Chapter Text
HAWKINS, INDIANA
JANUARY 12th, 1995
You shouldn’t end your own life when you’ve got your dog with you.
The big, lovable, fluffy thing doesn’t deserve to see that. It would probably be confused, run off into the woods, and then his wife’ll have to send out a search party for the dog on top of having a dead husband, and that’s a lot of hassle. Or, the things loyalty would prevail, and launch itself of The Sattler Quarry after you.
It would be selfish. Stupid.
Steve Harrington isn’t suicidal, anyway. He doesn’t quite know why that thought is what popped into his head as he stands on the edge of the high cliff, watching the still, dark water lurk menacingly below. The cold, sharp breeze whips around him, his face cold as ice, brown hair falling around his forehead.
Buddy, the big, soft idiot of a golden retriever, is sniffing around in some plants a few feet away, probably trying to find something inedible to put in his mouth.
Steve doesn’t want to die. Doesn’t want to bring it upon himself, anyway. He’d never purposefully come here alone. He’d never thought of doing anything like that. He wouldn’t mind passing away quietly in his sleep one night, any night, but he puts that down to contentness. At least he convinces himself of that. That he’s content enough with his life so far that there’s nothing he’d regret doing, if he did take that one step forward right now.
He should be, anyway. He’s got a big house in Loch Nora, a few streets away from where he’d grown up. White picket fence, back yard big enough to host any middle class barbecue event you could think of. He has a stable job, working in finance, high up the ranks in his fathers business, that the old man promises he’ll inherit one day.
He’s got a loving wife. His Stacey. With her blonde curls and elegant blouses and her meatloaf recipe. They have a dog, Buddy, who doesn’t seem to even have any concept on the emotion ‘sadness’. Just a big bundle of joy and fur. They have a son.
George Harrington. He just turned four in November. The little brown haired, hazel eyed menace who looks terrifyingly like his father, and has a distinct interest in trains.
Steve was afraid he wasn’t going to be a good father. Scared he was going to end up cruel and cold like his own old man. He supposes he got enough practice in his teenage years, all that babysitting. He still was a little afraid, to be honest, but he loves his son. He loves his son more than anything, swears to the universe that he’ll give that little boy the best damn life he can.
Maybe that’s why he’s tempted to take that step forward. Maybe a life without Steve Harrington as your father is the best life you can lead. But, selfishly, Steve can’t do that. He won’t allow himself. He has to protect him. Has to raise him, the way his own father never raised him.
Buddy barks, loud and deep, and it echoes through the Quarry. Steve blinks, furrowing his brows as he snaps out the strange trance he had found himself in.
What an odd train of thought. Steve didn’t want to do anything like that. He steals one last glance at the horrifyingly far down abyss of water below, fingers flexing at his sides. He lets that little, dull flame flicker in his chest, the excitement. The danger. The small spark in his core that reminds him he’s, in fact, still alive.
He steps away from the ledge.
He turns towards Buddy, trying to ignore the lingering weight deep in his bones.
“What’cha barking at, Bud?” He says quietly to the dog, who just looks up at him, big eyes sparkling, teeth bared in a wide smile as his tongue hangs out his mouth.
Steve just scoffs a laugh, bending down to scratch the dog behind its ears.
“Let's go home, yeah?” He continues quietly. “I’m freezing my ass off out here.” He mutters, standing up and beginning to walk down the other side of the Quarry.
He shoots one last, over the shoulder glance at the ledge, before he turns, going to follow Buddy who’s already a few feet ahead, like he’s walking Steve, not the other way around.
He likes walking Buddy. He can walk around in the rain or sun, alone with his thoughts, a brilliant excuse to stop being the Head of Finance department, or Stacey's husband or whoever he was and just be himself. Steve, walking a dog.
It’s ridiculous and terribly monotonous, just like the rest of his perfect, American dream life.
Buddy practically drags him down the pathway to the front door of a house that is awfully like his parents house, and Steve pushes open the door to the sound of clattering and the smell of casserole coming from the kitchen.
He sighs, closing the door behind him and bending down to unclip the leash from Buddy's collar.
“Honey?” His wife's voice calls from the kitchen. He hangs up the leash on the hooks by the door, Buddy already disappearing into the house, paws pattering on the floor. He sheds his jacket, hanging up too.
“Hey, sweetheart.” He smiles, turning into the kitchen to see her, blonde curls tied neatly behind her head, wooden spoon in her hand.
“What’re you cooking?” He saunters over, running a hand through his still perfect hair. “Smells good.”
Stacey smiles at him, and they lean in, sharing a kiss, like its routine.
“Sausage casserole.” She grins. “Got the vegetables cooking, and there’s bread in the oven.”
“Anything I can help with?” He raises his brows.
“You could set the table,” She smiles gratefully. “Oh, and get Georgie.”
Steve nods, kissing her on the cheek before turning, ducking back out the kitchen. Across the hall, in the living room, his son is in the little play area they built, with the low, obnoxiously coloured fence that circles up half the living room. Inside, the floor is covered in plastic toys. As many toys as the kid wants.
“Hey, Georgie!” He grins, approaching the area. The little kid looks up at him, hazel eyes wide and faint freckles on his cheeks, mixed with the small moles that are spotted over his body, just like he had.
“Daddy!” His son beams, and it’s possibly the happiest anyone's ever been to see Steve.
He tucks his hands beneath the boys arms, pulling him up and into his arms.
“Mom left you all alone in here, kiddo?” He talks in that tone that parents always talk to little kids in. “How mean.”
He tickles the kids stomach, and the boy laughs with such pure joy it’s infectious. He grins, turning to go back to the kitchen.
“There she is. Mean old mom.” He mock-whispers, and Stacey looks up at them, and grins.
“Mean?” She plays along, stepping forward. “I’m not mean, am I, Georgie?” She leans in, tickling the boy as well.
George just erupts into giggles, with a few “Mommy!”’s or “No!”’s and other garbled 4 year old stuff.
Stacey and Steve look at each other, that pure, happy, prideful smile, their son between them.
“Alright, dinner time, boys.” She announces, pressing a kiss to George's head.
“Okay, kiddo. Let’s get you sat down.” He takes George over to the dining table, setting him down on a dining table chair with a booster seat, tucking him in.
He goes back to the kitchen area to pull cutlery from the drawers to set them on the table.
They all sit down, and have their family dinner. George has a little plastic plate with cooked sausages all cut up, vegetables and pieces of bread, with his little plastic cutlery, and his water in a Superman cup. Stacey helps him tear up the bread and Steve attempts to stop him from lobbing broccoli across the room.
They talk about the TV show they’ve been watching after they put George to bed, talk about the neighbours down the street who’re having very public marriage troubles, talk about Steve’s coworker who keeps eating his other coworker's sandwich.
It’s boring, and it’s normal, and it’s… good.
It's good. It’s not arguing, like his own parents did. It’s not… whatever the fuck his teenage years were. Fighting disgusting, evil creatures from a parallel dimension. It’s not working a minimum wage job and loving a boy.
Steve Harrington had everything he needed. Everything any man wants. Dreams of.
Which made it all the more confusing. The cold aching that settles over him at night, his son put to bed, him laying next to his wife.
Like it’s wrong.
Maybe he didn’t deserve it. Maybe because he was an asshole in highschool, the fact he never seemed to be good enough for anyone, he didn’t deserve this now. This normalcy. This peace.
Or maybe… something was missing. That was what scared him the most. That there was a hole in his heart and he’d plastered it over with getting everything he ever ‘dreamed’ of but it was still there and still empty and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to fix it, not now.
But then he wakes up in the morning and his wife kisses him and packs him lunch to take to work and his son grabs him by his pant leg and begs him not to go because he wants to play, and his stupid, lovable dog gets slobber on his nice shirt, and he forgets all about it, because everything's okay and he loves his family and they love him.
That’s all that matters to him now.
All that should matter.