Work Text:
When they make it back to the Byers' house—in one piece somehow, Steve still isn't sure how he managed that—Hargrove is nowhere to be seen. Steve pauses, holding his arm out to block Wheeler from brushing past him, and waits. It's easy to ignore the numerous eye rolls he can practically hear coming from the others. Especially when Dustin pushes at Wheeler's arm.
Luck seems to be on Steve's side for what might be the first time this week. Hargrove doesn't come popping out from behind the door, or anywhere else. Tension drains slowly from his neck, his shoulders. His arm practically drops to his side now that he's mostly sure it's safe. Wheeler wastes no time in letting himself inside. Steve angles his body so he can lean against the frame and out of the way. Lucas follows immediately after his friend, Max on his heels—her eyes dart around one extra time and Steve feels justified in waiting to make sure they were alone before letting them in.
"Are you okay?"
Steve blinks. Coming to a stop just inside the door, Dustin stares up at him. His face is scrunched up in a way that is painful to look at, given the state of his own. He reaches up to touch his cheek, fingers brushing against damp cloth. Huh. He'd wondered where the bandana went; guess he'd never actually taken it off.
Shaking his head—and regretting it when his neck feels loose and his head swims—Steve leaves the bandana for now. He focuses instead on Dustin.
"I'm good," he says, mostly sure it isn't a lie. The world comes back into focus pretty fast at least. His feet are planted solidly on the ground beneath him. And even though everything hurts, they're alive. That's not nothing. Once he gets this thing off his face and cleans the flakes and gunk from those tunnels out of his hair, he'll be even better.
Dustin doesn't look convinced, but he lets Steve give him a push inside. "Come on, let's at least...try to make this place less of a disaster before they get back."
The inside is a wreck; worse than Steve remembers. He'd thought it was messed up last year with the lights and the letters painted on the wall. Somehow, despite the fact that they literally set the floor on fire, it still looks worse now than it did after they'd fought off that demogorgon. Between the papers that had already littered the walls and carpet, there's shattered ceramic all over the kitchen floor. One of the shelves is knocked over, the knickknacks that had sat on top of it now in pieces.
It doesn't take much to convince the others to start cleaning up. When Steve wobbles for the second time, Dustin sends him to sit down. If it wouldn't hurt so much, Steve's eyebrows would have shot straight up his forehead. He's never been bossed around by a twelve—thirteen?—year old before; not since he stopped being one himself, at least. Not having to bend back down sounds too good to argue. Sitting down sounds like a dream.
He's almost to the couch when he remembers the goddamn bandana is still wrapped around his face. Pulling it off with a huff, Steve winces at the way it tugs his skin with it. Fuck, that hurt. No wonder he'd left it on. Must've irritated the cuts in those tunnels somehow. Even though the couch is right there and he wants nothing more than to fall flat onto it and sleep until the world goes back to normal, he doesn't. Instead he turns, heading down the hallway.
The bathroom is easy enough to find. It's smaller than he's used to, but it'll work. He debates keeping the light off. He doesn't want to know what he looks like yet. The skin around his eyes and nose feels hot and puffy. There's no way it can look any better than it feels. Holding his breath, Steve flips the switch. It's not any brighter than the lights in the rest of the house, but he still can't help but squint against it.
Dropping the bandana on the counter, Steve leans on his hands. His face isn't as bad as he'd thought. Most of the blood looks dried. He's almost surprised it didn't start bleeding again when his skin stuck to the fabric. All in all, it could be worse.
His hair is a different story.
He'd underestimated just how much of the gunk from those tunnels clung to him. Where his hair was standing up before, it's weighed down by whatever the hell those walls and vines were coated in. Shit, he hopes they weren't far enough into that place for it to be dangerous. More dangerous than being surrounded by a pack of demodogs, or clawed at by vines that seemed almost alive, at least. Like, long-term dangerous.
Shoving the thought down before he loses what little is left in his stomach, Steve turns both knobs on the sink. Without giving the water a chance to warm up, he scoops some of it into one of his hands. Lets it flow back down the drain when he realizes he's going to have to bend over the sink to have a hope of getting any of it out.
For a second, as he stares at the running water, he considers just not doing it. Who the hell is he cleaning it for anyway? Not like Nancy is going to give him a second look when she gets back. Is it really worth all the effort? He's had a long ass night, day, week. He can go back out there and crash on the couch until Hopper or Jonathan's mom shows up. Let an adult take over with the kids—God knows Steve should not have been left in charge of them—and get the hell out of here.
Gritting his teeth, Steve ignores the ache in his chest and stomach—right where Hargrove kicked him outside—and curves himself over the sink. The water is warm by now. He's not sure that's better when he leans further in and it runs over what must be the spot that the plate got him.
"Shit," he hisses through his teeth, scrunching his eyes shut so tight it hurts. Tries to focus on that instead of the way his scalp stings. Steve tries to keep going, wet the rest of it down, but he just. He can't. What he needs is a shower—his shower, where he can curse up a storm and no one else is around to hear it. Shutting the water off, Steve stays there for a long minute, breathing.
It feels like he's hardly done anything—no, it feels like he went a second round with Hargrove—but when he straightens painfully, most of the stuff looks like it's gone. His hair is also sitting flat. Whenever it dries, he's going to look like he does in the mornings when his dad is home and he has to hide all his hair products in his car and wait until he's at school to fix it up.
Someone knocks on the door and Steve jumps. At least whoever it is can't see him through the wood.
"Everybody's back," Dustin calls through the door. His voice is softer as he adds, "You're… still alive in there, right?"
"Yes." This kid, really. Steve chalks up the weird warmth in his chest to the way he was just irritating the bruises that he's sure are hiding under his shirt.
Then the first thing Dustin said clicks and he realizes there's a lot more noise out there. Some water trickles down his neck. Uncomfortably aware of what he looks like, Steve wonders whether he can stay in here just long enough to be able to avoid the commotion out there.
"Are you sure?"
Apparently that's not an option. Shaking his head—the world doesn't spin this time, that's something—Steve opens the door. "You think I died in the two seconds since the last time you asked me?"
Dustin shrugs. The relief is so plain on his face that even Steve can make it out and they barely know each other. Sighing, Steve drops a hand on the top of Dustin's head. It's worth the ache in his shoulder when he sees the kid's grin below the bill of his hat.
There are three distinct groups when they make it back down the hall. The kids, minus Dustin, crowding around Will and the girl with the superpowers—Elle?—on the couch. Will is awake, but barely if the way his eyelids keep drooping is any indication. The girl is either passed out or asleep. Steve's guess is passed out.
Hopper and Mrs. Byers are off to one side of the kids; Nancy and Jonathan are on the other. No one even glances in their direction. For a brief moment, Steve thinks he'll be able to slip right out before anyone knows any different. He even makes it within arm's reach of the door before Dustin asks where he's going. Loudly.
"Hold up there, kid," Hopper says, hand landing heavily on Steve's shoulder. It doesn't hurt all that much, but Steve wasn't expecting it. He curves out from under it, which only makes everything else hurt worse. Should've just stayed where he was.
Too late now. Everyone who cares to look—Mrs. Byers and Hopper and of course Nancy and Jonathan, because his night hasn't been bad enough—can definitely see he's been in a fight.
"What the hell happened to your—no, you know what? Go." Hopper points to an empty armchair. "Sit. I will look you over in a minute."
"I'm fine, you really don't—" Hands on his hips, Hopper raises both of his eyebrows. Steve's mouth snaps shut. Dustin looks smug as Steve settles into the seat. Steve can't even find it in him to be annoyed; he'd heard Dustin's sigh of relief when Hopper stopped him from leaving. That warm feeling is back, spreading from his chest and out. As much as Steve would like to get as far away from Nancy and Jonathan—and the looks they're giving him—as possible, he guesses it's not so bad, staying.
If only to make Dustin feel better.