Chapter Text
1987
June
“Are you sure you know where you’re going?”
“Yes, dude.” Steve sighs, pointing, “The lab is east, the lake is west. We came from Maple, so now we're heading southwest—"
“You mean northwest.” Dustin interrupts.
“No.” Steve says, “That would put us back at the rendezvous point. Which is where we should've stayed in the first place, because Hop and Nance are probably already there."
“You don’t know that.” The kid argues, and Steve glances to find him shrugging as he adjusts his backpack straps.
“They could’ve gotten held up too, and now that we know there's a base inside this place, we can—"
He trails off, and Steve waits for him to finish for a moment before gently prodding.
“We can…what, Henderson? We proved your theory. We lost half our group and almost died five times, but we proved it. Now what?”
“I don’t know.” Dustin says, staring straight ahead.
“You…don’t know?” He’s trying really hard to hide the satisfaction in his tone, but it’s seeping through anyway. Not that Steve’s happy about it, the not knowing. But after a year of the kid arguing with him on every single mission, pushing his buttons constantly and never admitting a single mistake, it’s…nice.
Weirdly nice to know that for once he’s not ten steps behind. That Dustin is just as confused as he is by all they’ve just seen.
“No.” Dustin says, almost sighing, “I don’t. All I know is that they're doing something in here. They're not trying to get rid of it, like last time. They're trying to..use it, I guess."
"For what?"
"I already said I don't know, dumbass."
"Oh, I heard." Steve says, "I just wanted to hear you say it again."
They walk in silence for a few moments as Dustin cools off, and then he turns to check behind them as if the other half of their group will just appear.
"You think they're already at the lake?"
"Probably." Steve says, shrugging, "If I know Nance, she's not waiting around."
"Hop either."
"Yeah."
"You think they'll bench us?"
"Why?" Steve laughs, "Because we charged in here with a solid plan to get your stupid antenna set up on this side, ditched them to chase after a weird cloud you saw in the middle of a battle, and then ran? No, Henderson, I think they'll be goddamn delighted. They might even give us a medal."
"You don't have to be such a fucking asshole." Dustin snaps, "And it wasn't a cloud. It was...dark matter, or something. If I could have just collected a sample—"
"Here we go again with the sample." Steve groans.
"I was so close, dude." The kid argues, "We could've...I don't know. Tested it, or something."
"Or..." Steve offers, "It would've eaten us, like your slug tried to do."
"He wasn't a slug." Dustin mutters.
Now it's Steve's turn to cool off. And he does, taking several deep breaths and letting the kid walk just a few paces ahead of him.
Finally, Dustin slows his pace.
"It's not your fault." The kid says, "That the plan went sideways."
"I know that."
"Good, because we have enough things to worry about without your guilt complex kicking in."
”What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve replies, all coolness vanished in an instant.
Dustin shrugs, “Nothing. You just think everything that goes wrong is your fault.”
“I do not.”
”Uh, yeah you do.” Dustin says, shaking his head insistently, “You apologized to Max for taking a beating from her brother.”
”That isn’t—“ Steve groans, taking another breath. His lungs are burning, they’ve been running and walking forever and no one has ever given him a straight answer about whether the air is toxic down here.
”I meant—I could’ve talked him down, but I made it worse. That’s all. Max got what I was trying to say—“
”And you apologized to Nancy when she cheated on you.”
”Okay.” Steve stops, pulling on Dustin’s shoulder until he’s looking at him again, his face a picture of innocence. “No more talking. Silent hike time, until I say otherwise.”
Dustin rolls his eyes, “Fine by me.”
He takes a step away, and Steve goes to follow before something drops from the trees above them.
Something human-sized. Shrouded in black and hunched like it has a stomachache.
They should scream, but they don’t. Because it’s more confusing than scary, and they’ve seen far scarier things in just the last hour.
Dustin stops, and Steve comes around slowly, putting hand on the kid's chest until he takes a step back.
”What is th—“ Dustin whispers, but it’s too late for words.
The figure lunges, and Steve only has a split second to shove Dustin away. Not enough time to even think about how to fight this thing off.
Then he’s slamming into a tree, the back of his head thunks against solid wood. He gasps, feels himself go still as the world buzzes and quiets. When it starts to clear, he pushes at the body pressed against his, desperate and clawing.
A hand snatches his wrist, pins it at his side.
The other hand is in his hair.
That doesn’t make sense, and Steve pauses, forgets to fight for a moment when he realizes there are soft fingers pulling at his scalp. They’re not gentle, but the feeling is almost familiar, almost human. Then the hand wrenches, jerking his head to the side to expose his throat to the cold air.
He can’t see anything; the world is ringed in white and shuddering from the throbbing in his head. But he feels a sharp, cutting pain just below his jaw.
Blood surges up, flooding toward the mouth at his neck so quickly that he feels his knees go weak instantly. The edges of his vision blur, and then the hands on him are holding him up, firm and almost kind. Like he's drunk at a party, being carried to a couch to sleep it off.
This is nothing like being drunk. It’s more like being murdered, which Steve has unfortunate past experience with. Attempted, anyway.
His heart is in his ears, pounding so quickly that Steve is sure it's just going to give out. Every inch of him is clammy and hot at the same time; every finger and toe is tingling, and his head is absolutely throbbing, out of sync with the frantic rhythm of his heart. He has the delirious urge to slam it back into the tree again to see if he can line them up.
He's bleeding, he's cut and bleeding, and there are lips at his throat. A tongue, lapping softly. It almost tickles, and for a fleeting second he's seventeen again.
"Jesus, Nance, easy—"
"What? You're the only one who's allowed to leave hickies? Doesn't seem fair."
"S—stop." He chokes out, hardly a whisper. He can barely hear it over the slow gulping noises against his skin.
Not just licking.
Drinking.
The thing that has him pinned here is drinking his goddamn—
"Please." He tries again, "Stop."
If this thing is human enough to have hands and soft lips, maybe it's human enough to listen.
And anyway, he can't exactly fight it.
In the brief moments of clarity he's snatching between the panic of blood loss and another definite concussion, Steve has realized that his entire body is numb.
Like, pins-and-needles, don't-go-into-the-light numb. He can't feel the pain in his neck anymore, can't move at all. Can't even twitch a finger. He still has his voice, somehow, and his lungs are still clawing in air. But he is utterly powerless, limp and held up only by the vice grip around his arm and on the back of his neck.
That can't be good.
Steve blinks, trying to clear the haze that has settled over the entire scene. His eyes focus just in time to see a blur of brown and yellow hurtling toward him, screaming.
"Let him go!!" The kid brings down a branch on the thing's back, announcing it like an absolute dumbass. He's never been good at a sneak attack, and it doesn't make a difference.
The monster just growls against Steve's throat and draws another mouthful of blood, undeterred. Steve is just trying to get enough air to tell the kid to fucking run when he sees Dustin make an infinitely stupider move. He lurches forward and grabs the gun at Steve's hip.
Nancy's gun, which neither of them really know how to use despite she and Hopper's little classes.
That finally gets the monster's attention.
"I said let him go!" He says evenly, backing up. Steve hears the safety click off just as the mouth on his neck pulls back. He can vaguely feel teeth sliding out of torn skin, too long and too sharp.
The hands disappear, and he's falling.
The world tilts, settling on sideways as all the air is driven from his lungs in one choked oof!
Steve tries to turn, to get up. His limbs will not cooperate; it's like they're weighted with steel. But he can still see from where he's curled on his side, well enough to know that he's about to watch his best friend die.
The monster takes a stalking step towards Dustin but the kid doesn't budge. His hands are shaking, but his eyes are determined and bright.
"Don't." He says, "Don't come any closer. Just leave us alone."
"Henderson—" Steve tries, but his voice is too quiet. He can't catch a full breath in this position.
Dustin's eyes meet his for one second; relief washing over his face before it hardens.
He pulls the trigger.
The monster staggers back and for a split second Steve thinks he's actually killed it.
Then it lunges again with a growl, knocking the gun from his hand and grabbing him by the throat in one smooth motion. Steve has just one second of silent horror when the kid's feet leave the ground before he's screaming.
"No, no no! STOP!!"
The monster does not listen. It just tilts its head, looking placidly curious as the kid struggles in its grasp, hands clawing at his own neck. His eyes are rolling back, his breaths coming in quick gasps.
"Hey—hey asshole!! I'm right here! Let him go!!"
It's not working, his voice is too weak, so ragged it barely sounds like his own. He is breaking apart at the seams, powerless and pleading.
"Fucking—please!! Take me, take me!! Dustin!!"
Something shifts in the monster's posture.
A quiver, a hesitation.
It takes a step back, releasing its grip completely. The kid crumples to the ground a few feet in front of Steve's useless, tingling body, and the forest is silent. The whole world is silent, narrowed to a blackening tunnel.
Waiting, almost, until Dustin takes a breath.
And as soon as he does, the monster is between them. Crouching, catlike, and placing a gentle, hand on Dustin's cheek. Lifting his reddened, sleeping face like it wants a better look at him.
"Don't touch him!" Steve should be shouting, but the words come out whispered and slurred. The adrenaline has started to fade, taking his mind and body with it like the tide.
But he has to stay. He has to make sure Dustin's okay; he has to…
He can't…
"Harrington! Dustin!"
"Dustin! Steve! Where are you?!"
The sound of Nancy's voice is almost enough to keep him there. Because she'll know what to do. Even if Dustin's hurt and Steve's probably fucking paralyzed, Nance will figure it out. And she's got Hopper with her.
They'll shoot first, ask questions later.
"N—"
He doesn't get a syllable out before the monster snatches him up, slinging Steve's body over its shoulder like he weighs nothing at all. He smells dirt and old blood, feels scratchy fabric against his cheek, and hears Hopper's voice shouting for both of them, closer than it was a moment ago.
His last thought is that at least Dustin will be safe with them, and then the darkness finally swallows him whole.
It is usually not this careless, not this slow.
It kills quickly. It leaves nothing behind but bloodless bodies and frozen screams on pale faces. It does not savor; it does not strangle. It does not allow time for a fight.
Most often, it snaps the neck immediately. Not completely, it doesn't drink dead blood. But the bite does not always make them go still; some of them squirm. The snap always does the trick. Slows the blood, but saves it the ordeal of having to hear any begging.
It might've listened once. When it was soft and alive like the two boys in the woods. The ones it had been watching for nearly a mile before lunging.
They had only one weapon; they were worn down and young. Nothing like the soldiers with their thick clothes and their fire and their metal.
It should've killed them. Should've snapped both of their necks and drained them. It doesn't know why it didn't, why it stopped when the bigger boy asked. Why it took him and left behind, for the first time, a witness.
Maybe, it thinks, it is because the boy is pretty.
It does not often get to look at pretty things. Not anymore. Not since it died.
He's pretty and tall and speckled like stars in the night sky. It misses the stars, misses seeing anything but red when it looks up. Misses day and night, sun filtering through trees and moonlight on rippling water.
It has not thought this much in a long while.
When it kills the thick-skinned animals, it does not think at all. It only tears, only drinks. It drags them back to empty houses and drinks until there is nothing left inside.
It doesn't miss. It doesn't consider.
The boy has not tried to speak in some time; he's sleeping soundly. It took him to a new house, not as smelly or as crowded as the others it has used. It wants everything to be nice for him when he wakes up. It brought him upstairs and wrenched the vines from the bed so that they could not pull at him.
Mine, it said, and the vines listened.
They always listen to it, but it does not have to listen to them. Unlike the hissing vines and the screaming animals and the flying horrors, it is allowed to roam. To kill without restraint, to thin the ranks.
It cannot leave, but it is not sure that it would want to. It doesn't exactly remember where it was before, but it remembers that the others there were not kind.
They beat it and called it names.
Left it to die alone and to wake thirsty.
Always thirsty, and the boy being this close is not helping.
His heart is slower now, but it can still smell his blood. Sweet and somehow cool. Like honey, like shade on a sunny day, like a light sprinkle of salt on ripened fruit. Intoxicating, too good to gulp down and discard like it usually does.
That's why it took him. For slow feedings, for a respite from hunting. No other reason. Not because of his pretty face or his soft hair or because of the name he'd said.
It does not know names; it did not know the child.
It only knows this.
The waiting is the worst part, and it passes the time by counting and digging into its own side.
The child had terrible aim, but now the metal is lodged inside, and it has to tear at its own flesh, using claws and pinching fingers until finally the metal is out.
Small. Too small to really hurt it. And it's been shot in worse places. The heart, the head, once, though it doesn't remember much of that besides the crawl back to the woods and the long rest before it could think in words again.
It always survives.
It has counted to three hundred and forty-one when the boy finally makes a sound.
Soft, pained. His brow wrinkles, his lips curve into a frown.
It leans over him, unblinking, until his eyes open.
They are like honey too. Warm, slow, glazed.
Its hair is falling into its eyes. This happens all the time now, and it pushes the hair back, tucking it behind the ears quickly so it can keep looking at the boy.
The boy whose honeyed eyes are starting to clear, whose thick brows are pulling closer together. Whose pale lips part to form a word.
A name.
"Eddie?