#Blood Relation dnd | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

kurokoros · 1 year

Text

into open flames | (s.h.)

Rated: M (future smut)

Words: 16K

Pairing: steve harrington x fem!reader

Summary: There’s a storm raging, winds howling and snow beating against the cabin walls. Outside a monster shrieks his name in an awful and warbled voice that sounds like you. And it shouldn’t be awkward, Steve thinks. It’s not the first time he’s seen you naked.

You and Steve are almost something. Almost lovers. And it feels almost like hell; almost romantic.

OR: A blackout snowstorm and a monster force you and Steve to take shelter in Hopper’s old cabin. From there, everything starts slotting into place.

AN: Yes, there will be a part two. Yes, it will be smut. It’s in progress and should be ready to post within a week. Reblogs are appreciated--nay, strongly encouraged.

Warnings: horror elements (the monster is modeled after the official illustration of the “bagman” from dnd). minor violence. reader implied to be shorter than steve. reader is a hopper but there’s no mention of blood relation. cop!steve but it’s for monster hunting reasons. S3 and S4 never happened in this universe alteration, but upside down shenanigans have still been happening post-S2

Chapters: Part One | Part Two | Part Three

The rhythm you’ve set stutters suddenly. A low, breathy version of his name rolls off your tongue, sticky and sweet like honey. Your hands are soft as they roam down his chest, feather-light touches that have his hips lurching off the mattress. It’s all hot and wet. His teeth scrape the side of your throat, a litany of sweet nothings mumbled into your sweat-slicked skin.

“Steve.” Your breath is hot against his ear, his name a sigh that has his fingers squeezing your hips a little too hard.

The stutter becomes a full stop.

“Steve,” you say again. No longer saccharine. There’s a wobble to the way you say his name this time, higher-pitched and sharp with what he immediately recognizes as panic. You’ve said his name like that before. On a rundown bus in the middle of a junkyard, with hellish monsters circling beneath the low-hanging fog, ready to rip you both apart.

You’re sitting up, then. Pulled away from his incessant mouth. And when Steve’s eyes snap open, you’re already staring down at him. Petrified. Your eyes are wider than he’s ever seen them, your pupils constricted into pinpricks.

“Steve,” you repeat, louder as a thick, squirming vine slinks further around your neck.

Neither you nor Steve move. In his chest, his heart ceases to beat as the fleshy tendril winds completely around your throat, wrapping tighter and tighter without constricting. Slime spirts between the coils. Gray-tinged sludge drips down your collarbone and chest. A sticky, wet sound breaks through the stillness. Your hands shake where they’re pressed against his chest, and in the back of his mind he registers the bite of your fingernails digging into his skin.

Like it’s the only thing you know how to say, his name is whispered into the space between you and him, so quiet that he doesn’t hear it so much as recognize the shape of it on your lips. It’s a plea. You’re begging for him to do something. Begging for him to protect you. But the horrified glint in your eyes keeps him pinned and unable to breathe as a gnarled hand reaches out of the black emptiness behind you. Long, boney fingers cover the upper half of your face. Claws scrape against the side of your head. A sick caress. All Steve can see is the tremble of your lips, still mouthing his name. And he can’t move. Can’t do anything at all.

The vine constricts, and you’re ripped away from him. The weight of you leaves his hips as you’re dragged backwards off the bed. Plunged into the darkness. And then you scream. One loud, petrified wail of his name that curdles his blood.

His eyes snap open.

A sharp, gasping breath tears from his throat, like he’s come up for air after being held under water. His ears ring with the shrillness of your screams. Steve lurches halfway off the bed, already kicking off the covers before he sees the moonlight filtering in through the window and reality slams into him.

A nightmare. It was a nightmare.

It doesn’t calm the frantic beating of his heart. Doesn’t stop him from twisting towards your side of the bed. Doesn’t stop the breath from being slammed out of his lungs when he sees you aren’t there. The spot where you slept beside him is bare. Empty. Still warm with the remnants of body heat. But the sheets are rumpled. The thick, lilac comforter is bunched lower on the bed, kicked off in a hurry.

The nightmare doesn’t stop.

Another terrified cry of his name splits through the silence.

He lunges for the bedroom door, stumbling as he bashes his knee against the corner of your old dresser. The door is already cracked open part way. It bangs against the wall as Steve shoves through. The screaming doesn’t stop, muffled from outside. There’s a body on the floor. Mike Wheeler. Sprawled out and snoring. And Steve nearly trips over the lanky teen as he races for the backdoor and rips it open.

There’s no one outside. Wildly, his eyes dart around the open space beyond the porch. Twenty odd feet separating the trailer from the bank of Lake Tippecanoe. The cold slams into his lungs. It’s quiet. Unnaturally still. The silence makes his ears ring louder.

“Steve!”

It punches through his chest. Far off across the lake.

His hand clenches around the aging railing in front of him with every intention of throwing himself into the thick layer of snow below.

“Steve?”

The sound of his name, closer this time, makes him flinch. It’s not from the woods though. It’s not a shrill scream that sends his heart lurching into his throat.

His head snaps around, eyes wild.

And there you are, tucked into the open space of the doorway, your arms wrapped around yourself and your lips downturned in a confused little frown. Sock-clad feet shuffle against the porch as you take a step towards him, careful to avoid any remnants of snow still sticking to the floorboards in patchy clumps.

“What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.” You smother a yawn with one hand, squinting at him. You shiver in response to your own words, your bare legs rubbing together in a weak attempt to chase away the chilly air.

The porch creaks under your weight, sharp and real compared to the agonized screams further off in the distance. Silence is all that rings from the trees now. The screams silenced. And Steve wonders if there were any screams at all. Wonders if it was another nightmare bleeding through into waking hours. Those have happened before. On bad nights.

They usually involve you.

It takes a long moment for your words to reach through his scrambled thoughts and pull him back out. “You weren’t in bed,” is what he manages to choke out, throat tight. Like that’s explanation enough for why he’s standing on the back porch of your dad’s old trailer in the middle of the night, chasing echoes and ghosts.

But you don’t question it. Instead, you send him a sad, understanding look that makes his chest ache. “Bathroom,” you tell him.

There’s an apologetic note in the gentle murmur of your voice, and he hates it. Hates that you can’t get up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night just because he might panic when he realizes you aren’t there. It’s not fair to you, but you’ve never once complained about how clingy he can be, how sometimes he hovers too closely.

Truthfully, you need that closeness, too. Something to stave off the rampant paranoia threatening to eat you alive. Keeping Steve close helps, makes you feel safe in a way no one else can. And Steve? Steve can’t sleep at night if you’re not there next to him. After the second time Hawkins went to shit, he couldn’t sleep in that big house anymore, not by himself. There were too many dark hallways, too many places for monsters to hide around corners. The silence was the worst. Every bump and creak kept him awake until exhaustion pulled him under. And when he did sleep it was never comfortably.

It wasn’t until after you both graduated that you and Steve started sharing a bed more often than not. Naturally, Hopper wasn’t happy about it, but after seeing the two of you rested for the first time in months, he kept his overprotective father speech to himself.

The far away, panicky look in Steve’s eyes makes your frown deepen. You know him too well not to recognize the jittery way he keeps glancing across the lake. More than just momentary fear at waking up without you curled up beside him. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Steve says. “Nothing—I just… I just needed some fresh air. That’s all.”

It’s a lie and you both know it. He waits for you to call him out on it, but you don’t, and he wonders if there’s something in his expression that’s telling you not to press. Either way, you don’t ask. Steve doesn’t tell. And you cross the short amount of space between the two of you with near silent steps.

Only half-awake and still soft with sleep, you cuddle up against his side when he lifts an arm in offering. Both of your arms wind around him, your head tucked into the crook of his shoulder, and you let him pull you flush against his chest. Steve’s arm slides around your shoulders. A large palm smooths down your back all the way to your hip before coming back up. His lips burn where they press to your temple. You sigh, breaths coming out in warm puffs against his collarbone.

The tips of your fingers peek out from the sleeve of the too big sweatshirt you’re wearing, emerald green with Hawkins Basketball printed across the front, and your skin is cold where your fingers brush against his side above the waist of his sleep pants. A content sigh has your hand sneaking out further, thumb absentmindedly stroking a puckered scar. The first faint brush of your skin against the mark makes him flinch, but your touch is gentle, soothing in a way that makes him relax.

Under the guise of keeping you warm, Steve pulls you closer to his chest. If you could crawl between his ribs and lie there, he’d let you. Selfishly, he just wants you pressed against him. Needs to know that you’re okay. That you’re real. And he likes the way you fit against him, he decides, as your fingers curl around his hip with familiar ease, slotting into place where you belong.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Steve is still far away, gazing out over the water like he’s looking for something that simply isn’t there. The gates are still open. Contained, but open. The monsters that do slip through occasionally aren’t the same threats as when he was seventeen. Knowing that doesn’t stop him from being terrified that something could still happen to you, or the kids.

As you let him stew in peace, your bleary gaze follows his to where Lake Tippecanoe is frozen over and dusted with a thick layer of snow. Once the silence has dragged on too long, you shift your head on his chest, eyes on the side of his face.

“Bad dream?”

Idly, you rub your chilly fingers against his side. One of your hands slides around to rest on his stomach. Your pinky ghosts against the hem of his sleep pants, teasing the trail of hairs that disappear there, and his stomach tightens with the memory of what he was dreaming about earlier, before it all bled into something horrific. If he thinks about it long enough, he can still imagine the weight of you on his hips, taste the sweetness of you on his tongue, see the terror in your eyes before clawed fingers wrapped around your head.

Steve clears his throat when your nose bumps against the curve of his jaw. “No.”

“Liar,” you call him this time, but you don’t ask if he wants to talk about it. He never does. Not when they’re about you.

His breath comes out in a puff of fog as he huffs. There’s no point in arguing with you. Not when you’re right. Instead, he squeezes your bicep. It’s not quite a reassurance, but it’s close enough.

In lieu of thinking any harder about the nightmare that dragged him outside into the freezing night, he asks, “Did I wake up the kids?”

He hopes not. They all have nightmares of their own to deal with, they don’t need his keeping them awake as well. At the very least, he’s glad that he didn’t wake up screaming tonight. That’s happened before more times than he’s proud to admit. The worst one was right after graduation. The screaming woke Hopper, who burst into your bedroom with a loaded shotgun. Steve hadn’t stopped thrashing until his voice became hoarse and he dissolved into sobs. It was your fingers running through his hair that calmed him down, his head cradled to your chest as you whispered to him, nonsensical reassurances that might as well have been a lullaby. Selfishly, he doesn’t want any of those kids to see him like that. Like this. Pale and washed-out. Dark circles underneath his eyes. Hair disheveled. A wild and panicked look in his eyes.

It might scare them. Or worse, make them pity him—empathize, you’d always correct him. They’d empathize, because they care. But even five years gone, Steve’s still not used to being cared for—being taken care of.

Like you can hear his thoughts, you squeeze him a little tighter around his middle. “Just Will,” you tell him. And then, because you can picture the guilt in his eyes without needing to look, you add, “But I think he was already awake. I mean, it can’t be easy to fall asleep when Dustin snores like a bear.”

The casual jab startles him into a laugh. “Jesus, I know. You remember that one night at the cabin? The kids wanted that sleepover, and your dad and Joyce were on that date, and you let the kids pick the movies—”

“Me? That was not—”

“—and,” Steve continues loudly, hand dropping to poke your side for cutting him off, “they picked up those horror movies from downtown. Dustin fell asleep halfway through Halloween. Man, I thought we were gonna be, like, Texas chainsaw massacred or something.”

You giggle, and it’s enough to loosen the tightness in his chest. For now, at least.

The pair of you lapse into silence after that. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Steve’s shoulders to relax, for your hands to wander a little more than they should.

“Cold?” he asks when you shiver.

With a confirmatory hum, you step out of his embrace. Quick as you leave his side, the freezing air takes your place. The cold January night hits him all at once. For the first time, Steve notices the goosebumps prickling at his skin. A sharp inhale stings like he’s been kicked in the chest. You take a short, shuffling step backwards, while Steve stays rooted in place, frozen to the floor. The porch is an unforgiving chill against his bare feet.

Idly, he glances down at your own feet, enveloped in your purple socks. They’re the thick kind, wooly and soft, and he’d never understood how you could wear them to bed at night until the one time you didn’t, making him jolt each time your cold toes bumped against his calves beneath the blankets.

When he doesn’t follow, you frown at him again, lips pursed in a little pout. Both of your hands wrap around one of his, your fingers lacing through his seamlessly. Your chest presses against the length of his arm when you sidle up to him. So close, you have to tilt your head back to peer up at him through your lashes. “Come warm me up?”

The low murmur of your voice unsticks his feet from the floorboards. Your pout slips into a sleepy smile that brushes against his shoulder in a sweet kiss.

Steve’s lips twitch upwards at the edges. He lets you pull him back into the trailer wordlessly. With one hand, you fumble with the door, closing and locking it behind you as Steve’s eyes sweep around the cramped, but cozy living room.

The kids—nearly adults themselves now—are all sprawled out along the furniture and floor. Will is curled up on the couch, asleep now. Or pretending to be, at least. Mike is on the floor beside him, undisturbed where Steve nearly tripped over him earlier. Dustin and Lucas have claimed a chair each, Lucas with his limbs folded up awkwardly and Dustin with his head tilted back, snoring obnoxiously just like you said. Steve cranes his head to look down the hallway towards El’s bedroom. The door is open wide enough for him to see the shapes of both El and Max under the covers.

With the door locked and the kids all asleep, Steve lets you tug him down the hallway towards your bedroom. The floor creaks under your steps. The moaning floorboards cause the hairs on the back of his neck to rise, but your thumb rubs soothingly over the bumps of his knuckles, placating his already frayed nerves.

As soon as you step into the bedroom, you turn on your heel. Both of his hands are grasped in your smaller ones. Naturally, your fingers come to slot between his, and the smile you give him is sweet, sleepy and just a little bit sad. He follows as you walk backwards towards the bed, trusting him to catch you if you trip. You lead him to his side of the bed—his side, because he does have a side, and the domesticity of it makes his pulse jump—and settle onto the mattress, shifting across to the side furthest from the window.

Steve follows you down.

As he drags up the covers, you shrug out of your sweatshirt, dropping it to the floor beside the bed so you can slip into it again in the morning. By now, you know well just how clingy Steve can be in his sleep. Some nights, he likes to press right up against your back, radiating heat like a damn furnace until you’re itching to shrug off a layer or two of clothes, even in the middle of winter. Tonight, you’re wearing something dark and silky that leaves your arms and shoulders bare, and he can see the soft swell of your chest from the faint moonlight streaking in through the curtains.

The mattress is old. There’s a spring that digs into his hip when he sleeps on his side. And it’s too small for the two of you to be anything but pressed against each other. You wait for him to settle onto his stomach before rolling onto your side and curling up against him. You don’t hold him, but your sock-clad toes rub against his calves through his pants and your fingers draw shapes along the curve of his ribcage, fleeting and barely there.

The door is left cracked open.

There’s light filtering in through the curtains when Steve wakes up again. You’re gone, again, but the covers are folded up neatly, and that’s enough to quell the panic that instantly wells in his chest.

He isn’t used to waking up without you. Most mornings, you’re still curled up beside him, sleeping in until he nudges you awake before he leaves. Forever a night owl. Guiltily, he knows that it’s partly because he keeps you awake most nights. You’ve never mentioned it, and Steve would be hard-pressed to say anything himself, but he knows that his nightmares take as much a toll on you as they do on him. You’re the one thing that can quell the overwhelming fear that threatens to suffocate him, able to pull his head back above water when he’s sure he’s going to drown in it.

Through the cracked open door, he can hear you humming. Something low and indistinct, but vaguely familiar, though he can’t place why.

For several minutes, he just lies there, lightly dozing to the sound of you humming and the closing of cabinet doors as you busy yourself with something in the cramped kitchen. It won’t be long until the kids start waking up and grumbling about breakfast.

A glance at his digital clock has Steve realizing it’s a little after eight. The alarm should have gone off at seven.

With a groan, he pushes himself up, joints cracking from being in the same position for too long. He rolls his shoulders, his back popping as he sits up. Unsteadily, he rises to his feet, one hand running through his sleep rumpled hair as he casts a glance around the room.

He lands on the clock again.

Steve doesn’t have to look at a mirror to know he’s a mess this morning. Just from the sticky feeling of his eyelids, he can tell he didn’t manage to sleep much last night, even after he was sure you were secured beside him, your hair tickling his arm and the rhythmic puffs of your breath sweeping over his skin. He has to clean up before work. Usually, it’s the first thing he does after rolling out of bed. Showering. Letting the hiss of the water and the fog of steam drown out everything else for just a little while longer.

Your humming is overtaken by the hiss of something sizzling in a pan.

His feet are moving towards the door without a second thought towards the shower.

You’ve got his sweatshirt on again.

It’s an absentminded realization as Steve wanders out into the main living space. The kids are all starting to wake, grumbling and groaning and already beginning to bicker about something. Down the hall, he can see the girls rolling out of bed, awoken by the boys or the smell of what you’re cooking. You don’t pay them any attention, swaying gently from side to side as you stand in front of the stove, humming quietly to yourself.

With your back to Steve and a pan sizzling in front of you, you don’t notice him lingering in the hallway, leaning sideways against the wall with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. For a moment, he just watches you with that overtly fond look in his eyes that the kids like to tease him about, gaze roving down your figure slowly. Your hair is draped over one of your shoulders, sleep-mused and messy, and your legs are still bare, the dark fabric of your shorts barely peeking out from beneath the sweatshirt you’re being swallowed up in. And Steve tries not to stare at your legs for too long. Tries even harder not to think about why the “Harrington” stretched across your shoulders has something possessive and hot curling in his stomach.

You glance up from the stove when Lucas and Mike break into snorts of laughter. The two of them are taking turns tickling the bottom of Dustin’s foot so that he kicks and snores louder in his sleep. Will is sitting up on the couch, smiling as he watches the others, but there are dark circles under his eyes, like he didn’t sleep much at all. Max and El amble out into the living room, El with too much pep for so early in the morning and Max with frizzy hair and a slight scowl. They plop down on either side of Will, content to watch the show.

Kids distracted, Steve pushes away from the wall.

“Want me to take over?” he asks, coming up behind you, his chin dipped down to speak directly into your ear. One of his hands slides around to rest on your waist. Pure muscle memory.

Immediately, you lean into his touch. There’s a small stack of pancakes on a plate to your left, a mixing bowl still filled with batter to your right.

“Not unless you’re planning on being late for work,” you say, flipping the pancake in the pan. You shoot him a look, barely smothering a smirk as you tack on, “again. Callahan’s gonna be up your ass all week if he has to come drag you out of here himself one more time.”

He squeezes your waist. Snorts. Phil Callahan has been up his ass since Steve started training at the academy after he graduated from high school. Clearly, he still hasn’t forgotten about all of those house parties he had to break up when Steve was still in school. Or maybe he’s just bitter because Hopper actually respects Steve half the time. Either way, he takes pride in giving Steve a hard time about anything and everything. Especially you.

Steve’s pretty sure he hasn’t gone a week without being told that cozying up to the chief’s daughter isn’t going to get him promoted, but he’s gotten damn good at rolling his eyes and firing back.

“Can you blame me? I learned from your old man.” With a roll of your eyes, you bump your hip into Steve’s, and he gives your side another squeeze in response. “You didn’t have to let me sleep in,” he murmurs, just loud enough for you to hear.

You glance up at him. “You needed it.” Simple as that. If it came down to it, you probably would have let him sleep through the morning, came up with some excuse for when Callahan inevitably came looking for him. You’re too good to him like that.

“Thank you.” He presses a quick kiss to the crown of your head, crowding you against the counter, but you don’t mind. Another pancake is deposited on the pile, and Steve’s breath is hot against your ear as he says, “Let me help?”

His lips brush against the curve of your jaw as you hum, pretending to think about it. “You can start the eggs,” you concede, biting back a smile when you feel him grin.

Steve kisses your cheek. Reluctantly, he disentangles himself from you, grabbing a skillet from the cabinet and the cartoon of eggs sitting off to the side. He joins you back at the stove quickly, cooking the eggs while you keep flipping pancakes, making enough to feed the bottomless pits lounging in the living room.

The kitchen is small. Most days, it’s barely big enough for one person to move comfortably between the stove and fridge. With two people it’s near impossible to move at all. Consequently, the two of you are pressed together from shoulder to hip, the softness of your sweatshirt rubbing against Steve’s bare arm each time you shift. It makes it harder to cook, but neither of you complain about the distinct lack of space.

“Your dad coming back today?” Steve asks as he starts scrambling the eggs.

You shake your head. “He and Joyce called early this morning. They’re stuck in Indianapolis through the weekend because of the weather, so Will’s going to be spending the night again. Joyce doesn’t want him home alone at all, much less during a blizzard.” Your nose wrinkles at the thought. “Can’t say I blame her.”

He can’t blame Joyce either, but it still makes him groan to hear. “And that means the rest of the little shits are going to be staying here, too,” he grumbles, scrambling the eggs a little aggressively.

“Don’t lie to yourself,” you say. “You love it when they’re all here.”

You got him there. He does like having a full house. It keeps him from being lonely and paranoid over every little sound at night. But he’d much rather it be just you and him, instead of six nosy high schoolers butting into his business and giggling and pretending to gag about Steve making googly-eyes at you when you aren’t looking.

“Of course, I like when they’re here. They don’t keep me up with that damn radio all night when they’re in the same room. I just don’t see why they can’t hang out in the Wheeler’s basement anymore. Isn’t that supposed to be their cave, or whatever?

You snort as you flip the last pancake. “Whatever you have to tell yourself.” He pokes your side and you nearly smack him with the spatula when you jolt. “Steven!” you admonish, but you’re giggling.

“Eww.” Steve looks up to find Mike staring at him from the other side of the counter, his brows pinched and his nose wrinkled in a look of disgust. “Can you two not be gross already? We haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, Wheeler,” Steve snaps back, reaching into the cabinet above your head to grab a stack of plates. “You shitheads ready to eat, or what?”

It doesn’t take long for everyone to settle down with their breakfast. Steve’s question had set all of them off, making the too small kitchen an even more cramped flurry of motion as the kids dished up their own plates, muttering thanks before scurrying back to the living room to eat.

They’re all spread out comfortably now. Max and Lucas are sitting at the small dining table, whispering to each other and giggling. Dustin is louder, his hands moving wildly where he’s sitting on the couch explaining something to El, who looks confused, but continues to watch Dustin in apt fascination anyway, so captivated that she’s letting her eggs and pancakes go cold. Mike keeps interjecting from where he’s leaning against the arm of the chair Will is sitting in, just picking at his eggs somewhat disinterestedly, unfocused on the chatter going on around him as the rest of the teens start arguing about if they’re going to the arcade or the video store downtown today.

Steve frowns, brows furrowing in concern, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on it when you knock your foot against the side of his leg, drawing his attention back to you immediately. You’re twirling a piece of pancake on your fork, letting it soak up syrup while your legs swing idly back and forth from your place on the counter.

“How’s work been going?” you eventually ask him, lips twitching when he snags some eggs. The plate is on the counter next to you, covered in whatever the kids didn’t take, and you’ve both been picking food off of it leisurely. “You regretting that offer yet?”

He shakes his head, angling away from the kids so he can face you. “Owens says we’re all clear. There haven’t been any flareups since, what? That big, nasty slug thing back in June? None of the gates have been active so far this year.”

Neither of you point out that it’s only January.

Steve pops a piece of egg into his mouth. When he looks at you again, you’re frowning down at the plate, watching the pancakes get soggier.

“Are you going to check on them today?”

“I’m supposed to.”

“I don’t like you being out there alone,” you tell him, finally looking up. “You should wait until dad gets back from Indianapolis.”

You don’t have to explain why; he knows. They’ve made it a rule not to go poking around at the gates by themselves, but with Hopper out of town, he doesn’t have much of a choice. He’d skip it, if you asked him to, but you won’t. It’s not that you think he can’t handle it. That he’s not capable of checking the gates himself. Privately, you’d confessed to him one night that you’d probably lose your mind if anything happened to him. And, fuck, Steve understands.

He wouldn’t be able to handle losing you.

“I’ll be fine, honey.” The endearment slips out without him meaning to say it, but neither of you pay it any notice. “What are you going to do without me and these brats bothering you all day?”

Sock-clad toes bump into his leg again. “I’m going to stop by the cabin, actually,” you tell him casually. “There are some boxes dad and Joyce need for the wedding, and I figured I’d get them ready for when they come back.”

“Which boxes?” A piece of pancake is popped into his mouth, a pair of questioning eyes trained on the side of your face. Predictably, his shoulders are tense, one corner of his mouth quirked downward slightly at the edge. “I can swing by and pick them up on my way back from work and—”

“No,” you cut him off, firm but gentle. You knew he’d be on-edge today. A little over-protective. He always is the day following the nightmares bad enough that he refuses to talk about them. But you understand. After the living hell you’ve both been through, how could you not. “No, you don’t have to. I can do it myself.”

The look he sends you is skeptical, so you reach out and wrap your fingers around his upper arm, squeezing his bicep reassuringly. When he still doesn’t look entirely convinced, you sigh. Your fork clinks against the nearly empty plate by your hip as you set it down, shifting on the countertop to face him.

“It’s not going to take that long,” you promise. “Half-hour. Tops.”

One of Steve’s big hands finds your leg, squeezing just above your knee. And if his fingers dip inward, brushing against the soft skin of your thigh, neither of you mention it.

He turns suddenly. Your knee presses against his side as he shifts to face you, hand leaving your leg to press against the counter next to your hip. He doesn’t try to slip himself into the space between your dangling legs, but he does lean in close.

“At least take the kids with you?” It’s less a suggestion than it is an attempt at bargaining. The timbre of his voice deepens, pitched low and close to your ear. The heat of his breath washes over your neck, that too big sweatshirt starting to slip down towards your shoulder.

“What? And listen to them bitch about it the entire time? I don’t think so.” That gets you a crooked smile. “I’m going to drop them off at the arcade. Then, I’m going to pick up those boxes. And then,” you stress, brushing away the lock of hair falling into his face, “I’m going to go steal you for lunch. How does that sound?”

There’s a part of him that wants to argue. Because weren’t you the one just saying you don’t like him being out there alone? But he bites his tongue instead. He knows how capable you are. And the cabin isn’t close to any of the gates he’s been keeping an eye on for Owens.

“All right. All right. Fine. You win. I’ll leave you to it.” He slumps sideways against the counter, back facing the kids. The pretty, triumphant smile you send him makes him feel just a little bit better about giving in so easily. “The chief and Joyce still planning on fixing the place up?” he asks, changing the subject. “Last I saw it, it wasn't looking too hot.”

An understatement, really. Last he saw the cabin, it looked one bad day from collapsing entirely. And that was before a monster from another dimension came crashing through the ceiling. That ceiling has been patched since, if only to keep out the weather and wild animals, but it certainly wasn’t a pretty job.

“Yeah. I keep telling him he’s just gonna have to tear it all apart because they need more bedrooms and another bathroom and it’s gonna be a pain in the ass, but yeah,” you finish. “They want to renovate. Something about it being remote, but not too far out of town. Joyce seems to like it, too.”

“Yeah? What do you think?”

“I think it’s… quaint,” is what you finally decide on, struggling to find a better word.

Steve’s lips twitch in amusement. “Quaint?” he teases.

You shove him away by the shoulder. “Go get ready for work.”

Everyone in the living room sees the way Steve’s hand lingers against your waist before he pulls away. The fabric of his sweatshirt bunching under his fingers as he tugs you a little too close, his head dipped down to whisper in your ear and make you giggle. The kids see it, but none of them say anything. Instead, they watch with snorts and dramatic rolls of their eyes. They do that often, when you and Steve act domestic like this. Almost something, but not quite.

You’ve seen it in the way Mike will roll his eyes when Steve’s flirting is blatant. How Max and El giggled at the way you slipped your fingers between Steve’s and lead him down the short hallway to your old bedroom last night. How all six of them are shooting you and Steve unsubtle glances, like they’re waiting for one of you to make a move.

Dating isn’t the word you’d use to describe your relationship with Steve. It’s too blasé, too casual for the way his lips wander across your shoulders while you sleep, for the way you run your fingers through the hairs at the nape of his neck. As far as anyone else in Hawkins is concerned, you’re Steve’s and he’s yours, but that hasn’t nudged either of you towards putting a label on whatever it is you’re doing. Sleeping together, sure. But there’s still that gap neither of you are quite willing to fill just yet.

Almost lovers, in a way.

What you have now is easy. The sex is good, when you have it.

And Steve is afraid to fuck it all up, just like he’s done with everything else in his life. He’d rather have you like this, halfway, than lose you completely.

Steve could put a ring on your finger tonight and no one would bat an eye except to tell him it took him long enough. And he thinks you’d say yes. If he asked, you’d say yes. But he won’t, and you don’t. And it’s a little bit like limbo, this in-between state you’ve fallen into. Or a waltz, but neither of you can get the rhythm quite right. Always just out of sync. Just off-beat. Pulled in too close, or not pulled in enough. Limbo. It feels a little bit like hell; almost romantic.

Almost lovers.

And Steve still lets his hands linger too long; and you still let him walk away.

Steve keeps his gun in the top drawer of the nightstand.

There’s a part of him that hates it. Keeping a Glock in the bedroom he shares with you most nights. In a house where kids who aren’t quite kids anymore practically live half the time. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, so he tries to tell himself it’s for the monsters. Just in case they come back. And he tries even harder to pretend that he doesn’t keep a gun in case the government ever decides they’re all too much of a liability. It’s always there, just in reach in case he needs it. A precaution.

He still keeps that nail bat in the trunk of his car.

You keep a shotgun in the back of the closet. Buried beneath the black dress you wore to Barbara Holland’s funeral in late November, 1984.

He’s just finishing the last button on his uniform shirt when there’s a quiet knock at the door. It’s open. Cracked slightly. Enough for him to hear the muffled chatter from the living room. The sound of your voice, even if he can’t make out the words.

“Steve?” someone that isn’t you calls out, hesitating before they peek around the door. It’s Will, chewing at his bottom lip as he toes the door open wider, just enough to squeeze through into the bedroom before he nudges it back to its previous position. He keeps his head down, eyes on the floor, that pensive and slightly haunted look still plastered across his face. It hasn’t really left him since the fall of 1983.

“What’s up, kiddo?” Steve asks, far nicer than he’d ask any of the other little shits in the other room. By now, he’s used to the kids coming to him for things. Sometimes serious. Mostly not. Will has done this before. Still a little shy about asking Steve for advice, or asking if he could pick something up on his way home from work, even if Will knows Steve will always say yes.

Steve spares Will a glance before turning his attention to the plain, black tie laid out on the bed, considering it. The sight of it makes him grimace. He’s never liked it as a piece of his uniform. He’s never really liked ties at all. They feel too formal. What he does like is the way you always give that tie a little tug when he wears it, a teasing glint in your eyes and a secretive grin on your lips.

He decides he wants to keep that smile to himself and leaves the tie where it is.

Will chews on the inside of his cheek for a minute, watching Steve. “Did you hear it, too?” he finally blurts.

“Hear what?” Steve asks absentmindedly, yanking open the nightstand drawer on his side in search of his gun. He releases the magazine, checking the bullets inside, and nearly spills them onto the floor when Will speaks up again.

“The screaming.”

Steve freezes, staring down at the gun in his hand. White-knuckled grip. His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth, and it simultaneously takes too long and too fast for the words to process. When they do, it makes him feel sick.

Will shuffles his feet, shifting his weight from one leg to the other as he awkwardly stares at Steve’s back. “Last night, I heard it coming from outside,” he continues, quieter than before, wringing his hands a little nervously. “And then you ran out onto the back porch, so…”

The implication is obvious by the way Will trails off, but Steve still croaks out, “So?” Biding his time just a little longer as he struggles to wrap his head around it. He knew Will woke up last night. You told him that. But Steve didn’t think it was from the screaming—didn’t think that was anything but in his own head, because none of the other kids woke up from it, and you would have told him if you heard it. It was just a dream. A nightmare. It was all in his head.

“So… you must have heard it, too,” Will finishes the thought when Steve doesn’t. He stops playing with his fingers and lifts his gaze from the floor to Steve’s tense shoulders.

There’s a part of Steve that wants to play dumb. To tell Will he didn’t hear anything at all. But Steve isn’t stupid, or oblivious, or anything else people have called him in the past. He can hear the hope in Will’s voice. Hesitant, but there. The subtle relief that he isn’t crazy, or hearing things.

Steve doesn’t have the stomach to ruin that.

“Yeah.” Steve snaps the magazine back into the Glock. He tucks the gun into the holster attached to his belt, finally turning around. “It was just a fox, Will,” he says. “I saw it down by the lake.”

Will doesn’t look entirely convinced.

“It was just a fox,” Steve tells Will again, firmer. Trying just as hard to convince himself of the same thing.

The way Will stares at Steve is slightly unnerving. His eyebrows are knitted together, and there’s a look in his eyes like he knows Steve is lying. Steve clenches his teeth so hard that his jaw starts to hurt, forcing himself to keep a neutral expression.

Finally, Will’s shoulders droop, the tension bleeding from his ridged stance. “Yeah. Okay.” He still doesn’t look completely convinced, but any skepticism he still has is outweighed by sheer relief. “It just…” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

Will waves him off. “It’s nothing. Never mind,” he repeats. He offers Steve a subdued smile before turning around and pulling the door open again.

Steve sighs, suddenly exasperated. “Jesus,” he mutters. “Look, kid, if something’s wrong, you can talk to me.”

That’s enough to make Will pause before leaving the room. He looks over his shoulder, less troubled now, but there’s a puzzled look on his face instead. “I know. I guess… it just sounded like your name,” he explains, then clarifies. “The fox. It sounded like it was screaming your name. That’s what woke me up.”

Ice floods Steve’s veins as he stares at Will, who’s already trudging back down the hallway, satisfied with Steve’s answer or at least content to drop it for now. Steve has half a mind to chase after him, demanding answers that he knows Will doesn’t have, but before Steve can act on that impulse, someone starts pounding on the front door.

The sudden knocking makes him flinch. “Shit,” he hisses, nerves still fried from last night. Steve runs a hand through his hair, disheveling it only slightly.

You’re already at the front door when he rushes out of the bedroom, cursing under his breath and making sure his gun is still secured in its holster. You’re leaning against the wall, smile tight as you humor whoever is at the door. He recognizes the subtle irritation in your expression, but when the floor creaks under Steve’s feet, you glance at him, smile slipping into something genuine. The kids all watch as Steve comes up behind you, exchanging glances and nudging each other like they know something he doesn’t.

It’s Callahan, standing on the porch with his arms crossed and a smug look on his face because he gets to chew Steve out for being late, which Steve should have expected considering it’s a little after nine and he was supposed to be at the station nearly half an hour ago. But the older officer isn’t alone.

Frankie fucking Cooper is leaning against the side of the trailer with one arm bent and braced against the wall over his head. Steve realizes why the kids were snickering when he sees Frankie’s eyes drop to your bare legs none-too-subtly, eyeing you up the way he always does when he thinks Steve isn’t around to see it—and sometimes when Steve is, just to piss him off.

The other man’s eyes snap away from your legs comically fast when Steve presses himself up against your back. His arm slips against the side of the trailer, making him stumble and straighten awkwardly.

Now, Steve never had an issue with Frankie when they were in school. He graduated two years before Steve, so they were never close, but they played baseball together, and basketball, and it was at one of Frankie’s shitty house parties freshman year that Steve first started getting to know you. In a way, Steve has always been a little grateful for that night, even if he ended up sprinting down the street away from the cops at one in the morning and the hangover left him sick for an entire day afterwards.

Working with Frankie has soured Steve’s opinion of the other man just a little bit, and the way he’s staring at you makes it easy for Steve to slip an arm around your waist. Protective, or maybe just jealous, even though he has no reason to be. You’re wearing Steve’s high school sweatshirt. His name is printed across your back. You spent the night curled up against him. Frankie knows it, too, judging by the way he clears his throat and has the decency to look a little sheepish about getting caught.

“Callahan,” Steve greets, leaning into you a little more than he usually would. He reaches up, bracing a hand against the doorframe as you shift, resting your weight against his chest. An old, petty part of himself rises up as he pointedly ignores Frankie.

One of the kids snorts. Steve has half a mind to give them the finger, but manages to restrain himself in the presence of his coworkers, even if the little shits deserve it.

“Harrington,” Callahan greets in return, trying not to look incredibly amused by everything happening. “You’re late.”

“Alarm is broken,” he lies easily. You snort, quiet enough for neither of the officers to hear you, but Steve still squeezes your waist a little tighter. Not that that it matters. Neither Callahan nor Frankie looks like they believe him. In fact, he’s pretty sure he knows what Frankie is thinking when the man briefly glances down at your bare legs. They don’t bother to question him though. “I was just about to head out.”

Callahan rolls his eyes and scratches at his mustache. “Yeah. Sure you were, kid. Hurry up and say goodbye, or we’ll have to report this to the chief when he gets back.”

This time, you do laugh. A quiet giggle that draws three pairs of eyes directly to you. Steve presses his lips against the side of your head to hide his smile. Callahan looks confused for a second, then annoyed when he realizes why that’s funny.

Steve slides out from behind you, keeping his hand on your waist for longer than necessary. He’s only halfway out the door when he turns around to look at you.

“I’ll see you later, okay?” he promises, keeping his voice low for only you to hear. He’s sure the kids are still watching, and Callahan and Frankie are definitely still watching. Honestly, Steve really doesn’t care if they are. “Stay out of trouble while I’m gone.”

“You’re one to talk.” You smooth your hand down the front of his uniform, plucking at one of the buttons, and he almost regrets not wearing that damn tie, but the pretty smile you send him makes up for it. “I’ll stop by around lunchtime. Pick something up from the diner after I’m done at the cabin.”

“Be safe,” you tell him, a demand more than anything else.

“Yes, ma’am,” he teases. That hand on his chest shoves him backwards, sending him stumbling out of the trailer, where he nearly crashes into Frankie, laughing. You pretend to look annoyed, unable to hide the twitch of your lips; Steve wants to kiss the smile off your mouth, but he can’t.

The kids all call out goodbyes from inside the trailer, some of them more colorful than appropriate, which he hears Frankie try not to laugh about behind him.

You linger on the porch as Steve follows Callahan down the steps to the cruiser parked in the gravel.

“You’re getting pretty domestic there, Harrington,” Callahan says as Steve pops open the driver’s side door of Hopper’s truck. The older officer leans against his cruiser and gives Steve a look over the top. Steve likes the insinuation even less than he does when it comes from Dustin. “Still gunning for that promotion, huh? What would the chief say if he saw you like that?”

With his daughter, is what Callahan doesn’t tack on, but Steve hears it anyway.

“Probably to mind your own damn business,” Steve tells him.

Callahan makes Steve pick up donuts on the way into town for being late. Or for telling him to fuck off. Either way, Steve doesn’t end up strolling into the station until half-past nine, arms piled with boxes from the bakery a few blocks down from the station. The girl behind the counter smiled at Steve when he walked in, immediately clocking his uniform and asking if he wanted the usual. Hawkins PD breaks less stereotypes than they do, that’s for sure. Though, Steve doesn’t mind too much about the extra stop. There’s an extra box of donuts in the backseat of Hopper’s truck, hidden under an emergency blanket. Something to bring home tonight.

Home.

He tries not to think too long about that, but can’t quite keep the thought from swirling around in his head as he shoves open the doors with an armful of baked goods.

There’s a stupid smile on his face when he finally drops the donuts off in the break door, but no one else manages to heckle him for it before Flo peeks her head in and calls his name.

Despite the routine nature of Flo gesturing for him to follow her, wanting to talk in private, there’s something about the look on her face that makes a foreboding feeling sink into the pit of his stomach. He chalks it up to the lack of sleep and his nightmare. It rattled him last night, and he had to leave you this morning. That’s going to make the day hard to get through.

Steve follows Flo out of the room, ignoring the look that Callahan and Powell share and the way Frankie snickers, like they’re still in school and Steve is being called to the principal’s office and scolded for something. He barely resists the urge to roll his eyes, not wanting Flo to catch him and chew him out for it.

She doesn’t lead him far, just a few steps out of the breakroom, away from any prying ears. Steve shuts the door behind himself, leaning against the wall with narrowed eyes. “Something wrong?”

The look Flo sends him is nothing short of exasperated, her lips pursed in the same way she does whenever Hopper asks too many questions instead of just shutting up and listening. Instead of answering she looks him up and down, scrutinizing him. “You’re late,” she tells him. “Hop is a bad influence on you.”

“Yeah. Probably,” he agrees. He crosses his arms. Flo wouldn’t bring him out here just to berate him for not being on time, so he tries again. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve received some strange calls this morning,” she explains, mouth still pressed into a thin line. “According to chief Hopper’s notes, they fall under your authority when he isn’t available.”

The tone of her voice lets Steve know she doesn’t agree with that. He can’t say he blames her. Steve is barely twenty-two. He’s one of the newest officers working for Hawkins PD and plenty of his colleagues don’t understand why Hopper defers to him so readily over officers that have more experience and a better track record. Flo had been the one to receive all of those noise complaints about the Harrington house when Steve was still in school, and while not unkind, she’s never let him forget it.

But aside from Hopper, Steve is the only one in the force who knows about everything that’s actually happened in this shitty little town over the last several years. And with Hopper away, there are no other options besides Steve when it comes to handling anything out of the ordinary. Nancy and Jonathan are both away for school. The kids are too young to be dealing with any this crap. And Steve tries his damn hardest to keep you out of things, even if he knows you can handle yourself just fine.

It makes him a little sick, thinking about anything happening to that trailer down by the lake and all those people in it that he cares about. Crowded and run down, but home.

Steve realizes he’s been quiet for too long when Flo looks at him expectantly. He clears his throat. “What kind of calls?” he asks, wondering what could be so strange about them that they’d fall under the category of things Steve needs to handle in Hopper’s place.

Briefly, his thoughts flash to missing people and murder dressed up as suicide before he forcibly shoves them down.

“Noises,” she says plainly. “Coming from the woods.”

“Noises?” he repeats. Skepticism all but drips from his tongue, and he’s aware of how much he sounds like Hopper in this moment. “Someone called about noises in the woods?”

Flo sighs. “The Mulligan boys have been calling all morning.”

She says Mulligan boys with a hint of distaste, and Steve can’t really blame her. There are at least five of them living down by Kerley, all with the same angular features and lanky build. They’re troublemakers, ever more than Steve used to be. It wouldn’t be the first time Steve’s dealt with calls involving them. Fireworks at midnight. Brawls. Public Intoxication. What’s unusual is that they’re the ones calling.

There must be a look on his face, because Flo continues, “they told me they heard something screaming out in the woods down by Kerley before the sun was even up this morning. Thought it was a fox. Or a mountain lion.”

“A mountain—there are no mountain lions in Indiana,” Steve blurts, needing to latch onto something other than screaming down by Kerley. The Byers don’t live near that road anymore. Neither does Steve, most of the time. But his nightmare is still fresh, and he’s never quite been able to scrub his mind of everything that was lurking in the woods there when he was still in high school.

“A bobcat, then,” Flo corrects, exasperated. “Or coyotes. I don’t know what those boys thought they were looking for.”

“They called because they think they heard an animal?” Steve asks, more to clarify than anything else. There’s still a tinge of skepticism clinging to the words. Or maybe he’s just being condescending. More likely, it’s false bravado. If he clings to cynicism and a barbed tongue, maybe nothing will happen. Hawkins is practically surrounded by miles of forest. Of course, there are animals wandering around in the woods. If he tells himself that enough times, maybe he'll start to believe it. “Thought that was the DNR’s problem, not ours.”

And Steve thinks about the black bear in his backyard that wasn’t a black bear at all, and it makes that churning feeling in his stomach just a little bit worse.

Flo doesn’t keep him waiting for an explanation. “They called because they said it wasn’t an animal,” she tells him, and Steve’s heart lurches. “Damn fools went looking for whatever it was to shut it up. They said they saw an eight-foot-tall wild man walking through the trees.”

As quickly as his heart leapt into his throat, he makes himself swallow it, forcing it to sinks back down to where it belongs. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face. It’s hits a little too close to home. A monster in the woods. The screaming he woke up to. The screaming that Will heard, too. Not just a nightmare rattling around in Steve’s head. Not a fox.

But he’s not sure how to navigate this without Flo thinking he’s crazy, so he lets his eyes roll, even as Flo sends him a disapproving look. “A wild man.” This time, he definitely sounds condescending. And he lays it on thick. It’s not the first time someone’s seen a “wild man” in Indiana, but none of those sightings have turned out to be much more than stories by drunks and potheads. Right now, he really hopes that’s all it is. “Did they say if they’d been drinking, too? I haven’t seen Tommy Mulligan sober since the tenth-grade.”

“Harrington,” Flo starts, and he already knows she’s going to tell him to just deal with it so they stop calling while she’s trying to read her book, or finish her crosswords, or whatever it is she does to pass the time on slow days.

“I’ll go check it out after I finish something for the chief,” he says. He needs to check around the lab first. Just in case. “If they call back, tell them it’ll be an hour or two. Okay?”

“Thank you.”

Steve starts walking backwards towards the front of the building. “I’ll radio when I’m headed to the Mulligan place. Have Callahan or Cooper meet me there.”

The clock on the wall catches his attention, and he winces when he sees it’s after nine-thirty. “Shit,” he hisses under his breath. Even if he finishes his rounds for Hopper early, there’s no way he’ll be back in time to meet you for lunch.

“Flo,” he starts, but she’s already waving him off.

“If she stops by, I’ll let her know there was an emergency call. I’ll tell her to wait in her dad’s office until you come back. Now get out of here.”

Steve doesn’t bother to tell her thanks.

The car sits idling on the side of the road for almost ten minutes before you finally work up the nerve to kill the engine.

A strange, foreboding feeling settled into the pit of your stomach after you dropped the kids off at the arcade. All six of them piled out of the car—Steve’s BMW, still well-loved, even if the kids have to squish to fit into the back now that they aren’t in middle school anymore, which is technically illegal, but between being one of Hopper’s daughters and Steve’s something every cop in town is willing to look the other way when they recognize the car—bickering about something that you didn’t bother paying attention to as you mentally filed through which boxes you needed to dig through. It wasn’t until you took the right off Denfield, the car creeping down that lone, dead-end road, that you felt ice starting to creep into your veins and churn in your stomach. It’s been a while since you’ve been out this far, this secluded from the rest of Hawkins. The trailer by Lake Tippecanoe is private. So is the Byers’ temporary house. But the cabin is a ten-minute walk through the woods this time of year.

There’s a part of you that almost wishes you had listened to Steve and brought the kids with. If only to fill the silence. The woods make you jumpy these days. Most things do, if you’re being honest. The only time you feel completely safe anymore is at home with Steve, or the kids, or your dad. You used to find comfort in being alone, but now the paranoia threatens to eat you alive when no one else is around. It would make you feel ashamed if you didn’t know Steve felt the same way.

It’s a gray day. The sky overcast; the threat of a storm looming overhead. A genuine blizzard, according to your dad. The worst of it always comes in January, and this year is proving to be no different. It’s only noon, but the lack of sun makes it feel like dusk.

You chalk the strange feeling up to how dark it is and throw open the car door. It takes another second until you can bring yourself to leave the warmth of the car, familiar and safe.

Instantly, the wind makes you wish you hadn’t.

You changed before you left: jeans, a thick sweater and a pair of even thicker socks, boots meant for hiking, and a too-big jacket you think might be Steve’s, but it was shoved to your side of the closet, so you took it anyway. If you try hard enough, you can almost pick up the faintest trace of his cologne clinging to the collar as you bury your nose into the warm fabric, blocking out the chill. The wind still makes you shiver. You curl your fingers into your sleeves, suddenly wishing you hadn’t forgotten your gloves on the counter as you were leaving. You didn’t notice they weren’t crammed into your pocket until you were dropping the kids off at the arcade, and by then you didn’t want to make the extra trip. Luckily, the cabin isn’t too far into the woods.

The snow is thick already. Deep enough that it reaches nearly to your knees. The idea of getting more makes your nose wrinkle, so you try not to think about it for too long. There’s nothing you can do about the snow. Truthfully, you won’t mind the excuse to stay inside, curl up somewhere with a book and something warm to drink. Or stay in bed with Steve for longer than either of you should. For now, though, you keep curses locked behind your teeth as you almost lose your footing.

There’s no path through the snow anymore. It’s been too long since anyone has been to the cabin, so the snow isn’t packed down in places like it was last year. It’ll make the boxes hard to move. Belatedly, you think you should have taken Steve’s advice and brought the kids with, but the whining wouldn’t have been worth it.

The walk from Steve’s car to the cabin is uneventful. There are animals skittering through the trees, small mammals that are moving too fast for you to keep an eye on, and the constant chatter calms you.

You’re careful as you step over the trip wire running along the tree line, still in place after all these years. A precaution, your dad calls it, even though there’s nothing in that cabin aside from storage items that have been forgotten for years. Nothing worth stealing, at the very least.

The cabin looks worse than the last time you saw it, even from the outside. The shingles are starting to fall. Parts of the wall look like they’re finally starting to rot, giving in after years of not being properly taken care of. Paint won’t be able to fix it. You’ll have to tear the walls down when you fix the place up. If you can even convince your dad to tear the place apart. At least the windows are still intact. If snow or animals were getting inside, you’d just have more problems to worry about.

The porch practically groans under you as you reach the steps.

Your fingers are starting to feel numb by the time you fish the key out of your pocket. The lock sticks when you try to turn it, but finally gives as you shove your weight against the door, forcing it open.

The wood floors creak under your boots as you walk deeper into the cabin. Dust coats the room in a fine layer. The floors. The furniture. It tickles you nose and makes your face scrunch with a sneeze that doesn’t quite come. There’s still some debris on the floor. Broken glass and splintered wood from when that monster came crashing through the roof. Hopper patched the ceiling, but didn’t sweep the floor. Instead, he just left the cabin to rot. Frozen in time in the months it’s been left unoccupied. It isn’t nearly as bad as it had been before El lived here back in 1984, but even a brief glance around the room tells you it needs a deep cleaning come spring.

It takes some effort to slide the chair and rug out of the way so you can pry open the hatch in the floor. The dusty, moth-bitten chair makes you grimace as you touch it, so you shove it aside as quickly as you can. The rug is kicked aside and shoved into a sad heap. It’s stained with something dark. Blood, maybe. Or some kind of thick, otherworldly ooze that makes your stomach twist sickly.

The box you’re looking for is buried in the storage space beneath the floor. Tucked between a box labeled “Nam” and a stained one with “43” scrawled across the side. The box you finally drag out is well kept. Plastic instead of cardboard. And when you pop the lid to make sure it’s the right one, you can’t help the gentle smile that curves your lips when you see the photo album tucked neatly on top. You’ll have to look through it later, after the kids have gone to sleep.

There’s a second box that you have to drag out, wincing as porcelain rattles inside. Old silverware clangs noisily as you deposit the box on the floor beside the storage hole. A quick peek inside shows that none of the dishes have broken. They’re fancy. All tucked into a pretty case. Sterling silver and the kind of plates that are too delicate to use in almost any situation, but you heard your dad mention them to Joyce in passing once, and thought you’d surprise them by getting them all cleaned up before the wedding.

Maybe you’ll be able to get El and Will to help you clean them up.

Both boxes are shoved to the side as you close up the storage space again, making sure the cover is sealed tight, just in case.

As you stand, you dust off your hands, lips pursing as you glance at the pair of boxes. You won’t be able to carry both at once without struggling. And the last thing you want is to haul those dishes through the woods only to drop them all halfway to the car. Resigned to taking two trips there and back, you grab the one with the dishes first.

Again, they rattle as you pick it up, huffing at the weight. And, again, you wonder if maybe you should have brought the kids with you for help. Lucas, at least, is sweet enough that he probably would have offered to help even without you asking. Mike and Dustin wouldn’t have been nearly as agreeable, though. And if you brought one with you, you’d have to deal with the other five as well. After everything that’s happened, the party rarely lets one person go off without the others. Lucas going with you wouldn’t have changed that.

You leave the door unlocked behind you after you jiggle it shut, unable to grab the key with the box in your arms and unwilling to put it down. It shouldn’t matter. You’ll have to come back anyway, and the chances of anyone else slipping into the cabin in the ten minutes you’ll be gone is slim, if not impossible. The cabin is well hidden, and there shouldn’t be anyone wandering around this part of the woods anyway.

It's difficult to get a firm grip on the heavy box in your arms, and your pace is slower than you’d like it to be, but you make it back into the woods without tripping the wire. Even in the faint light, your path is simple enough to follow. The matted down snow makes it easier to move, your steps more stable as you walk back to the road. The crunch of snow and the chattering of animals slip into a comfortable background noise.

It happens suddenly.

All at once, the forest goes silent. The chatter of birds and rodents stops abruptly. Every hair on your body seems to stand on end as you freeze mid-step, clutching the box tighter. There’s an unnatural stillness in the air, one you can’t quite explain. It feels wrong.

There was something Benny used to tell you when you worked at the diner—before everything. He was friends with hunters, and they used to come in, tell their stories. And they all said the same thing. The woods are never supposed to be silent. Quiet, yes, but never silent.

Still frozen, you strain to listen for anything, but there’s nothing but the faint howl of the wind and the crunching of snow under your boots when you shift your weight.

A strange sound comes from further into the trees to your left, quiet and muffled, almost like crying. Immediately, you want to run, instinct driving you to move, but your feet won’t unstick from where they’ve sunken into the snow. The noise whispers through the trees again. A whimper. Childlike and frightened. Your first thought is of Will all those years ago. A child lost in the woods. Scared. Freezing in the cold. Alone.

And you don’t think about it as you take a step off the path you’ve made. The porcelain plates clatter together, rattling in the otherwise still air.

Another whimper.

“Hello?” you call out automatically, voice a little bit shaky.

Another step.

The snow crunches under your feet. You don’t call out again, struggling to listen for those quiet cries, and you make it a dozen steps into the covered brush before you freeze up again. The whimpering is just as quiet as when you first heard it, so soft that it’s hard to pick up beneath the wind. Soft enough that you didn’t notice it right away.

The whimpers aren’t changing. Not in pitch. Not in length. Not in the time between them. It’s the same sound over and over, like a tape on loop, or one that’s gotten stuck and keeps repeating the same word, broken.

Again, that whimpering sound filters through the trees, right in front of you.

The wrongness of it is what makes you take a shuffling step back the way you came. Your pulse jumps. Ice fills your stomach, churning sickly. You don’t notice your breath quickening until it clouds the air in front of you, labored and heavy.

Slowly, you turn to the right, back towards the path you came from.

And then you feel it. The heaviness that comes with being watched.

Your head snaps up.

A pair of milky, silver eyes are already staring back at you. Beneath the waning light, they glow, large and set deep behind thick, matted hair, grizzled and stringy. Long, spindly fingers wrap around the trunk of a large oak tree. Claws the size of your fingers dig into the bark, leaving deep lacerations behind.

The air is slammed from your lungs. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. Those eyes lock onto yours, unblinking and so, so large, and it’s like you’ve been doused in freezing water. All at once, the pieces of you begin to shut down and lock up. The seconds bleed together, blurring and seeming to drag on forever.

It—whatever it is—is hunched over, half-hidden behind the tree and trying to make itself look smaller. Limbs are tucked against a grayish, naked torso. Pale and veiny. Built similar to the Demogorgon from years ago. Like you, it doesn’t move, so still you’d think it was some kind of sick hallucination if you believed your mind could ever conjure something so horrific.

Then, the creature cocks its head to the side, slowly. In your own voice, just like you did minutes ago, it calls out, “Hello?”

Time slams back into motion. Your weight shifts suddenly. Gravity rocks your heel back to the ground. Snow crunches beneath your boot. A twig snaps. The creature’s limbs unfurl as it stands, arms and legs unnatural and long, claws dragging against the top of the snow as it rises to a height much taller than you. Still hunched over, its back curved dramatically, with its spine bulging through that mottled, gray skin. Wiry, stiff spines protrude from each vertebra.

“Hello?” it calls out again, taking a step out from behind the tree.

The wind whistles through the trees, blowing your hair forward into your face. The stringy locks covering the creature's face shift with the gust. A maw of needle-like, crooked teeth. Its jaw cracks open. It screams for you, a horrific wail, drawn out unnervingly. “Steeeeve?”

The cardboard box you’re carrying crashes to the ground. Inside, porcelain plates shatter into pieces. The sound of broken glass echoes through the empty trees, splintering the silence. Before the monster can take another step, you whirl around and bolt.

Searching the forest behind the Mulligan property ended up being nothing more than a waste of time. Steve searched the woods with Callahan and Frankie Cooper for hours, trudging through knee-deep snow and trying not to freeze his ass off because Tommy fucking Mulligan thought he saw a monster in the woods. And Steve had believed it, too. Between his already frayed nerves and his own experiences with monsters, Steve would have been a fool not to take the claim seriously.

Fat lot of good that did him.

There wasn’t anything behind the Mulligan house. Not footprints. Not fleshy, rotting portals in trees, or oozing slime. No wild men. Just a half-eaten deer carcass and the smell of coyote piss. Tommy Mulligan hadn’t sobered by the time Steve reached the farm off Kerley. Technically, he hadn’t even stopped drinking. But he still insisted that he’d seen something lurking near the tree line. Too tall to be a man.

Callahan thought it was teenagers fucking around. Steve thought it was just the damn coyotes. Frankie nudged Steve in the ribs and suggested it might be a black bear, and Steve had to swallow down the acrid taste of vomit that welled up in the back of his throat.

When Steve finally gets back to the station, the sun is already starting to set. It’s low in the sky, and the already overcast day is only getting darker as the storm clouds start to roll in from the West. Snow has been falling for over an hour now, wispy flakes dusting the ground and growing thicker by the minute. There’s a solid inch or two of fresh snow in the parking lot, just enough to make the ground slick.

It’ll be a pain in the ass to deal with tomorrow, for sure.

He shoves open the front door with more force than he means to, cold and irritated and hungry—because dammit he missed lunch with you to stumble through the woods with Callahan on a wild goose chase. Of all things, that’s the worst part. Steve has gone out on bogus calls before, ones that waste his time and amount to nothing, but it’s one of the first times he hasn’t been able to meet you for lunch when you’ve promised to stop by. He always makes time for you, when he can.

Steve shakes off the snow clinging to his hair as he steps into the station. Automatically, he’s sweeping the room with his eyes, looking for you in the nearly empty room. You’re not sitting at his desk, like you do sometimes while you wait, leaving him little notes on sticky pads for him to find later. And your coat isn’t hanging from the rack. He can’t see down the hall into Hopper’s office, but somehow, he already knows you aren’t there.

Disappointment sits heavy in his chest, but Steve can’t blame you for going home already. You must have stopped by hours ago and gotten sick of waiting for him to come back from the call out at the Mulligan place. Sometimes, when you have the day off, you’ve lingered longer waiting for him to come back, but over five hours is a lot to ask.

“She’s not here, Casanova.”

The voice makes him flinch. Steve’s head snaps sideways to the desk where Flo is usually sat taking calls. Flo isn’t there though. Instead, it’s the lanky brunette that’s going to be taking Flo’s position as secretary come spring when the older woman is set to retire. She’s lounging back in her seat, feet kicked up on the desk as she chews bubblegum, looking bored out of her mind. Robin, he remembers. A year or two younger than Steve. She graduated from Hawkins High a few years back, went off to Berkeley, if he remembers right. She’s just a temp right now, working for winter and summer break while she’s in town visiting family.

It takes a second longer for her words to register. “What?”

Robin rolls her eyes. Her gum pops loudly. Steve has only been in the building for a matter of minutes and she already seems exasperated with his mere presence. “Your girlfriend,” she clarifies, speaking slowly and enunciating obnoxiously, “isn’t here. She’s not hiding under your desk or whatever it is you’re thinking.” There’s an implication there that she only catches after one of Steve’s eyebrows lifts towards his hairline, and her expression twists from boredom to one of utter disgust. “Oh, gross. I think I just threw up a little in my mouth.”

Any other day, he might have laughed at the look on her face, but there’s something about what Robin says that trips him up before he can.

“What do you mean she’s not here?” he asks, a little redundantly. He guessed as much when he walked in. That’s not the problem. It’s the fact that she thought she needed to tell him that doesn’t sit right with him. Robin doesn’t come in until after three, when Flo leaves for the day. Usually, you’re gone by then anyway. Though, you’ve met Robin a few times when you’ve stopped during the afternoons, or dropped something off on those late nights when Steve works the midnight shift.

His question is rewarded with another eyeroll. This time, she even sighs heavily, like answering him is a chore. “What do you think it means, dumbass? She didn’t stop by today.” The disinterest in her expression shifts into an odd mix of amusement and sympathy. “You’re not having some kind of lover’s quarrel, are you?”

But Steve isn’t listening, still caught on, “she didn’t stop by?”

“Nope,” Robin pops the ‘p’. “And she always stops by, according to Florence—unless she can’t stop by, in which case you always make sure to mention it to someone—so whatever it is you did, you might want to hurry up and think of an apology.” Robin leans her chin on her palms, brows furrowing as she starts to ramble. “We’re talking grade-A groveling. Flowers. Dinner. The whole shebang. Because wow, you will not be doing any better than what you have now, Harrington.”

She doesn’t seem to notice that Steve still isn’t listening, or that he hasn’t moved at all since she started talking. Steve is frozen in front of her desk, eyes wide and a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Car trouble. It must have been car trouble. Or the kids whined until you gave in and hung out with them at the arcade all day. They’ve done that before. And you’re always a sucker for it, even worse than he is. You’d do anything for those kids, after all. You probably lost track of time, either with the kids or at the cabin. You’ve done that before, too. Sometimes, you get so wrapped up in what you’re doing that you don’t even realize how much time has passed. It’s one of those little things he loves about you.

It’s not until she changes the subject that his brain catches up with the conversation. “Also, you need to tell your children to stop calling the station.” She’s stopped grinning at him in that smug way. Instead, she just looks irritated. “We don’t need a bunch of teenagers asking for you and whining about needing a ride home on the emergency line, which is, you know, for emergency situations only. Also, aren’t they like seventeen or something? Why do they even need rides anymore? Why are you friends with so many children?” The rapid-fire questions only make him more confused. And Robin still doesn’t stop talking. “I had to tell them we’d send an officer to their houses to tell their parents to get them to knock it off. Seriously, Harrington, that shit cannot—hello! I’m talking to you!”

Steve isn’t listening anymore. He’s already halfway to his desk across the room before he even realizes he was moving. And then the radio the kids gifted him one year for Christmas is being yanked out of where he stashed it in one of the drawers this morning. It crackles to life as he turns it on.

“Hey! Dumbasses!” he snaps into the receiver, holding down the button so they can hear him. “What did I tell you about calling the station for stupid things when I’m at work, huh? You little shits are gonna get me fired one day.”

He takes his thumb off of the speaker button and waits for all of them to start chiming in with their excuses, and then frowns when they don’t.

Eventually, the radio does crackle, the signal somewhat weak with the distance. “Steve?” one of the kids asks. Only one of them. They aren’t all talking over each other, for once, and that only makes him feel sicker. And they sound scared, quiet and timid. More than Steve’s heard in a long time.

“Will?” he asks after a second, concern thick in his voice. “What’s wrong?”

The radio crackles with silence again. “Is…” Will starts, then stops. “Is she with you?” He doesn’t bother clarifying who, but Steve knows. “She dropped us off at the arcade before lunch and told us she’d pick us up in a few hours, but she hasn’t come back yet. We thought maybe she just stayed late with you after you guys got lunch, but…”

“She didn’t pick you up?” Steve repeats, strained, voice tight.

More silence. “No. Did… is she not with you?” Will’s voice is slightly higher than usual with the beginning note of panic.

Steve wets his lips. “She didn’t stop by earlier.”

“Oh.”

Steve’s hands are starting to shake. Will doesn’t say anything else, and Steve doesn’t want the kids to panic, so he forces himself to say something even mildly reassuring. “Shit. Look, she—she probably just lost track of time at the cabin? Right? You’ve been there. Place is a damn mess and Hopper can’t organize anything for shit. I’ll just go pick her up and we’ll be back before it gets dark. Okay? There’s some cash in the top drawer of the nightstand. Order a couple of pizzas or something for when we get back. I’ll stop and grab some movies on the way home, or something.”

“It’s supposed to storm soon,” Will reminds him.

“Yeah,” Steve manages to croak out. “Yeah, I know. Look, we’ll, we’ll be back in an hour tops. Okay? Just—just stay out of trouble until we get back.”

When Steve takes the right off Denfield, he immediately spots a lone car pulled to the side of the road. It’s his car. The red BMW is stopped close to the dead end, pulled partway into the ditch even though there’s never any traffic on this road. Steve pulls the truck up behind the car, cutting the engine and throwing open the door without a second thought.

There’s snow starting to pile up on the car. The windshield and roof are blanketed in a thick layer, evidence of just how long you’ve been here.

It’s starting to get even darker now. The last of the sunset is bleeding out, and the snow is getting thicker and harder to see through as it comes down faster. The world begins to white out, and he has to squint to see through the flurry. Steve fumbles for the flashlight attached to his belt, clicking it on and shining it through the windows of the BMW, though he already knows you aren’t there. If you ended up stranded out here, you probably would have gone back to the cabin.

When he confirms you aren’t huddled in the backseat, he steps away from the car and shifts his focus to the forest on his right. Slowly, he scans the ground for footprints in the snow. They’re there. Faint. Half-filled with fresh snow that just keeps coming down. But there. He knows the way to the cabin even if they weren’t there, but there’s something about seeing the tracks that make the knot in his chest loosen ever so slightly.

You were here, at least. And it seems like he was right. You made it to the cabin and just lost track of time, like you always do. Probably found some old photo album and got lost flipping through the pages. You’re sentimental like that sometimes. He just wishes you would have called, but you must have left the radio in his car, and you wouldn’t have been able to reach anyone with the phone inside anyway. Last he saw, it was smashed to pieces on the floor.

Following the tracks you’ve left behind isn’t hard. They’re the only ones in this part of the woods. He isn’t sure if the land is private property or if it’s owned by the state, but he’s never seen anyone else out here. There aren’t even deer tracks, which Steve might consider odd any other day, but tonight he barely notices, just keeps following your footprints like they’re a lifeline leading him right back to you.

The beam of his flashlight illuminates the darkness, reflecting off the snow and casting dark shadows against the trees as he walks. They flicker and shift with each step he takes, shadow puppets stalking him. He blames the ice in his veins on the dropping temperature, and keeps his head down so he doesn’t start looking for figures in the dark that aren’t really there.

Steve hasn’t been walking for long when he finds a strange spot in the snow. Where your footprints before were consistent and moving in one direction, each step you took clearly visible in the snow, there’s a spot midway between the road and the cabin, maybe five minutes in, where the footsteps start to overlap. He shines his flashlight further down the nearly invisible path between the trees, his brows furrowing.

There’s a second set of tracks coming back from the cabin.

They’re overlapping the original tracks, deeper and fresher than the ones that he’s been following. And they’re human.

The panic that bursts through his chest is wild and raw. It tries to climb up and out of his mouth, but sticks halfway as his throat closes up. He can’t breathe. That second set of tracks—your footprints—suffocates him. Because you came back. You were coming back. Maybe hours ago, now, because the tracks are filling in with snow just like the rest. And then they just stop.

It’s instinct that keeps him from shutting down completely as his nightmare from last night slams back into him. You were dragged away from him. Swallowed up in a vast nothingness. And there was nothing he could but watch. He’s been dealing with the strange, supernatural occurrences in Hawkins since he was a teenager, and he’s been working with the PD for nearly as long. Steve knows he needs to keep a level-head, for your sake, and the whisper of your voice telling him to be safe rings loudly in his ears.

Desperately, Steve sweeps his flashlight across the snow-covered ground. His hand is shaking again. He freezes when he sees more footprints, the tracks veering off the path to the left. They don’t go far. Only a dozen feet before Steve sees something in the snow, partly obscured by the snow. At first, he thinks it might be you.

It’s not, but it doesn’t loosen the tightness around his throat.

There’s a box on the ground. The cardboard is damp and broken open on one corner. Ceramic shards spill from the hole. Smashed plates, he realizes after a moment. Nausea hits as he immediately realizes where they came from. Out here, there’s only one place they could come from.

“Fuck,” he hisses between his teeth, passing his flashlight to the other hand and reaching for the gun attached to his belt. If you dropped the box like that, it means something grabbed you, or you ran before it could. Neither option is reassuring.

There’s no blood in the snow. A quick scan of the immediate area tells him that much. And he can see where your tracks veer off again, deeper into the woods, away from the road and the cabin. They’re spaced further apart than the others, and his teeth clench so hard that his jaw starts to hurt, because he knows that means you started running.

He doesn’t realize how quiet the forest is until someone starts screaming.

High-pitched shrieks echo between the trees, long and loud, and it’s in horror that he makes out the mangled sound of his own name. Like last night, the sound of your terrified cries smashes through his ribcage and rips at the soft tissue of his insides. Eviscerate him. Hollow out his chest until he can’t breathe.

And then he’s running.

The screams don’t stop. Choked sobs. Wordless cries. His name, mostly. Loud and unceasing. Absolutely gut-wrenching. Like you’re being eaten alive. Each wail rips through the woods, muffled and carried away by the wind, but Steve doesn’t stop chasing your voice as he stumbles through the snow, narrowly avoiding trees and thick brush.

The flashlight beam cuts between the trees wildly as he follows the sound of your screams, but something isn’t right. He can’t make out what direction they’re coming from. They keep swirling around, echoing through his head as if they’re coming from all sides at once. It’s disorienting. Steve spins in a circle, starting to feel sick as he calls out your name and prays that you’ll answer him—tell him where you are so he can find you.

Instead, the screams cut off abruptly.

In an instant, Steve feels the crushing weight of reality begin to collapse around him. Dread rolls down his spine. Silence rings loudly in his ears. So much louder than your screams. So much worse. In an instant, Steve prays to whatever deity is out there that you’ll start screaming again, prays that the sound of it will haunt him for the rest of his life.

In the stillness of the forest, the only sound is the wind howling between the trees. Even that seems far off, growing faint.

“Hello?”

All of his limbs lock up. Steve’s flashlight flickers.

The greeting is hesitant. Shaky, with a distinct crack midway through the lone word. And it’s so, so close. Breathed from the space right behind him, into open air. The shock of it makes his stomach flip and sends a shiver running along his spine, and it takes an agonizing second for the sound to slot into place.

It’s your voice.

“Steve?” you whisper again. Quieter. Closer.

Steve whips around to face the other direction. Milky eyes glint under the beam from his flashlight, like a cat in the darkness, surrounded by dark, scraggly locks of matted hair.

A gray, hulking shape lunges from between a pair of trees, and Steve shouts as it hurtles towards him, closing the distance before he can click off the safety and get a shot off. Instead, he throws himself to the side, tumbling down into the snow, but not before something sharp catches his arm. Claws slice through his jacket and uniform shirt. It hurts, he registers, somewhere in the very back of his mind, but it’s shoved to the side before he can latch onto the pain.

Despite the thick layer of snow on the ground, the breath is still slammed from his lungs as he hits the ground. The thing starts screaming at him. His name. Your voice. Just like a moment ago. Just like this morning. His nightmare and whatever was in the woods. Whatever Will could hear, too.

The screeches rise and rise in pitch until they make his ears ring, losing form until it’s not even his name anymore. Just noise.

He scrambles backwards through the snow, but can’t find his flashlight as he fumbles for it blindly, unable to see the creature. The flashlight is still on, lighting up the immediate area between flickers. Something moves at the edge of the beam, where light melts into the darkness.

Those pale eyes are glowing in the darkness. Steve gets a look at long, inhuman arms and legs and gray flesh pulled too taut over a spindly, skinny frame. It doesn’t have a face. Not one that he can see behind that matted hair or fur.

It shies away from the light, shrinking back between the trees, but it’s too tall to hide between them properly. Those empty, unblinking eyes watch Steve roll to his feet and raise his gun. His hands shake. It takes a second for him to unlock the safety.

The thing cocks its head to one side, one distorted hand curling around a thin tree trunk. Claws scrape the bark. Steve’s right arm throbs. Beneath his coat, his skin feels wet. His fingers are stiff as they shift to the trigger.

“Steve!”

The shriek comes from his left. His eyes flick in that direction for a split second.

A mistake.

The monster screams at him, low and garbled. It lurches out from between the trees, lunging. Steve stumbles backwards in the snow. Not fast enough. A burning feeling laces up his arm. Milky eyes bore into his. The stink of rot chokes his nose and throat. His foot catches, sending him hurtling towards the ground. The gun in his hand goes off. The shot echoing through the air. It’s the last thing he hears before his head slams into something hard.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #steve harrington #st fic #stranger things fic #fic: into open flames

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