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midnightartemis · 13 days ago

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Eddie almost becomes a 4th of July finger loss statistic and runs into a pair of sailors in the ER

cw: medical terminology, references to canon-typical gore

Eddie can feel his uncle’s glare from the seat next to him. He’s resolutely ignoring it and also attempting to ignore the pulsing pain in his hand, which he’s currently pressing a damp kitchen towel to.

Wayne, apparently, isn’t having it. “You know how many people blow their fingers off on this day every year, boy?” He says slowly.

Eddie presses his lips together. When he can’t hold his thoughts back anymore he half-whispers, “Last time I checked, all my fingers were still attached to my body.”

“They better continue to be that way by tomorrow morning.” Wayne huffs and leans back in his chair. Arms crossed tight over his chest.

They sit in silence for about 5 minutes before the doors to the emergency room practically fly open. The sudden movement draws Eddie’s eye.

He’s met with possibly the last thing he expects. The first thing he registers is that two of the people who just entered appear to be dressed like cartoon sailors, and that one of the sailors also appears to have been recently hit by a car, then the car reversed, and ran him over again.

The second thing he realizes is that the roadkill sailor is the one and only Steve Harrington. Not only is he Steve Harrington, he’s Steve Harrington, clearly on drugs.

“Hopper, we told you,” Harrington attempts to sound convincing while teetering precariously with every step, “we feel fine. I don’t even think this is as bad as last time. Nobody even… smashed anything into my head.”

The other sailor, whom Eddie has just identified as Robin Buckley, band kid and on Eddie’s short list of suspected fellow freaks.

“Nope!” Robin giggles, “just ripped a few fingernails out.” She wiggles her own fingers in front of Hopper’s face, which at the moment is locked in a simultaneously horrified and exasperated expression.

Now that attention has been called to it, and all of Robin’s fingers seem intact, Eddie sneaks a glance at Harrington’s hands, the left one of which appears to have bandages that are becoming soaked through with blood on the index and middle fingers.

“Maybe nothing got smashed into you, but Wheeler mentioned something about you smashing a certain commandeered vehicle into a certain Camaro.” Hopper leans in and speaks in a growl Eddie assumes he thinks passes for whispering, while directing Harrington and Buckley into matching plastic chairs to the one Eddie is currently occupying.

He gapes at them and blinks a few times before turning to see what his uncle thinks of this whole scene. He finds Wayne watching the newcomers with a slight squint to his eyes and a slight raise to his right eyebrow. A clear sign that he is equal parts concerned, Eddie would assume for the obvious poor condition of at least one of the teens, and intrigued, but not intrigued enough to risk intervening and complicating his already very mentally taxing evening.

Before he can do anything about any part of this scenario, a nurse calls Eddie’s name and in a blink he’s being led into the next stage of the hell of his own making. At first it’s several minutes of answering questions, nurses looking very intently at the half burn/half gash in his hand, and antiseptic. Finally he’s left alone for a few moments while they let the topical numbing cream set in.

There are two other beds in the section he’s been taken to. One of them is currently occupied by an older man, accompanied by a younger woman in a plastic chair next to him. Both of them appear to be fast asleep. The other bed is empty. Or at least, it is until there’s a commotion from the hallway, and the sailors are being ushered in Eddies direction, toward the bed next to his. Eddie catches bits of the conversation that leads to the two-high-teenagers-for-one deal he’s about to get.

Robin’s almost frantic voice, “No! They can’t separate us! Last time we got split up-“

“It’ll be fine, Rob, these guys are probably American.” Steve cuts her off nonsensically. Eddie kind of wishes he was on whatever stuff Steve was right now.

“Considering what you’ve tried to explain so far, I don’t know how much better that is.” Robin says, giggling again.

Steve clumsily grabs her hand with his right one, reaching across is own body awkwardly to get to her, and missing on the first attempt. “You also need to get looked at, little miss ‘ask me tomorrow’.”

Robin cringes at him, “Ok now I will leave you alone so you don’t call me ‘little miss’ again.”

Eddie watches the nurses lead Robin further down the hallway, and Steve to the bed next to his own. They’re left alone briefly after Steve gets settled and the nurse has rushed off to find a doctor.

The other teen stares almost blankly at him for a long moment before he exclaims suddenly, startling Eddie, “Munson! From Biology! That’s why you seem familiar.”

“Harrington,” Eddie replies, “you are aware we shared more classes than the one Biology period, right?”

Harrington blinks slowly with the eye that isn’t swollen shut. “No, actually, I dunno if you noticed, but I was sort of an asshole in high school, so…” he wobbles his head back and forth, “I kind of only remember that time you passed out when we dissected that cow eye.”

“Ah,” Eddie rolls his eyes and nods, “so you were an asshole in high school, but you’re not anymore. Got it.” He’s really going over the top with the sarcasm, but Harrington doesn’t seem to catch on.

“Yup. Earlier Robin said that I really was, but I’m not anymore, and she’s usually right about most things, even though it’s super annoying when she is right, because she won’t shut up about it, and she remembers stuff, like how many times I’m wrong and what I’m wrong about and what I ate for breakfast in Mrs. Click’s class and-“

He’s cut off by the nurse from before returning. “Sorry for making you wait, hon, it’s a real circus here tonight. While we wait for the doctor, I’m gonna get you set up with some fluids. The EMTs said you were pretty dehydrated.”

When she brandishes the needle in preparation for placing the IV, Eddie notices all the color that isn’t bruising drain from Harrington’s face. He tries to subtly scoot away from her, but the movement is a little too rushed to come from anywhere but a sense of panic.

“O-oh, no that’s, I’m okay, no-no thanks.” He stutters out, his breath coming in quick and shallow now.

“Oh, hon, it’s okay to be afraid of needles,” the nurse says sweetly, “just look away and take deep breaths, and it’ll be over in a pinch.”

Harrington winces at that. “I-I’m really- it’s- I’m fine, you don’t-“

He stops abruptly when what sounds like a screamed “No!”echoes from down the hallway. It takes half a second longer for Eddie to place the voice as Robin Buckley’s than it apparently takes Steve, because Eddie blinks and Harrington’s off the bed and rushing toward the voice with a half-shouted “Robin!”

The nurse, it seems, is just as stunned as Eddie, and it’s a few seconds before she’s racing after him down the hallway.

It isn’t until his stitches are almost halfway done that Harrington returns, now closely followed by Chief Hopper, and lead gingerly by the elbow by the nurse. The IV situation appears to have been solved, as he is now rolling a drip bag on a stand with his free hand.

Once Harrington is returned to his bed, Hopper leans over him slightly in what Eddie recognizes as his attempt to be intimidating. “Now listen closely, Harrington. You are going to stay right there in this bed, and do whatever Annette here asks you to do until I get back. Do I make myself clear?”

Steve stares at him open mouthed for a moment, before he starts giggling. “Huh, Mike’s right, you do have a little vein that pops out right…” he reaches up to try and poke Hopper in the forehead.

Before Hopper smacks his hand away, Eddie notices a thick band of bruising around Harrington’s wrist, adding to the already massive pile of questions he has about whatever series of events led to those two landing themselves here.

Steve is still giggling when Hopper stands back up, dragging a hand down his face. “Look. Just stay put for 20 minutes. Someone still has to call your damn parents.”

“Good luck with that,” Harrington says wearily to Hopper’s back as he retreats back toward the waiting room.

With all the commotion, Eddie almost forgets he’s currently getting his hand sewn back together. A distraction he’s secretly grateful for, since he was starting to get a little light headed thinking about it.

“Well, Eddie, that should be it,” the doctor says, patting the fresh bandage gently, “I’ll get someone to take care of your discharge papers and you’ll be on your way.”

Eddie gives a thumbs up with the hand that did not get nearly exploded several hours ago. As the doctor leaves, Eddie realizes he is once again left alone with Harrington. He can only handle about two minutes of the silence before he blurts out. “Ok, man, I’m dying to know. What the hell happened to you? You look like you rolled down a rocky cliffside for like a day straight.”

Harrington chuckles, “I feel like that.” He doesn’t say anything for a long moment before he apparently realizes Eddie asked him a question. “Oh, uh, the mall burned down.”

“Starcourt? The brand new mall?”

Harrington nods. “Yup.” He pops the p.

“Wh-” Eddie blinks at him in disbelief, “and you and Buckley..?”

“We were there, yeah.” He says it so nonchalantly Eddie almost thinks he’s messing with him.

“Right…” Eddie starts, not sure where he’s going before one of the questions swirling around his brain tumbles out of his mouth “so the mall was burning down and someone ripped your finger nails off?”

Harrington sits up straight, “How did you-?”

“I was in the waiting room when you came in,” Eddie answers in a rush, “overheard you and Buckley.”

“Oh.” Harrington says, then blinks slowly a few times and Eddie can almost hear him thinking. “Umm, no that happened… before the fire.” He finally says, frustratingly vague.

“Right, and the…” Eddie gestures vaguely to his own face in leu of actually asking.

Harrington hums. “Uhh, I think… falling debris…” he nods to himself, “yeah, you know, chunks of burning mall.” He mimes something falling from the sky and makes a cartoon explosion sound. Eddie’s not totally inclined to believe him, especially since he just noticed the finger shaped bruising on Harringtons arms.

“You think?” He presses.

Harrington huffs, almost like a kid throwing a tantrum. “Look man, I’m like super ultra concussed and on some kind of mystery drugs so my memory is like…” he flaps a hand around for a second, then lands on a thumbs down, “at the moment.”

Eddie nods. “Right, yeah, sorry.” Eddie puts his uninjured hand up in surrender, “Just, my curious nature, man.”

Steve shrugs, then winces. “Okay, my turn.” He points to Eddie’s bandaged hand, “What happened there?”

“Awesome firework experiment gone wrong.” Eddie says, deliberately not elaborating. It’s apparently enough for Steve who nods knowingly.

Another silence settles over the room, this time less awkward, but Eddie still feels the need to break it. “Okay this is my last question for real.” Harrington sighs, but motions for him to go on. “The outfit?”

He squints at Eddie for a moment. “Did you ever like, actually go to the mall?”

“Once. And it confirmed my suspicions that the whole thing was a capitalist nightmare that I in no way belonged within a thousand foot radius of.” Eddie proclaiming proudly.

Steve looked at him like he was speaking Spanish. “Um, sure. Yeah. That’s probably true.” He picks at some of the blood that has dried on the collar of his shirt. “Robin and I work, or, I guess worked, now that it doesn’t exist anymore, but, anyway it’s this ice cream place, and it’s like, ocean themed for some reason, so… sailors.”

The mood seems to have shifted slightly. Harrington’s no longer looking at him, instead focusing on his shoes, which also appear to be smudged with blood. No trace of the half smile that had been lingering from his random fits of giggles. With the way he’s fidgeting, it almost seems like he’s nervous.

Eddie decides the best way out of this is to pretend like he doesn’t notice and hope he can get the vibe back on track. “That sounds like the most ridiculous business I’ve ever heard of.”

Steve lets out a halfhearted chuckle. “Yeah, it was pretty stupid.”

They are both saved from trying to come up with a new direction for the conversation to go by the entrance of Robin Buckley, who is toting her own rolling stand of IV fluid with her.

“Dingus!” She calls, and Eddie notes the way Harrington relaxes slightly at seeing her. “I’m completely healthy!”

Steve mimes clapping and Robin bows dramatically. “I… am not.”

Robin taps his knee. “I could have probably told you that.” Her gaze scans the room, then catches on him. “Hey, you’re the guy that runs the D&D group, right?”

“In the flesh,” Eddie says, spreading his arms wide.

Robin cringes again. “Ew, don’t say flesh. I’ve had too much flesh for one day.”

Steve nods next to her. “He blew up his hand with fireworks.”

Robin gasps, “Really?” She turns to Steve, “I totally thought we were gonna do that, but” she holds out her hands, and while they themselves seem fine, Eddie notices the bruising on her wrists that match Harrington’s, “all my fingers. Intact.”

“That makes one of us,” he smirks and makes eye contact with Eddie.

“Did you know that on the Fourth of July, over 30% of hospital visits are related to injuries from fireworks” Robin says unprompted.

“Why would I know that.” Steve says flatly, “Why do you know that?”

Robin shrugs, “I read.”

It’s then that a nurse comes back to get Eddie out of there. As he goes, Steve waves a goodbye to him that he awkwardly returns. As he leaves them behind he hears Robin ask, “Did Johnathan Byers cut open a girl’s leg, or was that the drugs?”

He shakes his head as he returns to the waiting room, resigned to never have answers to his mountain of questions.

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midnightartemis · 13 days ago

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Steve settles against the back of the couch and says, “I got a question, Ed.”

“Yeah?” Eddie replies and tries very hard for Steve not to notice that he spent the last fifteen minutes either picking at a loose thread on his jeans or sneaking surreptitious glances at him.

“And be honest with me. No deflecting.”

“Uh-huh. Go ahead.”

“Do you…” Steve pauses, and he’s got this look where he’s tossing the question around like a salad over and over in his head, like he hasn’t gotten it right quite yet. “Do you think Arnold Schwarzenegger is hot?”

Eddie blinks. This cannot be his real fucking life.

Steve’s still looking at him expectantly, as if the question that just left his lips wasn’t affixed between world-endingly stupid and nuclear bomb-levels of disastrous to Eddie. It’s…he’s so blase about it, too. Completely unaffected! As if he didn’t just drop that question onto the gay friend he’s conveniently, y’know, swapped bodily fluids with.

“Excuse me?”

Steve shrugs. “So you’re gay, right?”

Alright, foot-in-mouth gold medalist Steve Harrington expertly sticking the landing as always. It’s curious, Eddie thinks, out of all of his friends, Steve should be the one most well-acquainted with the sheer magnitude of Eddie’s gayness and the biblical nature of it–what with the whole dick in ass thing.

Eddie purses his lips and tries not to play the cynic, the you of all people perched on the tip of his tongue. The last thing he wants to do is scare him off again, not with their shoulders pressed against each other like this; the closest they’ve ever been since that night. He axes it before it goes any further and causes trouble. “Well shit, what do you think?”

“Alright, dumb question,” Steve concedes, though there isn’t any shame in his voice. He smiles that golden smile of his and waves his hand at the screen, where Arnold and the fussy flight attendant are busy studying a piece of paper evidence. They’re an odd pair. “So, does he do it for you or not?”

Eddie blinks, takes a sip of his High Life and purses his lips in thought. “Nah, not really.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline and his eyes dart from the screen to Eddie’s apathetic expression. “Really?” “Don’t act so surprised, man.”

Steve shakes his head and looks away from Eddie, chin resting on his palm. “No–no, I’m not surprised or anything–”

“Well, girls like pretty boys, so…”

“But you’re not a girl, you’re a gay guy.” Steve scoots to the side, fully facing Eddie, and gestures wildly at the vague wholeness of Eddie’s body, like he’s the representative for every homosexual man northwest of Lake Michigan.

“Last time I checked.”

“Gay guys like macho dudes, right?”

Eddie grimaces at Steve’s naive brightness. There’s a decently well-oiled machine that whirrs away in his head, but Eddie is absolutely and positively dumbstruck, and operations screech to a halt. If things go any further, it’s going to reach triangle-shirtwaist levels of disastrous. What the hell does Steve Harrington–homecoming king and president of the Key club fucking Steve Harrington–know about what gets gay guys’ rocks off? I mean, yeah, he’s wandered into ‘have gay sex and only acknowledge it as a mistake’ territory, but far be it for him to thumb open a copy of Blueboy or–God forbid–fully understand the concept of a leather daddy.

“You’re…serious…?” Eddie ventures.

Steve’s mouth twists and scrunches at the corner as he wilts slightly, lost in the proverbial woods. “I’m pretty sure I am, yeah.”

“Okay, well”--Eddie scoots forward in his seat and knocks Steve shoulder with his fist in a semi-decent attempt to lighten him up– “think of it like this: attraction isn’t a monolith.”

Steve’s eyebrows scrunch curiously. “Right.”

“Right. So some chicks like macho guys like Arnie and other chicks like prettier guys like…uh.”

“Iceman?” Steve supplies helpfully.

“Yeah. That guy.”

“Val Kilmer.”

“Oh! The hot guy from Willow. Anyways, gay guys are the same, we’re not all just into Arnold Schwarzenegger ‘cause he’s got muscles. Some of us also like pretty boys. Hell–ugly guys are on the table, too. It’s open season, man!”

The corners of Steve’s mouth twitch upwards and his basset hound eyes brighten a fraction in relief. Eddie lowers his hand to his lap, taking it as a personal victory. Well, the word ‘victory’ is a bit of a reach, all things considered. In those massive Merriam-Webster dictionaries he used to leaf through to understand the books Wayne would lend him, ‘victory’ was defined as an achievement of mastery or success in a struggle or endeavor against odds or difficulties. Explaining the ins and outs of gay sexual attraction to some haplessly gorgeous straight man like multiplying fractions to a fourth grader was the farthest thing from a victory. Especially since Eddie’s unfortunate enough to be halfway in love with said haplessly gorgeous straight man, what with his kind eyes and swoopy hair and disarmingly boyish charm. But! A success it does make.

Christ, it’s a sacrifice nonetheless.

“Okay, new question,” Steve prompts, because apparently he’s fixing to be this decade’s new Sherlock Holmes. Or Colombo. Eddie tries to push the rapidly materializing image of Steve wearing a tan trenchcoat and loosened tie with a cigar pinched between his teeth to the back of his mind because–to the surprise of absolutely no one–he finds it devastatingly sexy. He shoots a cute little message up to God in his little corner of the sky (or whatever primordial being is running this fucking hellscape) begging to grant him some actual, discernable relief.

“You’re a curious cat tonight,” Eddie says after his brief yet exhaustive prayer.

“What can I say,” Steve replies with a shrug, “I like to get to the bottom of things.”

“Go ahead, champ.”

“So…Val Kilmer, huh? You like pretty boys?”

Eddie has half a mind to jump onto the couch, take Steve by the shoulders with an iron grip, and shake him around wildly, screaming and spitting, “You’re the prettiest boy I’ve ever met! And handsome! And sexy! Beautiful! Every synonym in the Goddamn thesaurus!”

Thankfully, Val Kilmer is a high enough jumping point for Eddie to prevent himself from swam-diving and landing face first into the bottom of the figurative ‘I’m so deeply in love with you it’s not even funny’ pool.

“Hell, I’d never say no to Madmartigan.” Eddie tips his head backwards against the couch headrest and fans at his face, all hot and bothered. “He could do whatever he wanted to me.”

Steve rubs the back of his hand against his lips and his breathy laugh clips at its edges. “What about sexy naval fighters? Tom Cruise in a uniform do it for you?”

“Nah, too establishment. He may be hot, but I’m not tripping over my feet for the military industrial complex. But if you want me to be honest…” Eddie’s eyes drop to his rings, his fingertips brushing against his nickel plated rings. They start twisting the scratched and worn things before he looks up at Steve’s expectant expression.

“I like honesty,” Steve says.

“Well there’s this movie, The Sting, it’s one of Wayne’s favorites–saw it in theaters and recorded it when it showed on TV Christmas day of, ‘79, I think. Could’ve been watching It’s A Wonderful Life or whatever, but the old bastard wanted to watch some movie about these two con men bullshitting an Irish guy. Anyways, Wayne loved it, so he’d play it all the fucking time, but I wasn’t complaning, like, at all, because the main character was the hottest man I’d ever seen in my life.”

“Wow.” Steve blinks. “All that talk and I don’t even know what he looks like.”

Eddie releases his grip on his rings and drums his fingers against worn denim instead. “Well, he’s Robert Redford.”

Steve shrugs smugly, because of course he doesn’t know who Robert Redford is. Eddie’s so Goddamned charmed by it.

Eddie hums, leans back, and rolls his head towards Steve. “Tall. Chiseled jaw”--he lists the traits with his fingers– “Blue eyes. Looks insanely handsome in a dress shirt with rolled up sleeves. Blond, which is curious because I don’t particularly care for blonds, but I think the hair thing is pretty much null and void because I like the devil-may-care attitude.”

“So you like bad boys, then?”

“Depends on your definition of bad. Rebel without a cause? Hell yeah. Downright war criminal? Not advisable.”

“I didn’t know war criminals were on the table.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Alright,” Steve says, clapping his hands with finality, and straightening himself on the couch.. “You say you like pretty boys, but generally go for more handsome, refined guys.”

“Who said I like handsome?” Eddie interrupts..

“You when you said you had a thing for rolled up dress sleeves,” Steve says, self-satisfied. “And you like ‘em bad. Not bad bad, but like, a realistic amount of bad. Spray paint and knife fights, not like. Uh.”

“Mussolini?” Eddie offers.

“Not like Mussolini.”

(It's wip wednesday when I say it's wip wednesday (it is currently friday), so here's another snippet from my fic Stand There, Looking Backwards. i'm almost at the homestretch of the second chapter so. big if true.)

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midnightartemis · 13 days ago

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Six months. For six months Steve has been listening to this radio show and not ever one time did he expect to hear the host, Eddie Munson, growl out the words “Hawkins, Indiana," but here they are. The name said.

Steve stops the car dead in the middle of the road, can’t hear anything aside from the radio show host listing Hawkins facts in his sonorous voice.

He should have known. Like rationally, he should have considered it a possibility that Hawkins might come up on this late night talk radio show called Hellfire about monsters, cryptids, folklore.

It’s just. He thought. Hawkins hadn’t exactly made national news, and what had was about a toxic gas leak and a government coverup, not exactly this show’s focus.

But enough, apparently. Obviously.

Eddie starts talking about the disappearance of Will Byers, and Steve lays his head on his steering wheel, tries to ignore the way his hands tremble.

For six months Hellfire brought him comfort and companionship as he roams the dark street of Hawkins on what Robin calls his patrols. It’s not like he can sleep, not anymore, so what better to do than make sure everyone is safe? That there’s no signs of the Upside Down? That the gates are still closed?

Hellfire has been his companion through it all and now—now—

Eddie’s talking about the Department of Energy, MK Ultra, a fake body in the quarry.

He could turn it off. Or better yet, go home. But he sits in his car out by Lover’s Lake and he listens to Eddie detail the rumors and speculation. Listens to the callers who share their two cents and conspiracy theories—none close to the truth.

The thing is. He’s become—fond of Eddie, of Hellfire. He doesn’t care about cryptids, isn’t interested in Big Foot, but he was captivated by Eddie. Not just him, though, it’s the whole thing with his producer, Gareth, and his two other best friends who pop in from time to time. They’re funny, nerdy, love that dork game the kids play. And if the low resonance of Eddie’s voice makes him a little melty? Well, that’s between him and 3am.

Steve calls in, sometimes. Has called in. Just, you know, once a week or so. It's not like he knows anything about the monsters, but he asks questions, likes to listen to Eddie talk no matter if he understands.

They finish with a caller and Eddie says, "unfortunately, we'll probably never know what happened."

And Gareth cuts in to say, "Hawkins is only an hour a way. You know. If you find that interesting."

"What are you saying, Gar?" Eddie asks. "That we should go?" He laughs.

"Why not? We could do our own investigation. Maybe we'll find something the authorities don't want us to."

"Hmm, what do you think, listeners? Should we don our adventurer caps and head into the unknown?"

He doesn't remember putting the car into drive, but he knows he's speeding toward the little two-pump gas station on the edge of town and the deserted pay phone there.

The line beeps and beeps when he dials. He tries again and again, until finally there's a click, and Eddie's radio voice booming in his ear.

"Thank you for calling Hellfire," he laughs, manic. "You're--

"You can't go to Hawkins," he interrupts.

"Sweetheart," Eddie croons. "Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"

"I'm Fine. Stay out of Hawkins."

"You gotta ease into it a little, baby. Little small talk first."

"Eddie..."

"What do you know about Hawkins?"

"N--nothing. I've heard bad things about it. Cops."

"Cops," Eddie snorts. "I'm not afraid of Hawkins PD. Are you calling because you're worried for my well-being, sweetheart?"

"Yes." Steve doesn't hesitate.

"You're my favorite listener, you know that?"

"I'm being serious."

"It's cute."

"It's a really bad idea to go to Hawkins."

"Do you know what's funny? You didn't know what a chupacabra was, but you know about Hawkins."

"I--" he swallows. "Have specific interests."

Eddie laughs. "What do you know about Hawkins?"

"Nothing," too quick.

"Are you lying to me?"

"I can't say."

"You just keep getting more and more mysterious."

"Please, stay away. It's--there are things, people--you don't want their attention. Just, please. Trust me."

"I'll agree on one condition. Tell me how you know this."

"I can't," he whispers. "That's why you need to trust me."

"What's stopping you?"

He flashes back to an interrogation room, Hopper's stern face, the even sterner ones of the government agents, the four-inch high stack of papers to sign, again and again and again.

"NDAs."

Dead silence on the other line until Eddie asks, "wait, PLURAL?" excitement spikes through the speakers.

That's when Steve hears the distant click down the line, knows it isn't him or Eddie, knows--

The line goes dead.

"Fuck."

He goes straight to the cabin. It's late enough in the morning now that he's unsurprised to see the glowing ember of a cigarette near the porch steps.

"What'd you do, kid?" Hopper asks when Steve gets out of his car.

"Called into a radio show about monsters."

The chief sighs, drops his hands to his sides, muttering. The crunch of gravel way up the long drive has them both turning.

"Guess we're in for a long day." Hopper stomps out his cigarette.

---

Steve isn't allowed to listen to Hellfire anymore. Is forbidden from calling in. And he gets it, okay, he knows. He said too much on the radio, but he hopes that he didn't get Eddie in trouble, that they don't try to come to Hawkins.

He gets a late start on his patrols one night. Took the kids to the movies, caved within minutes when they begged to go for ice cream after, Robin giving him a fond eye roll when he stops.

It's late, summer sun set for hours already, and he's driving on backroads behind the lab. And it's been--it's been a few weeks, okay, since the last call, long enough that he's stopped thinking Eddie will show, so when he sees the van on the side of the road--when he sees the van he doesn't stop right away.

It's tan and white or maybe grey, old, from the 70's or something; spiky black lettering on the side. It says Hellfire.

Steve slams on the breaks so hard the tires squeal, car skidding. He parks haphazardly on the side of the road, only grabbing a flashlight before hurling himself into the woods.

He figures Eddie and the guys will be easy to find, bumbling through unfamiliar forest, but minutes pass with nothing but his own feet crushing through the underbrush. He's afraid to yell, afraid it will draw the wrong kind of attention, but he does a kind of hoarse whisper, knowing it's not enough.

There's a small rock formation that he skirts past, mind everywhere but on his surroundings. He hears a rustle, he thinks, turns, and in the space of a breath, collides with something distinctly solid, warm, and judging by the pained grunt, human.

"Fuck. Gareth?" A very familiar voice asks.

"Eddie??" He responds. His fingers scrabble for his flashlight, illuminating the leaf strewn forest floor and some nearby tree roots.

A beam of light illuminates his chest and face, forcing his eyes down. "Who are you?"Eddie demands.

Steve finally grabs his flashlight, points it at Eddie's middle. Has a second to take in his long, curly hair, his cut-off t-shirt, pale skin and the swirl of inky black tattoos. "I'm--I--I called into your show. I--I told you not to--"

"Oh," Eddie's breath hitches. "Sweetheart. You said not to come to Hawkins and then you--you--" He blinks, seems to struggle to find words. "I didn't expect you to be so beautiful."

He smiles. "i--your show, I loved it. I miss listening to you. I miss--" He takes a step, closes the distance. Eddie smiles and it grips something in his stomach, doesn't let go.

Over Eddie's shoulder, there's a flash of movement, catches in Steve's periphery. It's an unfurling, an opening, there's a shine of saliva, teeth.

His heart stops.

"Eddie--"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Run."

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