Chapter Text
I always feel like somebody's watching me
And I have no privacy
I always feel like somebody's watching me
Tell me, is it just a dream?
Hopper was dead. Steve couldn't believe it. One moment, he heard his voice on the radio and the next he was just... gone. He didn't expect the wave of grief to hit him as hard as it did. Sure, he and Hopper were both involved in all this Upside Down bullshit but it wasn't like Steve had actually interacted with the man much. But now that he was gone, Steve realised just how much of an anchor he had been. He was always there, through all of it. No matter how crazy it got. And the look on Eleven's face when she found out her father was dead. That poor girl had been through enough already.
Steve's hands were white-knuckled on the wheel. He should probably be in a hospital instead of driving, but after everything that had happened, he just wanted to go home.
Sure, his home would just be empty, because Steve knew damn well that even a disaster like the 'mall fire' wouldn't bring his parents home to check on him. He could be dead and they wouldn't even notice for months. Hell, if they ever noticed. As much as he wanted to cling to the childish idea that they cared about him, even he wasn't that stupid.
He wasn't sure why he still loved them. Then again, he'd never exactly been good at love, platonic or otherwise. Just another thing he was bad at.
Steve turned a corner; his ribs protested heavily at the movement. He kept his eyes on the road, though he wasn't sure if he was seeing straight. It probably wasn't a good idea to drive with a potential concussion, but hey, it wouldn't be the first time he'd done that. The tires hummed against the asphalt, steady and familiar, a tiny comfort in a world that had gone completely off the rails.
He thought back to the mall again. To that horrifying beast, he tried not to think too hard about how it was basically a mass of dead bodies. God, what had his life come to. Supernatural monsters, a girl with super powers, a secret Russian base, interdimensional portals, weird tunnels beneath all of Hawkins... when would the nightmare end.
Steve exhaled, and let his hands relax on the wheel for a moment, loosening his grip just enough to still feel the rough leather beneath his palms. Home would be quiet. He usually hated how empty it was, but honestly he was actually looking forward to the silence for once.
He tapped his fingers to the rhythm of the song on the radio, the beat familiar enough that his body remembered it before his brain did. The volume was low, barely more than background noise, but the soft synth line managed to ease the rigid line in his shoulders.
Steve huffed out a quiet breath through his nose. Of course it would be this song. He'd heard it a thousand times over the Mall's speakers all summer. It was relaxingly upbeat, the type of song that wrapped you in its melody. Even when you were exhausted, bruised and trying very hard to not think about how close everyone had come to dying.
He drummed his thumb against the steering wheel, mouthing the words under his breath absent mindedly, "Take on me... take me on..."
For a brief moment, things just felt normal. Like he was just a guy driving home late at night with the radio on, not someone who'd fought monsters made of dead bodies and nightmares. Not someone who still felt the weight of grief pressing down on his chest.
The night was still. No one in the streets. No lights, no sounds, just the faint rumble of his car and the hum of the radio. And for the first time in a while, Steve thought maybe he could just... breathe.
A loud screech in the distance caused his brows to furrow. It sounded like tires, jeez, how fast was that car going? It was probably some idiot going on a joyride. He should know, he used to do it too. A familiar guilt panged in his stomach, he had been such an asshole.
Honestly, that was mostly how he knew Hopper. The police chief had shown up to his house more times than he could count - noise complaints, drunken shenanigans, nothing serious, but enough to make him a headache. He'd never actually done anything Hopper could've arrested him for, but he knew he'd been a pain in the ass. He didn't know why the man trusted him with the kids. He didn't know why the kids liked him at all, actually. Hell, he didn't even like himself. But his old self was worse, so that meant he must be doing something better now, hopefully.
He thought back to his conversation with Robin. Both of them sprawled out on the floor of that disgusting public bathroom, drugged to hell and having just puked their brains out. She said he'd changed. That it was a good change. He hoped she could be right, she usually was.
But maybe it had just been the drugs talking.
Another distant tire screech ripped him from his thoughts. Since when had he been on this street? Jesus, it was probably dangerous to drive while zoning out. Luckily, the roads seemed pretty empty. It was late after all. Still, he needed to be more careful, it was just his luck that he'd still get hit.
He ran a hand through his hair, still sticky with sweat from earlier. Man, he needed a shower. And maybe a nap that lasted a week. Rolling his shoulders, he winced when the motion sent a dull ache skittering down his spine. God, he was tired. Not just sleepy; the kind of tired that sank into your bones, that made your thoughts feel heavy and slow, like they were dragging through the mud. The kind that didn't go away with a good night's sleep, because it wasn't really about sleep at all.
He pictured his bed. The familiar dip in the mattress, the cool sheets that faintly smelled of laundry detergent. He knew he probably wouldn't even bother changing, just kick off his shoes, maybe grab some water if he remembered and collapse. He could sleep for a day. Two, maybe. Just let the world keep on spinning without him for a while.
With a heavy sigh, he forced himself to focus on the road. The song on the radio faded into the background again, the lyrics blending together as his thoughts drifted. He let himself imagine the quiet: real quiet. Not the tense, waiting kind. He could shower, let the hot water pound against his shoulders until the muscles finally unclenched. Maybe he'd stand there longer than necessary, until the room was filled with steam, until his fingers wrinkled, just because he could.
A flash of light caught in his rear view mirror. Headlights. They were far enough back to be unremarkable. Steve barely registered it, just another car on the road, another person heading somewhere else. He turned his attention forward again, jaw loosening as he took a slow breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Almost home, he told himself. Just a little longer.
He adjusted his grip on the wheel, relaxed back into the seat, and let his mind drift toward the simple relief of stopping. Of turning the key, stepping out of the car, and finally, finally being done.
The headlights flashed brighter in the rear-view mirror. Steve frowned. Whoever it was had closed the distance faster than he'd thought. He shifted in his seat, checking the speedometer, then the mirror again. The lights were closer. His fingers tightened on the wheel, a prickle of unease crawling up the back of his neck. Something felt off. The road was empty, straight, wide enough that passing would've been easy.
The car didn't pass.
There was no warning screech. No horn. Just a sudden, violent impact - metal slamming into metal with a bone-rattling force that snapped Steve forward against his seatbelt.
"Shit-!"
The world lurched. The steering wheel wrenched hard to the right, jerking from his hands as the car spun. Glass exploded somewhere to his left, a sharp, deafening crack, and the sound seemed to stretch, slow, like his brain couldn't keep up with it.
Pain detonated across his ribs as the belt dug in. His head whipped sideways, his vision going white as it slammed into the window. The radio cut out mid-lyric, replaced by the scream of twisting metal and the high, panicked whine of tires skidding across asphalt.
Steve fought for the wheel, instincts kicking in as his thoughts scattered. He tasted blood. The car fishtailed, back end swing out of control. He caught sight of the other car. It stayed with him, pushed him, another brutal shove from behind that sent his car spinning harder.
His stomach dropped.
This wasn't an accident.
The world slammed sideways. The car left the road, tires screaming as they hit gravel, then grass. Steve's breath punch out of him as the car lurched violently, momentum finally giving way to a sickening crunch of impact.
Steve slumped forward, forehead resting against the steering wheel. All he could hear was a hollow ringing, everything sounding like it was underwater. His chest burned with every shallow breath, ribs screaming in protest. He tried to move his hands. They shook, but they worked.
"Okay," he rasped, not sure who he was talking to, "Okay. I'm- I'm okay."
Headlights washed over the interior again, stark and blinding through the cracked windshield. Steve squinted, his fear finally cutting through the haze, his heart pounding in his ears.
He faintly heard the sound of doors opening and voices carried through the night. They were hard to make out through the ringing, but a cold dread settled in his gut. They weren't speaking English.
Shapes moved towards the car, their silhouettes distinct against the lights. One of the spoke again, the words harsh in a way he distinctly recognised. Definitely Russian.
The driver's side door handle rattled.
Steve swallowed, fingers curling weakly around the wheel as his pulse roared in his ears. He tried to sit up straighter, brace himself, but the world tilted when he tried to move.
The door was yanked open.
Cold night air rushed in, sharp and biting, carrying the smell of gasoline and scorched rubber. Steve sucked in a breath that hurt like hell and forced his eyes open wider, trying to focus past the spots swimming in his vision.
A shape leaned in.
Before he could think, his body reacted. Steve's swing was clumsy, uncoordinated - his fist barely cleared his seatbelt before it connected something solid. There was a grunt and what Steve assumed was a curse in Russian. But the shape didn't move. Shit.
Hands grabbed him and slammed him back against the seat, the impact sending a sharp lance of pain through his skill, his vision flashing white.
"Get- off-!" he snapped, or maybe slurred. He couldn't tell.
He lashed out blindly, elbowing backward, knee jerking up on instinct. His foot connected with something - a shin, maybe - and another voice barked out in irritation. The sound was close, too close.
Steve tried to scramble for leverage, his fingers scrabbling uselessly against the slick fabric of his seat. His ribs screamed as he twisted, breath hitching painfully in his chest. He felt hand clamp around his wrists, pinning them in an iron-strong grip.
"Hey- no, no, stop-" His heart was hammering now, adrenaline surging too late, "I didn't- I didn't do anything-!"
Someone struck him. Not hard enough to knock him out, but enough to do what they intended. His head snapped sideways, cheek smashing against the doorframe. The world tilted violently, his vision blurring until the headlights smeared into long, blinding streaks.
Steve kept desperately trying. He kicked and bucked, every movement sloppy and delayed, like his body was lagging behind his mind by a second too long.
"Fuck you!" he spat, blood warm on his tongue, "Get off me-!"
It didn't matter.
They dragged him halfway out of the car, his shoulder catching painfully on the doorframe. His feet hit the ground hard, knees nearly buckling as the night spun around him. He stumbled, only managing to catch himself due to the hands gripping his arms.
For a split second, panic cut through the fog.
Steve wrenched one arm free and swung again, aiming for a face he couldn't see. His fist connected with what felt like a jaw this time - solid, satisfying - but the victory was short lived. Something jabbed into his neck, just below his ear.
His heart leapt into his mouth.
A cold pressure bloomed under his skin, crawling down his spine and into his limbs. His muscles betrayed him almost immediately, strength draining away like someone had pulled a plug.
"No-" he gasped, trying to pull back, but his fingers were already going numb, "Hey- wait-"
The night lurched. The road tilted, the stars overhead smearing into nothing. His knees gave out completely, and the only thing keeping him upright were the arms holding him.
As his vision dimmed, he became distantly aware of voices again. Detached. Cold. Russian.
Steve tried to hold onto consciousness, to stay angry, to stay awake, but the darkness crept in anyway, heavy and inevitable.
The last thing he registered was the road, empty and quiet behind them, before everything went black.