Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was funny, Dustin thought, how insignificant a day it was after–everything. After ten hours spent locked in an elevator full of vials of unknown substances (the probability of them being harmful was high and later confirmed), discovering an underground Russian laboratory and subsequently that they were using the laboratory to tap into the Upsidedown, escaping said laboratory, and aiding his party in the destruction of the Mind Flayer–today, by comparison, was completely and utterly ordinary. Boring, even. 

Since picking him up the night prior, his mom had given Dustin very little room to breathe, though he supposed that was to be expected. He couldn’t imagine there were many parents who wouldn’t be annoyingly overbearing after their kid was trapped in a mall fire. 

Well, in retrospect, Dustin supposed he could think of one set of parents. It had ultimately been that thought process that had him kicking himself–how the hell had he not thought about Steve?

After the events of the evening, paramedics had swarmed the mall, diligently checking each member of the party and only releasing them into their parents’ care. Dustin remembered the death grip his mom had on him. As she checked him over, the typical motherly platitudes followed: don't you ever scare me like that again, thank God you're all right, I love you. 

He had, of course, returned the sentiment as he was directed towards his mother's car. It was only then had he noticed one Steve Harrington. Standing–he should have been sitting, but no, he stood watch at the back of the ambulance where Nancy and Jonathan had been tucked inside. Under the glow of the mall lights and the growing fire, it was hard to make out much of the damage. With all of the commotion, Dustin had been surprised when he’d turned and met his gaze.

With a confused look and a furrowed brow, he'd raised a hesitant thumbs up, a wordless question; are you all right? At the time, Dustin had found some amusement in the action. Steve, beaten half to hell, was worried about him. Dustin had flashed a weak grin, one born mostly out of disbelief. As he slipped into the passenger seat of his mom's car, he'd raised his own thumbs up in response. Dustin didn't know how Steve got home that night. Hell, he didn't know if Steve got home at all. Furthermore, if he had gotten home, he was most likely alone, as he typically was. 

While Steve hadn’t, and probably would never outright say his parents sucked, it was blatantly obvious. In nearly all the time Dustin spent at Steve's home, his parents had always been notably absent. Ignoring the fact it may have been insensitive to mention, Dustin had asked why they were always missing. It had been with a scoff that he’d explained they were usually traveling for business. Or vacation. Or, really, just on a whim. Dustin struggled to wrap his head around that response because:

1. He was their damn kid and
2. He was Steve. Why would they not want him around? 

So, based on the observations he'd made and previous experience, it was likely that Steve had once again returned to an empty house after everything he'd experienced the day before. That possibility gutted Dustin.

It was out of concern that he'd decided to pick up the landline and dial his number. A quick call could quell his fears; a quick check in, even if Steve was snippy or groggy or whatever. Just talking to him would ease his concerns. The number was promptly dialed and the receiver pressed to his ear.

Hello, you've reached the Harrington residence. Leave your name and number and we'll get back to you as soon as we can. 

Okay. There was no reason to panic: there were numerous reasons he could have missed his call. Yes, it was the middle of the day, but he was probably exhausted and concussions could typically cause that–or insomnia. Or he could have been in the bathroom, maybe he hadn’t showered the night before and was just getting around to it. He also had the pool in the back–shit he had to accept his delusions when he reached that excuse. Regardless, he had forced himself to wait a few minutes before he attempted to call again. 

Hello, you've reached the Harrington residence–CLICK.

This time, the receiver was returned with a bit more force than it had been previously. He had gotten home. He had to have gotten home, it was Steve. He was resourceful; he always made it out on top–if a bit battered and bruised. Again, the number was dialed and he found it difficult not to gnaw on the inside of his cheek as the phone rang.

Hello, you've reached the Harrington residence. Leave your name and number and we'll get back to you as soon as we can. 

BEEP

“Steve–it's Dustin. If you're hearing this: PICK. UP. THE PHONE.” Dustin paused, his frustration and anxiety mounting. Okay, he needed to keep a level head. 

“PICK UP!” He knew he'd never been particularly good with masking his panic, however, he still found himself flushing with that last outburst. He finally resigned himself to forcing a sigh, meanwhile, his palm pressed against his forehead. “Okay–I’m going to assume you're probably sleeping off the mother of all concussions so–call me when you get up. If I don't hear from you by the end of the day, then you're going to see me. Just–call me back, Steve.” 

Click. 

After returning the receiver for the third time and with a bit more care, Dustin stewed in the heavy silence. He didn't like this–that. Leaving this monumental question up in the air–Steve’s well-being. Additionally, he hadn't wanted to appear overbearing. Sure, Steve could fly off the handle, but he always tried to maintain a cool air about him. He would throw endearing insults, trying to maintain a sense of calm in the face of danger–so long as it wasn't the kids that were involved. The only time he really had seen him crack was when he and the other younger teens had the potential to be put in harm’s way. 

Honestly, the more Dustin reminisced, the more he recognized that Steve often protected them at the detriment to his own well-being.

Hargrove was a perfect example. 

The fact Steve had been able to function at the level he had that night was nothing short of astounding. The sentiment held for the night prior: Dustin hadn’t any idea how he had managed to pull the stunts he had while beaten to high hell and drugged. With both nights, Dustin also couldn’t claim to know how the hell he’d managed to get himself home. 

They never should have brought him to the tunnels that night. They hadn’t many options, Dustin knew, as leaving him with Billy had been out of the question; they couldn’t risk him waking with an unconscious, defenseless Steve beside him. But, in the same regard, he knew damn well bringing Steve along would inevitably lead to his participation underground; the fact he'd brought his bat was a testament to that very fact. It was only afterwards did Dustin acknowledge that was selfish. Yes, they needed him, but it was still selfish. 

And after everything he had done that evening, no one had checked in with him in the aftermath. Their touching reunions and celebrations and explanations (because he did, in fact, have to explain why a demodog was shoved into the Byers’s fridge) created enough chaos for Steve to slip silently out the front door. No one questioned his absence–at least, not for some time. 

What followed after was a bastardized series of events based on what Dustin had been able to pry from his sources: Steve had skipped school–understandably. However, attendance had called Mr. Harrington (Steve’s father: Steve always referred to him as his father) who was, apparently, pissed. It hadn’t been the first time Steve cut class and he assumed his son was either nursing a hangover or skipping to drink and then nurse a hangover. Either way, he’d called the police station looking to get a “wellness check" which was a pitiful cover up for his true motives: scare the shit out of his son. It, also, wouldn't have been Steve's first run in with Hopper.

It was only upon receiving the call had Hopper realized the kid had completely slipped through the cracks. This wasn’t his kid to worry about no, but Jesus, the thought should have occurred to him. He was a minor who Hopper knew had taken one hell of a beating that night. Moreso, this was a kid he knew was routinely neglected by his parents. Sure, he had the fancy car, and the house, and the hair, but he was alone. He had a big ego, but he wasn’t a bad kid. Jim sure as hell knew the type and when it mattered he stepped the hell up. He would excuse his lack of action on his reunion with his daughter, but that was a really flimsy excuse in his book. Regardless, he’d taken the call and made the trip to Loch Nora.

Hopper had pounded on the door and the response took much longer than he was comfortable with. When Steve pulled back the door, it took Hopper some strength not to wince at the very state of him. Hargrove had left his face a fucking mess; and poor Steve wasn’t doing much better at the sight of Hopper. The chief’s presence was confusing for an already disoriented Steve Harrington who just could not seem to comprehend what the hell he was doing at his house when he was actually behaving himself. 

The conversation between them had been something along the lines of:

“Got a call you’re cutting school, kid.”

“I missed a single day, Christ, are they that hard pressed?” 

“Steve, what day is it?”

“What?”

“What day is it?” 

“Tuesday.”

“Are you sure about that?” 

“Yes, it's Tuesday. I came home and fell asleep, decided to skip.”

“It's Wednesday, Steve.”

Apparently he'd struggled to swallow that information. He'd lost an entire day? When prompted, he also couldn't account for the missing time–he was positive he’d been asleep for most of it, though. 

At that point, Hopper had grown increasingly exasperated, mostly at his own ineptitude–leaving a fucking 17 year old to fend for himself after he'd protected the kids and, in doing so, received the beating of his life. 

“Do you know when your parents are going to be back?”

It had taken him a moment to process the question–apparently longer than it should have. Longer than Hopper would have liked. Finally, he'd scoffed, and he'd rubbed at his eyes. The light was clearly starting to get to him. 

“Well, they were supposed to be back on Thanksgiving, but you can see how that worked out.” 

“Thanksgiving?”

“What?” 

“You said Thanksgiving.”

“No, pretty sure I said Halloween.”

“Okay, that's enough, go pack an overnight bag.” 

What had been said to convince Steve to actually comply, Dustin wasn't sure, but the encounter had resulted in Steve Harrington spending some time at the cabin with Hopper and El. It was only when the chief trusted he could be left alone was he allowed to return to Loch Nora. Of course, had his parents returned home, Hopper would have allowed him to return, but Steve’s recovery had come first–to absolutely no one’s surprise.

Dustin couldn't help but wonder if his concussion had been made worse by the fact he'd gotten himself home that night; that he hadn't anyone to look out for him. He swore he wouldn't allow that to happen again. 

“Dustin?” God damn–his mom scared the shit out of him. Usually he was more aware of her puttering around the house. He would've been annoyed at her eavesdropping if he hadn't been shouting into the receiver. “I heard you yelling–is everything alright?”

“Yea, mom, it's fine.”

“You seemed upset.” 

Dustin heaved an overly dramatic sigh. Of course, he could never tell his mom the full extent of what he'd been through; not only was it unbelievable, but she would have lost her mind at the thought of her son not only evading, but attacking Russian soldiers. Monsters. But, aside from that obvious fact, he knew he was lucky to have her. At the end of the day, his mother loved him and, really, wanted what was best for him and, by extension, his friends. 

She was trustworthy. That went a long way for him. With that thought in mind, he relented–well, in a way.

“One of my friends got hurt pretty bad yesterday. I was trying to check in on him, but he wasn't answering.”

Claudia hummed in response. 

“I’m assuming you're talking about Steve?” 

At times, it was annoying how well she knew him. Of course she knew Steve; it was hard for her not to know the guy who'd basically become Dustin’s idol. Additionally, she sure as hell was going to meet the teenager whose home her son was frequenting. It went without mentioning that she had heard whispers; rumors in a small town were as common as mosquitoes. Not that they were even rumors flying; a child being routinely left to his own devices didn't exactly go unnoticed. When Dustin had begun gushing about him she had been reasonably concerned. None of them were entirely certain how it happened, but the older teen had somehow become a staple in her son’s life–her life. 

“Yea. It's Steve.”

“Oh, the poor boy. Was he injured in the fire?” 

Dustin bit the inside of his cheek once more. Of course, it would have been an easy lie, one that landed in his lap. However, one look at him quite obviously dispelled him being injured in a fire–unless the fire had fists. 

“Before it, actually. He got into a really bad fight. Y’know I told you he works with that one girl–Robin? She was–these guys were bothering her and Steve stepped in. It wasn't really a fair fight, but Robin’s okay.”

It was a lie, yes, but it wasn't entirely a lie. It was just a very watered down version of what had actually happened. His mother was still horrified no matter the cause. 

“Oh my Gosh–he took a beating before the fire? The poor boy.”

“Yea, which is why I was trying to call him. He seemed alright yesterday but he doesn't exactly have the best track record with this sort of stuff.”

“I don't blame you for being worried.” 

Right, talking to his mom did not calm his nerves. With Claudia confirming his concern was not, in fact, unwarranted, he'd proceeded towards the front door. 

“Dustin–”

“I'm going to take a ride over to his house real quick. Just to make sure he's–okay.” He was going to say still breathing but even joking about it made his heart rate hitch. 

While Claudia wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of Dustin running off again so soon after finding himself in a mall fire, she ultimately relented. Steve had always taken good care of him; if it was his house he was going to, she was sure he would be all right. 

“Okay, Dustin. Call if you need anything–or if Steve needs anything.” 

“Yep, thanks mom.” 

With that, the door swung open and Dustin was racing towards his bike. It would be a quick visit; confirm Steve was alright, because he was going to be fine, maybe hang out for a bit, then return home so his mom wasn't any more concerned than she already was. 

The trip to his house was a quick one; he couldn't remember the last time he pedaled so hard. He'd cut the typical travel time down by a handful of minutes as he pedaled up the Harrington’s driveway. Dustin found his brow furrowing as he approached the house, mainly due to the human-shaped figure already standing on his porch. Someone had the same idea as himself? More importantly, someone had beaten him to it? He should have been happy someone cared enough to check in, but the truth of the matter was that he was, perhaps, a bit jealous he hadn't acted sooner. 

As he hopped off his bike and threw it by the garage, he took a good look at the interloper before they turned to check out the commotion.

“Robin?” 

“Oh–hey, Dustin. I assume you had the same idea as me.”

Robin Buckley. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised to see her, especially after everything they had been through together. Dustin filed away any playful remarks he'd inevitably hurl at Steve later; for now, he had to focus on his goal. Now that Dustin was able to get a good look at her, he noticed the purple bruising beneath her eye. He wasn’t sure when she’d received that–then again, he wasn’t sure how Steve had ended up in the state he was in. Not that he couldn’t guess, though, he couldn’t particularly say it was a past time he wanted to indulge in. 

“You tried calling him, too?” Dustin questioned as he made his way over to the door. 

Robin had shifted her weight on her feet. 

“Uhh yea. I mean, I would have if I had his number. So, in lieu of a call, I figured showing up was just as good. Make sure he’s, like, alive and everything.” 

Dustin simply stared at her, mouth slightly agape.

“You don’t have his phone number but you have his address?” 

“Okay, so, when you say it like that it sounds creepy. Steve used to throw parties like biweekly back in my Sophomore year. It wasn’t exactly an invite only function. I'm guessing you did the calling?” 

“Yea. He didn't answer, obviously. Did you try the door?” 

“Obviously.” Robin echoed and, just to assure the kid, she grabbed at the handle to demonstrate it was unyielding. “I've been banging on the door for the past fifteen minutes at least.” 

At that point, Dustin had walked off the paved walkway and, instead, began to search the front of the home. 

“Good thing I know where he keeps the spare key.” Dustin mused, as he crouched down and began to silently stare at the abundance of rocks that adorned the home. 

Before he knew it, he could feel Robin looming over him. 

“Well? What’s the hold up?” 

A hand scratched at the back of Dustin’s head.

“Well–well–I have to remember which it is first.”

“Christ. Move over.”

“Are you sure you’re fine on your own?”

Nancy’s tone was soft–softer than Steve had heard in a long while. Had his head not felt like it was ready to split open, he may have appreciated it more. 

“Nah, I’m fine.” Steve had swatted a hand, meanwhile, he focused on breathing. His chest was aching less than his head, but that thought hadn’t made it any more bearable. 

“You know you can always come back to my place.” Jonathan’s turn to offer support–which why the hell was he doing that? Did Steve really look that bad? “My mom would be happy to have you.” 

“Nah man, seriously, I’m good.” With that, Steve had tapped the side of the car and pulled back. “You may hear from me asking for a ride, though. Have to get my car at some point.”

“Just let us know. Goodnight, Steve.” 

With a small wave, Steve had turned and proceeded towards his front door. 

Okay. Okay. He just had to get inside. Right foot, left foot, right foot–why were they sitting there? Jesus Christ, were they seriously going to wait for him to get inside? He stumbled slightly, cursed under his breath. Right foot, left foot–door. Locked. Keys–fuck, keys. Where was the spare key? Rock. He turned and stared at the mess of rocks, squinting under the low light and, frankly, blurred vision. That one. He knelt down, carefully, and prayed he wasn't wrong. Bingo. Key. Door. Finally inside. 

Steve turned and clicked the lock on the front door. He wanted so desperately to collapse where he stood, however, he'd settled on resting his head against the cool wood. 

Okay. He made it inside. Next course of action: get up the stairs, shower, painkillers, bed. He couldn't stay in his blood soaked clothes; he needed to wash the blood from his hair and what was left on his face. If he didn't take anything, he knew he was going to wake up in a world of pain. 

Slowly, he turned and stared at the staircase. 

Tall. So, so tall. Daunting. More daunting than his decision to T-Bone Hargrove’s car earlier in the night. No, he'd been tortured in this dumbass uniform–he’d been sprawled out on the shitty mall bathroom floor. Even reminding himself of his disgust wasn't enough to force him up the stairs. 

Fine. He would regret it the next morning, but he knew he had some painkillers in the kitchen. He'd shuffled his way in and yanked open one of his cupboards. While the words were fuzzy, he recognized the bright red cap of the Tylenol bottle and grabbed it. He poured three pills, added a fourth, and threw them into his mouth. He couldn't be asked to grab a cup, instead, he'd cupped some running water into his hands and downed them. 

Somehow his legs had carried him to the sofa where he promptly collapsed into the cushions. It wasn't his bed, but it was better than the floor. He doubted his bed would've done much better in calming the God damn storm raging inside his skull. Slowly, ever so slowly, he'd managed to drift off into unconsciousness. 

That was, until his phone started ringing.  

Steve swore he had only been asleep for a short while; needless to say he was both surprised and annoyed when he had opened his eyes and was promptly blinded by the light pouring in through the windows. He wasn't sure why he'd thought he wasn't concussed. Considering his track record, he should have come to expect them at this point. He feared this one would have some lasting damage; his ears were still ringing from the night prior. God, he really fucking hoped he didn’t have–what the fuck was it called? The ringing thing–the? Dammit, it didn’t matter. All of that was to say it seemed this would be similar to the last concussion he had. 

As the answering machine kicked on, Steve sat himself upright. His stomach lurched; he quickly pressed a hand to his mouth and a vague groan escaped him as his head swam. No, no, he wasn't going to throw up or pass out–he was going to get up and pull the curtains shut so when he did allow himself to pass out again, he wouldn't wake up blinded once more. For once, present Steve would be kinder to future Steve than his past self. A hand gripped his neck as he stood, stiff from sleeping on the couch. 

So as not to incite another bout of vertigo, Steve stood slowly and gripped the arm of the couch for balance as he waited for the second wave of dizziness to quell. As slowly as he stood he utilized the same speed as he proceeded to shuffle towards the window. God fucking dammit his head was pounding; his eyes felt like they could fall out of their sockets. At the very least, his left eye was almost entirely swollen shut, so that would protect that one from popping. 

Finally, he reached the first set of curtains and proceeded to yank them shut. Okay. Two more to go. Again, he began to move and he physically recoiled when the phone began to ring again. He hadn't the energy to spend on it; instead, he'd focused on closing the second set of curtains. By the time he'd reached the third, the phone had gone silent, and it was with a relieved sigh that he carefully laid back on the couch and attempted to will his stomach to settle.While it had been a lot of work for a small task, closing the curtains had provided him with a modicum of relief. 

“Jesus CHRIST!” 

Steve pressed his hands against his temples as the phone rang for a third fucking time. He regretted yelling the second it left his mouth; his head throbbed violently in response. He attempted to count the rings, desperate for it to end and once more leave him in silence. The answering machine kicked on, and Steve nearly breathed a sigh of relief before he heard the telltale beep of the answering machine and a shrill voice filled his home.

“Steve–it's Dustin. If you're hearing this: PICK. UP. THE PHONE.”

Dustin? Dustin had been blowing up his phone? Shit. While he hadn’t exactly caught the rest of his rant, it was clear by the tone of his voice the kid was worried about him; in other words, the absolute last thing Steve had wanted. Even worse; he hadn’t the fortitude to call him back and even attempt to feign normalcy. He absolutely despised making them worry for him and he knew it was a damn common occurrence. He was meant to be the one worrying about the kids–about his friends. Steve was a star athlete, he was capable and he was older. Dustin worrying about him made his already uneasy stomach clench. 

Perhaps it was also that he had gotten used to being alone through–anything, really. Despite the frequency of his injuries, he was typically left to his own devices while recovering; physically and emotionally. Except for the last time, he supposed. 

When Hop had shown up at this door, Steve had been both annoyed and disoriented. The prospect of staying with the Chief of Police was even more of an aggravation to the already irritable teenager. 

There was a small, childish part of him that honestly hoped he would hear a firm knock on his door. That Hopper would be standing there, jaw tightened, asking him stupid questions that would annoy Steve but were typical of a concussion protocol (he'd gotten them too many times in basketball to count). Hopper would tell him he wasn't leaving a kid to fend for himself, would take him back and actually make sure he got pain meds and was comfortable and looked after. He would cook for him and ask him about his day and the funny thing was he meant it. They weren’t the hollow pleasantries he’d become accustomed to with his parents. And then, when he could stand without toppling over and could sit in a lit room without wanting to claw his eyes out, he would be dropped off and once again left in an empty home that felt far too big for him.  

A child's dream, he knew. Hopper died back at the mall. Steve would have to process that later, for some odd reason. He wasn't sure why he of all people was feeling some sort of way about it, but he’d figured that shit out when he could actually form a full, coherent string of words. 

Anyway, the moral of the story was that he hadn't wanted to bother anyone–he was independent, no one needed to fret over him and he would figure his shit out like he always did. 

While his brain may have been jumbled, his body was still painfully aware of his surroundings. His heart rate hitched before his mushy brain had recognized why–there was someone outside–two people. He had considered getting up and scoping it out, however, his chest was aching just by handling the task of breathing. Instead, he laid with his eyes closed, straining to make out the voices. 

“SON OF A BITCH!” 

“Jesus!” Robin’s gaze was a mix of fire and confusion as her head whipped to look at Dustin. “What are you yelling about?” 

Dejectedly, Dustin had lifted the empty rock. 

“The key! The freaking key is gone!”

“Okay! Isn't that good news? I mean, if the key is gone, he obviously got home, right?” 

“I mean, sure, but why would he–” His keys. God dammit, he’d completely forgotten the Russians had taken his keys. “Shit.” 

“I don’t suppose he has any other hidden keys?” 

A glare was shot in Robin’s direction; Dustin knew this wasn’t her fault, however, it was hard to control his mounting frustration. 

“If there is, I don’t know about it. Did you try the back door?” 

“No, Dustin, I didn’t try the back door–I was already pounding on his front door, I don’t need the neighbors calling the cops on me!” 

“Jesus–there’s barely anyone around. I guess I have to do everything myself.”

“Wait–is there a window that's open or something? You're small, we can slip you through, redeem yourself for the vent?” 

“Wh–redeem myself? What do I need to redeem myself for!? Not fitting?” 

The front door clicked and the two instantly fell silent. Slowly, their heads turned to meet with the person of interest himself. 

“Why are you two out here screaming?”

Jesus. Steve looked horrible. While he had been bruised the night prior, there were now new blossoms of blue and purple across his cheeks and jaw. The cut on his lip didn't look great; blood crusted both it and his nostrils where he'd neglected to wash the day prior. His left eye was practically swollen shut, and still sported a shade of deep purple that was hard to look at. Equally as alarming, Steve still wore his Scoops uniform, blood now dried and smeared along the collar of his shirt. He leaned heavily against the frame of his front door, squinting in the light. Despite the enormous amount of pain he was in, he was determined to shoot the pair of them the mother of all annoyed glares.

“Heeey buddy.” Was Dustin’s weak greeting; in his defense, he had still been processing just how poorly Steve looked. 

“You were supposed to ask how I was doing today, dingus.” Robin was faster on her feet. She approached the door and promptly crossed her arms over her chest. “Imagine my shock when I don’t receive a call–then again, I’m probably just a number in the great list of girls waiting for Steve the hair Harrington to phone them.” 

Ironically, Robin had been quiet when they first began working together. Once she had begun ribbing Steve, however, all bets had been off. While they never exactly got into anything too deep, she still knew how to talk his damn head off. Usually, Steve was able to follow along, but today? She said a whole lot only for him to be stuck on the fact he said he would call–had he said he would call? Perhaps he remembered her making an offhanded comment, a quick quip, though he wouldn’t put it above himself to say he would check in with her; that absolutely sounded like something he would do. 

She looked concerned; the tug of her lips. The twitch of her brow. Steve suddenly recognized he’d been staring blankly for some time. 

“I don’t have your number.” 

That had felt like a reasonable response to her rant–or rather, what he had understood from it. Robin had released a soft sigh; she approached Steve and pressed a hand into his shoulder. 

“Steve–it was a joke. I came to check on you.”

“We came to check on you.” Dustin very quickly corrected as he met at Robin's side. “You weren’t answering my calls so–I wanted to make sure you got home last night. How did you get home?” 

Steve’s brows furrowed. He could recall Starcourt–the events that happened therewithin (how could he forget?). He remembered getting home, collapsing on the couch, his brain pounding against his skull. But the inbetween–how had he? No keys, so–

“Nance.” It came to him quite suddenly, however, Dustin and Robin had to wait a bit longer than they would have anticipated. “‘Nd Jonathan. They dropped me off.” 

“Okay, well, why don’t you scooch inside and let us in?” Robin took a bold step forward; while it may have sounded like a suggestion, she would liken it more to a polite command. 

Steve's awareness seemed to improve with the suggestion. He hadn't budged from his position in the door frame; instead, his brows were furrowing once more and a frown tugged at his lips. 

“I'm not exactly in the mood to entertain right now.” He'd finally given into the pain; a hand raised to shield his eyes from the sun. “What do you even want to come in for?” 

“I told you we're checking in on you.” Dustin reiterated. “I'm not leaving a party member in need.” 

“Jesus–yea, I'm in need of some peace and quiet.”

“Steve, no offense, but you quite obviously need someone to help you out a bit.” Robin took another defiant step forward. “You couldn't even be bothered to get out of that nasty uniform. I doubt you routinely use a sailor suit as pajamas. You need to shower and change–and probably wash whatever you slept on because, if you'll recall, you were laying on the bathroom floor. A mall bathroom.”

“Yea, I remember.” Steve squeezed the bridge of his nose. Quite frankly, he wanted to press his hands against the side of his head to find some relief from the pulsing. “Your parents are probably worried about you–just–go home. I can take care of myself.”

“Yea, I can definitely see that.” Robin scoffed and grabbed at the collar of his shirt, her thumb brushing over the crimson stains. 

“Talking doesn't work with him just–move.”

Dustin brushed past–or, well, shoved his way in between the older teens into the home. It wasn't as if he hadn't been there numerous times; he knew his way around and he did not mind having to push his way in. 

“Henderson–” Steve's voice lacked the typical conviction it would've held as he pried Robin’s hand from his shirt and followed carefully behind; he wasn't exactly the steadiest on his feet at that moment. “Henderson–come on, don't be a pain in my ass.”

“Don't be a pain in my ass!” Dustin spun around, arms crossed and waiting patiently beside the staircase. 

“Hey, you heard the kid. No one will be a pain in anyone's ass.” With that, Robin had moved her freed up hand to Steve's back and directed him inside of the home. 

“Okay–whatever. Make yourselves at home.” He heard the door click behind him, presumably Robin, as he made his way back towards the living room.

“No–no no, Steve, wrong way.” 

“Christ’s sake.” The words slurred together; he'd run two hands down the length of his face. 

Dustin, meanwhile, had swapped places with Robin and placed a hand on Steve's back, guiding him back towards the steps. 

“Bathroom’s this way, buddy.”

“I know where my bathroom is, Henderson.”

He didn't want to snap at him, but Christ, he needed to take more pain meds, his stomach was fucking lurching into his throat, and the thought of climbing the steps felt even more daunting than it had the night before. When his hands finally fell, Steve found himself staring silently at the swaying staircase. There was a reason he liked to wallow in his own misery; it meant there was no one he had to put on an act for. He could maintain it in the moment, for as long as he was surrounded by the kids–by Nance and Jonathan and now Robin. But the aftermath–that was meant to be his time to finally unravel. To sulk, and be hurt, and weak–because this was a weakness. Because Steve was supposed to be the hero; the rolemodel–the babysitter. And the babysitter took care of them, not the other way around. Sure, he had shown physical weakness (he had such a bad habit of getting injured), but his mental fortitude was always on full display. He was someone to look up to, just look at how he pushed through injuries to keep them–everyone–safe. With Hopper, he had made a rare show of lowering the facade. But Hopper was an adult–a real adult. Not the make believe one Steve was parading around as–had been parading around as since he was fifteen years old. 

Dustin was a kid–Robin was a peer. This was unprecedented territory for Steve to navigate–and he was having a real hard time doing so when his eye felt like it would fall out of his head. 

“Easy there, big guy.” 

Apparently, he had begun swaying, as Robin had wrapped her arms around his own to steady him. 

“‘S not happening.” 

Another set of hands gripped his right arm–Henderson. Slowly, he felt them tugging him closer to the bottom step. 

“Twelve steps, buddy, twelve. We can count ‘em.” 

A weak laugh escaped Steve with the suggestion. 

“What, like Elm Street?” 

Surprisingly, Steve could feel their eyes burning through him–right, so that was wrong. His brows furrowed and, in the silence, they had moved him up the first step. Elm Street–wasn’t it Elm Street? Second step–okay, he could do this, the room was only mildly spinning–shit, no Elm Street was that horror movie he’d seen with the kids–third step–Max loved it, for some reason, he remembered her really being into horror–or Johnny Depp. Probably Johnny Depp. Steve lurched–and the grip on either of his arms tightened. 

“Hey–hey! We’re already up four, don’t bring us back to one!” Robin leaned forward to flash Steve a playful look; he did not miss the concern written in the tightness around her mouth. 

“We also don’t need you giving yourself any more head trauma than you already have.” 

“Room’s spinnin’”

“I’d imagine it is.” With a soft sigh, Robin had gently rubbed his arm; a comforting gesture. 

“Just need to sit–”

“No–stay right there. You go down and we’re not getting you back up, Steve.” And though he had attempted to take a quick seat, Dustin had urged him to remain upright. 

Steve wanted to groan–actually, he wanted to whine like a petulant child. Instead, he closed his eyes and took some calculated breaths. 

“Sesame Street.”

“What?” 

“Sesame Street–before I meant–you know like the Count. He–counts.” 

Robin couldn’t help the snort that escaped her; she hadn’t a hand to cover her mouth, desperately as she wanted to.

“Yea, Steve, we knew what you meant.” 

“Well why didn’t you correct me?” When he had opened his eyes once more, they continued to lead him up the staircase. 

“Aphasia is common after concussions.” Dustin explained as they led him up step number seven. “This happened last time too, didn’t it?” 

“Yea.” He mumbled as they climbed step number eight. “But not the time before that.” 

“Jesus, Harrington, how many concussions have you had?” That was right; Robin was just now discovering his shit luck with his head. Maybe it was the hair that made him a target. 

“Too many.” Was the answer Steve had settled on and, honestly, it wasn’t an exaggeration. 

Somehow, the pair had managed to not only conquer the steps, but lead Steve into the bathroom where they carefully sat him down on the closed lid of the toilet seat. He had immediately folded on himself, his head ducked between his knees and his arms cradled it from the back. 

“Steve? Are you going to be alright to–” 

“Yes, Henderson, I can take a shower on my own.” Again he was snippy and he was so pissed at himself for it. 

“Okay. We’ll head out then–outside the door. I’m going to get you a change of clothes.” 

“And I’m going to raid your fridge.” Both Dustin and Steve managed to flash her a look with that comment. “What?” Robin had suddenly shifted to defensiveness. “I didn’t eat lunch today–Jesus, is making a sandwich a crime now?”

“Tylenol–kitchen. It’s in–in the–the–God dammit! The–it’s in the kitchen just–three, please.” 

“You’ve got it. Lunch of whatever Steve has in his kitchen for Robin and some toast and Tylenol for Steve.”

“Just Tylenol.”

Steve corrected as the pair headed towards the door. 

“Toast and Tylenol!” Robin called back before it clicked behind them and Dustin and her were left standing awkwardly in the hall.

They weren’t entirely sure what they were waiting for–perhaps to hear running water–or a thud or–anything from within the bathroom. Instead, it was silent. It was with a soft huff that Dustin had moved towards Steve’s room. Rather than doing as she said, Robin had followed behind and, instead, watched as Dustin began digging through Steve’s dresser. 

“So, we definitely cannot leave him on his own. He can’t even get up and down the steps on his own–I’m worried he’s literally going to wither away on the couch or in his bed–wherever we hypothetically leave him.” 

“Yea, I know.” Dustin was–distant. His rummaging was a bit more aggressive than anticipated. 

“I could definitely swing like–one sleep over maybe but any longer than that I think is a fool's errand. I can't exactly take him back to my house–my parents would be pretty confused if I brought Steve Harrington home after I've been bitching about him all summer–I mean–shit, no, I was but it was–complicated–anyway, the point is, it's not like I never plan on having him over but it'll be a process–”

“ROBIN.” 

“Yea?” 

Dustin sighed. He knew he wasn't frustrated with her, but rather, with himself. He knew Steve hadn't been suffering long, and chances were he'd been sleeping most of the time they had been apart, but it hadn't changed the fact he was left alone again. It hadn't changed the fact that he came home after being captured, presumably tortured, by a foreign military. That he had been completely and utterly alone after risking his life to save them again. His mom would've taken him in–happily would have taken him in, and wouldn't have heard a word about it otherwise. But, yet again, he’d seen the aftermath and chose to do nothing.

He tossed the pair of track pants on Steve's bed before he moved on to find a shirt. 

“He can probably stay with me. I doubt my mom would mind having him.” And, obviously it went without saying, that Dustin would be thrilled to have him over as well. 

Robin went quiet. It unnerved him enough that he turned to catch her leaning against the door frame, arms loosely crossed over her chest. 

“I think I can guess from the number of parties he threw in the past but–are his parents literally ever around?”

“No. I met his dad only one time and Steve basically shoved me out the door. But, I guess the positive is that we basically have another hangout spot. He still watches us, which is annoying, but it's less annoying than having parents around. And he gets it–I mean, obviously. So that understanding is–nice.”

“Huh. You know, I questioned why he had so many children visiting but, knowing what I do now–” Her face suddenly dropped. She remained silent, straining to listen. “Shit.” 

Robin bolted, leaving Dustin to stare at the now empty door frame. 

“Hey–Robin!” 

Of course Dustin followed; light flooded the hallway from the bathroom and his stomach dropped. He rounded the corner and peered inside to find Steve on his knees, his face buried into the bowl of the toilet as he wretched. Apparently he had managed to get halfway through undressing, as his shirt had been abandoned on the floor. Robin had knelt beside him and was rubbing soothing circles into his back, whispering gentle reassurances. 

“Ughh–f–fuuuck.” Steve had used an arm to prop his head against the toilet seat–still gross, but at least his face wasn't making contact with the porcelain. “How’s there even–anything left?”

After flushing the remainder of Steve's stomach contents down the pipes, she returned to her comforting.

“Hey, bright side, there's now probably nothing left to throw up.” 

“Yea. I feel really great now. Thanks.”

“Another positive: at least it's your bathroom this time and not a gross mall bathroom.”

“Tylenol.” Steve practically begged for the medication. 

“I'm sorry–I’m going to go grab it. I'll have it for you after your shower. Consider that motivation to no longer be covered in toilet germs.”

This time, despite his best efforts, Steve had been unable to hold back the groan that escaped him. At this point, Dustin had found himself standing before Steve, and a hand had been extended. 

“Come on, buddy. We'll get you back up.”

With another groan, he'd turned himself around, leaving his back to press against the toilet. It was only upon approaching, no longer covered by Robin, had Dustin been able to notice the damage that had been hidden beneath his clothing. Shades of purple and blue blossomed along Steve’s side, peppering his ribcage. Not good–best case scenario, he had some bruised ribs; worst, they were broken. Either way, for the time being, the point was moot. For now, they just had to get him on his feet and into the shower. 

Robin had pulled back to mirror Dustin, extending her hand to Steve. Surprisingly, he had accepted it without complaint, and allowed the two of them to pull him back up onto his feet. He swayed unsteadily for a moment, but ultimately was able to find his footing once more. It was only once the pair were certain he wouldn't fall that they felt safe leaving him to clean up.

“Okay–I’m actually going to find his Tylenol this time. He’s good to take that, right? Acetaminophen is all right for concussions?”

“Yea, he can take Tylenol. I'm going to put his clothes in the bathroom for him and probably pack an overnight bag. Don't mention it–it’ll probably be best to spring it on him considering he's going to be stubborn about it.” 

“Alright. Sounds like a game plan.” 

With that, the pair parted to complete their agreed upon tasks. Dustin grabbed Steve's clothes and, after a brief knock, delivered them to the bathroom. Thankfully, Steve had managed to get himself into the shower and pulled the curtains closed. He did, however, note that he had flipped the lights off. Robin, meanwhile, had rummaged through the various cupboards in the kitchen until she found the blessed red bottle. As promised, she also prepared him a piece of toast and grabbed a glass of water. 

“Find the Tylenol?” 

“Yea. I'm going to force some toast on him, too. He hasn't eaten in–what? Two days? Well, aside from, like, popcorn. Garbage popcorn–yuck.” 

“Good. I'll give my mom a call.” 

“Double good.” The toaster popped and Robin turned to retrieve the slice of bread to butter it. 

Dustin, meanwhile, moved to grab the phone. 

For the fourth time that day he was glued to the receiver, listening to the ring that was slowly becoming an annoyance to him. 

“Hello?”

Finally–at least someone answered when he called. 

“Hey mom.” 

“Oh, Dustin! How's Steve doing?”

Good, no beating around the bush. He generally preferred to cut to the chase when possible.

“That's actually why I'm calling.” 

“Oh no. Is everything alright?” It was a question born more out of courtesy than anything; they both knew he wouldn’t have been calling had everything been fine. 

“Uhhh–I mean–I guess it could be worse.” Which was true; Dustin had anticipated the worst upon his arrival. “He’s up and eehh mostly coherent. He’s probably concussed.”

“Are his parents home?” Dustin’s lack of response was received loud and clear. It also told Claudia exactly why Dustin was calling. “I’ll get the air mattress set up.” 

It was hard to conceal the relieved smile that crossed his features with that comment. God, his mom was amazing. 

“Could you pick us up? Obviously Steve can’t really drive right now–oh, and also we might need to drop off one of his friends.” He realized he hadn’t seen any cars around, so he wasn’t entirely sure whether Robin drove or not. 

“No problem. Do you want me to come now?” 

“Whenever you’re ready. No rush.” They had to get him back down the steps, after all. 

“Alright, sweetheart. I’ll leave once the dryer is finished running. Love you–see you soon.” 

After glancing around, Dustin had reciprocated the I love you and promptly hung up the receiver. Robin had left the kitchen and, presumably, returned back to Steve’s room during the call, and so, Dustin did the same. The door was cracked open, allowing him to peek his head into the room. 

It shouldn't have been amusing seeing Steve looking so disheveled–and it wasn't, really. It was mostly the sopping wet hair hanging over his face that gave Dustin pause. Never had Steve allowed anyone to see him without his hair at least mildly styled; maybe El had seen it during his brief stint with Hopper. It made him look–younger? Not that Dustin himself wasn't young, but with him sitting in his bed, wet hair framing his face, he suddenly didn't look like the strong, fearless Steve Dustin was used to. Now, this was 18 year old Steve, tired and in pain and becoming increasingly annoyed as Robin sat on the edge of his bed, shoving the toast in his direction. 

It was a rare display of vulnerability that Dustin wasn't entirely sure how to handle. 

“Robin–come on.” 

“Say aaaah–here comes the airplane!” 

“Jesus–Robin, come on, you’re getting crumbs in my damn bed!”

“I’m sure you’ve had worse things in your bed than crumbs, Steve.” 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” He fell back into his pillow and his hands promptly covered his face. “Please–I am begging you. Pills. Sleep.” 

Robin’s lips pursed. It was with a soft sigh that she relented and placed the toast on the nightstand beside her.

“Alright. I’m not a sadist. But you need to at least take it with water.”

“Fine. I can do that.” 

While he could have sat up on his own, a hand still guided him upright. Robin offered him both the glass and the pills and Steve eyed them suspiciously. 

“Two?” 

“The dosage is two.” 

“I said four.” 

“Actually, you said three, but I prefer to listen to the bottle.” 

“Whatever.” He knocked back the pills and promptly chugged some of the water despite the way it made his stomach lurch. Pain relief was pain relief–while he would have taken more, he would be thankful he had any at all. After handing–or, well, shoving the glass back at Robin, he once again laid back and pulled the covers up to his chin. 

“Sweet dreams, sleeping beauty.” 

With a soft tap to his arm, Robin stood. She briefly eyed his curtains before she marched over and tugged them shut. It was only after turning did she notice Dustin watching through the cracked door. Once she had exited, she quietly clicked it shut and turned her attention to the kid. 

“So?” 

“She’s coming to pick us up–and you. If you need it. I didn’t see a car or anything so–”

“Oh, no, I don’t drive. Quite frankly, I’m not even allowed to touch my bike right now so, if she wouldn’t mind, a ride would be great.” 

“Well, I’m assuming it will be a bit so we can hang out downstairs while we wait.” Dustin took the lead, heading towards the staircase. “I know where Steve keeps everything–mostly everything. We can play cards.” 

“Wait–I thought you said you were going to put together a bag for him?” 

“Yea, well, that was before you tucked him into bed.” 

“He’s exhausted.” Robin quickly shot back, hot on Dustin’s heels. “I already felt bad trying to get him to eat something, what did you want me to do?”

“No, I think it’s good he’s sleeping. I’ll throw some things together when my mom gets here. I’d rather not risk waking him right now. Honestly, it’ll be easier getting him to move if we strike as soon as he wakes up. He’s already a little disoriented so why not monopolize on that?” 

“Brutal–but fair.” 

Dustin led them to the living room where he proceeded to dig around for the playing cards he had previously mentioned. Robin sat on the couch and, once he found the deck, Dustin had sat cross-legged in front of the coffee table. He slipped them from their packaging and began to shuffle. 

“So you don’t drive?” 

“No. I don’t have my license." It was a nonchalant answer as Robin pressed back into the cushions of the sofa. 

“And you don’t have a bike.”

“Nope.”

“Then how did you get here?”

Robin’s legs swung up and her feet hit the wood of the table where she swiftly crossed her legs at her ankles.

“My mom dropped me off.”

Dustin halted his shuffling to stare at her. 

“Wait–so let me get this straight. You couldn’t invite Steve over because it would raise questions, but you could ask your mom to drop you off at his house?”

“Okay well, for one, there’s a big difference between a sleep over and visiting someone. Second, we were both just in an alleged mall fire together after being stuck in the same small space for three months. We’re like–trauma bonded.” 

Trauma bonded–huh. Dustin supposed he could get behind that. Once again he began to shuffle the cards. 

“Oh–by the way, Steve saved you from a bunch of assholes that were harassing you as far as my mom’s concerned.” 

Robin blinked once–twice, processing that cover. 

“Oh. Well, I guess that isn’t entirely off base. A fire couldn’t exactly cause that damage, huh?” As quickly as her feet had hit the table, they were once more swinging over to rest on the floor. She leaned in with that, and stole the deck from Dustin’s hands. “Alright, we’re playing poker. Texas hold ‘em or five card draw?”

Surprisingly, Robin was exceedingly easy to talk to. Honestly, Dustin enjoyed spending time with her, and he began to wonder how the hell Steve hadn’t made a damn move. It was hard to believe they had spent an entire summer together and he hadn’t realized how cool she was. Not to mention she had made it a point to come check on him–hell, she stayed around. Dustin foresaw a serious conversation between them in the future. 

It was a honk from out front that ultimately disrupted their game. Dustin had hopped up from his position on the floor and ran over to the window where he peered out and caught a quick glimpse of his mom’s car. 

“That’s our ride. I’m going to go tell her the game plan–put the cards away?”

“I think I can manage that.”

After flashing a quick thumbs up, Dustin did as he said and ran out to the car. He’d explained that they had let Steve sleep while they waited, that they would grab him now, and that it might take a bit longer than normal as he wasn’t particularly steady on his feet. 

“You take all the time you need.” 

Was his mother’s response. He saw the novel placed on the passenger seat, and he knew she would keep herself preoccupied for as long as necessary. Before returning inside, he’d thrown his bike into the trunk of the car. With that squared away, he had entered the home once again and climbed the stairs to Steve’s room. He halted when he caught sight of the open door. Shit.

“Robin!” 

“I got him!”

“Jesus Christ–inside voices.” 

The voices came from, presumably, the bathroom, which was confirmed upon rounding the corner to see Steve doubled over the toilet once more. He hadn’t even bothered to turn the bathroom light on and Dustin’s stomach clenched as he wondered just how long he’d been sitting in there. Dammit, he didn’t have time to dwell. He proceeded towards the bedroom and flipped the light on so he could rummage around for a bag. He settled on a Steve’s basketball duffle. He grabbed what he thought he would need; track pants, pajamas, t-shirts, a pair of jeans, socks, all the necessities. Satisfied with his packing, the bag was carried with him as he made his way to the bathroom; it was dropped just outside so as not to aggravate Steve any further. 

When he'd entered the bathroom he found Steve half sitting up, though it was obvious a good amount of support came from Robin who knelt at his side. His head hung, as though he hadn't even the energy to hold it upright, and a hand pressed into his good eye. 

“Hey, we’re sitting up. That’s an improvement?” 

“I’d rather be on the floor.” 

“You are skeeving me out with the amount of bathroom floors you've been on in the past forty eight hours.”

“D’you know how often th’s gets cleaned?” 

“It's a bathroom–it doesn't matter how often it gets cleaned!” 

Dustin made his way around the pair to quietly grab Steve's toothbrush. He returned to his duffle bag and shoved it in. He briefly debated grabbing his hair products, but it wasn't like he was going to need them. And maybe Dustin still has them stocked in his own bathroom if he really decided he had to style it. With the bag zipped, he decided it was best to carry it out to the car and throw it in the trunk. The element of surprise was going to be their ally here. 

Upon his return, neither Robin nor Steve had moved in the short time Dustin was gone. He gave a brief nod, signaling it was time to move, and proceeded to meet at Robin’s side. 

“Alright, buddy, time to get up.”

“Ugh–just–gimme another minute.”

“Nope, come on.” Dustin looped an arm under Steve's and Robin repositioned herself to do the same. 

The two of them tugged and Steve groaned as he was hoisted back onto his feet. It would have been disingenuous to say a lot of it wasn't also Steve. As adamant as he was about staying on the floor, when they began to pull at him, he'd forced his feet under him and helped them get him upright. Even with his jumbled brain he still didn't want to make more work for the pair. 

He was far more unstable than he had been on their ascent. Unfortunately, however, he was aware enough to realize they were directing him towards the steps and not his bedroom. 

“W–wait–wait wait–”

“Hey, it'll be easier going down than up.” Dustin reassured as they all but forced him down the first step. 

Steve's footing was unsteady; a couple of times he'd slipped and Robin and Dustin had to hold onto him to prevent him from going down. He'd wanted to sit at least twice and they'd needed to prompt him to keep upright and that they were almost there. Once they hit the bottom of the steps, Steve suddenly became annoyingly aware as Dustin led him to the front door. 

“Whoa–okay–wait–what–Henderson?”

“Shoes on.” Dustin prompted as he placed his slip-ons in front of him. 

Steve stared at them, his brows knitting together. 

“Where’re we going?” 

“You're coming with me.”

“No.” When he tried to swerve into the living room, Dustin grabbed ahold of him once more. 

“Hey–come on, Steve.” Robin’s grip tightened. “You can't stay alone like this.” 

“Uh–yes, I actually can.” 

“Steve, if you don't put your shoes on I swear I will go get my mom. It's a courtesy to you that she's waiting in the car.”

That, to Dustin’s relief, at least gave him pause. Steve knew Claudia; she was always incredibly kind to him. However, he also wasn't stupid; she was kind in a way that masked her true motives. The woman got what she wanted and she framed it in a way that made the other person think it was their idea. Not to say she wasn't truly kind, though that came with its own burden. The thought of her coming inside and being so upset that Steve wouldn't accept her offer to come over–

“Son of a bitch! Ugh.” 

It was with an attitude that he slipped the shoes onto his feet, scowling all the while. 

“Where are your keys?” 

Steve blinked. 

“What?”

“Your keys–the spare key. The one you keep in the rock.” Dustin gestured, vaguely recreating the dimensions of said rock with his hands.

“I should probably have those changed.”

Dustin sucked in an annoyed breath and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. 

“Okay, sure, but right now you'll need them to get back inside. Key?”

“I think I threw it–uh…junk drawer. Kitchen? No–wait. My pants.” 

“Thank you.”

Dustin stalked back up the steps and located Steve's shorts, discarded in the hamper. Thankfully, his brain was right, and the key was tucked away in his pocket. From there, he rejoined Robin, and he made sure to lock up before directing the unstable Steve back to the car. They pulled open the rear door on the driver's side and carefully helped Steve inside. When the door closed, he'd instinctively leaned over and pressed his face against the glass. 

“Hello, Steve.” Claudia’s voice was cheerful as always. She stole a glance at him through the rearview mirror and tried not to show her horror. 

“Heey Mrs. Henderson.” Despite how absolutely dreadful he felt, there wasn't a chance in hell he would be anything other than kind and respectful to this woman. 

“How are you feeling dear?” 

“Not going to lie–I’ve definitely felt better.”

“I'd imagine, sweetheart.”

Robin had joined Steve in the back, meanwhile Dustin had slipped into the passenger's seat.

“Mom, this is Robin. She worked with Steve over the summer.”

Claudia angled herself around the best she could to meet with Robin’s gaze. 

“Hello, dear. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Mrs. Henderson. Dustin’s a great kid.”

“Don't I know it.” 

“Yea, I'm great, what's your address, Robin?” 

Not only did he not love being gushed over by his mom in front of his friends (not that it was anything new), he truly hadn't wanted Steve to be stuck in the back seat longer than necessary. 

And Steve wouldn't lie; he was miserable. Beyond miserable. The Tylenol had kicked in, sure, but it was doing very little overall. To be fair, he almost felt bad for it: the amount of work it was expected to do across Steve's body was more than could be asked of a simple pain reliever. Every bump aggravated his ribs. At some point he'd learned his lesson and moved his head away from the window; he couldn't take it bumping the glass again. He was still fuming the two of them had pulled a fast one on him like that; he could have still been sleeping in his damn bed if not for them. Ironically enough, he figured he could get a nap in the time it took them to drop Robin off and return home, so it stood to reason he couldn't fall back to sleep in the car. Not with their chatting; he wasn't even sure what they were chatting about. 

A hand, Robin’s hand, had pressed into his arm at some point. She said something. He said something back. He could not remember anything else regarding the exchange. He did remember they hit a pot hole at some point because he hadn’t been able to stop the sudden groan that escaped him and Claudia had been apologizing. While it had eluded him at first, Steve finally found a foggy haze begin to overtake him. 

“Steve.” 

A firm shake startled him back to consciousness. Slightly disoriented, he’d turned his attention towards the door to find it open. More importantly, he found Dustin outside it, staring expectantly. 

“Hey, you back with me?”

“Unfortunately.” Steve mumbled and resisted the urge to rub his aching eye. He absentmindedly turned his gaze to the empty spot to his right. “Where’s Robin?”

“We dropped her off a little while ago–you said goodbye to her.”

Oh. So that’s what that exchange has been. Dustin’s hand was back on him again and Steve’s head turned to meet with it. 

“Come on, buddy, we’re here.”

“I’m coming.” Or, at least, he thought. 

He glanced down to see the seatbelt strapped across his lap. He was almost positive he had not buckled himself in–hell, he never buckled himself in. He fussed with the buckle for a moment, his brow furrowed. 

“Robin.” He’d grumbled before finally freeing himself from the seatbelt. 

Dustin never faltered. Instead, he’d helped guide Steve out of the car and towards the home, always keeping a careful hand on his arm. Of course, if Steve had gone down, there was very little Dustin could do about it, but he supposed it was the thought that counted.

“How are you feeling?”

“Oh, never better. Honestly, I wish I could feel this great every day.” 

After stealing a hesitant gaze at Steve, Dustin redirected it to the front steps. 

“Yea? I mean, you look really good.” Dustin mused. 

Surprisingly, the older teen at his side released an amused puff of air. 

“You think so?” 

“Oh, definitely. Ladies like a bad boy, right?” 

“Yea.” Steve’s answer was distant as he stared at the three steps in front of him. That was it–three steps and he was home free. With newly found bravado, he climbed the first. “Only problem is that the bad boys usually don’t walk away beaten to shit.”

“Okay. Maybe.” 

“The hell do you mean maybe, how many bad boys are you hanging around, Henderson?” 

Dustin couldn't stop the soft laugh that escaped him with the question. 

“Alright, I guess not. But, consider: chicks also dig a hero, right?” 

They reached the porch, and the two lingered in front of the door. 

“Uh–I mean, sure. Where’re you going with this?”

“Well I maybe thought it was important to mention that I told my mom you got beaten up because you stood up to some assholes who were harassing Robin. Which if you think about it, isn't a total lie. So, if you want to run with that one, just keep me in mind.” 

Steve released a soft puff of air, perhaps out of amusement or disbelief. 

“Alright. Still got the shit beat out of me, but at least for a noble cause. I can live with it.”

After flashing him another small grin, Dustin pushed open the door and led Steve inside. 

In the same way Dustin intimately knew Steve's home, Steve held the same knowledge regarding the Henderson residence. He knew damn well that Claudia and Dustin would have liked him over more than he already visited. She or Dustin were always inviting him over, typically for dinner, and at least once a week. Hell, he had continued visiting while Dustin had been away over the summer, typically to do yard work or small things around the house Claudia needed help with. She always tried to pay him, and of course, Steve always refused. It typically meant he had dinner forced on him which, without his parents around, he wasn’t going to complain about a free meal. 

Regardless, Steve had decided to turn to the couch upon entering, only to find Claudia had already taken it and was dutifully folding laundry, the piles stacked beside her. 

“Is there anything I can get you, Steve? I set up Dustin’s room for you if you’d like to go lay down.” Steve attempted not to bristle as he felt Henderson’s smug smile at his side. That was undoubtedly planned. They knew him all too well, apparently.

“No, thank you, though, Mrs. Henderson.” 

“Do your parents know about the fire? I’m sure they’d like to know you are okay.”

“Well, they didn’t get a–a–” phone–what the fuck he knew this word? He also knew he spaced out momentarily while trying to recall it. “I’m sure they saw the news. Someone would’ve told ‘em if I died.” And, honestly, he wasn’t even sure if they would care–or, no, his mother definitely would. She would love the attention the funeral would bring her. 

It was clear Claudia was deeply unhappy with that sentiment, but then again, she was active in her son’s life. Hell, even if they had been home, Steve wouldn’t have called his parents. They would have been irritated about the inconvenience; he also would have needed to come up with an excuse as to why he was beaten to high hell and why he no longer had his car keys which, honestly, he was running on fumes the night before and he wasn’t sure what would have came out of his mouth. 

“Dinner will be ready in about an hour. I’ll make a plate for you and put it in the microwave if you get hungry later, okay?” 

“You’re the best, Mrs. H.” 

With a soft smile, Steve redirected himself to Dustin’s room. 

He hadn’t the energy to argue–not that he ever would with Claudia. He kicked his shoes off near the bed and promptly pulled back the covers, flopped onto the pillow, and pulled them back over himself with a muted groan. He neglected to close the curtains, but he absolutely could not be bothered. Sleep came quickly, and it was the only remedy to quelling the full body pain. 

Thankfully, he had gotten a good few hours of sleep; at least, that was what he assumed, as when he had awakened it was dark, save the heat lamp coming from Yurtle’s tank. Yes, he had absolutely busted Dustin’s ass for naming his turtle fucking Yurtle. When he’d become mildly more coherent, he realized there was another faint light hitting his eyelids; light, and a shit ton of obnoxious noise was reaching his ears. 

Steve hesitantly pried open an eye to watch Henderson dragging–something into the room. He released whatever it was with a thud and then disappeared once more. It was soon after he was returning with a pillow and blanket bundled into his arms, both of which were then plopped down onto the–not the floor. Air mattress, probably. 

“Th’hell’re you doin’, Henderson?”

Steve’s words were muffled, both by his exhaustion and the angle in which his face buried into the pillow. It was obvious he’d startled Dustin as he’d jumped at the voice, though really, had he thought he was being quiet? 

“Sleeping in here.” He answered, earnestly. 

“Y’know I don’t mind sleeping on the couch.” Steve’s eyes closed again; he hadn’t the energy to both keep them open and chat. 

“Then I’d just drag it out to the living room. What if you need me in the middle of the night?” 

“I think I’m going to be sleeping the rest of the night.”

“Well, then you sleep for the rest of the night. But if you need anything, you don’t have to go looking.” 

Dustin had finally flopped onto the air mattress which made more noise than Steve would have cared for. He shifted, presumably fussing with the blanket. Then he shifted trying to get comfortable. 

“Jesus Christ, Henderson, get comfortable and sit still.”

“Okay, jeez, sorry.” 

The shifting continued for a few more moments and then silence, thankfully, fell. Well, at least momentarily. 

“Goodnight, Steve.”

“Yea,” Steve mumbled as he shifted to lay on his back. “G’night, Henderson.” 

While sleep came more willingly this time around, it wasn’t without a price. Steve honestly had wondered how long it would be until the nightmares started. That first night–after fighting the demogorgan–Steve had found it hard to sleep at all. What little sleep he had been getting had been fleeting and broken. Once he had finally calmed down, and had been able to get more than twenty or so odd minutes of sleep, it inevitably began to plague his dreams. 

It stood to reason that this, too, would begin to torment him. 

The room was familiar: he had, afterall, just been held hostage there one day prior. Not just held hostage–the room he had been tortured in. 

It hadn’t been as though Steve had never taken a beating before; fuck, Hargrove had done worse to his face a year prior. Hargrove was a hotheaded asshole intent on inflicting as much damage as quickly as possible; these were trained Russian soldiers. They knew how to inflict pain, where, and how to make it last for as long as humanly possible without driving someone to unconsciousness–which is exactly what they had done to Steve. Sure, Hargrove had left a mess, but he had not measured up to the agony they had put him through the night prior; and it was increased with the concern of whatever the hell they were doing to Robin. The concern that they had found Dustin and Erica and what they may have been doing to literal children, because he doubted they had any real sense of morality. 

Steve knew fear, although he liked to pretend he didn’t in the moment. He was terrified when facing the demogorgon and the demodogs. He was scared shitless when Hargrove had begun beating his face into the fucking floor. He was fearful when the demodogs had charged him, and he hadn’t the time to get Dustin out of the tunnels. But none of that raw fear even measured up to what he had felt when sitting before the two Russian soldiers. The difference was that he showed it. He wasn’t cool, older Steve Harrington; the role model who all the kids enjoyed hanging around, the older brother of the group, ready to do whatever it took to protect them. It was 18 year old, fresh out of high school Steve Harrington; a small, scared teenage boy willing to say whatever the fuck the two grown men in front of him wanted to hear in order for the torment to stop. He was scared and he showed it and they just wound up and hit him again and again and again and Steve could feel the physical agony shoot through his body as though the fresh hits were connecting. 

He awoke with a gasp. The speed at which he’d sat up nauseated him; his head throbbed–his ribs ached. He’d turned onto his bad eye at some point, and he clenched his throat to keep a pained groan from escaping him. His chest heaved as he silently attempted to steady his breathing, meanwhile, his hands had raised to cup his head. 

A scared teenage boy parading around as a brave, well-adjusted adult. That was all Steve Harrington was. Somehow, the human beings scared him even worse than the monsters. 

“Steve?” He wasn’t sure when Dustin had woken up, nor when he had stood, but Steve jolted when he recognized he had been standing beside the bed. “Hey–are you alright?” 

“Yea.” Somehow he’d managed between labored breaths–labored breaths he’d attempted to quell in order to sound somewhat normal. “I’m–I just–” Just what? He hadn’t even been sure what he wanted to say. Instead, he allowed a small sigh to escape him, and his hands fell over his raised knees. His gaze remained cast downard, staring at the blanket beneath him.

“Nightmare?” Dustin pulled himself onto the edge of the bed that was unoccupied by Steve’s legs. 

A puff of air escaped Steve in response.

“Yea. Something like that.”

They sat in silence for a while, allowing Steve to think. Ironically, it seemed the adrenaline from the nightmare had given him the clarity he had lost over the last day. No doubt he would be crashing hard again, but he was taking advantage of it while it lasted. 

“Hey, Dustin, I just–want to apologize.”

Dustin had, notably, perked up with that.

“What? Why?”

Steve shifted; a hand rubbed at the back of his sweat-covered neck. 

“For being an asshole today. I know I’m usually an ass but–it’s playful. I was a mean asshole today and I really did not like it.” 

“Are you serious? Steve, you fought off a Russian soldier for me–for us. You literally let yourself be captured so Erica and I could escape. You could be an asshole to me indefinitely and it would’ve been earned.”

Steve’s face pulled into a grimace.

“Yea, but I’m not usually mean.” 

“And you’re not usually concussed. Or–well.”

“Watch it.”

Dustin released a soft laugh. 

“You also probably have bruised ribs–you’re in pain and you’re obviously disoriented. I didn’t take it to heart, really.”

Again, Steve was releasing another gentle sigh. 

“That wasn’t the only thing I wanted to apologize for.” 

Once again, Dustin was watching him with a confused expression and Steve couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead, he focused on the soft red glow of the turtle’s tank. 

“I want to apologize for even letting you get wrapped up in everything yesterday. Obviously not the mind flayer shit but–the Russians. I never should’ve let you and Erica–or even Robin for that matter–do any of that. But especially you two.”

Now that had earned him a look of complete disbelief from Dustin who promptly leaned forward to get closer to Steve.

“Are you–you’re kidding me, right? As if I was ever going to just let you go down there without me? Do you even know me?”

“What if you had gotten captured, Henderson? Jesus–a demogorgon is going to rip you apart, sure, but at least you know what to expect. But those soldiers? They could have tortured you, Dustin. And you’re smart, you know shit, who knows what they would’ve done.” 

“Are you worried they would’ve done the same thing to me that they did to you?”

Steve fell silent. His hand moved to rest in the pit of his crossed legs, linking with his other one. 

“Something like that.” He had repeated for the second time that night. 

Dustin had unexpectedly lunged, pulling Steve into a tight hug. At first, Steve hadn’t known how to react; his hands hovered just over Dustin, who buried himself into the crook of Steve’s neck. He was just–relieved. Relieved he had gotten to Steve on time. Relieved that they had made it out of there alive. Relieved that he had decided to go to his house today and relieved that he had brought him home. Relieved he had ultimately dragged his bed into his room with him, even if he would get an earful the next morning. More than anything, he was so God damn thankful their paths had somehow crossed a year prior. 

“Hey–” Finally, Steve reciprocated the hug, and his arms loosely crossed over Dustin’s back. 

“I told you,” Dustin’s words were muffled, given they were said into Steve’s shirt, “you die I die.” 

“Yea,” Steve released a soft puff of air, “I know.” 

“I'm sorry for not checking on you sooner.”

Steve's brow furrowed in response to the apology. 

“You don't have to worry about me.”

“But I do. And I'm sorry I never checked on you last year, either.”

Steve's hand gently rubbed Dustin's back; he was clearly working himself up. 

“Don't worry about it, dude. Seriously. Water under the bridge.”

“Thank you, Steve.” 

Now that had given him pause. 

“For what?”

“For everything. Just–everything you've done for me. For just–being there.” 

It was what Steve never had; someone to just be there. Someone to look out for him, to mentor him. A hand buried itself into Dustin’s curls, holding him in place. 

“Alright, yea. I'll take a thank you for all the crazy shit you pull me into.” Both Steve and Dustin shared a gentle laugh before the younger teen was pushed off of Steve. “And that's enough of that–come on. I don't need you going soft on me, Henderson. I was just starting to think you were maybe a little teeeeny tiny bit cool, don't ruin it.”

Now that had gotten a genuine laugh from him. 

“Yeah, okay, my bad.” 

With that, Dustin had removed himself from the mattress and returned to his makeshift bed on the floor. With the adrenaline waning, exhaustion hit Steve like a brick and he carefully leaned back and rested his head against the pillow. He was once again listening to the air mattress whine as Dustin attempted to find a comfortable position and once he had silence once again fell. 

“You know,” he began, “I should honestly be thanking you, Henderson.”

The air mattress crinkled beneath him as he shifted to face Steve. 

“What are you thanking me for?”

“For giving me something to do. I mean, what else am I going to do with my free time? You think I'm just stumbling on hidden Russian labs and unspeakable horrors on my own? Without that, what am I supposed to do? Pick up a hobby? Psh. I'm bored without you, Henderson.”

Laughter filled the room, and Dustin flopped back against his pillow. 

“I guess you're right. You're very welcome.”

Steve smiled to himself as his eyes drifted shut once more. 

“G’night, Henderson.”

“Night, Steve.”

Robin was thankful Dustin had given her his address, she just wished she'd been able to visit sooner. Getting a ride was a pain in her ass; sure, she understood her parents still had work and, without a job of her own, getting her places was less of a priority. It hadn't meant she still hadn't places to be. 

She tapped on the door and waited patiently; though, she did find her curiosity piqued with the commotion coming from inside. It was noisy; notably, the voices were particularly young. 

The door yanked open and she was met with one Dustin Henderson. 

“Oh, hey Robin.”

Robin couldn't help but glance past him; yep, there were definitely multiple children in there. 

“Are you having a party or something?” 

“What? Oh, no, movie night.”

“In the middle of the day?” 

Dustin bristled in response to that. 

“We're starting mid-day. Nowhere does a movie night stipulate it has to start at night just that there's a movie and it's at night which there eventually will be–never mind just go in the kitchen.”

“In the kitchen?” 

“Steve's in the kitchen! Obviously you're here to see him!” 

Robin couldn't hold back the amused smirk that crossed her face. She stepped into the home and, after closing the door, Dustin gestured, half annoyed, towards the kitchen before returning to the other kids in the living room. Almost all of Steve's kids were there, save the girls. So, she was crashing a boys night. Again, she couldn't help but smile to herself as she entered the kitchen. 

“Jesus–I told you I can't make it pop any faster than it is. Get your ass back in the living room and leave me alone.”

“Yea, Steve, you tell those twelve year olds.” 

By the way his muscles tensed, it was clear it took Steve a moment to process whose voice, or rather, who was currently standing in the kitchen. Slowly, he turned around, and he couldn't help the sigh that escaped him; one accompanied by a small amused grin.

“Hey, you're no exception. You have to wait for the popcorn like everyone else.”

Robin’s tongue clicked; she moved to lean against one of the counter tops and her arms crossed loosely over her chest. 

“Really? Not even for your sister in arms? How can you turn your back on the Scoop Troop?”

Steve laughed; his head shook as he pulled open a cupboard to grab two bowls. 

“Don't even. I don't want to hear about the damn Scoop Troop ever again.” 

“I hate when people abandon their roots.” 

They shared a laugh that time. The microwave sounded and Steve retrieved the bag. It was promptly swapped out with an unpopped one. He set the timer and turned back to face Robin. 

While he didn't look great, he certainly looked better than he had when she'd last seen him. The swelling had gone down substantially, allowing him to actually use both of his eyes. While the deep purple persisted, she knew that was to be expected. His hair wasn't styled, but it was carefully brushed back; she would've been surprised if the thing didn't have some type of muscle memory with how long he'd been styling it in that fashion. More than anything, he was far more aware and that was a win in her book. 

Her expression softened ever so slightly with the reassurance. She wasn't sure what to expect upon her arrival, but she was glad it was this. 

“I didn't see your car out front.” Robin mused.

That had been enough to wipe the smile from his face; in fact, he followed the observation with the rolling of his eyes and a scoff. 

“Yea. Claudia–Mrs. H–said she'd take me to pick it up.”

“I'm sensing there's a but to follow.”

“But she won't take me unless Dustin is riding shotgun.” God damn the woman was clever. “Quit smirking about it.”

“No, she's smart. She knows you have poor self preservation skills.” 

“Obviously I don't mind risking it if it's just me but–whatever, point is, I'm not exactly in the best shape to be behind the wheel, anyway.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Alright.” Steve's shoulders rose and fell with a non-committal shrug. “Obviously have been better but I'm functioning now so that's an improvement.”

“Good enough to have a little boy's night. Emphasis on little.”

“Jesus Christ, Robin–do not say it like that.” After cackling in response to her own carefully chosen poor wording, Steve continued: “Apparently Dustin had it planned before he left–I mean, I call bullshit but, whatever. I'll watch a movie with the little shits–so long as they keep the noise level to a minimum.”

So his head still hurt; while it made sense, she still made a mental note of it. 

“Hey–” it was hard to miss the sudden shift in Steve's demeanor. He seemed to become fidgety; his arms crossed then uncrossed then settled on slipping into the pockets of his jeans. “I just wanted to thank you–for the other day. Obviously we went through a lot, but I know that doesn't automatically just make us best friends. You didn't have to stop by and you certainly didn't have to stay. I appreciate it.”

“Who said that?” 

Steve's brow furrowed. 

“Said what?” 

“That that doesn't make us best friends? Steve, we got drugged together. You're literally the only person in the world who knows my deepest secret–and you didn't even care. I literally held your hair back when you were puking into the toilet the other day.”

“Okay–no you didn't.”

“I mean like I basically did. Anyway, the point I'm trying to make is that I do consider you a good friend at this point. I really don't think there's anything else that would forge our bond more than what we've already been through.” 

Steve took a moment to truly process what Robin had just said. Eventually, he settled on releasing a breathy laugh, and using his hand to comb his hair back from his face. 

“Yea, alright, I guess when you put it like that, you're right. Not much further you could take a relationship.” 

“Yea, I wouldn't exactly suggest anyone else try it but all I'm saying is that it worked for us.” 

Again, Steve released a gentle laugh, before he mirrored Robin and leaned against the countertop behind him. His own gaze softened as he stared at her and she couldn't help but smirk in response. 

“What?” 

“Are you okay? I never asked.” 

Robin shifted. It was clear she was uncomfortable, and yet, she tried to maintain the soft smile on her face. 

“Yea. I mean, as okay as someone who got captured and quite nearly tortured by Russian soldiers could be. Who wouldn't be a little offset by that–right?”

It wasn't just a question, it was a cry for help–for understanding. It would have been easy for Steve to make this just about her; to deny being deeply psychologically affected by what he'd undergone in that underground lab. Hell, it would have been expected of him given his past. And yet, looking at her–after everything they'd been through? 

“I don't think there are many people who walk away from that unbothered.”

Despite her best efforts, her smile slipped momentarily. He saw it; the brief fear in her eye. She was back there for a split second. 

“At night–”

“I know.” 

Nothing else needed to be said; they simply met each other's gaze, a knowing one. It was wordless understanding. It was Steve who ultimately pulled away first;  it had been to retrieve a piece of paper that he ripped from the mail pile–he'd apologized for it later. In the meantime, he quickly scribbled his number down and moved to hand it to Robin. 

“I meant to give this to you. If you ever need anything, I'm usually pretty good with answering–save when I have the occasional concussion. And I mean ever–even if you need something in the middle of the night. It's better to call than–” 

Arms flung around Steve, pulling him into a tight embrace. A wave of deja vu washed over him, however, he had been a bit faster to reciprocate this time around. Gently, his arms rose to return the hug, and he softly patted her back. 

“You shouldn't have given me the go ahead to call you whenever, dingus. Prepare for some late night gab sessions.” 

A puff of air escaped Steve. 

“Hey, at least someone wants to call.”

“And your age, nonetheless.”

“Watch it.” 

The two of them jumped when the microwave sounded. After the initial jump, they couldn't hold back their laughter. Robin released Steve, allowing him to pull it from the microwave. The first bag he'd made was dumped into a bowl; the second he fought with, whining about the heat but too stubborn to wait, but ultimately was emptied into the second bowl he'd prepared. 

“So, what's playing?” 

“Star Wars.” Steve seemed less than enthused as he scooped up the bowls. “I lost my horror enthusiast today, so I'm stuck with the nerds.” 

“Hey, I think you might actually like Star Wars.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah, it's a lot of action and people shooting each other.” 

A once unenthused Steve seemed slightly more interested. 

“Alright–maybe it won't be all that bad. You plan on staying?”

Robin hummed and checked the non-existent watch on her wrist. 

“I think I can make some time for it.”

After flashing her a grin, the pair returned to the living room where the bowls were distributed and Steve forced his way onto the couch in between Byers and Sinclair; Wheeler, unfortunately, ended up ass on the floor and quickly responded with a booming:

“DUDE!” 

“Volume, Wheeler. Henderson, off the recliner.”

“It's my house!"

“And that's Robin's seat. Move your ass.”

“Gotta respect your elders, kid.” 

Robin's smile was sickeningly sweet as Dustin begrudgingly pulled himself up from the chair. 

“You know, I don't even know why I invite you here if you're just going to boss me around in my own house.”

“You're the one that trapped me here without a car, Henderson, reap what you sow.” 

“Alright, shut up, the movies on!” Sinclair had turned the volume up to blaring, prompting Dustin to approach and turn it down to a more manageable level that wouldn't make Steve's head feel like it was going to explode. 

There were two kids squirming at his sides, two splayed by his feet and all four forced him to watch a nerdy movie he never would have given a second glance to on his own accord. 

It was funny, Steve thought. He had fought so hard to isolate himself and yet he somehow found he was surrounded by people–people who cared about him and his well-being and whether he lived or died and just–him as a person. They didn't care if he was a hero or if he was unafraid or if he was the perfect son–they just cared about Steve Harrington, the imperfect teenager sitting among them. 

He took it in, every second of this. Dustin trying to catch Steve up to speed because, apparently, this was the third in the series. Mike telling him to shut up. Robin telling Mike to keep it down. Lucas giving Steve fun facts and Will shooting him apologetic smiles. 

Steve found it hard to wipe the grin from his face as he dug a hand into the popcorn bowl and shoved a handful into his mouth. It was hard to recall a time he had ever felt so appreciated in his short eighteen years of life, but he knew damn well he wouldn't take this for granted.