Chapter Text
The air in the conservation labs at University College of London always smells faintly of chemicals and the mustiness of ancient relics. It’s a sterile, quiet place where you spend hours hunched over delicate tapestries and fragments of medieval garments, using fine brushes and tiny needles to mend threads pulled taut by centuries of wear. You like the precision of it, the idea that if you work hard enough, you can piece together the truth of what an object was always meant to be.
You’re in your second year of your second masters, finally feeling like you’ve scrubbed the Hawkins off your skin. You have a flat you share with some of your fellow students, a boyfriend named Fred who’s the perfect gentleman, and best of all, a routine you love.
Then, you walk out of the Bloomsbury Farmer’s Market on a Tuesday afternoon, and the world tilts on its axis.
Steve Harrington is standing on the corner of Byng Place, looking up at the architecture of the church with a look of profound confusion. He’s wearing a navy coat that’s obscenely well-tailored and holding a physical map like a tourist from 1995.
"Steve?" you say, hoping and praying that it isn’t really him. But you’d recognize the swoop of his hair and the confused, puppy-like twist of his mouth anywhere.
He turns towards you, and for a second, you’re fifteen again, feet propped up in his lap in the attic of Orchard House while Robin pokes fun at him. The recognition hits him, and his face breaks into that lopsided, infuriatingly handsome grin.
"Y/N? No way." He jogs over, nearly knocking over a woman pushing a stroller in his haste to get to you. "What the hell? You didn't tell me you were here."
You stare at him, clutching your tote bag overflowing with groceries to your chest like a shield. "Steve, I’ve lived here for four years. I'm attending UCL, remember?”
"Right, right, the college," he says, nodding enthusiastically as if he’s definitely known that all along. "The... archaeology thing? Digging up dinosaurs?"
"Conservation for archeology and museums," you correct loftily, though the smile stretching your face betrays your true feelings. "And you know I’m not interested in dinosaurs, Steve. What are you doing in London? This is a long way from the Harrington estate."
"I’m here for a work conference," he says, though he looks a little shifty. "Grandpa’s idea. He’s been... well, he’s been kind of breathing down my neck about taking over the London branch. Said I needed to 'broaden my horizons' or whatever, but between the two of us, I think he just wants me to go bother someone else for a change."
He looks at you then, and the teasing light in his eyes softens into something warmer, something that feels like the "you" and "him" that existed before the world got complicated. "You look good, Y/N. Like, really, really good."
"Yes, I generally do," you say, then pause at the way your phone is vibrating in your pocket. "Look, I’d love to catch up, but I’ve got to get these groceries home before they spoil."
"Will you get dinner with me tonight?" he asks, stepping into your space in the easy, confident way he’s always maneuvered through life. “I’ll even let you pick the place so I don't accidentally spend fifty pounds on a bad sandwich."
You laugh despite yourself, a soft, traitorous sound. “Very funny, Steve. But I’m not responsible for your poor financial decisions.”
“Noooo,” he whines, clutching his chest like you’ve physically struck him even though he’s laughing too. “I thought you cared about my wellbeing, Raphaella.”
You hesitate, the moment stretching just a beat too long before you say haltingly, “I really can’t tonight.” The words feel heavier than they should, but you keep pushing through. “Wednesday nights are date nights with Fred.”
Steve’s smile doesn't vanish, but it goes a little fixed. "Fred. Right. Robin mentioned you were seeing someone. Is he... is he a dinosaur guy too?"
"He works for the British Institute. He’s brilliant, Steve,” you gush, because you can’t help the way your voice softens at the thought of Fred. Beautiful, kind Fred, who has always been so incredibly patient with you.
Steve’s face does something very complicated at the way you melt at just the thought of your boyfriend. “Well, text me then. My number hasn’t changed- I’m sure we’ll find a time. See you soon?”
“See you soon,” you echo, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes as you turn to walk away, feeling the weight of his gaze lingering on your back.
It’s just your luck that as soon as you think you’ve finally escaped the past, everything comes crashing back down.
-
The restaurant Fred has chosen for tonight’s date is tucked away in a quiet mews in Marylebone, the kind of place where the tablecloths are starched so white they look like they’ve never even been touched by human hands and the waiters move with the silent grace of ghosts. It’s a far cry from the sticky floors of a mall food court or the damp, leaf-strewn woods of your hometown.
This is your life now. You are a woman who eats sea bass with a delicate silver fork and discusses the provenance of Roman glass. You have a boyfriend who calls you "dove" and "darling" and looks at you with a steady, uncomplicated devotion that normally feels like a sanctuary.
But as you sit across from Fred tonight, the flickering candlelight casting soft shadows over his sharp, handsome features, you feel like a fraud.
"You’re doing it again," Fred says softly. He isn't accusing; he never is. He’s just observant, his eyes- that clear, intelligent blue- tracking the way you’ve been pushing your food aimlessly around your plate for the last ten minutes.
You blink, forcing your hands to go still. "Doing what?"
"Wandering," he says, reaching across the table. His hand is warm and soft as it covers yours. "You’ve been miles away since you walked through the door. What’s going on, dove? Is it the conservation lab? Did that medieval tapestry turn out to be a later reproduction?"
You look at him, and for a second, you desperately wish you could just be the girl he thinks you are. The girl who only worries about delicate threads and thesis deadlines.
"No," you say, your voice sounding thin to your own ears. "I... I ran into someone today. On the way back from the market."
Fred tilts his head, waiting. He has the patience of a man used to waiting for history to reveal itself.
"An old friend from home," you continue, the word friend feeling like a stone in your mouth. "Steve Harrington. I haven't seen him in... God, by the time I moved here I hadn’t seen him in four years. You can do the math on that one."
"Steve," Fred repeats, testing the name. "Ah, the one Robin mentions sometimes? The one who was a bit of a local legend in your hometown.”
"Something like that," you say. "I wasn't expecting to see him. At all. He’s in town for a conference, and it just... it rattled me."
Fred squeezes your hand, his thumb stroking your knuckles in a rhythmic, soothing motion. "It’s always a shock, seeing the past standing on a street corner in the present. Especially when the past belongs to a place you’ve worked so hard to move on from."
You swallow hard. You haven't told Fred about the years you spent as a permanent fixture in Steve's peripheral vision, waiting for a glance that never stayed. You haven't told him that Steve was the reason you left Hawkins. As far as he knows, you were simply eager to escape a stifling small town.
"The last time we saw each other, it wasn't good," you confess, the memory of that cold dorm room in Indiana rushing back with startling clarity. "Steve was spiraling. He was being... well, a typical, self-absorbed version of himself. And I snapped. I told him, in no short terms, that he was a waste of space and that I was tired of watching him destroy his life. I said really nasty, cruel things that I wish I could take back."
You expect Fred to look shocked. You expect him to be taken aback by the venom you’re capable of. Instead, he just lets out a small, empathetic hum.
"Dove," he says, his expression softening into something so understanding it makes your chest ache. "I’m sure he deserved it. From what you’ve told me about your younger years, you spent a lot of time being the sensible one in a group of very loud people. Everyone has a breaking point."
"I don't know if he deserved all of that," you whisper.
"It’s ancient history, darling," Fred insists, pausing to thank the waiter as she tops up your water glasses. "Whatever happened in Indiana stays in Indiana. People grow up. You certainly have. And if he’s here for a business conference, it sounds like he’s taken your advice to heart, hasn't he? He’s clearly not an aimless little boy anymore."
You look down at your sea bass, but all you can see is the way Steve looked on that street corner- the way he looked at you like you were the only solid thing in a world he didn't understand.
"You should hang out with him," Fred says, his tone bright and encouraging. "Truly. While he’s still in town, you should spend as much time with him as you can. You say all the time how much you miss home, how much you miss the familiarity you have with people who grew up in the same woods. This is a gift, Y/N. A piece of your childhood, right here in London."
You feel a hysterical laugh bubbling up in your chest. A gift. Fred thinks Steve is a souvenir, like a postcard or a specialty mug. He doesn't understand that Steve isn't a piece of home; he is home. He’s the smell of the swimming pool in July and the warm, sticky taste of sun on your skin. He’s the ache you’ve been so desperately trying to cure with new routines and Fred’s steady presence by your side.
"You wouldn't mind?" you ask finally, your voice trembling. "If I spent time with him?"
Fred laughs, a genuine, hearty sound. "Mind? Darling, I want you to be happy. I trust you enough to know you’ll be safe with this Steve. And frankly, I’d love to meet him eventually. I want to see the man who survived a 'nasty' lashing from my favorite girl."
He reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is so kind, so full of a future that is planned and safe and certain.
"Don't let the past haunt you, dove," he says. "Invite him for a drink. Show him your London. It’ll be good for you to realize that you aren't that angry girl in the dorm room anymore, and he isn't that boy."
You nod, forcing a smile that doesn't reach your eyes. "You're right, honey. I don’t even know why I was worried about it in the first place."
"I’m right all the time," he winks, before launching into a story about some departmental feud at the Institute.
You listen, or you pretend to. But internally, you are screaming. You are thinking about the text you’re going to have to send, the way Steve’s eyes lit up when he saw you. And you can’t help but think that Fred, in his infinite goodness and perfection, has just handed you the keys to the one thing that could burn your entire world to the ground.
Later that night, after Fred has walked you to your door and kissed you with a sweetness that both delights you and makes you burn in shame, you sit on the edge of your bed. The London rain has started, a soft patter against the windowpane.
You pull out your phone and scroll until you find the contact you never deleted, the name that has sat silent in your phone for three years.
You [11:34 PM]: fred thinks we should hang out while you're here. he says I miss home too much to let this opportunity go.
The reply is almost instantaneous.
Stevie [11:35 PM]: Fred sounds like a smart guy. I’m free on Saturday. Let’s go to Gymkhana? I’ve been dying to try the lamb chops.
You drop the phone onto the duvet and cover your face with your hands, trying not to scream out loud. Of course he picks one of your favorite restaurants without even trying. How the hell does Steve Harrington still know how to get under your skin?