#uncle murray

The deer dropped like a stone.

Will flinched.

Lucas gasped.

Dustin? “Jesus Christ, dude!”

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

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

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

“Nope.”

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

And with that? Operation: Meat was secured.

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

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

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

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

Dustin screamed. 

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

Hopper barked out a laugh.

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

But he was grinning.

So was everyone else.

——

Meanwhile, back at base camp…

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

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

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

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

“Then I’m probably dying.”

“RIP,” you offered solemnly.

A staticky voice warbled through the radio.

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

The three of you went quiet.

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

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

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

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

“Sexy ones,” Eddie said.

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

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

“Ghosteries!” the two of you chirped.

Robin gasped, remembering. “Ghosteries.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jonathan chuckled quietly. “Perfect.”

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

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

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

No one stopped you. 

No one had to.

Inside the Winnebago, it was quiet.

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

Regular. 

Sacred.

Therapeutic.

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

But you knew better. 

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

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

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

You narrowed your eyes. “Babe.”

“Baby.”

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

“I’m not.”

You gave him a look.

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

“You don’t have allergies.”

“I might now.”

“Steve—”

“I’m making you something, okay?”

That made you pause.

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

You blinked at him.

He blinked back.

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

“I’m fine.”

“You’re flushed.”

“You’re bossy.”

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

Warm. Too warm.

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

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

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

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

“I need you to eat this snack first.”

“Baby, you need to lay—”

“Please just eat it.”

That made you stop.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Max didn’t speak until she was ready.

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

None of you ever intruded unless she requested it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then it was just you and Steve.

And your full attention finally landed back on him.

He sniffled.

You glared.

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

“You need to rest.”

“You need to make out with me.”

“You’re sick!”

“I’m irresistible.”

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

He suddenly coughed.

Violently.

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

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

“Oh now you like it.”

“Live for it.”

“Steve…”

“I do. It’s hot.”

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

“You’re not gonna tuck me in?”

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

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

You knelt beside him.

He blinked at you suddenly.

“…Don’t kiss me.”

“Oh I’m gonna kiss you.”

“Angel, you can’t catch this.”

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

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

That smartass.

You kissed him square on the mouth.

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

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

“I keep asking where the ring is.”

“Up the ass of a treasure trove.”

“Classy.”

“Mmhm. But honest.”

Another kiss. Softer, this one shorter.

“I’ll be back,” you whispered.

“Stay.”

“Alas, I can’t.”

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

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

“…Don’t let me get ugly.”

“You’ve always been ugly.”

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

“I’ll be back with—”

You were just opening the door when suddenly…

“YEEEEEEE-HAW!”

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

You blinked at the scene.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All the while, you just stared.

Then turned to go back inside.

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

“Our boys just became men,” you mumbled.

“Go help our baby cavemen.”

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

“Damn right.”

“Not to say I don’t care about them.”

“F’course not.” 

“Get some sleep.”

“Don’t be gone long.”

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

And then you stepped back out into your wilderness.

Into your war.

Into your family.

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

DAY 5 (Classified Coordinates) – Evening

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hopper grinned around a toothpick. “Exactly.”

They weren’t just learning how to cook.

They were learning how to survive.

And they were good at it.

——

Meanwhile, Nancy was doing a full perimeter walk. 

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

The radio was all the proof they needed.

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

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

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

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

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

It wasn’t fear keeping them sharp.

It was habit. It was love.

It was survival.

——

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is real food.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The wind was picking up. Just enough to sting.

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

——

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

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

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

“Certified what, exactly?”

“California Dreamin’,” he said, deadpan.

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

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

She winked. “We’ll go with that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

——

It was almost time to eat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The second you saw it, you wheezed.

“You good?” he asked, voice thick.

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

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

You squinted at him, still smiling.

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

He looked away, pouting. “It’s cozy.”

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

“He insisted it matched my aura.”

“You don’t know what that means.”

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

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

Then he sniffled. Hard, clearing his croaky throat.

Instantly, your concern surged again. “Steve…”

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

“You can eat inside.”

“I don’t wanna eat inside.”

You stepped closer. “You sure?”

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

You looked at him.

Really looked.

This wasn’t about being stubborn.

This was about belonging.

…and about togetherness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Steve wheezed a laugh… then coughed.

Joyce immediately materialized. “What did you take?”

Steve blinked. “Uhm…”

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

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

“Why is everyone acting like I’m—”

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

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

But you could tell.

He liked it.

Being taken care of.

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

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

All of you went still.

Every last person froze to watch.

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

Max walked with her crutches.

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

Lucas looked like he might faint.

You looked like you were fainting.

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

Max barked a laugh and pushed forward, eyes gleaming.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cheers erupted.

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

And then?

You ate.

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

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

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

He pointed at you. “That’s three.”

“Nah, I’m not there yet.”

“Strike. Three.”

Eddie snorted.

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

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

Steve hummed absentmindedly as he ate. “Wouldn’t say that,” he mumbled quietly, but you’d caught it.

So did Robin. Who now squeaked.

You swatted at him, biting back a huge grin and blushing like a madwoman. “Stefan Michael Harrington,” you mock scolded.

Mike reeled. “Michael—?!”

“Oh god,” Steve groaned, mouthful of meat as he sniffled and laughed and coughed and pouted.

“We share a name??”

Steve sighed exasperatedly, guzzling water to keep his choking down as you patted his back. “Sure do, Baby Wheeler.”

Mike’s mouth was agape, all while Dustin cackled like an asshole next to Will.

“Never living this down,” he wheezed.

“How did we just find this out??” Will asked brightly.

But just when you thought peace had found you?

The radio sparked.

“—further satellite coverage underway. Border search drones en route. Surveillance extended across—”

You turned the volume down. Way, way down.

Everyone paused. But no one panicked. Because right now? All of you were here.

Together, warm, alive and sharing dinner.

Right now, all there was time for was to eat.

Campfire out.

Camp lights on.

Every single heartbeat counted.

Every single bite was earned.

Every one of you in this moment.

Chapter Sixty-Six Go Ahead, Fight God.

March • 1987 DAY 6 (Classified Coordinates) – Morning

Steve Harrington looked like hell. And not the charming, tousled, “he’s got a little cold” kind of hell.

This was full-blown, sniffling, coughing, curled up on the cot like a dramatic widow hell.

Owens was seated beside him, checking his pulse with two fingers and a faint wince, while Joyce Byers was now digging through her duffel bag with the intensity of a war nurse in the trenches.

And you?

You were hovering like Steve’s certified angel of mercy, wrapped in three layers of flannel and concern.

“You are so annoying when you hover,” Steve groaned, muffled by his scarf. His sharp nose was red. His brown eyes were bloodshot. He had a knit beanie tugged over his ears like a sick child on a snow day.

“You’re annoying when you breathe through your mouth like that,” you shot back calmly.

“I’m congested!” he barked, then coughed violently. “I’m literally dying, and she’s insulting me.”

“You’re not dying,” Owens muttered, checking Steve’s vitals again. “Though you are thoroughly unpleasant.”

“Thank you,” you and Joyce said at the same time.

Steve flopped dramatically onto his side, moaning. “You people don’t understand. I’m out here dying sexy and misunderstood.”

Joyce laughed, full and bright as she handed over a bottle. “Take the NyQuil, James Dean.”

“I told you he thinks he’s a martyr,” you murmured fondly.

Steve peeked up at you with a scowl, then he softened immediately when you offered him the tissue box with a weirdly loving smile.

“I can’t stand you,” he mumbled.

“Can’t stand you either,” you replied. “Blow your nose, Romeo.”

As he did, with the most godawful honking noise known to mankind… Owens tapped the stethoscope around his neck and gave you both a serious look.

“He’s just run down. Fever’s low-grade. Oxygen’s fine. Probably a bad flu, maybe borderline bronchitis, but the good news? Nothing we can’t manage out here.”

You sighed with relief. “Good.”

Steve made a tiny fist-pump from the cot. “Knew it. Killer immune system. Harrington strong.”

“However,” Owens added, pointing at you, “you can’t afford to get sick.”

Steve was already sitting up. “Exactly. She shouldn’t even be in here—”

“You’re not contagious yet,” you tried to argue.

“He absolutely is,” Owens and Joyce snapped in unison.

You just folded your arms. “Sam… how bad would it be? If I caught it?”

Owens sighed. “It won’t directly cause an arrhythmia episode. But—”

“But it’ll make her body work harder,” Joyce cut in. “And she doesn’t need anything making her hardworking heart work any harder.”

Steve groaned, flopping back with a forearm over his eyes. “Cool. Great. I’m a plague rat. This is my legacy.”

You hated this. You really really hated this. And you didn’t even try to hide the sad look on your face as you stared at your boy.

Joyce handed him a different bottle of meds. “Take the acetaminophen. Drink more water. Stop talking.”

You were already rising from your crouch beside him, but he reached for your wrist.

“Don’t go.”

The look in his eyes made your chest tighten.

“I just wanna… I dunno.” He shrugged. “Have you nearby. Not too nearby. Just… near.”

You gave him a long look, then cupped his cheek for just a second, warm and deliberate. “I’m not going far, baby.”

“You’re already far,” he mumbled miserably.

“Dawwwwhhh, Stevieee.”

He closed his eyes. “Don’t call me Stevie. It makes me feel like I’m in a nursery rhyme.”

“It makes you feel adored,” you murmured, standing. “Which you are.”

As you stepped back, you shot him a playful look, even as he scowled like a model riddled with the plague. “But I agree. It’s giving nursery rhymes. S’why I never call you that.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

“I’ll stick with ‘baby’ and ‘my love.’ Maybe even lover.”

Steve sighed through his stuffy nose, his bleary eyes heavy but fixed on you. “I like those...”

You scrunched your nose at him as Owens walked over with a thermometer and Joyce was fluffing his pillow with motherly vigor.

“Ugh,” Steve groaned. “I’m useless.”

“Incorrect,” Owens said. “You are adorably useless.”

Steve looked horrified.

Joyce grinned. “You’re resting. That’s useful.”

“I’d like to file a formal protest,” Steve deadpanned.

“Oh, he’s definitely in love with you,” Joyce said as you stepped away.

Steve groaned louder.

That’s when the door to the Winnebago creaked open. Murray entered, scarf wrapped high on his neck, face chapped from wind.

“Oh good,” he muttered. “The baby’s still alive.”

“I am not a baby,” Steve growled from the cot, congested and betrayed.

“Right. You’re a sick baby.” Murray peered down at him. “Congratulations. Your hair still looks fine.”

You snorted.

Steve narrowed his eyes. “You come here to mock me or…?”

“Actually,” Murray said, rolling up his sleeves, “I’m here to offer myself as a temporary sick ward monitor. You know. Take some of the babysitting load off.”

Steve blinked twice. “You’d do that?”

Murray gave a loud, sarcastic sigh. “Only because if you die, she’ll cry. And then I’ll cry. And then the world ends.”

...well, he wasn't wrong.

You'd worry yourself silly if your man didn't rest.

Even Joyce hummed in agreement. “Pretty sure it already did.”

You just smiled faintly, touched and exasperated. “You’re all such disasters.”

“And yet somehow,” Murray added, “you’re marrying him.”

The entire RV went quiet.

Steve choked on his own spit. Owens raised his brows. Joyce turned her head so fast her earring flew off.

You blinked. “I—”

Steve blinked. “We—”

Murray just raised a brow. “You what?”

Joyce clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes shining with effort not to react. Owens smiled into his clipboard.

“…eventually,” Steve mumbled, trying not to grin and failing beautifully.

You looked down, flustered as hell and smiling like an idiot. “Eventually,” you warmly agreed, biting your lip like a lovesick loser.

“Good,” Murray said, clapping Steve on the foot. “I expect to officiate.”

“I’ll kill you,” Steve muttered, but he was glowing.

Minutes later, you were bundling up. Joyce handed you a thermos, Owens passed you a pulse-checking monitor for your wrist, and Steve scowled from under three blankets.

“You sure you gotta go?” he murmured groggily.

You bent to kiss his temple gently. “I’ll be back in an hour. Max’ll keep you company.”

That was when the door opened again and Eddie walked in, panting and carrying Max in both arms like a princess bride.

“She’s getting heavy,” he huffed with flourish.

Max snickered wildly. “Tell me again how fast you are.”

“Faster than Dustin,” Eddie panted. “But not faster than trauma.”

He deposited her on the opposite cot with a flourish. She stuck her tongue out at Steve. “Sick buddy time!”

Steve sniffed and pointed at her solemnly. “You better not steal my tissues.”

“Too late,” Max chirped, plucking one and lapping it up in the air like an airplane.

“My babies,” you cooed at them, now pinching Max’s chilly cheek as you handed her some fresh hot cocoa. “Take care of him, yeah?”

“Anything for you, Dad.”

She was totally serious.

And you were totally a goner.

Even Steve couldn’t help but playfully roll his eyes, still sniffling miserably and grumbling with a pouty smile.

“Coloring or cards?” Max asked him.

“If we color without Will, he’ll cry,” Steve muttered.

She nodded sagely, reaching for a deck. “Go Fish it is.”

You were already at the door, ready to roll. “Alright. Let’s sweep.”

Murray joined you, pulling on his coat. “Try not to die. I’m emotionally unavailable before noon.”

As you walked past him, he suddenly planted two kissed fingers on your forehead with a tiny shove. “That’s from Harrington.”

Steve coughed behind you. “Tell her she’s welcome!”

“I will cherish it all my life,” you waved, making it down the steps. Then you giggled without turning back. “You’re still a dick, Murr.”

Murray just grinned.

“Were you serious?”

He looked at you with one arched brow. “About…?”

“Marrying him,” you murmured sheepishly. Warmly. “You uhm… approve?”

He stared at you like that was the stupidest question in the world but also like you had just put him in a stupidly inconvenient position to go soft on you.

“Once upon a time,” he started.

“Doooon’t…”

“There was a man who started a trend called, ‘we like Steve, but we don’t love Steve…’ A dashing man, mind you.”

“Spare me, please—”

“And a girl…” he kept going, undeterred as he threw an arm over your shoulders, his eyes on the trees like some wise old witchdoctor giving a monologue, “…who defied all odds.”

The smile on your face nearly broke it, and you leaned in closer to him as you walked. “Okay, I like this story. Keep going.”

“You two make sure to report back in one piece,” came Hopper’s voice, over by the firepit. He was now making it disappear completely, as if it had never existed.

You gave him a two-finger salute. “Will do, coach.”

“Also, it’s storytime, Jim,” Murray scolded wryly. “Shush.”

Jim made a face, somewhat sputtering. 

But then he started grinning as he watched you both walk away, towards the trees where Dmitri and the kids were all waiting for you both with Robin while Eddie jogged to catch up.

“The most unorthodox niece and uncle I’ve ever seen in my life,” Jonathan muttered beside him, smirking as he dusted off his hands.

Hopper was still smiling to himself. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Just goes to show that sometimes… family’s not always the obvious kind.”

That actually made Jonathan sigh deeply. He watched you and Murray laugh, seeing the way that he was truly different with you than he usually was with others. Still cynical. Still a smartass. But uncharacteristically tender, in the most unusual of ways.

Like a man who’s never wanted to be a father, but had stepped onto the plate on behalf of a sibling who never wanted to be one either but was careless about it. And too wickedly selfish to even feel guilt or remorse.

But that didn’t matter anymore. Because now, twenty-one years later, you had an uncle who loved you better and a mafia wife grandma, who both of you prayed to God was still safe over in Vegas with her casino boyfriends.

Murray chose to believe that.

You chose to believe that.

“Not gonna lie,” Nancy sighed lackadaisically. She sat down next to Argyle as he finished pushing leaves over the pile of burnt ash. “I’m a little jealous.

Jonathan arched an eyebrow. “Of…?”

She nodded up at you. “That. Having family that knows what’s going on, and gets it.”

That actually took him by surprise.

Nancy hadn’t said it with disdain. She hadn’t said it with actual jealousy. Not the kind that is green and ugly. She’d set it honestly. And Jonathan understood it, because her parents truly didn’t have a clue.

Ted and Karen Wheeler were off with family somewhere, no doubt worried sick about their oldest and their middle child. Thankfully, they had Holly. But that wasn’t enough to make their fears go away.

And Nancy had to live with that guilt every single hour of every single passing day.

“And before any of you take offense,” she added now, a bit teasingly. “No, I’m not saying you guys aren’t my real family. I’m just saying…”

“It feels nice knowing you don’t have family left in the dark?” Jonathan finished for her.

Left behind.

Left to survive with you.

Nancy looked at him now, her blue eyes locking onto his charcoal embers that could see right through her. Finally, she nodded.

“Yeah,” she whispered. “Yeah, that.”

He nodded back.

Hopper sighed. “They’re starting to figure it out,” he said softly, a bit gruff. “They did the right thing. Getting out.”

Nancy but her lip, choosing to believe that as she gave a quick nod, staring at the ground. 

“So did you,” Hopper added, looking right at her.

She peeked up at him through her lashes. Almost timidly. “I know,” she breathed. “Think maybe that’s why I feel… worse. Because I wouldn’t change the fact we stayed.”

Jonathan‘s heart clenched. He truly had it lucky. Really fucking lucky. Joyce had known everything from the start, before any of them had figured it out. And yeah, Will had been made to suffer the worst of it, but he was still here. Lonnie had been out of the picture for a long time so as far as Jonathan was concerned? He had his family. His whole blood family, and his found family.

Nancy didn’t.

And suddenly? It felt like he was seeing that for the very first time. Not because he had never known it before. He had. But now, he was finally taking the time to recognize it fully.

Argyle patted her leg. “For what it’s worth, chica?”

She looked at him as he winked. “I think you’re exactly where you were supposed to be.”

“Yeah, and Holly’s now got a true shot at childhood,” Jonathan added, now moving to sit near her.

Nancy actually smiled at that, sadly but truly. “She’s got a farm. Our family out in Utah owns land, so… she’s alright. At least—well…”

“She is.”

Jonathan didn’t let her continue. He cut her off, but not to shut her down or interrupt. Rather, to silence the doubts now creeping in to plague her thoughts.

It worked.

“Yeah,” she nodded, now busying herself with masking the ashes alongside Argyle. “Yeah, she is.”

“All of them are,” Hopper added firmly.

The three younger adults looked at him now, all of them nodding. Because Hopper was right. He had to be right.

If he wasn’t, then this was all for nothing.

——

The woods were hushed. Dry, cold, still.

You walked in a staggered V formation. Dimitri led point, Murray at your side. Robin and Eddie flanked the rear, both tuned into the frequency chatter.

The kids stayed close. Mike, Lucas, Will and Dustin were acutely aware of the surroundings, eyes and ears peeled as Eleven hovered a few feet above with her eyes darting between clouds and treetops.

You all kept your voices low, your steps quiet.

“So,” Dustin whispered, “how many feet above us does El have to float before any drones can’t detect her heat signature?”

“I don’t know,” you replied. “Ask the United Nations.”

“Mike already did,” Will added. “He wrote a letter.”

“Shut up,” Mike hissed.

“You did, though.”

“In his diary,” Lucas added smugly.

Eleven floated down and landed gently. “No drones yet.”

Murray sighed. “Then either they’re waiting… or they’ve recalibrated. Which means we’ll have company soon.”

“Canada’s buckling down hard,” Robin called out softly. “They just said they’re pushing new satellite nets through the Alberta corridor.”

Dimitri swore under his breath.

“Would that affect us?” Will asked, alarmed.

“Depends,” Murray answered. “We’re off the map. But heat’s heat. And the ground doesn’t lie.”

You nodded slowly. “So… make it look like no one’s ever stepped here. Which we’re already doing.”

Lucas exhaled hard. “How are we supposed to do that all the time, though?”

You looked back at him. “We’ll figure it out.”

He watched you smile sadly at him, but he knew you still believed your own words. Hell, you’d all made it this far, right? How could you not?

Dmitri pointed. “We should check the waters.”

Murray nodded. “Good call.”

“Maybe you can tree hop?” Dustin suggested to El. “Like, not actually hop, but some coverage might do you good as you look above it.”

El agreed. “I like the sound of that—”

But she didn't have a chance to elaborate on that.

No one did.

Because your legs buckled.

It wasn’t sudden. Not exactly. It was a slow, disorienting crumple, like gravity turning to static under your knees, while everyone was still talking and not seeing the way that you’d been starting to silently suffer…

You staggered, eyes wild, your breath catching in your throat as you reached out, clutching blindly for Murray’s arm.

He turned just in time. “Hey—hey, kid—”

But your pupils were blown. Your lips parted like you were about to say something, maybe you were, but the words didn’t come.

Fuck, the words weren’t fucking coming.

And fuck, you weren’t breathing right.

Your chest was seizing with shallow, labored breaths, and you clung to your uncle for help, for relief, for comfort, for anything.

And then you dropped.

You fully collapsed, hitting your knees, leaves crunching under you as your arms trembled, hands clawing at your own ribs. And you couldn’t feel anything except pressure. Noise. Static. Shit, you couldn’t even see. Your vision was graying out.

And it felt like your heart was screaming.

“She’s going down!” Murray shouted, voice jagged with something that didn’t sound like him at all. 

All the kids froze. Every single one of them. 

Dustin’s eyes went huge, big as saucers next to Will, who gasped. Lucas’s mouth dropped open. Mike turned pale.

“Shit—shit—” Murray panicked. “Dimitri—!”

Eleven’s whole body locked.

But Dimitri didn’t even hesitate. 

He was already diving towards you, catching both of your shoulders before you could crumple any further, guiding you flat onto your back. 

“Pulse is erratic—” His voice was tight, surgical. “Christ, Christ—”

“Arrhythmia,” Murray snapped. “It’s the arrhythmia—she’s having a goddamn heart attack.”

Robin dropped to her knees beside you, green eyes wild. “—wha—heart attack?!—”

“Fuckin’ A, man,” Eddie gritted, voice angrily cracking as his knees hit the ground beside hers.

Your body jolted again. 

A twitch. 

A spasm.

“H…hel…”

“No no no no no—” Dustin whispered. His voice was high, scared as hell, and his backpack slid off as he stumbled forward. “No, come on—come on, dude—”

Mike’s hands were shaking. “What do we do—what do we do—what do we do—?!”

“Shit,” Lucas hissed in a panick.

“Back up,” Dimitri barked. “Give us room—Murray—get her airway—”

“I know what the hell I’m doing!” Murray snapped, but his voice cracked right in the middle of it.

Eleven moved swiftly.

She didn’t think twice. Didn’t ask permission.

She bolted forward, hovering no longer, landing so hard that all the brittle leaves beneath her kicked up in a burst. Her boots slid in the powder. She nearly fell.

And then she was on her knees beside you.

“El—don’t—” Mike warned, voice strained and small, but she was already reaching.

But she did.

Both her hands were shaking violently. But her eyes were locked straight on your chest.

She slammed her palm down over your sternum.

The sound was violent. The creak in all your tender ribs echoed outward, and you gasped like you’d just been slammed underwater.

Eleven’s nose bled instantly. Her entire body shook from the force of the contact. Her mouth opened in pain, but she didn’t stop. Her fingers spread wide, palm splaying like she was holding your heart in place.

You clutched at her wrist, whimpering in pain that almost sounded like relief. Like trust, like prayer and apology.

Robin choked on a sob as Eddie staggered back, eyes huge and unblinking.

“Jesus fucking Christ—” he muttered, both hands in his hair. “Is this—what the hell is she—”

Will had one hand clutched over his mouth. Dustin looked like he was going to be sick.

Lucas was frozen, rooted to the spot as he instinctively clutched Mike’s lanky forearm.

“El, wha… wh-wh-wha…” Mike breathily stuttered, tears brimming as he watched you suffer as she worked.

Now Eleven’s face was twisted into something raw and ancient. A sound came from her throat. Not a scream, not a cry, just pressure and grit and power.

…and then your uneven heart shuddered.

Everyone went still.

And then it almost stopped.

In this split second, no one breathed in case you weren’t. The silence was so loud it ached. And it wasn’t even five seconds total before they realized that your erratic rhythm hadn’t fully stopped, but simply stalled…

…then started up again at its usual irregular pace.

Sluggish. Rattled. A dead engine catching. It was now a gradual, jagged, thudding restart, like jumper cables on frozen steel.

A new rhythm.

A different beat.

Still wrong, still irregular, but it was… new.

Your chest rose. Then fell. Then rose again.

And eventually you coughed hard, the sound scraping from deep inside you. Your body jerked from the force of it, and now Eddie suddenly felt like he was right back on the ground at the electric fence, forcing air back into your lungs with Jonathan and Steve.

“Christ, man,” he wheezed, palm to his forehead at the sound of your coughing.

Dimitri caught you fully as you sagged into his arms.

Robin burst into tears, her hands over her face as she held onto Will and Dustin.

Murray had his hand behind your head, cradling it gently. “Come on, honey. Come on. That’s it—keep going—keep going.”

Eleven collapsed forward, her whole body going limp. Mike was there instantly, catching her before she hit the leaves on her side from the exertion.

“She…” Mike’s voice broke. 

Lucas stared. “She just did that—”

“She just fucking did that,” Eddie whispered, eyes blown wide and glassy with trauma and recovering fears.

“She did what she had to do,” Murray half growled, still holding your face. “And it worked.”

You were breathing. Barely. But breathing.

You weren’t fully there. But you were still there.

And your gaze never left your uncle’s, throat bobbing as you kept him as the focal point. Words still hadn’t found you yet. They couldn’t.

“Back to camp,” Dimitri said, sharp and decisive. “Now. Owens needs her now.”

“Done,” Murray barked. “Come on—get her up.”

Dimitri didn’t wait for further orders. He swept you into his arms like it was nothing, like your body hadn’t just tried to give out on all of them. One arm slipped under your back, one under your knees as he held you close and turned to head back toward camp.

Your head lolled lightly against his chest, and Murray was right at his side, breath choppy, but his hand stayed firmly planted on your shoulder.

Behind you, Robin still had her arms around Will, holding him close as he sniffled hard into her coat. 

“S’alright,” she wept unabashedly. “She’s alright, she’s all good. She’s fine, she’ll be fine.”

Eddie had Lucas and Dustin, who now clung to the hem of his older friend’s jacket, wiping his face with his sleeve as he walked silently.

Even Eleven, pale and trembling in Mike’s arms, wouldn’t take her eyes off you as she pulled at him urgently.

“Please,” she breathed. “Please, get…me there—”

“Got you,” he barely muttered before letting her hop up to ride piggyback and catch up to Dmitri and Murray so that she could stay close.

No one else spoke.

The woods had never felt quieter.

They suddenly felt lethal.

You still didn’t say a word. Couldn’t. Everything was still too heavy. But as the wind rustled the trees above you…

…you could feel every new uneven beat.

Every single one of them.

It was like a new war drum that taunted you with the cold blooded truth: you weren’t gonna outrun this… And soon enough? If you didn’t get ahead of it, it was gonna outrun you instead.

Chapter Sixty-Seven Resetting the Breaker

DAY 6 (Classified Coordinates) – Afternoon

“Bro, we made this place look so clean it’s like God Himself hit Control-Z.”

Argyle’s voice cut through the haze of pine needles and humidity, as he leaned back against a tree stump with a smug grin. Nancy, still crouched beside a camouflaged mound of moss and canvas, looked up from where she’d just triple-checked a snare trap. 

Her lips curled. “God and three very paranoid lunatics,” she quipped, standing and dusting her hands off. “But sure. Let’s give Him the credit.”

Jonathan barked a quiet laugh as he adjusted the wire mesh around a nearby root. “Whatever works.”

Behind them, Hopper stood with his strong arms crossed, surveying the now-invisible remains of their previous fire site. It was as if the ground had never been disturbed, the logs reburied, the ash scrubbed away and fully dispersed. Even the glints of aluminum from food scraps were gone, buried or carried off by the kids earlier. 

The Winnebago was still nestled in its off-road pocket, covered in netting and pine branches. From the sky? It looked like a boulder or the earth itself.

They were proud. They were smug. And for a brief second, they were just… breathing.

“God, this feels good,” Jonathan murmured, and Nancy, standing beside him, didn’t flinch. She just nodded.

No, they weren’t talking about themselves. They weren’t not talking about themselves either. But the joking, quiet, morbid and dry, was a kind of lifeline. Hopper squinted at the tiny radio clipped to the belt of his jeans. A crackle of static, then another update rolled in:

“…the entire province of British Columbia has initiated a complete state of emergency… all major border crossings now under heavy supervision…  The Canadian Armed Forces have assumed temporary jurisdiction under emergency authority. Citizens are urged to remain in their homes…”

“Not US martial law,” Nancy muttered.

“But basically US martial law,” Jonathan said.

Argyle shrugged. “They can call it whatever they want, it still smells like dictatorship leftovers.”

And then the trees shifted.

Not loud. Just enough movement, quick, steady, urgent… Hopper’s head snapped toward the source. Nancy’s body tensed. Jonathan rose from his crouch, heart hammering.

“Oh, fuck,” Nancy breathed, already breaking into a run.

Dimitri was charging toward them with Murray fast on his heels. Cradled in Dimitri’s arms was your limp form, head lolled slightly, your long legs swinging lifelessly with every jarring stride. Everyone froze for half a second. Then the whole world kicked into overdrive.

Nancy and Jonathan reached you all first, barely letting Dimitri slow down before their hands were outstretched. Hopper was right behind them, barking for Owens. Argyle was already spinning on his heel.

“Yo, I got Owens,” he shouted, voice tight but steady. “Harrington’s still sleeping—”

“Don’t wake him,” Dmitri urged quickly.

Inside the Winnebago, the air was cool, stale with the recycled scent of disinfectant and blankets and NyQuil. Steve was breathing softly, a faint rasp in his chest. Max was curled up on the couch across from him, her brows knitted in her newly undisturbed sleep.

Owens looked up from a metal case of meds and flinched as Argyle threw open the door.

“Hey, doc. Care for some air?”

No wasted words. Argyle didn’t shout. He didn’t panic, he didn’t give details. But the message was clear:

This is an emergency.

Owens was on his feet instantly.

Outside, Joyce had already reached Dimitri and was now quietly snapping directions, laying down a towel on the cleared-out bench beside the camp’s water barrels.

“We need her horizontal. Get her flat. Someone elevate her legs. Where’s her damn pulse?”

You weren’t unconscious. Not entirely. But your lips were pale. Your breath was shallow, and the flutter inside your chest felt like loose wires sparking behind your ribs.

Dimitri laid you down gently, his jaw clenched, eyes scanning your face like it might suddenly disappear.

“I didn’t know how long we had,” he said to no one and everyone. “I just ran.”

“Good,” Owens barked, emerging from the Winnebago with Argyle close behind. “Lay her flat. I want pressure on her legs and someone get Steve the hell in the loop.”

Mike reeled. “In it…?!”

“He’s worse off not knowing,” Owens rushed to explain.

“Not wrong,” Robin flusteredly agreed, her face still red and blotchy with stress and concern. “Steve really doesn’t need to find this out later—”

“He needs to rest,” Joyce insisted, still frazzled.

“And he won't do that if he finds out he’s been left out of the loop,” Hopper disagreed, just as frazzled.

“Out of the loop from what?”

Everyone whipped around to face the voice that had just cracked behind them, groggy, on edge, slurred from sleep and doped on the flu medication.

Steve stood in the doorway of the Winnebago, a blanket slung off his shoulders, eyes swollen and bloodshot. His hair was a disaster. His voice was hoarse.

But the second he saw you, he bolted.

“Oh my God. Oh my God—”

He fell to his knees beside you, coughing hard into his shoulder but reaching out all the same. His hands found your face before anyone could stop him. All of his fingers curled around your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. 

“Hey. Baby. Talk to me. Hey—hey, come on.”

“Steve,” Owens warned gently. “You’re sick—”

“I don’t care.”

Not even a second of hesitation. 

No one argued.

Eleven was just behind Steve, breathless, still recovering from the output of what she’d done. Mike held her by the waist. Her face was flushed.

“It’s a new rhythm,” she whispered. “It’s unsteady. It didn’t stop—it stalled. Then it came back… different.”

Steve’s face contorted. “What does that even mean?”

You opened your eyes. Barely. You looked at him and your lips twitched.

“Means… I’m still here.”

He choked on a laugh and a sob in the same breath, wiping snot off his face with his sleeve. “Yeah, no shit you’re still here. You better be still here. Swear to God—”

Behind him, everyone was moving. Robin had her hand on his back, grounding him with silent support, her own face blotchy and red. Dustin was crouched down beside Owens, already sorting through the med kit without even being asked. Murray was dragging over a folding lamp to give better light. Eddie was seething at the radio.

“Can’t let you fucking—” Steve coughed again, grunting at himself. Stupid flu. “Can’t even get a head cold or take a NyQuil nap without you just…”

“…yeah,” you breathed, “heart attacks don’t really like… havin’ y’round…”

He scoffed, nearly coughing all over again. Crying all over again. Panicking all over again, losing it all over again.

“Piece of shit war broadcast nonsense,” Eddie suddenly cursed out loud. “You wanna give people heart attacks?” 

He was literally cursing out the radio.

Eventually he tossed it. “Fuck you,” he spit. It kept talking in a monotone voice. “Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

Alright, that made you laugh. Enough to cut the tension, just for a second, even though it was just mostly breath. 

Eddie froze mid-rant, staring down at you.

“…the hell are you laughing at, BowBow?”

You tried to answer but only wheezed for air. 

Steve actually grinned through the tear-brimmed eyes. “She’s laughing at you, Munson.”

Jonathan actually let out a laugh. A wet one. “It’s giving ‘remember when this happened last time,’ huh?? S’not just me, right?”

“Not just you,” Steve muttered softly.

Eddie’s lips vibrated as he puffed out air. “Cool, so this is like—PTSD or whatever, right? Group PTSD.”

You sighed. “Yeah, but y’more ballsy th’stime…”

He barked a laugh. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

Steve rolled his eyes to keep the tears from falling, now letting himself swallow back another round of coughing. Jonathan was definitely nibbling his lip raw. 

Dustin? Poor kid was over it.

“Well I’m not doing this shit again,” he stated firmly. Then he looked at your chest. “And neither is that dumbass.”

You hummed into Steve’s bicep. “Yeah, you’tell it…”

And then Owens, finally snapping gloves on, turned to the group. “Okay. Everyone either helps or kindly gets the hell out of the way.”

No one left. Not one.

They made room. They passed supplies. Robin fetched water. Mike got the stethoscope. Nancy hovered at the edge of the chaos, face pale, her hands clenched in fists — until finally, she stepped in, firm and cool but strangely protective.

Of you.

“What do you need from me?”

Owens didn’t even blink. “Take vitals. You know how.”

And she did. Her hands were steady. Her pout was tight. But she didn’t cry. Not outright, and not allowing herself until much later.

You tried to speak again. “S’okay. I’m really okay.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve murmured, lips against your hair. “Don’t you ever say that unless it’s true.”

“…sorry…”

“Don’t do that either,” he whimpered.

You didn’t reply that time.

Because you were too tired and all you wanted was him beside you, making the pain go away. Him, and Murray. Who was also hovering with a godawful expression.

“You’re about to see a whole lot of me,” he stated, voice low and commanding. “Understand?”

You hummed again, nodding gently as your hand found his. Your uncle also rolled his eyes to keep the tears at bay.

Later (though exactly how long later, no one really knew) Mike brought everyone back around to a really important topic that needed to be aired out. 

“What El did,” he started, voice shaky but clear. “We need to…break that down.”

“Please explain that,” Dustin added firmly.

“Yeah, what…” Will was lost in thought next to her. “What even happened back there…?”

Eleven, still shaky, repeated what she felt. “It… it didn’t restart. It just reset. Like turning a light off and back on. Like when the power flickers. Just enough to change something.”

Owens went still.

Steve went stiller.

And then, quietly, Owens nodded to himself. Like a box had just been checked that he’d hoped to never touch again.

But Steve saw it. You saw him see it. And everything between you two cracked wide open again.

“You knew,” Steve said slowly. “You and her—you already talked about this...”

Owens didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

The way that Steve had said it was not accusingly. More than that, it was consumed with dread. Almost guilt. As if he knew this should have been explored more, just like the two of you had tried suggesting the last time.

He closed his eyes. “Shit,” he breathed.

“Someone fill me in here,” Nancy said impatiently.

“I second that,” Jonathan nearly blubbered.

Owen sighed deeply, looking at Steve and finding that he was already staring at him with a heavy expression. Then Steve huffed… running a hand through his hair before he let it fall back above your head.

“Flatlining,” he said bluntly. “They were talking about the way that she—” He paused to grit his teeth, jaw clenched. But one sharp inhale through his mouth got him through it as he gestured wildly. “—she flatlined at the wall, then we got it going again. That’s what reset the rhythm.”

“…and then it came back fucked,” Jonathan practically whispered, putting the pieces together.

“Because you restarted it??” Murray asked, confused and a bit exasperated.

“No,” Owens corrected. “Technically, the shock is the cause. The surge. That gave it a harsh jolt.”

“So then what you’re saying is,” Nancy cut in now, her eyes narrowed. “She needs another shock and flatline—”

“I’m not saying that,” Owens interrupted gently.

“But is that what it is?” Lucas now asked from beside Max on the couch, who stared in panic, now wide awake from her nap and knowing better than to speak yet. 

Murray gawked, his eyes flicking between you and the doctor in question. “Well is it??”

Owens sighed heavily.

Steve couldn’t even speak. Just stared down at you like you were all he had left in the world.

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie muttered. “What the hell kind of fix is that?”

“It’s not a fix,” Robin said sharply. “It’s a goddamn gamble.”

And then the room divided. Half of them were whispering about whether it was possible. The other half were asking if it would kill you next time. Some said it made sense, but others said it makes no fucking sense.

The one to shut it all down was Nancy.

“ENOUGH.”

It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even all that loud. 

But it was final. 

Absolute.

“Just—stop. Can we please just… deal with this later?” 

“There is no later,” Mike nearly hissed.

“This needs fixing now,” Jonathan stressed.

“She just had a heart attack,” Nancy spat. “She doesn’t need more fucking stress. Table this until tonight. Give it an hour. Just—I’m calling it now.”

Everyone fell quiet.

No one even moved for a hot minute.

Until one person did.

Steve reached out and pulled Nancy into a hug. It wasn’t long. It wasn’t even tight. But she gripped back like it was a life raft and then buried her face into his shoulder until he tightened it more before she had to pull away to swat at her face and mutter a strangled apology. He just offered her a small, tender, grateful smile in return.

You looked up at her. “Well, shit,” you croaked. “Nancy Wheeler’s cracking. Maybe the world is ending.”

She laughed. Wet and broken. But she appreciated your sense of humor, because she was already weirded out enough by herself and whatever the hell just came over her. You, however, were silently beaming at her. And after she’d sniffled another laugh, crossing her arms tightly over her chest and biting inside of her cheek…!you timidly reached out a hand towards hers, giving it a squeeze. Nancy’s tight lipped smile at you was worth it.

And that was that.

Plans were made. Roles were newly assigned. You were staying in the Winnebago, curled up with Steve, whether he was sick or not. 

Owens allowed it. Hell, he encouraged it.

“He’s the only one who’s going to keep her calm,” he said. “Just don’t breathe on her.”

“I’ll breathe in the other direction,” Steve muttered, and he was already wrapping an arm around your shoulder while you settled into the mattress in the back.

Murray stayed. Dimitri stayed.

The kids moved into one of the tanks. Eddie went with them. Robin too. Jonathan and Nancy bunked with Argyle in the other. Hopper rotated outside, big shotgun in hand, pacing like a guard dog.

They had venison cooling in the bins. 

The sky was darkening.

But inside that overstuffed Winnebago, Steve pulled the blanket up around your shoulders, kissed your forehead through the sweat, and whispered something into your hair.

You didn’t catch it.

But it didn’t matter.

He’d say it again tomorrow.

Chapter Sixty-Eight Sick Sleepover at the End of the World

March • 1987 DAY 6 (Classified Coordinates) – Late Night

The Winnebago creaked like an old man’s knees every time the wind flirted with its frame. Not that the wind was doing much flirting at all tonight.

The air was dead still. No snow. No sleet. Just cold. Bone-aching, frostbitten silence. The kind of night where nothing moved. The kind of night that scared the shit out of trained soldiers.

Because it was flying weather.

Perfect visibility. Dry enough for heat-sensor sweeps. No heavy cloud coverage to scatter radar. No giant storms to scare off surveillance. Owens had said it earlier, when he still had his coat on and boots half-tied, “They’ll come on nights like this.”

So far, they haven't.

But they would come eventually.

Maybe in the next hour. Maybe tomorrow, maybe on Tuesday.

Steve Harrington wasn’t thinking about that right now, though. Because Steve Harrington had turned himself into a human pretzel at the foot of your bed.

“Your legs are under four blankets,” he now muttered from somewhere down by your shins. “Why do your knees still feel like goddamn marble countertops?”

“Why is your forehead a space heater?” you countered, not moving your own head from where it was pillowed on his ankles.

“I dunno. Ask my fever. That bitch has been freelancing since sunrise.”

You snorted softly. “Still think you’re the sexiest flu patient of all time?”

“Obviously,” Steve croaked, then paused to cough into his elbow and sniffle like a four-year-old. “I mean, look at me. This is top-tier pathetic.”

You hummed. “You say that like you’re winning. I had a heart attack twelve hours ago.”

“Oh my God,” Steve groaned, rolling onto his side so he could glare up the length of your blanket cocoon. “Don’t pull the heart attack card this early, that’s dirty.”

“You’re snuggling my legs, Harrington.”

“And whose fault is that?! You’re the one who made me lay down backwards so I wouldn’t sneeze on your face!”

“You were sneezing on everything earlier.”

He huffed. “You sound mad. Are you mad? Because I’m snuggling your knees. I feel like this is punishment for being hot.”

“Hot as in fever?”

“Hot as in everything I do is flawless. Except my sinuses. Those are full of cement.”

The flu rasp was real. He sniffled again and tried to reach under the blanket to get to your socks, only to gasp and jolt backward.

“Wait—are these my socks?”

“I told you I was borrowing them.”

“They’re the thick ones.”

“Yeah,” you replied flatly. “I had a heart attack, doth thou remembereth?”

“You’re the worst.”

“Welp. You just so happen to love the worst thing that’s ever happened to you.”

Steve Harrington, congested and clammy, still had the gall to grin. “Eternally.”

At the front of the Winnebago, barely illuminated by the weakest of camping lights, Dimitri and Murray sat in the driver and passenger seats, the heaters dialed down to “miserable but necessary.” The curtain between you and them wasn’t fully drawn. You could still see Murray’s full silhouette against the windshield, his arms crossed, eyes ahead. The radio chatter murmured at low volume, just enough for them to both hear the latest from the border crackdowns and satellite passes.

No voices had come through the walkie-talkie system. No coded clicks. No rhythmic signals. That was a good thing.

No news meant no movement.

No movement meant no helicopters. No drones. No boots. No danger or threats.

…yet.

And still, Owens had passed the hell out, his long frame folded across the bench couch up behind you and Steve, blanket up to his chin, eyes shut but ears ready. The man hadn’t twitched since going down — but you knew damn well he’d wake at the first sign of arrhythmic hellfire.

Still, for now there was peace.

Even if it was the scariest kind.

You shifted slightly under the pile of blankets, nudging Steve’s shoulder with your foot.

“What?” he murmured groggily. 

You wiggled your toes. “You okay, lover?”

He sniffled a laugh. “I’ve got VapoRub in every pore of my body and I’m cuddling your calves like a Build-a-Bear, so. Define okay.”

“…emotionally.”

Steve was quiet for a second. Then he answered in a voice so low you almost missed it… 

“I’m holding your feet like they’ll disappear.”

You blinked. Then blinked again.

Steve buried his stuffy nose into the crook of your knee. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I literally didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking ‘Steve has a foot kink,’ weren’t you?”

You doubled back, grinning. “I was not—”

“You were definitely thinking that,” he groaned.

“You said you’re holding them like they’ll disappear!”

“Well, you almost did, didn’t you?”

And there it was. The hush. The heaviness. The way neither of you knew whether to laugh or cry, so you did both.

“You know what’s sad?” you mumbled after a while.

“Everything?”

“Well yeah,” you coughed. “But also… the kids. They’re all like… fifteen. Fourteen. And they just do this now. Like it’s normal.”

Steve sighed and let his fingers trace the top of your sock. “Yeah. I hate how good they are at it.”

“They’ve grown up too fast.”

“They didn’t get to grow up. They just… got older. That’s different.”

That made you quiet. 

He was right. Of course he was right.

Max had woken up nine days ago. Nine days. After nine months. Her body still didn’t move right. She walked like the world spun sideways. But she was talking. Laughing more than not. Her laugh sounded different now.

But she was there.

And if that miracle could happen…

Maybe the end of the world could un-end itself too.

Steve seemed to follow your train of thought, because he whispered it. “Max woke up. That still freaks me out.”

“Me too.”

“I keep waiting for her to go back to sleep,” he added. “I know that’s messed up. I just… I think I still think I’m dreaming.”

You stretched a toe to nudge his ribs. “I’ll wake you up if it is, alright?”

“You’ll just flatline on me again,” he deadpanned.

You're shocked Steve actually managed to finally joke about that.

But you didn't let it get weird. instead, you leaned right into it.

You smirked wickedly. “That’s the plan, baby.”

He rolled his eyes. “You are my constant headache.”

The Winnebago didn’t creak. No gusts outside. 

One camping light was placed near your feet, casting the smallest glow over the inside wall. Owens stirred once, mumbling something about electrolytes… then kept on sleeping.

Up front, Murray and Dimitri were still murmuring to each other. You didn’t need to hear them. You knew what they were talking about.

You also knew your babies, the Nuggets, were all safely tucked into Dingus 1. Just a handful of feet away, nestled up in a fortress of iron, camouflage and love.

They had Robin and Eddie with them.

The Cool Aunt and Whacky Uncle.

You turned your head slightly. “You know they’re probably telling ghost stories in there.”

Steve grinned, still pressing his pretty face into your shin. “Robin’s definitely telling them how dumb Dustin was that time he tried grilling bacon in her microwave.”

“She lets him use her microwave?”

He snorted. “She used to. Past tense.”

You smiled, eyes twinkling. “God, those kids love her...”

“They love Eddie more. Which is rude.”

“He lets them say ‘shit’ without getting grounded.”

Steve scoffed. “I let them say ‘shit’ all the time!”

“He says it with them. You say it at them.”

He blinked. “That’s called motherly parenting.”

You snickered and giggled adorably at that. “Okay, mama bear, whatever the Cabernet justifies.”

He feigned offense. “Chardonnay.”

You made a face back, like, oh my bad. But you were still laughing quietly, and you didn’t actually have to clutch at your chest. So that was a good thing, at least. 

Steve wiggled his ankle under your head. “You comfy?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

A pause. Then slowly, he asked… 

“You scared?”

You didn’t answer at first, just pressed your cheek into the thick muscle of his calf, letting your breath catch. 

“Not when you’re with me.”

Steve sniffled. “Same, angel.”

“…even with the flu?”

“Especially with the flu.”

You laughed again, and it cracked like glass.

Steve’s voice broke too. “You know what I hate?”

“What?”

“That this is the calmest we’ve been in days, and it’s still not calm.”

You turned your face up, looking at him upside down.

“It’s like my body knows something’s coming,” he said quietly, almost inaudibly.

“It is, baby,” you murmured softly.

“But my body’s sick and stupid, so it’s probably gonna miss the warning signs anyway.”

You nudged his thigh with your foot.

He nudged you back with his elbow.

“I think we’re all doing that,” you whispered. “We’re all pretending we’ll hear the warning first. Like we’ll have enough time.”

Steve blinked hard. “But we might not.”

“Then we go down swinging.”

“You just had a heart attack, you’re not going down anywhere, okay?”

“Try and stop me.”

He plucked a tissue. “You are the worst patient ever.”

“You’re the sluttiest male nurse.”

“Don’t make that sexy,” he almost laughed at that. “I feel like shit.”

“You still look hot.”

“I’m literally holding your feet.”

“Hot.”

Steve snorted, which only resulted in him coughing into more tissues and cursing under his breath while you let your shoulders bounce in silent laughter, muttering a faint apology as he shot you a wry look.

Finally, you both let the quiet settle. It was… fine. Not fully comfortable, but also so uncomfortable. Not painful. Just quiet, even eerily so.

Until eventually, he spoke again. 

“You know you can’t do that again, right?”

You didn’t move.

He didn’t either.

But you answered. “I know.”

“I’m serious. You do that again, and I’m—”

“You’ll what?”

He exhaled through his stuffy nose. “I’ll cry, probably.”

“You already are.”

“Am not.”

“Are you blaming your tears on VapoRub?”

“…I stand by that, yeah.”

You reached under the blanket, finding his hand. And he let you lace your fingers through it, sickness be damned.

“You’re pretty when you cry,” you said gently.

He huffed. “Don’t spread that around.”

“Aww,” you grinned through your own glassy eyes. “Why ever not, my love?”

“Ruins my rep, my love.”

“You’re cuddling my feet.”

“You’re cuddling my feet.”

You smiled again, keeping the tears at bay as he did the same. The heater hummed. Owens shifted. The camping light flickered just once, then steadied.

Then Steve swallowed. “Hey.”

You looked at him.

He didn’t say it directly.

Didn’t say I love you. 

Didn’t say don’t die.

Didn’t say I can’t lose you.

He simply said, “I’m not moving from this spot, okay?”

You felt the tears return. “Okay.”

“I don’t care what Owens says. I’m staying right here.”

You nodded.

Steve nodded too. Then he muttered, “…unless I sneeze. Then I’m rolling into the hallway.”

You laughed so hard you almost wheezed. “What hallway?”

“The space between the kitchenette and the bucket of a bathroom,” he hissed humorously. “Gimme a break, like goddamn, baby.”

You both laughed like that for a little while. And later, as you both started drifting, both of you tangled up and tired, fevered and mending… the silence stayed.

But it didn’t scare you. Not anymore. Because somehow, in the stillest hour of the night, with one sickly boy curled around your twitchy feet and a whole camp full of people watching over your sleep…

You knew that you’d all be okay.

Even if the helicopters came.

Even if the sky fell.

You weren’t alone.

Not anymore.

Julie never came back. The med staff said she was gone before the ink on your admission papers dried, slipping out the back entrance of the hospital with a track-marked arm and an empty womb. She left the way she lived: quick, quiet, and chasing the next high.

Not seventy-two hours out of her damn womb, you were already motherless, nameless and bound for the foster care system.

Four months later, the hospital rang a number they weren’t sure still worked.

And in a smoke-thick apartment over a casino over in Reno, Marjorie Bauman picked up the phone with red lacquered nails and a cigarette parked between two fingers. She listened. She didn’t gasp, didn’t curse, didn’t even sit down.

She simply drew in a slow drag, let the Marlboro smoke curl from her mouth like punctuation, and asked bluntly, “Where is she?”

She wasn’t even bothering  asking about her drug addict daughter.

She was only asking about you.

It wasn’t until after she’d booked her flight to Hawkins that she swore up and down like a sailor, fuming and furious and fucking determined to get the hell over there to meet a grandchild she never either of her kids would give her. It wasn’t in her nature to blubber in bewilderment, no matter how jaw-dropping a situation was. That wasn’t her style. 

Then again, neither was being a grandma.

But that’s what she was now.

As of New Year’s Eve, 1967, Marjorie Bauman was a grandmother.

She walked into the stuffy Hawkins hospital like she owned the building. Fur coat draped over her shoulders in the middle of April. Hair curled into a helmet that didn’t dare move. Half a face of makeup because she’d done the other half in the car’s rearview mirror at a red light. People parted for her without knowing why. Just something about her posture, or the way a person carries themselves when they’ve survived more than they ever talk about.

“You all better have a damn good reason for not calling me ‘til now,” Marjorie told the receptionist, never even raising her voice but somehow still bouncing off sterile walls.

To her disappointment, they did.

Their reason was valid enough to make her jaw clench.

No one had any way of knowing who the hell any of Julie Bauman’s emergency contacts were, because she hadn’t given them any. She barely gave them anything to work with. 

Turns out? Julie had walked into the ER in the middle of the night, already in labor, already high. No purse. No ID. No wallet. No address. No family listed. She gave them a fake last name, then switched it two minutes later. The nurse charted, “Bauman?” with a question mark because Julie had slurred something about her “old man’s name,” and then passed out before anyone could ask again. There were no driver’s licenses to cross-reference in ‘66, no digital records, no social workers with databases. Just whatever a patient said out loud.

And Marjorie’s 20-year-old daughter had barely said anything at all — before bringing you into the world, then vanishing without a trace. No desire to be a mother. No desire to keep a baby that was the result of a late-night bender in the sheets of a motel room with a boyfriend who likely ran a gang and sold hard stuff to folks with cash and street cred.

New Year’s weekend turned to January. 

January turned to February. 

Babies born under those grim circumstances didn’t always last, and hospitals didn’t go hunting down family for heartbreak unless a caseworker told them to. And they had nothing.

“No address, no relatives, no fingerprints,” the staff told Marjorie now, having all gathered at the desk. “Nothing but the maybe-true last name ‘Bauman,’ and the city Julie claimed to be ‘from,’ which could’ve been a lie too.”

All of that tracked so well, it made Marjorie sharply inhale, deep and slow… and she only exhaled when she knew that she’d not flip a damn lid, or shout, or spew the foulest language known to mankind at this medical staff who had all kept you in their care, and not handed you off to someone in foster care that specialized in this sort of ordeal.

It wasn’t until a new caseworker was assigned in March (a woman who’d just transferred from Detroit and who’d seen Julie’s name before) that anything cracked open. She recognized it. Not because Julie had ever filed any real paperwork, but because the caseworker had once worked night shifts at a motel Julie used to frequent, the kind of place where people stayed under aliases and paid in crumpled cash. She remembered the attitude. The track marks. The loud, slanted handwriting Julie used when she scrawled a name on the motel ledger.

Bauman.

That had been the surname Julie jotted down when she’d checked in once with a man twice her age and left three days later with everything stolen from his wallet.

It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And because it was the 60’s, the caseworker had to do it the hard way — she pulled out a phone book. Not a slim one either. A brick. Reno-North Valley listings weighed more than the baby did. She dragged her finger down pages of Baumans, calling every number she could. Most were dead ends: wrong family, wrong spelling, disconnected, or people who didn’t want to admit they knew the name at all.

But on the third day of calling, after forty-seven numbers and more than a few people slamming the phone down, someone finally said, “Try Marjorie. She’s the only Bauman I know who’d have kin wild enough to pull something like that.”

Marjorie’s listing wasn’t even under her own name. It was under the name of her then-boyfriend who worked nights dealing blackjack at the casino downstairs. His number was a leftover in the directory because nobody had bothered getting it removed after the breakup. 

It shouldn’t have reached her. 

In any other universe, it wouldn’t have.

But it did. By sheer dumb chance — or luck, or fate, or whatever force has a sick sense of timing — the phone rang on a night she happened to be home instead of at the blackjack tables or out drinking with the wrong man.

That was the miracle.

Not that they’d found her.

But that she’d answered.

And once she did, once she heard the words “your granddaughter,” and “four months old,” and “premature, in state custody, alive but small,” there was no stopping her. She had shoved clothes into a suitcase with shaking hands, cursing Julie’s name under her breath and promising the universe that if this baby was still breathing by the time she got to Hawkins, she’d take her in. No questions asked, no hesitation.

“Lemme see her.”

When the nurse finally led her to you, Marjorie stood there for a full minute without speaking. Her eyes were lined in black kohl, but the rest of her face was a fortress. She didn’t cry. She didn’t soften, or melt, or coo. She just stared at the four-pound bundle under the warming lamp… This strange and quiet granddaughter she hadn’t known existed until some odd hours ago.

Then she reached in and touched your cheek with the gentlest fingertip she had. “So you’re Bauman,” she murmured. “Well. That makes two of us.”

Murray showed up hours later, hungover and unshaven, wearing the same shirt he’d fallen asleep in after a night spent ranting about Watergate to a bartender who’d stopped listening at midnight. But the moment he’d gotten home to three missed calls, and one helluva voicemail from his mother? He’d sobered up in a flash.

The blood in his veins boiled hotter than ever. He drove over — teeth gritted, smoke coming out of his ears, seething as he glared out the windshield while the godforsaken Indiana city became a bokeh blur around him.

He’d never liked Julie. 

Didn’t matter if they were blood, Murray Bauman didn’t trust anyone who lied to themselves as easily as they lied to others. And that’s something his sister did like it was her life’s calling. He’d learned over the years, time and time again, to know better. To not expect anything but profuse disappointment and mind boggling strife when it came to his estranged sister, who’d snuck out of the house at thirteen years old to go get high and drunk with older boys who knew better but didn’t give a shit about consequences. Neither did Julie. Hell, it didn’t matter what consequences came her way. No punishment ever got through to her. She was self-sabotage in human form: “defiant, reckless and cursed to the core.” That’s how Murray described her.

Which is why he’d stopped taking her calls from a jail cell when she needed bailing out, and stopped signing her up for rehab that she only pretended to want until she got her way and dipped.

As a self-proclaimed cynic, nothing surprised Murray.

But this news hit him sideways. 

He wasn’t a father; he wasn’t even the idea of one. He’d spent a lifetime avoiding responsibility with the same precision other men avoided landmines and commitment. 

…and then he saw you.

Marjorie eyed him from the other side of the glass in the NICU. And as soon as her son entered, she stepped back to give him the floor.

“About time,” she mumbled as she lit up another cigarette right in front of the No Smoking sign, just outside the doorway.

The nurse opened her mouth to object, then closed it again.

Murray didn’t even quip back at his mother, even though that’s what they did best. He couldn’t look at anything but you.

You were hooked up to monitors that all beeped like anxious birds, wrapped in a blanket too big for your body. Your tiny fists were clenched. Your eyelids fluttered like moth wings. 

The chart at the foot of the crib still said Baby Girl Bauman.

“…you look like something from a sci-fi experiment,” he muttered, his voice gravelly, but something in it cracked at the edges. “Christ, kid. What the hell were you born into…?”

He stared at you for a long while, and Marjorie let him. Quietly, she watched. Right there in the doorframe, trimmed brows subtly furrowing at the sight. A nurse eventually walked in when you began to fuss. The sound was dreadful. High pitched and pained, like irritation set on fire. Murray looked on in horror as the nurse began to swaddle you, catching his mother’s pensive stare over her shoulder. Because even she hadn’t gotten used to the sound, no matter how many times she’s heard you make it over the last stretch of hours.

“I wanna know everything,” Murray demanded, his voice uncharacteristically raw, despite its bass. He stared hard at the nurse swaddling you. “What all’s in her system. What my sister was on. How it’s affecting this child—all of it. Right now.”

The nurse didn’t hesitate. 

She and the doctor went on to tell your uncle how Julie was on crack cocaine before and during birth. How you were born too early, already shaking with the kind of bone rattling tremors that didn’t belong in a human — let alone a fetus. How the entire staff knew before the results even came back, because babies exposed to crack don’t cry the way other newborns cry. They shriek, high and thin, inconsolable even underneath layers of blankets and given the most tender loving care.

Marjorie recounted what she’d learned, too. How your withdrawals hit within mere hours. How no drugs of any kind could simply ease you off the cliff, because stimulant babies don’t get that. 

“They just endure it,” she said flatly, eyes cold, heart blue.

The nurses kept you swaddled in the softest of cotton, the lights dimmer as warmly low as they could go, every sound muffled and every staff member accurately aware of themselves. 

“Feeding’s been a battle,” the nurse told Murray, who watched you with what almost appeared to be awestruck wonder, despite the icicle lodged inside his chest. She swaddled you close, offering him a sad smile. “But… she likes touch. As long as it’s gentle.”

He blinked at her, then at you. Then her again.

“…and Child Protective Services already filed the paperwork.”

She nodded. “Correct. But—” 

“Tell ‘em to burn it.”

Murray didn’t catch his mother’s stare from across the room, or even the soft look in the nurse’s eyes. He was too busy looking at you now. How your eyes were finally beginning to open a bit, locking with his own. For some reason, it didn’t look like his sister’s daughter. Regardless of how your piercing, dark irises resembled hers, and even his… they didn’t look the same. They just look like your own. 

You are your own miracle.

Eventually, it was just the three of you. Because while you needed constant supervision, this was clearly a crucial moment to just be a family. Whatever that even looked like, given the circumstances.

“S’good look on you,” Marjorie deadpanned, gesturing at her son’s swaddling efforts. “Shoulda signed you up for Christmas pageants.”

Murray fixed her with a look. “Virgin Mary would sooner pick Cher to play her before I got the call.”

It wasn’t even heated between them. Not now, inside this dimly lit NICU. How on earth could it be? How could they bicker and argue about petty nonsense, like how her son “never calls” and his mother “dials room service” more than she ever calls him, when they’ve just discovered there’s been a new member of this family for four entire months of them not knowing…?

“She didn’t even name her,” Marjorie said quietly.

“Of course she didn’t,” Murray muttered bitterly, but careful not to disturb you. “Julie never stuck around long enough to name anything.”

There was a lot of subtext behind that statement.

But neither of them pushed or expanded on it.

They went silent then — mother and son, two people who’d failed each other in small, sharp ways for decades. But something shifted in that room where they stood there together now: a line in the sand, a wordless vow.

You didn’t need a mother.

You were getting them.

They took you home three weeks later. Marjorie held you like a woman who never learned softness but would break anyone who threatened the little life in her arms. Murray sat in the back seat with you, because he insisted it was “scientifically irresponsible” to leave a newborn alone, and also because he didn’t trust the car seat.

You only cried once on the drive, a thin sound like someone testing the edge of their own voice. Murray reached down, awkward and unsure… and your hand — tiny enough to disappear in his palm — curled around his finger with a strength that startled him.

“Well, shit,” he whispered, staring down at you like you’d just rearranged the entire contents of his brain and instilled something permanent inside of him. “Guess I’m in this, huh?”

Marjorie didn’t look back, but Murray could hear the devilish grin in her voice.

“You’re a Bauman,” she stated. “Of course you are.”

And just like that, born into the worst kind of beginning, you were claimed. 

Not rescued, not redeemed. 

Claimed, but two broken people who had enough fight left in them to make sure you’d never go unseen again.

-> OSWDLS TAGLIST

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Max blinked at him. Then, slowly, she smiled and nodded. “Thanks, Harrington.”

“Anytime, Mayfield,” he murmured, squeezing your side unconsciously.

You were seated between him and Eddie, both of whom had taken turns staying up all night again, half-listening, half-focusing on the beat of your own heart. You didn’t even realize that your fingers were still curled around the portable monitor strapped to your chest until Steve’s hand ghosted over yours to check the reading again.

“Still steady,” he said under his breath.

You nodded. “Feels okay.”

“Okay-ish,” he corrected, eyeing you like he might laser-beam the arrhythmia into submission.

Across from you, Robin stretched her legs out until they hit Jonathan’s hip, then leaned over with a mischievous grin. “Do you think Murray’s dead?”

“Honestly,” you whispered back, “I think he became the tank.”

Robin snorted.

You glanced up front where, sure enough, Murray hadn’t moved in hours. He’s still slouched forward with the same comically oversized headphones on, listening to Dustin’s makeshift shortwave radio looped in a beat-up Walkman. Eyes glazed. Neck stiff. Hands limp. He was a permanent fixture now.

“Maybe we should poke him,” Robin offered.

“I think we should bury him,” you said solemnly.

Dustin, who'd overheard, tried so hard not to laugh that his face turned red.

Up front, Hopper turned around with a long-suffering look. “Do I need to separate you two?”

Steve, grinning, shook his head. “Please don’t. They get worse when you split them up.”

Robin raised her hand proudly. “Confirmed.”

Up by Hopper, Dimitri now muttered something under his breath in Russian. Hopper chuckled darkly.

Meanwhile, Eddie was still curled into an exhausted pile of limbs and curls against your opposite side. He groaned softly into the crook of his elbow.

“Whose bright idea was it to not sleep for three days straight?” he mumbled groggily.

“Yours,” you and Steve said in unison.

Eddie lifted a limp hand between you both. “Join hands with me, you degenerates. I am the goddamn meat filling in this sandwich of mutual codependence.”

You rolled your eyes and obliged, resting your hand in his while Steve did the same with an annoyed (albeit fond) sigh.

“Can’t believe this is what stabilizes my heart rhythm,” you muttered.

“Same,” Steve said.

“I’m honored,” Eddie mumbled.

“That’s sweet,” Robin wryly added. “Gross. But sweet.”

At that exact moment, Argyle — from tucked against the opposite wall with his arms behind his head — groaned dramatically. “Duuuuude.”

Everyone paused.

“Knew I should’ve brought my knitting stuff,” he lamented. “Could be makin’ a whole stress scarf right now. Like… catharsis in textile form.”

You gasped audibly. “That would be incredible.”

Eddie sat up just enough to peer at you blearily. “You’ve seriously gone pro with knitting now.”

“I stress knit,” you clarified. “With unorthodox flourish.”

Steve looked between you two like this was the beginning of the end. “Oh God,” he mumbled.

Eddie stared. Then grinned, delirious. “This is amazing. I want a friendship scarf.”

“You’re gonna get a friendship noose if you keep acting like this,” Steve muttered.

Eddie clutched his chest. “Jesus, Harrington.”

Robin reached into one of the ration bags and pulled out a crumbled protein bar. “You’re both cracked out.”

Max pointed. “Pot. Kettle.”

As the groggy laughter died down, you cast a glance up front again. Murray still hadn’t moved. Still locked in that same wide-eyed state of half-conscious vigilance.

You sighed. Then stood carefully, disentangling from Steve and Eddie before you padded your way up front and crouched beside him.

Murray didn’t even blink.

Gently, you tapped his shoulder. “Hey, Uncle M?”

His eyes finally slid toward you like rusted gears turning.

“You’ve been on radio duty for nearly twelve hours,” you said gently. “Let me take over.”

Murray blinked. Then slowly removed the headphones, unhooked the makeshift wiring, and wordlessly handed you the gear.

You accepted it without hesitation. He took your hands briefly, gave them a quick squeeze… then, like a man clocking out of a week-long shift, faceplanted into the dash with an audible thud.

“Jesus Christ,” Hopper muttered.

Dimitri didn’t even flinch. “He is corpse now.”

You chuckled softly and made your way back to your seat, carefully fitting the headphones over your own ears and settling the Walkman in your lap. And you could still hear the muffled, soft voices of your friends. All of them were now engaged in some sorta half-meditative, half-chaotic group sprawl.

Jonathan sat cross-legged, eyes shut, trying valiantly to meditate. Argyle was right beside him, lowly whispering encouragement like a very baked life coach.

“You are the cloud, bro. You are the whole sky.”

Max actually looked pretty into it. El was laser-focused. Nancy had one hand resting lightly in Jonathan’s, like a peace offering. Joyce was visibly trying. Dr. Owens was already knee deep in it.

Even Steve had his head tilted back… eyes closed, one hand still clasped loosely in yours. Eddie was horizontal, but had joined the circle in spirit. Robin was upside down, legs draped over a pile of coats. Will looked serene next to Lucas, who seemed to be having a spiritual experience of his own.

And Mike… deeply sighed.

Argyle, soft-voiced, murmured, “As above, so below.”

Everyone exhaled.

“As within… so without.”

A beat of silence.

Another.

Another.

Another.

And another.

And another.

…another another another…

Mike’s brow furrowed, almost reverently. Then he peeked one eye open. “Uhm,” he said quietly, “I hate to break this… but I have to piss.”

Every kid immediately echoed him in a whispered chorus.

“Oh my god, me too.”

“Wait yeah same.”

“I’ve had to pee for like an hour.”

“Wait, why did nobody say anything—??”

“Because it was peaceful,” Will hissed.

Argyle solemnly opened his eyes with a soft exhale. “So much for the inner void.”

You pulled off your headphones with a snort. “Alright. We need a plan.”

Everyone sobered quickly. Because yeah, it was honestly hilarious. But it was also risky as hell.

The forest was clear right now, yeah. 

But the sky was watching. Always watching. 

Drones. Helicopters. Something worse.

“We’ll do bathroom runs in small groups,” Joyce leaned forward. “Quick trips.”

“Winnebago’s just under twenty feet,” Hopper said. “We can make that.”

“Three kids per trip,” Steve suggested. “No more. One adult per group. Someone armed.”

“I’ll go with every group,” El offered.

“No,” Steve and Hopper said at the same time.

But then they paused, looking at each other, exchanging a wordless glance. Both of them nodded.

“Actually,” Hopper corrected, “That’s smart.”

“One adult, and El,” Steve confirmed.

Dimitri shifted. “I go as the adult. Always.”

Nancy nodded. “I’ll hold the line here.”

Dr. Owens made notes. “We’ll rotate. Three every thirty minutes. Keep it quiet. No lights.”

“Good luck to the group that has Dustin,” Max muttered.

“I HEARD THAT.”

“Exhibit A,” she smirked.

The plans went into motion. Outside, the snow remained eerily silent. The wind refused to return.

And inside the tank, a strange kind of peace settled over all of you. Paranoia and exhaustion and laughter and love all tangled up like too many blankets on a winter floor.

None of it made sense.

But somehow, you were still here.

Still breathing.

Still fighting.

Still holding hands.

In the dark.

Outside Dingus-1 • 10:57 AM

The first bathroom group came back in quiet formation, boots crunching lightly in the snow.

You, Will, Mike, Eleven and Dimitri had only been gone ten minutes. A quick and clean mission to the Winnebago and back, but the moment that Hopper opened the tank’s hatch and Steve ushered you all inside like a frantic hen with her chicks returning, it felt like the collective breath in Dingus-1 finally released.

“We made it,” Mike whispered with faux gravitas.

Steve pulled you in first, scanning all his kids, counting heads, then quick once-over-ing of your face, hands, pulse. “You okay??”

“Still breathing,” you whispered.

His exhale practically knocked you over with its relief.

He pressed his hand to your lower back protectively as the rest of the group still clambered inside. Mike was pale and trying not to look proud; Will was still very much in his bathroom-mode nerves, El was calm and steady as ever and Dimitri had entered last, tall and glacial, with a subtle twitch at the corner of his eye that might’ve been relief or just his Slavic version of smiling.

The hatch thunked closed.

A few of you collapsed back down into the blankets and bedrolls and coats like it had been a ten-mile trek, not a twenty-foot walk in daylight.

But no one said otherwise.

Because the forest was still silent.

No wind. No birds. No crunch of animal footfall.

And that meant perfect drone weather.

You all gave it five full minutes before the next group of survivors mobilized.

Dustin, Lucas, Max and Steve were next, while El and Dimitri took the same formation.

Max was on Steve’s back, arms looped loose around his neck, her cheek resting against his shoulder as his locks of chestnut hair tickled her temple. She squinted out towards the clearing with both boredom and dread.

“Can we go already?” she whispered shakily.

Dimitri opened the hatch.

“Alright,” Steve murmured, softly shifting her weight easily against him. “No one says a damn word once we’re out there. Not a peep.”

“I can’t promise that,” Dustin whispered solemnly. “I might see a cool stick.”

Steve just shook his head, his eyeroll nearly causing him a migraine. “Come on.”

They all stepped out into the blinding brightness.

Snow. Trees. Still no wind.

Their group crept quietly across to the Winnebago, with El sweeping each quadrant of the woods with her eyes, hand hovering slightly midair like a soft-tuned antenna. Dimitri trailed behind them all with his gun slung, discreet but ready to rumble.

When they reached the door, El took the lead, cracking it open… then they slipped inside one by one.

Max immediately raised her head from Steve’s shoulder. “Okay, but like, I’m not going first,” she whispered carefully.

Steve blinked. “You sure?”

“I’ve got—pee pressure,” she whispered urgently.

His brows pinched. “You mean peer pressure?”

“No,” Max hissed. “Pee pressure. Like, I can’t go when I know people are waiting.”

Steve blinked again. “That’s… so real.”

Max nodded solemnly. “I’m a private pisser.”

Dustin coughed into his shoulder to stop from laughing. Lucas turned to the wall and grinned into his elbow.

“Can confirm,” Lucas smirked quietly. She’s pee-shy.”

Max blushed as Steve, with the solemnity of a battlefield medic, gently set her down into a chair near the kitchen area.

“You wait here. I’ll guard the pissing zone.”

“Thought you said no talking,” Dustin snarked.

“Henderson? Shut it.”

“You shut it.”

Lucas darted into the bathroom first. The others waited in silence, huddled around the kitchen nook, weapons slung low, breath fogging in the cold air.

Max nibbled at her lower lip, staring at Steve. “You’re gonna make fun of me for the rest of my life, aren’t you.”

“No way,” Steve whispered mock-seriously. “I am in awe of your courage.”

Max tried not to smile and failed spectacularly.

Lucas emerged a minute later, looking relieved and proud.

“You good, Sinclair?” Steve asked, voice hushed.

Lucas gave a thumbs-up, then immediately crouched beside Max like he was her bodyguard now. She rested her foot lightly against his.

“Your turn, Henderson,” Steve said.

“Cool. Uh—sorry in advance, though,” Dustin muttered as he passed them. “Might be a… double feature.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lucas groaned.

Steve made a face. “Get the sequel over with, please.”

“The plot’s thick,” Dustin whispered as he hauled ass into the bathroom. From inside, he could be heard grumbling about the state of things. There was a spritz-spritz-spritz sound. Too much air freshener. Possibly half the can.

Steve tilted his head toward Max. “Still pee pressured?”

“Psh, nah I’m good now.”

“My condolences in advance,” Steve mumbled.

Max sighed as Dustin emerged, and he immediately gave her a hand, helping her stand up along with Lucas.

Steve jutted his chin at her. “Go for it.”

She took the bathroom next, while Steve kept watch with El and Dmitri. It didn’t take more than five or so minutes, but every passing second felt like centuries. 

The sound of something falling made everyone stiffen with fear, all eyes scanning for signs of life outside of the Winnebago.

Steve shuddered. “You good in there, Red?”

“All clear,” Max carefully whispered back.

When the door opened, Steve was already there with a warm, steady grip. Max lifted her arms wordlessly while Steve ducked, scooping her up like it was instinct.

She settled on his back again, her arms looped around his neck, chin pressed to his shoulder.

“Okay,” Steve said, low and steady, “now we just—”

“Dude,” Dustin interrupted in a fierce whisper. “You should pee too.”

Steve blinked at him. “What?”

“You’re gonna explode,” Dustin hissed. “You’ve been babysitting everyone else. Just do it.”

Lucas nodded solemnly. “Seriously, man. You’ve had to go since last night. You’re doing the Mom Thing again.”

Steve hesitated. Jaw clenched. “But—”

“We got her,” Lucas said, already stepping closer, one hand lifting toward Max.

“I give you my blessing,” Max added dryly, arms raising from Steve’s shoulders. “Go piss, king.”

Steve stared at all of them like they’d gone collectively insane. Like this was the worst possible moment for them to start playing sacrificial lambs about his bladder. 

But then Dimitri gave him the tiniest nod, just once, slow, deliberate. It was the kind of nod a soldier gave. A quiet transfer of duty.

So Steve let out a breath through his nose, muttering an, “Alright, fine,” and carefully handed Max off to Lucas. His fingers lingered just a second too long on her arm before he stepped back… still watching everyone as if he might need to turn around mid-stream and throw hands.

With one last glance at them, a look that made his heart stutter hard in his chest, he turned and disappeared into the Winnebago’s bathroom.

El shifted seamlessly into position beside the inner door. Dimitri moved up front, standing guard again, whole body angled, his face carved from stone. The kids settled into a hush so tense it almost vibrated.

Two minutes passed.

Three.

From the tank, you glanced toward the Winnebago in silent, fervent prayer, waiting for your love and flock to make it back in one piece. 

The trees outside didn’t move.

Inside the bathroom, Steve had one hand braced to the wall, the other fumbling with the zipper of his jeans. Head tipped forward. Shoulders tense. Getting it over with.

His big brown eyes flicked to the window…

Nothing.

The mirror was foggy from cold breath. The sink was coated in dust. The air smelled like Lysol and fear.

Okay, he thought to himself, in and out, let’s this over—

Scrape.

He froze, body locking up mid-stream. Eyes wide. Neck going rigid. Chillbumps raised.

That wasn’t wind.

That wasn’t snow.

That was movement.

Unnatural movement.

Lingering…

Searching…

Prowling the prey.

Outside the far wall of the Winnebago, something was dragging itself against the siding. Steve didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even dare finish zipping up until the last few drops hit the toilet water.

His chest rose.

Fell.

Silence.

Then another scrape. 

Closer.

The air turned thick. Steve’s blood chilled in his veins as he zipped his pants in one quiet, swiftly practiced motion, skipped washing his hands and moved for the door like a man possessed. His boots hit the floor like soft whispers. Muscles coiled.

He opened the bathroom door.

Everyone was already staring at him.

Dustin and Lucas had gone completely still, while El was still braced beside the door… fingers twitching, face taut, her eyes locked on his like they were the only two people in the world. 

Dimitri’s gun was halfway raised, jaw clenched, every single inch of him screaming tension.

Steve didn’t need anyone to say a word.

He knew.

He knew.

He stepped forward. In a single motion, Max was lifted, hoisted up, both arms looping around his neck as if her own instinct had already made the call for her. Her legs bent against his ribs. Her cheek pressed to his shoulder.

He glanced over his shoulder once, spotting the yellow knitted beanie that you’d finished knitting for him just a few days after you’d all made it here to this safe haven…

In that split second of peril, Steve imagined you now.

Back inside the tank, waiting for him.

Praying for him.

Holding your breath, eyes wide, your unsteady heartbeat thudding mercilessly inside your chest, trying to claim you and keep him from having you so long as you both shall live…

The image of you standing there, terrified and burning, rattled his brain as he stared at the knit beanie and let your unassigned nickname fall off his lips in prayer…

“Angel...”

No one else even heard it.

But it lit him up like a fuse.

Dustin and Lucas took their places at his flanks. El shifted closer to the opposite exit, hands glowing faintly now, the air around her crackling.

Outside the Winnebago, something began to circle.

It didn’t stomp. 

It didn’t growl.

It shuffled and sniffed.

It breathed in a way no lungs should.

Wet. Snarled. Viscous. 

Like its body moved on the memory of anatomy.

Dimitri locked eyes with Steve.

Steve looked at El.

El nodded.

Dimitri nodded.

Steve gritted his teeth.

Max clung tighter.

BOOM.

Eleven SLAMMED the door open and flung both arms out, a blast of force so violent it shook the pine needles loose from trees. Soil flew. Branches cracked. Something huge, glistening, warped, was now FLUNG backward into a trunk with a wet crunch.

Steve snatched up the beanie.

And on his mark, the kids bolted.

“GO!” Steve hissed, spinning toward the clearing. Max stayed tight on his back, her face buried in his neck as though she were hiding inside his shell.

Lucas and Dustin hauled ass. Footsteps kicking up all the brittle leaves, breath tight in their throats.

Steve kept Max locked against him with one strong arm, sprinting in perfect rhythm like she wasn’t even there.

El ran backward, both arms raised — eyes narrowed, another blast waiting in her palms.

Dimitri didn’t fire.

No shells, no bullets, no proof, no signs of life, no dead giveaways, no breadcrumbs left behind.

That’s what he kept telling himself while whirling around in a full 360. But his entire body and his eyes tracked the otherworldly creature in full perimeter sweeps, rifle raised, finger hovering over the trigger.

Then Dustin tripped.

He hit the earth with a crunch.

Steve pivoted on instinct, skidded, hauled him up with one hand, eyes darting to Max on his back, making sure she hadn’t slipped. She hadn’t. She just whimpered and clutched his jacket tighter.

“GO, GO, GO,” Lucas hissed from ahead. “MOVE—”

The creature lunged again, some horrific mass of bone and vine and ash and skin — and El BLASTED it sideways again, into the undergrowth.

Everyone’s mouths moved with frantic terror, the shape of this mystery monster ripping manic questions from all the deepest pits of their souls in soundless appall.

What the fuck is that?

What the SHIT?!

Another one?! ANOTHER ONE?!

Fucker’s UGLIER THAN A BITCH—

All of it was soundless, merely words shaped with six sets of petrified, trembling lips, heads whipping in all directions as they made the thirty second stretchers the way.

They were almost there.

The tank was in sight.

The snow burned their lungs.

Twenty feet total.

Fifteen.

Ten.

The hatch slammed open, Hopper’s arm reaching out like God himself calling his children home.

He hauled Dustin first. Then Lucas.

Then Steve, stumbling forward, shoved Max into your open arms, his voice cracking “Take her—”

You caught her. Collapsed backward, your hand already at her pulse. “Are you okay? Are you okay—?”

Max just nodded, dazed, shocky, breath caught halfway down her throat.

Then Steve crashed into your lap too, dragging half the earth’s flooring with him. You yanked him in like gravity, like instinct, like a lover, curling one hand into his jacket and the other into his hair.

Behind him, Dimitri and El dove in last, just as the hatch slammed shut — BOOM — sealing all of you in.

And suddenly you were all inside.

Crammed into the tank.

Breathless.

Sweating.

Alive.

Every adult was wide awake now. Joyce. Owens. Nancy. Eddie. Jonathan. Robin. Murray. Faces pale. Hands white-knuckled.

You gripped Steve’s face in both hands. “You good?” you whispered frantically. “Baby, you okay??”

Steve panted. Laughed, wheezily. “Thank fuck I pissed.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I got to piss,” he panted. “So… that’s something.”

You barked out a laugh and immediately kissed him all over. Sloppy, urgent kisses to his forehead, his scratchy jaw, the corner of his mouth, everywhere you could reach while still holding Max’s wrist in one hand and Dustin’s coat in the other.

“Christ, Harrington,” Murray muttered from up in the front, rubbing his face harshly. “The FUCK was out there?!”

“El neutralized it,” Dimitri added, panting. “Whatever it was. Creature is from down. And is down. For now.”

“Sick pun,” Robin trembled from the side of the tank, still perched at its canons. “Very good. Nice. 10/10!”

“No one makes a goddamn sound,” Hopper barked. “No lights. That was way too loud.”

Eddie huffed into the wall. “Shit sounded so fucked,” he barely muttered, still earning him some hissed shushing.

Lucas cradled Max next to Mike, who was trembling and looking over El with frantic worry. 

“Imagine if you hadn’t pissed,” Lucas carefully hissed, eyes on Steve as he engulfed Max’s shaky frame.

Steve dropped flat onto his back, dragging you down with him. “I’d seriously have piss-streaked Levi’s right now.”

“You’re welcome,” Dustin muttered, still wheezing. “Better than pissing yourself mid-sprint, though I can’t say it wouldn’t have made me laugh.”

“Shhhhhhh!…”

Dustin just waved off whichever group had thrown that his way. Likely the adults. Whatever, they lived. 

Another relieved huff rushed from your lips as you laid your head against Steve’s shoulder. “God bless.”

Dr. Owens was scribbling something down as he peeked out one of the small hatches with frantic eyes. But Murray just stood up like a corpse in a business suit.

“Welp,” he hissed. “Good day to be constipated.”

You choked on a laugh.

Steve snorted.

Eddie made a sound like he’d been exorcised.

Then Hopper added, “I’m gonna shit myself right now.”

“Same,” Joyce mumbled, looking dazed and completely serious. “It’s borderlining diarrhea territory.”

Jonathan looked scandalized but muffled his own snort into his palm next to Will, who basically did the same.

Nancy and Argyle sat nearby, guns in their laps, both still visibly pale. Eddie looked ready to pass out, while Robin had her head thrown back with silent laughter… probably picturing Hopper yelling about his explosive diarrhea.

Dimitri looked personally offended. “Americans.”

Owens didn’t look up from his notes or the slit in the tank. “One more person mentions bowel evacuation, I’ll sedate you all with diazepam.”

That did it.

The dam broke.

Everyone lost it — quietly, desperately, shoulders shaking as they tried not to scream. You collapsed onto Steve’s chest, Max’s long red locks of flaming hair brushing Lucas’s arm as she curled up in the crook of his hip. Dustin slumped sideways into Will. Lucas nudged Mike, who looked like he might just start sobbing. El knelt beside Max and touched her hand… and after a moment, she smiled at her, weak but real. Unshakeable.

You buried your face in Steve’s neck as his arm wrapped around your shoulder tightly.

“You got me here,” he whispered.

You didn’t lift your head. “Yeah? How’s that, Lover?”

He laughed again, breath catching. Suddenly, he tugged something out from his coat. Yellow tinged yarn… woven with love.

The beanie.

“…wh-what…?” 

The air left your lungs, your eyes brimming with hot, fresh tears as your gaze flicked up from the knitted gift to his pretty face.

His own eyes shone with mischief and defiance piercing through. “Couldn’t let whatever’s out there steal this bad boy. This is designer.”

Your chest bubbled with full lovesick laughter, agonizingly tight, but it had nothing to do with the incessantly irregular heartbeat themed beneath your skin. This tightness only ever came from Steve, ever since this whole thing began. Ever since you’d spoken to him for the first time, not just in passing, back in November 1984.

He smiled now, too. You felt it under your cheek. The kind of smile that only happened when everyone made it out alive. Then Steve laughed again. Breathlessly. You didn’t even need to look to know that he was smiling like a dork. That look on his face only happened when everyone was alive and accounted for.

Murray slouched back up in the front like he was already regretting waking up today. “We’re never doing bathroom shifts again,” you whispered.

“I’m holding it forever,” Steve agreed.

Max groaned. “My pee pressure will never recover now.”

Steve and Dustin both silently wheeze as Lucas leaned against her shoulder, murmuring, “Sorry, baby.”

You blinked, craning your neck. “Your—what…?”

The world creaked slightly around you all from outside of these war-built walls. But inside of Dingus 1…in this tin can packed with too many bodies and too many feelings, there was safety.

However temporary that safety might be.

Steve’s hand tugged Dustin into the mix. Eleven joined silently. Then Lucas and Max. Then Will and Mike. All of you were now linked, tangled up together like threadbare rope that refused the fray until it broke.

Chapter Seventy-Five Undisclosed Species

Last Week of March • 1987 DAY [?] • Inside Dingus-1 • 11:12 AM

“What the shit was that?”

It wasn’t even clear who asked it first. Maybe Hopper. Or maybe Eddie. Maybe all of you, psychically. But it didn’t matter, because the question tore through the inside of the tank with the ferocity of an earthquake, bouncing off every wall like a ricochet bullet.

“Like no, seriously,” Dustin barked, chest still heaving, “what in the everlasting, demonic, walking, wheezing, death-fart was that?”

“It moved like a drunk skeleton,” Robin whispered, still pressed against the side of the tank, shaking her head with short, staccato jerks. “A big… fungus skeleton. With like, what, like—vines?? Are we doing vines again?!”

“No.” Nancy’s voice came sharply from beside her. “No. Those weren’t vines. That wasn’t even—I dunno…”

“Well what was it, then?” Eddie demanded. “Because that thing wasn’t from this planet.” He was pacing already, hair unruly, a tank trench forming with every frantic pass of his boots. “It looked like an inside-out cryptid that learned to do pilates!”

“It didn’t have a face,” Lucas said, still curled around Max, his hand gripping her elbow like he could anchor her to the present. “That wasn’t an animal.”

Nancy’s haunted blue eyes stared into oblivion. “They never have a face…” 

“That was otherworldly,” Lucas emphasized. “But not the shit we’ve seen before. Nah, that was—”

“Not one of the usual Demogorgon types, no,” Hopper growled, arms crossed. “I’ve never seen it. Not even in the lab files.”

“…El?” Mike asked, quietly.

She shook her head. “I’ve never seen it either.”

“Maybe no one has,” you stressed, still holding Steve’s hand, your other arm looped loosely around Max where she sat quietly beside you. “Because if that thing’s a new addition to the apocalypse, I’d really like to unsubscribe.”

Steve gave your hand the softest squeeze, but his other hand still trembled faintly against your knee. Also, bless him, the beanie was now tucked into his belt. The yellow yarn stood out like defiance in the dim lighting of the tank.

“No, seriously,” Argyle said, completely sincere, staring at the group like he’d just walked into the world’s worst art gallery. “Can anyone just, like, circle back to the fact that that thing sniffed at us…?”

Jonathan’s voice was gravelly. “That wasn’t a sniff, man. That was like… a slurp.”

“Oh God,” Will muttered.

“…think I might vomit,” Nancy mumbled, then looked surprised at herself for saying it.

Robin pointed at her dramatically. “You’re freaking out.”

“I am not freaking out,” Nancy snapped.

“You are. You’re literally sweating.”

“Our friends ran for their life, Robin.”

“You’re doing the thing where your voice gets high.”

“You’re doing the thing where you talk without stopping.”

“She’s becoming me!” Robin yelled, to the room at large. “She’s Nancy Buckley now, and I’m so proud—”

Witnessing this was, truly, something else entirely.

Jonathan’s slow head turn towards them was somehow the funniest thing that had happened in hours.

You’d clapped your hand over your mouth, shoulders shaking. Eddie slowed his pacing just long enough to glance their way, his voice coming out ragged after he spent a solid minute staring at them with raised brows.

“We’re all gonna die…” he morbidly mused, “…and that’s what you’re worried about...”

“We are not all gonna die,” Joyce corrected firmly, from her position at the front. “But we do need to talk about what this means.”

Murray stood up. “It means our lovely little vacation resort is probably over.”

No one laughed.

Neither did he.

“I’m serious,” he continued, eyes dark behind his glasses. “That wasn’t a fluke. It didn’t just wander here.”

“So what then?” you asked curiously. “It tracked us?”

Steve’s jaw flexed. “Or it was sent.”

That hushed the tank.

“…sent,” Hopper repeated, flatly. “You think the military sent it and dropped it like a holiday package?”

“They’d never,” Dr. Owens muttered. Those were his first words in nearly twenty minutes, and they landed.

You actually believe that.

Eddie? Not so much.

“You sure?” Eddie said, voice acidic. “Because that thing felt like bait.”

“Or a bloodhound,” Will murmured. “Something to sniff out survivors. Wanted survivors on the run.”

Steve looked at him sharply. “Exactly.”

“No,” Owens said again, more loudly this time. “Listen to me. There’s no official protocol for creature deployment. None. I worked in that system for years. That thing… it’s either rogue, or…”

“Or…?” Hopper pushed.

Owens hesitated.

“…or someone’s trying to draw you out,” he finally said.

The silence that followed was so suffocating, it felt like even the steel around your group flinched.

Dmitri cleared his throat, slow and deliberate. “You saw how I didn’t fire.”

Steve nodded once. “I saw.”

“There was good reason.”

You looked up at him. “Risk of exposure.”

“Exactly,” Dmitri said. “Gunfire. Heat flashes. Blood trails. Any of that, it draws eyes. Drones. Satellites. Troops. We shoot, we sign our death certificates.”

“Which means no one goes out there,” Hopper said. “Not until we decide what the hell we’re doing.”

Max was still quiet. Dustin’s voice broke through gently. “Do we even know if that thing’s gone?”

Everyone went still.

It hadn’t occurred to you.

It hadn’t occurred to any of you.

“Fuck,” Steve breathed, running a hand down his face. “We didn’t see a body.”

“We didn’t see anything,” Robin whispered.

“I should’ve checked,” El muttered shamefully. “I should’ve made sure—”

“No,” Steve cut in immediately. “You did exactly what you were supposed to do. You saved us.”

Eleven looked at him sadly. But Steve’s eyes never wavered. Eventually, she gave him a small smile of gratitude. But the tension sat, bloated and unmovable.

“We made a deal,” Joyce’s voice broke the spiral. “That if something gives us a reason to leave… we leave.”

You turned toward her, your stupid heart thudding.

Steve looked haunted by her reminder.

“We all agreed,” Joyce repeated. “No debate. No pride. No half-measures.”

Her eyes flicked, almost painfully, towards Steve.

You felt him tense beside you. Because Joyce now had her gaze fixed on him for confirmation. For leadership.

For approval.

“…Joyce,” Hopper murmured, but she shook her head.

“He’s the one who’s been keeping us alive,” she said, not unkindly. “Not that you haven’t, Jim, but he’s the one who knows how to balance family with facts. With structure.”

Steve could have fucking bawled at her words. At her blind faith in him. Her loyalty, her trust…

Joyce Byers didn’t offer that to anyone, not on this level, except for Hopper. But now, she was giving it to him and going as far as making that known to everyone.

“I trust him,” she continued gently, but just as adamant. “All of us do. We agreed on that.”

Jim nodded humbly. 

Sincerely.

“We did,” he confirmed quietly, his usually hardened eyes flicking over kindly to Steve… who now stared between the two of them with every wordless emotion flooding his big brown eyes.

He gave them a quick, grateful nod. Swallowed the lump in his throat. Flexed his jaw to keep it from quivering.

“And we all agreed,” Hopper continued, “Like Joyce said, we agreed that if it came to this—”

“It came to this,” Murray interrupted, loud and dry.

Everyone turned.

He was standing in the center of the tank, arms crossed, and for once? Your uncle was deadly serious.

Zero snark.

Zero sarcasm.

Zero assholery.

“This place has been good,” he said. “We’ve had heat. Food. No sightings. Three whole weeks, and yeah, that’s a miracle. A big one. But that thing out there? That was a storm warning. And I hate to say it, but…” Murray pursed his lips beneath his scruff, sucking them in before letting them pop back open. “I don’t think… we’re the only ones who don’t know what it is.”

You blinked at him, eyes wide, lips parting in anticipation.

“That’s what’s scariest,” Murray added. “Not that it found us. That they might not have a clue what it is either.”

“So what, we… so we move?” Robin asked.

“We have to,” Murray said.

Steve was deadly quiet now.

You looked over at him, your voice soft. “Hey, lover?”

He exhaled, brow furrowed, his voice cracking. “I know.”

His soft eyes met yours, warm and wrecked.

But you just smiled, albeit barely, nose scrunching. “You grabbed the beanie.”

That gently broke something in him. His face softened all at once, a sobered shadow washing over his features.

“I wasn’t gonna let it go,” he said, almost sheepishly.

Argyle, bless his soul, looked downright moved. “Bro,” he whispered. “That thing’s like… hand-woven loyalty. That’s true love.”

You blinked, biting your lip. “Don’t say that. I will cry.”

“I hope you do,” Steve whispered, nudging your leg. “You cry so cute.”

“Don’t make me fall in love with you again,” you hissed.

“Too late,” Eddie muttered from across the tank. “It’s disgusting how in love you two are. You should be ashamed.”

You shot him the most perplexed look, zero heat or actual frustration behind it. Just unconditional love, mixed with a lot of rattled up feels.

Steve warmly kissed your temple without missing a beat. But even as you curled in closer, your irregular heartbeat still thudded with the bittersweet truth.

This place was no longer safe.

It was no longer a safe haven. 

Not anymore.

“Alright,” Hopper said. “So what are our options?”

“We don’t go toward it,” Nancy said.

“Obviously,” Max mumbled, voice dry but small.

“But do we try and find it…?” Lucas asked.

“Hell no,” Steve said instantly. “Love you, Sinclair? But yeah, that’s a no.”

“But what if it brings others?” Mike asked. “What if there’s more of them?”

You could feel the tide of dread swelling again.

“We scout only if necessary,” Dmitri compromised. “I don’t like gambling on an unknown species. Especially not one smart enough to circle the Winnebago like a shark.”

“And not one that walked away,” Will added.

Everyone went still again.

Then Owens stood. 

“This is the call,” he said, firmly. “You’re moving. You’ll break down the Winnebago and the tank, make it look abandoned. No trace. No tracks.”

“You’re with us?” Joyce asked.

“Joyce, I’ve been with you,” Owens snapped, face red with resolve. “I am not letting any of you outta my sight, nor am I gonna watch any of you go out there alone. And if we’re dealing with something new, then we have bigger problems than just staying hidden.”

He looked around.

“We all move at first light.”

There was a new silence now. 

A shared silence. 

It breathed, it waited, it let the old words die off so that new words could be found. It allowed everyone to find each other in the stillness, and to make sure everyone was on the same page simply with glances, unblinking eye contact and quiet trust.

Everyone eventually turned to Steve.

And then he nodded first, setting it in stone.

You reached over, taking his hand in yours.

El took Max’s, while Robin linked her fingers with Nancy.

Eddie clapped Steve’s shoulder, the two of them sharing an all-knowing look of trust and brotherhood. Dustin did the same.

And slowly, everyone breathed in…

…and then breathed out.

“I’m really gonna hate carrying all this shit,” Murray now muttered, dry and dreaded.

Argyle raised a finger. “I’ll handle the canned goods.”

Steve leaned his head back.

Three weeks.

This place had felt like hope for three full weeks.

And maybe that was the tragedy of it.

Even safety had an expiration date.

Inside Dingus-1 • 9:42 PM

The tank was quiet.

Well, relatively.

From up front, you could hear the low static click of the Walkman rig as Murray passed it from one shoulder to the next, the wired headphones split between him and Jim and Steve. 

The three of them sat up front in a hushed little triangle, heads slightly bowed, sharing a silent kind of gravity that came with the weight of knowing something none of the others knew yet.

The weather broadcast cut through faint static. Clipped, low-pitched and clinical… like it was being read from a bunker.

“…Environment Canada reporting cold front pushing southward from James Bay… expected to stall over the Algoma District and wider southern Ontario corridor by early Friday morning…”

“…precipitation models indicate potential for heavy rainfall with transitional freezing conditions across inland elevations… probability of whiteout event remains low but rising if temperatures drop below forecasted thresholds…”

“…wind gusts exceeding 50 kilometers per hour anticipated, low-level aviation not advised… sustained cloud ceiling projected below five hundred feet… ground visibility will fluctuate…”

“…communication interference possible… monitor regional bands for local advisories… transport activity should remain minimal…”

“…further bulletins to follow.”

“Three days,” Murray whispered, pulling the headphones off, rubbing his scruff like it personally owed him money. “We’ve got three fucking days.”

Hopper leaned back in the driver’s seat, eyes forward on the tank’s windshield even though there was nothing but darkness and pine shadow outside.

“That storm hits right,” he muttered, “we’ll be ghosts. No satellites, no drones. Nothing flies in that shit.”

Steve sat quietly between them. His thumb was pressed to his lip like he’d been biting it too hard again. When he spoke, it was low and deliberate.

“So we wait.”

Murray squinted over at him. “You sure?”

Hopper glanced Steve’s way too. But not because he doubted him. Just because he wanted to see it in his eyes, just like Murray.

The younger man nodded once. “Yeah. We move when the skies shut down. Narrows down who and what we’ve all gotta avoid, and we’re best off with less to dodge.” 

No dramatics. No heroic speech. Just a decision. Clean. Final. Leadership by clarity alone.

Murray leaned back, giving Hopper a look like, Jesus Christ, this kid makes fewer bad calls than we do.

The cynic clicked his tongue.

“You know,” he muttered, “I’ve watched you get handed nothing but goddamn impossible decisions for weeks. Not once have you made a dumb one.”

Steve faintly sniffed a laugh. “Don’t jinx me.”

“No, seriously,” Murray pressed, eyeing Hopper sidelong. “It’s fucking whack. Like how do you even do that? Who taught you that? Jesus? Bob Newby? Mr. Miyagi?”

“Sure wasn’t Rick,” Hopper muttered smugly.

Steve snorted, barely biting back a grin. Hopper chuckled under his breath. Because yeah… Rick Harrington was a world class dick. And not a wise one.

“I think it’s called trauma,” Steve said dryly.

“Whatever it is, it works,” Hopper murmured, quietly proud.

Steve just gently sighed and leaned forward, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose. The silence that settled between the three of them was heavy in that warm, male camaraderie kind of way. Shared trust, and mutual weight bearing.

Behind them?

The entire opposite tone.

You were nestled in the belly of the tank like a goddamn chaos magnet, cradled in warmth and surrounded by limbs. Jonathan and Argyle were flanking you like two very stoned brotherly bookends. Dustin and Lucas had been whispering about something involving RPG stats, while Mike was ranting about someone being a warlock “build-wise” and not “by class,” and Max had curled up beside you like a cat made of nerves and sarcasm, just close enough to be held if she needed. You didn’t press. You never did. 

And that’s why she stayed.

“It’s a meditative act, bro,” Argyle mused. “And lowkey survivalist. Like, warm socks? Fire.”

Jonathan was on your left, eyes barely open, mumbling the occasional yeah or true into whatever passing cloud of thought drifted by. Argyle sat on your right, humming softly as he absentmindedly unraveled a piece of thread from the edge of his sleeve, clearly imagining it was yarn and that he had needles in his hands. 

He’d already brought up knitting twice tonight.

“You gonna knit me a whole hoodie whenever we make it outta this?” you asked.

“Make it out?” he repeated dreamily. “Girl, whenever our gang makes it out, I’m gonna crochet you a whole-ass house.”

That earned a snort from Jonathan and a slow clap from Max, while Eleven moved to giggle against her now.

You were halfway through re-teaching the group the rules of Would You Rather: Apocalypse Edition, when Eddie dropped to the floor across from you with a dramatic sigh and a smirk that spelled trouble in three dialects.

“I heard there was a party,” he sang, flopping onto his elbows.

“There was,” you said. “Then you got here.”

“Ouch,” Eddie grinned, dragging his booted feet forward until he was stretched out like the prince of chaos, eyes zeroed in on yours. “I don’t know why you flirt with me if you’re gonna be mean.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Keeps you humble.”

Eddie tilted his head, feigning contemplation. “Does it?”

“…Edward,” Dustin muttered, mid-sip of a juice box he’d stolen from the Winnebago stash. “I know this is the end of the world, but can we maybe not traumatize me before bedtime?”

That only earned a mischievous glint from Eddie. “Psh, traumatize? You’re dramatic. It’s called friendly flattery, Henderson. Try flirting sometime, you'll get it.”

“I have,” Dustin deadpanned. “With Suzie.”

Eddie tilted his head like an owl with a hooted, “Who?” just to fuck with him.

“My long lost flame, you asshole!”

Eddie grinned devilishly, pointing. “Different type'a flirting going on here.”

Lucas cocked his head at Eddie. “Wait… are you flirting?”

“He’s flirting with trouble,” you snorted and clarified.

“Technically, she started it,” Eddie declared proudly.

The boys gawked.

“She has a boyfriend,” Mike whisper-yelled, now looking betrayed on Steve’s behalf like someone had just spit on the American flag.

“Oh my God,” you laughed heartily, covering your mouth. “Michael. Relax, boo, he’s just being an idiot—”

“Uh, he’s being a traitor,” Dustin sassed, eyes on Eddie as he jabbed an accusing finger. 

“Damn,” Eddie arched a brow. “Your extremist verbiage tonight is next level.”

Dustin stared. “Dog. You’re up against Steve.”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s like—like—like her having the Holy Grail and then letting some crusty ass goblin come sniffing around.”

“Right, so I’m gonna need you to never call me a goblin again,” Eddie said. “At least not with crustyass attached to it.”

Jesus, his delivery was so dry.

You were already losing it, snorting as you leaned into Max, who was slowly curling backward into your lap like she physically could not handle just how stupid this was getting. Jonathan had given up pretending to be asleep and was now shaking silently, his hand over his face.

That was when El, that sweet and wide-eyed baby girl, tilted her head at you and asked, “…wait. What does flirting mean again?”

You wheezed. “Okay, okay,” you laughed, pressing a hand to your mouth. “It’s when someone’s being extra nice but in a weirdly charming way. Like they’re teasing you because they’re into you.”

“She’s talking about me,” Eddie said proudly, perched right across from you, his legs stretched out, arms draped dramatically across his bent knees. “And I was absolutely flirting with her. I also regret nothing.”

“She has a boyfriend!” Dustin repeated, like the concept still wasn’t clicking.

“She has Steve!” Mike added, just as scandalized, as if that clarified anything. “You can’t just—!”

“Jesus,” Eddie said, mock-aghast. “What is this, Puritan New England?”

Lucas, somehow the most solemn of the trio, glared at Eddie like he’d committed a war crime. “Dude. Nuh-uh.”

“Back me up, Sinclair. C’mon.”

“Not cool,” Lucas shook his head like a disappointed dad. “Not cool, in the name of brotherhood.”

You nearly burst into tears laughing. “Boys, it’s fine!” you gasped, waving both hands at them, your voice hiccuping from the effort. “He’s kidding, he’s being Eddie!”

“He’s being an ass,” Dustin stated. “Ass with no class.”

“I’m being fun,” Eddie countered, then turned while raising his brows at you. “Also, you’re adorable whenever you crinkle up your nose like that.”

“Ope,” Max chirped with morbid glee. 

Lucas pointed sharply. “Munson...”

“Munson, you’re making my kids mad,” you warned him, deeply chuckling the entire time as they scowled at your sides.

“Nah. Even Mike can’t be mad.”

“I am definitely fucking mad,” Mike said, arms crossed, but his expression was more confused than angry. “Dude, what even is this dynamic right now?”

“Beautiful polyamorous chaos,” Argyle answered, smiling peacefully as he leaned his head on Jonathan’s shoulder. “Platonically, of course.”

Jonathan choked on his own laughter. “Bro. I can’t breathe.”

“Oh my God,” Max snickered, flopping backward across your lap. “This is so stupid.”

“What… is going on back here?” 

Hopper had asked it from up front.

Sure enough? He and Murray were both looking back, and from the looks on their faces, they’d been listening to this dumpster fire for at least three minutes too long.

Steve was already turned halfway around in his seat with his brows raised, caught somewhere between horrified, confused and inexplicably fond. 

Murray didn’t even ask. He just muttered, “You’re raising feral baby wolves.”

Your eyes were already watering. “Don’t diss my pack,” you said with a grin too wide to contain. “They’re yours, too.”

“Oh I don’t think so, Chick.”

He hadn’t even finished that sentence before your eyes had gone as wide as saucers with the most manic here’s Johnny a la ‘The Shining’ type of expressions, all while you exaggeratedly mouthed to him… ‘GRAND-PUPPIES.’

He mouthed back, ‘NOOO,’ just as theatrically. And then it was just a crazy-eyed staredown as your children kept on bickering with Eddie, Jonathan and Argyle.

Steve, though? That handsome boy of yours didn’t even look mad. Just tired. And in love. And a little in disbelief… and also, lovesick and willingly overstimulated.

You simply smiled back at him with a sheepish shrug and mouthed, “Sorry.”

He only mouthed back, ‘marrying you.’

“You’re all very loud,” Robin muttered dryly from her post by the back slat. She gestured between you and her best friend. “You two especially.”

She was pacing in a tight little oval, alongside Nancy, who was holding a set of binoculars like a weapon. Dmitri was at the top of the ladder, silently watching the woods out of the narrow slats of the tank like some avenging guardian angel of sorts. He had one arm propped in a side slit, his eyes peeled, scanning for movement.

“If we’re so loud, come join us!” Eddie jeered cheerfully.

Robin scoffed. “Can’t. Kinda busy channeling my anxiety productively right now.”

Nancy smirked. “It’s working.”

Dimitri didn’t turn, but he nodded “It is. You have walked six laps, Buckley.”

Robin looked stunned. “You’re counting?”

He nodded solemnly.

“You’re count—Nance,” she turned to Nancy. “Nance, he's counting! This is so validating.”

“He is also judging,” Nancy said wryly.

“I am not judging,” Dimitri replied, bone dry. “But if I were, I would say your pacing is slightly deranged.”

Nancy grinned to herself.

Robin just looked smug. “He thinks I’m deranged. That means we’re bonding.”

Dimitri didn’t answer, but a faint grin twitched the corner of his mouth. Nancy caught it.

She said nothing, but she saw it.

Steve saw the whole thing. You’d caught most of it but got pulled back into the kids’ nonsense with Eddie, and Hopper was already grinning upfront with both your boy and your uncle, all while Joyce and Owens were dead to the world, getting hardcore sleep (like the icons they are.)

And then it happened.

The giggle from Jonathan cracked first, high-pitched and stupid. Argyle followed, nearly wheezing. Then you were doubled over laughing again, your arms clutched to your sides, Eddie grinning like a devil, talking mad shit.

It spread fast. Robin was snorting. Max giggled. El looked lost, but giggled too, asking, “Why is it funny?” which only made it worse.

But then something sharp hit you.

Right in the chest.

The laughter cut off like a vinyl scratch.

“Tahahaha—skkkktsaaah—!!”

Your hand flew to your ribs, the ache harsh and sick and sudden, and your full body tilted sideways like your own blood had turned on you. Your smile faltered mid-breath.

Dustin saw it first. “Wait—wait, are you—?”

“Hey—hey, hey, hey,” Eddie switched gears, eyes going wide. “What’s wrong? Bauman??”

Your breath came out ragged. The pain spiked again. Not a heart attack, no but something mean and jagged ripped across your heartbeat, making your limbs tingle and your chest seize. Like your heart was lurching just out of reach of itself.

“It’s okay,” you managed, smiling grimly through clenched teeth. You exhaled, grit your teeth, winced through it. “It’s just my asshole heart.”

That sentence made everyone go still.

You weren’t even crying.

You were smiling.

And somehow? That was worse.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve muttered, dropping down in front of you like he’d been teleported.

Murray was right behind him.

Dr. Owens was already awake, like he’d been listening in his sleep. He crossed over to you and knelt beside Steve, quietly pulling out a stethoscope.

Seriously, they all gathered round within blinks of an eye.

“Still beating,” Owens said softly. “Irregular. But stable.”

You looked up at Steve as he cupped your cheek in one trembling hand.

“I’m okay,” you whispered, and it was even true.

But Steve looked broken. Not angry. Not frantic. Just broken in that deep, helpless, why can’t I fix this? way that cracked every rib in your body with love.

“You can’t laugh now…?” he said, voice hoarse.

“Hey, I’ll take pain if it comes with joy,” you wheezed back with that defiant smile. 

“Don’t say that,” Steve huffed. “Don’t—don’t make it sound like you’re settling.”

You tilted your head, your palm touching his wrist. “I’m not settling, lover,” you murmured. “Just choosing what matters.”

He dropped his head, eyes closing for one long second before they met your gaze again with ferocious intensity.

Eleven sat down beside you and reached over to clutch your other hand. Robin hovered just behind Steve, her palm firm on his shoulder, while Eddie stared at the floor like he might punch it into the earth’s core.

Mike looked wrecked. Dustin looked furious. Lucas blinked fast and looked away. 

Will, poor baby, had woken up from his sleep to stare tearfully, as Joyce made her way over with a water, as though she hadn’t just been fast asleep.

“Here, hun,” she murmured gently, already popping the cap so that you could hydrate. 

Dr. Owens…?

He stayed silent. But his eyes flicked to Steve. To Eleven.

And you saw it.

The quiet knowledge.

Not yet.

Maybe someday.

But not yet.

Eventually, you took a breath. And then another. And you looked at all of them, these people you’d kill for, that you would die for and ache with if it’s the last thing you do.

“S’okay,” you said softly, nodding at Steve with a wink. “Still on.”

The first time you’d told him something similar to that… was right after he’d spent too many minutes pounding your chest and ribs, all while whimpering oxygen back into your airwaves.

S’back on… you did it…

Now, he gave you a wobbly smile as you looked at him with that same survivalist exhaustion that refused to quit. And even if you did try to quit, Steve wouldn’t let it happen. Ever.

You didn’t get that choice.

Steve would give you every single choice in this world, but when it came to being without you? No. That wasn’t up to you. Not anymore.

“This thing onnnn?”

The most random, nasally voice sounded off from… of all the people inside the tank…

Nancy.

She gave your chest the sweetest little knock-knock with her knuckles, gently and with an exaggeratedly perplexed expression, as if trying to solve a mystery as she squinted right where your heart was.

“Hmm,” Nancy hummed. “Hulloh-oh. Hulloh-ohhhh?”

“Errrpern urrrrpppp,” someone else joined her.

It was freaking Argyle. 

They sounded like muppets on acid as they knocked on your chest like it was their neighbor’s house, like they just wanted to come inside and have a nice chat.

Steve and Robin both stared, lips parted in soft surprise. All the kids looked the exact same way, their eyes big and wide and round and curious.

Your face wore something similar, but only for a flickering handful of seconds before you subtly reeled, sputtering with hesitant laughter. 

“Are you guys—??”

“Erts mai money and I want it naaaoooww,” Jonathan cut you off, now fully engaged in Nancy and Jonathan’s act.

Murray glared from right beside Steve. His narrowed eyes flicked between all of you, dissecting the situation in that usual I’m judging all of you sort of way… but he actually stayed quiet and let it happen, and the pinch between his brows eased.

Dmitri hummed, startling everyone, despite its low volume. “Debt collectors,” he deadpanned.

Eddie snorted at that, finally done with burning a hole in the floor and deciding to just let the continued nonsense that you, Nancy, Jonathan and Argyle had going on was all that mattered right now.

Dr. Owens also smiled as he kept monitoring quietly, all while Joyce embraced the boys, who kept scowling back fears and maybe tears, too. But they softened and eased up more, as your muppet impression made all of them finally smirk at the sight.

Steve now just wore the most unusually fond, lovesick expression in his pretty face, and Robin leaned against his shoulder, her freckled face tender with amusement.

Max and El cuddled. 

The redhead grinned brightly. “Grief in this house ain’t never been normal,” she murmured.

“It really hasn’t,” El whispered back to her.

That’s when Hopper’s voice came from the front. “Hey, so, uhhh,” he said. “If everyone’s done emotionally combusting back there—Murray? Steve? You wanna tell ‘em?”

You blinked as Murray huffed a sigh, then stood.

Steve rose beside him. “We got three days,” he stated simply. “Storm’s rolling in. No air travel. Total whiteout.”

“Radar goes dead,” Murray added. “Everything goes dark. We move then.”

A beat of silence.

And then? Everyone nodded.

All at once. No protest. No debate.

Just relief.

Even if it meant sitting inside a steel tube for three more nights, you’d earned the right to exhale. You could finally rest.

Together.

Somewhere in the back, Argyle now exhaled deeply and flopped backward like he’d just won the lottery. “I can totally wait three days,” he whispered.

Jonathan laughed softly, still holding back the tears you didn’t even know were there.

And Steve, now kneeling back down beside you, took your hand in both of his.

His lips pressed warmly to the clump of intertwined fingers and palms while his forehead rested against your temple, both eyes closed as he claimed his spot for the night, just breathing you in… and you sighed right into him, nuzzling.

Three full weeks of safety.

Three more days on the clock.

🖤

Forever dedicated to Cherie & @aloneinthehellfire 🖤 TAGLIST {full} @moonlightdreamer111 @tangledluver @aloneinthehellfire @silkholland @ihaveproblemsihaveproblems @brinleighsstuff @definitelynotherr @silkholland @sucker-4-angst @bookkeeperlove @xblueriddlex @madaboutjoe @ucannotcompare @goosy-goose  @ashkuuuu @ashbye@soybeans-and-coffee  @yourelivingwrong @scaredofbeingbasic  @cathx91  @just-a-harmless-patato @unlikelytacotheorist  @chloewatersss  @cherrynukas  @cheugy-djobe @delulu4bucky  @calszonex @thecreelhouse @nancywalkemdownwheeler

Max was draped across Steve’s back, arms loose around his shoulders, legs tucked gently against his sides as he walked beside you. His boots made soft crunches in the snow. You walked close enough to bump elbows.

“She’s got height today,” you murmured proudly.

“She’s showing off,” Steve muttered, glancing up. He gently called out. “Show-off.”

“I can hear you all praising me,” Eleven said from twelve feet up.

“Then come down and fight me,” Steve called.

Max giggled on his back, chin on his shoulder. “You’d lose.”

“You wound me,” Steve teased flatly.

“She’s not wrong,” you said, hiding a grin behind your yellow scarf.

Behind you, Lucas and Dustin walked quietly together, the radio in Dustin’s hand giving off soft crackles of static. A half-sentence would burst through every few seconds—

“…Eastern corridor lockdown…”

“…deaths confirmed, wildlife interference suspected…”

“…the military still advises discretion in all…”

Then static again.

Lucas nudged the volume lower. “She’s been up there a while,” he murmured, glancing upward.

“She’s scanning for everything,” Dustin pointed out, expression tight. “Especially if those deaths really were…”

He didn’t need to say it.

Lucas knew. “Yup.”

Demodogs. Or worse.

Everyone had been thinking it, ever since those reports came through last night. Animal attacks, missing persons, unexplained destruction in the Dakotas. Not Illinois. Not yet. But “not yet” was doing too much work these days.

“She sees nothing in the perimeter so far,” Mike said quietly, walking close behind you with Hopper.

“She doesn’t see a bear either, does she?” Hop muttered, glancing around like he was trying to get ahead of the next disaster.

“If she does, I’m giving it your sandwich,” Steve said.

Max snorted on his back. “You don’t have a sandwich.”

“I have your sandwich,” he said smugly.

“Give it.”

“Maybe.”

You sweetly scrunched your nose at them as your boots slowed in the snow as you turned, watching El drift slowly back toward the ground like gravity had just remembered she existed.

Mike exhaled hard. “God, that part never gets easier.”

“She good?” Hopper asked.

“She’s good,” Mike nodded, already moving forward. “She just needs some food now.”

“You and her both,” Joyce said, stepping up from the path ahead with ziplock bags of triangle sandwiches, grinning like some domestic goddess of apocalypse cuisine.

Murray came beside her, holding an armful of warm thermoses. “Hot coffee. Fresh-ish sandwiches. Praise us.”

Dustin saluted. “I always do.”

You and Steve both stepped aside to let El down gently, and then Steve bent forward to help Max slide off of his back. She landed with a soft hop and grinned at him as he started rubbing her arms for warmth.

“You’re a good horse,” she said to Steve, taking the sandwich he handed her from Joyce.

“I’m a war horse, thank you,” Steve corrected, flipping his perfect hair with pride. “Like Shadowfax. Or that one from Mulan.”

“Khan,” you, Max and Lucas all said at once.

Dustin beamed. “Nerds.”

“Period,” you winked, tearing the sandwich bag open and biting off half in one go.

Steve looked at you with visible joy. “God, I love it when you eat.”

You wiggled your eyes at him over the crust.

“That’s hot,” Max drawled, chewing.

You gave her a thumbs up, mouth full. “Thffankf.”

The way that Steve watched you eat was equally as romantic as it was sexy. Which was weird and didn’t make any sense to you, but you had learned to know better than to question things like that when it came to Steve Harrington and why he made the mundane, weirdly magical.

Joyce handed more sandwiches out with Hopper’s help, and everyone slowly formed a small half-circle around the edge of a shallow creekbed. It was shallow enough to hop across but wide enough to make noise if someone slipped.

Max was now sitting down in the snow beside Lucas on top of his outer jacket, and she leaned into him while they both shared thermos sips. She offered a tuna triangle to El, who took it with a soft thanks and a distant look in her eye as she kept scanning the woods, pensive.

Dustin and Joyce?

God help them, they were squatting by a cluster of frozen cattails debating plant migration.

“See that bark texture?” Joyce whispered.

Dustin squinted. 

Well shit.

“That’s…” he tilted his head, plopping the last of his tiny PB&J triangle sandwich into his mouth as he squatted.

“That’s glacial variance, right?”

Dustin blinked repeatedly. He slowly turned to glance up at her as she looked back, her brows raised. “Yes, Mrs. Byers,” he whispered back with hushed reverence. “Wow. Wow.”

She grinned. “Yeah?”

“That’s entirely correct.”

Joyce nodded, subtly smug. “Well hear me out,” she sighed, now digging out another triangle for herself... Then another for him. She jutted her chin towards the trees. “There’s another thing up here…”

Everyone agreed silently not to disturb them as they trailed off on the search for plant prophecies.

It was sacred.

You were still watching them when you felt something heavy settle beside you. Murray sauntered slowly with his arms crossed, mouth twisted up in a pensive purse, eyes scanning the trees like they were being graded.

“You good, Unc?” you asked, brushing sandwich crumbs off your coat.

He blinked once, squinting now. “If I admit yes, you’ll get smug. If I admit no, you’ll get clingy.”

You wrapped both arms around his waist immediately. “I’m gonna do that either way.”

He groaned. “Get off.”

“Never.”

“You are a parasite.”

You squeezed harder. “And you love me.”

He rolled his eyes like a man in agony. Then threw one arm around your shoulder, sighing dramatically.

“I was a free man once,” he grumbled.

“No one believes that.”

You both stood like that for a while. Just breathing. Just watching, him faux-grumbling and you nuzzling more as he pretended not to smile.

It was almost enough to feel safe.

“Back to camp soon,” Hopper called. “El’s gonna need to rest. We’ll talk about the next supply run with the others once we’re back in range.”

Lucas stood and offered his arm out to Max, who took it without blinking and let him take her hand, all while Steve crouched to let her climb onto his back again. El reached for Hopper’s hand, and he hoisted her up effortlessly onto his shoulders like he’d done since she was little. She let out the tiniest giggle, and you saw Mike grin at the sound like it was the only thing keeping him breathing.

You leaned into Murray again. “Race ya.”

“Absolutely not.”

You snickered and moved in sync with the group, chatting low as the two of you fell behind, laughter rising now and again in waves like sparks off a campfire.

But then Murray’s arm shot across your chest.

Hard.

Sharp.

Stopping you like a seatbelt.

“Don’t move,” he warned you, barely audible.

You froze, brow furrowed and eyes scanning the woods as his other hand gripped your elbow like iron.

You followed his eyes.

Oh.

Oh god.

Fifteen feet ahead, and just slightly downhill from where you stood, a mass of fur moved between the trees.

It was…

It was a bear.

At least, it looked like one.

But this thing was too tall. Too hunched. Its shoulders are too high. Its snout is too short. Its breath steamed out in long, huffing puffs that drifted sideways like smoke. Its fur wasn’t the smooth, matted kind you’d expect… It looked torn in places. Mangled. As if it had fought something far worse than a person and came out the victor. 

Its eyes were—wait no.

Don’t look at its eyes.

You could feel your pulse spike, adrenaline roaring its way into your fingertips.

Murray hadn’t moved. You hadn’t moved.

Don’t.

You nodded. You could feel it in your blood. That sharp, visceral shift from awareness to danger. Like all the air thinned out in your lungs without your permission. Like your body had entered a memory of trauma before the trauma even arrived.

Dustin, now a solid twenty paces ahead, turned to say something… then stopped.

He’d seen it now.

And his eyes went wide.

His knuckles clenched around the strap of his radio like it might be useful if it weren’t off limits.

He mouthed something.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

One by one, the others turned. Lucas. Mike. Joyce. Hopper and El. Steve and Max.

All of them froze.

The bear’s ears twitched.

Then it turned its head, just slightly… toward you and Murray.

Fuck.

Its eyes passed over you.

Closer now.

God, it was closer now.

The electric jolt of needing to survive this, to outsmart this, coursed through your veins. 

But right alongside that came another sensation.

Shit.

No.

No no no.

Right there beneath your ribs, your heart gave one stuttering skip. Then two. And then… there it was. 

That familiar uneven flutter.

Ah, fuck me.

You didn’t say it. You didn’t even think it loud. Just a flat, exhausted sort of ugh sounded off inside your own head. Because of course. Of all the damn times. You weren’t even angry. Just pissed off.

Silently, subtly, you dug the heel of your palm into your sternum. Pressed hard. Not enough to draw its attention, just enough to try and settle the rhythm. Just enough to try and convince your body that it could freak out later.

But Murray noticed.

His eyes didn’t leave the bear. His voice didn’t move. But his jaw twitched like thunder behind his stubble.

His grip on your elbow grew even firmer. Not scared, but protective. Furious. Not at you. At the goddamn cosmos for dealing you this fate.

“Brrrruf.”

So it turns out, this bear made yawning sound lethal.

And up ahead, Steve did not like it.

He had already turned fully. His eyes were locked on you now, not the bear. You. 

You you you you you you you you you.

Steve saw the shift in your weight. Saw your palm at your chest. And something in his pretty face changed. Like his stomach dropped through the frozen creekbed.

He didn’t cry out. Didn’t bolt. Didn’t do the dumb thing.

But he did move.

Noiselessly and carefully, he adjusted Max on his back just enough to free one of his hands… just in case he needed it. His entire body was wired with panic, but it was silent. Controlled. He wasn’t breathing right. You could see it.

Even from across the creek, you could see the tension building in his chest. His hand flexed. Not quite shaking, but close.

He looked like he might throw up. Or run. Or fight a bear barehanded and tell it to bite him.

But he didn’t.

He stayed rooted.

Beside him, Max had gone stiff. Lucas and Mike stood shoulder to shoulder, wide-eyed and silent, all while El’s hands were gripping Hopper’s collar so tightly that all her knuckles were snow white.

Hopper had a gun.

Inside his coat.

He knew that.

You knew that.

Murray knew that.

But he wasn’t reaching for it.

You could see it in his posture. The stillness. The fear. Not frozen… choosing not to act. The only thing worse than acting too fast… was acting too soon.

The forest, once full of bitter wind and ambient creaks and snapping frost, went mute.

Eerily mute.

Eerily still.

Ahead, the half-frozen creek-bed, jagged with icy stones, sat between you and the others now. A shallow divide of frozen earth. Too wide to cross in silence. Too close to run. Too late to change anything.

“brAWFH.”

Yeah yeah yeah, Murray thinks to himself. I see you, chill.

You’re pretty much thinking the same thing as the bulk of it shifted forward slightly. You could see the mud frozen to its fur. The cuts on its face. One long pink scar down the ridge of its chest. Its breath came out slower this time, but louder.

“brAWFH”

Murray’s breathing was so still, you couldn’t even feel it next to you anymore.

And your heart gave another little hiccup.

Not painful.

Just… out of rhythm.

“Goddammit.”

You only mouthed it. No sound came out as you dug your palm into your sternum again while cursing. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t wince. Just rode it out like static… Like something trying to scratch its way out of your ribcage.

Steve’s face had gone deathly pale. Pale and hard and wordlessly wrecked. He was seriously ready to throw hands with whatever god had been left in charge of you all and personally file a complaint on your behalf. 

But he didn’t move.

Just… prayed.

Then the bear took another step forward.

Right toward Murray.

It sniffed once.

Then again.

Your eyes went wide and the nausea crawling up your gut and into your throat was vile. It tasted metallic, like all the blood you’d shed over the years.

But your uncle stayed calm. If anything, he looked calmer now that this bear had its eyes no longer set on you, and had shifted its focus. Changed its choice of prey.

You could smell it now. The musk of wet fur and rot.

It huffed one long, deep exhale.

…and then it turned.

…the motherfucker just…

…lumbered away.

It stepped back into the woods with thunderous weight, its breath puffing against the trees as it vanished deeper between the trunks. Snow shifted beneath its paws, wet and heavy.

You didn’t breathe until you couldn’t hold it anymore.

Then the sound came all at once.

A ragged collective inhale.

A literal tornado whooshed from Hopper’s lungs.

Dustin nearly dropped to his knees. He let out a sound that could’ve been a seizure-like choke or a laugh or both.

“Jesus.” The curse left Joyce’s mouth as she raked her hands through her hair and shoved her beanie off with sweet relief.

Max let go of Steve’s neck and started laughing. High and breathless. “Jesus—oh my god—holy shit.”

El collapsed forward into Hopper’s shoulder. Her arms wrapped around him tightly, her shoulders shaking from held-in fear, all while Mike audibly shuddered a breath.

Lucas crouched like he’d just survived a car crash, one hand over his heart like he was checking to make sure it was still beating.

Murray finally breathed. His jaw now unclenched, then he looked at you. “You okay??”

You were already rolling your shoulders out like a shrug. Letting the adrenaline drain through you slowly.

“No,” you said. “Let’s do it again.”

The crooked grin at the corner of your lips was insane.

“Psychopath,” he muttered, turning to glance back toward the others. But you saw the smirk he shared with yours.

The two of you crossed the creek fast and carefully, boots crunching over the ice without slipping.

Dustin didn’t even wait. He launched himself forward, and tackled you in a hug so fierce it knocked the breath out of you. “You guys—what the hell—what the hell was that—”

“Big angry dog,” you whispered, patting his head. “We’ll all cry later.”

“Baby.” Steve had already set Max down with Lucas, but his hands hadn’t stopped moving.

He was there in two strides. Wordless. His hands found your shoulders and squeezed, then slid up to frame your jaw like he needed to make sure you were real.

“Heart. Heart, it’s. How’s, h-how—?”

You nodded, pressing your forehead to his. “All good.”

But your voice was a little breathless now. 

The adrenaline was crashing.

Steve didn’t speak. He just stared. Not blinking. Then finally, he muttered against you. “I almost threw up.”

“Same,” you grinned.

His hand was still hovering near your chest. As if unsure whether to press his palm over your heartbeat or pull you into him. 

But he didn’t have to. 

You stepped forward, burying your nose in the collar of his coat for a second. Breathing him in as held you with relief and laughed in spite of himself, hating the way that it sounded shaky and childish as he swayed you.

“Murr,” Joyce grabbed his arms. “You good??”

He pressed his lips into a tight line. "My constipation is cured. So that’s a plus.”

“Man,” Jim huffed with relief as he g stood in front of him now. “Is that a do bears shit in the woods inspired joke at the morbid hour?”

Murray puffed a laugh. “Touché.”

Everyone regrouped.

Then came the crunch of snow.

Owens.

He was moving fast up the incline, bundled in a long coat, boots dusted with ice. You saw it in his face.

Something was wrong.

“Don’t panic,” he called before he’d even reached you. “But we’ve got news. You’ll want to hear this.”

Hopper moved first, standing straight and clearing the space between them. “What is it?”

Owens slowed, panting lightly from the climb. “Sightings,” he said with dread. “Northern Dakota border. Not normal. Not animals. Not wild. Confirmed.”

Everyone turned to each other.

Joyce and Murray looked haunted.

Max reached for yours and Steve’s hands.

Dustin went eerily quiet next to Lucas and Mike.

El moved closer to Hopper.

“Breach?” Hopper asked.

Owens nodded grimly. “First one. It’s started.”

No one needed to ask what kind.

Steve’s jaw tensed, as Mike let out a breath through his nose. You felt your own hand curling tightly around your uncle’s sleeve, while nestled between him and your man, also running your thumb over Max’s knuckles.

Hopper glanced toward the woods again, then back at your group with a newfound motivation. 

“Let’s move,” he said, looking to Steve for his approval.

He nodded. “Back to base.”

Everyone started moving. But no one said a word.

Not until Murray muttered under his breath, dry and hollow. “Next time, can we just fight a Demodog? At least they have the decency to look fake.”

Chapter Fifty-Seven The Vote

9:14AM Deep Backwoods of Bumfuck, Illinois

“…I’m not saying we can’t do it,” Owens was saying, mid-thought. “I’m saying if we do, it’s a moonshot.”

He stood in the center of base camp, coat open, eyes sharp and moving like he was tracking invisible red strings. The others sat or leaned wherever they could. Logs, the Winnebago bumper, a makeshift bench of packed snow. Thermoses steamed at their feet. Cold air stung cheeks and noses, but nobody really felt it.

Because Owens was talking. 

And whenever Owens talked like this, everyone shut up and listened.

You were on the ground with your knees tucked under you, Max leaning against your left side, half-wrapped in your coat. Argyle was to your right, knitting like his life depended on it. He was dead silent, needles flicking fast, the yarn forming what looked like a sock… or maybe a glove? Something long. You couldn’t tell.

All you knew was that the stress-knitting was real.

Your uncle stood across the way with Hopper, both of them flanking Owens like squabbling bodyguards. Murray’s arms were crossed; Hopper’s jaw was tight.

Dmitri stood a little ways behind them, arms folded and back straight, coat zipped to his throat. He wasn’t speaking yet, but he was listening like a soldier would. His eyes tracked every person as they spoke, calm and unreadable.

“Moonshot’s better than a death wish,” Murray said.

“Moonshot’s how we get killed,” Hopper countered.

“And yet I’m still voting for it,” Murray said dryly, turning to Owens. “Continue, my liege.”

Owens blinked, a bit exasperated, but didn’t miss a beat. “Martial law means checkpoints. Curfews. No phones. No legal protections. They can search your car, your home, your bag, your socks, and shoot you if they feel like it.”

Dustin flinched. “Jesus.”

Lucas sat straighter beside him. “Wait—like, shoot us without a warrant or any remote cause...?”

“If they know who you are?” Owens asked. “Yes.”

You could feel Max lean further into you. You rested your hand lightly over hers, warming her fingers beneath the blanket wrapped across both your laps. Your other hand was braced low on your sternum.

Oh, and your indie heartbeat had calmed mostly. 

Key word: mostly. 

But every now and then, the off-tempo skip still echoed up your neck.

Fucker, you thought.

Steve was standing off to the left, strong arms crossed and brows furrowed. He looked like he wanted to punch a pine tree. You could tell from the way his boot tapped like a loaded spring that his eyes kept flicking between you and Owens. He was holding back the urge to stalk over and check your pulse again.

“…and we don’t have the time to wait this out,” Owens continued. “I know that sounds cold, but a month of rations isn’t a year. It’s thirty days.”

“It’s actually more like thirty-six if we ration carefully,” Eddie offered, leaning forward on a stump. “But that’s still assuming no one gets hurt. No broken legs, no fevers, no third helpings for Dustin.”

“Umm, hey?” Dustin soured.

“He’s right,” Hopper cut in. “We can’t stretch this forever.”

“And what about a supply run?” Nancy asked. She stood near the Winnebago, arms folded tight, her boots scuffed white with snow. “It’s suicide, right? Just to be clear?”

“Only if we’re stupid about it,” Owens said. “The terrain gives us options. The next state line puts us deeper out of active range, and if we time things right—”

“You want to move deeper,” Jonathan said, from where he sat behind you on the snow bank.

Owens nodded slowly.

“You want us to disappear completely,” Jonathan clarified. Not a question.

“Yes,” Owens said.

Dmitri spoke for the first time. “We won’t be the only ones trying. If we move, we’ll run parallel to refugees, to panicked families, deserters, opportunists. If we’re not ahead of them, we’re in their shadow.”

His voice was calm, even. But it made Nancy shift her stance slightly.

“Which would also mean still no contact with anyone,” Mike added, voice low. “Not even radio.”

Eleven nodded once beside him. “That’s already true.”

“It’s not about just being ghosts,” Owens said. “It’s about being ghosts with groceries.”

A small ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the group. You even saw Argyle pause his knitting to smirk faintly, though his stitches didn’t stop.

A little click of your tongue escaped your lips after remaining a listener, and you reached for your own set of knitting needles as you softly cleared your throat and broke the tension. 

“Ghosteries,” you said with a little shrug, eyes on your unfinished scarf.

That earned a deep smirk from your uncle. Even Dmitri raised an amused brow at you — and you winked at Steve as his crooked, lovesick, subtle smile and little shake of his head worsened your heartbeat in all the right ways.

“Ghosteries,” Eddie grinned.

Argyle nodded sagely mid-knitting. “Ghosteries.”

Lucas snorted.

“And to do that,” Owens continued, “we have to go farther off-grid than we’ve ever gone. I’m talking the Montana line. Maybe Canada. But we don’t move unless we have a stockpile big enough to get us there. That’s what this conversation is.”

“The vote,” Hopper said.

Murray raised a brow. “You want to vote?”

“I don’t want to,” Hopper said flatly. “But this isn’t a dictatorship. Not anymore.”

“He means me,” Owens said under his breath.

“Obviously,” Murray snorted.

Steve ran a hand down his face. “So what are the options, exactly?”

“Option one,” Joyce said, speaking up now as she squatted beside Dustin and Lucas. “We stay here. Keep low. Ride out what we can.”

“Option two,” Eddie added, “We relocate to the secondary site. The buried one, with the satellite blind spot.”

Owens nodded at him with a spark of appreciation.

“And option three,” Nancy said, “we risk it all and make the run. Food, meds, fuel. Everything. We load the Winnebago and the tank, go deep, and we don’t come back.”

Silence.

“I vote three,” Joyce said without hesitation. “We’ve survived worse. And we’ve got the people to do it.”

“All of us,” Steve clarified. “You mean all of us.”

Joyce looked him in the eye. “You’re damn right I do.”

Murray sighed. “I was gonna say two, but I knew I’d be outvoted. So fine. I vote three. But only because I don’t trust the plumbing here.”

That earned a few laughs.

“Before we finalize this,” Owens raised a hand. “Supply run details.”

“No one’s leaving unless we all agree on the plan,” Hopper added.

Everyone straightened. Even Max adjusted her weight next to you and looked around like she was ready to fight someone with her mind, or maybe just hide in your coat. Every single one of you could feel the shift in tension. 

“We’re not splitting up,” Steve now said firmly.

The way he said it? Low, clear, final… 

It shut everyone up for a full two seconds.

You looked up. 

So did Dustin. So did Mike. So did Robin.

“We are done splitting up.” Steve stepped forward, eyes locked on Hopper, then Owens, then your uncle. “I don’t care if it’s tactical. I don’t care if it’s smart. We. Are. Done.”

His voice didn’t rise. He didn’t yell. 

But God, it carried.

“Dude,” Eddie said quietly. “I agree.”

“Me too,” Lucas added, hand curling around Max’s blanket.

“No more decoys,” Mike muttered.

Eleven reached out and took his hand.

You smiled at him now, finding his big brown eyes already locked on yours before continuing to address your crew.

“If we move, we move together,” Steve didn’t waver. “If we need food, we all go get food. If someone’s in danger, we all show up. Period.”

You’d been nodding ever since he’d started talking. “Together.”

Your uncle grunted. “Finally something we agree on.”

Hopper nodded once. “Seconded.”

Even Owens tilted his head. “You won’t hear me argue.”

Dmitri gave the smallest nod. “And if someone wanders, they better run fast. Because I will find them.”

“God, marry me,” Murray muttered.

Robin smiled faintly. “Holy crap, democracy works.”

“Sometimes,” Nancy said.

“I mean, it helps when everyone’s traumatized together,” Jonathan murmured behind you.

You turned slightly and nudged his leg with your boot. He looked down at you and smirked. Just for a second. Then he glanced across the camp and caught Nancy’s eye.

She didn’t look away.

She actually smiled.

Jonathan blinked, confused and suspicious.

…then Robin saw it from her log perch and immediately shot him a throat-cutting stare. Don’t you fucking start.

He coughed and looked down. “Anyway.”

You snorted and shook your head.

Max leaned up to whisper in your ear. “Is it wrong that I want to see how this drama plays out?”

“No,” you whispered back, still knitting. “That’s the best part of the apocalypse.”

Argyle, still knitting between you and Max, murmured, “Y’all are cracked.”

You smiled and leaned against him gently. “We know.”

Jonathan shifted closer on your other side and picked up the dropped end of the yarn to help. Your heart gave another traitorous little flutter under your ribs, but you breathed slow and long, resting your elbow on Max’s shoulder and grounding yourself in the soft click of Argyle’s needles.

Across the way, Owens crouched and grabbed a stick, sketching rough lines in the snow.

“If we go with option three, we’ll need at least five days to prep. That includes fuel conversion, engine sealing, internal heating, and inventory scanning. Every person’s weight matters. Every boot, every blanket, every bullet.”

“Ammo’s solid,” Robin said. “We counted twice. All of it’s dry.”

“Food’s not,” Eddie added. “I vote we swap to dense carbs. Bread. Pasta. Fuck protein.”

“You’ll survive,” Steve muttered.

“Don’t mock the science,” Eddie said, gesturing wildly. “We’ll need the calories.”

Joyce raised a hand. “What’s our target city?”

Owens looked up.

And then down.

And then up again.

“Billings,” he said finally. “Or west of it. North Dakota’s off limits now. But if we move parallel, float when we can, stick to valleys…”

He trailed off.

“What?” you asked, brows pinched.

He looked at you. “We’ll still need a team to scavenge before we move. Whether it’s here or the next town over, someone has to make the run.”

Silence.

Max tightened beside you.

Owens continued. “And if you want my vote? It’s a single team. Small. Skilled. But not alone.”

“We all go,” Steve said flatly, reminding without emphasis. It was final.

“I’d rather none of you go,” Owens said kindly, not disagreeing, “but we all need supplies. If we stay, we starve. If we run, we risk capture. There is no ‘right’ option.”

“Only options,” Hopper murmured, scrubbing a rough hand down his face.”

“Well,” Murray muttered, “we’re getting good at those.”

“I’ll go,” Eddie said immediately.

Steve looked at him sharply.

“Not alone,” Robin snapped.

“I know,” Eddie said, calmer than usual. “That’s why I’m saying it now. If we move in a week, we do the run now. As a group… in pairs. Or trios. With watchers. And no radio.”

Everyone looked at Owens.

He didn’t answer.

Because it wasn’t his vote anymore.

This was yours.

11:42 PM • Base Camp Deep Woods of Bumfuck, Illinois

“You’re telling me this shit’s global now?” 

Eddie had asked, his voice low.

“Yeah,” Hopper said. “That’s exactly what he’s saying.”

The five of them were huddled near the base of a tree line, just outside the Winnebago’s soft hum. Lanterns cast quiet amber light over snow-packed boots and fogging breath. Steve stood with his hands on his hips. Eddie had one knee propped up on a log. Hopper was leaning against a tree, arms crossed. Murray sat on an overturned bucket, sipping something warm that smelled like gasoline. Dmitri stood slightly off to the side, vigilant, like the woods were watching him.

The crackle of the station played from the old army radio perched between them, cutting in and out over static.

“…Repeat: martial law has been expanded to sectors Echo through Quebec, major highways compromised, checkpoints inoperable, armed civilians in regions previously labeled as neutral—”

“Jesus Christ,” Eddie whispered.

Dmitri didn’t blink. “Civilians are the bigger risk now.”

“No longer coordinated,” Murray agreed. “Feral. Opportunistic. Famine-level desperate.”

“Which means,” Steve muttered, rubbing his jaw, “we’re not just dodging patrols. We’re dodging humans.”

“Not to mention things that aren’t,” Hopper added darkly.

Silence.

The radio kept playing. Somewhere far off in the woods, something howled.

Steve breathed in slowly. “We need to roll out tomorrow.”

Hopper nodded. “Before it gets worse.”

“I hate to say it,” Murray sighed, “but he’s right. If you’re gonna move, move now.”

“And what about the Winnebago?” Eddie asked.

“We take the tank into town,” Dmitri said. “Leave the RV hidden, fortified. It’s a target otherwise.”

Murray huffed. “People see that thing, they’ll assume it’s stuffed with baby formula and ammo.”

“Exactly,” Hopper grunted grimly.

Steve didn’t say anything for a second. He was staring into the dark like he could already see the blood on the road. Then he spoke, almost absently.

“You know I’m not leaving them behind.”

“We know,” Murray said quietly.

“I mean it.” Steve turned to face all of them. “I don’t care if it slows us down. I don’t care if it makes us a bigger target. They go where I go.”

“You don’t have to say it, Harrington,” Jim muttered, pushing off the tree. “We’re all agreed.”

Eddie gave a soft whistle. “For the record? That’s the hottest shit I’ve ever heard.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious. You’re giving sexy dad energy.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Murray groaned.

But they were all smiling now. Even Dmitri’s mouth twitched up with some ghost of amusement before he tilted his head toward the Winnebago. “You should check on them.”

Steve didn’t hesitate.

He nodded once to the group and turned, boots crunching through frost as he moved through the quiet camp.

Inside, the Winnebago was dim and warm. The kids were all tucked in for the night—Dustin and Lucas curled near Max, who was wrapped burrito-tight in blankets. Mike and El were sharing a sleeping bag, whispering quietly. Robin was outside taking a piss behind a snowbank while Nancy stood watch (since Owens had been occupying the RV bathroom’s shower). Argyle was passed out with a half-knit poncho in his lap, while Joyce and Jonathan took final inventory of remaining supplies, food and water.

But Steve’s eyes went straight to the back.

You were in the dining booth, sitting still beneath the soft overhead light. Owens sat across from you, a small monitor at your side. Electrodes. A portable EKG.

Steve’s chest seized.

He didn’t say anything as he stepped in. But the slam of the cold door behind him was enough. You and Owens both looked up instantly.

“Hey baby,” you murmured.

Steve’s voice was gravel. “What is this?”

Owens blinked. “Just a check-in. No alarm.”

“I wasn’t asking you,” Steve muttered curtly.

“Steve,” your brow furrowed disapprovingly. “I asked him to check me.”

He squinted, eyes flicking between the two of you.

Owens slowly stood up. “Precautionary, given the bear scare. The flare up’s, given what’s coming tomorrow—”

“No, I get it,” Steve cut in, nodding too fast. “I totally get it. Just a casual pulse check. Totally normal when your girlfriend’s heart skips like a damn record scratch.”

Your eyes closed briefly. And you didn’t say anything, knowing better than to push him too much, to soon

“It’s not like that,” Owens said carefully. “This is normal protocol. We’re keeping tabs. And we’re exploring some—”

“Options?” Steve finished.

Owens paused. “Ideas.”

“…what ideas,” Steve asked, already knowing.

You exhaled. “Steve—”

“What ideas,” he said again, almost too quietly now.

Owens glanced at you, as if waiting for the green light.

You gave him a small nod, before your eyes locked onto Steve’s. Both of your gazes shone with honesty. The difference between them? Yours was calm. His was fire.

“Sit with me,” you told him. “Please?”

He didn’t. His hands stayed on his hips, breath visible. His gaze bounced from the monitor to your face.

“…it’s surging again, isn’t it,” he said quietly.

“Not badly,” Owens said. “But yeah.”

Steve felt sick. “Lemme guess. The bear incident didn’t help.”

You gave the smallest, driest shrug. “Pacing’s been a little off today since I woke up,” you admitted softly. “Bear just decided to give it a little extra remix.”

Steve scrubbed a hand down his face. “Jesus Christ.”

Owens didn’t sugarcoat it. “The electric event, the—fence. The arrhythmia… it altered the rhythm enough to create a new baseline. Not stable, but not chaotic either. And that tells us something. It tells us that—”

“No.” Now Steve backed up a half step like he’d been shoved. “No, no, no.”

“It’s not something we’re doing,” you said, fast. “Not even close. It’s just something that was brought up. That’s it.”

“You’re talking about stopping it,” Steve snapped. “Again.”

“It’s not even close to being a decision,” you said. “Just talking.”

“I don’t care if you were doodling it on a napkin, why the hell would you even talk about that?”

“…baby,” you tried, but you went quiet again, unable to find words yet. Needing a minute. Definitely needing a minute.

Owens stood slowly. “I’ll… let you talk. Just disconnect the leads when you’re done. They’re just temporary.”

Then he gave you a look, something quiet and understanding, before stepping out.

Steve didn’t move at first. He just stared at the monitor’s slow, stuttering blips. You gently disconnected the electrodes and stood.

“Steve,” you started carefully.

“Don’t tell me you’re fine.” 

You shook your head. “I’m not.”

“Makes two of us.”

You opened your mouth, but he grabbed your hand and turned, guiding you straight into the bathroom and shutting the door behind you.

The little space was barely big enough for one person. With just two of you? It was suffocating.

But you didn’t mind.

Because it was him.

He locked the door. Leaned against it. Shut his eyes. And then he opened them and spoke in a low, raw voice.

“What the hell’re you doing talking about restarting your heart.”

You froze.

“Steve, it’s not—”

“No. No.” He shook his head. “Don’t try to make this okay. You were dead.”

“That’s not what we’re doing. It’s not even—Steve, we’re not even—”

“You were dead.”

His voice cracked. 

So did your irregular heart.

“For five minutes and seven seconds,” he whispered. “You were gone. And I wanted to be.”

You reached for him. “Steve—”

“I did CPR,” he said, not hearing you. “Me. Jonathan. Eddie. We didn’t stop. We didn’t fucking stop because we couldn’t stop, and you—” His teeth gritted. “And you—YOU came back, but you shouldn’t have. You know that, right?”

“I know,” you breathed. 

“Five minutes, seven seconds,” he said again, almost incredulously. “That’s not a miracle. That’s something I never wanna play with again. Ever.”

“Hey, please,” you took both his hands now. Warm, calloused. “Please. Lemme talk.” Fuck, his hands were shaking. “I’m not going through with anything,” you told him fervently. “We were just checking then started talking solutions—”

“It’s not a conversation,” he hissed. “It’s not even an option. Not after what that did to you. Not after what that did to me.”

You breathed in slowly, hating the sting now rising in your eyes as your gaze shifted to the overhead light.

“Five minutes and seven seconds,” he repeated hoarsely. “I counted every one. Eddie threw up. Jonathan wouldn’t move. Dustin? Never will unsee that.”

“…I know,” you barely managed to croak at the ceiling.

“And I didn’t breathe once. Because I kept giving you mine.”

You said nothing. Just nodded, eyes burning.

He stared at you, his eyes wild… but now waiting.

And softening with remorse, seeing you struggling… your throat bobbing.

“Steve, I’m hurting.”

The fact you’d even dared to complain made his breath stall. His lips parted in surprise, his grip in both your hands going taut. 

Because you never did that. 

Fuck, you never did that.

“I’m hurting,” you repeated, shaky and fraying. “And I’m tired. I feel like I’m lugging a broken car battery around with my ribs. And yeah, it sucks. But I’m not trying to be a martyr. I’m not trying to die. I’m trying to live.”

Steve looked sick. Ashamed, guilty. 

“Fuck, baby, m’sorry…”

“And it’s hurting you,” you whispered. “It’s hurting them. That’s why I was even talking about it at all. Because I don’t wanna hurt, I don't wanna be a liability.”

“You’re not.”

“Steve—”

“You’re not a liability,” he said again, his voice strangled now. “You’re the only fucking reason I can do any of this.”

Tears were running down his face now, unchecked, like he didn’t even know they were there.

“I’ll carry your weight,” he swore. “I’ll carry all of it. Every last breath if I have to. Just don’t ask me to sit back and let you stop your heart again. I can’t. I won’t. Not when it guarantees… nothing… I need it to be sure. It has to be sure—Owens has to know it’ll work.”

Your own tears were running hot now. 

“Okay,” you said softly. “Okay. I promise. We’re not doing anything. Not without talking. Not without deciding it together.”

“Swear to me.,” he rasped.

“I swear, Steve—I didn’t even come get you without the kids, until they all agreed with me on a plan.”

Steve looked at you for a long time. Then he dropped his head to your shoulder and finally exhaled, harsh and pained.

You held him there.

Just breathing. Just being.

Just each other’s.

You could hear the faint hum of the station still playing in the main cabin. More news, more death, more headlines. The world was on fire. But in here? It was just the two of you.

Eventually, a knock came.

“Hi, um,” Robin’s voice said through the door. “I hate to interrupt your very clear marital trauma and potential softcore breakdown…”

You blinked back your tears while Steve swiped his nose.

“—but your uncle is loudly lamenting the state of his bowels, like Murray just loudly announced he hasn’t pooped in three days and he’s ‘not gonna waste a good laxative,’ so uhh…”

You blinked. Then snorted.

So did Steve. 

Wet, shaky laughter fell over you both. But it was real.

“We’ll be out in a second,” you lightly called.

“Take your time,” she chirped nervously. “I’ll tell him you’re exfoliating or something.”

“Jus’tell him we’re scrubbing each other’s souls,” Steve flatly called back, nose stuffy.

“Hot,” Robin said, and walked away.

You both softly cracked up into each other's shoulders. And then, with quietly aching care, Steve leaned in closer and kissed your forehead.

“I love you,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” you murmured back, sniffling. “Don’t, I’m sorry too.”

“No. You don’t have to be.”

You smiled sadly, thumbing his cheek. “Still am.”

He sighed deeply for his nose, then sniffled as he brushed a hair out of your face, his brown eyes never leaving yours other than to glance you over. “Jus’not letting you go anywhere.”

You nodded against him. “Neither am I.”

For the first time all day, your heart didn’t skip a beat. 

Steve leaned in, pressing his forehead to yours. And your noses brushed in the faintest Eskimo kiss, full of soft heat and breath and raw closeness.

“I’m sorry I’m so selfish,” he whispered.

You shook your head against his. “You’re not.”

“Yeah I am.” His eyes were closed now, nodding against you with your hand between both of his palms between your chests. “I really am.”

As much as you wanted to argue that, you knew that he needed to take this one. You know that taking accountability was something important for Steve. So you let him take it.

“I’ll do this,” Steve whispered. “All of it. I’ll drive the tank. I’ll shoot monsters. I’ll put my body in front of theirs. Yours. I’ll be whatever you need. But I can’t—” his voice cracked. “Can’t watch you die again. I’ll lose my mind.”

You reached out your free hand. He took it like it was the only thing keeping him standing before you placed it over your heart.

“I can’t go anywhere you’re not there,” you whispered into him in the most fragile voice you’ve ever spoken with, fresh tears brimming your eyes. The quaking quiver of your lips crumpled your face. “I stopped knowing how to live without you first.”

The brutal heartbreak of that sentence, that confession, made every past unrequited chapter of Steve’s life ache. It made his lungs burn. It made his conscience guilty. It fueled his nausea and made him want to shake his past self, his present self, and ask him why he thought that no one would feel his pain…

He’d thought being unwanted by Nancy was the worst torment that anyone could ever feel. Steve had been convinced that unrequited love only knew him best.

But you knew it first.

Unrequited love had choked you first.

Steve clutched your face. “I will never,” he began fiercely, “forgive myself for that.”

“No, ple—s’not why I—” you croaked and choked, leaning into his palms tearfully.

“Stop,” he breathed gently, kissing your eyelids. “I’m allowed to not forgive myself for that.”

You bit your lip. “But I f-forgive—y-y-you…” 

The sharp intake of breath you took, wet and anguished, made the softest sound leave Steve’s lips as he pressed them to your damp cheeks with love and reverence and protection.

“You’re crazy for that,” he laughed breathily against your skin.

“I’m crazy about you,” you croaked, your breathing hitched and your limbs trembling. “I’m—I need—y-you—”

“Baby, c’mere, shhh...”

Steve had barely whispered it as he tugged you into his arms and chest, cradling you there, rocking you back and forth. 

And after you both calmed down, he carried you back into the RV’s warmest space of the back cabin where he’d let himself get sleep alongside you tonight, with all six nuggets already fast asleep.

12:47 AM 

The radio hadn’t shut up in hours.

“…repeat, zones 7D through 8A now under immediate federal seizure. Suspected insurgent fugitives may be met with deadly force. All civilians should remain indoors…”

Hopper let out a sigh that might’ve been half a growl. “This is what happens when you corner the country.”

Murray attached his brow. “Oh?” And here I thought this was what happens when we cover up inter-dimensional genocide for six years.”

“Don’t start,” Hopper muttered.

“Not starting. Explaining. There’s a difference.”

“Mm,” a coffee-fueled grunt bubbled inside Hopper’s burly chest as he grit his teeth against the bitter taste. “You’re explaining that you can only shove so much paranoia and destruction under a national rug before the whole country sets itself on fire.”

Dmitri, silent till now, nodded once. “And in the ashes, what’s left will eat whatever still breathes.”

“Exactly,” Murray said, gesturing with his cup.

“Sounds like a party,” Eddie muttered under his breath, his boots crunching against the iced-over snow. 

He flicked a pebble toward the flames. 

It missed.

“S’not a party,” Steve now said quietly. “It’s the fucking end of civility. And the beginning of something worse.”

He had just made his way back outside, after getting his shit together enough to not look completely disheveled. Although, all of them looked like that at this point. 

Dmitri studied him. Not with pity, but with the recognition of someone who had seen his country crumble already.

Murray didn’t rush to stand and leave, despite what Robin had claimed he was on about, regarding his bowels. Instead, he locked his gaze on the pretty boy who’d clearly had some sort of heavy heart-to-heart with his niece, then stood with a grunt. 

Eddie just nodded. “Radio says Atlanta was burned,” he added. “Like burned. By civilians. Vigilantes. They’re taking out safe houses just because they think fugitives are inside.”

“That’s not strategy.” Hopper’s eyes hardened. Haunted and vacant. “That’s desperation.”

“That’s humanity,” Dmitri replied coldly.

For a beat, nobody said anything.

The flames cracked.

Snow drifted sideways in the wind.

“…state borders remain frozen until further military orders are announced. All air travel is suspended. Citizens in violation will be detained indefinitely. Repeat…”

Murray clapped Steve’s shoulder once before making his way into the little house on wheels. And as he did, Steve glanced back toward the Winnebago where the glow of the interior lights barely spilled through the blinds. His pretty mouth twisted.

“Hate this,” he barely muttered.

“We all do, kid,” Hopper murmured sadly.

“Not just this, I—” Steve broke off. Ran a hand down his face. “I hate th’we even have to talk about what we’re doing tomorrow. About dividing up into teams.”

“We’re not splitting,” Eddie said immediately. “Said it yourself.”

“Not even for a second,” Steve affirmed. “But you still know what I mean. You saw the map. The scavenging will put us within miles of a populated town. At night. We’ll have to leave the RV stashed and take the tank in.”

Hopper nodded at him. “No fragmenting. No bait-and-switch.”

“None.”

“Absolutely not.”

“One run,” Hopper looked between Eddie and Steve, his eyes flicking, then over at Dmitri. “Then we disappear for good.”

“And the Winnebago will be how far, exactly?” Eddie asked. 

“Dunno,” Steve muttered. “Deep in the woods. That for sure.”

“We bury it again,” Dmitri agreed. “Like this site.”

“Tarps, branches, camo netting.”

“And who watches it while we’re gone?” Eddie asked gently. “I get we’re not splitting up. Technically. But someone’s gonna have to watch it, right? At least stay inside it as we hustle.”

They all turned toward the RV then.

“The kids,” Steve said, eyes on the back. “And maybe Nancy, if she agrees. But you two are tonight’s watch rotation, so we’ll ask in the morning. And no—” he cut Eddie off with a single pointed glance, “—you’re not skipping the run. You’re with me.”

Eddie just nodded, solemn. “Flanking you and B-Squared.”

Steve sighed through his nose, nodding back. The two of them kept their eyes fixed on each other, speaking without words as the pretty boy turned family man nodded to the metalhead turned warrior.

Dmitri spoke again. “We will need the tank re-sealed for arctic conditions. Hopper and I will run that tonight.”

“Shouldn’t be too bad,” Jim nodded absentmindedly.

“I’ll work the satellite blind spots again,” Murray spoke now, hopping off the Winnebago ladder and returning to the group. “They’ve been shifting. We can’t get trapped in another dead zone like last time.”

Steve didn’t answer. His gaze was still fixed on the glow inside the RV from where Murray had just stepped out.

“Go sleep,” Murray told him flatly, but not cold. “If you’re leading this entire operation? Then you better get some beauty sleep.”

That actually earned an amused huff from Steve, who ran his fingers through his chilly locks of chestnut hair. He didn’t argue. Instead, he nodded at your uncle gratefully.

“Think we all need to get rest,” he told the men. “I’m requiring it. No one goes into tomorrow lacking sleep. We can’t afford it.”

Eddie arched one coy eyebrow, smirking. “S’that King Steve talking, or…?”

The former king winked. “Same dude, different eyeliner.”

That earned a snort from Eddie. It wasn’t just the dry delivery, but the fact it was also true that really hit him. He couldn’t help but laugh at it. Even Hopper grinned.

“Welp,” Murray chirped sarcastically. “Not to be that guy, but aside from sleep? I operate best when I’m not clogged up, so. I’m either gonna need a space heater for my ass in the trees, or immediate access to the RV think tank.”

Jim made a face. “You seriously took a lax?”

“A little sweet treat with my coffee,” Murray deadpanned.

“You wish to engage in battle,” Dmitri squinted incredulously, his narrowed gaze on Murray, “on an empty stomach…?”

“You wanna go out there with expired canned goods feeling like stones and gravel in your stomach with a gut like a balloon?”

That made all four men grimace. 

Murray offered them a wry smile in return. “Thought so.”

“Take the front,” Steve nodded at the front of the Winnebago as Eddie audibly tried not to laugh beside him. He’d have to hit him for that later, now that he wanted to laugh. “I’ll have Robin take the tank with Jonathan and Argyle. Nancy, too. She needs sleep.”

“Agreed,” Dmitri sighed with a stretch. “She barely has.”

“That’s changing now,” Steve said, already grabbing Eddie — who trotted.

“Are we off to see the wizard, Lord Harrington?!” he asked in a terrible British accent. 

“The only wizard we’ll find needs to go fuck himself,” Steve muttered as they trailed off towards the trees in search of the girls.

The three older men left standing couldn’t help but watch the amusement as the two of them snickered like teenage boys in high school while they bitched about Vecna, about life, about its circumstances — as if it were all just merely a nuisance.

Murray scratched his beard, lost in thought.

Hopper nodded at him. “You got a ring to give that boy?”

“I’m workin’ on it,” the cynic mumbled gruffly.

Dmitri and Hopper were glad to hear that. Maybe one day, all of this would actually be over and they could don some suits and sip on champagne while you and this group’s young leader tied the knot.

forever dedicated to @silkholland & @aloneinthehellfire

MY OSWDLS LIBRARY CARDHOLDERS: 🩵

@xprloki @erasviptour @get0ut0fmyr00m @eddiemuns0nl0ver @marrowfrog @poppet05 @wiltedflowersundertowers @originalthingparadise @pleuviors @pumpkinonice @ihaveproblemsihaveproblems @brinleighsstuff @definitelynotherr @silkholland @sucker-4-angst @bookkeeperlove @notlilyyyy @xblueriddlex @madaboutjoe @ucannotcompare @goosy-goose @nevillescomslut @ashkuuuu @ashbye @soybeans-and-coffee @yourelivingwrong @scaredofbeingbasic @cathx91 @just-a-harmless-patato @unlikelytacotheorist @chloewatersss @cherrynukas  @cheugy-djobe @delulu4bucky @calszonex @jamespottercumslut @slutforpumpkins @torntaltos @yikesmama3 @phi-kobold @mmoonblinkedd @mi171100 @ahoytherebean @spacelew @pinkpantheris @wantyourvideouhhuh @trash4changkyun @messybunbookclub @ninas-sayers @kimberly-boggs @gredandforgeweatherby @cecejane31 @its-artemisia @lordzzz @nancywalkemdownwheeler @kitdjarin1 @buckyandlokirunmylife @aloneinthehellfire @silkholland @emmasargent @shouldakissedyouanyway @tangledluver @messybunbookclub @thecreelhouse @cecejane31 @its-artemisia @lordzzz @nancywalkemdownwheeler @kitdjarin1 @buckyandlokirunmylife @emmasargent @tuffluuhv @kikiblahblah @keepingitlokiii @torimcc @psychoticbomb @strangermurdock @watercolorskyy @tuffluuhv @kikiblahblah @keepingitlokiii @torimcc @psychoticbomb @strangermurdock @tangledluver @silkholland @thecreelhouse

There’s no answer. 

Just thunder so loud it sounds like artillery.

But then something else.

Crack. Not thunder.

Steve goes still. Every hair on his arms lifts. Something moves in the woods ahead of him. Something fast and low. He ducks. Freezes. His heart feels like it’s trying to claw out of his chest.

A guttural sound echoes through the trees.

…not possible…

That’s a Demogorgon.

His breath is jagged now. He looks up with dread...

Something streaks across the sky.

At first, he thinks it’s bats. Then… he sees the hard lines, the jagged shape. Aircraft. Like flying stingrays made of steel. No insignias. No lights.

But fuck, the wings look exactly like the demobats.

They screech like the demobats.

Steve swallows down bile. “No, it’s not real,” he says to himself, breath heaving. “It’s a dream. It’s not real, it’s not real, I’m not—”

He doesn’t believe it.

But then he sees her.

Crushed into the dirt ahead of him. A flash of red hair. 

A pale face that had slipped beneath slumber again…

“—M-Max—?!”

He bolts. Skids on his knees beside her, grabbing her shoulders. “Max, hey—hey, come on—Max, wake up—”

Max doesn’t move.

Max looks just like she did in the hospital bed. Comatose. Lifeless. Asleep, never to be reached again.

“Shit,” he chokes, hands shaking. “Come on, no no no—”

But now her body suddenly sinks. It sinks down, straight into the ground, being swallowed up like quicksand. And Steve can’t stop it, he can’t breathe—

“MAX!”

He digs and claws at the dirt with frantic fingers, damp mud under his nails, scrabbling, raking.

…but she’s gone.

And before he can scream, someone else precious does.

Steve whirls around. “D-Dust—Dustin—?!”

The sound came from deep in the trees. 

Steve takes off like hell itself is on his heels, panicking, losing his mind, tearing through the branches and soaked underbrush. He hears barking, growling snarls that echo behind him and pursue. 

Demodogs. 

An entire pack of them. He’s fucking sure of it. But Steve can’t see them. He sees nothing but fog and trees and—

Another shape. 

The shape of a person.

Small. Ahead. Not a monster.

…it’s a kid. 

A kid with buzzed hair, and she’s… ...she’s so eerily still.

“El… El, El…EL—!! !”

Steve reaches her in seconds and spins her around by the shoulders with ferocious force.

Her eyes are white.

Vacant. Possessed.

Gone.

“Shit,” Steve whispers, stepping back, and she doesn’t move. Just stares through him. Her lips twitch like she’s trying to speak, but all that comes out is static. Crackling air. A sound like radio distortion.

“Jesus—no, El, come on—WAKE UP—”

He’s gripping her now. Shaking her. She doesn’t fucking flinch. Not even a little. She doesn’t blink once.

And behind her, in the dark… is a fence.

Steve’s breath catches.

He knows it.

He’s seen that fence.

It’s a tall, electric perimeter fence. Wrought iron and topped in coil. Buzzing. Crackling. Somehow alive.

Now he knows that this has to be a dream.

“No, you’re gone,” he whispers, still clinging to Eleven’s motionless form, shaking his head as the rain blinds him, blurring his vision as he stares with dread.

I’m asleep.

I’m asleep.

I’m asleep.

I have to be asleep.

God, let me be asleep.

Help me wake up.

Help me. Help me help me help me help me—

And then he sees it. A small figure, crumpled at the base of the fence. Small arms limp. Little legs twisted.

Steve staggers toward it. “No… no, no, please—”

The rain slows down like time itself has decided to pause and reflect from another perspective. It soaks the shape until it glistens. Pale. No longer shivering.

The figure is a little girl.

Six years old. Tiny. Soaking wet. Skin like porcelain. Wet dark hair matted to her cold cheeks. Palms mauled — gashed from the voltage. She’s not moving. She’s not breathing.

She’s dead.

“No,” Steve barely breathes it, barely whimpers it, barely says it at all…

He drops to his knees. Heart falling out of his chest.

It’s you.

A child-version of you.

He picks you up like you weigh nothing and cradles your body into his chest. “No, baby—no, no, no—”

Your tiny head lolls, your small lips a casket’s shade of blue. Not the kind you love. Not your favorite hue—no, this isn’t the color of a safe sky in the normal world. This isn’t the swatch of blue you’d told him barely two months ago was your favorite color while he held you after he’d brought you back to life, carried you home, had held you in his arms against his chest while you drank soup while making small talk and letting yourself belong to him…

“I n-n-need to wake—u-u-uppp.” 

Steve clutches you tighter, gritting his teeth as he holds your lifeless frame, helpless and small and too young to die, to be gone, to stop breathing this early. His tears mix with the rain as his damp hair flops in his face because of how hard he’s profusely shaking his head and forbidding himself to ask you not to leave him.

Because you haven’t.

You haven’t.

You haven’t.

You haven’t.

“You’re not—g-g-gone, you’re not dead, not d-dead—”

And just beyond the fence, that’s when reality steps up closer to his fraying, subconscious soul as it lingers for too long inside of this tragic nightmare…

Dustin. Mike. Lucas. Will.

Crying. Screaming. Hands pressed to the wire.

“Help us—!”

“Please—Steve—”

“Help—help her—help us—”

“STEEEEEEVE!”

Now Steve screams.

Not a cry. Not a shout. A horrific, animalistic scream that rips through the night, long and raw and desperate and endless and refusing to let him wake—

…and then he’s gasping.

Eyes open to metal. Thunder.

Loud thunder.

Not the dreamscape kind.

Not the hellscape kind.

A dim red light is above, but it’s not the upside down. It’s not a nightmare anymore. It’s no longer a vision. 

And you are no longer six years old.

“Steve—?”

Because your body is pressed against his chest and it’s the same weight that Steve has now memorized, every single time that she’s carried you or held you close, both awake and asleep. 

You'd jolted awake with a sharp inhale the second that his gasp had rattled beneath your chest draped across his own torso… and now his big eyes are darting around in the dark.

The tank.

He’s in the tank.

Steve is awake at long last.

“Steve, hey,” your voice is groggy, frightened. Your hands instantly come up to frame his face. “Hey—baby, hey hey, what happened—?”

He’s soaked in sweat.

Breathing like he’s been running.

He clutches you like you might vanish. Like the rain might claim you too. His fingers dig into your back, clawing just to be sure as he frantically takes in your face with bugged out, big brown eyes that still shine, even in the darkness.

“Wh—whah…y-y—??”

Rain drums hard on the tank roof and drowns out Steve’s inability to speak, to form words, form sentences. But all the while, your eyes stay locked on his and something in you already knows what’s wrong.

He doesn’t say a word. Just yanks you in tighter, pressing your heart to his, like it’s the only way he’ll believe you’re real. Like it’s the only way that he knows for a fact you’re not still at the bottom of that fence, and you’re not lifeless. You’re not a dead child in his arms, you made it here. You lived to see twenty-one years old, just like he has. Yes, your heart still isn’t beating right. No, the arrhythmia is not reversed. But so help him God, it’s beating and you’re fine.

Steve looks up fast, scanning the tank.

The kids. Dustin. Mike. Lucas. Max.

All awake. All startled by the storm outside, huddled in a cluster near the back wall of the moving beast.

Fuck, the thunder must’ve woken them too.

Steve doesn’t bother to think. Doesn’t bother to explain. He just drags you across the floor, over to them, pulls the entire cluster of you into his strong grasp, legs stretched wide and apart as he leans against the tank’s wall. Dustin and Mike fall into one side, Lucas and Max into the other.

Because he can’t breathe unless they’re all touching and breathing deeply right beside him so that he makes sure it stays that way.

No one protests.

No one fucking wants to protest.

He’s still not speaking.

You don’t say anything either. You just fold into his chest, your fingers pressing softly underneath his shirt… feeling the racing beat of his heart.

He’s shaking badly. You all are.

The storm outside is relentless.

Max is clutching a blanket around her shoulders. Lucas gently rubs her back. Dustin is pale. Mike’s knobby knees are tucked up to his chest.

No one asks Steve what happened. No one asks if it was the storm that woke him up, too. They don’t have to. They saw the way that he woke up. They know better.

But Steve doesn’t let himself cry or sob. And he won’t. But his breathing is still a wreck. And when you shift slightly to ask… just in a whisper…

“...nightmare?”

He cuts it off with a rough, low, “I can't.”

It’s not cruel. It’s not sharp. Just final.

You nod once, resting your forehead against his throat. “Okay.”

He doesn’t apologize. But the way his grip tightens says he wants to. That he feels awful. Which is why you softly tell him that’s it alright, just loud enough for him to hear.

But that’s exactly when Mike lets out a tiny, high-pitched sound. Somewhere between a whimper and a muffled up sob that he won’t release, and he covers his face with his hands in shame and fear and dread... but Dustin reaches for him at the same time that Steve does, knowing that he’s overwhelmed with worry about El and Will. Which is why all curl in tighter.

From across the tank, Robin sees it. So does Eddie.

Neither one of them says a word.

Joyce is already on her feet. She’s shaking too, but you wouldn’t know it if you weren’t watching closely.

She’s busy. Heating something. Coffee. Tea. Something warm so that it can ease the chill and soothe everyone’s rattled up bones. 

No one’s going back to sleep tonight. That’s obvious.

But the tank itself? Still moving.

It’s navigating slick terrain under the storm, Hopper and Murray up front. Headlights off. Going by compass, map, instinct, and sheer dumb luck and prayer.

You’d all agreed on the plan hours ago. Move at night. No helicopters. No drones. Just storm and dark and motion.

Hopper drives. Murray calls direction. And Steve helped plot the course with Dustin back when the sky was clear and hope still felt like a real thing.

Nancy is curled up in the far corner of the tank with her arms wrapped around her knees. She’s silent… her jaw locked, swatting at her eyes. Trying not to cry.

She fails. Then rises.

Argyle is already perched near the turret viewfinder. He’s been up keeping watch for a long time and now he scoots over without a word. She joins him with tearful gratitude.

Back where you are, Jonathan has also quietly woken up in a nearby corner. He starts to stand… but Steve moves, like he’s about to get up too.

“Don’t,” Jonathan says gently.

Steve freezes.

“Just—don’t,” Jonathan says. No judgment. Just certainty. And firm assurance, even though he’s wobbly. “I got it.”

And he does. Shaking and pale and exhausted. But he knows that Steve just saw nightmares behind his eyes instead of finding sleep or much needed, long overdue rest. Even without knowing the details, Jonathan knows that whatever the fuck he dreamt about… was hell.

Robin and Eddie shift to either side of him as he settles along the wall, co-guarding from the dark like dogs on a leash at their posts.

Eventually, Joyce returns. She kneels in front of you all, passing out mismatched mugs and thermoses. Hot tea. Coffee. Decaf for you.

“Might be the only time I’ve been grateful for the lack of jitters in the juice,” you murmured as you took your tin. 

“If it makes you feel any better?” Joyce says with a light shrug. “I’ve actually gotten used to it. Pretty sure it’s just mostly mindset that kickstarts the caffeinated kick.”

You hiss at the hot liquid scorching your tongue. “I can dabble with that.” 

Joyce winks at you with a faint smirk. And she doesn’t ask what happened… She just gently touches Steve’s cheek as she hands him his own thermos, giving your forearm a small squeeze before making sure that all of the kids approve of their own… and of course they do.

Everyone drinks.

The storm still howls outside. Wind buffets the tank. But inside, it’s warm now. At least physically.

Joyce settles in beside you all, gathering up Dustin and underneath the same blanket. Dustin leans his head on Steve’s shoulder while Mike is curled up into Joyce now while she sighs between them. 

Lucas watches the door. “Bet he’s airbending right now.”

Max peeks up at him through her lashes, the rim of her hot thermos to her lips with the waft of lemon swirling up. “I actually see that vividly in my head.”

You all know that they’re talking about Will. 

No doubt in your minds that he’s back at the safe haven, trying to bend the rain with his mind while Eleven smiles big and shows him how, all while Dmitri stands watch and Owens doesn’t let any of them catch a cold. 

Joyce grins. “Trust me. My boy’s gone full karate kid with this thing tonight.” She nudges Mike, kissing the crown of his head. “And he’s taking good care of your girl.”

Mike’s face crumples but he just keeps leaning into her as he tries not to imagine his best friend or his girl in any sort of pain or distress.

Joyce sighs and softly changes the subject. “You know what I miss? Ice cream. Real ice cream. Not that weird soy stuff.”

Max turns to her. “Strawberry or bust.”

“Rocky Road,” Dustin mumbles.

“Mint chocolate chip is the worst,” Lucas adds.

“…take that back,” Mike croaks, and the quietest smile flickers across his face.

You grin sadly, peering over at him. “So that wasn’t a phase, huh?” you murmur, gently teasing.

He sniffs, shaking his head and giving you a tragic little smile and opting out of trying to speak again without fat tears cutting him off. You just scrunch your nose at him sleepily and with heavily lidded eyes.

Then you glance up at Steve. “This one knows that I’m good old fashioned vanilla. Boring as ever.”

His lips twitch. His color’s coming back. He lifts his mug, then murmurs, “My weapon of choice doesn’t need ice cream. Just caffeine and spite.”

You smirk, biting your lip. “Deadly combo.”

“Damn right,” he murmurs hoarsely. And he means it. He’s not okay. But you’re here.

And that’s something.

Joyce keeps talking, so do the kids, about nothing and everything. TV shows. Weird cereal brands, and whether Nancy and Argyle would win in a trivia contest, which now gets their attention and their thoughts are being thrown in the mix of things. Eddie and Robin softly contribute to all of it, too. Same as Jonathan. Talking about nonsense and anything that comes to mind.

Anything except what’s out there.

And still, Steve doesn’t cry. But he keeps you pressed close, one hand resting on your chest, feeling the beat of your unsteady heart beneath his palm.

Alive and grown. 

Here with him, not leaving him alone.

The tank rumbles forward through the storm.

Toward a checkpoint. Toward a plan.

Toward the end of whatever this is.

And none of you voice the one truth shared between every heart in the dark:

No one is coming to save you.

But you’re going anyway.

Together.

Chapter Seventy-Nine Fuck Papa.

DAY 2 | 7:08 AM

The storm hasn’t let up.

If anything, it’s gotten worse.

But the sun has risen now, pale and useless and barely distinguishable beyond the black, roiling clouds above... It’s morning now. A bleak, oyster gray morning splintered by sleet, hail, and an endless stretch of forest roads that look more like jagged scars than anything made for wheels. 

Dingus-1 groans its way over another ridge, rain hammering the roof like nails from God. And up front, Steve Harrington’s knuckles are white as he steers it.

Dustin Henderson is slumped with focus in the passenger seat beside him, half-wrapped in a thrifted flannel that is definitely not his and has not been washed in weeks. His socked feet are propped up like he owns the place, and a laminated map is spread across his lap with sticky notes fluttering off it like feathers. A compass sits wedged in the crook of his elbow. And a hand-scrawled note in Hopper’s bad handwriting is taped to the dash: “NO HEADLIGHTS. STAY QUIET. TRUST INSTINCT.”

Steve squints through a slab of fog. “I miss blizzards,” he mutters.

Dustin doesn’t even look up. “You’re mental.”

“No, seriously,” Steve says. “Snow is romantic. This is just God’s car wash from hell.”

A beat. 

Then…

“…that’s the stupidest sentence I’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah? Well, it’s early.” 

Steve’s voice is gravel. His chestnut hair is a mess under his beanie that you knitted for him. The pastel yellow one. He hasn’t really slept since the nightmare, and his right foot is cramping from keeping the pressure light and even on a vehicle pedal that was never designed for finesse. But his grip is steady. His jaw is set. He’s focused.

“You realize we’re technically fugitives,” Dustin says conversationally. “And this storm’s like our one good disguise, right?”

“Yeah. I’m driving blind through a thunder-monsoon at seven miles per hour. Don’t you dare say I’m not making it count.”

“You’re doing great, Loverboy,” Max pipes up from where she sits between them, casually pulling one headphone off her ear. 

She’s got a tiny transceiver balanced in her lap, her red hair tucked under a hoodie. “Storm’s holding. Still got a full eighteen-hour safety window if we stick to the route. Two hours after that if we don’t mind a high-stakes game of dodge-the-drone.”

Dustin turns toward her. “And the broadcast?”

Max sighs, switching dials. Her expression tightens, but she relays it anyway. “US martial law’s still in full effect. National Guard’s all over Indiana. Hawkins evac complete as of last night.”

Steve’s jaw ticks.

“Same updates, different phrasing,” Max adds. “Still no real answers. No press allowed inside the state line. Lotta speculation. Some stations think it’s bioterrorism. Others think it’s a coordinated attack. One guy said aliens.”

Dustin mutters, “He’s not completely wrong.”

“They’re all wrong,” Max says. “And also… kinda right.”

A beat passes. The tank rumbles forward.

Steve breathes through his nose. “You think they’re ever gonna say it? Like, actually say it?”

“Doubt it,” Max says. “But the world’s catching on.”

“Can’t lie forever,” Dustin adds, watching a branch scrape the side window. “Eventually the stories won’t line up.”

“Eventually,” Steve mutters, adjusting his grip. “That word’s doing a lot of heavy lifting lately.”

Silence settles.

Outside, hail pelts the windshield with icy ping-ping-pings. The trees bend and bow under the weight of rain. Somewhere, thunder splits the sky into jagged halves.

Max takes off her other headphone.

“Y’know,” she says slowly, watching the road ahead, “I still expect a nine-month catch-up session, by the way.”

Steve chokes on nothing. “I’m sorry—what?”

Max shrugs, devilish grin curling. “You heard me. I want the whole story. Every messy, awkward, ridiculous thing that I missed.”

Dustin grins. “That’s gonna take a decade.”

“We’ve got time,” she says innocently, eyes on Steve now. “I wanna hear it.”

Steve side-eyes her. “While I’m driving a war tank?”

“Yup,” Max says. “Keeps you distracted. Less awkward.”

Dustin smirks. “She’s not wrong.”

“And,” Max says, aiming a finger at Dustin, “you’re only allowed to interrupt if it contributes to the story. Not if you are just gonna shit on it.”

He holds up both hands. “Fair.”

Steve exhales, amused. He stares out through the veil of water for a long beat. “Okay,” he says finally. “Where do I even start?”

Max folds her arms, boots tucked under her knees. “Start with when you figured it out.”

He arched one brow. “What, that I’m in love with her?”

“Yup.”

He laughs under his breath. “It wasn’t one moment. It was a lotta little ones.”

Max tilts her head. “Pick one.”

Steve chews the inside of his cheek. Dustin watches him from the side, suddenly more still than before, eyes curious.

“There was one night,” Steve says slowly. “I was cleaning up a cut on her hand after one of the missions. Dumb little scrape, barely even bled. She was joking the whole time, jus' sorta... being ridiculous, trying to distract me. And I jus’ remember thinking… I'd actually hate it if she stopped trying to bug me.”

Dustin doesn’t speak. Max stays silent too.

Steve adds, “She was eating a cherry Tootsie Pop. The red ones she always hides inside her coat pocket. And I realized I’d memorized the sound of her unwrapping it.”

Max’s smile softens.

“And there was this other time,” Steve lightly chuckles, thinking back in real time, “I was carrying this... giant basket of laundry that'd started piling up, and—she rounded the corner, right as I walked outta one of the rooms. Tryna be a good host.” He pauses to look pointedly at Dustin, even though there's not real heat behind it. “Even if you all kept just acting like ungrateful bastards anyway.”

Dustin just smiled wryly, sarcastic as ever. “Our version of grateful actually means living our best life without tryna kiss your ass, Steve.”

“Psh, you've never kissed my ass,” Steve mutters, but his smirk betrays him.

Max clears her throat mock-primly. “Anyway...?!”

Steve's smirk deepens, eyes soft all over again. “Anyway,” he echoes teasingly before he keeps going. “We bumped into each other. Sorta just... bantered and riffed. Not fighting or bickering, just—” He slowly shrugs, brown eyes twinkling, even though he tries to look casual about it. Of course, he doesn't. “Bounced off one another, and just... started doing all the laundry together.”

Max's blue eyes shine with wordless awe and joy as she listens, staring at him.

“She actually tripped me,” he suddenly says, eyes full of mischief and nostalgia as he thinks back on it. “Not even on purpose, dude. She straight up got into a tussle with me in the laundry room and slipped on a dryer sheet. Took me down with her.”

Max's brows shoot up in delight, smile growing. “So you both fell.”

Steve's grin dissolves into something lovesick and tender as he feels those words hit him square in the chest.

“Yeah,” he finally whispers, staring out the dash as he steers, remembering the way your laughter that day had made him feel alive again. Made him find his own laugh again... after spending fuck knows how long, wondering how to do it without forcing himself to find humor in anything anymore. “We both fell.”

The redhead grins deeply now, brows wiggling.

“Took you long enough,” she mutters warmly.

Steve ruffles her hair, smirking. “Yeah, well,” he sighs, “She sorta beat me to the punch. I was just... really tardy ton the party.”

Dustin snorts, grinning smugly at the icy dash. “Dude, you were tardy as shit.”

“Henderson? She said no snark.”

The kid groaned. “It's just soooo easy.”

Max snickered gleefully, crunching into her granola bar again before lightly shoving Steve, urging him to keep going. “Okay, okay, so...? And??”

“And I dunno. After that,” Steve goes on, voice quieter now, “it was everything. The way she calls me ‘Lover,’ like it’s a sort of reminder we made it here, or… y'know, the way she says the word ‘brutal.’ Her heartbeat when she sleeps. Arrhythmia or not. The way she takes care of people like it’s her whole purpose.”

Dustin shrugged. “Only took him three years,” he muttered. Max almost scolded him but he wasn’t being smug. “Just to stop focusing on the wrong thing.”

Steve shrugs, eyes still on the rain. “Yeah, I was being a dumbass. I just thought I was supposed to be with Nance forever. Like it was some kind of script.”

“It wasn’t dumb,” Max says quietly, eyes softer. “You just got caught up in the story you thought you had to live.”

Steve glances at her, surprised.

She shrugs. “But… it’s not the story you’re in, so. You just had to read the new plot and get on board.”

That lands. 

Steve feels it settle in his chest like a second heartbeat. “Well, she saved me,” he sighs. “She’s still saving me.”

Max smirks. “Yeah. I heard. Might not’a been conscious. But I heard.”

Steve squints at her slyly. “Oh yeah?”

She taps her temple. “I heard you. Not all of it. But I remember the morning she read my letter to you. The one I left… in case.”

Oh, shit.

Steve’s jaw opens slightly. “You… heard that?”

“I did,” Max confessed softly. “I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. But... I heard her tell you that every word I wrote was true. That you’re a beautiful person.”

He swallows hard.

Yeah, he really is better off having a distraction as he does this so that he doesn’t weep from exhaustion.

“And I knew something shifted after that,” Max goes on. “Even with my eyes closed. I could feel it. And later that night? Whenever she and Lucas were both handling my like, feeding tube—”

“Wait, you—” Steve did a double take. “—heard that too...?”

“Yeah, I heard her tell you to go to bed, and you didn’t say anything. You just went to her room and kissed her face.”

Dustin looks up sharply. “What?”

Max is too busy smugly beaming at Steve, who stared out the windshield in stunned silence with a shade of crimson creeping up his neck. “That part’s just theory, but am I wrong?…”

Steve groaned. “Jesus Christ, Max.”

“Knew it.”

“Oh my God,” Dustin howls. “You’re so sappy—”

“I wasn’t—shut up—”

“I KNEW it,” Max is beaming even bigger now. “Sheez, that’s adorable. I can’t believe I missed it.”

Steve’s ears are red. “You didn’t miss it, you were unconscious—”

“And yet somehow,” she says, reaching out to squeeze his forearm where it’s tensed on the steering column, “I still knew it mattered.”

That stops him cold.

“I hated not being able to hug you,” she added, “…when you got home after she was brought back. Whenever you were carrying her, crying your eyes out and saying she was breathing again. I wanted to hug you so bad.”

Steve doesn’t say anything. Instead, he reaches over and covers Max’s hand with his own palm.

They drive like that for a while.

Quietly.

Warmly.

As a unit

As a family.

Suddenly, a BOLT of lightning rips across the sky like the hand of God.

It strikes a tree not twenty feet ahead of the tank.

“SHIT—!” Steve slams the brakes.

The whole vehicle lurches. Dustin and Max lurch with it. The scorched tree comes down hard—just missing the front right tread by a literal foot. Steam and smoke rise from the blackened bark.

The three of them sit there, hearts in their throats.

And then, for no real reason, all of them start laughing.

Manic. Giddy. Stupid laughter.

“Oh my God,” Max wheezes. “That almost killed us—”

Steve is breathless. “I just—steered around a goddamn lightning tree—”

Dustin whoops. “That was the most metal thing I’ve ever seen in my life—”

Behind them, a voice says flatly: “I’m sorry, are we now treating vehicular evasion of divine judgment as a party trick?”

They all jump.

Murray Bauman is standing directly behind them, arms crossed, looking done.

“Jesus, Murray—” Steve says, clutching his chest.

Murray ignores him. “Congratulations on not crashing into God’s wrath. Do me a favor and don’t do it again.”

Steve mutters, “Yes, sir.”

Murray squints at him. Then added, dry as sin, “Nice driving, Harrington.”

Steve blinks. “Thank... you?”

Dustin fake-sniffles. “Is that praise? Is Murray proud? I think I’m gonna cry.”

“Save your tears for the hailstones, Henderson,” Murray deadpans.

Max spins around in her seat, now blinking sweetly up at Murray. “Grandpa? Can you go get me a snack?”

There is a beat of silence. Pure, bewildered silence.

Then Murray asked, “…Grandpa…?”

Max just keeps beaming. “Pleeeeease?”

Murray blinks twice. “You know what? Fine.”

He leaves to oblige her request.

Steve gapes, leaning over to Dustin. “How the hell did she do that?”

“She’s terrifying,” he whispers reverently.

Max smirked proudly.

A few minutes later, Murray returned with the best snack anyone could manage: a peanut butter granola bar and a Capri Sun, which he placed in Max’s lap as though he’s presenting an offering to a dark god.

She grinned. “Fankzzz.”

Murray pointed. “As long as I’m never called Papa, we’re fine,” he muttered.

From the back of the tank, a chorus erupts.

“OH, FUCK PAPA!”

Mike. Lucas. You. Jonathan. Argyle. Nancy cackling and then repeating it. Robin sleep-laughs. Joyce, half-asleep, mutters, “What he said.”

Hopper, still dead asleep, growls, “Fuck Papa.”

“Fuccccckkk Papa,” Eddie whined groggily, as if singing onstage at an emo rock concert mid-nap.

Max was snickering, while Steve and Dustin looked at each other… then nodded solemnly.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Fuck Papa.”

“Fuck Papa,” Dustin echoes.

Max lazily waved her hands like a conductor with a large mouthful of granola. “Again, from the top.”

They steer the tank forward into the rain.

The forest gets thinner.

The tree line is close.

And inside Dingus-1, through laughter, through grief, through the storm and static and silence…

The heartbeat of something unstoppable begins to pound louder. Not just survival. Not just escape.

But the sound of family.

Chapter Eighty The Laundry Room

💭 Hawkins, Indiana • October 1986 Casa Harrington {4 months after the quakes}

There was a sock on the chandelier.

No one quite knew how it got there, but there it was. Just dangling from the crystal edge like it only belonged to the swanky décor. And Dustin, his arms crossed and his jaw slack with disbelief, stood beneath it like a man plotting a murder.

“Lucas,” he said in a very flat, very unamused voice.

Next to him, Lucas stood on the arm of the couch with a feather duster, now blinking innocently down at him. “Yes, dearie?”

“…you absolute twatwaffle.”

Will snorted from where he sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully stacking Steve’s VHS tapes. “I mean, you’re the one who gave him the duster.”

“I didn’t think he’d use it as a goddamn weapon!” Dustin hissed.

Mike, from the fireplace, where he was using a broom as a javelin to knock cobwebs from the corner, shamelessly chimed in. “It’s literally Lucas. What did you expect.”

Lucas turned slightly, smirking, looking proud. “I’m adding personality to the room.”

“Dude.”

“Bruh.”

“Guys,” Eleven tried softly, holding a stack of fresh towels near the stairs, her brows furrowed. “Focus. We’re trying to help.”

They were, unbelievably, all trying to help. 

Somehow, against every expectation, a very coordinated house cleaning effort had broken out. Led by Lucas, of all people, who had declared (…without consulting anyone) that the house needed to be clean and sparkling for when Max woke up.

No one argued. No one dared argue.

Plus, they all got to live here for free and not feel as though they were being watched and held under lock and key by all of their oblivious parents.

Casa Harrington had gone from big and empty to loud and full, all over the course of the last five months since Steve.

So now, in the warm light of a hazy afternoon, despite the Upside Down related molecules and ash that swirled just outside the windows, Steve Harrington’s giant house had become a makeshift HQ, a hospital ward, a bomb shelter, and apparently, a spontaneous youth volunteer program.

Joyce was in the kitchen doing dishes. Hopper had now claimed the back porch with a cigar and toolbox. Murray was barricaded in the old home office, radio frequencies buzzing like a beehive behind closed doors. Robin floated in and out like a chaotic godmother.

And you… well, you had just made it halfway down the stairs, a laundry basket balanced on your hip, when the sock hit you in the face.

“What the hell.”

“Sorry!” Lucas called down from the couch. “That was not an attack—!”

“It was accidental crossfire!” Dustin shouted, right before he squawked as another sock (and shoe) got launched at his head..

“Jesus,” you snorted, shaking it off and stepping over a discarded Nerf gun. “Who gave you gremlins caffeine?”

“We found Mike’s stash of M&Ms,” Will offered helpfully. “They were in the freezer.”

“Those were in my emergency stash,” Mike snapped. “Which—hello?! Is this city not in the literal goddamn state of emergency—?!”

“Guys,” Eleven reminded, her voice firm now, but also trying not to burst out laughing. “Focus. Max would have this done in two seconds flat, even with our sugar-high.”

The room settled briefly. 

Briefly.

Because that was when Eddie tried to stand up.

“Alright,” he grunted from the couch. “Chitlins, lemme—”

“NOPE!” Dustin nearly shrieked, throwing a hand out like he was summoning the force. “Down! Sit! Sit your ass down!”

Eddie froze halfway upright, grimacing as he balanced on one elbow. “What, I was just gonna help fold—”

“Fold? Fold?!” Mike looked horrified, somewhat feral, one eye twitching. “Your entire stomach looks like friggin’ Frankenstein’s homework.”

“Jesus Christ,” Will muttered through a laugh.

“Seriously, sit the hell down,” Lucas added, pointing the feather duster at him threateningly. “Do you want stitches in your stitches?”

“I was gonna fold linens!” Eddie said again, throwing his hands up. “Not breakdance!”

“STOP FLAILING!” Dustin screeched, scandalized. “Fold with your mind, Munson!” 

Will grinned as he tried to suppress a snort. “You guys could try telling him nicely, maybe.”

“Well where’s the fun in that?” Mike muttered.

Eddie wigged on the couch like an impish middle schooler. “C’mon, dudes. It’s been what—half a year since I got my guts chewed out by devil bats?”

“Five months,” Will corrected quickly, pointing. “And you’re still healing from the last three stitches you pulled.”

Eddie posted theatrically. “Aww, Willyyyyy… you’re supposed to be good cop.”

“No, that’s El,” Mike deadpanned, arms crossed around her as she smirked — vacuum still in hand, hip cocked to the side. “And that was before Steve put her in charge of your middle school rebellion.”

Eddie just gestured with both hands, grinning broadly. “WHAT HAPPENED TO ALL AL MY FLOCK OF REBELS? ALL MY LIL BLACK SHEEP?”

The kids stared itch wide-eyed disapproval.

Even you did now, brows shot then the ceiling with a morbid smirk.

“Munsonnnn,” you warned in a deep, low chuckle.

“C’monnnn,” Eddie teased, rebellious as ever, “look’a’how these war wounds are already healing up—”

“Edward Munson.”

Uh-oh.

That was mama bear.

From the kitchen, Joyce’s voice rang out. “If you don’t sit your ass down, I will come in there with a wooden spoon like it’s medieval times and you’re misbehaving!”

That did it. 

Eddie plopped back onto the couch so fast that his unruly curls bounced with fright as he blinked, questioning all of his decisions or near decisions.

The entire living room erupted into laughter, sputtering and wheezing and tripping over itself. 

You threw your head back with a cackle, your shoulders shaking as you moved past them all with the basket, and you heard Eddie saying something along the lines of, “I shan’t rise again,” whenever you nearly rammed directly into—

“Jesus, Harrington—”

“Whoaaa, hey—easy, killer,” Steve drawled, one hand steadying the side of your giant basket. “Didn’t know they sent in the Marines.”

He was holding a pillowcase under one arm and a set of sheets under the other. His hoodie sleeves were shoved to his elbows, hair an intentional mess, face flushed and bright from the energy of the house. 

And there was something unique glittering inside his big brown eyes. Something sharp, bright, amused.

You grinned back. “Laundry’s my contribution today,” you explained. “Gotta make it count.”

“Sure,” he said, eyeing the basket. “Yours or your ego’s?”

You snorted. “This is everyone’s, jackass.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned slightly to peek in. “Is that my polo shirt?”

“It might be.”

“Is it also my towel? My socks?”

You cocked your head. “You act like you only own one of each.”

“That depends,” Steve said, eyes gleaming. “How many have you stolen?”

You smirked. “How many have I washed for you, you mean?”

“Alright, alright,” he said, feigning defeat, backing toward the hallway. “You win this round, Laundry Princess.”

You lightly scoffed and sauntered on past him. “That’s Laundry Queen to you, peasant.”

“Unbelievable,” Steve muttered, turning to watch you go, still grinning. Then, like a young man newly possessed by a very stupid idea, “Hey. Wait up.”

You didn’t even look back, just called over your shoulder. “Scared to let me wash your underwear?”

He was already following.

And definitely enjoying the view.

And definitely trying not to wonder why he did.

His house still roared around him as you ducked into the laundry room. The moment the door shut behind Steve, the world muffled. It was quieter here. Smaller. Cozy.

A little too cozy.

“Well, well, well,” you dropped the overloaded basket to the folding table and spun. “You’re really gonna help?”

Steve leaned against the dryer like he owned the place. (He did.) “I’m here for moral support.”

“Moral support my ass.” You snapped open a detergent lid. “You’re helping.”

He raised his brows, not moving. “You’re bossy today.”

“I’m bossy every day.”

Steve grinned. “You say that like it’s not the sole reason anyone’s doing anything around here.”

You gave him a faux-shocked look. “You saying that I've got an agenda?”

“I’m saying you’re terrifying.”

You gasped, pretending the reel. “That’s rich coming from someone who threatened a grocery bagger because they smushed your strawberries.”

“That was justified,” he pointed, “and you know it.”

“That kid was sixteen!”

“She had an attitude.”

“Your sass beg to differ.”

“She crushed my produce and scoffed like a brat.”

You pointed at him with a dryer sheet. “You need help. Seek the Lord.”

“Oh, do not give me that,” he lackadaisically droned. “Not the Jesus talk in my laundry room.”

“Don’t you mean your goddamn laundry room…?” you all but drawled as you grabbed the detergent by its neck.

Steve crossed his arms, squinting through a smirk. “You are so spicy today.”

“And you’re so lazy.”

“I’m literally the reason this house has a functioning water heater for the twenty-or-more showers a day!”

“And I’m the reason this house has enough soap.”

He opened his mouth. 

Then he closed it. 

“Touché.”

You smirked, heart flipping. “Now sort that pile. I’m on towels.”

Steve groaned. “Why are there so many colors?”

“Because people wear clothes, Steve,” you deadpanned.

He dramatically slumped to the floor. “This is oppression.”

You snickered. “This’s adulthood, baby.”

He made a face like that word physically wounded him. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Sounding like a hot, terrifying future wife.”

…you paused at that.

…just brief enough to feel it slip underneath your ribs like a flaming hot, fever spiked four-year-long secret.

“…I sound hot?”

Steve looked up at you, playfully. “I said what I said.”

You arched a brow. “Careful, Harrington.”

“What.”

“Caaaaarefulllll.”

“Why?”

“Because if you keep talking like that, you’re gonna end up folding all this shit by yourself while I watch.”

Steve narrowed his eyes into slits, slowly tilting his head and rising to stand. “You wanna run that by me again?”

“Nope,” you chirped, turning and flapping a towel with flourish. “Ya heard me just fine.”

The rest of your shared banter devolved from there into snarky, reckless flirtatiousness. 

You scolded him for trying to toss reds in with whit... 

“Okay, so you are colorblind—”

“It’s maroon, not blood—”

“Either way? They bleed.”

He accused you of mixing the cottons and linens like a psychopath... 

“You don’t even separate the textures…?”

“Are we washing them or enrolling them in private school?”

“You’re gonna give me hives—”

You lobbed a detergent cap at his face, and he retaliated by yeeting a dryer sheet into your hair like a ninja star.

“You missed my face—”

“Didn’t wanna ruin the only thing that keeps on surviving hit after hit after powpow—”

“Oh my god, Bauman, you’re—”

“I’m a humanitarian, really—”

It all crescendoed in a chaotic tumble of loose limbs and giddy laughter as Steve tripped trying to scoop up a sock and you tripped by trying to trip him…

“You good there, Bambi—?”

“Sock’s a trap. You planted it—!”

(shuffle shuffle)

“Oh no—oh hell, hell—”

“TIMBERRRR—”

“YOU’RE—”

…and suddenly you were both in a heap against the side of the washing machine, laughing so hard it went silent.

That kind of laughter. The wheezing kind. The kind that made your stomach ache and your ribs cramp and your eyes blur with the rare joy that didn’t ask for permission.

“I think I sprained—something—”

“Your dignity.”

“Pah, that died years ago, actually—”

“Where was my funeral invite—?!”

“You’re—” Steve wheezed, covering his face. “You’re actually a terrorist.”

You gasped theatrically through your own laughter, ready to rebuttal as you sat up — only to bump your head on a low hanging shelf. You grimaced hard while rubbing your head, your mouth hung open as you looked up toward the shelf like it was a monster.

Steve made a strangled sound, half-choke, half-cackle. “Fuck—you okay?!”

“—we’re not gon’ make it to rinse cycle.”

Steve threw his head back in silent, uncontrollable laughter. 

You collapsed sideways over the half-full laundry basket, breathless and limp with mirth, as Steve lay flat on his back, laughing into his own arm, flushed pink and absolutely glowing.

…and then came silence.

Not heavy. Not awkward.

Just… different. Just charged.

You were still smiling, your eyes glowing. He was still catching his breath. But the energy shifted in that small, sacred, suspended moment.

Steve’s head turned slightly.

His eyes landed on you. 

And they lingered.

It wasn’t the first time he’d looked at you like that. But it was the first time it felt like he knew he was looking like that, and like he knew you were catching it this time.

Like he wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore.

You blinked up at him, heart pounding. Still breathless. Still stunned.

He reached out, slowly. Gently. “You’ve got—” his voice cracked slightly, but he cleared it. “—a little lint.”

His fingers brushed your hairline, soft and warm and careful.

You didn’t fucking move.

He was closer now. Hovering... looking at you as though you were made of something silky and deadly. Like he’d never seen anything quite so infuriating or mesmerizing.

You wondered, for half a second, if he was going to kiss you. If he might actually close the distance and kiss your lips right here inside his laundry room.

So did he.

…but then he stood.

One smooth movement. One clean breath.

And then his hand was in yours, helping you up. Steady, gentlemanly and suave, just totally Steve Harrington.

Neither of you said much after that. 

You folded. He loaded. Your arms brushed once, twice. Three times. Four times. But the quiet buzz under your skin wouldn’t go away, even when there wasn’t touch. 

Not yours.

Not his.

Because inside Steve’s chest, something was beginning to hum. Loud and soft and more terrifying than anything he’d ever been made to face.

He looked at you and thought of all the mornings that he wanted like this. All the fights over laundry. All the kisses over breakfast. All the nights that you’d argue with him over which movie to watch. All the days that you’d hold hands… just because.

For the first time since losing Nancy, he dared to dream again. Only this time, it felt impossibly bigger. And for the first time in a long, long time… Steve Harrington wasn’t afraid of wanting it.

He was afraid he already needed it.

…with you.

But he didn’t say that. Didn’t breathe it. Didn’t even look at it too long or let his mind sink into it too deeply.

Instead? Steve simply passed you a towel from your self appointed task and let you grin him straight to hell. 

And he smiled like the whole house wasn’t already on fire inside his chest.

🖤

Forever dedicated to Cherie & @aloneinthehellfire 🖤 TAGLIST {full} @moonlightdreamer111 @tangledluver @aloneinthehellfire @silkholland @ihaveproblemsihaveproblems @brinleighsstuff @definitelynotherr @silkholland @sucker-4-angst @bookkeeperlove @xblueriddlex @madaboutjoe @ucannotcompare @goosy-goose  @ashkuuuu @ashbye@soybeans-and-coffee  @yourelivingwrong @scaredofbeingbasic  @cathx91  @just-a-harmless-patato @unlikelytacotheorist  @chloewatersss  @cherrynukas  @cheugy-djobe @delulu4bucky  @calszonex @thecreelhouse @nancywalkemdownwheeler

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The government officials. Military-grade, leather-faced, impossibly cold and professional, all filling the living room with their silent menace and neutrality. They sat in tight, neat rows, eyes like bottomless wells, showing no hint of emotion. No twitch. No flinch. Nothing. 

But Steve could feel it. The tension that rippled beneath their skin. The quiet realization that maybe, just maybe, Steve Harrington had finally cracked. Maybe he was now a broken man with no clue where the rest of the team had disappeared to and why they’d left him behind just like his rich parents had whenever they’d evacuated without him.

And Steve was more than willing to give them exactly what they wanted.

Showtime.

“Murray Bauman’s a fucking sadist.”

His voice was low and bitterly soaked in exhaustion, in anger, spilling out words he knew were poison but had been aching to say.

“He’s the one who probably got her killed somewhere out there,” Steve spat, big eyes darting with barely contained fury. “That asshole twisted her all into this psychotic cult of paranoia, got you guys chasing ghosts, convinced her they needed to be martyrs just to feel relevant.”

Someone raised a thick eyebrow. “That why his niece is also still MIA?”

Steve let out a dry laugh, aggrieved and cracked. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. His niece, the one I’m dating.”

“So you are still with her.”

He barked a laugh, dark and humorless. “Nah, I’m just a pitstop for good girls gone bad.”

“So that’s a yes.”

“That’s my brand.”

“Mr. Harrington—” 

“She's a goddamn disaster, too. She walked out on me. Left me to rot while she chased some conspiracy that I swear’s gonna be the end of us all.” Steve’s chest now heaved. “Not ‘cause it’s true, jus’cause it’s fucked. S’all fucked.”

The officials said nothing. But one of them, something about the set of his jaw, betrayed a flicker of surprise. It was subtle. Almost imperceptible. But Steve caught it, and that was all he needed. He leaned deeper into the role. 

Bitter boyfriend. 

Broken man. 

Lost soul.

“I have no idea where Jonathan and Argyle took on off to with my BMW,” Steve continued, his voice thickening with rage. “They probably died in the blizzard last night. That’s the truth. Hell, maybe they’re frozen out there right now and conserving their bodies for cloning. Praying they’ll get dug up—”

“We found the car.”

One of the officials finally broke their silence. The words were blunt, cruel. “We found the car, buried in the snow.”

Steve shot up straight like he’d been struck, eyes wide and glassy for a brief moment, then snapping into sharp shock. It was all calculated, a perfect performance of grief and disbelief.

“No…” he breathed, voice cracking. “No, that can’t be… They wouldn’t have left it out in the open.”

But when the officials mentioned the car was totaled, “wrecked beyond recognition…” 

…something inside of Steve shattered. 

His façade cracked wide open, and suddenly? He was psychotic, furious, wild-eyed, shaking like he was about to lose it completely.

Like he was self-admitting himself into a psych ward.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice raw. “You don’t get it, do you? They were my fucking family. They were all I had left…”

The officials shifted uncomfortably. The kind of discomfort that creeps up when you see a man break in front of you and can’t look away.

“Sir.”

“WHAT?!”

THE FOXES + HUNTERS

Jonathan stepped out from the Winnebago again, this time with Dr. Owens at his side. Both men balanced a tray each of still-steaming bowls, the fruity scent of hot citrus and sweet canned goods curling around them like incense.

A little sweet treat to add to the savory meal. 

“Ooooh,” Eddie groaned reverently, sniffing. “My king returns bearing gifts.”

Robin elbowed him, half-grinning. “Dibs on your leftovers.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll leave any.”

Jonathan laughed as he passed bowls to Mike, Lucas, and then Eddie. Owens did the same for Robin and Nancy, his hands steady despite the cold. He handed yours to you last with a nod that was almost fatherly.

You looked back at him with the warmest of smiles.

Dmitri passed over your roasted portion of squirrel not a second later, flipping the meat with a stick and using one gloved hand to test its tenderness. It looked unexpectedly delicious. Perfectly crisp, seasoned with whatever he had stashed in that little tactical pouch of his.

“Best cuts for the commanders,” he said simply, handing the meat to you and Dustin.

Dustin blinked. “Wait, really?”

“You kept the nail. You earned it,” Dmitri said.

Eleven nodded beside him.

You hummed as you took the tin, warmth bleeding into your gloves. “Thank you.”

He glanced at you fiercely. “You need to stay sharp. Everyone looks to you.”

You tilted your head. “That a compliment?”

“Observation,” he said coolly. “But yes. One not given lightly.”

You tried not to grin too hard.

Nancy now sipped from her soup and silently clocked the entire exchange, hiding her smile behind her mug. Dmitri went back to the fire like nothing had happened, slicing the last of the bones apart and carefully burying all of the remains in a pile of ash and leaves.

“Jesus,” Jonathan muttered near him. “You ever just… relax?”

Dmitri raised an eyebrow. “This is me relaxed.”

Robin snorted into her sleeve. “God help us if he ever gets uptight.”

Dmitri smirked, faint but real. “I will warn you.”

Argyle returned from inside with a last batch of hot sweet treat and joined the circle, immediately clocking the vibe and mood. He raised an eyebrow at Eddie, who grinned with his mouth full, and then at Robin, who widened her eyes meaningfully toward Jonathan and Nancy… then toward you and Dmitri.

Argyle’s entire face went still with amusement.

He turned to Jonathan, barely keeping a straight face. “Sweet treat?”

“Sweet treat,” Jonathan muttered.

They clinked their bowls like beers and sank into their log seats like winter soldiers.

And for a while, it was warm.

Quiet.

Safe.

The snow had slowed to a stop early this morning. The treeline hung heavy with fog, and the sky remained a flat, pale gray. But for the first time in what felt like a hundred hours, no one was bleeding, no one was running and no one was almost dead.

It was as close to peace as all of could get.

Until Lucas looked up and asked what all of you were thinking.

“What about back home?” 

He’d spoken softly, but his question broke over everyone like harsh wind anyway.

Your spoon went still in its bowl. Eleven glanced toward you. Mike looked down. Robin slowly stopped chewing while Eddie sighed through his nose.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “We wait. For now.”

“Wait for what?” Lucas’s brow furrowed.

“For things to settle down,” Owens said gently. “We can’t make contact yet. They’re still watching everything. Any frequency we try to use could lead them straight to us.”

“…so what do we do now?” Mike said.

Dustin groaned. “Don’t say kill more squirrels.”

You nudged him lightly, smirking at your bowl.

“We stay off-grid,” Dmitri said. “We stay invisible. And we don’t make any mistakes.”

“But they’re still there,” Lucas said quietly. “Steve. Hopper. Joyce. Will. They’re still in it.”

“I know,” you said, heartsick. “That’s why we don’t do anything rash.”

Nancy nodded. “They’re probably working just as hard to cover for us.”

Robin looked toward you both. “What if they’re trying to reach us?”

“They’re not,” you said gently. “They know better.”

“…still…”

“It doesn’t matter,” you interrupted softly. “We can’t risk contact. That’s not a debate.”

No one pushed you on it.

Not even Mike.

“But,” you added, “we do need to come up with a plan. For later. Something encrypted. Safe. We’ll figure it out together. But first…”

You glanced around the group, at their drained faces, tired limbs, and wind-chapped cheeks.

“…first, we eat. Then we rest. Then we plan.”

No one argued.

Even Dustin nodded slowly, chewing with his eyes half-closed.

You leaned back slightly against Nancy’s side, and to your surprise, she leaned back too. She was soft, warm,  and grounded. A quiet weight against your shoulder. No guard up. No passive wall. But actual presence. 

She’d made space for you. 

And stayed there.

Jonathan clocked it with another grin. Beside him, Owens now breathed in deep and exhaled with the weariness of a man carrying thirty years of covert failures. 

“If anyone can get back in contact…” he spoke slowly, “it’ll be us. Eventually.”

“Damn right,” Argyle mumbled.

Eddie raised his bowl in a silent toast.

One by one, they all joined him.

Bowls clinked.

The squirrel meat crackled.

The fire flickered bright, smokeless and steady.

And for just a few minutes longer, it was okay to laugh. To breathe. To imagine a world where it might be safe again. Where the homefront was still holding. Where your plan might still work.

No one spoke it aloud.

But everyone thought the same thing:

We made it this far. We’re not stopping now.

“We’ll find a way to reach them,” you added warmly. “No matter what. We’ll make contact. Just not right now.”

Everyone looked at you again.

“Right now?” You smiled faintly. “Now, we just survive.”

THE DECOYS

The master bedroom door creaked, and Joyce stumbled through it. A mess of tangled hair, puffy red eyes, a face ravaged by tears and sleepless nights. 

She looked like she had just woken from a nightmare and was still caught in its grip.

Steve’s shoulders sagged, exasperated. He waved a shaky hand, trying to push away the attention. “Joyce, please—”

But she cut him off, voice trembling with desperate fury and grief all at once. “Where’s my son…”

She moved through the living room like a force of nature, demanding answers, shouting questions at Steve and the officials, back and forth.

“Where… is my son? Where is Jonathan? Where is he?!” she cried, voice breaking.

The officials repeated the grim news: the BMW was found, but no sign of Jonathan or Argyle anywhere.

Joyce’s fury turned to a chilling silence. The kind of quiet that’s almost more terrifying than her screaming. 

She was still. Too still. The storm building and swirling up behind her eyes had settled into a terrifying calm.