#juicewrites

Or, more like ducking and diving and weaving and running for it, death grip on the ball he’s had since the beginning of the match, fingers creaking from how hard he’s holding it. It’s all about survival and ignoring the stitch in his side. 

There’s something in the air today and Eddie would put good fucking money on it being Harrington and Hargrove on opposite teams. He’s never been one for high school politics but he would have had to smoke his whole stash and then dip into his supplies to miss the power struggle between those two. Especially the Monday they both came to school, beat to hell and back. No one could figure out what happened and both of them were silent about it. 

Still, it never really concerned Eddie until right now that he’s smack in the middle of the fucking fire fight the two have instigated in the middle of 4th period. 

And it’s a big one. He’d thought, maybe like an idiot, that it would have fizzled out. King Steve had seemed to be more than happy to give up his crown, letting Hargrove slip into the power vacuum he’d left behind. 

Until today. 

It’s a weird place to make a stand, the dodgeball court in gym class. Eddie’s not sure what changed, but it’s like the return of the fucking king here. Harrington’s a live wire, like he used to be. And Hargrove’s putting up a hell of a fight about it, giving back as good as he gets.

Maybe something happened over the weekend, or somebody said something in the locker rooms. 

Whatever it is, Harrington is in top form today, running around the court, nigh untouchable as he bends to scoop up rubber balls and hurl them back across the center divide, thighs flexing in those short Hawkins High P.E uniform shorts. 

Another ball comes at Eddie and he doesn’t have time to duck, brain still lagging over the mole on Harrington’s mid-thigh. All he can do is raise his hands to block. It doesn’t hit him, just bounces off the one he’s been holding, sending it up into the air. 

Harrington is on it immediately, catching it before it hits the ground and then speedballing it back to the other side, getting two people out in one go. 

“Nice one, Munson!” He says, looks up and-

Oh, it’s horrible. Awful. The worst thing that’s ever happened to Eddie. 

The guys got color high on his cheeks, flushed from battle and his hair is still fucking good, even as it flops over his forhead. His eyes are the worst, sparkling, with crinkles around the corners and he’s smiling, full on, like he’s having a blast. 

All Eddie can do is blink, rapidly as his brain forces him to auto-reboot on the spot. 

Then, someone says something. Eddie doesn’t know who it is at first, or what is said, still can’t pull himself away from Harrington’s face so he sees the whole thing, as the guy looks away, watches as the joy slides right off only stopping until he’s hit a frown.

It’s fucking criminal. 

Eddie follows Harrington’s line of sight, finds Hargrove at the other end. The guy also has a kind of manic glee on his face, one that comes out at parties, when he’s being a dick. There’s nothing about it that’s happy, only a sick kind of triumph as whatever he says hits home. 

It’s not planned, what happens next. Eddie doesn’t even think about it until he’s got his ball in hand, cocked and ready to go. And then he’s throwing, releasing, watching as it goes sailing through the air. 

As it connects with Hargrove’s upper chest. As he recoils, almost in slow motion, and this time it's his face that morphs, to anger, surprise. The ball bounces off of him and falls to the floor, dribbling away in the sudden silence of the gym as everyone falls quiet to watch. 

Hargrove stands there almost in shock, until the teacher blows the whistle and tells him he’s out. 

And then there’s laughter, right next to Eddie. Harrington’s not smiling like he was, but it’s close. A little bit of sunshine in the gross gym, his laugh sending Eddie’s stomach straight into knots. The noise of the game kicks back in as people start up again. 

“Great throw, man!” 

And then he’s coming for Eddie, hand raised, still fucking laughing. 

Eddie’s no good at the high five thing that sports guys do, but he manages okay, Harrington’s sweaty palm meeting his own with a satisfying clap.

These are the most coordinated five seconds of Eddie’s life and he can’t believe they’re happening during a dodgeball game. 

Harrington crosses behind him, to head back into the fray and-

And then there’s a pat, firm and quick. Unmistakable. Right on Eddie’s left ass cheek. 

Eddie’s brain shorts. Vacates the premise entirely and he’s left blinking after Harrington as he doesn’t look back, carries on dealing out carnage, dodgeball style. Picking up balls and launching them across the court with precision. Going on with life like he didn't just completely alter Eddie's.

Eddie’s still watching, not with an open mouth, definitely no, when suddenly he sees stars.

The sting of rubber doesn’t register until a few seconds later, and it’s not until he hears the whistle of the teacher does he realize that he’s been hit, smacked right across the face. 

He’s out. 

He turns and walks on jelly legs, to the bleachers. Finds a spot he doesn’t have to climb for and sinks to his seat.

-

This comes from me being too competitive at my recreational sports league and this post by @frankenstein-ate-my-left-shoe

It’s not a normal thing for him, dreaming. He can’t even really remember this one, just that there had been a trumpet, high and lofty, and the smell of cigarettes. Maybe a hand in his.

He’s still in that fuzzy inbetween, where he can feel the pillow he’s curled around and the scratchy upholstery of the couch, but if he keeps his eyes closed, pretends he’s back where ever he was, he can pull the music out of the white noise in the room. 

If he doesn’t move, or think, he’ll just drift-

Something floats through the air, distant and so, so soft, but almost-

Steve opens his eyes, blinks at the clock. 

Listens hard. 

It’s dead quiet around him. The kind of quiet that buzzes at his ears and could almost be louder than a jet engine.

He’s making it up, conjuring the sound of it out of the atmosphere of this old, creepy hotel that he cashed in on with the Harrington name to get a spot for the kids. It’s something Robin and Munson like to poke fun at, how Steve can’t do spooky, how he’ll be up half the night, seeing things in the shadows of whoever’s living room they’ve camped out in after a scary movie night. Steve’s not in the habit of lying to himself about it either, and he knows he can’t trust himself with something like this. 

The fuzz of the quiet is melodic.

Steve lays and stares. Wills the night into silence, real silence. But it doesn’t work, not while he’s still skating along the edge of consciousness and has ghosts on the brain. 

So he takes a breath before forcing himself to kick off his flimsy blanket and sit up. He stares down at his hands, just visible in the dark of the room and tells himself that he’s awake.. That it is two thirty on a Tuesday night in a snooty hotel and no one would be playing music at this time.

His fingers look funny in the dim, too pale to be his. 

It’s there again. Too quiet but there. 

Steve stands. 

The kids’ things are scattered around the room like a minefield, and Steve has to pick his way around in the dark. Be especially careful to not trip over Munson, who's sprawled on a camping pad after drawing the shortest straw, his arms and hair absolutely everywhere. 

Steve makes it to the entryway without tripping or altering the cavalry. Stills.

Waits. 

It comes again, but this time he can pull out a trumpet, quiet but distinct as it drifts through the air, leaking into their room from under the door. 

He stands there for a minute, listening, the rest of the instruments filling in the empty space, wrapping Steve up in the melody. 

He wants to get closer. Hear it for real. 

There’s a camera they left on the table, already recording. 

Perfect.

He grabs it and then gets a hand on the door knob.

This is stupid.

The thought is quiet. They have rules for this, rules he made up.

He just can’t remember them right now. 

Then he’s stepping out into the hallway, carefully pulling the door closed behind him until it clicks shut. 

The music is muffled but obvious now, like there’s a party down in the ballroom. Steve doesn’t even have to strain to hear the clinking of silverware on plates and a din of laughter spilling from inside.

It sounds fun.

He’s heading down the hall before he knows it, feet carrying him towards the music. The halls look different at night, the lights all dimmed, casting everything in a yellowed hue, the colors rich and shadows long. He turns a corner. A woman’s voice rises up to meet the trumpet, crooning through the halls.

It reminds Steve distantly of his grandpa’s old turntable, the one that he used to let spin on and on, playing ancient songs until the music ran out and the records were left skipping over nothing. His granddad flipping the vinyl with unsteady hands. 

Steve makes the final turn into the main hallway. The chandeliers, dusty and drooping during the day are almost sparkling now, lit up for the party. 

They aren’t the only thing that’s been spruced up for the gathering. The tables dotting the walls now host extravagant floral arrangements, greenery spilling over their vases, all leading up to the ballroom. 

The music kicks up into something fast, something fun, and Steve can’t help but want to get closer. 

He stops in front of the sealed up ballroom, doors shut against the night, like they’re trying to keep the party contained, going despite the hour, like the patrons might not notice they’re getting close to dawn. He must have made a mistake when he was booking this place for the kids. There wasn’t supposed to be an event going on. 

It’s bad for investigating.

But there’s obviously one tonight. Even though there’s no light coming from under the doors. Steve shivers. He’d left his jacket back in the room, should have grabbed it-

A piano takes over the song, loud and fast and there’s a burst of cheering from inside. 

Steve misses parties, hasn’t been to one, not for a while, not since he got back. 

He presses forward, with a chill at his back. Gets both of his hands on the wooden double doors. 

He stares down at his fingers spread on the ornate carvings, warmth seeping through.

He’d been holding something, hadn’t he?

There’s a push against his back, gentle but cold and Steve is suddenly stumbling through the doors-

Steve very narrowly misses bumping into someone as he finds his feet. But he can’t apologize. The music, no longer muffled, loud and right there, envelops him, as does the warmth of the crowd. 

And it is a crowd. Steve’s jaw drops at the absolute crush of people, all moving and dancing and laughing. He follows the pull of the piano, finds a band propped up on a far stage, just visible through a haze of smoke in the air. 

“I beg your pardon, sir.”

Steve turns, still a little slack jawed, to find a man dressed far too well, a blue coat with cut lapels and a bow tie. The man’s got a raised eyebrow and a tray of champagne flutes in one hand, held steady despite Steve’s best efforts. His other hand is tucked behind his back. 

“Are you quite alright?”

“Oh.” Steve says, voice rusty. “Yeah? I’m sorry. I just… didn’t know there was an event tonight.”

“Sir.” The waiter levels him with a look. “There’s always a party here.”

“Right.” Steve says. Maybe that’s how he missed it. 

“It’s a great set up.” Steve offers in the silence that follows. He used to be so good at these things. 

He means it though, about the party. He’s not sure how they transformed the space so fast from-

From what? It’s always like this, isn’t it? Curtains and streamers and low lit lamps. Twirling couples and tables of people dressed to the nines, celebrating. 

A woman appears at his side, blond hair swept up in curls. Steve knows from experience the army of bobby pins that are holding her hair in place, and just about the same amount of gel Steve uses in the mornings. 

She smiles up at him. 

“I just love this song.”

Steve does his best to smile back. 

“We should dance, shouldn’t we?” She continues. “It would be a shame not to.”

He looks out at the floor, where couples are spinning around, hopping through the beats, feet tapping and skirts twisting. 

It would be a shame, except.

“I’m afraid I don’t know the steps.” He tells her. 

“Silly.” She says, and then takes him by the arm. “Everyone knows these steps.”

She looks behind him, smiles at the waiter. “Good evening!”

The waiter inclines his head. “Good evening, Miss Cunningham.”

Then they’re off, ducking and dodging through the fray of swirling couples, out to the middle of the floor. The woman, Miss Cunningham, is laughing as she gets his hand in hers and his other around her waist. 

Then, the music slows. A single lofty trumpet raises above the slow pluck of the piano, high and wistful. 

“Oh shoot.” She frowns. “We missed it.”

“I think I can figure out the steps to this one.” He says, tries to smile down at her like he used to be able to smile at dames. “Swaying is well within my repertoire.” 

She smiles, sad, and shakes her head at him, blue eyes twinkling in the light. “It’s much too slow for me.”

And then she’s gone, disappearing through the crowd of dancers, who have all slowed to a gentle sway. The trumpet quiets and the singer’s voice rises to replace it, crooning through the ballroom as the couples curl into each other. 

Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again. 

Steve stands, an island in the slow moving tide of dancers. Skirts and coats brushing against him as their owners get lost in their own little worlds of two. He’s heard this one before, somewhere. A living room with comfortable couches and old books, a gramophone-

It’s been a long, long time.

The singer is gorgeous, dark hair and red lips wrapped up in the haze of the evening. Even the diners go quiet so she can have the room. 

Haven’t felt like this, my dear

Since can’t remember when

He used to love parties like this, the press of people, the hooch, the girls. The dancing. But the smell of tobacco like this makes his head spin, and the pops of champagne bottles bring him right back to the front-

You’ll never know 

How many dreams I dream about you

There’s a pair of eyes on him. A gift from the war, one he can’t shake. Can always feel stares, and this one is burning into the side of his head. The person isn’t hard to find. They’re the only other still soul in the sea of swaying couples, pressed brown of their uniform popping against the dark suits.

Or just how empty they all seem without you

Steve’s eyes lock with his, a rich, bottomless brown that Steve’s been missing since the last second he saw them. It’s been ages and yet, even a room away, Steve can see how his mouth curls up, his own rising to match, knows the crinkles around his eyes that will follow.

Cannot wait to see them. To count them again. 

So kiss me once

And kiss me twice

Then kiss me once again

It had been the train platform, the last place they had seen each other, wearing the same suits that they are tonight, shaking hands. The calluses on his fingers, the last thing Steve ever felt of him. 

It’s been a long, long time

The singing fades out and the lone trumpet comes back, high and mournful as it carries the song up and away. 

The lights glitter above and the haze twists through the crowd and Steve has to go, has to take a step forward, toward him-

The lights shutter off, winking out of existence. The people and decorations swirl away like the tobacco smoke, swirling away until all that’s left is the empty ballroom.

And Steve is left standing there, alone, his face still working on a smile he no longer feels. 

It’s freezing, right down to the bone. 

“-Steve! Christ.”

Whoever is talking is loud, loud enough to echo, bounce off the empty domes of the ballroom and ricochet, the ones meant to carry sound, singers and trumpets. Steve tries to turn, he really does, but it’s like he’s moving through molasses. 

It’s okay though, because he doesn’t have to, because whoever is in the room with him crosses the room in seconds, wood of the dance floor creaking with age under their feet, until they’re right in front of Steve. 

Steve’s eyes can’t focus.

“Steve, I swear to God, this isn’t fucking funny. You know the kids care about this and you’re out here pulling a prank-”

Hot hands land on his shoulders. They drag Steve up and forward to the present and then some, until Ed- Munson’s face is all he can see, big, dark eyes shadowed in the low light of night, popping out of a pale face. He stops talking immediately, stares at Steve like-

Steve’s knees wobble. Gets hands on Munson’s arms as he sags, stomach roiling. All he can see are his too pale feet and Munson’s socks against the dark of the dance floor. 

“Guys! I found him!” Munson says, yells over Steve’s shoulder. And then gently, to Steve. “I got you, Harrington.”

Steve blinks. 

For a second, Munson’s socks look like they gleam, like they’re polished and-

“Sweetheart, c’mon.”

It’s so soft. Softer than Steve has ever heard Munson speak and right against his ear, the vibration of it going straight to his head. It draws Steve like a moth to flame, and he leans into the furnace of the body in front of him, hand sliding to fit Eddie’s in his. 

The room is quiet. But if Steve listens hard enough, if he strains for it, he can still hear that trumpet swelling softly, trickling in from the walls and domes, like they saved it all this time, just for them. He hums along with it and sways, stares down at the buttons of Eddie’s jacket, the purple heart pinned to his chest. Smiles as he thinks about the crisp condition of the uniform that Eddie has always hated. 

He can’t remember the last time they got to do this, maybe in a bunker, bombs driving them underground, or an abandoned farm house in the French countryside, the quiet of the night blanketing around them-

Eddie’s hand pulls away from him. Steve doesn’t have long to mourn though, because it lands on his face instead. The trumpet crescendos around them, and Steve knows what he’ll see when he looks up. Eddie’s hair, bryclreamed into the style he makes fun of Steve for, that permanent smirk that’s starting to wrinkle the side of his cheek. The smile lines around his eyes that Steve will finally, finally be able to count again because-

There are none. He gets smooth skin, eyes wide with surprise. Too long hair that runs down to shoulders and then some. Steve looks down to their hands, finds rings, chunky and skin warm, and tattoos curling around his bare forearms. 

“Steve!”

That hits him like a bullet, brings him back. It’s the kids, Dustin and Mike and Lucas and Will, his brain yells, can identify them just from the sound of their feet against the floor. He looks up, just for a second and Eddie, no Munson is still staring at him like-

Steve pulls back fast, peels himself off the guy, and tears himself away from his face. 

Cold blooms between them immediately. 

It’s too sudden a move for Steve and he stumbles, head somewhere closer to the stratosphere than his body. There’s hands on him immediately, two spots of warmth on his ribs as they steady him. 

“Easy there, Harrington.”

It’s a ghost of a thing, like the trumpet, and Steve knows now it didn’t come from Munson. 

-----------

thanks for reading if you made it this far!!! I don't know what this is I just went to an art deco hotel and a war museum, heard 'it's been a long, long time', and then was watching copious amounts of ghost files one week and got this

They all have their little leftovers, like Lucas and Dustin's regular radio check ins, Max's evolving music player collection.

For Steve, it's music itself. He's got something playing at all hours of the day, can't stand the silence of his house or the car or any of the jobs he works over the years. He even picked up the guitar a little, after Eddie-

Well, after.

They needed someone around who could play songs, just in case. Not that Steve's playing was going to be saving anyone but it was worth a shot. He keeps it around, even after they defeat Vecna, in the corner of his room, just like the bat he has in the trunk of his car. It's something he noodles around on, learning slowly.

Then, it's 1991 and Steve is on his way to work, local radio turned up to eleven, listening to a new song put out by some pop artist. It's a good track, different for the singer, and features a little guitar. It sticks with him the whole day, echoes in his head in the rare moments of quiet, his walk from his car to his job, in the bathroom, the grocery store.

It's not even the lyrics, it's just a part from the backing of the song, some guitar riff that he can't get out of his head, something he'd maybe want to try and teach himself. By the time he's heading back home, it all sounds like mush in his head, he's not even sure that's what the song sounds like anymore.

He gets home to his little house he shares with Robin, and forgets all about it.

Until the next day, when he's driving again and a different song comes on, different artist, different genre. It sticks this time, something from the chorus, some ah ah ahs, looped and repeated, three short, three long, three short, and Steve scrawls the name of the artist down on a napkin he's got in his cup holder. Because there's something about it that's tickling at the back of his brain.

It bothers him all through out work, dinner, and into the night until he's getting into his car at 9 pm. Robin is out on a date, so he's soloing it to the music store. He gets there in a kind of manic state, bursting through the door to a very surprised employee, whose more than a little upset Steve is coming in so close to closing.

And Steve just slaps the napkin on the counter, has no idea what the song was called, and leaves the store with the artist's new CD and listens through until he finds the song, and skips back and listens to it again and again, but can't quite figure it out.

Then, the next day, when Steve gets in his car, he puts on the radio again. Eventually he hears that other song, thinks he must be losing it if they sounded similar but then he hears it, that guitar in the backing and writes that artist down too. Heads back to the store and then back to the floor, where he alternates the cds between his and robins players.

That's where Robin finds him, switching between the two and lays with him on the floor. Asks him what he's doing. He can't really explain it, but he knows Robin won't judge him for it. So he does his best.

She thinks about it, suggests that maybe they're written by the same person, and pulls the little booklet out of the front of the case and they check. Sure enough, it's the same person, an E. H. Smith, only featured once per record. Robin compliments him, says maybe his ears are little geniuses too.

He smiles and they turn in for the night.

He doesn’t even want to know what’s going on behind him, up on the stage, but he can tell its something wild by the way the crowd reacts, surging and screaming. His eardrums take more of a beating than he does at these things and he thinks wistfully of the plug Robin forced into his hands earlier. The ones he left in his cup holder. 

It’s not his fault. He’s not new to securitying. He’s paid his way the past few years by being a bouncer anywhere that would take him. He’s practically an old hand at this. So when the manager of his regular place told him they needed a few people at the barrier for a venue downtown, Steve had no reason to say no, especially when the guy told him how much that kind of gig paid. 

How hard could it be? 

Steve from now knows that Steve from last week is stupid. Naive. He’s not sure how long the show’s been going on for, but the end can’t come fast enough. Robin gives him shit for his gym rat tendencies, but even that isn’t enough. His arms are shaking from the persistent stream of people he has to rescue from face-planting death as they get dumped over the barrier. 

He’s sweating in places he didn’t even know he could sweat. His eyes flick over to the guy next to him, to commiserate, but he’s apparently an expert, long hair flowing around him as he catches a girl coming over. 

It’s a stupid thing to do, take his eyes off the crowd that is actively trying to kill him. 

He gets a boot to his face for the mistake. There isn’t even a moment to be grossed out by how sticky it is against his cheek as the rest of the body follows and Steve has to move fast to catch them. 

It’s a rough tumble over the barrier and Steve nearly drops the person for the flailing limbs and the heavier than expected weight that drops into his arms. But Steve’s not a total amatuer here. He gets his legs underneath him and both arms out, one sliding home behind their knees and the other around their torso. 

Their arms are still going in every direction until one hooks around Steve’s neck. Once they realize they aren’t headed straight for the ground they still, their other hand going for the mass of curls completely covering their face. 

And then all at once Steve is staring down at a pair of big brown eyes and a maniac smile. 

The lights are flashing around them from the stage. Steve knows, objectively, that there is a wail of sound coming from all around them, but it’s quiet in his head as the guy keeps gripping his shoulder. Keeps blinking up at him.

And Steve’s eyes keep bouncing around his face, from his eyes, to the flush high on his cheeks, to the maniac smile still in place. 

The guy says something around the smile, the corners of his mouth still curling up. 

Steve’s got no idea what he’s saying.

“What?” He yells back. 

The guy, to his credit, laughs, head thrown back. Before his hand curls around Steve’s neck and he leans up. Steve’s wires cross for a moment as the guy gets close, his voice loud, tickling Steve’s eardrums. And then the meaning trickles through. 

“You give everyone who comes over the barrier the princess treatment?”

And suddenly Steve remembers where he is. In the middle of a crowded concert where his job is to catch and disperse people as quickly as possible not- not princess carry strangers and ogle them. 

He’s so getting fired. 

He does his best to not drop the guy, lets his feet down first, makes sure he’s solid on the ground before releasing. Clinically. He’s got every intention of turning back, just doing his job so he can go home, the long night and loud music clearly having turned off all his higher thought processes. 

But the guy still has a hand on his shoulder, is still way too close. The ground brings them just about even so he’s go no trouble giving Steve a smile and leaning in, leaving a ‘thank you’ echoing in Steve’s ears before he traverses the front of stage to get back to the crowd. 

-

Eddie is just having a moment. Maybe a little bit of a continuing complex about the whole thing. One that no one else shares, clearly, as they hustle in, bumping against the doorframe and sending the beer maid whirling away to keep her steins full. Robin is telling them to behave, even as she leads the pack to a table. Why would they? They aren’t wanted criminals. 

Well, not like he is. 

There’s a bite of cold against Eddie’s back as he toes the entry, lingers. A roaring hearth in the center of the room, calling him in. The smell of food, hot stew and minced pies and stale ale are there too, and that more than anything has him thinking of home, of sticky floors and the table in the back corner where he had carved his initials, planned to live and die in his wobbly chair-

A hand, searing, either from heat or cold, lands on Eddie’s shoulder, and he jumps. Turns to find Steve, divested of his helm and his breastplate, eyes wide. Eddie’s caught in the gaze for a moment, as Steve gives him the typical once over, checking for all limbs attached. It’s standard practice, this. Even in non-life threatening situations, Steve’s given to mother-henning. Eddie’s tempted to say something about it, has something right on the tip of his tongue. 

But Steve’s eyes flick back up to his face, wide and molten brown in the cast from the hearth. 

Suddenly, Eddie’s got nothing to say at all. He trips over it, mouth open for a teasing that’s disappeared, left him off beat, unable to take a breath, where his cadence is all off. 

“Oi! You two!”

Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin, one foot already moving for the treeline. But Steve’s hand keeps him steady, holding him in place. Still, he’s got his eyes fixed on the woods, knows just how far he can get before he has to hide. He’s still got bread in his bag and his lute strapped to his back. 

It’s all he needs.

All he’s needed. Warm fires and stews are unnecessary.

“Yer letting Father Winter in here with all that loiterin’.”

There’s a gap in the trees, just across the clearing. Eddie can make that-

“Sorry ma’am.” Steve’s voice is all hometown hero honey. Eddie knows what smile he’s got on. “We’re just making sure we didn’t leave anyone behind.”

It’s the last time that Steve lets Dustin anywhere near his equipment, even if it is an emergency. 

The footsteps stomp up to his door and then stop. 

He frowns down at the carnage made of his carefully organized bins. Maybe the person is just lost, will move along in a second when they realize they’re at the wrong door. 

There’s a knock. 

Steve sighs, gives one last forlorn look to his medical supplies before heading for the door. Takes a deep breath, trying to settle back into Steve Harrington, competent nursing student and get away from Steve Harrington, harassed volunteer. It doesn’t quite work. He lands somewhere in the middle, around helpful but exhausted. 

It will have to do. He puts on his best smile and then opens the door.

“Alright. What can I- oh, it’s you.”

Eddie Munson is standing in Steve’s doorway, a hand curled around his nose and covered in blood. 

Of course, most of it's not real. The gash on his forehead? Fake. Steve remembers watching Will make it out of vaseline and flour earlier today. Visiting the pre-opening lineup is now a part of Steve’s work routine, where the cast members are checked over before they get sent out to their assigned rooms. It was one of those things he had to learn to do early on, unless he wants a heart attack everytime the costume department does an especially good job. 

So yeah, forehead wound? Fake. The red stains splattered up his arms? Definitely fake. 

Steve makes a grab for his wrist and pulls the hand away. 

The blood running a steady drip from both nostrils and soaking into the neck of his shirt? Real. Definitely real.

“Hey Steeb.” Munson says, and smiles, teeth pink. 

Steve sighs again. 

There’s no way he’s getting paid enough for this.

--