps forward, fire flashing in his chest. Not the angry kind of fire. The raw kind of fire. The rarest fire that dwindles but never wanes.

“Don’t.”

Rick lifts his eyes. But they aren’t angry now. Just… weary. Confused. Maybe even something closer to lost.

“You got her softness,” he says. “All that goddamn heart. Bleeding for anyone who looks your way. And what’d it ever get her? What’s it ever gotten you?”

Steve stares at him. Doesn’t move.

But Trisha does. “Rick.”

“She used to be warm, too, you know,” Rick blurts, now glancing sidelong at his wife, like she’s not even there. “When I met her. God, she was… sh’was all light, this—” He gestures wildly at his son. “This insane light that just won’t burn the fuck out.”

Trisha closes her eyes.

Steve looks between them now. Something inside him is slipping sideways, a tightrope pulling too thin.

He turns to his mother. “You don’t have to go.”

She stares. “Steven…”

“You can stay. Just—stay here. With me.”

Let him go.

That’s the part he leaves out.

Choose me. Not him. Choose me, pick me, love me.

God, Mom. Please just love me.

Trisha’s lips part slightly, eyes boring into her son’s. And for a split second, even a few of them… she looks as if she actually might.

Steve sees it.

He sees the flicker of hesitation and the breath she draws that isn’t quite complete, the way that her hand wavers at her side. But then Rick drops another bag into the back seat with a thud and calls across the lot—

“Trish. Let’s go.”

Another dreaded moment sizzles again between mother and son. More big brown-eyed gazes that look so much more alike than not.

And then it fizzles out. Just like that, Tricia Harrington’s spine straightens. Her jaw locks. She turns.

And she walks away.

Steve doesn’t say anything. 

Instead, he just watches her go.

She hesitates once more at the car door, looking back. Her eyes meet Steve’s again, and this time don’t move for another long stretch of time.

Once again, she says nothing.

Once again, Steve doesn’t blink.

Then, with a soft rustle of wool and silk, she slides into the passenger seat and shuts the door behind her.

Rick stares at Steve a beat longer. “You’ll regret this.”

Steve swallows. “Maybe.”

“You’re not a soldier, kid. You’re a babysitter with a death wish.”

“I’m not a kid.”

Rick doesn’t argue. Just pulls open the driver’s side door and slides in behind the wheel. But not without having the last word.

“You’re on your own, kid. Always have been.”

The engine revs. The tires crunch. And the car backs out slow and smooth onto the ruined street, never braking to stop other than when Rick looks both ways before the car heads in whatever direction is meant to carry them away.

Steve doesn’t wave. He doesn’t move a muscle. He just watches them go until they turn the corner, vanishing off in the distance, never planning to walk Cornelia St. again.

The silence that follows is deafening.

It’s not the silence of peace.

It’s the silence of an empty house, of no footsteps behind the giant walls, of no dinner on the stove, of no one ever coming back.

It’s the silence of abandonment. Lifelong abandonment that now just gave the ultimate grand finale and took its final bow.

Steve blinks once.

And then the tears come, like his body’s been holding them in for hours, days, years. But even now, they’re quiet. 

Angry. 

Bitter, anguished.

He smacks both palms hard against his face, his fingers clawing first before digging the heels of his palms into his eyes as he takes in a shuddering, sharp, guttural fucking breath that barely escapes as anything but a rasp. 

Then another. 

Then another.

Steve doesn’t sob. He won’t.

But his knees feel weak and the world tilts sideways just long enough to make him grit his teeth bitterly and let out a ragged noise that scrapes from his throat… like a blade dragged across stone.

He kicks the nearest box, sends it flying across the porch, and then takes off to go back inside like if he stands there another second, he’ll wind up screaming loud enough to wake the goddamn earth.

Or Max.

Or Vecna’s seemingly lost vessel.

Steve slams the front door shut with a huff, the sound of it wet and dreadful… right as the wall phone rings, just as soon as the door shuts behind him.

He stares at it. Laughs once, humorless and cracked.

Lets it ring once.

Then twice.

Three times.

Four.

He almost lets it go.

But then he thinks: Dustin.

The kid’s name as the possible caller runs through his mind, knowing damn well he could need him, or the other kids… so Steve urgently snatches up the receiver, just before the machine kicks in.

“Hello?”

“…hey.”

It’s you.

Your voice is soft. Static-laced. But it’s so fucking real, that it makes his knees weak all over again.

“Hey,” Steve breathes, swallowing hard. He rubs a hand over his face like he can erase the wreckage there. “Uh. What’s up?”

You hesitate a second. “The boys were just talking about coming to see you. Lucas is still at the hospital with Max, though. He doesn’t wanna leave yet.”

Steve exhales. “Yeah. No, that’s—that’s okay. I can come to you.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. I, uh…” He glances around the house. It looks like a grave. “Yeah. Please.”

You pause again. “Well I’m already on the road,” you say finally. “About to grab Dustin and Mike. I can swing by and get you.”

“No, I can—I can drive—”

“I’m already ten minutes out.”

Steve shuts his eyes.

And something inside him quiets.

“…okay. Yeah. That’s… yeah. Thanks. Hey wait, where are you even calling me from??”

A soft sigh pours through the receiver, sounding more like a breathy laugh than any sign of exasperation.

It sounds warm.

It sounds kind.

And Steve doesn’t know why the hell that’s making all of his bones melt with relief right now.

“Payphone,” you murmur. “Stopped to fuel up. You know, since—gas stations are gonna tank soon. Pun intended.”

Steve rolls his eyes, tears slipping. He swats them. “Yeah well, hope you grabbed yourself another gallon. No telling when we’re gonna need it.”

You paused, before… that, right there, there’s that sound again. That breathy little sigh-laugh.

“Didn’t realize we were sharing,” you lightly teased.

“It’s the end of the world,” he deadpans half-heartedly. “That’s how this goes now.”

You hummed. “Well then, in that case. You owe me two quarters for this phone call.”

Steve nodded, lips pressed into a tight line. “Great. I’ll go scavenge my piggy bank. Or Dustin’s. Then blame you.”

“Cool,” you say gently. “You got ten minutes to brush your hair and pretend that you’ve slept in the last twenty-four hours.”

Steve almost smiles. “Copy that.”

It’s quiet for another second.

But you don’t hang up.

Neither does he.

You’re just about to though, when suddenly:

“Hey—hey, wait.”

You freeze on the other side of the line. “Yeah?”

“Um.” Steve’s hand tightens around the phone. “You guys should… I mean. After. You should stay the night.”

You blink. “At the hospital?”

“Yeah. Or—or here. Whichever. Just—don’t go back out tonight. Roads are shit. It’s getting cold. Just bring a bag or something.”

You’re quiet again.

And his chest starts to pinch. 

“I mean if that’s stupid, forget it,” he says quickly, his voice defensive now. “I just thought—”

“No,” you cut in, steady. “We will, I’ll—we’ll stay.”

Steve blinks at that, letting it register, then exhales so hard he forgets he was holding his breath.

“Okay,” he says. “Cool. Good. Um… grab some stuff for you too. Like, enough for a few days. Just in case. Throw some overnight shit in a duffel.”

“Overnight shit, huh,” you say softly, but it sounds like you might be grinning. “Alright, what else should I pack?”

“Snacks. Sweats. Maybe your second-best knife.”

You smile. “Why not my best?”

“Because that one’s mine now.”

You hear him smile at his end of the line, just barely. But it’s enough to let you know that he’s let himself surrender to something.

Maybe even to you.

“Alright, Harrington,” you say. “See you in five.”

“Five?” he echoes. “I thought it was ten.”

You grin. “Yeah, I rounded up. See you soon.”

And that’s when the line clicks.

Steve stands there another second or so longer, staring at the receiver in his hand. And he’s this close to letting himself smile at it.

But then he bolts upstairs to change, after settling it back onto the wall.

Then halfway up, he stops…

…turns.

…marches back down, hits the hall and goes straight into the master bedroom.

It’s mostly empty now. Rick and Tricia didn’t leave much behind.

Except for one box.

He opens it… and right there on top is a photo.

The three of them on the Florida beaches. Long ago. During that weekend trip to DisneyWorld, after they’d stayed at some resort for a week-long conference.

Steve looks at it.

His throat closes up violently, because clearly leaving this behind had not been an issue. No more than leaving their own son was.

So he shoves it down deeper into the box without sparing it another glance and hauls the entire thing up to the attic, not letting himself feel a single fucking thing until it’s shut away behind the plywood and dust.

Out of sight.

Out of mind.

Out of reach.

And Steve waits for you to show up, so that this time, he doesn’t have to be completely left behind. Maybe you will stick around and stay a few nights with the kids. Maybe it won’t feel so bad. Maybe things will feel full.

Maybe he won’t feel the truth of it.

Steve Harrington: the rich kid with no parents and a big house.

Chapter Eighty-Five Operation: Crystalline

Hawkins, Indiana • 1987 {present}

The streets of Hawkins are unrecognizable.

Ash clings to everything now. In the gutters, across the skeletal trees, even caked into the uneven tracks your tank’s treads have carved through four straight hours of prowling. Somewhere between dusk and dread, the line blurred, and now the forbidden ghost town looks like it’s been cryogenically frozen mid-collapse.

And through that static fog, you walk.

Boots heavy. 

Shoulders squared. 

Uniform crisp but untraceable.

No name. No rank. No patch.

Just presence.

Steve hates this plan. Hopper hates the plan right along with him. Murray co-signed the shit outta hating this plan, even though he helped orchestrate it, albeit with the most disdain known to mankind.

You’d all come up with it during the hours spent prowling the streets inside of Dingus-1. It had all been a collective effort, a family effort, coming up with what the hell needed to be done.

Max had been strong about it. Surprisingly, she’d been the strongest about it, other than Joyce. Not because she liked it. She didn’t. But she understood it. And she wasn’t about to throw her fears into the mix and make you doubt any more than all of you already were.

Jonathan gave it conditions. 

Steve deepened those conditions.

Eddie demanded he stay up front, ready to trample over any onlookers who might “pull a fast one” — while Robin made it crystal clear that her not being involved stressed her the fuck out… but that she’d stay behind for Steve’s sake, along with everyone else, as backup.

The frontline team was decided.

And now? They’re all in motion.

You’re flanked by Argyle and Dustin at your sides, Mike and Lucas are behind you like statuesque shadows, and Nancy is farther back — all but still, her gun slung, stance wide, petite small frame swallowed by layers of fabric and menace. If she were any quieter, she’d disappear… like a true sniper in the night.

A unisex apex predator that makes it clear: anyone will be shot onsight if they fuck around and find out, simply using their presence and loaded rifle to say it without a word being spoken.

Argyle’s jaw is locked in a way no one ever expects from him. His hair’s tucked and greased down underneath the battered ushanka. He hasn’t said much… Not to you, not even to Dustin. But he’s exhaling in through the nose, out through the mouth, like someone who’s doing procedural pre-battle breathing exercises. His Russian accent, when it arrives again, is impeccable.

You taught him that.

Dustin keeps pace beside you, gloved hands curled at his sides, expression unreadable under a fake mustache and cheap aviators. He looks like the villain from every Cold War propaganda reel.

And then there’s you.

No one would know you at a glance. Not with your eyes hidden. Not with the way your voice drops an octave and leans sharp into every syllable of Russian.

And not with the weight of Murray Bauman’s expectations anchored behind your ribs and ingrained in your skull.

Your group stops moving only once the soldiers appear.

Three of them. 

Standard fatigues. 

Uncertain eyes.

The highest-ranking one steps forward. Stern jaw, flat affect, maybe mid-thirties. He speaks first, tone low and wary:

“Identify yourselves.”

Okay, so different motherfucker than the last time, you now think to yourself. Same uniform, different eyeliner.

You don’t blink. You simply tilt your head slightly and let Argyle drawl the first blow, his Russian accent slow and near-whispered.

“Vy znayete, kto my yest’. I yesli net, to vy uzhye opazdyvayete.”

(You know who we are. And if you don’t, you’re already late.)

The lead soldier hesitates.

Dustin steps forward half a click, posture deliberate. His Russian is rougher, but still convincing, each phrase thick with the shape of memorized fear:

“My otpravljeny dlya osmotra i izvlecheniya. Lyuboye soprotivleniye budet zafiksirovano.”

(We are sent for surveying and extraction. Any resistance will be recorded.)

A flicker of something passes over the soldier’s face. Worry. Forced respect. Maybe fear.

“What kind of extraction?” he pressed in English.

You smile faintly. No warmth.

“We do not owe you specifics,” you reply in that heavily accented English, as if you are a Russian spy that must mask up when duty calls. “This land belongs to us now.”

“…since when—?”

“Since Starcourt,” you snap. “Since this town burned and you all lit the match. Do not play dumb.”

He subtly reels back half a step, eyes narrowing. “The evacuation orders—”

“Were yours to follow. Ours to dictate.”

Lucas doesn’t move. Neither does Mike.

They are both silent statues behind you, their boots apart in semi-wide stances, eyes unreadable, obscured by the shadows of their helmets and military-grade type of cloth that almost look like ski-masks.

Your hands rest lightly at your sides.

Then Dustin cuts in again, producing the crispest, most official-looking file folder known to man from inside his coat. He opens it with a theatrical snap and flips it once toward the soldiers.

Photos. 

Documents. 

All aged to hell but stamped and sharp where it matters.

And there they are — the names.

Richard and Patricia Harrington.

Steven Harrington.

Joyce Byers.

Jonathan and William Byers.

Theodore and Karen Wheeler.

Nancy Wheeler.

Michael Wheeler.

Holly Wheeler.

Maxine Mayfield.

Charles and Sue Sinclair.

Lucas and Erica Sinclair.

Claudia Henderson.

Dustin Henderson.

Murray Lloyd Bauman.

...and your name.

The soldier stares, jaw clenched. “Where did you get these?”

You step closer. “Where did you lose them?”

Another soldier, younger, shifts beside the captain. “We last saw Harrington. He was with Joyce and the younger Byers. At his house. Few weeks back.”

Dustin stiffens. “Evacuated?”

The soldier shakes his head after a moment of hesitation. 

Bingo. 

That’s the window.

“No,” he admits. “We left the house. He—we thought he was already washed up. That he was crazy. Didn’t think he’d stay behind.”

“He threatened suicide,” another one adds.

Argyle’s posture doesn’t even change. “And was a body found?” he asks them in patronizing English.

No one volunteers to answer that.

Several tense seconds tick on by, and it’s as if you can hear every wristwatch tick tick tick as you all stand there and wait.

Finally, the grim-faced younger soldier finished what he started. “We thought he might have off’d himself during the blizzard.”

Wrong answer.

Your tone drops to a surgical chill.

“...you thought.”

He tries to recover. “He refused extraction. Said he was waiting for us to take care of it for him. For us to execute his death.”

“Well then he is still waiting,” you say, voice a razor. “But we… are done waiting.”

Argyle exhales through his teeth and mutters something in clipped Russian. “Oni igrayut s ogniom.”

(They’re playing with fire.)

The senior soldier’s eyes dart nervously. As if expecting backup. As if wanting to call something in.

That’s when your tank hisses.

All heads snap toward it as the back door unlatches. From its shadowed interior steps out a figure clad in indistinguishable gear — helmet low, rifle strapped, voice cutting through the air like winter wind:

“Vy uzhe dostatochno sdelali. Nikto ne budet zvonit’. Nikto ne budet dvigat’sya.”

(You have done enough damage. No one will make calls. No one will move.)

Murray.

But not as anyone’s seen him.

He doesn’t just speak Russian — he is Russian. Utterly unplaceable. So much so, the American captain’s mouth clamps shut before he can even process why.

You cut a glance back at Murray. He nods once and then slinks back inside, the door hissing shut behind him like a tomb sealing.

Then you turn back.

Dustin steps forward with deadly calm as he holds up one of the documents. “Yest’ voprosy po povodu Baumana. Nam nuzhny otvety.”

(There are questions about Bauman. We need answers.)

The soldier stammers. “Bauman’s… been missing for months. Same as his relative. We’ve got no leads.”

You lean in now, voice all but venom. “If there are any leads — anything at all — he will be dragged back by tooth and nail.”

The soldier swallows visibly.

Argyle snorts like he’s trying not to laugh. 

“Hey, man,” he mutters in his Russian lilt, slipping into English… like oil over opaque glass. “You guys should probably strap your boots. You are making us all feel very watched.”

None of the soldiers answer. The power dynamic has flipped so fast it’s practically upside-down.

Pun fucking intended.

That’s when you ask it.

Your voice is lower, curious. Casual in the way a knife resting against a throat is casual. “Where is Larry Kline?”

They blink. “What?”

“You heard me.”

The captain recovers first. “Evacuated. We think. Three days ago. Escorted. Maybe paid his way out.”

Argyle clicks his tongue. “Is that not always the way...”

You nod slowly, eyes unreadable behind your goggles. “He’ll turn up. Like rot always does.”

With that, you start to turn back towards the tank. Dustin moves to tuck the documents back into his coat, keeping in time with your steps, making to follow.

And that’s when the captain tries.

“Wait.”

You stop.

…your shoulders go stiff. 

… doubt’s creeping in.

But you shove it back, mentally refusing to give it access.

You don’t face him. 

But your voice is soft. 

Lethal.

“If you are going to speak again, then you will tell me this: you all understand that we will be visiting all households belonging to these names.” You flick the files in Dustin’s hands. “Starting with Harrington’s house.”

Dustin plucks the file out and shoves the others into his coat. “Exactly where you all decided to take a day off.”

They look as though you’ve shunned them from society.

You nod to Dustin, and he juts his head towards the tank as you all finally move to leave for good with the snap of Argyle’s commanding fingers, harsh and sharp.

Mike and Lucas, silent until now, both take a step forward in perfect sync. Their boots shuffle against the pavement like gunshots.

Lucas speaks first, flat and cold: “Do not follow.”

Then Mike, voice deeper than usual, inflection erased entirely, clips of with: “You’ve already done enough.”

They don’t even sound like themselves. They sound like soldiers who’ve seen blood and don’t mind seeing more.

It’s enough to shut everyone the fuck up.

You keep walking.

Argyle and Dustin fall in ahead, leading the path toward the tank. Mike and Lucas flank behind, perfect symmetry. Nancy shadows farther off, unreadable under her helmet and rifle. The silence between you all is thunderous.

No one looks back.

Up ahead, Steve and Jonathan are still at their posts. Right next to the tank’s entrance, stances wide, faces completely concealed. Posture brutal. Unmoving. The two of them had been there the entire time… ready to strike if need be, but knowing their place.

This had been one of their conditions, and it worked.

The soldiers stare after you, dumbfounded, silenced, scorched by your wake.

And for the first time in all of Hawkins history, the enemy walked in without a single gun raised… and they still left with the whole town burning at their feet.

💭 Hawkins, Indiana • 1986 💭

Dustin’s room smells like Cheetos and dryer sheets.

There’s a tube sock on the ceiling fan and one singular rubber band holding together two decks of Uno cards on the dresser. Something is beeping softly under the bed… you don’t ask. You know better. Besides, it’s a Tuesday.

Sort of.

If anyone were still bothering with calendars, it would say Tuesday. If anyone was still bothering with sanity, they’d be long gone.

But Claudia’s out working a double at the nursing home. Again. And you are posted up on the floor beside Dustin Henderson’s twin bed, eating Nutella straight outta the jar like it’s soup. Because what else are you supposed to do, like… cry?

“Can’t believe he let me in on his secrets that early on.”

Dustin’s across from you now, haphazardly folding up a sweatshirt into a big bag he’s definitely overstuffed. He’s been packing without even acknowledging he’s packing. You haven’t mentioned it, either. And honestly, it doesn’t feel weird.

Feels like the new normal.

Which is horrifying.

But you two aren’t talking about that.

Currently? You’re both talking about Steve’s hair. Specifically, how he keeps wearing it like he’s not twenty pounds of Aqua Net away from setting off the ozone alarm.

“I’m just saying,” you mumble, mouth full of hazelnutty chocolate, “if he gets any closer to the sun, I’m gonna need to wear shades.”

Dustin chokes on his Sprite. “He looks like a freaking shampoo commercial.”

“Correction,” you say, licking chocolate off your thumb, “he looks like he thinks he’s in a shampoo commercial. The rest of us are watching a horror film about vanity.”

Dustin snickers, all giggles and smug glances as he over-stuffs another pair of socks into the corner of his duffel. “He said it’s for wind resistance.”

You made a face at your next spoonful of Nutella. “What is…”

“The vast amount of hairspray mixed with anything but gel,” he explains, folding another shirt, “because I guess that’s off the board at all times.”

You blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

He nods solemnly. “Apparently, it ‘helps with cornering.’ His words. Not mine.”

That makes you bite back a grin. “God, he’s unbearable.”

“He’s a woman with the lust of a man.”

“He’s like masculine ego as a fragrance.”

You both dissolve into a wave of helpless, exhausted laughter. The type that crumbles at the edges. The type that doesn’t quite hide the truth.

Because outside, Hawkins is… folding in on itself.

Not on fire. Not anymore. But it’s shuddering.

People are leaving. Houses are all boarded up. Grocery shelves are becoming empty. Some families fled weeks ago, some just yesterday. Some never planned to leave at all. Some, like you, waited just long enough to make a plan that didn’t involve a screaming match at 6AM and a sheriff escort out of town.

So here you are now. Eating Nutella. Watching Dustin Henderson pack another bag that neither one of you is acknowledging.

Just another Tuesday.

Knock knock knock.

You both freeze.

It’s not loud, but it’s frantic. Scattered. Like someone knocking while also—

jiggle jiggle

“—Dustin?! Open the—goddamn—it’s—where is it—!”

“Oh my God,” Dustin mutters, eyes widening. “He’s using the spare key… finally.”

Of course he is.

You tilt your head toward the front of the house just in time to hear a door unlock and then slam against the frame as it flies open.

“Dustin—Dustin?!” Steve’s voice echoes like a drunk bat inside a gymnasium. “Are you here?! Why the hell is your walkie off?! Why aren’t you answering? I swear to God if you left—”

His voice bounces down the hallway, getting closer with each muffled bootfall.

You and Dustin just stare at each other.

“—and she left, without so much as a goddamn phone call, I’m—”

And there he is: the man of the hour.

Steve rounds the corner like he’s expecting a goddamn crime scene, only to find you sitting cross-legged in a pair of cutoff shorts and a thermal… licking Nutella off of your index finger.

And he stops so hard, his Nike’s squeak.

You blink at him a few times, eyes big and round.

Dustin lifts a single hand like it’s a pageant. “Hi.”

Steve squints. 

First at Dustin, then at you. 

Then back at Dustin.

Then, he’s got a finger raised, blinking like an overloaded computer. “What the hell—what are you—why the hell is your walkie off?! And you—” (finger shifts to you) “—what are you doing here?!”

You scoop another spoonful. “Snackin’...”

Steve looks like he’s short-circuiting. He opens his mouth, closes it, recalibrates. “Well I went to your house.”

You freeze mid-bite.

“I went to your house,” he repeats, quieter now but still heated. “And it was empty. Like, lights off, doors locked, no car, no mail. Gone.”

“Yeah,” you nod, mouth half-full. “I dropped my grandma off at the airport earlier. She’s staying in Vegas. With her boyfriend. Real guy. Wears bolo ties. Don’t ask.”

His jaw slackens. “You booked her a flight to Vegas?”

“She’s got a whole bingo strategy and an old money mafia boyfriend. I was merely the taxi and instigator.”

“…you—” He cuts himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Okay. Fine. Fine, sure. But—why was all your stuff gone?”

You blink again. “Because it’s in my truck.”

He gapes. “Why is it in your truck?!”

You tilt your head toward Dustin’s duffel. “Same reason his stuff’s in bags. We were gonna come to yours.”

There’s a big ass beat of silence.

Then Dustin, very gently, breaks it with…

“Surprise.”

Steve just stares. Eyes wide, lips parted, breathing like someone who just came out of a sprint and found out the race was imaginary.

“You were gonna—come to mine?” he repeats.

You nod, cheerful now. “Yep.”

“…and when were you gonna tell me that.”

Dustin shrugs. “I dunno. After we got there?”

“Maybe during the ‘Steve, we’re in your driveway’ phase of the plan,” you added in case that might help.

Steve’s eye twitches. He flaps his arms helplessly. “You can’t just show up without warning!”

“Why ever not?” you ask sweetly.

“Bec—” The poor man looks like he’s about to combust. “Because—because—I didn’t know? I didn’t know where you were? And could’ve—saved the damn gas, or ya know, spared me my loss of sanity…?”

Something quiet settles into the room then. 

Dustin actually looks away.

But you stare right at Steve.

And suddenly, the buzzing inside your chest… the one you've been ignoring for days, and years, the one you have labeled “just tension,” “just exhaustion,” “just the end of the world” — suddenly becomes something else.

He thought I left.

You realize it in real time. 

He thought I left and didn’t tell him. And now he doesn’t know what to do with that.

Your voice softens without meaning to. “Well hey,” you offer finally, “I didn’t.”

Steve swallows.

You don’t say anything else. Neither does he. It’s not the kind of silence that demands talking. It’s the kind that just sits between you, all heavy and electric.

Dustin, sensing a moment he wants no part of, reaches for his bag and starts zipping it… as slowly as possible.

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzip.

You glance at him.

And you nearly laugh.

But you don’t.

Steve runs a hand through his hair like he’s seconds from spontaneously combusting. “I just—I went to your house and you weren’t there, and then I drove over here and all the lights were off—”

“Because Claudia’s working a double,” you say gently.

“...didn’t she just do that?”

“You know how she is. She’s volunteering nonstop.”

He still stares at you. “Why would you not tell me where you were going?!”

Now you laugh. “I didn’t think it was a big deal!”

“It’s a huge deal.”

“…umm,” Dustin clears his throat. “Okay, you’re both at, like, an eleven outta ten noise decibel—”

Steve whirls. “Claudia knows about this, right?!”

“Yes.”

“Is she okay with it?”

“Again, yes.”

“Great.” Now he looks at you again. “And you just—what, planned to stay over for however long?”

You glance at the Nutella. Then back to him. “Would it be weird if I said until the rapture?”

Steve exhales loudly now, muttering something under his breath. Then, before either of you can speak, he crosses the room, snatches Dustin’s duffel, and slings it over his shoulder. “Let’s go. We’re leaving now.”

Dustin blinks. “Oh. Cool.”

Steve gestures at you. “Do you need anything else from the house?”

You open your mouth, but he cuts in, rushing. “Actually no, wait, if you forgot anything, we can come back. That’s fine. I just—I just meant like—if you had something super important—or like a toothbrush, or…shower stuff, but I’ve got…ya know, plenty of extra so there’s honestly like...no need to...”

He eventually trails off mid-sentence.

You’ve already begun to smile slowly.

Warmly.

Wickedly.

You had been ever since he grabbed Dustin’s bag, and now you stand, wiping your hands, screwing the Nutella lid back on. “I’ll go double check the truck.”

And then you’re moving past him… close enough for him to catch the scent of whatever soap you use.

It smells like rich firewood and vanilla and something that knocks the breath out of his lungs.

…wait, what is that—

He watches you go as his thoughts race.

…why does that smell really good.

He watches you walk.

Why the hell does she smell good right now?

Steve thinks these things like he’s not allowed to notice those things at all. Like it hurts to notice things like that.

Dustin hoists the rest of his gear up and turns to Steve, deadpan. “Are you gonna walk out there or should I call your nonexistent therapist?”

Steve doesn’t answer at first, side-eyeing him.

Dustin just raises his eyebrows.

Then Steve finally huffs. “God, you’re annoying.”

“Love you too.”

Outside, you’re already look through your stuff inside the bed of your truck. The night air smells like… woodsmoke and nerves. Steve hauls Dustin’s duffel into his BMW like it just insulted him. Then he catches the keys mid-air and turns to find you leaning against the truck, arms folded.

You’re grinning at him.

And he looks back at you like you baffle him. Like you haunt him in his sleep and in his wake.

He points a finger again. “Don’t make this weird.”

You nod solemnly. “I wouldn't dream of it.”

“...what about your uncle.”

“Don't worry. Next plan is to kidnap him when he starts feeling left out.” A cheeky smirk finds the corner of your lips. “Ya know. Assuming there's enough room at the inn.”

Steve considers that, nodding slowly. This time, he doesn't have any sort of retort for like. If anything? He seems strangely pleased at the concept of taking in Murray at his house, too.

Dustin is halfway into the car by now, now muttering something about clowns in crisis. Steve opens up the driver door, but before getting in, he glances at you.

“You double checked everything, right?”

You nod again. “All good.”

He hesitates. “And you’re coming.”

A gentle laugh is sniffed from your nose as you nod at him, opening up the driver's side door. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He lets that land. And after one last look, he gets into his own car.

“Follow me,” he mutters.

You grin wider. “I’d follow ya anywhere, Harrington.”

He doesn’t respond as you shut the door.

But in the rearview mirror, his smile gives him away.

Chapter Eight-Six

You’ve Followed Me Everywhere

April 1987 • Hawkins, Indiana {present}

The bedroom smells like nothing.

Not even dust. Not even time. Just a hollow, breathless kind of nothing, like grief got here first and sucked all the air out.

Dustin stands in the center of it, his shoulders squared, helmet on, ski mask tight. If it weren’t for the height and the posture, he’d look like a total stranger. Just another foreign soldier. Just a random body in a ghost town.

But this is Dustin Henderson. 

This is his room.

And this isn’t how he left it.

The tube sock is still on the ceiling fan. The Uno cards are still rubber-banded on the dresser. There’s even still something beeping faintly under the bed…he still doesn’t want to ask or check. 

But now there’s also a gaping wrongness here. A drawer left half-open that definitely wasn’t before. A corner of the rug curled back. The comic books were left in the wrong goddamn order, and his bed’s been stripped.

Someone’s been here. Of course they have.

Dustin knew that. They all did. 

But it still feels like standing in an open wound.

He hasn’t moved. Not since they cleared the house. Not since the others started sweeping. He’s just… standing there. Like he can still see it.

You, cross-legged on the floor.

Himself, zipping a bag too full of socks.

Steve, bursting into the room like a lunatic with a key.

But that was now over a year ago.

Now, Steve’s standing in the doorway again. Only this time, he doesn’t look like Steve Harrington. Not at first.

This time, he’s dressed in full military-grade gear. Black helmet, a tactical vest, rifle slung tight. His face is almost entirely covered, save for the goggles pushed up slightly, revealing his eyes.

Those big brown eyes. They’re the only part of him that’s familiar and resemble anything that looks like him.

They’re all Dustin needs.

The two of them don’t say anything for a minute. They just breathe. Just look. Just observe and stare and feel.

Then Steve steps into the room. It’s quiet. Not in the way things are usually quiet. This silence is intentional. Overly prepared and calculated. Reverent. Determined.

Everything they say now is barely above a whisper, just in case of any unwanted ears…

“Still smells like feet,” Steve mutters.

Dustin doesn’t laugh. He just exhales through his nose. “Didn’t think it’d be this weird.”

Steve nods slowly. “I know.”

His kid turns finally, but he doesn’t pull his mask down. “It’s not like… I didn’t know it’d be trashed. I knew it. It’s just…”

Dustin pauses to collect his thoughts.

Steve doesn’t rush him. He waits. 

“You ever have a dream where you’re back somewhere you haven’t been in years,” Dustin finally continues, “and it feels normal, but something’s… off?”

“Yeah.”

Dustin nods at the bed. “My duffel was right there.”

“I remember.”

“And you came in, yelling about my walkie.”

Steve huffs. “And you waved at me like a psychopath.”

Dustin’s voice breaks just the tiniest bit when he laughs. “I was just...trying to diffuse.”

Steve finally steps closer. Not too close. Just enough. “You did good.”

There’s a long pause now. Dustin looks back around the room, eyes tracking invisible ghosts. 

“I still see her,” he admits faintly.

Steve knows who he means, his eyes drifting to where you had sat there as Dustin packed his things.

“Eating Nutella on the floor,” Dustin continues, lost in thought. “Wearing those trendy cutoffs. She thought she was so cool.”

“She was,” Steve says quietly. 

Fondly.

“She is,” Dustin corrects, just as fond.

Steve nods.

The silence sits again, but it’s not as heavy this time.

“I thought about it a lot,” Dustin says finally. “About what it would’ve been like if we hadn’t come back. If we’d just… stayed gone.”

Steve swallows. “Would’ve been easier.”

“Would it?” Dustin asks. “I don’t think it would’ve felt real.”

Steve turns to look at him again, but Dustin’s still staring straight ahead.

“I don’t mean the good kind of real,” Dustin continues. “I mean the kind that… eats at you. Every time you try to sleep. Every time you pass a mirror and… don’t know who is looking back.”

Steve doesn’t answer.

“I’m scared for my mom.”

That’s the closest Dustin has come to crying.

Which is why Steve closes the distance finally. He drops one hand onto Dustin’s stiff shoulder, risk be damned.

“I know,” he says carefully.

Dustin’s breath stutters once.

“I left a note on the fridge. In case she ever came back.”

Steve squeezes his shoulder tighter. “Argyle said it was gone,” he finally says.

Another beat. 

Steve says nothing else. He doesn’t have to embellish.

“She read it.” Dustin’s voice breaks. “At least I know she read it.”

They both stand there a long time. Neither saying much. Neither needing to at all.

But whenever Steve finally moves his hand from Dustin’s shoulder, it’s only to offer his hand a firm squeeze. Dustin takes it without hesitation.

They don’t hug. They don’t cry.

They just squeeze hands like brothers.

Like war buddies.

Because that’s what they are.

They’re still holding that handshake when Nancy appears at the edge of the doorway. She’s still a shadow. All black gear. No visible face. Unmistakably her to your group, but not to anyone outside of it.

She gives a small nod. A silent gesture.

The coast is clear. No bugs.

They nod back.

Steve lets go of Dustin’s hand, and the two of them fall into silent steps behind Nancy as she rounds the corner.

You’re already inside, moving in from the back with Mike and Lucas. None of you say anything. You’re all dressed the same, in full tactical. Totally unrecognizable. 

Argyle is the only one speaking right now, but he’s still just barely whispering, now crouched down in Claudia’s bedroom, carefully sweeping for signs of disturbance.

He shakes his head slowly.

Dustin watches from across the hall, and his throat bobs harshly. If there was ever a note left behind, then it’s long gone by now. Scrapped. Discarded. Burned or tossed.

That’s what makes him feel sick.

You step up beside him now, gently and without a word, and then your hands come down on both his shoulders, firm and grounding and resilient.

Dustin remains rooted to the spot as you give him one good shake. That’s all he needs to snap out of it enough. He straightens up, blinks away whatever he has to… No words still. No risking cracks in his voice. Just soldiers.

Just aliases.

Just moving forward. 

And that’s exactly what all of you do right now. Move forward. Jonathan is the final sweep, moving into the room and giving a curt, practiced salute. Steve salutes back, then juts his head towards the front door so that both him and Jonathan can walk up ahead in order to flank you from up front, just a few paces ahead.

Mike and Lucas step into formation behind Dustin and Argyle, who are in the middle as Nancy exists last in true sniper fashion, whipping her head in all directions as she makes sure that no one else followed… before marching forward to bring up the rear with her brothers. One blood, one not.

Jonathan opens the door, letting you all make your way back inside the tank. Lucas instantly moves to sit beside Max, who’s seated on a bench. She still doesn’t look, or even speak. She hasn’t since you all entered the house. She’s upright, still helmeted, completely disguised, leaning softly into the boys who now both flank her from either side, now that Mike has moved to join them.

Max has been awake now for nine months. But it does not feel real.

None of this does.

Hopper and Joyce are still seated, eyes sharp behind the viewfinders, silent and solemn as the grave, while Dustin passes them to move up towards the front.

Jonathan and Nancy step in last, their weapons drawn, unblinking. Murray is stationed by the rear hatch. His jaw clenched. His gloved hands steady. His rage unreadable.

Finally, Argyle steps forward, one hand on the overhead handlebar. “All clear,” he murmurs in Russian, voice low, steady, all business again.

You nod in return.

But then, you feel presence behind you, and Steve’s already right there, moving to stand in front of you.

You didn’t need to hear him approach. You felt it. In your bones. In your chest. In the way that the air shifted just to make room for him.

Steve steps in front of you without a word. Fully masked, uniformed, unreadable to anyone else.

But he lifts one hand slowly and tugs his own goggles up, just enough. Just for you.

His beautiful brown orbs for eyes find yours. Suddenly, you forget the war gear.

Forget the tank.

Forget the silence.

Because those eyes…?

Those eyes could burn down the world.

Steve reaches for you, gloved fingers brushing the edge of your mask. And carefully, deliberately, he peels it back. Goggles. Scarf. Everything that keeps you from him.

Anything that stands between you.

Then he takes you in. Like he hasn’t seen you in years. Like he needs to memorize you again just to survive the next hour, and get like there isn’t any rush at all… as if he knows how to balance the contrast. 

Your lashes flutter as two of his fingers come to rest just beneath your chin, and for a beat… you both forget how ruined the world is.

How armed you are.

How watched you might be.

And then he leans in to brush his lips with the whisper of a kiss against your own.

Featherlike. Fragile. Completely devastating.

The kind of kiss that doesn’t just say I love you.

The kind of kiss that says I’ll still follow you everywhere. 

Your breath catches, but you don’t make a sound.

And neither does he.

By the time anyone turns around, both your masks are back on and you’re already stepping into formation like nothing happened.

But your lips are still burning.

And his eyes…

They never once leave your face.

The others don’t notice. Or maybe they do. But it doesn’t matter. The tank is back in motion before anyone speaks. Robin and Eddie are already at the front of the tank. Both suited up, only their eyes showing.

Dustin moves past them, climbing in. Robin reaches a hand out to squeeze his elbow while Eddie nods at him slowly. Nothing needs to be said. It’s all in the eyes.

Lucas and Mike keep their seats beside Max. Still silent as if they’re not safe inside the privately shared space.

Joyce and Hopper don’t turn. Don’t blink. Murray’s eyes stay sharp as he seals the hatch. Jonathan stays posted right beside Nancy, both their rifles ready.

And finally, Steve looks at you again from behind his alias appearance. Then he looks forward after you’ve nodded.

The tank engine hums back to life.

It’s March 20th in Hawkins, now just a ghost town in the rearview. And you’re still following him further down into the rabbit hole.

Always.

Always.

Always.

END OF CHAPTER

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