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Soft music played in the kitchen as Steve stirred a pot of noodles on the stove. It wasn’t unusual for the teenager to have the radio on; most days, it was the only way to breathe a little life into the empty house. What was somewhat new, however, was the choice of music. Where Steve used to turn to the rock station and crank the volume up as loud as he could stand it, now he had it set to a smooth jazz channel, the volume turned to a moderate volume. He no longer listened to spite his parents with his choice of music; rather, he listened to calm his nerves, to keep himself from panicking in the moments he remembered that terrible night at the Byer’s house. The memory of the flashing lights and screams was chaotic, making his heart race, and the first time it happened when Steve had his regular station playing, the tempo of the music pounded too closely in sync with that of his heartbeat playing on his eardrums. In comparison, the mellow, soft beats of the jazz music were like an evenly-paced guide for him to follow as he talked himself down from the bouts of panic.
Like now, as Steve heard a crash outside and immediately had visions of sharp teeth and clammy flesh. Breathing in slowly, he focused on the quiet tune, humming along to its familiar melody until his heart stopped threatening to jackhammer out of his chest. It was just raccoons, likely the same ones that tore into his garbage cans last week. Steve heaved a heavy sigh and ran a hand through his hair, telling himself that it was nothing and that he just had to make sure to right the cans again.
Still, it was best to err on the side of caution, so Steve turned off the stove and grabbed a broom on the way to the door.
It was cold as he stepped outside, and the music faded out as he closed the sliding door all but a crack. Steam rose off the water of his pool, and Steve turned away from the sight, his stomach churning at the memory of the night Barbara died. He rounded the pool shack, broom held aloft, steeling himself for masked fur balls or razor-sharp rows of teeth. In the low light from the house windows, he saw one of the trash cans tipped over, no signs of raccoons or flesh-eating monsters to be seen.
Exhaling gratefully, Steve propped his broom against the shack and righted the trash can. A chill went down his spine as he heard the noise, a strangled gasp. In moments, he whipped around, fingers fumbling for the broom. He held it aloft with a battle cry, brandishing the makeshift weapon at the small girl.
She screamed as he did, and Steve echoed the noise in surprise as he stumbled back a couple of steps, lowering the broom. Huddling against the generator used for heating the pool, wedged between it and the house and shrouded in shadow, was a pale, thin girl. Her eyes were wide, and her hair shaved close to her head. She held a hand up between them, her fingers smudged with dirt. A desperate look strained her young face, terror twisting her expression.
The broom dropped to the ground, and Steve held his hands up placatingly. “Hey,” He paused as his voice cracked with stress, clearing his throat and starting again with a softer tone. “Hey, I'm not going to hurt you. It's okay.”
She eyed him warily, distrustful. He couldn't blame her, given how he introduced himself and what he knew about her history. Which was admittedly rather little, but Steve doubted there was more than one bald child on the run from the lab.
“I'm not going to hurt you, I promise. You're safe.” He soothed quietly, backing up another couple of steps so she wouldn't feel trapped. He didn't understand what she was doing here or how she was alive when she supposedly had died, but Steve knew without question that he was telling her the truth. He maybe wasn't a great person, but only a monster would hand this child back to the people who released a literal monster into their town.
She still didn't look convinced, but as a stiff breeze blew by, her hand lowered, tucking itself into her side as they both shivered from the cold. Steve realized then that she was curled against the generator for the modicum of heat it gave off.
Steve rubbed his arms as another blast of wind hit, the smallest of snowflakes coming with it. “It's pretty cold out here, huh?” He asked rhetorically, remembering that there was snow in the forecast, and it was getting colder every second he spent out there. “It's a lot warmer inside.” He told her, taking a gamble and stepping closer, hoping she wouldn’t blast him back. She looked scared as he got close, a pleading look in her eyes, but her hands stayed tucked to her chest.
“My name is Steve.” He knelt before her, hoping his smile conveyed nothing but good intentions.
“Steve.” The girl echoed, her voice a little hoarse and painful, and Steve's resolve to get her somewhere warm as soon as possible doubled. Winter was at the doorstep, and who knew the last time she was warm. “I'm- I'm El.”
“El,” Steve repeated, copying her affirmation as he remembered what Hopper said about her actual name, Eleven. No more than a number in the eyes of the men who made her. The thought boiled Steve's blood, and a surge of righteous rage welled in his chest. El needed protection, and damn it if Steve wasn't going to give it to her. He held a hand out to her slowly, making sure to telegraph his moves. “Well, El. Why don't we get you inside where it's warm?” He suggested, nodding towards his hand as he signaled her to take it.
She stared at him for a long moment, but he could see the wariness slipping away in favor of exhaustion. Slowly, her small hand took his, her fingers like icicles as they wrapped around his.
“There we go,” Steve murmured, gently pulling her up. He grabbed the broom in his left hand, propping it against his shoulder, and kept hold of her hand with his right as they walked. “You'll be warm in no time,” Steve assured her as he led her to the door. “Hey, you like mac'n'cheese?”
“...Is it like Eggos?”
“Even better. You'll see.”