#babe bauman

Robin’s head hung, her breathing shallow, wheezing from the kick to her gut. She was definitely riding the struggle bus, but she was sticking it out and masking her fear as best she could.

If I can hide my sexuality, she thought to herself, then I sure as hell can keep these fears in the closet with it.

Steve? Not lookin’ so hot.

Well, technically, he still looked like a walking Abercrombie ad in a slutty little sailor uniform that you’d tried all summer not to gawk at and hated the fact that Billy’s whole “don’t cream your pants” now all but sang inside your head since the first week of June. Not that he noticed. Steve was already livid, as soon as he found out you’d be working at the mall that summer doing contractor work all the way into the fall. 

Because he was still so hung up on Nancy that he couldn’t freaking think straight, and you were still the literal bane of his existence who had squashed his dreams with a glass of Smirnoff on ice and an asexual uncle who had a strange knack for calling people out like a witch doctoring love.

“Steve, Steeeeeve,” Murray had jeered, wry and sarcastic, that fateful night that Nancy and Jonathan sat in his bunker with you both seated across from them. “We like Steeeeeeve… but we don’t looooove Steve…”

The words haunt you now, no longer funny. And the consequences of your harmless actions are now for every time that Steve looks at you with pure disdain, wearing a soured expression that morphs his pretty face into something ugly anytime you’re near.

Currently, though? You’re the least of his woes.

Right now, Steve’s lip was split. Bad. One eye was already purpling, swelling shut, and hiding one of his beautiful brown irises. But that wasn’t what stood out.

It was the way he kept looking at you.

…no, not looking. Scowling.

Because you weren’t supposed to be there. 

That was the subtext behind every bloodied glance he tossed your way. You weren’t supposed to have followed them into the underground elevator. You weren’t supposed to now be Robin’s second set of eyes when he didn’t even think that they needed another body in the field. You weren’t supposed to exist in his warzone or his personal life. Not the smartass girl who always had paint on her elbows and a comeback on her tongue, with way too sharp of cheekbones and a natural Pilates body that came from hard work and manual labor.

But there you fuckin’ were.

You were right here. 

And you were walking, not even fighting your restraints the entire time that they shoved you forward. You barely rolled your eyes or gave them the satisfaction of a response if they barked at you in Russian tongues.

But then one of them made a move. 

Quick. 

Brutal.

Uncalled for.

A gloved hand struck Steve across the face.

“Achk,” he hissed before swallowing it right after the strike.

You flinched instinctively. Visibly, clear as day. Not at the hit, but at the blind rage that newly ignited in your chest.

“Oh you can fuck off.”

You spat the words with a brunt kick to the shin of the soldier who’d struck Steve’s face — right before you literally spat in the fucker’s eyes, making him recoil.

“Hey—” Steve growled suddenly, voice low but cracking. 

It was partially meant for you, to scold you for lashing out so irrationally. But it was also at them. Because now one of the guards had grabbed your elbow too hard, their fingers now digging into old bruises you didn’t even remember earning.

But you kept your chin high.

Something different in you had snapped. Not for yourself. You could’ve endured your bruises. Hell, you had endured them. 

But Steve?

Steve Harrington, who barely looked at you without a glare in his eyes, and who hated how close you stood to Robin behind the ice cream counter all summer, who couldn’t even stand the sound of your voice? 

He didn’t fucking deserve that.

He might hate you, but you didn’t hate him.

Not even close.

Because you’d already started falling for him. Quietly. Slowly. Painfully.

And you would’ve let the world punch you out cold before you let them touch him again.

The guard didn’t release you.

The other one looked way too close to Steve for your liking.

So you moved first, still seeing red.

Quick, vicious, without thought, your foot snapped up and you drove your heel hard into his uniformed kneecap. The Soviet let out a howl, faltering just enough and causing your entire body to spin away, despite your arms being bound. It wasn’t enough to break free. But it was enough to make a goddamn point.

And enough to make the others snap.

Three guards converged.

“HEY—!” Steve barked, twisting against the second man’s grip, yanking at his own restraints.

“Undeterred bitch slaps, huh?” you sneered at the guard while he was down. “What is this, junior year?”

They didn’t strike you. Not yet. Just turned you sharply, roughly, now dragging you now in a different direction, toward a different hallway. Cold and narrow and unfamiliar.

Robin’s head shot up. “Wait—no! She didn’t do anything!”

“Where the hell are you taking her!?” Steve bellowed.

But you were already about to be taken around the corner.

“I said—” Steve’s now voice cracked violently, raw in the echo chamber of the hallway. “Where the fuck are you taking her!?”

You still didn’t let them hear you scream yet. Nah, instead? You just laughed. Snorted, breathless and loud. 

“God, you assholes really are this cliché, huh?” you rasped, dragging your heels through every foot of polished concrete. “Dark hallway. Secret base. Matching boots. Is this where the Bond villain speech goes?”

“Shut your mouth,” one of them muttered in English, thickly accented. His hand slammed into your shoulder to keep you moving.

You winked at him. “That’s what your mom said last night.”

Your reward for the comedy was a bitch slap and swift punch to the ribs. A hard one. Now you staggered.

Didn’t drop.

Didn’t stop.

Just staggered and grunted as they hauled you off.

“BAUMAN?!” Robin shrieked in the distance.

“LET HER GO, LET HER GO!” Steve’s infuriated shouts followed hers, already sounding father away.

That’s when they opened a door to the room.

The metal shrieked on its hinges, and that’s the last Steve and Robin saw of you for hours until they were drugged out of their minds.

Room 3B – Interrogation Unit

“WHERE is she!?” Steve shouted again.

He’d been screaming since they threw him into the chair, and this had been one of the constants flying from his mouth. His hands were shackled now. Not zip-ties. Real steel. 

The kind that cut.

Robin was next to him, shaking but upright. Her nose was now bleeding, her sailor shirt was torn, but her eyes were molten.

“I don’t know what the hell you think this is,” she snapped at the broad-shouldered officer in front of her, “but if you think we’re gonna just sit here while you play footsie with fascism, you’ve got the wrong Americans—”

The officer struck her.

Steve roared. “Don’t you fucking touch her!”

He bucked forward, teeth bared. It earned him a baton to the chest, fast and sharp. His back slammed into the chair behind him, knocking heads with Robin.

“Steve,” she panicked. “Steve?! Steve, you okay—?!”

He just kept glaring.

He just wouldn’t stop.

No matter how hard he wheezed now, Steve wouldn’t back down.

“Where is she,” he asked again. Lower this time. Deadly and now stated before re-escalating. “Where the hell is she, where. Where—?”

“Why are you separating us?!” Robin chimed in with her own unhinged panic.

They didn’t answer. 

They only circled. 

One translated for the other. Names were tossed out at random but with purpose. 

Sam Owens.

Jim Hopper.

Murray Bauman

Experiment 011.

Steve just spat at their boots. “Go to hell.”

Robin laughed weakly. “Think we’re going first.”

The questions just kept on coming. The hits, too. But nothing broke them yet.

Not until a sound.

Far away, through the wall, muffled.

A yell.

Robin’s eyes went wide.

Steve felt his soul coil.

It was your voice.

The sound was short. Wordless. But not angry anymore, no longer defiant or sharply clever.

Now it was panicked.

Then it turned into a scream.

Robin choked on a petrified sob.

But Steve saw red.

He lunged.

The metal restraints scraped flesh from his wrists as he threw all his weight forward, knocking the chair off balance, crashing to the ground, his voice an absolute bellow as he roared your name down the hall.

And that was the moment they knew they had leverage.

One of the officers, blond, maybe thirty, calculating… looked down at Steve’s collapsed body, then looked at Robin.

She was pale now.

So was Steve.

“Maybe next,” the officer said simply.

Then? They brought the syringes.

Not seven minutes later in Room 3B, you were silent now.

Somewhere. 

Elsewhere. 

Bruised in a cold cell.

All alone.

“S’like fighting the crack all over again,” you darkly muttered to yourself, slurring.

And the accuracy of that statement was insanity, really... 

Because it was true, and now you couldn’t help but feel like this situation might be similar to what your fetus self experienced as it dodged remnants of hard drugs, all through an umbilical cord after you’d been conceived as a careless accident, then carried on for months as a crack baby.

The sound of distant shouting, Russian and sharp, sounded off from far away…

You didn’t know what they were doing to them. Your friends.

You were worried about your friends.

And you didn’t know what they’d heard. But you weren’t making a sound anymore, but they were and you didn’t shout back.

Because you couldn’t.

The scream had stolen your breath. The pain, your voice. It’d been winded from your lungs, after they’d shocked your whole brain with a harsh zap of a machine for not ten seconds.

You now laid on your side, wrists raw, arms curled against your chest, knees pulled in like a child waiting for a storm to pass.

They hadn’t asked you many questions.

Not yet, at least.

For now, they just wanted you separated.

Steve’s voice, when you heard it, had been… wrong. 

It had sounded furious and protective and wild, like something feral. Not like the bitter boy who’d brushed past you all summer at Scoops with cold shrugs and rolled eyes.

Not the boy you’d scarred last autumn.

Not the boy who thought you talked too much.

Not the boy who never once remembered to check the paint room’s lock, and always pretended it wasn’t because he knew you were sleeping in there between shifts.

No. That boy didn’t exist anymore.

This boy was shouting your name like it was the only one that mattered, as if he cared about it almost as much as he cared about the kids. Dustin, Lucas and Mike. And Max, or Eleven.

Or Nancy.

And then there was silence.

Too long, too quiet.

…and you knew now.

They’d finally sedated him.

Robin, too.

You pressed your cheek to the cool concrete floor and tried to breathe, but the air didn’t feel real anymore and the angry burn behind your eyes had already brimmed and wet your lashes as you prayed to whatever higher power was up there that the boy you just heard calling your name would survive, even if it meant he would hate you for the rest of your life.

And just down the hall, the needle hit his neck.

The drug coursed through his veins and all his muscles went slack as the room began to spin in dizzying circles.

And just before his vision fell backward into black…

Just before the drug drowned him…

He saw you.

Not actually in front of him.

But in his head.

He saw you kicking and biting and snarling like something out of a fever dream. Like a feral cat with nothing but sharp words and skinny fists, wearing those damn paint-splattered overalls, streaked across the thighs and knees with your long, wiry arms that still held muscle. A bruise on your collarbone instead of the indigo smear from your sponge roller, fresh and spreading, and a body built for building, for climbing, for enduring what wasn’t humanly possible ever since you’d clawed your way out of the womb.

And you were still fighting.

And you were still standing.

And clearly your prayers were being answered in this last moment of lucidity for Steve Harrington, who had one last thought before his eyes shut:

She’s gonna kill one of them before this night is over.

…then the corner of his mouth twitched.

…right before the darkness swallowed him.

Chapter Sixty-One Cold Trail

March 11, 1987 • 10:19 PM Eastern Range, Northern U.S. PRESENT DAY

The dark had teeth.

It gnawed at the edges of vision, curling like smoke through the trees. Winds carried a low growl, constant and cold, threading through the dense ice packed wilderness. And moving through it slowly, deliberate and off-road, was an impossible sight: 

Two Soviet tanks and one levitating Winnebago.

The tanks were iron giants, camouflaged and disguised, both serving as a perfect image of the nationwide martial law, and both bore their ironically christened names with smug dignity. Dingus 1 and Dingus 2, graffitied on the sides in marker and Max’s “lucky tube of lipstick” she used to always keep in her pocket for good luck (which Lucas, of course, kept safely in his pocket over the last nine months on her behalf).

No headlights.

No walkies.

Just low comms between tanks and dead silence otherwise.

The Winnebago, floating steadily six feet off the frozen ground, glided like something from a dream… Or maybe a weaponized hallucination.

Inside Dingus 1, you sat up front in the passenger seat, your gaze cutting through the dark ahead with a protective eye on the levitating motor home that five of your six nuggets. The icy windshield of your ride was coated in frost, a few spots cleared by hand. Your breath fogged slightly beneath your scarf.

Dmitri was at the wheel. Not where he should’ve been, not for visibility, not for safety… But the Russian man was nothing if not stubborn. Uniform snug, shoulders rigid, with his piercing eyes narrowed as if daring the darkness itself to move wrong.

“You know, you really shouldn’t be up front,” you muttered, watching the RV ahead as it floated over a stretch of frozen creek bed. “You’re like… target priority number one.”

“Number one, eh?”

“The whole ‘betray my homeland’ slash ‘let my people go’ schtick kinda ramped you up on the tier list.”

“…and yet here I am.”

Dry. Amused. Russian to his bones.

You grinned. “You’re here because I’d rather keep you where I can see you than spend the rest of this mission dragging your corpse through the snow.”

“Romantic.” He glanced sideways at you, a coy smirk barely tugging at his mouth. “If I die, make sure it’s dramatic. I want explosions. A swelling score.”

“You’ll get snow in your mouth and accompaniment,” you said, deadpan and mock-solemn.

Dmitri chuckled, knuckles whitening slightly on the panel. “Your American sense of ceremony continues to disappoint.”

You grinned again. Just slightly. But your eyes never left the RV up ahead. You kept checking the signal light on the back end… three soft pulses every sixty seconds. Their version of a pulse check.

The kids knew the drill. 

It was still blinking.

Still airborne.

“Winnebago’s holding altitude,” you murmured, tapping your comm switch on the inside of your glove. “Dingus 1 confirming stable float. We’ve got eyes. No sign of movement.”

“All’s well inside the home front,” Joyce’s voice now confirmed through the comm, up in front of the Winnebago in Dingus 2. “Confirming, Jonathan’s got eyes on Murray up front.”

“Roger that.”

“How’s our soldier?”

That was Hopper. You glanced over your shoulder, a fond sigh leaving your lips before you answered.

“At ease,” you murmured gently into the comm. “Steve’s got her.”

Inside your tank, El sat cross-legged on the floor, centered and calm, both of her palms open and facing the ceiling. Her eyes were closed. Breathing slowly...

A faint smile curled her lips.

Steve sat beside her, warm and still in the faint red glow of the instrument panels. He hadn’t said much since sunset. His palm rested lightly on Eleven’s forehead just as a present touch, not a fraction or anything pressing. Simply a tether.

She didn’t need it. But she let it stay.

Steve wasn’t watching her now, though.

He was watching you.

Or rather, he was watching the back of your head through the tank window. Your silhouette outlined by the console lights up front, your frame steady and squared beside Dmitri’s.

God, you looked…

Unreal.

But not because of the uniform.

Not even the ponytail or the dirt-smudged cheekbone or the long, clean lines of your neck where the scarf had slipped.

It was… the way you sat as if this was your goddamn warpath. Like nothing scared you, and even if it did, you’d chew the fear and spit it back out before it could register.

Steve sighed.

He didn’t deserve you.

That was the truth of it. And it had been gnawing at his insides since before sunset.

Not because you were beautiful. Although, Jesus—you were. But also because you were always ready. You always had been. It didn't matter what hit you all out of nowhere. 

Just like in 1985.

Back in Starcourt when you turned yourself into a blunt force weapon in defense of him. Back in Hawkins, when he didn’t realize what you were doing every time you shut down your own fear just to steady his. Back then, he’d thought you were just stubborn. Just rude. Just in the way.

But now?

Now he saw it.

Now he felt it.

He saw the girl who’d kicked a Soviet guard in the kneecap for laying a hand on him. And now you were up front in a stolen Soviet tank, talking to the Russian defector like you were old war buddies, scanning the treeline like a soldier born and bred with a parental gaze set on the RV just up ahead.

It finally hit him.

You really had been in love with him this whole damn time.

Not loudly.

Not even hopefully.

Just silently.

Like a constant.

An unrequited constant for three years.

Steve swallowed and looked down at El again. She was still calm, still focused. His thumb brushed her temple gently, and the gesture calmed him more than he wanted to admit.

Beside him, Argyle chewed an apple and stared out the back viewport. “You’re thinking too hard, my man,” he said without looking at him. “Like, your brain is radiating.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“You’re vibin’ heavy.” Argyle pointed toward the tank’s front window, toward you. “You thinking ‘bout her?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Jesus. Am I that obvious?”

“Bro, you look like you’re trying to solve quantum physics with your feelings.” Argyle now leaned back in the seat and crisped another bite. “It’s adorable. And tragic. Deeply romantic. Kinda nauseating.”

Steve exhaled sharply through his nose. He almost laughed. “Yeah well, that’s me. Mr. Idiot.”

Argyle smiled wide. “True. But you’re the idiot in love with a war general who loves you back.”

El stirred gently beside them,  her lips twitching like she’d heard every word. But her eyes didn’t open.

Steve leaned his head back against the steel wall and stared at the ceiling for a moment. “She loved me first,” he said, quietly.

Argyle looked over. “Yeah. We know.”

Steve sat with that, letting it settle. He let the guilt and the awe and the goddamn weight of it sit right inside his chest.

“I didn’t deserve it,” he added, more to himself than anything. “I spent years being…just…”

“Blind?” Argyle offered.

Steve nodded once.

“But you see her now,” El whispered, her voice like icy flurries on the glass from inside of a snow globe.

He turned to her in surprise. Her eyes were still closed, but she was smiling brightly now.

“She always looked at you,” she said. “You finally looked back.”

The comm crackled in your tank up front. Dmitri looked at you before his voice low answered. “Checkpoint up ahead. Forty meters. Unmanned.”

“Copy,” came Hopper’s voice from Dingus 2, his tone clipped, quietly braced. “Keep it clean. Keep it moving.”

“Moving,” you echoed.

Steve watched your hand flick the switch, watched you nod to Dmitri… watched your mouth move in command.

Goddamn, you were steady. And hot. And everything he’d never thought he’d be lucky enough to hold in this lifetime.

And now that he just… had you…?

Steve has no clue how that even happened, but he does know that he has you now and he’ll go nuclear before he loses you.

The RV floated onward, seamless, above the tire tracks that would’ve otherwise betrayed them.

Max was curled by the window with one crutch propped like a weapon. Will and El flanked her like satellites. Nancy had a rifle cradled against her chest, her blue eyes like a hawk’s on the window. Mike sat beside her, locked in and focused, not even twitching like he used to.

Owens kept watch by the front, glancing back every so often to check on El’s vitals, breathing patterns, tension levels.

Murray? 

Murray now sat on the floor near the front seat with an entire goddamn flamethrower in his lap like a house cat. He hadn’t said anything in over twenty minutes.

“Why do you have that?” Dustin had asked earlier.

“Because I can,” Murray had answered. 

And that was that.

In the front tank, Robin and Eddie were cackling softly about something they wouldn’t share. Hopper and Joyce both drove and navigated in tandem. Jonathan rode up front and between them, sharp-eyed and quiet, but every so often Robin reached from her seat to fist bump him and make him laugh.

Back in Dingus 1, the comms pinged softly. Pre-arranged, and scrambled, and encrypted.

One click. All clear.

Two clicks. Visual hazard.

Three clicks. Prepare.

You tapped in a reply… one.

Then you turned to Dmitri. “Coast’s still clear.”

“Good.” He exhaled, then glanced at you. “When this is done… you and Harrington are going to make it?”

You paused. “We already are.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then why do you look like someone’s aiming a scope at your future?”

You considered that, almost afraid to answer. Eventually, you settled on a more morbid version of the truth. Or maybe it was just a morbid joke.

“Might just be my face.”

Dmitri blinked at that. Once, twice. Then he slowly turned to look at you, finding you grinning, just like your uncle, and before he could help it, he barked a laugh. 

It actually startled you.

“Wow,” you smiled. “I want that on record.”

“Ладно, попал в точку,” he cleared his throat, sighing out the humor and shaking his head but still smirking before it faded completely.

“Ladno, popal v tochku,” is what he’d said.

Translation? “Alright, you hit the mark.”

You hummed in satisfaction.

Behind you, Steve finally stood and walked forward. He quietly knelt beside Eleven and checked her nose again as you came through the front passage a few moments later to kneel beside him like it was second nature.

“El alright?” you asked, palm resting briefly against her arm.

Steve looked up at you, soft and wide-eyed. “She’s good. Just holding it steady.”

You nodded warmly.

Argyle passed you a pack of needles and yarn from the small supply rack in the corner. “We gotta get you something to knit, chica,” he said with a grin. “You look like you’re seconds from unraveling.”

You took the yarn, smirking. “I’ll knit a scope cover for Nancy’s rifle.”

“Make it match her sweater,” Steve offered.

“Pink?” you asked as you glanced at him, spotting the look.

He wasn’t smiling. Not fully.

But he was looking at you like maybe you’d always been the home he had been stumbling towards in the dark. Crawling backwards, seeking from the moment he’d started walking.

“…if I get a big enough thump on my head, I can change, y’know?…” 

You’d given him the biggest thump of his life, after Nancy. 

And now, finally, he was crawling forward. 

He could see the light on.

You held his gaze a second longer. “We’re close,” you told him softly. “We get through the gorge by sunrise. No tracks, no um, signs of life.”

Steve nodded once, but his gaze never altered. Your brows pinched together with tender curiosity.

But then Eleven spoke quietly. “Float’s getting harder.”

You and Steve turned to her in sync.

“We’ve got her,” you said, already shifting. “Go, go.”

You moved fast, back to the front. Dmitri nodded. Cranked the engine harder. Time to draw some visual coverage.

In Dingus 2, Robin flicked the comms. “We’ve got flare activity west. Minor. Looks like a weather probe.”

“Clocked,” you replied. “Stay close.”

“On your six, General.”

You smirked. “That’s Commander Smartass to you.”

The convoy moved into the next stretch of darkness.

Still silent.

Still floating.

But not for long.

And this time?

If anyone tried to take what was yours?

They’d never see the retaliation coming.

🖤 forever dedicated to @silkholland & @aloneinthehellfire

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You shoved your gloved hands deeper into the pockets of your parka and leaned your boot against the dashboard like you owned this stolen Winnebago. “You’re cocky in tense. It’s like a living verb with you.”

He smirked. Couldn’t help it. “You love that about me.”

You stared at him for a long, hot beat.

“Yeah,” you said casually. “Unfortunately.”

And it hit him like a bullet from nowhere. 

Like you always did when you weren’t even trying. 

It’s been two and a half weeks since losing you on a forest floor below an electric fence. Just two and a half weeks after screaming your name through the slats of his own chest — and now you were just… here. Bundled up beside him. Stealing his last nerve and giving him all of yours. 

Real. 

Laughing. 

Alive.

Steve’s throat bobbed as he adjusted his grip on the wheel. “I still think this was a bad idea,” he said after a minute.

You turned your head slowly toward him. “You didn’t seem to think it was a bad idea when I was pulling my boots on and Murray was yelling at you not to let me go.”

“Because Murray yells at me every time you leave a room.”

“Because he knows you’re soft.”

Steve glanced at you. “Soft?”

“Steve,” you said, deadpan, “you secretly mist up at cereal commercials.”

“…that was one time.”

“And you threatened a cop last week for looking at me wrong.”

“That was not a cop, that was a suit from the Indiana National Guard who had a God complex and a prison haircut. He looked at you like you were an unpaid invoice.”

You grinned. “Which is why you almost ran him over with a shopping cart.”

He didn’t reply to that one. Just reached out and flicked the heat vent higher on your side. “Your lips are blue.”

You shifted. “No, they’re not.”

“They are.”

“They’re not—”

Steve looked at you. Just looked. Warm brown, laced with worry and something deeper than blood.

You shut up.

And he went back to watching the road. “Don’t make me come over there.”

That made you smirk at the overcast sky through the icy windshield. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

——

The town was empty. And not like horror-movie-empty. No eerie music or score to set the tone. No staged cars or aesthetic smoke curling ominously from grates. Just cold. Just still. Windows boarded. Ice skimming over the edge of potholes. Stores locked or looted. 

Hawkins looked like it had been paused halfway through taking a deeply shuddered breath that it never got to finish.

You and Steve pulled the Winnebago into the side alley behind the pharmacy and parked under the half-sagging overhang.

He killed the ignition and looked at you. “We go in and get this done fast. Grab only what’s on the list. No detours.”

You unclicked your seatbelt with a shrug. “I’m not the one who veered off to pick up three boxes of Pop-Tarts last time.”

“Neither was I,” he made a face, “that was Dustin and his so-called morale mission—”

But you were already hopping down out of the passenger seat with a cheeky smirk. Steve cursed under his breath and scrambled out after you. 

“You’re not supposed to be moving that fast.”

“You’re not supposed to be micromanaging.”

He caught up with you in two strides and grabbed your hand as you hit the back door of the pharmacy. You turned toward him, half pissed and fully in love, and that’s when he caught your jaw with his other hand and kissed you. 

Steve kissed you hard.

It wasn’t a gentle thing. It never was. Not when he was this desperate to make sure you’d still be alive five minutes from now. Unlike the five minutes you weren’t.

When he pulled back, you were breathless. Smiling. 

And a little stunned.

“You done?” you asked.

He just exhaled through his nose and opened the door.

——

You moved through all the picked-over grocery aisles like you’d been trained for this. First aid supplies, antibiotics, gauze. Pedialyte. Cold meds and multivitamins. Then canned food from a long dusty off-brand aisle that reeked of metal and despair. You picked the good shit first: beans, tuna, peaches in syrup.

Steve hovered like a ghost.

Every sound outside made his back straighten, and every bottle you touched made him flick his gaze to your hands. It was like he was trying to memorize you doing something so human just in case he never got to see it again.

You were halfway through bickering with him about chili when his hand slid behind your back and tugged you slightly closer.

“What?” you whispered.

“Someone’s outside.”

You didn’t freeze up, but your muscles tightened. He didn’t move his hand or loosen his grip, protective as always.

“Two minutes,” he murmured, “then we’re gone.”

You nodded. But you took an extra can of peaches — because fuck it. If the world was ending, you were eating well.

“Find pudding for Dustin,” you whispered mock sagely.

Steve’s cold stare out the window cracked as his eyes crinkled. He was still staring, still on alert. But he shook his head, eyes rolling back in his head… his feet already moving you both towards the pudding aisle.

“You’re an enabler,” he mumbled.

“And you’re their hero, so lemme help keep your mom status intact.” 

——

Back inside the Winnebago, your fingers were numb despite the gloves. You both were red-cheeked, windblown and slightly high on the rush of getting away with something you technically weren’t allowed to do.

Hawkins was under strict lockdown with a curfew, only basic supply runs were allowed. And even then, that had its limits. But the side of town was far more abandoned, and Hopper knew that it would be. He knew the perimeter. He knew exactly which areas to steer clear from, and so did your uncle.

So did Owens.

You threw the last box into the back of the RB and slammed the creaky door shut as Steve tossed bags onto the seats. Then you turned on him. 

“What the hell is this?” you said, holding up a crumpled box.

“Shampoo?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

You squinted suspiciously. “This is the dollar store version of shampoo.”

“I know.”

“This is shampoo’s cousin.”

“Okay, no. Relax.”

“This is what folks use to clean tires, Harrington,” you looked at him and his head of hair incredulously. “You mean to tell me your sexy Farrah Fawcet spray ass got this—?? ”

He held up both hands in mock surrender. “We needed something. I grabbed something.”

“You grabbed the one bottle that smells like feet and broken dreams.”

“Are you gonna yell at me,” he asked, slowly walking you back toward the passenger door, “or’re you just looking for an excuse to get hot and bothered over hygiene products?”

Your back hit the side of the van, smirk vanishing. Because now he was too close. Warm breath in the icy air, that look in his eye that made it impossible to remember what planet you were on.

“Dunno,” you shrugged, utterly gone for him. “You pick.”

Steve’s eyes scanned your face for a handful of hot seconds.

“…y’know,” he finally murmured, low and husky, “I think I love you even when you’re annoying.”

“I know you love me when I’m annoying.”

He dipped his head, brushing his lips against your ear. “Good,” he hummed into it. “Because I don’t really remember how not to.”

Your heart fluttered dangerously inside your chest, quickening at lightning speed. It was your favorite feeling in the world.

Except that now…

…you inhaled…

Nope. You weren’t ruining this.

“Neither do—”

…and then your knees buckled.

Your hand flew to your chest. 

Goddammit, you were ruining this.

“Fuck,” you gasped.

Steve caught you before you could drop. “Hey—hey—no, no, no—sit. Now.” 

His voice cracked wide open. Not just from fear. Rage. That helpless, frenzied rage he never really knew until your heart decided to short-circuit itself into chaos.

You collapsed into the passenger seat. And Steve was on his knees beside you, yanking your coat open, pushing his fingers against your neck.

“Talk to me.”

“I’m—” you wheezed. “I’m okay.”

“You’re not okay.”

“Steve—”

“I got you,” he swore, already lifting your legs, easing your body backward, trying to keep your blood flow even. “Just breathe. Count like Owens said.”

“One—t-two—”

“Out. Come on. Three seconds.”

“Three—f-four—”

His hand pressed to your sternum. 

Palm steady. 

Actions fierce.

“You’re okay,” he kept saying. “You’re okay.”

And maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was your stupidly haunted heartbeat. Maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t let yourself be scared since the fence. Or the fact that getting anxious, even in the right ways, was a curse now. But now, curled into the backseat with Steve holding you like he was furious with God and grateful to hell… you let yourself somewhat crack.

Just a little.

Just enough to let Steve see how hard you were fighting.

He saw it. And his expression, his soul, visibly shattered. Then it softened.

He leaned in, his forehead to yours.

“I’m not losing you again,” he said, voice barely human. “I don’t care what it takes. I don’t care if I have to fight the fucking sky. I’m not—”

You kissed him.

And it wasn’t to distract him. It was because you meant it, too.

The heat in the van fogged the windows. Your heartbeat steadied. And your boots stayed on, but Steve’s jacket came off to cover you both, and he kissed you like you were air and apocalypse, like the bruises that you both carried were worth the war.

You climbed into his lap. He held you like sin.

The makeout wasn’t slow. It wasn’t delicate. It was needy and messy and absolutely stunning. He groaned into your mouth like you’d stolen his entire soul and given it back. You bit his bottom lip, smirking when he whimpered.

“God, I hate you,” he pathetically hissed.

“No, you don’t.”

“I’d kill the whole world for you.”

“I’d help.”

“Of course you fucking would.” He kissed your throat with a deep exhale, low curses under his breath as his lips brushed. “You’re freezing, Bauman.”

“You’re overheating.”

“C’mere, lemme...”

And then he was pulling you closer, wrapping the blanket from the backseat around your body, letting you settle in, your heart against his. He held you until you stopped shivering.

Until the world got quiet again.

Until your body said I’m okay. You can breathe now.

He didn’t move.

You didn’t want him to.

The engine stayed off.

The windows stayed fogged.

And in the silence between catastrophe and home, you eventually fell asleep on his chest — the kind of sleep that only comes after a war that didn’t quite kill you.

Yet.

2 HOURS LATER

“You know, if you keep giving me that look,” Steve muttered as he adjusted the collar of his coat, “I’m gonna forget we’re supposed to be getting canned beans and throw you behind the paper towel aisle like a goddamn maniac.”

Your glare was immediate. “I’m sorry, are you threatening to defile me beside the Charmin Ultra?”

He grinned like the devil. “I didn’t say it’d be Charmin. You’re more of a… store-brand girl.”

That made you smirk back. “You dick.”

“That’s what I was offering.”

You chucked a roll of gauze at his chest, and he caught it with one hand like he’d been waiting for it. His other hand? Still gently, but protectively, curled around your wrist. Had been since you stepped out of the Winnebago.

This was the third convenient store run of the day, after the last two had only resulted in a decent amount of canned goods and household needs. Stop #1 mainly. Stop #2? Not so great. That store had been so picked over, it looked staged for a horror film without a happy ending.

So now, here you both were —  a good fifteen miles out from the heart of Hawkins, ready to rummage through an outlet somewhere on the outskirts of the town, where most people wouldn’t make it on foot. The parking lot was mostly empty. Just ice, concrete… and one very suspiciously abandoned Jeep that made Steve keep glancing back every three minutes. He was twitchy like that. Protective in a way that almost made your chest ache.

…and okay, fine — you were still recovering from getting electrocuted like a dumbass. Your heart was a treacherous little shit with a wonk rhythm, like an offbeat drummer, and the cold was now biting through the thick layers of your parka. But you were here. You were fine. And you were also trying very hard not to say “I told you so” every time that Steve snapped at you to stay close and muttered under his breath about the road salt shortage.

You both knew he hated you being out here. 

You both also knew you weren’t about to let him go alone.

And selfishly, you had the upperhand there, given that being apart from you now seemed an impossible feat for Steve… regardless of however much he sucked it up when needed and kept being a leader for the party.

“…alright,” you lazily drawled under your breath, stepping through the doors, no longer automatic. Steve held them open, glancing around, along with you. “Now we’re talkin’.”

The store had been raided already, but not thoroughly. Not nearly as bad as all the others have been so far.

Eventually, you found some meds, fresh antiseptic, powdered milk, a ton of canned soup — and thankfully, hidden boxes of ammo in the back. Courtesy of whatever staff used to work here then left it abandoned and forgotten.

Steve had grabbed those fast and tucked them beneath your cart.

“Hopper’s gonna flip,” he mumbled, a smirk hinting at the corner of his lips as he shrugged his jacket off, hiding it. Just in case. “Might just see him cry.”

You barely heard him. Because now, you were checking out his profile as he grabbed a few more protein bars off the almost-empty shelf. He looked like a sexy goddamn war hero in the most unorthodox way. Long wool coat, his chestnut waves all wind-slicked and messy… a faint bruise still yellowing along his jaw…

God, you loved him. 

You fucking loved him.

And somehow, he was yours now.

“Hey,” he said, catching your stare. “Stop looking at me like that.”

You sighed. “Like what?”

“Like you wanna make bad decisions in the breakroom.”

“I don’t need the breakroom,” you said sweetly. “I’d wreck your life right here next to the Vienna sausages.”

His breath caught just slightly as he squinted. It always did whenever you got smug like that. “You are a menace.”

“And you love it.”

Steve confirmed that by grabbing your scarf, leaning in, kissing you quickly. Not soft. Not gentle. It was all teeth, all affection and chilly breath.

“Okay,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “Back to the ‘Bago. You’re turning pink.”

“No, you’re turning pink.”

“You almost died seventeen days ago.”

Almost.

Technically, you did. It just didn’t stick.

“You keep counting?” you asked, head tilted.

He looked at you. Just looked. 

That look.

And that look always said enough.

——

The abandoned pitstop was somewhere on the outer rim of town, tucked off a back road near what used to be a gas station before the lockdown. Hopper had said it was the kind of place no one would bother to loot because there was nothing left worth looting. 

Except the hidden storage room in the back.

That’s where propane and emergency camping gear had been stocked up back when the Soviets first showed their hand.

Naturally, that was the next stop.

The minute the Winnebago doors closed, Steve let out a sigh and shrugged his jacket off himself. “Jesus Christ, it’s a fucking freezer out there.”

You kicked off your boots and peeled your gloves off. “Your nose is pink.”

“Yours is hot.”

“...that doesn’t make sense.”

“Yeah, well,” he stepped closer. “Neither do you.”

And then Steve’s hands were on your waist and your lips were on his while he backed you up against the kitchenette counter like a man possessed. This kiss was deep and all open-mouthed, unrushed but demanding. You made that little sound again, the one that always got him.

Steve broke the kiss to breathlessly laugh against your throat. “Fuck, that one,” he exhaled into the column of your neck. “Every goddamn time.”

“Man oh man,” you hummed against his temple, shivering a bit as you clung to the back of his neck, nuzzling into his hairline as he nipped at your neck. “You’re such a sap.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m dangerous.”

“Oh, yeah. You’re terrifying, baby.” You nipped at his lip. “Viscious…”

He grinned and kissed you again, sweetly this time. Then he pulled back for all of a second, reluctantly. “I gotta piss.”

“Charming.”

“Bathroom’s clogged,” he said, grabbing his coat again and heading for the front. “I’m hitting the one out back. Stay here.”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, Daddy.”

“Don’t call me that either, least not when I gotta piss.”

He was smiling as he left. Locking the Winnebago behind him and deciding to make this quick.

——

The outdoor bathroom building was cracked concrete and aluminum siding. The kind of place that didn’t have heat, just ghosts. Every inch of it stank like old piss that had frozen into the walls over years. Steve grimaced, yanking up his zipper as he glanced up at the peeling MEN sign above the urinal next to the toilet.

“Jesus,” he muttered, nose wrinkling up. “Guy can’t even take a piss without catching hypothermia.”

He gave a little shake of his head as he tugged his gloves back out of his pocket, hands still damp from the sink that only coughed out freezing water.

Steve snatched a paper towel from the roll.

“Hands up,” came a voice, low and cold as something even colder pressed against the back of his skull. 

Something cold and hard.

Unmistakably a gun.

Steve’s heart pounded once. Just once, loud in his ears. His blood stopped coursing in his veins while his hands went up, slow. Palms trembling. His eyes shut tight for a heartbeat.

Then he whispered, with an almost rueful, breathless laugh… 

“Ah, fuck me.”

The man behind him didn’t respond. Just yanked his wallet from his back pocket. Then the keys from the clip on his belt. 

Steve barely even stumbled when he was shoved toward the wall, but he staggered as the door slammed shut behind him.

Click.

The lock slid into place.

For a second, Steve just stood there processing. His heart skipped. Then panic kicked in like a thunderclap.

“HEY!” Steve barked out, throwing himself against the door, shoulder aching instantly. “HEY—!”

Nothing.

No footsteps retreating. No key twisting again. 

Just voices, muffled but close.

“Just take the damn thing. Start it, go.”

No…

“Make sure no one else is inside.”

No. No, no, no.

Steve slammed himself into the door again, rattling it, hinges screeching. “HEY. HEY, DON’T—don’t fucking touch her!” he shouted, voice cracking. “HEY! Don’t you fucking touch her—!”

He couldn’t even think, let alone catch himself from giving away the fact that you were in there. His breath was frost drenched fog in front of him, and sweat slid cold down his spine.

Steve kept pounding on the door, kicking at it relentlessly.

But then he heard it.

Three gunshots.

Then two more.

Close.

Rapid.

Then silence.

It rang out louder than all his banging.

Time bent in on itself. The world narrowed. Steve’s pulse roared in his ears. 

No. 

“No,” he breathed. Then it escalated. “No, no—NO—”

He slammed into the door harder, fists pounding, shoulders ramming, kicking at it mercilessly. The cold aluminum barely rattled. The hinges weren’t even budging as he banged, yelled and lost it. 

“FUCK—Bauman—?!?!”

So he backed up a few feet. 

Then even more.

Braced.

He was going to fucking tear this thing down with his body if he had to—

But before he could launch, the knob turned.

The door burst open.

And there you were.

You stood in the cold daylight, black parka zipped, blood on the white sleeves that peeked out at your wrists. Your breath was visible in short, desperate clouds. Your face? Wide-eyed. Your whole body was trembling, and you’re holding the gun like you aren’t sure if you should drop it or hold it tighter. Your fingers were stiff from the cold and recoil. Your mouth was open. No sound was coming out for the first half a second that Steve took all of this in…

Until?

“Steve.”

You gasped his name like it was the first breath you’d taken in way too many minutes.

Steve moved like something out of pure instinct. Unhinged, unthinking. He grabbed you and pulled you into his arms, hard. You met him halfway, clawing at his coat, fisting up the fabric, wrapping your legs around his hips without any hesitation. You were already sobbing but trying to bite it back. 

So was he.

“You,” he rasped. “Jesus Christ—I thought—”

“You,” you choked. “YOU, I didn’t know if you were—if he—if they—” 

An unstable, devastated noise escaped you.

“I’m right here,” he said fiercely, over and over — his mouth in your hair, on your temple, on your cheek, your jaw, your mouth. “I’m right fucking here. I’m here, baby, right here.”

You were gasping now, face buried in his scarf. His arms tightened. Because you weren’t crying like someone fragile. No, right now you were crying like someone who had just made the choice to live. Who hadn’t known if they’d get the chance.

Who hadn’t known if you were too late.

Steve pulled back an inch. Just to see you. Soothe you, just to shush you gently. Just to look.

And he saw it.

The blood spatter up your sleeves. The way your eyes were still blown wide and still not focusing properly. Your fingers were white-knuckled around the grip of the gun.

“…Did they—Bauman, d-did they touch you?” Steve asked, his voice lower, darker. His big brown eyes held fury that he prayed wouldn’t need to be acted on.

Thank fuck, you shook your head, eyes welling up again. But you were adamant. “I shot them all.”

Steve blinked. Once, twice. “What?”

“I—” You swallowed. “There were three, Steve.”

His brows pulled tight. “Three?”

“I didn’t even think. I just—he had your keys, and then there were two more, and they were going toward the door and I just—”

“You shot them?”

You nodded. Slowly this time. Then your mouth crumpled like you were ashamed of it. “I didn’t want to.”

His eyes went wide with ache as you squeezed your eyes shut and the tears slipped free. 

Your voice cracked. “I didn’t want to—”

“Hey,” Steve whispered urgently. “Hey, hey. You did exactly what you had to do.” Then he reached up to cradle your face and gently pried the gun from your hand, tucking it into his waistband. “You did exactly what you had to fucking do.”

He said at this time with a fierceness that held so much unwavering insistence. This was open for discussion. It wasn’t a debate. This was life and death.

And you chose life.

You sniffed once, beginning to nod your head. Then he kissed you. Deep and slow, like anchoring you to something solid. Something that wasn’t gunshots or panic or frozen piss or blood on your coat.

You whimpered softly into the kiss.

Steve made a sound too. A quiet, aching sound, and he pulled you in even closer.

You were shivering so badly now your teeth were almost chattering. Steve didn’t think twice. He yanked his coat off, despite the air turning his breath and sweat into ice, and he wrapped it around you. Then he took your hand, laced his fingers through yours and did not release it.

“Let’s go,” he whispered.

You nodded once. Wordless.

Still holding your hand, he led you through the narrow lot toward the Winnebago. His doe eyes scanned everything. The edges of the woods. The roof of the gas station. He didn’t speak, didn’t breathe normally again, until you were both safely inside.

He didn’t let go of your hand even as he opened the driver’s side door.

He helped you up first.

He climbed in after.

And then, only then did he let himself exhale.

You were sitting stiffly in the passenger seat, his coat wrapped around you, shoulders shaking. Your hands were shaking, too, even though one was pressed over your chest again. 

Over the same spot.

Steve’s stomach dropped. “Hey,” he said quickly. “Hey, hey, breathe. Talk to me.”

You looked at him, wide-eyed.

He leaned in fast. “Is it your heart again?”

After a second, you nodded once.

He was already moving, digging into the glovebox and grabbing the little emergency kit Owens had packed for exactly this. He pulled out the small bottle of fast-acting beta-blockers, cracked the seal, and handed you one with shaking fingers and a bottle of water. You took it without argument.

“Sit back,” he said. “No arguments. Just breathe. You’re okay.”

“I’m fine,” you whispered, voice cracking.

“You’re not fine,” he countered, kneeling beside the seat so he could touch your face. “But you will be.”

You were trying not to cry again. Your hand clutched your sternum. You managed to swallow the tears down, the frustration and the fear. But you were shaking. Bad.

Steve helped you unbutton the parka. His hand pressed flat against your heart.

It was fast.

Irregular.

“Goddamnit, hang on,” he muttered, going through the motions with practiced ease, even though it never was easy. “Remember what Owens said. Lay flat, alright? Deep breaths. Don’t move.”

You nodded as he helped you like you were glass. Steve moved fast, but precise. Propping your feet. Loosening your scarf. Whispering to you the whole time.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered back.

“No,” he said fiercely. “You don’t say that. Ever. Not when you saved my life. You—Jesus, you saved me. Saved you.”

You looked at him then. Really looked. 

And all the bravado? 

All the cocky smirks and smug lines, all that Harrington boy charm?

It was stripped away. 

He was just a boy in love with a girl who scared the shit out of him.

Which is why Steve now brushed his thumb across your chilly, sharp cheekbone after steadying your heartbeat beneath his warm palm, despite the cold, and murmured, “You scared the shit out of me.”

“You scared me,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I thought that they—Steve, I didn’t know if they—if you were—”

But that’s when he leaned up and kissed you. Hard, all tongue and teeth and breathless groaning. You made a sound against his mouth that made his whole body jerk. He grabbed the collar of your parka and deepened it, sighing when your hand gripped the back of his neck. He pulled back just enough to speak against your lips.

“You are never doing a run with me again.”

“I don’t want you doing one again,” you shot back, still breathless.

“Well, good. Neither of us are leaving the damn house ever again.”

“We can’t do that.”

“Sure we can. I’ve got a shotgun, ten cans of ravioli, and a girlfriend who just took down three armed men.”

“Steve—”

“I’m serious.”

“Babe,” you gave a breathy laugh, almost on the edge of sobbing again. “We still have to finish this run.”

“Don’t care.”

“Steve.”

He rested his forehead against yours. Closed his eyes.

“I can’t do that again,” he said. “I can’t not know if you’re okay. I can’t wonder if—if someone’s hurting you, or if—if you’re lying dead on the ground, or if—”

“I know.”

“You know what I was like this last time I thought you were gone.”

“I do.”

He opened his eyes just enough to look at you intensely, forehead rolling against yours as he did, eyes heavy-lidded, his hair flopping. “I wouldn’t survive it.”

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t argue.

Because you knew he wouldn’t.

Neither would you, if it were the other way around.

Steve kissed you again, softer now… but longer. His big hand slid into your hair, cradling the back of your head. Yours gripped the front of his coat, your teeth suctioning his tongue feverishly as you all but swallowed it whole.

He groaned into your mouth. “God, you’re so hot.”

“You’re shivering,” you murmured into his.

“You just killed three guys.”

That made you give him a weak smile against his lips, pulling back briefly. “I’m still hot, though?”

“Unreal.” His voice was low and husky, sending more shivers right down your spine. “Un-fucking-real.”

You licked your lips and leaned in again, diving in tongue first.

Steve moaned.

The kiss deepened. You made a sound in the back of your throat. He melted into it. Then he was crawling over to the passenger seat, wrapping both arms around you, tugging you across the divider into his lap.

“We’re staying here for five minutes,” he panted.

“Okay.”

You didn’t move. Neither did he.

“Just need to hold you for five minutes,” he added breathlessly.

You pressed your face into his neck. “I need to be held.”

He kissed your temple, sighing into you.

A silence bloomed between you again, thick and unspoken and full of everything that hadn’t been said in months. You could see the memory of it all running behind his eyes — the forest, the fence, your pulse flickering out in his hands. And for once, you didn’t try to fill it with words.

You just reached up and touched his face. He closed his eyes when you did, jaw flexing, hands sliding over your knees like he needed to make sure you were still solid, still warm, still here.

Outside of the RV, a single crow cut across the pale sky. The sound made him flinch. You noticed.

“Hey,” you murmured. “It’s over.”

He looked at you. “We still don’t know what else is out there. At the next stop.” His brows pinched, a thought flashing across his eyes before he huffed exhaustedly. “Knew your uncle was right—knew I shouldn’t’a let you come wi—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off softly, thumbs stroking his cheekbones and temples. “Because I’m right here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Something in his pensive expression finally broke through then — something tight and knotted that had been holding him upright for the last two weeks. He breathed out shakily and leaned forward, resting his forehead against your shoulder. You felt his breath through the thick winter layers of your clothing, cradling him there by the back of his skull, your fingers running through his tousled locks of chestnut hair as you let his mind race… but not without holding him through it.

The Winnebago stayed parked, still hidden behind the gas station. Dead bodies cooling in the snow. But inside? Steve Harrington held the one person he never wanted to let go of again.

CHAPTER TWO Baby, I Know Places

FEBRUARY 2, 1987 – Hawkins, Indiana

Static briefly crackled from the walkie before Jonathan’s voice cut in, low and clipped:

“Two more units secured. Package drop’s next. South lot, fifteen out. Over.”

“Copy,” Steve murmured into the mic, his big brown eyes scanning the tree line as he steered the Winnebago toward the designated turnoff. “Zero movement here. Rolling steady. Pulling in. Over.”

No names. No specifics. Just code. 

Just like Owens and Murray drilled into all of you.

“Eyes open,” Jonathan added. “Weather’s gonna drop hard. Be out before sundown. Over.”

Then silence. No click. Just the wind howling outside the Winnebago and the low rumble of the engine beneath their feet.

You shifted in the passenger seat, still bundled in that massive parka, your gloved fingers tugging absently at the strap of your gear bag. “I hate that we’re getting good at this,” you muttered.

Steve glanced over, grin twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Admit it. You like the walkie talkie voice.”

Your eyes cut sideways at him. “You think I’m turned on by covert ops lingo?”

He shrugged, cocky as hell. “I mean. The voice does things.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And you love it.”

You did. Worse, you really did and he really knew it. 

Smug bastard.

Steve’s fingers tapped once on the steering wheel. “This stop’s the last one. Your uncle and the others are already there.”

Fifteen minutes passed. Then you could see it up ahead — Argyle’s junkyard find of a truck pulled halfway into a half-collapsed loading dock, its color dulled under the gray skies and frost. This wasn’t the kind of place anyone stumbled on. You had to know it existed. An old industrial garage set off the back of what used to be a laundromat. Long since gutted and looted, but the basement was solid and dry. Generators all locked inside — your uncle swore by it.

And judging by the faint sound of cursing that cut through the wind as Steve parked the Winnebago, yeah — Murray Bauman was already on-site.

You stepped out into the cold, boots crunching against frozen gravel, hearing him bickering...

“—I said left, Jonathan, Jesus Christ, you’ve got the arms of a poet—”

“Oh my god, will you shut up for one minute—”

Argyle, watching from the truck, shot you a peace sign as you approached. “It’s a total boys’ locker room back there.”

You grinned. “You'll hang tight here, yeah?”

Argyle blinked. “Wait, I’m staying behind?”

Steve, already slamming the door shut, answered for you. “Yeah, man. Protect the goods.”

The hippie dude gave a two-finger salute. “Righteous.”

The rest of you moved in together. You, Steve, Jonathan, and Murray — all bundled to hell and back, hunched against the wind, looking like a damn renegade unit from an underground war.

Which… wasn’t far off.

Inside the building, the scent of rust and oil hit your nose immediately. It was dark. Cavernous. Perfectly off-grid. The basement was now open and exposed, with metal stairs leading down to where the generators were already staged. Two heavy units —industrial strength.

“Goddamn,” Steve muttered. “He wasn’t kidding.”

“Nope,” Jonathan said, already grabbing one end of the first unit. “Uncle M called in a favor to the big man upstairs. Took some convincing.”

“Not that much,” Murray grumbled, adjusting his coat. “I mentioned we were about to freeze to death and that your heart—” He gestured to you. “—nearly gave out two weeks ago and suddenly? God had a conscience.”

You shot him a look. “Wow. Subtle.”

Steve moved to your side as they got to work. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Still warm. Still breathing. Still prettier than you.”

He snorted. “Debatable.”

“You’re right. Not even close.”

Your uncle barked a laugh from where he was stabilizing the ramp. “God, the two of you are disgusting now.”

Steve grinned, cheeks flushing slightly. “You say that like it’s new.”

Jonathan smirked. “It’s new. It’s real new.”

“I’ve always been loveable,” Steve argued, nudging the generator up the incline.

“Sure,” Murray drawled flatly. “Like a fungus.”

You caught Steve’s grin as he helped guide the generator to the truck bed. Even as the wind howled louder and the sky dimmed to a dull, cold bruise, the five of you fell into rhythm like this was second nature.

Which, terrifyingly, it was.

Another fifteen or so minutes passed. Then thirty. Just enough to think you might actually make it out of here without a hitch.

Until the hitch came.

You were laughing at something that Jonathan just said, something about how you’d been the only girl to call him out on his hoodie-scarf combo back in sophomore year, when it happened.

The sound was violent. 

Flesh slamming into concrete.

Your head snapped around just in time to see your uncle tackled to the ground. “MURRAY???”

Then chaos.

You barely got a breath before your knees were kicked out from behind and your cheek hit the pavement hard. You cried out, more from shock than pain, as big gloved hands grabbed your arms, shoving them both behind your back.

“HEY HEY—”

“Steve—Steve?!—”

“DOWN. All of you—DOWN, NOW!”

Fuck, who was that??

“Don’t fucking touch her—!”

Okay, that was Steve, his voice raw, but then he was silenced with a harsh, audible blow to the ribs.

You gasped, blinking against the gravel, unsteady pulse hammering in your ears and chest.

There were at least eight of them. 

Fuck, there’s eight of them. 

Dirty, grizzled, all with big makeshift gear and weapons. Shotguns, rifles, hunting knives. One of them stepped over your legs and kicked Jonathan’s knife away as he struggled.

Then you heard Argyle.

“Hey!” he yelled from the Winnebago. “Dude, please—”

A shot cracked through the air. 

Everyone froze.

Argyle now stood at the door, his rifle raised, eyes wild. “Let—let them go.”

Guns turned.

Your voice caught. “No—no, Argyle—”

“DROP it!” someone barked. “Now! NOW!”

Steve’s voice broke across the fray. “Argyle, do it—drop it, man—!”

“Don’t you fucking move!” barked the one pinning Steve.

The fact that you couldn’t see Steve’s face right now was killing you. Could only hear his harsh breathing. Fast intakes. Furious intakes. Your chest tightened, causing you to grit your teeth. 

Stay even. 

Stay calm. 

Keep your damn heart steady.

But then the sudden sound of your uncle yelping made your heart stop all over again. It was pained, sharp and clearly someone was thrusting a weapon closer to him.

“GRAHH—nnph—”

“Murr—Murray?!” your voice cracked.

“Okay,” Argyle’s voice cracked, panicked. “Okay! Okay!”

His rifle hit the ground.

And they descended on him like wolves. 

Argyle was suddenly slammed back against the Winnebago, a gun to his cheek. “Thought you’d play hero, huh?”

Jonathan surged. “Get off him!”

“YOU SHUT YOUR FUCKIN’ MOUTH.”

Now they shoved Jonathan back down, kicking him once, hard in the thigh. He gasped.

“NO. Byers. Byers—?!” Steve again.

“J-J-Jay…” you barely rasped, croaked and cracked. 

“You two wanna go next? Huh??”

That was meant for you and Steve. 

And you were frozen. Not with fear. But with calculation. Because you knew how this ended if you lost it. You’ve seen it.

Next to you, Steve twisted against the guy holding him. “If you touch her—I swear to God—I will end you—”

“You’re all the same,” one of the men spat. “Stockpiling like the rest of us aren’t out here starving.”

“We’re not hoarding,” Murray growled, voice muffled. “We’re trying to survive. Same as you.”

“We’ll take what you got. That’s fair.”

“The hell it is—” Steve started, but the man holding him dug a knee into his back.

Thump-th-thump-thump.

Thump-thump-th-thum-thump.

Thump-th-thump-th—

You shifted slightly, trying to breathe through the ache in your ribs. Trying to stay calm. To keep your heart from doing that thing again, that — God, that flutter… That goddamn flutter that meant it was about to go bad.

Thump-thump-th-thum-thump.

Thump-th-thump-th—

Steve clocked it. He stopped struggling. “Hey. Hey—B, look at me.”

You turned your head toward him… and your eyes met. You nodded at him, just once, unable to speak. Steve’s breath hitched. He looked like he might murder someone. He looked like he might cry.

Your uncle turned his head from the ground, eyes narrowing. “You have no idea who you’re fucking with.”

“Yeah?” the lead man sneered. “I think we do.”

He grinned and raised his boot.

Steve’s voice cracked. “Don’t—!”

But the boot was already coming down… 

…and it slammed into Jonathan’s side with a sickening crunch, for absolutely no warranted reason at all.

He choked out a cry. Winded, harsh, and he curled in on himself.

“STOP—” Steve surged, voice cracking as he jolted up.

“JONATHAN!” you screamed, voice shredding in your throat, only for the weight on your back to grow heavier as a second man dropped down to restrain you. 

You gasped. 

Elbowed. 

Fought.

“Fuck—mrphhh—”

You’d managed to crunch a nose.

“Hold her down,” another one of them barked.

Steve’s voice ripped through the fray. “DON’T—NO DON’T, DO NOT TOUCH HER—!”

He was cut off with a sharp yank, head being wrenched back by his hair and his knees dragged forward so he was upright, back arched and a blade at his throat.

Your stomach lurched. 

You tried to get to him. 

But you couldn’t even move or cry out to him because your heartbeat was in a rage.

“Ste—St…”

Steve’s hands were now bound behind him by a firm hold, viciously gripped around his wrists, and his breath was coming fast. His eyes locked on yours.

“Hey—breathe, baby. You gotta breathe,” he begged, voice taut but steady. “Breathe, breathe.”

But you couldn’t breathe. 

You were trying but your heart was already doing that fucking thing, fluttering, skipping. Your ribs strained like they were too small for your lungs.

“LET HER GO!” Murray roared in the distance, still pinned by three of them. “Let her go. Lay one more hand on her, I swear to Christ—!”

“She’s twitchy,” one of the filthy men sneered above you. “She got something wrong with her?”

“She can’t breathe,” your uncle growled at them.

You blinked up at the sky. Frosty air bit at your face. The gravel was digging into your ribs, and your arm was going numb under your body. You couldn’t even answer.

You could hear Steve writhing.

You could hear Murray growling.

Even as the men holding you shifted. One nudged your hip, making you flip you over into your back with a grunt.

Your parka was yanked open.

“NO—!!!” Steve roared, nearly shrieking.

“She’s got a fuckin’ problem, don’t she?” the man hovering over you asked. 

Your throat worked as you grimaced, now clutching at your chest. “Nnnf—”

“S’the matter, huh? You twitchin’ from drugs?”

“SHE HAS A HEART CONDITION!” Murray bellowed. “GET YOUR GODDAMN HANDS OFF HER!”

But they didn’t stop. Not even as you clutched at your chest, or as Steve shuddered and gasped in their hold, not even as Argyle began rambling nonsensically.

“Bauman…” Jonathan wheezed, still winded.

“A heart condition, huh?” one of the men asked in a taunting drawl. Patronizingly. Creepy and sneering.

Menacing.

The next zippered layer ripped open on your chest.

And that was when the fight really began.

Your uncle became the most panicked monster, his voice thundering at them while Steve surged up, screaming and spewing at them, only to have the knife jab further into his throat. Just barely, just enough to draw a thread of red as he still writhed, pleas and spats and snarls escaping him.

Argyle cried out, pinned against the Winnebago by two men. “Yo! Yo, please—please, man—don’t—don’t do this—!”

“GET OFF her—” Jonathan wheezed, trying to get up. But he couldn’t. Both his legs buckled. “GET OFF HER—get off her—!”

You were thrashing like a wild fucking animal.

Even with two men on your legs, one on your chest. You clawed. You kicked. You growled and keened. All of their weight crushed your ribs, your pulse spiking hard enough to feel like a bomb under your skin.

And still they stripped you layer by layer. 

Down to your long-johns and thin thermal. 

A gargled sound of desperation slipped from your lips, breaking all four heartbeats that you trusted and fueling the eight that you didn’t. 

“FUCKING STOP!!!!!” Steve wailed.

“LET GO OF HER!!!!” Murray roared.

The cold hit you like a slap. 

Your body trembled violently. Not from fear.

From rage.

The kind of rage you only saw in animals right before they snapped their own legs trying to escape a trap.

You caught the sight of Steve’s beautiful face. It was now screwed up in agony. Blotchy, wet-eyed and murderous.

Murray’s scream cracked. “LET GO OF MY KID, YOU FUCKING SICK FUCKS—!”

The man looming over you reached for your waistband.

You bucked, biting at him mercilessly, like a caged animal. Steve’s screams were that of a tortured animal defending his rights, defending his land, his livelihood. All while Jonathan's outstretched hand was yanked from your reach so that he couldn’t help.

Argyle was bawling. “PLEASE, man don’t—she’s not okay—don’t—!”

BOOM.

The head of the biggest man hovered over you… now exploded onto your chest. Blood and bone splattered across your collarbone, warm and wet.

You froze, gasping violently.

The other two men pinning you blinked. 

BOOM. BOOM.

Then they crumpled.

Dead.

The silence after that was unnatural. Electric. You stared at the sky, shaking. Then lifted your head.

They were gone.

Blown off you like garbage.

And now standing above you?

Women.

Five of them.

Burly, brutal, all flannel and leather and muscle. 

One was still holding the smoking barrel of a sawed-off rifle. Another held a crossbow. The one closest to you had a machete and a face like carved stone.

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

The one with the machete didn’t speak. She just reached down, gripping the front of your thermal. And hauled you to your feet like you weighed nothing. The movement was rough. Not cruel. Just… efficient.

You stumbled. Gasped, ached. Clutched at your chest.

She caught your elbow. Her eyes flicked to your face. “You hurt?”

You nodded. Then you shook your head. Then nodded again. Hell, you didn’t know.

“C’mere,” she muttered, and started pulling you toward the others.

Behind you, the other women had already surged forward like butch hellhounds. They’d pinned the remaining five men to the ground. Disarmed them. Kicked one in the goddamn throat when he tried to fight back.

Two of the women dragged the whole group toward a nearby alley.

“You’re gonna scream for this,” one of them promised the men darkly, her voice like gravel. “See how you like it.”

The men were wailing now.

And you didn’t dare turn around now, being led, breathless and trembling... to Steve, who had been kneeling with the blade to his throat.

But the blade had disappeared after the man got shot.

And you were reaching for him on instinct, arms out and shaking and needing him. “S-S-St-teve,” you croaked, teeth chattering.

“Baby,” he barely rasped.

The woman escorting you didn’t speak, and she all but shoved you into Steve’s arms.

And Steve…

God. He wrapped around you like armor. 

“Baby, baby, baby,” he wheezed. “You’re okay—you’re okay—I’ve got you, c’mere—c’mere…”

You couldn’t breathe, clutching to him, clinging to him, all while trying and failing to refrain from whimpering.

He wrapped his own jacket around you desperately. “Easy. In. Out. Like this—look at me, look—”

You looked.

His big brown eyes were wild. His lip was bloody and quivered. His hair was plastered back with sweat and blood and snow. But he was alive.

And you nodded as you followed his movements.

“I’ve got you,” Steve half-wheezed against your cold cheek, his palm already on your chest beneath your shirt. “I’ve got you.”

A few feet away, Murray struggled upright. One of the women was helping him too, gruffly, without a word. 

“Give us a minute, give us—”

The women stepped back, realizing this was serious. 

His face was ghost-pale, his mouth trembling as he stared at you and all but flung himself onto the ground beside you. 

“Lay her back,” Murray said curtly, not meaning to snap but Steve didn’t give a shit because he was already doing it, sniffing hard.

The two men you trusted most in this world steadied you, Steve’s knees under your back and his palm still underneath your thermal against your chest. Murray’s grip on you was fierce, as were his pitch black eyes.

His voice shook. “You alright??”

You nodded again, holding your uncle’s hand as he stayed beside you and Steve. You squeezed it over and over, unable to look away from him. And you smiled once you realized he wasn’t harmed.

“You’re alright,” you murmured, half asked, half stated.

A huff of air released from Murray, who blinked back tears of anger and dread and relief. “Yeah. Now I am.”

Jonathan coughed so hard that he bent double. One of the women now crouched beside him and offered water from a flask. He took it, still wheezing.

“…Jay,” you breathed, reaching for him.

Argyle was still flat against the Winnebago, stunned, but unhurt. He made his way over to his best friend, his limbs a shaky mess.

The sight of them hurt to see. 

“…guys,” you tried again, voice tight, eyes on Jonathan as Argyle sat with him. They looked at you tearfully.

But Steve held your face between his hands now. “Lemme see you. Lemme see you, lemme—”

“I’m okay,” you rasped. “Swear, I’m okay.”

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, pulling you into his chest again, rocking slightly, mouth wet against your hair.

You felt it too. 

The collapse of adrenaline. The shivering aftermath. The harsh burn in your throat that meant you were either going to cry or pass out. Maybe both.

All of the women said nothing. Not until the oldest one, the machete woman, finally stepped forward again.

“You’re tougher than you look,” she said bluntly.

You blinked up at her in a daze.

“That was about to be a shitshow,” she added with a nod, her tone a lot softer now. “You kept your head.”

You gave a dry, humorless laugh. “Barely.”

Steve looked up at her, eyes glass. “Thank you,” he croaked.

She nodded at him, her gaze all-knowing. One of the others returned from the alley. She was wiping blood off her gloves. You’re pretty sure you saw guts.

“We’ll take half,” she said simply.

Murray’s brow furrowed. “Of…what?” he asked, stepping closer.

“The generators.” The machete woman nodded. “Fair is fair. Eight’s a haul. We’ll take four.”

“Take all the ones you want,” your uncle said immediately, surprising even you. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

The women exchanged glances.

They watched as Steve continued to cradle you, and how you leaned into him breathlessly with all the trust in the world, and how his pretty face was pinched in pain as he kept you sane.

They watched as your uncle kept flicking his dark eyes over in your direction, worriedly… and they watched as both you and Steve both reached out for Jonathan and Argyle, both of whom all but crawled to you.  

The machete woman squinted as Murray looked at you with grave concern, making eye contact with you. Clearly the two of you were family. That much was obvious. Not so much in resemblance, but rather, based on the way that you both spoke with not just words but your eyes. 

She nodded to her group.

One of the other women shrugged. “Two.”

Murray blinked. “What?”

“We’ll take two. Leave you six.”

He stared. “You sure?”

“Don’t question it,” the machete woman said. Then she nodded toward you. “You okay now?”

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“She’s handling it better than I thought,” another said, half to herself.

You stared at her. Then said, flatly, “Shot three men earlier today.”

Even your uncle whipped his head around. “What?”

“She saved my life,” Steve said quietly, his chin tucking your head beneath him against his neck as he closed his eyes, dreading the memory.

Murray’s mouth opened. Closed.

You didn’t elaborate. You didn’t need to. Instead, you just let the boy you trusted most in this world hold you.

The machete woman gave a grunt of approval. “Get her layered up. It’s only getting colder.”

You did. With Steve’s help, with shaking hands. The adrenaline still hadn’t fully left your bloodstream. You doubted it ever would.

Steve kissed your forehead in long, lingering pecks. His hand never left your spine, muscles never not around your chilled frame.

Argyle finally moved to stumble forward and wrap his long arms around you, Steve and Jonathan, in a giant shaky hug. 

“Dude. Dudes. That was…”

“I know,” you barely muttered into his jacket. “I know.”

The women began loading the two generators they were taking into a truck hidden nearby. You didn’t ask where they were headed. But you didn't need to.

As the engine revved and the women climbed in, the machete woman gave you all one final nod.

“Stay alive.”

Then they were gone. And Steve was still holding you, still breathing like he couldn’t believe you were okay. You buried your face in his jacket and let the silence settle.

You were still alive.

You were all still alive.

For now.

CHAPTER FOUR Hold Me, Hold You

You were warm. Warm, safe, and buried deep beneath three layers of Steve’s flannel sheets and two heavier blankets. The wind hissed against the windows, bitter and full of teeth, but you were sheltered from it—folded into the bed, curled beside the steady furnace of the man you loved.

Or, at least, you thought you were beside him.

It was the weight of silence that woke you first.

No sound but the wind. No hum of Steve’s breathing against your neck. No subtle shift of his body tucked around yours.

You blinked.

The room was dark, blue-gray in the moonlight slicing in through the slats of the blinds. Shadows now danced as branches clawed at the glass, but even with the distortion of light, you could see Steve’s shape beside you—lying flat on his back, one arm thrown over his face, the other slack at his side.

He was. Too still.

“Steve?” you whispered.

No response.

You sat up slowly, blanket falling from your shoulder. Reached for him. Your fingers brushed his chest, chilled from the lack of covers, even under his Henley. You felt it tremble. Not with cold.

...he was shaking with something else.

You sat up fully now, worried. “Steve,” you said again, softer.

He turned his face slightly, but the arm stayed clamped over his eyes.

You leaned closer and brushed your hand down his sternum. “Baby, you’re shaking—”

His breath hitched. He shook his head.

And then you understood.

He was crying. Bitterly. Silently. The kind of crying that came from deep inside and had no place in daylight. The kind of crying he didn’t want you to see.

“Hey,” you murmured, heart twisting. “No. Come here.”

You tried to guide his hand down, but he resisted. Still trembling, still hiding. So you shifted your weight and slowly, slowly peeled his arm away, moving into his line of sight until you could cup his jaw and make him look at you.

He did.

Barely.

The moonlight caught the wet shine beneath his eyes. His lips were tight. Red from being chewed raw.

“Steve,” you breathed, curling over him.

He just shook his head again.

“I’m fine,” you promised him, gently. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

But he wasn’t. You could feel it in the way his hand finally gripped your wrist. In the tightness of his jaw. The roughness of his voice when he rasped, “It’s not okay.”

Your heart sank. “Steve…”

“I’m not okay.”

You pressed your forehead to his. “I know. I know, but we’re here. We’re safe now. You’ve got me—”

But your words died off as his hand came up and cradled the back of your neck.

You didn’t expect the kiss.

It broke between both of your lips like a gasp, needy and full of salt between teeth.

Steve kissed you like he needed you to breathe for him. Like his heart was cracking open and you were the only one who could hold it together. His mouth tasted like fear and grief and the impossible relief of still having you, and you let it flood your mouth in return.

You kissed him back like you knew what he needed.

You kissed him, needing him back just as fiercely.

And when he rolled towards you slowly, almost reverently, you let your body mold into his like it had so many times before, only it was different now. Because there was no adrenaline between you. No heat for heat’s sake, no steam driven by lust. 

This was the rawest version of intimacy you’d ever known, and he was holding it together by a war-worn thread.

“This body’s yours,” he murmured, husky and low against your chin. His teeth grazed you just there as your mouth hung open in a reverent sigh, making him exhale along your jaw as he nipped at it. “Your body’s yours, it’s yours.”

“No,” you rasped, dusting his hair as he ducked lower to kiss at your collarbone and chest. You shook your head. “No, s’yours too. Yours n’mine. Ours—”

Steve grunted thickly, like a fallen angel who was starved for human touch.

He shifted, guiding one of your legs over his hip as you lay on your sides, wrapped close beneath the blankets. His hand slid up the back of your thigh, anchoring you closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space between you.

And then he kissed you again.

It was all-consuming. Gradual, but not soft. Tongue and teeth. Breaths caught in each other’s mouths. A rhythm that found itself somewhere between grief and reverence, grinding into something desperate, sacred.

“I’m so sorry,” he rasped into your mouth, your chin, your nose. As if anything today had been his fault at all. “S’fuckin’sorry.”

Somehow, he tugged your leggings down using only one hand as you wiggled them off with him. And all the while, he kissed your shoulder. Your throat. The ridge of your collarbone. 

“God, Steve,” you breathed in ecstasy.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, still half-damp from his shared shower with you earlier, and tried to pour your everything into every touch. Every sound. Every motion. Because if he couldn’t sleep for fear of losing you, then you wanted to give him something real to hold onto. Something that couldn’t be taken.

Something that was his, in his sleep and in his wake.

The friction of skin on skin wasn’t fast fucking. It wasn’t unhinged sex.

It was everything you both shared.

Steve’s hips rutted into you as his thick, hard, impossibly long and girthy length stretched you open at this angle. Your leg never unhooked from his, your bare leg pressed into the bed as you lay on your side, while Steve did the same.

He gasped. 

“…y’r’my angel…”

The cold outside didn’t exist. 

The pain of earlier, those horrible hours under frostbitten boots and sloshed ice and breathless terrors… it all faded like smoke behind a closed door.

All that mattered was here. Was now.

“Baby,” you choked. Sweetly, tenderly, angelically. 

Brokenly. 

“...h-hold me,” you breathed.

He whimpered as you cupped his face and held it steady while he moved with you. While you moved with him. As your breath caught and cracked and melted into his neck, his hardened root buried so deep inside of you that it had become one with your soul.

He whispered your name like a mantra. Like he needed to say it to believe you were still here.

You whispered his back. Over and over and over.

“Hold me, let—lemme hold you, please, please, Steve—”

Your croaked, tearful, stammered pleas made him wrench his lips from yours so that he could gasp against your face as he clung to you. As he held you. 

As he let himself be held while holding you.

“M’right there, m’right here, m-right—h-here,” he choked, nearly unable to speak as he rammed harder into you and did his best not to fall apart yet.

And when you both finally broke together, both barely able to breathe, gripping each other like you’d disappear, he buried his face against your shoulder and finally, finally let himself cry openly.

This time, you didn’t stop him.

Steve released his load into you just after you’d begun to drip all over his length, still buried inside of you, feeling your legs violently shiver and shake around his hip. You moaned into the corner of his mouth, feeling your inner thigh go slick with shared pleasure and sweat alike. The sound made him gasp and moan right in response, his sensitive tip twitching inside of you, mouth open with the inability to speak against your cheek as he wept.

You held him until the shaking slowed. Until your heart was calm and his breath was steady and your sweat cooled against the winter-chilled air of the bedroom.

Eventually, you pulled the blankets tighter.

Eventually, you whispered, “You know you’re the reason I’m alive… right?” You paused, placing his hand over your heart. “No matter what, Steve.”

And Steve, raw and wrecked but real, pressed his lips to your neck’s pulse point and whispered back, “m’always gonna keep you alive, Bauman.”

CHAPTER FIVE Thermoses & Threats of Affection

FEBRUARY 3, 1987 – Hawkins, Indiana (Steve's House)

“This town is full of idiots,” Mike declared, shoving a spoon of thick oatmeal into his mouth with the smug satisfaction of a 15-year-old who fully believed he’d discovered fire.

Lucas didn’t look up from the generator manual. “Yeah, well, at least we’re the smart ones left.”

“You once thought a demodog was a golden retriever,” Dustin deadpanned.

“IT WAS DARK,” Lucas snapped.

From the kitchen counter, you snorted into your mug of hot decaf and caught Will’s smile from across the table.

“Also,” Mike continued, gesturing wildly with his spoon, “how the hell do you explain half the town thinking these earthquakes are natural? Half of Main Street split in half like a baked potato—what, tectonic plates?”

Eleven tilted her head thoughtfully. “Baked potato?”

Will, ever gentle, leaned in to explain. “He means it exploded. Kind of. Like when you microwave one for too long.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh. Yes. That happened with our canned beans once.”

Laughter rippled through the room as Steve, bleary-eyed and stunning even in a flannel, walked in scratching the back of his head. He passed you, kissed the top of your head, and grabbed a banana like it owed him money.

“Morning, lovebirds,” Dustin grinned.

Steve deadpanned. “I’m too tired to be harassed.”

“You’re never too tired to be harassed, babe,” you murmured warmly.

He side-eyed you. “You're saying that like it’s a compliment.”

You sipped your arrhythmia friendly decaf with a grin. “Maybe it is.”

Joyce leaned in from the stove where she was frying potatoes with onions. “Kids, can someone help Jonathan and Argyle outside? I think one of the generators just… stopped humming.”

“Oh no,” Will whispered, already moving.

“That can’t be good,” El added as she followed.

“I’ll help them,” you said, already rising.

Steve reached out and grabbed your wrist. “You’re not helping anybody. You’re staying here.”

You raised a brow, pointedly. “Excuse me?”

“She’s staying here,” Steve repeated to Joyce like you weren’t standing right there. “Uncle Murray agrees.”

From the kitchen table, your uncle didn’t even look up from his crossword. “I do.”

You scowled. “It’s not even 9 a.m. and that’s twice.”

“That’s restraint,” Murray said cheerfully.

“I agree,” Joyce added with a wink. “Let the kids help.”

“But I—”

“You’ve got an irregular heartbeat,” Steve said, spinning toward you, fully prepared for a fight. “A messed up one. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“And you’re lucky I’m not throwing your own banana right at your pretty face.”

“You’re not going,” he insisted, firm. “You’re not. I’m not doing that again.”

You sighed. “I wasn’t trying to go,” you said calmly, trying to mask the defeat in your voice.

“Not just with the group,” Steve shook his head, adamant. “Here. At the house.”

“Baby, I’ve gotta do something,” you said gently.

“Then make it the most underwhelming something’s. A full list of boring something’s.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then you smiled at him softly. “Okay.”

Steve blinked. “…wait. Okay?”

You nodded, sipping from your mug.

“That’s… somehow worse,” he muttered. genuinely surprised you hadn't put up any more fight about it.

You leaned in, sly and lovesick. “I know.”

Before he could respond again, Jonathan and Argyle stumbled in from the back door, dusted in snow and swearing about electrical outputs and voltage like two stoned engineers in a sitcom. Argyle pulled off his beanie and beamed.

“Those generators are weird, man.”

“They’re from Canada,” Jonathan offered like that explained everything.

Murray muttered, “That honestly explains everything.”

And still, through all the chaos and bickering and found-family warmth, no one mentioned yesterday's terrors. No one dared.

That was done.

Max was still upstairs. Unconscious. Comatose. She was breathing, but only thanks to the machines Owens had brought. None of you could even talk about it. None of you could afford to.

That grief was too quiet to carry this early in the morning.

So instead, you all leaned into the ridiculousness. The noise. The coffee. The things that made you feel like maybe — just maybe — this apocalypse wasn’t permanent.

Robin came down the stairs dressed like a walking snowman. “Okay, hot take, but whoever invented scarves was overcompensating.”

Eddie followed her, already laughing. “Says the girl with three around her neck.”

“They’re vital. Shut up.” She beamed when she spotted you. “Morning, sexy. Surprised you can walk.”

Steve choked on his banana. “Robin.”

“What?” she grinned. “Think I didn’t hear the moaning last night?”

The room erupted into teenaged groans and protests. 

Lucas covered his ears, Mike made gagging noises, and even Dustin shouted, “WE ARE CHILDREN!”

El blinked, confused. “They were in pain?”

“No,” Will muttered. “Definitely not pain.”

“William,” you scolded through a flushed grin that you failed to bite back. 

“Well, not—” Will titles his head, considering. “Not like bad pain—”

“ALRIGHT,” Joyce chirped, laughing in spite of herself. “Start buttering toast, children, chop chop.”

You just smiled into your cup as Steve groaned. “Why are you all like this?”

“Because we love you,” Eddie said, slapping his back.

Dustin elbowed Mike. “See? We can still bully our parental figures in the apocalypse.”

Lucas nodded sagely. “It’s the only thing keeping us grounded.”

“It’s the only thing giving me hives,” Steve deadpanned.

You whispered in his ear, “You love it.”

He narrowed his eyes, then smiled faintly. “Yeah. I really do.”

And then, just as the laughter hit its peak, Hopper walked in with his signature gruff. “Alright, idiots. Saddle up.”

Everyone knew what that meant.

Jonathan zipped his coat while Argyle shoved more trail mix into his pocket. Eddie checked the ammo bag slung over his shoulder as he told Robin to do the same, and she rolled her eyes but eagerly followed suit. 

Meanwhile, Nancy rounded the corner, composed and unreadable. She didn’t meet your eyes. Not quite. She still hadn’t fully adjusted to you and Steve yet. Not because she was jealous anymore, just because it was new. 

And Nancy Wheeler didn’t do well with ‘new.’

Or with change. Especially not romantic change.

Jonathan tried to smile at her. “You ready?”

She just nodded and brushed past him, making him sigh through his nose irritably.

Argyle quietly clapped his friend on the back. “One day at a time, hermano.”

You handed out thermoses of coffee. “Be careful, all of you. I mean it.”

Steve took his last, fingers lingering on yours. “You swear you’re staying.”

You smirked. “Yes, Harrington. I’m staying.”

“Good.”

“…but I still hate it.”

“I know.”

There was silence between you for a moment. Something low and taut. And then his hand found your cheek, thumb brushing lightly, seeing just how afraid you truly were of losing him... just as much as he was of losing you.

“You don’t complain,” he murmured, as if realizing it out loud. “Ever. Not even when you should.”

“Because I trust you,” you murmured, leaning into his touch.

That almost undid him, the way you said it as you peaked up at him through your long, dark eyelashes. Those piercing dark eyes of yours making his head him. His heart squeeze, lurching into his throat, swelling with love.

He nodded, sniffed once, then took a sip of the coffee you made. He blinked. “Holy shit.”

You grinned like a devil. “Liquid gold?”

“Something like that.” 

Then he kissed you. Not long. Not deep. But enough to make butter butterflies twitter inside your stomach. That was better than the gnawing dread that chomped at your gut. You sighed, noses nuzzling briefly.

The teenagers didn’t even heckle you. Not this time. Not after everything that you all have been through.

Especially the two of you.

Dustin eventually stepped forward. “We’ll man the fort.”

“Don’t let her do anything dumb,” Steve said, earning a fond scoff from you.

The kid saluted. “No dumb things. Got it.”

Mike crossed his arms. “I’m not promising anything.”

Lucas grinned, shoving him. “We’ve got this.”

Robin hugged you so tightly you almost cried. “Take care of my soulmate’s soulmate, a.k.a. you.”

“Take care of ours,” you whispered back.

She pulled back winked. “Always.”

Murray ruffled your hair with a smirk, then stole the last of the toast while muttering something about irregular heartbeats and idiotic bravery. And he only pretended to be annoyed when you hugged him, but it was a half-assed attempt after yesterday. He hugged you back, still eating the crunchy sliver of toast and taking his thermos of hot coffee with bluntly muttered “gracias.”

“Thanks, Bauman,” Nancy thanked you awkwardly as you also handed her a fresh thermos, after she accidentally spilled hers on the porch.

“Plenty more where that came from,” you mumbled with a wink.

She smiled shyly. And nearby, Jonathan looked like he wanted to speak but didn’t.

Then Eddie paused at the door, pointing at you. “Breathe in time, alright?”

You saluted. “Yes, sir.”

He smiled. “That’s my girl.”

Then he twisted the doorknob and opened it, beatboxing as he stepped out. The cold bit like a living thing, making him swear aloud. But it didn’t matter. Not with all of you there.

Not with Steve kissing your temple one last time and whispering, “I love you so much,” like it was armor, and humming whenever you whispered it back.

And you stood at the porch, Joyce beside you, waving them off as Hopper and Steve fist bumped before each of them climbed into separate squad cars. Lights off, faces grim, and prepared for whatever hell came next.

And when the door shut and the engine purred and they disappeared into the snow… you whispered into the wind.

“Come home safe.”

Because you meant it.

Because he had to.

🤍

NEW CHAPTERS EVERY EVERY OTHER DAY, Nov. 12th through the 26th! (Yes, I now have them allllll scheduled as drafts! ahhh!) 

Forever dedicated to @silkholland 🖤 TAGLIST [ily guys sm] pls lmk if i forgot you

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The deer dropped like a stone.

Will flinched.

Lucas gasped.

Dustin? “Jesus Christ, dude!”

Mike blinked at the sight in a stunned haze, then whispered, “You did that like it was—like it was nothing…!”

Murray just turned around with a shrug and lowered the bow to his side. “I did not live through the ‘60s just to die undercooked on a powder keg of canned beans.”

Dmitri stared at him for a long, quiet second. “You did not even breathe.”

“Nope.”

Hopper, without even looking, raised a gloved fist, while Murray bumped it once, casually smug.

And with that? Operation: Meat was secured.

Of course, that’s also when Lucas yelped now and turned as his own gun fired, accidentally but miraculously, into a second deer that had begun to flee from the noise. 

The shot echoed so loud it made all five of them jump. When the deer crumpled in the distance, everyone turned slowly…

Will blinked. “Did you mean to do that?”

Lucas looked at the gun like it had just told a joke on his behalf. “I don’t even know, man.”

Dustin screamed. 

“Let’s GO!” He flung both his arms in the air before high-fiving Lucas hard enough to knock both their gloves off.

Hopper barked out a laugh.

“Dumbest firing squad I’ve ever seen,” Murray muttered.

But he was grinning.

So was everyone else.

——

Meanwhile, back at base camp…

You sat cross-legged beside Robin and Eddie, all three of you bundled up in big coats like children at recess. Your metal mug steamed in your hands. Eddie’s had long since gone cold, but he still drank it like it was holy. 

Robin, of course, had soberly spiked hers with a tiny pinch of powdered cocoa from some emergency tin she’d stashed god knows when.

“Are we sure this is even real coffee?” she asked, sniffing it suspiciously.

Eddie didn’t blink. “If it makes you vibrate, it’s real.”

“Then I’m probably dying.”

“RIP,” you offered solemnly.

A staticky voice warbled through the radio.

“—Northeastern sectors under emergency lockdown. Last contact from Montreal suggests border sweep scheduled for April first—”

The three of you went quiet.

Nancy had been standing behind you, arms folded as she listened. “They’ll never find us.”

“Nah,” Robin muttered. “Not unless they go thirty-five miles off the closest plowed road, then ten more on foot, into a dead zone that’s not even on official maps.”

“Canada’s martial law isn’t looking in the Arctic woods,” Eddie added. “They’re looking for border jumpers and public threats, not frostbitten camp ghosts.”

You sipped your drink. “So we’re basically all ghosts now.”

“Sexy ones,” Eddie said.

Nancy hummed. “Just like Owens said. Ghosts with groceries.”

“Mmm,” you swallowed your coffee enthusiastically, looking at her as you both snapped your fingers. 

“Ghosteries!” the two of you chirped.

Robin gasped, remembering. “Ghosteries.”

“Ayyyyyeeeee,” Eddie jeered with arms out wide as you all let the stupidity fall over you in a wave of rare bliss.

Not long after that, Jonathan and Argyle both joined you with matching mugs. 

“Sludge slingers, comin’ through,” Byers announced.

“Thank you for coming today,” Eddie greeted, mock-solemn, as if this was a preachy church service or some sort of seminar.

“Confessional’s thataway," you pointed to nowhere.

“Ain’t no saving my ass,” Jonathan flopped beside Nancy as he said it, his eyes ringed dark but calm. 

Argyle stretched on the other side of her, his spine cracking. “Did we miss hunting season?”

“Don’t worry,” Robin said. “You’re just in time for venison stew and identity crises.”

Jonathan chuckled quietly. “Perfect.”

Nancy peaked at him through her lashes, a little stiff, but also not moving away. Sitting between him and Argyle actually felt nice. And it was.

It was peaceful. Grim radio reports clashed with the steam in your mug, the faint sound of someone chopping firewood, the low rustle of a tarp. Peace in a warzone.

Eventually, you stood. “Gonna check on Max and boo thang,” you said as you stretched. “And our saintly family healthcare.”

No one stopped you. 

No one had to.

Inside the Winnebago, it was quiet.

Max and Owens were seated toward the back, quiet voices trailing low across the space. Max’s crutches leaned against the corner; Owens held a notebook loosely in his lap. Neither looked up as you entered. Not out of rudeness, but because this was familiar now. 

Regular. 

Sacred.

Therapeutic.

She had started doing this with him ever since she finally woke up. They would talk about… whatever she felt like. Most of the time, it seemed pretty light. 

But you knew better. 

Dissecting the inner corners of her mind post-coma was not a “light topic.” But if there was anyone who could find a way? It was Dr. Sam Owens himself.

You moved to the kitchenette without speaking, and sure enough, Steve was already there.

He was shoeless in socks, hoodie loose at the neck, ruffling through the cabinets. He looked tired. A little clammy. And his sharp nose is a little pink.

You narrowed your eyes. “Babe.”

“Baby.”

Oh hell no. “I swear to God, if you’re getting sick—”

“I’m not.”

You gave him a look.

He groaned. “It’s a sniffle. Probably allergies.”

“You don’t have allergies.”

“I might now.”

“Steve—”

“I’m making you something, okay?”

That made you pause.

He turned, holding a mismatched handful of crackers, dried fruit, and something in a tin. “It’s… a snack?”

You blinked at him.

He blinked back.

Then your eyes went glossy and soft. “…You’re sick.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re flushed.”

“You’re bossy.”

You stepped closer anyway. He didn’t move as you pressed the back of your hand to his cheek.

Warm. Too warm.

His eyes fluttered closed. “You’re not allowed to touch me like that if I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying, you’re warm,” you mumbled, lovesick worry creasing your forehead.

“You’re mean,” he muttered, opening his eyes. “And worse, you’re hot when you worry.”

You rolled your eyes. “You need to lay down.”

“I need you to eat this snack first.”

“Baby, you need to lay—”

“Please just eat it.”

That made you stop.

Because there was urgency to it, like he needed you to stop worrying about him sot act he could worry about you first. And maybe that would've made you bark back once, but now? That wasn't remotely possible. Because you've seen Steve when he's made to worry. Or worse, be made to feel like he didn't do enough to keep you safe.

So you nodded. Took the weird little handful of grub from him and sat to eat it so that he wouldn’t freak out over possible malnutrition and how that wasn’t good for your heart.

Steve immediately turned to root through a plastic storage bin under the counter. You realized with a quiet swell of fondness that he wasn’t just pulling snacks… he was digging for cold meds.

“You could’ve just asked Owens, love.”

“I will. After you eat and after they’re done.”

You sighed. But you smiled, quietly glancing over your shoulder...

Behind you, Max’s voice was soft as ever. “…It looked like it was underground. Black sky, but… stars. Too many. Like they didn’t blink.”

Owens responded quietly. “That matches previous descriptions. Did it feel familiar?”

Max didn’t speak until she was ready.

You and Steve didn’t interrupt. Because they'd been doing this ever since she woke up: having intimate therapy sessions. Normally, you made sure it was just the two of them so that she wouldn't close up or feel watched. Sometimes, she wanted Lucas there with her. Most times, actually. But there were certain things that she needed to work through on her own, and that was already hard enough because she'd been stuck in some alternate dimension for over nine months. There was a lot of ground to cover, and Owens only ever had the utmost patience for it. Insight for it. Reassurance for it. He didn't have all the answers. He had none more than he did any. Still... he was able to help her navigate it.

None of you ever intruded unless she requested it.

But today, Max hadn't minded Steve being around. Not just because she'd caught onto him clearly feeling under the weather, but because when he'd started to hurry up and clear the space she'd suddenly told him, in a small voice: “Wait—Steve. It's okay, you can... stay. If you want...”

He hadn't been sure if that meant please stay, or I don't want you to feel unwanted, or I trust you and just want you to know that. But whatever it had meant, he'd smiled and started making her and Owens' some hot tea and sandwiches while quietly listening in.

Eventually, Max and Owens moved toward the door. She was bundled up now, coat zipped up and scarf twisted around her neck, crutches tucked tight beneath her arms.

“You good, baby girl?” you asked gently as she passed.

Max offered a ghost of a smile. “Are you?”

“Mmhmm,” you said as you finished your snack.

Steve nodded at her. “Grab the knit cap, please. No getting sick for you.”

That earned him a playful eyeroll and instant obedience. “Very well, mother,” she sighed, faux exasperated.

You ruffled her head as she moved past, and she didn’t even swat you for it. Owens gave a small nod before following her out and helping her down the steps with her crutches, winking at the two of you, knowing damn well that you both wanted to help but Max had this, so she needed to be given the chance.

Then it was just you and Steve.

And your full attention finally landed back on him.

He sniffled.

You glared.

Then he grinned like a sinner. “Do not look at me like that.”

“You need to rest.”

“You need to make out with me.”

“You’re sick!”

“I’m irresistible.”

You squinted at him, a smirk betraying your resolve as you let yourself get playful. “…You’re—”

He suddenly coughed.

Violently.

You stood in one second flat and grabbed a blanket from the couch, wrapping it around his shoulders. “Okay, no. No more flirting. You’re going to bed.”

“Man, I like when you boss me around.”

“Oh now you like it.”

“Live for it.”

“Steve…”

“I do. It’s hot.”

You herded him toward the bunk like a sheepdog. He went, but not without whining and giving you a run for your money. 

“You’re not gonna tuck me in?”

“I’ll tuck you under if you don’t lie down.”

He smiled, climbing into the warm bedding. His hair fluffed messily against the pillow. He looked criminally sweet, like a Victorian boy recovering from consumption.

You knelt beside him.

He blinked at you suddenly.

“…Don’t kiss me.”

“Oh I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Angel, you can’t catch this.”

“You literally just begged me to make out with you. Also? It’s bound to happen anyway—”

“You already caught feelings,” he said mock-solemnly.

That smartass.

You kissed him square on the mouth.

He hummed against you, a pleased little noise that dissolved into a sigh against your lips that vibrated your soul.

When you pulled back, he was grinning sleepily. “I’m gonna marry the hell outta you,” his husky voice murmured.

“I keep asking where the ring is.”

“Up the ass of a treasure trove.”

“Classy.”

“Mmhm. But honest.”

Another kiss. Softer, this one shorter.

“I’ll be back,” you whispered.

“Stay.”

“Alas, I can’t.”

He reached weakly for your hand, feigning a look of solemn horror, voice lowering to a dramatic whisper. “Don’t let me die alone.”

You sputtered at his antics. “You’re not dying—!”

“…Don’t let me get ugly.”

“You’ve always been ugly.”

He laughed, breathy and warm, instantly dropping the whiplash melodrama act as you shook your head at him with continued snorts. Then, grudgingly, he let you go.

“I’ll be back with—”

You were just opening the door when suddenly…

“YEEEEEEE-HAW!”

Eddie’s voice rang through the clearing like a war whoop.

You blinked at the scene.

Steve raised his brows from the cot. “Oh no,” he mumbled.

You stepped out into the crisp air to see Eddie and Dustin practically dragging a deer carcass between them like two victorious gremlins.

Lucas trailed after, panting, “We got two!”

Will gave a bashful little shrug. “I mean, Lucas did. Technically.”

“Yeah, after Murray went full blown feral archer,” Mike was panting next to him as they stumbled back like warriors.

Murray muttered something about protein rations as he lit a cigarette. Hopper stood with arms crossed, gruff expression unreadable… but his proud little smirk said enough.

Joyce had already begun clearing a space near the campfire for prep with the giant smile, with Dmitri sharpening a knife and grinning around a cigar, ready to roast.

All the while, you just stared.

Then turned to go back inside.

Steve grinned like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “You’re overwhelmed.”

“Our boys just became men,” you mumbled.

“Go help our baby cavemen.”

You smacked a kiss to his head. “You’re the only caveman I care about right now.”

“Damn right.”

“Not to say I don’t care about them.”

“F’course not.” 

“Get some sleep.”

“Don’t be gone long.”

You paused in the doorway, smiling softly. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Harrington.”

And then you stepped back out into your wilderness.

Into your war.

Into your family.

Where every heartbeat, every kill, every shiver and snort and sarcastic grin meant only one thing: you were all still alive.

DAY 5 (Classified Coordinates) – Evening

The sun hadn’t quite dipped behind the trees yet, but it was thinking about it.

A low gold hovered across the horizon like a breath held. Just enough light to roast deer meat and boil water—no more than that. They’d have to be careful once it slipped behind the pines.

The camp was quieter than it had been all day. Not silent, not idle, just quieter. It’s that the comfy kind of hush that comes with hungry bellies and ears always listening. The radio crackled low from where it sat on the tarp-covered crate near the edge of the main fire pit, harmonizing with Dmitri’s sharp Russian grunts, guiding the last round of venison roasting with terrifying efficiency.

“Not that fast,” he barked gently at Mike, who was turning a skewer like he was racing for gold. “You will char the outside and freeze the inside. That is not food. That is revenge.”

Lucas muffled a laugh behind his glove, while Dustin just nodded solemnly, whispering, “Revenge steak,” under his breath.

Will didn’t say anything. He was carefully watching the juices slide off the flank that Dmitri himself had sliced with surgical precision. Every flick of the cruel knife had been a masterclass. They weren’t watching a man cook… they were watching a man survive with style.

“Look,” Dmitri muttered, kneeling beside them, his voice calm now. “This? This is how you do it. Hot edge… slow turn. Let the fat drip. You want smoke, not fire.”

“And you want protein, not food poisoning,” Jim added from where he sat on an overturned crate, cleaning one of the knives and occasionally pointing out tweaks to how the skewers were angled over the pit. “You burn it? You eat it.”

“Psh, s’not even a punishment anymore,” Mike muttered.

Hopper grinned around a toothpick. “Exactly.”

They weren’t just learning how to cook.

They were learning how to survive.

And they were good at it.

——

Meanwhile, Nancy was doing a full perimeter walk. 

Her rifle was cradled against her chest, her boots silent in the soft-packed snow. She wasn’t paranoid, just practical. Every fifteen minutes, they ran a quiet sweep. Because it didn't matter how far off-grid this place was, nowhere was safe for good.

The radio was all the proof they needed.

“—northern border closures now extended through June. Warnings of unauthorized crossers remain active. The government statement issued through the United Nations advises all civilians to maintain regulated shelter until further notice…”

El floated a few dozen feet above, her silhouette nearly invisible in the clouded tree line. Her arms were still at her sides. Her brows were drawn tight. And her nostrils bled, but only faintly.

“No drones,” she whispered down to Nancy after a beat.

Nancy nodded once. “We’ll keep sweeping ‘til sundown.”

Together, and without more than a few words exchanged, they completed the full loop. They passed tall tree trunks sprayed in frozen moss, low brush dusted with windblown ice, boot prints from the boys earlier that afternoon.

It wasn’t fear keeping them sharp.

It was habit. It was love.

It was survival.

——

“Radio’s extra spooky tonight,” Eddie muttered, barely above a whisper.

You hummed. “Yeah. Like some end-of-the-world bedtime story.”

Back at the main camp, you and Eddie were crouched between the two heavily camouflaged tanks, their worn exteriors blanketed with evergreen branches and snow dampened burlap. It was a lot warmer in this little alcove. Shielded from the wind. The perfect spot to set up dinner.

You were working together, mostly silent while laying out paper plates and propping up the battered fold-out crate to serve as a makeshift table, plus folding a few extra blankets nearby for those who needed to sit or shiver in peace.

“Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if the next broadcast is just a guy screaming into the void.”

You raised your brows. “You’re saying that’s not what we’ve been listening to all day?”

He snorted, mouth twitching. “Okay, fair.” He paused a moment. “You think we’ll ever get real food again?”

“This is real food.”

“Right, right,” he nodded. “Deer a la forest. Served with a side of radioactive snowflakes and existential dread.”

You grinned faintly. “Shut up and pass me the extra blanket.”

He did. But not without tossing it at your face first.

Just as you tackled him back with a wad of tarp, Robin approached with a bigger crate in her arms and a wool blanket wrapped like a cape around her shoulders.

“Delivery,” she sang. “And no, I did not sign up for snow duty.”

“Is that the fancy dining table?” you asked.

“It’s a collapsed folding card table from Owens’s weird old guy collection. So yes.”

Eddie grinned. “Madame Buckley, doing the Lord’s work.”

The three of you worked quickly to set everything up. The thicker blankets were all tucked around the edges of the tanks, lanterns lit low, enough camouflage to keep light bounce minimal from above.

The wind was picking up. Just enough to sting.

But the only chill you all felt running down your spines were caused by the news updates, not the weather.

——

Joyce was near the fire now, sorting through what she’d called “shrubbery with purpose.”

“I think this one’s sorrel,” she muttered to herself, twirling a green frond between two fingers. “More crisp. A little bit lemony.”

Argyle leaned over her shoulder with a grin. “And that one’s wood violet. Edible flowers, baby. Told you I was certified.”

“Certified what, exactly?”

“California Dreamin’,” he said, deadpan.

But Joyce smiled, trusting him. “Maybe your, umm…” She clicked her tongue, “…your ‘plant’ knowledge comes in a lot more handy than just, ya know.” She gently shrugged. “Blazing it up.”

He turned to her. “Mrs. Byers, was that a compliment?”

She winked. “We’ll go with that.”

Between the two of them (…and Dustin popping by to confirm a few finds…) they were managing to build a sparse but impressive salad from wild-grown greens.

“Look at us,” Joyce said proudly. “Next step is a garden.”

“Farm to table, post-apocalyptic edition,” Dustin called from across the camp.

“Hey!” Joyce grinned. “I’m serious. If we ever settle? Really settle, I’m planting. All of it. I mean it. Beans, berries, roots…”

You passed by in time to hear her, and grinned. “We’ll eat better than kings.”

“Hell yeah, we will chica,” Argyle agreed, tossing a clump of leaves into the bowl. “Greens or bust.”

——

It was almost time to eat.

The meat was fully roasted, each skewer shining with juice and smoke, and the boys had done damn good work. Dmitri gave them a solemn nod as they all carried the portions carefully toward the makeshift table.

“Not bad for first-timers,” he muttered.

Hopper clapped Will on the shoulder. “Might make mountain men outta you yet.”

Lucas, proud, was telling Max’s crutches all about the shot he took. “It just happened, man. I didn’t even aim. I blinked and boom. Venison.”

Steve finally stepped down from the Winnebago just as the boys were laying the food down.

He looked… alright. Not great, but okay. Pale in the face, head a little low, and wrapped in three layers and a thick scarf. A massive knit beanie covered up his ever-perfect head of hair, obnoxiously vibrant with cream and maroon colored yarn, all knitted together.

The second you saw it, you wheezed.

“You good?” he asked, voice thick.

“You’re wearing the beanie,” you beamed.

“I had to wear the beanie. You told me I couldn’t come out here without bundling up.”

You squinted at him, still smiling.

“…oh, you like the beanie,” you accused him.

He looked away, pouting. “It’s cozy.”

“FYI? I wanted to go with yellow,” you smirked. “But Argyle insisted on these colors.”

“He insisted it matched my aura.”

“You don’t know what that means.”

Steve shrugged. “Neither does he. But he was right.”

You were already laughing again. Soft, silent wheezing, shoulders shaking. Steve was grinning like an idiot now.

Then he sniffled. Hard, clearing his croaky throat.

Instantly, your concern surged again. “Steve…”

“I’m fine,” he mumbled. “Just don’t wanna miss dinner.”

“You can eat inside.”

“I don’t wanna eat inside.”

You stepped closer. “You sure?”

He nodded, suddenly quieter. “I just… wanna be around everyone.”

You looked at him.

Really looked.

This wasn’t about being stubborn.

This was about belonging.

…and about togetherness.

That was something he hadn’t had until all of you came along, and it didn’t matter to him that it meant the end of the world, or that he was getting a nasty head cold. 

You nodded once. “Then sit next to me and stay warm.”

He lifted the corner of his blanket and beckoned you in. “Get in here before I get clingy.”

“You’re already clingy,” you muttered, but you stepped into the cocoon within a second.

And he pressed his face into your shoulder, sniffling like a man possessed, and murmured against your skin, “Don’t get sick.”

You snorted. “That’s rich. Richer than your trust fund.”

Steve wheezed a laugh… then coughed.

Joyce immediately materialized. “What did you take?”

Steve blinked. “Uhm…”

“I’ve got DayQuil and half the Canadian pharmacy in my duffel. Come with me.”

Owens appeared like a ghost. “I’ll monitor his temp.”

“Why is everyone acting like I’m—”

“You’re sick,” you, Joyce and Owens all said at once.

Steve held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

But you could tell.

He liked it.

Being taken care of.

For once in his life, Steve was being taken care of.

At some point, Nancy and Eleven reappeared through the trees, walking slowly. Between them, Max made her way forward on crutches. Slow. Steady. Focused.

All of you went still.

Every last person froze to watch.

The meat sizzled. The wind rustled. The radio cracked low behind the table.

Max walked with her crutches.

She stumbled once. Caught herself and kept going… and choosing not to need help.

Lucas looked like he might faint.

You looked like you were fainting.

Steve crouched down, head cold and all, right in front of her path. “Well well well,” he said dramatically. “Look who thinks she’s strong enough to eat my rations.”

Max barked a laugh and pushed forward, eyes gleaming.

You slid down beside Steve on the ground, sitting with him in the snow without hesitation, on top of crates with bundles of blankets. He pulled you into his lap, his chin pressed against your scarf, breath warm on your neck.

You nuzzled your temple against his knit cap. “Theeere sheeeee goesssss…” you sang. “There she goessssss againnn.”

Steve joined in with you. “Racing through myyy brain…”

Lucas, Mike and Dustin chimed in to make a choir. “And I just can’t contaayyy-eeee-ainnnn…”

Now everyone at the camp was singing as Max sputtered and laughed, Nancy and Eleven flanking her sides… also singing joyfully, even dancing, as the group’s chosen final girl kept finding her footing. 

Right as Dustin did the signature drum section with wild flourish, Max nearly collapsed into Lucas’s arms at the last second, and he scooped her close with a wheezy little sound of love.

Cheers erupted.

Eddie whooped. Robin screamed. Hopper clapped. Dustin smirked while Murray flicked a cigarette, also smirking.

And then?

You ate.

All of you. Together. Cramped like sardines in between trees, camouflaged under tanks, sharing meat and wild greens and powdered cocoa, passing salt packets like currency.

“Someone better tell me there’s at least pepper in that stash,” Murray grouched as he plopped down into his seat, his eyes on the pouch of packets.

You leaned over to toss him one. “There. For your rotted tastebuds.”

He pointed at you. “That’s three.”

“Nah, I’m not there yet.”

“Strike. Three.”

Eddie snorted.

You just shrugged and dug into your venison. “I mean, someone’s gotta keep you humble in the jungle.”

“By insulting my smoking habits? Knowing damn well I’ve got better tastebuds than your unscathed little tongue?”

Steve hummed absentmindedly as he ate. “Wouldn’t say that,” he mumbled quietly, but you’d caught it.

So did Robin. Who now squeaked.

You swatted at him, biting back a huge grin and blushing like a madwoman. “Stefan Michael Harrington,” you mock scolded.

Mike reeled. “Michael—?!”

“Oh god,” Steve groaned, mouthful of meat as he sniffled and laughed and coughed and pouted.

“We share a name??”

Steve sighed exasperatedly, guzzling water to keep his choking down as you patted his back. “Sure do, Baby Wheeler.”

Mike’s mouth was agape, all while Dustin cackled like an asshole next to Will.

“Never living this down,” he wheezed.

“How did we just find this out??” Will asked brightly.

But just when you thought peace had found you?

The radio sparked.

“—further satellite coverage underway. Border search drones en route. Surveillance extended across—”

You turned the volume down. Way, way down.

Everyone paused. But no one panicked. Because right now? All of you were here.

Together, warm, alive and sharing dinner.

Right now, all there was time for was to eat.

Campfire out.

Camp lights on.

Every single heartbeat counted.

Every single bite was earned.

Every one of you in this moment.

Chapter Sixty-Six Go Ahead, Fight God.

March • 1987 DAY 6 (Classified Coordinates) – Morning

Steve Harrington looked like hell. And not the charming, tousled, “he’s got a little cold” kind of hell.

This was full-blown, sniffling, coughing, curled up on the cot like a dramatic widow hell.

Owens was seated beside him, checking his pulse with two fingers and a faint wince, while Joyce Byers was now digging through her duffel bag with the intensity of a war nurse in the trenches.

And you?

You were hovering like Steve’s certified angel of mercy, wrapped in three layers of flannel and concern.

“You are so annoying when you hover,” Steve groaned, muffled by his scarf. His sharp nose was red. His brown eyes were bloodshot. He had a knit beanie tugged over his ears like a sick child on a snow day.

“You’re annoying when you breathe through your mouth like that,” you shot back calmly.

“I’m congested!” he barked, then coughed violently. “I’m literally dying, and she’s insulting me.”

“You’re not dying,” Owens muttered, checking Steve’s vitals again. “Though you are thoroughly unpleasant.”

“Thank you,” you and Joyce said at the same time.

Steve flopped dramatically onto his side, moaning. “You people don’t understand. I’m out here dying sexy and misunderstood.”

Joyce laughed, full and bright as she handed over a bottle. “Take the NyQuil, James Dean.”

“I told you he thinks he’s a martyr,” you murmured fondly.

Steve peeked up at you with a scowl, then he softened immediately when you offered him the tissue box with a weirdly loving smile.

“I can’t stand you,” he mumbled.

“Can’t stand you either,” you replied. “Blow your nose, Romeo.”

As he did, with the most godawful honking noise known to mankind… Owens tapped the stethoscope around his neck and gave you both a serious look.

“He’s just run down. Fever’s low-grade. Oxygen’s fine. Probably a bad flu, maybe borderline bronchitis, but the good news? Nothing we can’t manage out here.”

You sighed with relief. “Good.”

Steve made a tiny fist-pump from the cot. “Knew it. Killer immune system. Harrington strong.”

“However,” Owens added, pointing at you, “you can’t afford to get sick.”

Steve was already sitting up. “Exactly. She shouldn’t even be in here—”

“You’re not contagious yet,” you tried to argue.

“He absolutely is,” Owens and Joyce snapped in unison.

You just folded your arms. “Sam… how bad would it be? If I caught it?”

Owens sighed. “It won’t directly cause an arrhythmia episode. But—”

“But it’ll make her body work harder,” Joyce cut in. “And she doesn’t need anything making her hardworking heart work any harder.”

Steve groaned, flopping back with a forearm over his eyes. “Cool. Great. I’m a plague rat. This is my legacy.”

You hated this. You really really hated this. And you didn’t even try to hide the sad look on your face as you stared at your boy.

Joyce handed him a different bottle of meds. “Take the acetaminophen. Drink more water. Stop talking.”

You were already rising from your crouch beside him, but he reached for your wrist.

“Don’t go.”

The look in his eyes made your chest tighten.

“I just wanna… I dunno.” He shrugged. “Have you nearby. Not too nearby. Just… near.”

You gave him a long look, then cupped his cheek for just a second, warm and deliberate. “I’m not going far, baby.”

“You’re already far,” he mumbled miserably.

“Dawwwwhhh, Stevieee.”

He closed his eyes. “Don’t call me Stevie. It makes me feel like I’m in a nursery rhyme.”

“It makes you feel adored,” you murmured, standing. “Which you are.”

As you stepped back, you shot him a playful look, even as he scowled like a model riddled with the plague. “But I agree. It’s giving nursery rhymes. S’why I never call you that.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

“I’ll stick with ‘baby’ and ‘my love.’ Maybe even lover.”

Steve sighed through his stuffy nose, his bleary eyes heavy but fixed on you. “I like those...”

You scrunched your nose at him as Owens walked over with a thermometer and Joyce was fluffing his pillow with motherly vigor.

“Ugh,” Steve groaned. “I’m useless.”

“Incorrect,” Owens said. “You are adorably useless.”

Steve looked horrified.

Joyce grinned. “You’re resting. That’s useful.”

“I’d like to file a formal protest,” Steve deadpanned.

“Oh, he’s definitely in love with you,” Joyce said as you stepped away.

Steve groaned louder.

That’s when the door to the Winnebago creaked open. Murray entered, scarf wrapped high on his neck, face chapped from wind.

“Oh good,” he muttered. “The baby’s still alive.”

“I am not a baby,” Steve growled from the cot, congested and betrayed.

“Right. You’re a sick baby.” Murray peered down at him. “Congratulations. Your hair still looks fine.”

You snorted.

Steve narrowed his eyes. “You come here to mock me or…?”

“Actually,” Murray said, rolling up his sleeves, “I’m here to offer myself as a temporary sick ward monitor. You know. Take some of the babysitting load off.”

Steve blinked twice. “You’d do that?”

Murray gave a loud, sarcastic sigh. “Only because if you die, she’ll cry. And then I’ll cry. And then the world ends.”

...well, he wasn't wrong.

You'd worry yourself silly if your man didn't rest.

Even Joyce hummed in agreement. “Pretty sure it already did.”

You just smiled faintly, touched and exasperated. “You’re all such disasters.”

“And yet somehow,” Murray added, “you’re marrying him.”

The entire RV went quiet.

Steve choked on his own spit. Owens raised his brows. Joyce turned her head so fast her earring flew off.

You blinked. “I—”

Steve blinked. “We—”

Murray just raised a brow. “You what?”

Joyce clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes shining with effort not to react. Owens smiled into his clipboard.

“…eventually,” Steve mumbled, trying not to grin and failing beautifully.

You looked down, flustered as hell and smiling like an idiot. “Eventually,” you warmly agreed, biting your lip like a lovesick loser.

“Good,” Murray said, clapping Steve on the foot. “I expect to officiate.”

“I’ll kill you,” Steve muttered, but he was glowing.

Minutes later, you were bundling up. Joyce handed you a thermos, Owens passed you a pulse-checking monitor for your wrist, and Steve scowled from under three blankets.

“You sure you gotta go?” he murmured groggily.

You bent to kiss his temple gently. “I’ll be back in an hour. Max’ll keep you company.”

That was when the door opened again and Eddie walked in, panting and carrying Max in both arms like a princess bride.

“She’s getting heavy,” he huffed with flourish.

Max snickered wildly. “Tell me again how fast you are.”

“Faster than Dustin,” Eddie panted. “But not faster than trauma.”

He deposited her on the opposite cot with a flourish. She stuck her tongue out at Steve. “Sick buddy time!”

Steve sniffed and pointed at her solemnly. “You better not steal my tissues.”

“Too late,” Max chirped, plucking one and lapping it up in the air like an airplane.

“My babies,” you cooed at them, now pinching Max’s chilly cheek as you handed her some fresh hot cocoa. “Take care of him, yeah?”

“Anything for you, Dad.”

She was totally serious.

And you were totally a goner.

Even Steve couldn’t help but playfully roll his eyes, still sniffling miserably and grumbling with a pouty smile.

“Coloring or cards?” Max asked him.

“If we color without Will, he’ll cry,” Steve muttered.

She nodded sagely, reaching for a deck. “Go Fish it is.”

You were already at the door, ready to roll. “Alright. Let’s sweep.”

Murray joined you, pulling on his coat. “Try not to die. I’m emotionally unavailable before noon.”

As you walked past him, he suddenly planted two kissed fingers on your forehead with a tiny shove. “That’s from Harrington.”

Steve coughed behind you. “Tell her she’s welcome!”

“I will cherish it all my life,” you waved, making it down the steps. Then you giggled without turning back. “You’re still a dick, Murr.”

Murray just grinned.

“Were you serious?”

He looked at you with one arched brow. “About…?”

“Marrying him,” you murmured sheepishly. Warmly. “You uhm… approve?”

He stared at you like that was the stupidest question in the world but also like you had just put him in a stupidly inconvenient position to go soft on you.

“Once upon a time,” he started.

“Doooon’t…”

“There was a man who started a trend called, ‘we like Steve, but we don’t love Steve…’ A dashing man, mind you.”

“Spare me, please—”

“And a girl…” he kept going, undeterred as he threw an arm over your shoulders, his eyes on the trees like some wise old witchdoctor giving a monologue, “…who defied all odds.”

The smile on your face nearly broke it, and you leaned in closer to him as you walked. “Okay, I like this story. Keep going.”

“You two make sure to report back in one piece,” came Hopper’s voice, over by the firepit. He was now making it disappear completely, as if it had never existed.

You gave him a two-finger salute. “Will do, coach.”

“Also, it’s storytime, Jim,” Murray scolded wryly. “Shush.”

Jim made a face, somewhat sputtering. 

But then he started grinning as he watched you both walk away, towards the trees where Dmitri and the kids were all waiting for you both with Robin while Eddie jogged to catch up.

“The most unorthodox niece and uncle I’ve ever seen in my life,” Jonathan muttered beside him, smirking as he dusted off his hands.

Hopper was still smiling to himself. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Just goes to show that sometimes… family’s not always the obvious kind.”

That actually made Jonathan sigh deeply. He watched you and Murray laugh, seeing the way that he was truly different with you than he usually was with others. Still cynical. Still a smartass. But uncharacteristically tender, in the most unusual of ways.

Like a man who’s never wanted to be a father, but had stepped onto the plate on behalf of a sibling who never wanted to be one either but was careless about it. And too wickedly selfish to even feel guilt or remorse.

But that didn’t matter anymore. Because now, twenty-one years later, you had an uncle who loved you better and a mafia wife grandma, who both of you prayed to God was still safe over in Vegas with her casino boyfriends.

Murray chose to believe that.

You chose to believe that.

“Not gonna lie,” Nancy sighed lackadaisically. She sat down next to Argyle as he finished pushing leaves over the pile of burnt ash. “I’m a little jealous.

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. “Of…?”

She nodded up at you. “That. Having family that knows what’s going on, and gets it.”

That actually took him by surprise.

Nancy hadn’t said it with disdain. She hadn’t said it with actual jealousy. Not the kind that is green and ugly. She’d set it honestly. And Jonathan understood it, because her parents truly didn’t have a clue.

Ted and Karen Wheeler were off with family somewhere, no doubt worried sick about their oldest and their middle child. Thankfully, they had Holly. But that wasn’t enough to make their fears go away.

And Nancy had to live with that guilt every single hour of every single passing day.

“And before any of you take offense,” she added now, a bit teasingly. “No, I’m not saying you guys aren’t my real family. I’m just saying…”

“It feels nice knowing you don’t have family left in the dark?” Jonathan finished for her.

Left behind.

Left to survive with you.

Nancy looked at him now, her blue eyes locking onto his charcoal embers that could see right through her. Finally, she nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah, that.”

He nodded back.

Hopper sighed. “They’re starting to figure it out,” he said softly, a bit gruff. “They did the right thing. Getting out.”

Nancy but her lip, choosing to believe that as she gave a quick nod, staring at the ground. 

“So did you,” Hopper added, looking right at her.

She peeked up at him through her lashes. Almost timidly. “I know,” she breathed. “Think maybe that’s why I feel… worse. Because I wouldn’t change the fact we stayed.”

Jonathan‘s heart clenched. He truly had it lucky. Really fucking lucky. Joyce had known everything from the start, before any of them had figured it out. And yeah, Will had been made to suffer the worst of it, but he was still here. Lonnie had been out of the picture for a long time so as far as Jonathan was concerned? He had his family. His whole blood family, and his found family.

Nancy didn’t.

And suddenly? It felt like he was seeing that for the very first time. Not because he had never known it before. He had. But now, he was finally taking the time to recognize it fully.

Argyle patted her leg. “For what it’s worth, chica?”

She looked at him as he winked. “I think you’re exactly where you were supposed to be.”

“Yeah, and Holly’s now got a true shot at childhood,” Jonathan added, now moving to sit near her.

Nancy actually smiled at that, sadly but truly. “She’s got a farm. Our family out in Utah owns land, so… she’s alright. At least—well…”

“She is.”

Jonathan didn’t let her continue. He cut her off, but not to shut her down or interrupt. Rather, to silence the doubts now creeping in to plague her thoughts.

It worked.

“Yeah,” she nodded, now busying herself with masking the ashes alongside Argyle. “Yeah, she is.”

“All of them are,” Hopper added firmly.

The three younger adults looked at him now, all of them nodding. Because Hopper was right. He had to be right.

If he wasn’t, then this was all for nothing.

——

The woods were hushed. Dry, cold, still.

You walked in a staggered V formation. Dimitri led point, Murray at your side. Robin and Eddie flanked the rear, both tuned into the frequency chatter.

The kids stayed close. Mike, Lucas, Will and Dustin were acutely aware of the surroundings, eyes and ears peeled as Eleven hovered a few feet above with her eyes darting between clouds and treetops.

You all kept your voices low, your steps quiet.

“So,” Dustin whispered, “how many feet above us does El have to float before any drones can’t detect her heat signature?”

“I don’t know,” you replied. “Ask the United Nations.”

“Mike already did,” Will added. “He wrote a letter.”

“Shut up,” Mike hissed.

“You did, though.”

“In his diary,” Lucas added smugly.

Eleven floated down and landed gently. “No drones yet.”

Murray sighed. “Then either they’re waiting… or they’ve recalibrated. Which means we’ll have company soon.”

“Canada’s buckling down hard,” Robin called out softly. “They just said they’re pushing new satellite nets through the Alberta corridor.”

Dimitri swore under his breath.

“Would that affect us?” Will asked, alarmed.

“Depends,” Murray answered. “We’re off the map. But heat’s heat. And the ground doesn’t lie.”

You nodded slowly. “So… make it look like no one’s ever stepped here. Which we’re already doing.”

Lucas exhaled hard. “How are we supposed to do that all the time, though?”

You looked back at him. “We’ll figure it out.”

He watched you smile sadly at him, but he knew you still believed your own words. Hell, you’d all made it this far, right? How could you not?

Dmitri pointed. “We should check the waters.”

Murray nodded. “Good call.”

“Maybe you can tree hop?” Dustin suggested to El. “Like, not actually hop, but some coverage might do you good as you look above it.”

El agreed. “I like the sound of that—”

But she didn't have a chance to elaborate on that.

No one did.

Because your legs buckled.

It wasn’t sudden. Not exactly. It was a slow, disorienting crumple, like gravity turning to static under your knees, while everyone was still talking and not seeing the way that you’d been starting to silently suffer…

You staggered, eyes wild, your breath catching in your throat as you reached out, clutching blindly for Murray’s arm.

He turned just in time. “Hey—hey, kid—”

But your pupils were blown. Your lips parted like you were about to say something, maybe you were, but the words didn’t come.

Fuck, the words weren’t fucking coming.

And fuck, you weren’t breathing right.

Your chest was seizing with shallow, labored breaths, and you clung to your uncle for help, for relief, for comfort, for anything.

And then you dropped.

You fully collapsed, hitting your knees, leaves crunching under you as your arms trembled, hands clawing at your own ribs. And you couldn’t feel anything except pressure. Noise. Static. Shit, you couldn’t even see. Your vision was graying out.

And it felt like your heart was screaming.

“She’s going down!” Murray shouted, voice jagged with something that didn’t sound like him at all. 

All the kids froze. Every single one of them. 

Dustin’s eyes went huge, big as saucers next to Will, who gasped. Lucas’s mouth dropped open. Mike turned pale.

“Shit—shit—” Murray panicked. “Dimitri—!”

Eleven’s whole body locked.

But Dimitri didn’t even hesitate. 

He was already diving towards you, catching both of your shoulders before you could crumple any further, guiding you flat onto your back. 

“Pulse is erratic—” His voice was tight, surgical. “Christ, Christ—”

“Arrhythmia,” Murray snapped. “It’s the arrhythmia—she’s having a goddamn heart attack.”

Robin dropped to her knees beside you, green eyes wild. “—wha—heart attack?!—”

“Fuckin’ A, man,” Eddie gritted, voice angrily cracking as his knees hit the ground beside hers.

Your body jolted again. 

A twitch. 

A spasm.

“H…hel…”

“No no no no no—” Dustin whispered. His voice was high, scared as hell, and his backpack slid off as he stumbled forward. “No, come on—come on, dude—”

Mike’s hands were shaking. “What do we do—what do we do—what do we do—?!”

“Shit,” Lucas hissed in a panick.

“Back up,” Dimitri barked. “Give us room—Murray—get her airway—”

“I know what the hell I’m doing!” Murray snapped, but his voice cracked right in the middle of it.

Eleven moved swiftly.

She didn’t think twice. Didn’t ask permission.

She bolted forward, hovering no longer, landing so hard that all the brittle leaves beneath her kicked up in a burst. Her boots slid in the powder. She nearly fell.

And then she was on her knees beside you.

“El—don’t—” Mike warned, voice strained and small, but she was already reaching.

But she did.

Both her hands were shaking violently. But her eyes were locked straight on your chest.

She slammed her palm down over your sternum.

The sound was violent. The creak in all your tender ribs echoed outward, and you gasped like you’d just been slammed underwater.

Eleven’s nose bled instantly. Her entire body shook from the force of the contact. Her mouth opened in pain, but she didn’t stop. Her fingers spread wide, palm splaying like she was holding your heart in place.

You clutched at her wrist, whimpering in pain that almost sounded like relief. Like trust, like prayer and apology.

Robin choked on a sob as Eddie staggered back, eyes huge and unblinking.

“Jesus fucking Christ—” he muttered, both hands in his hair. “Is this—what the hell is she—”

Will had one hand clutched over his mouth. Dustin looked like he was going to be sick.

Lucas was frozen, rooted to the spot as he instinctively clutched Mike’s lanky forearm.

“El, wha… wh-wh-wha…” Mike breathily stuttered, tears brimming as he watched you suffer as she worked.

Now Eleven’s face was twisted into something raw and ancient. A sound came from her throat. Not a scream, not a cry, just pressure and grit and power.

…and then your uneven heart shuddered.

Everyone went still.

And then it almost stopped.

In this split second, no one breathed in case you weren’t. The silence was so loud it ached. And it wasn’t even five seconds total before they realized that your erratic rhythm hadn’t fully stopped, but simply stalled…

…then started up again at its usual irregular pace.

Sluggish. Rattled. A dead engine catching. It was now a gradual, jagged, thudding restart, like jumper cables on frozen steel.

A new rhythm.

A different beat.

Still wrong, still irregular, but it was… new.

Your chest rose. Then fell. Then rose again.

And eventually you coughed hard, the sound scraping from deep inside you. Your body jerked from the force of it, and now Eddie suddenly felt like he was right back on the ground at the electric fence, forcing air back into your lungs with Jonathan and Steve.

“Christ, man,” he wheezed, palm to his forehead at the sound of your coughing.

Dimitri caught you fully as you sagged into his arms.

Robin burst into tears, her hands over her face as she held onto Will and Dustin.

Murray had his hand behind your head, cradling it gently. “Come on, honey. Come on. That’s it—keep going—keep going.”

Eleven collapsed forward, her whole body going limp. Mike was there instantly, catching her before she hit the leaves on her side from the exertion.

“She…” Mike’s voice broke. 

Lucas stared. “She just did that—”

“She just fucking did that,” Eddie whispered, eyes blown wide and glassy with trauma and recovering fears.

“She did what she had to do,” Murray half growled, still holding your face. “And it worked.”

You were breathing. Barely. But breathing.

You weren’t fully there. But you were still there.

And your gaze never left your uncle’s, throat bobbing as you kept him as the focal point. Words still hadn’t found you yet. They couldn’t.

“Back to camp,” Dimitri said, sharp and decisive. “Now. Owens needs her now.”

“Done,” Murray barked. “Come on—get her up.”

Dimitri didn’t wait for further orders. He swept you into his arms like it was nothing, like your body hadn’t just tried to give out on all of them. One arm slipped under your back, one under your knees as he held you close and turned to head back toward camp.

Your head lolled lightly against his chest, and Murray was right at his side, breath choppy, but his hand stayed firmly planted on your shoulder.

Behind you, Robin still had her arms around Will, holding him close as he sniffled hard into her coat. 

“S’alright,” she wept unabashedly. “She’s alright, she’s all good. She’s fine, she’ll be fine.”

Eddie had Lucas and Dustin, who now clung to the hem of his older friend’s jacket, wiping his face with his sleeve as he walked silently.

Even Eleven, pale and trembling in Mike’s arms, wouldn’t take her eyes off you as she pulled at him urgently.

“Please,” she breathed. “Please, get…me there—”

“Got you,” he barely muttered before letting her hop up to ride piggyback and catch up to Dmitri and Murray so that she could stay close.

No one else spoke.

The woods had never felt quieter.

They suddenly felt lethal.

You still didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. Everything was still too heavy. But as the wind rustled the trees above you…

…you could feel every new uneven beat.

Every single one of them.

It was like a new war drum that taunted you with the cold blooded truth: you weren’t gonna outrun this… And soon enough? If you didn’t get ahead of it, it was gonna outrun you instead.

Chapter Sixty-Seven Resetting the Breaker

DAY 6 (Classified Coordinates) – Afternoon

“Bro, we made this place look so clean it’s like God Himself hit Control-Z.”

Argyle’s voice cut through the haze of pine needles and humidity, as he leaned back against a tree stump with a smug grin. Nancy, still crouched beside a camouflaged mound of moss and canvas, looked up from where she’d just triple-checked a snare trap. 

Her lips curled. “God and three very paranoid lunatics,” she quipped, standing and dusting her hands off. “But sure. Let’s give Him the credit.”

Jonathan barked a quiet laugh as he adjusted the wire mesh around a nearby root. “Whatever works.”

Behind them, Hopper stood with his strong arms crossed, surveying the now-invisible remains of their previous fire site. It was as if the ground had never been disturbed, the logs reburied, the ash scrubbed away and fully dispersed. Even the glints of aluminum from food scraps were gone, buried or carried off by the kids earlier. 

The Winnebago was still nestled in its off-road pocket, covered in netting and pine branches. From the sky? It looked like a boulder or the earth itself.

They were proud. They were smug. And for a brief second, they were just… breathing.

“God, this feels good,” Jonathan murmured, and Nancy, standing beside him, didn’t flinch. She just nodded.

No, they weren’t talking about themselves. They weren’t not talking about themselves either. But the joking, quiet, morbid and dry, was a kind of lifeline. Hopper squinted at the tiny radio clipped to the belt of his jeans. A crackle of static, then another update rolled in:

“…the entire province of British Columbia has initiated a complete state of emergency… all major border crossings now under heavy supervision…  The Canadian Armed Forces have assumed temporary jurisdiction under emergency authority. Citizens are urged to remain in their homes…”

“Not US martial law,” Nancy muttered.

“But basically US martial law,” Jonathan said.

Argyle shrugged. “They can call it whatever they want, it still smells like dictatorship leftovers.”

And then the trees shifted.

Not loud. Just enough movement, quick, steady, urgent… Hopper’s head snapped toward the source. Nancy’s body tensed. Jonathan rose from his crouch, heart hammering.

“Oh, fuck,” Nancy breathed, already breaking into a run.

Dimitri was charging toward them with Murray fast on his heels. Cradled in Dimitri’s arms was your limp form, head lolled slightly, your long legs swinging lifelessly with every jarring stride. Everyone froze for half a second. Then the whole world kicked into overdrive.

Nancy and Jonathan reached you all first, barely letting Dimitri slow down before their hands were outstretched. Hopper was right behind them, barking for Owens. Argyle was already spinning on his heel.

“Yo, I got Owens,” he shouted, voice tight but steady. “Harrington’s still sleeping—”

“Don’t wake him,” Dmitri urged quickly.

Inside the Winnebago, the air was cool, stale with the recycled scent of disinfectant and blankets and NyQuil. Steve was breathing softly, a faint rasp in his chest. Max was curled up on the couch across from him, her brows knitted in her newly undisturbed sleep.

Owens looked up from a metal case of meds and flinched as Argyle threw open the door.

“Hey, doc. Care for some air?”

No wasted words. Argyle didn’t shout. He didn’t panic, he didn’t give details. But the message was clear:

This is an emergency.

Owens was on his feet instantly.

Outside, Joyce had already reached Dimitri and was now quietly snapping directions, laying down a towel on the cleared-out bench beside the camp’s water barrels.

“We need her horizontal. Get her flat. Someone elevate her legs. Where’s her damn pulse?”

You weren’t unconscious. Not entirely. But your lips were pale. Your breath was shallow, and the flutter inside your chest felt like loose wires sparking behind your ribs.

Dimitri laid you down gently, his jaw clenched, eyes scanning your face like it might suddenly disappear.

“I didn’t know how long we had,” he said to no one and everyone. “I just ran.”

“Good,” Owens barked, emerging from the Winnebago with Argyle close behind. “Lay her flat. I want pressure on her legs and someone get Steve the hell in the loop.”

Mike reeled. “In it…?!”

“He’s worse off not knowing,” Owens rushed to explain.

“Not wrong,” Robin flusteredly agreed, her face still red and blotchy with stress and concern. “Steve really doesn’t need to find this out later—”

“He needs to rest,” Joyce insisted, still frazzled.

“And he won't do that if he finds out he’s been left out of the loop,” Hopper disagreed, just as frazzled.

“Out of the loop from what?”

Everyone whipped around to face the voice that had just cracked behind them, groggy, on edge, slurred from sleep and doped on the flu medication.

Steve stood in the doorway of the Winnebago, a blanket slung off his shoulders, eyes swollen and bloodshot. His hair was a disaster. His voice was hoarse.

But the second he saw you, he bolted.

“Oh my God. Oh my God—”

He fell to his knees beside you, coughing hard into his shoulder but reaching out all the same. His hands found your face before anyone could stop him. All of his fingers curled around your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. 

“Hey. Baby. Talk to me. Hey—hey, come on.”

“Steve,” Owens warned gently. “You’re sick—”

“I don’t care.”

Not even a second of hesitation. 

No one argued.

Eleven was just behind Steve, breathless, still recovering from the output of what she’d done. Mike held her by the waist. Her face was flushed.

“It’s a new rhythm,” she whispered. “It’s unsteady. It didn’t stop—it stalled. Then it came back… different.”

Steve’s face contorted. “What does that even mean?”

You opened your eyes. Barely. You looked at him and your lips twitched.

“Means… I’m still here.”

He choked on a laugh and a sob in the same breath, wiping snot off his face with his sleeve. “Yeah, no shit you’re still here. You better be still here. Swear to God—”

Behind him, everyone was moving. Robin had her hand on his back, grounding him with silent support, her own face blotchy and red. Dustin was crouched down beside Owens, already sorting through the med kit without even being asked. Murray was dragging over a folding lamp to give better light. Eddie was seething at the radio.

“Can’t let you fucking—” Steve coughed again, grunting at himself. Stupid flu. “Can’t even get a head cold or take a NyQuil nap without you just…”

“…yeah,” you breathed, “heart attacks don’t really like… havin’ y’round…”

He scoffed, nearly coughing all over again. Crying all over again. Panicking all over again, losing it all over again.

“Piece of shit war broadcast nonsense,” Eddie suddenly cursed out loud. “You wanna give people heart attacks?” 

He was literally cursing out the radio.

Eventually he tossed it. “Fuck you,” he spit. It kept talking in a monotone voice. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

Alright, that made you laugh. Enough to cut the tension, just for a second, even though it was just mostly breath. 

Eddie froze mid-rant, staring down at you.

“…the hell are you laughing at, BowBow?”

You tried to answer but only wheezed for air. 

Steve actually grinned through the tear-brimmed eyes. “She’s laughing at you, Munson.”

Jonathan actually let out a laugh. A wet one. “It’s giving ‘remember when this happened last time,’ huh?? S’not just me, right?”

“Not just you,” Steve muttered softly.

Eddie’s lips vibrated as he puffed out air. “Cool, so this is like—PTSD or whatever, right? Group PTSD.”

You sighed. “Yeah, but y’more ballsy th’stime…”

He barked a laugh. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Steve rolled his eyes to keep the tears from falling, now letting himself swallow back another round of coughing. Jonathan was definitely nibbling his lip raw. 

Dustin? Poor kid was over it.

“Well I’m not doing this shit again,” he stated firmly. Then he looked at your chest. “And neither is that dumbass.”

You hummed into Steve’s bicep. “Yeah, you’tell it…”

And then Owens, finally snapping gloves on, turned to the group. “Okay. Everyone either helps or kindly gets the hell out of the way.”

No one left. Not one.

They made room. They passed supplies. Robin fetched water. Mike got the stethoscope. Nancy hovered at the edge of the chaos, face pale, her hands clenched in fists — until finally, she stepped in, firm and cool but strangely protective.

Of you.

“What do you need from me?”

Owens didn’t even blink. “Take vitals. You know how.”

And she did. Her hands were steady. Her pout was tight. But she didn’t cry. Not outright, and not allowing herself until much later.

You tried to speak again. “S’okay. I’m really okay.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve murmured, lips against your hair. “Don’t you ever say that unless it’s true.”

“…sorry…”

“Don’t do that either,” he whimpered.

You didn’t reply that time.

Because you were too tired and all you wanted was him beside you, making the pain go away. Him, and Murray. Who was also hovering with a godawful expression.

“You’re about to see a whole lot of me,” he stated, voice low and commanding. “Understand?”

You hummed again, nodding gently as your hand found his. Your uncle also rolled his eyes to keep the tears at bay.

Later (though exactly how long later, no one really knew) Mike brought everyone back around to a really important topic that needed to be aired out. 

“What El did,” he started, voice shaky but clear. “We need to…break that down.”

“Please explain that,” Dustin added firmly.

“Yeah, what…” Will was lost in thought next to her. “What even happened back there…?”

Eleven, still shaky, repeated what she felt. “It… it didn’t restart. It just reset. Like turning a light off and back on. Like when the power flickers. Just enough to change something.”

Owens went still.

Steve went stiller.

And then, quietly, Owens nodded to himself. Like a box had just been checked that he’d hoped to never touch again.

But Steve saw it. You saw him see it. And everything between you two cracked wide open again.

“You knew,” Steve said slowly. “You and her—you already talked about this...”

Owens didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The way that Steve had said it was not accusingly. More than that, it was consumed with dread. Almost guilt. As if he knew this should have been explored more, just like the two of you had tried suggesting the last time.

He closed his eyes. “Shit,” he breathed.

“Someone fill me in here,” Nancy said impatiently.

“I second that,” Jonathan nearly blubbered.

Owen sighed deeply, looking at Steve and finding that he was already staring at him with a heavy expression. Then Steve huffed… running a hand through his hair before he let it fall back above your head.

“Flatlining,” he said bluntly. “They were talking about the way that she—” He paused to grit his teeth, jaw clenched. But one sharp inhale through his mouth got him through it as he gestured wildly. “—she flatlined at the wall, then we got it going again. That’s what reset the rhythm.”

“…and then it came back fucked,” Jonathan practically whispered, putting the pieces together.

“Because you restarted it??” Murray asked, confused and a bit exasperated.

“No,” Owens corrected. “Technically, the shock is the cause. The surge. That gave it a harsh jolt.”

“So then what you’re saying is,” Nancy cut in now, her eyes narrowed. “She needs another shock and flatline—”

“I’m not saying that,” Owens interrupted gently.

“But is that what it is?” Lucas now asked from beside Max on the couch, who stared in panic, now wide awake from her nap and knowing better than to speak yet. 

Murray gawked, his eyes flicking between you and the doctor in question. “Well is it??”

Owens sighed heavily.

Steve couldn’t even speak. Just stared down at you like you were all he had left in the world.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie muttered. “What the hell kind of fix is that?”

“It’s not a fix,” Robin said sharply. “It’s a goddamn gamble.”

And then the room divided. Half of them were whispering about whether it was possible. The other half were asking if it would kill you next time. Some said it made sense, but others said it makes no fucking sense.

The one to shut it all down was Nancy.

“ENOUGH.”

It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even all that loud. 

But it was final. 

Absolute.

“Just—stop. Can we please just… deal with this later?” 

“There is no later,” Mike nearly hissed.

“This needs fixing now,” Jonathan stressed.

“She just had a heart attack,” Nancy spat. “She doesn’t need more fucking stress. Table this until tonight. Give it an hour. Just—I’m calling it now.”

Everyone fell quiet.

No one even moved for a hot minute.

Until one person did.

Steve reached out and pulled Nancy into a hug. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t even tight. But she gripped back like it was a life raft and then buried her face into his shoulder until he tightened it more before she had to pull away to swat at her face and mutter a strangled apology. He just offered her a small, tender, grateful smile in return.

You looked up at her. “Well, shit,” you croaked. “Nancy Wheeler’s cracking. Maybe the world is ending.”

She laughed. Wet and broken. But she appreciated your sense of humor, because she was already weirded out enough by herself and whatever the hell just came over her. You, however, were silently beaming at her. And after she’d sniffled another laugh, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and biting inside of her cheek…!you timidly reached out a hand towards hers, giving it a squeeze. Nancy’s tight lipped smile at you was worth it.

And that was that.

Plans were made. Roles were newly assigned. You were staying in the Winnebago, curled up with Steve, whether he was sick or not. 

Owens allowed it. Hell, he encouraged it.

“He’s the only one who’s going to keep her calm,” he said. “Just don’t breathe on her.”

“I’ll breathe in the other direction,” Steve muttered, and he was already wrapping an arm around your shoulder while you settled into the mattress in the back.

Murray stayed. Dimitri stayed.

The kids moved into one of the tanks. Eddie went with them. Robin too. Jonathan and Nancy bunked with Argyle in the other. Hopper rotated outside, big shotgun in hand, pacing like a guard dog.

They had venison cooling in the bins. 

The sky was darkening.

But inside that overstuffed Winnebago, Steve pulled the blanket up around your shoulders, kissed your forehead through the sweat, and whispered something into your hair.

You didn’t catch it.

But it didn’t matter.

He’d say it again tomorrow.

Chapter Sixty-Eight Sick Sleepover at the End of the World

March • 1987 DAY 6 (Classified Coordinates) – Late Night

The Winnebago creaked like an old man’s knees every time the wind flirted with its frame. Not that the wind was doing much flirting at all tonight.

The air was dead still. No snow. No sleet. Just cold. Bone-aching, frostbitten silence. The kind of night where nothing moved. The kind of night that scared the shit out of trained soldiers.

Because it was flying weather.

Perfect visibility. Dry enough for heat-sensor sweeps. No heavy cloud coverage to scatter radar. No giant storms to scare off surveillance. Owens had said it earlier, when he still had his coat on and boots half-tied, “They’ll come on nights like this.”

So far, they haven't.

But they would come eventually.

Maybe in the next hour. Maybe tomorrow, maybe on Tuesday.

Steve Harrington wasn’t thinking about that right now, though. Because Steve Harrington had turned himself into a human pretzel at the foot of your bed.

“Your legs are under four blankets,” he now muttered from somewhere down by your shins. “Why do your knees still feel like goddamn marble countertops?”

“Why is your forehead a space heater?” you countered, not moving your own head from where it was pillowed on his ankles.

“I dunno. Ask my fever. That bitch has been freelancing since sunrise.”

You snorted softly. “Still think you’re the sexiest flu patient of all time?”

“Obviously,” Steve croaked, then paused to cough into his elbow and sniffle like a four-year-old. “I mean, look at me. This is top-tier pathetic.”

You hummed. “You say that like you’re winning. I had a heart attack twelve hours ago.”

“Oh my God,” Steve groaned, rolling onto his side so he could glare up the length of your blanket cocoon. “Don’t pull the heart attack card this early, that’s dirty.”

“You’re snuggling my legs, Harrington.”

“And whose fault is that?! You’re the one who made me lay down backwards so I wouldn’t sneeze on your face!”

“You were sneezing on everything earlier.”

He huffed. “You sound mad. Are you mad? Because I’m snuggling your knees. I feel like this is punishment for being hot.”

“Hot as in fever?”

“Hot as in everything I do is flawless. Except my sinuses. Those are full of cement.”

The flu rasp was real. He sniffled again and tried to reach under the blanket to get to your socks, only to gasp and jolt backward.

“Wait—are these my socks?”

“I told you I was borrowing them.”

“They’re the thick ones.”

“Yeah,” you replied flatly. “I had a heart attack, doth thou remembereth?”

“You’re the worst.”

“Welp. You just so happen to love the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Steve Harrington, congested and clammy, still had the gall to grin. “Eternally.”

At the front of the Winnebago, barely illuminated by the weakest of camping lights, Dimitri and Murray sat in the driver and passenger seats, the heaters dialed down to “miserable but necessary.” The curtain between you and them wasn’t fully drawn. You could still see Murray’s full silhouette against the windshield, his arms crossed, eyes ahead. The radio chatter murmured at low volume, just enough for them to both hear the latest from the border crackdowns and satellite passes.

No voices had come through the walkie-talkie system. No coded clicks. No rhythmic signals. That was a good thing.

No news meant no movement.

No movement meant no helicopters. No drones. No boots. No danger or threats.

…yet.

And still, Owens had passed the hell out, his long frame folded across the bench couch up behind you and Steve, blanket up to his chin, eyes shut but ears ready. The man hadn’t twitched since going down — but you knew damn well he’d wake at the first sign of arrhythmic hellfire.

Still, for now there was peace.

Even if it was the scariest kind.

You shifted slightly under the pile of blankets, nudging Steve’s shoulder with your foot.

“What?” he murmured groggily. 

You wiggled your toes. “You okay, lover?”

He sniffled a laugh. “I’ve got VapoRub in every pore of my body and I’m cuddling your calves like a Build-a-Bear, so. Define okay.”

“…emotionally.”

Steve was quiet for a second. Then he answered in a voice so low you almost missed it… 

“I’m holding your feet like they’ll disappear.”

You blinked. Then blinked again.

Steve buried his stuffy nose into the crook of your knee. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I literally didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking ‘Steve has a foot kink,’ weren’t you?”

You doubled back, grinning. “I was not—”

“You were definitely thinking that,” he groaned.

“You said you’re holding them like they’ll disappear!”

“Well, you almost did, didn’t you?”

And there it was. The hush. The heaviness. The way neither of you knew whether to laugh or cry, so you did both.

“You know what’s sad?” you mumbled after a while.

“Everything?”

“Well yeah,” you coughed. “But also… the kids. They’re all like… fifteen. Fourteen. And they just do this now. Like it’s normal.”

Steve sighed and let his fingers trace the top of your sock. “Yeah. I hate how good they are at it.”

“They’ve grown up too fast.”

“They didn’t get to grow up. They just… got older. That’s different.”

That made you quiet. 

He was right. Of course he was right.

Max had woken up nine days ago. Nine days. After nine months. Her body still didn’t move right. She walked like the world spun sideways. But she was talking. Laughing more than not. Her laugh sounded different now.

But she was there.

And if that miracle could happen…

Maybe the end of the world could un-end itself too.

Steve seemed to follow your train of thought, because he whispered it. “Max woke up. That still freaks me out.”

“Me too.”

“I keep waiting for her to go back to sleep,” he added. “I know that’s messed up. I just… I think I still think I’m dreaming.”

You stretched a toe to nudge his ribs. “I’ll wake you up if it is, alright?”

“You’ll just flatline on me again,” he deadpanned.

You're shocked Steve actually managed to finally joke about that.

But you didn't let it get weird. instead, you leaned right into it.

You smirked wickedly. “That’s the plan, baby.”

He rolled his eyes. “You are my constant headache.”

The Winnebago didn’t creak. No gusts outside. 

One camping light was placed near your feet, casting the smallest glow over the inside wall. Owens stirred once, mumbling something about electrolytes… then kept on sleeping.

Up front, Murray and Dimitri were still murmuring to each other. You didn’t need to hear them. You knew what they were talking about.

You also knew your babies, the Nuggets, were all safely tucked into Dingus 1. Just a handful of feet away, nestled up in a fortress of iron, camouflage and love.

They had Robin and Eddie with them.

The Cool Aunt and Whacky Uncle.

You turned your head slightly. “You know they’re probably telling ghost stories in there.”

Steve grinned, still pressing his pretty face into your shin. “Robin’s definitely telling them how dumb Dustin was that time he tried grilling bacon in her microwave.”

“She lets him use her microwave?”

He snorted. “She used to. Past tense.”

You smiled, eyes twinkling. “God, those kids love her...”

“They love Eddie more. Which is rude.”

“He lets them say ‘shit’ without getting grounded.”

Steve scoffed. “I let them say ‘shit’ all the time!”

“He says it with them. You say it at them.”

He blinked. “That’s called motherly parenting.”

You snickered and giggled adorably at that. “Okay, mama bear, whatever the Cabernet justifies.”

He feigned offense. “Chardonnay.”

You made a face back, like, oh my bad. But you were still laughing quietly, and you didn’t actually have to clutch at your chest. So that was a good thing, at least. 

Steve wiggled his ankle under your head. “You comfy?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

A pause. Then slowly, he asked… 

“You scared?”

You didn’t answer at first, just pressed your cheek into the thick muscle of his calf, letting your breath catch. 

“Not when you’re with me.”

Steve sniffled. “Same, angel.”

“…even with the flu?”

“Especially with the flu.”

You laughed again, and it cracked like glass.

Steve’s voice broke too. “You know what I hate?”

“What?”

“That this is the calmest we’ve been in days, and it’s still not calm.”

You turned your face up, looking at him upside down.

“It’s like my body knows something’s coming,” he said quietly, almost inaudibly.

“It is, baby,” you murmured softly.

“But my body’s sick and stupid, so it’s probably gonna miss the warning signs anyway.”

You nudged his thigh with your foot.

He nudged you back with his elbow.

“I think we’re all doing that,” you whispered. “We’re all pretending we’ll hear the warning first. Like we’ll have enough time.”

Steve blinked hard. “But we might not.”

“Then we go down swinging.”

“You just had a heart attack, you’re not going down anywhere, okay?”

“Try and stop me.”

He plucked a tissue. “You are the worst patient ever.”

“You’re the sluttiest male nurse.”

“Don’t make that sexy,” he almost laughed at that. “I feel like shit.”

“You still look hot.”

“I’m literally holding your feet.”

“Hot.”

Steve snorted, which only resulted in him coughing into more tissues and cursing under his breath while you let your shoulders bounce in silent laughter, muttering a faint apology as he shot you a wry look.

Finally, you both let the quiet settle. It was… fine. Not fully comfortable, but also so uncomfortable. Not painful. Just quiet, even eerily so.

Until eventually, he spoke again. 

“You know you can’t do that again, right?”

You didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

But you answered. “I know.”

“I’m serious. You do that again, and I’m—”

“You’ll what?”

He exhaled through his stuffy nose. “I’ll cry, probably.”

“You already are.”

“Am not.”

“Are you blaming your tears on VapoRub?”

“…I stand by that, yeah.”

You reached under the blanket, finding his hand. And he let you lace your fingers through it, sickness be damned.

“You’re pretty when you cry,” you said gently.

He huffed. “Don’t spread that around.”

“Aww,” you grinned through your own glassy eyes. “Why ever not, my love?”

“Ruins my rep, my love.”

“You’re cuddling my feet.”

“You’re cuddling my feet.”

You smiled again, keeping the tears at bay as he did the same. The heater hummed. Owens shifted. The camping light flickered just once, then steadied.

Then Steve swallowed. “Hey.”

You looked at him.

He didn’t say it directly.

Didn’t say I love you. 

Didn’t say don’t die.

Didn’t say I can’t lose you.

He simply said, “I’m not moving from this spot, okay?”

You felt the tears return. “Okay.”

“I don’t care what Owens says. I’m staying right here.”

You nodded.

Steve nodded too. Then he muttered, “…unless I sneeze. Then I’m rolling into the hallway.”

You laughed so hard you almost wheezed. “What hallway?”

“The space between the kitchenette and the bucket of a bathroom,” he hissed humorously. “Gimme a break, like goddamn, baby.”

You both laughed like that for a little while. And later, as you both started drifting, both of you tangled up and tired, fevered and mending… the silence stayed.

But it didn’t scare you. Not anymore. Because somehow, in the stillest hour of the night, with one sickly boy curled around your twitchy feet and a whole camp full of people watching over your sleep…

You knew that you’d all be okay.

Even if the helicopters came.

Even if the sky fell.

You weren’t alone.

Not anymore.

Julie never came back. The med staff said she was gone before the ink on your admission papers dried, slipping out the back entrance of the hospital with a track-marked arm and an empty womb. She left the way she lived: quick, quiet, and chasing the next high.

Not seventy-two hours out of her damn womb, you were already motherless, nameless and bound for the foster care system.

Four months later, the hospital rang a number they weren’t sure still worked.

And in a smoke-thick apartment over a casino over in Reno, Marjorie Bauman picked up the phone with red lacquered nails and a cigarette parked between two fingers. She listened. She didn’t gasp, didn’t curse, didn’t even sit down.

She simply drew in a slow drag, let the Marlboro smoke curl from her mouth like punctuation, and asked bluntly, “Where is she?”

She wasn’t even bothering  asking about her drug addict daughter.

She was only asking about you.

It wasn’t until after she’d booked her flight to Hawkins that she swore up and down like a sailor, fuming and furious and fucking determined to get the hell over there to meet a grandchild she never either of her kids would give her. It wasn’t in her nature to blubber in bewilderment, no matter how jaw-dropping a situation was. That wasn’t her style. 

Then again, neither was being a grandma.

But that’s what she was now.

As of New Year’s Eve, 1967, Marjorie Bauman was a grandmother.

She walked into the stuffy Hawkins hospital like she owned the building. Fur coat draped over her shoulders in the middle of April. Hair curled into a helmet that didn’t dare move. Half a face of makeup because she’d done the other half in the car’s rearview mirror at a red light. People parted for her without knowing why. Just something about her posture, or the way a person carries themselves when they’ve survived more than they ever talk about.

“You all better have a damn good reason for not calling me ‘til now,” Marjorie told the receptionist, never even raising her voice but somehow still bouncing off sterile walls.

To her disappointment, they did.

Their reason was valid enough to make her jaw clench.

No one had any way of knowing who the hell any of Julie Bauman’s emergency contacts were, because she hadn’t given them any. She barely gave them anything to work with. 

Turns out? Julie had walked into the ER in the middle of the night, already in labor, already high. No purse. No ID. No wallet. No address. No family listed. She gave them a fake last name, then switched it two minutes later. The nurse charted, “Bauman?” with a question mark because Julie had slurred something about her “old man’s name,” and then passed out before anyone could ask again. There were no driver’s licenses to cross-reference in ‘66, no digital records, no social workers with databases. Just whatever a patient said out loud.

And Marjorie’s 20-year-old daughter had barely said anything at all — before bringing you into the world, then vanishing without a trace. No desire to be a mother. No desire to keep a baby that was the result of a late-night bender in the sheets of a motel room with a boyfriend who likely ran a gang and sold hard stuff to folks with cash and street cred.

New Year’s weekend turned to January. 

January turned to February. 

Babies born under those grim circumstances didn’t always last, and hospitals didn’t go hunting down family for heartbreak unless a caseworker told them to. And they had nothing.

“No address, no relatives, no fingerprints,” the staff told Marjorie now, having all gathered at the desk. “Nothing but the maybe-true last name ‘Bauman,’ and the city Julie claimed to be ‘from,’ which could’ve been a lie too.”

All of that tracked so well, it made Marjorie sharply inhale, deep and slow… and she only exhaled when she knew that she’d not flip a damn lid, or shout, or spew the foulest language known to mankind at this medical staff who had all kept you in their care, and not handed you off to someone in foster care that specialized in this sort of ordeal.

It wasn’t until a new caseworker was assigned in March (a woman who’d just transferred from Detroit and who’d seen Julie’s name before) that anything cracked open. She recognized it. Not because Julie had ever filed any real paperwork, but because the caseworker had once worked night shifts at a motel Julie used to frequent, the kind of place where people stayed under aliases and paid in crumpled cash. She remembered the attitude. The track marks. The loud, slanted handwriting Julie used when she scrawled a name on the motel ledger.

Bauman.

That had been the surname Julie jotted down when she’d checked in once with a man twice her age and left three days later with everything stolen from his wallet.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And because it was the 60’s, the caseworker had to do it the hard way — she pulled out a phone book. Not a slim one either. A brick. Reno-North Valley listings weighed more than the baby did. She dragged her finger down pages of Baumans, calling every number she could. Most were dead ends: wrong family, wrong spelling, disconnected, or people who didn’t want to admit they knew the name at all.

But on the third day of calling, after forty-seven numbers and more than a few people slamming the phone down, someone finally said, “Try Marjorie. She’s the only Bauman I know who’d have kin wild enough to pull something like that.”

Marjorie’s listing wasn’t even under her own name. It was under the name of her then-boyfriend who worked nights dealing blackjack at the casino downstairs. His number was a leftover in the directory because nobody had bothered getting it removed after the breakup. 

It shouldn’t have reached her. 

In any other universe, it wouldn’t have.

But it did. By sheer dumb chance — or luck, or fate, or whatever force has a sick sense of timing — the phone rang on a night she happened to be home instead of at the blackjack tables or out drinking with the wrong man.

That was the miracle.

Not that they’d found her.

But that she’d answered.

And once she did, once she heard the words “your granddaughter,” and “four months old,” and “premature, in state custody, alive but small,” there was no stopping her. She had shoved clothes into a suitcase with shaking hands, cursing Julie’s name under her breath and promising the universe that if this baby was still breathing by the time she got to Hawkins, she’d take her in. No questions asked, no hesitation.

“Lemme see her.”

When the nurse finally led her to you, Marjorie stood there for a full minute without speaking. Her eyes were lined in black kohl, but the rest of her face was a fortress. She didn’t cry. She didn’t soften, or melt, or coo. She just stared at the four-pound bundle under the warming lamp… This strange and quiet granddaughter she hadn’t known existed until some odd hours ago.

Then she reached in and touched your cheek with the gentlest fingertip she had. “So you’re Bauman,” she murmured. “Well. That makes two of us.”

Murray showed up hours later, hungover and unshaven, wearing the same shirt he’d fallen asleep in after a night spent ranting about Watergate to a bartender who’d stopped listening at midnight. But the moment he’d gotten home to three missed calls, and one helluva voicemail from his mother? He’d sobered up in a flash.

The blood in his veins boiled hotter than ever. He drove over — teeth gritted, smoke coming out of his ears, seething as he glared out the windshield while the godforsaken Indiana city became a bokeh blur around him.

He’d never liked Julie. 

Didn’t matter if they were blood, Murray Bauman didn’t trust anyone who lied to themselves as easily as they lied to others. And that’s something his sister did like it was her life’s calling. He’d learned over the years, time and time again, to know better. To not expect anything but profuse disappointment and mind boggling strife when it came to his estranged sister, who’d snuck out of the house at thirteen years old to go get high and drunk with older boys who knew better but didn’t give a shit about consequences. Neither did Julie. Hell, it didn’t matter what consequences came her way. No punishment ever got through to her. She was self-sabotage in human form: “defiant, reckless and cursed to the core.” That’s how Murray described her.

Which is why he’d stopped taking her calls from a jail cell when she needed bailing out, and stopped signing her up for rehab that she only pretended to want until she got her way and dipped.

As a self-proclaimed cynic, nothing surprised Murray.

But this news hit him sideways. 

He wasn’t a father; he wasn’t even the idea of one. He’d spent a lifetime avoiding responsibility with the same precision other men avoided landmines and commitment. 

…and then he saw you.

Marjorie eyed him from the other side of the glass in the NICU. And as soon as her son entered, she stepped back to give him the floor.

“About time,” she mumbled as she lit up another cigarette right in front of the No Smoking sign, just outside the doorway.

The nurse opened her mouth to object, then closed it again.

Murray didn’t even quip back at his mother, even though that’s what they did best. He couldn’t look at anything but you.

You were hooked up to monitors that all beeped like anxious birds, wrapped in a blanket too big for your body. Your tiny fists were clenched. Your eyelids fluttered like moth wings. 

The chart at the foot of the crib still said Baby Girl Bauman.

“…you look like something from a sci-fi experiment,” he muttered, his voice gravelly, but something in it cracked at the edges. “Christ, kid. What the hell were you born into…?”

He stared at you for a long while, and Marjorie let him. Quietly, she watched. Right there in the doorframe, trimmed brows subtly furrowing at the sight. A nurse eventually walked in when you began to fuss. The sound was dreadful. High pitched and pained, like irritation set on fire. Murray looked on in horror as the nurse began to swaddle you, catching his mother’s pensive stare over her shoulder. Because even she hadn’t gotten used to the sound, no matter how many times she’s heard you make it over the last stretch of hours.

“I wanna know everything,” Murray demanded, his voice uncharacteristically raw, despite its bass. He stared hard at the nurse swaddling you. “What all’s in her system. What my sister was on. How it’s affecting this child—all of it. Right now.”

The nurse didn’t hesitate. 

She and the doctor went on to tell your uncle how Julie was on crack cocaine before and during birth. How you were born too early, already shaking with the kind of bone rattling tremors that didn’t belong in a human — let alone a fetus. How the entire staff knew before the results even came back, because babies exposed to crack don’t cry the way other newborns cry. They shriek, high and thin, inconsolable even underneath layers of blankets and given the most tender loving care.

Marjorie recounted what she’d learned, too. How your withdrawals hit within mere hours. How no drugs of any kind could simply ease you off the cliff, because stimulant babies don’t get that. 

“They just endure it,” she said flatly, eyes cold, heart blue.

The nurses kept you swaddled in the softest of cotton, the lights dimmer as warmly low as they could go, every sound muffled and every staff member accurately aware of themselves. 

“Feeding’s been a battle,” the nurse told Murray, who watched you with what almost appeared to be awestruck wonder, despite the icicle lodged inside his chest. She swaddled you close, offering him a sad smile. “But… she likes touch. As long as it’s gentle.”

He blinked at her, then at you. Then her again.

“…and Child Protective Services already filed the paperwork.”

She nodded. “Correct. But—” 

“Tell ‘em to burn it.”

Murray didn’t catch his mother’s stare from across the room, or even the soft look in the nurse’s eyes. He was too busy looking at you now. How your eyes were finally beginning to open a bit, locking with his own. For some reason, it didn’t look like his sister’s daughter. Regardless of how your piercing, dark irises resembled hers, and even his… they didn’t look the same. They just look like your own. 

You are your own miracle.

Eventually, it was just the three of you. Because while you needed constant supervision, this was clearly a crucial moment to just be a family. Whatever that even looked like, given the circumstances.

“S’good look on you,” Marjorie deadpanned, gesturing at her son’s swaddling efforts. “Shoulda signed you up for Christmas pageants.”

Murray fixed her with a look. “Virgin Mary would sooner pick Cher to play her before I got the call.”

It wasn’t even heated between them. Not now, inside this dimly lit NICU. How on earth could it be? How could they bicker and argue about petty nonsense, like how her son “never calls” and his mother “dials room service” more than she ever calls him, when they’ve just discovered there’s been a new member of this family for four entire months of them not knowing…?

“She didn’t even name her,” Marjorie said quietly.

“Of course she didn’t,” Murray muttered bitterly, but careful not to disturb you. “Julie never stuck around long enough to name anything.”

There was a lot of subtext behind that statement.

But neither of them pushed or expanded on it.

They went silent then — mother and son, two people who’d failed each other in small, sharp ways for decades. But something shifted in that room where they stood there together now: a line in the sand, a wordless vow.

You didn’t need a mother.

You were getting them.

They took you home three weeks later. Marjorie held you like a woman who never learned softness but would break anyone who threatened the little life in her arms. Murray sat in the back seat with you, because he insisted it was “scientifically irresponsible” to leave a newborn alone, and also because he didn’t trust the car seat.

You only cried once on the drive, a thin sound like someone testing the edge of their own voice. Murray reached down, awkward and unsure… and your hand — tiny enough to disappear in his palm — curled around his finger with a strength that startled him.

“Well, shit,” he whispered, staring down at you like you’d just rearranged the entire contents of his brain and instilled something permanent inside of him. “Guess I’m in this, huh?”

Marjorie didn’t look back, but Murray could hear the devilish grin in her voice.

“You’re a Bauman,” she stated. “Of course you are.”

And just like that, born into the worst kind of beginning, you were claimed. 

Not rescued, not redeemed. 

Claimed, but two broken people who had enough fight left in them to make sure you’d never go unseen again.

-> OSWDLS TAGLIST

@xprloki @erasviptour @get0ut0fmyr00m @eddiemuns0nl0ver @marrowfrog @poppet05 @wiltedflowersundertowers @originalthingparadise @pleuviors @pumpkinonice @ihaveproblemsihaveproblems @brinleighsstuff @definitelynotherr @silkholland @sucker-4-angst @bookkeeperlove @notlilyyyy @xblueriddlex @madaboutjoe @ucannotcompare @goosy-goose @nevillescomslut @ashkuuuu @ashbye @soybeans-and-coffee @yourelivingwrong @scaredofbeingbasic @cathx91 @just-a-harmless-patato @unlikelytacotheorist @chloewatersss @cherrynukas @cheugy-djobe @delulu4bucky @calszonex @jamespottercumslut @slutforpumpkins @torntaltos @yikesmama3 @phi-kobold @mmoonblinkedd @mi171100 @ahoytherebean @spacelew @pinkpantheris @wantyourvideouhhuh @trash4changkyun @messybunbookclub @ninas-sayers @kimberly-boggs @gredandforgeweatherby @cecejane31 @its-artemisia @lordzzz @nancywalkemdownwheeler @kitdjarin1 @buckyandlokirunmylife @aloneinthehellfire @silkholland @emmasargent

The tank hummed low as it rolled, tires chewing over frozen gravel. Snow streaked sideways across the viewports. From the outside, they looked like any other armed patrol unit, clad in enough mud and frost to mask the missing decals and the bullet-scorched paint job.

Inside? Civilians, fugitives, young kids with rifles and trauma for breakfast.

You were sitting close enough to Steve that your shoulders touched every time the vehicle bumped. Your pulse had just jumped again, your body reacting before you could stop it.

Steve noticed.

He didn’t say anything. He just tapped his thigh twice and waited. When you didn’t answer, he leaned close, his lips brushing your ear.

“Talk to me,” he murmured. “Rate it.”

“Six,” you whispered. “Maybe seven. It’s spiking. Cold’s not helping.”

He nodded, jaw tight, and didn’t argue. Just slid his arm around you beneath your thick parka and pulled you flush against his side, like his body heat could bargain with your heartbeat.

“Hey,” Eddie piped from behind, gaze flicking down to your hand. “You good, or are we prepping for CPR?”

You shot him a wry glare. “I’m fine.”

“She’s not fine,” Steve corrected bluntly. “She’s surviving. That’s different.”

“Still hot,” Eddie muttered.

Steve shot him a look. “Don’t talk about my girl like that.”

Eddie just smirked. “Didn’t say it wasn’t hot because she’s surviving.”

“Gross,” Robin groaned, but even she smiled.

“He’s just tryna lock lips with me again," you grinned smugly.

Oh that did it. 

The way Steve turned to look at you so slowly, so audaciously, so absolutely downright agape in all his pretty boy glory… 

You snorted. Worth it. 

“Goddayum,” Eddie wheezed. “That’s savage.”

“You tryna get me irate?” Steve squinted.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, leaning in to kiss his neck. Then right behind his ear. “Like seeing you all hot and bothered.”

A crooked smile flickered at the corner of Steve’s lips, even as he glared over your shoulder while your lips worked. “You make jealousy your play thing,” he murmured helplessly.

“Ah, so you are jealous.”

“No.”

“Mm.”

“Of Munson? No.”

“S’alright, Harrington,” Eddie sighed lackadaisically, cracking his neck with a smirk. “I dig cougars anyway.”

You and Steve reeled back and made a face.

Robin gaped. “What?”

“What??” That was Dmitri.

Then the tank jolted.

Outside, the wind howled low through the dying remnants of suburbia. Barren gas stations. Empty Waffle Houses. Strip malls where the mannequins inside stood like forgotten gods.

Joyce’s voice crackled softly through the comms. “Visual on the supply depot. About eight hundred yards. Looks like a storage lot off I-64. Could’ve been FEMA. Could’ve been Walmart. Hard to tell now.”

“Any movement?” Hopper’s voice followed.

A pause. Then Jonathan’s voice chimed in: “None visible. But it’s wired. Fencing and floodlights. At least two cameras. We’ll need to cut through or jam it.”

You straightened. “Dmitri?”

“I can get us in,” he said from the rear. “But someone will have to climb. Disable from the inside.”

“I’ll do it,” you said.

“No,” Steve and Eddie both snapped.

“Guys, I’m the smallest,” you argued. “And I’ve done worse.”

“Um—schyeah,” Eddie huffed incredulously. “Like the last climb?! Before you came tumbling down harder than Humpty Dumpty. Your climbing days are over, dude.”

You sighed, grimacing with self-disdain.

Eddie shrugged at Steve, who was glaring at him. “If you haven’t learned I’m morbidly humored by now and that’s my default? I can’t help you.”

Steve just shook his head, no actual heat behind his sharp exhale — now looking back at you.

“I didn’t fall,” you reminded calmly, eyes on your man. “I got hooked on the wire with the extra backpack, then got zapped. This isn’t the same thing.”

Eddie immediately interjected. “Mmmm, maybe not—but?! You’re not gonna give us reason to shit our pants worrying about you when we got more people here to do it. You’re the only one here who keep can keep your head on straight.”

“You’re also the only one with an unstable heartbeat,” Steve added, deadly quiet. “You so much as sneeze wrong, and we’re on the floor doing mouth-to-mouth while the National Guard kicks in our teeth.”

“I already packed lip gloss,” Eddie offered dryly.

“Eddie, I swear to God,” Steve growled.

Robin held up a hand. “Look, I love this death-match over who gets to sacrifice themselves, but can we table it until we’re not within sniper range?”

Eleven sat cross-legged near the hatch, eyes closed. “I can disable the cameras.”

You glanced at her. “From here?”

She nodded once. “From anywhere.”

Steve met your eyes, then hers. “Okay. That gives us a window.”

“Then I’ll climb,” Jonathan declared.

“You sure?” Hopper asked.

“I got backup now and I don’t glitch when it’s cold,” he replied, now meeting your eyes meaningfully. “You’ve done enough. My turn to pull rank.”

You didn’t argue. Just sighed and gave him a grateful nod.

Steve’s grip on your hand didn’t loosen. You gladly let it stay.

11:21 AM • Abandoned Storage Lot, North Shiloh

The snow was too loud. 

That was the first thing you noticed. It didn’t crunch. It crackled, like stepping through glass.

Jonathan was a shadow, slipping through the fence gap that Dmitri cut. Eleven’s eyes fluttered open just as the cameras above began to spark and glitch.

“Window’s open,” she said.

The whole frontlines crew moved.

Eddie and Steve stayed in tight formation with you, flanking your sides. Robin and Joyce watched the rear, rifles low. Hopper and Dmitri, disguised beneath scavenged tactical gear, took point.

You held your breath every time your heart kicked double-time. You couldn’t stop it. Not out here. Not when your body had decided it was allergic to survival.

But nobody called you out.

Not even Steve.

He just brushed his knuckles against yours every few steps like a heartbeat made of skin.

Inside the depot was a graveyard.

Shelves of untouched cans. Boxes of powdered food. Fuel drums, mostly sealed. A miracle in the making—if they could pull it off.

“Joyce, Argyle—” Hopper barked softly, “—start inventorying and loading crates. Robin, back gate. Dimitri, cover Steve while he fuels the tank.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You think I can’t fuel it myself?”

“I think I don’t like you exposed for more than ninety seconds,” Hopper countered. “I’d rather lose the tank than you.”

That shut him up.

You and Eddie took the far side, scouting more uniforms, fuel packs, weapon caches. He helped you over a rusted shipping crate, then slid beside you.

“Your heart’s doing that thing again,” he muttered, sing-song.

“You heard it?”

“I felt it, boo,” Eddie said, looking at you hard. “You’re humming like a goddamn power line.”

You didn’t comment on that, eyes downcast.

“Does he know?” Eddie asked, nodding back toward Steve quietly. “How bad it’s getting…?”

“Not all of it.”

“You’re a dumbass,” Eddie sighed, but his voice wasn’t cruel. “A brave, gorgeous, stupid dumbass.”

You almost laughed. “I’ll tell him tonight,” you promised. “We’re not even halfway done.”

“Better not be done at all,” Eddie scoffed. “I’m not raising your six traumatized preteens on my own. I can’t even boil rice. And your boy’s not gonna love another, so. I’m shit outta luck.”

You squeezed his arm with vigor. 

God, you loved this dude.

He squeezed right back. 

Then he turned and froze.

You followed his gaze, spitting what he saw, breath catching.

Two figures.

Far edge of the lot.

Both armed.

Both watching you.

“Fuck,” Eddie hissed. “Civilians.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Let’s boogie.”

“Everyone, down,” Steve’s voice ordered through the comms. “We’re made.”

You hit the ice-covered pavement as the first shot rang out.

11:26 AM • Mobile Panic

The firefight didn’t last long.

It didn’t have to.

It was over almost before it began, because Eleven didn’t hesitate. Not for one goddamn second. She moved first, flicking her telekinetic hand in one lithe, sharp, lethal motion that was so precise, so instinctive, it looked more like breathwork than combat. The air snapped.

The man on the far left lifted off his feet like he’d been hit by a wrecking ball and slammed into the snowbank. A loud, wet crack echoed across the lot. He didn’t resurface. Just vanished into a puff of powder and bone and silence.

The other moved to fire… and was shot in the thigh by Joyce before he even finished turning.

No words. No warning. Just one clean shot, dead center, and he collapsed into the gravel with a scream that went ragged halfway out.

Then Dmitri surged forward like a wolf cut loose. 

No wasted motion. No hesitation. 

His boots barely crunched against the ice-crusted gravel as he moved, wind slicing sideways over the lot. He hit the ground low, fast, and brutal, restraining them both.

One unconscious, the other whimpering. 

Bound and gagged with clinical efficiency.

Joyce stood off to the side now, chest rising, her big doe eyes round but fierce. Her hands didn’t shake. Nor did she frown, or show any sign of remorse.

None of you did.

No one was shaken.

Except your heart.

“Goddamnit,” you hissed, breath fogging in short, uneven bursts.

You were crouched behind a rusted barrel that stank of motor oil and piss, one boot half-slid off the ice, the other anchoring your body like your bones couldn’t quite remember which direction was up.

Your pulse was everywhere.

You could feel it pounding in your wrist, in your jaw, in your goddamn toes. It was rising in your ears like a siren under your skin, skipping beats, doubling up, then stalling. 

Stalling. 

Stalling... 

Then thudding forward again, crooked and breathless.

The edges of your vision were starting to feather.

Then Steve was there. There, like gravity remembered had you. He dropped to his knees in the slush beside you, heedless of the fact that the ground was frozen, muddy and laced with oil.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” he pled, voice low and slicing through the static.

His hands were already on you, cradling your face like he’d been doing it for years. Warm, urgent, steady. Palms on your cheeks. Fingers sliding to the back of your neck.

You shook your head between his hands, jaw clenched tight against the world trying to spin sideways. “It’s not stopping,” you rasped. “S’bouncing—it’s...”

“Fuck,” he breathed. Not in fear. Not even in anger or fury. Just the dread of knowing. “You’re gonna pass out.”

“No,” you gritted.

“Yes,” he said, already moving. “You are.”

You didn’t get to argue.

He pulled you into his lap like your weight meant nothing and everything at once. Like you were his, and he was tired of the universe pretending otherwise. His arms came around your body in a way that was practiced. Familiar. Protective down to the marrow.

“And if you’re gonna, then it’s gonna be right here,” he added, winded and focused.

Your head forced itself to nod against him, warming at his touch from the inside out, the pain worth it.

“Asshole arrhythmia,” you muttered bitterly to yourself. “Stupid, it’s—stupid…”

Steve curled himself around you, shielding you from the harsh wind, the cold, the staring eyes of the rest of the world. His hot breath and mouth pressed to your temple. 

And in a low, fierce, urgent voice against your skin…

“Don’t say shitty things about my girl’s heart. She’s a fighter. She’s pissed. And she’s mine.”

It was the heat of it that cracked through you first. Not his body, but his voice. It burned straight through the tremors wracking all of your limbs. It flooded every half-failed beat inside your chest with something molten and electric. Not adrenaline. Not even hope.

Just him.

God, you loved him.

You’re so in love with Steve Harrington, you can’t even see straight.

The thought hit you mid-staggered inhale. It wasn’t clean or poetic. It just was. Like a fact of nature. Like wind chill. 

Like death and everything you’d fight to survive for.

You were shaking like a leaf in a wind tunnel. But you smiled. Goddamnit, you smiled.

“I’m pissed,” you whispered. “You’re damn right I’m pissed.”

Steve firmly kissed your forehead again. Hard. Tight. A tremble underneath it like he was trying to keep you together by sheer will.

“That’s my girl.”

He didn’t say you’re okay. He never lies.

But he never lets go.

12:03 PM • Supply Lot Extraction

They got everything.

Somehow.

Fuel. Several drums worth. All sealed up and frozen at the top, but workable. Clean enough to keep the RV and both tanks running long enough to get somewhere beyond frostbite and pipe dreams.

Extra food rations. 

Shrink-wrapped pallets of cans and powdered soups, energy bars and high-calorie bricks that tasted like cardboard and survival. Everything counted now. Every damn calorie.

Backup weapons, too. Mostly rusted. Some clean. Joyce and Robin were already whispering about repair logistics, oiling kits, inventory tags.

And then the jackpot.

Uniforms.

Actual military issue. 

Layers of body armor. Cargo vests. Tactical boots. Gas masks and helmets. And somehow, intact ID cards. Hopper would be able to forge new names over old ones with the gear he and Murray had stashed. You all knew it. 

All of you just didn’t say it out loud.

It was the best haul any of you had ever managed.

You’d even left the civilians alive.

The one Eleven threw was still breathing, but barely. The one Joyce shot had been stabilized by Argyle and Dmitri, left with bandages, water and a weapon tossed far enough to give you time but giving them some, too.

They were bound. Gagged. Anonymous.

But they weren’t dead.

It mattered. More than you could say, and far more than any of you could afford.

Still, no one talked about it.

Nobody talked about what would happen if the Winnebago got found. If the IDs didn’t hold. If the National Guard caught wind of the new patrol unit with too many civilians in the passenger count. If the kids—

Nope, scratch that. If your heart didn’t stabilize.

No one said any of this out loud, but you all felt it in the silence between every exchange.

Nobody talked about how close you all had come to damn near losing everything. Again, just like that.

But when you all pulled away in the tank, one of two now, the second vehicle a rust-battered M113 with salvageable treads and a miracle of working hydraulics… you sat beside Steve in the new driver’s seat.

He didn’t speak.

He just held your hand the whole way back.

His glove was off.

So was yours.

Bare palms, fingers laced, the creak of leather and cracked knuckles. Every mile back was bone-shaking terrain, every bump threatening to throw the world off balance again. But your hand stayed wrapped in his. Like your pulse was his compass.

He wasn’t tracking the road.

He was tracking you.

And as you rounded the final bend into the woods — RV ahead, kids waiting, the glow of string lights blinking once in the distance like a beacon — the faint sound of Murray cussing at a tree drifted over the comms.

You laughed under your breath.

Relief didn’t hit all at once. It was slow. Creeping. Something you didn’t know how to feel anymore. But it was there. In the way Robin exhaled like she’d been holding her lungs hostage. In the way Eleven leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. In the way Dmitri finally relaxed his grip on the rifle in his lap, and Hopper held Joyce with a pensive expression.

Steve leaned over, lips brushing your ear.

“Hey.”

Your lips twitched. “Hm,” you murmured, not quite a smile, but close enough.

“You get one fainting spell,” he said, voice dry. Cool. His. “After that? I’m cuffing you to me.”

You smiled, slow and tired. “Kinky.”

He raised a brow, glancing at you sideways. “Try me.”

“Maybe later,” you whispered, biting your lip, anticipation your eyes.

Because for the first time since the entire world collapsed, since everything cracked open and fell through, you believed in later.

And your heartbeat, fucked up and all, agreed.

Chapter Fifty-Nine Blood Orange Reentry

12:52 PM • Winnebago Perimeter

You’d pulled off a fucking miracle.

Not a pretty one. Not a clean one. But a miracle nonetheless. And now, you were all coming home.

Well… home, in the most unorthodox sense.

The term was laughable when it applied to a partially buried RV surrounded by ice-packed trees, covered in miles of brush, with makeshift tarp-netting woven into the canopy above. But it was safe. It was quiet. It was alive.

And it belonged to this family.

Two tanks moved like wolves across the white terrain. Slow. Intentional. Tires groomed their own tracks with precision, Eleven floating the snow back over them from the rear just as you cleared it. Not enough to erase you completely, but enough to make your trail unreadable by aerial heat sensors and satellite drones.

Steve drove one tank. Robin drove the other.

“Dingus 1, and Dingus 2,” they’d both snickered snugly before fist bumping and doing a stupid jig in their fake uniforms that’d actually managed to make Dmitri snort. 

Hopper had tried (and failed) not to laugh before you all divvied up the tank groups. 

Inside Dingus 1: Steve at the wheel next to you, with Dmitri up front with the mounted scope. Jonathan and Argyle took the back, both of them somehow stoned on adrenaline and stolen vending machine beef jerky. 

Inside of Dingus 2: Eddie at the wheel with Robin, while Eleven kept watch from the back with Hopper and Joyce. Their group is a lot more quiet than yours during the haul back, however that didn’t make them any less deadly… guns low and humor lower.

You gripped the rusting dashboard with both hands. You were still cold from the arrhythmia. Still a little sweaty. But also… still alive. Every muscle on high alert.

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the road, didn’t release your hand either. Just rested it on the tank’s gear lever, thumb sweeping over your wrist in a rhythm he didn’t even know he was making.

And then you saw it.

A glint of aluminum tucked deep under frost-covered branches.

The Winnebago. Still standing.

“Fuck yes,” muttered Jonathan behind you.

“Would’ve sucked if we brought all these snacks and no house party,” Argyle murmured, chewing.

Steve raised a cocky eyebrow as your nose scrunched up with fond amusement. Dmitri didn’t smile. But you were ninety-nine percent sure he blinked like he wanted to.

Both tanks slowed to a crawl.

Then, as your boots hit the ground?

WHAP.

A snowball collided directly with the side of Steve Harrington’s pretty face and you both jolted like you’d been clocked. 

Steve reeled, you stumbled and Dmitri raised his weapon in one breathless flash… only for Jonathan and Argyle to yank both of you back behind the tank.

“What the—”

All five sets of eyes simultaneously locked onto the sight of the world’s greatest cynic, standing in broad daylight like he wasn’t wearing a bullet-colored trench coat and holding up a thermos bigger than his head: Murray Reginald Bauman.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve hissed, palm still on his cheek. “I almost shot my future in-law.”

“You’d miss,” Murray called. “You’re still closing your left eye when you aim. It’s embarrassing.”

You stared at him. Then burst out laughing.

It was immediate, involuntary, like the release of a breath you didn’t know you were holding. And suddenly, you and Steve were both doubled over. Not even because it was funny, but because it was the only possible response to being alive.

But then…

Ohhhh, here they come. Like a fucking stampede.

Mike, Dustin, Will and Lucas all spilled out from the Winnebago like they were late for a comic-con panel. Lucas was already sprinting. Dustin was flailing with both arms. Mike tripped and still made it look graceful. Will, wide-eyed and soft-voiced, just smiled as he caught up. And they were on you, all at once.

“YOU GOT A SECOND TANK?!”

“IS THAT BLOOD?”

“ARE YOU DYING?!”

“DID ELEVEN KILL ANYBODY? BECAUSE SHE TOTALLY WOULD—”

“ARGYLE, IS THAT FREAKING JERKY?!”

You were surrounded. 

You were buried. 

You were blessed.

“Okay, okay—calm down,” Steve barked out, although he was grinning like a lunatic. “One damn question at a time!”

“Nah, seriously—” Dustin ignored him completely, reaching for your hand. “Seriously, though—your heart?”

You blinked at him, already wheezing with a half-laugh. “She’s bouncin’,” you said. “But she’s in there.”

Will’s hand found your elbow. Dustin’s was on your shoulder as he gave you a toothy smile, as Lucas clapped your back twice, and hard, all while Mike hovered nearby, slim jaw twitching like he was trying not to show how relieved he really was.

“Hey,” a voice piped behind you.

You turned.

And your stomach flipped.

Max.

She was standing. Standing, Max was actually standing beside Dr. Owens, wearing three big layers of mismatched winter gear and a scowl that was more sunbeam than snarl. Her flame-hair was all tucked underneath a black knit beanie that used to be Eddie’s, and her hands were clenched white on the top bars of custom, hand-carved wooden crutches.

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Steve inhaled sharply beside you. His eyes glassed over, just a little, as he watched from beside Dustin, head-locked under his muscled arm and now smiling bright.

Owens looked tired, but proud. “Made ‘em last night,” he said quietly. “She’s still getting used to ‘em, but she insisted on—”

“I gotta be ready,” Max grinned with a shrug, slightly wincing.

You barked out another laugh, hand flying to your chest but not because your heart was being an asshole this time. This wasn’t anything to do with that.

“Max,” Lucas called out, beaming. “You look like a Christmas tree, baby.”

“Eat snow,” she snapped, but her grin cracked right on through, crooked and lopsided, gorgeous in its imperfection.

And then Eleven appeared.

She didn’t say a word. She just ran.

Max braced herself. And then the two girls collided together in a giggling, lopsided hug that had the emotional weight of an earthquake.

Girlhood at its finest.

Now your heart — your fuckin’ bitch of a heart — jumped out like it couldn’t handle it. You clutched your chest hard.

Steve’s strong arm wrapped around your waist again as his mouth dipped to your ear. 

“She’s pissed,” he murmured, teasing. “Told you.”

You leaned into him. “Don’t talk dirty to me unless you’re gonna finish that sentence.”

He smirked, kissed the curve of your jaw and gave your ass a light smack. “Later,” he promised. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never a Scout.”

“I would’ve been expelled immediately.”

You sighed, still looking at Max. So was he. “Yeah, because you’d have bought out my entire cookie stand just to flirt with me and call me a fraud.”

“Mmm,” he squinted, watching Max and El pass you both. “Not if there weren’t Tagalongs.”

You smirked. “Basic.”

Behind you, Max rolled her eyes. “You two are disgusting.”

“I agree,” Murray deadpanned, sipping from his thermos. “Also? She’s totally your kid. Got your attitude and all.” He gave you a very wry grin, tilting his head. “Felt like babysitting you all over again.”

You turned, and gave him a look… and saw the faintest crack of emotion in his expression. Your throat caught.

Then you took a breath, ready to launch yourself at him… But before you could even throw your arms around the paranoid bastard, Steve had already beat you to it.

He now enveloped Murray in a bone-crushing hug so abrupt it knocked the whole damn thermos loose. 

Oddly? Murray didn’t even flinch, he just froze up like someone had hacked into his spine with aggressive affection, and patted back awkwardly.

“Okay,” he grumbled. “Alright. Don’t make it weird.”

“It’s already weird,” Steve said, releasing him and clapping him on both shoulders. “Thanks for watching our spawn.”

Then, with perfect timing, he dumped a handful of snow directly onto Murray’s head.

Murray stood still. 

Closed his eyes.

“This,” he muttered, “is why I never had children.”

“Hope you’re ready to be our nanny,” you grinned at him.

“Ah, hell no.” 

1:15 PM • Unloading Zone

The gear came off in waves.

Everyone worked in unison, like clockwork. 

You and Steve, side by side. Hopper and Joyce, directing with military precision. Robin barking numbers. Dmitri scanning the treeline, with Nancy covering the ridge. Jonathan and Argyle hauling crates and cracking jokes. Eddie trailing behind, lifting impossible weight like it was cardboard.

And the kids?

Goddamn unstoppable.

Lucas and Mike were arguing over the structural integrity of all the ammo crates. Will was carefully organizing everything into stacks. Eleven kept telekinetically catching supplies that were almost dropped and pretending it was accidental. Dustin made three spreadsheets on a broken Etch-a-Sketch.

And Max, still working the crutches, insisted on helping Owens check all of the stock of fuel canisters. “Ya can’t keep me down forever, Doc.”

“No,” he replied. “But I can keep you alive. Fair trade?”

She grinned. “Just keep me awake, and we’re set.”

“Done,” he grinned back with a wink.

You paused halfway through offloading a box of water purifiers, watching them… and your eyes prickled quickly.

“Don’t cry,” Steve warned softly behind you. “I’m already losing that bet.”

“I’m not crying,” you murmured, wobbling.

“You’re definitely crying.”

Your wet chuckle confirmed, betraying you. "Just sweating through my eyes, baby.”

“Jesus, I love you...”

You turned in surprise, smiling through the blur as he stared at you with smitten, awestruck wonder.

“C’mere,” he whispered, already pulling.

He kissed you. Right there, in the middle of the snow-covered woods, while everyone around you unloaded survival gear. And whenever he pulled away, you grabbed the front of his coat and yanked him back in.

“Not done,” you said.

He groaned, low and throaty, smiling like a bastard.

Robin passed by with a crate just in time. “If you two start making out again, I’m putting actual bleach in your water rations.”

Neither one of you let up.

And she didn’t mask her grin at all.

1:56 PM • Departure Prep

The sun was bleeding into the horizon.

Orange stained the big sky like rust, heavy and smeared like something wounded. Snow flared pink and gold around your boots, sugar-glass reflections of a world that had gone sharp, strange and silent. It was beautiful. It was wrong. 

It was the end of the world.

And it was time to move again.

Steve ran a gloved hand down the Winnebago’s driver-side door, his breath puffing faintly in the frigid air. You stood beside him, both of you layered in your ragtag uniformed winter gear, stitched-together camouflage and insulated wool, with hand-cut gloves and thick scarves with frayed edges. His hand lingered a moment on the cold metal as if it were something sacred.

As if he was saying goodbye to something.

Goodbye to a world he no longer knew, and hello to the one he would now live in with you until he was dust.

Behind both of you, the full convoy had fallen into a hush of preparation. Engine murmurs, crunching snow, whispered chatter filled the woods and tenderly chanted with hope.

“Listen here,” Robin adjusted the harness on her shoulder, looking like a feral raccoon in combat boots and a too-large army jacket. She pointed her index finger like a pretend gun toward Eddie. “If I so much as hear a power chord outta your mouth while driving? I will throw you out of the tank myself.”

“You love when I hum Judas Priest,” Eddie argued, already slinging himself into the passenger side with flair. “Keeps us centered.”

“I will center your ass into the snowbank.”

They waddled like penguins over to Dingus 2, where Joyce was finishing a map spread over the hood of the tank, fingers tapping over scrawled routes and code markings in red grease pencil. 

“What’s the word, Mrs. Byers?” Eddie jutted his chin.

“We head north,” she told him, eyes flicking up. “To the old hydroelectric dam. About eighty miles from the border.”

Robin leaned against the beast. “I like the sound of that.”

Joyce nodded. “No way they’d think we’d try to hide there.”

“And if they do?” Hopper asked, his burly arms folded, jaw set.

Joyce shrugged. It was effortless. Fierce. Her classic smug Joyce Byers expression was now sharpened with battle-worn resilience. “Then we make ‘em regret it,” she finished simply.

Hopper smirked, completely gone for her. “Right answer.”

“She’s never wrong,” Nancy passed behind them with her rifle slung tight across her back, snow in her boots, but her chin up and winking over at the lovebirds.

She paused briefly near Jonathan, who was fastening the last of the gear on one of the tank’s external storage racks. Without even looking at him, she said, “That’s a smart way to anchor it.” 

Jonathan’s head snapped up, now looking caught somewhere between speechless and lit up. 

Nancy only smiled. “You’ve always been good with balance.”

“I—uh—thanks,” he muttered. Then he blinked. Then blinked again. And then one more time, for good measure.

Before he could say anything else, she was already walking away, tucking a scarf beneath her chin as she fell into stride beside Dmitri. The two of them moved with tactical symmetry, falling into position without speaking. Dmitri handed her a spare clip and she accepted it like clockwork.

Jonathan did not even watch them with bitterness this time. It didn’t erase everything stirring up inside of him, but the storm had settled into a soothing swell. 

Argyle walked to stand beside him now, munching on the last of something mildly edible and definitely stolen from a vending machine. He raised an eyebrow. “Dude.”

Jonathan looked at him, eyebrows raising and creasing his dry forehead beneath his flop of messy hair.

“She just complimented your gear arrangement like it was a love confession from a spy movie.”

Jonathan swallowed. “She did not.”

“She did,” Argyle countered simply, the most nonchalant little shrug lifting his shoulders. “And now she’s walking in slow-mo with a Russian mercenary.”

Jonathan squinted at her retreating form. “You think she’s messing with me?”

Argyle clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I think she’s opening the board, my man.”

His best friend pulled a face. “What board?”

“The emotional chessboard of second chances.”

Jonathan, despite himself, looked helplessly hopeful. Of all the things Argyle could’ve said, that actually made something in his gut feel like there truly was hope for the two of them after all…

But the moment passed.

The second tank, now fully armed, was parked like a goddamn prize stallion, coated in salt spray and frost, its tracks gleaming like new sharp teeth. It looked like something that shouldn’t be allowed to exist in a post-suburban world, but there it was. And it was theirs.

But the path ahead?

Uncharted territory.

“We’ll go full mobile fortress,” you said, nodding toward the RV. “Float it when we need to.”

Eleven raised her hand in a salute, a quiet fire behind her eyes. “Copy that.”

Dmitri rolled his shoulders with a low grunt. “We stay unseen. We stay alive.”

“We stay metal,” Eddie added, 

Robin leaned in. “We stay quietly metal.”

“No screamo?”

“No screamo.”

Lucas climbed into the Winnebago with an impressive amount of energy considering the bitter cold and the tension. “Are you kidding? I’m about to become a crutches-wielding baby girl and weapons engineer. Let’s go.”

Max beamed at that. “Baby girl…?”

“Bauman calls you that,” Lucas shrugged. “I can, too.”

“Not the same thing,” she chuckled.

“Definitely not the same thing,” he winked flirtatiously.

“Yeah, well,” Mike pushed him aside to squeeze into the RV first, eyes bright. “I claimed shotgun for watch-post two days ago, and if anyone tries to contest that? I will throw you like a javelin.”

Dustin huffed as he followed them in, muttering something about “rank violations” and “morally bankrupt shotgun theft.”

Will, trailing behind them, glanced back with a soft smile and a look that lingered somewhere between awe and cautious joy. 

“We’re back,” he said. “We are really back.”

“Back and better than ever, William,” you ruffled his hair.

He smiled as you climbed into the RV beside Max, who was now curled up near the window with one crutch propped beside her and the other held between her hands like a lance. Will and Eleven flanked her, both leaning into her like satellites. As they all three settled in, El whispered something into Max’s ear that made her laugh, snort, and then shove her playfully.

You glanced out one last time at the trees.

Blood orange above. Ice blue below.

And somewhere in between?

Hope.

Steve slid in next to you, warm from the tank, his breathing still tinged with adrenaline. He reached for your hand and you gave it freely, palm cold but steady. His fingers curled through yours with that same iron-laced gentleness, the way someone holds something precious in a burning building.

He leaned in, lips brushing your temple.

“Ready to float?”

El looked over at you both with the most devilish final girl smile in the world, already cracking her knuckles.

You smiled. “Let’s fly.”

forever dedicated to @silkholland + @aloneinthehellfire

MY OSWDLS LIBRARY CARDHOLDERS:

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Her baby brother is different with you. They always had love, she and Mike, but it was cautious love. Conditional. Awkward. And here he is, letting you fuss with his collar like you’re his actual dad. And Steve? Steve’s basically Mom now, and no one questions it. Not even Hopper.

And maybe, just maybe… Nancy wonders if this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

Not romance. Readiness.

The way you and Steve both move like two halves of one whole. How you instinctively tag-teamed outfitting all four kids. The quiet tenderness. The bone-deep stability. The feral protectiveness underneath it all.

Nancy swallows.

She wants that. Not yours. But her own.

She’s just not sure yet if she’s built for it.

Across the tank, Jonathan laughs at something Argyle says under his breath as he adjusts his vest strap. The laugh is too sharp, too fast. A stress-laugh. But Argyle gives him a thumbs-up like it’s gospel.

“Bro, we’re fine,” Argyle says. “We’re not dead yet. Let’s keep that vibe alive.”

Jonathan snorts, checks the clip on his belt. Argyle hands him a fake ID and salutes.

Up front, Robin’s at the wheel, eyes locked on the road.

Eddie sits next to her in full gear, twirling a fake security badge. “So,” he says casually, “what if I get bored and bust out my Queen’s English?”

“You’ll get shot,” Robin mutters.

Eddie sighs. “That’s fair.”

“By me.”

He gawks. “Well then.”

They’re already fully dressed, completely ready. And you are meant to flank them, the front line crew, so you step forward, boots clunking up toward the front panel. Argyle joins you, his energy calm and quiet. Stoic.

Murray appears behind you like a ghost, now squinting at the three boys standing ready behind you. “Pop quiz,” he says grimly.

Mike, Lucas and Dustin all straighten.

He points at Dustin first. “Russian accent. Now.”

Dustin doesn’t flinch. 

He switches immediately and it’s perfect. 

“Now give me words,” Murray nods at him.

“Ты, возможно, будешь один из моих лучших учеников,” Dustin says without hesitation.

Murray grunts. “Good. Stick to that.”

Then he points at Mike and Lucas. “You two—grow up. Drop the octave. You’re both men now. Act like it.”

Mike clears his throat and says something brutally mature and soldier-esque. Lucas coughs and tries again, but he’s also got his deepest voice down… and the way he leans into an American accent somehow sounds foreign.

Murray smirks. “Better. Try not to squeak when they ask questions.”

From up front, Robin calls, “Dustin. Was that Russian fluent…? I couldn’t tell, it was too sexy.”

“Lowkey?” Eddie adds. “That was hot, Henderson.”

Dustin bows, only mildly smug.

Steve leans over to you, low-voiced. “If he wasn’t my son, I’d be concerned.”

You smirk. “Makes two of us.”

Steve looks back at the checkpoint, then at you. His voice drops another octave. “We survive this, angel? I’m gonna do very bad things to you. And by bad I mean illegal in multiple states.”

You blink, stomach flipping. “Why does that make me wanna get caught?”

He grins, razor-sharp. “Oh I’ll catch you.”

And then he’s stepping forward, right next to Murray, in front of the kids as you bite your lip like a lovesick idiot.

Then your uncle and your lover fist-bump without looking.

It’s time.

The checkpoint looms up ahead.

A stark, skeletal gate stretching across the road, manned by three visible guards. One is pacing. Another is talking into a comms unit. The third one watches your tank like a hawk as you all rumble forward and approach them.

Rain slaps the windows.

Good, you think. The more coverage, the better.

You move to stand just behind Robin and Eddie, one hand on the overhead bar. Argyle stands beside you, shoulders square. You can feel the energy in the tank tighten like a noose.

Robin kills the engine.

The tank hisses to a stop.

The guard steps forward, barking something inaudible.

Robin opens the hatch and leans out. “Morning. Scouting unit. Storm recon.”

Her voice doesn’t sound like Robin. It’s crisp, sharp. Zero sarcasm. She hands over papers without blinking.

Eddie chimes in beside her. “Scheduled report drop, sector C, quadrant nine.”

“Credentials?” the guard demands.

Argyle speaks next. Russian. Smooth. Authoritative.

The guard freezes. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

Another soldier is summoned.

All of you stay stone still. 

Nancy and Jonathan are nearly invisible now, hunkered low, ready to fire if necessary... Hopper looms behind a viewport like some passive brute, faceless. Joyce is still tucked with Max, breathing shallowly.

Then another officer approaches. Higher rank. Different uniform. Eyes sharp.

But he doesn’t look at you all harshly.

He’s smiling.

“Привет,” he says, suddenly speaking Russian too. His accent is strange. American. But the words are fluent.

Oh shit, you realize. They’re scared of us…

You can tell that this is registering silently for Robin and Eddie, too. Argyle also lets this click and tilt his head at the higher, ranked officer, saying more to him in Russian as he whistles and gestures towards the back of the tank.

Dustin stiffens.

But off your single nod, Murray nods once too. 

Permission granted.

So with that, Dustin steps forward slowly. And god bless Steve, he squeezes his small arm once in passing, then lets him go quickly… even though he’s dreading it.

The boy walks straight to the front, posture perfect and ready to put on the act. You make room for him, all while Murray and Steve maintain their wide stance positions in front of Mike and Lucas — who also stand as tall looming statues, looking far too old for their own good. 

Finally, Dustin speaks. 

Clear, fluid, precise. 

He answers every question that the officer tosses at him. States your mission. Your timing. Your parameters. Your orders. Says nothing suspicious, offers nothing specific. It’s dazzling. It’s dizzying. And it’s so damn grounded, it makes your lips twitch with disturbed pride underneath your masked face.

Argyle backs him up with a little slang. Something real, something unscripted.

The officer nods.

He’s still kissing ass. And he’s still keeping up with the Russian language while butchering it with the American accent.

But it’s working…

Holy shit, it’s working.

Robin throws in a fake complaint about the rain. Eddie fake-groans about “this busted hunk of steel that needs replacing.” Both of them sell it… by underselling it.

And then…

Clearance.

Just like that, the officer waves you through.

All of you.

He even tips his hat to Robin. She mildly offers the same and kicks the tank back in drive while Dustin grips onto a seat’s back, with you and argyle flanking him, holding the bars overhead as the tank drives forward.

No one speaks until you’re two miles past the gate.

“Holy shit,” Eddie exhales.

“Oh I’m shitting alright,” Robin huffs, smiling hard.

Steve immediately claps a hand on Dustin’s back. “That was insane, dude.”

You grab him next, shaking his shoulders, half-laughing, half-in-disbelief. “You perfect little gremlin. I could pinch your smug cheeks like a proud mama.”

Dustin bows. “I accept.”

Argyle reaches out and fist-bumps him. “Little comrade’s got fire, dog.”

Jonathan lets out a breath so deep it might’ve cracked a rib. “I didn’t even get to rock my shaved face, though,” he jokes. “I’m pissed!”

Argyle shoves him and grins.

They both laugh.

“We’ll snap a picture of it,” you laugh.

“New ID photo,” Jonathan declares.

Nancy climbs down from her sniper spot and wraps her arms tightly around Mike’s shoulders from behind. “You were incredible.”

Mike blushes. “I said nothing. You were better.”

“I was hidden.”

“Exactly,” he shrugs. “Still better.”

Lucas pulls off his gloves and flops backward. “I aged ten years in five minutes.”

“I aged ten years watching you,” Steve says, tugging you to his side.

Max peeks out from the dark with Joyce and Hopper. “Did we win? Blink twice if this isn’t real.”

“Fuck yes, we won,” Eddie crows. “No dual blinking here, Mayfield!”

She grins wide beneath her masked face, crinkling her bright ocean blue eyes.

Murray, bizarrely, starts laughing. Like, fully laughing, now bent over, wheezing. 

The kids stare.

“You alright, Grandpa?” Lucas asks.

Mike leans in. “Gramps cracked.”

“I just—I can’t—poor Pops,” Hopper says from the back, straight-faced.

Murray straightens, eyes wide. “You shut your goddamn mouth—”

“I said Pops,” Hopper barks with amusement.

Murray points. “Too close.”

Everyone howls.

Even Joyce is giggling. Even Max is still grinning, and she lets herself nuzzle against the group’s mama bear.

Steve wraps an arm around you and kisses your temple. “Still down for those illegal activities?”

Heat flares inside your gut. “You have no idea.”

Outside, the road stretches forward into a ghost town. Rain keeps falling. The air hums with a strange, quiet static, the start of something new bubbling towards the surface.

You’ve all crossed the border.

All of you are back in Hawkins now.

And nothing will ever be the same.

Chapter Eighty-Two Ghost Protocol

April 1987 • Day 1 of the Plan (continued)

The wheels grind softly over wet pavement, Dingus-1 pushing forward like some slow, haunted beast. The rain outside has thinned to a ghostly drizzle, misting the landscape in a cold gray shroud. Trees blur past the narrow viewports, skeletal and half-dead. The road signs are familiar now—more than familiar.

Because you’re back in Indiana.

And no one in the tank knows whether to cheer or cry.

You’re seated just behind the front compartment, pressed against the cool side wall beside Max and Joyce. Steve is half-standing, crouched slightly beside you with one hand gripping a pipe overhead… the other resting protectively near your shoulder. And somewhere between the warmth of his presence and the steady murmur of voices from the back, you finally exhale.

“You know,” Robin mutters from the front, “I don’t mean to start us off with a panic spiral, but… why were they all so polite to us?”

Eddie snorts from the co-pilot chair (what passes for one in the tank’s grim interior). “That guy tipped his hat at you like we were brunch buddies. I don’t tip hats at brunch.”

“Timeout,” Mike shook his head. “You mean they weren’t just being procedural assholes…?”

“She means the Russian thing,” Argyle says, his voice calm, but laced with curiosity. “They heard me speaking Russian and immediately brought in the big dogs.”

Dustin looks up from where he’s fiddling with a tactical strap. “And none of those guards were Russian. Not even close.”

“They were American,” you say softly, brows drawing in. “All of them.”

Murray makes a low, thoughtful sound as he leans back against the wall beside Mike. “Which begs the question… why the hell are Americans so eager to accommodate Russians right now?”

“They weren’t just accommodating,” Steve adds, jaw tight. “They were kissing ass.”

“Hard,” Robin agrees.

You nod, glancing toward Dustin and Argyle. “What were they saying to you two?”

Dustin shrugs. “It was pretty standard protocol stuff at first. Asked for identification. Clarification on the unit number. When Argyle and I gave them the sector info, one of them asked which facility we were assigned to.”

Argyle chimes in, “I told them we were coming from recon at a deep ops site and headed toward an extraction point.”

“And that didn’t throw them?” Steve asks, frowning.

“Not even a little,” Argyle says, mouth slightly agape. “Dude nearly complimented my vocabulary.”

Murray squints. “You used slang.”

“Russian slang,” Argyle confirms.

“My point.”

“I should not be this impressed,” Jonathan mutters from the back, almost reverently.

“Nah, you should,” Dustin deadpans. “We’re that good.”

Robin barks a laugh. “Oh, now he says it.”

“You are good,” you say genuinely, looking over at him. “Seriously, Dustin. You killed it back there.”

“Yeah, I—thanks,” he says quietly, eyes dropping. “I’m just glad it worked.”

Steve tilts his head. “Wait, hold on. How fluent are you, dude?”

Dustin pauses. “Uh. Pretty fluent.”

Robin raises an eyebrow. “Since when are you more fluent than me?”

“Since Murray started helping me.”

Murray snorts. “Kid picked it up faster than you. Not sorry if that hurts your feelings.”

Robin gasps. “Et tu, Brute?”

“Don’t feel bad,” you murmur, nudging her shoulder. “He didn’t tell me either.”

Steve blinks at Dustin like he’s seeing him for the first time. “Jesus Christ, you’re like twelve.”

“Fifteen,” Dustin corrects. “And apparently multilingual.”

You shake your head. “If we survive this, you’re getting a diploma and a plaque.”

“Hell yeah,” Mike says, then pauses. “But seriously, what does this mean?”

There’s a beat of silence. Then Hopper speaks.

“I’ll tell you what it means,” he now mutters from the floor, arms crossed, back stiff. “They’re scared. Not of us. Of who they think we are.”

Joyce immediately reaches out and presses a hand to his shoulder. “Don’t you even think about standing up, Hop.”

“I’m not,” he lies.

“You are,” Max says beside him, voice dry but fond.

Hopper huffs. “This floor sucks.”

“And getting discovered will suck harder,” Joyce stated.

Murray snorted. “That’s what she said,” he muttered.

Steve literally did a double take, while Lucas choked on air. You blinked like a disturbed robot and chose to just control-alt-delete that last second.

Joyce blinked. “Who said what…?”

“Nothing!” Mike and Nancy chirped.

“Nothing,” Hopper pretended to scold, eyes on Murray, who just shrugged and smirked at the way Jim was so clearly trying not to smirk back or laugh. 

Max shifts subtly. You can tell her legs are aching even though she’s said nothing, and you don’t miss the way Joyce gently moves to open a med pack beside her. 

You quietly join them now, slipping an arm around Max’s hunched shoulders, steady as her breath catches when Joyce presses two pills into her palm. 

“Here,” Joyce hands her a water bottle.

“Go ahead and chug that whole thing for me if you can,” you added softly with a wink, rubbing her back.

Max swallows dryly. 

“Okay,” she murmurs, swallowing the pills and obediently hydrating while you continue tenderly rubbing your palms up and down her crooked arms.

“Back to the creepy Russian deference thing,” Jonathan says, voice low, “isn’t this all reminding anyone else of Starcourt?”

“Exactly,” Hopper says grimly. “All that land? Bought up by Russian currency. Then boom. Portal underneath the goddamn mall.”

“And the mayor let it happen,” you add. 

Jim scowled bitterly. “Larry Kline.”

“Schmuck,” Murray spits.

Mike leans forward. “Wait, is he still in Hawkins?”

“Good question,” Murray muses, suddenly squinting like he’s visualizing a cork board inside his brain. “If that town was evacuated under government order, then maybe…”

“Maybe he wasn’t evacuated,” you say slowly. “Or maybe he was forced out with everyone else. Either way, they cleared the whole town.”

Lucas frowns. “What if the Russians wanted it cleared?”

Silence.

The thought had flickered through his mind in real time and now it ripple through the tank.

Robin’s knuckles whiten on the wheel. “Nope. Don’t like that theory.”

“Why would they?” Joyce asks.

“To keep something hidden,” you murmur.

“Or,” Murray says slowly, eyes narrowing as he stares into the middle distance, “to bring something in.”

That sends a bigger ripple down every spine.

Even Eddie shifts, suddenly restless. 

“Nope,” he says. “No thank you. You can leave that thought back at the checkpoint.”

But it tracks. The whole tank knows it.

Steve’s already lost in thought about. There’s a pensive pinch between his brows, and you feel his palm subtly press into your back, grounding. Quietly afraid.

You lean against him without looking up. “You okay?”

He exhales. “Just hate thinking about those uniforms.”

You squeeze his other hand once as it settles on your hip. He doesn’t need more than that. But he deserves more anyway.

“They slapped you,” you murmur, low enough for just him to hear. “Right off the bat. I’ll never forget that.”

His jaw clenches, hearing the way you silently seethe at the memory. He remembers it all too well. 

Just as well as you do.

“I kicked their teeth in,” you add, softer now. “You weren’t awake yet. Still had us split up, but not before I got a few more hits in.” Your eyes darkened as you stared straight ahead, muttering, “should’ve seen the guy’s nose.”

Steve’s eyes dart to yours, equal parts awe and dread.

Murray blinks. “I’m sorry. Louder please? Repeat that for us little people in the back.”

“She threw hands,” Robin goes first without missing a beat. “Back at Starcourt. Took out a guard with her fucking knee.”

“Because they slapped him,” you added, still staring a hole into oblivion, “for absolutely no reason at all.”

Your uncle looked scandalized. “Why am I only hearing about this now?” Murray demands.

“Because she’s scary,” Eddie says. “And a true mystery ‘it girl’ that doesn’t disclose her hot hits.”

Steve levels him with a glare, no real heat behind it as he holds you tighter and shudders at the memory.

Murray’s still eyeing you down.

You shrug. “Timing never came up.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jonathan mutters, impressed.

“Okay but—focus,” Mike says quickly, pointing a finger. “If they think we’re Russian soldiers… are we gonna have to keep pretending to be Russian soldiers?”

“They saw no faces,” Argyle reminds the tank. “We might be good.”

“For now,” Murray adds. “But if we hit another checkpoint, Dustin and Argyle are the face of this op. They’ll expect the same ranks. Same voices. Same responses.”

That visibly unsettles Steve.

You watch him shift to glance at Dustin, before he looks away again. His hand tightens on the rail up above your head.

He doesn’t say what he’s thinking. Doesn’t need to. You already know and reach for his pinky, linking it with yours. No fuss. Just warmth. 

Jonathan rubs his forehead. “It’s not a bad plan. It’s just a terrifying one.”

“They can pull it off,” Lucas says with quiet confidence. “I mean… you guys saw them.”

“I did,” Steve says. His voice is gentle, but rough. “And it scared the shit out of me.”

“Dustin?” you say softly.

He looks up to meet your eyes.

“You okay doing it again?”

Dustin exhales. “If I have to. I’ll just need to keep my sweating to a minimum.”

You offer him a small smile. “Just making sure.”

“Fair enough,” Robin says. “Consent is important even in espionage.”

That gets a half-laugh out of Max, who leans her head against your shoulder.

“Speaking of spooky espionage,” Nancy says suddenly, poking her head in from the back hatch, “you think Will and El are still meditating or floating rocks by now?”

“Oh they’re absolutely levitating,” Eddie mutters.

“Dimitri’s probably doing tai chi,” Argyle says serenely.

“Owens is praying,” Mike adds.

“He’s always praying,” Lucas says.

“Think we all are these days,” Steve murmured.

“Should we check in?” Joyce asks.

Murray shakes his head. “No signals. Not until we’re closer.”

You nod, processing all of it. Then look up front. “How long til we reach Hawkins?”

Eddie checks a GPS readout. “Hour, maybe less. We’re dragging but we’ll get there. We should probably refuel soon.”

“Agreed,” Robin says. “Sooner the better. I don’t wanna stall on the doorstep.”

“Find a pull-off,” Steve says, nodding at them upfront. “I’ll go with Jonathan. We’ll make it quick.”

“I’m coming,” Mike says immediately.

“Me too,” Lucas adds just as quickly.

Steve hesitates, scanning their faces. Then nods. “You two look the part. Just stay tight. Don’t improvise.”

“Scout’s honor,” Lucas deadpans.

“Famous last words,” Jonathan mutters.

Eventually, the tank lurches as Robin pulls gently into a clearing off the main road. Everyone tenses but nothing moves outside. No vehicles. No signs of life. Just lighter rain, breezy trees and pale mud.

Steve checks his vest. Jonathan slings a rifle. Mike and Lucas secure their gear and fasten their facial disguises while the older two boys do the same.

Nancy steps out after them, her rifle already at the ready, posted like a ghost against the rain-drenched tree line. You glance over at her and catch her eye. She raises her eyebrows. 

You smirk. Sexy soldier.

She smirks back. Got our boys.

They all disappear through the hatch.

Inside the tank, things settle as Murray nudges you. “Let’s check your vitals,” he says without ceremony.

You blink. “Right. Forgot.”

Steve’s head whips around, midway out the tank. 

Of course he heard that. 

“You forgot?”

“Baby, I feel fine. It just slipped my mind.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“She looks fine, Steve,” Joyce offers him warmly.

Hopper leans back with a grunt. “Better check anyway.”

“Thank you,” Steve mutters with a nod, eyes on your uncle as he moves to the medical kit.

Murray’s already pulling out the equipment. You slide off the floor to let him near you, brushing your fingers lightly over Steve’s wrist before he steps back out, refastening his face mask as you try not to drool.

Argyle pokes his head out from the makeshift food bin. “Time to eat, amigos.”

Joyce nods. “Perfect timing.”

Cans are cracked. Rations are divided up as he passes them to Joyce and gets ready to serve up for everyone.

And off to the side, Hopper shifts to lean closer to Max. She’s propped quietly beside him, still clutching a ration bar. She doesn’t say anything until he does.

“Ya know, I never did ask.”

Max glances up at him in surprise. She realizes now that she’s almost never really spoken to him, other than when she would spend the night with El back at his cabin.

“Didn’t really expect to see me, huh?” he says roughly.

She huffed a laugh. “Honestly? No.”

“Just occurred to me,” Hopper jutted his chin with a tiny smirk. “You likely still thought I was dead.”

“I mean… yeah,” Max reflects on that, a small shiver running up her spine. “Last I heard before slipping into the coma was just… from El. Missing you.” 

A soft silence falls over them as she looks haunted by the memory. Hopper does, too. Eventually, he hums. 

“Disappointed?”

“Nah.” Max shrugs one shoulder, grinning at him, cheeky and light. “It kinda makes way more sense.”

That actually startles a laugh out of him.

“So like…” Max glances sideways at him. “You were in a Russian prison for like… a solid minute. And then you came back from the dead. And now you’re hiding in a tank.”

“You say it like it’s normal.”

She peels back a nutrition bar. “It's normal for this group.”

Hopper barks out another laugh. “God. No wonder you’re her best friend.”

Max beams at that. “She’s mine, too.”

Hopper winks at her, briefly glancing over at Joyce as she moves with argyle to carefully assort the least mess sort of grub for everyone that won’t be hard to clean up, and won’t draw attention if they’re stopped.

“Glad you’re back,” Max says after a moment, quieter now. “I’m really, really glad.”

He doesn’t say thanks. Just nudges her with his boot as she smiles around her granola bar. “You too, kid.”

That makes her smirk, a new thought crossing her mind. “We sure do like to give our family a nice death fake-out, huh?”

Hopper blinked at that a moment before his shoulders lifted up in a quiet wheeze, palm to the face. Because shit, if that wasn’t the goddamn truth.

“I mean really,” Max chuckled, pleased with his reaction. “You vanished for over half a year—”

“And you,” he grins at her, pointing, “—mentally vanished for eight months.”

“Nine months.”

“Both numbers got me beat, so,” he huffs an amused sigh and shakes his head at her. “Good game.”

Max lifted her granola bar, offering him her second one so that they could probably ‘cheers’ them. “Good game.”

Outside, Nancy taps twice on the hatch before Mike and Lucas enter with her.

“Time to roll,” comes Jonathan’s voice, who now barrels in with Steve as they shake off the dampness of the rain.

Steve flashes a crooked grin at him. “You really should shave more often. It’s a good look.”

Jonathan arched a brow. “Oh yeah? You noticing?”

Steve just shrugged. “Kinda hard not to when, y’know. We’re all packed in like sardines and have lived together for the last, I dunno — damn near year.”

That earned him a snort and light shove. 

You grinned like a menace. 

So did Nancy, who now plopped down beside you. 

She leaned in. “Crazy to think those two used to… like…”

Even unfinished, her words deepened your grin. You leaned into her, too, lowering your voice as you both watched your boys. 

“…what, have so much unresolved sexual tension?”

Nancy snorted, nudging your shoulder as you nudged her back. Max grinned over at the two of you. Even Hopper did.

Murray sighed. “Alright, well. Heartbeat’s still an ass, but it's functioning.”

You raised up a triumphant fist. “Love that for me.”

“Are we readayyyyyyy?!” Eddie suddenly rock-n-rolled from up front, earning him a giant smack upside the head from Robin even Lucas whooped with a rock on hand gesture with Mike.

Steve pointed. “Roll the tape.”

Dustin sighed. “I just sat down with some grub.”

“Good thing it’s to-go,” Mike deadpanned.

Lucas giggled like a girl as he grabbed a can of tuna. 

Max made a face. “That is so alarming when you’re in uniform, babe.”

He instantly stood up straighter, making Max laugh.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” she light waved at him with her crooked arm.

It made Steve’s heart seize, so he moved to sit next to her and Hopper, lowering down with a huff.

“What’s for dinner?”

Max grinned at him. “Canned scams.”

“Hm. My favorite.”

Hopper sighed deeply. “I never wanna look at soup so long as I live after we all make it outta this.”

Steve like the sound that.

After we all make it outta this.

After we all make it outta this.

You scrunched your nose, catching his face and making your way over to them. He instantly patted his lap for you as if you weren’t already headed straight there.

“Think it’s still standing?”

You’d asked it gently. 

But the question itself was heavy.

Steve sighed through his nose. “Not sure,” he murmured, lost in thought as pulled your torso closer to him so that your back dug into his uniformed chest. “Just know that we’re all gonna stick together after this, even if it’s not.” 

That made your uneven heart flutter. 

You craned your neck to glance up at him. “Was that an official boyfriend offer for me to move in?”

Steve blinked at you. “Baby, if you didn’t already know I’m not letting you live in another room, much less another house…? Then I’ve already blown it as your boyfriend.”

Now your stomach was just having a fit.

A mad-happy fit of furious love and joy.

He saw it on your face, grinning. “Or maybe I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t,” you hummed into him with deep little chuckles that vibrated against his chin. “You so fucking didn’t,” you added, even quieter. Almost dreamily.

The smile on Steve’s face grew tenfold. “Still want me to ask?”

You nodded eagerly, peeking up at him through your lashes as he chuckled softly. 

Then he lifted one coy eyebrow, giving you the most beautiful Steve Harrington face you had ever seen.

“Bauman Squared,” he started, husky and low. “Angel girl. Devil woman. Light of my life, bane of my existence, daddy to my chicken nuggets…”

You were already blushing from the most heartsick chuckles that bubbled your entire chest wide open.

Steve sighed, nuzzling your nose. “Move in with me?”

He’d asked it almost shyly. As if there was somehow a possibility you’d ever say no, as if you’d even remotely consider declining the invitation.

It sent shivers down your spine.

It cracked your already unsteady heart in two.

It made your head spin, your stomach flip, your wildest dreams race through your mind all over again…

You sighed against him, nuzzling his nose back in your signature Eskimo kiss fashion. “Only if it’s forever.”

Steve’s big brown eyes crinkled, heavy-lidded as his gaze never let your own, his breathing steady and solid and all yours.

“Every single forever.”

Chapter Eighty-Three There Will Be Blood

April 1987 • Day 2 of the Plan (arrival)

The silence is a murder weapon.

The tank rumbles like a casket dragged by God, slow and deliberate and precise over pitted concrete. Rain needles the windshield in thin, icy strands. The town ahead, your town, is a graveyard. A dead thing with its jaw pried open, crumbling teeth of broken rooftops and burned dead trees lining every street. 

Not a single home is lit. 

Not a single soul occupied the sidewalks.

No sign of residence can be traced.

Welcome back to Hawkins.

Up front, you stand just behind Argyle, Eddie and Dustin. Steve’s beside you, one hand clamped to the overhead rail, the other resting stiffly at your hip as he stares ahead and peruses the streets. Your arms are crossed over your chest like you’re holding yourself together by sheer force. And outside the tank’s wide bulletproof glass… 

Your entire childhood disintegrates street by street.

Nothing looks familiar. Everything’s wrong.

A dead grocery store looms just up on the corner, its sign half-fallen, an entire wall blown inward from the quakes… still left beaten and battered with weathered debris. Trash and shattered glass cling to the curbs like plague. And its shelves are left naked, now exposed from the lack of wall to keep them enclosed.

Below you, Dustin adjusts his collar once, jaw twitching. But he doesn’t say a word. Neither does Eddie, helmet low and completely silent. Only his gloved hands twitch slightly near his lap, ready to reach for a weapon. 

Just in case anything goes south.

Argyle drives like he was born for this. He’s composed. Smooth. Civilized. And he’s already Russian again, since there’s no telling if he’ll need to act like it again. He flicks his eyes left quickly as another tank crawls down a cross street. Military, American, government-owned. 

“…alright…”

It’s barely audible, the way that Argyle murmurs it almost absentmindedly. His fake accent is still thick, even here, right now, given that he’s not daring to break it because there’s no telling if he’ll need to speak with it on the fly.

The US military tank’s cannon swivels a fraction toward you as it slows. But no one aims any weapons your way or fires off ammo.

Instead you’re all greedy with a flock of salutes.

Straight-backed. Precise.

Argyle and Dustin both return it without hesitation, fluid, almost indifferent. Eddie adds a casual nod, like a man used to being obeyed. All three of their Russian salutes are curt, confident and unfamiliar to all of the American soldiers.

No one questions you. 

No one slows you down.

…yet.

Your fingers tighten on the overhead railing as the tank bounces over a downed tree limb. Steve’s hand flies up behind you, bracing your lower back. He doesn’t even look. Just touches you like muscle memory. The rattle of the tank’s frame masks the small, involuntary sound you make in the back of your throat.

Robin’s above you, half-silhouetted in the faint rainfall as she stands out the top hatch. Nancy’s huge rifle is braced against her shoulder. She doesn’t flinch as the wind slaps her. She just watches with cold calculation… like a statue carved out of war. Her long silhouette moves in stiff, slow, mechanical sweeps as she scans every rooftop, alleyway, treeline, turning at a 360-angle with military precision.

She doesn’t look scared.

She looks like vengeance.

It’s so out of character for her that it would make you all laugh and audibly gawk at just how combing it is… But there’s no time for that. Not right now.

In the back of the tank, Hopper, Joyce and Nancy are all lined up along the left-side viewports. All their fingers are poised above the interior firing mechanisms, just in case. Joyce glances down once, looking at Max.

Max, who is wedged in the corner below them, hunched small between Joyce and Hopper’s legs, arms tucked to her chest, head down. She hasn’t dared look out a single window. Not once. Not because of her faulty limbs… but because she simply does not want to see it. Not yet.

None of you blame her.

Along the opposite wall, Jonathan, Mike and Lucas are similarly posted, rifles within reach, eyes sharp through the slots. They track every corner. Every shadow. They whisper nothing. Not even to each other.

And Murray holds the rear.

He stares out the back viewport like he’s waiting to watch the past come barreling after him. Whenever he turns his head, just slightly, he murmurs only to Joyce and Hopper.

“Blessing and a curse,” he says.

Joyce doesn’t turn. “What is?”

“This disguise. This vehicle. The protocol.” His voice is paper-thin. Brittle. “We look like them. And that’s the only reason we haven’t been torn apart yet.”

“But we also look like them,” Hopper mutters darkly.

“…exactly.”

Jonathan exhales, quiet but sharp. “So either we blend in and stay ghosts—”

“—or we draw exactly the kind of attention they don’t want to be giving us,” Murray finishes. “And eventually someone’ll crack.”

“What happens when someone starts asking questions?” Max murmurs. “If they get too close…?”

“What happens when they figure out the Russians aren’t even in here…?” Jonathan asks quietly.

No one answers that.

Outside, another checkpoint looms. A gate that’s ripped halfway off of its hinges, soldiers shivering under tarps, half-armed and barely alert. You see it first. Then Argyle slows warily…

“Coming up on a clearance station,” he murmurs without panic. Just calm as steel. “Act like we own it.”

“Which we do,” Dustin mutters, his voice higher than he wants it to be.

You gently place your hands on both his shoulders from behind. His breath stutters. He doesn’t look up. And you don’t ask him to. Instead, you just squeeze gently.

“Just keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” you murmur right near his ear.

Dustin nods once. Firm, his young eyes forward.

Steve shifts beside you like he wants to say something. His hand brushes your lower back again, intentional this time, and you lean against it. His eyes flick to yours. And even beneath the shadow of his uniform, even through all the layers of disguise… you know what he wants to do.

He wants to tear the whole world apart for you.

He wants to fold Dustin up in his arms and carry Max out of this tank and scream until the sky caves in.

But instead, he swallows it down.

Because that’s what Steve Harrington does best. He lets it sink to the bottom of the ocean floor, never letting it fully surface so that it can finally breathe.