Beautiful, and worth the mess. - S.H
Paring - Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader
WC - 1.9k
Warnings - Blood. Mention of vomit. Partial nudity. Let me know if I missed anything!
Authors note - This is my first fic...ever. Constructive criticism always welcome but pls be nice. Takes place directly after the events of S3. Hurt/comfort, angst, acknowledging Steveâs trauma bc damn.
Summary: ANGST, hurt/comfort, happy ending but not a lot of resolution, friends to ? lovers? idk its up to you!
Inspired by my favorite poem of all time, that has always reminded me a little bit of Steve.
âIn this space right here that we have made for each other, you can say anything and I will not abandon you. Unwrap the worst things you have done. Watch me hold them up to the light and not even flinchâ
The air inside Steveâs car was heavy with tension and the thick July heat.
You sat parked in his driveway, the rest of The Party having dispersed to their own homes; their parents waiting for them with open arms and misty eyes.Â
Not you.Â
And Certainly not Steve Harrington.
You and Steve werenât what you would call âcloseâ. Until now, that is. Shared trauma tends to have that effect. He knew you had a tumultuous relationship with your parents, and it didnât take much deducing to realize his parents werenât in the picture. Barely in Indiana, let alone spending anything close to quality time with their only son.
The idea of spending the last few hours of this nightmarishly long day in his big, empty house was sounding lovelier by the minute. On the grounds that it âwasnât safe to be alone right nowâ. You didnât read too much into it; he was right, after all. Part of you wonders if he just didnât want to be alone. Sluggish, and noticeably more bloodied than you, Steve made his way to the front door with you in tow. His house was silent; eerily so. Everything pristine and well manicured, as if no one lived there at all.Â
âThereâs a guest bedroom upstairs, and a bathroom down the hall, to the right. Towels in the cabinet next to the shower.â He doesnât even look at you as he says it. You try not to feel like youâre burdening him, blaming his avoidance on the exhaustion and not the unwelcome presence of you in his home.
âWhat about you?â
âWhat about me?â He finally meets your gaze. The shiner he sports on his left eye is still swollen, but less so. The front of his sailor suit you once thought so endearing, is now stained with blood and vomit.
âYouâre bleeding.â You say quietly. âYou have -â you wince, â- open wounds on your face Steve. Probably a concussion too and thatâs if weâre being modest.â
He wears a tight-lipped expression you canât quite read. You can tell heâs frustrated, and his exhaustion is bone deep. It nags at your heart. Maybe thatâs why you donât just drop it when he answers you.
âNot my first rodeo, Iâll be fine just-â He pauses, âgo shower, and get some rest. God knows this shit wonât just be over come tomorrow.â
You take a tentative step forward. âPlease justâŚjust let me help. I can disinfect the cuts around your eye. I was a girl scout! Though in hindsight I realize how useless that sounds and-â youâre rambling now; nervous.
âStop.â Youâre taken aback slightly by his tone, you havenât known Steve to act hostile. Not in a long time. âI donât need your help, and I certainly donât need your pity.â
âItâs not âpityâ Steve! Why is it so hard for you to believe someone might want to help you?â You take a step forward from where you stand a few feet from him. You reach up to touch his forehead with the hope of better assessing his injuries.
âEnough!â He swats your hand away, âGod, I shouldâve never offered for you to stay here. You think youâre some type of savior, but youâre not.â
His words feel like a knife to the chest. You knew what he was trying to do, you knew he didnât really mean the things he said. Not when heâs like this. For the first time since you arrived tonight, you thought of how many times heâs had to come back to this empty, soulless house all alone. Damaged, emotionally and physically. Wounds heâs had to patch alone. No gentle caress of anotherâs hands. Just the stinging of antiseptic in his nostrils, and the heaviness of everyone heâs ever loved abandoning him.
âYou donât mean that.â You say, shaking your head in a disbelieving way.
He laughs, humorless, âYes I do. I really, really do.â A bitter sharpness to his words. It burns like liquor washing down your throat. âGo.âÂ
âNo!â Now youâre the one raising your voice. âBeing stubborn is for when someone is haggling you at a flea market. Not when someone is trying to love you.â
Love. You realize what youâve said a beat too late, but you stand defiant despite it. You do love Steve. This fact, collecting cobwebs in the back of your brain for months, being spat out onto the floor in front of you both is what compels you to what you do next.
Steve, who was previously standing with this index finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose, is now staring at you like a deer in headlights. Before either of you can blink, youâre closing the gap between the two of you, sure of yourself. You wrap him in a suffocating embrace and he struggles against your grip.
âStop! Please I donât need you-â He all but shouts. Still, you sense a dent in the armor. A crack in the wall heâs spent so long building to keep you out; to keep everyone out.
Eventually, he stops struggling. His knees give out from underneath him as the trauma and the pain and the events of today catch up to him. But not just today; a year ago when his girlfriend broke his heart at Tinaâs stupid party. When Michael Harrington cut him off on the grounds of him being a disgrace to the family name. Everything flooding back to him all at once. Everything heâs spent his youth avoiding.
You sink to the ground with him, still holding him tight. He stops making an effort to hide his sobs, but instead clings to you like youâre the only tangible thing keeping him here. You sit beside him, with one arm wrapped around his shoulders and your free hand cradling his head to his chest so he can hear your heartbeat. A heart that finally beats for him.
âI know.â You soothe. âItâs okay, Iâve got you.â The hair youâre gently stroking, which is usually so voluminous and perfectly styled, is now dampened with blood and sweat.
âIâm sorry-â He sobs, âI'm so sorry.â
âDonât be. I donât want you to be sorry. Iâm not sorry.âÂ
He cries harder at that. Shoulders shaking and breath shallow, he looks at you. You cradle his sweet, bruised face in your hands. You think, like a pomegranate, Steve Harrington is beautiful, and worth the mess. Wiping his tears with your thumbs and careful to avoid the cuts and swelling that decorate his face, you give him a smile. Shy, but earnest.
âCan you take me to bed?â He asks you, eyes bleary.
â
Neither of you speak as you turn on the faucet and watch the porcelain tub fill with scalding hot water; still not hot enough to wash away the memories this day has tainted you both with forever. Tentatively, you lift your shirt over your head, and slip your shorts down your scraped legs, revealing your mismatched bra and underwear. A pang of guilt washes over you when you look down and realize Steve took the brunt of the Russian soldiers. He was the bravest and most selfless person you had ever met.
You give him a look that asks âis this okay?â as your fingertips brush the cotton of his ruined Scoops uniform. You arenât sure what the boundaries are anymore. Momentarily Steve worries this will irreparably change things between you two. He nods anyway. You lift the shirt over his head, catching a glimpse at the real extent of his injuries. His ribs were badly bruised, and he had clotting cuts all over his abdomen. Something swirls in your stomach at the sight of his chest hair. You wish the circumstances of this moment were different.
He pulls his own pants and socks down with a hiss, eyes screwed shut, leaving you both in just your undergarments. He steps into the tub and slowly sinks beneath the hot water. You step in behind him, and he looks over his shoulder at you, a look of confusion contorting his features. You donât bother to explain, for the fear that speaking would break the trance you both seemingly were under. You had built a space here for each other, one you didnât want to leave just yet.
Sitting behind him now, you wrap your arms around his chest and pull him flush to you. You rest your chin in the space between his shoulder and his neck, and close your eyes. You can feel how he tries to match his breathing to yours; slow and rhythmic.
You reach up to the hanging shelf on the wall above your head, and grab the cedar and sandalwood body wash. The second you open the bottle, your senses are flooded with him. Only in your wildest dreams did you think youâd ever get to smell his scent in any way other than passing. A slight brush of shoulders in the hallway; a friendly hug when youâd gotten back from a month long vacation.
With a dollop of body wash on a washcloth you found on the edge of the tub, you gently start to scrub the blood and grime off his freckled skin. Like this, you can see every birthmark, every scar, the way the hair at the nape of his neck curls up around his ears in the damp bathroom air.
Steve rests his calloused hand on your knee and squeezes. A silent reassurance that what youâre doing is okay, that heâs okay, that heâs here. Everything feels overwhelmingly intimate as your hands explore his body. You lather his thick, brown locks with the shampoo you found next to the soap. With a heavy sigh, Steve allows his head to fall back into the crook of your neck. He doesnât tell you, but this is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for him.
Youâre not sure how long the two of you sit in the tub together, but at some point he turns to face you, cupping your jaw in his larger hand. The look he gives you is so tender, you think you might cry. His caramel eyes flicker to your lips and back up to your eyes, so fast you wouldâve missed it if your senses werenât dialed up to 11.
With the delicacy of someone touching a flower petal, he closes the gap and presses his cut lips to your soft ones. Hesitant at first, giving you the option to pull away. He fears he may have misread the moment when you separate from him, a look in your eyes that he canât read. His worry dissipates as you take his face into both of your hands and kiss him deep and slow. You only break when the air feels too stiff to continue, the water droplets accumulating in the air and Steve's kiss making it difficult to catch your breath. His hands slide from where they were grasping your hair, and down to your neck where they stay.
âI love you, too.â
108 notes
¡
View notes