Work Text:
November 1984
Five days after the second almost-apocalypse, Steve returns to the junkyard.
He’s been released from the make-sure-you-don’t-die-in-your-sleep watch Mrs. Byers and Hopper insisted on two days earlier, and has spent the last couple of days slowly losing in mind inside his giant, silent, empty, empty, empty home; his record so far was three and a half hours of consecutive sleep, and even that didn’t help him feel more rested.
So, when he cannot bear the itch to crawl over his walls any longer – all the coffee he had chugged down to help him stay awake certainly not helping – he makes up his mind, gets into the bimmer, and drives.
This time, there aren’t three kids whose safety has been thrusted upon him in tow; just the nail bat, as well as the walkie Dustin has given him after everything, explaining that Code Red means something Upside Down related, but sometimes we just use it to get in touch with each other and talk. And, like, hopefully everyone will finally learn their lesson and make sure they always keep them on and charged, really, think how much less trouble we would have been in if they would have just picked up!
(Steve hasn’t bothered to argue that if they would’ve, Dustin wouldn’t have gone to the Wheeler’s, and so he wouldn’t have run into Steve, and so Steve wouldn’t have been there to protect these kids, these goddamn kids, who have went through this twice now, goddamn it—)
He’s not sure why, exactly, he wants to return to the junkyard. Maybe he just needs to actually see, with his own eyes, that there aren’t any monsters lurking around there anymore. He’s not sure if it’ll actually help to ease the tension in his chest, the fear that it’s not really over; and he’s certain that pretending that things can just go back to normal won’t work this time. And yet, barely aware of the time that’s passed, just driving on autopilot, he finds himself at the junkyard again.
At first, he just walks aimlessly between the car scraps and junk littering the place. The fact that it’s noon, this time, makes him feel just a little less anxious, makes the junkyard seem a little bit more like the mundane dump site that it really is – but he still holds onto the nail bat with a death-grip, and the anxiety doesn’t go away, not really, and he has no idea when it will go away, if it will even go away.
He comes to a halt, suddenly, almost angry with himself, because god, it was just so fucking stupid to think that coming here would erase the memories, the pain, that deep, wrenching feeling that suffocates him from inside. It was a stupid idea, and he is stupid, for thinking that it’ll help, and he’s so, so fucking frustrated, and he has no idea how to just keep on living with this, like the kids have been for a year now, facing actual monsters to protect their friends and town while the government just looked away, opened up this hell-dimension and then just placed the fate of the world in the hands of a bunch of thirteen-year-olds, a bunch of thirteen-year-olds who can somehow do all that and then keep on laughing and bickering and arguing over their nerdy games and comic books, who seem to just go on being kids when he’s one second away from clawing his own eyes out—
He lets out a frustrated yell, and swings the nail bat onto the driver’s side window of the car to his right.
It takes a second to register what he’s just done. He has no idea where in the hell it came from, why he has done it, but he’s felt a tiny rush going through him when the bat hit the glass. He does it again, with the second window, and there’s that rush again, and a manic sort of laugh he’d never heard himself make spurts out of his mouth – and so he walks around to the other side of the car and does it again. And again. And again.
He’s not sure how long he actually spends around the junkyard, smashing windows, hitting the hoods of cars around him, kicking the scraps of junk loitering the space; shouting, screaming, laughing like a maniac, letting all of his frustration and anger out for what feels like the first time in forever.
The adrenaline that has washed over him goes down, eventually. But in its place comes this sense of calm, or as calm as this new reality allows him to feel. He’s not delusional enough to think that this will mean that he’ll be able to sleep through the night, but when he gets into his car and drives back home, the tension in his chest feels a little bit lighter.
March 1985
He’s driving back home from school, radio turned to a random station, when the opening of the song that begins playing catches his attention. He keeps on listening, and yeah, he can certainly relate to the need to shout and let out all the things he can do without. When the song’s over, the radio host says that it’s by Tears for Fears, from their new album that was just released.
He hasn’t exactly grown tired of his music, but there have been more and more days lately when none of his tapes or records have felt right – just too happy, or too mellow, or too… something he can’t quite pin-point.
Curious, he drives to Hawkins’ music store the following day, but apparently they don’t have the album yet. And it’s not like he was doing anything today, his social life nowadays mostly consisting of driving the kids around, so instead of going home, he figures he might as well drive to the bigger store that’s at the next town over.
He finds the Tears for Fears album pretty quickly in the new releases display, but it feels a bit silly to drive all this way just to head back home after a couple of minutes, so he keeps browsing around the store. After a while, one tape catches his eye: the woman on the cover is almost washed out by the lighting, her whitened face a sharp contrast to her black shirt and hair. Picking it up, he sees that it’s by Joan Jett, called Glorious Results of a Misspent Youth – which, hah, sounds about right. He picks it up as well, figuring that maybe loud guitars is what his recent mood requires.
Further along, he spots an album by a band called Dead Kennedys, which makes him chuckle. And maybe picking albums based on their titles is dumb, but then again, Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables is a really good title.
He pays for the three tapes, and opens the Tears for Fears one when he gets back to his car to play on the drive home. The song he heard on the radio is apparently the opening track, and the rest of the album’s great too, some of the lyrics hitting maybe a little too close to home. He finds himself really enjoying the Joan Jett album too, over the following week; some of the songs are calmer, some indeed filled with loud guitars, and he can certainly relate to plenty of the songs on this one, too.
The Dead Kennedys album, though, stays unopened in the glove compartment. As the days go by, picking it just based on the title does start to seem dumb, and he can’t imagine himself enjoying songs with titles like “Let’s Lynch the Landlord” or “I Kill Children”. It isn’t until a couple of weeks later that he first listens to it; after trying and failing to fall asleep, he gives up at around 2am and decides to drive around for a bit instead, and after contemplating whether to put some music or to drive in silence, he figures he might as well try listening to it once.
And, well, it turns out that he can, and does, enjoy songs with such titles. The music’s loud, and fast paced, and political, and angry, and exactly what he’d needed.
He heads back to the music store that weekend and walks up to the register with the tape in hand. “Hi,” he greets the cashier when she looks up from the magazine she’s reading. “I, uh, bought this album here a couple of weeks ago, and was wondering if you could recommend any similar artists?”
He leaves the store with a couple more tapes; and he still listens to ABBA when he cooks, and to Bruce Springsteen on his drives to school, but the next time he heads to the junkyard, he brings his walk-man and the Agent Orange tape with him, too.
July 1985
“Look, Steve, are you really sure you wanna do this? Cause I get wanting to cut your hair on a whim, especially after big life-altering events, but when I decided to cut my own bangs when I was fourteen and felt sad one evening it turned out horrible, like, they were totally uneven and I had to spend 15 minutes every morning to make it look passable enough that I don’t get laughed at until it grew long enough to get it fixed, and it sucked, Steve, it really, really sucked. But you’re not a socially-awkward fourteen-year-old, you’re Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington, and if I make it too short or uneven or if I accidently give you a bald spot, I’m gonna be the one that fucked up Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington’s hair, and I don’t know if I can handle that much responsibility, and maybe you should sleep on it some more—”
“Robin,” Steve interjects, turning to face her. “Rob. Stop spiraling.”
They’re in his bathroom, Steve sitting inside the tub with his shirt off, Robin sitting on the edge with a pair of scissors and his hair clippers next to her.
“Look,” he says, taking her hand. “I just… don’t wanna be Steve ‘the Hair’ Harrington anymore, or King Steve, or any other stupid nickname I got in high school. I don’t wanna be that asshole jock anymore. And I just… need to do something that’ll make me feel a little less like that past version of me. I trust you, okay? Worst case, we find another job where we have to wear hats.”
Robin stays silent for a couple of seconds, then squeezes his hand. “Okay. Okay. We can do that. I’m still nervous though, it feels like I’m about to perform surgery or something.”
“You’ve got this, Buckley,” he says with a smile.
“Do you want anything, like, specific?” she asks.
Steve thinks about it for a moment. “Nah,” he eventually says. “Surprise me.”
“Well, here goes nothing, I guess,” Robin says, and picks up the clippers.
They both stay silent while Robin’s working on his hair, save for a mumbled “shit, sorry,” when Robin almost grazes the top of his ear, and occasional instructions to turn his head this way or that. He lets the noise of the machine wash over him, content to just sit in the silence – it’s one of his favorite things about his new friendship with Robin, the fact that they can just exist next to one another in comfortable silence, just as easily as they can talk each other’s ears off when they really get going.
After a little while, Robin grabs his jaw to turn his head from side to side, giving it her final approvement. “Okay, I think I’m done. Get up and take a look at Steve 2.0.”
He tries to brush as much hair clippings as he can off his shoulders, then gets up from the bathtub to take a look at himself in the bathroom mirror. His reflection is somehow similar and foreign at the same time.
“I kept most of the hair up front and in the middle, so you can still do that swoop-thingy, but I shaved the sides and shortened the back a bit,” Robin says, getting up from the bathtub and coming to look at him through their reflections.
He runs his hands through his now-shorter hair and tilts his head to check out the sides. ‘Steve 2.0’ does feel like an apt description: it’s still his hair, but not quite – it’s different, it’s new. It’s exciting.
“I love it, Robs,” he tells her, turning from the mirror to look at her directly. “You nailed this. I’d give you a hug, but I’ll probably get even more hair on you.”
“Yeah, no, you definitely need to shower and wash all this hair off,” she says, and then, in true Robin fashion, she goes off again. “Do you think you’ll need to change your styling routine? Oh my god, will you even be willing to depart from Farrah Fawcett? We could probably get you new products and try things out. Oh, and we can buy some hair dye! We can do it on the sides, that way the bleaching won’t damage your hair too much, and think about it, we can dye it a different color every month! I’m thinking blue, maybe red? I think that could work with your complexion—”
“One step at a time, Rob,” he says with a chuckle, and shoves her out of the bathroom so he can shower.
They head to Indianapolis the next day, Robin insisting that they have to go shopping for new clothes to complete the look, and that they should go to a second hand store she knows in the city. Rummaging around his glove compartment to pick some music, she squeaks when she spots his Joan Jett cassette and immediately pops it into the radio player. They roll down the windows, letting the wind wash over them, and belt out the lyrics along the music, and it all feels so simply joyful.
That joyfulness carries along with them to the second hand store, too: Robin immediately starts throwing clothes at Steve that she thinks could potentially work, but her choices quickly turn more and more ridiculous, with Steve joining her with choosing clothes for her to try, too. They spend a long time in the dressing rooms, modeling ugly suits and weird blouses to each other, and even a single dress that Robin only agrees to try after Steve promises he’ll take the mental image with him to the grave, but they do find some actual things that could work for Steve; they leave the store with a couple of t-shirts each, a button-up shirt for Robin, an old pair of boots for himself, and a black denim jacket that Robin liked too, so they’ve agreed to have shared custody over it. As they make it back to the car, Robin talks excitedly about finding patches for the jacket that could combine the tastes and personalities of both of them, and Steve looks at her and cannot help but thinking, again, how lucky he is to have found her.
October 1985
“Okay, one more time?” Robin says.
“We’re gonna be together the entire time,” Steve repeats the mantra they’ve been telling themselves for the last couple of days, “and it may be an illegal studio, but it’s not an underground Russian military base.”
“And, we’ve faced a giant flesh-monster, we can handle some needle and ink,” Robin continues with a nod.
Taking his eyes of the road for a second, Steve grabs her hand. “And listen, Robbie, you know that we don’t have to do this if it’s too much, right? It won’t mean we’re cowards or something. Just say the word and we’ll get out of there. Okay?”
“I know,” Robin says, squeezing his hand. “I’m nervous, but I think it’s the good kind of nervous. I wanna do this.”
After Steve half-jokingly suggested getting matching tattoos late one night, they’ve spent some time contemplating whether they’re actually ready to handle the needles and the pain involved; but Robin eventually claimed that it’ll be good exposure therapy, and said that she can ask a friend who has some tattoos where they should go.
Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t even asked who she meant. “Who’s that friend who told you about this place, anyway? No offense, but I can’t imagine any band kids getting multiple illegal tattoos as their teenage rebellion.”
When Robin doesn’t immediately answer, he turns his head to look at her, and sees her nervously biting her lip. Right.
“Why do I get a feeling that I’m not gonna like your answer?”
“Because… you won’t?” Robin says sheepishly.
“Spill it, Buckley.”
“Look,” Robin sighs, grimacing. “I didn’t wanna tell you before because I knew you’d make a fuss, but just hear me out first, okay? Eddie Munson sits next to me in my history class, and he has some nice tattoos, so I asked him about it.”
Of fucking course. Steve should’ve known.
“And before you get mad about it—”
“Mad?” Steve interjects. “Why would I be mad? It sounds like a perfect idea to ask for advice about permanently scarring our skin from Eddie ‘the Freak’ Munson. Y’know, Eddie ‘high school drug dealer’ Munson? Eddie ‘Dustin’s new idol’ Munson?”
“See, this is why I didn’t tell you,” Robin continues, “because I knew you’d go into this macho-ego thing you go into whenever his name is mentioned because you think that Dustin’s replacing you, which he isn’t, that kid loves you, it’s just your insecurities speaking again, but, despite that, Eddie was actually really nice and helpful! He told me where he got his last couple of tattoos, and said that we can trust that place. He even explained to me how it works and about the pain and everything, and he said something about bringing ear plugs, but from what he said, I don’t think the machine will be that loud, and he was just… nice, and reassuring about the whole thing. So just. Put your jealousy aside and trust me on this, okay?”
“It’s not jeal-,” he starts to protest, but gives up halfway through. “God, fine. You’re lucky I love you, Buckley.”
“Love you too, Stevie!” she sing-songs back.
When they get to the address Robin was given, they’re let in by a girl with buzzed hair and an impressive amount of piercings in each of her ears. Unsurprisingly, Robin turns bright red when the girl turns to her and asks what they’re looking to get today; Steve just chuckles and takes over the conversation himself.
The guy who’ll actually tattoo them both, who introduces himself as David, quickly draws up an ice-cream scoop for them, and before long, everything’s ready to start.
“You wanna go first, or should I?” Steve asks Robin.
“I’ll go first, yeah. Less time to chicken out,” she says.
Wordlessly, Steve takes her hand in his while David applies the stencil to the inner arm of her opposite hand. “Ready?” David asks, machine in hand. Robin hums in approvement, squeezing Steve’s hand a bit harder as the needle first touches her skin. She’s grimacing slightly, but overall she seems fine.
“You good, Rob?” Steve asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine. Doesn’t hurt as much as I expected it to. Don’t worry, it’s not even close to Russian torture.”
David barks out a laugh at that. “You two certainly make an interesting couple,” he says.
“Definitely not a couple,” Steve automatically answers. Robin simply makes a gagging noise.
Raising his head up, David gives them both an assessing look. “Right,” he eventually nods, with an expression Steve can’t quite interpret, and goes back to his work.
When Robin’s tattoo is done and wrapped, David cleans and prepares his station again and he and Robin exchange places. Just like before, Robin holds his hand, but he finds that he doesn’t really need her too; maybe the multiple beatings he endured over the past couple of years skewed his perception of pain, but the passing of the needle just feels like light scratches, more irritating than painful.
“Yeah, the Russians were much worse,” he tells Robin after a couple a minutes, making David chuckle again and mutter, “I honestly don’t know if I wanna ask.”
“Eh, you wouldn’t believe us anyway,” Steve says with a grin.
When they’re done, David wraps Steve’s tattoo and explains to them how to take care of them while they’re healing. Saran-wrapped hands and all, they grab something to eat before their drive back to Hawkins.
“Do you think Dustin and Erica will like them?” Steve asks Robin between mouthfuls of burger and fries.
“Oh, we cannot show these to Erica,” Robin says. “She’ll either say that it’s the stupidest thing we’ve ever done or ask us to take her to get one too.”
November 1985
The healing process is a bit annoying, but it’s not too bad; they’ve both taken to randomly yelling “slap time!” when their tattoos start to itch, getting more than one questioning look from customers who see one of them repeatedly hitting the other’s arm.
Still, he finds himself fascinated by it, watching as the tattoo changes from shiny black to dried and peeling until all the flakes come off to reveal the ink that’s now under his skin. He keeps absentmindedly running his fingers over the healed tattoo, amazed by the fact that this part of his life, of his self, is now not just etched onto his soul, but also his skin: a visual representation of who he his and what he’s been through.
And so, he’s not that surprised that about a month later, he impulsively decides to return to the studio.
He’s not sure how many people actually work there, but David’s the one to tattoo him again – this time, a much larger tattoo of his nail bat on his upper arm.
“Let me guess, you used a bat like this to fight those Russians you kept talking about last time?” David asks a little after they get started.
“Demodogs, actually,” Steve answers with a chuckle.
“Dem–, you know what, I’m just not gonna ask this time too.”
They sit in silence for a little while, Steve letting his thoughts wander, weirdly relaxed by the feel of the tattoo needle brushing over his skin. After a few minutes, though, he recognizes the opening notes of “Rise Above” playing over the studio’s sound system, and starts to silently sing along.
“You a Black Flag fan?” David asks him when he notices him mouthing the lyrics.
“Yeah, they’re great,” Steve answers with a shy smile.
“Lily’s been playing them non-stop for the last few days,” he says, gesturing with his head to the girl that Steve and Robin met when they first came in, who’s currently on the other side of the store. She’s completely focused on the paper in front of her, alternating between using the pencil she’s holding to sketch whatever it is she’s working on and to drum alongside to the music. “They’re playing a show here this Friday, she’s insanely hyped-up about it. You should come, if you’re free.”
“Maybe, yeah, I’ll see if I can. I’ll ask Lily about it later,” Steve says.
When Friday comes, he can’t quite calm down his nerves. He spends a ridiculous amount of time agonizing over what to wear, eventually deciding to go his and Robin’s jacket over a t-shirt, a pair of jeans and his boots, and to just hope he won’t stick out like a sore thumb. He’s still a bit nervous, coming into the venue. Thankfully, he’s not the only one there who’s not wearing vests or pants completely covered by patches, but still – even aside from the fact that he doesn’t know anyone here, he’s never even been to a show like this.
He’s contemplating whether getting a beer will help to ease his nerves when he hears someone call, “hey, nail bat guy!” and he turns his head to see Lily walking up to him, David and another girl in tow.
David and Lily introduce him to the other girl, Jo, who immediately offers him a bright smile and asks, “is this your first punk show?”
“My nerves really are that transparent, huh?” Steve says, grimacing.
“Nah, I just have an eye for it,” Jo says, still smiling. “You can stick with us tonight, don’t worry.”
“Told’ya!” Lily calls out to David with a cheeky grin, making Jo pout.
“C’mon, don’t give me that! You know I can’t help it when it comes to adopting strays,” she argues.
“And I am continuously amazed by your remarkable mothering abilities,” Lily says to her, pulling her in with a hand around her waist.
“It’s okay, I kinda get where you’re coming from,” Steve offers with a smile. “I, uh, somehow found myself adopting a gaggle of teenage nerds last year. Might be fun to be on the other side for a change.”
They keep on chatting until the show starts; David asks to see how the new tattoo’s doing, and Jo asks about the last patch Robin’s just sewn onto their jacket, which leads to him telling them about Robin and explaining that they share it, which Lily seems to find really cool, for some reason.
When the band does come on stage, he feels the energy throughout the room spiking up. Listening to them preforming live, even this far from the stage, surrounded by people and smoke and sweat, is such an allover experience as it is. Then, a couple of songs into their set, Lily turns to shout something in Jo’s ear, who nods enthusiastically before turning to Steve.
“Ready to go into the trenches?” she asks, shouting close to his ear to be heard over the music. His hesitation must show, because she nudges his shoulder, a little glint in her eyes, and leans back in to add, “c’mon, nail bat, it’ll be fun! There’s always a first time, right? And I really did mean it when I said you can stick with us.”
And, as the answer often seems to be these days, Steve figures that sure, why not.
He leaves the show with Lily and Jo’s phone number, scribbled onto a receipt and tucked into his pocket, after promising to give them a call the next time he and Robin will be in the city. His left ear is still ringing a little bit, and there are probably a few new bruises forming on his arms. He should be tired, he should be exhausted, and his body probably is wrung out, underneath all the adrenaline – but right now, driving full-speed back to Hawkins, he feels wide awake – a little giddy, a little wild, and just so fucking alive.