girls, will you please take the wheel?

A drive that normally would’ve taken fifteen minutes, took Steve seven to get to you.  

He ended up in Forest Hills. The trailer park didn’t have a sign at the entrance anymore, it was probably kicked down by a bunch of kids or just withered and broke down with age and neglect— how ironic. 

The park was quiet, everywhere was quiet now after Vecna split the town in four and the military got their hands inside. There were curfews in place at night and patrols on streets that were busy during the day. Everything was locked in tight, but the party found a way. 

Steve found a way.

Despite the quietness, Steve’s hackles are still raised (and always will be) as he keeps a pocket knife in his pocket and the bat in his trunk. 

Walking up the steps of the trailer,  the home is an eerie sight to see. The windows are shut and the curtains drawn, yet there is a dirt yellow hue of light shining through the cracks of the linen. He can see your shadow, can see you pacing back and forth from the window. Your body covers the light every few seconds as you walk across the room. 

He knocks on the door three times like he promised. 

Don’t answer the door unless you hear those three knocks,” He tells you over the phone. “I mean it, honey—if you hear three knocks, then you know it’s me.”

“Thr-three knocks.” You repeat breathily.

You open the door— pupils dilated and watery, your hands gripping the old wood like it was the only thing keeping you upright—just enough for Steve to slip in. Closing the door with the back of his foot, he gives you a once-over, but before he can even turn around to twist the lock or ask what happened, you’re hugging him tightly. 

There’s blood in your hair. He can taste it as he presses a kiss at the top of your head. Steve shushes your cries. Rubbing his hand on your back up and down, reassuring you that everything will be okay. 

That you’re safe. 

That he’s here. 

You’re grasping his jacket like it’s your lifeline, rubbing your face into him as if you can crawl into his skin and hide there. Steve lets you stay in this moment for as long as you need to. Sitting his chin against your head as your arms squeeze his body tight. 

The trailer is dark and cluttered. The couch is a bruised leather that’s seen better days and the coffee table is covered in pizza boxes, old beer and liquor bottles. There’s clothes scattered over the living room floor, and Steve can already put two and two together with the little clothes you have on. 

The kitchen light is turned on, that same burnt yellow hue Steve saw from the window. It flickers like an eye twitch as it lights up the common area. 

He cups your cheeks in his hands and gently moves your face from his chest. Tilting your head up to let your eyes meet his, he asks, “Where is he?” 

You lick your dry lips before swallowing. Your eyes are not staying on his for long  as you grip his wrists tightly. Your hands are sticky against his pulse, he knows that the minute you let go,  you’ll leave a sticky bloody handprint in your wake. 

 Eyes closing with a shuddered breath, you duck your head down and whisper, “He’s in the kitchen.”

Steve nods his head. Placing a soft kiss on your forehead, he tastes the bitter metallic again. He  lingers there for a few seconds longer, as he hears you release a shudder of a breath. Stay here, he whispers,  as he slowly walks over to the kitchen. 

He couldn’t see it at first. Not with where he was standing, or with the couch and kitchen bar in the way of his vision. But as soon as  Steve walks toward the corner of the small U shaped kitchen, he can see the mess of  blood that has slithered its way from its resting place. 

There’s a dead  man laying on the kitchen laminate with blank eyes and a knife in his neck. 

Again, there’s not much that phases Steve Harrington anymore—not even when his ex-something calls him about a dead body in the dead of night. 

He feels you before he sees you. Your hands wrapping around his right arm with your cheek smushed against it. You both look down at the body. Steve can feel you shaking, can feel your pulse pumping from how tight your wrist is pressed into his skin. 

You tried your best to clean up the mess from what Steve can tell. There’s dishrags and kitchen towels on the floor, stained crimson. The tile that was once a beige now covered  with streaks of deep red. You really did try to clean it up yourself—but the artery at the neck is a bloody thing, and a couple of towels aren’t  gonna cut it. 

He can tell you realized the same thing, as there’s still an undisturbed puddle of blood that creeps closer and closer to Steve’s shoes. 

“What are we gonna do?” The question comes out hoarse from your lips. Steve looks down at you, you're still staring at the body that is still against the brown wooden cabinets. Steve says nothing at first, instead, he takes off his corduroy jacket and slips it over your shoulders for your comfort and modesty. 

If you didn’t kill him, Steve would’ve done the job no question if you asked him to. 

“I’m gonna clean this up, and you’re gonna take a shower.”

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion as your eyes flicker from Steve’s face to the man you just killed minutes before. Steve walks in front of him to cover your line of sight. For you to focus on his face and not the death behind him. 

“You’re gonna go shower. When you’re done, you’re gonna pour the bleach I have in the van everywhere—on the walls, on the temperature knobs and down the drain. I’m gonna take care of him, honey, I’m gonna make it go away.” 

He knows the words that are leaving his lips aren’t registering in your mind, but Steve tries his best to bring you back with gentle rubs of his thumb on your covered shoulder. You blink up at him once he finally gets your attention. He smiles softly and repeats the words he told you before. You fiercely shake your head once he finishes.  

“N-no…I wanna help.” 

“Honey, you don’t need to do that—”

“I know,” you start. The words come out louder than you maybe intended to, but you don’t apologize or falter your eyes from his gaze. There’s something behind them that Steve can’t decipher whether it’s fear or determination—perhaps both. 

“After what he did I–” Your eyes water as they go distant again, Steve rubs his thumb on your shoulder to bring you back, “I want to do this.”

With a final nod, Steve lets you help him. Because who is he to deny you of something you want?

Steve asks where your clothes are and you tell him it's on the floor next to the couch. He walks over to get them, asking if you want to put them on or throw them away. You shake your head, hands tightening over his corduroy jacket like armor.

He zips you up inside the brown jacket instead. 

He tells you to lock the door behind him and to wait for his three knocks again, promising he isn’t leaving you. Steve heads for the SQUAWK van and opens the back doors to gather the container filled with cleaning supplies, black trash bags, rope and gloves. He grips the shovel and axe under his arm as his hands are full.

Looking around to make sure everyone is still in their homes, quiet and locked away, he heads back with his hands full and knocks three times with the foot of his shoe. You open the door, less afraid than the first time but still uneasy.

Steve tells you everything that he’s gonna do each step of the way. 

“I’m going to take the rest of his clothes off him before we get started.” 

He hands you the extra pairs of gloves he brought, and places the other on himself. He tells you to open one of the trash bags—used for gathering dead leaves for fall— as he strips the remainder of  Jack’s (the name of the dead fuck)  clothes from his body. There’s military tattoos across his chest, and a branding on his right shoulder. Steve puts his clothes in the bag as well as yours. 

The knife goes into another bag, a smaller one that Steve’s packed and tossed to the side. 

“Okay ,honey, we have to put him in one of the bags  just in case someone’s watching.” Steve knows no one isn't, and that even if they were, the residents of Forest Hills are a quiet bunch that keep their mouths shut after what happened during Spring Break. 

After how the town they call home treated someone from their community. 

Wayne Munson left Hawkins after Dustin confirmed his son’s death—letting the man know of    Eddie’s  bravery despite the rumors of evil and deceit. Wayne left Forest Hills when half the population did, and moved closer to his job at the plant that was a town away. No one from Forest Hills  ever complained about the Munson boy, in fact, he was well loved. Aside from that one time when he stole a RV.

 So after all of that, they realized that what happens in Forest Hills stays in Forest Hills.

It was the main reason why Jack was stationed in this trailer park—to keep an eye on the distant community. 

Steve tells you that he’s gonna drag the body out back to the woods, where he will have to drain the remaining blood from his body, so he can cut him up into smaller pieces. 

“Does this place have a back door?” He is glad of your nod once it comes, “Good. That’ll make it easier for us.”

Steve’s dad took him hunting once, when he was ten  years old and still a boy full of hope and naivete. Going hunting was something his dad did every year—he and a bunch of his business friends would fly out to a buddies property  and they’d all get together, smoke cigars,  snort coke and justify killing something innocent. This was the first year his father decided to bring Steve along for the ride. 

 “It was a way for you to bond with him.” his mother had said, and at Steve’s young age he believed her. He knew once he got older that it was just his dad’s way of forcing him into a man.

His dad made him stab the deer in the neck after the first shot sent it to the ground—wounded and unable to escape.  His dad made sure Steve didn’t look away as the light left its eyes, making him help cut the poor thing open and field dress it. Hands bloody and fingers trembling with silent tears falling down his face, Steve tossed the guts and organs into the wet grass for the earth and its animals to consume.

Hours later, when the meat was served, Steve threw up on the table. Right over the cooked venison, mashed potatoes and green beans, and right on the cashmere tablecloth. His dad was angry and embarrassed.

Steve was sick for three days after that—would puke at the smell of food or even looking at it. Every time, he would just think about the wounded stare of the deer as he killed it. 

His mother forbade his father from ever taking him out hunting again—as if his father would ever do it again, with how much Steve embarrassed him, reeking of vomit. 

But that never meant Steve ever forgot how to do it—how to skin and dress a dead animal.  His dad would quiz him randomly throughout his adolescence. When the whiskey sat in his stomach too long, when he was angry—trying to prove something to Steve and let him know that he was still the man.

Even when Steve was fifteen, when his parents surprised him with the decision of staying for Thanksgiving, he knew it was too good to be true. That they wouldn’t just be a happy family and be normal. No, his dad took him to the shed out back and told Steve that he was in charge of the turkey—the live turkey that gobbled and strutted on the concrete floor of the shed, picking at anything that it thought was food.  

Steve had to kill it. Had to ring its neck and cut its feathers. He had to skin it, drain it and dress it all. 

That’s why it's so easy for him to do it now. 

That’s why it’s so easy to tie Jack’s feet together with rope, to throw the length of the end of the rope over a sturdy tree trunk branch and pull, until his body hangs in the air. 

That’s why it was so easy to slit his throat the rest of the way that you had started and watch as his blood fell into the hole of the rotten earth you dug up like he told you to. 

It doesn’t take long for him to drain out, with a good amount of the blood already spilt on the kitchen floor. 

Cutting his limbs doesn’t take too long either. Thanks to  Steve’s own paranoia of keeping his weapons sharp and the ptsd-nightmare induced insomnia keeping him up, aided him in this time of need.

 You throw up once Jack’s right arm is cut—his shoulder to hand separated from his body like a snap of a twig.  Steve doesn’t ask if you're sure that you want to keep doing this. He doesn’t ask if you want to take him up on that shower he suggested and sit in the van where a thermos full of your favorite tea and a granola bar is waiting for you. He knows that you want to see it through. So, he simply rubs your back and praises you with how good you’re doing, how you're almost done. And you nod at each comment. 

There’s seven bags filled with stones and knotted tight, each one with a single body part—leg, leg, arm, arm, head and torso.

 He lets you do the honors of chopping the fucker’s dick off and smiles proudly as you slam the axe down repeatedly on the genitals. 

The military had already laid their tape, searched and took their samples for research from Lover’s Lake, and no one swims in these waters since a teen died in it. So Steve knows this is a better place than any to leave the body. 

There’s a big part of him that’s hoping that the crack of the Upside Down is still there.  So when the body parts all meet the bottom of the lake, it’ll open up and hungrily take it for the demogorgons and fucked bats to devour. 

It takes an hour and a half to clean the blood and everything else in the trailer—to make it seem like Jack's death never happened and that you were never there. 

The smell of  bleach and ammonia burned Steve’s nose, made you cough and your eyes water, but it got the job done of erasing what once happened.

You’ve been quiet the entire time, probably due to shock. Only nodding your head when Steve spoke to you, praised you or gave you instructions. His jacket is still on your frame, now coated in blood and dirt, but you don’t take it off. 

With a final once over of the place, he flicks the light switch, and the kitchen light stutters before it finally goes out. 

He walks you to the van, chucking the bag of clothesin the back before opening the passenger seat for you. Both the driver and passenger side are already covered in tarp, and he makes sure you're buckled before handing you the thermos of tea. 

Your hand finds his as he gets into the driver seat. He kisses the top of it before turning the ignition and driving away.

—

Steve burns the bag of clothes and shoes  in the rusted burn barrel in his backyard. The black knotted bag is hidden under the leaves and twigs he added for kindling. The two of you watch the fire engulf the clothes into ash. 

Your right hand never leaves his as the left hands him the cigarette he had previously lit. Once the cigarette is finished and Steve flicks the butt end into the burning barrel, is when you finally speak. 

“I’m tired.” 

Steve takes you back inside, and upstairs into his bedroom. He  doesn’t falter in his step when your clasped hand pulls him toward the bathroom.

 He watches as you shakily reach for the zipper of his corduroy. Steve covers your hand with his as he slowly reaches for the silver link. 

“Is this okay?” He whispers softly. 

You nod your head and try your best to give him a smile for good measure. 

Steve gives you a reassuring nod as he pulls the zipper down, slipping the jacket off your shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. He lifts you slowly onto his bathroom counter, before kneeling in front of you. He takes off your socks, covered in dirt and blood from your feet and kisses your knees, telling you how brave you are. 

When clothes are shed and the faucet is turned as hot as you want it. When your head meets the shower’s hard pressure of water, is when you finally tell Steve what happened—as the blood, dirt and grime slide down the drain. 

You tell Steve that you knew him, that  Jack would patrol around the same time you volunteered at the school. That you guys talked and flirted and laughed with one another,  and that when he asked you on a date— you said yes. 

You tell Steve that it went fine. That when you guys spoke and flirted on the phone a couple days after, he asked if he could come over. 

“I told him no. Despite going on a date with him, and despite seeing him often when I volunteered—I didn’t want him to know where I lived, ya know?” The words leave your lips quietly, as Steve shampoos your hair. He hums in understanding, afraid if he speaks you’ll go quiet again. 

Your eyes are closed and your back is turned to him—it’s easier that way for you to confess what happens.

You tell him that the night started out fine. That the both of you drank booze and laughed and listened to music on his record player. That you got close on the couch and kissed and kissed some more. But then, he got too touchy too fast. 

And this is when you finally turn to him, as he lets the water wash away the soapy residue in your hair. Your eyes pleadingly look at him,  “At first I was fine with it, and then after a while I just…wasn’t.” You tell him that you didn’t know why you felt uncomfortable, that you came to his place to fuck him, so you didn’t mean to feel uncomfortable but you just were, and you didn’t want to do it anymore. 

Steve nods and listens. Rubs your back and holds you tight as you shake. 

You tell him that you got up from the couch to create space, acting like everything was fine and that you were just thirsty. He told you where the cups were when you asked, and as you poured tap water into your glass, that’s when you saw the kitchen knife in between the dirty dishes in the sink. 

“He got annoyed by how long I was taking. Came into the kitchen and tried to kiss my neck and keep going, but got angry when I said I didn’t want to.” The words come out shaky as you sob. Steve kisses your shoulder and lets you grip him as tight as you need to. 

You tell him that Jack got angry. That Jack got aggressive. That Jack hurt you. And that is when you stabbed him. 

“I didn’t know who else to call.” You finish with a loud sniffle.

Steve pulls you back from him, just enough so he can look you in the eyes when he speaks. 

“I’m glad you called me, honey.”

“You did the right thing.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

And Steve repeats those words,  again and again and again as he glides himself at your entrance and slides inside you.

 You asked him if he could, whispered it against his lips with the prettiest please he’s ever heard—and who is Steve to deny you of something you want?

He tells you that you’re his brave girl as he fucks you against the shower wall. Lets you grip him tightly across his shoulders, against his neck and in his hair. Groaning at the sharp crescent cuts you leave in his skin and the stinging bite mark on his neck. 

 He tells you how smart you are and that you didn’t do anything wrong. 

Steve tells you he loves when you're close, and you mutter it back to him when he comes inside you. 

The both of you lay in his bed, still naked and intertwined. Your hand on his heart and his hand cupping the back of your head. Steve tells you there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you and he watches as your eyes slowly close and drift off to sleep to the sound of the fire cackling in the burn barrels. 

Steve will have to get rid of the clothes that lay on the bathroom floor in the morning, will have to scrub and clean the shower just in case. And he knows a guy in Forest Hills who will get rid of Jack’s motorcycle for fifty bucks and a gram of weed.  

But for now, Steve will lay at your side and watch you sleep. 

There’s nothing that can phase Steve anymore. And when it comes to you, he will make sure that nothing will happen to you again. 

Currently, you're most unsure of why you're still at the hockey house. They won their game tonight. Another easy accomplishment for the university's team, unsurprisingly led by Steve, their superstar player and shoo-in for captain next year. You've heard that he's already getting scouted by NHL teams, but his golden boy repute means that he'll finish his degree before heading off to a fruitful career as a professional hockey player.

You scoff at the thought. You try not to let the jealousy build in your body, but you can't help it — Steve's gotten everything he's wanted since the beginning of time. You don't need to know him to prove your point; he just radiates that very fact.

So, again. Why are you laying on a lounge chair in the backyard of the hockey house, fully knowing the party is dead and there's nothing left for you to do but go home?

You know you could go inside, make eye contact, and flirt with any one of the remaining players who are sober enough to make a conscious decision, and find enough warmth for the night to get by.

But you don't want to do that.

For some stupid, pathetic reason, you're holding out for him, and you have no idea why.

You sigh and pull the cigarette from behind your ear, then grab the lighter from your bra. You feel like you've made an idiot of yourself over the past few weeks. Ever since Steve initially propositioned you, you've slept with three of his teammates, for no reason other than wanting him to know what it feels like to want something. But each time you fucked them, it was boring, wearisome, and you thought about Steve the entire time.

You hate it.

You think you hate Steve, too, but you know that's not true, either.

You're taking a drag and staring at your shoes when the man who's been haunting your thoughts finally makes an appearance in the dark backyard. There's still a string of lights up, a pitiful attempt at college students making their outdoor space look presentable, not to mention the litter of empty, crushed beer cans and solo cups.

Steve furrows his eyebrows when he recognizes you, immediately worrying that you're passed out with a lit cigarette in your hand, or too drunk to get home. When he approaches you, you smirk lazily at him. He swallows.

"Harrington," you greet, your throat dry from its lack of use. You don't know how long ago you came out here, but you do know that at some point, you decided you'd had enough of the loud speakers and beer pong, and the guy on the basketball team who kept pawing at your short skirt was getting seriously old.

"Are you alright?" Steve asks, gesturing to your sluggish profile. You shrug your shoulders before taking another drag from your cigarette, then wordlessly offer it to Steve. He shakes his head.

"Fine," you murmur, sitting up so your back is against the length of the chair, "You?"

"Just doing a sweep before heading to bed. Making sure there's no one lingering from the party."

"Am I a lingerer?" you ask, tossing your cigarette in the grass and crushing it with your shoe.

Steve lifts a hand to run it through his messy hair. He's exhausted. You can see it in the bags beneath his eyes.

"You don't live here, so by definition, you're lingering, yeah."

You hum. You can take a hint. You know when you're not wanted somewhere.

"I'll get out of here, then." you say, preparing to stand. Steve reaches out and clasps a hand around your wrist — gently, like you could still pull yourself away if you wanted to.

"Why are you still here?"

Your tongue pokes out to lick your lips. Steve watches, unabashedly, and feels his pants tighten at the sight of it. You want to smirk, because he's one of the easier and more enjoyable men you've played with.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" you purr, leaning towards him, batting your eyelashes. "You were begging to fuck me just a few weeks ago."

Steve laughs, all breathy and without the humor. It's an immediate shot to your ego.

"Are you drunk?" he asks, and you shake your head too quickly. You're not; the shots you had when you got here had worn off hours ago. "Then why are you... I think I'm just a little... confused."

You snort. Try not to roll your eyes. Maybe the golden boy nickname isn't so far anyway.

"You're gonna turn down fucking me when you were all but ready to pay me for it, like, a month ago?"

"I'm not that desperate," Steve mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face, "You were so uninterested then, I don't understand what changed."

You shrug. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Steve says stubbornly, "It does. It matters a lot, actually."

You sigh loudly, then shake your head.

"This is stupid," you mutter, standing up. He doesn't stop you this time. "Don't come to me for that shit ever again."

When you start to walk away, Steve's right behind you, and you wish you're strong enough to push him.

"C'mon, don't do this," you hear him say as you're approaching the sliding glass door. "It's late. Just stay here for the night."

You stop, then turn to look at him with a quirked brow.

He shakes his head. "We're not doing anything though. Not tonight, anyway."

"I don't understand what your problem is, Harrington."

He laughs, tilting his head back to expose his neck. You want to lean forward and mouth at his skin, pressing messy kisses to the length of it all the way down to his chest.

"I don't have a problem."

"Most guys would never shut me down," you say, crossing your arms. "I could go in there and ask any one of your teammates to pound me into their mattress and—"

Suddenly, Steve's hand is on your mouth, a warning look in his eyes. You grin. Even if he can't see it, you know he can feel it from behind his palm.

"Lower your voice," he mumbles. "Will you please just stay? You can take my bed, I'll sleep on the floor, I'll send you off with some breakfast in the morning and everyone will think that we fucked, and it'll be fine and dandy. Yeah? That good enough for you?"

You dart your tongue out to lick his hand. He flinches and instantly retreats, making you laugh.

"God, you're such a baby. Afraid you're gonna get cooties?"

"No."

"Take me upstairs," you say, and Steve's eyes brighten. He must really have some kind of white knight complex and it makes you sigh. "But you're not sleeping on the floor, because we're not 12 years old, and just for the record, I'm not doing this for some kind of reputation maintenance thing."

Steve hums as his hand politely finds the small of your back, guiding you up the stairs and to his bedroom.

"We can sleep in the same bed as long as you promise not to make a move." he murmurs. You stop in front of a wooden door in the middle of the long hallway, waiting as Steve pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks it.

"I would never do that," you whisper. "Seriously, do you think I'm a monster?"

Steve doesn't say anything to that, and instead just leads you into his room. He locks the door behind you and you glance at him. He's already moved on to emptying his pockets onto his desk, getting rid of his wallet and keys. There's not much to Steve's bedroom, just a bed, a dresser, and a desk, but it's clean enough for a college athlete. Your eyes glaze over the small collection of pictures tacked up on the wall over his desk, then some of the hockey paraphernalia throughout the room.

"You want something to wear to bed?"

You look to Steve and nod, and he tosses you a large, worn tee-shirt. You bite your lip as you start to strip your clothes off and you hear Steve curse to himself, making you smirk.

"You could've gone to the bathroom for that, you know," he borderline whines. You grin at him in your bra. He groans and turns around.

When you've shed the rest of your clothing and slipped his shirt on, you tell him he's in the clear. He rolls his eyes and quickly puts his own sweats on, then joins you in the bed.

It's not quite awkward, but you're not exactly going straight for cuddling, not that you had anticipated Steve to be the type. He clicks the light off and lays down next to you, both of you silent as the late hour finally catches up to you.

A few minutes later, Steve breaks the silence.

"Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me tonight?" he whispers.

You blink your eyes open and think for a moment.

You don't have the courage to be honest with yourself, which means you most definitely don't have the courage to be honest with Steve.

You roll onto your side to face him. He does the same, and you lick your lips.

"No," you murmur, hands resting between your cheek and the pillow. "Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me the night of that party?"

Steve closes his eyes and scooches closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. You're a little surprised by the contact, but you tell yourself you let it happen because you're tired and it feels nice.