Chapter Text
"Boys! Don't go too far!"
You haven't been in Hawkins long, but it does warm your heart to see your boys taking to it so well. Granted, they're pretty young–two and six–so they don't have much else to compare it to, but it's still relieving to see them have such carefree smiles as they run around the front yard.
And even if there is trouble, which your friends back home had warned you about extensively, there's someone you know you can count on.
Steve Harrington, your close neighbor, has done more for you in the short time of knowing him than anybody has in the last few years, including your now ex-husband. He's a younger guy–you thought he was still in high school, and he was happy to hear he still had his looks despite being in his early twenties–but he is by far one of the most responsible young men you've ever met. Selfless and sweet, he offered to help you with your boxes the first day you moved in, and since then he's been your man on hand for anything you need done. Steve's moved furniture for you, checked under the hood of your car when it crapped out on you, fixed leaky taps and the audio on your tv, and generally has been a helping hand when you've needed it. You weren't sure what his motivations were at first, but as you've gotten to know him, you've realized that it's just who he is. He thoroughly enjoys babysitting your kids and giving you a hand whenever possible, and the dinners you serve him and cookies you push into his hands after he's done some chore for you are probably pretty good incentives too.
It's honestly baffling to think that you've gotten so lucky. Some of your friends have encouraged you to go after him, to scoop up such a cute little thing while you still have a chance–and some of the more critical ones have admonished you for taking so much out of such a selfless young man. He's clearly a nice boy, but you must be "sucking him dry" just because you've been struggling as a single mom. Those comments certainly hurt, and it makes you question whether you're really taking advantage of Steve. He's such a sweet boy and he never says no, but maybe he feels like he can't?
So, since they brought that up at your last outing a couple weeks ago (one made possible by Steve offering to entertain the kids for an evening), you've asked for his help less. Haven't knocked on his door to ask if he wants to watch the kids for awhile, and you've had the check engine light on in your car for about a week now that you haven't gotten Steve to look at, and you haven't had time to take it to the mechanic either. And he hasn't said anything at all, hasn't rung up your house or knocked on the door to ask if you need anything–well, he has, but you weren't home and you didn't even realize–so at this point you've just assumed they were right. Poor Steve is probably so grateful he's gotten a break from you, you're sure now, even though it stings.
"Boys! C'mon–grab your brother, please." You call out into the yard as you haul the last box into your trunk, the old maternity clothes and other items you've collected to bring to the secondhand shop rustling around inside as you slide it all the way in. Though you make a decent wage at the general store downtown, you can't work too much with your kids, especially since Steve hasn't been babysitting. But even before then, you've been scrimping and saving since your first was born–and you could roll your eyes to the moon thinking about how their father refuses to send them even a penny. He hasn't contributed to their doctor's visits or daycare or even bought them a new pair of sneakers, along with the fact that he hasn't seen either of them in years. He didn't even show up to your youngest's birth, too busy off drinking and partying with his friends while you pushed out his second child alone.
With a grunt followed by a deep sigh, you slam the trunk closed and walk around the side of the car, your driver's side door already open for you to drop yourself into the seat. One foot out on the pavement in case one of the boys falls and an ear out for any crying or screaming, you pick the keys up from where they've sat on the passenger's seat and stick them into the ignition. One turn, and nothing. Another two, and it starts rumbling, only to fall silent.
"C'mon!" You groan, trying it again and again and revving it a bit when you get a glimpse of hope. There's so much start and stop rumbling that you're only about ten percent focused on what the boys are doing, and you bring your fist down hard on the dashboard as if to wake the piece of junk up. You can't afford a new one, you need this thing to fucking start.
"C'mon, you stupid piece of-"
That sentence would have been finished if a horrible groaning sound didn't cut you off, rumbling harder than you've ever heard–but then, after a beat of silence when you're just about to try the ignition again, an even louder sound pierces your ears and your hood bursts open in a cloud of black smoke.
"Jesus-!" You reel back with an arm braced in front of you, the fumes choking you out instantly and bringing a sting to your eyes that blacks out your vision. Crackling, a thrumming in your ears, and the sound of feet hitting the pavement all compound on you as you start coughing and hacking.
A pair of hands are tugging on your arm in those precious few seconds, pulling you out of your seat for your sandal-clad feet to hit the concrete of your driveway as you stagger out of your car and into the chest of someone you can't see, not with your eyes squeezed shut. But they tear away from you as you stand there coughing and retching, and you manage to wrench your gaze up to see through the smog–and there stands Steve in his blue polo shirt, having ducked into your open garage to grab the extinguisher, and aiming it at the hood and spraying it with a strong hand. Your savior. That's all you can think as he doesn't flinch away from the fire and moves from side to side to spray the foam at every angle, until the flames have died down to a smoldering heap of charred, black metal that once was an engine. Only then do you turn to look at your boys, both of them stopped and staring with wide eyes from across the lawn, and cough out for them to stay there and not move, to keep away from the driveway.
"Hey, c'mon." Steve's hand is on your arm again, and he guides you to the front porch for you to step up on before he hustles across the grass to collect your sons. Your youngest scooped up in the crook of his arm and your eldest with his hand in Steve's, you watch from the open doorway until he's pulling them up the steps to get inside and take a breath of the air conditioning to try and clear out your lungs.
"Mama?" Your six-year-old pulls on your shirt, and looks up at you with those big eyes while Steve shuts the door and soothes your youngest with a few bounces in his arm. You stroke his hair, wanting to say some comforting words, but it feels like if you even open your mouth to say them you might throw up.
"Go on, boys. In the playroom for a sec, okay? Mama's okay." He ushers them into the other room before he pulls you into the living room, making sure they're out of earshot before he starts fussing over you. Steve encourages you to breathe deeply, he even runs to get you a glass of water and waits for you to finish it, before he plucks it out of your hands and sets it down on the coffee table, and you feel like you can finally get some words out as he brushes some imaginary dust off your clothes.
"I'm fine, Steve. Promise. God, I've been meaning to check it out for the past week, but I just didn't-"
"You what?" Out of nowhere his eyes narrow, and his voice grows low and serious like you've never heard it. "You've been driving around in that death trap for a week? Why didn't you tell me?!"
You feel like a kid being admonished, and really, you deserve it. You were being an absolute idiot, and you fully expect Steve to call you as such. You rub at your arms, still feeling the heat from the fire on your skin.
"I-I dunno…" Steve sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. "M'sorry, Steve."
"Sorry? Why are you sorry? I'm just worried about you–I can't have you driving around in that thing if it's not safe." It takes the tension to hang there for a bit before you let all that other stuff just….fly out.
"I'm…I was…I've been avoiding you. Cause I thought I was working you too hard." Those few beats of silence absolutely tear your heart up. You're totally certain he's just going to leave, just walk out of your house while muttering about how stupid you are and how much of a bitch you must be–it stings even more to realize that those words are too familiar for you to just conjure up. They're ones you've heard before, ones you expect .
"Baby…" Whoa. You've never heard him call you that before–and not in that tone either, so soft and delicate and sweet . "You're not working me at all. I like taking care of you." He takes your shoulders in his hands, rubbing them a little bit, and tilts his head to look at you with reverence in his eyes.
"B-But I ask for help with everything. And you don't even take any money for babysitting, and I–I just feel like I'm taking-" He ducks his head down, and his lips smother any other babbling you might have tried to let out–warm and soft and there , he's right here, and he swallows that anxiety like it weighs nothing before he finally breaks off. Steve just kissed you. He kissed you.
"Steve!" You gasp out in consternation, and your hands are on his chest in moments, but even so, there's no way you'd wriggle out of his grasp. He's just too strong.
"I've wanted to do that for so long." He sighs, he can't even manage to get out an apology for taking you off guard, his giddy smile won't allow the words to come out.
"Steve, I–"
"Mama!" Both your heads turn to the side, and you pull your hands off Steve to see your son waddling towards you. "Mama, juice!" Your little one reaches for you, but in your hesitation, he turns and holds out those stubby arms to Steve instead. It draws your heart into a rushed beat to see your baby take to Steve like that, better than his own father, who you're sure he wouldn't even recognize…it makes you second guess yourself, but just for a moment.
"I…y-yes, honey, I'll get you some juice. Just give mama a second." You turn your gaze back to Steve, searching for any kind of answer or any words at all. But he says what you can't so effortlessly.
"I'll see you later tonight."
"Steve, my boys-"
"Already have a sitter planned. We can talk alone." He pats your shoulder and hesitates on taking it away, but when he does, he tousles your son's hair with a smile and a "seeya later, buddy" before his footsteps patter down the hall and you listen for the soft thunk of your front door being pulled closed behind him.
What can you do but throw your thoughts to the side, and focus on taking care of the boys until then? Thinking and worrying on it won't abate those conflicting feelings swirling in your stomach, nor solve the problem of how you're gonna tell Steve that this won't work, that you can't reciprocate his feelings, even though in your heart and soul that's all you want and you know it. All you can do is watch the clock, and wait….and hope dearly that this isn't the beginning of the end.