Chapter Text
Steve nudges the monster’s carcass with his foot as you do a quick sweep of the room, the beam from your flashlight illuminating vines that move sluggishly across the ground. Blood and sticky mucus are splattered across the ground by Steve’s feet. The dirt under his feet is turned near-black as thick, tar-like blood oozes from the crude wound across the beast’s neck where he slashed at the monster—what the hell have the kids been calling this species again? A Dretch?—with an axe until it finally stopped moving.
He spits out a mouthful of blood near the corpse, rubbing a hand over his jaw where the Dretch caught his cheek when swinging at him. Thankfully the bastard didn’t have claws, or his pretty face would have been ruined. It strings, and Steve groans, already knowing that he’s going to be bruised to hell tomorrow. And his ears are starting to ring from the glancing blow.
“Shit.”
Not for the first time, he wonders if he should quit his job. Or ask for a pay raise.
“You can say that again.”
Steve looks at you. Confusion morphs into disgust when he sees the large, orange-colored eggs scattered around the back of the cave the two of you tracked the Dretch back to. They’re massive. Tall enough to reach past your hip. Covered in a thick layer of pus or mucus, looking sticky to the touch. When your flashlight sweeps over them, Steve swears he can see movement behind the shells. Dark shapes squirming around.
He comes up next to you, nudging you away from the eggs with his hip. Once you take a step back, he grabs the still bloody axe from the pack slung over his back. You watch, tense, as he raises the blade to the shell. Your fingers twitch towards the cattle prod strapped to your own back. Just in case.
“Think this is some kind of nest?” Steve asks. He taps the blunt edge of the axe against the shell once. Shadows wriggle within. Alive. More goddamn monsters. Long strands of slime cling to the blade when he pulls it away, and he lifts it closer to his face for a better look, lip curling with distaste. It’s hard to describe the smell, like something rotting, but not quite. It makes his stomach churn.
“Must be,” you say, turning away from the eggs to continue looking around. “We’ll have to tell Owens to send a team down here and torch the place.” You glance at Steve, your lips pressed into a thin lip and your eyebrows pinched together in thought. “We’re too close to the rift. If these hatch…”
Immediately, your mind goes back to the junkyard. The Demodogs. It was years ago now, but you’ve never forgotten that awful night. How you all could have died. You. Steve. The kids.
“We’re not gonna let that happen,” he reassures you when you start to trail off, knowing exactly what you’re remembering. It keeps him awake some nights, too. “Okay?”
You shake your head, but Steve reaches for you before you can take another step away from him. He pulls you back with a hand grasping your upper arm, and you let him tug you around so that his eyes can find yours through the darkness.
“Hey.” Despite the loud noises the two of you were making earlier, he keeps his voice low. Soft. Like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear, his words meant just for you. “I mean it. We aren’t going to let anything happen to them.”
For a moment, neither of you say anything. Steve stares down at you, gaze soft as his thumb sweeps back and forth along your arm. Even over your jacket, you can feel the heat of his hand seeping into you, solid and reassuring. The subtle, repetitive touch keeps you grounded. He’s always kept you grounded.
Eventually, you wet your bottom lip, mouth opening as if to say something, but then you stop, changing your mind. Instead, you nod. Nimble fingers wrap around Steve’s wrist, and you squeeze once, briefly returning the affectionate gesture before taking a step back. His fingers trail down your arm, touch lingering until you’re out of reach.
When you offer him a small smile, he returns it.
The moment ends as quickly as it began. Both of you remember where you are. The hell you’ve willingly stepped into. There’s no time for sentiment here. The two of you fall back into routine, as if the momentary lapse never happened at all.
Static crackles from the radio attached to Steve’s hip. The sound echoes through the cave. “Everything okay down there, kiddos?” a familiar voice asks, serious despite the jovial tone.
Steve holds down the button to reply, still looking at you. “What’s up, Doc?” he asks, watching you continue searching around the space. “I’m currently considering a career change. What about you? Thought you’d still be busy with those bureaucrats from D.C. The chief said they’ve been up your ass all week.”
“You’d be surprised how much a good bottle of scotch can do,” Sam Owens tells them. “How did it go with Scunner? Not too much of a problem for the two of you, I hope.”
Snorting, Steve turns his back to you to look at the dead Dretch laying in a pool of its own blood. “Neutralized. Son of a bitch nearly took my head off though.” He scratches his cheek, frowning down at the monster. “Hope you didn’t want us to bring the body back. It’s not exactly intact right now.”
The cave looks like a crime scene, the way Steve hacked at the creature. Neck half severed and stomach sliced open. The damn thing just wouldn’t stay down.
You glance at the body briefly, nose wrinkling in disgust at the smell that’s already beginning to seep into the air. Rot. The two of you shouldn’t stay here. It won’t be long until some scavenger picks up on the smell of blood and comes looking for a meal. The last thing you and Steve need tonight is another fight.
“That won’t be necessary. We already have a category three of the same kind on record.” Another crackling, static sound comes across the radio, but the interference clears quickly, just in time for you and Steve to hear the amused sound your boss makes. “You should know that Harrington. You brought it in.”
Steve hums, idly picking at one of the zippers on his vest. “That the one that nearly tore off my arm last year?”
It must be. You and Steve have been working for the lab killing monsters for nearly two years now, but it isn’t often that you have to bring a specimen back to the lab. Much less a live one. Now that night was a pain in the ass. It took hours for the two of you to wrangle the Dretch back to the gate, and while you managed to make it out unscathed, Steve still has a series of scars running along the back of his shoulder. Small enough that no one asked too many questions after it happened, but still noticeable. He’s just glad it wasn’t you.
He grimaces at the thought. “You know, I still haven’t forgiven you for that one,” he tells the doctor, only half-kidding.
“I don’t expect you to. Now, the two of you are free to come back anytime, unless you’re planning to cash in all of that vacation time over there. Personally, I’d recommend somewhere warmer this time of year, but who am I to judge.”
The scoffing sound that Steve makes echoes around the cave. “Right. I think I’ve spent enough time in this damn place for one night.” He wets his lips, remembering the cluster of eggs you stumbled upon earlier. “Owens. We found some kind of nest down here.” He glances over his shoulder to look at you, watching as you skirt around the eggs, squinting at something along the far wall of the dark, cavernous room. “There’s a shit ton of those eggs. We can see things moving inside, but it doesn’t look like they’re about to hatch just yet.”
“They’re still intact?”
“Yup.”
Steve abandons the Dretch carcass to walk back over to the eggs. This time, he crouches in front of them. Pulling out his own flashlight, he aims the beam towards the gooey, yellow-orange shells. Up close, it’s easier to see the dark, vein like membrane beneath the surface that Steve swears is pulsing like a heartbeat. A trick of the light, he hopes.
It’s not often they find eggs like this. Most are cracked open. Hatched. Fed on. Empty either way. The lab has never figured out what’s inside. The last time they found unhatched eggs, no one on the recovery team made it back.
“Think they’re Dretch eggs, or was Scunner just coming to feed?” he asks Owens. Tongue poking against the inside of his cheek, Steve angles the flashlight a little closer to the egg. Reaching out with a gloved hand, he brushes the tips of his fingers against the shell. Even through his glove they feel ice cold. Slowly, he spreads his fingers a little wider. The palm of his hand grazes the shell.
A dark mass strikes the shell from the inside, vibrating the membrane enough for Steve to feel it. He rips his hand back, swearing under his breath. He scrubs the slime off on his vest.
By now, you’ve tuned out of Steve and Doctor Owens’ conversation, continuing to look around as your partner reports back to the lab about your findings.
Vines growing along the length of the cave’s far wall catch your attention. The thick, slimy appendages making a wet sound as they move lethargically, creeping across the rocky surface. The vines themselves aren’t abnormal. It’s the same dark, wriggling mass you’ve seen dozens of times before. Just like the ones you torched with Steve and the kids back when you were still in high school, deep in the labyrinthine tunnels sprawled beneath Hawkins.
It’s not the vines that make you pause. It’s the delicate, baby blue flowers growing from those vines. Innocuous. Buds with their petals furled tightly, having yet to bloom properly. The sight of them makes you sick to your stomach. A sense of wrongness twists at your insides, and every hair on the back of your neck stands up. Alarm bells ring in your head, only outweighed by curiosity.
They shouldn’t be here. In the years you’ve worked for the lab, you’ve never seen anything like this. Everything in this hellish place is decayed, the smell of rot permanently permeating the air. To see something so bright and alive growing here doesn’t make sense, and you know better than to think it’s as simple as that.
No matter how pretty the flower, if it grows here there are thorns, even if you can’t see them.
“Steve?” you call out to him, a slight tremor to your voice.
He twists around to look at you, cutting off midsentence as he speaks with Doctor Owens. When you don’t look at him, his heart sinks, ice churning in his stomach. He knows that tone in your voice. “Stand by,” he says into the radio when Doctor Owens says his name. “Hopper found something.”
“Code Blue?”
Wetting his lips, Steve tries to get a read on your expression: concerned. Confused, but not afraid. “Negative,” he decides. Not an emergency. Not yet, anyway. Whatever you’ve found isn’t an immediate threat, but that doesn’t say much. Over the last few years, you’ve all learned that the Upside Down is a cold, merciless place. It may look like your world, but it’s not. A perfect, mirrored image of Hawkins—of your home, but warped by decay. Overrun with thousands of vicious monsters that the lab is only barely beginning to understand.
“If the situation escalates, get the hell out of there.”
“Copy that,” Steve says into the receiver, ending his conversation with Doctor Owens and crossing the distance over to where you’ve wandered. “What’s goin’ on, sweetheart?” he asks you, the endearment a slip of the tongue.
You glance at him. Only able to take your eyes off those flowers for a second. Part of you is afraid that you’re seeing things. That being here is starting to screw with your head. Or maybe the Dretch did something to you. There are still so many things you don’t understand about the Upside Down and the monsters living there. The Demogorgon from back when everything started was telekinetic. The Mind Flayer could latch onto a host and possess them. There’s no telling what powers the other creatures might have.
Illuminating the flowers further with your flashlight, you nod your head to the vine-covered wall. “You see this?”
Like before, Steve follows the beam of your flashlight, his brows furrowing when he sees what you’re gesturing towards. “What the hell is that?” His chest presses into your back as he leans forward for a better look. “Flowers?”
“These shouldn’t be here.” It’s obvious, but one of you has to say it. The wrongness of the situation nettles at you again. It crawls under your skin. Even still, his presence makes you feel safer than you are. Protected. “Everything down here is rotting,” you remind Steve, glancing at him over your shoulder. He tenses when you exchange a look, expression grim. “But these… Do you remember reading Macbeth in high school?” you ask him suddenly.
He frowns. “What?”
“Shakespeare.”
“No.”
Steve read it sophomore year in English class. Before the monsters. Before Nancy Wheeler broke his heart and left you to pick up the pieces. Before Steve realized he wanted to be better.
You wet your lips, searching for the line from memory. “‘Look like the innocent flower but be the serpent under it’,” you quote.
Steve’s chest presses a little closer to your back. “Meaning, what exactly?”
“Things aren’t always as non-threatening as they look.”
“What if it’s not, though.” You look at him again, finding his brows furrowed in thought. Steve pulls his gaze away from the flowers when he feels you looking at him “Back in eighty-four?” he reminds you. “All those pumpkins your dad found were rotting because the gate was out of control, right? If the Upside Down can spread like that, what about things from our side? I mean, did Owens ever think about that when the rift opened up again?”
Your eyes flit back to the flowers. It’s not implausible. Even after so many years, you’re still learning about the Upside Down. All of you are. Maybe Steve is right. Maybe the walls between worlds are thinner than you thought before. Maybe it’s nothing.
Something about that explanation doesn’t sit right with you.
“But why here?” You squint at the flowers. “I mean, back then, the rot was spreading from the gate. It was all localized to a few square miles around the lab. That’s how we even knew they were connected in the first place.” Your brows knit together in thought, your lower lip caught between your teeth for several long seconds until you speak again. “If these flowers were growing here because of our side, they should be closer to the gate. And those eggs. What if they’re related?”
“Related how?”
You shrug with one shoulder. “I don’t know. But those don’t look like any flower I’ve ever seen in Hawkins.”
The palm of Steve’s hand is a solid weight against your back, grounding you again. “Let’s just get the hell out of here,” he says, voice low in your ear. It’s that same tone from earlier, a little gentler than usual. “Leave it to the firing squad.”
You nod. His hand slides around to your hip, giving you a brief, reassuring squeeze before stepping out of your personal space and reaching for the radio attached to his vest.
“Owens. Ever get reports of flowers blooming on this side?”
“Flowers?” he repeats. “No. Can’t say that I have. Why, did you find some?”
“Affirmative.”
Doctor Owens doesn’t respond for several seconds. Calling in some of his colleagues at the lab, you can only assume. The radio crackles with static when he returns and says, “Describe them to me.”
“Jesus Christ.” Steve scrubs his hand down his face, groaning before he presses the button to allow his voice to come through again. “Uh, small. Blue. Fuck, I don’t know. They’re buds growing out of some of those vines. I don’t see shit. Just get your guys down here to take care of it.”
As Steve describes them, the flowers begin to move.
You’re still facing the wall of vines, one hand stretched out, hovering just over one of the many light blue buds, the pale color standing out against the mottled green and black slime-covered vines they’re attached to. The vines squelch wetly, pulsing faintly as your hand hovers over one of the blossoms, a safe distance between your gloved hand and the strange plant.
“What the hell?” Steve mutters behind you.
One by one, the flower’s petals begin to unfurl. There are five of them, the blossom star-shaped, and the petals spread open wide like a Demogorgon’s maw. The blossom is larger than you first thought, easily bigger than your palm. Pale pink at the center to contrast the baby blue on the tips. The colors bleed together, far too bright and innocent compared to the vines they grow from. Long, silvery fronds grow from the middle of the flower, each tipped with a pink, barb-like petal. There’s an egg-shaped bulb nestled in the center of them, silver like the fronds, but pink towards the tip. It’s shiny. Wet and likely sticky to the touch.
The plant glows faintly in the darkness when your flashlight angles toward the ground. There are spots of silver and pink on the inside of each petal, and, like the fronds and bulbs, they light up. Phosphorescent.
The fronds reach out to meet your hand, but before they can touch your glove, you pull away. Mirroring you, the fronds reel back as if startled. As another blossom unfurls, you lower your palm closer to the first flower. This time, you let the fronds brush against your gloved fingers, but they skirt away from you, disinterested.
Warily, you pull off your gloves and tuck them under your arm. Steve watches, frowning, but doesn’t say anything, trusting you. It’s stupid, what you’re about to do. But right now, common sense is being outweighed by curiosity.
Again, you reach towards the flower. Like before, the fronds react to your presence, seeking out your touch. You gasp as the barbed tip of one brushes against your finger. It’s warm. Hot. Like you’ve dangled your hand over a fire—daring to move just a little too close. Despite the heat, the barb is soft, almost silky. More stretch towards your hand, moths to flames, brushing against your fingers and tracing lines down your palm. They’re gentle, curious like you.
“Steve?” His name comes out as barely a whisper, too afraid of startling the plant playing with your fingertips to be any louder.
“Yeah, I see it.” He takes a step closer, slowly reaching for the radio attached to his vest. “Hey, Doc?” he says into the speaker. “I think you’ll really wanna see this.”
He explains to Doctor Owens what’s happening, keeping his voice low as to not disturb you or the plants. You don’t hear Owens’ response. Focused solely on the flowers, you begin to wiggle your fingers back at them, mimicking their movements. Emboldened when they don’t shy away, you reach a little closer, towards the fleshy bulb in the center. It casts a faint, pink glow on the skin of your palm as you edge closer. The fronds intertwine with your fingers, coiling around them, touching, but not trying to drag you in.
The bulb is warm and wet when you press a finger to the tip of it. When nothing happens, you pull your hand back. A long, gooey string of slime connects your hand and the plant as you pull away. Slightly pink in color, the string stretches until eventually snapping. Grimacing as the sticky substance clings to your hand, you smear it with your thumb, mindful of the tendrils still playing with your fingers.
Curious, you bring your hand closer to your face, squinting at the slime. Like the flower, it’s faintly phosphorescent. Transparent and only tinted with color, the sticky strands becoming clear when you spread your fingers, stretching the oozing goo. There’s a faint smell as well. Fruity. Something close to citrus, but slightly off.
The rest of the blossoms growing on the cave wall stay dormant, petals curled up tightly against the cold. And then, the flower you’ve been looking at moves suddenly, pulsing like a heartbeat. The petals flutter once, curling inwards at the tips, and the fronds fan out away from the central bulb before rippling back inwards, like a jellyfish. The central bulb moves as well. Throbbing.
Coral colored dust explodes out from the bulb directly into your face. Blinded by the spray, you scream in surprise. The powder sticks to your skin. Around your eyes. Your nose and mouth. And it chokes you, rushing down your nose and throat until you feel like you can’t breathe.
It knocks the breath out of you, throwing off your balance, and suddenly you’re doubling over with your hands on your knees and coughing as your throat starts to burn. Panic swells in your chest, but you’re quick to shove it down. It’ll only make the irritant sting your lungs more. Or force whatever poison that could have been in the powder to attack your system faster. You can already feel it burning through your veins, an uncomfortable heat tingling from your fingertips to your abdomen.
The burning stops as quickly as it started.
Behind you, Steve is swearing. Doctor Owens’ voice comes through the radio, frantic and sharper than usual, demanding Steve explain what’s happening. Asking if you’re both okay. And then Steve is in front of you, crouched down so he can see your face, mouth moving, but you can’t hear him over your heaving and coughing. Your lack of response only makes him more frantic, his heart still lodged in his throat from when he heard you scream.
Steve’s gloves are covered in blood and slime and he rips them off with his teeth in his hurry to check on you. You’re still doubled over, choking as each inhale forces you to swallow more of the pollen clinging to your skin, and the sight makes his stomach twist sickly. The fine powder makes your tongue feel thick, and it stings your lungs with every breath, but you gasp, “don’t” as Steve reaches for you. “Don’t touch it. Don’t touch it!” you repeat mindlessly, trying to shove his hands away from you, because you’ll never forgive yourself if something happens to him because of you.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “Let me look.”
The authority in his voice makes your limbs lock up, your entire body tensing with the command. With your coughing subsided, he stands slowly, pulling you with him. Exhaustion hits you hard, and you’re pliant as he helps you straighten your back so that you’re no longer bent at the waist. Once you’re on your feet, Steve is quick to put himself between you and the strange flower, broad shoulders blocking you from a potential second spray.
Steve draws you into his chest with a heavy hand on your lower back. You inhale sharply when his free hand grasps your chin, his hold on you gentle but firm as he angles your head back, forcing you to look at him as he examines your eyes. Adrenaline makes you hyperaware of his hands on you, hot against your skin, even through your clothes. You don’t fight him as he maneuvers your head, manhandling you, your eyes watering in a reflexive attempt to flush out the foreign irritant. There’s pollen dusted across your features, your eyes already red and bloodshot from the powder getting in your eyes.
A tear spills over and Steve wipes it away with his thumb, uncaring of the dusting of pollen that clings to his skin.
“Look at me. Look at me,” he says, holding your head still and trying to calm the rapid movement of your eyes. It takes a moment for you to settle, for your eyes to find his in the darkness, but once they do you can’t bring yourself to look away. “That’s it,” he continues, hand rubbing your back as he starts to ramble. “You’re okay, sweetheart. You’re okay. I’m gonna get you back to the lab, all right? Yeah, you’re gonna be just fine. Can you walk?”
You nod as he releases your chin, throat too sore to speak, and try to step away from him, but Steve’s arm is solid around your waist, absolutely refusing to let go of you. He coaxes you to lean on him as he pulls you out of the cave, reluctant to let you leave his side when you’re scared and in pain.
And fuck, he’s scared, too. It’s taking everything he has not to let himself panic—you need him to be the level-headed one right now, and he’d do absolutely anything for you. Right now, he doesn’t have the luxury to let himself panic.
Once he’s put distance between you and the wall of vines, Steve yanks at the radio attached to his vest. “Owens,” he barks into the receiver, cutting off the muffled sounds you can hear coming from the other side. “Those flowers sprayed some shit at Hopper. I’m bringing her back now. Get decontamination ready.”
The radio crackles. “Wait there. I’m sending a team to come get you.”
Steve scoffs, arm tightening around you when you make a quiet hiccupping sound. “Your guys take too damn long,” he argues. “I’m getting her to the gate, now.”
It’s a long hike back to the Upside Down version of Hawkins lab. You and Steve went two miles out from the gate today, a forty-minute walk with your gear and the rough terrain, and it takes even longer for the two of you to get back. Steve insists on keeping you pressed into his side, making sure you remain steady on your feet. After your earlier coughing fit, you’re exhausted, the adrenaline rush having already faded away.
Neither of you have said a word to each other since you left the cave. Your throat is still raw, and Steve thinks that if he starts talking, he won’t be able to stop his hammering heart from beating straight out of his mouth.
Steve hooks his arm a little tighter around your waist when you reach the front doors of Hawkins lab. The doors and windows are blown out, shattered glass scattered across the ground. Shards splinter under his boots, crunching loudly.
As the two of you reach the center of the main lobby, the double doors on either side of the room burst open. You flinch as a dozen military men in yellow hazmat gear flood into the room, guns drawn. Steve raises his free arm, blocking out the lights shining in his eyes. None of the men say a word to you or Steve, all of them talking over each other, protocol babble that neither you nor Steve have the energy to keep up with. The men start to spread out, their gear clicking and whirring as they scan for some kind of activity.
“Took you damn long enough,” Steve mutters as two of the men lower their weapons and step closer to you.
“You Hopper?” one of them asks, voice muffled through his suit. He shines a light in your eyes, blinding you momentarily, and you nod, wincing. You can’t see his face behind the light’s glare. The hazmat crew members exchange a look. “Come with us.”
It’s a demand, not a request. And when you don’t follow it fast enough, two pairs of hands are grabbing your arms and yanking you away from the safety of Steve’s side. You gasp, instinctively trying to pull yourself away, but the men’s grips on your upper arms are harsh and unyielding.
“Hey!” Steve snaps, about to surge forward when another soldier shoves him back. “Don’t fucking touch her.”
Recognizing the tone in his voice, you crane your head around as best you can as the soldiers drag you away from him. “It’s okay,” you tell him, speaking for the first time in almost an hour. “It’s okay. Steve, I’ll be okay.” You try to smile for him, but it comes out thin and forced. The sight of it only makes his chest feel tighter.
Shaking his head, he tries to follow you again. The same soldier as before pushes him backwards, and another man comes up beside him. There’s an empty, glass box in his hands.
“Harrington?” the man addresses him. Steve doesn’t reply, eyes locked on you as you’re pushed towards the hallway that leads towards the gate. “Harrington!” Another hard shove to his shoulder brings Steve’s attention to the man in front of him just as the glass box is pushed into his hands. “Doctor Owens told me to give you this.”
Steve tries not to fumble with it, squinting down at the container. “What the hell is this for?”
“He wants a live sample.”
Rage like he’s never known races through him.
The soldier leaves him there with the box, his hands shaking so badly that he fumbles with his radio. “A live sample?” he sneers into the receiver as soon as the other men are out of earshot. The edge of the glass container bites into his palm, leaving an angry, red line. “You really fucking think I’m going back in there while she’s—”
Doctor Owens cuts him off before his angry tirade can really start. “Yes. I do,” he says, blunt and lacking the jovial tone he usually speaks with. “We don’t know what this plant does or what the pollen—if it is pollen—can do. It could be a highly corrosive toxin, or it could cause something as mild as a rash from skin irritation. Either way, we won’t know unless you bring us back a sample to study. William Byers was sick for nearly a month following the week he spent missing in the Upside Down, do you remember that? I’ve seen men go through the rift and not come back nearly as lucky. This is something new to all of us. We need a live sample.”
“Son of a bitch.” Steve watches the two soldiers in hazmat gear lead you away. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but you glance over your shoulder again, eyes searching for Steve and you look terrified. It takes everything in him not to run after you. “Doc, we don’t have time,” Steve says, but Owens here’s the desperate, underlying I don’t wanna leave her that’s thick in Steve’s voice.
“Exactly. She doesn’t have time for this. And it’s like you said, my guys take too long.” Steve grimaces as his own words are thrown back in his face. “You want to help her out? Right now, all you can do is bring me one of those plants so we can verify that it won’t kill her. Can you do that for me?”
Steve groans, running a hand through his hair and rumpling it further. “Yeah,” he says, voice cracking. “Yeah. Shit. Yeah, I’ll grab some. How many do you need?”
“No more than three,” Doctor Owens tells him. “And if you can find the flower in question, even better. Different plants could have different properties. The fact is, we just don’t know. Now, the cave you tracked Scunner to isn’t that far from the gate. Make it fast.” Doctor Owens hesitates for a moment. “And, Harrington? Your girl is in good hands.”
The glass case cradled in Steve’s arm feels so much heavier than it did a moment ago. There’s a lump in his throat that just won’t go down, no matter how hard he tries to swallow it. He watches you walk down the hallway until you turn the corner, disappearing out of sight. “If anything happens to her, I…”
A threat; a revelation.
“I know.”
Without another word, Steve turns back the way he came, wishing he could forget the terrified look in your eyes, your scream still ringing in his ears.
There’s a fire burning under your skin.
At first, it was a tingling sensation. A pleasant wave of warmth that trickled down your spine and pooled in your belly, chasing away the chill of autumn and the icy grip of fingers that the Upside Down always clings to you with long after you’ve crawled back through the rift. The pollen from those flowers in the cave burned your lungs and stung your eyes like smoke, but the pain that threatened to choke you was soothed by the gentle heat that washed over you moments later.
The fire started in your throat. In the base of your spine. Where strong hands held you still and tilted your chin up, gentle but firm. The places where Steve touched you burn.
A shaky sound rattles your chest. The once pleasant heat has sharpened into an ache in the hour since you left the lab, a cramp in the pit of your stomach that has you doubled over your bathroom sink. Barely held up on trembling arms, the porcelain digs into your palms where you’re desperately gripping the sink’s edge to keep yourself upright. Even the freezing water from your shower did nothing to temper the fever churning at your insides, your skin still clammy and damp with sweat even as icy water drips from your soaked hair down the length of your spine.
The first twinges of pain started when you were in decontamination. A sharp stab to your stomach as you were shoved into a room and told to undress, one that you thought was just nerves. You’d only been forced into a category four decontamination once before, right after you first started working for the lab. You’d come crawling out of the rift, drenched in monster blood and slime, and, just like today, two men in hazmat suits forced you into a room, told you to strip, and sprayed you down with freezing water, their gloved hands poking and prodding at you until they were absolutely sure you were clean of the Upside Down.
Tonight was just as humiliating as the first, and this time you refused to stay for further observations. Tired and upset, you drove home in a pair of lab scrubs that you immediately stripped off again in favor of another shower. That’s when the heat came crashing over you again.
Another cramp knocks the breath from your lungs. The force of it nearly buckles your knees. Your thighs clench and rub together in a vain attempt to quiet the pulsing between your legs. A pathetic little sound, caught somewhere between a whimper and a moan, slips from your mouth, and you bite your lip to hold back more of the equally desperate noises threatening to spill out.
You want Steve, you realize. You’re scared and in pain and you just want Steve here with you.
Steve is speeding down the road away from the lab when his radio beeps, the only warning before Doctor Sam Owens’ voice cuts through the silence. “Kravitz just dropped off your package for me. Can I just say, these flowers are much more impressive than what you described to me. I see why Hopper was so fascinated by them. He even said you even found the exact flower we were looking for. Good work, Harrington.”
“You let her leave,” is all Steve says in response.
Doctor Owens makes a sound like he knew the question was coming. “It was voluntary. I couldn’t make her stay here after decontamination. My hands were tied.”
“You think that’s smart?” Steve asks, some of the bite leaving his tone. He wants to be angry. By God he wants to be pissed, but he just can’t when he knows you would have hated being forced to stay at the lab and Doctor Owens is going to stay up all night trying to make sure that fucking flower doesn’t kill you.
“She wasn’t exhibiting any strange symptoms,” Doctor Owens tells him comfortingly. “If she was, she didn’t mention anything to me or anyone in decontamination. And we don’t know what we’re looking for yet. For all we know symptoms may not appear for hours. Days. Weeks. They might not appear at all. This is a sentient organism from an entirely different dimension. There’s a distinct possibility that, biologically, humans are too different to be negatively affected by the plant’s pollen in anyway a creature from the same dimension can. We’ll run some tests. Keep checking in with her. That’s all we can do.”
The explanation is less than reassuring, but Steve keeps his mouth shut, clenches his jaw and tries not to think about what could have happened in the time that you’ve been alone.
Doctor Owens sighs when Steve doesn’t reply. “Believe me, if I could, I would have kept her here for a twenty-four-hour observation, but legally, I can’t do that unless she’s in critical condition and unable to withdraw consent. Legality aside, that one’s as stubborn as her father. She would have bitten my head off if I forced her to stay in my office.”
Steve’s lips twitch into a smile. “You would have deserved it.”
“Probably.” For a second, the radio goes silent. The only sound is the hum of Steve’s car as he takes a corner. “Kravitz told me you left in quite the hurry tonight,” Owens says suddenly, catching Steve off-guard. “Didn’t even stay for decontamination. I’ll try to keep the board from hearing about that one. Keep me updated on her symptoms. You know what to do if there’s a code red. I’ll check in with you later tonight and in the morning with any information we learn about those plants.”
He doesn’t ask how Doctor Owens knows where he’s going. He figures it was a given that he’d run right back to you the first chance he got. “Copy that.”
Steve spends the rest of the drive in silence.
Hawkins is quiet at night. It always has been, a small town with little traffic and nothing to do with the Hawk closed for the night, and the only people left at the Hideaway are drunks nursing their last beer before the owner kicks them out. By the time Steve’s burgundy BWM parks across from your apartment, it’s well after midnight, closer to one in the morning.
The slam of his car door echoes down the street. It’s louder than he meant to be, more aggressive, but his hands haven’t stopped shaking since you were ripped out of his arms earlier and he can’t stop the residual agitation from creeping into every move he makes.
The streets outside of your little townhouse are vacant this time of night, and for once he’s grateful for that. There’d be questions if anyone saw him. Not because he’s coming to see you so late—your neighbors know who he is, and they’ve come to expect his irregular, late-night visits—but because of his rumpled appearance. Steve hadn’t bothered to change out of his uniform after his debriefing with Doctor Owens, in too much of a hurry to go through with decontamination. The axe strapped to his back is crusted with blood so dark it looks black. Even more blood is splattered across his torso. Slime from the Upside Down clings to his vest in odd places, making the thick material sticky to the touch. Dirt is smeared across his face. And there’s a dark bruise forming on the left side of his jaw. He looks like a wreck, or something straight out of a horror film. Something that could get the cops called on him if anyone noticed him wandering down the street.
Pale light glows through your front window. The sight of it makes the tight feeling in his chest loosen for the first time since the hazmat team led you away from him. If nothing else, you made it home.
You don’t answer the door when he knocks the first time.
Despite everything in him screaming to just force himself through the front door, he waits. No matter how badly he wants to see you and make sure you’re okay, he knows that after decontamination you always need time. And Steve needs time, too. Time to calm down. Because he’s angry. Angry at you for leaving the lab without him. Angry at you for getting too close to the flower in the first damn place. Angry at himself for letting you get too close.
And beneath the white-hot anger is an icy layer of fear that makes him feel sick to his stomach. The anger, that he can do right now. Not the fear. If he thinks about what happened too hard, he might just lose it.
Steve knocks again, and when you still don’t answer, he leans back against the side of your house. If you’re inside, you already know he’s the one knocking. And if you need time, he can give you that. He just needs to know you’re safe.
Nerves fried from the incident earlier, Steve gets a cigarette between his lips from the pack he keeps stashed in his vest for the days when he’s really stressed, and he’s just about to fish out the lighter he keeps on hand when he hears the lock on your front door click and unlatch. Straightening, he pushes away from the wall, already angling his body towards you when you finally push open your door. Just enough for him to get a good look at you. The cigarette nearly falls from his mouth.
Your hair is damp. Frizzy from air drying. And your skin is practically glowing, looking painfully soft to the touch. You must have showered when you got home, because you shiver as the chilly November air rushes in through the open door. Not for the first time, his fingers twitch with the urge to run his knuckles along the length of your arm. Find out just how soft you really are. But what really catches him off-guard, makes his mouth go a little dry, is the blue, silky set of pajamas you’re wearing.
It’s not lingerie, but, fuck, it might as well be with how badly he wants to rip it off of you and see what’s underneath. The number revealing just enough skin for his imagination to run wild. Little shorts that show off your legs, cut higher near your hips. The hem just barely covers your ass, and he almost groans at the brief, intrusive thought about how your legs would feel wrapped around his hips. The top looks just as soft as your shorts. Delicate. And he watches as water drips down the side of your neck, droplets sliding right down to the valley between your breasts, leaving a wet line down your chest that he wants to trace with his tongue.
Blue might be his new favorite color.
It’s your voice that snaps him out of it. A hesitant, “Steve?” that forces his eyes away from the slope of your collar bones and the tantalizing dip between your breasts.
Steve clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair, brushing some of the messy strands away from his face, a little ashamed of himself for staring at you so blatantly, even if you didn’t seem to notice. Especially after what happened less than two hours ago. Now isn’t the time.
“Doc said you wouldn’t stay at the lab for testing,” he says as a way of explaining himself, taking the unlit cigarette from his mouth and shoving it back into his pocket. You’ve never liked it when he smoked anyway.
You worry your lower lip between your teeth, gaze skirting away from his and dropping to the ground. “I’m fine,” you tell him, weight shifting from one foot to the other. Lying, maybe. Or just uncomfortable after what happened earlier today. Steve wouldn’t blame you for that. His gaze softens as your arms come to wrap around yourself almost protectively. “They put me through decontamination and I just wanted to go home.”
A grimace crosses his face, and he almost wants to berate himself for being upset that you left without him. He’s been forced through decontamination before. More than you have, actually. It never gets any easier. The sense of violation that always comes with being stripped down and hosed off, scientists staring, analyzing—it never really goes away.
“I get that,” he says, gentle, and reaches out for you instinctively. Your breath hitches as his hand wraps around your upper arm, and Steve frowns a little at how warm you feel standing out here in the cold. “But do you really think being alone right now is a good idea?” You make to pull away from him, but Steve’s grip on you is firm. “Come on, sweetheart, you’re supposed to be the smart one here,” he continues, frustration creeping into his tone without him realizing. Fear. “We don’t know anything about this shit yet. It could kill you.”
And Steve can’t lose you. He wouldn’t survive it. Since the beginning, you’ve been the one thing keeping him together through all the bullshit. The monsters. The heartbreak. The self-doubt and overwhelming fear that he was never enough. You’ve kept him grounded throughout all of it. Hearing you scream like that earlier tonight nearly gutted him. For a second he couldn’t breathe because you were hurt, and he’s supposed to protect you.
Steve would tear the world apart with his bare hands before he ever let anything touch you.
When you stay silent, still pointedly refusing to look at him, Steve sighs. “Come back to the lab with me.” He rubs his thumb against your arm absentmindedly, noticing the way you shiver. “We can go back, see what the doc wants to do. Hang out in his office until he’s finished running tests on those stupid flowers.”
He doesn’t know why he’s trying to convince you. It’s like Owens said, the lab can’t do anything until they finish the tests on those flowers. It doesn’t make a difference if you’re there or not.
A quiet, selfish part of his mind tells him it’s because he needs someone to blame. If anything happens to you tonight, he needs someone to blame. The lab—for letting you leave, for getting you into this mess in the first place, for not being able to save you while you were right there in front of them—because it’s easier to swallow than blaming himself.
You tense under his touch. Then, you take a step back, wrenching your arm out of his grasp. “I’m not going back there,” you tell him, eyes finally snapping up to meet his. He expects anger. Because you’re tired and upset and you’ve never liked being in the lab.
The look of fear in your eyes is like a blow straight to his chest.
He relents quickly. “Okay.” Your eyes won’t meet his again. “Okay, I’m not… I’m not gonna force you to go back. You know I’m not going to make you go back,” he promises. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay.” He wets his lips, gaze sweeping over you. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine,” he counters, still speaking to you softly. And you don’t. Bloodshot eyes. Shaking hands. You won’t stop fiddling with the hem of your sleep shirt, wringing the soft fabric between your fingers. You’re not usually this restless, even after a trip to the Upside Down. There’s something else, too. Something off about you, but he can’t quite figure out what.
This time, you snap at him. “Just drop it, Steve!” The stricken expression that crosses his face makes you wince, and you immediately regret your tone. “I’m sorry,” you say, barely audible, avoiding his gaze.
“Hey.” Steve coos. “Hey, look at me.”
“I’m sorry.”
You flinch when the back of his hand brushes against your cheek, but don’t pull away from him. There’s another apology on the tip of your tongue, but Steve hushes you. “I know. It’s okay. Tell me what’s going on. Let me help.”
“I just… I just wanna sleep,” you tell him, still refusing to look him in the eyes. A shuddering breath spills past your lips as Steve takes a step closer, invading the safe distance you tried so hard to keep between you. Your breath quickens as the scent of his cologne washes over you, as intoxicating as it is familiar. Already, the heat is making you dizzy, made worse by the gentle brush of his fingers against your temple. “I’m fine.”
“You have a fever,” he says, smoothing your hair away from your face. There’s sweat beading along your hairline, and his expression pinches into one of concern. Taking your chin between his fingers, Steve coaxes you to look at him, frowning when he sees how wide your pupils are blown.
His chest brushes against yours as he leans in for a better look, and the rough material of his tactical vest scrapes against the bare skin at the top of your chest. “I’m fine, Steve,” you repeat, eyes fluttering shut as his thumb sweeps across your cheek. “I just feel a little achy. I’ll be okay.”
“Achy?” Steve continues to rub his thumb against your over-heated skin. “Achy how?”
You chew on your lower lip. “Just sore,” you tell him, intentionally vague.
His eyes search yours, dark and warm, and you lean into his hand when he runs his knuckles down the curve of your jaw before dropping his arm back to his side. “Okay,” he relents, realizing you aren’t going to give him anything else. “Okay. Move.”
“Steve,” you start, sighing because you already know what he’s going to say.
He clicks his tongue. “If you think I’m letting you sleep here alone tonight, you’re crazy.”
“I said I’m fine.” You mean it to sound admonishing, but it comes out quiet.
“Yeah, and what if you’re not?” he challenges you. “What if tonight something happens and you’re alone? You think I—”
Steve doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to. Both of you know that he would never forgive himself if something happened to you and he wasn’t there to at least try and protect you, keep you safe.
He takes a slow, stuttering breath. “Let me stay,” he asks, but it doesn’t sound like a question. Tentative fingers curl around your wrist.
Your throat is tight. “Steve.” His name barely a breath.
“Let me stay.” His hand trails up your arm slowly, cradling your elbow before he shifts his grip to your upper arm. “Please, sweetheart. You know I’m just going to go out of my mind if you send me back home.” You’re looking up at him through your eyelashes, gaze still a little wary. “I’ll just keep calling you,” he says. “You know, checking to make sure you’re still alive. Your neighbors will probably complain.” He wets his lips. “I’ll keep you up all night.” The low, husky tone that his voice takes on makes your breath hitch, catches you off guard. Steve rubs his hand up and down your arm when you shiver, and then his palm slides around to the bare skin of your back, warm and solid. “You’ll be sick of me,” he finishes, teasing you, grinning when a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but he’ll take it.
You’re quiet as you stare at him, lips pressed into a thin, pensive line as you consider your options. When you sigh, Steve knows he’s won. “You’re sleeping on the couch,” you tell him, seeing the way his smile widens.