steve harrington imagines

i've got you

Steve was silent as he unlocked the door, tossing his keys with a bit too much force onto the table just inside your entryway. He kicked his shoes off, the toes of them thudding into the wall, one of them leaving a small scuff mark on the paint that you'd have to remove later. You'd gone to dinner with his parents, and to no one's surprise, it had not gone well. His dad had started in on him immediately, berating him for the millionth time about not going to college, for having a shitty job and a shitty apartment, for refusing to work with him at his company — the list went on and on. Steve's hand on your knee was the only thing stopping you from blowing up at his dad; you knew it'd only make the situation worse, and didn't want to do that to Steve.

You'd never liked his parents, his dad more specifically. They turned your sweet, affectionate, and bubbly Steve into a shell of himself — quiet and reserved, eyebrows pinched together, shoulders stiff. He'd tried to keep any semblance of emotion — namely, the pain — off of his face, but you knew him better than that now. And as much as he tried to shrug off his dad's comments, you knew they got to him.

Following suit, you stepped into your small apartment with Steve and closed the door behind you, making sure to lock it. Your own shoes came off, much more carefully than his had, and you shrugged off your jacket, hanging it up before turning to Steve. You called his name softly, catching his forearm in your warm palm, tugging at the cuff of his jacket, "Let me hang this up for you, bub." He let you help him out of his jacket, placing a soft kiss to your cheek as a thank you, though no thank you of any kind was necessary.

There had been tentative plans for a movie night for the two of you, but now you weren't sure if Steve would be feeling up to it. The question was on your lips as he turned to you with a half-hearted smile, "Still want to watch a movie?"

"Sure," you nodded quickly, wanting to do whatever would help him relax and get his mind off of the awful dinner, "I'll start the popcorn if you wanna go change into something comfortable." You'd met his parents at a fancy restaurant, calling for your nice, but uncomfortable, clothes. Steve nodded and placed a soft peck to your lips in parting, and then made his way to your bedroom.

The popcorn was barely halfway done when Steve padded into the kitchen to find you. He'd done a quick change, swapping his nice pants and shirt with a pair of sweatpants and his favorite hoodie. It was obvious he'd also taken a few seconds to brush out the gel that had been in his hair; it looked softer now, and a few pieces hung loosely in his face. Your favorite part, though, had to be that his glasses were now perched on his nose. Steve didn't wear them often, even though he needed them, but you loved how he looked in them, and told him so every time. You couldn't help but grin when you saw him, "Hey, handsome. You look comfy."

"Definitely better than that stiff shirt and tie," he grumbled, crossing the kitchen and stopping just behind you, a warm hand settling against your hip. "I'll finish this, you go change, too, baby."

When you re-emerged from your room, in your comfiest clothes stolen from Steve, you found him on the couch. The popcorn was piled impressively high in a bowl, and there was an open bottle of beer sitting next to it, however it looked like it hadn't been touched. Steve looked frustrated as he banged the remote against the palm of his hand, trying to get it to work as he muttered a soft, "God dammit."

Not wanting to startle him, you murmured a soft "hey" and then dropped onto the couch next to him. "Want me to try?" you asked, holding your hand out for the remote.

He placed it in your hand after a moment and then slumped back into the couch, arms crossing over his chest. He was still abnormally quiet, and it made your heart ache, but you didn't want to pry and force him to talk if he didn't want to.

When you couldn't get the remote to work either, you went off in search of some new batteries, and after rummaging through some drawers to find the right size, you returned to the living room, the remote and new batteries in hand. "Hey, I think I found the right size, but—" you stopped mid-sentence as you turned the corner to find Steve in a new position. He was leaning forward again, his elbows resting on his knees, and the heels of his hands pressed into his eyes. "Steve?"