#missing scene fics

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Heya, i wonder if there's any fic about the scene when John is about to leave after Sherlock said he can stay without supervision for 20 minutes, and John or Sherlock makes himself the first step to talk. (thx Irene ngl to send a message at this moment) Thank you :')

Hi Lovely!

Oh gosh I'm SURE that I have a fic or three, but none of the S4 fics I've read come immediately to mind... I'm SURE people have written "missing scene" fics for that scene, so if anyone have a fic for Domo, please let us know!!

I'm sorry I'm not much help otherwise, but I hope you'll still enjoy your time here and continue to enjoy sending me asks! <3 *HUGS*

[bishicat]

I think he actually really wanted to go :(

[frownyalfred]

Alcohol tips for newbie writers (or non drinkers!):

At bars, people who order “chasers” after their shots are ordering something to wash down the taste of their shot with. This can be juice, soda, more alcohol, or even pickle juice

Hard liquor is generally sold in stores as shots (tiny bottles), fifths, liters, and handles or in ml (50, 100, 200 etc)

Most people can’t finish an entire fifth of hard liquor (vodka, etc) on their own without being very ill

Conversely, many people can finish an entire bottle of wine on their own without being ill

Liquor can be “bottom shelf” or “rail” or “well” -- all synonyms for the cheapest version of alcohol a bartender has. Bars generally keep several “levels” of alcohol stocked

You order a drink with the alcohol first, then the mix -- e.g., a “vodka soda” or a “Tito’s and tonic”

When you “close out a tab”, you pay for all of the drinks you’ve had that night. Either the bartender already has your card (you “opened a tab” earlier) or it was quiet enough that they just kept an eye on you and tallied your bill up at the end

“Doubles” are drinks or shots with double the standard pour of alcohol

In the US, most shots (pours) are 1.5 oz by default. 

Mixed drinks (gin and tonic, vodka lemonade, cosmos, etc) are generally made up of 1-2 shots and a mixer 

If you don’t specify which type of alcohol you’d like in a mixed drink (vodka cranberry, for example) the bartender will put whatever the “house” liquor is -- and this depends entirely on the establishment. A dive bar will pour rail by default, whereas a nicer tavern might make all vodka cranberries with Tito’s

PLEASE TIP YOUR BARTENDERS THEY WILL REMEMBER YOU I PROMISE

[loveinhawkins]

ao3

About twenty minutes into the hike, Steve hears Eddie’s breathing change.

They’re bringing up the rear, but they’re still close enough for some of the group’s conversations to be within earshot—Robin and Nancy leading in a silently agreed upon formation, despite Dustin holding the compass. That way, no matter what, the kids are shielded.

Speaking of the kids, they’re currently having a passionate discussion about who among them will reach the Gate the fastest—and yeah, there’s not a chance in hell that’s happening, Steve thinks, but they don’t need to know that yet.

It’s when the debate specifically turns to who’s the best swimmer that he notices the switch in Eddie’s breathing, air sucked in through clenched teeth. A glance behind confirms Steve’s suspicions; Eddie’s breaking away from the party, his face white, eyes steadfastly on the forest floor.

Steve leaves him be, doesn’t draw any attention to it—but he keeps watch in his peripheral, so he spots exactly when Eddie staggers off, soon swallowed up by the trees. He can still hear his footsteps, though, which is reassuring.

Slowly, making sure it seems casual, Steve bends down and picks up the smallest rock he can find, rubs his thumb across it to make sure the edges are smooth enough.

He throws, hits his target: the back of Dustin’s head.

Predictably, Dustin whirls around, mouth already open to voice his indignation.

Steve quickly puts a finger to his lips.

While Dustin doesn’t look all that thrilled about it, he obligingly stays silent. He’s damn quick on the uptake, of course; Steve can see the spark of understanding in his eyes when he notices that Eddie is missing.

He steps forward with urgency, but Steve’s just as quick to shake his head.

No, it’s okay. I’m on it.

He knows it’s not a coincidence that Eddie left so quietly—that having the kids see him in another moment of vulnerability is probably too much to handle on top of the ongoing nightmare he’s found himself in. Steve gets it; God, if he were in Eddie’s shoes, he’d be taking any opportunity that he could to get some privacy.

Even without words, it’s obvious that Dustin wants to protest, frowning hard.

Steve raises an eyebrow meaningfully. Dude, trust me.

Dustin heaves a silent, dramatic sigh, but he nods all the same.

Steve gestures for the water bottle Dustin’s got in his backpack. Mimes for Dustin to throw it to him.

Dustin brings out the bottle, but doesn’t throw it immediately, like he’s doubtful Steve will make the catch.

Steve rolls his eyes. Seriously? Dickhead.

Dustin rolls his eyes right back.

When he throws the bottle, Steve catches it one-handed as a point of pride.

Dustin’s theatrics grow: he gasps, all slack-jawed, wide-eyed disbelief; Steve flips him off.

Then Dustin taps his watch deliberately.

Steve softens, gives him a brief thumbs up before following where Eddie went. He looks back a couple of times, reassured by the sight of Robin and Nancy stopping and rearranging themselves so the group formation is kept up in his absence.

It doesn’t take long to find Eddie. He hears him first, harsh, bitten off retching—and while that’s not exactly a surprise, the sound still makes Steve’s heart sink.

Eddie’s doubled over, leaning against a tree with one hand. Steve feels a sudden impulse to pull his hair back for him but resists it—remembers Eddie violently flinching away from any touch in the boathouse.

So he just makes sure his presence is nice and obvious without being overwhelming—takes leisurely, even footsteps. He sits down opposite, just close enough that Eddie could reach out if he needed to.

But he doesn’t. He’s barely stopped retching before he’s trying to straighten up, grip slipping against the bark. Steve winces at the thought of splinters digging into his palm.

“Woah, man, take it easy—”

“M’fine,” Eddie mutters. He scoffs harshly, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He’s shaking. “This is kinda normal for me now.”

His head’s still half bowed, hair falling across his face like he doesn’t want to be seen. It doesn’t stop Steve from noticing the evidence of tears on his face; he thinks they’re simply from the exertion of throwing up, but he can’t be sure.

“Just—just give yourself a minute,” Steve says. “We’ve got time.”

He stretches out right there on the ground, slow and deliberate. It takes a second or two before Eddie—after another wobbly attempt at standing—mirrors him: sinking down until he’s sat, back pressed up against the tree trunk.

Steve listens to his breathing. It’s lost that nauseated gritted teeth sound, but it hitches once, twice, and then—

“I can’t stop—” Eddie covers his face with his hands.

Steve shuffles closer. “You’re okay.”

But Eddie shakes his head. He drops his hands, leans his head back against the tree. His eyes are distant. Haunted. Steve doesn’t need to guess about what he’s seeing.

“Eddie—”

“You know the funniest thing?” Eddie gasps out, like it isn’t funny at all. “I keep thinking if—if only I hadn’t ditched swimming lessons, I might’ve l-learned something fucking useful.”

At a loss for what to say, Steve tries for something normal. Thinks back to high school, something far away from all of this…

“You showed up to swimming,” he says. “I remember.”

He does, though it’s faint.

Honestly, he spent as little time as he could changing in the showers, wanting to make the most out of time in the pool. He didn’t even goof off with Tommy H or any of the other guys, preferring to do solo laps in the deep end. It was repetitive, calming; he treated it like a vacation from the adrenaline of being on the swim team.

Then came that November, and the whole routine became an escape from much more.

Eddie gives him a look that might’ve passed for amusement at one point, if his breathing wasn’t still so shallow.

“Yeah, I—I showed up for, like, the first week, Harrington. Fucking Lewinsky stole my clothes, you only let that kinda thing happen once.”

“I’m sorry,” Steve says sincerely. “I didn’t know.”

A wan flicker of a smile passes across Eddie’s face. “Of course you didn’t,” he says. It’s not an accusation. “You were, like, way too busy being part fish.”

Steve huffs a laugh through his nose, but Eddie doesn’t join in. Instead his breathing quickens, like the distraction of high school hasn’t been nearly enough.

“It’s just—I should’ve been more—should’ve known h-how to—” He shakes his head again. Swallows. “After Chr—”

He chokes on her name.

Steve reaches out, only to hesitate and leave his hand hovering in the air between them. “Hey, man, there’s nothing you could’ve—”

“What if it’s not a coincidence?” Eddie whispers. “What if there’s—there’s a… there’s gotta be a reason that—that it’s me.”

Steve moves closer still. Draws back at the last second; Eddie’s still trembling.

“That’s bullshit,” Steve says firmly.

Eddie laughs bitterly. “Is it? D-don’t fucking kid yourself, Harrington, s’not exactly looking good. Two people died r-right in front of me, and I just…” He presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’d arrest me.”

“Stop, would you just—”

“Come on, man. You’ve gotta know, even if Wheeler and Buckley are still too polite to say it.” Eddie’s voice is soft in resignation. “I’m just wasting your time.”

It’s Steve’s turn to scoff. “Do you seriously think we’d be doing all of this if we thought you were a lost cause?”

Eddie shrugs, the sleeves of his leather jacket scraping against the bark. “There’s only so many signs a guy can ignore, right? Hell, even my watch has stopped, like I’m literally outta fucking time.”

“Okay, no wonder you failed English,” Steve says, “that is overwrought as shit, dude.”

The jab doesn’t quite land—his barely concealed worry just makes him sound sharp. Fraught.

But Eddie’s eyes widen in surprise, and he finally seems speechless, and this is it, Steve realises, the one chance he has to get through to him.

“Nothing prepares you for this shit, Eddie,” he says—thinks of 1983, of seeing the impossible. Terrified out of his mind. “I mean it, there’s nothing you could’ve done. Nothing,” he adds pointedly, when it looks like Eddie might protest. “Chrissy, Patrick, it’s fucking awful what they—but it’s not—not a, um. Not a reflection on—it’s not your fault.”

It’s not enough, Steve knows it—feels acutely like a shitty school guidance counsellor, only able to parrot empty platitudes. He has to dig deeper.

He looks at Eddie directly, unflinching. Can read the fear lurking in his eyes, the one he keeps dancing around.

A fierce emotion floods Steve’s chest—like being flung into the deep end without warning, the water already over your head before you can take a breath.

He’s felt it before, mixed up in a wave of anger as he watched Powell raise that goddamn picture to the camera.

Don’t you go believing a word this town says about you, Eddie Munson. Don’t you dare.

Steve braves a touch, places a hand on Eddie’s knee. Eddie doesn’t move.

“You’re not the curse, Eddie. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Eddie shudders. He looks away, but not quick enough to hide the definite tears this time.

Steve waits. He doesn’t move his hand for a long moment.

When Eddie’s finished roughly wiping at his face with his sleeve, Steve hands over the water bottle. He’s silently relieved that Eddie takes it without a fight, like accepting even this smallest amount of help means there’s still a part of him that hasn’t given up yet.

There’s still hope.

After a few sips, Eddie sets the water bottle aside. He’s breathing deeper now, and when he looks up, his eyes have that keen, almost analytical gaze.

“What’s…?” he murmurs, and then he’s the one that’s reaching out, as if without thinking, fingertips lightly brushing against Steve’s forehead.

He feels cold, Steve thinks. Like he’s still half frozen from falling into the lake.

“Did you… cut yourself on something?” Eddie says.

Steve’s about to say no automatically before he remembers.

“Right, yeah. Um, our flashlights kinda… exploded when…”

He trails off. Watches with sympathy as Eddie fills in the gaps.

“Oh,” Eddie says very quietly.

He keeps following the trail of the cut—Steve can still feel the chill of him: the light pressure travelling across his skin, like Eddie needs the motion to stay calm.

“Ow,” Eddie says, hushed, almost as if it happened to him, too. “You’re lucky you didn’t get glass in your eye, dude.”

Steve doesn’t say what he’s thinking—that he’d have dealt with it, that he would’ve been fine—because he thinks he understands: that maybe by focusing on something small, it helps keep Eddie here, temporarily blocks out the sight of Chrissy and Patrick’s deaths.

He checks his watch. They’re just creeping up on fifteen minutes; they’d better make tracks soon.

He stands but not abruptly, conscious of not rushing Eddie unnecessarily.

“If we cut across, uh, this way,” he demonstrates with one hand as Eddie gets to his feet, “we’ll catch up pretty quick. Don’t need Henderson’s compass to tell me the way. Honestly, he acts like he knows places better than me when I’ve known them, like, all my life. He does it all the damn time.”

Eddie lets out a laugh that still sounds slightly wet; he sniffs as if to cover up the sound. His smile is shaky at best, but it seems genuine.

“Man, he does that to me, too. What is up with that? Last week, he swore he found some shortcut to the Hellfire room that I’d be totally unaware of, like I’ve not spent forever in the damn building.”

He falls into step with Steve as they walk on, and Steve catches the very slight grimace he makes as he swallows.

Steve checks his jeans pocket. It turns out luck is on his side, at least for this: he’s got a couple of mints, still unwrapped.

When he offers some to Eddie, he gets a heartfelt thanks in reply. But at the same time, Eddie also looks suspiciously close to fighting a smirk.

“What?”

“Nothing!” But the smirk’s definitely won; Eddie tucks the mint into the corner of his mouth as he says, “Just didn’t realise I was getting the full Skull Rock experience.”

It takes a second for Steve to catch on. “The experience—?”

Eddie’s smirk grows. “Your reputation precedes you.”

Steve snorts. “Fuck off, are you twelve?”

“Maybe,” Eddie says, halfway to singsong.

Steve shakes his head, half in amusement, half in thought. Sharing juvenile kisses with girls at Skull Rock feels a world away, almost like it happened to someone else. That’s not even why the mints were in his pocket in the first place—not that he’s gonna put a dampener on Eddie’s teasing or anything. In truth, the habit began the night after Starcourt, using a mint—despite his stinging mouth—to help keep himself awake.

Of course he doesn’t say all of that. Chooses instead to nudge Eddie in the side, fighting a smirk of his own.

Eddie acts like he’s been dramatically winded in response, makes a crack about how that move wouldn’t fall under the Skull Rock experience.

Steve thinks he’s getting a handle on how to read him, charting the improvement of his mood through just how stupid he sounds—when smiling no longer seems like it’ll fracture his face from the strain.

By the time they catch up with the others, they’re both stifling laughter (Steve keeps having to remind himself that this is technically a stealth mission), Eddie reaching across to mess with Steve’s hair in retaliation for being repeatedly nudged in the ribs. His hands feel warmer now, Steve realises with a smile, as he pushes Eddie back with a forearm against his chest.

For the most part, it looks like their disappearances haven’t been noticed—Nancy quietly moving to rejoin Robin at the front as if by chance. Steve knows better, knows everything has been carefully coordinated to look that way; as Eddie relaxes at his side, he feels a rush of gratitude for the group’s tact.

Granted, Dustin kind of breaks the illusion when he turns around and starts walking backwards—but what he lacks in subtlety he makes up for in entertainment: using needlessly big, questioning gestures, brow furrowed in concentration.

When Dustin widens his eyes impatiently, Steve relents and nudges Eddie again. “He’s not gonna stop til you respond, trust me.”

“Hmm? Oh.”

Eddie lifts up Dustin’s water bottle with a grin and gives a thumbs up with his free hand.

Dustin brightens, replying with a thumbs up of his own—still stubbornly walking backwards like it’s simply his preferred way to travel.

“Gonna bet on how long it takes for him to fall flat on his face?” Steve says in an undertone.

Eddie snorts in a way that can’t be disguised as anything else, though he gives it a shot with the world’s least convincing cough. He gives up in the next breath, chuckling through a, “Steve,” in joking disapproval, like Steve’s such a terrible influence, which just sets them both off again.

Dustin’s probably too far away to hear them properly, but he’s clearly got the gist, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He does a series of emphatic gestures that Steve can’t make sense of; it just looks like he’s doing a complicated mime for charades.

Eddie must get the same impression because he soon calls out with a shit-eating grin, “Book or movie?”

Dustin flips them both off, but he can’t quite pull off the deadpan expression, his lips twitching, and Steve knows for sure that he’s hiding a laugh when he turns back around to walk with Max and Lucas.

Eddie smiles as if he’s noticed the same thing. He jostles their shoulders one last time, and it feels like there’s something more intentional behind it. A touch that lingers.

It’s easy when there’s still a long walk ahead of them—when there’s still daylight—to be convinced that they’ve got all the time in the world. Steve’s become kind of an expert at it: in his head, he could make swimming lessons last forever.

But even that old trick doesn’t last; he feels the clock restart as soon as that damn vine wraps around his ankle, cold and unyielding.

In the split second before being dragged under the lake, all he can think is thank God the kids aren’t here.

The thought follows him all the way into The Upside Down—later joined by the fervent wish that he could somehow summon up Dustin’s water bottle, as his head spins through the hopefully staunched bat bites.

“Christ, Harrington,” Eddie says when the dizziness persists, and Steve barely catches himself before falling against a vineless tree. “D’you ever take your own advice?”

“What?” Steve says faintly.

He screws up his eyes, forces himself to blink until his vision doesn’t waver—braces his weight against the tree with a sigh, ready to push himself up—

But Eddie’s hand is suddenly on top of his, halting him.

“Just… wait,” Eddie says. “Just a minute.”

Steve doesn’t know if it is a minute; he tries to keep track in his head, but the seconds slip away from him, and all he can focus on is each breath he takes, until they lose that gasping edge, grow deeper. Slower.

The world sharpens around him, like he’s been underwater without realising and has finally broken through to the surface. He feels the muted scratch of damp wood beneath his palm. The pressure of Eddie’s hand—not enough to hurt, but enough for Steve to tell that he’s still freaked out.

“I’m okay,” he says, looking Eddie in the eye. Does his best to silently project the sentiment of I’m not gonna collapse on you, I promise. “We’re not far from Nancy’s place.”

He can see a flicker of light just ahead, off to the side—thankfully not spots in his vision, just the flashlight he gave to Robin and Nancy; he’d tried to make it sound like he was doing them a favour when he actually thought it’d be best to leave both his hands free, just in case he did end up collapsing. At least he’d have a chance to brace for a fall.

There’s an uncertain air to how the girls are walking, and Steve suspects they feel a little like him: at a loss without the kids sandwiched between them. Now the usual priorities are thrown to the wind; what do you do when you want to shield everyone, all at once?

Eddie’s surveying him like he’s far from convinced by his definition of ‘okay.’

Still, he laughs weakly and says, “Good to know your navigating skills still work in this fucking hellhole.”

Steve’s hand shifts beneath Eddie’s as he stands up properly; it’s only then that Eddie moves away.

“Not far, not far,” he’s muttering under his breath, like he’s trying to reassure himself. His voice cracks in quiet desperation, “God, how long have we even been down here?”

Steve glances down to his wrist. He’s met with a watch face that’s smashed, jagged cracks running through it so he can’t even read the time it must’ve stopped at.

“Hey,” Steve says wryly, tilting his wrist so Eddie can see, “we match.”

Eddie doesn’t laugh, doesn’t even crack a smile. His eyes just go all big and dismayed, like he’s looking at something far worse than a broken watch.

Steve suddenly wants to tell him that it’s fine, to cover up his wrist like it’s somehow more gruesome than the wounds on his stomach—maybe it is, because Eddie keeps staring like he’s bleeding out right in front of him.

“Shit, Steve,” Eddie whispers with this horrible, helpless little laugh—almost like he’s on the verge of tears. He sounds like he did after throwing up, trying to say that something was funny when it was anything but. “You’ve had that forever.”

And Steve feels a rush of something still too big and complex to name, flickers of emotion too rapid to keep track of: the initial pang of sadness he’d pushed aside because the watch had been his grandfather’s, after all; wondering faintly what classes Eddie had shared with him, that would allow him enough time to notice something so small, you’ve had that forever—

So what? Steve thinks. So what, what does it fucking matter?

He’d rip the watch off if it’d help, Eddie’s too, stamp and grind them down until they’re indistinguishable from the ash in this place, and who gives a shit if it’s overwrought, it doesn’t have to mean anything—they still have time; they’re owed it.

He doesn’t do any of that, because the ground shakes again, and he’s ready—anticipates the stumble Eddie makes and reaches out to correct it.

They land safely away from any vines.

Eddie’s hand is clamped around his wrist, right at the part where the watch strap used to rub against his skin—back in sophomore year, when he’d always put it on too tight in fear of losing it; “Sorry, sorry,” Eddie’s mouthing, out of breath from the fall, but Steve’s holding on just as tightly, can feel Eddie’s pulse thundering beneath his fingertips.

And it’s so fast and frantic that Steve thinks he can hear it, too, a sound that he can’t get away from, in spite of it all: like a clock ticking. Counting down.

WRIST WATCH The explosive time shackle That never goes off Eternal zero Synchronize your deaths —Philip Murray

[lets-all-calm-down-a-bit]

first drawing on metibang.... im not a fan

[kyuyua]

Nerds nerding

[barbarianprncess]

a missing scene from the quest featuring grover parenting, percy drooling, and annabeth contemplating.

[augustjustice]

That Healing Touch

AO3 Link

They stand in the Mayfield’s darkened living room, all looking at each other like they can’t quite conjure up the words for their next move. Eddie rubs a hand over his head, eyes darting away from the gazes of the others, just barely managing to bite off another Jesus Christ by digging his teeth into his bottom lip. 

They can’t be certain where Mrs. Mayfield is. Maybe she’s been cleared out because of the hellscape currently seeping through Eddie’s trailer ceiling, like he assumes Uncle Wayne has. Maybe–she’s out for some other reason. The pinched expression on Little Red’s face suggests that wouldn’t be all too uncommon, for her mother not to come home in the night. 

Eddie knows that song and dance well enough from his own youth.  

All they can do is hope for the best–that she doesn’t show up. Eddie isn’t sure what they’ll do then, but he’s gotten pretty damn good at this whole running thing, bitter as he is about it. 

“We should try to get some sleep,” Nancy finally breaks the silence, clipped and authoritative, like she hadn't just been dragged through a landscape of nightmares by Vecna’s own design. 

After Chrissy, and then Patrick, Nancy makes the third time Eddie’s seen it, a pair of eyes glazing over, ghostly white. As shaken up as it’s left him every time just to see it from the outside looking in, he can barely understand how Wheeler is still on her feet, isn’t just a quivering mess in the corner somewhere, like he imagines he would be. Full of surprises is a fucking understatement, at this point. 

“Nance–” Steve starts, one arm stretching out towards her, the worry on his face transparent. 

“I’ll be okay, Steve,” she takes a step away from him, putting distance between them.

From the thin line of her mouth, Eddie gets the sense that any comfort offered might make her reach her breaking point. Steve must feel it too, because he drops his hands as though in surrender. 

“Just…” Nancy sighs, steadying herself, “we won’t be any help at all if we’re all too exhausted to function.”

“You heard the lady,” Robin gives a wobbly, uncertain smile, “she’s in charge, after all.” 

She pulls out that old adage, like it’s a well worn joke. Eddie has the good grace not to call her out on it, doesn’t quite drawl out a sarcastic That’s not what you said in the boat, but it’s a close call. 

Steve’s eyes dart back and forth between them, lingering on Robin, the pair of them managing some kind of silent communication through nothing but frowns and eyebrow twitches. 

“Alright, alright,” he finally agrees, however reluctantly, giving a defeated nod. “I mean, you’re not wrong on the sleep thing. Not like we can play our best game when we’re totally out of it, after all.” 

There’s something in his tone, the way his gaze flits briefly to the kids and then catches Eddie’s own, that reminds him of that moment right before launching off the bank out into Lover’s Lake. Steve’s being glib, casual, the way Eddie had been when he’d refused to let Dustin get on the boat with them, the four older teens all playing along with an unspoken plan. He’s trying so desperately to seem perfectly normal for the four munchkins currently in the room with them. 

Eddie barely understands how any of the kids are holding their shit together as well as they already are, especially when he feels like he’s about to shake apart himself at any second. But behind the brave faces, he can see it, the exhaustion beginning to settle, making them look older than they have any right to.

The least he can do is play along. 

“Not the sports metaphors, Harrington,” Eddie sighs, long and loud, as he sways into Steve’s space, grin too bright. “Please, be merciful, there are nerds present.”

“Yeah, well, when aren’t there?” Steve asks, low and dry. He bumps his shoulder against Eddie’s, gratitude obvious.

“I am not a nerd!” Erica protests loudly.

“You’re joking, right?” Dustin rolls his eyes. “We’ve been over this, Erica Sinclair. You are as nerdy as they come.” 

It’s a little uncanny, because the amused but fond look Dustin pins her with almost perfectly mirrors the way Eddie has seen Steve look at Dustin himself, the way Eddie suspects he also sometimes looks at the kid.

“Plus, some of us? Are jocks and nerds, thank you very much,” Lucas says, swiveling around to Erica’s other side and shooting her a pointed look. 

“Yeah, turns out Lucas isn’t too cool for the rest of us,” Max teases, eyes crinkling at the corners as she knocks her shoulder into his. 

“That’s true,” Erica agrees, hands on her hips in a way that reminds Eddie, hysterically enough, of Harrington. “You’ve always been the one who’s way too cool for my brother, not the other way around.”

As their bickering continues, Steve catches Eddie’s eyes again, mouthing a quick Thank you while they’re all too distracted to see. 

Nancy and Robin both look a little heartened, too, by the familiar sounds of the kids arguing, their rigid edges softening.

“Nine has long since past, so you know what that means–time for bed, kiddos!” Robin interrupts the petty squabbling before it gets entirely out of their control, starting to corral them back on track. 

Several groans ring out, but Steve cuts them off with a quick clap of his hands, jumping in right where she left off, their rhythm as fluid as a well-oiled machine. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he makes a motioning gesture with one hand, the other firmly planted on his hip, “Come on, you knuckleheads, and get a move on.”

The combined force of Robin and Steve seems, miraculously, to be enough, the younger four members of their little monster-fighting brigade getting into gear to set up their various sleeping arrangements, even as they grumble about it. 

“Robin, you’re with me,” Nancy declares simply before turning on her heel and marching from the living room.

Eddie catches the subtle look Steve and Robin share again.

“Better somebody stick close by Nance after…everything,” Steve says quietly, the tightness of his voice making it clear he’s still a bit shaken up.

“I’ve got her,” Robin assures him, giving Steve’s arm a quick squeeze at his grateful nod. 

Max clears her throat, then, drawing Eddie’s attention away from the pair as they hunch their heads together and head out of the room, still talking in soft voices.

“Erica can stay in my room. There are sheets and shit in the hall closet for the rest of you,” she directs.

Eddie nods, following her and ignoring the heated game of rock-paper-scissors that’s broken out between Dustin and Lucas to determine which of them is going to claim the couch. As they make their way down the hall, they pass what must be Mrs. Mayfield’s room, catching a quick glimpse of Nancy and Robin beginning to quietly settle in for the night.

Max stops in front of a wooden door, shorter in width than the rest, and yanks it open roughly.

With a dismissive wave of her hand, she gestures at the contents inside for Eddie to see. 

“Whatever you guys need, take it.” The words are brusque, a cover for the generosity of her statement, the ease with which she’s letting them all into her space, into her home. He’s noticed it to varying degrees with all of them–it feels transparent how much they know and trust each other, the way they’re willing to give up nearly anything to help the others, to help with this entire life-risking hero’s quest they’ve put themselves on.

But Eddie’s the outsider, here, not a member of their little party, the odd man out. So it still feels like he should be especially grateful, every time they extend that willingness to give whatever they’ve got to try and help him.   

“Sure thing. Thanks, Red.”

“Night, Eddie,” she murmurs, back already to him, quiet enough he almost doesn’t catch it.  

He’s turning to retreat back to the living room, blankets piled up in his arms, when a voice behind him stops him in his tracks.

"Psst! Eddie! Hey, Eddie!" Steve calls at a stage whisper from down the hall, reminiscent of the way he'd called after him in the Upside Down. When Eddie catches his eye, Steve motions with one hand for him to follow. "C'mere."

Eddie drops the stack back in the closet for now and dutifully makes his way towards Steve. 

“Yeah, dude. What’s going on?”

Grabbing onto a loose fistful of Eddie’s leather jacket, Steve tugs him into the bathroom in one quick motion, and then shuts the door behind him with a click.

Eddie tries fervently to ignore the thrill that goes up his spine at being manhandled by Harrington. 

It shouldn’t come as all that much of a surprise, really, that Steve’s capable of it. Eddie might not know shit about sports, but he did know that Steve was on, like, pretty much every team known to Hawkins back when he was in school. So, of course he can tug Eddie around like a floppy-armed ragdoll. 

That said–Steve seems winded from the exertion, after he does it, leaning back to basically slump against the bathroom door. The move serves as a reminder that he’s a little worse for wear, at the moment, despite the fact that he definitely hadn’t showed it earlier. Not while he was busy running around the world hidden beneath their feet. 

“Harrington, seriously, man–you doing okay?” Eddie asks, wincing slightly in sympathy pains even as he tries to keep his tone light, conversational. 

“Just–give me like…one second here,” Steve holds up a finger for emphasis, the fact that his breathing is still clearly labored not doing much to soothe Eddie’s nerves. 

But he does as Steve asks, taking a moment to drink in the sight of him–a check in with absolutely no subconscious ulterior motive, thank you very much. 

And, well–Steve is a far cry from the pristine, preppy visage Eddie had gotten used to seeing swaggering around the halls of Hawkins High in his perfectly pressed jeans and popped collar polos. Here, in the lowlighting of the Mayfields’ bathroom, he’s bare-chested–apart from Eddie’s battle vest still slung over his shoulders–skin smudged with Upside Down soot, his sides mottled with angry crimson gashes where the bats had dragged him across rocky ground. 

That famous hair of his is still somehow swooping perfectly into place, though. Annoyingly enough, and as fucked up as it probably is…Eddie thinks he manages to be mouth-wateringly hot regardless, whether he’s totally polished under the high school’s harsh fluorescents or mussed and panting beneath the dim orange glow of the single working lightbulb currently flickering above the sink.

He’s gotta admit, though, in his fantasies of Steve Harrington cornering him alone in a bathroom–of which there had been none, obviously, because that would be ridiculous, not to mention colossally stupid–approximately zero of them had panned out like this.

Especially when the next words out of Steve’s mouth are a hurried, “Eddie, man, you, uh–think you can change this bandage for me?”

Eddie's eyes dart down to the scrap of Wheeler’s shirt wrapped around Harrington’s middle, the darkened stain of rust colored blood coating it–and, yeah, shit. Definitely makes sense now, why Steve dragged him in here.

“I’d ask Robin,” Steve is saying, “but, dude, you saw how she got about the rabies, and I really don’t wanna freak her out more than she already is. And Nance–well, after the shit she already went through tonight, I’m not gonna put this on her too. There’s Henderson or Sinclair, I guess, but–”

Steve bites at his bottom lip. And, sure, Eddie’s never been great in school, but he likes to think he can read people pretty well. It doesn’t exactly take a rocket scientis to put the pieces together, especially after the little show they’d put on in the living room–Steve doesn’t want the kids to realize just how badly he’s hurt, and clearly he doesn’t want to burden the girls, either. 

Eddie wonders exactly how he should feel about the fact that Harrington’s singled him out as the one he’s willing to let carry some of the responsibility currently weighing on his own broad, more than capable shoulders…and decides to take it as a compliment. 

“Harrington,” Eddie cuts him off by clapping a hand gently to his arm, meant to be reassuring, “you don’t have to sell me on it, man. I’ll do it. Happy to help.”

“Oh, okay…good,” Steve’s shoulders slump, like he was expecting to have to put up some kind of a fight. He catches Eddie’s eyes, giving him a quick, almost uncertain half-smile. “That’s–thanks, man.” 

Steve moves around him, then, allowing himself to collapse into a sitting position atop the closed toilet with a pained wince. 

“Don’t mention it. Uh,” Eddie spins around once in the small space of the bathroom, searching, “has Little Red got…alcohol pads, gauze, shit like that?”

“Under the sink,” Steve pants, one hand clasped against his side, “second door.”

That one simple sentence from Steve is enough to paint a picture in full. Steve’s been in the Mayfields’ trailer. He’s been in it enough times he knows where things like the first aid kit are kept. 

Eddie squats down, ducking his head below the counter–and spots it immediately, the slender first aid kit, exactly where Steve had said it would be.

And, sure, Eddie had at least been aware that Steve knew his mouthy little red-headed neighbor. Dustin and the other boys had often regaled him, disbelieving as he might have been, with tales of their incredibly cool babysitter, the former King of Hawkins High. Eddie had even seen Harrington’s infamous BMW parked over here a few times, a sight so surreal he couldn’t help but register it. 

But, still–there’s a difference in knowing abstractly and actually seeing the familiarity between Steve and the kids in words and gestures, his importance in their lives taking concrete, undeniable shape. 

Like Eddie had told him while they trekked across the woods in the Upside Down–the Steve Harrington of reality? Is nothing like the one he’d pictured all those years they’d shared space in the same halls and classes. 

“Seems like you know the lay of the land pretty well,” he can’t help but comment as he tilts his head toward the cabinet.

“Yeah, well, Mayfield wipes out on her skateboard a lot.” Eyes widening, as though he just realized what he said, Steve points in Eddie’s direction. “Don’t tell her I said that.”

Eddie shoots Steve a toothy grin. “You scared of a fourteen year old girl, Harrington?”

“Absolutely,” the corner of Steve’s mouth quirks up into a half smile, “and if you know what’s good for you, you will be, too.”

“Trust me, man–I’ve got a healthy respect for Red’s fearsomeness. Even if I think she’s totally a lot softer than she lets on.”

Steve shakes his head, giving him a rueful smile. “You’re not wrong there.”

Popping open the kit, Eddie surveys their supplies. There’s an assortment of things inside, including an array of bandages in a variety of sizes alongside gauze, scissors, and hospital tape. 

“Jackpot.” 

Eddie holds up an alcohol wipe, shaking the little white package triumphantly.

“Great,” Steve agrees, though he sounds ragged, eyelids fluttering shut for a brief moment as he sucks in a sharp breath.

“You need me to,” Eddie tilts his chin towards the scrap of fabric wrapped around Steve’s middle, “undo that for you?”

“...Could you?” Steve asks, a flash of hesitance and uncertainty crossing his face. 

Eddie isn’t sure if Steve really thinks he might refuse, that he’s overstepping some kind of boundary by asking, or if it’s just costing him immensely to admit he needs the help. 

“‘Course I will, man. Absolutely. Said I’d help, didn’t I?”

Steve nods, then stands up, reaching out and gripping the bathroom sink briefly in order to steady himself. 

Once he’s up, Steve shrugs out of Eddie’s battle vest. The move puts himself–and that thick pelt of his chest hair over firm pecs, the hard planes of his stomach just above Nancy’s makeshift bandage–on full display…revealing the very physique Eddie had been desperately trying to get him to cover up by tossing him the vest in the first place. 

Eddie tries his damnedest not to ogle Harrington’s body too obviously, reminding himself of Steve’s wounds, of the task at hand. The task in which he’ll have to get up close and personal with Steve’s bare stomach. 

Jesus Christ. Maybe he’s still in Hell, and climbing out of that impossible, gravity-defying hole in the trailer’s ceiling had actually all been part of some elaborate fantasy. 

Eddie squats down in front of Steve, putting himself on eye level with his stomach. He shouldn’t be glad for the stain coating that strip of white fabric, the reminder of blood–he’s not, really, obviously he’s not–but he’s not mad about the fact that the sight is helping his boner just…calm the fuck down. Because now is absolutely not the time, but the wires in his brain can’t help crossing, taking very interested note of the fact that he’s all but kneeling in front of Steve fucking Harrington on a dingy bathroom floor. 

As Eddie reaches out for the makeshift bandage, he braces one hand on Steve’s hip to steady himself, his fingers grazing against the unmarred skin just below his wound. That initial brush is enough to have Steve sucking in a sharp breath.

“That hurt?” Eddie asks, spooked as he blinks up at Steve worriedly.

“All good, dude,” Steve shakes his head in answer before tilting it up to the ceiling, hands settling on top of his head.

He grips at his own hair tightly, mussing those luscious waves with the force of his tugs. The move is enough to have Eddie seriously doubting the truth of his denial. He’s got a feeling trying to argue the point, however, would get him absolutely nowhere. 

“Just keep going.” 

So Eddie does, unwinding the fabric in slow, careful movements, tongue poking unconsciously out from between his lips as he pours all his focus into the task at hand. 

He’s just managed to get off the first layer when Steve’s body gives a subtle shift, the only warning Eddie gets before the other boy sways on his feet. 

The pair of them let out an alarmed Shit! in unison just before Eddie catches Steve around the waist, careful not to press against his injuries.

“Dude! Holy shit, be careful!” he chides sternly. “You’re not gonna be a damn bit of good to any of us if you collapse on the floor and conk your head on the side of the tub or some shit.” 

Steve lets out a humorless laugh.

“And what exactly am I supposed to do about that, Eddie?” he asks, sarcasm on full blast as he gestures weakly to his belly, body still pressed close in Eddie’s arms. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not, like…exactly at full fighting shape here.”

Eddie rolls his eyes.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about, man. Look around,” he thrusts out his free hand in exasperation at the empty bathroom. “It’s just you and me in here. So you can give up the heroic, stiff upper lip shtick for a minute, and just–I don’t know, hold onto my shoulder, or something. Jesus Christ, Harrington, scare a guy to death, why don’t you.”

Steve lets out a huff, but Eddie’s pleased to feel his body loosening beneath his touch, the line of his shoulders no longer so taut and rigid like he’s a warrior who’s about to be called right back onto the battlefield. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, you’re right, you’re right.”

“No shit I am, Harrington,” Eddie reaches over and bops him lightly on the end of the nose, “and don’t you forget it.”

Steve rolls his eyes. 

“Uh-huh. No one likes a smart ass, Eds.”

But Eddie can see the way the corner of his mouth quirks up into a private half smile. 

They untangle themselves then, resuming their prior positions. Miraculously, Steve does as instructed, settling a hand on Eddie’s shoulder, large palm warm enough Eddie can feel the heat radiating even through his leather jacket. He really hopes that’s not a sign Steve’s running some kind of infection induced fever. 

So Eddie returns to the task at hand, peeling back the last scraps of Wheeler’s shirt, he and Steve grimacing in unison at the way it tries to stick steadfast to his skin. 

With the wound finally free, Eddie hisses in sympathy as his eyes dart all over the bite marks beginning to scab across Steve’s stomach. They look raw and angry, bright red where all the skin has been scraped off or gnawed through. He’s seen his fair share of cuts and bruises, from brawls at the Hideout to scuffles at school, but nothing quite like this. 

"Shit, man. We could really use a Healer right about now."

Steve lets out a wry little noise of agreement, understanding enough.

“Guess that’s gotta be you, Munson,” he says, giving Eddie a jocular, almost apologetic pat on the shoulder. 

Eddie can’t stop himself from shaking his head, because Christ, this guy–all heroic, death-defying stunts and sarcastic comebacks one minute, and then big, sympathetic puppy dog eyes the next. He kinda can’t believe he’s even real, let alone that this is what the Steve Harrington is like.

Scrambling to cover up how awe-stricken he’s suddenly feeling, Eddie shoots Steve a smirk as he quips, "Admit it, Harrington. You just wanna see how I'd look in the skirt."

Idiot, Eddie mentally berates himself, posture stiffening the second the words leave his mouth. Just because you’re a sixth year senior, that’s no excuse to be a fucking moron, do not flirt with the former jock King of Hawkins High. 

After all, just because he's hurt…that doesn't mean he couldn't break Eddie clean in half if he wanted to, and flirting with a straight guy is practically a one-way ticket to just that.

So shock hits Eddie with all the force of an ice cold bucket of water dumped over his head when Steve simply huffs out a laugh, good-natured.

"You caught me," he sticks up his hands, like he's surrendering in a hold-up. "That's been my real plan all along."

For once, Eddie’s too flustered to speak, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he feels the distinct heat from a blush spreading up his neck, splotching his face and ears. 

There’s a playful glint in Steve’s eyes, then, like he smells blood in the water. It’s nice, after everything that’s happened this evening, to see them shine with something other than the foggy glaze of pain. 

“Oh, seriously, did I catch you off guard with that one for a change?” Steve leans a little closer into Eddie’s space, the corner of his mouth quirking up into a half-smirk. “What is it, Munson, cat got your tongue?”

Eddie finally recovers enough to shake his head and quip, “Can’t turn off that infamous Harrington charm for even a second, can you, Stevie? Bleeding all over the place, and you’ve still got it.” 

“Well, how do you think I get all the nurses at Hawkins General to take such good care of me when I end up there?” Steve shoots him a wink, being distressingly glib, in Eddie’s humble opinion, about the multiple trips to the ER he’s apparently got under his belt. “A little charm goes a long way, Eds.”

Eddie snorts. “Yeah, so they tell me.”

“Come on, man,” Steve waves a dismissive hand at him. “You’d know all about it.”

Embarrassingly enough, the mere suggestion that Steve Harrington finds him charming makes Eddie’s cheeks go even pinker.

He clears his throat, soldiering on quite valiantly, if you ask him. 

“Well, uh…Nurse Munson’s on duty tonight, and, in my totally accurate medical opinion, we need to get those scrapes cleaned up asap, big boy. No more dalliances,” Eddie wags a finger in his face, “and then I’ll think about letting you earn back your lollipop at the end.”

Steve laughs again. “Yeah, well, no way in hell I’m gonna miss out on that.”

But he stills dutifully, like he really is serious about being the model patient, earning back his treat. 

As he starts tearing open the alcohol pad, prepping for the next part, Eddie can’t help but shoot him a sympathetic look.

“Harrington–sorry, dude. This is probably gonna sting like a bitch.”

Steve’s grip, where his hand has settled back on Eddie’s shoulder, tightens, but Eddie refuses to shrug him away. As Steve nods his head, Eddie can see the way he’s clenching his teeth. 

“Just…try to make it quick, yeah? Lickety split.”

Eddie’s lips twitch in amusement from the dorky turn of phrase, yet another layer to Steve Harrington he finds irresistibly endearing. 

But he promises just the same. “You got it. Fast as lighting, that’s me.” 

Keeping his swipes gentle, Eddie begins to clean the wounds gouged into his sides. Almost instantly, he can see sweat beading on Steve’s brow. 

It feels kind of like a parody, of the handful of times Eddie had attended gym class, found his eyes lingering despite himself on Harrington’s glistening, Adonis-like form. Something inside him stirs, deep into caretaking mode, compelled to wipe the dampness away.  

He resists the urge, but just barely. And since there’s not much else he can do for the pain, Eddie figures conversation makes as good a distraction as any. 

“You know, I thought Dustin was full of shit before, but–you’re, uh. Totally babysitter extraordinaire, aren’t ya, Harrington?” 

“For all the good it does me,” Steve lets out a huff that’s at once amused and exasperated, and the sound is music to Eddie’s ears, breaking up the short, pained breaths from before. “Those little shitheads are total pains in my ass–but, I mean, somebody’s gotta keep ‘em alive, you know?”

“And that’s gonna be you, huh?” Eddie quirks an eyebrow up at him as he continues rubbing circles into his skin, doing his best to clean the gore and muck from the stretches that remain uninjured. 

Talking is helping distract him, too. Sure, he had patched up his dad as a kid, after a few jobs gone wrong, but, still–nothing that really held a candle to this. The less he thinks about the raw wounds spread out in front of him, the ones Steve is trusting him to help with, the better.

In honor of that, Eddie lets out a whistle. “Steeeeeve Harrington, big damn hero. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

“Shut up, man,” Steve complains, and even though the lighting is low, Eddie would swear there’s a pink tinge staining his cheeks, “it’s not that big a deal.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, my dear Steven. It absolutely is. Total paladin behavior, in fact.”

The little confused furrow that appears between Steve's eyebrows is ridiculously cute. Eddie isn't sure how disgusted he should be with himself for what a lovesick thought that is.

"...Pala-what?"

“They’re like knights, basically. The D&D version. Championing a cause, protecting the weak and defending the innocent, restoring good to the lands. That sorta thing.”

Steve gives a short nod of understanding, his mouth forming a perfectly shaped oh. 

“I’d say the shoe–or, you know, armor, whatever–fits.” Still meticulous in his strokes with the pad, Eddie finds himself rambling. “Diving into that lake to protect the rest of us? That’s paladin 101, man. True heroic shit.” 

“I mean…it’s really not.” Steve shrugs ever so slightly, his lips tugging down into a small frown. “It’s what I’m good for, you know? Nance and Robin–hell, even the kids–they’ve got the brains part of this operation covered. They need somebody around to just…take the risks so they don’t have to.” 

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up immediately at the implications of Steve’s words. 

“Well, well, will you look at that? Now who needs to cut himself a break?” Eddie asks, echoing what Steve said to him back in the Upside Down.

“Just the facts,” Steve says with a wan smile–parroting the phrase Eddie’s heard the youngest Sinclair use on the boys after she’s thrown out a particularly cutting remark, and not even having the decency to look bitter about it.

Eddie shakes his head, vehement. “That sounds like a crock of bullshit to me, Harrington. Don’t sell yourself short, not like that. You’re a badass, sure, no two ways about it–but those kids, out there? They’d be fucking…lost without you, man. Hell, when Buckley realized you’d gotten hurt? Looked like she was hanging on by a thread. They need you.” 

I need you, Eddie thinks, but can’t quite say it, his throat constricting anxiously around the words. Still, he catches Steve’s eyes deliberately, willing him to catch his full meaning. 

Sucking his bottom lip between his teeth to chew at it, Steve ducks his face for a second, dodging Eddie’s look. When he speaks again, it’s quiet but no less sincere.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it,” Eddie answers immediately, a smile breaking out across his face. “I mean, what’re friends for? You’d do the same for me–already have, even.”

“Oh, so you’re saying we’re friends now, Munson?” Steve crinkles his nose in amusement, inviting Eddie in on the joke.

“Well, I mean…hell pretty much has frozen over,” Eddie replies, playing along easily. “Besides, who else but us is there to band together, give Dustin a hard time so his head doesn’t get any bigger than it already has?”

Steve inclines his head, smile amused, soft. It’s a beautiful sight, one Eddie could get used to seeing. 

“Can’t argue with that.”

As Eddie finally finishes up cleaning the last of the scrapes and bite marks, he can feel Steve’s eyes on him, following his movements. 

“You know, you’re not half bad at this,” Steve observes thoughtfully.

Discarding the last of the alcohol pads, Eddie gives Steve a cordial half bow. “Why thank you, my liege. That’s high praise indeed coming from the king himself.”

“Never mind, I take it back. Your bedside manner sucks,” Steve says, deadpan, rolling his eyes. Then, he jabs a finger in Eddie’s direction, “And don’t call me that.”

“Guess you’re just gonna have to report me to the doctor on the floor, then…your royal highness.”

As Steve reaches out to shove his shoulder, Eddie lets out a delighted cackle, dancing just beyond his reach. 

“Strike what I said earlier, too. There’s no friendship bracelet in your future, dude, not with that attitude.”

Eddie lays a palm over his heart, gasping like he’s been hit. 

“Not the friendship bracelets, Stevie! What have I done to deserve such a cruel and unusual punishment? And after I helped heal your wounds, too.”

“Yeah, well, the job’s only half done on that front, Nurse Eddie. Better get back to it, and then I’ll think about letting you earn back your friendship bracelet. Maybe,” Steve says, mimicking Eddie’s ultimatum from earlier. “And you’d be missing out, too, dude. Just ask Robin, I come up with the absolute coolest designs.”

“Challenge accepted, Stevie boy. Prepare to witness the best bandaging you’ve seen since Boris Karloff’s The Mummy.” 

Steve’s lips twitch, like he’s trying to bite back his smile. “Thought you were trying to keep me alive, Munson, not turn me into a Halloween decoration.”

Eddie clucks his tongue. “Such limited imagination, Harrington. I assure you–I can do both.”

Gauze from the first kit at the ready, he gets right to work unspooling it, giving himself a suitable enough length to get started with ease. 

Now that they’ve managed to jump over that first major hurdle and Steve’s injuries have been thoroughly cleaned, the full magnitude of the situation hits Eddie all at once. A wave of tiredness, bone deep, rolls over him as he presses that first layer of gauze against Steve’s side, and he can’t help but say, “This whole thing is–completely and utterly batshit insane. You realize that, right?”

Steve’s got his arms raised over his head, now, but the slight tilt of his eyebrow might as well be a shrug as he looks down at Eddie, the quirk of his lips apologetic. 

“You kinda get used to it, after a while.”

“Get used to it? Jesus Christ–” Eddie groans in disbelief even while he keeps his fingers steady, holding the gauze carefully in place as he continues wrapping it around Steve’s stomach. “Don’t say that kinda shit to me, man.” 

“Sorry.” Steve has the decency to look chastened, though not nearly as apologetic as Eddie thinks he should.

“Like, sure, okay–dark wizards and magic, that’s great for D&D. But in real life? Kinda prefer that the evil alternate dimensions didn’t eat a hole in the ceiling of my uncle’s trailer, you know? Some of us need a place to live.” 

Eddie’s practically hugging Steve around the waist by the time he’s stopped talking, ready to secure his handiwork. There’s a bizarre kind of intimacy to it, Steve warm and solid in his hold, and Eddie wonders if Steve can feel it too when he glances up at him, silent communication passing between them that has Steve ripping off a long strip of medical tape and handing it down without having to be asked. 

So, needless to say, Eddie’s a bit distracted, finishing off the job and giving everything one final assessment, when Steve breaks the silence with two totally nonsensical words. 

“...the pool.”

Eddie blinks, startled enough he straightens up and gives Steve a full once over, wondering for a moment if the bats had gone for his head, too, without them being any the wiser.

“Wait–what?”

“The pool, at my place,” Steve trucks on, that determined clench to his jaw. Not from pain, this time, but something else. “That’s what it was–well, is–for me. The place, where the demogorgon attacked. It took Barbara–Holland? Nancy’s best friend. The first night that we…”

He trails off with a shake of his head. 

“Well, anyway. It doesn’t matter. I’m just saying, I get it. Maybe not to the level of, you know, having your whole goddamn ceiling ripped out, but–the Upside Down, all this shit. It takes things from us. All of us. And I’m sorry it happened to you, too, but…at least you’re not alone?”

Eddie gnaws on his bottom lip as he looks at Steve, watching the other teen wince. Like he just knows it’s not enough.

But the thing is…it is. Steve has to know that it is.

“To be honest, I think that’s the only thing that’s keeping me from just, I don’t know–shattering into a million little pieces, or something,” Eddie admits. “The fact that you guys–” 

Embarrassingly enough, his throat constricts, for a second, choking off his words. 

“...that you’re here. With me. Especially Buckley and Wheeler and Little Red–even Lucas, after I was such a shit to him…and you. I mean, you don’t even know me, not really, and the whole rest of the town is practically lined up outside with Carver, holding pitchforks…but not you. Pretty damn sure I’d never have even made it this far without that.” 

Steve clasps his shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“We’re not going anywhere, man,” he promises, gaze steady, hazel eyes so serious Eddie doesn’t dare doubt him. “We’ve got this. We’ve got you.”

Eddie takes a chance, settles his hand on top of Steve’s, gives it a squeeze in return. 

“I’ve got you, too. You know?”

Steve gives a little nod, his smile warm enough to light up his entire face. 

“I know you do, man. I know.”

And, for a second, looking back at Steve, the hope floods in, and Eddie lets himself believe it. That, with this merry band of misfit monster hunters standing behind him, there’s no choice–it’ll all turn out alright, in the end.  

—

By the time they make it back to the living room–“decent” again, Steve having immediately shrugged Eddie’s battle jacket back on over his now freshly wrapped bandages, the sight of which had made something in Eddie’s chest immediately flutter–Lucas is settling down on the couch with a patchwork quilt while Dustin bemoans his fate, loudly, as he piles blankets onto the floor in something that’s steadily resembling a nest. Eddie guesses, when he didn’t immediately come back, the pair of them must have gone on their own journey to raid the Mayfield’s linen closet.

“We said best of ten,” Lucas is saying with a sigh, the picture of put-upon patience, “not my fault you suck at rock-paper-scissors.” 

“It’s a game of chance!” Dustin squawks in protest. “There’s absolutely no skill involved. How can I ‘suck’ at some bullshit game that requires no strategy.”

Lucas shrugs, unperturbed. “You tell me.”

The noise Dustin lets out makes it clear he’s gearing up for a continued argument–when Steve drops a hand on his head, distracting him with a noogie. 

“No one likes a sore loser, Henderson.” 

“I am not a sore loser!” Dustin huffs, arms crossed over his chest and lip jutting out in something that dangerously resembles a pout. 

“Au contraire, my dear friend. You’re right about that, you’re not a sore loser. You are, in fact…” Eddie holds up a single finger, Dustin’s face brightening in that moment’s worth of anticipation, “the sorest of losers.”

The blue streak Dustin swears up is worth it for both Lucas and Steve’s guffawing laugh. 

He continues muttering to himself, low-voiced and difficult to make out apart from something that sounds distinctly like traitors in my midst, as he somewhat viciously tosses more quilts onto the ground.

“Gimme that,” Steve says without heat, taking several blankets from Dustin’s hands and spreading them out, laying a solid foundation for a pallet that he quickly uses the others to build upon. “Now, come on, man, quit complaining and just…lie down.”

Given the fuss Dustin’s been kicking up, Eddie can’t help but be impressed that Steve’s instruction is enough to actually get him to comply. The powers of babysitter persuasion strike yet again, it seems. 

Or, at least…half as he’s told, since settling onto the pallet still offers plenty of back talk on Dustin’s part. 

“I can’t believe this. My theories turn out to be correct all damn night, and still I get relegated to sleeping on the carpet. How is that fair?!” Dustin huffs. 

From his position on the couch, Lucas’s only answer is to snort, shaking his head. 

Hand on his hip, Steve cocks a single eyebrow, shooting Dustin the driest of looks. There’s something deeply wrong with Eddie, he’s pretty sure, that he finds the whole thing painfully attractive. 

"Dustin, man, it’s not a competition. Besides…beats the floor of a Russian elevator," he comments, and Eddie has no idea what the hell that is supposed to mean.

Dustin tilts his head from side to side, as though considering. Reluctantly, he says, "...Agreed."

Nodding, seemingly satisfied, Steve lays down on one side of Dustin. Eddie does the same, following suit until they’re bracketing him like a pair of parentheses. A warmth settles over Eddie, pleasant and bone-deep, as he tilts his face to catch Steve’s eyes, staring back at him from over the top of Dustin’s head. 

"Scoot over, dude. Eddie doesn't want your pointy ass elbows digging into him." Steve nudges Dustin in the side, causing the younger teen to readjust with a minimal amount of grumbling. To Eddie he says, sotto, "Trust me, man, I know. Those things are like daggers or something, I swear."

“Are not,” Dustin protests, though the words sound drowsy, his eyes having already drifted shut despite all the protests about how uncomfortable he’d been.

“Are too,” Steve volley backs effortlessly. Eddie catches the look he’s giving the kid, though, and it can only be described as fond amusement.

“Thanks for the warning, kind sir,” Eddie gives Steve a mock salute, eyes sparkling mischievously. “I’ll be on the lookout for those deadly weapons being brandished in the night.”

“Can’t believe…ganging up on me…” Dustin murmurs, the last word trailing off as his breathing begins to even out. 

“You’re the one who wanted to introduce us, dude,” Steve argues softly, though it’s clear his words have fallen on sleeping ears. To Eddie he says, voice a whisper, “You believe this kid? The arguing never stops, man, even in his sleep.”

“I know,” Eddie whispers back, parroting back Steve’s own words in the Upside Down, and the pair of them share a pleased, knowing grin.

And it’s comforting, the thought that sweeps through Eddie’s mind once he’s settled enough to start drifting off, Dustin’s snoring soft between them, Steve only an arm’s length away.

They’ve got Henderson. And as for Eddie himself?

Well…Harrington’s got him.

[the-obnoxious-sibling]

“Are you holding my feet hostage?” “That depends,” Shanks said, giving Buggy an unreadable look. “Are you leaving without saying goodbye?” Oh, this guy. On his own ship, surrounded on all sides by his most trusted officers, and still managing to look like some kind of miserable wet cat, terrified of being abandoned.

and so shanks and buggy return to their status quo: buggy shouting, shanks amused. i really cannot overstate how much i adore @midydoof’s art, y’all. the dreamy watercolors, the facial expressions… every piece, every time, a delight. i hope you are all as appreciative as i am.

for any new readers: this is part eight of eight (yes, we’ve reached the end!) of the long, post-marineford part of this shanks/buggy series! this part is about forty-six hundred words and brings us to the end of our story, with shanks and buggy going their separate ways—for now.

[lbhslefttiddie]

youve heard of sex flowers get ready for the flower that makes you into a celestial shoujo herione complete with particle effects you cannot turn the fuck off and creates a wifebeam so powerful it can incapacitate and maim and keeps making you burst into tears and fall on your ass which makes the wifebeam More Powerful and you also cannot turn this off either. and is also still, sort of, a sex flower

from one of my favorite fanfictions, Celestial Afterglow by elanor_pam, a fic that defies description in the best possible way

[gingerale13]

2 scenes from the fic where Scout gets stuck in a time loop -- Going Through The Motions by the wonderful @aussie-bookworm! GO READ IT ON AO3!!

+ Alt versions under the cut

[ninzied]

deep in the dreaming of you

alex isn’t sleeping after a recent breakup. henry tries to be the supportive best friend, because he knows all too well what it’s like to lose sleep over pining for someone. (alex is pining. henry is just very wrong about whom.) a roommates au. 7.5k. rated e.

His name is Craig.

Craig is, well. He’s fine, really. On their first date, Henry learns their interests are well-aligned when it comes to books, and the cinema, and so on. On their second, he learns the same does not apply in the bedroom.

As such, Craig does not stay the night afterward, and so Henry is saved from the awkward song-and-dance of next mornings, offering whatever they have in the cupboards and—more dispiritingly—having to introduce them to his roommate.

Though, he hadn’t heard Alex come in last night. Not that Henry makes a habit of noticing these things, exactly, he just happened to be up and happened to not hear him, that’s all. So Henry is surprised when he walks into the kitchen the following morning and sees Alex in a white tank at the counter, looking very much like he’s just rolled out of his own bed, inhaling a coffee as he flips through one of his law textbooks.

Alex, who’s been his best mate since uni, who’s also the secret love of Henry’s life. Yes, it is all as hopeless as it sounds.

“Hey,” says Alex, barely glancing up.

“Hi,” says Henry, who can’t not look because Alex’s curls have fallen over his forehead and the sight of them makes Henry’s chest ache. He clears his throat. “Thought you were still at Amber’s.”

“Was,” says Alex. “We broke up last night. How was your date, by the way?”

ao3.

[phoenixtakaramono]

(Illustration drawn in 2022)

The Boys S4 Sneak Peek (2024)

*surprised Pikachu face*

[thesupernaturalhouse]

I like to think, in the hazbins fallen au, the girls have a tranquilizing gun specifically for whenever Seviathan tries to show his face

Vaggie and Emily are more than happy to take shots

Charlie:......*peeks through blinds*

Seviathan: charlieeeeee

Charlie:....*close blinds*....this is why we have a tranq gun- Em can you go tell- oh

*zooms out to show vaggie and Emily already holding the tranq guns, Vaggies trying to hide a smile while Wmily is practically bouncing in place*

Charlie:....have fun?

*In the background*

Angle:...tf???

Husk: I don't even bother anymore.

Angle: That's because you're a sad old man behind a bar counter due to smiles

Husk: I hate you

Angle: love you to baby

[loveinhawkins]

When Lucas Sinclair starts to apologise for missing The Cult of Vecna, Eddie initially thinks that he’s hearing things.

Well, actually, the first thing he thinks is something along the lines of ‘what the fuck are you talking about?’

It takes him almost a solid thirty seconds to even vaguely remember his campaign; the last day of school before Spring Break feels dreamlike, as if it happened to someone else, as if he just watched everything through a fogged-up window.

“Jesus, Sinclair. I’ve got an ongoing list of folks who owe me an apology since, like, sixth grade, and trust me, your name’s not on there. Can pretty confidently say it never will, okay?”

Eddie sees Steve tilt his head ever so slightly from where he’s walking just ahead of them, like he’s listening in. Spots his faint nod of approval.

Eddie can’t decide if he resents it or finds it endearing—kind of gets the ridiculous feeling that Steve’s vetting him on behalf of the kids.

“Okay,” Lucas says, and he’s smiling, but there’s a sort of sombreness to it, too. “Still, I should’ve—”

“Hey, hindsight’s twenty-twenty,” Eddie says, firmly cutting off whatever self-critical bullshit he was about to hear. He knocks his shoulder against Lucas’s, adds a dry, “Like, I would’ve been a dick about it no matter what.”

Lucas laughs, but it’s muted. Then he takes a deep breath, and Eddie suddenly realises that he must’ve been using the apology to get himself started, to work himself up to what he really wanted to say.

“I’m… I’m sorry about… about Jason and… I thought I’d thrown them all off the trail, but—”

“Oh, don’t—don’t worry about it, man,” Eddie says faintly.

There’s a flash of Jason in his mind’s eye, the savage twist of his lip as he ran into the lake; he thinks of Lucas lying to his face, the danger of him being found out, and feels sick.

“Seriously, you could’ve told them… y’know. Wouldn’t have held it against you.”

Eddie doesn’t mention that him getting caught still feels inevitable, like he’s just waiting for the walls to close in.

But right now, at least, he can breathe a little easier. The shire might be burning, but there’s people leading him through it. He’s not alone.

Lucas looks appalled. “What? No, I couldn’t—I couldn’t do that to you.”

It’s said with such conviction that Eddie has to fight through a sudden tightness in his throat—doesn’t really know what to do in the face of such undeserved loyalty.

He settles on saying, “So, how was the game?” which is embarrassingly inadequate, but a genuine question nevertheless; the past few… Jesus, however long it’s been, he’s been in permanent need of a distraction.

Steve slows his walking pace—to anyone else it might’ve seemed subtle, but Eddie’s used to noticing such things. He somehow gets the feeling that Steve is no longer scrutinising him, not exactly; his posture’s relaxed and open, his forehead free of frown lines.

It’s more like he’s simply curious about Eddie’s behaviour. The way his eyes drift over, then down to the forest floor, then back again silently seems to say what are you thinking?

Or maybe Eddie’s projecting because he asks the very same question whenever a muscle jumps in Steve’s jaw.

“Oh, um…” Lucas says hesitantly. “I was on the bench for most of it, so—”

“Quit being modest.” The quiet whir of a tape being rewound; Max Mayfield comes up to Lucas’s side. “He made the winning shot,” she tells Eddie pointedly. “It was a buzzer-beater.”

“Oh, holy shit. Well done, dude.”

From the way Lucas is staring at Max with wide eyes, it’s obvious that he’s barely registered what Eddie’s said.

“How do you know that?” he asks. “You… you weren’t at the game.”

“I, uh.” Max looks down for a moment, fiddling with the headphones around her neck. “I listened to it on the radio.”

Lucas smiles so brightly. There’s an earnestness to him; Eddie spotted it a mile away, ever since that first day back at school, when all the new freshmen were anxiously lining up to get lunch.

Max softens—her arms are still folded, but she drifts a little closer to Lucas as they walk, all studied casualness.

(Oh, Eddie’s been there before: forced to run track in middle school Phys Ed, and the only saving grace was ‘just so happening’ to run at the same pace as any boy who’d smile at him.)

Eddie catches Steve’s eye, and this time Steve gives him a very deliberate expression, nodding fondly at Max and Lucas.

Look at them, he’s saying with his eyes, as if he and Eddie are on the same team, as if Eddie at all deserves to be let in on whatever shared history Steve has with these kids.

Eddie kicks at a stray twig. You’re not going to get a lump in your throat about this, damn it, don’t be stupid.

“S’gonna be historic, Sinclair,” he says. “Last time the Tigers won a championship was, uh, lemme think… twenty-two years ago.”

Lucas stops in his tracks.

“I know that,” he says, eyes shrewd, “but why do you know?”

Eddie raises his hands with a grin, it wasn’t me, officer. “What, I can’t repeat a few years without retaining a little school knowledge?”

“Oh,” Lucas says, and it’s like Eddie can see him mentally replaying every cafeteria speech. He grins back. “So you’re a hypocrite.”

“Maybe,” Eddie says. He glances further afield, where Dustin is animatedly explaining something to Robin and Nancy. “I know you’re not gonna give me shit for it, though.”

“Huh, guess you don’t really know me,” Lucas says, and Max snorts.

Eddie smirks. “And it’s, like, doubly historic since the last person to score a buzzer-beater was—”

He cuts himself off, because Steve abruptly turns to him, like they’re in alliance, and draws a hand sharply across his neck.

But Lucas is already hooked. “What? Who was it?”

Eddie gives Steve a helpless shrug. Sorry, man.

“I’m looking right at him,” he says.

Lucas rounds on Steve. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because,” Steve says, flustered, “that was your thing, Lucas, I didn’t wanna be all…”

He trails off with a vague hand gesture, and Eddie thinks he somehow gets what he means—smiles at the thoughtfulness of it.

“That makes, like, no sense,” Lucas says vehemently. His eyes practically have stars in them. “Damn it, we shoulda got a photo.”

Steve laughs in surprise. “All right, noted.”

“I mean, Wheeler works for the school paper, right?” Eddie says. “They’ve probably got old issues. Hey, Sinclair, you could have, y’know, side-by-side photos. Yours and then…” He waves a hand at Steve. “Ancient history.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “Ancient, sure.”

“Oh, Lucas,” Max says, batting her eyes excessively, “I’d frame a picture of you. Pray to it every night.”

Lucas blushes. “Shut up,” he says, elbowing her gently; Eddie thinks that it’s the first time he’s heard Max Mayfield laugh.

Steve’s watching over them again, and his eyes go pensive when Lucas mumbles something like, “I wouldn’t mind a frame.”

The expression Steve has is something Eddie’s only seen once before, and it was on Wayne’s face. Eddie had privately dubbed it the ‘found something for your birthday’ look when he’d noticed it: him and Wayne on a road trip, Eddie not so secretly mooning over the secondhand acoustic guitar in the shop window.

“Your picture should be bigger, Sinclair,” Steve says, sounding both teasing and sincere. “My shot didn’t win a Championship Game.” In an undertone, he adds, “As Brenda so helpfully reminded me.”

Oh, Eddie’s not letting that go.

“Do mine ears deceive me? Did you take a date to a high school basketball game?” Eddie cackles. “You sure know how to woo ‘em, Harrington.”

“Hey,” Steve says defensively, “she could only make that day. Told her I had non-negotiable plans: it was either the game or it was a bust.”

Huh, Eddie thinks, that’s actually… really sweet.

Lucas looks torn between being embarrassed or touched. “You didn’t need to do that, Steve.”

“Sure I did. C’mon, you thought I was gonna go to every match and then miss the Championship?” Steve’s eyebrows furrow. “Where was Erica, anyway?”

… Ah.

“Mea culpa,” Eddie says. “She was, uh, at Hellfire.”

Lucas scoffs. “It’s fine,” he says. “Last time she was at a game, she kept shouting that she loved my tactics.” He looks out into the middle distance. “I was on the bench the whole time.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah, I missed her being there.” He’s sporting a smile that’s somehow the perfect balance of fond and mischievous; it, quite frankly, has no business looking as attractive as it does. “We had, um, alternative commentary for every game. That kid should have a radio show.” He comes closer, adds in another aside, “Would’ve made the date more bearable if she was there.”

Eddie stifles a laugh, has a moment of respectful silence for Brenda.

Max and Lucas cut in front, keep walking until they’re almost out of earshot; Eddie hears Lucas faintly say something that sounds like, “Was I totally tubular?”, soon drowned out by Max’s laughter.

There’s a short silence.

“Thanks, Eddie,” Steve says suddenly.

Eddie blinks at him, quickly turns his genuine confusion into a bit. “What for, Harrington? My devastating wit? Devilish good looks?”

Steve shakes his head. He smiles for a moment, in on the joke, but then he looks over at Lucas and Max again, and… there.

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

“It’s just… they’ve got a lot to carry, y’know? So…” He shrugs. “Thanks.”

It’s said so quietly, so without fanfare.

Eddie’s hit with the realisation between one footstep and the next: that he’s earned Steve Harrington’s trust.

It feels… weighty.

But Eddie doesn’t mind it; he doesn’t think it’s going to crush his ribs. If anything it feels like they’re sharing a load.

“Don’t gotta thank me for that, Harrington.”

Steve smiles, pushing back his hair; Eddie’s brought back to the moment he did the very same on the basketball court, just as the ball sunk through the net, and Eddie decided fuck it, wholeheartedly embracing his hypocrisy as he jumped up and down with the band kids.

I cheered so goddamn loud for you, Eddie thinks.

He doesn’t say it.

But he keeps walking next to Steve. Feels a little young, a little bit like he’s running track—checking his pace just so he could see a boy smile at him.

[tippenfunkaport]

"Hold out your hand," she said, and he did because he always trusted her, even now when everything was unfamiliar and new. She tipped whatever was in her hand into his and pressed his fingers closed around it. "Can you feel it?"  He nodded. Something tingled against his palm, the warmth slightly twitchy, like a living thing. When he glanced down, he saw golden light spilling out from between his fingertips. "What is it?"  Glimmer fit her hand over his, the two of them holding the glow together. "Ask it to do something. Anything."

Gorgeous art by the amazing and talented @dalila-nonsense for the final chapter of Going There called...

✨Glow✨

Read on AO3