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The real problem with being a chronic insomniac and perpetual night owl is that he’s the only one awake to hear the creepy fucking dragging sound in the middle of the night.
At first Eddie’s willing to pretend that it’s just a new weird night sound coming from Steve, something he could make fun of in the morning. Steve’s snoring is legendary, the kind of deep rumbling sound that makes the uninitiated worry a rogue bear has wandered in. It’s the reason why Dustin insisted they sleep in tents instead of in the camper when they do summer road trips, and why Robin jokingly still buys Eddie ear plugs every Christmas. Steve isn’t bothered by the teasing, flatly reminds everyone that he’s had his nose broken at least twice— “Definitely more than twice.” Dustin supplies unhelpfully—and that there’s really nothing he can do about it. Eddie doesn’t actually mind (“See, that’s the Stockholm Syndrome talking.” Robin says apologetically, patting Eddie’s hand consolingly.), there are enough years between them now that it would probably be weirder not to hear it.
But right now Steve’s snoring is neither here nor there because Eddie hears the sound again and it is so very clearly not coming from right next to him at all.
“What the fuck.” He whispers, closing his book around his thumb, straining his ears. He waits, holds his breath like that will help him hear better. For a second all he can hear is Steve’s breathing, a thin whine that’s still heavily congested from the cold he brought home from school. He hears the wind rattle against the windows and the hum of their ancient refrigerator down the hall. He starts to tell himself he only imagined it, too many late night creature-features and trips into the pages of the monster manual. And then—
It’s wild how getting older doesn’t mean shit when you’re faced with a scary unknown sound in the middle of the night.
Eddie’s stomach goes tight, his heart picks up speed, his muscles go heavy, trapped between fight and flight.
A dozen thoughts fly through his head: old episodes of Scooby Doo and low budget horror movies and the leathery wings flapping through dead air, wet maws flicking drool and blood, claws digging through dirt and muscle—
Eddie forces himself to exhale, long and slow. Takes a deep breath in. Pushes it out. Tries to match his breathing with the wispy track of Steve’s breathing beside him.
The sound comes again. His brain goes through a substantial lexicon of descriptive words trying to put together a plausible explanation for the sound. It isn’t footsteps or scratching, more like a rasp, conjures images of something being hauled across a surface.
It doesn’t sound closer but it isn’t going quiet either, just keeps repeating from somewhere nearby. And that’s too close for comfort already.
The logical part of Eddie’s brain—which does, in fact, exist regardless of what the majority of his choices imply—tells him that it’s probably nothing. A branch scraping the roof or something caught up against the fence. Maybe an overgrown raccoon. Steve is always telling Eddie not to feed the stray cats that wander around their neighborhood (as if Steve doesn’t fill their empty bowls every morning before he goes out for his morning run).
Eddie’s telling himself all this and still just laying there, tense and unsure, listening until he hears the sound again. That scuffing, scratching, rasping drag just somewhere outside.
His heart can’t help the uptick, his nerves sparking, cold flashes prickling across his skin. Fear is such an old familiar friend but not one Eddie misses in its absence.
Eddie’s not the same cocky twenty year old who had his ass handed to him by the universe. He knows about the things that can be hiding in the dark, the impossible, terrible, monstrous things. The gates have been closed for years now, life has moved on, but none of them are ever going to forget that. Eddie sure as hell isn’t.
Which is why Eddie feels practically zero remorse when he finally breaks.
“Steve.” Eddie whispers, putting his book on the desk corner close to his side of the bed, already reaching to the side with his empty hand to slap Steve's hip over the blankets. “Steve, wake up.”
Steve makes a clearly disgruntled sound, half-groans as his head emerges bleary-eyed from beneath the blankets. There’s a thin trail of spittle going ashy at the side of his mouth. That decongestant stuff really puts him under. Eddie thinks tomorrow he’ll take a shot himself before turning in.
“Listen.” Eddie whispers, holding his breath like that’s really likely to obscure the sound coming from outside. “Do you hear that?” Steve squints at him, confusion and a touch of annoyance visible in the low-light of Eddie’s little desk lamp.
“Ed—”
But there it is again, that scratching, dragging, scraping sound whittling outside.
Steve tries to take a breath through his nose, which does nothing, and then croaks, “What the fuck.”
Eddie nods, eyes widening in agreement. “Right?”
“What—”
“No clue.” Eddie admits, finding a semblance of comfort in the knowledge that Steve hears it too, that Steve’s awake and right here with him even when he’d probably much rather be asleep.
The noise comes again. It feels like it drags out even longer. Scraaaaape.
Eddie pictures a bony, long-fingered hand scratching at the wall. He needs to stop reading the shit Max sends him at night. Those have got to be daytime books only. Only lighthearted shit like The Princess Bride or one of Steve’s sport history books before bed. Something that’s sure to put him straight to sleep.
“I’m gonna—” Steve whispers, slipping back into the quiet-stealth mode that Code Red situations asked of them. Steve flails a little bit to roll over, coughs as he goes to sit up. Eddie shoots his hand out, grabs a fistful of Steve’s sleep shirt. The fabric is damp with sweat. His fever’s come down in the last two days but Steve is obviously Not Well. Eddie would be the worst unlicensed husband in the state of Indiana if he let Steve take this one.
“Wait, wait—” Eddie hisses, because he knows Steve well enough to know what he’s planning. Steve might not have possession of a nail-crowned baseball bat anymore but there are plenty of items Steve can and will use as an improvised weapon. Eddie knows, remembers all to clearly a night at the start of their relationship when Eddie scared Steve awake and got a bedside lamp to the shoulder for his trouble.
(Thank god it was a crappy cheap one that took more damage than Eddie did. Steve had been mortified and apologetic and swore off bedside lamps completely for half a year afterward. Eddie wasn’t hurt or offended but he did pretend to flinch every time Steve moved to rearrange his pillow for like a month. Because falling in love didn’t make him any less of an asshole, obviously.)
“I’ll go look.” Eddie says, pulling on Steve’s shoulder so that he’ll lay back down.
“Eddie—”
Eddie levels Steve with a stern look, makes sure he communicates how thoroughly he expects Steve to follow directions right now.
“Listen, if you hear me scream for help, lock the door and call the state troopers. Okay?”
He walks away backwards, motioning between his eyes and Steve, bumping into the doorknob way too soon. The sound is still going, but Eddie wants to ignore it, wants to look at Steve’s sleepy face, his insane hair, the edges of his nostrils chafed red from aggressive nose blowing. If there’s even the slightest chance that there’s something dangerous out there, then yeah, Steve needs to stay here.
The hallway outside their bedroom is way too dark. Eddie misses the days when they used to leave a light on always, thinks they might need to revisit that. He stands still for a second, tries to get a sense of which direction the sound is coming from. Eddie’s skin breaks out into goosebumps, the hair on the back of his neck standing as he listens in the dark. He’s almost sure it’s coming from the kitchen. Eddie pictures the three windows, two looking out on the back porch and one over the sink, looking out at the side of their neighbor’s house. He wonders if someone’s trying to pry one open, or using one of those glass cutting compasses they show in heist movies.
He tries to walk as quietly as possible, his bare feet padding over the hard wood floors. He doesn’t really have a plan but the element of surprise feels important. He can’t let them know he’s coming.
The kitchen is well lit compared to the hallway, the windows letting in the light from outside. The neighbors crazy searchlight bright motion-sensor lights are on, making long distorted shadows out of the naked tree branches. Eddie hates those lights on principle, doesn’t understand why Greg needs to blind every single stray cat, raccoon, and possum that wanders over his property line. The guy’s got to unclench.
Eddie scans the yard, looking for the source of the noise, but their small yard is empty. Steve’s raised garden beds are sitting there, the wooden fences their neighbors had already erected before Steve and Eddie moved in standing silent guard. There’s that scrape again, louder, closer, and Eddie’s heart drops to his stomach, bobs in acid. He scans the yard again, but it’s still empty. He doesn’t want to look up. He can’t look up—-
(He can still see her. Even now, all these years later. He looks at her picture in Steve’s senior year book sometimes just to make sure he doesn’t forget what she looked like before. How pretty and bright and alive she was before Vecna killed her. Because Chrissy Cunningham deserves to be remembered as so much more than the broken body they found in Eddie’s old trailer.)
“Achoo—”
“Christ!” Eddie yells, feels like he jumps clean off the kitchen floor with how violently he flinches at the sudden sound of Steve sneezing close behind him. Like literally behind him. Eddie spins and there’s Steve, stupid bed rumpled Steve, squinting against the flood lights spilling into their kitchen.
“Dude I told you to wait—”
“You were taking too long!” Steve hisses, whispering even though there’s no chance that they haven’t already been heard. He’s carrying one of Eddie’s giant hardcover fantasy books in his right hand, obviously ready to chuck it like a brick as necessary. Eddie loves him, this hyper-protective violence-ready idiot.
That doesn’t stop Eddie from opening his mouth to thoroughly dress Steve down, but that fucking sound comes again. It might as well be nails on the chalkboard the way it makes Eddie shiver.
Steve raises the book in his hand. “It’s coming from the side of the house.” Steve whispers, pointing at the sink. Eddie nods, arms himself with the first thing he can grab. The broom he left out earlier. He makes a note to point out how not putting it away in the closet actually came in clutch and Steve shouldn’t be such a freak about things.
“Just, stay back.” Eddie says, stepping forward, cringing when he hears the rustle of Steve’s pajama pants that signals he’s undeniably following.
He creeps closer, fingers sweating as they tighten on the broom, strains his eyes to catch a glimpse of whatever’s been terrorizing them—-
Sandy, their neighbor’s enormous pitt bull comes into view, giant felled tree branch clenched in her jaw. She shakes her head and the spindly end of the branch, long-fingered with thin twigs, scraping over the side of their owners home. “Jesus Christ.” Eddie breathes, dropping the broom, laughing at the sight of Sandy, at himself, at this whole ridiculous night.
“What is—Sandy?” Steve is pressed tight against Eddie’s back, chin propped on Eddie’s shaking shoulder. “It’s way too cold. He should bring her inside.” Steve says, judgemental disapproval clearly evident even through his clogged nose. “We should go get her—”
“We’re not getting the cops called on us for dognapping, baby.” Eddie says, still wrestling against the nervous giggles that keep trying to leak out of him, all that fear and nervousness churning away inside him even now that he knows there’s no threat. “She’s got her doggy house. She’ll go in when she’s tired of her new toy.”
Steve hums, unconvinced. Eddie’s pretty sure if his fever was just a touch higher or lower, he’d be holding Steve back from jumping a fence right now. Maybe they should look into getting a dog of their own. They can train it to keep an eye out at night. Or maybe just keep Eddie company at night when he’s not ready to turn in yet. Yeah, it might be time to bite the bullet and get the dog they’ve been talking about since they moved into this place. Eddie turns, arm coming up around Steve’s waist, pulling him close, squeezing him more for his own comfort than to keep Steve still. He kisses Steve’s too-hot face. “C’mon, mystery solved. Let’s get back to bed.”
They abandon their weapons on the kitchen table, wander back to bed. Steve seems more than happy to climb back under the blankets, stares up at Eddie as he closes the door, makes sure the lock’s caught, and then comes back to bed.
Steve comes closer, presses himself against Eddie’s side, cheek smashed against Eddie’s shoulder as he wraps his arm around his chest. He hums a bit to himself, “It was really sexy how you wanted to protect me.” Steve mumbles, half-asleep already.
Eddie snorts, pats Steve’s wrist where it’s laying on his chest. “Thanks, sweetheart. Glad it worked for you.”
Steve nods weakly. Yawns. “Totally. Always wanted a big strong man to look after me.”
Eddie flicks Steve square in the middle of the forehead and then kisses the top of his head. “Shut up and go to sleep.”
“So brave.”
“I’m ignoring you.”
Steve goes quiet for a long minute, long enough that Eddie’s almost sure he’s fallen asleep. Then, quietly, “I love you, you know.”
Eddie swallows, the adrenaline dying down, the tension bleeding out of his muscles the warmer he gets, the longer he lays there with Steve wrapped around him. “Yeah, baby, I know.”
“And you love me.” Steve says simply. It’s not a question. Just a fact.
Eddie kisses the top of his head again. He simply has to. “So much.”
“That’s good.” Steve replies, wiping his nose a little bit on Eddie’s shirt, before he gives a wheezy little sniff.
The sound of Steve’s snoring soon fills Eddie’s ears, drowning out the scraping sound of Sandy’s new favorite branch, and lulls him to sleep.