Chapter Text
The air is warm, sticky with incoming summer heat.
He really needs to fix his goddamn AC.
It had been easy, learning how to fix things when working at the radio station. Finally, something he was good at beyond high school sports and babysitting teenagers. He took the time to get to know how to fix control panels, learn what wire went where, know exactly how much voltage was needed for X, Y, and oh yeah, even Z.
But he's had something of a lazy weekend, holed up in his apartment watching artsy movies he doesn't quite get with Robin on the phone, watching the same movies from her dorm and chattering about the intricate details.
He's a simple guy; give him some action scenes, a quip or three, Claudia Wells, and he'll be happy as a clam.
He doesn't totally get most of the movies Robin likes, but, hey, it's just nice to still have movie nights, even states apart.
Hawkins is quiet, now. The kids are all off to college (no longer kids, mind you. They're all legal adults now, but to him? They're always gonna be the little shits who stuck rainbow bandaids on his face and hijacked his car), and Robin is states away finishing up her own degree.
The Upside Down is no longer a problem, hasn't been for almost half a decade. And yet...
Yet he can't find a reason to leave, despite having nothing truly keeping him here.
His parents are long gone, having moved out to California to their former summer home. They'd never came back from their last business trip, hadn't even told Steve they were selling up the house until he'd seen the sign being hammered into the yard.
So, he'd moved out. Had to, of course. He couldn't afford to buy out his parents even with the trust fund money (thanks, grandpa) he'd gotten when he'd turned 21. And, truth be told, nor did he want to.
He was one guy, y'know? What use did he have for a house with too many rooms and no one left to occupy them?
His apartment is a one bedroom, with a tiny ass kitchen and what he's sure might be a family of mice in the walls. His AC never fucking lives through summer and his shower head is stupidly low on the tiled wall.
But... it's his. As much as he's tried to jazz the place up a bit, to repair what he can... it's kind of still a shithole.
A nice shithole. His shithole.
He really needs to stop calling it a shithole. Negative thoughts lead to negative feelings or... whatever it is Robin said that one time when she was knee deep in a Tarot phase.
Thankfully, it had ended before she got into crystals and auras or whatever.
He'd sooner jab them in his eyes than let her heal his aura with them or whateverthefuck.
Not his thing.
Also not his thing?
Whoever the fuck is spamming his buzzer at... he sleepily squints at his alarm clock.
Stupid o'clock in the morning, that's what.
"Go away." He groans, throwing his arm over his sweaty face.
The buzzing continues, and Steve lets out a frustrated shout, kicking off the sheets and stomping out to the hall, slamming his finger against the enter button.
He couldn't wait to see just who the fuck it was. Couldn't wait to give them a piece of his exhausted, half awake mind and then send them on their merry way before crashing the fuck back out.
He crosses his arms over his bare chest, tapping his foot against the carpet as he glowers at his door. Maybe if he stares hard enough he can look through it and see his sleep disturber, like... Superman or whoever the fuck it is that Dustin always talks about in regards to comics.
There's a gentle knock at his door, and Steve practically leaps to the door, unlocking it and throwing it open.
"Do you know what goddamn time it is-"
Oh.
Oh.
Nancy Wheeler blinks up at him, all wide eyed and wild hair, her clothes wrinkled and her mouth drawn into a little frown.
He is suddenly, painfully, aware of the fact that he's standing there in nothing but a pair of boxers, his hair and flesh covered in a sticky, thin sheen of sweat.
It's the first time he's seen her in close to a year.
"Nance?" he murmurs, rubbing his eyes, both to remove the crusts of sleep clinging to the corners and to make sure she's there, that she's real.
Wouldn't be the first time he's dreamed of her, after all.
"...did I wake you?" she asks, as if finally clocking that it's dark out, that he's clearly just been woken up.
"No," he lies, opening the door wider and motioning for her to step inside. She gives him an appreciative, shaky smile, pushing her curls out of her face.
"You okay?" he asks her, closing the door and grabbing a hoodie from his coat rack, tugging it on over his head. He doesn't want to make her uncomfortable with his state of undress, would rather die than make Nancy Wheeler feel any sort of discomfort.
Nancy takes a deep breath, eyes searching his face. They flicker over his furrowed brow, the beginnings of crows feet by his eyes, the moles on his cheek, his throat.
"Nance?" He prompts, concern thick and heavy in his voice, his eyes.
Nancy takes another breath, leaning against the arm of his couch, arms crossed over her chest as if to shield herself as she looks up at him through her lashes and says, "I need your help."
Needless to say... she has thoroughly caught his attention.