[ steve probably should be a little more sensitive to how eddie feels about having to go back into hiding. about being in hiding in general. he can only imagine just how much it would suck, how much it would have to drive him crazy. he went down into the upside down to kill vecna, apparently did die, comes back to life, and to what? a town that still blames him for chrissy cunningham's death?
there's no real way to spin this, though. no real way to make this better than it is. steve wishes he could, a positive outlook he'd told robin way back when. but there's only so much you can do with this. which, for all the sarcasm that eddie munson bites back with, steve is kind of glad for that, too. ]
Well- okay, yeah, it was the same guys who started it, but they also always come back and clean up after all this shit, too. They don't want it getting out, you know? Like with the mall fire. [ did they tell eddie about that? steve doesn't know, but it's also not a matter of trusting the government or not trusting the government. because really? steve doesn't even know how he feels about it. but the truth of it is that after every situation, every other time they've fought these things, had to deal with the upside shit, the government had never been far behind. whether or not they'll do anything, whether or not they'll help, they will be there. it's a factor they have to take into account.
steve doesn't notice the curiosity. or, maybe he does, but he takes it for something else. maybe worry, maybe pain, maybe...honestly, he has no idea. he's never been all that good at reading people, so what would make him think he'd be able to read eddie munson, of all people? but there's something in the way eddie's hands go to the dash, something about how he leans forward to try and get a better view, it's almost...cute? steve kind of smiles to himself for half a moment, just half, before they're pulling into the drive and steve is hesitating before he gets out. watching as eddie brushes off the offer and goes for the door and-
yeah, it doesn't really fly. steve's all but jumping out of his side of the car, slapping the door closed behind him, and then he's already on the other side - at eddie's side, just in time to watch his foot miss that step. ] Dude, you don't- [ but it's stubborn, it's there, it's eddie brushing past him and heading for the door and steve... well. steve follows him there, hovering about a step away just in case there's a moment that the slip turns to something more. because that's all it will take, one slip, and then steve will be there, hand at eddie's elbow again, or around his waist.
the door's unlocked, if eddie gets there by himself. if not, steve will reach for it himself, pushing open the door and pulling them both inside. ] It's fine, no one's home. Here- watch your step.
[ sometimes, things were the way they were, and no amount of silver linings would actually brighten up that shit. sometimes, things just sucked. it was what it was and, for all of the dread that the thought of returning to hiding might carry with it, for all of the uncertainty, when you face off evil, and somehow fend off death, the rest seemed less impossible to navigate. he'll have to figure it out and eddie certainly wasn't going to get ahead of himself and panic about it now. tomorrow? maybe a different story. ]
Yeah, you know, there was a whole lot off about that mall fire story. [ he continues the passing comment, but doesn't exactly carry on with the point. doesn't think its necessary to point out that if they didn't want things getting out, maybe they would try to clean things up faster than a group of tweens does. but that's neither here nor there either. he just hopes — he hopes he isn't the convenient scapegoat, a nonconformist freak on the sidelines thats the easy way out.
in retrospect, he considers the fact that steve would have more experience there, that steve spoke in passing about some russian lab and this or that and honestly? in that moment, that expertise would be enough.
he carries on with the approach to the house, trying to wave him off, can feel the guy hovering behind his every step and only comes close to slipping once, until they reach the front porch and eddie stops at the door, as though politely. there's some uncertainty there too, brows creased as he wonders how much more sneaking he would need to be doing until harrington answers it for him and says no one's home, reaching across to open the door and eddie is a little too slow to get fully out of the way — just enough to lean back, maybe. ] Oh, great. Because, you know, I didn't bring a fruit basket or anything. [ seeing it as much an invitation as anything, eddie walks on through, a little (a lot) stiff, before he's throwing looks around the spacious room. its quiet, telltale feelings that make it seem a lonely house, for all its rooms. ] So - this is home sweet home, hmm?
[ he'll fall back, and wait instead to follow steve in, giving him a slightly sheepish smile. the more time he spends standing, the more aware he is of how much he hates the motion, how much better sitting felt, and how heavy the jacket is sitting.
he rolls weary shoulders to shrug it off along the way — or tries to, if the action doesn't send pinpricks of pain through the shoulder up the neck, if his elbow doesn't get stuck in the sleeve, if the action doesn't feel entirely impossible right now and he must make some disgruntled noise as he struggles through it, only to knock a knee into a cabinet in the process. ] Ah, shit, come on.
[ eddie had no idea just how much was off about that mall fire. before all this bullshit with vecna, that had generally been the source of all of steve's nightmares. russians, showing up at work to drug him again. giant, spider like monsters crawling up and over any building he walks by, the school, downtown. sometimes, on the worst nights, he even sees billy hargrove, pierced through the middle, hanging limp from one of the legs.
off was one way of putting it, yeah. but steve didn't have the energy to even start getting into that.
so instead, he hovers behind eddie as they make it up to the door. eddie stops right inside the porch, like he's waiting for an invitation, for someone else to ring the bell. there's a brief, unasked for thought of like a vampire before steve huffs a kind of laugh, reaches forward and opens the door for them both. eddie mentions something about a fruit basket, and steve sets a hand to his back, pushing him through the threshold, and potentially grabbing a fistful of that tattered leather jacket just in case he pushed too hard. ]
Can you not be weird for like, once? [ he says, almost fond. almost joking. and then they're both walking through into a dark entry way. steve, once he is confident enough that eddie can remain standing, will push through further inside and flip on the lights.
home sweet home eddie says with all the same level of drama and sarcasm that steve's started to expect from him. so instead of answering, steve just snorts a laugh that lacks any actual humor to it. it's a house, more than it is anything. a place he was raised, maybe, empty hallways and sterile rooms and parents who don't trust each other. parents who are never home. steve doesn't think about it, never really lets himself think about it, and instead just moves through the house like he doesn't actually belong here (because it doesn't really feel like he does) and drops the backpack at the foot of the stairs. he has plans to maybe head back to the kitchen, if eddie really can walk as well as he says he can, but at the clamor of noise, steve looks back over to see eddie teetering and in two quick steps he's back to eddie's side, hand back to his elbow again. ]
Dude, okay, time to get cleaned up. [ and if eddie even tries to put up a fight, steve will force him. also, don't perceive his mom tone, either, munson. ] Upstairs, let's go.
[ maybe eddie should worry about his own insensitivities. maybe if he knew more, knew the deeper traumas of the event, he'd drop the topic all together, though for the time being, it seems to come to its own natural conclusion in steve's silence that follows.
but then there's a hand on his back urging him through, jacket taut where steve had gripped onto it an and there is time enough for a grin to be tossed over his shoulder because maybe steve should know better than to ask for something less than weird from one eddie munson, tattered jacket and near giddy from blood loss and all. (not that the absence of either would take away that particular quirk of his personality anyway. no, steve, it would appear you're stuck with it.)
though something about steve's reaction on home gives eddie pause — something recognizably familiar in how harrington moves through this place like he's existed in it alone more days than not and eddie never considered king steve to be one so well acquainted with the sort of independence that comes from of an absent family. maybe he's jumping to conclusions, drawing connections that aren't there. maybe he can sympathize.
he thought he'd be more elegant about shedding the tattered outer layer, and has just about righted himself away from the cabinet when steve is holding him byt the elbow again, distance closed and he kind of still finds himself surprised at the assurance of it. (still here, still real, still no illusions to be found. on and on and repeat). but he doesn't have long to contemplate that any further, like a broken record as it is, as he's albeit being pivoted towards the stairs.
there'll be some resistance, something impulsive that tries to sell the idea to eddie that he's doing better than he is, that he didn't just get up after dying and walk for miles, or lose way more blood than a body should be without. the hesitation gives way only after a moment, as soon as his head spins a bit too much (not dissimilar to a bad hangover, really) before he lets himself be directed upwards. his hand reaches out to grip a handrail. ] Okay, but just so you know, you're like walking into mom jokes left and right. [ eddie chances to toss another look over his shoulders, midway up the stairs. ] I mean, you always this bossy, Harrington? [ and if that can sound suggestive, that's none of eddie's concerns, is it? ]
[ that is the problem, though, isn't it? how none of them really communicate any of this. how steve wouldn't even know where to start. he hasn't thought much about what this sort of stuff does to people, how steve could think back on the growing list of things that are traumatic that he's just sort of accepted happens. and maybe it's because the kids, god, the kids have gone through so much worse. dustin has gone through so much worse. and how is steve supposed to sit and let this affect him when that kid just gets up every day and keeps going?
so, you know, he doesn't. doesn't let it affect him (as much as he can). he gets up and he goes to work and he just keeps putting one foot in front of the other, a lot like he does now. one foot, and then the next, a hand to eddie's back, not quite shoving him up the stairs. and yeah, eddie might shoot him a grin over his shoulder, and yeah, that grin might be a little unwieldy and a little loose but it's still there, because eddie is still there, and steve doesn't bother holding back the partial smile that follows his rolled eyes. ]
Yeah, yeah. [ but eddie is still walking up the stairs, still following steve's guidance, and for all the sharp words or sarcastic remarks, he's not really putting up a fight. steve sees eddie' reach for the handrail and slows down a bit in his pushing, if only because he doesn't want to send him off-balance. plus, steve can be patience, waiting to make sure eddie's steady again before he continues up after him, glancing up just in time to see eddie shoot that look over his shoulder. to catch the suggestive-ness about it.
and steve, to his credit, just sort of laughs. ] I guess I kind of am. Guess that happens when I end up babysitting whenever the world is going to shit. [ not that anyone ever - the kids especially - listen to him. ever. but that's besides the point. right now? right now steve will be as bossy as he needs to be if it means getting eddie settled, keeping eddie okay.
and right now, for steve, that means getting him up into that guest room and getting him cleaned up and bandaged, considering steve is pretty sure he can smell the blood that currently coats eddie's clothes. ] Up here on the right.
[ considering that eddie noticed about steve's reaction to the house itself, the guest room is probably a fantastic representation of that same feeling. it's nice, nice enough, decorated to the best of steve's mom's ability. the colors, the painting on the wall, the bed. but there's a kind of distance even still, a kind of sterile feeling despite the tasteful interior decorating. but steve doesn't really care, because it does have a bed, and it does have an en-suite with a shower, and steve's room is right down the hall.
as soon as eddie steps inside, though, steve's hand leaves his back and he's moving again, turning on the lights in the main room and also the bathroom, pulling out towels, checking to see if there's any first aid stuff under the sink or if he put it all in his backpack which he did leave downstairs. ]
I'll get a change of clothes for you- [ steve says, still rustling around under the sink. he lets out a sigh, mostly because yeah, no, there's nothing here, which is annoying, but not the worst thing in the world. he assumes, distantly, that eddie will be trying to peel off that vest, that jacket, the bandana that is somehow still tied around the top of his head. ] -but there are towels and stuff in here. Don't worry about the sheets or anything, Robin showed me this great trick to get blood out of everything, and it's not like my parents even come up here even when they're home.
[ funny, how much your brain can start to compartmentalize out of simple necessity. survival is messy that way. sitting back there at the boathouse, back when all this mess first started, back when chrissy cunningham had met her end on the ceiling of his trailer and he was rambling like what he felt was a madman, only to be given (an albeit) condensed version of the events a bunch of kids and their unwitting babysitters had gone through — well, yeah. there was too much unsaid, too much to infill within the spaces and maybe acting like it was the most normal thing in the world was the only way to cope. considering the fact that everyone in this room had nearly died a thousand times is what steve had said and granted, the prodding oar took away from listening to that statement too closely at that time, eddie could now tell harrington was exaggerating less than one would have thought. and that? that alone was a horrifying statement.
and if steve and dustin and everyone else can just keep going, then eddie would have to as well. considering he was given that chance in the first place.
but, it was becoming easier, really, to count the times he's made steve roll his eyes at him already, in the span of this rescue and even now, even with the current state of things and harrington's focus, it was starting to be fun. despite, you know, walking half-dead up the stairs and stinking of blood and he laughs. ] Can't catch a break, huh?
[ the guest room looks and feels more like something out of one of those decorating magazines than it does belonging in someone's actual house. eddie, taking the chance to catch his breath when steve isn't looking, lest he come on worrying and hovering again, considers the space and tries not to feel insanely out of place. even harrington moved more like a stranger the more eddie turned his attention to it - focused instead on something pragmatic — like being a host — rather than like...well, eddie's not sure. rather than like he lived here, maybe. ] Yeah — ah, cold water right? [ he says so absently, only half listening to what steve is telling him as he focuses on trying to de-layer himself, becoming a little too aware at how clean the room around him is and how starkly stained his clothes are. like how the light is too bright, and just how much blood is on him, between his rings.
the bandana drops off first, and the vest shrugs off the simplest, a heap at his feet, until he actually gets back to trying to peel off the leather jacket and one arm is halfway out while the other catches in the sleeve again and the mobility is limited enough as it is and nearly knocks the breath out of him, fabric snagging against one of the many bites thats coagulated over his ribcage and he tries to play it off cool, except that steve is also saying something about towels and clothes and he should be following along and eddie just tries to angle himself out of his current predicament as best as he can. which, likely, leaves plenty to be desired, but yet again — stubbornness rears its head. ] Uh-huh, yeah — [ he adds, hopes it was in good timing to steve's rundown of instruction. ]
[ that might be it. compartmentalizing. steve's always been good at that, whether it was the long lasting friendship with tommy h or the complicated and tense dinner conversations between his mom and dad, to the weeks on end he'd be left alone, sometimes without warning, because of course he has a car. he can get where he needs to go. there's dinner on the table for food the credit card for emergencies, and then...that was that. it was something steve hadn't even been that aware he was good at until all this shit started going down, until he saw nancy unable to do it, crumbling under its weight.
but they had to carry on. they had to keep going. steve had to, for dustin if no one else. and now for eddie, it seemed, who steve almost thought he caught half moments where the last week tried to catch up to them both. eddie, who had just died, and who steve was now apparently setting up in his guest room and who steve would have to tell dustin, and robin, and nancy about at some point and-
eddie, who for some reason, despite the one being nearly ripped in half and stumbling up the stairs, keeps making steve almost laugh. keeps bringing him out of his thoughts when they get heaviest. eddie, who steps into the guest room and looks so wholly out of place and steve who likes it. likes it more than he probably should. the dark clothes, the blood, just him, who would never otherwise be here, but who is. ] Eh, I think so? Something about cold water and hydrogen peroxide or something. I'll call her to make sure, but-
[ and however it is the timing works, steve is turning back just in time to see eddie's breath catch. he's already out of the bandana, out of the vest, and had - steve assumes - been going for the jacket when something went wrong. and the worst part is, steve doesn't even hesitate to ask what, to make sure eddie can do it himself, because in a manner of moments he's right back to him, hands on the jacket, muttering something like- ] Stop, you're going to- here, just put your arms down, let me help. [ steve remembers the feeling, of those bites. of those claw marks. he remembers how his entire body had been sore, torn apart. how even now it feels like he's not quite back together. and eddie's? eddie's were so much worse, punctured through his vest and jacket and shirt, shreds taken from his sides. half a pound of flesh. ] I'm not a doctor, so I can't sew you back together if you rip things open, just. Put your arms out. [ they're simple directions, gentle but firm. bossy, probably, just as bossy as he's been this whole night, but it feels good to kind of have an idea of what he's doing. of what they're doing.
steve's hands are gentle as he slowly, carefully, goes to peel the jacket off and keep aware if it's catching on anything else. and, by doing so, it gives steve his first real look at the damage, at everything, and it stills his hands for a moment because all he can really do is stare. ]
[ sometimes you just have to put this into messy little shelves and shove them back somewhere, and firmly decide not to deal with them at all. and maybe that's not healthy. maybe that leads one to get high off an old blunt and sit alone in the dark by his swimming pool. maybe it feels like you're somewhere on the cusp of losing your mind (only on a daily basis). and who could have thought that eddie munson would find so much solidarity in steve harrington.
the thing that munson was coming to learn more and more about steve, is that the guy didn't seem to stop. stop moving, or doing or worrying too, and that all of it was done with some mix of chaotic efficiency. and then he hears him talking about calling robin — which inspires thoughts of the others again, that tightening apprehension he can't quite define or explain. maybe because it's a reminder that everyone will have to deal with it. that is a series of ups and downs and they're back at compartmentalizing again.
then there's eddie, sticking out like a sore thumb in the crisp neutrals of harrington's guest room. the room smells nice, actually, something like clean linens and a floral soap. and he's thinking he finally caught his breath enough to keep pulling at a sleeve when steve is again just right next to him and he almost jumps. let me help and there's that bossy tone again and it isn't that he hates it that much (or at all) and maybe it other circumstances, he'd take the opportunity to tease him about it some more. see how patient steve is, one high charisma player to another. ] Okay, okay. Jesus. [ eddie says, still a little breathless, reluctant, though seemingly without much protest. only tries to wiggle out of the sleeves where he can and wonders how steve was just up and running only a short while after wheeler wrapped a dainty piece of a sweater around him when the bats came for his pound of flesh.
some errant comment strolls into his mind as harrington tugs down the jacket, something like buy me dinner first, that he bites his tongue on. halfway because he has to, jaw clenched tight.
until steve stills and eddie looks back over to him — with that telltale lurch of worry, with that creeping panic over silence — only to find him staring. he snorts, following the look down to himself, pinching at the torn once-white fabric of the hellfire club shirt. its full of holes now, shredded in some (most) parts. bummer, he liked that shirt a lot. aaand it's going to suck to get out of, isn't it? but there's a lopsided smirk as his eyes turn back to steve, though the humor is half-assed. ] It's these sick tatties, right? [ its definitely the ink, isn't it? though inevitably, his own eyes fall to steve's neck, still carrying the healing remnants of his own run-in with the demobats. he doesn't even want to know how his looks like right now. what comes to mind instead is the quiet ask of: ] Yours still hurting?
[ it's not the first time that steve has found himself finding solidarity with the exact sorts of people he never would have spoken to otherwise. i mean, if you really needed proof, please look at his current best friend. his right hand. his platonic with a capital P, robin buckley. steve is pretty sure every year that he gets further away from hawkins high, every year that passes since nancy wheeler gave him the biggest bonk on his head of his entire life, he is going to find someone else he was a dick to. someone else that he's going to find himself finding solidarity with. getting to know.
but steve doesn't think too much about that, maybe because it falls into that messy shelf or maybe because he hates remembering the kind of person he used to be. either way, it's just easier to move forward. easier to focus forward (he's already spent enough of his life moving backwards, anyway). and that movement forward apparently, includes eddie munson who tries to move like his entire body isn't in pain. who keeps making jokes and keeps commenting on steve's bossiness and who remains, even after all this shit, so very eddie the freak munson that steve can't help but be grounded by it. steve is careful as he tugs at the jacket, tries his best to keep it from tugging at any of the other wounds, at any of the open, torn apart areas of eddie (and there are so many, so many, that steve starts to feel a little overwhelmed by it). they do get the jacket off, but that feeling remains, and it is probably why steve stills at the sight of it. of eddie's chest, sides, and arms. at the blood, caked over the tears. unwanted, images of eddie's dead body comes to mind. of dustin's hands, gripping at him, saying no, no, no, no, no over and over.
but once again, right as steve feels himself slipping, there is eddie. eddie, who says it's these sick tatties, right? and instantly, steve is back here. in the now. blinks, and he sees more than just the blood and flesh. he does catch some of the ink, some of the tattoos, and steve can't help the way he snorts. ] Sure, it's your sick tatties. [ and even the words feel ridiculous in his mouth, his tone reflective of it. when steve's eyes glance up, he catches eddie's lopsided smile just as it fades, just as eddie's eyes go to steve's neck, where there is still a red, angry mark from the demobats tails.
the quiet of eddie's voice is what strikes steve the most, something fragile, but honest in it. steve lets out a breath as he drops the shredded leather jacket to the bed. your still hurting? and steve considers his answer for a moment, because there's no point in lying, is there? no point in trying to push it off? robin had asked him about his neck, nancy about his sides, and for both of them he'd pushed it off. nah, not much, it's fine. here, though, in the quiet of his own home, with eddie munson, bloodied and loud and different, looking to him and asking if he hurts, steve can't find it in himself to sugar coat it. ]
Yeah. [ he says, just as quietly, as his hands move slowly to the hem of eddie's shirt. the next step, the next job. it's going to suck, peeling this off, but they have to do it. but even then he hesitates, just a few inches away from the shredded cotton, as if waiting for eddie to give him the okay. ] It's better, but...yeah.
[ maybe they’d met one another at just the right time — when steve was no longer the person he was, and eddie was just the right amount of jealous to see what dustin was even talking about when it came to him. maybe there was more solidarity found in the shared horror of experience.
it’s easier to make jokes than to let the silence seep in. because if he doesn’t stop focusing on harrington, on that bossiness that carries its own convincing charm, on harrington’s older injuries, a sharp face made sharper still by the evident tiredness, messy hair somehow still falling infuriatingly perfectly (seriously? is it the shampoo??) — if he doesn’t stop focusing on all of that he’s worried about where that would leave him. that it would leave him with his own pain and his own fears and the memories threatening to replay themselves every time he blinks and it would leave him alone —
thankfully, steve answers, looks back at eddie and it feels honest and he lets out a short huff, shakes his head. ] Sorry. That sucks, huh. [ is it too early to say he gets it? he’d probably be the best one to get it though, all things considered, standing here looking like a wreck. inevitably, his own thoughts go to that night on the boat. never would have jumped in after you in normal circumstances, and here they were, nothing normal left in the spaces between, and eddie wouldn’t think twice about taking that dive again now.
eyes drop to steve’s hands, reaching for the hem of his shirt, clear enough in intent and eddie makes some non committal wave first, makes some move to try and see if he can lift it off of him himself — only to wince, flinch, and manage to look mildly sheepish when he says — ] Looks like I’ll still need the help of your capable hands, Harrington.
[ he does laugh though, short as it is, a hand hovering over his ribs for a moment longer. ] Pound of flesh.Sooo wish you’d been kidding.
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there's no real way to spin this, though. no real way to make this better than it is. steve wishes he could, a positive outlook he'd told robin way back when. but there's only so much you can do with this. which, for all the sarcasm that eddie munson bites back with, steve is kind of glad for that, too. ]
Well- okay, yeah, it was the same guys who started it, but they also always come back and clean up after all this shit, too. They don't want it getting out, you know? Like with the mall fire. [ did they tell eddie about that? steve doesn't know, but it's also not a matter of trusting the government or not trusting the government. because really? steve doesn't even know how he feels about it. but the truth of it is that after every situation, every other time they've fought these things, had to deal with the upside shit, the government had never been far behind. whether or not they'll do anything, whether or not they'll help, they will be there. it's a factor they have to take into account.
steve doesn't notice the curiosity. or, maybe he does, but he takes it for something else. maybe worry, maybe pain, maybe...honestly, he has no idea. he's never been all that good at reading people, so what would make him think he'd be able to read eddie munson, of all people? but there's something in the way eddie's hands go to the dash, something about how he leans forward to try and get a better view, it's almost...cute? steve kind of smiles to himself for half a moment, just half, before they're pulling into the drive and steve is hesitating before he gets out. watching as eddie brushes off the offer and goes for the door and-
yeah, it doesn't really fly. steve's all but jumping out of his side of the car, slapping the door closed behind him, and then he's already on the other side - at eddie's side, just in time to watch his foot miss that step. ] Dude, you don't- [ but it's stubborn, it's there, it's eddie brushing past him and heading for the door and steve... well. steve follows him there, hovering about a step away just in case there's a moment that the slip turns to something more. because that's all it will take, one slip, and then steve will be there, hand at eddie's elbow again, or around his waist.
the door's unlocked, if eddie gets there by himself. if not, steve will reach for it himself, pushing open the door and pulling them both inside. ] It's fine, no one's home. Here- watch your step.
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Yeah, you know, there was a whole lot off about that mall fire story. [ he continues the passing comment, but doesn't exactly carry on with the point. doesn't think its necessary to point out that if they didn't want things getting out, maybe they would try to clean things up faster than a group of tweens does. but that's neither here nor there either. he just hopes — he hopes he isn't the convenient scapegoat, a nonconformist freak on the sidelines thats the easy way out.
in retrospect, he considers the fact that steve would have more experience there, that steve spoke in passing about some russian lab and this or that and honestly? in that moment, that expertise would be enough.
he carries on with the approach to the house, trying to wave him off, can feel the guy hovering behind his every step and only comes close to slipping once, until they reach the front porch and eddie stops at the door, as though politely. there's some uncertainty there too, brows creased as he wonders how much more sneaking he would need to be doing until harrington answers it for him and says no one's home, reaching across to open the door and eddie is a little too slow to get fully out of the way — just enough to lean back, maybe. ] Oh, great. Because, you know, I didn't bring a fruit basket or anything. [ seeing it as much an invitation as anything, eddie walks on through, a little (a lot) stiff, before he's throwing looks around the spacious room. its quiet, telltale feelings that make it seem a lonely house, for all its rooms. ] So - this is home sweet home, hmm?
[ he'll fall back, and wait instead to follow steve in, giving him a slightly sheepish smile. the more time he spends standing, the more aware he is of how much he hates the motion, how much better sitting felt, and how heavy the jacket is sitting.
he rolls weary shoulders to shrug it off along the way — or tries to, if the action doesn't send pinpricks of pain through the shoulder up the neck, if his elbow doesn't get stuck in the sleeve, if the action doesn't feel entirely impossible right now and he must make some disgruntled noise as he struggles through it, only to knock a knee into a cabinet in the process. ] Ah, shit, come on.
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off was one way of putting it, yeah. but steve didn't have the energy to even start getting into that.
so instead, he hovers behind eddie as they make it up to the door. eddie stops right inside the porch, like he's waiting for an invitation, for someone else to ring the bell. there's a brief, unasked for thought of like a vampire before steve huffs a kind of laugh, reaches forward and opens the door for them both. eddie mentions something about a fruit basket, and steve sets a hand to his back, pushing him through the threshold, and potentially grabbing a fistful of that tattered leather jacket just in case he pushed too hard. ]
Can you not be weird for like, once? [ he says, almost fond. almost joking. and then they're both walking through into a dark entry way. steve, once he is confident enough that eddie can remain standing, will push through further inside and flip on the lights.
home sweet home eddie says with all the same level of drama and sarcasm that steve's started to expect from him. so instead of answering, steve just snorts a laugh that lacks any actual humor to it. it's a house, more than it is anything. a place he was raised, maybe, empty hallways and sterile rooms and parents who don't trust each other. parents who are never home. steve doesn't think about it, never really lets himself think about it, and instead just moves through the house like he doesn't actually belong here (because it doesn't really feel like he does) and drops the backpack at the foot of the stairs. he has plans to maybe head back to the kitchen, if eddie really can walk as well as he says he can, but at the clamor of noise, steve looks back over to see eddie teetering and in two quick steps he's back to eddie's side, hand back to his elbow again. ]
Dude, okay, time to get cleaned up. [ and if eddie even tries to put up a fight, steve will force him. also, don't perceive his mom tone, either, munson. ] Upstairs, let's go.
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but then there's a hand on his back urging him through, jacket taut where steve had gripped onto it an and there is time enough for a grin to be tossed over his shoulder because maybe steve should know better than to ask for something less than weird from one eddie munson, tattered jacket and near giddy from blood loss and all. (not that the absence of either would take away that particular quirk of his personality anyway. no, steve, it would appear you're stuck with it.)
though something about steve's reaction on home gives eddie pause — something recognizably familiar in how harrington moves through this place like he's existed in it alone more days than not and eddie never considered king steve to be one so well acquainted with the sort of independence that comes from of an absent family. maybe he's jumping to conclusions, drawing connections that aren't there. maybe he can sympathize.
he thought he'd be more elegant about shedding the tattered outer layer, and has just about righted himself away from the cabinet when steve is holding him byt the elbow again, distance closed and he kind of still finds himself surprised at the assurance of it. (still here, still real, still no illusions to be found. on and on and repeat). but he doesn't have long to contemplate that any further, like a broken record as it is, as he's albeit being pivoted towards the stairs.
there'll be some resistance, something impulsive that tries to sell the idea to eddie that he's doing better than he is, that he didn't just get up after dying and walk for miles, or lose way more blood than a body should be without. the hesitation gives way only after a moment, as soon as his head spins a bit too much (not dissimilar to a bad hangover, really) before he lets himself be directed upwards. his hand reaches out to grip a handrail. ] Okay, but just so you know, you're like walking into mom jokes left and right. [ eddie chances to toss another look over his shoulders, midway up the stairs. ] I mean, you always this bossy, Harrington? [ and if that can sound suggestive, that's none of eddie's concerns, is it? ]
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so, you know, he doesn't. doesn't let it affect him (as much as he can). he gets up and he goes to work and he just keeps putting one foot in front of the other, a lot like he does now. one foot, and then the next, a hand to eddie's back, not quite shoving him up the stairs. and yeah, eddie might shoot him a grin over his shoulder, and yeah, that grin might be a little unwieldy and a little loose but it's still there, because eddie is still there, and steve doesn't bother holding back the partial smile that follows his rolled eyes. ]
Yeah, yeah. [ but eddie is still walking up the stairs, still following steve's guidance, and for all the sharp words or sarcastic remarks, he's not really putting up a fight. steve sees eddie' reach for the handrail and slows down a bit in his pushing, if only because he doesn't want to send him off-balance. plus, steve can be patience, waiting to make sure eddie's steady again before he continues up after him, glancing up just in time to see eddie shoot that look over his shoulder. to catch the suggestive-ness about it.
and steve, to his credit, just sort of laughs. ] I guess I kind of am. Guess that happens when I end up babysitting whenever the world is going to shit. [ not that anyone ever - the kids especially - listen to him. ever. but that's besides the point. right now? right now steve will be as bossy as he needs to be if it means getting eddie settled, keeping eddie okay.
and right now, for steve, that means getting him up into that guest room and getting him cleaned up and bandaged, considering steve is pretty sure he can smell the blood that currently coats eddie's clothes. ] Up here on the right.
[ considering that eddie noticed about steve's reaction to the house itself, the guest room is probably a fantastic representation of that same feeling. it's nice, nice enough, decorated to the best of steve's mom's ability. the colors, the painting on the wall, the bed. but there's a kind of distance even still, a kind of sterile feeling despite the tasteful interior decorating. but steve doesn't really care, because it does have a bed, and it does have an en-suite with a shower, and steve's room is right down the hall.
as soon as eddie steps inside, though, steve's hand leaves his back and he's moving again, turning on the lights in the main room and also the bathroom, pulling out towels, checking to see if there's any first aid stuff under the sink or if he put it all in his backpack which he did leave downstairs. ]
I'll get a change of clothes for you- [ steve says, still rustling around under the sink. he lets out a sigh, mostly because yeah, no, there's nothing here, which is annoying, but not the worst thing in the world. he assumes, distantly, that eddie will be trying to peel off that vest, that jacket, the bandana that is somehow still tied around the top of his head. ] -but there are towels and stuff in here. Don't worry about the sheets or anything, Robin showed me this great trick to get blood out of everything, and it's not like my parents even come up here even when they're home.
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and if steve and dustin and everyone else can just keep going, then eddie would have to as well. considering he was given that chance in the first place.
but, it was becoming easier, really, to count the times he's made steve roll his eyes at him already, in the span of this rescue and even now, even with the current state of things and harrington's focus, it was starting to be fun. despite, you know, walking half-dead up the stairs and stinking of blood and he laughs. ] Can't catch a break, huh?
[ the guest room looks and feels more like something out of one of those decorating magazines than it does belonging in someone's actual house. eddie, taking the chance to catch his breath when steve isn't looking, lest he come on worrying and hovering again, considers the space and tries not to feel insanely out of place. even harrington moved more like a stranger the more eddie turned his attention to it - focused instead on something pragmatic — like being a host — rather than like...well, eddie's not sure. rather than like he lived here, maybe. ] Yeah — ah, cold water right? [ he says so absently, only half listening to what steve is telling him as he focuses on trying to de-layer himself, becoming a little too aware at how clean the room around him is and how starkly stained his clothes are. like how the light is too bright, and just how much blood is on him, between his rings.
the bandana drops off first, and the vest shrugs off the simplest, a heap at his feet, until he actually gets back to trying to peel off the leather jacket and one arm is halfway out while the other catches in the sleeve again and the mobility is limited enough as it is and nearly knocks the breath out of him, fabric snagging against one of the many bites thats coagulated over his ribcage and he tries to play it off cool, except that steve is also saying something about towels and clothes and he should be following along and eddie just tries to angle himself out of his current predicament as best as he can. which, likely, leaves plenty to be desired, but yet again — stubbornness rears its head. ] Uh-huh, yeah — [ he adds, hopes it was in good timing to steve's rundown of instruction. ]
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but they had to carry on. they had to keep going. steve had to, for dustin if no one else. and now for eddie, it seemed, who steve almost thought he caught half moments where the last week tried to catch up to them both. eddie, who had just died, and who steve was now apparently setting up in his guest room and who steve would have to tell dustin, and robin, and nancy about at some point and-
eddie, who for some reason, despite the one being nearly ripped in half and stumbling up the stairs, keeps making steve almost laugh. keeps bringing him out of his thoughts when they get heaviest. eddie, who steps into the guest room and looks so wholly out of place and steve who likes it. likes it more than he probably should. the dark clothes, the blood, just him, who would never otherwise be here, but who is. ] Eh, I think so? Something about cold water and hydrogen peroxide or something. I'll call her to make sure, but-
[ and however it is the timing works, steve is turning back just in time to see eddie's breath catch. he's already out of the bandana, out of the vest, and had - steve assumes - been going for the jacket when something went wrong. and the worst part is, steve doesn't even hesitate to ask what, to make sure eddie can do it himself, because in a manner of moments he's right back to him, hands on the jacket, muttering something like- ] Stop, you're going to- here, just put your arms down, let me help. [ steve remembers the feeling, of those bites. of those claw marks. he remembers how his entire body had been sore, torn apart. how even now it feels like he's not quite back together. and eddie's? eddie's were so much worse, punctured through his vest and jacket and shirt, shreds taken from his sides. half a pound of flesh. ] I'm not a doctor, so I can't sew you back together if you rip things open, just. Put your arms out. [ they're simple directions, gentle but firm. bossy, probably, just as bossy as he's been this whole night, but it feels good to kind of have an idea of what he's doing. of what they're doing.
steve's hands are gentle as he slowly, carefully, goes to peel the jacket off and keep aware if it's catching on anything else. and, by doing so, it gives steve his first real look at the damage, at everything, and it stills his hands for a moment because all he can really do is stare. ]
Shit, Munson. [ eloquent, he knows. ]
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the thing that munson was coming to learn more and more about steve, is that the guy didn't seem to stop. stop moving, or doing or worrying too, and that all of it was done with some mix of chaotic efficiency. and then he hears him talking about calling robin — which inspires thoughts of the others again, that tightening apprehension he can't quite define or explain. maybe because it's a reminder that everyone will have to deal with it. that is a series of ups and downs and they're back at compartmentalizing again.
then there's eddie, sticking out like a sore thumb in the crisp neutrals of harrington's guest room. the room smells nice, actually, something like clean linens and a floral soap. and he's thinking he finally caught his breath enough to keep pulling at a sleeve when steve is again just right next to him and he almost jumps. let me help and there's that bossy tone again and it isn't that he hates it that much (or at all) and maybe it other circumstances, he'd take the opportunity to tease him about it some more. see how patient steve is, one high charisma player to another. ] Okay, okay. Jesus. [ eddie says, still a little breathless, reluctant, though seemingly without much protest. only tries to wiggle out of the sleeves where he can and wonders how steve was just up and running only a short while after wheeler wrapped a dainty piece of a sweater around him when the bats came for his pound of flesh.
some errant comment strolls into his mind as harrington tugs down the jacket, something like buy me dinner first, that he bites his tongue on. halfway because he has to, jaw clenched tight.
until steve stills and eddie looks back over to him — with that telltale lurch of worry, with that creeping panic over silence — only to find him staring. he snorts, following the look down to himself, pinching at the torn once-white fabric of the hellfire club shirt. its full of holes now, shredded in some (most) parts. bummer, he liked that shirt a lot. aaand it's going to suck to get out of, isn't it? but there's a lopsided smirk as his eyes turn back to steve, though the humor is half-assed. ] It's these sick tatties, right? [ its definitely the ink, isn't it? though inevitably, his own eyes fall to steve's neck, still carrying the healing remnants of his own run-in with the demobats. he doesn't even want to know how his looks like right now. what comes to mind instead is the quiet ask of: ] Yours still hurting?
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but steve doesn't think too much about that, maybe because it falls into that messy shelf or maybe because he hates remembering the kind of person he used to be. either way, it's just easier to move forward. easier to focus forward (he's already spent enough of his life moving backwards, anyway). and that movement forward apparently, includes eddie munson who tries to move like his entire body isn't in pain. who keeps making jokes and keeps commenting on steve's bossiness and who remains, even after all this shit, so very eddie the freak munson that steve can't help but be grounded by it. steve is careful as he tugs at the jacket, tries his best to keep it from tugging at any of the other wounds, at any of the open, torn apart areas of eddie (and there are so many, so many, that steve starts to feel a little overwhelmed by it). they do get the jacket off, but that feeling remains, and it is probably why steve stills at the sight of it. of eddie's chest, sides, and arms. at the blood, caked over the tears. unwanted, images of eddie's dead body comes to mind. of dustin's hands, gripping at him, saying no, no, no, no, no over and over.
but once again, right as steve feels himself slipping, there is eddie. eddie, who says it's these sick tatties, right? and instantly, steve is back here. in the now. blinks, and he sees more than just the blood and flesh. he does catch some of the ink, some of the tattoos, and steve can't help the way he snorts. ] Sure, it's your sick tatties. [ and even the words feel ridiculous in his mouth, his tone reflective of it. when steve's eyes glance up, he catches eddie's lopsided smile just as it fades, just as eddie's eyes go to steve's neck, where there is still a red, angry mark from the demobats tails.
the quiet of eddie's voice is what strikes steve the most, something fragile, but honest in it. steve lets out a breath as he drops the shredded leather jacket to the bed. your still hurting? and steve considers his answer for a moment, because there's no point in lying, is there? no point in trying to push it off? robin had asked him about his neck, nancy about his sides, and for both of them he'd pushed it off. nah, not much, it's fine. here, though, in the quiet of his own home, with eddie munson, bloodied and loud and different, looking to him and asking if he hurts, steve can't find it in himself to sugar coat it. ]
Yeah. [ he says, just as quietly, as his hands move slowly to the hem of eddie's shirt. the next step, the next job. it's going to suck, peeling this off, but they have to do it. but even then he hesitates, just a few inches away from the shredded cotton, as if waiting for eddie to give him the okay. ] It's better, but...yeah.
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it’s easier to make jokes than to let the silence seep in. because if he doesn’t stop focusing on harrington, on that bossiness that carries its own convincing charm, on harrington’s older injuries, a sharp face made sharper still by the evident tiredness, messy hair somehow still falling infuriatingly perfectly (seriously? is it the shampoo??) — if he doesn’t stop focusing on all of that he’s worried about where that would leave him. that it would leave him with his own pain and his own fears and the memories threatening to replay themselves every time he blinks and it would leave him alone —
thankfully, steve answers, looks back at eddie and it feels honest and he lets out a short huff, shakes his head. ] Sorry. That sucks, huh. [ is it too early to say he gets it? he’d probably be the best one to get it though, all things considered, standing here looking like a wreck. inevitably, his own thoughts go to that night on the boat. never would have jumped in after you in normal circumstances, and here they were, nothing normal left in the spaces between, and eddie wouldn’t think twice about taking that dive again now.
eyes drop to steve’s hands, reaching for the hem of his shirt, clear enough in intent and eddie makes some non committal wave first, makes some move to try and see if he can lift it off of him himself — only to wince, flinch, and manage to look mildly sheepish when he says — ] Looks like I’ll still need the help of your capable hands, Harrington.
[ he does laugh though, short as it is, a hand hovering over his ribs for a moment longer. ] Pound of flesh. Sooo wish you’d been kidding.