Chapter Text
2005
The hour was late, or early, depending on how you told time, on when your ‘day’ started. New York City hummed in its pre-dawn lull, trash trucks growled distantly, random laughter from passersby, sirens wailed far-off like the city's mourning doves, and somewhere, a busker sang in saxophone jazz to the indifferent dark. In a historic brownstone tucked into the leafy edges of Fort Greene, the night felt slower, deeper, like it held its breath, waiting for the proverbial exhalation or shoe drop.
The apartment on the third floor wasn’t just upscale, it was curated . Heavy velvet drapes, wine-red and lined to block out the sun, fell like stage curtains from twelve-foot ceilings, with ornate circular plaster medallions centered above the light fixtures - sunbursts around artificial light. Tall windows, arched and framed in original molding, overlooked the street below which still bustled with the early morning pulse of the City that never slept. Across the room, near a fabulous but unlit fireplace a turntable spun an old Sabbath record, low and growling, under the gentle squeal of a clean Stratocaster riff.
Eddie leaned back in a black leather chair scarred by time and cigarette burns. It was his favourite chair and he’d dragged it around the country with him whenever he stayed stateside long-enough to get it out of storage. Bare feet on an old Persian rug, rings flashing on long fingers, he plucked absentmindedly at the strings, accompanying the glorious riffs of Sabbath, murmuring the words under his breath. His wild curls were tamed only slightly, pushed back with a faded bandana, the curls bouncing a little as he bobbed to the rhythm of the song. He wore black leather pants, tight and creased, and a vintage Judas Priest tee with a few new holes since 1986. Over that, an open kimono-style robe in crushed velvet, the color of dried blood, flared with each movement like a magician’s coat. It was the only concession to comfort he’d made post gig, a sliver of softness against a tough exterior.
Scars on his neck, long since healed but still strange, pale, and ridged, glowed faintly under the amber lamp light, trailing down his neck, and under the collar of the kimono. Something coiled and electric thrummed in his veins, a flurry of emotion that thrummed and pooled in the deep places of his heart. The heady pulse of the roaring crowd was always a delightful rush, far better than any hit of weed or line of coke. It stayed with him long after the actual voices died, hours after the dim, smokey venue was empty and frail - a ghost of its glory, a shadow of its presence.
The coiled something shifted, a periphery awareness that was more defense than threat. A growing certainity. There was no sound, nothing audible above the city sounds. Not the radiator hissing, or the deep breath of an old building at rest. It was an absence, not a presence, something soft, something dealy.
Eddie didn’t tense, he didn’t even pause in his strumming when the song tripped over into the next and he shifted from graceful thrums to a more staccato beat. The darkness didn’t frighten him; it hadn’t for years.
My name it means nothing, my fortune is less
My future is shrouded in dark wilderness
Sunshine is far away, clouds linger on
Everything I possess, now they are gone
A familiar voice came from the doorway.
“Nice place. Very… you.”
Eddie lifted his head, curls falling over his shoulders and grinned, eyes flashing red before dulling to warm brown again. “Well well, look what the cat dragged in. Shit, Harrington, you don’t have to sneak into every bedroom in the country.”
In the shadowed arch of the doorway stood Steve. He was half-lit, the soft lamplight only kissing the edge of his face as the rest of him stayed in the shadow. Eddie had no trouble seeing him though. Tight denim clung to long legs, scuffed boots muddy from travel, well-worn, well-used. A leather jacket, worn soft and tailored to him like armor, hung open over a gray henley. Tall, lean, unchanged - even the smirk, although it was the wry grin of an old friend and not a dismissive jock. He look like something carved from boyhood and tempered by war, a contradicting contrast of youth and warrior.
His hair was shorter than usual, still artfully tousled, but now deliberately messy. - very much less the 80s poof and more the modern touseled look. Like he’d just tumbled out of someone’s bed, one step ahead of a husband. That face, still heartbreakingly handsome, had sharpened a little, jaw set tighter, mouth thinner. The easy charm was still there, but was less automatic, more of a wall, a barrier.
Steve stepped inside with the slow confidence of someone who’d faced down hell and learned how to dance with it. His smile was shy, almost bashful. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Eddie waved a hand dramatically. “You only startled my chord progression, man. Come in. You want something to drink?” He knew Steve wouldn’t respond to the dig about climbing into or out of bedrooms. He never did.
Steve laughed, casual grace with every step, the lean, feline stride of a hunter. “Bourbon if you have.”
“Only the best,” Eddie said, rising to pour two fingers of bourbon into cut crystal glasses on the drinks table against the wall. The service kept his place stocked and clean. He only really needed to make his own arrangements for sustenance when he arrived. The fridge upstairs was half-full, and he’d need to make a call soon to top it up. He handed one to Steve, then watched as the other man slumped into the oversized armchair near the window.
Steve’s boots thunked against the antique coffee table, and he leaned back with a sigh, settling into the chair like it was a familiar friend. “Dustin says hi. He’s in Budapest.” He took a long sip on the bourbon and Eddie couldn’t help watch the length of his throat as he swallowed. “What’s the squirt up to? Ghosts or goulies?”
Shrugging, feigning disinterest, eyes glancing out the windows, the lights of the city reflecting briefly, highlighting a deep crimson, Steve said, “Some new kind of burrowing creature. Half mole, half leech. Explodes if exposed to direct sunlight.”
Eddie grimaced. “He must be beside himself with delight.”
“Yeah, wouldn’t shut up about it.”
Which meant he’d wanted Steve to go out there and help him. Had probably badgered him, and nagged and tried to blackmail him until Steve threw his phone into a river or trash compactor. “Mike and El with him?”
Steve nodded, “And Will. They’re fine.” Eddie nodded.
“And the others?”
Steve took another long sip before answering. “Lucas and Max are in Atlanta. She's doing rehab work after that last op. You heard about the op, right?” Eddie shrugged a no. He wasn’t ‘on’ the little group chat on purpose. He stayed in touch with the grown up kids but wasn’t comfortable living hand in pocket like some of them did. Humming a little, Harrington waved a hand, “Was supposed to help with the nerve damage, but she’s getting better. Lucas is coaching high school basketball. Kinda domestic, actually.”
“Boring,” Eddie smiled, sipping his own bourbon, relishing the burn. Again, Steve shrugged, eyes not meeting Eddie’s, studying the room, the artwork which was poorly lit, the record collection, the guitars on the walls. The Sabbath album skipped over to Into the Void , and Eddie smiled in appreciation. Harrington sank deeper into the chair, relaxing more, shoulders lowering, fingers tapping in accompaniment to the song.
Letting the silence linger and settle like an unexpected but welcome friend, Eddie eyed his glass, contemplated the chord change, fingers strumming on the strings, not looking at Steve at all.
“And Nancy?”
A flicker. Just a beat, but Eddie caught it. A flinch, tightening about his eyes. Mouth thin, fist half-way clenched
“They, ah, we’re figuring things out.”
On the record, Ozzie wailed into the microphone, the volume low, his emotion intense.
Up into the night sky they blast
Through the universe the engines whine
Eddie said nothing, didn’t really look at Harrington, more watched him out of the corner of his eye, giving him space. Steve’s frame was tense, braced as it were for a blow. This wasn’t the first time Nancy and Jonathan had pulled the proverbial rug out from under him. Despite what people said, professed loudly at parties and backyard BBQs the idea of a threesome as more than a one-night encounter was still scandalous, strange. Both Nancy and Jonathan were ‘serious’ journalists now and where once they may have easily hidden their perfect little secret, it was getting harder.
“Nancy’s up for an award. That story she wrote about the Patriot Act and all the government spying.” Unconcerned, genuinely uncaring, Eddie shrugged. He hadn’t read it, didn’t care to but it was the biggest piece in the motivational puzzle of one Nancy Wheeler. Instead, he asked, “And Jonathan?”
A long pause almost long enough to make him wonder if Steve was going to answer. “Time Magazine article on him. Profile piece.”
Hiding his frown, his glare by bending further over his guitar, Eddie sighed. The Wheeler/Byers were hiding their dirty little secrets, the biggest of which was a very young appearing lover. At nearly 40, the pair would be getting strange looks with Steve living with them. A young man of college age, maybe even close to High School age. Can't have that.
One of the downsides (one of the few) to not aging, Steve Harrington.
A brief glance at Steve showed him staring out the window, face half hidden the shadow, slumped in the chair, one hand covering his mouth, gaze lost to the present.
Changing the subject, sidestepping the hurtful reason Steve was visiting, uprooted, alone, Eddie nodded slowly and asked, “Robin?”
“Undercover. She’s deep in some Soviet remnant operation in Eastern Europe. Can’t talk much. She sent a postcard last week. It was just a goat wearing sunglasses.” The warmth of affection in his voice was deep, and plaintive. He didn’t turn to look at Eddie though, still hiding, perhaps still putting on the ‘King Steve’ mask.
Eddie chuckled, “Sounds like she’s having a blast. Are Hop and Mrs Byers still holding down the fort in Hawkins?”
It was a stupid question. Of course they were. Chief Hopper was never leaving Hawkins again if he could help it. Steve turned, a true smile on his lips, eyes soft and warm. “Would you believe it? Vacation to Haiwaii.”
“No! Really?” Eddie grinned, delighted. They both took a sip of whiskey, Steve finishing his with a deep gulp. “Yeah, man. Joyce sent about a dozen pics of all the Haiwaii shirts Hop was packing, and she’s determined to find Tom Selleck while they are there.”
Laughing, leaning back into the chair, releasing the stiff set of his spine, Eddie smiled broadly, “Man, she’s still a scream. I’m glad they are doing that, they’ve been promising Haiwaii or Italy for years.” Eddie didn’t say anything about how Joyce called him just about every two weeks, just checking on him. Hell, she probably checked in on all of them. Steve nodded, smiling too, still not meeting Eddie’s gaze but not deliberately or awkwardly so.
Finishing his own drink, rings glinting in the light from the street lamps outside, Eddie murmured, softly but audibly. “You okay?”
To his credit, Steve didn’t look away, but shrugged, mouth twitching. “I always land on my feet.” Eddie nodded, and shifted a little in the chair, breathing deep the rich scents of leather, bourbon and Steve Harrington. “You hungry? I have some decent O-neg upstairs.”
“I’m fine. Dropped by a bank on my way here, and had a rare burger at that nice place on 12th.” A hmmmmm of appreciation, especially for the rare burger, Eddie waved casually, “Well, its upstairs if you need.”
There was a silence, not awkward, but full. Eddie picked up his guitar again, and began to strum something slower this time. The notes filled the room gently, curling around the dust motes and the comfortable silence. Outside, the city began to stir, the hiss of steam grates, the rumble of the G line beneath them somewhere, a honk from a delivery truck, the creak of early risers in the building. The sounds were muted, blurred, like someone half-waking from a dream, a life they were no longer part of, not really.
Steve watched Eddie, eyes dark and quiet, fingers tapping along with the song. In the low light, his features were stark, angular, but softened by exhaustion. It took a lot to get that sort of tiredness for someone like Steve. What had he been doing before Nancy decided he was too much secret to keep in her closet. His long legs stretched out, his jacket slouched off one shoulder, pale skin deathly white in the pre-dawn light, and his face a tragic beauty of someone not quite belonging to the world around him, not really belonging to anyone. .
Eddie played on, his voice rising softly, half-whisper, half-confession.
"Life, it seems, will fade away
Drifting further every day
Getting lost within myself
Nothing matters, no one else..."
When he stopped, the silence was full, poignant with all that was unsaid, undone and unknown. Steve murmured, eyes half-closed. “Missed hearing you sing like that.”
Eddie looked at him, the ache low in his stomach, slow and dangerous. He smiled.
“Missed you too, Harrington.”
1986
Smoke coiled through the air like it was alive, thick with the stink of fire and rot and old blood. Somewhere behind them, something was still burning, maybe the woods, maybe everything. The sky above was bruise-dark, flickering red with firelight and something less explainable, like the Upside Down had torn a hole and bled into the world. Or was making the world bleed.
Steve stood in front of Eddie, legs braced, bat in his hands. The wood was slick and he didn’t think it was sweat. The nails glistened in the weird firelight, heavy with violence.
Eddie was behind him, on his hands and knees, panting like a dying animal and coughing - coughing crap and blood and who knew what else. Covered in mud and blood, his skin was raw in places, blackened where the demo-bat bites hadn’t healed right. His curls were matted, streaked with ichor and flith. His face, when it was visible through coughing and long strands of hair, was all eyes, wild, red-rimmed, inhuman.
But he was alive .
Against all odds, or maybe because it was Hawkins odds, Eddie goddamn Munson was alive. Dustin stood next to him, trying to be brave, hands shaking. His voice had cracked moments ago when he whispered, “Steve, what if they rush us?”
The mob was getting closer. Flashlights bobbed in the dark like angry stars. The beam from a cheap maglight hit Steve square in the face. A dozen silhouettes, maybe more, mostly high school guys, a few older, all armed with something. Baseball bats. Crowbars. At least two had guns.
Tommy H. was in the front, leading the pack like some self-appointed paladin of vengeance. His shirt was stained with something dark, eyes wild, mouth twisted into something Steve could barely recognize. “Typical Harrington” Tommy screamed. “You can’t seriously be defending that freak, that monster. He killed people!”
“Didn’t kill anyone. He saved us, saved you,” Steve said calmly. His voice felt far away. Like it wasn’t entirely his. “I’m not moving, Tommy.”
But Tommy wasn’t listening. None of them were. They were vibrating with fear and rage, barely leashed violence behind white-knuckled grips. The town was falling apart, fissures and cracks. People were dead, or dying. And Eddie Munson was right there, looking like the monster they all thought he was.
Steve moved half a step forward. Blocking their view, clear and deliberate. He could feel Dustin trembling beside him.
He could feel everything. The scrape of gravel under his feet. The brush of cold wind against his neck. The way Eddie’s breathing hitched, thick with something bubbling inside him. Blood. Infection. Hunger.
But most of all, Steve felt…nothing.
His heart wasn’t pounding.
His pulse wasn’t racing.
His hands weren’t trembling sure, but none of the usual pre-fight, pre-'shits about to get real' jitters raced through him.
Instead, there was only a cold hum in his chest. A sluggish beat, like a drum muffled under layers of snow. Like his heart was dying, but he was still standing. Still here.
Tommy took a step forward. “Always choosing the wrong side, Harrington. Picking fights you can’t win.” The gun was in his hand now, shaking, aimed badly at some spot off to the side. “Munson is a monster! And so are you if you dont…”
Steve’s grip tightened on the bat. Dustin was fairly vibrating with fear, his crowbar held ready. Two against a dozen and Steve didn’t even feel remotely scared. He tilted his head, an odd thudding in his ears, but it wasn’t his heart. Drawn to the sights of Tommy’s throat bobbing as he swallowed, as his anger warred with the flicker of fear as he glared at Eddie. Tommy’s heart was racing a mile a minute. He stank of fear and terror. His skin was pricked with sweat.
Just before Tommy screwed up enough courage to lead his mob into an attack, Steve heard the slick drip of blood, smelled the sweet scent of the open wound on Tommy’s hand, and wondered what his once upon a childhood friend tasted like.
**