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Steve wasn’t ashamed to admit to himself that he was having trouble. It wasn’t too long after he and Robin had been taken by the Russians, and they were each recovering in their own ways. Robin called him every day, whether it be right in the morning, just to make sure he was alive, at night, when she woke up from a nightmare, or at random times of the day whenever she wanted to talk. It was nice, but all it did for Steve was give him the relief that she was still okay, well, as okay as expected.
Steve, on the other hand, didn’t even know if he was recovering. He got nightmares, ones that used to be filled with demogorgons and demodogs were now coated with shiny hallways, tied hands, the cruel smirk of the Russian general, and the needles that pierced into his skin, making his world blur.
He found that he couldn’t leave the house, refusing to drive the kids anywhere because he was “too busy”. He was sure that Dustin saw through it, but the kid didn’t mention it. Hopper, who had managed to barely make it out of the base before it blew, along with Joyce and Murry, checked up on him a couple times, but a few repeats of “I’m fine.” stopped the visits, at least for a little while. Steve had no doubt that Hopper was going to come by any day now, asking him the same questions that he always did. Are you eating? Are you sleeping? Why don’t we go to a diner and we’ll talk? Are you doing okay, kid?
Steve's reply would always be the same. Yes. Yes. No, thank you. Yes, I’m doing fine.
Hopper didn’t have to know that most of his answers were lies.
He was barely eating, hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep in days, and really did want to talk to Hopper, but have the man, the man that Steve respected, see him as weak? Be angry at him for giving away Dustin’s name during the interrogation? Steve couldn’t risk it. He already felt horrible enough as it was.
He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He couldn’t stop thinking about any of it.
Steve needed to do something else other than drown in his thoughts and self pity, so he rolled out of bed and made his way to the kitchen.
Even if he wasn’t seeing anyone, or didn’t have the stomach for anything more than a bit of water every now and then, he decided that he was going to cook something.
No one knew, but Steve loved cooking. It was his comfort, what he did when the whole world was crumbling around him, and made everything seem okay, even if it was for a few good moments. He was ashamed of it, although his parents left when he was young, he was only supposed to cook when it was necessary, and not waste food. His father told him that repeatedly, and had even thrown out one of the best dishes he thought he had ever made, a large portion of Tiramisu, as they weren't going to have dessert that night. Ever since then, he had kept it a secret. No one had to know about how he wasted food by cooking unneeded dishes (though, sometimes, he gifted the food to the elderly people on his street, and they were forever grateful).
He didn’t know when this habit started. After the demogorgon attacked Nancy, Jonathan, and himself, he made a dozen pizzas, rolling out circular dough after dough at an fast rate, filling them with every topping imaginable, and gave it to little Mary, who lived three streets down from him and was having a birthday party that day. He had babysat her until he reached his last year in high school, wanting a break from Carol and Tommy, and never forgot how she loved pizza. Her parents seemed confused why Steve Harrington was giving them food, but accepted it nonetheless, grateful. Apparently they had only been able to buy a cake for twenty screaming children, and didn’t even have supper ready.
But, even their gratefulness didn’t make Steve’s worry go away. Didn’t make him any less stressed. He needed to cook more. He needed to help more.
He gave them 3 dozen cupcakes not long after.
After the demodogs and the tunnels, Steve made what felt like hundreds of dishes, giving it to the medical staff, the police department, and the library, needing to get rid of the food but not wanting anyone in their Upside Down group to know about it, especially the kids. Hopper had only given him a strange look but ate the food nonetheless.
Now, after the Russians, Steve wanted to cook or bake, he didn’t care what. He just needed to, to get rid of the thoughts in his head, the pain in his neck, and the worry in his chest. He needed to be worth it, despite all of his faults.
He pulled out some vegetables for his fridge, knowing that he could make a chili, then some bread after, and maybe some salads to go with it. He grabbed a knife, ignoring how his hands shook, and began cutting them up, turning on the stove and throwing the food in when it was cut. He knew that the shaking in his hands would go away after he cut some more vegetables, so he did. Tomatoes, mushrooms, peppers, zucchini…all thrown into the pot with some beef that he found in the fridge. He switched between stirring the contents of the pot and cutting bread, his breathing ragged.
He wasn’t calming down. Why wasn’t he calming down? This had to work. Cooking always helped.
He just had to slow down, he realized. He wasn’t enjoying it.
So Steve took a deep breath, letting himself slow down, and began cutting the carrots for the garden salad.
Big mistake.
The knife, the knife that he had used since he was ten and never failed him, slipped and cut open his hand, blood rushing out of the wound in sickening amounts. He cried out in pain, dropping the knife on the floor, backing away from the cutting board and rushing to grab a towel, pressing it over the wound with as much strength as he could manage. Tears burst forth in his eyes as he realized that he had messed up again, in the one thing that he found comfort in. He messed up. Everyone was going to be so mad, including Dustin. He would be so upset.
”Who do you work for?”
“I work at Scoops Ahoy!”
“Well, I might have told them your full name.”
“So, you resist! You tough it out! You tough it out like a man!”
“No, no, please, I’m sorry. I messed up, I’m sorry…” Steve said, stumbling to the ground, and holding his hand to his chest. Tears fell down his cheeks as he sobbed, trying to rid his mind of the unwelcome memories. He had to get out of there, he needed to wrap the wound. He had to tough it out, like Dustin said. He had to cook, make himself worth it. He had to…he had to…
Steve got up, stumbling to the bathroom, where he grabbed a bunch of bandages, wrapping his hand as quickly as he could. He could smell something burning, and he instantly knew that it was burning. He couldn’t stop crying as he realized that if he didn’t get there soon, it would be ruined, and it would be his fault. It's all his fault.
He rushed to finish the job, and, as soon as it was good, he rubbed away the blood from his good hand and ran to the kitchen, turning off the burner and taking the pot off of the stove, hoping that it was salvageable. But, one glance into it told him that it wasn’t.
He had failed. He had failed at the one thing that he was good at that wasn’t monster related.
Steve sobbed, his chest shaking as he leaned against the counter and slid down it, the bottom cupboard handles biting into his skin. Blood still leaked out of the bandages, and one glance at it showed him that he hadn’t even wrapped it properly, it was sloppy. Yet another thing that he did wrong.
He jumped as he heard a knock at the door, but he couldn’t find the strength to go up and get it. He bit down on his sleeve, trying to make his cries quiet, not wanting whoever it was to hear him. His hand burned with pain, blood was getting on his clothes, his arms wouldn’t stop shaking, and every part of him wanted to continue to cut the carrots, finish the salad, and complete his task.
“Steve?” He could hear through the door, and he shrunk in on himself. Hopper. It was Hopper. “Are you home?”
He bit back the no that fell onto his tongue, choosing to stay silent.
“Steve, honey?” Joyce, that was Joyce. But why was she there? “Could we come in and talk to you?”
Talk. That was never a good thing, especially coming from adults. They would tell him how he should stop cooking, stop wasting food, stop wasting his life, and get a better hold of himself. Talks were never good.
“Kid, we know you’re home. Your car’s still here.” Hopper sounded annoyed, and Steve whined, covering his head with his hands. He knew that he would get blood in his hair, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t washed it in days, anyways.
“Okay, we’re coming in whether you want to or not.”
Steve didn’t want him to. He really didn’t.
An instant later, he could hear the door open, two pairs of footsteps entering the house, and he realized how pathetic he must’ve looked. He couldn’t find the strength to get up, though.
“Oh, Steve.” He heard, and gentle hands touched his shoulder. After flinching away, he looked out from his small walls of solitude to see Joyce sitting in front of him, concern bleeding into her features. Hopper was behind her, casting a worried glance at Steve, and then looking around the room, at the mess that Steve had made.
He turned back to Joyce, who rested her hand on his shoulder once again.
“What happened, honey?”
He didn’t know why, but he wanted to talk to her. He wanted to tell her everything.
“I…I was cooking, and then I cut my hand, my hands were shaking and the knife….it was an accident…I couldn’t…I couldn’t fix it…I’m so sorry…”
“Shh, it’s okay.” Joyce took his injured hand into her’s studying the bandage and the cut that could easily be seen. “I’ll go and grab more bandages, and then I’ll help you, okay?”
Steve nodded, shyly, and Joyce pressed a quick kiss to his forehead, rushing off to find the first aid kit. Hopper watched her as she went, but then picked up the knife that had fallen on the floor, cleaning it with water in the faucet. He also grabbed a cloth and put it under the water, too, though Steve didn’t know why. He then sat down in front of Steve with a groan, muttering something about his age, soon unwrapping the bandages from Steve’s hand and cleaning it with the cloth, Steve hissing in protest.
“Sorry, kid.” Hopper said gruffly. “We just have to get this cleaned. Luckily it’s not too deep.”
Steve nodded, trying to keep his hand steady as Hopper did so, though it still shook like it had been for the past couple of days.
Joyce didn’t take too long to return, giving a thankful look to Hopper as she began wrapping the cut in a practiced, perfect way. When it was done she sat beside Steve, gently pushing his head into her shoulder, and he let her, resting his head and letting her rub his back soothingly.
“Are you okay, sweetie?” Joyce asked, and Steve finally broke, shaking his head.
“No. I’m not. I just wanted to make something and then everything went wrong. It sometimes helps, but it didn’t. I don’t…I don’t understand why it didn’t. But I have to. I have to cook.” Steve rubbed away another tear that fell from his eye, and Joyce frowned, never once stopping her touch of comfort.
“Have you been sleeping? Are you eating any of what you make?”
“I…I can’t. I’ve tried and I can’t.”
“Can’t what? Sleep or eat?”
“B…both. I just can’t.”
Hopper sighed, though it lacked the same bite that Steve’s father’s sighs made.
“Steve. I…I’m sorry. I should’ve seen this.”
Steve shrugged, picking his head up from Joyce’s shoulder and learning it up against the wall.
“It’s not your fault. I lied.”
“But that doesn’t matter. I should’ve been more observant.”
Steve felt guilt swell up in his stomach, not believing the words that came out of Hopper's mouth, and Joyce rushed to change the subject, clearly seeing his inner pain.
“Do you like cooking, sweetie?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I do it a lot. Usually it helps me feel better.”
“You should have his chicken.” Hopper said with a small smile. “It’s very good, with a lot of flavor. Sort of like a bomb of goodness going off in your mouth.”
Steve smiled shyly at the comment. “Thanks.”
“But,” Hopper added, looking around the room once more, “I think you may need to take it slow next time. Make sure this isn’t stress cooking or making you feel worse.”
Joyce nodded. “We don’t want this to become stressful for you, okay?”
“I…I think it already has. I always cook when…”
“When Upside Down stuff happens?” Hopper asked.
“Yeah. Really when anything bad happens.”
“You have to make sure it doesn't become a bad habit, sweetie.” Joyce added, “It’s not bad to cook, especially if it helps you be less stressed, but if it adds to the stress…”
Steve knew what they were saying, and he had to admit, cooking sometimes was something stressful for him. If he didn’t cook, if he wasn't taking care of the kids…what good was he?
“We care about you, Steve. You’re like a son to me.” Joyce said. “I don’t want to see you hurting.”
“We’re here, kid, whenever you need it.” Hopper added. “I promise.”
The three of them sat in silence, leaving Steve to rethink everything. His hands urged to grab a spoon and stir something, but he let that feeling bury under his skin. No. He wouldn’t add to his already stressed mind. He would cook when he wanted to, not when every part of him screamed that he had to or else he wasn’t worth it. And, he knew that, with Joyce and Hopper’s help, it would all be okay.
It would all be okay.