Work Text:
this is also being updated to my tumblr. you can find it here.
You’ve run the plan through your head at least a billion times — the only plus side to your anxious mind making a reappearance. Even with Steve’s arms cradling you close in the night, you weren’t able to get much sleep; you suspect he wasn’t resting either.
The past few hours have been spent thinking through every technicality, every problem you could encounter. Each time a new issue arises in your hypotheticals, you grow more hopeless. What if you can’t get into the Upside Down? None of you that are left in Hawkins have a way to communicate with the other side. You don’t want to rely on El, but contacting her and the Byers might be the only chance you have against this new threat. Finding a way into the parallel dimension is the hard part; killing Vecna will be much easier — or so you’ve convinced yourself.
While your feelings on Eddie have remained neutral since discovering him last night, you can’t help but feel some sympathy for the guy. The moment this town hears that ‘The Freak’ is the number one suspect, accused for murdering sweet innocent Chrissy Cunningham, his life in Hawkins is over as he knows it. Munson might as well consider leaving the county, maybe even the state if he’s able. Indiana hicks are not known for their skills of forgiveness; he’ll be burned at the stake if they catch him.
But more concerningly, Chrissy is no longer the only victim.
Part of you was shocked to see Nancy Wheeler standing behind all the yellow tape, amongst the police officers and the alternating red and blue of the sirens long silenced. Then again, she almost looked like she belonged there, investigating a case for the local paper as if she was born to do it. You thought that’s what she was there to do, until you saw that fear in her eyes and the relief that replaced it upon seeing your group drive up.
You didn’t know Fred Benson and you’re not proud to admit that you’re glad you didn’t. Something about him always struck you as odd, overeager in the way that got under your skin and nosier than he ever had any right to be. That being said, there’s no doubt that his final moments were torturous — he didn’t deserve a death that cruel.
But as you stand in the dimly lit office of the high school counselor, your thoughts aren’t centered around Fred Benson, no. It’s Max who worries you, loose flyaways curling into an amber halo around her head while she recalls her theory, voice and lips trembling with fear at her realization; she believes she is Vecna’s next target. A vision of a grandfather clock wedged into the wall only confirmed it for her.
“Max, you’re not…” You trail off, arms firmly crossed over your chest as your eyes drift from her to the floor. The jumble of thoughts inside your head is making it difficult for you to comfort her in a time like this; you’re not sure whether you should be terrified or furious. Terrified that Vecna would come after a little girl, barely fifteen, solely with the intention of killing her. Furious that it’s your friend and her trauma that makes her a perfect candidate. Vecna will find out that choosing Max means he’ll be on the receiving end of your rage — he’ll regret that soon enough.
“You’re not cursed, okay? It’s gonna be fine, we’ll… we’ll figure something out, yeah? We’re gonna get you out of this, I promise.”
Everyone can hear the lie in your words. You can’t promise Max her safety, even though there’s nothing you wouldn’t do to guarantee it. Steve can’t tell if you’re saying this to quell your own anxiety or the redhead’s. You and Max are very similar — your bond strengthened by traumatic experiences that are only understood by each other, intertwined due to the actions of one individual. If there’s anyone that can help Max through this, it’s you.
In an effort to keep her safe, the group of you decided that staying together from now on is the best call. Not only can all of you take turns watching over her in the late hours of the night, but it gives you an opportunity to plan. Now you have the lives of Max and Eddie to be worried about, for dramatically different reasons.
Lucas’ concern for Max was palpable the moment he joined your efforts. After many hours of drooping eyelids and anxiety filled breaths, he finally slumped against the back of the armchair and let sleep overtake him. Your heart breaks for the Sinclair boy as you recall that conversation on your last day before college, where he had come to you in search of advice. Part of you wonders if what you told him even worked. Maybe you wouldn’t be in this situation now if it had. Max has only spiraled farther into her grief over the last few months — would she have been able to overcome this if either of you had done more?
—
Your ears are filled with buzzing from the fluorescent lights overhead; your head… god your head aches. The constant noise filtering through the room doesn’t help, wedging inside your brain and splitting it open with an icepick. Then your eyes open, the intent of going to search for something to deal with this pain fresh in your mind until you realize where you are.
The Russian interrogation room.
Everything’s exactly the way you remember it, almost as if you’re reliving a memory. Your hands are bound in the same fashion they were before, tied to the sides of the chair. The table in the corner is there, the extra chair, the large and looming door — it opens.
The next sequence of events plays out the same way it had before. The multitude of questions, the rush of adrenaline as you made your attempt to escape, the two bullets fired from the gun.
But this is the moment where it begins to drift from reality.
Instead of the soldier’s body collapsing heavily on top of you, it’s Steve — blood trails from the wounds in his face that you put there, pouring out onto your clothes and staining the fabric. His brown eyes are unnaturally cold and unresponsive as your own gaze widens in shock and horror.
The rubber of your sneakers squeak against the tile floor; you’re panicking, scrambling out from beneath Steve’s weight to press yourself to the wall behind you. His head, continuing to bleed, thunks against the ground.
You’re dripping with blood. Every inch of skin from the tips of your fingers to the bend of your elbow is coated in the warm, thick liquid. You turn your arms over in your hands, staring at the sight with nothing but pure fear threaded through your veins. You rub your arms against your pants, desperate to remove the blood from your skin.
You’re sobbing uncontrollably, almost scratching yourself raw as you struggle to rid yourself of the red stain — Steve’s body grows cold in front of you. The blood refuses to budge. No matter how hard you rub, nothing transfers to the fabric.
You wake with a jolt, momentarily out of breath while your gaze darts around the room. As you adjust to the dim space, only illuminated by a singular lamp in the far back corner, you finally recognize the familiar sight of the Wheeler’s basement. Your throat tightens as you swallow harshly, squeezing your eyes back shut for a moment to try and force the haunting images from your brain. You don’t remember falling asleep.
It’s been sixty four days since you last had a nightmare. That’s the longest you’d gone without one in over two years. You haven’t had that particular dream in some time — Steve replacing the Russian as the victim of your crime. The first time you had it was your second week away; you hadn’t managed to return home to Hawkins yet and the fear that something happened to your love while you were gone almost tore you apart.
Steve nearly drove to Chicago to see you that night — the way your voice trembled over the phone had him reaching for his keys across the counter. He couldn’t stand the thought of only comforting you with his voice. It didn’t matter that it was a bit past midnight when you called and the trip would’ve been four hours in total; Steve would’ve done it in a heartbeat if you asked.
You lied to him then. You couldn’t bear to speak those words out loud and tell him what you had really seen. So you lied, and you did it every time that dream decided to torment you, and you’ll continue to do so. You never want to see the look on his face upon hearing that you’ve had visions of killing him with your own two hands.
“Hey, you okay?”
Dustin’s voice, hushed from the other end of the couch, reaches you through the darkness. The gasp that escaped you when you woke snapped his attention from the book in his hands, his finger wedged in between the pages to keep his place. He took watch after Steve, who’s been sleeping on the floor beside you for the better part of an hour; you fell asleep long before that.
Your breaths are shallow but even, not an unusual phenomenon for you to experience after one of your nightmares. Before focusing on deepening your inhale, you answer him, “Fine. M’fine.”
In regards to your feelings, Dustin’s a lot smarter than you give him credit for. After that night at the Byers’ and in the tunnels beneath Hawkins, he noticed your late wandering around the house, the creak of his door as you’d peek into his room to check up on him. Ever since then, he’s assumed that you experience nightmares, but this confirms it. He doesn’t appreciate your deflection.
You’re shrugging off the blanket as you sit up, still forcing deep breaths through your nose as Dustin’s concern only grows, “Are you s-”
“I’m okay, I’m fine,” You interrupt, carefully stepping over Steve’s waist. Before your brother can argue, you’re making your way to the small bathroom behind the stairs, too far to be spoken to without waking the others.
Dustin can’t help but feel a bit angry once the door shuts on its hinges. His stomach feels like it’s in knots, but that could be due to the multiple cans of soda he’s downed over the last two hours. You’re his older sister — he wants to be someone you feel like you can come to when something’s bothering you. After all, it is sort of his fault that you’re wrapped up in this craziness. The Wheeler’s basement serves as a sobering reminder of that November night; Dustin might not be sitting with this unpleasant feeling if he hadn’t called you, squashing the possibility of you having a normal life ever again.
If Dustin were able to go back in time and prevent himself from involving you, knowing what he knows now, he might do it.
Then his gaze shifts to the boy that sleeps next to where you once were — the boy who loves you enough that as long as he still gets to sleep beside you, will willingly lay on the carpet instead of waking you and asking to make room for him.
If Dustin were able to go back in time and prevent himself from involving you, knowing what he knows now, he doesn’t think he could do it.
He’d be taking you and Steve from each other if he did. Who knows where either of you would be if you hadn’t been given the opportunity to fall in love? That’s an outcome Dustin doesn’t want to consider.
On the other hand, your bond is strong enough that you still might’ve found each other in the end. Maybe the love you and Steve share is a constant throughout the infinite number of parallel universes that exist somewhere in the cosmos. He likes to think of it that way. Not that he’d ever tell either of you that. Perhaps there’s a world out there where neither of you had to go through all of this in order to fall in love; maybe you two get to live in peace.
But in this universe, it’s the horrors of Hawkins that brought you together.
With a sigh, Dustin comes to a conclusion; there’s no one more equipped to take care of you than Steve.
With your fingers now chilled from the cold water, you press them to your face — another grounding technique you adopted over the last few months. Accompanied by some deep breaths, the combination does wonders to help calm you down. Even though you still see flashes of the dream when you blink, you understand that it’s not real; Steve’s just beyond the door, fast asleep and lost in some dream of his own. There are worse things you should be scared of right now.
You cup your hand and let the water pool in your palm, watching intently as it collects until nearly running over. Carefully, you raise your hand to your mouth and gulp down the water, exhaling as you feel the cold liquid travel down your throat. The stale flavor of the tap then reaches your tongue and you’re grimacing from the taste before shutting off the faucet. You don’t know what time it is, but you can tell you didn’t sleep for long; your body is slightly sluggish as you dry your hands.
When you finally gather the courage to exit the bathroom, and no doubt be bombarded with questions from your brother, you’re met with a far more welcome sight instead. Steve’s on the other side, his knuckles raised like he was about to knock on the door. At the sight of you, he rests his hand against the door jam and leans forward with worry, caging you inside. Sleep is still present in his voice, low and raspy enough that he has to cough in order to speak.
“What’s the matter? What happened?”
Robin stirs behind him, adjusting her pillow in her sleep as she turns, taking up the empty space that was meant for Max. The redhead pays no mind to either you or Steve, lost in thought on the other side of the room as she stares down at something, a pen carefully held in her grip. Steve casts his gaze to the older girl and waits for a moment to see if she woke.
When his eyes meet yours once again, you can’t help but slouch dejectedly, immediately giving in to his concern. Your heart sinks; you must have been louder than you thought if you woke Steve. Usually he can sleep through anything.
Your voice, in comparison to his, is much quieter — you’re ashamed of what you admit.
“Nightmare.”
Your boyfriend sighs, his tired eyes roving over your face as he allows the meaning of your confession to roll over him. You were doing so well. He doesn’t have to ask to know that this relapse is going to hang over your head for a while.
The events of the past couple of days must be affecting your subconscious more than he thought. He should’ve noticed that.
One of Steve’s hands reaches for your waist, fingers curling around your sweater to gently guide you forward. He flicks off the light as you exit and leans in to press a soft kiss to your hairline. The moment you register his touch, that anxious feeling immediately disperses — the warmth of his palm through the fabric quells the terrors that had been circulating in your thoughts. You move away just enough to slip your hand into his before Steve can take another step; his fingers squeeze yours tightly.
Carefully and quietly, Steve leads you back to the couch. Dustin’s since moved to lounge on the chair, his legs tossed over the armrest. All of sudden as you pass your brother, the realization slams into you — Dustin woke Steve for you.
Steve grabs the pillow from the floor and sets it on top of the cushions. As he sinks onto the couch, he eases you down with him until both of you are laying on your side. It’s a bit of a tight fit with his chest pressed to your back, but all the more reason for Steve to wind his arms around your stomach to hold you firmly against him. You’re thankful for the squish the couch provides; it gives you the closeness you desperately need.
He sighs, the puff of air hitting your neck as Steve settles with his nose tucked behind your ear. Somehow he manages to tug you impossibly closer — you drape your own limbs over his, the pad of your thumb swiping across his forearm comfortingly.
“M’sorry, sweetheart,” Steve mumbles, shifting briefly to press his lips to the soft skin behind your ear, “It’s okay. You’re safe now.”
Your eyelids begin to droop as your breathing subconsciously matches his — deep, relaxing inhales and cleansing exhales. As you find yourself melting further into his embrace, you grow even wearier, exhaustion overturning the fear that used to be present. You almost miss when he speaks again as you begin to drift off.
“I got you, I’m here.”
It’s a promise — you can rest now.
—
The next day, it becomes painfully obvious that Max didn’t get any sleep.
Not that you’re blaming her — you don’t think you’d be able to either, given the circumstances. You still have no clue how to break this ‘curse’ and you’re running out of time. By your estimate, you assume she has about five hours left before… before Vecna makes his move.
“What are we supposed…” You mutter under your breath, just loud enough for Steve to catch your words. The pair of you are behind the stairs, far enough away so that no one else can overhear the worry and uncertainty in both of your voices.
“What are we supposed to do, Steve? Just sit here and wait for something to happen to her? I won’t… I won’t do that.”
Nancy and Robin left for Pennhurst Asylum about thirty minutes ago, dead set on interviewing Victor Creel — a man who may be the first to encounter Vecna. The research that you, Robin, and Nancy collected at the library yesterday all seems to point in that direction. Hopefully he’ll know something about how to free Max from Vecna’s spell; it’s the only lead the group has.
But until then, you and Steve are taking the initiative to protect her. How you’re expected to do that continues to evade you. His eyes dart over your shoulder to land on the girl — she’s still jotting something down, the same thing she’s been doing since last night. Concerned, he places his hands on his hips, shifting nervously on his feet.
“I don’t know,” Steve admits quietly, “I don’t like the waiting game either.”
You’ve never had to play defense before; there’s always been a way for you to fight back and win. It feels odd to do nothing — unnatural for either of you to be without a plan of attack.
“We’re sure that Munson said he couldn’t see anything?” You whisper, “There was nothing else in the room with him?”
“He seemed pretty confident they were alone,” Steve shakes his head as he drags his focus back to you. Your arms are crossed over your chest, fingers tightly bunched in the fabric of your sweater. While your brow isn’t pinched, your face is wrought with worry and frustration as you wrack your brain for any piece of information that could be useful. Unfortunately, you come up short.
The protective instinct to keep the teens safe is burning inside both of you, an impulse so great that neither of you think you’d be able to resist the urge. While only one of them is tied to you by blood, that sibling-like bond is not easily broken. You’re family now, through and through.
“I hate to say this…” Steve begins, moving one of his hands to rest on your bicep. He looks a bit defeated but still finds the will to continue as he steps in closer, his voice remaining low and hushed.
“I-I think we just have to wait. I know it could be a really stupid idea but…” Steve sighs as his thumb instinctively strokes the scar beneath the fabric that clings to your arm. It forces your eyes to meet his, equally earnest and distraught as he trails off in thought.
“We just have to hope that Nancy and Robin will figure something out before anything bad happens.”
You sigh too, raising your hand to grip his forearm extended between you, locking both of you in each other’s hold. Steve steps in closer and his shoe nudges yours as he watches your expression grow more distraught, the corners of your mouth turning down in a frown. You hate this.
A noise passes your lips — something similar to a scoff. Steve can already sense the shift of your tone before you can speak.
“I really don’t like it when you’re right.”
Your faces brighten. Not enough for either of you to smile, but the playful lilt in your voice is a refreshing change of pace. A sparkle in the vibrant color of your irises — a familiar sight in between the discussions of mortal peril. No matter what happens, at least you know you’ll be able to count on each other. Both of you will do what you can to protect Max like she’s your own.
You shift your hands to Steve’s waist, tugging on the fabric of that stupid blue polo of his to pull him even closer to you. His large palms move to rest on your neck, his thumbs swiping across the line of your jaw. A hint of a grin shutters across Steve’s face for a moment.
“When all of this is over, you’re taking me to see our home.”
You blink once, your eyelashes fluttering as you look away from him for a moment. Our home — it sounds so beautiful in his voice, like the safest place in the world. Your chest fills with that golden feeling you’ve gotten used to when you’re around Steve and a smile finally pulls at your lips.
You nod when you bring your eyes back to him, your cheeks heating at the soft adoring expression on his face. It’s a silent promise that all of this will be worth it in the end. Your new chapter together is starting soon — the epiphany waiting for you that will make the pain worth it.
“C’mere,” He mumbles, pressing a quick kiss to your lips before wrapping you in a tight embrace. You take a deep breath as you nuzzle your nose into his shoulder, inhaling his comforting scent. The pair of you stand here for a moment, soaking up the reassuring touches and soft words exchanged before having to switch gears once again.
“It’s gonna be okay,” You whisper, trying to soothe the anxiety that’s crawled its way into your minds. You emphasize the sentiment with a kiss buried in the slope of his neck. Steve wishes everything but you and him would melt away; he’s only reminded of his desperation for normalcy when he’s forced to remove himself from you. He kisses your forehead — the final act of sympathy before your thoughts begin to wander.
Twisting to look over your shoulder, your worried gaze lands on Max.
You recognize a lot of your younger self in her, specifically the version of you that existed prior to Will’s disappearance. Back then… you didn’t have anyone. There was no one that you felt like you could talk to if something was eating away at you. In retrospect, that was all you needed. You know from experience how important it is to have someone to let in. First it was Nancy, and when that didn’t last it was eventually Steve. But you can pinpoint the moment your shoulders started to feel a little bit lighter; it all started with your friends.
While Steve returns to Lucas and Dustin, you approach the younger girl. It takes Max a moment to notice you at her side, too lost in her own head to recognize anything happening outside of her own body. Except for what she scribbles onto the pages scattered in front of her — she is intently focused on those. Instinctively Max tries to cover her writings, but you’ve already seen enough.
“Letters, huh?”
Max sends an uncertain glance between you and the papers; she can’t sense any hostility or condescension in your tone. Your curiosity is genuine. She shifts, fiddling with the pen in between her fingers, “Yeah.”
When you sit next to her, an arm placed on the shorter end of the desk to prop up your head, Max finds herself spitting out the rest of her answer — she couldn’t help it even if she tried.
“Just in case I don’t get to say it before…”
She forces her expression to become stony, pushing away any thoughts of Vecna; she already feels him buzzing in the back of her head. Max’s feet shuffle beneath the table, “Y’know.”
You nod, pressing your mouth into a fine line as your eyes rove over her and the contents on the desk. Max’s voice betrays her outward appearance — the small break in her throat lets you in on how worried she actually is. Her eyes are tired, but not in the way that you’d expect from someone who didn’t get any sleep. It births a new fear inside your chest; when Vecna tries to come for her, you think she might let him.
“That’s a good idea, yeah,” You say softly, lowering your voice enough so it can only be heard by the two of you. Even with your show of support, you don’t think there’s much more you can say to reassure her. If you couldn’t guarantee her safety yesterday, you’re certainly not going to be able to do so as she hurdles towards her death. Anything you say now would be an empty promise.
But one thing you do know, as the pair of you sit here in an uneasy silence, is that you might be able to help her in more ways than one.
“Have Dustin or I ever told you about our dad?”
Max’s eyes shift back to you. There’s a wrinkle above your brow and a sadness in your voice that she doesn’t recognize — like digging up an old memory that stings. She shakes her head. You swallow harshly, removing your arm from the desk to cradle both your hands in your lap.
“He, uh…” You stop yourself, searching for the courage to speak the next few words out loud. After another second, your gaze spacing out on the floor in front of you, you finally find it.
“He left us. Walked right out.”
A small scoff passes your lips; Max watches as your jaw tightens, fingers intertwining with each other, “He didn’t want a family. And it was obvious. Hell, I could tell that he didn’t want the three of us and I was young. Ten, eleven at the time.”
“So… we were science fair trophies you could put on the shelf, nothing more than what we could do to make him look better. And I wanted him gone.”
Your voice doesn’t even waver. Even though you’re physically tense, you talk about him like this is normal, like you’ve just… accepted that this is what you had dealt with. Max shudders at that thought. This has been your story this entire time? She’s intently listening to you now, the letters long forgotten beneath her hands.
“I thought I was… the worst person for that. I shouldn’t hate my dad enough to wish he was out of my life, y’know? Some people don’t even get to have a dad. I tried to tell myself that I should be grateful. Worst of all, is that I actually…”
You laugh, averting your eyes from where they had been, darting up to the ceiling in disbelief, “I hated myself for feeling relieved when he finally left. But then I wasn’t walking around on eggshells anymore. I could… I could just live and be loved by the two people that I knew did.”
“That man… he’s a monster. The first one I ever knew.”
You’re staring down at the scar on your hand, forever etched across your skin in a horrific reminder of the boy that came after your father — two people so similar it’s a shock you ever considered allowing him into your life. But you were blinded by love; most people make their stupidest decisions when they are.
With a sigh, your voice finally softens, “And it took me a while to realize that the relief wasn’t a selfish emotion. It meant finally feeling safe enough to breathe, Max. It’s okay if you feel that. You’re allowed to be glad Billy’s gone, even if he was a part of your family.”
It’s Max’s turn to tense, her body growing uneasy at the mention of her step-brother. It’s unfair that you’re able to read her this well and instinctively know that her feelings regarding his death are more complex than meets the eye. Not even Lucas knows that.
You lean forward, moving one of your hands to rest gently on her shoulder, “Just don’t be too hard on yourself. Because I can promise you that it gets better. I know it doesn’t seem like it but-”
Your gaze moves to the boys just in time to see Dustin toss a paper airplane right into Steve’s nose at point blank range. Lucas’ smile grows wide as he laughs, throwing his head back over the edge of the couch as Steve whines. He rolls up the newspaper he had been reading and slaps your brother with it, a resounding thunk throughout the room. You don’t have to finish your sentence for Max to understand. There is so much love for both of you in this room.
When you refocus on her with a wistful grin on your face, your grip on her tightens, “It’ll get better.”
Max lets out a deep breath as you finally stand — everything you just said is swirling through her head. She doesn’t know what to think or which part of your confession to focus on more. That ache inside her has settled a bit; not by much, but enough to know the difference. Before you can drift away, she’s speaking.
“Wait.”
The girl shuffles through the envelopes on the desk, flipping through them before she finds the correct one. She gingerly holds it between her hands, staring down at the name scrawled across the front of it, and hesitantly passes it up — it’s addressed to you. Your brow pinches at the gesture, taking the letter from her as she shifts uncomfortably.
“Y’know… just in case.”
Her words, an echo from earlier, tug at your heart. You feel admiration and dread spread through your chest, a complicated bundle of emotions that makes your throat grow hoarse. A knot forms in the pit of your stomach — the urge to protect her from Vecna is even stronger.
—
When everyone regroups later that night, the weight on your shoulders has been replaced by a different one.
The desperation you felt, clinging to Max’s shoulders as you attempted to free her from Vecna’s curse while the boys searched through the cassette tapes. The panic that filled your voice, shouting to the redhead while her glazed over eyes stared right through your soul. The relief you experienced when she woke, the four of you huddled over her in shock that Robin and Nancy’s idea had actually worked. The sadness that silently poured down your face as Steve drove, his hand fused to yours across the front seats with his eyes darting between the road and the girl behind him.
You hope you never feel any of that ever again.
It still lingers as you sit here in the dark, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Steve at the base of the stairs. You both offered to take the first watch, letting the others get some rest after the eventful day behind you. It took some serious convincing to get Lucas to relax and assure him that nothing bad would happen to her while you and Steve were awake. That seemed to help; you think he finally fell asleep about twenty minutes ago.
Surprisingly, Max was the first to nod off. She must’ve been so exhausted her body couldn’t help but succumb to sleep when it came knocking. You’re thankful for that at least. You kept your promise — you protected her. Why do you still feel so unsettled?
Maybe it’s because you would have lost Max if Steve hadn’t reacted so quickly. In the end, the margin of error was seconds; you were seconds away from watching her die in front of you.
Or maybe it’s because the visions she explained are a type of fear you’re familiar with.
You don’t want to imagine what you’d see if you were in her shoes, far too many moments of guilt come to mind when you consider what Vecna would choose for you. Your mind is like a tasting platter of fear. You shudder involuntarily.
The thought of Vecna weaseling this way into your mind makes you feel this incredible sense of unease — you haven’t felt that in a long, long time. Who knows who he could choose next, which victim is being analyzed, dissected for his own personal enjoyment? Somehow, deep in your gut you know that it could be you.
You watched Max’s slow descent into anxiety. You saw her struggle to try and make amends with herself, to try and accept what she was feeling in order to push Vecna away. It mirrors your own experiences a bit too much. But instead of facing Vecna, you’ve been facing yourself.
You’d hate for anyone to feel the same for you. Glancing over to Steve, who sits silently beside you and lost in his own thoughts, you know the dread he would experience waiting for you to be taken. As much as it feels ridiculous to even consider such a thing, it’s not inconceivable.
Your lip stings from how hard you chew on it, but it’s barely noticeable with the storm of thoughts kicking up in your brain. It’s difficult not to think of the countless nightmares that have kept hours of sleep from you for the last couple years. A shiver passes through you at the latest one, the memory still fresh; the trigger that you pull that kills Steve.
The warm press of Steve’s arm, snaking over your shoulders and pulling you closer knocks you from your thoughts. You blink over at him, confused but welcoming of the closeness.
“You shivered,” He whispers, “Thought you might be cold.”
You can’t help but smile at the gesture but no words can help you form a reply. As if he can sense it, Steve squeezes you gently.
“What’re you thinking about?”
His tone is light, words breezy and you hate that you’re about to ruin it with your anxious mind. But you and Steve are built on your honesty and if anyone can ease you, it’s him.
“Y’know what Max said about… how Vecna chooses his victims?” You begin slowly, coaxing Steve along your train of thought. The urge to hide yourself is too strong and you shift under Steve’s hold, pulling your legs up onto the step and tucking them against your chest. Your throat is already growing thicker but you swallow and keep talking.
“Those with trauma… w-with guilt.”
Steve whispers your name softly, his hand around you raising to rest on the back of your neck. His touch forces your eyes to meet through the darkness; you hope it keeps him from seeing the glaze of tears beginning to form and your quivering lip.
He turns closer to you as you speak those words, the damning ones that he knows are going to haunt you for the foreseeable future. It shouldn’t be a surprise to him that your mind would force you to entertain these ideas, but he finds himself taken aback by it anyways.
You hate this because you can’t quite shake the fear that saying things like this aloud is like a prophecy; that you’re sealing your own fate by suggesting the concept to the universe. You wouldn’t be surprised if Vecna works in twisted ways like this. You curse yourself, feeling foolish for fueling that fear.
“Just… I’m worried that-”
“Hey, hey,” Steve speaks softly so he doesn’t wake the others, scattered around you in various positions, “He won’t, okay?”
His other hand comes up, brushing a tear that managed to fall onto your cheek; it’s not as dark as you thought, “He’s gotta get through me first, y’know.”
His words make you chuckle lightly, sniffling as you straighten your back to gaze at him properly. Steve intertwines your hands as he continues, “Besides, we know what to do now. If he does…”
He pauses, regretting that he could’ve just fed into your fear instead of comforting you, and then sighs, “We’ll be ready. And you’d get away, just like Max did. He’d regret ever trying to kill you.”
Something in the sentiment, the genuineness in Steve’s voice lights a flame in your chest because this is Steve; you’ve never been so sure that if anybody has a fighting chance, it’s probably you. His shoulders relax a bit seeing some of the worry leave your face, even more so when you give a wry smile.
“Sure you know my favorite song?” You whisper, that familiar teasing tone floating between you. Steve pretends to think about it for a moment, running over different memories in his mind.
“Oh, I don’t know,” He muses, fingers tightening in yours, “Footloose is definitely a contender.”
You grin fondly, well aware of what memory he’s thinking of — the two of you parked up by Lover’s Lake in the blistering heat of the summer. Amazingly, you had discovered that Steve could, albeit poorly, show off all the moves from the film. You both had taken a dip and were soaking up the sun when it had come on the radio, a tad static-y out by the lake but Steve had tugged you into the swinging dance moves regardless.
“I remember that,” You whisper back, lips twisting into a reminiscent smile. You nod as your thumb swatches along the back of Steve’s, “That was a good day.”
Steve nods too, his body filing with that now familiar, comfortable feeling you give him. He thinks about that day when you’re away; you had managed to swallow your guilt and let yourself be as happy as he had ever seen you. He wished he could show you what he sees in you without the sorrow of what you’ve done hanging over your head.
But that day? It was like nothing had changed.
“It was, wasn’t it?” He adds, shifting impossibly closer to you.
In the darkness of the Wheeler’s basement, he can still see the heat rise to your cheeks, or maybe it’s the sparkle in your eyes that gives it away. Steve knows that as soon as all of this is over, he’ll whisk you off for some getaway, something to help your hearts heal.
But until then, you’ll be forced to stay here with the others, praying that this’ll all be over soon. For both your sakes, you hope it doesn’t take long.