Work Text:
Sunlight hasn’t even begun to threaten the horizon yet when you’re jolted awake for the third time this week.
It’s not a sound that wakes you at first, but a motion. The mattress is shuddering, a violent, rhythmic thrashing that vibrates through the bed frame. You roll over, squinting through in the near-darkness to see Steve tangled in the sheets, sweat gleaming on his forehead. His breathing is ragged, choked off in his throat, and his hands are clenched into white-knuckled fists, gripping the blankets like he’s trying to strangle it.
"Steve," you whisper, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He flinches violently, a sharp intake of air that sounds almost like a sob, before his eyes fly open.
They’re wild, unfocused, and filled with a sheer terror that makes your stomach drop. You know that in that moment - he doesn't see you sitting up next to him in his bed at home. He’s seeing the drugged needle administered by a cruel officer in some bunker beneath what used to be Starcourt Mall. He’s feeling the ghosts of the beatings he received when the Russians assumed he was lying.
"Hey, hey, it's me," you say, keeping your voice low, sliding closer. You wrap your arms around him, ignoring the way his muscles are locked tight as a board as you stroke where his sweaty tshirt sticks to his back. "Shhh, shhh. You're safe, baby. I've got you."
It takes a long, agonizing few moments for the panic to recede from his eyes. The rigid tension in his frame slowly melts into a trembling exhaustion. He collapses against you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel hot tears soaking into your shirt. You don't say anything else. What is there to say, really? Anything you could offer him in terms of words feels hollow. So you hold him, running your fingers through his hair and murmuring soft nonsense until the trembling stops and his breathing evens out.
You stay awake for a long while, listening to the uneven rhythm of his breath, and you feel a familiar knot of frustration and helplessness tighten in your chest.
He wakes up hours later, groggy and disoriented before forcing himself up and out of bed to the bathroom. You hear the faucet running, and at you stand in the doorway, he splashes cold water on his face. When he notices you in the reflection, he offers you a weak, apologetic smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
It hurts. More than you care to admit. Honestly you’d give anything to get him to be honest with not only you - but also with himself about how he’s actually doing. But you’d done this dance for months now. Anytime you’ve pushed for him to open up and let you in, or even just talk about his feelings, he’d shrug you off. He’d apologize for waking you up and then make a joke about how he’s just tired, or how he shouldn't have eaten that ice cream before bed. He constantly deflects with that practiced charm that was always his default. But now it’s his shield. One that says I'm Steve Harrington, and I'm fine.
But you know he’s not fine. And this morning, as you watch him staring blankly at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, jaw set as he traces the faint, faded scar on his cheek with a trembling finger, you decide you can’t let him pretend anymore.
Steve looks utterly wrecked. Deep, dark circles are bruised under his eyes, and his skin is pale, drawn tight over his cheekbones. He looks a bit thinner, frayed at the edges. The boy who used to rule Hawkins High with a swagger and a polo shirt feels like a ghost. This Steve looks like a survivor of a war nobody else knows he fought.
"Steve," you say softly. He jumps, startled, and turns to look at you, immediately trying to school his features into that familiar neutral mask. But you see the crack in the armor immediately.
"Yeah, babe?" His voice still raspy with sleep.
“Can we talk?”
He stiffens, leaning back against the bathroom counter and crossing his arms over his chest. It’s a defensive posture, one you’ve seen him use a dozen times when he feels cornered. "About what?"
"About this," you say, gesturing vaguely to the bed, to the sweat-damp sheets, to the shadows under his eyes. "The nightmares, Steve. They're getting worse. I-I know you told me about what happened. Down there. But I know there’s more to it.”
“There’s not.”
You frown. “I want to help you, and I can’t keep watching you tear yourself apart every night without knowing why."
He lets out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. He looks away, staring at the tile floor. The minutes tick by, and neither of you says a word.
"It's nothing.” He says finally. “Just... stupid dreams. Work stress, probably. You know how it is."
"It's not stress," you step closer. "You were screaming, Steve. Crying. Every night you’re fighting something in your sleep. and it wasn't just a bad dream about Family Video having no more copies of Dirty Dancing."
"Then maybe I'm just crazy," he mutters, still not looking at you.
"You're not crazy," you say firmly. "But you're hurting. And you won't let anyone help you."
Steve finally glances up, and the look in his eyes is so raw, so desolate, that it almost stops your heart.
“Because nobody cares," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Okay? Is that what you want to hear? Nobody gives a shit about Steve Harrington's nightmares because he’s too much of a mess to be able to move on to the next thing like everyone else fucking has.”
"That's not -“
"It is, though," he says, and the bitterness in his voice is startling. “I could die tomorrow and no one would care. Not really.”
He pushes off the counter, starting to pace the small bathroom, agitated energy radiating off him in waves. You watch him silently, wishing you could fistfight the demons in his head that put those ideas there.
“My parents? Gone. Always have been. They didn't care when I got beat up in the alley, they didn't care when I was terrorized by demodogs, and they sure as shit didn't care when I was kidnapped by Russians and almost killed. I came home that night, you know, after everything? And the house was empty. The note on the fridge said they’d be back in September. It was July. No explanation.”
Your heart cracks.
He runs a hand through his hair, his fingers shaking. "And the kids? They’re way more resilient than I am apparently. They’ve all moved on. Mike has El. Jonathan has Nance and Will. I think Sinclair and Max are together this week. And Henderson... God, he and Erica treat it like just another adventure he’s got under his belt. A story to tell. He doesn’t get what I went through down there. And I can’t tell him because the last thing I’d ever wanna do it fuck that kid up."
His concern for Dustin is palpable. Truly the little brother he never had, but clearly always wanted. But with so many friends, it crushes your soul a bit to see that Steve still felt alone.
“What about Robin?” You venture. She was down there too. Surely the two of you can commiserate.
Steve shrugs. “She doesn’t like to talk about it. They didn’t touch her, thank God. Plus she was so drugged she says she doesn’t remember a lot. And I don’t wanna fuck that up.”
“You wouldn’t do that, Steve.”
He stops pacing and looks at you, eyes pleading. "I don’t know how to be around any of them anymore. I feel so pathetic. Like I can't close my eyes without seeing... Without feeling everything. I can’t just, I dunno, get over it."
“No one expects you to. That’s now how that works.”
“It’s how it works for everyone else.” His words come out, raw and aching. “I’m supposed to be th-the guy everyone can rely on. The cool big brother who keeps all of those kids safe. How is it that they’re all totally fine already and I don’t even want to get out of bed most days? How is that fair?”
The silence stretches between you, heavy and suffocating. You can see the weight of his trauma and perceived shortcomings crushing him by the way he’s been carrying it all alone for so long. He feels invisible. He's nearly always surrounded by people, yet he's never been more alone.
"They all look right through me," he whispers, the fight draining out of him. "We all went through some rough shit over the last few years. And everyone just… Has each other. I-I'm the guy who was there. Not smart enough to come up with a plan, just help with it, sorta. But I'm not the one who matters enough to worry about.”
He sinks down onto the edge of the bathtub, dropping his head into his large hands. You sit down next to him slowly, rubbing soothing circles into his back. Platitudes would be of little comfort, so you opted for supportive silence.
“I’m just... So tired," he admits, voice cracking. "I’m tired of being strong for everyone. Pretending I’m not scared shitless every time I walk into a dark room or see some stupid needle. I hate feeling like I’m the only one who remembers that the world almost ended. Because everyone else has just... Moved on. And I’m pathetic because I keep wallowing.”
The devastation in his voice makes it clear that it’s not all just about the nightmares. It's the isolation. It's his realization that for all the lives he's touched and saved, he feels profoundly, utterly unsaveable himself. He's a hero to Hawkins, but in the quiet darkness of his own mind, he's just a terrified little boy, waiting for the next torture session to begin and truly believing that no one will ever bother to come save him.
The room was pitch black, and a guttural, jagged noise that wasn't quite a scream and wasn't quite a sob, torn from a throat that sounded as though it had been shredded through a wood chipper. You were already moving before your eyes even fully adjusted to the dark.
“Steve," you whispered.
Your hand met slick, cold sweat. He was burning up, skin radiating a feverish heat even though he was shivering violently. He thrashed against your touch, his arm lashing out in a defensive arc that caught you in the shoulder. It wasn't a malicious hit; it was pure, blind panic you’d never fault him for. He wasn't fighting you. He was fighting off the faceless men Russian uniforms. The needles and punches, and darkness that had swallowed him whole in that elevator shaft.
"Steve, stop, it's me, you're safe, you're home," you pleaded, grabbing his flailing wrists.
He was impossibly strong, fueled by adrenaline and terror, his muscles corded and locked tight. It took both your hands and all your weight to pin his arms to the mattress, straddling his legs just to keep him from accidentally hurting himself or you.
His eyes flew open, and for a terrifying second, they were glazed over, unseeing. The pupils were blown wide, swallowing the warm brown you loved, leaving only two black voids staring up at the ceiling.
"It's okay," you soothed, keeping your voice steady, forcing your own heart rate down. "Look at me. Steve. Look at me. Come on.”
Slowly, agonizingly, the voids focused. The glassy sheen of shock began to clear, replaced by a dawning, horrifying clarity as he took in the sight of you straddling him and clutching his wrists. Recognition crashed into him, and with it, the physical reality of where he was. The fight drained out of him instantly, leaving him limp and gasping for air.
“Fuck, baby, did I hurt you? I’m so sorry, I-“
“No, no. Shhh. You didn’t, I swear. It’s okay.”
His chest heaved with the force of his combined sobbing and evident relief that he hadn’t harmed you. It wasn't the quiet, contained crying he usually tried to stifle. This was an open, ugly wound. As you lifted yourself off his body, he seemed to curl in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest, burying his face in his hands as the sounds tore out of him. He sounded like a broken boy who had been bent until he snapped - and when he tried to put the pieces together, they hadn’t fit quite right.
Wrapping your arms around him, you pull him tight against your chest. He went willingly, clinging to you with a desperate, crushing force. His handsome, tearful face was pressed into your chest, tears soaking your pajama shirt instantly. He was shaking so hard you could feel your own bones rattling.
"I got you," you whispered into his hair, pressing kisses to his temple, forehead, and anywhere else you could reach. "I'm not going anywhere."
“Promise?” The word he spoke was so soft you almost missed it.
“I promise, baby.”
At your confirmation, he holds onto you like a lifeline, his fingers digging into your back, bruisingly tight. For the first time ever, he was finally leaning on you. Not just physically, but emotionally too. Letting you in on the crushing gravity of his own existence, and allowing you hold him up because his own heart couldn't bear the weight anymore.
"Make it stop," he chokes out, voice muffled against your shoulder. "Please, just make it stop."
You felt your heart shatter into a thousand pieces at his words. God, if you could - you absolutely would in a heartbeat. Steve didn’t deserve to feel so worthless and abandoned. He never had. And you knew there was more to him than he’d told you. Years of pain and turmoil that went beyond Starcourt and demodogs.
"I… I can't make it stop, baby," you said, the words catching in your throat. "But I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying right here.”
And you did. You stayed there for what felt like hours, holding him as the storm raged inside him. You didn't tell him it was going to be okay, because you honestly didn't know if it ever would be. You certainly didn't tell him to be strong. He had been strong for everyone else for too long. You just offered him the only thing you had - a gentle, quiet love that wasn’t going anywhere.
It was odd to realize that you were the only one who saw this side of him. When the world saw Steve Harrington, they saw the guy with the nice car and easy smile, who protected a gang of children like they were his own. A semi-self-absorbed charmer with amazing hair.
But the world didn't see the way he flinched when a car backfired. They didn't realize he’d stand in the shower for forty minutes, scrubbing his skin until it was raw, trying to wash away the feeling of dirt and grime and blood that wasn't really there. They didn't see the panic attacks at three AM.
Only you saw that.
Eventually, Steve cried himself into a state of exhausted, hollow numbness. The sobbing tapered off into ragged, hitching breaths. He never let go of you, though. He kept his face buried in your neck, his body molding to yours, seeking the warmth and the reality of your heartbeat.
You stayed there, humming quietly after he mumbled something about you singing to him. The tension slowly began to leach out of his muscles, one by one, until he was just a heavy, warm weight in your arms. He was spent. The adrenaline crash had left him hollowed out.
"How’re you feeling?" You whispered finally.
He let out a long, shuddering exhale that ghosted over your collarbone. "Bad.”
"That’s okay.”
“What about you?”
“We’re not talking about me.”
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, his face blotchy and pale - he looked utterly wrecked. Like someone who had been through a war and lost the will to fight it. But looking at you, he seemed to find a tiny anchor point in the chaos.
"I’m sorry for keeping you up," he murmured, his voice rough. “I know you have work, and I -“
"Don't," you said, shaking your head. "Don't you dare apologize."
He let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. "I'm just... tired. I'm so tired of being the guy who's supposed to be fine."
"I know," you said softly, reaching up to brush a damp lock of hair off his forehead. "You don't have to be fine with me. I’ll love you if you end up being fine tomorrow, and I’ll love you if you’re not fine for twenty years.”
“Are all bets off at twenty-one?”
“Steve.”
Sobering, he looked at you for a long moment, searching your face for any sign of judgment or pity. He found none. You just looked at him with a steady, unwavering care that seemed to terrify him almost as much as the nightmares did. Maybe because it was the only real thing he had left that didn't feel like a hallucination. Or a lie.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours and breathing you in, trying to replace the phantom smells of the bunker - the antiseptic, blood, and fear - with the scent of your shampoo, skin, and laundry detergent.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," he whispered.
"You don't have to know. And you’ll never find out," you replied, wrapping your arms tighter around him. "Because you're stuck with me."
He let out a weak huff of warm air against your skin. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
He closed his eyes, and for the first time all night, the line between his shoulders relaxed. He wasn't healed - far from it. The darkness was likely still there, lurking in the edges of his mind and waiting for him to close his eyes again. But for right now, in the circle of your arms, he wasn't alone in it.
"Keep holding me?" he asked, sounding small.
"Didn’t plan on stopping."
Steve curled into you, his head resting on your chest, his arm thrown over your waist as his thumb made slow circles on your back. He listened to the steady rhythm of your heart, a metronome ticking away the seconds, proving that time was still moving, and the world was still turning. You felt his breathing begin to sync with yours, slow and deep.
You knew he wouldn't sleep well. He never did. He’d probably wake up in a few hours, thrashing and sweating, caught in the unforgiving claws of another memory.
But as he drifted off, his grip on you loosening just slightly, you made a silent vow. You would be the front row seat to his pain, but also be the hand he could reach out and hold in the dark. You couldn't fix him or take away the scars that ran deeper than skin. You knew that all too well. But you could sit with him in the rubble of the aftermath. You could help hold him together until he figured out how to do it himself. He would never be unloved by you.
You pressed a kiss to the top of his head, closing your own eyes, and waited for the morning light to come.