#han posts

You want to fucking kill him but you don’t have a chance as he breezes past, grabbing your suitcase out of your walk in closet.

“You depart in twelve hours,” he starts. He recited it in his head the entire way over to make the conversation easier, but the words are hard to get out. “Only take your essentials. When you’re there, a chauffeur will pick you up and take you to the - the - the location.”

“Steve, I’m not fucking going -“

“Yes, you are.” He says sternly. Like you’re a child.

“I’m not going anywhere without you!”

And he know this was coming - this cyclical argument you’ve been having for the last three weeks, your tears, the lump in his throat, uncertainly fogging both of your vision. But it doesn’t make it any easier, any less frustrating.

He says your name low and quiet. A plea. “This is safe. This is where the - the - the people I know told me to send you. That it’s the safest place.”

“And we’re trusting those people now?”

“No. W-well, yes! It - it’s - just - trust me, not them. Okay?” He settles your suitcase on the couch and starts moving around your living room for things he knows you’ll need. A blanket. Medicine. “Anywhere away from here is better, anyway.”

“So you admit it isn’t safe?”

Steve sniffles. “I never said it was.”

You follow him to your bedroom where he begins ripping clothes from your closet. He doesn’t miss the hoodie he leant you a few months ago. It’s laid on top of your suitcase with more shirts and pants.

You grab his arm and try to force it to fall back to his side, but he’s too strong, god damn him. “Steve, quit!” you beg, digging your heels into the ground and tugging on him. “I’m not leaving, Steve. I’m not going unless you go with me.”

“We talked about this.”

As nauseam, in fact. Until the ache in Steve’s throat was excruciating. Until your voice was hoarse and you were heaving. He’s not leaving, and you are.

You tug on him again. “I’ll keep talking about it until you listen to me!”

He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps moving back and forth between your closet and the suitcase. You cry, as hard as you try not to. You really are like a petulant child, stomping your foot, throwing a tantrum. You feel like it’s the only way he’ll listen, but you know the reality is that he still won’t.

“What about me?” you cry. You’re so angry at him, want to say something that’ll make him hurt. That’ll change the expression on his stoic face. You find it in you to refrain. “What about us, Steve?”

Keeps packing. Head down. Jaw clenched tight. He was ready for this fight when he walked in.

“Steve, let the goddamn military handle it. Do - do you honestly think you’re going to save the world?”

“No,” he snaps.

“Then what?”

He doesn’t answer because you already know why. Because he can’t leave Dustin, and Dustin can’t leave El, because apparently she can save the world. And Robin won’t leave Steve who won’t leave Dustin who won’t leave El. And Nancy fucking Wheeler won’t leave Mike who won’t leave El.

It makes you feel insane. Your blood boils and spills over, and over, and over, and it never just depletes. You keep going, keep arguing, trying to talk him out of it until your voice is hoarse. It’s hoarse now, in fact. Last night Steve held you until you shut up, until you cried yourself to sleep, and you had no idea he had already got you a plane ticket out of here. You feel so betrayed it makes your stomach twist and chest ache.

“I can’t live without you,” you try. It’s the third time you’ve pulled this and it seems to get him the most. “Steve, I don’t know what I’d do if - if….”

Steve bites his cheek, stilling, his hands clutching one of your sweaters.

“Why don’t you care?” you push.

He sniffles again, pinches his nose. You’d prefer it if he’d just let himself cry. He’d give in, then, if he let his emotions take over.

“Don’t you love me?”

“Jesus, yes,” he grits, finally looking at you. His eyes are red. “Why do you think I’m makin’ you leave, huh? Why do you think I’m staying?”

“Because you think you’re something you’re not!”

He runs a big hand through his hair so harshly you fear it’ll get tugged out. He walks towards you, holding his arms out, murmuring, “honey,” and as much as it pains you, you back away.

“Don’t,” you say sharply. Your throat aches. “Don’t do that, Steve.”

“I love you.” He sounds exhausted. “I love you, please believe me.”

“If you love me, then come with me.”

“There won’t be a world for us to live in unless we stop this.”

“You aren’t going to save the world.” You’re so desperate for him to listen to you. “The chances are so slim, Steve. Why can’t we love each other while we have time?”

Steve takes a shaky breath. “I won’t let you die without doing something about it first.”

You stare at each other. It’s suddenly dawning on you that nothing you’ll do will ever change his mind. That his chances of living through the next few days are slim. That this is the last time you’ll get to see him. While he’s packing for you and forcing you to take a plane to California.

There’s nothing romantic about it. It’s not like what you’ve seen in the movies you rented from Family Video when Steve had a shift. Before he was yours. When you went because the forest green vest looked so good on him, and he always had some goofy recommendation, and he let his hands touch yours when giving you your change for a moment too long.

You’ve hardly even had him.

“So that’s it?” You can hardly hear yourself.

“I’m doing this for you. I’m doing everything for you. And - and i-if it works, I swear I’ll make it up to you. I swear, angel.”

You shake your head, hot tears making their way down your jaw. “No.”

He stills. Looks a little like a deer in headlights. Caught off guard, shocked. Mouth parting slightly before closing again, like he wants to argue but can’t.

What is there to say?

“If you make me get on that plane, Steve….” You shake your head again, swallowing the ache in your throat down.

You stare at each other again. His eyes are one of your favorite things about him. Those saccharine, chestnut and moss colored irises. They scrunch up when he laughs. You used to think about leaving Hawkins and moving somewhere nice, so far away from all of this that Steve grows up to have crows feet around his eyes. That you’d be the one who put them there. And this is the last time you’ll see them.

“You have to go,” he eventually sniffles.

“Please,” you try, for the final time.

He blinks slowly, frowning, chest rising and falling slowly. “I love you,” he whispers. “Please believe me.”

“What happened last night?”

“What always happens,” Robin snaps, clearly unhappy that she’s been woken up so rudely. “You stepped in front of danger and -”

“What is this?”

There’s a little pause. “You got hurt. There was a Demogorgon, and it swang at you - caught you with its claw, I guess. You got knocked out and - and - well, Nancy got it -”

“Who the hell gave me stitches?”

You hear Robin scoff. “Who do you think, loverboy?”

You’re a little upset that he doesn’t remember, especially with the attention he’d given you. But you already figured the medicine Eddie supplied had made him loopy and a little more sentimental than usual. The ‘loverboy’ makes you perk up, wanting to know more, the implications obvious. 

“No. No. No no no no no.”

“No, what?”

“There’s no - I’m not - don’t call me loverboy.”

“Loverboy.”

“Rob, I swear to -”

“Swear to Cupid? Ow!”

“It can’t happen,” he says, and your breath hitches. “This isn’t the time and place for romance, okay? It was - it was misguided, anyway, I was - I don’t even remember.”

“Steve, come on.”

“No, I’m serious, Robin. This can’t happen. I was stupid last night. I shouldn't have let it show like that. I can’t - I can’t right now. I can’t even think about that right now.”

Your brows furrow. 

“Since when did you ever put your love life on the back burner?”

“Now! Right now! It doesn't matter how I feel about them if I don't even know if we'll wake up tomorrow!"

“Okay! Okay, okay, I get it. But you might want to talk this out. It was pretty obvious last night."

"Jesus," he groans. You can hear him pacing over your heartbeat. "What did I do?"

"Well, you slept with them, for starters."

"Don't say it like that."

"And you were asking for them and touching them and - I think it was obvious, but I guess I've known for a while."

"This is really bad."

"It's not bad," Robin sighs. "You just... have to talk to them about it. They probably feel the same way."

"About me?"

"The situation," she stresses. "But they were quick to lay down with you last night, and they did fix you up, so...."

There's a long pause this time, and you think they might be whispering. Finally, Steve says, "It can't happen. Not now."

"I know, Steve."

You stop listening then, heart hammering and feeling a little sick. It's a blessing that Steve likes you, but he's right. It's not the time. You feign sleep when they exit the bathroom, peaking with an eye open as they head upstairs, Steve stealing the smallest look at you.

You wish he wouldn't have.

===

You’re washing dishes after breakfast now, Ted Wheeler staring you down over the edge of the newspaper. He seems particularly miffed with Eddie Munson, who’s wasting chocolate syrup and whipped cream in an attempt to make Holly laugh. 

Steve stands beside you, awkward and stiff while he dries what you hand him. You’re not sure why he’s in such close proximity, given his previous conversation with Robin, but you don’t say anything. You just wash and rinse and hand the ceramic and glass off to Steve, who seems deep in thought. 

Finally, he quips, “You think Ted can smell the drugs on him?”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, maybe.”

No words are spoken about you sleeping on Steve’s chest, or how he looked at you like you were the world last night. 

“Thank you,” he says eventually, fidgeting with the dish towel. “For. You know.” He points to his head and you smile.

“Not a problem.”

“I don’t know if I could stitch you up so casually.”

You shrug a shoulder. “I think you would if it came to it. It’s easy if it’s necessary.”

Steve clears his throat. “Well, thank you.”

“Mhm.” 

“And what about your hands? I remember how hurt they were.”

“Oh,” you laugh, finally looking at him. “That was just your blood, not mine.”

He blinks, hand slowing on the plate he’s drying. “You didn’t get hurt?”

“No, I’m fine. I just didn’t want to scare you, that’s all.”

“Oh.” 

You both stare at each other, your smile falling. When you finally rip your eyes away from him, Steve shuffles in closer, his elbow hitting yours. 

“I’m really thankful for you,” he starts lowly, fingers colliding with yours as he takes a cup from your hand. “I’m thankful for last night and every night before that. I'm - I'm so glad you're in my life right now."

“I know it can’t happen,” you whisper, continuing to stare at the sink. "Us, I mean."

Steve pauses for a moment, surprised you knew where he was going. “Do you understand why?”

“Of course.” Your hands still. Working up the courage, you finally look at him. “I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you. And I’d rather not get hurt, either.”

Steve’s eyes are soft as he looks at you, and he nods once, curtly. “I feel the same way.”

You nod back. Everything has become blunt and rational since the world ended. There’s no what-ifs, other than the bad ones. You can’t think about tomorrow, let alone a time where you and Steve could actually be with each other. It might not ever happen. And if it does, and the other dies….

"So we agree, then."

You nod again. "I like you, Steve. But we shouldn't let it get to that point."

He nods again, too. "Okay, good. Good. I'm glad we agree. And - and no hard feelings?"

"Not one," you promise, but you can't look at him and say it.

There's a silence between you, a mutual understanding and grieving.

“They’re drafting,” Steve says suddenly, a dish clacking as it rests upon another one. “They want to have people to fight.”

The idea of someone in Hawkins, Indiana, fighting these monsters - someone other than your circle - is so laughable that you outright scoff. Steve laughs, too, gently. His elbow keeps bumping into yours and you force yourself to side step away, the closeness too much for you. “It’s honestly sad.”

“They don’t know what they’re getting into.”

You both look at each other, frowning, and then continue with your duties. 

“You’re not signing up, right?” you ask. 

He shakes his head. “I mean, I thought about it. And then I remembered we have our own tiny army, so….”

Your eyes roll. “Ridiculous that they - they’re making people sign up to kill themselves, and yet if you’re caught trying to kill a Demodog….”

“Maybe it’s worse than we think,” he says, voice hushed. “Maybe they just need distractions.”

You swallow harshly, letting his words sink in. You hand him the last plate and reach for the drain plug. “Please don’t sign up, Steve.”

“I won’t,” he promises softly. “Gotta make sure you stay out of trouble, don’t I?”

“Hi,” you smile. Your hands are on his forehead and it’s then that he notices the dull ache there. He winces and tries to move a hand up, but yours gently pushes it back down. His stomach flips but he doesn’t have his bearings enough to understand why. If he’d been a little less dizzy, he would have noticed the blood on your fingers. “Easy, Steve. It’s okay.”

“‘s goin’ on?” he slurs.

“Nothin’ really,” you say. Something touches right above his eyebrow. “You got a little scratch, that’s all. You remember waking up a few minutes ago?”

He thinks about it hard for a minute before shaking his head. He feels like he would have remembered if you were there. “Uh-uh.”

“That’s okay.” Your voice is warm and soothing. Steve leans into it, relaxing a little further, letting you do whatever. “I’m just patching it up, okay? Do you hurt anywhere?”

He scrunches his nose and thinks about it again. “Feel kinda weird.”

“Yeah,” you laugh lightly. “Eddie gave me a Vicodin for you, probably feeling that.”

“Mmm.”’

“You ever have it before?”

He focuses on your voice. “Party once.”

“Really? Who’d’ve thought, huh?”

He smiles lazily, one eye falling shut as the other stays open. His vision is clearing now. Your face is inches from his as you examine the scratch on his forehead, your brows furrowed and your lips downturned. He frowns then, too. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” you say again. “Trying to figure out if you have highlights.”

He sighs. With your face so close to his, all he can really feel is a longing that tugs deep in his chest and makes his stomach flip. The pads of your fingers work easy on him, and he can see you biting your cheek in concentration. If he had the energy, he’d lean up to kiss you; instead, he lays and watches, melting at your attention.

“Where are we?”

“Nancy’s.” You pull away with a cotton gauze pad and his eyes widen at the blood. “No, it’s okay, Steve, it’s not bad. Promise. Robin says she’s seen you look worse.”

“Robin,” he repeats. “Where’s Robin?”

“She’s safe, she’s here,” you soothe. Something wet touches his forehead and he correctly assumes it’s rubbing alcohol. He can’t feel the sting, but the smell makes him shiver, albeit quells his nausea. “She’s upstairs with everyone. Everyone’s safe.”

Steve closes his eyes and exhales shakily. He jumps a little when you take his hand, giving it a little squeeze. He feels warm at the attention.

“You did good,” you whisper. “But if you ever jump out in front of something again, I’m gonna kill you.”

He laughs bluntly and forces his eyes open again. You’re away from him now. He deflates, searching for you, finding you again in front of him packing up a first aid kit. He sees some floss unraveled and his brows knit together again.

“What’s the floss for?”

“Don’t move your eyebrows, okay? You’ll make it bleed again.”

He gives up on the floss, watching you roll it back up. You grab something small and press it into your palm, which he now realizes is covered in blood. He gasps and tries to sit up, but you quickly shush him and push him back down onto the blankets and pillows below him.

“It’s okay -“

“Why are you bleeding?” he asks, his voice cracking, that panic coming back even though he’s almost delusional with sedation. “What happened?”

You blink. “It’s old blood, I’m not bleeding. I promise.”

“Did something hurt you?” he’s trying to push up again, and you lay him back down, holding him there gently with your hands. “What did I do?”

“You did nothing!” You’re almost admonishing him for it, eyes wild with something Steve can’t decipher. “You - Steve, Christ, you make me so mad sometimes.”

“Why?” he asks stupidly.

Your jaw sets and tears pool in your lash line. “Because - I don’t want to talk about it, okay? Can you please just lay here for me?”

He’ll find out later that the blood on your hands is his, but he’s quick to follow your instructions, especially after seeing you so upset. You tuck him in with a blanket, your blood caked hands pushing his hair away from his face. “I’m just going to clean up, okay? Gonna let everyone know you’re alright, and we’ll be back. Do you feel okay?”

Steve can only stare at you. You’re so pretty when you’re upset, and he knows he shouldn’t think that, but wow. Your eyes really sparkle when they’re wet. You’re an angel above him in the dim light of the Wheeler’s basement, a lamp on behind you acting as a halo. He licks his lips and tastes metal, but he doesn’t quite notice. “You’ll come back?”

You sigh and cup his cheek. “Yeah, Steve, I’ll be back, okay?”

He reaches up to put his hand over yours. “Okay.”

It’s not that he’s never really noticed you before, or how his chest gets tight when you’re around, or how he feels like he’d rather go mad and get hurt than ever see you bleed. But it’s like he’s gotten some sense knocked into him. As he watches you descend upstairs, a harsh tug pulls between his nose and throat. He has to focus to not cry, not wanting his brows to furrow and make him bleed like you warned. A shaking, painful exhale escapes his lips. He wants to be good for you and listen to you and never make you mad at him again.

But, that all said, he’ll jump in front of a thousand Demogorgons if it kept you safe.

You could hear everyone pacing upstairs while you stitched Steve up, and as you push the door open with your hip, holding your hands up and away from you, everyone sprints over. They look at you expectantly, a little too intensely, and you have to laugh a little. “He’s okay.”

Robin sighs, eyes avoiding your hands. “He’s an idiot,” she says, for the millionth time. “He’s such an idiot.”

Eddie’s got his head in his hands at the kitchen island. He’s been offering everyone Ativan, but he’s the only one who’s taken any. When he looks up at you he fake gags at the blood on your hands. You roll your eyes and head for the sink, grateful when Jonathan turns it on for you.

“So, he’s okay?” Nancy asks, stepping towards you. “No, like, lasting damage?”

“Uh.” You think about an answer as you lather up your hands. For the first time, your stomach twists at it. You’d been so focused on being a caretaker that you hadn’t had time to think about everything, but now you feel squeamish. “He might have a scar, and I’m pretty sure he’s on concussion twenty-three, but he’s alert.”

You can’t bring him to the hospital because you’d have to admit you were, in fact, monster hunting, which was a punishable offense. You’re thankful Nancy owned a needle and thread - Steve may have bled out otherwise. One wrong move for any of you could be fatal, even if it could typically be cured with medical attention. You force yourself to not think about that now, about the words he said downstairs, about the way his soft brown eyes were looking at you.

“Can we go see him?” Robin asks, halfway through the door.

“Is he still all - like -“ Eddie says, gesturing to his face and making a blech! noise.

“It’s mostly cleaned up,” you say, scrubbing your nails against the palm of your hand, Karen Wheeler’s pristine sink turning crimson. “He’s still handsome, Eddie, don’t worry. Just - don’t say anything to scare him, alright? He doesn’t know he’s stitched up.”

You’re left alone at the sink, illuminated with red and orange from the outside, a thin curtain blocking your view. You try to be as precise as possible with cleaning yourself up so Steve doesn’t worry again. You’re going to rip him a new one when he’s better, lambast him for ever asking what he did wrong when the only thing he’s ever done was care too much and think too little about himself.

You hear their words downstairs - Robin’s thick voice, Eddie’s exclamations - you looked so badass, dude, you busted that thing up! You think of Dustin and the kids, how mad they were that they weren’t allowed to come with you all tonight, but you all decided to not take any chances with them. You know Dustin’s going to lose his shit the moment he sees the criss-cross pattern on Steve’s forehead and you wonder momentarily if you should give him a call to prepare him.

Just as you’re turning off the sink, Jonathan comes bounding up the stairs, looking a little disheveled.

“Don’t like blood?” you ask, wiping your hands with a paper towel.

“Ha,” he deadpans. “He asked for you.”

Your lips pull into a tight line because you know he’s high on painkillers and he’s fixating on you because you’re the first person he saw when he woke up. Probably has questions about what’s happening, or what the hell you did to him. But when you make it downstairs and kneel beside him, he just frowns. “Where’d you go?”

“Had to clean my hands,” you say, holding them up for him. “All better, see?”

He looks past them and at your face. “You said you’d be back.”

“I am now, aren’t I?”

“Good,” he says, laying back and closing his eyes. “Don’t leave again.”

You swallow, chest aching. “Okay.”

“These guys can go.” He waves his hand lazily. “So goddamn loud.”

Eddie proves his point by bursting into laughter, making Steve wince.

“Okay,” you repeat. “How about we all try to rest a little? It’s almost morning, anyway.”

As everyone disperses, finding their own places among blanket forts and pillows, Steve stares at you very seriously.

You reach forward to ruffle his hair. “What are you thinkin’ about?”

He continues to stare, and just when it’s starting to worry you, he finally blinks like he snapped out of a trance. “Will you stay close to me?”

You laugh softly. “You want your nurse nearby, huh?”

“Huh? No, just you.”

Robin makes a noise off to the side - she’s still close enough to monitor him but far enough away that he can’t kick at her. When you look, she’s fighting back a smile, and the idea that she’s seeing this too makes your chest hot. You look back at him, his eyes already closed, gorgeous and miserable.

“Okay,” you whisper, grabbing a pillow and laying it next to him. His arm searches for you, finding your forearm, and he grips it.

“Don’t leave,” he says again, his voice quaking a little.