You grit your teeth against the sheer force with which you turn the key in the ignition of your Chevy.
"Come on, baby. Come on, baby. Let's goooooo- fuck it!"
Cough. Splutter. Nothing.
You slam your palms against the steering wheel and huff out a groan before vacating the vehicle, and book it back up the stairs to your apartment.
A burning heat floods your ears as you run a hand through your hair, knowing how thoroughly unimpressed the person you're calling will be when they answer the phone.
They answer.
"Hey, uh, it's me. Do you have time this morning to stop by mine?" A series of grumbles sound from the other end. Then, "Yeah, yeah, the truck again."
Half an hour later, Hopper mutters incoherent curses under his breath as he tinkers under the hood of the Chevy, unable to figure out what's wrong with it this time.
He shuts the hood with a rusted clang.
"You already know what I'm gonna say." He quips in his usual sardonic monotone, wiping his grimy hands on a rag you pass to him.
"Yeah, I know - get rid of it." You sigh.
He lands a large hand to your car, tilting his head to the side as he watches your inner-turmoil.
You know it's just a hunk of rusting old metal, but it was your brother's. The thought of getting rid of it actually hurts; it claws viciously at your heart, leaving it feeling weak and aching.
Hopper assures, "You don't have to decide anything right this second. But you know it's best. In the meantime, I can take you to work today."
"Would you put the siren on so I could get there faster?" You force a smirk.
He retaliates with a dead-sounding laugh, his eyes hooded, "Ha-ha. No."
You tip your head back and whine, then you walk round to the hood and flump down on it with a huff.
"Thanks anyway, Hop. Maybe it is time the old girl went to the scrapyard in the sky."
"That's just about the smartest thing you've said all morning."
"And then I can focus on saving for a bike." You bite back a grin, knowing just saying this will push his buttons.
The chief bristles in a mixture of agitation and concern.
"A motorbike?! Nope. No. Absolutely no way. Do you know how dangerous those things are? Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"
"Jeez, calm down, Popper. I'm only half messing with you."
Popper. Your term of endearment that he pretends to hate but secretly melts him like butter whenever you call him it - a play on words, a mixture between Hopper and Pops, because the man insists on parenting you in his own Hopper style.
Not that you mind. Actually, you quite like it. Only reluctant at first, keeping him at arm's length to protect the fragile little girl that lives within you. But after a while, you subconsciously eased into it... after grammar sessions with El, after dinners spent with them both at the cabin, after nights when you were too afraid to go traipsing back through the woods, so you'd stay up and veg on the couch with him, watching Magnum PI in comfortable, silent solace. Every car breakdown. Every grumble at you for smoking, only to light up himself. Every time he's said: you're not going out dressed like that, think of the example you're setting for El, only to immediately cave when he remembers you're old enough to make your own decisions. He's been there. Popper.
He breathes a sigh of relief, "Good. Because I can only just about handle worrying over one tearaway right about now."
You scoff.
"El? A tearaway?" You arch an eyebrow at him "You're exaggerating."
Hop shakes his head with an exasperated exhale, "I've just never done the whole teenage thing before."
"Well, I'm a teenager."
"You're 18. And I inherited you only recently because you were too goddamn stubborn to let me look out for you earlier," He slumps onto the hood of your truck beside you and crosses his arms. "Hit me, what am I in for? Parenting a girl through adolescence?"
You place a finger to your chin in contemplation.
"Hmmm, a young teenage daughter with a horrible early upbringing? Let's see... there'll be boys, booze, cigarettes, tattoos, tantrums. I'll spare you the super gory details." You count on your fingers, a wry smile creeping in the more horrors you rattle off, seeing the chief's characteristically red features begin to drain of their colour, like a plug has been pulled on his face.
"Great. That's just great." He pinches the bridge of his nose.
Releasing a snort, his attention snaps back to your direction, and beholding how amused you look, the colour rises to his face again.
You say, "I'm pulling your leg, Pop. She's going to be just fine - you're her dad."
Then, you draw away to fade into yourself, and the smile melts down to nothing.
You finally speak again, "You know? I think if I had you when I was her age, I would've turned out okay."
His typically stone-like expression softens.
"Don't be so hard in yourself. You did turn out okay. It might've taken you a little longer than kids in normal circumstances, but you're here now. And you have got me."
He places a tentative arm around you, mindful not to overstep.
But you welcome it, nestling your head into his shoulder and he rumples your hair with his massive hand before placing a gentle peck to your temple.
You chuckle, "Your cologne is super overpowering, by the way. Going to see Joyce by any chance?"
Hopper, also laughing, awards you a squeeze.
"Smart-ass."
***
By the time you get to work, Robin is already at the front of Scoops being her usual sunshiney self - the epitome of stellar customer service.
"Have a nice day." She deadpans like a zombie to a pair of customers as she impassively hands them two ice-creams. Actually, zombies probably have more life in them than Robin right now, who opened the store at the ass-crack of dawn.
Behind these two customers, a boy patiently awaits his turn, beaming at the freckled girl in an overly familiar fashion.
She raises her eyebrows, puzzled, when the boy proudly strides up to the counter.
"I'm Dustin." The boy explains.
"I'm Robin?" She blinks, bemused.
"Pleasure to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you already, that I forget we've never been properly introduced."
"Really?"
He goes to speak again, but you burst from the staff-room door.
"Dustin!" You exclaim with arms open wide.
"Y/N!" He fizzes out of pure excitement.
"I've missed you so much! Have you grown? I swear you're nearly as tall as me. Come here, you little genius, and hug me," But the boy appears to be searching around your person, not really paying any attention. "Dustin, I said hug me."
"Uh, is... is he here?"
You pout. "Seriously? I've not seen you in weeks and the first thing you ask me is if he's here?" He doesn't say anything, just shrugs sheepishly and continues to look around you some more. You mutter, "Traitor."
Next to burst through the door, is a very excited Steve.
"Henderson!" He cheers while Dustin laughs and points and yells at the sight for sore eyes that is his best friend. "Henderson! He's back!"
"I'm back! You got the job!"
"I got the job!"
Steve skips into the clearing to Dustin, miming playing a trumpet, and they slap their hands together in the form of their secret handshake. Their elaborate secret handshake. Okay, their very elaborate secret handshake that seems to last forever, incorporating nothing less than a pretend lightsaber fight, complete with sound effects and Steve enacting a very gory demise before melting into guffaws of laughter.
You study their reunion, a warmth budding in your chest at the sight and you smile and sink your teeth into your bottom lip.
Robin also spectates, albeit with a greater sense of irony than yourself.
She whispers, "Another one from your massive brood with Harrington?"
"Shut up." You hiss.
"Geesh. You're like the von Trapp family. You know, you two should really consider using protection?"
"Shut uppppp!" You hiss harder and she giggles.
Later, Dustin ploughs into an entire platter of banana split all by himself. So much sugar... you think to yourself it's a good job the kid has no teeth, because they'd be utterly rotted by this mountain of ice-cream alone. He regails tales of summer camp to the goggling Steve who simply can't believe what he's hearing: Henderson, has a girlfriend.
This particular detail is unbeknownst to you just yet, as you're busy wiping down the counters with a sullied grey cloth, leaving the boys to talk alone.
Every now and then, you catch Steve's eye, and exchange soft smiles with him. This is something that happens most days on shift; whenever you're at opposite ends of the store or completing individual tasks - one of you will vie for the other's attention, and you never really do anything besides smirk then look away then smirk again, but whatever it is, it's like you're drawn together like moths to a flame.
It's also something else Robin's noticed about the two of you and often remarks to you something like: enjoying the view?
She looks as if she's dying to say something to you now, because Steve keeps occasionally flitting his gaze over to you and a faint curl plays on his lips whenever he gets you to look his way.
Luckily, you're being beckoned over by the two boys instead.
"No. No way," Steve calls, "Y/N, get this: Dustin has a girlfriend!"
Your face falls, shocked.
"Wha-?"
"I know. Great, huh? And apparently she's hotter than Phoebe Cates."
"Hotter than Phoebe Cates? I call bull." You cross your arms and narrow your eyes playfully.
Dustin bristles in defense.
"It's not bull; she's brilliant, too. She's called Suzie. And she doesn't even care my real pearls are still coming in," Dustin grins before leaning in to whisper, "She says kissing is better without teeth."
Steve exchanges a look with you, barely managing his expression into something supportive against what is quite possibly the most horrifying detail anyone has ever heard.
Dustin still cluelessly beams in delight, so the pair of you must be doing a pretty good job of looking very pleased for him.
"Wow. Yeah, that's great. Proud of you, man." Steve hopes to Christ he isn't blinking a weird amount, which is only more temptation for you to explode into laughter.
"That's ro- that's kinda romantic." Your tight voice is a wobbling struggle to stay serious, and Steve, recognising this, has to press his lips tight.
"That's like... wow." He coughs.
Dustin brims with pride, and your heart swells at the sight. At least he's happy, even if you do think you might vomit at the unsolicited image of him sloppily making out with an equally inexperienced girl. God, the drool, the slurping noises, the washing-machine tongues.
Ah, young love.
The boy finishes his banana split, turning over the remnants of leftover ice-cream with his spoon and inspecting the contents.
He asks Steve, "So do you really just get to eat as much of this as you want?"
"Yeah. I mean, sure," Steve answers. "It's not really a good idea for me, though. I gotta keep in shape for the ladies."
Robin calls from the till in her typical curt sarcasm.
"Yeah, and how's that working out for you?" She questions.
Steve scowls across to the freckled girl.
Chuckling at Robin's dig, you join in.
"Ooh, Dustin, wanna see our scoreboard?" You say.
"Ignore them," Steve snaps. "Seriously, dude, I am so glad you're here; I've been fighting for my life against these two."
"Don't pretend like you don't love it."
You begin clearing Dustin's empty bowl, using the spoon to dot the residue of ice-cream on the tip of Steve's nose that he has to scrunch up his face and wipe it off with a napkin, before balling up said napkin and pelting it at you.
You, giggling, dodge Steve's playful assault and push lightly with your fingertips at his cap, knocking it off his head.
Pink-cheeked, Steve mutters incoherently behind reluctant titters at your teasing, then meets the Henderson boy's gaze again.
Dustin, having bore witness to the whole ordeal, gapes at Steve in a mixture of incredulity and amusement.
They're flirting with each other.
Like, properly flirting.
"What?" Steve frowns.
Dustin's glee widens.
"Nothing," He insists. "Just nice to see you two getting along."
The older boy leans a little closer to his friend and lowers his voice, but deliberately not too much because in truth, he wants you to hear. He wants to wind you up. Because he wants to get his kicks from your reaction.
"Y'know? I think I might be showing early signs of Stockholm Syndrome with her." Steve winks.
Naturally, because he ensured it, you hear.
"Bite me, Steve!" You call.
It ignites something in him, and he immediately leers in retaliation.
"Is that an invitation, sweetheart?"
You flip him off, albeit mockingly, and a deliciously conniving expression washes over your opponent's features.
With a clatter, you drop the plates into the back and return to a very smug looking Robin.
"When you two are done flirting, I need you to clean up Booth Five." She quietly utters to just yourself.
In response to this, you make a stammering noise of protest.
"We are not flirting." You state plainly.
Your best friend only barks out a single laugh, teeth sparkling, she teems with delight.
"Y/N, just because I myself have never flirted with a man before, doesn't mean I don't know what it looks like."
"We're just... goofing around."
You touch your fingertips to your cheek. Burning hot. A scarlet scorch. So obvious to everyone, especially Robin who's always been able to read you like a book.
"Uh-huh, and I just watch Fast Times because I'm curious about the female body," She places a hand to her hip. "Just admit it, you like him."
"Well yeah, I like him. He's a friend."
"No, you like him. You wanna do the horizontal tango with him."
"Jesus, Buckley!"
"Hey, don't get me wrong, I know I'm not exactly his number one fan, but I won't judge. After all, isn't that what summer's all about? Being young, dumb, and full of cu-"
"-Do not finish that sentence."
You clamp a desperate hand over her mouth while her dancing eyes are bright with mischief. It draws the attention of Steve and Dustin; they peel their eyes over to you, Steve especially quirking his brow at the sight of Robin muzzled.
Thankfully, whatever Dustin has to tell him is more interesting, so the brunette boy's gaze returns to the Henderson kid.
Robin removes your hand from her face.
"It might get your mind off Munson."
"My mind isn't on Munson."
"I beg to differ."
But before you get the chance to argue, Dustin's explosive exclamation cuts any train of thought regarding men and crushes and who you might fantasise about, sexually speaking.
"I INTERCEPTED A SECRET RUSSIAN COMMUNICATION!" The boy blurts.
Waving Robin off, you back away towards the curly-headed child.
"I'm just gonna leave this conversation here." You retreat.
"I never heard you denying anything!" She calls after you.
You land your hands to your hips as you greet the image that is Steve incessantly shushing Dustin with a finger over his own mouth. The pair of them appear incredibly suspicious, the embodiment of cagey behaviour. So you squint your eyes at their frenzy. You're dubious, sceptical.
"What am I hearing right now? What are you two up to?"
Dustin can barely contain himself despite Steve's feigned attempts to placate the boy.
"We're going to be heroes. True American heroes."
American heroes.
Jesus Christ.
Your eyes nearly roll right out your head onto the linoleum floor as you deadpan bitterly, "Well don't tell my dad you're stealing his dream."
Steve looks at you sympathetically, but Dustin implores him.
"Just think, you could have any lady you want."
"That so?" The older boy is suddenly all ears.
"Yep. Any. Lady. You. Want."
As he says this, Dustin waggles his eyebrows up and down, nodding especially in the direction where you stand, making Steve's ears flush to the same shade of crimson yours were just a few moments before with Robin.
Real subtle, dude. He thinks.
You pretend to not see.
Steve clears his throat and tries to move on with a pitchy crack in his voice, "What's the catch?"
"I just need your help with translation." Dustin answers.
Eyes travelling across the table at which they sit, they still where a recording device lies - Dustin's.
You snatch it.
They shout.
And you scurry off to the backdoor, leaving the boys blinking in befuddlement at what just happened.
You open the door, clicking with your fingers and pointing into the staff-room.
"Well get in here, then!"
***
Dustin crudely leafs through the pages of a Russian translation book, his face wrought with a concentration so deep, you worry he may pop a vessel.
You can hear Robin calling you from the front, irritation clinging to her tone as she deals with your number one most annoying customer, Erica Sinclair - Lucas' baby sister... who makes it her life mission to try and fleece you of free ice-cream every day.
But you're busy.
"So what do you think?" Dustin asks Steve, whose brow is furrowed at the message playing on the recording device - its sound crackles through the speaker, unclear and undecipherable to any untrained ear.
"It sounded familiar." The honey-eyed boy mutters with his fingers to his chin as he contemplates.
"What?"
"The music. The music right there at the end."
"We're translating Russian!" You massage your temple in aggravation.
"I'm trying to listen to the Russian, but there's music..."
He's right, of course. There is music. A twangling little ditty chirrups in the background of the man's voice. It's odd to say the least, to have something so jolly echo behind something so shady. However, it's not like it means anything, right?
Robin appears with a scooper in her hand, she uses it to motion as she talks.
"Alright, babysitting time is over. You need to get in there," She points with her scooper, but her eye gets drawn to the whiteboard now containing Russian lettering. "Hey, my board. That was important data, shit-birds."
You gesture with your palms up in front of you to shake off any complicity with the boys scrubbing her scoring away.
"I tried to warn them, but they insisted what they're doing is more important."
"Yeah?" She turns to the boys. "And how do you know these Russians are up to no good anyways?"
"How does she know about the Russians?" Steve asks.
"I don't know." She grins.
"Y/N must've told her." Dustin points accusingly.
You scoff, "Hey, don't look at me! It's not my fault you're both extremely loud."
They both exchange a look with one another, their faces overcome with a sheepish quality.
"Right. I can hear everything. You think you have evil Russians plotting against our country, on tape, and you're trying to translate, but haven't figured out a word because you didn't realise Russians use an entirely different alphabet. Sound about right?"
Their sullen silence confirms it.
"Yep. Hit the nail on the head." You pull your lips into a tight, chagrined smile.
Steve tips his head back to grumble.
"Awh, Y/N, shut up. It's not like you standing there making your little quips have been any help here whatsoever."
You shrug. "No, I no. It's just funny to watch because obviously there's no evil Russians!"
"We don't know that." Dustin insists with a finger intelligently raised into the air.
"Alright, Robin. Here."
You reach out and grab the recording device to plant in her eager fingers, and in response the two boys each protest in a hubbub of noise against the very idea.
Dustin springs forward in an attempt to snatch it back.
"Whoa! What do you think you're doing?"
"I wanna hear it." Robin states impassively.
"Why?"
"'Cause maybe I can help."
You stand by Robin in a physical display of siding with her, slinging casually over her shoulder one of your arms, landing your free hand to your hip.
"She's fluent in three languages, you know?" You add and she turns to you, grinning.
"Four now."
Your eyes crack open, jaw agape with incredulity as you behold her peachy-pink cheeks that flush with a sense of pride.
"Really? Hey, good for you." You award her a supportive shoulder squeeze.
"Why, thank you." She tips her pretend cap to you.
"Can you speak Russian?" Dustin questions with eyes half-lidded.
It takes every ounce of self-restraint to not laugh out loud at Robin's answer...
"Ou-yay are-yay umb-day." She replies.
The two boys gape in triumph, now thoroughly excited by the Buckley girl's bilingual capabilities.
"Holy shit!" Dustin gawks.
"That's Pig Latin, dingus." Robin quips and you finally release the snort you keep suppressed.
"Exactly," You murmur to Robin behind a cupped hand, "At-whay upid-stay asses-ay."
"Erious-slay..."
"Shut up-ay." Steve rolls his eyes.
Robin continues, "But I can speak Spanish and French and Italian, and I've been in band for 12 years."
You place two hands either side of her shoulders as you implore the two boys sat at the table before you, "Her ears are little geniuses, trust us."
"I don't even want credit. I'm just bored." She insists.
"Steve. Dustin. Let her in on this."
Wordlessly, your eyes widen, your face growing hard like wood. You need this. You need to let Robin in. Because god knows you can't take keeping something else from her. Another secret. Another egg-shell to tread.
Robin somehow seems to have set aside the aching desire to know how Barb died, and how you know but won't tell. She seems to have given up entirely, asking you what it was you'd been up to last November, that left you battered and bruised and broken, only to then be virtually insomniac for months on end after. She seems to grow weary, when she asks how you and Steve became so close, to only have you both skirt around the topic entirely with stories that don't quite add up.
All of these odd behaviours, she forgives you for them.
But what Robin will never do, is forget.
She will never forget that you have a secret you don't seem to trust her enough with.
Keeping another one from her is simply out of the question. You have to let her in.
So you beg.
"Please."
***
Robin pokes her freckled features out the glass partition, chatting to Steve who listens in whilst slinging ice-cream for two familiar faces.
"We've got our first sentence." She's utters quietly to him.
"Oh, seriously?"
Her voice grows thick with a Russian accent as she repeats hers and Dustin's findings.
"The week is long."
"Well, that's thrilling." He mutters in a deadpan.
The girl shrugs.
"I know. But, progress."
She leaves you both to man the parlour out front. Much to her surprise, Dustin also expresses his agreement to this.
"Good idea. Give those two more time together alone." He confirms, still rifling through the orange translation book.
The girl's eyes dance over the boy sat opposite her.
"Oh my god, you've noticed it, too?" She stares.
The curly-headed child gives her a look, one that's straightforward and glaringly clear.
He says, "Robin, I have eyes. Seems like the only ones being wilfully blind to it are those two."
"Maybe they need a little push in the right direction?"
"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
They both mirror each other as they, in unison, straighten in posture. Robin laughs under her breath. Dustin gasps faintly, and they writhe in the pleasure of unearthing an idea so brilliant yet so obvious.
Playing match-maker.
"Great minds think alike, kid." Robin winks.
At the front of the store, a clueless Steve has finished scooping. Meanwhile, you clean down the tables with your back to the counter.
"Okay, here you go, you got a strawberry and then a vanilla with sprinkles, extra whipped cream," Steve's face grows concerned, his brows pinching together when he recognises one of the customers in particular. "Wait a second, are you even allowed to be here?"
Eleven giggles mischievously.
However, she manages her expression into one of seriousness when you come barreling over.
"No, she is not!" You call, pointing at the young girl. "El, what are you doing here?"
The girl does not respond, only struggles to keep from laughing with her new friend in tow - Max.
You instruct, "Go home. Before Hopper finds out and grounds your butt, then grounds my butt because I've seen you out in public."
Max scoffs, "Hopper can't ground your butt, you don't live with them. And you're basically an adult."
You splay your fingers over the counter as you bend at the elbow to lean into them, eyes cuttingly narrow and voice lowered that they stop bristling with childish giddiness and are forced to behold you with a look of severity.
"Believe me, he'd find a way," You whisper with a hint of authoritative menace laced in your tone. However, you can't help but notice these two girls, who once could barely muster a shred of civility towards one another, are here now... shopping? You straighten from where you burn into them. "You two seem to be getting along."
The two girls offer themselves each a sidelong glance before their poorly masked amusement comes bubbling out of them in the form of hilarious sputters.
Max nods.
"Yep. Turns out we have a lot in common. Like stupid boyfriends." She digs El gently with her elbow and El awards her ice-cream a lick and hums in agreement.
"Uh-oh," You click your tongue before peeling your attention to the girl who should be home under Hopper's orders. A sly smile tickles across your cheeks. "I thought I didn't recognise you without Mike sucking on your face. What happened?"
Eleven blushes, looking down pensively at your hands on the counter.
Max speaks.
"Maybe Y/N could help us out and explain why boys are the worst and we should all just dump their asses?"
"Yes, why do boys lie?" El frowns.
"I refute that!" Steve chimes in from the other end of the store.
You shoot Steve a sideways glance and snicker at his comment, a humourous affection kindling in your chest at the sight of him.
Facing the girls again, you advise, "Listen, Mike's young and stupid like most boys your age. They all grow up eventually."
"Like Steve?" Max raises her eyebrows.
Shifting your gaze to the boy now polishing the sundae glasses, minding his own business, your mouth quirks and you chuckle softly.
"Yes, like Steve, I guess." You admit with a heat in your cheeks.
El frowns again in thought. "Is that why you let him sleep at your house so much?"
Max's face drops.
"He does what?" She guffaws before goggling at you with an air of excitement.
"Yeah, Y/N said they watch movies and cuddle." El innocently adds, earning an even bigger jaw-drop from Max.
"Platonic cuddle." You hurriedly correct.
"Is there such a thing?" Max raises her eyebrow.
"Hey, hey, hey, let's not start a rumour here," You hold out a hand, chest thumping, ears warm. "Back to El's issue, Mike just has some growing up to do. If you want, I can talk to his big sister and she'll put him in check."
"So it's okay he lies?"
"Absolutely not. He's an idiot but that doesn't mean you have to make up for his mistakes. That's not your job as his girlfriend."
"So El should dump his ass?" Max grins.
You pout. "I mean, if he keeps telling lies. Yeah."
The auburn-haired teen nudges her newfound friend.
"See?" She simply states.
"Now get outta here, both of you, before Hopper finds out and kills me."
They scamper off hand-in-hand. It's adorable, the image of their blossoming relationship and you beam after them, shaking your head.
Before they can fully vacate the premises, though, you shout after Eleven.
"Oh, and El? Don't forget that grammar homework I set you - I'll be picking it up later in the week, okay?"
The young girl nods, before skittering away with Max.
Steve sidles up next to you, a sundae glass in his hand and a dishcloth in the other, turning over the glass and inspecting it for any flecks or fingerprints that mar its gleaming shine.
He chuckles, "Wow. You're strict, maybe even stricter than when you were my tutor."
You playfully roll your eyes.
"Yeah, but you were a shitty student... speaking of homework, I wonder how our little Russian exercise is coming along?"
***
You, Dustin, Steve, then Robin all stand in a line as you face the board.
Scribed neatly across it - Robin's handwriting.
Altogether, in sync, you read the message she's pieced together...
"The week is long,
The silver cat feeds,
When blue meets yellow in the west."
It makes zero sense.
But then it dawns on you... it's supposed to make zero sense.
It's a code.
Silence has seeped into the rest of the mall and invaded the usually bright and bustling storefronts that now huddle together, as if settling down to sleep for the night - their yawning faces are shuttered up and locked and bolted.
Everything is quiet, too quiet. It unnerves you. All of you. It's as if you feel the need to talk loudly to fill the eerie space with noise and soothe your nerves.
But the topic of conversation doesn't help quell the beating in your chest.
"I mean, it just- it just can't be right." Steve shakes his head.
"It's right." Robin snaps in defense of her translation skills.
"Honestly, I think it's great news." Dustin skips on ahead.
"It's total nonsense." Steve argues.
"It's not nonsense."
The Henderson boy is correct, of course. You feel it in your gut. The message underpins something. Something sinister. You can't work it out yet, but whatever it is, it isn't good.
"It's too specific. It's obviously a code." You chew the inside of your mouth, staring blankly ahead.
"What do you mean, a code?" Steve asks.
"Like a super secret spy code." Dustin adds.
"That's a total stretch"
You squint in deep thought. "I don't know, is it?"
Steve pauses in front, the linoleum floor scudding underneath his sneakers with a squeak.
He scathes, "You're not seriously buying into this? A few hours ago you were preaching about there being no evil Russians! No, like always, you're just going against what I think because you don't wanna side with me."
Scoffing, you raise a finger in the air, "Okay first off, don't tell me how I think," Then you gesture with both hands in a motion of reasoning. "Secondly, just for kicks, let's entertain the possibility that it is a secret Russian transmission."
Steve mutters under his breath, rolling his eyes as you, once again, counter his point of view.
You continue, "Don't roll those fucking eyes at me. No, I'm serious, What'd you think they were gonna say? Fire the warhead at noon?" This question is positively dripping with sarcasm, absolutely saturated in it, with your face contorting in a scorning expression of irony.
Steve runs an agitated hand through his hair, stuffing his sailor cap into his pocket.
"I'm not stupid, Y/N. Obviously I know that."
"Well then listen to me. This is clearly military shit. Anyone else here know how military codes work?" You look around expectantly, eyebrows raised, your pitch climbing higher in annoyance. "Hm, no? Raise your hands..." Your palm goes up and you continue scanning the blinking faces around you, to then drop your jaw in mock surprise when you see you're the only one with your hand in the air. "Oh look at that, just me then."
"And my translation is correct." Robin remarks.
"The silver cat feeds. Why would anyone talk like that unless they're trying to mask the meaning of their message? Unless the message they're trying to conceal is confidential."
"Exactly." Your oldest friend nods in agreement.
You motion to the youngest of the troop. "So, Dustin, I guess you're right."
The boy sagely presses his lips into a thin line.
"Evil Russians."
Robin snorts in disbelief, running a hand down her face, "I can't believe I'm about to agree with this strange child, but, yeah, totally evil Russians."
"So how do we crack it?"
You still where you stand, almost forgetting to breathe for a split second. The tension you suddenly feel is like the wings of a butterfly in your stomach, flapping away and making you feel a fleeting sense of nausea. Crack it? Absolutely not. That would be reckless.
Touching Dustin's arm, you lean into him.
"Woah. Woah. Woah. Remember the part where I said this is military shit? Yeah, we're not touching this thing."
Your jaw locks. It sets so tight that Dustin can see just how resolute you are; it's going to take a lot of convincing you to even get close to exploring this.
Steve, however, has wandered away, distracted.
He tiptoes towards the Indiana Flyer - a child's ride sat in a small corner of the mall.
"Steve, are you even listening?" You call.
He isn't, in fact, listening. But he wheels round to you, a palm outstretched.
"Do you have a quarter?"
Overcome with intrigue, you fumble in your pocket and toss him a coin.
He slots it into the machine - the metallic grinding sound clunking its way down and the mechanical horse springs to life. It whirs round and round, accompanied by a plinky-plunky melody as it goes.
"Are you tall enough to ride? You need help getting up little Stevie?" You quip and Robin giggles.
He wafts you away. "Shhh. Fuck off and listen."
Your eyebrows practically shoot to the ceiling, turning on your heel to the other two. "Did he just tell me to fuck off?"
"Shhhhhh!" He hisses, his eyes flitting this way and that as he crouches beside the childish contraption, pricking his ears to the merry little ditty, his face buries itself in the deepest concentration until, a harrowing realisation creeps over him. "Holy shit. The music. The music! It's the exact same song in the recording."
Amazingly, he's spot on. That same jolly tune that twangles in the crackling blur of the Russian recording. It's the exact same.
What the hell?
"That must mean, this code, it... didn't come from Russia." You stammer.
"It came from here." Steve looks at you, his dark eyes awash with horror.
Dustin steps forward, and you flinch at the feeling of his featherlight touch against your shoulder.
"Um, Y/N. I guess this means we're definitely touching this military shit."
***
With Dustin happily waving you off at the end of his porch, Steve puts his car into first and peels away from the Henderson drive.
The older boy kindly offered to give you a ride home, what with your truck being well and truly toast and all.
It was Dustin's idea, suggesting with a wry smile: hey, Steve! Why doesn't Y/N catch a ride home with you?
Interestingly, Robin emphatically agreed with him about what a great suggestion that was, nodding profusely, with a crazed excitement twinkling in her eye.
It's just the two of you now, outside your apartment.
Because Steve's in the driving seat, he picks the music. And naturally, he's chosen whatever cheesy love song is popular at the moment.
"Something happens and I'm head over heels!" He grabs thin air with a fist, motioning dramatically to the song.
Meanwhile, you study your nails in the passenger seat. Picking them. Digging them into your palm so hard it embeds little moons into the skin. You're not humouring your friend in the least, and a heaviness settles in your stomach - the feeling of dread.
But Steve, oblivious, carries on singing.
"I never find out until I'm head over heeeeeels!" He opens a palm to you whilst singing well out of tune, only just twigging how your mouth twists into a pout as you lean your head against the cool glass of the window.
The full moon is out, leering over you both.
Then, the brunette boy captures your attention, and you school your face into something kinder, softer, but he can't help but notice your smile is thin. However, you're not annoyed at him, for once, despite something clearly eating away at your conscience.
"Come on, Tears for Fears! It's their new song!" He attempts to cajole you.
You huff out a great, deep breath.
"I know, I heard you the first five times you played it today." You tone is harsh and bitter, sharpened into daggers but without a target at which to throw them.
"What's the matter? I thought you loved my singing? Want me to put Bohemian Rhapsody on? That always makes you smile."
"I'm pissed off, that's all."
"Jesus, okay, I'll turn it off."
He goes to twist the dial of the cassette player.
You bat his hand down. "Not because of the song, or your singing. It's just been a crappy day is all."
"Why, what's up your ass?"
"Oh well, let's see. My brother's Chevy has officially bitten the dust. And basically everything my dickhead father prepared me for, may actually end up being useful, in some sick form of irony."
"How so? Like, how is it useful?"
The boy beside you stares intently with his expression closed and serious.
You shrug as you begin to explain, "Okay, well, if there are evil Russians undercover at Starcourt, then that means we're gonna have to deal with it."
"What makes you think we're gonna have to deal with it?" The corner of his mouth quirks, curious as he carefully listens.
"Firstly, Dustin said so. Also, because knowing us and our track record of getting involved in things that shouldn't involve us, trust me, we're going to get our hands dirty in evil commie bullshit. It's inevitable."
He's silent for a moment, hesitating.
"Okay, I guess you have a point." He concedes.
"So yeah, that's why I'm pissed. Because my douchebag dad was right."
"Hey, hey, hey. Y/N, look at me. Look at me," You reluctantly obey. "Granted, you have a certain let's say, skill set, thanks to your dad. And the way he taught you that skill set was unconventional-"
"-Try borderline fucking abusive."
"Yes, yes, exactly that," He nods along. "And yeah, alright, this Russian business may hit a little close to home, but you will deal with it in whatever way that makes you comfortable. It doesn't mean your dad is right or a good guy, and it definitely doesn't mean you're anything like him. Because the guy's still an abusive, Grade A asshole, and you are you."
"And what am I?" You counter.
"Well that's easy. You are Y/N," You look up to him. He continues, "And Y/N might be the most beautiful person I've ever met, inside and out."
His stomach performs a flip when he watches your eyes dance over his face - they shimmer in the moonlight, looking wide and stunned. You're gorgeous, simply bewitching in the ghostly silver light.
An involuntary smile creeps across your pretty cheeks at the compliment, and Steve thinks you look even prettier than ever, if it were even possible.
His breath hitches when your fingers enclose around the collar of his sailor shirt, pulling him swiftly against your frame into a hug and pecking his cheek. He thinks about how your lips feel against his skin, even if they were only there a second. They're warm and, just, good. Just, so good.
"I needed to hear that." You murmur into him.
"I know."
Not ready to relinquish him from your hold, you snicker against his ear, "Weird. Who would've thought spying on evil Russians would be a huge step down from what we were fighting last year?"
He laughs, breathing in and catching a tantalising tickle of your scent. You're wearing your perfume today, he's noticed - it's clean and fresh. Soft like a spring morning. An aroma he'd happily drown himself in.
"Honestly?" He says. "Nothing surprises me anymore."
"Seriously? Nothing?"
You feel too right in his arms, like a missing puzzle piece completing a picture. You're too irresistible, fitting too perfectly against his frame. He's certain you can feel his heartbeat thrumming violently against your own chest, but honestly, right now, he couldn't care less. All he wants is for this moment to drag out and last as long as he can maintain it. Just touching you, breathing you in.
How could he ever have seen this coming?
Scratch that.
He saw it coming.
He saw it coming a long while ago.
Right from the moment you first held one another like this, on Halloween, maybe even sooner than that, he's not sure.
He saw you coming; he just pretended he didn't.
Thing is, he didn't even try to resist or dodge or anything.
He just stood still and let it come barreling toward him like a freight train.
But now it's hit him.
He never stood a chance.
Holy shit.
Steve's fingertips twitch and tighten around your back, pulling you closer as he, unbeknownst to you, tries to conjure even a sliver of self-restraint to not do something completely stupid that would flip your entire friendship on its head.
Utterly clueless, you titter lightly.
He hums against your shoulder, "Well, maybe not nothing. Some things still take me by surprise."
For a while, you hug each other, with Head Over Heels quietly playing in the background of your embrace, before you slip yourself away from him and disappear into your apartment.
Steve's heartbeat still hammers against his ribcage as he watches you leave, mouth dry, his pulse heavy in his ears.
What the hell is he supposed to do now?