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Steve should be dead.
At the very least it should be him lying on the ground, hands pressed against his body to staunch the bleeding. Instead, it's Jonathan lying there while Steve kneels over him.
The world is in chaos around them, he knows it is, but Steve can't focus on anything but the blood seeping from between his fingers as he puts pressure on the wound. All sounds except the beating of his heart and his own panicked, panting breaths are drowned out. Impossible to focus on when he should be dead.
In the seconds before the gun went off, Steve had come to terms with it. It's not that he wants to die—not when he's found so many things, so many people to live for. Not when he thought the world might finally be starting to go back to normal; no more monsters or Upside Down or fucking secret government labs making trouble for their small town. But if someone has to die, Steve is the best option. He doesn't have family to cover up for—not really, not when he hasn't spoken to his parents in at least a year—and he isn't exactly indispensable when shit hits the fan.
Like it did today.
Dustin would be upset—Robin, too—but Robin's gotten close with Nancy and Jonathan, not to mention she's got parents who think the world of her. Dustin's got his mom and their cat and all of his friends. It would hurt, they wouldn't just forget about him, but they'd be able to move on. Easier than Mrs. Byers and Will and Nancy will manage if Jonathan dies right now.
"Why did you do that?" Steve asks. The words tear out of him in a whisper that he's sure Jonathan can't hear. It leaves his throat sore, but he tries again. Puts more force behind them. "Why did you do that?"
Jonathan doesn't answer him—Steve would scold him if he tried; talking can't be good for him. He does stare up at Steve, holding his gaze.
"I'm supposed to be the stupid one, you know? It's kind of my thing, you can't just steal my thing that I do."
Jonathan's throat bobs as he swallows, lips falling open and closed like he's trying to speak.
"Don't," Steve pleads, pressing down a little harder. "Don't try to talk, okay? You're gonna get help soon."
Please let them get help soon. For the first time since Jonathan dropped, Steve takes in the scene around them. As far as he can tell, everyone else that he cares about is still standing. Some with more difficulty than others; Hop is leaning heavily into Murray. If it were any other day Steve would be amused, but not now. Not with Jonathan bleeding out on the ground in front of him.
Nancy has a gun pointed at one of the agents—or whatever the hell they are—in a heap. It's hard to tell if he's dead or just knocked out. Steve doesn't particularly care, hopes that he's dead if that's the bastard who shot Jonathan. She must have gotten the gun off one of the men somehow; if she'd had it before, she would have used it. Nancy has always been better at all of this than Steve. At doing what needs to be done. He can't help but pull his goddamn punches unless he's fighting something that isn't human.
After this, he's going to do his best to fix that. Learn to knock someone down and keep them down. It's never going to end; they could all move to fucking Antarctica and this shit would still follow them, he's sure of it. Feels it in his goddamn bones; bones that ache with pressure changes like he's fifty fucking years old and not twenty-one.
God, he needs a drink. If—when—Jonathan makes it, Steve is going to go out and walk into the first liquor store he can find. He's sure it will be the only way to be able to sleep without seeing Jonathan's blood staining the skin of his fingers, his palms. It's soaking into the edges of his jacket sleeves. Steve just wants it to stop—has it slowed down at all?
It must have. The ground around them isn't a pool of red; not like he thinks it would be if the wound was worse. If Steve wasn't there, holding it down.
"Jonathan!"
He doesn't know who yells first; Mrs. Byers or Nancy. Doesn't care—won't move for either of them, even when they both crowd into his space. Nancy sits at Jonathan's head, her hands hovering over him. It's a rare sight: Nancy Wheeler unsure what to do next. The indecision doesn't last long before she's brushing her fingers through the sweat soaked hair across Jonathan's forehead. Steve looks away when she leans down and kisses him. Doesn't look up again until he feels her lips pressing against his own temple, her arm wrapping tightly around his neck. Just for a moment. Then Nancy is settling back behind Jonathan's head, lifting him gently to rest atop her thighs.
Steve looks at her then; sees the devastation in her eyes that he knows must be mirrored in his own. There's hope there, too, as the sound of sirens gets closer.
He doesn't care if he has to sign a hundred more NDAs. Doesn't care what lies he will have to memorize. He'll do all of it without a word of complaint if Jonathan gets the care he needs. Hell, Steve will go back, beg his parents to let him back in—do whatever the hell they want him to—to pay for that care if he needs to. Whatever it takes to make sure Jonathan doesn't die when it should have been him.
"You're going to okay, sweetie," Mrs. Byers said, voice as unsteady as Steve has ever heard it. Her hands shake as she rests one against the side of Jonathan's face, using the other to hold Jonathan's up against her chest. "You're going to be just f-fine."
Jonathan's lips curve, the edges tilting up to form a smile that sends ice down Steve's spine. If he's smiling, does that mean—if he's not feeling the pain anymore, that's a bad sign, right? But, no. There's still tension in his body, on his face. Jonathan is just—fuck, he's been shot, might be dying and he's trying to make his mom, make all of them, feel better.
The sirens are so loud now that they must be right outside. Pounding footsteps make their way closer. It feels like Jonathan is there, under his hands, and then between blinks he's gone. Whisked away onto one of the slabs from an ambulance—Steve's been on enough of them that he should know what it's called, but he doesn't care beyond the fact that it means Jonathan should, is going to be, okay.
Mrs. Byers follows her son every step of the way, near enough not to get left behind but not so close as to be in the way. Nancy and Steve follow after. It goes against every instinct he has not to shove his way closer. To let the paramedics put so much space between them. Nancy's claw-like grip on his arm helps keep him from listening to those instincts. The last thing Steve wants to do is get in their way; what if the seconds it would take them to move around him are critical to Jonathan's recovery? He's already the reason that Jonathan is being loaded into an ambulance in the first place. Steve can't—he can't—he can't breathe.
He watches Mrs. Byers get in when the EMTs give her the okay, watches them close the doors, watches the ambulance speed away, and all the while he can't catch his breath. Black spots refuse to be blinked away just as sure as his lungs refuse to take in air. Nancy's arms wrapping around him from the side are the only things keeping him on his feet.
She's stronger than she looks.
They still end up on the ground, but Steve realizes it's on purpose when Nancy arranges him with his legs bent at the knee and his head hanging between them. He's not sure how much it helps, but her hand on his back—That's good. Gives him something to focus on besides the burn in his lungs or the way his hands have begun to go numb. He can't—he's not dying, he knows because he's felt this before, but every goddamn time it's like his heart is threatening to beat right out of his chest. It's going to explode or he's going to suffocate to death, he knows it.
Her hand disappears only to be replaced by her entire front. Nancy's arms wrap around him, pulling him close. She breathes so deep he can feel the way her chest expands. Does it again and again as she holds him, forehead pressed up against the back of his neck. Steve closes his eyes and tries to copy her. He has no idea how much time passes before the feeling starts coming back to his fingers. Too long when they need to go. Meet Mrs. Byers at the hospital so she's not alone while her son is being looked over.
After Nancy helps him back to his feet, she nearly bowls him over again with the force of her hug. His arms close around her and he rests his mouth against the top of her head on instinct. She's shaking, her fingers digging into his back. "I thought you were—"
"Me, too," he says, kissing her head. Doesn't say that it should be. Knows she won't stand for it—knows it's true all the same. It should have been him.
What the hell was Jonathan thinking?
Hours pass like minutes and days all at once before they get the news that Jonathan is going to be fine. That he was lucky the bullet wasn't larger; that it hadn't hit any major arteries. Steve listens to all of the things that could have happened if the night had gone just a little differently and has to excuse himself to desperately try not to throw up in the bathroom. He's not sure how he's going to be able to sleep tonight. Can't even think about what it's going to be like later when he has to go home and close his eyes and try not to imagine what Jonathan's blood looked like as it seeped through his fingers.
Nancy's head peeks in while Steve is leaning over the sink with his forehead against the mirror. His breath keeps fogging up the glass. It's better than having to see his reflection.
"This is the men's room," he says without any heat. A sign isn't enough to stop Nancy Wheeler when she's on a mission. Apparently her mission, at the moment, is him. She rests her cheek against his arm, waiting patiently until he takes his forehead off the glass to speak.
"Everyone's starting to head home," she says, meeting his eyes in the mirror. Her hair is piled on the top of her head in a haphazard bun and her face is pale. The lighting in the bathroom probably doesn't help, but he knows that's not the only reason. "He's going to be okay."
Nancy's voice sounds like it comes from far away. Steve tries to focus on it, on how certain she sounds even though she can't be because she doesn't know. Can't know. Jonathan was shot. Shit, no, the thought alone has his breath hitching again and he can't—
She turns them both, her hands sliding up his back. Her arms wrap around his neck and it's almost too much. He bends when she pulls him down, rests his head on her shoulder and breathes her in. Under the sterile stench of hospital that clings to them both, Nancy smells familiar. He doesn't even remember the last time they'd been this close—it must have been over a year now, at least—before she helped him breath through his panic earlier. She still feels like home, though; or what he imagines home is supposed to feel like.
She's the only person who's ever felt like that to him.
"We should—"
"Don't say 'go home'," he pleads, curling his hands into fists against her back. There's no way he can go home right now; not until he's seen Jonathan himself. It's so late, he's sure they're not letting anyone but Mrs. Byers and Will in his room, but. Steve can't leave. Can't think about trying to sleep alone in his apartment when he could be waiting here instead—just in case.
Nancy shakes her head and some of the flyaways from her bun brush against the side of Steve's face. "They couldn't drag me away."
Some of the tension in his body melts away at her words. He isn't surprised that she plans to stay here, too. Her boyfriend is hurt—because of Steve, God he shouldn't even be standing here right now—so of course she won't leave. Nancy scratches her nails over the back of his head before giving the nape of his neck a quick squeeze.
"I was going to say we should head hack out there. See if Mrs. Byers needs anything."
Swallowing, Steve uncurls his hands and pulls Nancy closer. Just for a second. It's hard to straighten his back and let go; to stop hiding from the harsh bathroom lights in her shoulder. The effort is worth it to see the smile she's wearing. Small, a little sad, but just for him.
"You're right," he says and her smile widens only for her bottom lip to wobble a second later. Her eyes well up, her face falling, and Steve reels her back in. Lets her hide her face against his chest the way she'd let him hide away against her just a second ago.
She makes hardly any sound, but his shirt grows damp as she cries. He doesn't think she's let herself feel any of it since before they got here. She was too busy helping Steve through his panic, holding Mrs. Byers' hand while they waited for word on Jonathan's condition. Steve doesn't know if he said something or if it's all finally hitting her now, but he'll stand here and let her cry on him for as long as she needs to.
Hospital chairs are not built with comfort in mind. As Steve begins to wake up, he wonders why that is. The people using them are so often waiting to hear what might be terrible news, or are sitting beside family members that are hurt or sick; is it so much to ask that they have the option to be comfortable while they do? Or maybe it's because whoever designed them figured anyone using them wouldn't care about that because they're so preoccupied with other thoughts.
They obviously haven't dealt with any Hawkins bullshit and all the hospital visits it leads to.
He shouldn't complain, though. Not when, despite a stiff back, he wakes up able to see Jonathan's chest rising and falling with each breath as he sleeps. Steve still isn't sure how Mrs. Byers arranged to have more than immediate family in their room. He has a suspicion it has something to do with the Chief of Police getting involved; Steve will try and think of how to thank them both when he can focus on anything besides the person recovering from a bullet wound.
"Morning," he hears whispered from beside him. Nancy is waking up, rubbing the tips of her fingers across his eyes and back through her hair. She looks better than she did last night. Tired, but not quite as pale. Her hair is messy and free from its bun—Steve doesn't even want to think about what his own hair must look like—and her clothes are rumpled, but she's still beautiful. He doesn't think she can ever not be.
Chest tight, Steve picks a spot on the wall across the room to stare at instead. "Morning. Get any sleep?"
"Not really," she says and he nods in agreement. He must have slept some; the light coming through the blinds wasn't so bright when they finally settled into a couple of chairs next to each other. But the nurse coming in every so often to check on Jonathan—on top of Steve doing the same; making sure Jonathan was still there, still breathing, even though he knows one of the machines would have alerted them if he suddenly wasn't—kept him from sleeping too deeply.
"Where's Mrs. Byers?" she asks, looking around like Jonathan's mom might be hiding somewhere.
"She said something about breakfast"—more like lunch if the light outside was anything to go by—"Took Will with her. I don't think she'll be letting him out of her sight again for a while."
"She better," comes from the bed. Jonathan's voice is dry and raspy and the sound of it makes Steve's heart beat faster. "Wasn' ev'n… there this time."
Nancy and Steve both shoot up and out of their chairs. Steve forces himself to keep a step behind Nancy; not that there is much space between them and the bed in the small hospital room. As much as Steve wants to join her right at Jonathan's side, he shouldn't. Shouldn't even be here at all except that he's selfish and couldn't make himself leave. If they hadn't let him stay in this room—or one of the waiting rooms—Steve would probably have not-slept in his car rather than go back home.
"Hey," Nancy whispers, running her fingers across Jonathan's forehead. The word is strained and wet. Steve rests his hand on her back without stopping to think about whether that was a good idea. All the hugging last night has apparently confused his subconscious or something. Jonathan is fine now. She doesn't need Steve trying to comfort her anymore.
She glances over her shoulder and meets his eyes. Hers are wet, but some of the worry is gone and her smile looks grateful before she turns her attention back down.
Jonathan smiles. Steve blinks and swears he sees the blood from last night—just for a split second—layered over him. Blinks again and it's gone. The air feels thin all of a sudden and— no. That isn't happening again; not when it's clear that Jonathan is okay. Tired and probably in some pain despite whatever drugs he's hooked up to, but alive. Just because his smile reminds Steve of the one he'd worn when trying to make his mom and Nancy feel better doesn't mean Steve should be struggling to catch his breath.
"Hey," Jonathan says, blinking his eyes closed for so long that Steve wonders if he's falling back asleep. When he opens them again, he looked past Nancy and directly at Steve. Nancy glances at him, too, shuffling forward to make room beside her.
Clearing his throat, Steve slides his hand from Nancy's back. There's barely a step between him and the bed. It feels like a hell of a lot more. Jonathan's hand flops weakly over his covers; Steve doesn't understand what he's trying to do until Nancy nudges his arm. When Steve still doesn't move, she nods her head toward Jonathan's hand.
Right.
Feeling just as clumsy as Jonathan's attempt at reaching for him, Steve covers Joanthan's hand with his own. His skin is clammy and he's warm but there isn't blood between his fingers. He's alive. It's amazing how easily Steve's next breath comes, lungs expanding with air that no longer feels thin.
"Mm, good," Jonathan says quietly. Steve furrows his eyebrows, glancing at Nancy for a second. Her attention is back on her boyfriend, though; her hand rests on the top of his head as she rubs her thumb along his hairline. The touch seems to be grounding her to the here and now as much as Jonathan's hand under his.
Tired as he looks, Jonathan seems to pick up on Steve's confusion. "S'good you're okay."
"You asshole."
Steve doesn't mean to say it. They're at the hospitals; it hasn't even been a day since they got here. But the words fall out of his mouth without his permission and he can't bring himself to take them back. Not even when Nancy whips her head in his direction and stares at him with wide eyes and a jaw gone slack.
"You could have died. What the hell were you thinking?" Jonathan doesn't say anything. He does turn his hand under Steve's, curling over his fingers with a weak grip. Steve holds him tighter. "It should have been—"
"Steve," Nancy says, cutting him off with a hand on his arm.
His teeth click together when he shuts his mouth. He turns his head, looks from the wall to the bed and then down at their hands. Jonathan's fingers twitch; his grip feels a little stronger when he squeezes Steve's hand again. When he manages a small tug, Steve drags his eyes away and back up to Jonathan's face; his smiling face. Why the hell is he—
"Care 'bout you, too," he breathes, voice thin but steady. They probably should have called a nurse the minute he woke up, now that Steve thinks about it.
The tight knot in Steve's throat prevents him from saying anything, though. He swallows around it, trying hard not to grip Jonathan too tight—and sure he's failing. Pressure on his arm reminds him that Nancy is there, holding onto him, too. He'd known, hadn't he? That she wouldn't agree. Wouldn't want to hear that it should have been Steve, no matter how true it is. There's a relief in getting proof of it. In knowing that she genuinely cares about him; doesn't want to see him hurt. It soothes a worry he hadn't known he'd been carrying.
"Yeah, well, if you care so much," Steve pauses, shifting awkwardly in place, "don't do it again."
Jonathan shakes his head—more of twitch, but Steve can tell what he's aiming for. "No promises."
The laughter that escapes Steve's mouth is wet. He shakes his head and doesn't let go of Jonathan's hand. "How did I know you were gonna say that?"
"'Cause...you're not stupid."
Steve laughs again, it comes out closer to hysterical than he would like. Nancy steps closer, wrapping her other arm around him. He can't let go of Jonathan, but lets himself lean into her. There is a buzzing in his chest that builds until he knows he won't be able to relax unless he does something about it.
"You might change your mind about that in a second," he says before he leans forward. He expects Nancy to hold him back—he wouldn't blame her—but while she doesn't let him go, she doesn't try to stop him, either. She doesn't even make a sound when Steve finally closes the last of the distance between them and kisses Jonathan right in front of her.
He keeps it brief, just a dry press of lips that still manages to leave him feeling breathless. Or maybe that's the panic over what he just did creeping in. It fades some when he stands back up and Jonathan is still smiling, wider now than before. The rest of it disappears with the look he sees Jonathan exchange with Nancy before she takes both of Steve's arms and angles him towards her. Not so much that he loses his hold of Jonathan's hand, but enough that she can rest hers on his cheek and kiss him, too.
If holding her close the night before was familiar, kissing her again after so long feels like finding home again after being away for too long. He never expected that he would get to do this again. It's almost enough to make him wonder whether the last day has been some kind of hallucination; that he was the one who got shot. It's only a passing thought. One he doesn't feel the need to expand on when Nancy is smiling up at him.
The skin of his cheek tingles after she drops her hand to join Steve's on the bed.
"Didn't expect that," Steve says with a soft laugh, still trying to wrap his mind around the fact that neither of them are upset. Or even particularly surprised. Steve sure as hell is.
"The timing is a little," Nancy wobbles her head back and forth. She stops to smile down at Jonathan.
Jonathan hums as he meets her eyes. Steve can't tear his away. "When has it...ever been good, though?"
"Good point," Steve says softly, leaning harder into Nancy's side. As well as he can, he rubs his thumb over the back of Jonathan's fingers. When he takes another deep breath, it comes as easily as the last one. "I'm glad you're okay."
"Me, too," Jonathan says. "Wouldn't want to've missed that."
"Shut up." Steve shakes his head, but he can't suppress his amusement. It's a relief to be able to smile, to joke around, after the hell that was the last...however long it's been since last night. There had been more than one moment when he thought they wouldn't get the chance to do anything again, let alone laugh over whatever just happened.
He kissed Jonathan.
This is not how he pictured today going, but it's hard to complain. Jonathan is all right. He'll have some healing to do, but he's talking and smiling and he's got plenty of people around to make sure he listens to whatever instructions the doctors will inevitably have for him. Steve wouldn't be surprised if Nancy moves herself into the Byers' house for the foreseeable future just to keep an eye on him.
Steve's more than a little tempted to do the same.
As Mrs. Byers walks back into the room with bags of food hanging on each arm and Will a step behind her, Steve thinks he's going to do his best to make that happen.