SORRY ABOUT THE BLOOD IN YOUR MOUTH (I WISH IT WAS MINE)

Excerpts from incomplete fanfiction based on characters from Stranger Things. March 2024.

An eighteen-year-old shouldn’t know how best to scrub dried blood out from under your fingertips. He knew how to revert the staining, to make sure the only red left is from the heat of the water. The hotter the better, he thinks. This part isn’t proven— the blood comes off in cold as well— but his skin remembers the feelings of slick, rough vines and leathery skin more than his mind does. And if his memories won’t let him sleep at night, then why does it matter if he makes sure to burn off any residue that could exist. 

Soap doesn’t cleanse everything at the end of the day. 

It’s become a routine for him. At night, he walks the edges of the forest with his best friend, The Armageddon— the name Dustin coined for the latest rendition of his beloved nailed bat. Steve didn’t have the heart to tell him that the hand grip wouldn’t matter, couldn’t dampen that toothless smile. He’s long lost his soft skin, trading the dainty and pristine hands of his upper class self for the ragged, thick calluses that take up a majority of his palm. Steve thinks it’s funny that his hands represent the progression of himself so vividly, all softness of teenage years melted away by horrors one couldn’t even fathom in their wildest nightmares. 

At least he can pass off his sunken cheeks as a “loss of baby fat, Mom,” whenever his parents visit for once. 

Tonight he walks with Hopper, as he often is. He doesn’t know if he started joining him or he started joining Steve, but he’s the only one he trusts to hold their own—except maybe Joyce—so he doesn’t mind it. He hates when the kids try and join him. It sets him on edge like something else, the trickling fear of the night of the tunnels slinking down his spine. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he lost one of them. Still, he’d rather have the kids join him for his patrols than go on their own. 

Hopper shares his thermos with Steve, pouring coffee so black it’s almost viscous into two cups. It’s getting cold, the morning dew sitting heavier and heavier each day that Steve sits through it. The cup helps, the warmth seeping into his skin and reminding him that he is in fact here. He can feel the cold of Hopper’s car seep through his jeans as he sits on the hood of his car. He can hear Hopper’s radio. He can smell Hopper’s cigarettes amidst the dew. He can taste the bitter coffee on his tongue.

He takes three deep breaths. 

He is present. He is here. This is real. 

Hopper is watching him when he opens his eyes. The older man doesn’t say anything, never really has; Jim isn’t the most proficient with emotions. Steve is comfortable enough to not hide the exercises his therapist encourages, even if Steve thinks they’re a load of bullshit. Hopper stares at him for a blink or two, almost pensive, and Steve wonders if he’ll finally comment. But, Hopper takes a sip of his coffee and that is that. 

The sun is fully up by the time Steve even considers going back home to try and get some rest. He used to take Dustin and others to school, but after Joyce found out and gave him a lecture about safe driving, Steve sulked home with his tail between his legs. He sees where she’s coming from, how sleep-deprived driving is as bad as drunken.  He keeps his driving solo and keeps to hours where there’s no one else but suicidal deers to accompany him on the road. 

He bids his farewell to Hopper, half-listening to the older man grumble something he’d like to call wisdom, but they both know he’d be lying. He doesn’t finish it, trailing off instead, waving one of his burly hands like he’s batting away a fly, like this is all a nuisance. It kind of is, if Steve chose to speak honestly. They both know that Steve’s never going to take it to heart, even if he listened to the whole spiel. Steve felt like a lost cause sometimes, no matter how much Joyce would tell him otherwise. No matter how many times his new coworker, Robin, cuffed him upside the head. No matter how many times Nancy tried—“Codeword: tried” , Steve’s inner Robin reminds him. 

Steve throws his keys in the decorative bowl on the front table. It’s well chipped now, something he has to hide every time his mother comes home. She won’t notice the bowl’s absence, but will notice its’ condition—the joys of having two internationally working parents. He starts the answering machine as he rummages around the kitchen, finding a jar of pickles to go with his peanut butter sandwich. It’s the typical: a quick, nagging comment from Robin with an “I love you, stupid” tacked on to the end; a long winded commentary on god knows what from Dustin that lasts long enough for Steve to make his sandwich, pour himself some coffee and sit at the kitchen table like a good boy before the limit hits and cuts the kid off with a shrill beep; Joyce calling to remind Steve of what she likes to call Family Dinner tonight. He doesn’t want to go but he knows Joyce will send Hopper after him. Or worse—Nancy. 

He gulps down the last of his sandwich and stands with a big sigh. The kids are all in third period by the time Steve falls asleep on the couch, some random Game Show playing in the background. 

***

Steve encounters Hopper on his way into Joyce’s house. He’s standing outside at the railing of the porch and smoking as usual. Joyce doesn’t allow cigarettes in the house anymore; if there’s cigarette smoke in the Byer House you know shit’s gone south severely. Hopper grabs a beer from the railing with his free hand, holding out both his open can wedged in his palm next to the unopened. Steve cheers him and Hopper responds with a gruff sound before he takes a gulp and Steve pops his tab.

He doesn’t know when him and Hopper started communicating without words—probably sometime shortly after the vines, when Steve came back caked in his own blood and the black, viscous ooze from the demodogs. The kids had already run inside, eager to be in the safety of the Byer’s house and in Joyce’s warm, outstretched arms. Steve had stood in the doorway, staring at his shoes darkened with things he’d not like to think of; He’d have to throw out this pair immediately. Joyce had paused from where she was hugging Max to her chest and turned to Steve. Steve looked up then, looked to Hopper’s heavy stare and Joyce’s open, tear rimmed one. Hopper had then opened the fridge, pulled out a beer, and opened the tab. He walked up to Steve, every heavy footfall making Steve flinch, and offered him the can. 

“Ya did good, kid,” Hopper had said. And that was that. 

It took him four rounds to get all of the gunk out of his hair. The first one was in Joyce’s bathroom, where she had sat him in the tub of the Byers boys’ bathroom and gingerly washed away the blood and dirt from his face. Hopper had to reset his nose and Steve had barely made a sound, staring off at the wall instead. He had only taken sips of his beer when he remembered, jolting out of wherever he was—probably still the tunnels—to become a living human again until the gears stopped turning and needed to wind himself up again. 

It was weird to have Joyce wash him, a tenderness he had never felt before. He had something tender with Nancy, but it was nothing like what she had now with Jonathan, nothing like the way Joyce held his wrist like it would break, while rubbing the wash cloth hard enough to leave his skin a heavy pink. His mother never would have helped him like this, never would have thought to, never would have cracked open the earth to find her missing son like Joyce did. He admired her tenacity second, her kindness first. She had just almost lost her son again, had to exorcize and torture her own flesh and blood, but here she was, pulling chunks of god-knows-what from Steve’s hair. He watched it all drift towards the drain, a scientist’s wet dream swirling down into the sewers. 

The first bath was to get rid of the worst of it, mainly to soften it all enough to dislodge. The second was to get everything out and off. The third was to finally clean himself. The fourth was when he was all alone in his house, refusing to stay with the others like Joyce had begged. He had sat under the spray of his own faucet, heat as high as it could go, but he could barely feel it pelt against his reddened skin. He watched the drain, just like he did at the Byer’s. The water was clear but Steve knew better, he knew it would never leave him. 

He tries to avoid Jonathan the best he can, but it’s his house, so of course they run into each other in the kitchen. The kid is god awful and even more awkward and Steve can’t ever understand what Nancy sees in this guy, why she even would— no. 

Jonathan mumbles out an apology, spineless as usual, as he refuses to meet his eye. He pulls something from the fridge—probably Mrs. Henderson’s potato salad—and rushes back out. Robin keeps suggesting he bring her as a plus one whenever he complains about it at his shitty job. The idea is utmost enticing, especially at moments like this, but he’d rather not drag Robin into this mess and deal with the dating allegations. Not to mention, it feels like a violation of trust to bring in an outsider. Max is enough for him, considering the new girl not only knocked out her brother for Steve, but also drove his fucking car, and endured the tunnels. She’s won her keep. Robin is great—and a major pain in his ass—but she hasn’t earned her place. 

That thought makes Steve pause. He tries to scrub it from his brain, hoping that he doesn’t jinx himself at all. He doesn’t want or need a situation where Robin has or needs to prove herself. He’s had enough for a whole lifetime already, maybe even ten. 

Hopper claps a hand on his shoulder and Steve can breathe again. It still amazes him how Hopper can read him so well. It should concern him, feel like a violation or something, but it’s a soothing comfort to know that he’s known so intimately. He nods Hopper’s worry off and walks into the living room, leaning against the doorframe to stick to the outskirts. Joyce sits with Nancy and Jonathan, the women laughing about something. Hopper stands against the adjacent wall, pretending not to watch Joyce as he gulps down what Steve guesses is his fourth beer. The kids are arguing about something in front of the television, Dustin and Lucas seeming to lead one side while Max and Mike run the other. Will sits between, wrapped in a blanket pile that everyone refuses he get up from. He watches his friends and Steve notices the smile he’s trying to tame down. Steve can’t blame him, can’t help but understand the appreciation of the simple things that almost-death brings. Hell, this kid has almost died twice, he deserves to be surrounded by his friends. Sometimes, he feels like the only place he does belong is where he is now, on the outskirts, invited but not belonging, but then Joyce will notice him and invite him and Hopper over, starting up a card game or a conversation at the dinner table and though Steve wouldn’t choose to spend his Sundays with parents and his ex, he feels overjoyed with being able to sit and be content. 

***

It’s been a while since Steve wasn’t sober for his patrols. Joyce had roped him into enjoying the nice bourbon her job had given her as a “congratulations your son isn’t dead again” gift. It was warm and felt good when it settled in his stomach. He didn’t regret it—it was much better than the drunken, sweat-chilled patrols he did months ago. 

He wasn’t drunk tonight, but he had a nice buzz. He knew he was alone tonight— Jonathan and Nancy had given him a ride home and before he left, Hopper had told him to “be good tonight”. Steve had retorted with the same sentiment, heavily eyeing Joyce with the words. Hopper had gone red and it was a delight to see such a gruff man unraveled by such a small woman. 

Steve kicked a rock and listened to it knock against dirt and stone as it rolled down the hill to his side. Amageddon was nestled into the nook of his shoulder, adding to the permanent groove that she was making in his bone. He found himself whistling a song, something he’s heard on his work’s radio, nothing memorable enough to name. 

In the past, a simple noise in the distance would have sent Steve reeling, swinging at shadows and shapes that were only in his head. Now, when he hears the snap of a twig he slows to a stop. He grabs his bat and holds it in his hands. He’s not posed to strike, but he wants to be ready to wind her back if it’s needed. He waits and listens, deciphering between the threat of a predator or the flee of its prey. It’s not uncommon for some small game to frequent this area—it is a forest. Steve doesn’t hear anything else and so he lets gravity swing his bat in his right hand, the left raking through his hair with a deep exhale. Her nails barely scrape against the dirt below when Steve hears another crunch, followed by another crunch, and another, nearing him. He waits, his other hand coming to wrap around the base of Armageddon, raising her slightly like he’s just tapped home plate and is ready to wind up, eyes on the pitcher.

Steve had been good at baseball, much better than basketball, that is. He liked not having to rely too much on others, not in the way basketball does. He was gangly enough as a kid to be considered for basketball or track or something, but when his height’s ascent slowed, those were quickly dashed. It’s not that Steve is short, he’s just unfortunately average. He’s got good legs though, always enjoyed the euphoria of Runner’s High. Baseball is the one that he chose, much to his mother’s chagrin. She thought that sliding in the dirt was “uncouth” and left Steve alone to bleach out his grass stains. 

He was captain—of course he was. “The Hair Harrington”, captain of the Hawkins High baseball team and the owner of the best ass on campus. The last bit was his own accolade, but he has to admit the baseball pants definitely helped him score in more than one way enough times to lose count. 

Steve loved it though, loved feeling the ricochet of his bat meeting the ball, loved the impact of a ball hitting his mitt, loved the panic that came with running from plate to plate, feeling like the world was nipping at his heels. 

He never intended for it to become useful in the real world, but there he was, barreling home strike swings into the side of a flesh monster. 

He shifted his weight slowly from side to side, like he used to do when he taunted his batters. The fog of the early morning didn’t help his situation, but as whatever was incoming came closer, the figure became more and more clear. Steve readjusted his grip and flexed his shoulders before settling into his stance again. But as the figure defined itself, Steve started to go slack. 

It was a person. Not just any person, but—

“Man, you really are a ‘swing now, ask questions later’ kinda man, aren’t ya, Harrington.”

Billy Hargrove. 

The man walked towards him, grinning with his full teeth as he chomped on gum, hands in the pockets of his leather jacket. His brows jumped and he lifted his chin in a gloating posture, like he knew that he was the last person Steve wanted to be around. 

“You gonna ease up, or what?” Billy asked, motioning to his bat through the pocket of his jacket. 

With an eyeroll and sigh that Dustin would have been proud of, Steve lets Armageddon fall again to one hand. 

“What do you want, Hargrove,” Steve snapped, not keeping any venom out of his words. Granted, last time he had seen Billy beyond just passing by, the man nearly bashed his head in, only nearly avoided because Max shoved a tranquilizer in his neck. 

“Can’t a man enjoy a nice, evening stroll?”

”Not one like you,” Steve harrumphed, throwing his bat back over his shoulder. “It’s easily at least three am, plus you didn’t seem shocked to see me here.”

Billy makes an impressed kind of face at that, pulling his hands out of his jacket to let them rest on his hips.

”You’re a perceptive fuck, aren’t you.”

”And you’re an annoying fuck, aren’t you?”

Billy barks out a laugh at that, head thrown back and breath puffing into a cloud high above him. 

“You’re a funny one, Harrington,” Billy says, staring into his eyes, but there’s no mirth in his gaze, never has been. Steve can’t help but wonder when the last time this guy ever had fun; he can’t think of a single time he’s seen a genuine smile from him, only his signature sleazy kind. 

“I’ll be here all night,” Steve replies, truth present in his snark. Steve continues on his way, walking past Billy who watches him. He finds that Hargrove does that a lot: watching him. Whenever he felt the nape of his neck aflame, he’d always turn around to find the blond looking his way. If he was playing baseball, he’d be under the stands, watching while nonchalantly leaning against a pole with a cigarette dwindling between his lips. If he played basketball, Hargrove was there, pressed against his back, knocking the ball out from his possession every goddamn time. There was never a particular feeling to Billy’s gaze, not anger or jealousy, simply just watching. It was unsettling at the beginning; Tommy said he was scoping out his prey, the one thing standing between him and the Hawkins’ Kingship. Steve had long before stopped caring about his silly highschool titles. By the time The Hargroves came to Hawkins, Steve was pumped up on his mother’s sleeping pills to try and keep the nightmares away. 

Steve doesn’t acknowledge him as he passes him, but hears him fall into place behind him, practically stepping into every groove Steve’s feet make in the dirt. He doesn’t say anything, letting the sounds of nature fill the conversation. It puts Steve on edge, not used to the blond being so quiet, always teasing and flaunting to Steve every time he could. He was always a pest, up in Steve’s space or watching him from afar, but always drawn to him like a moth to a flame, a mosquito to blood, just fucking annoying.

It takes about thirty minutes for Steve to hit his limit, spinning around and pointing at Billy with his bat, her nails only a couple inches away from the sliver of chest that he always has exposed. Billy’s hands slowly come up besides him in a mocking surrender. 

“Why are you here, Hargrove.”

”I told you, it’s a nice evening st—“

”Cut the shit,” Steve snaps, “Last time you and I spent this long together, I got a concussion. Why are you here.” He spits out the last four words, making sure Billy can hear them clearly. The blond steps forward, Armageddon’s topmost nail pressing against the pendant that hangs low against Billy’s chest. Steve squints at him, calculating. He can’t think of a single reason that Hargrove would be here right now, other than dumb luck. 

He doesn’t take his bat away from where it’s pressed between Billy’s pecks, like he’s ready to pierce through his heart. 

“Listen here, Pretty Boy,” Billy starts, his familiar taunt holding more emotion than it usually does and it sits heavy in the air. “Maybe you’re not the only one up at the ass crack of dawn, ever think about that?”

”I’ve never seen you out before. Neither has Hopper.”

”The fuck has that fat cop got to do with this,” Billy laughs and Steve presses into his chest as a warning. “My bad, my bad.” He clears his throat, dropping his hands to his side and sliding them back into his jacket. He amends his statement: “What does Mr. Police Officer have to do with me? Pretty damn sure walking around isn’t illegal.” 

Steve removes the bat, putting her back over his shoulder. 

“Anyways, shouldn’t I be asking the questions, Harrington?” Billy continues, “Such as why you have a bat and why the fuck it looks like that.”

”Her name is Armageddon,” Steve offers, unsure of what else to say. 

“Where are my fucking manners,” Billy snarks, bowing slightly, “My apologies, Miss.”

”Cut it out, Hargrove. You’re such an ass,” Steve says, turning to continue his walk. Billy doesn’t reply but Steve knows he has that smarmy grin on his face, like he won some sort of unspoken competition between them. Steve supposes he started walking first; maybe Billy sees that as Steve resigning. But Steve also cannot be assed with stupid dick comparing contests such as the ones Billy loves so much. 

“Where we headin’, Pretty Boy?”

”Where the fuck is the ‘we’, Hargrove.”

”Awh, cmon Harrington. Where’s the spirit, where’s your sense of adventure?”

Steve rolls his eyes and hears Billy huff a pleased laugh to himself, as if he knew exactly how Steve would respond. Billy gets closer as the time passes, despite Steve’s long-legged strides. His pace isn’t leisurely—he has a job to fulfill. He doesn’t quite come to Steve’s side, but stays just a step behind him, like a silent surrender, some kind of submission that is incredibly out of character for Billy Hargrove. Steve half expected him to chase ahead of him, walk backwards while he nags and nags, just to get a rise out of Steve. But he doesn’t. In fact, he stays quiet. It seems contemplative. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you be quiet for this long,” Steve muses out loud. 

“Miss my voice already, Harrington?” It’s supposed to annoy Steve, but he finds himself shrugging instead. 

“I don’t mind silence.” Billy doesn’t reply to that, either in agreement or confusion, unable to form a proper retort. The gravel crunches under their shoes, the grass soft. The mud sticks into the soles of their shoes in a way Steve knows he’ll have to pick out of the grooves later. The sky is starting to lighten and Billy Hargrove is still trailing behind Steve. It’s surprising that the blond stayed with him for so long. Steve thought he’d get bored and drop off by now or get tired and turn back. 

“There’s about an hour left,” Steve reveals. He’s not sure why he tells him at all, usually so against any fraternization with the blond, but if he’s come along this far, he might as well know. Who knows when the man will call it quits—better to let him know it will be easier to tredge ahead then turn back. 

Billy only responds with a hum and Steve wants to ask him about it, to ask why he’s not talking, to ask him why he sounds almost distracted, like something’s on his mind. Steve shakes the urge out of his head and presses on. 

Billy stops at Steve’s car before he returns to his, brow furrowed and eyes downcast, troubled. 

”Do you do this often, Harrington?” 

“Yeah,” Steve replies. He could tell him the truth, that he does this every night, but he doesn’t know how to deal with the version of Hargrove before him. It makes him feel raw and wary, the hair on the back of his neck standing up, ears peeled for any hint of a predator. Billy has always set Steve on edge, but this is new. 

Billy hums again at this. He turns with a nod of his head and walks back to his car, hands still in his pockets. His head stays low, like the ground holds the answer to whatever secret lies under Billy’s skin. The blond looks at him once he gets into his car, for a fleeting second, like he was double checking that Steve was even there at all, before he reverses and drives off towards town. 

“What the fuck.”

***

Steve Harrington has never been a lucky guy. He might have good hair and long legs and a stellar swing, but luck has never been his friend. Whenever he thinks it’s starting to go well for a breath, it turns in the most horrific and unexpected way, such as demodogs and his girlfriend cheating on him with the absolute biggest loser of Hawkins High. 

It’s not a new development as well, his luck. He remembers his mother finding out about the deal with the secretary on his 11th birthday and blowing out his candles with his grandma as his parents screamed at each other in the next room. He failed his first two driving tests for things that were completely out of his control (how was he supposed to know his tired had a hole in it and would blow out mid-test). 

He’s constantly cursing whatever Higher Power there is out there in the vast universe, the one who thought it would be funny to make extraterrestrials real, and make his girlfriend not love him, and to make Billy Hargrove decide that Steve Harrington was his new best friend. 

Maybe that was pushing it, but god. The boy wouldn’t leave Steve alone. He kept returning for the night patrols, almost every night. The only night that he missed, there was a beeping “one missed message” on his answering machine when he got home from work detailing woes about a final project Billy had to finish and for Steve to “not miss me too much, Pretty Boy.”

Steve could breathe that night, no longer tailed by an aggressive watch dog. They don’t talk, nothing more than a greeting or a random caution about a loose rock or uneven footing. It’s nothing like that first day. Billy joins, falling in with Steve wherever he is on his path. Sometimes Billy beats Steve to the beginning of the path, smoking a cigarette as he sits on the hood of his Camaro, acting like he’s been left waiting for ages. And sometimes, Steve waits for Billy to arrive before he starts the patrol. 

It’s about three weeks into their shared patrols that Billy breaks their familiar silence. Steve doesn’t know when he started thinking of existing in silence next to Billy Hargrove as familiar, but he can’t bring himself to hate it. He’d rather have quiet Billy than the usual posturing Hargrove. 

“Why do we do this,” Billy asks, “Where are we headin’.” It echoes the first time Billy joined and that makes something inside Steve ache. He debates it, if he should let Billy in on anything, but quickly decides that’s insane. Steve is too trusting, something that Max once pointed out with a fierce, untrusting squint. Just because him and Billy can survive a couple hours around each other without it ending in bloody faces and knuckles doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy. 

“I can’t tell you,” Steve settles on. He expects Billy to fight back, but he doesn’t. He does that noncommittal hum that really grates on Steve’s nerves. Hargrove likes to act all blase, like none of this holds any weight, even though Steve knows the man is ready to nip at his heels if he won’t throw him a bone. So Steve offers ambiguity, something for him to gnaw on, until he can find something to sink his teeth into. 

“Sorry, that’s all I can say,” Steve tacks on, unable to sit with Billy’s nonchalance tonight. He’s seen the way the man simmers but also has seen him boil over. He knows what Billy Hargrove is like. He might have been watching Steve Harrington, but Steve’s also been watching him back. He knows that he clenches his jaw when all he wants to do is bark, he knows his knuckles turn white from the grip of his clenched fists when he wants to bite. He knows the Camaro is his most beloved, has seen him snarl at someone for even looking, even breathing wrong on his baby. It makes Steve hold back a chuckle as he thinks about it now and shifts his bat instead, adjusting his baby back into her nook. 

“I’m sorry,” Billy speaks into the silence that Steve left at his feet, and Steve stmbles over a rock or something because there’s no way that Billy Hargrove of all people would— 

“What?” Steve can’t help but sneer out. Steve stops walking and turns around to face the blond for once. His blue eyes are wider than usual, his arched brow flat for once. He looks wounded. Or something. Like this is the last reaction he was wanting, but yet the only thing he expected. There’s disappointment swirling there, taking over the hope that resided. “What is your game, Hargrove?”

The blond shrugs, looking small for once. He kicks at the gravel; he can’t meet Steve’s eyes. “I figured we could play a game: truth for a truth.”

Steve watches him evade his stare. “Why are you here, Hargrove. Why do you keep coming back? We aren’t friends, Hargrove.” 

“Oof,” Billy says, clutching at his chest and oh god, Steve wants to kill him. “And here I thought we were just startin’ to get along, Pretty Boy.” 

Steve puts his hand on his hip and glares and that makes Billy cut the shit. 

“Secret for a secret, Harrington,” he says again, a teasing and flighty lilt to his tone. Steve’s attention is peaked, for sure. There’s only so many times he’s imagined the blond saying those two words, but like hell he’s gonna give into whatever bullshit Hargrove is trying to pull. 

Steve spins around and starts walking again.

”Steve,” Billy tries. He runs to catch up to him, “I’m sorry. I mean it.”

With a grunt of frustration and possible turmoil, Steve whips around with Armageddon pointed straight at Billy’s chest again, back to the beginning. 

“I don’t know what bullshit you’re playing at or what in the hell you’re apologizing for, Hargrove, but I don’t accept it.”

Steve can’t read the expression on Billy’s face. It’s resigned to some degree, some sort of wall glazing over his eyes. He watches the blond accept his fate, accept that it won’t be easy, whatever bone he’s trying to gnaw at. He puts his hands in the air like he had weeks ago and takes a small,  slow step back.

”My apologies, Miss.” It’s an attempt at a bait, but Steve’s no fish and they both know it. Billy turns and leaves. Steve watches him, sees him shake his head at the ground and shake out his hands before putting them back in his pockets, trudging back the long way back to their cars.  

The camaro is long gone by the time Steve returns and the cigarette stench in the air has turned stale. 

***

Steve jams his hand the next morning and cusses himself blue,  swearing to god and everything else above and below. 

“The fuck’s wrong with you today,” Robin asks, whipping around the corner, face far too close into his personal space. He was stacking returns and hoping to seem busy enough to not interact with customers until they closed. It was a rainy, slow Tuesday which was horrible for traffic, wonderful for Steve’s mood, but horrible for Robin’s constant need for stimulation and attention. 

It was her turn to deal with returns but Steve took it with barely more than a grunt and he knew from the heat of Robin’s glare that she had sussed out his bad mood before he even registered the depth of it. He wasn’t doing anything strenuous, just put the films back a little too aggressively and clumsily. He sucked on his thumb, the throbbing skin warm against his tongue.  

“Trouble in paradise? Get stood up?” Robin fished, “Little guy couldn’t get up?” 

“Rob, shut the fuck up,” he barked and that was all she needed,  grin widening as she unwrapped a lollipop and popped it into her mouth. She gave a pensive suck before pulling it out with an obnoxious pop!  

“Are you upset about Nancy Wheeler and Mr. Creepface becoming official on Saturday?” 

Steve pauses. “How the fuck do you know these things?”

”I’ve got eyes,” she said, leaning in closer to whisper, “Everywhere.”

Steve shoves her away and she yips out a short, sharp laugh, devolving into sinister giggles. Nancy and Jonathan had become an official item two weeks ago. Steve knows this because at one of the Family Dinners Nancy had pulled him aside to ask if it was okay, as if Nancy needed anyone’s approval to act on what she was set on, let alone Steve’s blessing. 

Before Steve could even come up with an excuse to try and deter Robin’s snooping, the door chime jingled and Robin threw herself back from Steve to get in the line of sight and yell out, ”Welcome to Family Video!” , before she leans back closer to Steve to whisper “The fuck is he doing in here. Doesn’t he have like. Twenty dollars in returns?”

Steve looks up to find none other than Billy Hargrove looking down on him. 

WRITE INTERACTION awk

“Okay, what the fuck was that,” Robin presses through the treeth of her smile. She turns to Steve, “I know you’re not the smooth asshole everyone makes you out to be but what the fuck, man? That was so painfully awkward.”

“We had an argument,” Steve says and stands, carrying the box of returns to the horror section. 

“This doesn’t have to do with the fight from the fall, right?” And it’s sweet how Steve can hear the genuine concern in Robin’s voice. 

“No,” he says and watches her sag in relief. “I ran into him yesterday. I think he tried to apologize for something.”

“Well, that’s good isn’t it?” Robin trailed after him. “ He beat your face up in November and left you looking fuckugly—“

“Thanks—“

“—all month. Isn’t an apology a good thing?”

Steve stood, leaving the box on the ground with a sigh. 

“I don’t know, Rob. I don’t trust him at all. I don’t even know what he was apologizing for.”

“Did he say?”

“No.”

“Well, did you ask?”

“…no.”

“Steve!”