Chapter Text
The house is quiet when Davie returns. The sort of too quiet that’s unsettling, even more so beyond the fact the door was left open and unlocked when he’d gotten dropped off by the bus.
He calls into the home, and nothingness greets him there. Nervous, he toes off his shoes in the doorway, knowing you always hate when he leaves them on, and enters the kitchen first. There’s nothing unnatural. Nothing out of place other than the half filled coffee cup left to cool on the tile.
He calls your name, and only open air is there to find him. Fear grapples in his chest, mixing with the anxiety over the last time he came home to an empty home, after the two of you sat for hours in the back of an ambulance, battered and broken and freshly orphaned.
He can still see the flashing lights of cop cars, blinding now as he walks into the living room and finds you sprawled out there, curled on your side in your pajamas, never having gotten ready for work.
Sweat lines your brow, little droplets that cling to your scalp and dampen the cushion below. A blanket, now kicked off, lays around your ankles like you moved in your sleep, overheating with your fever. You’re trembling a little now, from cold or weakness he can’t tell.
“Hey…” he whispers, jostling your shoulder a bit, “are you sleeping?”
A sound passes through your chapped lips. Breathy, not words, not really, more like a wheeze. A rattle. As you shift, a deeper inhale fills the room, the kind that sounds like it feels like a knife drawing through lungs and flesh.
Fear claws up his throat, heart hammering like a little hummingbirds in his chest as your eyes finally crack open in the slightest. Unfocused, not quite meeting his own. “School is already out?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little shakily this time, “you’ve been asleep since I left?” A whole day gone and spent sleeping, something you never do. Ever.
Your head shakes back and forth slowly. “Not sure…”
He winces. “You look bad. Like bad bad.”
“Thanks, buddy,” you rasp, trying to draw in another breath that ends up in a rattling cough, “I’m fine. Just needed to rest.”
You’re not. He’s not foolish enough to believe it either. He remembers what momma used to do when you were little; fingers brush at your hairline, spreading against your forehead. It’s hot. Burning hot, and he whips his hand back.
“You’re burning up,” he croaks, glancing wildly about the room, unsure of what to do. And then he remembers, “water. You need water. That’ll fix it.”
He nearly trips over his feet rushing to get to the sink. The cabinets are higher than he is, so he clambers on top of the counters like he knows you hate, but it’s not a moment to care. He’ll face the grounding later. His fingers tremble against the sink as he twists and water starts to fill the glass. It sloshes as he runs back into the living room, half of it ending up on the floor, holding it up to your lips where you lay.
“Come on, you have to try,” he pleads, trying to help you sit up, grimacing as you struggle to prop yourself up onto some pillows. The water you try to sip spills onto your chin, and he gasps out a pitiful whimper. “Come on, just…just try, okay?” The water just spills and spills and stains your shirt even further. And he knows it’s useless; he feels useless. He wishes he was older, smarter. Maybe then he could do something. Maybe then.
Your eyes trail up to take in his features, and you must see the fear there because your tired face softens, and you gently reach up to brush at his cheek. “Hey, hey. Please, don’t look at me like that.”
He snuffles. “Like what?”
“Like you’re going to cry,” you whisper, letting out another cough, “I’ll be fine, I just need five more minutes…”
“Hey!” He shouts, to no avail, as your head slumps and you fall back into whatever sick slumber he found you in. He shakes your shoulder once, twice, three times.
Only this time you barely move, breath coming in and out too slowly, too weakly. He backs out of the room on shaking legs, looking about for anyone to call. Any number. Anything. And then he remembers Steve lives just a few blocks away, easily manageable by bike.
He whispers up a plea to his parents, to not take you too, to leave you here. Throws up a promise to not pester you or call you bad names too for good measure.
And then he’s rushing out the door and hopping on his bike, pedaling faster than he ever has in his life.
Steve will know what to do. Steve who drives him around to baseball practice. Who always comes over with extra groceries he just happens to find in his fridge. Steve, who just fixed the kitchen sink the other day when you told him there was a leak. His coach, who stays probably a little too long after he drops him off after practice, even when he knows you won’t be home for another hour or two.
Davie doesn’t even have time to think as he tosses his bike to the side when he pulls up to Steve’s apartment door. He pounds his fist so hard the neighbors dog starts barking, and then the owner, yelling at him to quiet down out there.
The door opens slowly, Davie’s fist still in the air, his eyes wide as he breathlessly lets out, “Something’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong, buddy?” Steve’s crowding him against his side, thumb sweeping against Davie’s trembling shoulders as the boy gasps to catch his breath from the effort of biking.
“My sister,” he wails, tugging on Steve’s arm urgently, trying to drag him in the direction of home, “she’s really sick. We need to go. Now.”
“Hey, hey. Slow down. What do you mean sick?” Steve drops down to look him in the eye.
Davie can only shake his head. “She’s hot and she was coughing and I tried to give her water but she fell asleep and wouldn’t wake up.”
Something crosses Steve’s gaze. A mirror flicker of the panic pumping in Davie’s blood, and then he’s reaching into his apartment to grab his keys and rushing out the front door.
“Bike in the trunk,” Steve orders, popping it quickly so Davie can run over and toss it inside. Steve marches over to the car and whips his door open. “Get in and buckle up.”
Davie doesn’t even wait.
-
He’s not sure why it worries him so much. Why someone he’s known a couple months means so much. Somehow even still, you’ve wedged your way into his heart, a close friend and someone he genuinely enjoys spending time with.
His fingers tighten around the steering wheel as he races the two blocks down the road to Lark. Davie is stoic beside him, his hands toying with a string dangling on the edge of his shirt. He’s seen his own kids, the party, in various states of distress over the years. Can only imagine the war in Davie’s mind this time. He’s lost so much so young, a pain he shouldn’t have to know, and now he fears he’ll lose another. The thought alone has Steve pushing the pedal down further, well over the speed limit for this part of town.
The house, like Davie warned when he came practically beating down the door, is quiet upon entering. The sort of quiet that disturbs Steve. He rushes into the kitchen first to try and grab a towel, anything to maybe try and bring down your fever a little, running it under cold water while Davie rushes to your side. On the kitchen table are various bills, some stamped in red, notices of varying degrees of lateness.
He wonders how long it’s been like that, how long you’ve been struggling, how long you’ve been doing everything if only to stay afloat. You’re always happy, maybe on the surface, putting your best foot forward. But he knows, he knows how hard it is on his own to survive on a teacher and coaching salary, so he can only imagine doing it all alone with a kid to raise on top of it.
His heart sinks as he shuts the tap off, pushing aside his newly attained knowledge as he darts over to the living room.
He only needs to take one look before he’s swearing under his breath. Tosses the useless towel to the side, because it’s clear Davie wasn’t overemphasizing just how clearly sick you are. Whispering your name, Steve kneels on the ground, running his fingers down the inside of your wrist, resting over the place where he knows he should find a steady pulse. It’s weak, the sort of gentle flutter that worries him. Your breathing is worse. Rattling whooshes of breath in and out of tight lungs, a sort of wheeze that sends a fresh wave of terror down his spine.
“Hey,” he whispers, thumb trailing over your likely sore bicep, given the scalding temperature of your skin, “for someone who always has something to say, you’re really quiet right now.”
It’s teasing and light, and when he only gets a moan and an incoherent babble, his stomach sinks even further. Davie looks up at Steve with those wide eyes, light a deer caught in headlights. There’s a brief moment of understanding that passes between the two.
“She needs the hospital,” Davie insists, sounding much older than his ten years, “I told her she needed to go to the doctor and she didn’t listen! She never listens!”
“Yeah,” Steve agrees. Nods. Wishes he understood exactly what Davie’s words mean, if only to understand how dire the situation is better. “Closest one is fifteen.”
Steve’s working on helping you up and off the couch, pushing your arm up and over his shoulder, wincing at the groan that pours from your lips. Your eyes flutter, just barely, and he clutches tighter at your side, worried you’ll sink to the floor like an anchor if he doesn’t.
“She doesn’t have insurance,” Davie says as the older man begins to move, clutching at Steve’s forearm, like he’s suddenly been reminded of the fact. As if it would change the fact you’re in desperate need of medical attention.
“That’s…we’ll worry about that later, okay?” Steve assures him, as Davie rushes to your other side and helps Steve practically drag you to the car. “Right now your sister needs a doctor. And medicine. And things that we don’t have here in this house. Insurance is the least of our problems.”
Davie nods, jumping into the back seat after helping to buckle you into the seat beside Steve.
“Buckled?” Steve asks, looking in the rear view mirror.
Davie nods, reaching over to clasp your shoulder reassuringly. Your eyes flutter again at the nearness of your little sibling who is your whole world, tired eyes looking up through lashes at Steve. “M’okay, Steve. No doctors. Please. Just five more minutes.”
Steve shakes his head, fingers sliding over your palm, clasping it tightly. His dark eyes lock with yours, and he finds only a tired sort of fear there. He can only imagine how many things swirl in your mind, knowing what he does about your life and situation. “I know you’re going to be mad. I know I’m overstepping, and you can hate me for it later, but you’re going to a hospital. Now.”
When you’re too weak to argue with him, Steve knows he’s made the right decision, and pushes his car into drive.
-
March 27, 1986…
It’s a birthday party for one of those cousins you see once a year. The kind where there’s too many sweets consumed and too much alcohol drank by adults who already have fragile relationships to begin with, and it’s only a matter of time someone starts fighting.
Yet you don’t mind, sitting against the wall as your brother plays an intense card game with one of the younger cousins. They’re shouting, but it blends in with the music pouring out of a radio speaker, and mixes with the chatter of adults pouring their third glass of wine or cracking a new can of beer.
“Go fish!” Davie shouts, vibrant laughter from him filling the room.
“No!” Kevin yells back, shaking his head vehemently, “you go fish! You definitely have my cards.”
“I do not,” Davie argues, “see?”
Kevin falls back against his seat with a loud groan. “This stupid game is rigged.”
You glance up from the book you’ve brought along to keep you company for the evening, tabbing the page you’re on. You shake your head, laughing, “Not rigged, just your bad luck.”
Kevin narrows his eyes at you, opening his mouth likely to tattle on you, when the ground starts to rumble. Heads all about the room glance up, the photo frames along the walls, various cups atop different tables and stands, beginning to shake all around you.
The intensity only grows, the house trembling as though a train is driving right through the building. Adults shout to get down around the room, your parents appearing in the doorway leading to the dining room.
You start to crawl over to David’s side, the world trembling and groaning around you, as the ground starts to separate. To rip like a mouth yawning, amber light seeping into the room.
It happens suddenly, your parents, family friends, falling through the ground. Falling through the earth.
It’s a mere blink, a second, and then Davie is screaming, his hand whipping out to claw at yours as he rolls towards the gaping hole. You catch him hastily, tugging him close to your body, shielding him from the ruin around you.
“Run!” you shriek, shoving your brother along to safety, your cousin along.
Those able to run pour out of the house, cries of fear and anguish rising up from those in homes all around you as you race to safety, to where the ground doesn’t try and swallow you whole.
“Mom!” Davie is crying, “Dad!” Over and over as you tug him along, your heart thundering as your cousin’s home falls through the hole in the ground that wasn’t there moments ago.
He screams it. Wails it over and over again as he breaks, as you fall to your knees, praying for the world that just took your parents to swallow you whole too.
Because in the wake of chaos, there is only nothingness.
A sort of cold emptiness as ambulances start to pour into Hawkins, as cops litter the streets, military begins to make their presence known.
You’re bombarded with question after question, asking you to recount those moments.
Asking you to repeat over and over again how one moment your parents were there, and the next they were gone.
Ripping open the gaping wound in your heart that bleeds and weeps and aches.
Four people went to a party, and only two made it home.
-
The dream starts to dissolve, the sounds of Davie crying for his mother and father start to fragment and break off, like wispy clouds behind your eyes fluttering away in the wind. The world starts to form behind your eyes with it. A slow blink and you see a ceiling. Another and you see white walls. One more and you note the white sheets laying low against your hips.
There’s a steady beep, beep, beep sounding from somewhere in the distance. Like a metronome or a heartbeat. Heartbeat. A steady thrum, thrum, thrum, as the room starts to materialize before you.
Steve is sitting at your bedside, his eyes immediately locking with yours as you start to shift in the bed, body aching from even the slightest effort. “Hey, hey. Slow.”
“Steve,” you croak, wincing at the pain in your muscles, sore from fevers, “I can’t be here.”
“You need to lay down,” he urges, a hand at your shoulder, guiding you back against the pillows lining the bed.
Davie sits in the corner of the room on a rickety plastic chair, his feet kicking back and forth, not quite touching the ground yet.
“Davie,” you say, though it comes out as a breathy rasp. “Hey buddy, are you okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, dipping his head, “Steve got me a soda and a snack.”
You smile briefly at Steve, noting where his hand is wrapped around yours again, giving it a reassuring squeeze. That’s also when you notice the hospital bracelet around your wrist. Reality sparks to life like a live-wire, reminding you of the many reasons as to why being in a hospital is absolutely not in the budget at all.
Noticing your rising panic, Steve notes quickly, “The doctors think you have pneumonia. They’re running tests. You didn’t tell me you have asthma—that you’ve been neglecting your treatment of it.”
Something you’re sure is meant to assuage your anxiety only raises it, the heart rate monitor picking up speed. “Asthma costs money. Inhalers cost money. Tests cost money. Money I don’t have. I don’t have insurance. Sometimes the light bill has to come before anything else, or the oil bill, or new tires for my car. Sometimes Davie needs new clothes—”
“I know,” Steve says, a little solemnly this time, “Davie told me. But you don’t neglect yourself to do all of that, sweetheart.”
You’re so frustrated the pet name doesn’t even register in your mind. “Are they going to admit me?” Steve doesn’t say anything, which therein lies your answer. “I can’t do this. I was just catching up, and now this happens and I ruin it all.”
Davie, who has been silent thus far, jumps up from his chair. His eyes narrow. “You’re not ruining anything.”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as Davie glares down at the floor, the fear and hurt rolling off his form in waves. He’s scared, you know he’s scared. Can only fathom the way he found you earlier when he came home from school.
“Hey buddy, let’s just…cool off and sit down, okay?” Steve suggests, patting Davie’s shoulder as he settles back down on his chair. Steve pauses, his features hard…and a little nervous, which is out of character for him. “There might be a solution…”
You let out a weak laugh, breaking off into a cough. “I don’t suppose you have a few thousand dollars in your pocket, do you?”
“I’m a public school teacher,” he says, as if you don’t already know this about him.
You squint at him. “I know, Steve.”
“I don’t get paid a lot, but what I do have is health insurance…” he begins, turning to look at you, “and…it’s decent insurance.”
Your stomach plummets, understanding where this is going. “Steve, no.”
“If we were married, you’d be covered. Spouses are covered.”
“Married?!” Davie exclaims, breaking up the silence that stretches between you two.
“No, Davie. Steve has gone insane,” you scoff, coughing, “We’re not getting married.”
“I know,” Steve says immediately, “I know it sounds insane, but if you just think about it—”
“You’re talking about a marriage. We’re not even dating.”
“I know.”
“You’re my friend. A good friend. I can’t thank you enough for everything you do for me, but proposing in a hospital is crazy.”
Steve’s eyes flash at that word. “I’m not proposing. I’m offering a solution.”
You huff a laugh. “A solution isn’t marrying your friend because she’s gotten herself into a crappy situation.”
“People marry for even less,” Steve says, still firm despite your hesitance.
“And they likely regret it,” you point out.
“Is Steve going to be my brother?” Davie asks, coming to stand beside Steve.
Steve looks back at Davie, then at you. “You’d be able to at least afford to take care of yourself, without the fear of another medical bill. You’d get your prescriptions. You could take care of yourself so you can take care of Davie.”
It’s a low blow, but you know he’s correct. And you hate that the insane idea of a hasty marriage sounds so attractive.
“I just hate watching you refuse help. I know you can do it on your own, trust me I know you can. I’ve never seen someone work harder. But you don’t actually have to do it all on your own.”
“This is insane.”
“I know,” Steve agrees.
“It would change everything,” you say softly.
His thumb rubs the back of your hand. “I know.”
“I’m not saying yes tonight.”
Steve nods. “I don’t expect an answer tonight. If ever. I’m just…laying an option out there.”
“Okay,” you whisper, glancing over Steve’s shoulder to see Davie staring up at you, a fresh flicker of hope in his eyes, the idea lingering in the spaces between the three of you, suddenly so very real.
-
A doctor knocks on the door to enter some hours later. Davie is curled up on a little couch, his hand dangling off the side, Steve’s jean jacket a pillow for the boy. The man is older, graying hair around his temples, a clipboard in hand that he reads through quickly before approaching your beside.
“Alright,” he says gently, “let’s take a listen.”
You sit up with Steve’s helping hand, every moment driving that pain in your chest even deeper. The doctor asks you to breathe as the cool disc rests against your back, each harder than the last, a hacking cough that has his mouth tightening.
He leans back, draping his stethoscope around his neck, writing something within your chart. “Based on what I’m hearing, reviewing your vitals, and your chest x-ray, we’re looking at pneumonia. I’m going to admit you until your high fevers go down and you start to respond to the antibiotics.”
Davie starts to stir at the doctor’s words, his head lifting up off his makeshift pillow. You glance his way briefly, turning your attention back to the doctor. “I can’t stay. I don’t have insurance, I can’t afford—”
“Stop,” Davie interjects, just as the doctor excuses himself to allow a moment of familial privacy.
“Davie…”
“Just stop trying to be the hero for once.” And then he rushes to your bedside, crying into your shoulder. “I already lost mom and dad. I can’t lose you too.”
“Hey…” you coo, lifting his head, wiping at the tear streaked face of your little brother, “I’m just sick. I’ll get better, okay? I’m going to be fine.”
“Not if you don’t let them help you get better.”
Steve awkwardly shuffles closer, resting a hand on Davie’s shoulder. “Your sister isn’t leaving you, buddy. We’ll make sure of it, okay?” Davie nods, and Steve turns to you, quietly so Davie can’t hear, “I’m serious, we can fix this.”
“I told you it’s crazy,” you whisper back, a little too harshly.
“Please just think about it.”
You do.
You do think about it as the day passes, as you fall asleep and wake in that same hospital bed, eyes heavy when Steve announces he has to head in for work and that he’ll drop off Davie at school so you can rest. The only response you can give is a nod, before falling back to sleep. Hours pass like that, morning on the second day in the hospital passing in a blur of dreams and vital checks by nurses, with new antibiotics and a fresh inhaler.
The next day is more or less the same, giving you time to think. To really think.
Steve’s idea is crazy, but the look of worry in your brother’s face was a dose of reality you never once considered. What happens if you’re gone? What happens if it had been worse, if you left him afraid and alone? He’s already lost so much, too much, and there’s no part of you that ever wants to put him through that terror again if you can help it. And if you’re being honest, you’re tired. Tired of doing it on your town. Tired of fighting against a moving current trying to drag you down.
Sun streams through the hospital window as Steve and Davie coming barreling into the room, both laughing about something you have no inkling of. The growing closeness between them has your chest burning, and it has nothing to do with your current diagnosis.
“You two look like you’ve had a fun day,” you tease, reaching over to hug Davie as he slams into your side.
“Steve let me get McDonald’s on the way here.”
“Kid was hungry,” Steve says, shrugging, before pulling out a bag behind his back, “I also snuck us in some food. Figure it’s still not the greatest, but definitely better than whatever they’re feeding you here. I also heard someone might be discharged today. I guess antibiotics do work.”
“Hardy har,” you taunt, sticking your tongue out at him.
Grabby hands extend toward his bag of food, and Steve tuts, “She makes fun of me and then expects me to give her food.” Davie laughs, and Steve tosses the food your way. “Save some fries for me, will you?”
The three of you eat in comfortable quiet. Little chatter is shared about your days, yours the least eventful of the group. Steve had tests to grade for his health class, Davie spoke about how him and Holly successfully planned their next campaign, requesting to spend Saturday afternoon at the Wheeler’s house to play with his friends. And before long, the doctor gives you a final once over before deciding you’re well enough to head back home and finish your antibiotics and getting better in the comfort of your own bed.
The car ride brings with it a new wave of emotions. Thousands of thoughts swirl, decisions looming over your head. Davie sits in the back seat, forehead pressed against the glass as Steve pulls up in front of your home.
There’s a beat of silence and then, “Davie, can do you mind running inside and making macaroni and cheese for us?”
“For Steve too?” he asks, practically beaming for the first time in two days.
“Stay for dinner?” you ask, chewing on your bottom lip.
“Sure,” he agrees.
“You’re in luck! Macaroni and cheese is my specialty,” Davie muses, reaching over to take the house keys out of your extended palm, “thanks! Love you!”
“Love you too,” you call back, waiting until the door is closed to break the silence, “Okay.”
Steve’s brows arch. “Okay?”
“I’ll…do it.”
“Do what?” He blinks.
“Please, Steve. It’s already crazy enough for me to agree, don’t make me say it.”
“Are you proposing marriage to me?” Steve claps a hand over his chest, gasping in mock shock.
“Steve!” Coughing fills the car, and his palm comes up to rub between your shoulder blades. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And we’re engaged.”
You balk. “We are not engaged. We’re entering into a highly questionable marriage agreement.”
Steve’s lips spread into a wide grin. “Can I buy you a ring at least?”
“No.” You shake your head.
“How are we going to sell it then?”
“A cheap ring. Maybe,” you concede. He lets out a whoop. “You’re enjoying this a little too much.”
“I’m enjoying that you’re smiling.” And it’s then you realize you are. There’s a lightness you’ve been missing, the kind of lightness that comes around when he’s near.
“We’re still us,” you tell him, biting at your lip. “We don’t change.”
“Exactly. You’re you, and I’m me. Just…we gain some fancy new paperwork and legal benefits.”
“Right.”
“I am going to have fun telling people you’re my wife. ‘She totally loves me, don’t let the scowl fool you.’”
“Steve!” You playfully thwack him on the shoulder, grinning like mad at the laughter that bubbles up from him. “If I’m getting health insurance, what are you getting out of this?”
“I mean…I love Davie. You guys are also pretty great.”
“Spill it, Harrington.”
“My lease on my apartment is up soon. There’s a place I’ve been saving for, I don’t have enough yet but I will soon—”
“I have a spare room,” you interject. “You’ll move in. To sell the…marriage.”
“Cool. Cool.” Steve nods. “And you’re not just getting insurance. You’re getting help and time to do things for yourself again. Maybe even get afloat.”
You don’t even know what that looks like, but the idea sounds wonderful. “But if you tell anyone you proposed to me in a hospital, I’ll kill you Harrington.”
“Anything for you, future wife.”
“Steve!”
-
Upon entering the home, the two of you find Davie standing on a chair in the kitchen and swirling a spoon in a boiling pot of water. Normally you’d yell for him to get down, but the adrenaline of the day is wearing off.
Sensing this, Steve rests a hand on the middle of your back and leads you to the stairway. “Okay. Bed to lay down now. No arguing.”
He loops an arm around your waist and you protest weakly, “I’m not that weak.”
“Let me,” he urges, helping you up the stairs, “I’m practicing for our marriage vows.”
“You’re going to enjoy this, aren’t you?”
“Way too much,” he says, steering you toward your bed, propping up a pillow behind you. He rests your antibiotics and inhaler on the bedside table. “You keep your inhaler nearby and you follow the doctor’s instructions for your medicine. Okay?”
“Someone is bossy.”
Steve settles down beside you on the bed, suddenly serious. “You scared me. When I found you like that…”
You glance down at your hands, sorrowful. “I know.”
“Don’t do it again, okay? Davie needs you,” he says, not teasing now. No joking in his tone.
“Okay.”
“I’m serious. Don’t push yourself like that. Let me help, let friends help, let people in.”
“Because you’re going to be my fake husband?” you laugh, a little watery.
“No,” he says, looking you in the eye, “because you’re my friend. And I care about you.”
His tone is so gentle, so sincere. “Okay,” you agree.
“Rest a little, okay? I’ll let you know when Davie is done cooking us our five star dinner.”
You laugh. “Okay.”
“Tomorrow we can talk…details.”
“Tomorrow.”
Tomorrow then.