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Chapter Text

1975 Hawkins, Indiana

Hawkins National Laboratory

His knuckles were white. 

He absentmindedly rubbed at the aching joints with trembling fingers, his eyes catching the red stains burrowed beneath his nails. It was a sickeningly deep color compared to the pale of his skin. His hands were shaking.

His sky was grey.

It wasn’t the real sky, he knew, he hadn’t seen the real sky since they had taken him. But the cold dark concrete above his head did well enough to replace the soft blue of Hawkins. If he screwed up his eyes enough it would almost look like the rain clouds that gathered above his house in the spring.

He had taken to memorizing the patterns pressed into the stone, mainly out of boredom. Though, he honestly did enjoy that minuscule amount of familiarity, even if it was just this room, this single box of concrete. It was his box of concrete now.

It was all he had, really, the grey and the red and the white of his palms.

He shook his head in an attempt to dispel the unwanted thoughts, soft waves violently splaying in all directions.

It had been too long now to think that they might come for him. At least he thinks so, time is difficult when you don’t have a clock, or when you can’t see the sky.

He desperately clings to what little hope he has left, if any.

He awkwardly stared at a lock of hair that had come to rest just above the curve of his cheek, edges blurred with the proximity.

That’s easier to think about, right?

His hair had gotten longer in the few weeks he’d been here, the ends had begun to curl around his ears, the edges tickling the nape of his neck and the beginnings of his jaw.

He had taken to tugging the greasy strands forward, pulling them low between his eyes before letting them bounce back into place; partly to distract himself, partly because it’s the only thing he could really do while waiting.

He could pace too, if he wanted, and he had for a while, but his feet were bare, and the concrete floor felt like walking on ice. Though the old cot he sat on wasn’t much better. His mom hated it when he paced, anyway. 

His hands were still shaking.

It was cold. The kind of cold that sunk far below the surface of your skin, nestling close to your bone marrow like an old friend. The kind that presented itself through steaming breath and stinging ears and noses. The kind that reminded him of dusty old Christmas trees and celebratory dinners.

An uncomfortable sort of tightness squeezes his chest at the thought of home, and he shifts on top of the cot, moving to curl even further into himself, maybe it was an attempt to lighten the odd feeling somehow. He wasn’t really sure.

He twisted his fingers into the long-sleeved shirt the men had given him. It was a dull color, a depressing shade of grey, and while the shirt did come with a matching pair of sweats, both articles of clothing were worn impossibly thin; they did very little to protect his skin from the painful bite of the cold.

There was an equally thin blanket that had been thrown over the cot which he had carefully wrapped across his shoulders, making sure to pull the end down to cover his bare feet. It was uncomfortable.

He glanced down at his hands again.

The grey and the red and the white of his palms.

He sighed and curled impossibly close, shoulders shaking as he desperately held himself together. But, even as he finally settled, there came the sound of locks unlatching and the creak of old hinges, desperately in need of care.

The door opened and a man, a man he had seen before, came forward and stood at the foot of the cot. Stock still, with broad shoulders wrapped in a crisp black suit.

Imposing.

White hair gleamed beneath the florescent lights, and the child on the cot had no choice but to gaze upwards at a thin smile spreading across even thinner lips.

A threat.

“Hello Steven.”

1973 Hawkins, Indiana

Hawkins General Hospital

"What the hell do you mean 'We can't be sure'" his father snarled. 

Steve glance up from his lap, away from his twisting knuckles and up towards the kind women with a soft round face. The woman's light red hair looked even softer, but Steve had never liked the color red.

He looked back down at his knees.  

"Mr. Harrington please refrain from cursing," the woman sighed, sounding offended at the thought. Steve didn't know why she made such a big deal. It wasn't like he hadn't heard it all before. 

"What my husband means to say, is that we just want to know what’s going on," a hand drops over Steve's shoulder, the flawless nails pinching the skin beneath his sweater, "It's beginning to not only affect Steven but Eric and I as well. We're both simply exhausted. "

The women pursed her lips as his mother spoke, daring a glance in his direction. Steve avoided her gaze until she looked away, her eyes skimming back over the papers in her hand.  He did not want to be here.

There was a ticking to his left, a large white clock on the wall that was comfortably nestled between two bookshelves, loudly and consistently making known its presence. It was slowly driving him crazy. The room seemingly towered over him, stretching further every time he checked on the ceiling; he felt impossibly small, sitting in the hard leather chair and sandwiched between his parents. 

"Well," the nurse began, "It sounds like he's having Night Terrors."

"Night terrors?" Scoffed Mr. Harrington, "So the kid's just having nightmares?"

Steve shrunk at his father's tone. 

"Oh no," the nurse raised a placating hand as she shook her head, "Night terrors are a type of parasomnia. They are often a bit more... intense than an average nightmare." 

The room quiets as the women explains, all three members of the Harrington family watching intently. Each for a different reason. 

Steve could probably guess his parents’ feelings on the matter. His father had made perfectly clear his annoyance, often spitting his vitriol, red faced and unappealing; while his mother stayed perfectly poised, watching on with an apathetic twist to her lips.

Steve was just tired.

And terrified.

“Night terrors are most common in children,” the women continued, gesturing loosely toward Steve, as if indicating his age, “and all the symptoms you’ve described: screaming, crying, sweating, thrashing, all while asleep, indicate a bigger issue than just nightmares. Especially if he’s accidentally hurting himself while dreaming, like the bloody nose you mentioned…”

A pause. 

Steve’s mother raised her brow, “But…?”

The nurse looked nervous and Steve felt a flutter in his stomach at her hesitation, at her painfully obvious glance in his direction. 

”Well,” she began, “uhm-”

“Steven?”

Steve turned towards his mother.

Her eyes were tight as she smiled down at him, a fake flimsy thing, but Steve felt his heart swell under her gaze, under her attention. She even raised a hand to his brow, gently brushing his bangs away from his eyes. He smiled at her.

”Why don’t you go over there for just a minute,” she gestured towards the corner of the room with her eyes and a nod of her head, where a bunch of toys were spread across a small wooden table, “Let the adults talk for a little bit, alright.”

He gladly accepted the escape from the stifling conversation and, even more so, the leather seat.

”Okay,” he muttered softly, slowly lowering himself from the chair and brushing passed his mother’s bent knees. He avoided his father.

“Speak up, Steven.”

Steve nodded at his father’s sharp rebuke, failing to really acknowledge the disappointed sigh that trailed after, the simple bead maze atop the table quickly catching his attention.

But adults never truly consider young ears while speaking, and even though he was sitting only a few feet from the conversation, they continued as if he was no longer in the room. 

As far as they were concerned, he wasn’t.

”In most cases,” the nurse began, “children suffering from Night Terrors don’t remember the dreams the next morning. It is a bit frightening when in the moment, but afterwards they usually can continue as normal, besides some exhaustion of course.”

Steve liked bead mazes, twirling the beads between his fingers and gently pushing them along their different paths was far more entertaining than he would’ve thought. He lifted a line of beads by the tail end and watched them fall over the curve of the wire, one by one.

”But from what you’re describing,” a slight lull in the conversation and Steve ignored the feeling of eyes grazing over his back, “with your son not only remembering the Night Terrors but recalling and describing them in detail-“

”Why is this prevalent,” his father asked, and Steve could hear the eyebrow raise, “Can we just get to the point.”

”…Of course Mr. Harrington,” the nurse said, blinking in surprise. “I just thought you’d want to be informed that this may be something el-“

”That’s fine, we don’t really care to know all the medical jargon, just tell us how to fix him.”

Steve dropped his current line of beads, the smooth wood slipping between his fingers with a soft clink. The room was silent for a moment.

The nurse took a deep breath. 

“Well, Establishing a regular sleep routine and finding ways to avoid stressful situations are the best ways to reduce the Night Terrors. Most patients do grow out of it, the nightmares often slow down and eventually go away during their adolescent years”

”Are there no medications? That my help him sleep?” His mother asked.

“Melatonin may help him fall asleep,” Steve perked up but his face quickly fell as the nurse waved a hand around, dismissing the idea, “It’s not recommended though, there’s a large possibility that it would only make it worse.”

The Harrington couple stared at the round women for a moment, Mr. Harrington slowly turning a deep shade of red. 

“So there’s no treatment?” He snarled, “We aren’t here for your useless advice, so unless you could give us something with some relevance, because we need this issue solved as soon as possible, then we’ll be on our way. We can’t just— wait for him to grow out of it.”

“Medications are rarely used for Night Terrors, especially on children,” she threw her hand out in Steve‘s direction. Steve pushed a group of yellow beads across their wire, shrinking inwards as voices raised. “The best way to help your son is to negate any actions that may lead to making it worse! And to stop adding to his stress! If you would only-“

”Only what?”

His mother’s voice had sliced straight through the growing tension. The tone alone had Steve frozen, finger’s trembling; he found himself glad that he could not see her face. The ticking of the clock got louder.

“Get up Steven, we’re leaving.”

Steve stood and turned away from the bead maze, his last line of beads falling, each with incredibly loud, soft clinks. His mother was already standing, as was his father.

The nurse was breathing heavily.

A part of Steve wanted to reach towards the nurse, to lift a small hand and pat at her shoulder (more her elbow, he wasn’t quite tall enough to reach her shoulder). He did not think she deserved his parents’ distain. She was only trying to help, really, and Steve thought she was nice.

But his mother’s eyes burnt at his side and he turned away. 

He avoided looking at his parents and made his was across the room. Quietly as he could, he came to stand at his mother’s side. The perfectly manicured nails were pinching into his shoulder again, his mother steering him towards the exit and away from the large wooden desk and uncomfortable leather chairs  and large ticking clock and increasingly tall ceiling. 

And while he couldn’t speak to the kind nurse, Steve did turn before the doors closed, eyes catching the face of the soft round women with even softer red hair.

He waved.

The drive home was silent, and was only interrupted by a fast stop at the general store.

Both Steve and his father sat in the car while his mother made quick work, coming in and out of the store in record time. She clutched a plastic bag in her hand.

What was important enough to stop at the general store? Both his parents avoided the place like it was of the devil; even after admitting it was the easiest option for shopping. They said it was trashy.

“Not for people like us.” They would say. 

But now, finally at home, his mother dipped her hand into the bag from the store not for the Harringtons and produced a small container, purple in color. Steve would’ve read the label if he could. But he couldn’t, so he just prodded at it from where it sat on the kitchen counter. 

”Didn’t that woman say that would make it worse?” His father spat at the container.

”We might as well try all options,” his mother replied, heels clacking on the tile. “If it doesn’t work we’ll take him to that specialist the doctors mentioned, the one in Chicago.”

His father sighed.

That night, after a much too large dose of melatonin, Steve woke his parents.

Screaming and screaming till his throat burned.

The man from Chicago sounded very similar to the women from Hawkins.

”Medication should be avoided, it’s best to just give him time and to support him as much as you can.” He had said with a smile.

Steve’s parents did not like the answers they had gotten, evident by his father’s fist shaking the dashboard after they left the man’s office.

They tried after that, ignoring his screams and cries during the night and leaving him well alone during the day. To avoid stress they said, but Steve kind of just wanted his mom to hold him for a moment. He thought that maybe that was what he needed, that, like all the stories he had heard, it was the cure to the stupid nightmares.

He didn’t dare ask though.

All in all, the Harringtons lasted for all of three weeks before Steve’s father once again lost his temper. 

They went to another doctor.

The frail old lady from Indianapolis suggested a different route, one filled with plenty of medication Steve couldn’t even try to understand, let alone pronounce properly.

He did not like how the pills made him feel.

He took them though, each and every day, because the woman had said they would help. They didn’t, really. The medicine made Steve feel sick and angry all the time, which only added to the ever growing tired that always surrounded him, making him heavy, like his limbs weighed as much as his dads fancy new baseball bat. The one Steve couldn’t lift even if he was allowed to touch it.

But that showed no results, even after months. So his parent’s carted him back to Hawkins, where he met a different kind of specialist.

Steve did not like Mr. Carter. 

His parents had never pushed him to talk about his dreams, never having the time or space of mind to actually care, so when Mr. Carter sat Steve down in his big empty office every week and gently pressed Steve to open up about the nightmares… 

Well, Steve wasn’t quite sure what to do. 

“Mom doesn’t want me to talk about it.” He whispered.

Which is true, she said it makes her uncomfortable.

”Well,” Mr. Carter started, “that’s why she‘s not with us right now. Anything you say will stay between us, I promise.”

Steve didn’t like talking about it either. 

The man leaned forward and smiled at if him as if they were very good friends. But Steve could only focus on the way the light reflected off the man’s balding head. He had intense blue eyes too, revealing eyes that made Steve feel far too seen. In that moment, Steve wanted his mother back in the room. 

”How ‘bout we start a bit easier, okay?” Mr. Carter said, “Why don’t you tell me about how the dreams make you feel?”

Steve was quiet.

Mr. Carter sighed irritably.

“I know this might be scary, but I need you to try, Steven. I just want to he-“

”Scared.” Steve interrupted before the man could lose his temper. Mr. Carter gestured for him to continue, “And sick, I uh- I guess.”

”Alright, that’s good Steven, thank you for answering.”

This room had a clock too. Steve was beginning to heavily dislike the ticking sounds.

”Do you think you know why you feel that way?” Steve shrugged and Mr. Carter smiled reassuringly, softly. “There’s no right or wrong answer here, Steven.”

”I don’t— I don’t know? I don’t like them.”

This sentence was followed by a huff of frustration and a set of small folded arms, seeing as Steve couldn’t seem to find the right words. He just knew that he didn’t like the dreams at all.

He just knew that sometimes…

Sometimes when he really concentrated— 

“How about this!” Mr. Carter exclaimed, jumping up from the soft looking chair he had taken as his. Steve jumped at the sudden movements.

”Um..”

”Let’s find a way for you to tell me how we’re feeling, okay?” The man walked to a desk that was behind the couch, the one Steve was sitting on, and opened one of the many drawers.

Mr. Carter swiftly returned with a small notepad and a box of children’s crayons, placing them on the small table between his soft chair and Steve’s big couch. A coffee table, Steve thinks.

Mr. Carter smiled. “If you’re having trouble with your words you can always use these to draw instead.” He gestured towards the utensils. ”How’s that sound?”

Steve glanced at the box of crayons curiously, a tilt of his head. Very rarely was he allowed to draw or color. His parents had always wanted him to focus on other things, like being fast and well-spoken or always standing with his shoulders square.

Steve never got to draw.

“Are you sure?” He asked watching the man across from him. 

“Of course, Steven.” He smiled again, “As long as it helps.”

Steve smiled back hesitantly, nodding his head in understanding, “Okay.”

“Okay.” Mr. Carter confirmed.

Steve did not touch the crayons for the rest of that visit. Or the one after. Or the next. Or the next.

But they were always there, like clockwork, sitting as a splash of color in the otherwise depressingly grey room.

For months Steve visited the drab room to be questioned by the balding man with too blue eyes and a very wide smile.

Steve didn’t like the large grey couch or the soft blue chair. He didn’t like the old bookshelves or the tiny window he had to crane his neck to see out of. He didn’t like the sad paint and the even sadder trim. And he did not like Mr. Carter. 

But still he went, because there was a chance, no matter how small, that it could make the nightmares go away. He prayed that it would make them go away.

They didn’t though. 

Mr. Carter sighed and dropped his notepad into his lap to rub at the space between his eyes. Steve stared at the crayons on the table. “Please Steven,” The man begged and the two of them stared at one another for a moment; Steve felt a twinge of guilt.

“How about— let’s just…”

Mr. Carter leaned from his soft chair and plucked the crayons from the table and, instead of putting them back in their drawer and sending him home like Steve thought he would, Mr. Carter did something he hadn’t done before.

He put the crayons in Steve’s hand.

”Try.” He implored, leaning just a bit too close and smiling. “Just draw while we talk! It doesn’t have to be anything specific and, uh, we can try something new if this doesn’t work, okay?”

Steve took the crayons carefully, nodding as he drew them to his chest.

Mr. Carter smiles one of his wide smiles, “So, I heard you’re starting first grade soon? Are you excited?”

Steve shook his head.

”Oh.” Mr. Carter looked put out, like someone had just told him that his favorite color was trash. Steve fought down a smile, it was fitting for Mr. Carter to enjoy school. No one cool enjoys school. “Well, that’s no fun! Why don’t you like it?”

Steve shrugged his shoulders as he opened the box of crayons, “It doesn’t make any sense.” He says, “Teachers make things so stupid.” He announced, dumping the crayons into his lap with a flourish and ignoring Mr. Carter’s wince. “They make everything so… so—“

”Overcomplicated?”

”Yeah,” Steve muttered, wiping his palm against his nose with a sniff. “It’s just dumb.”

And so they talked like they always did, meaningless back and forth while Mr. Carter desperately and hopelessly tried to figure Steve’s brain out.

Steve would like to know as soon as he did so.

Time passed, the drawings staying innocent for the most part, though the amount and quality increased over time and Steve found himself enjoying the time he had with Mr. Carter and his crayons.

The small notepad had been changed out early, making way for a much larger yellow notebook just for Steve, usually covered in simple doodles detailing what they had talked about, like little stick figures walking dogs or scenes of the park at Steve’s new school. Or sometimes Steve would just let his hand drift awkwardly across the page just so he didn’t have to sit still, which usually ended in a whole page devoured by colored wax.

Steve kinda thought that was funny.

Mr. Carter did not.

For a while, Steve thought that maybe he was getting better, the dreams had slowed down, and while they weren’t completely gone, his recent sleep was the best Steve had gotten since this whole thing started. 

But Steve was wrong, and very very unlucky.

”Steven?”

He ignored the soft spoken word, keeping his eyes glued to the small square window. It was snowing now. How long has he been coming to Mr. Carter’s office? Nearly a year? He wasn’t quite sure, really, it was all blurring together like the watercolor paints from his class.  

His arms wrapped tightly around his knees, and he remembered with some great distance that Mr. Carter didn’t like shoes on the big grey couch.

Oh well.

”Steven?”

Steve knew he was a sight, his mother had actually yelped in fright when she saw him, whispering things about appearances as she wiped the blood from beneath his nose away. So the concern in the man’s voice wasn’t completely lost on him. But Steve couldn’t think too much right now.

“Steven?” He saw Mr. Carter tilt from the corner of his eye, the man obviously trying to catch his gaze. “Rough night?”

Steve snorted.

It had been one of his reoccurring dreams, one that he hated the most.

One that he detested.

Steve glanced back towards the soft blue chair and caught the eyes of Mr. Carter. The man raised his eyebrows in a placating manner and Steve turned back to the window.

Then he blinks and for a moment he wasn’t sitting in Mr. Carter’s sad office. 

The halls of the school were familiar, abandoned and echoing from their emptiness, bouncing off the walls almost like the ripples in the red beneath his feet, illuminated only by the flickering lights above; he’s always alone in the beginning, walking around, with raised heels and tense shoulders for reasons he can never really remember. 

But then the screaming starts and Steve isn’t alone anymore.

He opened his eyes.

”I don’t like to wear socks when I sleep.” Steve blurts, his gaze pinned to the window, to the snow falling in slow motion. 

Mr. Carter straightens in his soft seat and stays quiet. 

“When I dream I’m always wearing what I go to sleep in.” He continued, blinking hard as he thought up the words. He couldn’t. So he just said, “I don’t like wearing socks to sleep.”

Mr. Carter nodded slowly like Steve’s word vomit made sense, which Steve found both ridiculous and confusing, which is how these conversations usually go.

Then the man slide the notebook closer to Steve from where it sat on the coffee table and Steve’s heart began to race. He had been avoiding that notebook this entire visit. 

It’s hard to explain the feeling that gripped Steve’s chest in that moment, the heart stopping, breath stealing kind of feeling that left him dizzy. All Steve knew, was that in that moment, he would do anything to be anywhere else. Not Mr. Carter’s sad office.

He was going to be sick.

”I’m missing school,” He suddenly and harshly whispered, terrified out of his mind by the small yellow notebook sitting innocently in front of him, he desperately needed a topic change, an escape, “Um… really really sorry Mr. Carter but I gotta—“

”Steve.”

Steve froze.

“Your mother and father dropped you off here. You’ve been excused from school for this very appointment. Plus, you’ve never really cared about school.” Mr. Carter smiled, peeling through Steve’s excuses all too quickly, leaving Steve feeling entirely too hot and too cold all at once. “Please let me help you.”

It sounded real. Genuine.

Steve thought back to the kind nurse with a soft face and even softer red hair. She had only wanted to help too. She had been kind.

Hadn’t she?

”I need you to trust me, okay?”

Sharp blue eyes stared into exhausted hazel and Steve, hopelessly ignoring the twisting in his stomach, nodded and picked the notebook up off the table.

“Okay,” He whispered.

”Okay.” Mr. Carter confirmed.

Steve flipped to an unblemished page and took a deep breath, nightmares flashing behind his eyes every time he blinked. 

“Okay,” he whispered to himself with a shaky exhale.

By the time he was done drawing, the red crayon was a stump of wax and paper. Placing the notebook back down onto the coffee table was difficult, even after he closed the pages to gain a few extra seconds before Mr. Carter inevitably saw his latest drawing.

The man in question was already palming at the notebook, his eyes never leaving Steve’s, not even for a moment. But Steve didn’t shout or yell. He didn’t lurch forward to yank the book from patient hands. He didn’t panic.

Outwardly.

But then the book was in the adult’s hands and he was opening it and Steve opened his mouth to yell at him to stop wait!

But adults never really listen to kids. Not really.

Mr. Carter’s blue eyes went wide as he stared down at Steve’s picture, all the blood draining from his face, his mouth falling agape. He looked about as sick as Steve felt. 

A part of Steve wanted to do a little dance he had seen in a cartoon, wanted to wave his hands in the air and sing ‘Tada!’ just to get rid of the stifling air and the flipping of his stomach.

He had a feeling Mr. Carter wouldn’t find it funny.

The other part wanted to curl into a ball and stay that way forever.

He couldn’t do that either.

”Is this…” Mr. Carter’s voice shook a bit as he spoke, he wasn’t looking up from the picture, “Is this one of your dreams? Steven?”

Steve stared at the curve of Mr. Carter’s knee and willed himself not to throw up his fluttering nerves. Avoiding the man’s eyes, he opened his mouth to explain.

But Steve Harrington never was good with words.

”I hate the feeling of blood soaking into my socks.” He says instead. “It makes me sick.”

Mr. Carter vomits into the trash bin by the door.

Steve never goes back to the sad office with the colorful crayons after that. His parent’s never tell him why but Steve can guess. 

He never liked Mr. Carter anyway.

Steve was pretty sure he was gonna be put up for adoption. Tommy had said so when Steve told him about the talks with Mr. Carter.

Tommy said Steve was probably crazy and that no parents wanted a crazy kid. 

Steve didn’t feel crazy.

But maybe he was the only one who thought that.

”You saw the notebook!” His father yelled, waving it through the air, causing pages to come loose and float to the ground. Steve’s eyes followed the trail of one of his favorite drawings, a portrait of Mr. Carter with a truly heinous expression patched onto his face. Steve had thought it was funny.

His father threw the notebook over Steve’s head where it crashed violently into the staircase. “Just nightmares my ass! He’s just a damn— He’s deranged”

Steve flinched.

Steve’s mother watched from the other side of the living room with a glass balanced in her hand. She spun it in a slow circle, the deep red liquid sloshing at the rims a bit.

Steve and his mother watched for a moment as his father paced around the room, shaking in his anger.

”You know I hate when people pace.” His mother began, her face prim and blank, apathy suited her. “Sit down Eric, and quit making a fool of yourself.”

His father quit walking in circles to turn and point an accusing finger into her face. Now only Steve was watching, perched from where he stood at the foot of the stairs.

”You,” his father growled, “are the one who brought this entire idea up.”

She slapped his hand out of her face. “I’m working on it, now calm down.”

His father shook his head is disbelief and anger.

He ran as hot as Steve’s mother ran cold. It was a scary thing, living with the both of them. And Steve, well, Steve ran as hot and as cold as both of them combined. He knew that of course, it had gotten him in trouble a few times, but it was just who he was.

So really, what came next should’ve been expected.

He father stormed off, probably to sit and stew in his office, but as he passed Steve, muttering hateful words to himself, Steve caught a single word.

Crazy.

And well, Steve did have his father’s temper.

“I am not crazy.” Steve whispered.

His father stopped dead in his tracks, “Speak up, Steven.”

There was a threat in his voice, but Steve couldn’t find it in himself to care and turned to face his fathers back saying, loudly this time, “I am not crazy.”

Steve’s father never hit him. 

You see, when Steve’s father had been young his own father had beat him at any possible chance, leaving no room for arguments or opinions besides his own. That’s what Steve had been told, at least. 

So Eric Harrington had never raised a hand to Steve.

But the bruising grip on Steve’s arm as he was dragged down the hallway sure felt real. As did the sound of the bath being filled with freezing cold water. 

Steve was picked up off the floor with ease and plunged into the ice cold.

For a moment Steve thought that this was all in his head (This has happened before, right?) and froze in horror. 

But pretty soon his lungs burnt as hot as his father’s red face hovering above him, blurred and distorted by the water, and Steve started to panic.

His father wasn’t letting him up.

He could barely hear the splashing water over his heart beat as he struggled, desperately searching, gripping for anything to get some traction, anything to pull him up from beneath the water.

His father’s tie hung limply from around his neck.

Steve wrapped two small palms around the offered lifeline and pulled.

He broke the surface with a strangled gasp, ignoring the water sloshing over the rim of the tub in multitudes. The faucet was still going.

He fought against his father’s much larger, much stronger hands with trembling limbs. He was shaking so much he could barely breathe. 

His father paused as his mother yelled something from the family room, telling them to “Keep it down, the neighbors might be listening.”

Steve was freezing.

His hands slipped from around the ruined tie and he was shoved back into the water.

That night, after Steve had been half dragged, half walked back to his room, he still shivered from the cold of the bathtub and the weight of his father’s hands.

But Steve’s father never hit him.

1975 Hawkins, Indiana

Hawkins National Laboratory

Steve glanced at himself in the window, fighting off a fresh wave of deja-vu. 

Sitting between his parents in a quiet room with a very, very loud clock, Steve found himself grateful that the chairs weren’t made of leather.

The walls were a perfect white, and there were no soft blue seats or big grey couches to be seen, only hard plastic chairs that matched the walls and the doors and the desks and the tiles and the trims around the windows. 

Everything was white, really.

The man sitting across from them, on the other side of the desk, was even wearing a soft white coat like the ones Steve had seen in some movies. 

“Let’s see what we can do for you,” The man’s smile squished his eyes, “My name is Doctor Owens, and I’ve heard you’ve been having some troubles, young man.”

He was talking to Steve. 

“Oh, um.” Steve said softly, “Yeah.”

The doctor nodded his head and flipped through the file on his desk, the one Steve had seen passed through all the people they had spoken to.

”Yes, well.” The doctor began, “it seems like you’ve found the right people then!”

“So you can fix this?” Steve’s father asked.

The doctor furrowed his brows, “I don’t think ‘fix’ is the right word, but we certainly can help.” He glanced back down at the file. “So, nightmares, violent ones.”

Steve nods at the not question and the man tsks.

“Well we can’t have that, now can we! Sounds like quite the issue,” He laughed, eyes scanning the layers of paper. “The file also mentions nosebleeds? Can you elaborate on that, please?”

This question was directed to his parents.

“Well, when he’s…” his mother grimaces as if reliving terrible memories, which Steve finds doesn’t quite fit her face right. “When he’s having nightmares he tends to toss and turn, quite a bit, and we think that he’s hit his nose a few times. Simple really.”

”And there were no breaks? Or bruising?”

”No,” his mother says, “I don’t see how this is related?”

”Ah no,” the man waved a hand, “It’s not. I’m just clearing some things up, really, trying to keep things clean here in the file.” He taps at the flimsy thing. “We like things organized here”

He smiles.

”I’ll get you set up with our child psychologist. He’s a very busy man but he’s more than willing to meet with Steven here as often as possible.”

”How often will he need to meet up for the appointments?” His father asks, “You see, my wife and I both need to travel for work and we might not be here for weeks at a time. We thought to hire a nanny but we would like to keep Steven’s… issues as private as possible. I’m sure you can understand.”

“Of course Mr. Harrington,” Doctor Owens nods his head seriously. “We’ll need to understand exactly what Steven’s going through, so some of the treatments might take weeks, possibly months to gather the proper amount of data.” He pauses and seems to mull over his words, Steve’s stomach tightens uncomfortably. “So it’s completely possible, if necessary, for you to leave him in the care of the facility while you’re gone.”

The clock ticks loudly and Steve immediately shakes his head.

Doctor Owens raises a hand,  “Only if there are no other options, Steven.”

”Will there be any extra cost? If we were to leave him in your care?”

Steve feels his stomach drop at his mothers question. She couldn’t be considering it. Like actually considering it.

”Only a small commitment fee,” Doctor Owens gives a jolly laugh. “But that won’t be an issue for you, I feel.”

With a nod, Steve’s father agrees. “Not an issue at all.”

Steve’s horror grows.

”Mom,” he whispers, tugging gently on her sleeve, “Mom please, you can’t, I don’t wanna be alone—“

But adults never listen to children.

”Oh hush, Steven,” She says and Steve feels his fingers slip from her silk blouse as she purposefully shifts in her seat, “This will help you sleep. You’ll finally sleep.”

”Don’t worry, Steven,” the man with the white coat says, “Doctor Brenner isn’t anyone to be afraid of.”

Steve looks up at his eyes, at his round face and trustworthy smile.

And doesn’t believe him.

Three weeks later Steve is dropped off in front of the large white building, a check for the extra fee pressing into his palm, his parents leaving for England, and the weight of a stranger’s hand heavy on his shoulder as they drive away.

He glances up at the man besides him and sees white hair blending into the white of the snow blurring around them. Thin lips smile down.

”Welcome back, Steven. I’m Doctor Brenner.”

Steve’s lip trembles.

”Hi”

Chapter Text

1976 Hawkins, Indiana

Hawkins National Laboratory

There was blood on the walls. 

A splattered mosaic smothered against cold stone. An unfeeling white surrounding deep, warm red. 

There was a voice in Steve's ear. 

Quiet and soft and barely there. Sharp consonants bouncing back and forth across the abandoned hallways, the echos beating against the stifling silence and the ringing in Steve's left ear.

He raised a hand to the wall, fingers hovering inches away, twitching. His heart trembled as Steve resolutely ignored the gurgling voice calling up from the floor, his hand falling limp at his side. Fingers sticking together with thick strands of congealed blood that dripped from his nails to the floor. 

Steve hated the color red.

The voice called out again, pitched upwards in pain and broken apart by bubbling coughs that splatter warm spit over Steve's grey sweats. He swallowed down his own bile, gagging, and keeps his eyes on the wall. 

"Sth-" the voice murmured, bubbling, "stop hm-" 

Something twitched, the stuttering movement caught in the corner of Steve's left eye, blurred. It's a foot, he thinks, bare and covered in the same crimson that's painted over the walls. It jerks occasionally, ankle pulling unnaturally at the bent leg, knee twisting in the wrong direction.

Broken, their leg was broken.

Steve tried to take a deep breath only to choke on the taste of iron, the smell of blood so thick he could feel it dancing over his tongue. His eyes squeezed shut, heartbeat fluttering and suddenly his lungs weren't deep enough for him to breathe. The world spun and Steve let out a muffled whimper when something pulled at the hem of his sweats, hovering over the skin of his ankle. 

"Need 'ugh-"

Sticky fingers smeared over Steve's skin, bitten nails desperately scratching for traction, for attention. The voice gurgled again, louder than before and Steve's hands flew to cover his ears, his own fingers sticking to the curve of his cheek. He hummed softly to himself, ignoring the wretched screams, ignoring the palm wrapped painfully around his ankle, heaving.

"-elp, need," a gasping breath, "warn 'sem ple-"

Don't look Don't look Don't look

Steve's left shoulder met the wall with a soft thump, trembling. His head spun with pins and needles, temples thumping in time with his racing pulse, the red soaking into the grey sleeve he was pressing against the wall. Steve felt it plastered between the fabric and his skin like glue.

Another wet gurgle had Steve shaking his head violently, a soft cry bursting from between his pressed lips, warbling sobs echoing back to the stranger spread across the ground like broken glass.

But all the shaking did was dislodge his arm from the wall.

"-please," the voice sobbed.

The red was creeping beneath the soles of his bare feet, slick against the white tile and adding to Steve's wobbling knees. The grip around his ankle was tightening, the small trembling fingers digging into the curves of his leg. They suddenly yank sideways, painfully pulling Steve’s fragile balance off center.

And just like that

He slipped.

You know that feeling? 

Like your heart is squeezing up into your throat, painful and tight and choking. 

Like you're standing on the edge of a cliff, stomach dropping beneath your feet as you rock between floating and falling. 

Like you're falling. 

Falling?

Steve woke up screaming.

The deep thud of his heart pounded in his ears like twin war drums, beating against his skull with reckless abandon.

The cords and wires that were taped across his body pulled as he thrashed into consciousness, painfully catching at his skin. 

A chorus of voices slurred above his head, muddled and loud and bouncing. They looped in circles and Steve felt his eyes begin to burn at the disorientation. Their blurred faces and voices mixed with an aggravating beep that sped up with each passing second, steadily growing louder.

Steve shook his head in a vain attempt to dislodge it, but all it did was make the world spin faster, his bed swaying sideways as if caught in a slow-motion earthquake.

A familiar tang of iron met his lips, and that plus the spinning walls had Steve lurching forward, eliciting a surprised shout from the man beside him. His aching shoulders pressed into the mattress, muscles pulled taunt beneath his skin as he bent his head over the edge of the white sheets. 

He threw up. 

The bile burnt his lips and nose, mixing with the blood that was dripping down his chin. It was gross. So gross that Steve nearly gagged again. But instead he just spit the mixture onto the floor, the excess splashing up against one of the doctor's boots. Steve grinned with bloodied teeth when the doctor let out a quiet sound of disgust, a quiet grumbling groan in the back of the man’s throat. 

And then hands were on him again, larger than the single one before, pressing him back into the tangled white sheets. Steve fell willingly, exhausted and sick and shaking like a leaf. If he stared at his chest long enough, he figured he would see the skin pulsing in time with his heart. Thumping so hard he was sure it was going to jump straight out of his ribcage. 

He could still feel small fingers wrapped tight around his ankle. It ached with scratches from nails that never actually broke his skin. Steve twisted violently, attempting to untangle his legs from beneath the sheets to shake the feeling away. 

He was crying. Big, loud, pitiful sobs that shook his entire chest, leaving him dizzy and hot. A strange mixture of terror and embarrassment was building the pressure behind his eyes till the white hot tears had no choice but to spill over. 

The men in the white coats didn't really seem to care though. There were only two of them; two strangers that Steve had never spoken to, floating around like shadows. They were quiet.

Steve’s chest shuddered as he sucked in a greedy breath, the slow-spinning white walls melting back into the lab. The old mattress gave a squeaky groan as he shifted on the bed, pressing a shaking palm flat to his sternum to catch his rabbiting heart against his fingers.

The lights above him flickered violently.

The men were taking to one another, whispering over the strange machine with the scratching needles and blinking lights. Steve could hear one of them dragging along a thin line of paper, drawing the strange swooping lines that made no sense.

Shit

Steve muffled a groan into his fist.

Everything hurt.

The throbbing behind his eyes was sinking into his spine and shoulders, a deep ache that would take days to fade, and his throat burned from the strain of vomiting (and screaming, probably). There was a tickle against his jaw that Steve knew meant blood. There was no surprise when he drew his shaking fingers away, the tips brushed red from his cheeks, watery blood slowly dripping from his ears.

He startled then, when a loud crashed suddenly echoed throughout the lab, his hands flying to cover his ears.

The door slammed again, the sound somewhere deeper in the building. Steve jerked his head towards the offending noise, nearly trembling out of his own skin as he stared down the closed door to his right, tracing the rusted metal hinges with his eyes.

It stayed closed. 

There were a few moments of stifling silence, where Steve could hear his own heart tenfold, before he could clearly hear the ringing voice of a crying woman, her voice bouncing back against the walls like there were two people instead of one.

It almost sounded like she was laughing.

Steve glanced back at the doctors, but neither of them moved. They didn’t even react to the muffled screams, bent over papers and files and scratching blinking machines, enamored with Steve’s brain.

The woman’s crying laughter suddenly choked in an awful hiccup, her shouts curdling into a long aching wail. Steve winced, pushing his head away and into his pillow. It sounded painful.

Forcing a trembling breath, Steve smeared his palms across his cheeks to catch his tears, ignoring how his palms shook.

He hopes she's okay. 

“Steven?” The Doctor started, voice soft and placating. “Will you look at me, please?”

Steve drug his eyes upwards, briefly glancing over the face of Doctor Brenner, before dropping them back to his lap. He pulled at each of his fingers, counting. 

The Doctor sighed, a quiet controlled thing, and leaned back in his chair. It protested against the shifting weight, screeching metal against metal leaving a bad taste in Steve’s mouth and a ringing in his ears.

”I just have to ask you a question, alright? Just one.” He continued. “And then we can be done for the day.”

Steve’s brows pinch the skin of his forehead.

”How does that sound?”

It was phrased as a question. Steve knew that it wasn’t one.

The Doctor nodded his head just a moment later, leaning forward as his elbows came to rest on the edge of the table. His eyes twinkled in the low light, as if Steve had agreed with his request with enthusiastic glee. The papers beneath the man’s arms crinkled loudly

The room was empty besides the two of them. Two metal chairs, one table spread out between them, with cold white walls on all sides. Cold and unfeeling like the rest of the building, like the room Steve stayed in.

”Steven,” Doctor Brenner asked, a smile playing at his thin lips. “Can you tell me if this is a dream?”

The halls were empty.

They often were so the silence of it all was welcomed, familiar.

Steve walked with his heels lifted from the floor, steps slow and calculated, the quiet padding of his feet muffled further by the soft yellow socks the Doctor had given him. They were bright and fuzzy, a spot of color in the otherwise drab building. They even had little dots of white rubber on the bottom that stopped Steve from slipping as he tiptoed through the halls.

The Doctor was busy today, down in the lower grounds with the other patients, ones that he only rarely mentioned in passing thought. Kids that might be like Steve.

At least that’s what Steve thinks.

Hopes, maybe. 

The first time they had left him alone he’d stayed in his room. He had laid on his bed and played with the stuffed rabbit they had given him, which was given the incredibly creative name of Rabbit. All while deftly ignoring the small folder of worksheets that he had brought from school, the rows of math and history problems sitting like mold against the white sheets. 

He’d spent his time reenacting a story he had read once while in class instead, one about a squirrel that had lost its tail. Steve often played as the owl, and while he didn’t have a squirrel, his rabbit had worked just fine at the time.

It got boring quick.

Technically, Steve wasn’t allowed out of his room. But it was small, with only a bed and a window, though the small window was usually closed, latched tightly, and locked.

They never locked the door though.

He had his rabbit with him now, his right hand wrapped tightly around one of its floppy ears as he snuck through the halls. It swayed in his grasp with each of his slow steps, a soft blue blur hovering in the corner of Steve’s eye as he focused on his intended target. 

The door at the end of the hallway was close now, close enough that Steve could pull the handle with the very tips of his fingers. He glanced at the plaque beside the door, double checking for the correct number, before tugging on the handle.

“Hello?” Steve called into the quiet room, tilting his head through the crack in the door.

The room was quiet and empty, much like his own, with a bed and window that was always latched. Instead of a stuffed animal there was a chair, soft worn leather that seemed profoundly dark against the walls of the lab. 

At first glance the room might seem empty. Devoid of anything but the dust, caught by the soft spring light that was streaming in from the window.

Steve knew better.

She was sitting in the leather chair, exactly how she always was, gaze distant but still there. Her long blonde hair was tangled, cascading over her shoulders in a mangled mess. A beam of light cut directly across her face, highlighting the deep bruises beneath her eyes.

Steve smiled.

“Hi Ms. Ives.”

“Steven?” The Doctor started, voice soft and placating. “Will you look at me, please?”

Steve drug his eyes upwards, briefly glancing over the long face of Doctor Brenner, before dropping them back to his lap. He pulled at each of his fingers, counting, before losing track and starting over.

One

Two

Three

The Doctor sighed, a quiet controlled thing, and leaned back in his chair. It protested against the shifting weight, screeching metal against metal leaving a bad taste in Steve's mouth and a loud ringing in his ears.

”I just have to ask you a question, alright? Just one.” He continued. “And then we can be done for the day.”

Steve’s brows pinch the skin of his forehead, a sharp ache started to pound behind his eyes. 

”How does that sound?”

It wasn’t a question.

Four

Five

Six

The Doctor nodded his head just a moment later, leaning forward as his elbows came up to rest on the edge of the table. His eyes twinkled in the low light, as if Steve had agreed with his request with enthusiastic glee. The papers beneath the man’s arms crinkled loudly, edges bending up off the metal table.

The room was empty besides the two of them. Two metal chairs, one table spread out between them, with cold white walls on all sides, excluding the mirror to their left that likely led to another room. Still cold and unfeeling like the rest of the building, like the room Steve stayed in, like the room Ms. Ives stayed in.

”Steven,” Doctor Brenner asked, a smile stretching over his thin lips. “Can you tell me if this is a dream?”

Steve took a step into Ms. Ives’s room, pulling the door closed with a soft click.

”Hi,” he repeated, stepping closer till he was standing only a few feet in front of her. “Sorry I haven’t visited in a while. Mom and dad came home for a little bit so… ”

He drifted off, bending at the waist to try and catch her eye. 

She tilted her head towards him, and Steve grinned.

“I brought Rabbit with me this time.” He lifted the mentioned rabbit by the arm to show her, the stuffed animals face flopping forward against its chest. “To just, you know, introduce you guys.”

She didn’t say anything, but she was looking at him. Well, her eyes were looking through him more than at him, fuzzy and unfocused, but they were following the jerky movements of his hands. Drifting behind the way he swayed on his feet.

“Are you feeling any better?” He asked, though he knew he wouldn’t get an answer. “Dr. Brenner doesn’t talk about you that much, so I was just, um—“

He took the few steps towards her, losing her eyes somewhere in between, and placed Rabbit in her lap. She didn’t move at first, staring through the wall and maybe even further, until Steve lightly gripped her wrist and brought her hand down atop the stuffed rabbit.

“I was just wondering,” he said after taking a deep breath, “if you were feeling okay. I brought you Rabbit ‘cause he helps me when I’m sad sometimes so uhm— maybe he can help you too, or something.”

There was a burning in Steve’s cheeks, one that he elected to ignore in favor of everting his eyes and circling around to the back of Ms. Ives’s leather chair.

The state of her hair was worse than Steve thought. Greasy and unkept. Steve grimaced as he carefully pulled his fingers across her scalp, pulling softly on her dirty hair. His own hair was cut short and close to his scalp, something the lab had done as soon as he was admitted.

”Sorry I was gone for so long.” He repeated before gathering her hair in his hands.

He didn’t have a brush, so Steve worked with just his fingers, gently tugging at knots and tangles until Ms. Ives hair was as smooth as he could get it.

“I had another dream.” He told her to fill the silence, voice murmuring and soft. “It was weird, I mean— it was different than, ya know, usual.”

He carefully pulled his fingers through her hair to gather it together as he spoke. He liked playing with the woman’s hair, something he had started after the first few times he had visited her, finding her hair gnarled and greasy from her treatments.

“It wasn’t scary?” He continued, whispering low and quiet, almost talking to himself instead of the woman sitting in front of him. “It just was? Like, I was just talking to— to someone. I don’t remember his face.” Steve’s eyebrows scrunched together as he stared out at the wall across the room, a quiet huff of breath escaped from his nose. “They’re always so blurry.”

He tucked a loose strand behind her ear, smiled when he realized she had started to rhythmically pet the rabbit in her lap.

He split her hair into three, braiding the blonde strands together to help keep her hair nice and stop the tangles. He didn’t have a tie to pinch the end of it like his mother would, so he just gently laid it over her shoulder; she didn’t move enough to pull it apart anyway. 

“But it felt so familiar, it felt like I knew him from somewhere.” He paused, hand frozen against Ms. Ives' bony shoulder, his gaze matching her distant eyes.

“I knew him.”

“Steven?” The Doctor started, voice soft and placating. “Will you look at me, please?”

Steve drug his eyes upwards, briefly glancing over the drawn face of Doctor Brenner, before dropping them back to his lap. He pulled at each of his fingers, counting.

He had lost count.

One

Two

The Doctor sighed, a quiet controlled thing, and leaned back in his chair. It protested against the shifting weight, screeching metal against metal leaving a bad taste in Steve's mouth and a loud ringing in his ears.

”I just have to ask you a question, alright? Just one.” He continued. “And then we can be done for the day.”

Steve’s brows pinch the skin of his forehead, the sharp ache building behind his eyes. 

”How does that sound?”

It wasn’t a question.

Four?

The Doctor nodded his head just a moment later, leaning forward as his elbows came up to rest on the edge of the table. His eyes twinkled in the low light, as if Steve had agreed with his request with enthusiastic glee. The papers beneath his arms crinkled loudly, edges bending up off the metal table.

The room was empty besides the two of them. Two metal chairs, one table spread out between them, with cold white walls on all sides, excluding the mirror to their left that likely led to another room. Still cold and unfeeling like the rest of the building, like the room Steve stayed in, like the room Ms. Ives stayed in.

”Steven,” Doctor Brenner asked, a smile stretching impossibly wide over his thin lips. “Can you tell me if this is a dream?”

Steve sighed and dropped his hands, “It doesn’t really matter, anyway.”

The room was still for a moment as Steve watched the dust-fuzz float through the air, caught in the soft beams of light. He circled back around Ms. Ives chair and knelt beside her. 

”I think I’m getting worse.” He whispered, voice trembling with the sudden quiet admittance. “I think— I mean…”

He slumped into her, resting his forehead against the angular curve of her knee. Steve blinked against the burning in his eyes, swallowed against the building pressure in his throat.

For all the time he had been here, he had yet to cry. He was nearly ten years old now, he knew not to throw a fit.

He knew that his parents would come back eventually, and he’d go back to school with his friends and teachers, with Tommy and Carol. That he’d get to run outside with them again, play in the rain and mud and then get in trouble for being dirty when he got home. That he’d eventually come back to the lab to start it all over again. 

He knew that.

“I just—“ He paused, ruminating, before glancing up at the woman sitting next to him. 

Ms. Ives didn’t say anything, she just waited for Steve to find his words, no matter how stupid they felt when they finally spilt from his lips. She just continued to pet the rabbit in her lap, rocking in place with her newly braided hair resting against her shoulder.

Steve rubbed a hand against her calf, slowly up and down, and hoped that it offered her some comfort.

”I think I’m started to get confused.” He confessed, so softly he himself could barely hear it. “Usually I can, you know, I can tell when I’m… when I’m sleeping. Like I know I’m asleep when I’m asleep.” 

He shifted, tucking his knees down so he could sit on his ankles. Taking Ms. Ives free hand in his own, he tangled his smaller fingers with hers and grimaced at his own words, none of them fit the way he wanted them to.

”But sometimes it’s just so similar. It feels the same, if that makes sense. And I— I don’t even know if I’m, like, awake?” Steve waved his free hand through the air, gesturing outwards in one massive swoop. “There are tricks that I have that help. Like uhm— ”

His grand gesture suddenly stuttered and changed course, his raised hand jolting above his head to wiggling his fingers in Ms. Ives’s face.

“Things get fuzzy when I’m asleep, ya’ know, when I’m dreaming.” He explained, “So when I get confused I’ll try to count my fingers, but I’ll get lost, sometimes. Like I can never count all ten of them ‘cause hm— I guess I don’t have all ten? Or something? All ten fingers, I mean.”

He wiggled them again for emphasis before dropping his hand back into his lap. 

“There’s more,” he continued, before ruefully twisting his mouth and snorting. “But it doesn’t really matter. You know why? ‘Cause I can’t check if the dream is fake if I never realize I’m dreaming in the first place, right?”

Steve sighed, his expression falling.

”I don’t know.”

“Steven?” The Doctor started, voice soft and placating. “Will you look at me, please?”

Steve stared down at his lap pulling at each of his fingers, counting.

He had lost count.

He started again.

One

Two

Three

The Doctor sighed, a quiet controlled thing, and leaned back in his chair. It protested against the shifting weight, screeching metal against metal leaving a bad taste in Steve's mouth and a deafening ring in his ears.

”I just have to ask you a question, alright? Just one.” He continued. “And then we can be done for the day.”

Steve’s brows pinch the skin of his forehead, the sharp ache building behind his eyes. 

”How does that sound?”

It wasn’t a question.

Four

Five

The Doctor nodded his head just a moment later, leaning forward as his elbows came up to rest on the edge of the table. His eyes twinkled in the low light, as if Steve had agreed with his request with enthusiastic glee. The papers beneath his arms crinkled loudly, edges bending up off the metal table, ink melting into the shadows of the Doctor’s elbow. 

The room was empty besides the two of them. Two metal chairs, one table spread out between them, with cold white walls on all sides, excluding the mirror to their left that likely led to another room. Still cold and unfeeling like the rest of the building, like the room Steve stayed in, like the room Ms. Ives stayed in.

”Steven,” Doctor Brenner asked, a smile stretching impossibly wide over his thin face, skin folding over itself to make room for his teeth. “Can you tell me if this is a dream?

”I hate it,” Steve whispered, voice shaking. ”How do I—“ he choked, swallowing past the painful lump growing in his throat. “I can’t even trust myself.”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, horrified when they started to burn and blur. He pressed the side of his face into her knee, pushing hard enough his teeth caught painfully against the soft skin of his cheek. He blinked erratically, pushing the tears away.

“I wish you could tell me what to do.” He turned towards Ms. Ives and tried to give her a wobbling smile, though it was more of a grimace than anything else.

She didn’t move.

Steve sighed and rubbed the heel of his palm into his eyes, pressing till a kaleidoscope of colors bloomed behind his eyelids. “Sorry— sorry, jeez, you probably don’t even…”

He let the sentence hang in the air, heart hollowed and aching as his own voice echoed back at him from the corners of the empty room.

”Sorry.” He tried again, and this time he was sure he was talking to himself. 

He startled then, when a sudden weight pressed against his head, soft rhythmic stokes starting from the top of his head and ending at the nape of his neck. His breath escaped him in one momentous, trembling exhale.

Ms. Ives was petting softly over his short hair, humming a nonsense song that Steve had never heard, and swaying in her dark leather seat, Rabbit lying forgotten against her stomach.

Before he knew it, Steve was bursting into tears.

He laughed softly in disbelief, ignoring the white hot trails of tears dripping over his cheeks. Sniffing noisily as he wiped at his nose with the heel of his palm, he giggled, “Not fair, Ms. Ives.”

Steve’s sure he saw her smile.

“Steven?” The Doctor started, voice soft and placating. “Will you look at me, please?”

Steve drug his eyes upwards, briefly glancing over the face of Doctor Brenner, before dropping them back to his lap. He pulled at each of his fingers, counting.

One

Two

Three

The Doctor sighed, a quiet controlled thing, and leaned back in his chair. It protested against the shifting weight, screeching metal against metal leaving a bad taste in Steve’s mouth and a ringing in his ears.

”I just have to ask you a question, alright? Just one.” He continued. “And then we can be done for the day.”

Steve’s brows pinch the skin of his forehead.

”How does that sound?”

It was phrased as a question. Steve knew that it wasn’t one.

Four

Five 

Six

The Doctor nodded his head just a moment later, leaning forward as his elbows came up to rest on the edge of the table. His eyes twinkled in the low light, as if Steve had agreed with his request with an enthusiastic glee. The papers beneath his arms crinkled.

The room was empty besides the two of them. Two metal chairs, one table spread out between them, with cold white walls on all sides. Cold and unfeeling like the rest of the building, like the room Steve stayed in.

”Steven,” Doctor Brenner asked, a smile playing at his thin lips. “Can you tell me if this is a dream?”

Seven

Eight

Nine

Steve lifted his head to look at the mirror to his right instead of the man in front of him. 

“I don’t—“ he licked his lips and took a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

Dr. Brenner’s reflection smiled, small and surprised. Not wide. 

Seems like the Doctor had the right amount of teeth at least.

Steve’s head pounded. 

“Okay,” the Doctor’s eyebrows creased. “That’s alright, Steven. Let’s just try some of your tricks, okay? Figure it out together.”

Ten

”I’ve got all ten fingers.”

The man’s eyes went wide at Steve’s blurted response, an amused light blooming behind his pupils. ”Yes, yes you do.” He was still smiling. “What about my face? Is there anything… wrong?”

“Same as it’s always been.”

The Doctor adopted a slight look of mock hurt, left eyebrow raising towards his hairline. His skin folded and bent over the movements, normal human wrinkles that Steve traced with his eyes. 

“So…?” 

“I’m…” Steve blinked his eyes harshly, vision blurring with the force, before meeting the Doctors gaze. “I’m awake, I think.”

Dr. Brenner nodded his head. “I believe so too. If that’s of any help.”

It wasn’t, but Steve wasn’t about to say that.

Then the Doctor softly clapped his hands together, which, although quiet, made Steve jolt in place. “Now, I know I said we could be done for the day, but I’ve got something for you.”

”Oh.” Steve whispered in response, and he couldn’t help the way he leaned forward, eyes alight with curiosity. “What is it?”

The Doctor smiled at his eagerness and dipped his hand into the bag leaning against the leg of his chair; the one that Steve had immediately written off as unimportant. 

All the doctors carried bags or clipboards, and the green pens they all had tucked in the pockets of their coats. But Doctor Brenner had always been a bit strange, at least in Steve’s mind. He carried more color than the other doctors. And compared to the constant silence from the guards and nurses, Doctor Brenner was downright talkative. Plus, the chance of his bag carrying surprises was always more likely.

So when the Doctor pulled his hand out of the bag, placing a dark notebook on the table between them, Steve had to fight down a slight grin.

The boy reached out to run a cautious hand over the edge of the notebook, leaning forward precariously to brush the very tips of his fingers against the cover. It was soft and smooth, similar to the bright yellow socks he had pulled over his feet.  

”It's a gift” The Doctor said, smiling in a way that made his eyebrows raise cartoonishly.

Steve whispered his thanks, sticking his hands back into his lap, leaving the notebook lying on the cold metal.

"You're welcome, Steven." He nodded at Steve, then the book. ”It's to help keep track of your dreams.” The Doctor said, pushing it towards Steve, tapping the dark cover with a thin finger as he gestured with the other. “What I need you to do, is draw what you can remember after you wake up, in as much detail as you can.” He pulled his hand back, leaving the book on Steve’s side of the table, within easy reach.

“Do you think you can do that for me?”

Steve glanced between the book and the Doctor’s face, clutching his fists to his chest. Something in his stomach clenched painfully as he stared at the notebook, a visceral and familiar dread hanging over his head like a spider dangling from a thread. 

And suddenly it was like Steve was sitting on that large grey couch with a handful of colorful crayons in a sad room, right in the midst of his catastrophic last meeting with Mr. Carter.

“I’m not— very good at drawing.”

An understatement, if Steve were to be honest, but an important thing for The Doctor to know.

Steve never drew anything good.

”Humble.” Dr. Brenner said, the gleam back in his eyes. “I saw the notebook you kept in your time with your last doctor.” The man’s face pulled taunt, a sour twist as he pursed his lips. Unlike his mother's ordinary apathy, the pursed lips of the Doctor fit the man's face perfectly, his pinched eyebrows and downturned eyes slotting together like a lost puzzle piece. “As short as that time was, I thought those drawings of yours were rather impressive. You improved quickly.”

Steve scowled.

The Doctor chuckled at Steve’s dark expression, his forehead smoothing over, “It doesn’t have to be perfect, Steven. It just has to be done.”

”I know.” Steve whispered, picking at his fingers and the sleeves of his gray shirt in tandem. “I know.”

His heart was still pounding in his chest. Steve couldn’t quite shake the growing feeling of wrong.

This is wrong

“Can you do this for me?” The Doctor had tilted slightly to catch Steve’s attention, broad shoulders looming.

Keeping a cautious eye on the Doctor, Steve shoved his apprehension beneath his ribs and pulled the notebook off the table.

It was big. Even closed it covered the whole of his lap, the pages hanging over the curve of Steve’s knobby knees. The leather that enclosed the book was soft and dark, similar to the feel of Ms. Ives's chair. He slid a hand over the smooth cover, it was the nicest notebook he’d ever had.

Steve could feel his hesitation slipping away like water between his fingertips, bubbling excitement overshadowing the growing itch beneath his skin.

”I can do it.” Steve said, meeting Dr. Brenner’s eyes, ignoring the swirl of his stomach and the warning blaring behind his eyes. “If you’re— if you’re sure.”

The Doctor smiled brightly at Steve, fluorescent light gleaming against his teeth. 

”I’m sure.”

Steve tilted his head, swallowing the hot blood in the back of his throat, and smiled.

1978 Hawkins, Indiana

The Woods Behind Harrington House

“Man, I’m so screwed.”

Steve snorted, not even bothering to look up from his notebook as Tommy swayed in place, balancing dangerously on the log Steve was leaning against.

They had ran to the clearing right after school, the one they had stumbled into last summer when they had gotten lost. After finding their way back multiple times, they had deemed it theirs, and had decorated (though the few leaves and acorns they had strung up were easy to miss).

But it was their spot, a spot where Steve was now failing to hide his giggles at his friend’s exaggerated woe.

”Stop laughing, Steve.” Tommy wined, kicking him in the shoulder and sending the younger boy’s pencil flying across the clearing. “Don’t act like you’re not screwed too.”

Steve watched his pencil land somewhere among the foliage, disappearing beneath the multitude of fallen leaves.

”I think Mrs. Nordstrom has it out for me, ya’ know,” Tommy continued as Steve ignored him, trailing his hands through the leaves and dirt at his sides. He had just gotten that pencil.

There was a soft thunk as Tommy kicked at the log in his frustration. “That old bat has got to be some sort of witch — “

Steve dropped his notebook against the log, rocking back and forth till he had enough momentum to pull himself to his feet. He threw loose leaves into the air, crouching like a gargoyle as he dragged dirty hands through the mud. He came up empty handed.

No pencil.

Steve scowled in frustration and kicked at the foliage around the clearing. That was the third pencil Tommy had lost after pushing at Steve, which usually was to purposely cause a scuffle. Seems this time was different though, 'cause when Steve stood and stared at Tommy, looking for some amount of the usual mischief, the other boy didn’t even look up from his rant.

Well, that just won’t do. 

With a vicious grin, Steve launched himself at Tommy’s wobbling legs, effectively cutting his monologue short, and instead ending it with a surprised shout for help.

Both boys fell to the ground, the air knocked straight out of their lungs as they crashed onto the forest floor, leaves swirling up around them from the force of their fall and, even more from the following struggle.

Steve fought breathlessly to keep Tommy pinned, staving off the other boy's sharp elbows and fists. He almost had him too, Tommy had stopped wiggling and slapping at Steve’s arms, staring up at Steve in what seemed to be defeat as Steve grabbed a handful of muddy leaves and shoved them in Tommy’s face.

Tommy fell limp against the ground and grumbled. 

”You lost my pencil,” Steve told him, sitting back so he rested on his heels, slightly pressing on Tommy’s stomach to keep him still. The other boy groaned and picked a handful of leaves from his mouth. “Again.”

”Oh shut up.” Tommy spit at the ground and Steve laughed, borderline crowing in his victory. “Get off me you freakin’ twig.”

Before Tommy could properly grab and shove Steve into the dirt, a different small hand deftly grabbed at the neckline of Steve’s sweater, stretching it over and past the blue jacket Steve had pulled over his shoulders earlier. 

Steve screamed as a handful of cold muck was dumped beneath his shirt, the wet mud trailing down his spine and soaking into the top of his shorts. He immediately stood up, violently shaking his shirt in a desperate attempt to get the dirt out.

Shit, there were probably worms.

”Carol!” Tommy cheered, a grin splitting across his face. “It’s ‘bout time you showed up.”

The redhead grinned at the welcome, bowing low at the waist as she shook the wet dirt from her hands. After she deemed her hands clean enough, she grinned before catching a still panicked Steve by the shoulders.

She shoved him.

Tommy and Steve had met the redhead a year prior, when she had stuck a lump of bright pink bubblegum in Susan Belnapp's hair.

That was after Susan had called Carol a ditz, and Steve had been mildly impressed but her guts.

Susan had deserved it, anyway.

They became best friends the following week.

A decision Steve was now rethinking.

Steve fell backwards into the dirt, but just managed to grabbed Carol’s ankle as he fell, tugging it out from under her. She slipped on the mud with a shout, arms pinwheeling above her head to keep balance. It was a battle she quickly lost as landed on her butt with a muted thump, her eyes squeezing shut at the sudden ache of her tailbone. 

They were all on the ground, staring at each other and covered in mud and leaves for a few silent seconds before all three of them were suddenly laughing like mad.

“Jeez Tommy.” Carol giggled as she sat up, and Steve tried not to laugh at the number of leaves stuck in her hair. There was a streak of mud across her cheek. “What’d you do?”

”I didn’t do anything!” Tommy yelled, crossing his arms just as Steve complained, ”He lost my pencil, again!”

Carol snorts like a pig when she laughs.

”Drama queens,” she hissed, though it was said fondly. She stood up and sashayed over to their log, hips swinging like the girls at the high school. As if her pink skirt wasn’t smeared over with mud.

Both Tommy and Steve scoffed at her usual insult, Steve with an added eye roll for effect. They caught each other’s eye a moment later and Steve stuck his tongue out, blowing a raspberry at Tommy’s boyish grin.

“What were you two even doing,” Steve looked up at Carol as she spoke, seeing that she had grabbed his notebook and was shaking it free of dirt. “Must’ve been boring without me.”

”It totally was.” Tommy agreed, quickly skipping his way toward the smaller girl, kicking a leaf into Steve’s face as he passed.

Ignoring the start of the immediate bickering to his left, Steve picked himself up from the dirty forest floor, tilting his head upwards to catch the fading sunlight. Cold, crisp air blew against his cheeks and Steve just knew they were worn ruddy from the constant abuse.

It hadn’t snowed yet, to everyone’s dismay. The temperatures had stayed just high enough to encourage an insane amount of rain. The storm earlier this morning had been brutal and wet, hence the mud that was currently seeping into all of Steve’s clothes. He didn’t mind. 

His mom was gonna kill him, though.

He groaned quietly as he shook himself out. Pulling leaves and mud out from his shirt and shaking his cargo shorts to rid them of as much dirt as he could. The blue socks he had pulled over his ankles were stained dark, Steve scowled at the color of them.

”Hey Stevie,” He glance up at Carol’s voice and found both of his friends slowly flipping through his notebook, Tommy watching from over her shoulder. “What do you say to us coming over to your house tonight? You think we could have a sleepover? We could watch like, Jaws, or something.”

Neither of them mentioned the weird drawings strung throughout the pages. Steve thinks they must be used to it at this point, though Tommy did twist his face at a few of the pages.

Steve bounced over and snatched the book out of Carol’s hands and looked her up and down with suspicion. “You don’t even like Jaws, Carol.”

”Yeah, well, I think it’ll be funner with the two of you. Plus, you’ve got a ton of snacks and I am very hungry. We could make like a night out if it or something.”

Tommy nodded along with Carol’s explanation, grinning so big his freckles disappeared in the dimples of his cheeks. “Yeah, mhmm, exactly what she said.”

Steve rolled his eyes again to hide his growing smile. “You guys just want me for my house.”

Both his friends nodded.

At his following silence Tommy groaned and grabbed Steve by the arm, shaking him back and forth like a rag doll. “Come ooooon, Steve. It’ll be fun!” 

“Okay,” Steve fought Tommy’s grip as the shaking increased, Steve own head lagging behind with the speed. “Okay! Okay, jeez.”

Tommy and Carol cheered.

Steve smiled.

Later that night all three of them would pass out on the couch less than halfway through the movie. Random snacks and popcorn were spread across the coffee table at their feet and they were all tucked under the same blue blanket.

Come morning Steve’s parents would wake to find the mess, and Steve would get in trouble, not to long after that they would leave again, and Steve would have to go and stay with The Doctor, and Tommy and Carol would go to school and wonder where Steve had gone, grabbing extra work sheets and taking extra notes just in case.

Like they always did.

But for now they were together, and the ticking of the clock was quiet, and they were all warm.

Steve didn’t have any nightmares that night.