#st rewrite

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.