Chapter Text
Unfortunately, Jonathan, backed by two persistently vocal middle schoolers, simply refused to drive Steve home, sliding into the hospital parking lot without saying a word.
Bastard.
“This is still kidnapping.”
“C’mon,” Jonathan slid from his seat, and Steve, not without a round of muttering and sighing, followed suit, albeit with slightly less coordination.
“Um, shouldn’t you have taken them home first?” He gestured to Dustin and Will who apparently wasted no time making a beeline for the vending machine. Jonathan shrugged.
“I’m gonna call mom while they patch you up.”
“Okay…” It seemed bothering Ms. Byers was unavoidable. Steve clenched his fists, and marched to the front desk. He hoped it wasn’t too obvious he was leaning against it.
He smiled very charmingly.
“Hi, Doris.”
Doris, a depressingly familiar figure by now, lifted an unimpressed brow.
“Harrington. What did we say about the concussions?”
Steve frowned. Truly, he’d forgotten about the mess Tommy had made of his face, though it wasn’t anywhere close to November, either times. The lights were stabbing far more insistently, however, and it was true, he probably couldn't afford anymore blows to the head. Try telling that to everyone in Hawkins, apparently. Reflexively, he lifted a hand to his face to unhelpfully survey the damage with a few ill-advised proddings, but was stopped midway by the agonizing spasms radiating from his shoulder. A fresh wave of warm wetness soaked into his chewed-up sleeve and the kerchief Dustin had wrapped around it in the car, and Steve grimaced. And kept grimacing, as the pain steadily rose to as of yet unprecedented levels. His knees buckled, and his free arm shot out to clutch at the counter.
God, that fucking hurt. It seemed his body had finally given up shielding him from the worst of it.
Doris scrambled for her phone, eyes bugging from their sockets.
Roughly two hours later, he sat with a bandaged, stitched up arm, a sling, an ice pack resting between his cheek and the wall, a clipboard propped on his knee, and the remnants of a lecture ringing in his ears. A warning of really, absolutely no more fighting if he wanted the mush inside his skull to still loosely pass for brains.
His head swam under the glare of the lights, and he tapped his pen against papers he was supposed to be muddling his way through despite the fact that the letters kept wanting to crawl off somewhere every time he squinted at them. He could at least discern the concerning collection of numbers, however. He would no doubt be dealing with the fallout of incurring yet another medical bill within the span of two months eventually, but thankfully, today was not that day. He trailed down to the lines that required his signature, pen slipping a bit in his left hand. Great, it wasn’t like he needed to add poor penmanship to his list of reasons why he wouldn’t be getting the grades he needed to get into college.
He adjusted again, and winced as the movement jarred his shoulder.
As it turned out, he was partially right. A blow from a spiked baseball bat could’ve easily broken his arm, but he’d gotten off with a fracture and a mess of torn meat that had garnered an uncomfortable amount of attention. He didn’t know if it was luck or intention that he got off comparatively easy, but he frankly did not have the energy to care. His un-mangled arm still throbbed from the shot they gave him when he couldn’t think of a good enough lie for the origins of his injury.
Probably the sort of concussion talking.
He’d received wide eyes and troubled looks, but he’d refused to elaborate further. Hopefully that little disclosure wouldn’t bite him in the ass later.
“Steve?”
He flinched. A miracle prevented his clipboard from smacking Ms. Byers in the face, but the ice pack promptly plummeted to the ground. He winced.
“Sorry.” He had no idea if he was apologizing to Ms. Byers or the ice pack, but before he could bend to pick it up, Ms. Byers was already scrambling for it, thrusting it back into his outstretched hand. He blinked.
“Erm, thanks.”
It was mostly melted by now anyway so he set it still wrapped haphazardly in its towel on the chair beside him, covering a wince as the motion jolted his arm.
“Jonathan is taking your car back home,” she informed him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, her gaze flitting all over him in a way that had him slumping back a bit against the wall. Still, he smiled back.
“Thanks, er, sorry for the trouble. The kids?”
She waved him away, shaking her head.
“None of that, we’re happy to help. And Dustin and Will are taken care of.” It was strange, being faced with that much…Byers-ness. Like looking at a candle in a glass case, aware it wasn’t going to burn him, but there was no telling what would happen if he opened the lid right up and reached in. At least for now, it was soft, and mildly warm, if a little erratic. And suddenly awkward because there was no way she didn’t remember Jonathan getting briefly arrested because of him last year. He swallowed, squirming slightly in his seat.
“I appreciate it,” he murmured. “Still, I’ll be okay now.”
Her small frown informed him she very much doubted that, but she let it go with a small squeeze of his uninjured arm. Well, partially.
“You just let me know if you need anything.” Steve chewed his lip and nodded. It was the kind of thing people said and often didn’t mean, but she didn’t owe him anything. He flicked back down to the clipboard in his lap, thumbing at the pages. A moment later, Ms. Byers sat in the seat beside him, placing the melting ice pack on the chair to her left. He stilled, the muscles in his back tensing, but she didn’t do anything more than let out a sigh and lean her head against the wall, shutting her eyes. They sat in silence for a while, nothing breaking it save for the slight tapping of his pen. He haphazardly filled in a few new areas, carefully avoiding the Emergency Contact section. If his father’s secretary wasn’t picking up, there wasn’t much he could do about that. It was probably for the best. He was fortunate enough that he could discharge himself. He’d probably have more luck reaching his mom, but he didn’t really want to worry her over nothing.
“You doing okay over there?”
The pen nearly went flying, and he instinctively gripped it until it creaked in his hand. He quickly relaxed. Ms. Byers was looking at him out of one cracked-open eye, a small smile on her face.
It struck him, then. Why was she even sitting there? She was obviously tired from work, and now she was babysitting her son’s babysitter in a hospital. Steve swallowed thickly, and scrawled his signature at the bottom.
“You don’t have to stay, I’m okay now,” he hoped it didn’t come out as rude-sounding. She looked faintly amused.
“You don’t have a ride, do you?”
Damn.
“I can get a taxi, or catch the bus.”
She was already shaking her head.
“Your parents aren’t in town, are they?” She asked in a soft tone, a loofah brushing against a half-picked scab.
“Business.” He shrugged. “Should be back soon.” And faced with the welcome sight of a medical bill. They had insurance, but Steve would’ve gotten bumped off of that when he turned eighteen. The pen slipped a bit in his grip, resulting in an ugly, black blotch beneath his initials.
“That’s a big house, to be alone in.” The loofah had transformed into a wire scrub brush. His teeth gritted.
“I’m—”
“You can come stay with us, if you want, while you’re recovering,” she said, perfectly earnestly. Steve’s jaw dropped.
“It’s just my arm.” And his head, a bit. “I’ll be fine.”
“What if it gets infected, or you injure yourself? There won’t be anyone around to help you. We can stick an extra mattress in Jonathan’s room—”
Oh hell no.
“I really will be fine.” It came out a little squeaky, but Jesus Christ, he was not gonna put either himself or Jonathan in that kind of situation. Interacting with him at school was one thing, saving him from a locker was another, but bunking down with him? He would be lucky if he survived the night, or Jonathan didn’t kill him in his sleep.
Okay. Maybe Jonathan wouldn’t do that. But still.
“You should at least stay the night, then Jonathan can drive you home in your car in the morning.”
Steve’s mind blanked.
Jonathan didn’t just drop it off at his house? It wasn’t like he didn’t know where he lived, he was more than happy to stalk it last year.
Searching for Will. His brother. Asshole.
Maybe he could just walk over to the Byers’? It wasn't as if he could really drive it anyways, not until he got rid of the sling and his arm no longer felt as partial to falling off.
Oh god. If he couldn’t drive, what was he going to do?
His car was his safe haven— well, usually. Nothing Tommy did was its fault, and it was currently his temporary locker for the stuff he couldn’t afford to cart everywhere, his quick ticket home after classes, and, okay, more recently it had become Dustin and all the brats’ free taxi service (should he start charging them for gas?). It was— he needed it, he couldn’t— fuck fuck fuck—
Okay, he could just drive through the pain, or mostly one handed, at least for school. And risk an accident. If he wrecked this car, he probably wouldn’t be getting a new one anytime soon. So back to square one and wasn’t that just dandy, just perfect, really, just—
Bullshit.
“Hon, are you okay?”
“Fine. Sorry.” Steve sucked in a breath, slowly releasing his death grip on his clipboard. “Um. Can we at least stop at my place first? I’ll need my uh, stuff.”
Ms. Byers nodded, the slight crinkle in her brow not really letting up, but she seemed to let it go.
It was going to be an even longer night.
“Air mattress okay?”
“Um. Sure.”
Steve stood very awkwardly, clutching his duffel bag to his chest one-handed. Jonathan only nodded, not quite meeting his eyes, and rolled out a wrinkled mat that looked more akin to an abandoned, inflatable pool lounger, kneeling to attach the pump. And then there was silence, save for the sounds of Jonathan’s laboured huffing, knuckles straining on the pump.
Steve vaguely wanted to die.
“You can put your stuff down, you know.” Jonathan nodded to the corner, and Steve hastily moved to comply. He was in the belly of the beast; it wouldn’t be the smartest to anger it or anyone inside.
Steve stole a glimpse out in the hallway. Yep, that was where the Demogorgon was charred to a crisp, but apparently not crisped enough. Thankfully, the Byers had managed to replace at least some of the carpet, probably on the coattails of government hush money.
And beyond that, there was the patched up hellhole where the monster had crawled its way out, and the floor where he got beat to shit. Steve winced at the not-so-phantom twinge in his jaw, trying very hard not to wonder if the Byers managed to scrub his blood from the floorboards or if the sad little rug they’d put out there was more than merely for the sake of decoration.
“Steve?”
Right. He was still holding his stuff. Steve bit back a wince, and flung his duffel into the proffered corner. Thankfully, nothing of value was in it.
Jonathan did one last laborious pump, and detached the hose, hastily shoving in the plug as air weakly hissed out. Finally satisfied, Jonathan staggered to his feet, gesturing lamely to the makeshift bed.
“Thanks,” Steve said, equally lamely.
“No problem.”
And with that, Jonathan squeezed around him to escape out the door. Steve felt slightly betrayed since that had been his own original plan, but at least it gave him some room to think—
“Are you coming? Dinner’s gonna be ready.”
Oh.
Lunch had been a very long time ago, but dinner would also require sitting at the Council of Byers and hoping not to get blasted. Turning them down could prove to be worse, though.
“Yeah, one sec.” He still needed a minute to breathe, and this way he wouldn’t have to follow Jonathan out like a lost little duckling.
Jonathan only nodded and fled to the kitchen, probably thankful to get away from him for a bit. Well, the feeling was mutual.
It wasn’t that Jonathan was bad company, or, not terrible company. There was just far too much that had gone unspoken, and one new camera couldn’t possibly be enough to repair all of it, like slapping cheap plaster on crumbling walls. Not that Jonathan even knew about that little piece offering.
And lately, he’d seen Steve at his most degraded, so really, he’d rather not get stuck in more uncomfortable conversations than he had to.
In the end, Steve lingered as much as could be considered socially appropriate before he made his way into the dining room, bracing for impact.
At the table, there was one seat available at the opposite end across from Ms. Byers, who gestured at him to take a seat. It felt more like stepping into a docket than settling down for dinner, surrounded by a family that had no business housing him, let alone offering him what looked to be some sort of unidentifiable meat served with overcooked potatoes. Gravy and cranberry sauce sat in small bowls in the centre of the table, mismatched spoons peeking from their rims.
Steve sat. Cleared his throat. And was confronted with the fact that his dominant hand was currently preoccupied. Just swell. At least they weren’t having soup.
“Er, thanks for, um. Thanks for this, Ms. Byers.”
“Please, it’s Joyce,” she said insistently. “Now, dig in.”
It didn’t escape his notice that they were likely eating dinner far later than they normally would be, and it was all his fault. His stomach folded in on itself a bit as Will attacked his meal with a fervor that would make even the demodogs possibly take pause.
Don’t. Don’t think about monsters. Not in this house.
Steve swallowed thickly, and, with as much grace he could muster, which was, sadly very little, he fumbled with his fork and, after a few sad mishaps involving the mushy potatoes sliding off the prongs, and at one point, poking himself in the chin, he managed to get a sort of loose handle on it. Kind of. It would have to do.
“Does it hurt?”
His latest scoop flopped back to his plate.
“Hm?”
Will was looking at him, or rather, his sling. Steve shifted in his seat until the wood creaked.
“Ah, no, no, they gave me some good stuff at the hospital,” he said, belatedly wondering if that was how he should’ve phrased it. He pressed his eyes shut against another stab from the kitchen lights, tried not to replace it with the colourful twinkling usually reserved for Christmas, and dutifully ignored the shuddering twinge that zipped down his arm with every jostled movement. Still, again, it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.
Will nodded sagely.
“They gave me some of the good stuff too.”
“Will.”
“What?”
Ms. Byers sighed, and Steve quickly ducked his head, reaching blindly for the cranberry sauce. He wasn’t partial to cranberries, but it was something to do with his one remaining functional hand while his mushed up brain struggled to come up with a way to apologize for her son talking like a druggie and also dredging up unwelcome memories.
At least there weren’t monsters this time responsible for anything, so the Byers could rest easy on that front.
Thankfully, the conversation managed to miraculously recover itself from its terminal flatline, with Ms. Byers asking her boys about school, probably catching on that Steve was not the most engaging of conversation partners at the moment. He couldn’t hold the sauce bowl in one hand and scoop it out with the other, so he was reduced to balancing a small spoonful and watching as his arm trembled with the effort. Thankfully, none spilled on the table cloth.
“-and you, Steve?”
Steve jerked his head up, wincing at the motion.
“Sorry?”
Ms. Byers smiled thinly, and Steve swallowed down a grimace. He was being such a jerk. He shouldn’t even be here, taking hospitality from a family that had no reason to even want him within their walls save for dire, monster-related scenarios, and even then, purely out of convenience.
“School? You’re graduating this year, aren’t you?”
“Er. Yeah. It’s okay.” Aside from all of Hargrove’s increasing efforts to the contrary. Though, at this rate, he’d be lucky if he even saw his diploma at all, let alone this year, with the way his brain was going. That, combined with the fact that he was lacking Nancy’s diligent study sessions didn’t make for exactly inspiring prospects.
“Do you have plans on how to get to school now, with the, um.” Her gaze flicked to his sling, and Steve paused in his sauce-related ministrations.
He couldn’t exactly tell her about his current pilot-one-handed plan of attack, not that he would be picking up any little shits in those conditions.
Right.
No little shits to clamber all over his seats and drive him crazy. He was free.
His stomach tightened, and he dipped his head, tunnelling holes into his dinner. Maybe it was the potatoes, or the mystery meat. Not that he was about to say anything about a meal he already didn’t deserve.
“I’ll… figure something out.”
His spoon scraped against the plate, smearing a trail of red and—
And cranberry sauce was a huge mistake.
“Are you sure? Jonathan, why don’t you—”
There were lumps in it, pieces of ground flesh mixing with the potatoes to make a pulpy, scarlet slurry. Like the ceramic remains he’d tried his best to sweep off the floor, staggering around in a daze, the grime and grit of the Upside Down still clinging to his clothes, his hair.
This plate was the exact same one, too. Must’ve come in a set. Shouldn’t he have bought them a new one? To make up for what wound up buried in his skull?
His fork clattered.
“Steve?”
He blinked, swallowing thickly, and reached for his water before he could risk saying something hysterical about not wanting to eat his own brains.
He took brisk, tiny sips, so as not to anger the nausea threatening to rush up his throat, and please, please don’t let him vomit all over Ms. Byers’ dinner. What a way to get himself kicked out on his ass and never invited back. Not that he would be anyway, unless the monsters came knocking or maybe if Tommy took the bat to his other arm for symmetry or some shit and Ms. Byers was feeling particularly generous.
“Would that work?”
Reluctantly, Steve lowered the glass and met Ms. Byers’ piercing gaze. He felt vaguely like a mouse, belatedly realizing it had just wandered within sights of a hawk closing in from above, which was ridiculous, since it was Ms. Byers.
“Er, sorry?”
“Jonathan taking you to school,” she said patiently, “you’re close by, and you’re both going anyway. It’s no trouble, right, Jonathan?”
It was a good thing he’d given up on eating. He’d have sent his fork flying.
Jonathan looked… uncomfortable. And why wouldn’t he? Playing chauffeur for Steve Harrington? What kind of arm-twisting had his mother subjected him to before this conversation?
“I really don’t wanna impose, Ms. Byers—”
“Joyce. And you wouldn’t be imposing.”
She couldn’t exactly make that decision for Jonathan, regardless of how determined she was to do so, for whatever reason.
“You can’t be driving like that, Steve, it’s not safe,” she said firmly, and Steve felt oddly chastised.
“She’s right,” Jonathan said, still looking at his plate, and Steve shrank a bit in his seat. “I’ll pick you up at 7.”
Why did he have to make it sound like a date? Honestly it was more like yet another kidnapping.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I do,” Jonathan said, piling gravy onto his food with perhaps more force than necessary.
“Drive safe,” she said, and Steve felt like he was the little squirt in need of babysitting. “Steve, are you not hungry?” Her gaze suddenly snapped to the remains of his abandoned meal he was trying very hard not to look at. “I knew I should’ve taken those potatoes out earlier.”
“No, no, it’s not— it’s good, it’s just, the pain meds, you know? Make you kinda not so great.” It wasn’t a lie. “Sorry, Ms— Joyce,” he wilted under her sharp stare, “it was good, I appreciated it.”
“Kiss ass,” Jonathan muttered, mouth twitching into the beginnings of something far too smug, and Will snickered into his juice. Steve hoped the bruises obscured the flush clamouring to overtake his face.
“Jonathan,” Ms. Byers glared, before sending Steve a softened frown. “You don’t have to finish it, Steve. In fact, you should go lie down, you must be exhausted.”
Again, the reason he was even darkening their family dinner went unspoken, and Ms. Byers rose to swipe his crime scene of a plate.
“I can take it,” Steve said, reaching towards it while trying not to focus on its contents.
“No, no, I got this, you go, rest your head,” she said briskly, and Steve could tell there wasn’t any arguing with that tone.
“Um, thanks, for the food, and for having me,” Steve rambled as he swayed to his feet, good arm shooting out to grip the back of the chair as a deluge of unwelcome dizziness stole over him. Ms. Byers only waved him off, and, sparing a nod to Will and Jonathan, he all but fled to Jonathan’s bedroom.
Jonathan had been gracious enough to leave a pillow and a spare blanket beside the air mattress, and Steve, after brushing his teeth, laid them out. He changed out of his jeans into flannel bottoms, and wrestled with the sling, easing it over his head to set it beside his bag, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt until he was able to successfully rid himself of the blood-encrusted monstrosity. A shame, he’d liked that shirt.
He’d brought an actual pyjama top, pilfered from his dad’s closet, not wanting to deal with the pain of trying to put on a t-shirt in his current state, but his patience for dealing with yet more buttons had long abandoned him, so he left it hanging open and clambered into his new bed.
It was uncomfortable as shit. There were no good positions, not with his head and his arm, though, he had a feeling it would’ve been the same even without his injuries. Still, it was either this, or the floor.
Despite the exhaustion bleeding into every inch of muscle and bone, curling up to settle down for the winter, he was denied such a mercy.
Eventually, Jonathan joined him in his own bed, and Steve pretended he was already asleep.
Slowly, the house quieted, all the lights burning out, and Steve was—
It was dark.
So dark.
It pulsed inwards, like a living thing. He vaguely remembered Nancy telling him once that the eyes were still busy even when there was nothing left to see, and that’s why the darkness could take on shapes and swirls and even strange colours.
But it was still dark.
He never slept without a light on these days, and he wasn’t about to ask Jonathan for a fucking night light.
Closing his eyes against it, he buried his pulsing head into his cushion, waiting to be dragged down into some weird-ass dream that hopefully wouldn’t star monsters or Tommy or Hargrove or just anyone or anything that wished him bodily harm. Unfortunately, for a dream to not so much as even feature an unfortunate cameo that left him sweating buckets and tangled in his sheets was depressingly rare these days.
But that didn’t matter, since he needed to be at school tomorrow and he needed his senses to be at least marginally alive so he wouldn’t be taken unawares again. Not that he had much of a fighting chance like this, but still, he could run. The rumours were gonna be hell in a hand basket, but there wasn’t much to be done about that.
Every toss and turn jarred his shoulder, and he wound up on his back, staring at the ceiling.
There wasn’t a monster crawling out of it.
There wasn’t.
No petalled maw blossoming to rows and rows of jagged teeth, slime slathering from rotted, pink flesh, claws crooked, outstretched, no flicker of Christmas lights, and no bat, the only thing between him and death, smooth and sure and slick with sweat. No, Tommy had the bat now. And who knew what he was going to do with it, and he couldn’t think about that, or monsters, or—
Or.
The hallway was worse. There wasn’t a bear trap this time, but something was chasing him out of the bedroom and he needed— needed air—
It was still dark. Still dark when he stepped over the fuzzy entrance-way carpet and wound up curled in a heap on the porch.
It was also fucking freezing.
He tucked the two halves of his pyjama top tight around his torso and rested his aching head on his knees. His arm throbbed and pulsed, it was dark out, nothing but the woods for company, the road quiet, and he wanted to go home.
Home, where he could at least turn on a light without waking anyone up and sleep in his parents’ bed with no window to overlook the pool.
It wasn’t safe. Will got taken in these very woods, the same woods that surrounded his own house, and his ass was so cold against the steps, frost in the air, but he couldn’t get himself to move, to go back inside where there wasn’t even a moon or stars to slice through the black.
God, he was pathetic. It hadn’t even been this bad in a while, but maybe Hargrove had knocked something irreparably loose and he’d swept it up with the rest of the scattered shards on the Byers’ kitchen floor.
So he didn’t know how long he sat out there, but it was apparently long enough for someone to notice.
The door creaked open behind him, and Steve nearly pitched himself off the porch.
“Steve! What on earth are you doing out here? You’re gonna catch a cold, or— or—” Ms. Byers swam into view, and Steve belatedly registered he was shivering very hard, and it was not doing any wonders for his shoulder. A hand landed on it, and he hissed, jerking away to the accompaniment of a string of apologies.
“Just, come on, let’s get you back inside.”
Inside.
To the dark.
The dark, and a ceiling full of monsters, and a floor stained with his blood.
But he couldn’t have Ms. Byers thinking he was a lunatic, so he nodded tightly, and shakily rose to his feet. When he swayed, she caught him by his good elbow, and he didn’t protest as she led him back inside, settling him on the couch and don’t look, don’t look up—
A lumpy, knitted blanket found its way around his shoulders, and he tucked his bare feet under it, slumping into the arm of the couch.
A light illuminated the space, a small table lamp, and Steve fixated on it like a moth with a death wish.
Ms. Byers settled in an armchair across from him, hands knotted over her knees, and Steve ducked from her searching gaze.
“What were you doing out there?” There was no avoiding it, apparently. Steve jerked a shoulder, and winced.
The silence sat, thick and heavy, and his head was not in the best shape to come up with an excuse that didn’t make him look like a complete idiot, so he stayed mute.
“Sorry,” he eventually muttered, and Ms. Byers sighed, rubbing her hands down her face.
“I just hope you don’t get sick,” she said. “It’s not safe out there.” She didn’t mention how it wasn’t safe inside either.
Pins and needles swarmed in his feet and hands as blood rushed to their tips.
“Steve,” she said after a moment, “I’ve been meaning to mention this, and I’d hoped to say it when you’d had a moment to settle, to rest, but…” Her fingers twisted in on themselves as she fidgeted, and Steve tried not to sink too far into the couch. She took a breath, and fixed him with a stare that pinned him to the floral upholstery.
“I think you should press charges.”
Steve blinked.
He… hadn’t expected that, to be honest. Sure, he’d weathered a few pointed hints from the hospital staff, but they’d actually seen the damage up close and there was no real explaining away the marks.
She hadn’t suggested it that first time when she’d walked into her home, an exhausted Will supported between her and Jonathan, only to be met with more kids who’d clearly been to the Upside Down, and Steve sprawled out on her recliner, face black and blue, but she’d had more than enough on her plate at the time. She’d certainly impressed upon him the importance of a hospital, and Hopper had taken the liberty of dropping him off at Hawkins Memorial, but now, when he didn’t look anywhere near as bad, she wanted him to stir up trouble?
It wasn’t even Hargrove who’d taken a bat to him.
Could he… could he really do that to Tommy? It wasn’t like he’d beaten him up with it, he’d only taken one good swing, and probably wouldn’t have even done that much if it weren’t for Steve’s big mouth.
He curled a little bit further into the blanket, and grimaced as he remembered his shirt was still gaping wide open. He quickly covered himself, knees tucking to his chest, and Ms. Byers cleared her throat, shuffling in her seat.
“Steve, I know some… things have been happening at school, and before you start, Jonathan hasn’t told me the details,” she raised a hand as if to physically put off his protests, “only that whatever happened today isn’t the… first time you’ve been harassed.”
“I’ve been handling it,” Steve said stiffly, and Ms. Byers only shook her head.
“Steve. My boy had to see you get pulled out of your own trunk today, covered in— in blood.”
Shame swallowed him whole, left nothing but bones.
“M’sorry.”
“I’m not blaming you,” she said, softening. “But even you can admit, this isn’t something that should’ve happened. Not just ‘cause of the kids, but you shouldn’t be hurt like this. At least talk to Hopper?”
And say what? Whine and cry about how careless he was in letting Tommy even get his hands on his own goddamn bat? How he wasn’t strong enough to stop getting rough-housed by Billy fucking Hargrove and his accomplice-once-friend?
Chances were, it wouldn’t go anywhere. Tommy’s folks were as well off as Steve’s own, and they wouldn’t be likely to let their boy be taken down without a fight. And, realistically, what would even happen? He presses chargers, turns out there isn’t enough evidence to pin it on him, and he walks free or with a fine, more angry than ever to fully join forces with Hargrove against him?
You think one of those shit stains would fit in here better, Harrington? Would you like that? Might get some peace and quiet. Hey, what’s your combination?
No. All it would do is make things worse. As long as they were preoccupied with just some petty bullshit against Steve it was, well, not great, but manageable.
Today was a one-off. He could still see the stricken look on Tommy’s face when he shut Steve away. He just had to ask him about the bat, make sure he didn’t give it to Hargrove, and he’d be more likely to cooperate if Steve wasn’t having him flung down to the station.
“I’m okay,” he mumbled, and Ms. Byers shook her head.
“This can’t happen again, Steve,” she said, and message received. He wouldn’t take advantage of her hospitality anymore, never should’ve in the first place.
“Can I go home tomorrow?” He said, and she hesitated, worrying at her lip.
“You shouldn’t be alone,” a crease crinkled her brow, “someone should be there to take care of you.”
“My parents’ll be back soon.” It could be true, he didn’t know. They were taking more time away, now that he’d turned eighteen, and that only made sense. In some ways, it was easier, and he didn’t need to worry about waking them up with his bad nights.
“I don’t like it, but… I won’t force you to stay, if that’s really what you want,” she said, and reached forward to squeeze his hand. It was rough and calloused, but warm. “I’ll give you our number. You call if you need anything, alright?”
“Okay.” He’d check in once or twice so she wouldn’t worry.
“And I’ll send Jonathan to check on you.”
Oh no.
“You really don’t have to—”
“He’ll be okay,” she said, as though she’d make it so, regardless of how Jonathan felt, and Steve could only imagine how partial Jonathan would be to that idea. Whatever patience he’d held for Steve’s presence these days, it was bound to run out at the rate they were going.
“Do you wanna try going back to bed, now?” She said gently, and he didn’t know how she could treat him like this, not after last year. Maybe he looked pathetic enough for her to make an exception, for now. It was for the best he was leaving tomorrow, before that was all put to the test.
“I’ll go in a bit, if, um, that’s okay,” he said. Jonathan’s bedroom felt suffocating. And while the literal area where the Demogorgon had burst out of the ceiling was not much better, at least there was currently a lamp at his disposal. Unless she turned it off before she left.
She didn’t.
“Okay,” she said, and got to her feet. “Just, think about what I said. About Hop.”
He nodded, hoping she wouldn’t tell Hopper about any of it, at least not before he figured out what exactly it was he wanted to do.
“Goodnight, Steve,” she said, and as she left for her bed, Steve recalled she never did mention why she’d gotten up in the middle of the night, but it was probably why any of them did these days. He’d likely interrupted her smoke.
Settling down against the cushions, he remained firmly on his side, staring at the lamp on the table, the ceiling heavy above him. He wasn’t going to fall asleep, but maybe he could catch a few winks in Ms. Click’s. She didn’t usually call him out on it.
A door opened, and Steve nearly fell off the couch.
A figure materialized from the darkness, the lamp bathing a groggy-looking Will Byers in stark relief. He was in his pyjamas, clutching a pillow to his chest. Ah, shit, maybe the light woke him up. Either that, or them talking.
“Steve?” He squinted against the glare of the lamp. “Did Jonathan kick you out?”
Steve huffed a croaky laugh.
“Nah. He snores.”
Will snickered, but it soon faded away as his eyes flitted back to the lamp.
“...I leave a light on too, when I sleep,” he confessed, hugging his pillow to his chest, and Steve’s throat ached. If there was anyone who was entitled to a night light, it was unquestionably Will Byers.
And then Will turned back to his room, only to reemerge with a blanket that he flung over the opposite couch.
“Byers?”
Will smacked his pillow down until he seemed satisfied and wriggled under his blanket, turning to face him, the glow of the lamp hanging between them.
“Mom said you shouldn’t be alone,” he said simply. “And… I didn’t like being alone either, when I came back from the hospital.”
The ache in his throat swelled and he swallowed around it.
“I’ll be fine,” he said hoarsely, and Will shrugged, but didn’t move. Steve thought back to what Ms. Byers’ had said about Will seeing him dragged out of his own trunk, and maybe this was also for Will’s own peace of mind. Kid had been through enough, he didn’t need to go worrying about more shit, but Steve had done this, so he shut his trap and pulled his blanket higher.
“Goodnight, Steve.”
“...‘Night, Byers.”
And maybe it was the worst possible place to fall asleep, beneath where all of it started, but somehow he felt himself start to slip away, exhaustion finally claiming its prey.
He didn’t dream, or if he did, he couldn’t remember it by the time he was rudely awoken by the sound of something sizzling in a pan and poorly hushed voices, a liveliness that left him momentarily disoriented, until recollection announced itself in the obnoxious wailing in his shoulder.
Steve rolled off the couch with no doubt the worst bed head imaginable, bracing himself for the day.
And around a mouthful of toast, surrounded by chaos subdued by the thinnest of reins, he couldn’t help the small, itsy bitsy part of him that wouldn’t entirely mind sticking around another night.