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Steve jolts awake with a gasp, lungs heaving in a desperate attempt to breathe. Almost immediately, panic wells up within him. His chest is burning from a lack of air and his whole body feels heavy and sluggish, like he’s made of molasses. His head is throbbing, a sharp pain emanating from behind his eyes. The world seems to tilt underneath him.
Frantically, he tries to blink away the darkness at the edges of his vision. If he could just figure out where he was...
“Holy shit!” someone shrieks, almost directly in his ear. “Holy shit holy shit holy shit!” He winces at the volume, and the movement causes the arms around his shoulders to retract – he hadn’t even noticed someone had been hugging him. He barely manages to catch himself before he can fall back against the ground.
“Wha-?” Steve croaks. He blinks again, trying to dispel the fog that muddles his brain and makes it hard to think. He looks toward the person who’d just been holding him. It’s hard to see in the dark, but he thinks he recognizes their silhouette. “Dustin?”
“Steve, oh my god!” Yeah, that’s definitely Dustin; he’d know those curls anywhere. He’s still wearing his goggles, but they’re pushed up and away from his face, holding his hair back like a headband. The bandanna, too, is out of the way around his neck, which means Steve has a perfect view of his tear-streaked face. The sight is like a bucket of cold water being poured over him.
Steve glances around, finally remembering the other kids. Max, Lucas, and Mike are crowded around him and Dustin. They’re all wearing similar expressions of horror or panic or confusion, and they all look like they’ve been crying. Actually, Steve realizes, Max and Lucas still haven’t stopped. A terrible feeling takes root in his stomach.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asks. He tries to look past them for any sign of danger, but they’re gathered so close in front of him that it’s nearly impossible.
He can tell they’re in a field, at least, which means that it probably hasn’t been long since they left the tunnels. Steve tries to recall what had happened up to this point; he remembers Billy, and Max driving through a fence, and pushing Dustin out of the way of that weird upside-down plant and getting a face full of spores for his troubles. He remembers nearly not making it back out, thinking he and Dustin were going to get eaten or trampled or worse, and then desperately hauling ass up the rope into the real world. He’s pretty sure Max had started an argument over who would be driving back, but around there is when things start to get hazy.
When nobody answers his question, he tries again. “What happened?”
Max lets out a sob and turns away, covering her mouth with a fist. Steve frowns and tries to sit up, but a chorus of “No’s!” has him hesitating.
“Dude, you were just-!” Mike cuts himself off with a shudder. “Hold on!”
“Yeah, take it easy man,” Lucas agrees, voice wobbly.
“What the hell,” Dustin is muttering to himself. His hands are tangled in his hair and he seems stressed in a way that should be impossible for anyone under the age of thirty-five. “What the actual hell.”
And see, now Steve is starting to panic, because the kids are acting like they've just witnessed something monumentally traumatic. Shouting to be heard above the overlapping voices, he demands, “Can someone please tell me why you’re all freaking out!”
Dustin pauses, eyeing Steve warily as the others fall into reluctant silence. “You- you seriously don’t remember?”
Maybe it’s the headache making things worse, but Steve is feeling rather impatient, which means that he’s a bit snappier than he means to be when he says, “Would I be asking if I did?”
Dustin just stares back at him with wide, teary eyes, and Steve’s stomach churns with guilt. He opens his mouth to apologize, but before he can, Max blurts out, “You died.”
The quiet that follows her words is like a vacuum. All the noise falls away and leaves Steve feeling disoriented as he flicks his gaze over each worried face, trying to make sense of what he’d just heard. Surely Max had misspoken. Surely he's dreaming, or this is the world’s worst-timed joke. Surely that isn’t the truth. “I what?”
Max’s lower lip wobbles, but she manages not to cry this time. “You fell over,” she tells him. “Right in the middle of talking. And you- you started like, shaking, and you stopped breathing, and we couldn’t wake you up.”
Brow furrowing, Steve points out the obvious. “But you did wake me up.”
“No we didn’t,” Max chokes out. She presses her palms against her face and continues, voice muffled. “We didn’t.”
Steve doesn’t understand what she means, but he lets her catch her breath instead of pressing this time. However, after a prolonged silence in which it becomes clear Max is done speaking, Mike clears his throat and continues for her. “You weren't alive, dude. For longer than should be normal. I mean, you weren’t breathing, and there was this fluid coming out of your ears which I know isn’t supposed to happen, and- and we tried to do CPR even though none of us know CPR because we’re fucking middle-schoolers, but we couldn’t- I mean, you didn’t-” he stops to suck in a lungful of air. “For so long,” he concludes, a haunted expression on his face. “You were dead for so long, Steve.”
In a weak attempt to grasp at his remaining sanity, Steve asks, “I mean, are you sure? Maybe-”
“We’re sure, Steve,” Max snaps at him. He tries not to hold it against her because she’s definitely going through a lot right now. They all are.
“You just woke up on your own,” Lucas says. “Nothing happened that could explain it. We weren’t-” he stops, wincing and looking away in what seemed to be guilt. “We weren’t doing anything.”
It’s that comment that makes Steve really stop and think; apparently, he had been dead long enough to be given up on. He suddenly recalls the way Dustin had been wrapped around his upper torso when he’d awoken, the tears running down everyone’s faces. The immediate panic and confusion instead of what should have been joy and relief. Steve feels his fingers go numb. How long had they been huddled together in this field, staring down at what they thought was his dead body?
All at once Steve is fighting back the urge to vomit. He inhales sharply, trying to catch his breath as his thoughts begin to spiral. He can’t quite wrap his head around what this might mean for him. Is this some sort of crazy, one-in-a-billion medical miracle? Is this upside-down related? Is this just something he’s always been able to do, but since he’s never died before, he simply didn’t know about it? There are so many possibilities that Steve begins to feel suffocated by them.
“-eve? Steve!” Steve jerks when he registers his name being called, then freezes when he feels the hands on his shoulders. He lifts his head and makes eye contact with Dustin, who is currently kneeling in front of him and looking slightly panicked. “Hey, come on, man, just breathe, okay?”
Steve swallows hard and nods, trying to stop himself from tipping over the edge into full blown hyperventilation. He reaches out toward Dustin and grasps his forearm, using him like an anchor.
Just breathe, Steve thinks. He pointedly does not look away from Dustin, not even wanting to imagine what awful expressions are on the others’ faces right now. He knows he can’t exactly help it, but he’s sort of the reason they’re all upset right now, and if he lets himself spiral into a babbling mess he’s only going to make the situation worse for them. He can’t afford to panic when he’s supposed to be looking after them, not the other way around.
So for the kids, he forces air into his lungs. He doesn’t really calm down so much as he puts his breakdown on hold; the fact that he’s got four people in agreement over the fact that he shouldn’t be alive right now is terrifying and world-shattering, yes, but getting everyone to safety is going to have to take precedence. He swears he can feel the ominous energy that radiates from the tunnel entrance just meters away, and it’s making his skin crawl. He wants – no, needs – to get away.
“We should go,” he says once his breathing is mostly back to normal.
Everyone nods in agreement. “You are so not driving,” Max tells him, and it’s a testament to how exhausted Steve is that he doesn’t even argue. He just lets Mike and Dustin help him up and stumbles on shaky legs over to the car.
“We better get back before the others,” he grumbles, opening the back door. He doesn’t actually mean it. Even though he’s not dead, he definitely still has a concussion, which means Max is right: he probably shouldn’t be driving right now. He’s dizzy and unbalanced and about seventy percent of his body is in pain. Right now he just wants to lean back, close his eyes, and focus on trying not to puke.
Also, he’d much rather explain to Hopper why he’d let a twelve-year-old drive a car rather than get everyone killed in something as mundane as a car crash after all the crazy shit they’ve survived.
He both hears and feels the car start, but they stay idle for a moment instead of speeding off like he’d expected. Hesitantly, Max asks, “Are you… okay?”
“Not really, no,” he admits, surprising himself with his own honesty. “But I can worry about that later.”
Max huffs, sounding unsatisfied with his answer, but she lets it go for a moment. “Don’t fall asleep, asshole,” she warns him.
“Right,” Steve sighs. He forces his eyes open and turns just enough to look through the window. Max puts the car in drive and steps on the gas a bit too aggressively, making the car jerk forward. Steve braces himself against the backrest and fights back a wave of nausea.
The feeling settles once they’re back on the actual road, and Steve takes the opportunity to make a suggestion. “Hey, can we… can we maybe keep this whole dying thing between us?”
From the passenger seat, Lucas asks, “What, why?”
“Because I don’t know what it means,” he says. He hopes it isn’t obvious, how much effort it’s taking for him to stay calm. There’s too much happening too quickly and he’s struggling to keep up with it all. He still hasn’t really grasped the gravity of the situation (the fact that he’s supposedly died and come back to life) and he isn’t ready for the conversation he’ll have to have if the others find out. They’ll have questions that he won’t be able to answer. He doesn’t know what they’ll think, if they’ll react positively or negatively.
Either way, once they know, he won’t be able to ignore it. And right now that’s all he wants to do.
Unable to find the proper words, Steve swallows nervously. “It’s just… I can’t,” he tries. “Not right now.”
Thankfully, the others seem to understand. “Can we at least tell El and Will?” Mike wheedles, and Steve sighs. The boy rushes to continue. “Only we have this thing where we aren’t supposed to lie to the other members of our party, and a secret this big kind of feels like lying. Since it might be related to, you know, everything.” He gestures at the group of them, drawing attention to their battered, dirt-stained clothes.
He hates how hard it is to say no to these kids. “Ugh, I guess so,” he grumbles. Steve supposes that if any of the kids were to expose his secret, accident or otherwise, it was least likely to be Will or Eleven. From what he’s seen they’re both fairly quiet. “But that’s it, okay? Seriously. No one else.”
“Yeah, okay,” Mike promises, and Dustin sits up straight, putting his right hand over his heart.
“I swear, Steve, your secret is safe with us,” he says. The others nod in agreement.
Steve manages a weak smile. “Thanks.” The car goes over a bump and he can’t hold back the groan when his stomach lurches at the sudden movement. He closes his eyes and leans back against the headrest, swallowing hard. “Can you be a bit more careful up there?” He motions toward himself. “Precious cargo.”
“Fragile, more like,” Max huffs, but he doesn’t miss how she starts driving slower after that.
A few minutes later, they’re making their way down they Byers’ excessively long driveway. When they emerge from the narrow road into the clearing, there are no other cars in front of the house. Steve doesn’t even have time to be relieved, though, because he hears Lucas say “Oh, shit,” and a second later Max slams on the brakes.
Steve’s stomach drops and he leans to the side to look around the passenger seat through the windshield. Sitting on the porch steps, illuminated by the headlights, is Billy Hargrove. His elbows are resting on his knees, hands clasped together like he’s praying. It’s too far a distance to see his expression clearly, but from his rigid posture it’s obvious he’s fuming.
“Oh man, is he looking at us?” Dustin worries. “He’s definitely looking at us.”
“I can turn around,” Max spits out the offer like she can’t wait for someone to take it.
For the second time since dying, Steve takes a deep breath and focuses on trying not to panic. Over Max’s shoulder, he can see Billy is standing now. He’s no longer hanging back by the porch, either. “No, wait. Is- do any of you have my bat?”
Next to him, Mike leans forward and picks it off the floor. “Here,” he says, handing it to Steve. The hilt is pressed into his hand and he takes comfort in the familiar weight of it.
“What are you gonna do?” Dustin asks.
“Just get out when I do, okay? Max, leave the keys.” he says. “And stay behind me.”
Max turns around to look at him, eyes wide. “What-”
Steve doesn’t let her finish. Briefly, he regrets letting Max drive, if only to save her from her step-brother’s ire. “Just trust me.”
Steeling himself, Steve opens the door and gets out. He tightens his grip on the bat, only distantly registering the dull ache spreading across his knuckles. Behind him he hears the other doors opening and closing, the rustling of the grass as the kids gather behind him. He doesn’t take his eyes off Billy.
“You’re dead, Harrington,” Billy growls. He’s closer now, eyes blazing fury as he shifts his gaze between Steve and his car and Max. “How. Fucking. Dare you.”
Before he can even respond, Max speaks up. “Billy, remember what you promised.”
Billy head whips to the side as he fixes her with a glare. “You shut up,” he snaps. “You’re lucky we’re related, asshole.”
Steve steps in front of Max and brandishes his weapon, hoping the other man can’t see how badly his hands are shaking. “I don’t want to fight, man,” he warns, apprehensive. He jerks his chin toward the still running car. “Just take it and go.”
Billy’s shoulders are nearly to his ears, fists and jaw both clenched in anger. He stares Steve down for a long moment, almost like he’s contemplating it. Trying to calculate his chances. If Steve is being honest, Billy could take him easily right now - he hopes he doesn’t look as bad as he feels.
Adjusting his grip on the bat, Steve lifts it up for Billy to see. “I’m not afraid to use this,” he threatens. While technically true (as he’d used it to fight the demodogs earlier) Steve does not want to use his nail bat on another human, even if the human in question happens to be Billy Hargrove. Sure, if he has to defend himself, he might not have a choice, but he’s seen what this thing does to flesh. No one, not even Billy, could ever deserve something so brutal.
By some miracle, Billy doesn’t call his bluff. After a few more seconds of glaring, he just narrows his eyes and stomps over to his car. He slams the door and the tires squeal as he puts on the gas. Someone tugs on the back of Steve’s shirt, pulling him out of the way as Billy speeds past, nearly clipping him with with the side-mirror.
“Fucking freaks!” he shouts as he speeds off.
The taillights disappear quickly down the driveway, leaving the group with nothing but the dim glow of the singular street light to help them see. Steve still has the bat held out in front of him like a shield, his knuckles white from the strength of his grip.
“That was awesome, dude!” Dustin exclaims loudly, startling him. “Why couldn’t you do that the first time around?”
Steve stares at him in disbelief. Slowly, he loosens his grip on the bat, glancing back down the driveway a few times before shaking his head. “Is everyone okay?”
Max scuffs the toe of her sneaker against the ground, arms crossed. “For now.”
Steve is not a fan of that answer or what it implies. He frowns, but doesn’t call attention to it. “I guess that’s all we can ask for at this point,” he sighs. “Now come on, let’s get inside.”
The front door is unlocked. Stepping into the Byers’ living room, Steve notices how messy it is. Furniture is out of place, several things having been knocked off the tables. There’s a dent in the wall and blood on the carpet. Some of Will’s frantic tunnel drawings are still strewn about.
Bits of broken glass crunch under his feet, left there from when El sent a demodog through the window. The jagged edges remind him of the plate broken over his head just hours earlier, and uneasily he looks away, choosing instead to collapse into a nearby armchair.
“No falling asleep,” Max reminds him, but soon she follows his lead, brushing a few stray papers off the couch and curling up against one of the armrests. Lucas joins her, then Dustin, and Mike squeezes in between those two, the four of them pressed up against one another like sardines in a can. Very tired, very traumatized sardines. They sit in silence like that, just soaking in one anothers presence, catching their breath as they process what they’ve just been through.
It’s only a few minutes later that a pair of headlights are illuminating the living room. Mike shoots up immediately, squinting to try and see past the brightness. “It’s Will!” he gasps, and everyone else but Steve jumps to their feet, rushing to meet their friend at the door.
Ms. Byers’ voice drifts in through the open window. “Oh thank god,” she says, volume increasing as she approaches. “You’re still here.”
Dustin laughs nervously. “Of course we’re still here! It’s not like we went anywhere.”
Elbowing him, Lucas hisses, “She means here as in alive, idiot.”
“What! I knew that.”
“How’s Will?” Mike asks loudly, interrupting their bickering.
Steve opens his eyes once he hears more people coming up the porch steps, forcing himself to sit up even though it makes his ribs hurt and his head throb. “We won’t know for sure until he wakes up, but… he’s alive.” That’s Nancy’s voice. “We got that thing out of him, at least.”
The kids move away from the door so that the others can come in. Jonathan enters first, and in his arms is Will. The kid is still in his hospital gown, the cloth stained with sweat and dirt. He looks so small in his brothers arms – not an easy task, as Jonathan Byers isn’t exactly a huge guy or anything. He steps further into the room, clearly headed for the couch, when his eyes catch on Steve. He does a double take. “Holy shit, what happened?”
“What? What is it?” Nancy pushes her way past him, jaw set, and freezes when her eyes land on him. Her hand goes up to cover her mouth. “Oh my god, Steve…”
He finds it hard to look at her. The humiliation of realizing she’d never loved him is still fresh in his mind, so her open concern throws him off balance. Usually people stop caring about him after they’ve broken up. Actually, he almost wishes Nancy had stopped caring too, because that would probably hurt less than knowing he isn’t allowed to ask for her comfort anymore. Grimacing, he turns his face away to hide the worst of the bruising.
Jonathan snaps out of his temporary stupor and stumbles over to the couch, carefully depositing Will’s unconscious form onto the cushions. He handles his sibling like he’s something precious, cradling his head and pulling a throw blanket over his small body. For a moment Steve just stares, watching as Jonathan puts a hand on his brother’s forehead, brushing the hair away from his eyes. His heart aches at the tender display of affection.
“-protected us.” Steve’s head jerks as his ears pick back up on the conversation around him. Ms. Byers is kneeling a few feet in front of him, frowning softly. She looks exhausted. Mike continues, “Max thinks he has a concussion.”
Steve averts his eyes. The only thing he can think of to say is, “One of your plates broke.”
Ms. Byers shuffles a little closer. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault, sweetheart.” A gentle hand lands on his knee and squeezes encouragingly, which for some reason brings tears to his eyes. Steve swallows the sudden lump in his throat and ducks his head. “You did a brave thing.”
Steve shrugs, closing his eyes again as another wave of nausea rolls through him. “Okay,” he chokes out. He quickly presses a fist over his mouth.
Ms. Byers catches on immediately. “Are you feeling nauseous?”
“Mhm.”
“Alright,” she says. “Jonathan, can you get a big bowl? And how about a glass of water, too.” There’s a pause as Jonathan presumably does as requested of him. “Have you thrown up already? Or do you just feel nauseous?”
“Why is all the frozen food on the floor?” Jonathan calls from the kitchen.
“No reason!” Dustin shouts back. “And he hasn’t puked yet.”
“That’s good,” says Ms. Byers. “That means brain damage is less likely, I think.”
Steve chews on the inside of his swollen cheek. He thinks dying might be a better indicator of brain damage than vomiting, but what does he know? He’s only done it once – not that he’s about to say that out loud.
Jonathan returns with the bowl and the water and Steve gratefully takes the cup from him, sipping at it gingerly. The cool liquid is heaven on his sore throat, dry and raw from having run himself ragged the past several hours. He sighs, relieved, as the bowl is placed on his lap.
“He’ll be okay though, right?” Max asks.
“Oh, I think he’ll be alright,” Ms. Byers tells her, trying for a reassuring smile. “He seems pretty tough to me.” Even though Ms. Byers doesn’t know the weight behind the question, her answer seems to ease some of the tension in the room, at least among the kids. Nancy is still staring at him like he’s a kicked puppy, and Jonathan, having returned to his brother’s side, is staunchly avoiding looking at him. He isn’t sure which of their reactions is making him more uncomfortable.
The bout of nausea passes almost as quick as it came, but he’s still in quite a bit of pain. Settling into the comfort of the cushioned chair once again, he grips the bowl with both hands. “You got any ibuprofen?”
“Of course,” says Ms. Byers. “Mike, would you be a dear? It’s in the bathroom cupboard. I’ll go get some ice for those bruises.”
Before she can leave to get any, however, she is stopped by a sheepish Dustin. “Uh, actually, Ms. Byers, you’re kind of out of ice right now?”
There is a very pregnant pause during which Steve remembers with horror the literal corpse he had helped the kid stuff into her freezer. “Dustin,” Ms. Byers asks cautiously, “what did you do to my freezer?”
“I think the real question is: what did I put in there?” Dustin says. “And before you ask, can I just say that we have a responsibility as humans to invest in the future of science? And that supporting a young mind like mine on my voyage of curiosity is a noble and-”
“Dustin,” Ms. Byers deadpans. “What is in my freezer.”
“...How mad would you be if I said 'a dead demodog'?”
Steve tries to tune out the ensuing chaos. Thankfully, Ms. Byers can’t stay mad at him while he looks so pitiful, so he takes the painkillers Mike brings him and curls up in the chair while the others argue in the kitchen without him.
Hopper and El arrive a couple minutes later while Dustin is depositing the demodog in the yard (under careful supervision), and any sour feelings are immediately forgotten as another round of reunions takes place. Voices overlap and blend together as everyone catches up and checks in on one another, and Steve finally feels like he can relax. He doesn’t need to be the babysitter anymore. He doesn’t have to worry about protecting the kids before himself. He can just sit here and not worry about how heavy the weight of the world is, because right now he doesn’t have to bear it. Everyone is safe and back in one place, and they’re all looking out for each other.
He’s not sure how long he sits there, just listening to the hum of distant voices, but after a while a low whistle from the doorway makes him look up. Hopper is standing there, taking up most of the empty space in the frame, examining Steve from behind the wide rim of his hat. “Hargrove got you pretty bad, huh kid?”
Steve spares a glance toward Jonathan, the only other person in the room left conscious. He seems to be trying very hard not to pay attention to either of them, dabbing a wet cloth across Will’s forehead while wearing an expression of intense concentration. “Yeah, I guess,” Steve admits glumly. “He cheated, though.”
Hopper grimaces, reaching up to remove his hat and rub a hand over his balding crown. “That’s one word for it.” He steps further into the room, sparing a glance at Will. “We’d really like to keep as much of this under wraps as possible, but if you want to press charges…” he trails off, raising his hands. “I won’t stop you.”
For a moment, Steve really thinks about it. He wishes it were that simple, that he could just snap his fingers and make Billy go away, but he knows already that he can’t. It would bring up too many questions, like setting out a half-finished puzzle and daring the rest of the town to finish it. There’s too many variables out of his control. “I just don't want this to happen again.” He points at his face.
Hopper nods. “That we can do,” he says. He gives Steve a once over, brow furrowing. “You mind if I check you out? I’ve got a bit of medical training.”
Steve hesitates for a moment. What if Hopper is somehow able to tell that he’d maybe-died? What if he says something about it? Even if he doesn’t notice that, he might decide Steve’s injuries are beyond his pay grade and want to take him to the hospital. Surely the doctors would be see right through him, and who knows what would happen then?
It would probably raise suspicion if he declined, though, so he just nods and lets Hopper tilt his head this way and that, tries to answer his questions as he shines a light in his eyes. He winces at the brightness of it, which the Chief tells him is a good sign.
“I’d say you’ve got a pretty nasty concussion, though,” he concludes, expression grim. “From what the kids told me about your fight, it could’ve been a lot worse. You’re a lucky son of a bitch, Steve Harrington.”
Steve can’t help it: he laughs. Almost immediately he groans, hugging himself as sharp pain sets his ribs aflame, but even so a few more hysterical giggles manage to escape. Hopper stares at him like he’s grown a second head, and even Jonathan is looking at him now, concerned enough to stop pretending he can’t hear them. “Man, you have no idea,” he snorts.
They must assume his strange behavior has to do with his concussion, because neither of them comment on it. Hopper just finishes checking him over: thankfully, his ribs aren’t broken, but there’s some pretty nasty bruising on his side. Hopper says they might be fractured, but as long as there's not danger of his lungs getting punctured, it should be fine. Once he’s done, he asks, “Your folks in town?”
It takes a moment for Steve to realize the question is meant for him. “No.” They’re not even in the country.
Hopper sighs, running a hand down his face. “Okay,” he says. He doesn’t seem surprised – just disappointed. “Okay.”
The sound of footsteps on the wooden porch outside draws Steve’s attention. Dustin comes in first, drifting over to Steve’s side. Mike and El are next, holding hands and practically tripping over each other. It’s sickeningly adorable. The others are close behind, and soon the living room is crowded with people. Jonathan removes himself from his brother’s side and joins Nancy near the door. Lucas and Max hover near Ms. Byers, who takes her other son’s place at Will’s side. El drags Mike toward Hopper, planting herself between Steve’s armchair and the couch. Mike, clearly still angry with Hopper, fidgets with the hem of his shirt and glares at the wall.
There isn’t really a plan for what comes next.
“Is anyone hungry?” Jonathan asks. “The frozen pizza might not have gone bad yet.” The response he gets is mostly a lot of unintelligible grumbling, but he seems to think that’s enough as he withdraws from Nancy and disappears into the kitchen.
El clears her throat, looking to her guardian. “We are staying here?”
Hopper’s expression is unreadable. He glances at Ms. Byers, who gives a wobbly smile. “Is that what you want?” El nods decisively.
“If she’s staying, then so am I,” Dustin declares. The other kids are quick to agree, and Steve finds himself sharing that eagerness. He doesn’t want to go back to an empty house; it had taken him months to stop having nightmares after what happened last year, and he hadn’t been nearly as involved as he’d been this time.
Ms. Byers lays her hand over Will’s and nods. “I think it would be good for Will, for his friends to be here when he wakes up.”
Disappointed, Steve bites the inside of his cheek. He’s not really a friend of Will, so he assumes he’s not among those invited to stay, but just then Hopper speaks up. “Harrington, you’re staying too. I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”
He blinks up at the man, taken aback. “What? Why?” He shoots a look at Ms. Byers. “Uh, not that I don’t appreciate it.”
The Chief raises an eyebrow. “Like I said, you’ve got a nasty concussion. We can’t take you to a hospital, but I’ll be damned if something happens in your sleep and there’s no one to notice.”
Steve opens his mouth and then closes it again. “Oh,” he says softly, unable to think of another response.
“You can have the couch,” Ms. Byers tells him. “Hop, you’ll help move Will to his bed?”
They task the kids with gathering all the pillows and blankets in the house. Parents are called and spots on the floor of Will’s bedroom are claimed. Steve migrates to the couch as Nancy attempts to clean up the worst of the mess in the living room, and Ms. Byers brings him a wet cloth so he can finally get rid of the dried blood crusted to his face. At some point Jonathan hands out plates of pizza.
Hopper decides to crash on the armchair Steve had claimed earlier, clearly intent on keeping his word and looking after him. Steve knows that Hopper would likely have done it for anyone, given that he’s the Chief of Police and everything, but he still finds himself grateful for the man. His presence provides a sort of comfort he hasn’t experienced since he was a kid; it makes it easier to relax when exhaustion begins to take over.
“If something happens, I’ll wake you up,” Hopper assures him, and Steve knows he’s not just talking about the possible side effects of his concussion.
“Thank you,” he says, voice muffled because he’s speaking into his pillow. He’s already half asleep, limbs heavy with fatigue.
He thinks he hears the man let out a quiet chuckle. “Get some rest, kid,” he mutters.
Even with the lights on and a cool breeze coming in through the broken window, Steve plunges into sleep as quick as an anchor drops into the sea.