Chapter Text
Steve is jolted back to consciousness by a searing pain in his right leg, white hot from his hip to his calf. His eyes pry open slowly, the world blurry as he struggles to focus. A metallic taste fills Steve's mouth as his gaze steadies. The first thing he sees is his own lap, and it slowly registers that the pressure in his forehead is the opposing force of a steering wheel. With a dazed groan, Steve lifts his head, drops it back against the headrest. Head lolling to the side slowly, Steve is met with a view of the outside through the shattered car window.
It's pitch black outside, save for a stream of moonlight that slices through the thicket of trees surrounding the mangled BMW. If the silence is any indication, Steve is pretty sure that no one knows he's out here. Closing his eyes, Steve wills himself to remember what brought him to his moment. Pictures race through his mind: a fight with his dad, the front door slamming behind him, a deer in the middle of the road. Squealing tires, twisting metal, a scream.
"Fuck," he breathes, pulse quickening as the gravity of the situation dawns on him. "Fuckfuckfuck."
Adrenaline courses through his body. Despite his barrage of injuries, Steve knows he has to take action. Surveying the damage, it's clear he's not going to be able to just waltz out of the vehicle; the driver's door is destroyed, the door handle completely crumpled into itself. Dark eyes flick to the driver's side window again, and Steve is relieved by what he sees. The spidery cracks in the window mean that the glass is compromised; he should be able to break it and climb out of the wreckage.
Steve moves his forearms up and down and wiggles his fingers, testing himself. Much to his comfort, both arms have full feeling and mobility. His head is throbbing; Steve assumes he has what must be his, like, fifth concussion, but thankfully he still has enough of his wits about him to formulate a plan. Using his left elbow, Steve smashes into the glass as hard as his weakened body will allow. The fissures spread, but the glass doesn't give. Ears roaring, Steve elbows the window again, and then a third time, tiny beads of sweat forming on his brow with the effort. On the fourth attempt, the window completely breaks, glass raining down onto Steve’s bloody jeans. A grateful sigh escapes his lips as he takes a moment to catch his breath, body trembling with fatigue.
His gaze settles on the car's roof frame. Steve figures, if he can grab the frame with both hands, he'll have enough support to pull himself out. Shards of glass hang like stalactites from the frame, glittering in the moonlight. He knows the next move won't be pleasant, but it's the only one he has. Gripping the frame, Steve bites back a yelp as the glass digs into his palms. "You can do this, Harrington," Steve says to himself, teeth gritted. With a determined pull, he lifts himself up.
The motion causes a pain in his leg so excruciating that Steve immediately drops his grip and falls back into the seat with a strangled cry. Tears rush to his eyes, heart thrumming. Steve looks down, and the world starts to spin; his right leg is crushed beneath the compressed metal of the hood, which had accordioned upon impact with a gigantic white pine tree. He attempts to free his leg, but it doesn’t budge; in fact, the action only introduces another shock of agony down the limb that causes Steve’s head to swim.
Eventually, Steve grows too exhausted to keep fighting. Tears fall freely now as the grim reality settles in; there’s no cheating death this time.
Vision growing fuzzy, Steve’s world turns to black.
Dawn breaks in Hawkins, the sky marbled with shades of blue and pink and orange. From tree to tree, birds flutter, their melodies bright and persevering. Every now and then, a car passes down the long stretch of road, someone headed to work or perhaps coming home after a long night. One hundred yards into the brush, cold and bleeding in what's left of his car, is Steve Harrington.
He doesn't feel much now. The pain in his right leg has faded to cascading aches, gentle like waves lapping off the shore of Lover's Lake. The taste of blood still lingers on his teeth, but it's cooler and stickier now. Through half-lidded eyes, Steve can see the sun starting to peek through the trees, hazy and low.
Steve thinks about the people he loves. Robin, his best friend and the only person with whom he could ever be unapologetically himself. Dustin, his little brother, the funniest and most brilliant kid he's ever known. Hop, the only man who never treated him like he was less than. And then there's Nancy; there's always Nancy. She still makes his heart race after all these years; how he wishes he could have had the life he talked about with her.
Chest rising with a labored inhale, the thought then occurs to Steve that maybe, despite all the bullshit, he already has the life that he wants.
He really wishes he didn’t have to leave it behind.
Hopper takes a sip of coffee from his Thermos as he drives down the road, head bobbing to Crowded House. He still can't believe where he is today versus a year ago. Living with Joyce and the kids back in Hawkins, back on the force? Life is good.
The clock on the radio reads 6:15 AM. He's not supposed to be at work until seven. Now that he lives with two teens and a young adult, all of whom are active at various hours of the night like little hamsters, Hopper values the alone time.
He's driving on a long stretch of road that circumvents the main route into downtown Hawkins - the scenic view, Hopper calls it - when tire marks ahead catch his eye. The marks veer off of the asphalt and disappear into the gravel and grass on the shoulder. Hopper slows past, and then pulls to the side, rolling to a stop. He turns the car off and steps out, making his way back towards the scene.
There's no car and no blood, so upon first inspection, Hopper figures some tired or, more likely, some drunk individual swerved off the road to get their bearings straight. He's about to turn back towards his car when a disturbance in the brush catches his eye. Hopper strides over, examining the bent and broken branches that litter the ground. Gaze traveling, Hopper realizes that something has created a trail of destroyed foliage that leads into the forest. His pulse accelerates as he follows it.
Hopper's about fifty yards into the woods when he sees the wreck. Immediately, he runs towards it. All he can tell is that the car is some shade of burgundy, its insides twisted to reveal silver steel; the emblem is indistinguishable due to the damage to the exterior. Hopper makes his way towards the front of the vehicle. The hood is completely smashed against the trunk of one of the tallest trees Hopper has ever seen. Heart pumping with adrenaline, Hopper moves to look for any survivors. If he’s honest, it doesn’t look good.
The driver's side window is broken, and Hopper leans through it. His face pales when he sees the car's inhabitant.
"Oh no.” It starts as a whisper, and then louder: “Oh nonono. Steve!”
Steve’s limp body is slumped against the door, his eyes closed. His skin is pale and clammy, his dark hair matted with blood. Copper rivulets snake down his face and neck, staining his gray crewneck. Hopper's fingers tremble as he touches his index and middle finger to the side of Steve's neck, searching for a pulse.
"Come on, kid," Hopper mutters, "please be alive."
Panic floods Hopper's body when he doesn't feel anything. He moves his fingers hurriedly, reassessing. A rush of thoughts speeds through Hopper’s mind: God, what the hell am I gonna do? How am I gonna tell -
And then, he finds it. Faint and weak, but definitely palpable - the distant throb of a pulse.
A half-sob, half-laugh escapes Hopper's lips as he breathes a sigh of relief. Steve is still alive. And if he's still alive, then there's still a chance.
"Hang on, kid," Hopper says, hoping somehow Steve can hear him. He gives Steve’s shoulder a squeeze before turning around to run back to his car.
Hopper radios for an ambulance. All he can do now is wait.