Apologies for taking longer than expected to get this out! As is the nature of the universe and the curse of being a fanfiction author, between the writing and editing stages of this chapter of what is essentially just a story about daddy issues, my actual estranged father died by suicide. I needed to step away for a moment, but I am back and more jazzed than ever to therapize myself (and maybe some of you(?)) through fanfiction.

Thank you for sticking with me.

November 1984

Steve is fucking freezing.

It's nearly midnight, late November in Indiana, and with the sun long gone the wind swirling in the open air over Sattler Quarry is unforgiving. He isn't quite dressed for it either - his thermal long-sleeve shirt and light bomber jacket provide little protection from the chill - but he isn't ready to hop back into the driver's seat and crank up the heat just yet. Instead, he's perched on the trunk of his BMW, eyeing the quarry's edge at a distance from where he's haphazardly parked in the neighboring dirt lot. He has a headache.

Steve's spent plenty of Friday nights out on Lover's Lake with girls from the cheer team or key club or student council, though never the same girl more than once or twice. He'd turn the stereo too low to fit with their pretense of listening to whatever new cassette his company "just had to hear," but Lisa or Jennifer or Stephanie never seemed to mind, always eager to get him over them in the backseat. Bodies flush against each other, it was easy for Steve to convince himself he'd been just as eager all along.

And he was. Eager, that is. Eager, at least, to see and hear evidence of pleasure in the hooded eyes and thrilled whispers of his partners and know that he put it there. To feel needed, wanted, and meet each need with a word or a touch fed some sick craving in his gut. Maybe that's why he returned to the lakeside more often than not, albeit with a new girl.

Because come Monday, word had always somehow already spread, and he was no longer needed. Tommy would clap him on the back and Carol would cough "slut" behind her hand when Donna or Laura or Julia passed by, and she'd have the story about her night on Lover's Lake with the king of Hawkins High.

Nancy never went with Steve to Lover's Lake, and he never asked her to. He'd described her to Dustin Henderson as "different than the other girls," and had meant it. To date Nancy was to chase the high of pleasing Nancy without ever being certain what would do the trick. The physical stuff was secondary to carrying her books, or remembering that she loves cherry garcia ice cream, or complimenting Mrs. Wheeler's cooking.

It was rare for Steve's to be the only car parked along the perimeter of Lover's Lake - Hawkins offered limited novel makeout spots for its teenage populace. The quarry, however, was not a particularly welcoming or popular venue. So Steve is startled, for a moment, when he registers the grumble of an engine and headlights spill over the lot around him.

He settles quickly, though, practiced by now at switching off the alarms that go off in his brain and body at every unexpected noise or touch, and keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead while his hands search his pockets for a crushed box of smokes and then a lighter. The wind fights him on lighting the cigarette he holds between his front teeth, but he succeeds just as the new vehicle pulls up next to him and cuts the engine. The driver's side door opens, but Steve doesn't need to turn to look.

"Hey, Byers."

"Creepy."

"Look who's talking. Your car's noisy, distinct."

Jonathan hums and pulls himself out of the old Ford Galaxie. Steve can hear him rummaging around in the back seat.

"Matter of fact, might want to get that checked out. I know a guy, a mechanic, if you need someone."

Jonathan snorts out a laugh, but doesn't say anything. He shuts the two open car doors, and Steve finally turns his head to see Jonathan stalking towards him, carrying something in his outstretched hands like an offering. "Here."

Steve breathes out a cloud of smoke and raises an eyebrow. He recognizes the square bundle as a thick afghan from the Byers' living room.

"C'mon man, humor me. You know mom would kill the both of us if she knew I let you freeze out here."

Jonathan never says "my mom" - Joyce is always just "mom," at least around the kids. But the kids aren't around and Steve isn't as uncomfortable as he might have guessed with Jonathan speaking to him as though they shared her. He knows Joyce considers him to belong to the ever-growing gaggle of "her kids," although there's something to be said for sharing that status with both his ex-girlfriend and her new boyfriend.

If he knows anything about Joyce Byers, he knows Jonathan is right about the blanket, though.

He tries, anyway. "I won't tell if you don't."

Jonathan fixes him with an unimpressed glare and Steve folds, brings his cigarette to his lips before grabbing the blanket and wrapping it around his shoulders. After a moment he relaxes into himself, hums in contentment and maybe in thanks.

Jonathan, more appropriately dressed for the weather in a heavy winter coat and a mismatched hat, scarf, and gloves, makes his way back over to his own car and mirrors Steve's position on its hood. He takes a moment to light his own cigarette, fumbling with the lighter and eventually tugging off one glove with his teeth to make better use of his fingers.

Steve raises an eyebrow at him. "Nance know you're smoking again?"

"I won't tell if you don't," Jonathan parrots. And maybe it should hurt, this reminder of promises made to Nancy back when she cared whether he lived or died, but there's no malice in Jonathan's voice so Steve lets it go.

For a long while they sit in silence on the hoods of their cars like two birds on a wire, both betraying Nancy with each inhale that warms them from the inside, neither of them minding. Steve doesn't notice a lot, but he notices that Jonathan is quiet in the way that he tries to say exactly what he means and not much more. He doesn't share in Steve's compulsion to fill every silence with polite chatter, but maybe the habit had never been driven into his skull the way it had Steve's.

So Steve waits, only mildly uncomfortable, and eventually, Jonathan speaks.

"Wanted to say thanks for coming to the funeral, man. I think it meant a lot to mom."

Steve feels something like déjà vu, he's sure they had this exact conversation in the cemetery parking lot, the both of them kicking gravel and avoiding eye contact the way you do after you've buried someone.

He feels guilty for being surprised by it, but there had been a large turnout at Bob's funeral. The Newbys had deep roots in Hawkins, one generation after another attending the same high school and settling down in the same town they'd been sent home from the city hospital to on their first day on Earth. Old classmates and teachers, coworkers and friends and family and neighbors, people of all sorts who'd known Bob and liked him or loved him or been liked or loved by him came to say their goodbyes to a man whose final moments they could only guess at.

Joyce Byers had looked so small, dressed in the same blacks she'd worn to her son's funeral a year prior. The kids weren't there; Will had been all but fully recovered from what had been described to Steve as something like an exorcism but wasn't being let out of the house just yet, and besides, the kids had had enough encounters - both near and realized - with death lately. Nancy was on Mike duty, and Hopper had swung by the viewing but was at the beck and call of the US government, whose clean-up job turned out to be time-consuming on top of raising a superpowered teenage girl, so Joyce, Steve, and Jonathan were the only guests graveside who knew the truth. Bob Newby had lived the most ordinary life a man could live, maybe, but he'd died a hero. Steve thinks that's probably the best way to go.

"Uh, sure thing, man. If your mom needs anything - and I told her this - but if she needs anything, she has my number."

They both go quiet again for a few minutes. Inhale. Exhale. Steve is thankful for the blanket.

This time he can't wait out Jonathan's silence, curiosity prickling at his skin. "No offense Byers, but you come all the way out here in the middle of the night just to say 'thank you' again? I don't buy it."

"Dustin's a good kid."

Steve practically jumps in surprise, turns his head to meet Jonathan's eyes, which are burning.

"He- yeah, he is? A piece of work, but a good kid. What-"

"You know it's just him and his mom? She's a nurse - dad was in the picture when the kids were younger but he moved to Colorado or something a few years back." The burning thing in Jonathan's eyes is anger and Steve focuses on his budding confusion and bites back the instinct to go on the offense. He stumbles over his words because what wants to crawl out of his mouth are insults or defenses at the accusation sitting between them that he knows Jonathan hasn't earned just yet.

"Uh, ye-yeah I knew it was just him and his mom but, uh, not about his dad. That's shitty, I mean… he's a good kid, yeah, that blows." He gives Jonathan a pleading look, "look, I think I'm missing something here, dude. Did Dustin say something about me? I promise I really tried to keep them safe, man. I wish I could have kept them out of it but you know how they are, I figured it'd be best if I went along with everything or they'd just go off on their own and get themselves killed, but I totally get it if it finally clicked for him that the tunnels were a bad idea. I mean, I wasn't exactly part of the decision-making there, being unconscious and all, but-"

"Woah, Steve," the burning in Jonathan's eyes has started to dim, and Steve takes a deep clean breath when it hits him that he'd been talking in double speed. He blinks a few times in quick succession, willing away memories of the tunnels and teeth and the terror on Dustin's face, and it almost works. "Nobody's mad about you over the tunnels." Steve raises a skeptical eyebrow, but his heart rate is returning to something closer to its normal speed. "Okay, nobody is any more mad about you over the tunnels than they've already let on." They both shudder a fraction at the memory of Nancy's scowl and Hopper's booming voice as the kids described their close call underground. "Besides, they were mostly just scared and, jesus, you were barely coherent by the end of that night, nobody holds that against you. Anyway, if you guys hadn't gone down there I don't know if Will would have-" he runs his hand down his face in a motion that reminds Steve eerily of the Chief - maybe he and Mrs. Byers had been spending more time together than he'd guessed. "Anyway, if anything, I should be thanking you for that move."

Steve is tired and confused and deeply uncomfortable with being appreciated for nearly accompanying a bunch of middle schoolers to their death. "Uh, don't sweat it." Somehow the anger makes even less sense now. "So if that's not why you looked like you wanted to murder me just a minute ago…"

Jonathan sighs, a bit of the fire returning. "Look, I know that the two of us don't exactly run in the same social circle, and that's fine. And with me and Nance - anyway, if you want to pretend that we don't exist now that the world's not ending, that's whatever. But the kids? At least let them down easy, man."

"Wait, what?"

Jonathan squirms a bit where he sits, frustrated or uncomfortable or both. "I know it was crazy at our place after…. But you left without saying goodbye, and then totally blew off the kids. Nobody's heard from you at all, man, they just hound me and Nancy about how you're doing, and we have no idea aside from whether you showed up to school that day or not. I think they've all gotten the message by now but Dustin - I don't know all of what you guys went through in the junkyard or the tunnels, but he's real worried about you, man."

"I-" Steve is stunned. Sure, Dustin had recruited him for help in tracking down his demo-whatever, but that was because he and Steve had run into each other, and nobody else was available. If anything, Dustin had seemed annoyed by his presence. The bickering was actually kind of endearing, but he'd figured Dustin would be glad not to need Steve and his nailbat anymore. "I didn't realize he'd want to hear from me. Or - or any of the kids, I guess."

Jonathan furrows his brow, and Steve feels like he's said something wrong. "What? Dude, they, like, idolize you. It's actually kind of annoying sometimes, Dustin especially." He rolls his eyes, "he wouldn't shut up about being friends with Steve Harrington, apparently you gave him some hair care secrets he's holding close to his chest? When he didn't hear from you, though…"

"Are him and the rest of the gremlins paying Dragons and Doorknobs at your place anytime soon?"

"Uh, yeah. Sunday, actually."

"Great, I'll swing by. If that's okay with you, and your mom, of course. And- and Nancy, I guess, if she's around."

"I- Yeah, cool. I think he'd really like that. All of them would."

"Great."

Jonathan stares at him for a moment with an odd look on his face. It isn't unkind, but Steve has the crawling feeling that someone is trying to figure him out, so he looks away, though not before Jonathan has a chance to get a good look at him.

"Jesus, Harrington, how does your face look worse than it did when I last saw you?"

Steve huffs out something like a chuckle, "you really know how to boost a guy's confidence, don't you?"

"I'm serious man," and he sounds it, which Steve hates , and maybe Jonathan can tell because he weakly adds, "no bags of frozen peas in that fancy fridge of yours?"

"Not much in the fridge at all," Steve says, mostly to himself. "Hey, you broke my nose last year, maybe Hargrove did me a favor and set it straight. Gotta wait 'til the swelling goes down to know for sure."

Jonathan cringes, "I'm still sorry about that, man."

"No worries, water under the bridge." Steve is pleased to find he's not lying when he says it, not even a little bit. "Besides, Hargrove's a maniac, I'm not in any position to demand apologies from everyone who's beat my face in."

Jonathan looks thoughtful, the way he usually does. "Gotta wonder what has to go wrong for someone to turn out that way. I don't know if you spent much time with Max when all the- anyway she seems pretty, uh, normal."

"Max is a tough nut to crack, but yeah, we've actually talked a little bit." An unlikely alliance had formed between him and Red. - unlikely because she'd grant theft auto-ed his BMW - and he'd taken to giving her a ride home from the middle school whenever Billy was in a particularly volatile mood or ditched her to skateboard home in lousy weather. "Somebody like Hargrove - that all has to come from somewhere, the anger. His dad - her step-dad - sounds like a real asshole, knocks him around a lot. Apparently it gets pretty ugly sometimes. She says he's never laid a hand on her, but I hate her being stuck in that house with him, with either of them really. Anyways, apple doesn't fall far from the tree or whatever." Steve feels a twinge of guilt for sharing Max's secrets, but figures he'll give Jonathan just enough to know to look out for her. He tongues his gums where a tooth is missing, spat out on the Byers' living room carpet.

"Do you really think it has to be that way? Like… do you think everyone's stuck becoming their parents?"

Steve shakes his head and puts out the last of his cigarette on the underside of his bumper. "Nah, not everybody. Like, Nancy, for example: she'll get out of Hawkins, get some great writing job at a big-name journal in the city and not look back.

Jonathan nods, considering this for a moment, though the wrinkle between his brows suggests he's not entirely mollified.

"You're a good guy, Jon. If that's what you're worried about, I mean." Steve isn't entirely sure why he says it, blames the silence Jonathan keeps leaving open between them.

"My dad is… kind of an asshole. I don't know, you always wonder. Nature versus nurture and all that."

"Nature versus nurture" isn't something Steve knows anything about, but he does know a thing or two about having an asshole for a father. About wanting-not-wanting to grow up to be just like the man he hated and loved and feared with his whole chest. About seeing similarities and preening but also feeling sick.

"He hit you?"

It's Jonathan whose head turns towards him in surprise this time. "What? No! I mean- no. He was a mean drunk, but he didn't touch me or Will. Mom-" his face crumbles in guilt, with no effort to hide it. His voice goes low, but carries easily in the quiet night. "He knocked mom around a bit, though - they fought a lot and he would grab her, or push her, but I think she tried to hide it from us. Or maybe I wanted to pretend it wasn't happening, I don't know." He looks at Steve a little incredulously, like he doesn't know why he's saying all this, but he continues. "Mom finally decided she'd had enough, and when he found out it was bad - worse than normal, I mean - and it was in front of Will and I which never really happened, and he hit her, like, for real, and I…." The haunted look on Jonathan's face recounting the memory is replaced by a sheepish smile. "I, uh, well, I slugged him."

Steve smiles now too. "Yeah?"

Jonathan laughs a little, grinds his finished cigarette into the dirt with the toe of his boot. "Yeah. Shocked myself a little by it, too, but it knocked him out long enough for my mom to get the rest of her things together and get us out of there."

"How did it feel?" The words are out of his mouth before Steve has the time to process what he's asking.

"Hm?"

"How did it feel? To hit him?"

Jonathan turns back to look at Steve for a moment and must find whatever he's looking for, though he isn't pleased about it.

"It felt… I don't know. Like, yeah, I finally got my hand on the guy hurting my mom, which just felt impossible until then, so maybe for a second it felt satisfying in a sick way. But then it was like… I don't want to feel satisfied, it's not fair that punching my old man feels so good because he deserves it. I'm supposed to be a kid and he's supposed to be a dad, you know? And maybe people who had that don't think about how it'll feel because they don't have a reason."

Steve lets out a shuddering breath. "Yeah. Maybe."

"Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"You think about how it'd feel?"

Steve leans back on his elbows to look up at the night sky. "Yeah Byers, I think about it."

I cannot express how much I appreciate any kudos or comments, critical or otherwise. I would love to hear what people do/do not enjoy or would like to see from me.

I swapped the order of chapters 2 and 3, so up next will be a conversation between Dustin and Steve post-S3!