Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They’ve just fought a monster in the mall Steve used to work at, and he’s freezing.

The blanket the ambulance provided him was thick and scratchy. They took one look at his busted face; nose crooked, lip dribbling blood, and his eye double the size it should be and taking on a purple hue, and they had asked “Do you need a blanket?”

Obviously, he took it. He’s freezing in his blood stained sailors outfit, matching Robin who’s sat nearby in her own ambulance. The bright lights flash and flood his vision, red and blue switching between each other like a choreographed dance behind Steve’s eyelids. He thinks the drugs wearing off, or something, because the lights give him a headache, and he starts to feel sick.

But not only that. Because, of course there can never be only one thing wrong with Steve Harrington (recently, it feels like there’s always been at least one problem with him); and this persistent, nagging feeling that’s been chipping away at his brain all day, has always been the most pressing problem since Steve was fourteen. He’s melting.

It’s the only way he can describe it, and the only way he ever has. His brains melting, into something not eighteen years old, but instead the mind of a helpless, useless, burdened child.

He’s slipping. Maybe that’s the better word for it.

Yeah, his minds slipping into something smaller, making his longer legs feel giant, and his hands too large. His body becomes heavy, and it’s a good thing he has something to lean on. He starts to droop a little.

He blinks a few times on command, looking insane and weird to anyone who might take a glance at him. Nobody has, all instead hugging their families. Steve thinks he hears the familiar thrill of Dustin’s mom’s screech as she hugs her son close, petting over his curly head of hair rhythmically as if to make sure her Dustie is here, alive, and very much not dead in the ‘Mall fire.’

Steve thinks distantly about his own parents, how the last bit of comfort he tried to initiate was pushed away and locked out; that was maybe five years ago, just before Steve started feeling small.

Maybe it’s the blanket that does it, scratching his arms alongside providing comfort. That’s his parents, at least. Trying to do their job as parents by caring, but getting it all mixed up and wrong and only hurting Steve in the process.

Steve hugs the scratching blanket closer, craving its attention. He’s also still shivering, because he’s still freezing.

He’s watching, with widened eyes and parted lips, everyone cry into their parents shoulders. He watched Joyce take Will close in his arms, and Jonathan rushed up to them and towers over the two in his own embrace. They look warm. He sees Eleven stand up, limping still from that lack blob that she was brave enough to force out herself. The flash of red and blue makes her eyes sadder, and Steve feels the sting behind his eyes as if to warn him that he’s about to cry. He stops that instantly, rubbing his eyes with fists. Harrington men don’t cry, but they don’t find comfort in scratching blankets either.

When he pulls his fists out of his eyes, having taken very gentle actions with his swollen one, he sees Hopper’s strong arms wrapped around El, who’s back is shaking as she sobs and cries and laughs from the day behind them. Steve wants that, craves it, and feels a jealous swamp in his stomach at the thought of Steve /not getting what he wants/.

Because that’s not fair, he wants a hug, some comfort. He wants his mom and dad to appear when he closed his eyes and opens them again to find them both with their arms outstretched for a hug. His mom would pick him up off his feet and spin him around as she strokes and plays with his long hair. His dad would ruffle his locks and pat his back with a reassuring smile and saying something like “you were great, son!”

Even in Steve’s head, the words sound foreign coming out of his dads mouth. Is it really that unlike him to be supportive?

Steve feels a test sting his busted face, trailing into a cut on his cheek that makes him wince. He wipes it away with a weak hand, as his bottom lip wobbles a little as he so desperately wants to have a good cry.

Later, he tells himself, when he’s home and safe so nobody can judge him. Actually, he might as well go home now. His car is gone, probably set alight in the fire, but he can walk. He can take his time and walk alone. He won’t cry on the way there, but he’ll definitely think about it.

Yeah, he’ll walk.

He slides down the ambulance edge on his butt, not bothering to fix his shirt where it rides up a little. Steve stumbles his way through the crowd, passing the family’s hugging and crying with each other in fear and celebration that they aren’t dead. He keeps his head down, because he wants that and can’t bare to see it. He’s a jealous person at heart, and being this melted (has he ever slipped this far down before? His brain feels fuzzy, his legs are going numb. He can’t control the little whimpers that rumble in his throat…) it’s not helping his emotions. To see everyone so happy, knowing he won’t get any of that. No attention, no love. God, he’s a child. He’s so desperate and weak.

“Steve, honey?” There’s a softer voice behind him, the lights still flashing as Steve sound around. His hand reached up, fingers loose at the joints as they brush his parted bottom lip. He won’t put them in his mouth, not with Joyce watching.

“Are your parents picking you up?” She asks, in a warm lilt he’s only heard her speak to Will towards. It always made his heart warm, which is stupid because Joyce doesn’t even know Steve, and it only makes him even more jealous.

Steve shakes his head, only a few times. He feels the wisps of air rush through his big head of hair, and likes the sensation. He blinks wide eyes at Joyce when her face… softens? He brushed his finger tips across his lip again, little noises still coming from his throat. He’s tried to press them down, force himself to shut up, don’t be weird, but the little squeaks keep coming.

“Why don’t you come home with us? It’ll just be me, Hopper, the boys and El, not a big crowd.” Joyce offers, and Steve nods before he can think of what that means. He drops his fingers, knowing now that he’ll have to be brave and start acting grown up if he’s not walking home alone to cry in his own bed.

Jonathan’s watching him, Steve can tell, but he can’t name the look he’s being given. But he does know it makes him uncomfortable, so he pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders to feel the warm stretch across his bare arms. It’s not nice, it’s not comforting, but it’s something. It’ll keep Jonathan’s stupid loon away, and that’s enough for Steve.

“Okay, honey. Do you want a hug?” Joyce asks like it’s nothing, like that’s not exactly what Steve wants right now. He’s craving it, arms wrapped around him and keeping him close. Warmth, he’s desolate for it. For someone to hold him close, comforting him, whisper in his ear that it’s all going to be okay.

He shakes his head, no, because that’s all silly. Joyce isn’t his mom, far from it, and if Steve is to start acting older and not melt his brain down, he needs to act it. Adults don’t get hugs, they don’t need comfort. They certainly don’t need scratchy blankets wrapped tightly around them.

He takes watch at Joyce’s face falling a little, and averts his eyes with a little noise making itself known from the depths of his throat.

“Oh, come here.” She tuts, with a fond smile as she beckoned Steve closer with a flip of her wrist. One arm kept around Will still, with Jonathan behind them both but stood close. When she spoke, her voice was strong although tinged with a dainty cusp from the fear of the past hour still not yet catching up to her. She’s strong, although not unaffected by everything they had just been through. Steve was unaware anyone could be strong but scared at the same time, but strong Joyce Byers seems to pull it off easily. He wonders if it’s a mothers trick, and doesn’t try to recount anytime his own mom had acted like Joyce.

Steve caves. He steps forward, nearly stumbling, but keeps a distant between himself and the other teens, older and younger, as Joyce wraps one arm around him in a one-sided hug. Warm, shaking, motherly perhaps.

“You’re never too old for a hug.” She smiles fondly, patting Steve’s back as he stands limp in her arms. She pulls away after a moment, and he already misses her warmth. His fingers fly to his lip, and he brushes the pink skin there and stays quiet. He doesn’t suck his thumb, but he does try not to make any silly noises. He acts older, old enough not to need another hug.

But it had felt so, so nice.

——

The last time he had asked for warmth or comfort from his mom, she had pushed him to the floor and spat down at him.

He’d been maybe thirteen, boarding fourteen at the latest. It was winter, and very cold. His parents, still home regularly at this time, were busy with their work and wine. Mom gripped her glass, watching mindless game-show television with distant eyes that showed she wasn’t really watched at all, and dad was locked in his study working.

Steve, knowing not to annoy his parents even at this age, had craved warm cocoa. He knew how to use to stove, and the kettle, and could warm it up himself. But it was the packaging for the chocolate drink he hadn’t been able to find. He searched the cabinets he could reach, not yet having had his growth spurt like everyone else at school seemed to have had (and Steve definitely was not jealous. Definitely not…), and couldn’t find the plastic packaging he wanted.

He had frowned, and had the genius idea to drag a chair from the dining room into the kitchen, to use as a stool to rummage the higher cupboards. He searched the mug cabinet, filled with memorabilia from his parents trips (back when they always had a date to come back, and would always promise Steve a mug or magnet from their travels) around the world, and had snagged his long sweater sleeve on one of the mugs. A fee came tumble down, grazing Steve’s front at a hairs breath before shattering on the counter top. Shards sprayed, a few knicking Steve’s slender knees and leaving cute behind. It didn’t hurt, but Steve had panicked, and quickly jumped down the chair and lifted his leg up to inspect his little wounds.

There were a few cuts, nothing deep, but the mug-shards seemed to cut deep enough to trickle blood down to his ankles. He winced, kissing his teeth as he stared at the blood. He fumbled, rushing to his mothers arms for comfort. He yelled her name “Mom! Mom! My legs are bleeding!” And rounded the doorway from the kitchen to the living room to show his mother his cut up knees.

He came close to her side, where she sat slurred on her drink with faded eyes. She glanced to him, lazily, up to his face and down to his knees. She groaned, and sat up a little with a disappointed look on her face. Steve didn’t notice it, still shook from the sight of blood on his skin. It wasn’t a lot, but he had never cut his legs up before, not even a graze from a basketball-fall spewed this much blood from his body.

“Steven,” She sighed, a groan behind her words. She wasn’t impressed. “Why didn’t you grab a towel to clean yourself up?” She snapped. “Go. Before you get my carpets dirty.” Her breath smells tangy with the alcohol.

“Mom.” Steve said, a little exasperated. He stepped closer, his arms up for a hug. He nearly reached her shoulder before a larger hand placed itself against his stomach. Steve tumbled at the his moms force, landing on his butt with a thud. The blood trickled sideways, and bunched behind his knees before dropping on the cream carpet.

“You’re too old for that, Steven! Grow up!” She spat, glaring down at him before settling herself on the sofa. “Go! Go and clean yourself up.”

Steve stared up at her, his youthful eyes large as he felt his bottom lip wobble.

“Go on.” She snapped her fingers, waving him away as she took another sip- a gulp- of her red wine held gently in her palm. Steve felt jealous of the glass. He wanted to be held gently like that, too.

Steve stood, cut-up knees knocking together as he turned and placed a small hand on his stomach, where his moms had been. It was close enough to holder her hand, even if it meant himself being pushed down.

“Go be a good boy.” His mother slurred, looking through her lashes as she stared at the television. Her eyes too absent to be watching, Steve sniffled and went back into the kitchen to clean the mess he had made; of the room, of the mugs, and of himself.

Steve laid in bed, hours later, after not having made cocoa, hugging his pillow and stroking over the seems gently. He wiped his tears into it, and foolishly pretended it was a person.

There there, his pillow said, you can cry on me all night. I won’t push you away.

He didn’t get much sleep that night. And a few nights later, his parents left without saying goodbye. It was the first time Steve wasn’t sure when his parents were going to be back.

And he remembered feeling terrified.

——

“-eve? Steve, you alright?” Someone’s shaking his shoulder, and the scratchy blanket isn’t around his body anymore. He’s sat, in a cold truck, and it’s dark outside. There’s someone sat next to him, prodding at his side. He’s not being pushed, thankfully. He didn’t like being pushed.

He mumbles under his breath, lazily turning his head to the blurry figure beside him. It takes him a while to blink the fuzziness from his vision, and he catches Jonathan’s face in front of him. The other teens words register, and he nods a few times weakly. One, twice, barely a movement at all.

Jonathan nods too, confidently, obviously not wanting to talk to Steve, and clambers out of the truck. “We’re here.” He says as he clambers out, shoes hitting gravel and crunching down the path to the Byers’ small house in the woods.

That’s right. It comes back to Steve, now. He’s at the Byers, because Joyce wouldn’t let him walk home, and Steve has to start acting normally.

It’s not just the Byers though; they were in Hopper’s truck for a reason. Steve remembers, Jonathan opting to go with Hopper as Eleven decided to stay with Will. So, It was Steve, Jonathan and Hopper in the truck whilst Joyce took Will and Eleven home. Everyone else was picked up by their family; Everyone, expect for Steve.

He climbs out of the truck after a moment, after taking a breath and sighing it out again. He repeats a mantra in his head ‘act normal, act normal’ and Steve knows to do that he has to speak, but words are forming, and he’s just hoping nobody’s going to ask him questions that he can’t answer with just a yes or no.

His shoes scuff against the gravel path, crunching underfoot as everyone else is already inside. Hopper’s stood by the doorway, watching Steve and presumably waiting for him to hurry it up. He tries, but is worried his feet will fall underneath himself, so he continues his steady path in his ruined converse shoes. They’re battered, just like how Steve feels.

Inside, the lights are already turned on, and that’s something Steve definitely isn’t used to. If he were back home, he’d come home to an emptily quiet mansion, with the lights all turned off. The Byers, though, it warm inside. Radiating light that spills past the open doorway and floods Steve’s body. Outside, it’s dark and cold, and Steve hates it. Inside, there’s people, and it’s warm, so he rushes up the porch steps and enters the small tiny house as Hopper closes it behind him. He thinks he hears the older chief speak, but he’s observing the well-work house with awe, so he misses it.

“Steve, honey.” Joyce calls from the kitchen, a few plates stacked on the dryer presumably from breakfast. There’s pictures on the fridge, drawn pictures. They are good, really good, and the living room although small is filled with pictures and warm blankets and a tattered couch from people actually sitting on it. It’s nothing like the mansion back in Loch Nora, at the other end of town. It’s nice, used, worn.

It’s lived in.

Steve just his chin towards Joyce, eyes still wide and face lax. He sees her smile, and catches his brain before it falls. He feels the slip, and slaps his own fingers away from his mouth with a whip. She beckons him closer, and Steve joins her in the kitchen. Hopper’s behind him, Steve can feel his large presence looming over his back. It’s uncomfortable, for a moment. He rushed to Joyce a little faster.

“I’ll set you up a bed on the couch. Are you hungry?” Her hands are fast, flittering around almost frantically, like if she doesn’t help, or be needed by someone, even if they aren’t her own son, she’ll provide. As if, she had to provide for Steve, block out the entire last week from memory. As if people hadn’t died, and they hadn’t escaped evil Russians. And that Hopepr hadn’t almost died and that her children hadn’t been safe for far too long.

Steve notices it all, with his wide eyes and fiddling lax fingers that can’t quite seem to sit still. And he knows he should act more adult, like he said he would. He should turn and say “Oh, Joyce, that’s all okay. Sit down, relax. Put your feet up!” But Steve has the need to be taken care of, just for a moment, so he nods to the prospect of food, and Joyce’s face is so relieved that Steve doesn’t feel bad for letting his head slip again.

“Well. Okay, good. I’ll make you something- I’ll make us all something. How about that?” She offers, and Steve nods with a small smile of his own. She flutters her hands in front of herself. “Please, sit hon’. I’ll make us all some soup.”

It’s summer, and not the weather for soup, but Steve thinks they are all as cold as him, so it’ll help. He nods, although he’s sure Joyce is talking to herself, trying to calm her nerves. He understands, he understands a lot.

Will and Jonathan come out of their bedrooms from down the hall, in a new change of clothes. Steve turns his head to them and his cheeks flush, as if embarrassed to be caught sat in their kitchen. He debates standing, but both Jonathan and Will walk right past him. Will smiles, though, and stands beside him. Jonathan’s further away, probably not wanting to get too close. It makes sense, with the Nancy business… and the incident that happened two years ago down the alley…

“Mom. You don’t have to do this.” Jonathan frets, sounding a lot more like his mother than he probably realises, and comes to his moms bustling side and reaches to turn the stove off. He reaches, but Joyce slaps his hand away still. Will sits next to Steve as he stares at the ordeal in front of him. Jonathan’s unfazed, and Joyce stares him down. Even with her small stature, she’s intimidating enough for Jonathan to sit down also, leaving it be.

Maybe Jonathan saw what he did in Joyce, her need for distraction just for the moment. As if canned soup will fix this whole night completely in her mind, and that she has to be the one to make it so her hands stop shaking.

Jonathan and Steve don’t make eye contact, but Will’s talking lowly to his mom in between them. Steve’s heart is racing a little, has been all night, so he doesn’t hear most of it.

A gruff form sits across from Steve, and fat fingers snap in front of his face and whip Steve out from his head. He startled, a little, and snaps his head up to Hopper, who’s drowning Steve by speaking as his words are sounding underwater.

“Steve.” Hopper snaps again, and if by magic, Steve can hear again.

He nods, because he doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t think he can with his mind so slippery. He’s mush, up in his head, his body too big and his mind sunk deep. So much for acting adult.

“Did you hit your head?” Hopper asks, and Steve’s distantly reminded of a plate smashed over his head snake that concussion brought by Billy Hargrove last year, in this house. Billy, who is now dead.

Steve shakes his head, although wishes that was the only thing wrong with him. He’d never explained what this all was, nobody had ever asked. And even if they did, Steve wouldn’t tell them. He wasn’t sure what he would do, if asked why he acts like the way he does sometimes, because really he has no answers; but he knows for sure he’d never tell anyone anyway.

So, Steve shakes his head no. No, he’s not hit his head again, and no, he’s not concussed again.

“Right.” Hopper replies gruffly, and Steve can’t help but feel like he’s done something wrong. He keeps his eyes down again, until there is a bowl set in front of them all.

They eat in silence, Steve going slow as the warm liquid calms his pulse and makes his hands droopy. He feels like melting wax, warmed up and dripping away until he’s nothing but a blob of himself puddled on the wooden floorboards.

He should have walked home, he thinks distantly.

——

“Here, honey.” Joyce frets over the pillow, plumping it with a few whacks. Steve’s peering down at her, thumb dangerously close to his mouth as he brushed it against his bottom lip rhythmically. Joyce is leaning over the pillows, and she’s so short anyways that Steve feels like he towers over her. “I know it’s not much, but it’ll keep you warm. I threw in at least five blankets to keep you snug.” She smiles, finishing as she places the pillow back down at the left end.

Steve nods, once, and sits besides it, the five or six blankets tucked once on his right.

“Is that alright?” Joyce asks, licking her bottom lip almost showing her fret over Steve. He can’t quite explain why she’s acting like this, but he’s now starting to think that maybe it’s more than just a need for distraction for her.

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly, and it’s probably the first thing he has said all night. Joyce’s eyes widen, and Steve bristles backwards a little. “Thank you.”

She stares for a moment, and Steve can feel her eyes on him. There’s a noise in the back of his throat, and he quickly decided to tuck himself under the blankets to protect himself.

He throws his legs around, bent at the knees as he reached for a handful of blanket to drape over himself. Joyce snaps out of herself, shakes her head a little, and reaches over to help Steve tuck in nicely.

“Here, Steve. Let me do this for you.” She says nicely, making sure each blanket (there’s six, Steve counted) is covering Steve and that the last one in top is tucked in all the nice places. Steve thinks he’s drowning into the blankets, morphing into their comfort. It’s nice, and warm. And Joyce is smiling. “There.”

Steve smiles, just slightly. His brain is still small, and it’s growing smaller y the minute. So, really, it’s not growing at all. He’s shrinking, slipping, further than he ever has before. Where he’s been tucked into bed, her thumb is still near his lip.

So, finally, he caves, and places his thumb in his mouth and hooks his index finger around his nose. His face is flushed at the cheeks, and he can feel the guilt and shame and embarrassment bubbling in his tummy. He’s looking up at Joyce, eyes wider than ever before. He’s still in his stupid sailors outfit, and sucking his thumb like a toddler; right in front of Joyce Byers, a woman so kind and friendly to the stranger that Steve was.

He can’t bare to pull the thumb out of his mouth now that it’s finally there, now that he had what he wants; but he’s terrified of Joyce’s reaction.

She’s watching, her face unreadable. Steve’s heart pounds at his head, his stomach, his throat. It rattles his teeth, but his thumb soothes the shakes. Only a little.

She leans down, and Steve flinched before he has a moment to register the soft kiss that’s been placed on the crown of his head.

Joyce leans back up, and stroked over his long head of hair. Steve watched her from his blanket pile.

“Sleep well, honey.” Her thumb glides across his flushed cheek, before she turns to turn off the light and pad to her bedroom.

Steve’s heart is pounding, and he’s going to be sick. He probably should have walked home, but with his thumb in his mouth, drifting to sleep with an anxious tummy, he’s never felt comfier.

Chapter Text

Hopper’s awake first.

Which, isn’t an uncommon experience for the Chief of Police. At the cabin, when he was expected on early shifts and forced to wake up before El and miss having their lovely bonding moments of eating Eggo extravaganza’s and ‘getting fat’ together, Hopper would try his best, honestly, not to wake the teenager.

Hopper thinks the rule ‘never wake a sleeping baby’ should apply to all teenagers, because those early mornings where Jim Hopper would try his best not to wake his surrogate

daughter; he’d most-of-the-time fail, and feel the wrath of said super-powers making his coffee go cold and hear the loud slam of her bedroom door shutting closed with her mind.
Never wake a sleeping teen, less thou craves to feel her wrath.

Apparently, Chief Jim Hopper really hadn’t learnt a thing from those tiring mornings, because not three hours of sleep after the Star-Court Mall ‘fire’ incident, Hopper had woken up, crept out of Joyce’s bedroom with a kiss to her sleeping temple, and tried desperately to be quiet until he got out of the hallway and into the open-plan of the rest of the house.

After that, he walked with his normally heavy gait without a care in the world. Of course, and honestly he couldn’t be blamed for this, he forgot about their unusually quiet guest laying asleep on the living room sofa.

It wasn’t his fault, because Steve had been weird and quiet and unusual all evening. Joyce had come to bed with a soft, yet perplexed look on her face, and Hopper had summed that up to her overthinking everything that happened hours prior before they both had fallen asleep in each other arms.

Now, as Hopper sipped his coffee, staring out the window in the kitchen, he almost choked as he remembered big doe eyes and a silly sailors outfit.

Hopper could have spat his drink out, and he did a little as he turned around to the living room with a splutter, with his mouth open to apologise. He coughed, and shut his eyes, practically pounding punches into his chest to both calm himself and shut himself up lest he wake anyone else up in the house.

“Steve-, sorry I-“ Hopper choked out, wincing a little. He opened his eyes, and found what could only be described as a bundle of blankets a head of long full hair peaking out from under the blankets. Where, the little lump shivered under the sim lights, and Hopper suddenly felt a lot like a complete and utter asshole.

Memories of a lucid Steve sat at dinner, with large unseeing eyes with an unlikely babyish appearance flooded back to the Chief, and the rest of the day alongside it.

The drugs. Steve was coming off of a drugs high, and probably an adrenaline high alongside it. Great. No wonder the poor boy got spooked from Hopper’s heavy steps in the middle of the night, and woke up thinking he was back in some underground Russian lab being interrogated.

Hopper sighed, and placed down his mug of too-early coffee on the counter side, to slowly come closer towards the shaking bundle on the sofa.

“Hey,” Hopper’s voice was unusually quiet, and per-usually tired. He tried as much as he could to keep his steps lighter, but his heavy body didn’t lend himself any favour. He got Galway closer to the Steve-bundle, and stopped a moment. Although the boy couldn’t see him, he puts his hands up in surrender. “Steve? It’s just me, Hopper. You’re at the Byers place.”

The names must have clocked, because the blanket pile stopped shivering, and suddenly the full head of flopping and bed-ridden hair was peaking over the blankets trim, alongside two beady eyes glowing in the dim light.

Hopper smiled softly, like he would as he ruffled Eleven’s hair, or slapped Jonathan on the back to show he had done a job well done.

“Hey, buddy. Just me.” Hopper watched Steve shiver a little more. He frowned. “Are you cold?”

Steve pushed himself back into the sofa at the blunt question. Hopper winced, silently kissing his teeth.

“I mean,” He continued with a softer tone, still laced with exhaustion. Really, if it were anyone else, he would have gone back to sleep by now, forgot about the whole thing and not dared to try as much as he was now in making Steve comfortable. But, and Hopper couldn’t quite explain why, he didn’t want to leave Steve on the sofa alone the rest of the night. “You’re shivering a bit, bud. I wanted to know if you were comfy, or needed more blankets?”

Honestly, Hopper wasn’t sure they had any more blankets to cover Steve. He had about ten, if Hopper had to guess honestly, and most had holes or were homemade, but Steve hadn’t once complained. Then again, Steve rarely complained about anything, unless it was babysitting, but he’d still do that no matter how much he claimed to hate it.

The softer tone seemed to work, and Hopper filed it down for later. Steve’s mouth parted slowly, gently, his eyes darting across Hopper’s half dressed form. After what they had all been through, Hopper’s bare chest was the least of Steve’s worries now.

“No, thank you.” Steve’s voice was undeniable slurred, and Hopper’s brow furrowed as he tried to remember if Steve’s speech was the same earlier. If what those evil fucks had given Steve was making him feel worse, Hopper wouldn’t waste another moment in rushing Steve to the hospital.

“You doing alright, then?” Hopper asked, his face turning as he tried to look over the curled lump of blankets. Still shaking, in an uncontrolled little jittering movement sort-of-way. The speech, Hopper guessed, could be explained by his exhaustion. But the shivering was making Hopper concerned. “Are you too warm?”

“No.” Steve responded as he looked down at himself. Hopper’s brow furrowed.

“Wait. ‘No’ you’re not warm, or ‘no’ you’re not feeling okay?” Hopper itched closer, Steve taking no notice as his arms, presumably, fought their way out of the blankets to bring up to his face, where the back of his thumb brushed against his bottom lip. A thumb, which Hopper noticed, was already wet, as if…

Hopper was seeing things, surely.

“No, I’m not warm. And, I feel floaty.” Steve’s voice turned very small, as if the more he spoke the more he… couldn’t. The thumb fluttered against his lips, as if…

“Floaty? Like… coming off a high, floaty?” As Chief of Police, and having been a teenager once too an age ago, he knew Steve had smoked before. Like every other teen in the neighbourhood. He knew most dealers around Hawkins, because he had either grown up with them, or gone to them for his own stash at a low point in his life, or both. As Chief, maybe he should have done more to prevent it, but there was no use dwelling on the past now, of all times.

Steve shook his head though, answering that he both had done drugs in his time, and this wasn’t the feeling. Whatever the Russian’s had given him, was stronger. Maybe worse…

“Kid, maybe we get you to the hospital. Yeah?” Hopper offered, although already knowing Steve had been checked out by paramedics, which equalled to said hospital.

Steve’s wide eyed, terrified reaction was enough to settle his answer though.

Hopper nodded and opened his mouth to speak surrender before Steve beat him to it.

“No. No ‘ospital, please. I know what’s this.” Steve spoke with the top of this thumb between his teeth, body shaking more now at the mention of the dreaded place with too-bright-lights and stark white walls. Hopper didn’t dancer, ever, being there either.

“Okay, okay. That’s your call. I ain’t here to force you.” Hopper relented, picking up on Steve’s speech pattern. “Do you want a cup of water, start to flush the drugs down?”

Steve made a little noise in the back of his throat, and it was vaguely familiar to something Hopper had heard before.

“I wanna sleep.” Steve whispered, and Hopper’s lips quirked up the tiniest bit. He would not call Steve Harrington ‘cute’, not when he knew Arthur Harrington would strangle him alive for calling his only son something so pussy as ‘cute’.

But, he had his mothers eyes, and Steve’s soft charm behind them, even in his exhaustion and post-Russian-drugged state.

“Alright. You sleep then. I’ll…” Hopper stumbled, looking around. The armchair was free. Whether Steve Harrington would enjoy Chief Hopper’s company throughout the night was beyond him. “Sit over there, if you like.”

Steve’s brow quirked, but he made no sound of complain. Hopper sat in the chair, awkwardly, and sat very, very still.

Steve too was stilled for a moment, barely breathing before he seemed to succumb and curl back into himself tighter. The blankets rearranged themselves, all fifty of them, feigning a tucked in effort from Steve that really would have been better if someone had done it for him. Hopper dared to offer. For a moment, Steve shifted, before he stopped and took a deep breath out through his nose, and the rest of his breathing became even and snuffly in his sleep.

Twenty minutes later, when Hopper felt his eyelids begin to droop, even with the affect of his apparently weak coffee, he tentatively leaned over to check the Harrington boy was in fact soundly tucked in slumber on the cough, before Hopper himself could fall into slumber.

What he found, once he peered over the lump of fifty blankets and mane of hair, was the peaceful face of a young Harrington boy, suckling his thumb as he body fell lax and comforted in sleep.

Hopper’s eyebrows nearly shot off his head, but then was reminded of fighting evil Russian’s and literal demon monsters from another dimension, and thought that maybe Steve sucking his thumb for extra comfort, after saving the entire world for the third time, probably wasn’t the strangest thing he’d seen in his life.

<~>

Hopper wakes up, again, to heavy blankets rustling, a body tumbling and kicking.

For the twelfth-hundred time that week, Hopper’s heart races as adrenaline pumps through his veins, making him stands alert and glance frantically around the dark lit living room for monsters with flower faces or ugly brown suits with red overtones and straps.

He finds Steve, in what appears to be the throws of an evil nightmare, kicking at the blankets and getting his king uncoordinated limbs stuck in the heavy weight. Hopper frowns, watching the boy for a moment as deep whines and whimpers fall from his lips, past his still-wet thumb slack between his teeth.

Hopper creeps over, slowly, coming closer than he did before and kneeling by Steve’s side. He knows not to wake him, because waking someone out of a nightmare (especially one that seems as violent as Steve’s) wouldn’t end well. Steve’s face is wet, tears somehow streaming past his tight shut eyes and his face is an expression of pure fear. The hand not providing his thumb between his lips is gripping the top two blankets with white knuckles. His head is thrashing, as his legs are kicking wildly. Hopper glanced down at his body, and noticed where the blankets have tucked under Steve, and no doubt scaring the boy into thinking he was stuck.

Tentatively, Hopper rucks up the blankets out from under the boys back, pulling them less taunt and drapes them across his body where they were previous. He holds the blankets down tight, and chucks the first few layers off of Steve’s body to let him breathe.

It seemed to help a little, because Steve’s wild kicking stopped for a moment, but his body still thrashed, as if trying to escape. Before, it had looked like he was trying to run from the danger, now it looked like he was stuck in one place, trying to escape.

Hopper would kill those Russians again in a heartbeat.

He tried to relax his face, and his brought a large hands up to Steve’s face and gently stroked back the messy bed-head atop his head. It stuck to his face a little, where Steve had sweat in his sleep, and Hopper frowned. He pulled off another few blanket layers, leaving two.

Steve’s face, although his knuckles relaxed just slightly, still seemed afraid, his breathing laboured and twitchy past his thumb. Hopper put the back of his hand to the boys forehead, to check his temperature, but Steve flinched so violently that Hopper was afraid he had woken up suddenly.

He stilled, and watched as Steve kept his eyes closed, still asleep, but still very afraid. Soft whimpers came from his throat, husky and sore as his best face spilled fear. Hopper almost felt emotion to see the boy in such a state.

He glanced back to the hallway, where Joyce was sleeping in one room, and Jonathan, Eleven and Will were all cuddled in the oldest’s room. Joyce had been snuggled so tight to Hopper, her tiny body fitting perfectly with his large one. Steve had been the only one in the house without someone, before Hopper came and checked in on him.

That could change.

He glanced back to Steve, face hesitant. If Steve woke up, not in the cuddly, young mood his post-drugged state had been in, then Steve would probably go apeshit if he woke up between Joyce Byers and the Chief of Police, Jim Hopper. He’s freak, probably swear at them a few times, and leave. Something Hopper could handle. Although he didn’t like the idea of Steve being out on his own…

Hopper could say it was to keep an eye on him, because of the drugs. That seemed logical enough, in Hopper’s mind. And Joyce wouldn’t mind, probably wouldn’t even wake up. So…

With a distant memory of carrying his own tiny baby, Hopper gently lifted Steve’s frightened body, bringing the two blankets along with him still draped over his front, and cradled him to his chest with one arm under his knees, and the other holding his head propped up. He noticed how light Steve seemed to be, obviously slinging ice creams all summer had made him loose some muscle, but Hopper couldn’t help but be a little concerned.

He slowly padded towards the hall, shushing Steve as they went, the boy still whimpering as his body involuntarily cuddled inwards into Hopper’s large chest. Hopper tried to keep his movements light, really not wanting Steve to wake up like this…

He pushed the door open with his side, and entered the small room with light feet as he padded towards the bed, and knelt down to place the crying Steve on top of the covers, and kissed the blankets up further on his body to get him comfortable. As Hopper climbed back into bed also, Joyce stirred slightly from Steve’s other side. Hopper waited with bated breath.

“Hop…?” Joyce’s voice was sleep addled, her little body barely shaking the bed as she turned to face who she expected to be Hopper, but found a tear-stained sleeping Steve beside her. “Oh.”

“He was crying.” Hopper said, leaning over and peeking his head above Steve’s still shaking body. “I wanted-“

Hopper was interrupted by a loud sob escaping Steve’s lips, and his tucked arm fought under the blankets to reach his mouth again. Both stared at the boy, Joyce’s face tired yet concerned, in a way only a mother could appear. Tired, exhausted, fed up, yet determined.

“His thumb, Hop.” Joyce said instantly, like she understood this all completely and didn’t find it strange in the slightest. Hopper got to action quickly, unrucking the tucked blankets and letting Steve’s hand flail towards his face. Instantly, his thumb find his lips again, but the soft little cries didn’t lessen. Hopper’s brow furrowed, and Joyce tutted sympathy.

“I don’t know what-“ Hopper tried to explain, but there were no words to properly convey what he meant. Joyce, lovely Joyce, understood though, and nodded with a smile.

“It’s okay. He’s having a nightmare.” Joyce explained, as if Hopper didn’t know that before, but her presence and her being awake, helped loads. It all made sense when Joyce was around, and it always had, even when they were kids. Hopper had been smitten for the lovely woman since he was a boy, and he didn’t ever think his love for her had once changed.

Joyce shuffled closer to the boy, draping her arm over his chest and cuddling close to his crying body. She shushed into his ear, whispering things Hopper couldn’t quite hear.

“It’s okay, Steve. You’re here with us. Shhh, I know. I know, honey, you’re so sad. It’s alright, though. We won’t let anything happen to you.”

He stared as Steve’s face began to relax, his thumb-sucking became softer and less rushed. Although his face was still wet and sticky from his tears, and would be bruised for weeks to come, he looked the picture of innocence, making soft snuffling noises past his thumb and ever so often making little whines in his sleep.

Slowly, very slowly, Steve started to calm down, and all it took was Joyce whispering to him, and holding him close.

Hopper’s brow furrowed, and he tried to imagine Steve’s real parents doing this to their sweet boy; Arthur Harrington, from what Hopper had known of the man for years now, was not one for silly comforts.

Steve seemed starved of the gentle touches his parents should have given, of the attention he had deserved. And it was showing now, in a vulnerable mess coming forth in a strangers house. Hopper frowned further.

“Hopper,” Joyce whispered louder, as Steve seemed to be almost calm enough to sleep the rest of the night undisturbed. His brow still furrowed, in a matching tense of Hopper’s own, but he was a lot calmer than before. “You’re thinking too much.”

“He’s just…” Hopper didn’t finish. Joyce beckoned him closer with her hand, and Hopper genetically laid by Steve’s side, gently resting his large hand on the boys bent arm. Steve’s arm twitched, and his teeth gripped his thumb between them as if afraid, on his sleep, that someone would pull his thumb out from between his lips. Joyce shushed him with a little smile, stroking over his thick bed-ridden locks.

“He’s not taking that from you, sweetie. Don’t be silly, now.” Joyce scolded with a gentle tone, her mouth curling as Steve’s body reacted to the silly reprimand with a little leg kick. Hopper grinned dopily, too.

“You can keep your thumb, Steve. Although it may not be so good for your teeth…” Hopper was distantly reminded of a twelve year of Steve Harrington with shining new braces and a scowl on his lips. Hopper had snorted and went to retort, but it was one of the rare times he saw Steve with his parents, and knew Arthur would not take well to Jim taking the piss out of his son.

They fell into a comfortable silence, Hopper gently reaching over to wipe the stray tears from Steve’s face as he finally seemed to calm down and fall back into peaceful slumber. Hopper wasn’t too far behind, and his eyes were almost closed before he felt Joyce’s hand up against his own, where Hopper still placed his large paw on Steve’s arm.

“You did the right thing.” Joyce smiled, and Hopper craned her neck over to look at her. A silent conversation happened between them, that they’d have to talk to Steve when he was better, to explain themselves, and to let Steve explain himself also. This wasn’t a blip, wasn’t a simple moment. Steve had craved their warmth, he’d cuddled into Hopper so easily, and let Joyce’s soft tone calm him even in sleep. That wasn’t normal, not for someone like Steve “The Hair” Harrington.

They’d have to talk.

Hopper nodded slightly, and Joyce pat the back of his hand a few times before settling back into bed and getting ready to sleep the night away again.

Just as Hopper succumb to sleep, for the third time that night, he felt Steve shift above the covers next to him, and a mane of hair curled itself under Hopper’s chin, and little content sigh slipped between the boys lips.

Hopper fell asleep with a gentle smile on his lips.

Chapter Text

The don’t end up talking about it. Because when Joyce opens her eyes, with a soft tiredness and equally faint smile on her lips, she turns towards the heavy weight on the other side of the bed, and finds Hopper laying beside her: Not Steve.

She shoots up, eyes burning at the light coming from outside. Summer means light mornings, and of course after everything they went through in the past week, Joyce forgot to close the blinds. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes, searches the room for any sign of Steve, and finds nothing out of the ordinary.

Apart from the two folded blankets that lay perfectly on the foot on the bed.

Joyce groans, and curses under her breath.

Leave Steve Harrington to flee any sort of awkward conversation that may equal to him telling two adults that he may not be doing too good.

<~>

They don’t get a chance to properly speak about it, for weeks. The day after the Starcourt Mall is ‘burnt down’ in a ‘freak accident’, the whole party is calling each other to ask if they are alright, nobody wanting to be alone, and deciding to find solace in the Byers’ cabin in the woods.

Everyone is there, and the house is filled with an anxious bubble surrounding each one of them. The place is crammed, and Steve is there, stood with Robin who wont quite let him go, and Dustin nearby, not wanting to stray too far from his group of friends, but keeping a close eye on Steve and Robin at the same time.

Nobody wants to be away from each other, and Joyce does try talking to the boy, but she has her own sons who she wants to be close to, and Jonathan and Will don’t want to let her go either. She can barely move an inch in the spilling house of people. Hopper is almost too busy guarding Eleven, who’s tired and leaning on him and taking up most of his attention, although Hopper does, as Joyce does also, glance at Steve every so often with fleeting eyes any chance he can get.

And Steve, he’s watching them all with a fisted hand, large red eyes, and spaced out look on his face. He doesn’t reach Joyce, or Hopper’s gaze, focus’ on Robin, and looking after her. She’s the newest to their group, but from what Joyce remembers of her from passing, is that she’s a sweet girl who could talk for days. Maybe that’s what Steve needs for a moment, for someone who understands what he went through, to just talk and spill the space for a while. So, whilst Robin talks, Steve looks after her, protects her to obviously distract himself from everything that had happened in the past week, and the other thing that happened the night before also.

The don’t get a change to talk to him at all that night. Or the next few that followed.

<~>

They finally get a chance to talk, when Steve drops off half of the teenagers to the Arcade one morning.

It had been a while since the teens had gone there, but ‘for nostalgias sake’ as Lucas had claimed with a grin, they had decided to go there together like they had years ago, when they thought everything was fine after saving the world for the first time. Steve had been designated to drop off Dustin, Lucas and Max, Hopper taking Eleven and Will, and Nancy taking her brother. They parked outside the arcade, and the kids quickly thanked and hugged their taxi drivers before hopping out of the car to hug each other tightly in greeting, as they all had been since they last saved the world.

Nancy got out of the car to greet Hopper, who laid down the rules for Eleven. It was still rare she was allowed out, for her own safety, and Hopper stood his ground on the strict rules he had given the young teenager. Eleven had rolled her eyes, but nodded with a last hug to her dad, before they all ran off. Nancy yelled “and have fun!” Which sounded a lot like her mother, as the young teens fled into the arcade with boisterously excited yelling.

Nancy and Hopper spoke for a moment, as Steve watched them from the drivers side of his car. He stared with wide eyes, gripping the wheel as he felt phantom eyes resting on his back; as if someone was watching very, very closely. He shivered, and his mouth went dry at the thought. He was most definitely on edge at the sight of Hopper.

Steve’s thumb twitched where it gripped the steering wheel, and he frowned down at his hand with wet eyes. Traitor, not now…

There was a knock on the pulled window of Steve’s drivers side, and the teen startled with a gentle gasp as he looked up at Hopper bent peering through the window. Steve rolled it down further, as his fingers tapped on the steering wheel. Hopper waved slightly as the window cranked.

“Hey, kid.” Hopper’s tone was soft, and Steve remembered the tone distantly. “Look, I think we should talk.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Steve tried his best not to let his tone tremble, feigning steady breaths as he shallowly avoided Hopper’s eyes. He stared at his chest, instead.

“Kid, don’t-“ Hopper started, but a rise of anger flew in Steve’s chest, and the flared up at the man with little twitches of his body.

“Don’t ‘kid’ me, Hopper. I’m an adult. No matter what you or Joyce believe.” Steve’s tone was ice, and his glare ran deep. Hopper, susceptible to a teenagers burst of anger, only quirked his lips a little, as if remembering Steve “The Adult” Harrington curled up against his chest, comfy and carried with a thumb in between his lips.

Steve saw it too, the distant memory of being barely half-awake and curdling into Hopper’s chest in the throws of a very harrowing nightmare. One he still hadn’t shaken a week later.

Steve’s mouth fell into a thin line, his glare turning into a silk as he turned away from Hopper.

The man shook his head, shook away the memory, as his eyes glanced across Steve’s tired face. Steve was aware he didn’t look too hot, having struggled to sleep the last week, and it taking a toll on… well, everything else on his body. He looked exhausted, and Hopper knew. His frown furthered.

“Steve.” Hopper sounded like he wanted to call him ‘kid’ again. Steve would have drove off in an instant. “Just come round later. It’ll just be me and Joyce, the boys and El are all out for the night.”

Hopper tried to reason, using a softer tone again. Steve couldn’t help but glance up to the man’s face, his own flushed red at the cheeks.

“Please.” Hopper tried, plead. Steve looked over his face, trying to find an itch of… something. Something that said ‘I’m going to hurt you’, like his dad when he got angry, or his mom when she drunk a little too much.

He saw none of that.

Steve’s throat went dry, and he nodded, glancing away a little before being captured to look back at Hopper’s face. His mind cast a gentle cloud of fog, before Steve blinked it away. Not now… he was in the car still, had to drive home.

Hopper smiled, relieved at Steve’s nod. His body physically seemed to sag once he had gotten his own way, pleased.

“Okay. Come over soon, alright? No rush, though.” Hopper looked like he wanted to take Steve over now, but they both understood that Steve would need a moment to collect himself, and that him going on his own accord would help the matter somewhat. It’s make it feel like Steve’s choice, and the last thing Hopper wanted Steve to feel was helpless and in some semblance of control.

“Okay.” Steve barely whispered, and Hopper stayed watching him for a split moment before saying his goodbyes. Steve was out of the parking lot before Hopper could start his truck.

<~>

“Steve!”

Steve hadn’t thought he’d ever seen anyone that excited to see him, when Joyce threw open the front door to her little cabin the woods, to find the expected arrival of Steve Harrington standing outside her door, with a small dopey smile on his lips. He was enraptured in a hug, Joyce’s smaller body wrapping around his taller one with such a warmth that Steve stilled for a moment in her grasp. She rubbed his back gently, her chin resting on his shoulder as she seemed to reach up on her toes. Although Joyce was tiny compared to Steve, and most other people, she covered Steve’s body completely with her own warmed body from inside.

Steve stood very, very still.

“I’m so glad to see you! Have you been alright?” Joyce rubbed his back a moment, trying not to yell directly in Steve’s ear.

The teen nodded, hands fumbling behind the woman, afraid to touch her back.

“Y-yeah. I’ve been… alright.” He didn’t want to lie to Joyce, not after she had always been so kind, but he also didn’t want to on-load on her so quickly and complain about his life, when Joyce had definitely gone through so much worse.

Joyce pulled away, although rested her hands on each side of Steve’s arms, not hugging yet still holding him. Steve tried not to squeak at that. His own mom had never held him liked this, or looked this excited to see him, let alone excited at all.

“Good.” Joyce smiled, and it said so much more than Steve could understand. She squeezed his arms, and nodded back into the house. “I’m glad. There’s dinner in the oven, but it won’t be ready for a while. I hope you’re not too hungry.”

“I’m alright, Ms Byers, thank you.” Even in his confused, heavy-minded state, he’d dare to forget his manners.

Like most mothers who encountered Steve and his ‘please and thank yous’, Joyce seemed to melt a little at his politeness. She gently herded him inside, closing the door behind them as Steve’s body went even more rigid now that he was inside the Byers house.

“Aren’t you just so sweet.” Joyce smiled, gripping his arm once again before going further into the house and reaching the kitchen. She spoke over her shoulder. “Hop’s in the bathroom, but you can make yourself comfortable!”

Steve wasn’t too sure how to do that, but a little voice in the back of his mind supplied that he enjoyed to be near the woman, so followed her into the kitchen to sit tentatively at the dining table.

Joyce turned around, after checking whatever was in the oven, and noticed Steve sat behind herself. She startled a little. “Oh, Steve! I meant on the sofa, hon. That’s alright. Would you like something to drink?”

“Coffee?” Steve asked, shifting his hands in his lap. His pocketed his thumb by fisting his fingers around it, trying not to tempt himself. “Please.” He added.

Joyce’s brow furrowed, as she looked over the boys face. “We have water and stuff, honey.” She asked tentatively, and Steve glanced away as his face flushed.

“Just coffee, please.” He knew what Joyce was alluding too, and was distantly reminded of yelling at Hopper earlier that day that he was, in fact, an adult, and thus could drink coffee when he liked.

“Okay then.” Joyce responded quietly, and Steve was overcome with the feeling that he may have done something wrong.

Just as Steve opened his mouth to say something he wasn’t sure of, maybe to apologise, the bathroom door opened and out came Hopper, who stilled as he noticed Steve at the table.

“Steve.” Hopper’s voice was unreadable, and Steve turned around in his seat to glance at the man behind him. He smiled, or tried to, and it came out as more of a grimace, and Hopper smiled properly himself. There was something unreadable behind his eyes, though. Which seemed to be a running thing with the older couple.

“Hi, Hopper.” Steve said gently, the two staring at each other for a moment. Joyce was the one who scoffed and broke the moment.

“Hop, come sit down, then.” She scolded gently, placing a mug of coffee in front of Steve with a smile. “There, Steve.”

“Thank you.” Steve smiled up at the woman through his eyelashes, and she seemed to melt a little again. Hopper came barrelling beside Steve in the other chair, and sat heavy. He glanced at Steve’s mug, which Steve took a tiny sip of.

“What’s that?” His nose turned upright at it. Steve flustered a little.

“Uh, coffee.” Steve said in between a small sip, trying not to burn his tongue. The coffee was nice, though.

“Is that even appropriate for-“ Hopper tried, glancing up at Joyce who silenced him with a glare. Hopper bristled. “Right.”

Joyce came to sit beside Hopper then, taking his hand into hers and lacing their fingers together as they both turned to Steve. Steve, who tried not to watch them.

“Steve,” Joyce started. So, they were getting straight into it. Steve‘a neck flared a little, goosebumps scaring his skin there. “I think we should finally talk about what happened the other night. Last week.”

“Joyce I think he remembers when it was.” Hopper grumbled under his breath gently. It earned him a harmless whack to the arm.

“Me and Hopper just want the best for you. And… what we saw that night, you weren’t, or aren’t, doing okay, Steve. And, we just want the best for you.” Joyce seemed to repeat herself, and as Joyce’s tone changed, gentle yet demanding attention and to be listened to properly, Steve was forced to glance up at the woman and hold her burning eye contact. Steve almost felt scolded by her motherly tone. Hopper seemed to burn holes into the table top.

“So, if you wouldn’t mind, maybe explaining yourself, or what happened from your side of the story. Maybe that way, we can understand and see if we can help further.” Joyce smiled, shrugging a little before going quiet so Steve could respond.

He was quiet for a moment, fingers dancing against the side of the mug and tracing the warmth against it. His brain worked too fast for his mouth, which opened and closed a few times with unspoken sentences.

“I-.. it’s not-… um…” Steve’s face screwed up, and he almost felt like crying at the helplessness of the situation. Not only did he had to explain what this was, when Steve didn’t even understand it himself, but he had to now let people in on his stupid little secret.

“How about we ask you some more concrete questions?” Hopper’s tone broke the silence, the two shorter brunettes snapping their heads up to look at the Chief. He smiled at them both. “Why don’t I ask you something like… why’d you run off that morning?”

Steve bristled, but this time a different feeling overtook him. It seemed, opposed to when Joyce spoke, he felt less soft, and felt harder when Hopper spoke to him.

“Because I woke up in your bed unexplainably, after falling asleep on the sofa.” The words came quicker now that he was talking to Hopper, his tone harsher than when he spoke to Joyce. He barely glance sat the woman as Hopper’s lips curled into a smile, and Steve felt distantly as if he had fallen into a trap.

“And do you remember anything else from that night?” Hopper shrugged, letting Steve continue.

He stilled for a moment, before nodding and glancing down again.

“What do you remember, Steve? What happened from your point of view?” Hopper asked, his tone lighter now that Steve wasn’t staring him in the face of danger.

Steve’s hand fumbled. Still, he wasn’t as speechless as Joyce questioning him had left him.

“I had a nightmare.” Steve said, and shivered at the memory of it. He felt a little sick with the imagery from his haunting nightmare, the one he had seen countless times now. “And… you helped me.”

Hopper seemed pleased with that.

“You both helped. But, Hopper held him, and helped me out from being stuck. It was…” He trailed off, refusing to make a further fool of himself and tell them how much it meant to him that they took care of him for a moment, even if Steve was barely half awake at the time.

“But you got scared, and left.” Hopper explained the rest for Steve, who nodded weakly. He glanced up at the two on the other end of the table. His handles fiddled with the other.

“‘M sorry.” He felt his brain start to fog, thick clouds starting to overcast. His face contorted at the feeling, not wanting to be so weak in front of them again, but desperately craving their attention like the last time he had been in the ridiculously warm and comfortable house.

“Oh, Steve. No, don’t apologise.” Joyce tutted, her face full of empathy as she reached over and rubbed over Steve’s balled hands near his coffee. “You don’t ever have to apologise. You did nothing wrong.”

“But, I-“ He tried, but Joyce gently shushed him. She looked almost desperate to round the table and reach Steve to hug and comfort him senseless, but she refrained for a moment to give the boy space.

Steve was torn. He wanted Joyce to hold him, to let the melted part of his brain finally got some semblance of comfort, but he wasn’t drifted enough to forgot how inappropriate that would have been. He wasn’t sure whether to push back the fog and melted part of his mind, or embrace it.

“Steve, how are you feeling?” Hopper asked gently, as Joyce tutted and fussed where she sat across from him by Hopper’s side.

“I feel…” His mouth slurred a little, and both adults looked a little concerned. Steve shook his head. “Can’t think straight…”

“That’s alright, honey. Don’t stress yourself out. Do you want a cup of water?” Joyce was already up to grab said cup before Steve could accept, and Hopper watched with a fond eye as she filled the cup and placed it in front of Steve, rubbing his back as she passed him, and not seeming to want to let him go. She sat back down by Hopper’s side, and gripped his knee under the table. Hopper understood, and gripped her hand back.

Steve too a tentative sip of the water, letting it cool his throat. Hopper’s brow furrowed.

“Steve, I promise no more questions after this. But… that night, it wasn’t caused by the drugs those Russians gave you and Robin, was it?” Hopper’s face filled with concern; and Joyce gripped his knee tighter at the possibility. Neither were sure what to do if that were the case.

Steve shook his head, and both adults deflated at the reassurance.

“N-no… not those.” Steve’s face screwed up, as if the memory made him remember the pain of that night, and he sniffled just slightly before Joyce was springing out of her chair.

“Oh, honey.” She coo’d and couldn’t refrain herself any longer as she tucked her small arms around Steve’s body, who seemed to grip her desperately as his breathing went muffled. Hopper realised he was trying to fight back tears, and felt a new wave of anger wash over himself.

“You’re alright. Shhhh, you’re all okay.” Joyce said gently into Steve’s long hair, as he boy shut his eyes tight as his lip quivered a little. Hopper reached over and grabbed the mug of coffee, downing half of it in one big gulp.

When he pulled the mug away, Steve’s eyes were open, and he looked suddenly, very afraid.

Holler stilled.

“Steve?” He said gently, leaning closer to the two. Joyce leaned back, still holding the boy in her arms, her own brow furrowed as she glanced down at him.

Steve, with the same young face as the week before, glanced between the two with larger eyes than normal. He looked up and Joyce first, then to Hopper, and felt then back down to his lap as his thumb pad came to brush against his bottom lip.

“Sorry.” He slurred, not reaching the two adults eyes again as he bore holes into his lap.

They looked to each other, both expressions of shock and slight fear. Both understood what had happened, Steve was feeling as small as last week, yet neither knew what to do for a moment.

Joyce gently gripped the shoulders shoulder, rubbing at the bone with her thumb gently. Steve glanced up at her, very hesitantly. His large eyes swam with mixed emotions, confusion and fear and despair all mixed into one of his west young face.

Joyce tried not to coo.

“Oh honey, you don’t have to apologise. Me and Hop only want to help.” She reassured with a soft smile, the one she had reserved for Will, and Jonathan when he was younger. Joyce treated Steve like he was one of her own, and Hipper could see the confusion towards Joyce’s comfort. As if he was trying to decipher Joyce’s ulterior motive behind being kind and motherly towards him.

Hopper gulped down the rest of the coffee.

“Why don’t we move to the sofa, cuddle up with some blankets for a while?” Joyce glanced at Hopper, a pleasing look that screamed ‘please, just do something here’, and Hopper sprung into action.

He rushed towards the sofa, picking up blankets and pillows and propping them up for Steve as he gave Joyce and the boy their private moment at the table. When he glanced back, and noticed the boys tight grip on Joyce’s hand, he couldn’t help but stop to watch the two.

Deep under Hopper’s argue towards Steve’s parents, he pictured a life where Steve was loved by Joyce and himself. A life where Steve was comforted, and reassured that he wasn’t a burden, and that he was loved.

Watching Joyce kiss the crown of the boys head, had Hopper’s heart believing that maybe that that ideal life could be a reality.

Chapter Text

“Steven, stop making those noises.”

Steve is seven years old, and is holding his index finger between his wobbling teeth. He’s at the age where his two front teeth have been missing for a few days now, and he’s got a few teeth that are wobbling at the back. He finds solace, occasionally, sticking his grubby fingers in his mouth to self-soothe his tooth-aches away.

Apparently, that’s not something a Harrington man should do. Steve hadn’t realised turning seven the past week meant he was now considered an adult, let alone a ‘man’.

He’s sat in a meeting with his father, and he’s wearing his nice clothes as is his father sat beside him. Arthur Harringtons wears his suit and tie with a money-making smile, and Steve copies it not-so-subtly behind his wet digit stuck in his mouth.

“And get those fingers out of your mouth.” His mother chides from beside him. He’s sandwiched between his mother and father, both dressed smart and smiling as if they’re a nice family who deserve to have all the money in the world, thank you very much! Steve’s not so sure why they use their silly smiles to coax others in trickery; they certainly don’t use those smiles back home.

As Steve’s mother snatched his wrist and yanked his index out between his gapped-tooth mouth, his father doesn’t miss a beat as Steve’s back tooth comes flying out of the seven year olds mouth and lands on his lap.

Steve’s eyes go large, as his mouth feels up with blood and there’s a string of gum attached to the sharp edge of his now-fallen tooth laid across his lap, staining his nice trousers.

He, being an obedient son, and not wanting another tooth to be knocked out from his fathers backhand later if he were to interrupt this very important meeting, grabs the blood stained tooth and pockets it silently, swallowing his own blood until he can find a tissue.

If he were a child, he would have cried and begged to be in his mothers arms. He’d show his father the tooth he’d lost and hope they’d reassure him of the tooth-fairies appearance later that night.

But he was a Harrington man, now, a proper adult.

He kept his tooth, and when they got home he ran to his bedroom to hide it under his pillow.

“Steven Harrington, you get down these stairs right now!” His mother yells, and her voice is already starting to slur, even though they’ve been home all of half an hour.

He pads downstairs, and reaches the kitchen where his father stands with his hands on his hips.

“What’s this that your mother tells me, of you being disruptive?” His father sneers, and Steve shrinks back into himself.

He can’t help it, what follows. The back of his throat rumbling little noises. His stuffy nose snuffles, and it’s a quiet noise that echoes through the empty house.

His father slams a hand down on the table, and Steve yelps.

He’s running before his father is, but like all other times, he is ultimately caught.

——

Hopper’s watching from the kitchen, as Joyce frets and hovers her palms over Steve, who sits cross legged on the sofa, still in his jeans and nestled under what seems like ten million blankets. Hopper watches from the corner of the room, as Joyce fluffs pillows and tells stories to keep the tremble out of her voice.

“Is that warm enough, sweetheart?” She says with a tone only a mother can convey, undeniably caring and concealed worry, simultaneously. Hopper watched as she wipes her palms on her thighs, belt down slightly as to not appearing towering to Steve were he sits bundled. She sits, tentatively, on the edge of the sofa as Steve nods absently.

His eyes are wide, as wide as the first night the two adults had realised that Steve was probably not as okay as he was failing to pretend to be.

“Is there anything we can get you? Some more water to drink, or a hot-water bottle?” Joyce asked as he turned over her shoulder, and made the look seem innocent to Steve, but Hopper caught the pleading look that was sent his way, and Joyce only started to turn back to Steve when Hopper was forced out of his stilled position in the kitchen, when he started walking over to the two on the sofa.

He placed his large hands on Joyce’s slim shoulders, trying to seem harmless enough to Steve. Hopper wasn’t an idiot, he could understand why Steve might have had an affliction towards him. Hopper tried to act like it didn’t sting a little that he wasn’t Steve’s favourite.

As he came closer, and stood behind Joyce, he unknowingly blocked all light coming from the kitchen lights still turned on, causing a shadow over both Joyce and Steve himself. Which, Hopper’s heart crushed as he heard it; the soft little whimpers from the back of Steve’s throat, as if he were afraid of the large shadow looming over him and the only person who had shown him comfort tonight.

Hopper’s face paled, as Joyce instantly turned to shushing Steve gently with the backs of her fingers rubbing against the boys cheek to placate him from his fear.

“Shhh, oh Steve, it’s okay. It was just Hop, silly old Hopper. Nothing scary. Shhh, shhh.”

Hopper took a step back, his heart hammering in his chest. He absently clenched his fists, and that earned him a slap on the knuckle from Joyce, who glared up at him as she motioned down rewords the floor. Hopper understood wordlessly, though his mouth hung open a little in a mix of too-many emotions to count.

Anger was most certainly there, bubbling in his chest as he knelt down as to bring light back into the room and across Steve’s face, and not loom over the boy like a large shadow trapping him. Anger swirled through his blood, through his veins, at the thought of Arthur Harrington every hurting a hair on Steve’s head.

“Hey kid,” Hopper tried, and Steve looked to him as he snaked a pale hand out from under the blankets to hold onto Joyce’s fingers in a death grip. “I’m sorry I scared you.” He tried a smile, and knew it came more as a grimace.

Steve’s eyes fled down, searching his lap as his soft face went a little flush in the dim light. “It’s okay.” He said quietly, just under his breath and over his downcast chin. “I… I wasn’t scared.”

Hopper smiled a little at that, a proper smile. He shuffled closer, absently. “Of course, I apologise.”

“How are you feeling, Steve?” Joyce asked as her thumb brushed against said boys knuckles rhythmically.

Steve responded with a nodding sound I’m the back of his throat. “I feel…” He shuffled, as if suddenly self-aware of the too-long limbs attached to his self. “Warm.”

“That’s probably the seven different blankets on you, kid.” Hopper smiled, and Steve let out a little snort. Joyce rolled her eyes fondly.

“Well excuse me for making sure nobody freezes.” Joyce teased, her features soft as he glanced at Hopper for a moment, before her eyes were drawn back to the boy on the couch again. “Is it a good warmth, sweetie?”

Steve nodded slowly, his hand not gripping Joyce’s own also snaking out from the blankets and hovering over his chin, near his lips. Hopper felt his face twitch, his brow furrowing for a moment as he searched Steve’s face, hoping to get in to look in his head.

“Good. Would you like us to put on a movie?” Hopper was sure Joyce didn’t know what they had in the house, but a film put on in the background would provide some noise to fill the silence.

Steve gave a small shrug, and his two finger pads stroked over his bottom lip rhythmically. Joyce tutted, and pat his knee gently before she shuffled down to search through the few VHS sets they had. Amid the world ending, and the process of saving said world to prevent said end; Joyce hadn’t quite had the time to rent movies from Family Video. Also, the young man who ran the front counter didn’t seem to like her much, or anyone for that matter.

Steve and Hopper mumbled between each other behind Joyce, and her hands tenderly held the home video Bob had made only last year. A tear sprung to her eye, dripping onto the carpet as a small smile graced her lips.

She held the cassette tight in her small hand, glancing up to the ceiling with glassy eyes. She hoped, as she put the cassette through and stood to turn the television on, that Bob was watching her and Hopper rehabilitate the boy sat on their sofa to safety, and that he was proud.

“What did you choose, Joyce?” Hopper spoke in a soft tone, now sat closer to the Steve blanket on the couch, and beaconing Joyce over to sit with them. She smiled, and pressed herself up to Hopper’s body, watching with a fond smile as Steve reach a hand out to hold Joyce’s own.

“Just an old home video.” She took Steve’s warm hand in her own and stroked over the back of his knuckles gently with the pad of her thumb. “I just thought it would be nice to watch, after everything.”

Hopper kissed the crown of her head, and Joyce caught the corner of Steve’s lips curling a little in a small smile.

They’d be alright. Joyce thought with a smile, as Bob’s voice came to sound, as he taught Jonathan how to work the camera from behind. Yeah, they’d all be alright.

——

It became a routine, some time after. They had done enough talking, Joyce had smiled when Steve asked nervously if they’d all like to come around his and talk about ‘all that happened that night’, and Steve had become a regular weekend resident at the Byers-Hopper home.

Of course, Will and Eleven were ecstatic to see him. Most nights that Steve slept round, on the couch with his pile of blankets, he sometimes didn’t get to be the big eyed boy he melted into. Sometimes, and that meant most nights, he was bombarded with Will and Eleven. Steve had no chance for a moment alone with those two around, let alone an intimate second with either Joyce or Hopper. Still, Steve seemed content enough.

The youngest teens would follow him around, ask him questions and ask him to play games. Joyce had a sweet photo of the three playing monopoly before things turned sideways (Eleven threw the games board across the room, and Will was in near tears by the end of it. Steve seemed smug enough, even in the photo and after the game ended in a major argument: He had been winning during the entire game, apparently.)

It seemed, to Joyce at least, that even if Steve didn’t become the young little boy who needed to be nurtured by parents who weren’t his own, that he still healed in some other way. As if, being with the younger teens healed the yearning young man who had been desperate for the company of a sibling his entire life.

Whenever Steve was inside the little house outside of town, Joyce thought, that Steve knew this was where he belonged.

And maybe she would get it into his head too, that this is what he had deserved years ago.

——

Jonathan was a different story, compared to Eleven and Will’s excitement of Steve’s regular visits.

Although it had occurred years ago, and Joyce knew Steve was a different person now, she stayed wary of Jonathan’s odd looks thrown Steve’s way when he’d come home from work, when he’d walk in and find Steve Harrington- the guy who broke his precious camera in sophomore year, and consequently, the guy Jonathan smashed the face of behind the cinema.

Joyce was desperate for her boys to get along. She shocked herself thinking of Steve as her own so easily, but only for a moment. She fretted on the idea of the two never getting along, and Joyce mentally planned ahead how to focus her attention on both boys at the same time, without either of the two having to interact.

Hopper was having none of it.

Ever the gruff, grumpy man, when Steve left at the end of the weekend as he normally did, after saying goodbye to Steve, Hopper went barging into Jonathan’s room.

The argument they had was far from light-hearted, with Jonathan caught in a bad mood (having seen Steve the entire weekend) and Hopper being just-about-done with Jonathan’s ‘attitude’, the argument ended with doors slamming and throats sore from violent yells.

Although Hopper had indeed ‘started it’, Jonathan ultimately ‘ended’ the argument with a hoarse yell of Hopper “Not being my dad!”

The next morning, the air was tense at the breakfast table. There already being little space, with it feeling cramped with three occupants let alone now five, and the annual sixth nearly each weekend.

Eleven and Will glanced between each other, in between watching the intense staring contest between Jonathan and Hopper across the table.

It was Jonathan that broke first.

He broke the tension with a sigh.

“I just don’t understand why he has to be here so often.” Jonathan grumbled, signing into his porridge that he was more spooning at than consuming.

Joyce and Hopper shared a look, and Joyce spoke first.

“Well, honey. He doesn’t have anyone else, and the kids enjoy his company.” Joyce tried to mediate, trying her damn hardest not to air Steve’s business out without him being present. From the way he first reacted when Hopper and Joyce found out, she didn’t want to know the extremities Steve would go to if he found out either of them told Jonathan his business.

“But I don’t.” Jonathan retaliated, and Hopper lifted up in his chair as if his body was revving to start an argument, staring with ‘Don’t talk to your mother that way!’

“I know, honey. But… have you tried?” Joyce tried herself with her words, and Jonathan dropped his spoon and it clattered on the side of the bowl, and started to sink into his porridge.

“What?”

“Well, I mean people change, Jonathan. At least try to figure out if he’s still that douche from sophomore year.” Joyce spoke, sitting beside Hopper as the two young teens giggled behind their hands at Joyce’s light swear.

“I don’t know…” He went to reach for his spoon again, but his finger tips got covered with oatmeal bits, and he pulled a disgusted face. “Ew.”

Eleven’s nose started bleed after a paper towel lifted by Jonathan’s head, and he nodded his thanks to her.

As Jonathan wiped his hands clean, he thought to his mom’s words.

Maybe. Maybe he could give Steve “The Hair” Harrington a chance. Maybe once.

His chance to rekindle a low flame appeared two weekends later, when Hawkins was hit with a storm.

<~>

A night shift at the post last night had Jonathan starting work at 9, and coming home at five the Sunday morning.
-

Having put in extra time at work, for the money and ‘the Steve situation’, had Jonathan coming home after half eleven at night.

Parking and quietly as he could, and making sure to take his shoes off at the door incase they made too much noise against the wood floors, Jonathan was already half-asleep by the time he reached the hallway. So, the sounds of someone sleeping restlessly on the couch startled him enough for images of demogorgons and evil Russians flashing before his eyes.

Through his panic he pressed his back up against the wall, chest pounding as his hands balled into fists, as if he could take on monsters from another dimension with his bare hands. Through the stupidity of it, his eyes cleared, and he made out the unwelcoming familiar sight of Steve Harrington bundled under his mom’s blankets, laid sleeping on the couch like a lost puppy.

He refrained from rolling his eyes, because his mom wanted him to try and be better at this stuff, and went to turn down the hall to mope and sleep like he normally did; When Steve’s breath hitched in his sleep, and his leg, somehow under the weight of the five blankets on top of him, kicked out restlessly.

Jonathan watched with bated breath, waiting for Steve to jump up and scare him like the jerk he was, or call Jonathan a freak for ‘watching him sleep’.

Which… Jonathan shuffled nervously, was what he was doing… maybe he should just leave it-

A whimper flew from Steve’s lips, a short quiet sound of agony. As if, in his sleep, Steve was aware his noises could wake others. As if he was afraid, to be afraid, because of the repercussions.

Jonathan winced at the idea, thinking of his ten year old self scared to hold his dads gun, and being slapped across the mouth when he started to cry for the poor animals he was meant to be hunting.

Steve makes the noise again, and his hand reaches out from under the blankets like he’s trying to reach for something, someone. His face tells the story, of a deep nightmare Jonathan is all-too familiar with. Since Will went missing, even if he isn’t that same little kid anymore, scared of his own shadow and missing for a too-long few weeks.

Jonathan, through how tired he feels from working too late, understands Steve when he’s like this. When he’s asleep, and can’t talk back.

Maybe it’s pity for himself, then, that has him stepping closer, and kneeling by Steve’s side and staying far enough out of reach incase Steve did spring up in his sleep.

Jonathan understands, and levels with Steve whilst he’s unconsciously thrown through this nightmare, that being woken from a nightmare isn’t the best feeling. So, he carefully pulls back each blanket until there is only one across Steve’s twitching body. The rest are balled in a heap by his feet.

Steve’s face continues to pull, like he’s watching something terrifyingly disgusting happening before him. After all they’ve seen, Jonathan doesn’t particularly want to theorise in Steve’s horrors. He has enough of his own.

What he can do instead, is level with Steve.

He can talk, quietly, and apologise now. So, maybe Steve will remember it, and Jonathan selfishly won’t have to do it in person.

“Steve,” He starts quietly. “You’re going to be okay.” He says instead.

“It’s just a nightmare, Steve. It can’t hurt you. I know, they suck. And it feels like… like the scariest thing ever, because you can’t get out. But… you’re okay. It’s not real. None of it’s real anymore, Steve.” Jonathan hovers his hand over Steve’s where it has kept reaching, for something to hold. “You’re going to be okay.” He holds Steve’s sweating palm lightly between his own, not wanting to wake Steve out of his nightmare, incase he becomes frightened further.

He rubs the pad of his thumb against the back of Steve’s hand, a gentle reassurance the land of the moderately awake.

It seems to work wonders, because although Steve’s body stays tense in his sleep, his face relaxes out of the biting wince, and his body stops twitching. Jonathan doesn’t try to theorise what Steve’s going through, because he’s too tired, but he’s awake enough to keep holding his hand.

His tired enough not to be confused, or ashamed, that he’s holding Steve Harrington’s hand in his sleep.

Besides, it’s a few minutes later when Jonathan starts to feel Steve relax, and Jonathan’s eyes to start closing for longer periods of time on each blink he takes; It’s not like Steve will remember any of it.

Apparently, Jonathan has never been a man with fate on his side. Because a crash comes from outside, rattling the windows and the thin walls of the small little house. Rain starts to splatter, and Jonathan isn’t sure it’s because of how tired he felt that he didn’t notice the rain before, or if it just started alongside the thunder crashing.

As Jonathan startles, sitting up and listening to the heavy rain against the roof, Steve sits up too with a full jerk of his body.

And Jonathan nearly screams.

As he settles, the rain still hammering at the roof, Jonathan watches Steve open his eyes, and his face flushed at the idea of the sight of him. Jonathan, on the floor, looking as if he had just been caught doing something he shouldn’t.

Is that going to become a running gag in their relationship, Jonathan acting off and Steve punching the shit out of him for it?

He prepares himself for the hit, for the harsh words Steve will call him. Freak, just like his dad, fag…

Nothing happens.

Jonathan opens his eyes, where he didn’t realise he was wincing away from the incoming blow. He opens his eyes, and finds tears streaming down Steve’s face.

Steve grips the side of the couch cushions, looking around frantically as if he was yearning for something, for someone. Like a kid desperate for comfort as the entire house seemed to shake. Jonathan opened his eyes, and found deep fear in Steve’s own.

Jonathan watched as Steve throws fists up to his face, not towards Jonathan’s, and practically paws at his wet eyes. Clumsily trying to wipe the uncomfortable wet off of his cheeks, and when he does close his eye again, he winces away like images flooding back to him, and scared him to shit.

Steve seems more preoccupied with being afraid, of the nightmare or the storm outside, than he does with beating the shit out of Jonathan for… comforting him? What was he doing, really? He felt bad, maybe that’s pity…

A sob wracks Steve’s frame, deep from his chest and spilling more tears down his face, and Steve’s hands move as if they can’t keep up with wiping away his tears.

And that pity feeling sets in, and Jonathan doesn’t think before he starts shuffling forwards, sitting on his knees with his hands out as if he were placating a scared little animal.

“Hey, Steve?” Jonathan speaks quietly, because he’s closer to Steve now, and he’s definitely startled by something that isn’t just the storm raging outside, and he doesn’t want to risk waking the others down the hall. And he’s also tired. Like, really tired. But he can’t just leave Steve like this alone.

He knows, when he loosely puts his arms around Steve’s sobbing form, that something’s not quite right. Not that Steve Harrington had ever seemed ‘right’ in Jonathan’s mind. He seems, out of it. He knows if Steve wasn’t tired, and scared, he’d rather be caught dead than be comforted by Jonathan Byers. So, Jonathan knows something up, and he hopes it isn’t another concussion making Steve act this way.

Jonathan can’t use any excuse, other than exhaustion, for why he starts rubbing Steve’s back gently, letting Steve come closer in his arms. One hand kept wiping at his face, the other wet and gripping onto the back of Jonathan’s uniform shirt. It’s awkward, and Jonathan’s knees are starting to hurt, but it fits.

Something in Jonathan’s chest settles, like this is something he should be doing. As if comforting Steve Harrington after a nightmare, on his couch, isn’t odd.

“Steve,” He says gently, because he’s right by Steve’s ear where he holds him. “I get it.” He keeps rubbing at Steve’s back, and he thinks he starts hearing less of Steve’s sobbing over his shoulder. “It’s okay, I get it.”

They stay like that for a moment, and it’s Steve who pulls away first. He sniffles as they part, Jonathan sitting back on his legs before he noticed Steve has moved his long legs to the side, to give Jonathan room to sit beside him. He shuffles up, and suddenly feels very awkward in himself.

His shoulder is wet. With Steve’s tears. Steve, who’s leaning over to grab a glass of water to sip on.

Jonathan glances over, and notices Steve’s face is flushed red too. At least he’s not the only one embarrassed.

Steve takes a few more sips, and Jonathan fiddles with his hands on his lap. Steve speaks first.

“Thanks.” He says quietly, voice hoarse from the crying before. “Sorry.”

“Hey,” Jonathan looks over, braving it. “Don’t apologise.” Anything was better than Steve beating his ass.

“I should.” Steve sniffled again, taking a sip of his water. “I made your shirt wet.”

Jonathan shrugged. “It’s my woke uniform, I couldn’t give a shit.” He jokes hoarsely, and he knows he’s never been that funny, but Steve’s laughing. Quietly, as to not wake the others, but he’s laughing.

And, suddenly, Jonathan’s laughter follows. He blames the exhaustion, because he knows he’s not funny, but after what just happened; he isn’t sure he knows anything anymore.

They laugh for a moment longer, and then Steve is offering him some blankets, and they curl up on each end of the sofa and fall asleep across from one another.

<~>

Steve wakes up with his thumb in between his lips, and doesn’t panic at the thought of being caught with it there by Jonathan.

Jonathan, who’s still asleep across from him.

Jonathan, who stayed.