#my stranger things fanfic obsession started with Steve and Max so this is VERY near and dear to me

[queenie-ofthe-void]

The Babysitter Chronicles - Mayfield pt 1

Steve POV 5+1 (immediately follows s2) || wc: 1.9k || cws: check tags || full fic ao3

Henderson || Mayfield pt 1 / Mayfield pt 2 || Sinclair || Wheeler || Byers || +1 Hopper

~~~

Steve can’t believe he’s willingly knocking on the Hargroves’ door. As if his own anxiety wasn’t problem enough, the shrill sounds of two people arguing over the thrashing volume of metal music sets his teeth on edge. After a few seconds of waiting, he knocks harder. The arguing stops abruptly, and he hears a woman’s voice call out to wait a moment. 

He hopes the woman opens the door, assuming it’s Max’s mom. He doesn’t know her stepdad, but if the man is anything like his son, Steve wants to avoid him at all costs. Since Billy’s Camaro is missing from the driveway, hopefully he can avoid both of them.

To his relief, a woman with bright, copper hair and freckled skin opens the door. Her yellow cleaning gloves are almost dry, but there are still wet spots scattered on her pink t-shirt and jeans, as well as a few bleach stains. Large, blue circles halo her green, bloodshot eyes. Steve pretends not to notice the dried tear tracks striping her splotchy red cheeks.

“What can I help you with?”

“Hi, Mrs. Hargrove, I’m here to talk to you about–”

“Oh no, hun,” she interrupts him, “I’m sorry but we aren’t interested.” 

Steve looks down at himself, wearing a normal blue windbreaker and jeans, and wonders what she thinks he’s selling. Before she can shut the door, Steve catches the edge to hold it open. He sees her flinch at the force of his grip, the flash of fear behind her eyes reminding him of Max’s two weeks ago. He lets go, taking a step back to give her some space.

“No, ma’am, my name’s Steve Harrington and–”

“Susan,” the man screams from inside the house, loud and angry and too similar to the sound of his own father’s voice after a few drinks. They both flinch, Mrs. Hargrove faster to recover. Even though she’s standing straight, seemingly filled with confidence, Steve can still spot anxiety in the thin line of her mouth. “Who the hell is it?”

“It’s no one, Neil, just some boy selling magazine subscriptions,” she shouts, moving back inside. 

Steve turns to leave, hopes dashed, when he feels a hand wrap around his wrist.

She leans close, lowering her voice. “You’re Steve?” He nods. Mrs. Hargrove chances a glance over her shoulder, then looks back to him again, absentmindedly chewing on her bottom lip. “Wait around the side of the house, I shouldn’t be too long, ok?”

The door shuts in his face, almost grazing his nose. Steve wonders if he shouldn’t just leave, if she’s the kind of person to set him up and send Billy or Neil out to greet him instead. Except she seemed genuine, and this might be his only chance to win her approval. 

He waits for almost twenty minutes before she finds him leaned up against the siding underneath what he assumes is Max’s window, since he’s pretty sure Billy isn’t reading last month’s issue of Tiger Beat. She pulls out a pack of smokes from the pocket of her sweater, and he frowns when she doesn’t offer him one.

“So,” she says after a long exhale, “you’re the boy Billy and Max won’t stop talking about?” She ashes her cigarette, giving him enough time to school his stunned expression. “Can’t seem to shut up about you, surprised you’ve never been around before. Smart that you haven’t, though. Don’t blame you at all.”

“What do you mean?” Steve prods.

“Well Billy’s been bitching about you all year, practically. Saying you’re the reason he ain’t captain of the basketball team. Neil didn’t care too much for the excuses, though. Hasn’t let the poor boy forget it.” She takes a step closer to him and he watches as she looks over his split lip, the stitches, and his black eye. “Figured there was more to it than that.”

“He’s got the spot now,” he lets out a self-deprecating scoff, “can’t exactly play with a concussion.”

Her l brow creases as she frowns at him, tilting her head to the side. “You know, Max never really told me what happened that night two weeks ago. She got home almost an hour before Billy did, dropped off by God knows who–”

“The Sinclair’s, ma’am,” Steve interrupts. He second guesses whether or not he should bring up Lucas at all, realizing too late the problems that could cause, when Mrs. Hargrove smiles.

“Is that the young boy she’s been hanging around lately– him and his friends?” She ashes again. There’s a light in her eyes that’s been missing since he first met her, and she shines with it. 

“Yes, ma’am. Lucas Sinclair.”

Genuine concern laces her question when she asks “is he sweet to her?”. But her small smile tells him maybe she already knows the answer, just looking for confirmation.

Images of the worst day of Steve’s life flash through his mind, and in them he can spot the soft moments. Max and Lucas comforting each other, always searching the other out across a crowded room. Lucas’ poorly concealed admiration and Max’s fondness masked under a layer of sarcasm as thin as tissue paper.

“Yeah, he’s sweet to her,” Steve replies, answering her smile with his own. “Lucas is a great kid, Mrs. Hargrove. One of the best.”

Her eyes water and she smiles again, but it’s strained this time, as she looks towards the house where screaming music filters through the walls. Steve sees the weight on her shoulders, the burden of living with someone like Neil Hargrove. He feels sympathy on the fringes of his conscience when he thinks of being married to a man like that, or being raised by one. How that kind of anger could turn a kid into someone like Billy, or scare someone enough to stay in a bad situation.

The sympathy fades into a bitter aftertaste when he thinks of Max. He knows all too well what it’s like to live in a home with a scared mother and an angry father. How it feels to have a mother who will rock you in her arms and say everything’s ok, only to stand behind her husband when the belt comes off. 

He looks at Mrs. Hargrove and notices small bruises lining the inside of her right arm. The noise permeating from the house forces its way into Steve’s pores. All he can smell are stale cigarettes and motor oil. There’s empty beer cans sticking out underneath the bushes along the house and he kicks at one, harder than he should. He can’t help picture matching bruises on Max’s small, frail arms, and suddenly it’s all too much.

“Mrs. Hargrove, I came here to tell you I want to be Max’s babysitter.”

She frowns, clearly taken aback by the abrupt change of subject. “Oh, well it’s usually Billy’s job to–”

“Billy is the one who did this, ma’am.” He gestures to his face and attempts to reel in his frustration. “To be frank with you, Billy almost killed me and one of the kids I was with that night. He’s dangerous, especially to her. And you know that. You have to know that. Right?” 

Mrs. Hargrove sighs, dropping her cigarette into the grass to wipe the tears at the corners of her eyes. She pulls down the sleeves of her sweater, crossing her arms over her chest as she folds in on herself. Makes herself smaller.

She hesitates before saying, “Neil will be upset if Billy isn’t the one bringing her places. Says it gives him responsibility. Accountability.”

“Good thing Billy won’t have time now that he’s captain of the basketball team. And isn’t that what his dad wants?” Steve will counter every argument she has if he has to. He refuses to let another kid grow up in an angry home, scared and alone, even though Max’s is so much louder than his own. Somehow he thinks that might be worse than his own, empty, quiet home.

“We can’t pay you.”

“I’m not asking for any money. I’ll do it for free.”

She shakes her head, frustrated and out of objections. “You think you can keep her safe from them when I can’t, is that it?” Her voice cracks, and it cuts through him.

Steve tries to relax, opening up his stance and softening his voice. Hoping that she just hears him out. “I know you don’t know me, and that you and your family are new around here, but the Harrington’s are a big name in this town. My parents are well connected to lawyers and local politicians. I’m close with Jim Hopper, the police chief–”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?” She snaps. He notices she’s shaking and he raises his open hands up higher.

“No, ma’am. It’s not a threat.” Steve looks her in the eyes, tries to convey everything he’s so bad at saying and everything he’s probably missed along the way. “It’s a promise that she’ll be safe with me, no matter what, and I’d do anything to keep that promise. Please, Mrs. Hargrove.”

He thinks it’s the please that gets her. Steve can see the moment she caves, heaves another great, heavy sigh as she wipes her sleeve across her eyes a final time before tucking it back under her arms. The quiet eventually settles between them. She pulls the pack of smokes out again, holding one out to him in offering. He takes it.

“She needs rides to and from school,” she starts, staring at him as she speaks. Steve doesn’t know what she’s hoping to see, but he feels himself light up inside, excitement beaming out through his wide smile and crinkled eyes. “Neil gets home first, usually around five. I work shifts, so sometimes the latest I get home is after nine.”

“Max can stay at my house as long as she wants,” Steve says, not bothering to keep the enthusiasm from his voice. “Even if it has to be overnight, I’ve got a spare bedroom that we never use. I’m also more than happy to bring her home after nine when you work late, so you don’t have to drive across town when you’re done.”

Steve knows his implications are obvious. He’s willing to do whatever it takes to keep Max out of the house when her mom isn’t home. He can’t help how desperate he feels at the idea of her being alone here anymore than she already has been, and how he’s so close to making sure that it never happens again. 

He can already picture Max’s muddy shoes in the entryway on a Friday afternoon, and hear her bitching about his cereal choices on a Sunday morning. She’ll wrestle with Dustin over the remote for Saturday morning cartoons. Steve’ll even learn how to cook for three, standing in the kitchen over a hot stove while the two kids do homework at the counter, posted up on the barstools that’ve never been used before.

He’s practically choking on the idea that he’s not just giving these kids a place to hang out, but that they’ll be hanging out with him. In his own house. For the first time in almost four years, Steve’s house will have people in it. People who like him and actually want him around. Kids for him to watch out for, and take care of when they need it.

“Alright,” Mrs. Hargrove sighs, “let me go grab a pen and paper, I’ll give you my schedule for the month.”