Chapter Text
The nurses at the hospital wouldn’t let him put Eddie’s vest back on. When Steve peeks into the plastic bag they put it in he can sort of see why; it’s stiff with blood and filth and stinks of the Upside Down. He has to clean it. Eddie would want—
Steve puts the bag down at the foot of his bed. The walkie Dustin pressed on him goes in the closet, switched off. The little paper bag containing his newly prescribed antibiotics goes on the nightstand. He’s so tired. He closes the curtains against the morning sun and stares at the grime on his hands. He should wash up.
He avoids looking in the mirror, making a beeline for the tub and grabbing the showerhead before kneeling on the bath mat. Getting out of the stupid hospital scrub top takes three painful tries and requires some pretty undignified wriggling but at least no one is there to see it. The adhesive bandages underneath are stark white, skin around them stained with iodine. Steve grabs a towel off the rack, wets it and starts gingerly scrubbing at his abs and chest. It’s slow going, dried blood and dirt and debris ground deep into his skin. He washes his hands, his arms, and then takes a deep breath before leaning his chest against the rim of the tub and raising his arms to wash his hair. The gashes in his sides pull and he can’t help the pitiful whine that escapes his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut against the tears that finally threaten to spill over, tilting his face so the water gets in his eyes.
He uses shampoo and conditioner on autopilot, gritting his teeth against the pain in his sides. It doesn’t matter. When he’s done he slumps against the side of the tub and stares at the bottom of the vanity. He’d turned down anything stronger than Tylenol at the hospital so he could drive himself home. He’s regretting it now. His sides throb dully and there’s a stabbing pain behind his eyes that radiates down his neck all the way to his fingertips.
Steve doesn’t know how long he sits there, droplets of water from his hair running down his shoulders. His body feels far away, like it belongs to someone else. By the time he comes back to himself he’s starting to shiver. He rolls to his feet and realizes his job is only halfway done. Getting out of his crusty pants is another feat of heroism no one is there to witness. He ends up perched on the rim of the tub, listlessly watching the water sluice down his shins while he works up the energy to clean his filthy feet. When his feet are clean he can go to bed.
He gets out of the tub and tries not to step in the streaks of dirt and flakes of dried blood on the floor. He wraps the last clean towel around his waist and drapes the dirty one across his arm. He’s halfway across the threshold when it occurs to him: He has to brush his teeth. He’s pretty sure he still has Demobat gunk stuck in between his molars.
Steve sighs, hanging his head. One more thing. Then he can go to bed.
The dirty towel can wait until later. He tosses it towards the bathtub without looking and turns to the sink, grabbing his toothbrush and toothpaste. When he looks in the mirror, Eddie’s staring back at him.
Steve closes his eyes. When he opens them again Eddie’s mouth is open, like he’s saying something. No, yelling. He’s staring Steve down and yelling without making a sound. He raises his arms and slaps both palms against the mirror. Steve flinches back a step. Eddie presses closer, eyes wild, breath fogging up the glass. He keeps shouting and banging soundlessly against the surface.
Steve shuts his eyes again and keeps them closed as he gropes behind him for the door, stumbling over the discarded scrubs and kicking them blindly into the hall with his heel. He doesn’t open his eyes again until he’s safely on the other side, door closed. He stuffs the scrubs in the trash downstairs and finishes brushing his teeth in the kitchen sink, careful not to look at any reflective surfaces. He goes back upstairs and falls into bed. Mercifully, he sleeps.
His bladder wakes him up eventually. Steve blinks up at the ceiling, trying to figure out how much of this morning was a nightmare. Maybe his wounds are infected and the fever is making him hallucinate. That happened to him once, when he was eleven and had the mumps. He’d seen his Nana standing at the foot of the bed even though he knew she was back home in Richmond. That’s the thing though — he’d known on some level it wasn’t real, that he was sick. The whole thing had been sort of fuzzy. Eddie in the mirror had looked very real. It looked like he was right there.
It has to be a fever. If it’s a fever he just has to keep taking his antibiotics and eventually he’ll get better. He grabs the little paper bag and swallows the pills dry, gets out of bed and pulls some pants on before venturing downstairs to the guest bathroom. His hair is probably a mess but he doesn’t want to look in the mirror to confirm it.
He digs a Tylenol out of the kitchen junk drawer and eats breakfast. He calls Robin, like he promised.
“It’s not breakfast if it’s 7 PM, dingus,” she says, voice tired but warm. “Sounds like you got some sleep, at least.”
“Sure, yeah, I got some sleep,” Steve says, and decides then and there not to mention his little Eddie episode to anyone unless it happens again. They all have enough to worry about as it is. Speaking of…
“Have we heard from Max and the Sinclairs yet?” he asks. By the time Steve and the remaining members of the Upside Down team finally got to the Creel house it was empty, no sign of the kids anywhere. They must have walked home, Steve tells himself for the tenth time. Vecna’s dead. It’s over.
“No one’s picking up,” Robin says. Steve takes an unsteady breath. “But I talked to Nancy, and she says she saw Lucas and Erica get in the car with their parents this afternoon.”
Steve’s exhale is harsh in his throat. They’re okay. They must be. They’ll call when they can. He spends a few more minutes on the phone with Robin, letting the sound of her voice fill up the blank spaces in his head.
He puts his plate in the sink and catches his reflection in the kitchen window. It looks— normal. He cautiously raises his hand; window-Steve does the same.
His parents aren’t home but Steve’s not sure when they’ll be back, so he sets about erasing any traces of his brush with the Upside Down. He puts on a shirt and goes down to the garage and details his car, cleaning mud and blood out of the upholstery and footwells, washing the windows and giving the exterior a cursory wipe-down. His sides ache and throb but he feels calmer afterwards, less like he’s coming apart at the seams.
He decides to brave the upstairs bathroom again. He left his crusty pants and the stained towel in there earlier. They’re probably a lost cause but either way Steve needs to make sure his mom doesn’t find them like that.
The door is still closed, like he’d left it. He pushes it open cautiously; the light’s still on. His pants are on the floor by the tub where he left them, dirty towel draped over the rim. He steels himself and opens the door wide enough to see the mirror.
It does not show his reflection, or any sign of Eddie. Instead there’s an SOS scrawled in clumsy three-inch white letters across the surface. Steve thinks it might be soap.
He definitely can’t explain that to his mom. He grabs a hand towel and steps closer to start scrubbing, the wrongness of having no reflection itching at the back of his brain.
He catches a glimpse of brown curls beyond his wrist and instinctively looks down at the toilet next to him. Nothing. He looks back in the mirror.
Eddie’s slumped over on the closed lid, hands dangling limply between his knees. He’s wearing Steve’s objectively disgusting pants.
For a moment Steve just stands there, towel pressed unmoving against the mirror, staring at Eddie. Eddie’s ribs expand and contract as he breathes. He shows no sign of having heard Steve come in.
Steve opens his mouth, clears his throat. Eddie’s head whips around. His lips move as he gets up and stands in front of the vanity again but Steve still can’t hear him. Eddie looks— fine. Not a mark on him, except for his tattoos. Steve never knew he had so many. Is he hallucinating those too?
He realizes he’s staring as Eddie shifts and crosses his arms, shoulders slightly hunched. Steve hurriedly looks back at his face, feeling his own face heat. He opens his mouth again, not sure what he’s going to say until he says it.
“Why are you wearing my clothes?”
Eddie’s face does something funny. He launches into an explanation, or maybe a tirade, jabbing a finger at Steve more than once. He grabs the blood-stained towel Steve used to clean up this morning and waves it accusingly.
“I can’t actually hear you, man,” Steve says.
Eddie sighs visibly and runs a hand over his face. He’s not wearing his rings. He looks back at Steve and flips him off. “Hey!” Steve says. Eddie shrugs.
Steve isn’t sure how to ask, but he has to know: “So, uh— are you still…”
Eddie just looks at him.
“You know…“ Steve gestures awkwardly. “Uh. Alive?”
Eddie looks down at his hands, mouth twisting unhappily. He shrugs. Steve gets the sense he’d be fiddling with his rings if he was still wearing them. He looks so small and sad, bare bony shoulders curled inward. Steve wishes he could lend him a jacket or something.
“Hey,” he says, leaning closer to the mirror. “We’ll figure this out, okay?”
Eddie looks up at him again. He actually has nice eyes, big and dark with delicate lashes. Steve maybe zones out a little because he startles when Eddie’s hand whips out and raps soundlessly on the glass between them. He says something. Steve shrugs, wishing he was any good at reading lips. Eddie rolls his eyes and mimes writing something on his hand.
“Oh!” Steve says, and runs to his room to grab a notepad and pen from his desk. He steps back into the bathroom and hesitates. “So do I just— try to push it through the mirror or something?”
Eddie’s reaction is actually pretty insulting, thanks.
“Well how am I supposed to know how this shit works?” Steve says. “I’ve never had someone living in my bathroom mirror before.”
Eddie gestures emphatically at an empty spot on the vanity and says something like put it down. Or maybe it’s you’re a clown. Steve huffs and puts the notepad and pen on the counter. When he looks over to Eddie’s side they’ve appeared in the exact spot he left them. Eddie snatches them up and starts writing, tongue poking out of his mouth. Steve picks the pen up again just to see if it’ll affect anything on Eddie’s side, but it doesn’t. He moves it to different parts of the room; nothing. Finally he sticks his hand out over the threshold and looks back just in time to see Eddie’s empty hand slap into the notepad mid-scribble. Eddie’s head snaps up. He drops the notepad and spreads his hands wide, like what the fuck, man!
“Sorry,” Steve says. “Just wanted to see what would happen.”
Eddie glares mutinously at him and flips him off with both hands. Steve huffs out a laugh and puts the pen back down on the counter, holding his palms up in surrender. Eddie snatches it up and starts writing again. It’s only a moment or two until he’s pressing the notepad against the mirror.
I am wearing these disgusting pants to shield your virgin eyes from sights your mortal mind cannot comprehend
they are an affront to my dignity
PLEASE lend me something clean
PS FUCK YOU
"Okay, first of all, not a virgin," Steve says. Eddie’s hand flutters to his chest in mock surprise. "Also, rude."
He goes back to his room and digs around in his dresser for a t-shirt and an old pair of Hawkins Tigers track pants and, after a moment’s hesitation, a pair of briefs. He puts them down on the toilet lid and waits for Eddie to pick them up. Eddie makes a face at the track pants and mouths really?
Steve rolls his eyes. “Whatever, man, just get changed.”
Eddie raises his eyebrows and gives him a significant look. Steve gives him a look right back. Eddie huffs and holds up a finger, twirling it around. Oh. Steve turns away.
He’s not sure how long he should wait, since Eddie has no way of letting him know he’s done. He counts to twenty and then turns around again. Eddie’s still pulling the t-shirt over his head. When his head pops through and he sees Steve looking he grabs the notepad and flips to another page, jotting down a new message before holding the pad up, smirking.
Enjoying the show?
“What?” Steve says with a shrug. “Should’ve been quicker. Besides, you’ve already seen me naked.” Which is maybe a weird thing to say, now that it’s out there. Whatever. He waves it aside. “Anyway, what are you doing in my mirror?”
Eddie writes, frowning absently. He holds up the pad.
I was with Dustin and then I woke up here and couldn’t leave.
Wait. Steve and the girls pulled Dustin away from Eddie’s— away from Eddie and climbed back through the gate almost 18 hours ago. The RV was gone, so Steve had to bike all the way to his house from Forest Hills to pick up the car so he could drive the three of them home, and then he’d spent hours in the E.R. waiting room.
“Have you been here since you…?”
No idea. Not sure what day it is. Felt like a long time.
“Shit, man, sorry,” Steve says. “I mean, sorry I just left you in here this morning. I kinda thought I was losing it.”
Eddie smiles a little and writes some more. He holds up the notepad and taps it against his head.
Join the fucking club.
“Are you okay?” Steve says, and immediately feels dumb. “I mean— do you need anything else? A sandwich or something? You’ve gotta be hungry by now.”
Eddie stares at the notepad for a little while before he writes again.
I’d kill for a cigarette.
“I don’t think I have any,” Steve says apologetically. “I only really smoke at parties. You sure about the food? I make a mean PB&J.”
Eddie’s not looking at him. He picks up a decorative seashell soap and turns it over in his hands, puts it down again. Finally he sighs and picks up the pad again.
I don’t think I can get hungry anymore. Or thirsty. Or tired.
“Oh,” Steve says. The memory of Eddie’s crumpled, bleeding body in Dustin’s arms slams back into him with a vengeance. Eddie doesn’t need anything because he’s dead, he’s a ghost, and he’s somehow stuck in Steve’s fucking bathroom. Probably because Steve let him down, Steve left him with Dustin and wasn’t there to save him. He’ll have to come in here every morning and face the reminder that they failed, that he failed, and now Eddie is dead. He thinks he’s maybe going to throw up.
He sits down on the floor and leans against the side of the tub, knees pulled up. His sides throb and his chest feels tight. He scrubs a hand through his hair and pulls a little. “I’m sorry,” he says, but no sound comes out. Steve clears his throat and tries again. “I’m sorry.”
He wipes his nose and tilts his head back against the rim. On the other side of the mirror, Eddie is crouched on top of the counter, palm pressed against the glass. He looks distressed. When Steve looks up he gropes around for the notepad and scrawls a message without breaking eye contact. He holds up the pad.
I’m sorry
Steve blinks.
"What are you sorry for? You’re the one who—" He needs to just say it. "Died. You died and we just left you there." He’s— yeah, he’s maybe crying a little.
Eddie shakes his head. His handwriting is getting messier. He presses the pad against the mirror.
It’s not your fault
“I should have been there,” Steve whispers. “I should have done something.” His eyes slide away from the mirror. But no, he has to keep looking at Eddie, because if Steve’s not looking at him Eddie can’t communicate. Steve doesn’t want to do that to him.
There’s a new message on the pad.
Steve, please
He has to get it together. For Eddie. Eddie’s still here, somehow, and Steve can’t keep letting him down. He takes a deep breath, and another, and another. He scrubs a shaky hand across his face. “I’m okay,” he says. “I’m okay. Just give me a minute.”
Eddie puts the notepad down and shifts around, settling against the mirror, hair falling in his face. He doesn’t take his eyes off Steve.
“Sorry,” Steve says, once his heart has finally slowed down. He feels wrung out, exhausted despite having slept most of the day away. He wipes at his eyes, faintly embarrassed.
Eddie’s still on top of the vanity, arms wrapped around his knees, looking tense. He reaches for the notepad and props it on one thigh as he writes, hesitating for a long moment before holding it up.
Did we win?
“Oh shit,” Steve says. Eddie doesn’t know. He missed it. While they were firebombing Vecna he was bleeding out in Dustin’s arms.
Eddie’s starting to look concerned. “Yes,” Steve says quickly. “Yeah, we did. We made him pay. He’s dead.”
All the tension in Eddie’s body evaporates at once. He closes his eyes and tilts his head back against the cabinet behind him. Steve has the uneasy thought that maybe this is what Eddie stuck around for. Maybe now that he knows he’ll disappear.
He doesn’t. His eyes open again after a few moments and he smiles at Steve. The smile softens his face, crinkles his big dark eyes up at the corners. Steve’s heart does a funny little kick in his chest. Eddie picks up the notepad again.
Our hero!
He flutters his eyelashes at Steve like something out of a cartoon.
Steve laughs and rolls his eyes. “It was a team effort,” he says. “You should have seen Nancy with that shotgun, she was terrifying.”
For some reason this makes Eddie’s smile turn wistful. He writes again.
Tell me more.
So Steve does. He tells Eddie about being caught by the vines, and thinking they were all going to die on the walls of the Creel house until the vines retreated without warning; about the molotovs and Nancy’s shotgun and the way Vecna almost fell through a window; about the way he suddenly shriveled before their eyes and crumbled to ash and bone. Despite the lack of noise Eddie is a very reactive audience, clutching his shirt and biting his fingers and making faces like he’s in a silent movie, clapping when Steve gets to the end.
He leaves out the part where they made their way back to the gate and found Dustin cradling Eddie’s lifeless body, surrounded by piles of dead Demobats. Eddie already knows how he died. He doesn’t need to hear it again.
Steve gets up eventually. He splashes some water on his face, scrubbing at the dried-up tear tracks. It’s not until he’s standing there dripping all over his t-shirt that he realizes there aren’t any clean towels left.
“Shit, hold on, I’ll be right back,” he says. He goes to the hallway linen closet and grabs a pile of fresh towels and a soft wool blanket. If Eddie can’t leave the bathroom Steve will at least do his best to make him comfortable.
He walks back in and sees Eddie still on the counter, doodling a skull and crossbones on the mirror with a seashell soap. Steve drops the towels by the sink. “Hey, no no no, what if my parents come back and see that?”
Eddie pauses and levels him with a look. He puts the soap down and picks up the pad.
That’s what you’re worried about them seeing?
Steve grimaces. “Okay, yeah, but if you stay out of sight they might not notice anything different. Mom only comes in here if it’s messy.”
Eddie stares him down. It’d maybe be a little more intimidating if he wasn’t wearing a Lite Rock 107.9 WTPI shirt Steve got from a giveaway in Indy a couple years ago.
“Come on, man,” Steve says. “Do you really want to deal with my parents freaking out?”
It takes a minute but Eddie eventually rolls his entire head and grabs one of the towels Steve brought and scrubs at the mirror until all traces of soap are gone, including the SOS from earlier. He tosses the towel in the bathtub and gestures at the clean mirror like Vanna White.
“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Steve says. Eddie wrinkles his nose and climbs down off the counter.
Steve moves the clean towels to the rack and picks up the dirty laundry off the floor, tucking it under his arm. If anyone actually comes into his bathroom and sees the malfunctioning mirror he’s toast, but getting rid of anything with blood stains on it will at least make that less likely. He absently looks around for anything else out of place. Might as well put the clean clothes away while he’s at it.
He scoops them up off the toilet lid and is halfway to his dresser before it clicks. He darts back into the bathroom. In the mirror Eddie is bright red, snarling with fury. He’s also very naked.
“I swear that wasn’t on purpose,” Steve says, face hot. He drops the pile of clothes on the closed toilet again. “I’ll, uh, I’ll go deal with the laundry.”
He’s halfway downstairs when he remembers Eddie’s vest. He goes back and picks up the bag at the foot of the bed. The vest is in bad shape, yeah, but he’s gotten pretty good at removing blood stains. He takes it down to the laundry room and pulls out all the usual tricks, cold water and peroxide and salt and a lot of detergent. Some of the stains are stubborn and the pins have started to tarnish, but with a bit of elbow grease he gets it very nearly clean. He lines the pins up carefully on the countertop and puts the vest on a coat hanger to dry. The towel he leaves to soak; the pants go straight in the garbage. He has plenty of clothes. He takes the trash out and makes sure anything bloodstained is hidden out of sight.
Eddie’s pacing when he comes back. “Sorry,” Steve says immediately. Eddie shrugs, tossing a seashell from palm to palm. Steve gets the impression Eddie’s trying to look unaffected but his jaw is tight, shoulders held stiffly. It must suck, not being able to go anywhere.
Steve gets an idea. “Let me go get a chair, okay? I’ll be right back, I promise.”
He goes to his room and picks up the little easy chair by the bed and lugs it into the bathroom, sweating and trembling with the effort. He doesn’t remember it being so heavy. He jams it awkwardly into the corner behind the door, breathing hard. It barely fits.
He sits down heavily to catch his breath and realizes he can’t see it in the mirror from there, which means if Eddie also sits down they won’t see each other. “Fuck,” he says.
Eddie, standing by the sink, eyes the chair dubiously. He holds up the pad. You couldn’t find a smaller one?
Steve wipes an arm across his clammy forehead. “I mean, yeah, but this one is more comfortable.”
Eddie’s grin as he writes is sly, tongue poking between his teeth. Well, we can’t begrudge the king his comforts, I suppose.
Steve really hates it when people call him that. “It’s not really for me, though,” he says. “I mean, you’re the one who’s stuck here.”
He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth for the way they make the grin fall right off Eddie’s face. “Sorry,” he says, grimacing. Eddie waves the apology off.
Steve means to get up and drag the chair back out to give Eddie some more room but now that he’s sitting down he feels completely wiped. The doctor did say something about blood loss and taking it easy for a few days. He checks his watch. It’s a little after eleven. He looks back at Eddie.
“I should probably get some sleep, man,” Steve says. “Can you? Sleep, I mean.”
Eddie shakes his head, mouth pulling down at the corners. He starts writing again.
Could you come back when you wake up?
The hand holding the pad up is trembling a little. Eddie’s looking at the floor.
Shit, who needs a mattress anyway.
“Do you mind if I sleep in here?” Steve asks. Eddie’s eyes snap to his. “I mean, I won’t be great company since I’ll, you know, be asleep, but I don’t really want to be by myself right now.”
Eddie stares at him for a beat before nodding jerkily.
“Great,” Steve says. “Be right back.” He levers himself out of the chair and goes to his room, grabs his antibiotics, the comforter and some pillows and tosses them all into the bathroom. His toothbrush is still downstairs so he goes and fetches it, taking advantage of an Eddie-free bathroom while he’s at it.
When he comes back Eddie’s sitting on the edge of the bathtub, wrapped in the comforter like a burrito. He looks pretty cozy. He watches Steve brush his teeth, wash his face, take his meds. He looks away when Steve pulls up his shirt to check on the bandages. No blood seeping through, at least. The gashes still ache, but probably just a normal amount. He smoothes the shirt back down and takes his jeans off. Eddie looks back over and does a double take, eyes round.
“Well I’m not gonna sleep in them, am I?” Steve says. He takes his watch off and puts it by the sink, looks between the chair and the bathtub. Both have the obvious drawback of not being a bed. The chair at least is not made of porcelain, so in the end he goes with that. He makes a little nest using his pillows and then turns off the lights and burrows under the comforter.
The light stays on in the mirror, spilling into Steve’s half of the bathroom. The effect is very strange. Eddie glances up at the light and writes another message. Steve has to squint to make it out.
Want me to turn it off?
“Honestly I’ll probably pass out either way,” Steve says, shrugging. It pulls at the bites. “I’m pretty beat.” He tries and fails to suppress a yawn.
Eddie slumps over the counter, tipping his forehead against the glass. His face is in shadow. Steve looks at the way his hair spills over his shoulders. He bets it’s soft. His dad and grandpa Otis always have a lot to say about men who wear their hair long, none of it good, but Steve kind of likes the way it looks. Like Eddie doesn’t care what anyone thinks. He’s… cool. Steve’s glad he’s here, even in this bizarro way. If he really is here.
Steve’s eyelids are getting heavy. “Hey Eddie?”
Eddie tilts his head slightly.
“You’ll still be here when I wake up, right?”
Eddie reaches out with one hand and touches his fingertips to the mirror. Steve feels his eyes get hot.
“Stick around, okay?” he says. “Until we can figure out how to get you back.”
If his voice is scratchy he can blame it on exhaustion. He keeps his eyes open for as long as he can, until sleep drags him under.
Steve wakes up stiff and achy, drenched in sweat and confused about where he is. He pushes the covers off his chest but immediately starts shivering with cold. He pulls them back up. He’s pretty sure he can feel every bone in his body. He groans and opens his eyes.
In the mirror, Eddie’s sitting on the counter with his feet in the sink, frowning at Steve while he fiddles with his hair. He’s wearing Steve’s wool blanket draped over his head. Something about it reminds Steve of his Nana’s collection of bible cards.
“Hey,” Steve says and tries to sit up. It hurts. His head feels heavy and slow. Eddie’s frown deepens. He pulls the pad out and writes.
You look like shit.
“Good morning to you too,” Steve mumbles. He does feel like shit. He puts the back of his hand to his forehead. It feels hot. Maybe he has an infection after all. He peels the comforter down and his t-shirt up and stares blearily at the bandages on his sides. They don’t look too different. He tries to gauge whether they hurt more than they did the day before but between the fog in his head and the ache in his bones it’s hard to be sure. He knows he’s supposed to change the dressing at some point but he doesn’t really feel up for it at the moment. He drops his head back and sighs.
If it’s an infection he probably should go back to the hospital.
That would mean leaving Eddie by himself, though. For who knows how long.
“I think I need to sleep in a real bed,” he says instead. He peels his eyes open and rolls his head onto one shoulder, squinting at Eddie. “Just for a couple of hours.”
Eddie nods slowly. He hesitates, eyes flicking between Steve and the notepad, before he writes again.
Maybe you need a doctor.
Steve winces. “I mean, maybe.”
Eddie’s eyes are dark and serious. He holds up the pad again.
If it’s sepsis you could die.
“At least you’d have some company in there,” Steve tries, smiling weakly.
He’s not expecting the spasm of rage that crosses Eddie’s face. He whacks the mirror sharply, staring Steve down. The blanket slides down to pool on the counter.
“Kidding,” Steve says, holding up his hands in surrender. It’s not like he’s actually going to die. Well, he’s pretty sure, anyway.
Eddie scrubs a hand down his face and heaves an enormous sigh before he picks up the notepad again.
fucking don’t
The don’t is underlined several times.
“Okay, okay,” Steve says. “Sorry.” He inches forward in his seat and slowly, painfully shuffles to his feet, checks his watch where it’s lying on the counter. It’s just after eight. He takes another dose of antibiotics and chases it with Tylenol.
Eddie’s written another message. You should call one of your friends.
Steve drops his gaze to the floor. “Our friends, technically,” he says. “It’s fine, man, I don’t wanna worry them.” He forces himself to look up in case Eddie has anything else to say. Eddie just shakes his head and climbs stiffly off the counter.
“Just a couple of hours, okay?” Steve says, picking up the comforter and clutching it around his shoulders. He really wishes he was lying down.
What if you get sicker?
“Then I’ll call someone.”
What if you can’t?
Steve scrunches up his face, frustrated. “I’ll be fine.”
Eddie looks heavenward. Just call Nancy!
“Well what if she comes here and can’t see you?” Steve snaps.
They stare at each other, blinking. Steve is the first to look away, dropping his gaze to Eddie’s side of the counter. He pulls the comforter tighter around himself and clears his throat, feeling awkward.
“I just. I don’t want to find out this is all in my head.”
For a long moment Eddie doesn’t move. Steve flicks his gaze up back at Eddie’s face, his dark eyes, his soft mouth. He looks so real. If this isn’t real Steve doesn’t want to know.
He can feel himself swaying gently on his feet. He really needs to get in bed already.
Eddie’s eyes flit down his body, then up again. He looks away to write.
Go lie down.
Steve nods tiredly. “Just a couple of hours, I promise.”
He grabs a pillow and shuffles across the hall to his bed.
He gets three hours before the phone shrieks in his ear. He rolls over with a groan and gropes blindly for the receiver. “’Lo?”
“Are you still in bed?” his mom asks, judgment in her voice. Oh shit.
“No, no, I. I’m awake,” he says, trying to clear his throat as stealthily as possible.
His mom’s not buying it. “Steven,” she says. “You need to be more responsible. You’re not late for work, are you?”
He slides his feet down to the floor and carefully levers himself upright, wincing. “No, I— I’m not scheduled today.”
“Well, still, you shouldn’t sleep the day away. Anyway, I’m calling to let you know your father and I have decided to stay in Cincinnati” — oh, that’s where they went — “until after Laura’s wedding. Have you been watering the plants?”
“Oh, yeah, yep, totally.” He has not. In Steve’s defense he’s been a little busy trying to save the world and getting mauled by monsters.
“Well, all right. I’ll let you go. We’ll see you on Monday, darling. There should be some lasagna left in the freezer.”
“Okay, mom. Love you.”
He hangs up the phone and takes stock. He’s still tired but his head feels clearer, body less achy. His sides itch like hell and he smells rank, but he no longer feels like death. He goes to his dresser and picks out some clean clothes. He’ll have to use his parents’ bathroom to shower.
He stops by his own bathroom first to check on Eddie. He’s sprawled in the empty bathtub, chewing absently on his fingers. He snaps to attention when Steve comes in, looks him up and down, assessing.
“I’m feeling better,” Steve says, scratching the back of his neck. “I think maybe I overdid it yesterday.”
Good, Eddie writes. The hand holding up the notepad is covered in pen-ink doodles, from fingertips to shoulder.
“Good that I overdid it?” Steve asks, just to be a little shit. Eddie flips him off. Steve can’t help but smile at him. Eddie’s still here. It’s just— it’s good to see him.
Eddie rolls his eyes and looks away, but his lips twitch, so Steve counts it as a win.
“I’m gonna take a shower,” Steve says. Eddie startles and slips lower in the bathtub, banging his elbow on the edge. He sits up quickly, groping for his notepad.
“Wh— oh, not in here,” Steve says, making a face. “I just have to grab my shampoo and stuff.”
Eddie looks a little flustered. How was I supposed to know? All you jocks are exhibitionists.
Steve snorts. “Just because we’re not scared to use the locker room showers—”
Eddie throws a seashell at the mirror. Steve laughs. He grabs the bottles he needs along with the first aid kit and goes down the hall to his parents’ ensuite.
It feels a little strange now to see his own reflection. He strips down and peels the bandages off his sides. The bite wounds look gross and crusty. Getting them wet probably isn’t a great idea, so he tries to shower as quickly as possible.
He has to sit down afterwards, feeling weak and a little shaky. It’s good, he guesses. Gives his sides time to air-dry.
He puts on fresh bandages and gets dressed. Raising his arms to put a shirt on still kind of sucks but it’s nothing he can’t handle.
He goes back to his own bathroom. Eddie’s migrated to the floor, knees hooked over the edge of the tub. His shirt is rucked up a little, exposing a sliver of pale skin. He waves lazily.
“Comfortable?” Steve asks. Eddie grins and stretches like a cat, rucking his shirt up even more. He’s wearing Steve’s watch. Steve feels— he’s not sure how he feels about that. His stomach feels funny. He should eat something, get his strength up.
“I gotta eat something,” he says. Eddie’s grin dims a little. He picks the pad up off the floor.
I’ll be here.
“Sorry, man,” Steve says. “You must be going crazy, being cooped up in here.”
Eddie laughs. Steve’s not sure what’s funny. He still wishes he could hear it. Eddie holds up the pad again.
Wouldn’t say no to a book.
Steve frowns. “I don’t have any.”
Eddie’s face is a picture. No books? None???
“Why read books when I could be doing literally anything else?” Steve says, feeling more than a little defensive. Who reads books unless it’s for school? Well, Dustin and the rest of the little shits do, but they’re nerds who’ve barely discovered girls yet. And Nancy, but she’s smart. Steve’s not smart.
Your parents must have books. I’ll read anything. Your mom’s romance novels, anything. I’m desperate, Harrington.
“I think dad has some books on business or finance or something?” Eddie grimaces. “And my mom doesn’t read romance novels, okay, she’s not, like, sad and desperate.”
Eddie’s face is deeply skeptical.
Steve puts his hands on his hips. “Do not talk shit about my mom, Munson.”
Eddie mimes zipping his lips. Steve stares him down. Eddie just smirks because he is a shithead. Why are all his friends shitheads?
Steve sighs. “I could bring you a magazine, I guess.”
Eddie perks up. He taps the notepad again where he wrote anything.
“Just a sec,” Steve says, and goes downstairs to his dad’s study. He’s not sure what Eddie’s into so he grabs whatever he can find and takes the pile upstairs, dumping everything on the counter.
“Here you go. Harvard Business Review, Fortune, Architectural Digest and Town & Country. I have Popular Mechanics in my room if you want that.”
Eddie stares at the pile, eyebrows climbing. He picks up Town & Country with his thumb and forefinger, eyeing the cover like it might bite.
“You did say anything,” Steve says. Eddie nods slowly, still staring at the magazine. He does not look very enthusiastic about reading it.
“What about music?” Steve asks. “My cassette player is out in the garage, I could go get it.”
Eddie flings Town & Country into the corner by the toilet and grabs the notepad.
Please tell me you have some good music, he writes.
“I definitely don’t have any metal,” Steve says. Eddie gives him a look like obviously. “Okay, let me grab it.”
He fetches the cassette player, scoops up as many tapes from his room as he can carry and dumps everything in the chair. Eddie immediately starts digging through the pile, tossing tapes to the floor as he dismisses them.
“I’m gonna go have lunch,” Steve says. Eddie looks over his shoulder and nods, a tape in each hand. Steve leaves him to it.
He reheats some lasagna and eats it standing up at the kitchen counter, thinking about his options as he chews. Obviously he can’t just keep hanging out with Eddie in his bathroom forever. He needs to tell the others and get them to put their nerd brains together to think up some solution, a way to get Eddie back to the real world.
It’s just—
Steve’s still not totally convinced he’s not hallucinating the whole thing. Or maybe Eddie really is here but only as a ghost, destined to spend the rest of eternity trapped in a mirror. He thinks of Dustin, caked in Eddie’s blood, slumped in the backseat of Steve’s car. He’d looked like someone yanked the heart right out of his chest. Steve can’t ask Dustin over to his house and bring his hopes up just to make the kid lose Eddie again.
Maybe he can get Robin to come over, as a test. If she can see Eddie too they can figure out what to do from there.
If she can’t…
Steve puts the Tupperware in the dishwasher. He’ll call Robin. Just not yet.
As he’s drying his hands he remembers about the stained towel in the laundry room. He goes and tosses it in the washing machine, just so he can tell himself he tried. He should probably figure out where his mom buys towels so he can replace it before she notices it’s gone.
Eddie’s vest is stiff and a little damp in places. It’ll probably dry just as easily in Steve’s bathroom. He replaces the pins and folds the vest up. Eddie will probably be happy to have some of his own stuff in the room, even if it’s only a vest. Steve decides to put it in a bag so it’s more of a surprise. He takes it upstairs.
Eddie’s sitting in the chair, hands behind his head, eyes closed. He looks peaceful. The cassette player is on the toilet lid next to him, play button pressed down. The empty case next to it is upside down so Steve can’t tell what’s playing.
“I’m back,” Steve says. Eddie opens his eyes lazily and mouths hey.
“I brought you something,” Steve says, putting the bag down in the sink. Eddie narrows his eyes at him but gets out of the chair, grabs the bag and looks inside. He freezes.
Steve tries not to fidget. He just wants Eddie to have something familiar. Maybe that’s weird. “I’m, uh, I’m not sure I put the pins back right. I had to take them out to wash it. I hope that’s okay.”
Eddie reaches into the bag and slowly lifts the vest out. His hair is in his face, hiding his expression. He drapes the vest over his forearm and runs a hand over the Dio patch on the back.
He’s just standing there, not reaching for the notepad or looking at Steve. Steve puts a hand on his hip, awkwardly runs a hand through his hair. “I hope I didn’t ruin it or anything.”
Eddie scrubs a hand over his cheek and shakes his head, glancing at Steve and then away again. He shrugs the vest on and runs his palms down the front. It looks strange paired with Steve’s old Hawkins Tigers track pants. Eddie scrapes a nail over one of the more stubborn stains.
“That’s probably not going to come out,” Steve says, wincing. “There was a lot of blood.”
Eddie finally picks up the notepad again.
Yours?
“No,” Steve says. “Yours. Dustin was covered in it. He didn’t want to leave you behind, we had to drag him away.” The memory of the smell of it rises unbidden, turning his stomach.
Eddie looks distressed. His hands twitch and flex on the notepad, uncertain.
“No, hey, it’s okay,” Steve says. Eddie’s face twists in disbelief.
How is it okay?
Steve’s fucking this up. “No, I know. Sorry. I just wanted to give you the vest back, even though it’s a little messed up.”
Eddie closes his eyes and sighs. He scribbles another message and holds it up, mouth twisting wryly.
I’m the loser who bled all over it.
“Oh yeah?” Steve says, raising an eyebrow. “You do it on purpose?”
Eddie’s smile is fleeting. He frowns down at the notepad.
I fucked Dustin up.
“No!” Steve says, but deflates quickly when Eddie levels him with a look. “Okay, maybe, but we’ll fix it. We’ll get you back and we’ll fix it.”
He feels the urge to touch Eddie, clap a reassuring hand on his shoulder or something. He settles for pressing his palm against the mirror between them. Eddie looks between Steve’s hand and his face, something vulnerable in his expression.
The phone rings, startling them both. Eddie blinks and then looks away, taking a step back. Steve drops his hand to his side. He should probably get that. He crosses the hall to his bedroom.
“Harrington residence, Steve speaking.”
“We’ve talked about the batteries!” Dustin says instead of saying hello like a normal person.
“Good afternoon, Dustin, how are you?” Steve says pointedly. “What batteries?”
“The walkie!” Dustin hisses. Steve nearly drops the phone. The walkie. Steve is an idiot.
“Okay, Henderson, I know how this sounds but I gotta go. Everything’s fine, I’ll call you later.”
He hangs up over Dustin’s protests, ignores the phone when it starts ringing again and runs to the closet. He digs the walkie out from where he stashed it, switches it on, flips to another channel and takes it into the bathroom.
“Here,” he says. He very nearly tosses it to Eddie before he remembers the mirror is in the way. He puts it down on the counter and waits impatiently for Eddie to pick it up. “Try it.”
Eddie stares at the walkie in his hand, then back at Steve. He raises it to his face and presses the button.
The walkie on Steve’s side of the mirror crackles to life. “Hello,” Eddie says.
Steve has to lean forward, hands on his knees, waiting for the blood to stop rushing in his ears. It worked.
“Jesus Christ it’s good to hear your voice,” he says. He straightens up. Eddie can talk to him now. Steve smiles helplessly. Eddie grins back, looking oddly shy, cradling the walkie to his chest.
The phone starts ringing again. Steve sighs.
“It’s Dustin, right?” Eddie says.
“Probably,” Steve says.
“So go talk to him,” Eddie says, shooing him away. “I’ll be here.”
Steve goes.
To say Dustin is pissed is an understatement.
“You switched it off and put it in the closet?” Dustin’s voice is dangerously shrill.
Steve sighs. “I’m sorry, Henderson, okay? I just needed to get some sleep.”
“You didn’t check in for a whole day!”
“I talked to Robin last night!” Steve says. “That counts!”
“Barely,” Dustin snaps. “And then no one heard from you at all this morning and my mom wouldn’t get off the phone or let me leave the house and I had no way of knowing you weren’t dead!”
Steve opens his mouth, closes it again. He can hear Dustin trying to get his breathing under control. Shit.
“I’m sorry,” he says, voice soft.
“Yeah,” Dustin says tonelessly.
Steve would really like to stop fucking up. “I’ll call you every day, okay?” he says. “We can set a schedule.”
“And you’re gonna leave the walkie on now, right?” Dustin says.
Steve glances at the bathroom door. “Uh…”
“Right?”
“You can just call instead, okay?” Steve says. “Whenever you want. My parents won’t be home until Monday.”
Dustin scoffs. “Well some of us don’t have phones in our rooms, Steve. The walkies are for emergencies! For important updates! Things of a time-sensitive nature!”
“So which one is this?”
Dustin is silent for a moment. For some reason it makes Steve’s stomach clench.
“Max is in the hospital,” Dustin says. Steve sits down so abruptly his teeth clack.
“Is she—”
“She’s in a coma. Her arms and legs are broken. It’s bad.”
“Jesus,” Steve says, a pit opening up in his stomach. He needs to get to the hospital right now. “What happened?”
“Lucas didn’t tell me much,” Dustin says. “He said Jason and Andy got in the way.”
Steve thinks he might throw up. “They attacked Max?”
“No,” Dustin says. “Vecna did. Lucas couldn’t pull her out because they broke the Walkman.”
Steve is going to kill them. He’s going to find them and kill them. He distantly notes his hands are shaking. “Did they hurt Lucas and Erica?”
“Lucas didn’t say,” Dustin says. “He just said Jason and Andy got arrested. He was in a hurry to get back to the hospital.”
For a brief moment Steve is disappointed, even though he knows it’s crazy. He wants to hunt Jason and Andy down and make them pay just like Vecna did. He closes his eyes and breathes against the wave of fury that washes over him. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Have you talked to Nancy yet?”
“She’s next on my list,” Dustin says. “I tried Robin but there was no answer, do you know where she is?”
“Oh,” Steve says. “Yeah, she has a shift today. I’ll talk to her.”
“Thank you,” Dustin says. He sounds a hundred years old.
“Dustin,” Steve says. “Max is a fighter, okay? She’ll make it.”
“You don’t know that,” Dustin says heavily.
Steve squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn’t know that. Fuck.
“I have to go,” Dustin says. “I gotta tell Nancy and then try the Byers again.”
Steve clears his throat and tries to keep his voice even. “I’ll talk to Robin. Hang in there, man.”
“You too,” Dustin says.
Robin has a freakout over the phone. Steve feels like the worst friend in the world, putting her through that at work.
“Ryan O’Donnell called in sick and I’m here by myself, Steve, while everyone is dying!”
“No one is dying,” Steve says, praying fervently he’s right. “Do you want me to come in and help?”
“No, Steve! Your insides were threatening to become your outsides less than two days ago!”
“It’s really not that bad,” Steve says, and resists the urge to scratch his healing wounds.
“Lucas and Erica,” she blurts.
“What?” Steve says. He can hear her breathing, light and quick.
“Lucas and Erica. Where are they? How are they? Are they in the hospital too? Are the kids all dying and we’re the only ones who got out alive? Is that why we can’t reach anyone in California?”
“Robin,” he says.
“Maybe they’re all dead. Vecna got them and they died and we never even knew.”
“Robin.”
“Can we even be sure he’s dead? Maybe he was messing with our heads the whole time and that’s why we get these nightmares and he’s going to pick us off one by one—”
“Robin. Lucas and Erica are fine. Nancy told you she saw them, remember? Deep breaths, okay?”
They breathe together.
“I hate this, Steve,” Robin says miserably.
“I know,” he says. “Me too.”
“Are you gonna go see her?”
“Of course,” Steve says. “I’ll keep you updated.”
“Thanks,” she says. “I gotta go, I have customers.”
He hangs up the phone and runs a hand down his face, trying to remember where he left the car keys. He pulls a jacket on and goes back into the bathroom.
Eddie’s sprawled on the floor again, this time with his feet on the chair. When he presses the talk button Steve can hear faint guitars in the background.
“He returns,” Eddie drawls. “Did Dustin—”
He cuts himself off when he gets a good look at Steve’s face, eyes narrowing. “Steve? What’s wrong?”
“Max is in the hospital,” Steve says.
Eddie sits up, pulling his legs to his chest. “Shit,” he says. “Is, did she— what happened?”
“I don’t really know yet,” Steve says. “I’m gonna go and find out. Don’t know how long it’s gonna take, but—”
Eddie waves him off. “Go, go, don’t worry about me. I’m a big boy.”
Steve can’t get his feet to move. “I’ll, uh, I’ll see you when I get back, yeah?”
“Go, Harrington.”
Steve goes.
It takes him a while to even find out what ward Max is on. The hospital receptionist is no help, droning something about privacy that Steve tunes out. He stumbles into a ward full of old people and another one full of crying babies before he finally runs into Erica by the elevators, arms full of vending machine candy.
“Oh thank god,” he says. “Are you and Lucas okay?”
“We’re alive,” Erica says, eyes on her haul.
“Is Max—”
“She’s— alive,” Erica says heavily. She leads him down a hallway to a waiting area where Lucas sits, staring forlornly at the floor. His face is—
“Holy shit, Sinclair, what happened to you?”
Lucas looks up. He’s taken a hell of a beating, face puffy with cuts and bruises. He doesn’t seem surprised to see Steve. “Hey,” he says, sounding far away. Steve’s heart sinks.
“Jason did this to you, didn’t he,” he says, voice flat.
Lucas nods, eyes back on the floor. “Max is in intensive care,” he says. “She hasn’t woken up.”
“So why are you sitting out here?” Steve says. Lucas scowls but says nothing.
“We’re not family,” Erica says. “We’re gonna try and catch her mom leaving and ask her to put us on the visitor list.”
She passes Lucas a bag of M&M’s. He accepts it but makes no move to open it. She sighs and turns to Steve.
“Dustin told Lucas the plan worked.”
“It did,” Steve says, sitting down next to Erica. “Vecna’s dead.”
Erica nods, businesslike. “Good.” She pops a Starburst in her mouth.
They sit in silence for a few minutes. There’s a Life magazine from May 1981 on the table by his elbow. Steve briefly considers stealing it for Eddie. He’s not sure how he’d explain it to Erica, though, so in the end he doesn’t.
The silence starts to feel oppressive. “What happened up there?” he asks.
Erica glances at Lucas, who is still staring at the floor. Her mouth flattens. “Those damn jocks.”
She tells him how she got spotted signalling Lucas from the old playground and narrowly avoided being tackled to the ground by Andy; how she managed to lose him in the woods only to get locked out of the attic by Jason; how Jason had a gun and Lucas nearly got murdered trying to protect Max; and how Erica had to run more than a mile to the phone booth down the road to call for help, keeping an eye out for Andy all the while.
“Wait,” Steve says, tensing up. “Is Andy still out there?” He thinks of the nail bat in his trunk.
“No,” Erica says. “Chief Powell said they got him.”
“They get Jason too?”
“Yeah, Lucas knocked him out,” Erica says, a hint of satisfaction in her voice. “When the cops got there he was just sitting on the floor barfing.”
“Good,” Steve says. “Good.” He looks at Lucas again, who hasn’t moved. Jason could have killed him, almost did. Steve wants to give him a hug.
“Lucas,” he says. Lucas looks up. “Nice job, man.”
Lucas scoffs.
"Tell that to Max," he says, voice rusty.
“Hey, no, c’mon,” Steve says. He slides out of his seat and kneels on the floor next to Lucas. “That’s not your fault, man. You know that, right? Tell me you know that.”
Lucas looks away. “I was supposed to pull her out,” he says, scowling at the linoleum.
“I mean, our plan didn’t exactly account for a psycho with a gun,” Steve says. “What were you supposed to do, let him shoot you?”
He tries to put a hand on Lucas’ shoulder. Lucas leans back in his seat and wraps his arms around his middle, dodging Steve’s hand. Steve drops his hand awkwardly to his side.
Erica catches his eye and shakes her head. Steve sighs and gets back to his feet. Standing upright makes him feel dizzy so he sits back down next to Erica, maybe a little harder than he means to. She holds out her pack of Starbursts. Steve takes one. They chew in silence and watch a guy in scrubs wheel an empty gurney down the hall.
Steve turns to her. “I’m glad you’re okay, at least. You look like you landed on your feet.”
“You look like you got one foot in the grave,” Erica says, eyeing him critically.
“Ouch,” Steve says, a little stung despite himself.
“Just the facts,” Erica says, the ghost of a smile pulling at her lips. She pats his arm. “You should go home and rest, Steve. Dad’s picking us up straight after work, we’ll be fine.”
“He can try,” Lucas says darkly. Erica purses her lips but says nothing.
Steve doesn’t really want to leave them, but he does still feel like shit. Also, Eddie’s stuck all by himself in Steve’s bathroom. Eddie who maybe isn’t real. Steve rubs his forehead.
“You sure you’ll be okay?”
Erica tilts her chin up. “We survived Vecna and those jock creeps. I think we can handle a couple hours in a hospital waiting room.”
She’s so young. Steve gives in to the impulse to sling an arm around her, pulling her into his side even though it makes his wounds twinge. “You’re really brave, you know that?”
“I know,” Erica says blithely. She hugs him back, though.
He stops by Family Video next. The place is empty except for Robin, who is pacing restlessly through the new releases section.
“You look awful,” she says, coming to a stop in front of him.
“Why does everyone keep saying that?” Steve says. It comes out a little whinier than he intended.
“Because you do, dummy,” Robin says, wrapping her arms gently around his back.
He leans his head on hers, closing his eyes briefly. She smells like deodorant and Windex.
“Getting chewed up by mutant bats is a pretty good excuse, though,” she says as she pulls back, trying for a smile. "Did you go see Max?"
"Yeah," he says. "Or, well, I didn’t actually get to see her, but the Sinclairs were there. They’re fine, by the way." He pauses. "Well, Lucas has one hell of a shiner. He knocked out Jason Carver."
Robin’s eyes widen. “Jason was there? What— okay, you have to start from the beginning.”
Steve does. When he finishes the story Robin walks up to the counter and slowly puts her forehead down on it like she’s a human-sized dippy bird.
“How are any of us alive,” she mutters.
“We’re too pretty to die,” Steve says. Robin groans and straightens up.
“Speaking of which,” she says sternly, “you should be resting!”
“Probably,” Steve says. “Does that mean you think I’m pretty?”
Robin closes her eyes with a sigh. “Steve?”
“Yeah?”
“Get out of my store.”
He makes one final stop at the Fair Mart on Bankhead to pick up a couple of things. The cashier stares so intently at the ligature marks on his neck she almost dumps his change on the floor. Steve can’t get out of there fast enough.
He’s exhausted again by the time he gets home. He houses two bananas and a large spoonful of peanut butter straight out of the jar before heading upstairs to check on Eddie. He pauses at the top of the stairs. If Eddie isn’t there…
But he is. He’s sprawled in the bathtub again, staring blankly into space. Architectural Digest is open face-down on the floor next to him.
“Hey, you’re still here,” Steve says, too tired to hide the relief he feels. Eddie tilts his head toward Steve, a strange smile on his face. He reaches for the walkie.
“Of course,” he says. “Where would I go?”
Steve doesn’t really wanna get into it. "I brought you some more stuff," he says instead.
"Why mister Harrington, you spoil me," Eddie says. He sounds a little— off.
“You okay?” Steve asks, frowning.
“Never better,” Eddie says, showing his teeth. He climbs out of the bathtub. “How’s Max?”
“She’s— it’s pretty bad,” Steve says. “She had to have surgery. Erica promised to call in case— in case anything happened, so.”
Eddie nods. “And the Sinclairs?”
“Oh, well,” Steve says, and launches into the whole story again. When Steve gets to the part with the gun Eddie sits down on the rim of the bathtub and yanks a hand through his hair.
“It’s all my fault,” he says. He sounds defeated.
Steve levels him with a look. “It’s your fault Jason Carver is a total psycho?”
“He was looking for me, Harrington,” Eddie says irritably. “Kind of think that makes it my fault.”
“Vecna started it.”
Eddie just frowns at the floor.
Steve sighs. “Come on, man,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t you think I feel guilty too? Lucas and Max are freshmen. Erica’s, what, eleven? They shouldn’t have been alone up there. If Jason was gonna attack anybody it should have been me.”
“Yeah, you getting shot would have been a real help,” Eddie says flatly.
Steve puts his hands on his hips. The Fair Mart bag slaps against his thigh. “I have more experience being held at gunpoint, so—”
Eddie looks baffled. “You— what?”
“Never mind,” Steve says. “The point is, Jason and Andy got arrested. It’s over.”
Eddie’s eyes are wide. “No, I definitely want to go back to the part where you’ve apparently been held at gunpoint multiple times.”
“It’s not important,” Steve says. He lifts the bag. “C’mon, don’t you want to see what I got you?”
Eddie glances between Steve’s face and the bag. “I— fine. Show me your bounty.” He gets up again.
Steve pulls out Creem and Guitar World and adds them to the magazine pile on the counter. “If you don’t like these I can pick up something else next time I’m out, but I figured since you’re into music…”
“You’re in luck, Harrington,” Eddie drawls. “I haven’t gotten around to reading these yet.” He snatches up Creem and flips through the pages, walkie cradled in the crook of his arm. It occurs to Steve that all the doodles from earlier are gone.
"You washed the ink off?"
Eddie looks down at his now doodle-free arm, turning it over. He smiles stiffly and grabs the walkie again.
"Not exactly," he says. "Everything I write down in here fades away after a while."
That’s—
“Shit,” Steve says.
“Yeah,” Eddie says.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know, Harrington,” Eddie says heavily, looking away. “It’s not a great sign, though, is it.”
It probably isn’t, but Steve doesn’t want to say that. He reaches into the bag again.
“I got you these as well,” he says, putting down a pack of Camels along with a lighter. Eddie’s face transforms.
"You are a prince among men," he says fervently, snatching them up. He drops the walkie in the sink and tries to peel off the cellophane. It doesn’t budge. His tongue peeks out the corner of his mouth. Steve watches Eddie’s face get progressively stormier until at last he flings the pack into the bathtub and crosses his arms, his back to the mirror.
Steve picks up the pack on his side. The cellophane comes off easily.
“What, uh, what do you think that’s about?” he asks. Eddie gropes for the walkie without turning back around, his other arm still held tight across his stomach. There’s a long pause before he speaks.
“I can’t— I can’t break anything in here,” he says, his voice cracking a little. “I’ve tried.”
This is way above Steve’s pay grade. “I took the wrapper off,” he says hesitantly. “You can probably open the pack now.”
Eddie leans over the bathtub and fishes the Camels out. “Still wrapped,” he says tonelessly.
Steve looks at the cellophane in his palm and thinks about the disappearing pen. He sticks his hand over the threshold. Eddie jerks slightly.
“Okay, that worked,” he says. He turns halfway towards the mirror and clears his throat, hair in his face. “Could you— the foil?”
Steve peels the pack open as neatly as he can and drops the little bits of foil in the hallway. Eddie taps out a cigarette with shaking hands and brings it to his lips. He grabs the lighter off the counter and manages to light it after a couple of tries. He holds the flame up to the cigarette for a long moment.
It doesn’t catch. Eddie’s face crumples. He drops the lighter and covers his eyes with his hand, walkie dangling limply at his side.
“No, no, wait, hold on,” Steve says. He pulls out a cigarette of his own and fumbles to light it.
He checks the mirror. No smoke. Unless—
He steps out into the hallway and then back in, looking around. There’s no good place in his bathroom to put a lit cigarette. Steve balances it carefully on the edge of the sink. “Eddie, hey, try this.”
Eddie looks through his fingers, eyes widening. The lit cigarette has shown up on his side, now. He snatches it up and takes a drag. His face goes slack with bliss. He drops into the chair and exhales slowly, eyes closed.
Steve picks up the lit cigarette and sits down on the rim of the tub, leaning an elbow on the cluttered counter. He moves the bag with Eddie’s vest from the sink to the bathtub and taps the ash into the drain. The day is starting to catch up to him in a major way. His sides ache and itch. The nicotine combined with the exhaustion is making him feel a little light-headed.
He takes a long drag and watches Eddie’s face, his red-rimmed eyes. They smoke in silence, Eddie’s gaze trained on the far wall.
“You know,” Steve says after a while, “I still haven’t told anyone you’re here.”
Eddie blinks and glances back at him, eyes darting away just as quickly. He looks down at the walkie in his hand like he’d forgotten he was holding it.
“Am I your dirty little secret?” he says, smirking faintly. Steve snorts.
“It’s not like I’m stepping out on anybody,” he says. Eddie raises his eyebrows incredulously and mouths stepping out?
“Shut up,” Steve says. “You know what I mean.”
“Didn’t say anything, gramps,” Eddie says innocently. Steve rolls his eyes. He watches the smirk fade from Eddie’s face.
Eddie brings the cigarette to his lips again. “Why haven’t you?”
Steve looks down at his hands. “I mean, I told you why, this morning. I don’t want to find out you’re not really here.”
“Why, though?” Eddie says. “You don’t even know me, not really.”
Steve’s not sure he can put it into words. “You’re— you’re one of us now,” he says. “We saved the world together. And besides, maybe I’d like to.”
Eddie cocks his head. “Like to what?”
“Get to know you,” Steve says. He goes to take another drag of his cigarette only to realize it’s burnt down nearly to his fingers. He curses and stubs it out in the sink. Eddie watches him do it and looks at his own cigarette. It appears to be the same length it was when he picked it up.
“Well that’s unsettling,” Eddie says mildly. He takes another drag.
Steve stares at him. “Are you going to be able to put it out?”
Eddie shrugs. Smoke curls out of his mouth.
“If you can’t the room will eventually fill with smoke,” Steve says, worry creeping in. “You won’t be able to breathe.”
“Maybe you should bring me some weed instead,” Eddie says. “An everlasting joint doesn’t sound half bad. I could tell you where to find my stash.”
“Hey, come on,” Steve says. “You have to take this seriously. You could—”
“Die?” Eddie finishes for him, eyes glittering. “News flash, Harrington: I already did.”
“No,” Steve says, heartbeat picking up. “No, you’re still here.”
“I’m trapped in temporal stasis in your goddamn bathroom mirror,” Eddie snarls, springing up from the chair. “Those bats ripped me apart piece by agonizing piece and then I died, and now I have to spend eternity in here getting punished for my sins. Eddie Munson finally gets what he deserves!”
Steve sputters, levering himself to his feet. His sides twinge in protest.
“That’s not— You’re not being punished, Eddie! You helped save the world! You saved Dustin! You deserve to live!”
“Chrissy Cunningham deserved to live!” Eddie yells. He blinks, breathing hard.
Steve leans heavily on the counter. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “She did.”
Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. “It’s not fair,” he says, voice tight.
“No. It isn’t.”
They stand there for a moment, just breathing. Eddie covers his face, the smoldering cigarette in his hand all but forgotten. Steve takes the stubbed-out butt in the sink and flicks it over his shoulder, sending it sailing into the hallway. He’ll deal with it later. Eddie twitches as his own cigarette disappears. He brings up the walkie with his other hand.
“I wasn’t done with that,” he says sullenly from behind his palm.
“Yes you were, man,” Steve says. “Come on, we can’t just give up. We have to try. Okay?”
Eddie lowers his hand and gives him a long look. “Okay,” he says, reluctant. “So what do we do?”
“I don’t know,” Steve says with a shrug. “This weird science shit isn’t really my strong suit.”
“That’s encouraging,” Eddie says blandly.
“That’s why I need to tell the others,” Steve says. “The nerd herd lives for this kind of thing. If anyone can get you out of there, they can.”
“And if it turns out they can’t see me?”
Steve runs a hand through his hair. “Then— then we’ll figure something else out. I’ll move the mirror to my room, or something. Put it on a cart and take you for walks.”
Eddie doesn’t quite smile, but it’s close. “Am I your pet dog in this scenario?”
Steve ducks his head to hide a smile. “I could put a leash on you, if you want,” he jokes, glancing up at Eddie.
Eddie flushes, for no reason Steve can see. He ducks his head and looks at his watch— no, Steve’s watch. Steve still feels funny about that.
“You gonna do it now?” Eddie asks the soap dish.
Steve checks his own watch. It’s almost six. He wants to start with Robin, but she’s going to be at work until closing. He could probably charm Claudia into letting Dustin out of the house if he goes there in person, but he’s not bringing Dustin in to witness what might still turn out to be Steve having some kind of extended nervous breakdown. Lucas can probably not be convinced to leave the hospital for anything less than another impending apocalypse, and Nancy will figure out something’s up before she even gets in the house. Steve’s never been any good at lying to her, and he doesn’t want to see the look on her face if it turns out he’s gone crazy. Everyone else is still in the wind.
Well, Eddie’s not going anywhere.
"Not tonight," Steve decides. "Robin’s got the late shift tomorrow, I can probably convince her to come over before then if I offer to give her a ride."
He half-turns away from the counter to go call her, but the room lurches unpleasantly when he does. He stumbles.
"I think I need to sit down," he says. The chair on his side is still full of tapes so instead he lets his knees fold and sits down right on the dirt-streaked bath mat. Eddie jolts forward, leaning over the sink to stare at Steve. Steve blinks up at him. It’s like looking through a funnel.
Eddie fumbles with the walkie. “You okay there, Harrington?” he asks, voice shaking a little.
“Fine,” Steve says, willing the black spots away. “Little tired, maybe.”
“You’re not allowed to fucking die on me, man,” Eddie says, expression pinched.
“Not planning on it,” Steve says. He climbs to his feet with exaggerated care. “I think I need to lie down again, though.”
“Don’t forget your pills,” Eddie says, gesturing at the bottle next to Steve’s toothbrush. Steve can’t actually remember when he took his last dose, which probably means it’s time for another one. He takes his medication and brushes his teeth while Eddie fidgets, arms tucked close to his body.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Steve says.
Eddie’s eyes are sad. “Get some sleep.”