Work Text:
Steve thinks he might still be under the effects of whatever drug the Russians shot him up with.
He can’t come up with another reason why he’s staring at the flames licking up the side of the mall, the acrid black smoke reaching up, up into the starry night sky blotting out the moon and the only thing the sight evokes is numb indifference. He can't manifest the emotions he should probably be feeling after the twenty-four hours he's just endured.
The once empty parking lot is now filled with fire trucks, ambulances, military helicopters, and dozens of people trying to see what’s happening. Police officers are trying to keep people away from the firefighters and the soldiers rushing about.
Steve looks away from the burning mall for a moment to look past Robin sitting next to him and at the crowd before dread washes over him and he looks down at the asphalt.
He twists the shock blanket tighter around himself, less as a comfort and more as an attempt to hide his uniform, now torn and stained with his blood.
An EMT looked him over earlier and shone a really bright flashlight in his eyes, muttering something about a probable concussion. She cleaned the blood off his face, applied a small bandaid on the cut just below his lip, and gave him the shock blanket. She'd sat him and Robin in the back of an ambulance and had ordered them to stay put.
Steve and Robin had no problem listening to her because after the past twenty-four hours they've had, the only thing Steve can do is sit and do nothing.
That's how he's spent the last thirty or so minutes. Sitting next to Robin, neither of them having the energy to hold up a conversation, his legs swinging idly as he kept a close eye on everyone. He watched firefighters yell to each other while trying to hose down the fire to little avail. It was burning strong and seemed to wish to swallow up the mall, reduce it and the monster in it to ashes. Burn away all evidence of the tragedy that took place there.
Steve watched soldiers rushing about, some breaking off to talk with Joyce and Murray after they came stumbling out of the mall, dressed in Russian uniforms. Steve didn’t see Hopper. He saw Joyce break down in Will’s arms, and he saw Jonathan run up to support her and guide her to one of the numerous ambulances in the lot, Nancy trailing behind him. Steve ignored the way his heart stuttered when he saw her and simply looked away.
The world around Steve is loud and bright and he's completely numb to it all. It almost feels like he's standing behind a glass wall on the outside looking in-- unable to hear or say anything through the thick glass.
He tries to unfocus, to clear his mind as a weak attempt to stave off the migraine he knows will come.
Steve keeps doing head counts.
Of the kids, of the adults, of his friends, just to make sure they were still there. They were still alive. This was the third time dealing with this bullshit and they were still here. He was still here. By some miracle, they still came out alive every time.
In his nightmares, someone always dies. There's always someone that doesn't make it out. And in his muddled and numb mental state, it's too easy for his brain to trick him into believing that one of the kids he's supposed to keep safe somehow didn't make it. His heart beats erratically against his ribcage every time he can't immediately spot Max's red hair or Lucas's camo bandana.
Every time his eyes wander somewhere else, they always snap back to the scene unfolding before him, subconsciously seeking out the familiar faces.
He has to keep reminding himself that Dustin and Erica are safe and far, far away from Starcourt.
Eventually, two people break through the crowd and yell out Robin’s name before being stopped by two officers. Steve's attention alongside Robin's is drawn to the sudden commotion.
Robin slides off the ambulance with a wince and stumbles, her blanket still wrapped around her shoulders.
“Mom?” she asks, her voice trembling. Just barely. “Dad?”
They were talking and making wide gestures when their attention snaps to their daughter. Steve watches with rapt attention as they run to each other-- Robin stumbling more than running-- and embrace each other tightly.
From where he sits, Steve can see her shoulders shake with sobs as her mother gently strokes her hair. He recalls their conversation earlier, when they were tied back-to-back, and they both realized they were unlikely to get out of this alive.
That conversation seems like a lifetime ago now.
He only looks away when his chest tightens with some indecipherable emotion when he thinks about his own parents. He wonders if they’ll come pick him up or if he’ll have to let Hopper-- his mouth twists downward as he desperately tries to think about something else. Anything else.
His mind wanders. Hopper was the one who drove him to the hospital last November after defeating the Demodogs and the Mind Flayer. And Hopper was the one who drove him home two days later because his parents had been unavailable.
He watches the kids. He watches Robin leave with her parents, casting one worried backwards look at him. He pretends he’s not watching Nancy and Jonathan comfort each other. He counts mentally. He ignores the dull ache in his temple and the throbbing behind his left eye.
There’s Mrs. Wheeler looking over Mike’s face for any injuries, Mr. Wheeler and little Holly standing close behind with matching looks of bewilderment. Mr. Sinclair stands closer Lucas, almost hovering while trying to give him and Max space while she breaks apart in Lucas's arms. Mrs. Sinclair isn’t far away and seems to be tearing agrily into an officer.
Mrs. Byers is the closest to Steve, but everything else is so loud that he still can’t hear a thing she’s saying. She looks exhausted as she talks to a military officer, her hand clutching Will’s, her face still blotchy from crying.
Steve expects to see El standing next to them, but is surprised to find she isn’t. He looks around, panic rising in his chest when he finally spots her further away. She’s standing just past their half-circle of chaos, observing carefully with that stare that never failed to make Steve uncomfortable.
No one’s looking her way. She was hugging Joyce earlier, but now simply stands alone, away from everyone, with no family to comfort her.
Something painful twists in his chest.
With great difficulty, Steve manages to gracelessly slide off the ambulance. His knees nearly buckle when he hits the ground and has to grab the edge of the ambulance to avoid faceplanting and making a complete fool of himself.
He pulls the shock blanket off and sets it down where he was previously sitting. With the heat of the fire and the night temperature resting in the low eighties, it’s too hot for Steve to keep it wrapped around his shoulders.
He takes a few, slow steps forward.
It’s like he’s completely forgotten how to walk. Or maybe it’s the exhaustion of the past twenty-four hours that’s finally caught up to him, now that the adrenaline’s worn off.
He takes a few wobbling steps and his stomach churns and he hopes and prays he won’t throw up again. His throat is still dry and his lips are still chapped from the last time. Though he truthfully doesn't think there's anything he could throw up.
On unsteady feet, Steve walks forward, trying to avoid attracting anyone’s attention.
The fire roars in his ears and he nearly walks into a firefighter who all but shoves him aside in his hurry.
Steve’s breathing shallowly through his bruised ribs and his head throbs by the time he reaches El, but he still manages a small smile when she looks up at him.
She’s sitting down on the asphalt, back against the yellow convertible. She looks tired and grief-stricken, with dried tear tracks on her cheeks, but keeps looking at Steve, unflinching, with that unnerving stare of hers. Like she’s looking into his soul and pulling out all the things he’s not brave enough to admit.
“Hey,” Steve grunts as he painfully lowers himself onto the ground next to her.
She doesn’t reply.
Her good leg is pulled up to her chest while the injured one, now wrapped in sterile gauze, is extended in front of her. Her arms are wrapped around her middle. When Steve meets her eyes again, she turns her head, resting her cheek on her knee.
Steve opens his mouth. Then closes it as he realizes he actually doesn’t know what to say to El.
How are you? Seems like a dumb question to ask when she just lost her adopted father and her powers all in the same day.
It will get better just feels like an empty promise that Steve himself doesn't fully believe.
His brain is slow and he finds himself unable to conjure up any other questions.
He has to resist the urge to fill the stretching silence with meaningless words. Steve’s good at talking and talking endlessly, filling the deafening silence with loud words and empty laughter. And even if he’s still a little out of it from the drug and the adrenaline crash and the concussion. Even if he feels like his consciousness is floating away along with the smoke and nothing makes sense anymore. Even if he’s probably in shock and hasn’t quite registered the full scope of horror of the situation, Steve can still understand that El doesn’t want words. She doesn’t want comfort. She doesn’t want a distraction.
Steve came over because he saw how miserable and lonely she seemed. So he takes a deep breath through aching ribs and looks up at the sky and tries not to doze off.
He knows painfully little about constellations. All he knows about it comes from the poster in his tenth-grade chemistry class that displayed a handful of constellations, connected together with white lines. He can vaguely identify what he thinks is the big dipper. He struggles to try and remember the constellations on that poster before eventually giving up and making up his own constellations.
His thoughts are jumbled and the shapes he creates make no sense, but it takes his mind off the fact that his parents are still not here. What excuse do they have? Maybe this time they won't even bother with one, and the 'incident' will fade away without any proper resolution like every other damn argument in the Harrington house.
And this time, there’s no Hopper to grumble a “get in the car” to Steve and drive him home in silence while The Clash softly plays on the radio.
If he’s lucky, maybe Mrs. Byers will offer to drive him home. He doubts it, though, and he isn’t about to go ask her.
When Steve’s eyelids start to droop, he pinches his forearm and repositions himself. He can sleep when he’s home. He can sleep when he’s dead.
The chaos in the parking lot of Starcourt has calmed significantly. The burning mall has been reduced to a smoldering and smoking building. The helicopters are still here, but most of the fire trucks and ambulances have left. The crowd has finally dispersed.
It's two in the morning on the Fourth of July and Steve and count on one hand the number of fireworks he's heard in the past twenty or so minutes.
He's jarred out of his thoughts by a sudden weight against his shoulder. He nearly jumps out of his skin but calms when he looks down to see El, curled into herself and shaking slightly, and leaning against him.
He doesn’t say anything. He simply shifts, wraps his arm around her, and pulls her close. She wraps both arms around him and if it makes his ribs twinge, he doesn’t say it. His ribs will heal.
El buries her face in Steve’s work uniform and her shoulders start shaking with silent tears and quiet sobs.
He hesitates for a moment before pressing his cheek into her hair and rubbing gentle circles on her back.
“It’s been a long night, huh?” he says, attempting to joke. His voice sounds rough to his own ears, his tone flat and tired.
El just cries into his shirt and Steve wishes he had the words to comfort her.
At that moment, he wishes he’d known Hopper better. As it is, he has nothing to offer except a few sad stories of Hopper barging into his home when one of his parties got too loud. The only time they ever talked back then was when Steve was sat in the back of Hopper’s cruiser, drunk and half-listening to the chief’s speeches about how he was throwing his life away or something. And inevitably, Steve would spend the night at the station because his parents were out of state and didn’t reply to phone calls, feel like absolute shit when Hopper inevitably drove him home in the morning, and that would be that.
Steve closes his eyes and keeps rubbing circles on El’s back until her muffled sobs quiet down. She doesn’t let go and neither does he. Instead, he tightens his hold on her and pulls her as close to him as he can without jostling her injured leg.
He won’t admit it, but he thinks he needs this hug just as much as El needs it, too. It’s been a long few days. For a while, he hadn’t even been sure he’d ever make it out of the Russian base alive.
Steve’s foggy mind clears a little more and he becomes more aware of the sirens shrieking around them and the couple of fireworks bursting in the distance. He looks over to see that almost everyone’s left except for Mrs. Byers and Nancy.
In his arms, he feels El wiggle a bit and releases her reluctantly.
She remains pressed against his side and her presence grounds him. His heart beats a little faster when he realizes that the kids are out of his sight. His mind is conjuring up too many horrible images and he can feel his hands shaking.
He takes a deep breath and holds it for the count of ten before releasing it and trying to force himself to calm down. They’re all safe. They’re all home by now. They probably won’t be getting much sleep, but they’re still safe in their homes with their parents.
Steve looks over at Mrs. Byers, hugging her sons again in a tight embrace, and a lump forms in his throat. He couldn’t ask her to drive him home. He really really doesn’t want to ask a police officer to drop him off, but he doesn’t think he’s really up to walking home in his state.
El laces her fingers with his. It’s warm and comforting and Steve just really enjoys the reassurance that comes with physical contact.
It doesn’t take long for El’s grip to relax and for her head to rest heavily against his chest.
It doesn’t take long before Steve’s startled by Mrs. Byers calling for El.
His head snaps up just in time to meet Mrs. Byers’s eyes. They both freeze, and she recovers quicker than him.
She only pauses again when she sees El, relaxed and half asleep in Steve’s arms. Her face goes soft for a moment and Steve suddenly feels like he’s intruding on some private moment.
The moment passes and Mrs. Byers is kneeling and hugging El tightly, her shoulders tense with a weight that shouldn’t be there.
She releases El and looks at Steve, incredulous.
“Where are your parents?” she asks, her voice soft, if slightly hoarse.
Steve shrugs and bites back a wince when the action tugs at his tender ribs. “Out of state, probably.”
They might be home.
It would be worse if they were home.
There’s no way they haven’t seen this on the news, and there’s no way they don’t know Steve works-- worked -- at the mall, which would mean they just hadn’t cared enough to make sure he was safe.
He doesn’t understand the expression on Mrs. Byers’ face. She quickly chases it away with a smile, so it doesn’t matter anyway.
“I’ll take you home, then.”
He opens his mouth to protest but Mrs. Byers silences him with a stern look. “No arguments. It’s really no problem, Steve. It's been a long day for everyone.”
Steve isn’t convinced, but decides he’s too tired to argue. He doesn’t say anything, just lets Mrs. Byers gently pull El to her feet and wrap her arm around her, guiding her in the direction of her car. He awkwardly limps behind and ignores the nausea swirling in his stomach and the worsening headache.
Will and Jonathan are standing near the car, watching them carefully. Steve feels a wave of relief when he doesn’t see Nancy anywhere, which is then quickly followed by guilt.
Jonathan looks at Steve and he looks away almost automatically.
He almost wishes he had kept his shock blanket. It would have been an added comfort and would give his hands something to do. All they do now is hover uselessly at his side, often flying to hold his bruised ribs when they twinge sharply.
This wasn’t what summer 1985 was supposed to be like.
He half turns to stare at the charred remains of the mall, the bright neon sign now flickering weakly. The fire has long been put out and the smoke is thinning. The only people remaining in the parking are Hopper’s military backup, and police officers cording off the mall with bright yellow police tape.
They’ll look for bodies, Steve knows.
They won’t find any. Except maybe Billy Hargrove’s.
Steve hears a car door open and turns away from the mall. A silent graveyard for so many innocent people.
He waits until both Will and El are inside the car before climbing in after them and shutting the door behind him. Mrs. Byers barely takes the time to buckle in her seatbelt before she’s tearing out of the lot, rubber screeching against asphalt.
They drive silently for a while, until the tense silence becomes almost tangible. Beside Steve, Will is staring out the window, chin propped on his palm. El is leaning against his shoulder, hands fidgeting in her lap. In the passenger seat, Jonathan isn’t moving and seems to be completely lost in his own world.
Steve, trying to avoid acknowledging the tension in the car, gazes out the car’s window and watches the houses and trees blur by, dark and silent with maybe one or two windows lit up.
His body becomes more alert and tense the closer they get to his house.
He’s nervously chewing on his thumbnail when Mrs. Byers pulls up in front of his house, dark and silent like every other house on the street. He can’t see his parents’ car in the driveway, but that doesn’t mean anything since his dad might have pulled it all the way up into the garage.
Steve stumbles out of the car before realizing that the engine isn’t running. He’s surprised to see Mrs. Byers step out of the driver’s seat, but makes no comment.
He walks around the car and up the driveway alongside Mrs. Byers and tries his best to hide his limp. He doesn’t see himself making it up the stairs tonight, which means he’ll probably crash on the couch with a bag of frozen peas on his ribs.
He should probably invest in an icepack by this point.
“Do you have your keys?” Mrs. Byers asks, her voice cutting through the night sounds around them.
Steve reaches for the keys in his pockets before remembering that the Russians took his keyring, where both his car and house keys were attached.
“No,” he croaks out. “The Russians took my keys. All of ‘em.”
Mrs. Byers just reaches for the doorbell before Steve can stop her. He winces when he hears it echo faintly from inside.
Nothing happens. They wait a few more seconds before she presses the doorbell again. Twice this time for good measure.
No one comes to answer the door. Steve doesn’t hear his dad’s angry grumbling or his mother’s tired voice.
Mrs. Byers reaches over and presses the doorbell again, long and hard. She holds it for several seconds before releasing it.
“They might be gone,” Steve says. “They travel a lot. They probably left while I was at work or something.”
‘At work’ is a nicer way of saying ‘stuck fifty feet underground in a Russian base and getting tortured’. He’s not quite ready to outright say it.
Mrs. Byers rings the doorbell again, and again, and again. Angrily pressing the little buzzer over and over.
“Hey, it’s alright Mrs. Byers,” Steve says, raising his hands. “The yard door’s usually unlocked, and my parents never lock the sliding doors, so I’ll just get in that way.”
He doesn’t mention that the simple thought of walking past his pool at night makes his blood turn to ice, but it’s the only way he’s getting inside. And if the door’s locked, he has enough experience with picking the backdoor locks from many nights in freshman year spent sneaking out that it wouldn’t be an issue.
Mrs. Byers doesn’t look satisfied and Steve feels weirdly defensive.
“Really. It’s no problem. I’ll get new keys made tomorrow. I usually stay out pretty late anyway, so my parents probably wouldn’t worry if they don’t see me get home, and--”
“Steve.” Mrs. Byers’ voice is soft and maybe a little bit sad. “You’re injured. I can’t let you stay here with no one around to keep an eye on you.”
Steve has to really be out of it, because it takes him a few moments to connect the dots. He stares at Mrs. Byers with wide eyes and isn’t sure if he’s feeling more guilty or mortified.
“It’s fine. Ribs don’t hurt that much and it’s only a grade one concussion this time.”
He doesn’t mention the drug because he puked it up anyway and it probably won’t kill him in his sleep. Probably.
“No buts,” Mrs. Byers replies, grabbing Steve’s arm and steering him back down the driveway towards her car. “We have an air mattress in the closet and plenty of extra pillows and sheets.”
He tries to argue but she doesn’t even listen to his protests, only opens the door and he sheepishly crawls back into the car.
The others are staring at him with curious expressions and Steve just shrugs.
“My folks aren’t home,” he says, and grins after stating it. Because really, it’s no big deal.
Everyone’s acting like it’s a big deal, but honestly. Steve’s eighteen and knows how to handle himself. So what if they’re not home? It doesn’t matter, because Steve does just fine without them.
El’s the first one to look away. She drops her gaze back down to her lap and rests her head once again on Will’s shoulder. Mrs. Byers makes a U-turn in the other direction and drives away from the Harrington residence.
Steve shifts around until he finds a position that allows him some relief from his aching joints and bones. And maybe, in the near darkness, lit up by orange streetlamps, he smiles, sitting inside a cramped car with people he never thought would care this much about him.
In the near darkness lit up only by orange streetlamps, sitting inside a cramped car, Steve reaches for El’s hand and offers her a little bit of comfort, too.