Chapter Text
Three weird things had been unfurling like ugly little flags in the back of Steve’s mind.
He was hyperaware of anything supernatural: red gashes torn in the fabric of the universe, or the clicking purr of a hunting demogorgon. But something “only weird” seemed (ugh so dumb, stupid) kind of small beans to bring up.
He had tried with Robin at the station. But between the on-air chatter, and the warm glow of Buckley gushing about her new girlfriend, and the lockdown, and the Crawls; he started a lot of sentences he didn’t finish. It didn’t seem like the right time. Or a big deal. Besides, the laugh track, or fart cassette, or penny whistle didn’t whistle itself.
1. First weird thing: No matter how many times Steve was sure he had closed his bedroom window. Open in the morning. Frigid winter air, waking up with his nose already running.
Tonight, he tied a string around window’s handle. The other end he fumbled to knot around his wrist. Plans. Look, he had a plan. He was taking care of it, and no one had to help.
2. Second odd occurrence: nightmares. Maybe this didn’t seem so strange, and it was why the confession stuck somewhere in his ribcage. Robin didn’t need to know. Henderson, especially, never, never, needed to know about this.
The dreams were consistent. A dark shape sitting on his chest. A tattered science textbook said this could be sleep paralysis. But it was hard, in Hawkins, to chalk anything up to a medical phenomenon. Somewhere in the fear-based, skitter-y part of Steve, it was the monsters coming for him.
But, obviously not. The monsters had taken ample thwacks at him. They had their chance.
Vecna wouldn’t be sitting on his chest every night, one clawed hand looping down to scrape back his hair. Watching him in shadow. Silver glinting on his knuckles. So. That was weird. It was for sure weird. But probably not life-threatening.
3. Third weird thing: clothing was going missing. It’s not like his parents were home. He had the house to himself. Except when Robin stayed over, or the party needed more space. But mostly, alone. The heated pool glowing outside his room, giving his ceiling a blue, otherworldly halo.
First a winter coat he thought he had misplaced. He had other coats, but that had been the one he had worn most often. Then, gloves. Finally, his favourite scarf. The last one pissed him off. He knew he hadn’t lost it.
The string cut into his wrist, and Steve was awake. Flinging himself up. Why hadn’t he worn a shirt? Window open, freezing, nipples, goddamn nipples out, he felt exposed. He stretched to scoop the baseball bat off the floor one-handed.
Hadn’t thought past this part. The string was still tied to the window. The window was now open. Something had opened it. And Harrington was now picking at the string’s knot. He hadn’t brought scissors. Oh god, he wasn’t a planner. His plan was un-planning itself before his eyes.
Why hadn’t he brought scissors? Frantically scanning the bedroom, “Hello?”
Movement in the corner. He half-stood, and was pulled back by the string. Fuck. Half-in and half-out of the bed. One calf in the covers. Fingers pinching desperately at the string.
His scarf was striped red and grey. The brightness of the red wool was the most visible, bobbing in the dark corner of his room, near the door. The creature was hunched, close to the ground: wearing his scarf.
The knot was not coming loose. “Jesus Christ I’m stupid,” he breathed. Knelt on the bed, hefted the bat. He could defend from here. Slowly, his eyes adjusted, wind howling, whistling at the edges of the window. Flakes of snow tumbling past him, lit blue by the pool. He shivered, the cold buzzing down his spin.
The creature huddled. Its messy hair was a wild nimbus around its shoulders, face wrapped and hidden. Just two wide eyes. Its hands were wearing Steve’s gloves, he was pretty sure. And the fingers were curled up, tucked into its chest. The chest, of course, also covered by Harrington’s missing jacket.
Steve twirled the bat.
The monster flinched.
He felt bad. Shit, why did he feel bad? Peering forward, “Hello?” softer this time. “Come on, can I have my scarf back?”
The whipping sound of air being rapidly displaced as the creature unfurled giant bat wings. One leap and it was on Harrington’s bare chest, pinning. Its hand around his throat (wearing Steve’s own glove, which stung).
The monster’s other hand was wrapped around Steve’s fingers: both of their hands on the baseball bat. The weapon making circles in the air.
Harrington grunted, slinging more weight into his arm, throwing his hips. The weapon’s nails skidded across wing membrane, tearing small holes. The thing sucked air through its teeth. It dropped the bat, all the pressure now into the claws around Steve’s throat.
With its other hand, it pawed at the scarf, yanking it down. It bared fangs, and screamed into Harrington’s face. The sound loud, high, screeching, not human.
Steve’s lips parted. He stared at Eddie Munson. Eddie’s expressive mouth, round nose, deep-set eyes. But, fangs. Bat wings. And, more importantly, alive. Munson’s knees sharp on his chest; gloved fingers strangling his throat; mottled, scarred neck wearing Steve’s fucking scarf.