Of all the monsters he's faced today, Steve thinks the blue Camaro is the worst. He glares at it, his vision fading in and out, spiraling in odd directions no matter how hard he blinks. It looms forebodingly in front of him as he tries to formulate a plan of attack.
"Steve? You good?" comes a concerned, preteen voice from somewhere to his left. Steve doesn't bother looking; he knows it'll only somehow make his head hurt worse than it already does.
Another young voice, this one exasperated, demands, "Is he okay to drive?"
"I'm driving?" he whines, the phrase coming out as a question against his will. The adrenaline he'd gained from their tunnel sojourn is all but gone, and the idea of so much as getting into the car is horrific.
"I can drive," comes another voice, this one female and apprehensive.
Those words in that voice make him stop dead. The adrenaline returns, flooding through his body as he remembers a terrifying, scream-filled journey that nearly made his heart give out. "I'm driving," he says again, this time, with authority. No matter how much he wants to not take the wheel, letting the red haired gremlin with no license go in his stead is infinitely worse.
Steve lurches forward, stumbling to the driver side door of a car that is decidedly not his and throwing it open. He tosses his bat into the space between the driver and passenger seats and practically falls next to it. He then tries to recall how to operate a vehicle.
The door next to him slams and he jumps, turning to see Dustin giving him an anxious smile and holding up a huge piece of paper. "I'm on navigation," he says, shaking out the map.
Fuck, he has to drive the car and follow directions, too?
Steve steels himself and puts his feet on the pedals, but finds himself kicking something hard. "The hell…?" he mutters, looking down.
"Shit!" Dustin cries, and reaches down to the pedals to retrieve what looks like a brick.
No, he's right: that is, in fact, a brick.
Steve decides to parse through the fact that there is a brick in the car when he can think without feeling like there's a jackhammer in his skull, and puts the key in the ignition.
The car roars to life. Steve jumps.
"You're sure you're okay?" Dustin asks.
Steve fucking guns it in response.
The kids all scream as they're jolted to one side, and the sound almost makes Steve's head split open. That, in turn, does not help him focus on the road.
Dustin yells for everyone to shut up, and surprisingly they do. "Take a right here," he says, once the peanut gallery has quieted, as though Steve isn't concussed to all hell and nothing's wrong.
It takes a while, but eventually, Steve finds some sort of swerving equilibrium where he drives about four miles per hour but manages to stay on the road – maybe not in the correct lanes, but on the road.
He's disproportionately happy when the Byers house comes into view, considering both times he's been there it ended in blood. It looks like they're the last ones to arrive, because Jonathan's car is parked in the driveway, and next to it-
"That's Hopper's car!" yells Mike as Steve eases the brakes.
The moment the car stops, he puts his head against the steering wheel, numb with relief and ready to sleep for a thousand years.
He hears the doors swing open, then shut. The kids are shouting, and he can't tell if their voices are reverberating because of the wide open space, or if it's just his head.
"Steve?" says Dustin, still in the passenger seat but echoing nonetheless: it's definitely just his head. "C'mon, we should go in, everyone's here."
Everyone's here. Steve's addled brain takes that moment to realize that everyone includes Nancy.
Nancy.
They're done. Contrary to popular belief, he's not stupid – or rather, he's gotten real good at recognizing 'electricity,' and the sparks are flying between her and Jonathan.
He's surprised when the only emotion that rises to meet him is guilt. He's not angry, just…
He tries to search for the words, but it only makes his headache worse.
"Steve?" Dustin asks again, and this time, his voice is tinged with fear.
"'M fine," he slurs. "Go ahead." His job was to keep the kids safe. His job, it seems, is done for the night.
"I think you should go inside," Dustin says, still sounding scared. Still sounding distorted.
"No," he growls, because now all he can think of is Nancy, Nancy and Jonathan and how he can't face them, not right now. Maybe it's immature, but he just… can't. "I need t'get home."
"It's fine, you can just call your parents and tell them you're staying over someplace," Dustin chirps, as if this solves everything. As if Steve's parents have stayed home for more than a week in the past year. He barks out a laugh. Absently, he notes the cuts on his face stinging; feels something thinner than blood drip off his chin.
"I'm gonna get someone," says Dustin, panicked. "Stay right here, okay?"
"No, no, no, Dustin, don't," he says, eyes opening wide as he forces himself to sit up.
The kid looks back at him, one hand on the door handle, brow furrowed.
"I'm fine, I just need to get home," he says, and is astounded at how clear the words come out.
Dustin looks between him and the house, conflicted. "Come in? For a minute? You don't have to stay," he pleads, and Steve cracks.
"Okay," he sighs, reaching for his bat and pushing open his own door.
Standing is about as fun as he expected it to be. Dustin runs to his side, puts an arm around him. "Just to the house, okay?" he says. Steve can see him glance at the white knuckle grip he's got on his weapon, but the kid makes no comment. They shamble forward and inside.
Everyone is splayed out across the living room floor. Eleven is already leaning against Mike, her eyes fluttering, a contented look across her face. Will has his head in his mother's lap, and Joyce is carding her fingers through his hair. Jonathan is watching from the kitchen, arms crossed.
The kids are in the middle of explaining their part of what happened; Mrs. Byers and Hopper look two different shades of furious when the Party recounts their plan.
"You went into the tunnels ?" Hopper rumbles, glaring at Mike.
Wheeler doesn't back down, just purses his lips and declares that "it was the only way to distract the demo-things."
"Demo- dogs !" Dustin shouts from the doorway.
As if on cue, one of the creatures tumbles out of the refrigerator and onto Jonathan's sneakers. He screams, stepping back.
For a moment, no one makes a noise. Then Mrs. Byers says, voice low and dangerous, "What is that thing doing in my kitchen?"
"Shit!" Dustin says. He turns to Steve and props him against a wall. "I need to save a major scientific discovery. Stay right here," he commands, serious and fierce.
Steve quirks an eyebrow. "Go save science, kid," he mumbles, and Dustin marches into the kitchen.
Voices rise, Dustin shouting that the thing needs to be studied, Joyce yelling that it can be studied somewhere that isn't her refrigerator, Lucas calling that he knew this was a bad idea, and—
Nancy, in the middle of it all, playing intermediary.
Steve feels his chest tighten. It's all too much: Nancy, the sound, even the soft lights are like ice picks to his eyes. He needs to get out.
No one has noticed his position against the wall, too caught up in the kitchen pandemonium to see. He takes advantage of that and clumsily slips out the door.
The stairs almost trick him: he nearly faceplants off the porch, but manages to catch himself on a piece of wooden scaffolding. Steve takes a deep, steadying breath, and searches for his car.
…
Steve doesn't find his car.
It's with a soft and helpless groan that he remembers leaving it at the edge of the woods before following Dustin to the junction.
Slowly, he turns to look at the Byers' yard; recalls the keys left in the ignition of what must be Hargrove's Camaro.
And puts himself behind the beaten wheel again, because one, he needs a way home, and two, fuck Billy Hargrove.
The drive back to his house is worse than the drive to the Byers'. It's longer, for sure, and there's no one giving him directions. After a few aimless near-crashes, Steve stops the car in the middle of another oddly unfamiliar road and cries. He's hopelessly lost in a town he should know better than the back of his hand.
Going at a breathtakingly slow speed, Steve finds his house after what feels like —and most likely, is— hours. He parks the car in the middle of his yard and staggers to the doorway, surviving on pure muscle memory by now.
The keys are another challenge entirely; his hands are half-numb, knuckles bruised and split from smashing against Hargrove's jaw, and they shake so bad the keys sound like jingle bells. He props his bat against the door and fumbles for the correct one. After a good six tries, he gets the key in the lock. He snatches up his weapon and opens the door.
The lights are off, thank God.
Steve eases the door shut behind him, not bothering to lock it. The only thing he can think about is shutting his eyes and going to sleep. He drags himself into the living room and collapses onto the couch, not ready to brave the stairs. In the back of his mind he realizes that he's lost his bat somewhere between the door and the living room. The part of him that's still trapped in those tunnels wants to protest; panic.
The rest of him is too tired to care.