Chapter Text
Steve’s good mood didn’t last long. When he got back from Hopper’s cabin his parents were home; his mother had been upset about the state of his face. Not, Steve told Tommy later, because she was worried about him, but because she wanted him to “always look his best” and not “sabotage his own future” by looking so unattractive. When the bruises faded Steve’s parents dragged him to a professional family photo session where they took stiff, posed photos in front of a painted backdrop. Some of the photos ended up framed on the walls, but Buckley thought that the photos of just Steve were being mailed to prospective buyers, which made Tommy want to set fire to the Harrington mailbox.
At least Hargrove never showed up again. Rumor was he had been shipped off to some military school. Good fucking riddance. Max never said anything, but she did offer Tommy a nonchalant fist bump the next time she saw him. That's why Max was the one he hated the least.
By March, Steve’s parents had settled permanently at home for the first time since Steve presented. Apparently all it took for them to come home and be part of Steve’s life was the chance to make a buck off their only child’s supposed virginity. Well, joke’s on them, Munson beat them to the punch there. Suck it, Richard and Diane.
They were keeping a tight leash on Steve though, always checking where he was going and who he was going to be with. Tommy was on the official approved list (thanks to years of awkward dinners at the Harrington household) but Buckley was provisional at best and Munson was a secret. That meant that Tommy and Steve spent an unusual amount of time hanging out at Tommy’s house after school, when Tommy would sneak Munson into the basement and then stay up in his room with the music turned up really loud.
Mama came home early on one of those afternoons, so Tommy stomped down the basement stairs extra loudly as he went to warn Steve and Munson. They weren't doing much, thankfully, just lying on the ratty basement couch and talking. Tommy sat down on the floor in front of the coffee table and worked on his history essay.
Munson was lying across Steve's legs with his head resting on Steve's stomach; Steve was idly carding his fingers through Munson’s long hair. With the back of the couch facing the stairs, they would be able to pop up into a less-suspect position before anyone coming down the stairs noticed.
Tommy's useless idiots were learning, finally.
"What about you, Hagan?" Munson asked, continuing the conversation from before Tommy joined them. His voice was a little muffled against Steve's shirt.
Tommy hummed in question, not looking up from where he was chewing on his pencil and trying to remember if the Battle of Yorktown was the Revolutionary War or the Civil War.
"What do you want to do, when we get to Chicago?" Munson clarified.
Tommy shrugged. "I dunno, man. Something that pays the rent, I guess." He was pretty sure it was the Civil War; he wrote that into his next paragraph.
"You think you'll find another garage to work at?" Steve asked.
"Sure, whatever," Tommy replied absently.
"What, no fun ideas? No plans for the big city?" Munson asked.
Tommy looked over at him. "No? Never really thought about it, I guess. Mostly just been worrying about getting there."
"Yeah, sure, but like, what do you want to do there? Not just work, like anything! It's a whole new life, don't you have anything you want to just, like, try?" Munson looked up at Steve, who shrugged.
"Sounds like you've got big plans, Munson," Tommy said. Munson was always fishing for an excuse to talk.
"Oh, yeah," he said excitedly as he rolled sideways off of Steve so he could prop himself up on his elbow and gesture with his free hand. "I mean, obviously music, right, I gotta check out the local venues, maybe find some guys to jam with, look into forming a new band. Plus there's so many record stores to check out. And of course there's D&D, there's this huge gaming store on the North Side, I gotta go there, find a table to join. You know they even have tabletop conventions that visit big cities?"
"What about work?" Steve asked, looking down at him fondly.
Munson craved his neck up to look at Steve and grinned. "Sure, I'll work, babe. But work is just work, I'm talking about living! Come on, sweetheart, what do you want to do? What are you excited to try?"
Steve's smile faltered a little. "I… I don't know."
"Nothing?" Munson asked incredulously. "There's gotta be something you like doing. Not even the sports?"
Steve shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. "Maybe we could go to a Bulls game or something, sure. But I dunno. Basketball is fun but is it, like, my passion?" He puffed up his cheeks and blew out an explosive breath. "Most of the stuff I do, it's just to keep my parents and people at school off my back. I don't… I don't know what I would do, if it were just for me."
Tommy felt, like, the tiniest twinge of guilt at that. Steve had been following his plans this whole time, pursuing the activities that would keep him above suspicion at school. But he had never really thought very hard about what Steve actually liked doing. Steve was good at sports, sports made you popular, it had made a lot of sense.
Munson stared at Steve, thoughtful and a bit sad. "Okay," he said softly. "That's okay." Then he grinned brightly. "We'll just have to try lots of things! There'll be something you're super passionate about, I know it. Or lots of things you're medium-passionate about. We'll have plenty of time to figure it out."
Steve smiled back at him. For all his faults (and they were many, so fucking many), Munson had a real knack for cheering up Steve. And he needed cheering up a lot these days.
"So, Hagan, it's back to you," Munson said. "What are your Chicago plans? Not work, though, just life."
Tommy thought about it for a minute, tapping his pencil on the table. "Chicks," he said finally.
"Chicks?" Steve asked.
"Christ," Munson moaned, "you could do fucking anything and all you can think about is getting laid."
"I didn't say getting laid, man," Tommy said resentfully. "I said chicks. Gotta go on dates, meet plenty of chicks. You two already found your soulmates, I'm still waiting on mine."
"Oh," Munson said, looking a little sheepish. That's right, dickweed, Tommy Hagan's got dreams.
Steve smiled at Tommy. "That's sweet, Tommy. I'm sure you'll find her soon."
"Damn right I will," Tommy told him. “And she's gonna be a certified smoke show. Total babe."
Munson snorted. "What if she's not, though? You gonna run for the hills?"
"Don't be a dumbass, Munson," Tommy said as he rolled his eyes. "If she's my soulmate she'll be perfect for me, which means I'll think she's totally hot no matter what. After all, you look like a walking trash heap and Steve still thinks you're hot."
Munson turned and grinned up at Steve. "You think I'm hot, baby?"
Steve nodded solemnly. "So hot."
"And do I look like a trash heap?" Munson continued.
"Only on laundry day," Steve told him with a reassuring pat.
"Maybe there's hope for you yet, Hagan," Munson said, still staring up at Steve.
Tommy snorted and turned back to his essay. Like there was any doubt.
For spring break Tommy, Steve, and Munson planned a trip up to Chicago to visit apartments and hopefully sign a lease for June. It took some finagling, a lot of logistics, and a couple of lies to arrange it so Steve could join them, but they managed. The Harringtons had no idea, of course, but they were pretty good at ignoring their son when he wasn’t right in front of them. Mama probably suspected something was up, but she didn’t pry; she had always liked Steve.
The trip was a success: they found a place in Lakeview, just on the edge of a neighborhood the locals were calling "Boystown." Munson said it was a growing gay neighborhood, with a bunch of bars and things all in one place. Tommy was surprised to find that people were so… open about that, in Chicago. At least, compared to Hawkins. But it meant that Steve and Munson didn’t have to pretend to be roommates, so they could get a two-bedroom instead of a three-bedroom which was a lot easier to afford. The place was still a piece of shit, though, a third-floor walk up with a leaky bathtub and a busted oven. Plus the walls were paper-thin enough that Tommy planned to ask Mama for a pair of really nice headphones as a graduation present.
But they signed the lease and in June it would be theirs. They finally had a place to actually go in Chicago when they escaped Hawkins. Steve and Munson had a little moment when they left the leasing office; Tommy wandered off and checked out a nearby cafe while they, like, cried or hugged or whatever. Some of the businesses on the main drag through the neighborhood had little pink triangle stickers in the windows. When Tommy came back with a cup of coffee and a danish, Steve was all smiles again; he pulled Tommy into a big hug and tried to squeeze the life out of him, the sap.
Back in Hawkins, it was like nothing had changed; school, sports, parties. Life continued like normal, like they weren’t all just waiting for the other shoe to drop. In late April Tommy asked Carol to go to prom with him; he planned to break up with her for the last time after that, but he figured he could get some real fun out of a prom night fuck. It was a classic. Steve took Buckley to prom, which took some convincing with his parents, but apparently they thought Buckley was some kind of religious goodie-two-shoes who would barely let Steve hold her hand, so they didn’t object. Anything to keep up the appearance of their perfectly normal son and his perfectly normal future.
Prom itself was like a regular school dance on steroids: streamers, balloons, a shitty DJ. Teachers checking that the dancers were leaving room for Jesus between them. Tommy made it a little more tolerable by sneaking a flask in his jacket pocket; he didn’t share with Carol cause he was pretty sure she and Heather had done a bump of coke in the bathroom, but he let Steve and Buckley have some. Steve was crowned Prom King, which Tommy took some personal pride in; it was pretty much the culmination of all of Tommy’s plans since that horrible rainy night when Steve had arrived dripping on his doorstep, desperate for someone to still love him despite being an omega.
Whatever happened with escaping Hawkins, at least Tommy had kept Steve safe through high school.
Prom marked the beginning of the end of the school year and things began happening fast. Sports wrapped up and finals started; parties died down as everyone took off time to study and graduate. Tommy started packing up his room, setting aside an emergency “go bag” in case things went south fast, and a much larger “normal bag” if they were able to leave with time to spare. He threw away a lot of old things, papers from previous school years and old mementoes and some clothes that didn’t fit anymore. Mama followed behind him, rescuing things from the trash and moaning about how big her boy was growing. It was fucking embarrassing.
Tommy felt pretty bad that he couldn’t tell Mama about the plan to run to Chicago. He fully planned to tell her once they were safely away, of course—he’d call as soon as he could so she didn’t think he was dead in a ditch somewhere. But after his dad had walked out… it just felt like Mama was going to take it hard. She knew he was moving, but Tommy had talked up working one more summer at the garage to save up, and Mama had said they would drive up to Chicago together and she would, like, make his bed for him in his new apartment. It made her get all teary-eyed just talking about it.
Tommy didn’t regret the plan to leave, not for a minute. But that didn’t always make it easy.
Steve kept checking in with Hopper every night, and warned everyone if his parents mentioned anyone he didn’t recognize, but nothing suspicious happened for a while. Hopper didn’t have anything to report on the Harringtons’ finances, just typical rich-people money stuff.
The Harringtons never actually said anything about what would happen to Steve after graduation, but two days after prom he found three plane tickets to Boston for July 4th weekend in his dad's study. Steve’s ticket was a one-way flight. And that lit a fire under all of their asses.
Steve packed what he could in secret and hid it with Munson or Tommy. The three of them planned to leave at midnight after graduation; Steve would come over to Tommy’s for a “sleepover,” Munson would join them, and they would drive the BMW and Munson’s van away in the middle of the night.
That was the plan, anyway.
Graduation day for the Hawkins High School Class of 1985 was cloudy but humid, the early summer heat oppressive and sticky. Tommy, Steve, Carol, and the other graduates were sitting on folding chairs on the gym floor, lined up in alphabetical order. The bleachers were filled with parents and families and friends. It was sweltering in the gym, which wasn’t air-conditioned, and the fans they had brought in weren’t doing much to help. Tommy could feel the itchy polyester collar of his green graduation robe clinging to the back of his neck.
Hagan and Harrington were next to each other in alphabetical order for graduation, just like they had been since the first day of kindergarten when Mrs. Skyler had sat them all down on brightly-colored circles and taught them how to shake hands and introduce themselves to each other. So Tommy sat next to Steve during the ceremony and nudged him with his knee when he looked like he was going to start panicking too badly.
Steve’s parents were in the crowd, looking stiff and not at all like they were celebrating. They were seated a little behind his and Tommy’s left shoulders; Steve had not looked their way at all once he noticed they were there. Mama was off to his right and she kept waving and whooping whenever Tommy glanced over at her. Buckley was stuck with the band, which played the school fight song and then looped Pomp and Circumstance over and over until it just sounded like noise. She looked as stupid in the uniform as all the other band geeks did. Between songs she waved enthusiastically at Steve, blowing him ridiculous kisses and mouthing stuff Tommy couldn’t understand; it made Steve laugh, at least.
Munson was in the crowd too, ostensibly to chaperone the horde of children who had turned out to support Steve. The little shits were holding up a massive paper banner painted with drawings of basketballs and waves and tigers and crowns; it said CONGRATULATIONS STEVE! in big green letters. Someone had crammed & TOMMY in black marker underneath Steve’s name. Tommy would have to figure out which of the hellspawn had done that, he was gonna sneak them their first beer.
After they had heard all the speeches (which took forever) and all of the graduates had walked across the stage to collect their diplomas (which took even longer) they were finally released into the hot June air as official high school graduates. The kids all descended on Steve and Tommy, talking over one another and asking questions: Did you see the banner? Will painted the pictures. Your robe makes you look like a wizard! Can I try on your hat? Munson stood behind them and smiled at Steve, trying to look casual about it. They stared at each other a little too long to pull it off, but the kids were a good distraction.
Steve had to head home with his parents for the graduation party they were throwing him—or rather, the party they were throwing themselves to show off to all their neighbors that their kid had accomplished something. As if they gave a shit about him and weren’t about to sell him off to some big city alpha. Steve planned to sneak out after an hour or so and drive to Tommy’s house for their supposed sleepover. His parents probably wouldn’t even notice; Tommy knew what they were like when they’d had a few too many cocktails.
Tommy and Buckley hitched a ride with Munson over to his trailer to help pack up the last few things and grab Steve’s stuff that he had stashed there. Tommy had brought the remains of the Get the Fuck Out of Hawkins Fund, which he had consolidated into one of those big plastic barrels they put giant pretzels in. He’d been to the trailer before and it was kind of gross, honestly: it smelled like cigarettes and mildew, the carpet was old and ugly, and Munson’s room was a nightmare. But his uncle was pretty cool, or at least he wasn’t as fucking annoying as his nephew. A couple of times Tommy had sat with him and watched a football game in silence, which had to have been a fucking novelty for the poor guy.
Munson’s nightmare bedroom was actually pretty stripped down now, all the tapes and guitar shit packed away and most of the posters taken down and rolled up. Tommy and Munson were arguing about where he was going to put them all in the new place (not in the living room, asshole) when the phone rang out in the kitchen. Munson ran to grab it. Tommy and Buckley kept packing until they heard Munson yell “Shit!” from out in the hall.
Tommy tore out of the room to find Munson on the phone, pacing and yelling “Shit! Shit!” over and over.
“Is that Steve?” Tommy asked him, frantic.
Munson just handed him the phone wordlessly. Tommy held the receiver up to his ear.
“—my way, okay, stay where you are. It might be nothing.” Hopper was saying on the other end.
“What might be nothing?” Tommy said.
“Hagan?” Hopper asked, sounding a little out of breath, like he was pacing. “Look, I told Munson, I found some suspicious transfers to the Harringtons just a few minutes ago. They’re from a known associate, a local businessman named Henry Creel, but the pattern is unusual, amounts and times that don’t fit the other transactions. I’m thinking they—”
“Is Steve okay?” Tommy interrupted.
“I don’t know,” Hopper said. “No one has been answering the phone at their house, so I’m on my way over to check. I’ll claim it was a noise complaint if Steve is okay and I’ll call back and let you know, all right? You guys stay at—”
Tommy hung up on him. “Let’s go,” he told Munson.
“What? What’s going on?” Buckley asked. “Is it Steve, is he okay?”
“Hopper found suspicious money and he can’t reach Steve. He’s going over there now but we can get there faster.” Munson was frozen against the wall, eyes wide. Tommy clapped twice in his face. “Munson, let’s move! Buckley, grab whatever bags you can carry.”
Munson finally snapped out of it and ran out the front door, still muttering curse words under his breath and fumbling for his keys. Tommy snatched a duffel that was by the door and ran out the front, Buckley on his heels with some of the other bags. He and Munson climbed in the van, but he stopped Buckley when she tried to follow.
“Stay here, we need you by the phone,” Tommy told her.
“Um, hell no, I’m coming with you, Steve needs all of us,” she replied, angry.
Tommy shook his head. “We might have to run straight to Chicago and we can’t take the time to drop you off. Stay here; we’ll try to call you before midnight from wherever.”
Buckley glared at him but she stepped back, tossing the bags in ahead of her and slamming the door. “You better take good care of him, Hagan,” she said. “I’ve been practicing with the bear spray.”
Tommy just closed his door and slapped the dash. “Let’s go, Munson!” he cried.
For once Tommy was grateful that Munson drove like a fucking maniac; he tore out of the trailer park and barreled down the road to Steve’s house. His insane driving probably shaved a full five minutes off the trip. He and Munson didn’t speak the whole way, Munson white-knuckling the steering wheel and Tommy jigging his knee up and down.
When they pulled up to Steve’s house, it was obvious that something was wrong. There was no graduation party; in fact, the only two cars in the driveway were Steve’s BMW and a big black Lincoln Town Car Tommy didn’t recognize. The door to the house was open and Steve’s parents were standing on the front steps.
The trunk and front door of Steve’s car were open; Tommy could see his keys on the ground next to the driver’s door. Steve was being pressed up against the side of the Town Car by a man Tommy didn’t recognize. The man had one hand around Steve’s neck, holding him up so Steve was on his toes; the other hand was wrapped like a claw around the side of Steve’s face.
Tommy didn’t even wait for Munson to pull to a stop, he just threw open the passenger door and sprinted out of the van at full speed. He reached into the BMW's open trunk as he passed, grabbed the baseball bat Steve had been keeping in there, and cracked it across the back of the man holding Steve. The man let go and Steve collapsed, gasping; Tommy yanked him behind him and roared loudly as he faced Steve’s attacker.
He was an alpha; tall, slim, younger than Tommy might have expected. His dark blond hair was slicked back but some of it must have fallen over his forehead when Tommy hit him. The man, Creel Hopper had called him, cracked his neck and stared intensely at Tommy.
“This is a surprise,” he said in a soft voice. “I didn’t realize I still had competition for my omega. Did you lose the bidding war?”
Tommy growled at him. “He’s not yours,” he said around the rumble in his chest. He heard footsteps behind him, Munson arriving and speaking to Steve in a low voice. Tommy didn’t turn to look at them, he kept his eyes on the other alpha.
Creel hummed thoughtfully. “Oh, but he is, bought and paid for. And why should you object? You didn’t see fit to claim him yourself, after all.”
“I would have,” Tommy told him, giving the bat a twirl. “To keep him away from someone like you? I’d bite him in a heartbeat.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tommy could see Steve’s dad starting down the steps, looking angry.
“I'm afraid you've lost your chance. Are you looking to fight me for him, then?” Creel asked, a mocking smile on his lips. “I don’t recommend that, little boy.”
“Hagan, let’s go, the van’s still running,” Munson said quietly behind him.
“You go,” Tommy told him, still not turning around. “Get him out of here.”
“What? Come on, let’s go, man,” Munson said.
“No, I’ll hold them off until Hopper gets here. Now go!”
“Hagan!”
“Go! I’ll take the BMW, I’ll meet you at the diner we stopped at on the way back on spring break, okay? Wait for me there.”
“Tommy…” Steve said, his voice wrecked.
“Get him out of here!” Tommy roared, just as Creel gave up on waiting and lunged. He grabbed for the bat; Tommy dodged him and swung, but only managed to glance off Creel’s forearms. Tommy went to swing again but Creel went low and managed to get a hold of the bat. They wrestled for it for a moment; Creel was a lot stronger than his thin frame made him look. Eventually Creel wrestled away the bat and flung it off into the lawn. That was fine, though—Tommy always preferred fighting with his fists anyway.
He heard the doors to the van slam and its tires squeal as Munson and Steve drove away. Creel looked furious.
“That was a mistake, boy,” he said quietly. “I’ll just hunt him down.”
“Like hell you will,” Tommy told him, but then Mr. Harrington was there and he grabbed Tommy by the shoulders, slammed him up against the BMW.
“What the hell are you doing, Hagan?” Mr. Harrington screamed. “Do you have any idea how much money you just cost me? What do you—”
Tommy headbutted him with a satisfying crack. Harrington reared back and stumbled away, but then Creel was there, punching Tommy once, twice in the gut. Tommy managed to twist away but took a knee to his side as he turned.
Creel was on him again in a second, pressing Tommy back against the car like Steve had been and wrapping a hand around his throat. Tommy gasped as Creel pushed him higher and higher, his toes scrabbling on the ground.
“He will never be yours,” Creel said. He stared at Tommy almost curiously, like he was some kind of bug in a jar. “It would be wiser if you stopped interfering.”
Tommy wheezed, his hands groping frantically at the hand gripped around his neck. He could see spots.
“You seem rather desperate,” Creel said contemplatively. “People can be so stupid when they’re desperate.” He leaned in. “What made you think you could keep him?” he whispered. “An omega like that needs someone to take care of him, to protect him. You don’t seem quite up to the task.”
There was a roaring in Tommy’s ears and his vision had started to go black around the edges. He had no air and his feet couldn’t find any purchase.
But Creel was right. Tommy had a job to do.
With a strength he didn’t know he had, and a growl he had no air to sustain, Tommy grabbed the arm holding him up with both hands and pushed upward with all his might, right at the elbow. Something inside the joint gave with a loud pop ; Creel stepped back with a cry, arm clutched to his chest; Tommy collapsed to his knees, heaving for breath.
He gave himself one second before he lurched to his feet and charged at Creel, body slamming him against the hood of the black car. Creel cried out, his injured arm caught between his body and the car. Tommy growled, audibly now, and grabbed Creel by the hair. He slammed the other alpha’s head into the car hood, twice, then again, then again, until he felt Creel go slack under him. Tommy dropped him and stepped back; Creel slumped to the ground, moaning quietly.
“You’re going to pay for this, Hagan,” Mr. Harrington said from behind him.
Tommy turned around. Harrington had a big goose egg growing on his forehead where Tommy had headbutted him. He looked furious; it was probably the most emotion Tommy had ever seen out of the man in the thirteen years he had known him.
“I’m not paying for shit,” Tommy scoffed.
“You think you can get away with this?” Harrington continued. “You think you can just kidnap an omega from his family and walk away? We have rights, he’s ours, ours to do with as we see fit.”
“Steve’s not yours. He’s already with his family,” Tommy said with a sneer. “And you’re not part of it.”
You know how they say, be careful what you wish for or it might come true?
Yeah, that’s bullshit. Punching Richard Harrington in the face was every bit as satisfying as Tommy had dreamed it would be. The man crumpled like a wet paper bag.
Tommy stepped back and crouched to pick up the keys to the BMW. As he walked around to close the trunk he glanced up at the front door—Mrs. Harrington had disappeared. She had probably run inside to call the cops.
Speaking of, with the kind of useless timing that Tommy had come to expect from the Hawkins PD, Hopper came speeding down the street to stop in front of the house. He leapt out of the car, moving surprisingly fast for such a big guy.
Hopper gaped at the two men laying on the ground between the cars. “Jesus Christ, Hagan,” he said. “What the hell did you do?”
“Your fucking job,” Tommy told him. He jerked his chin at Creel. “That’s the pervert that wanted Steve.”
“Where is he?” Hopper asked.
“Safe. On his way out of town,” Tommy told him with a shrug. Damn, his neck really hurt. “Like I’m about to be.”
Hopper shook his head. “Hagan, you look like you should see a doctor. And I need to call this in, get statements, I—”
“I’ll do whatever you want over the phone,” Tommy interrupted him. “But right now I’m going to see Steve. We’ll call you tonight.”
Hopper scrunched up his nose and ran a hand through his hair. “You’re leaving me with a real mess here, kid.”
“Not my fucking problem,” Tommy told him. “Call Buckley, she’s still at the trailer. And swing by and let my mom know I left town and I’ll call her, okay?”
“Kid—”
Creel made a groaning noise and started to stir. Hopper looked down at him warily.
“Cuff that one first,” Tommy advised as he backed toward the BMW’s driver door. “He’s got a fuckin’ attitude.”
He didn’t wait to see what Hopper would do. He just left.
An hour later Tommy pulled into the parking lot of Cindy’s Diner in Fort Wayne. He probably shouldn’t have been driving, honestly—he felt pretty woozy—but nothing was going to stop him from getting to that greasy fucking spoon.
Steve and Munson were sitting on the curb next to the van. They leapt to their feet when they saw the BMW pull in.
Tommy jumped out of the car and ran straight to Steve. He pulled him into his arms and stuck his nose right in Steve’s stupid neck.
“It’s okay, Tommy, I’m okay, it’s okay,” Steve was saying as he hugged him back.
“He had you,” Tommy said around the growl he was unable to swallow down. “He fucking had you.”
“No, no, I’m okay, I’m safe,” Steve said, rubbing his hands up and down Tommy’s shoulder blades. “You had my back, Tommy, you always have my back.”
Tommy growled again. Maybe it was more like a sob. Steve pulled him in tight and kept talking. Tommy couldn’t smell him properly with the scent blocker still on, but it helped to be there anyway.
Munson hovered awkwardly next to them until Tommy pulled him in roughly. And he scented Munson too, okay, just a little. Just to be sure.
They stood like that, in a weird three-person hug in a diner parking lot at 2pm, for a pretty long time.
Eventually Tommy let go; he pulled up the hem of his t-shirt to wipe his nose and cleared his throat. It ached like hell.
"What happened?" Steve asked.
Tommy smiled, tired. "I finally got to punch your dad in the face."
"Oh man," Munson whined. "I would have paid to see that."
"And Creel?" Steve asked seriously.
Tommy growled. He heard Munson echo him. "Kicked the shit out of him," he told them. "Hopper showed up, I guess he arrested him."
Steve sagged a little at that and leaned against Munson. He closed his eyes and sighed.
"You okay?" Munson asked Tommy quietly.
"I'll live," Tommy told him. "But I'm not sure if I can drive the rest of the way, that was probably a pretty bad idea."
"I'll drive the BMW," Steve said. "You and Eddie should take the van."
Both Tommy and Munson growled again at that plan. "Relax, alphas," Steve huffed, rolling his eyes. "I'll be okay."
"I'll ride in the beamer with you," Tommy told him.
"No," Steve replied firmly and put his hands on his hips. "Hopefully Hopper took care of things, but my parents might have reported the car as stolen, or me as kidnapped. I don't want anyone else in the car with me if I get pulled over. I can talk my way out of trouble but I won't risk either of you getting arrested. Besides, Tommy, you should probably lie down in the back of the van."
"I can lie down in the beamer," Tommy grumbled.
"Oh, please," Steve said, exasperated. "You barely fit back there. Remember when Robin and I snuck you into the drive-in and we had to hide you in the back under a blanket?"
Tommy did remember. And yeah, it had fucking sucked. But…
"I don't think either of us wants you to be alone right now," Tommy admitted with a glance at Munson. He nodded in agreement.
"I'll stay right behind you, okay? Right in the rear view mirror," Steve reassured them. "And we'll stop a bunch. Every fifty miles, if you want."
They talked around it for a little while longer, but in the end Munson was driving away from the diner, Tommy lying down on the nasty-ass blanket in the back of the van, a smug Steve bringing up the rear in the BMW.
They drove in silence for about two minutes.
"Does he always get what he wants?" Munson burst out suddenly.
"Who, Steve?" Tommy asked. "Yeah, man, you haven’t noticed? Every fucking time. It's infuriating."
Munson laughed. "Maybe at school they should have called him 'The Prince' instead of 'King Steve,' with Machiavellian talent like that."
Tommy just let the silence swallow that one. Or at least he tried.
But Munson couldn't let it go. "Machiavelli was this Italian guy, see—"
"Oh my God, don't tell me!" Tommy cut him off. "That wasn't, like, a 'please tell me more' silence, man. Read the room, Christ."
Munson huffed. He gave Tommy a few more minutes of quiet before he started up again.
"Thank you again," he said quietly. "For taking care of things. For fighting for Steve, when I couldn't. You're—he needs you and you always deliver. So—thanks, man."
Tommy craned his neck up to look at him but he could really only see the back of Munson’s head and his stiff shoulders. Moving like that fucking hurt though, so he turned back to staring at the van's ceiling.
"Yeah, man, I told you. Always," Tommy told Munson, puzzled. "But what do you mean, 'when you couldn't?'"
Munson blew out a breath. "I froze up, man, when Hopper called. And then I couldn't, like, fight at Steve's house, I just—I'm fucking useless in a fight so I just let you handle it, all alone, and I—I ran away." Munson sucked on his teeth, loudly. "I think sometimes you're a better alpha for him than I am."
Tommy groaned. "Okay, first of all, fucking gag me, man. Gross. And second, why do I have to keep explaining this shit? You, me, Buckley, Hopper I guess, we're a team, okay? We're Team Steve. And we all have a job to do, right? Buckley’s the smart one and the, like, the comic relief or whatever. I guess she was the fake girlfriend and now she's gonna be that trainwreck of a friend who always makes you feel better about your own life. And I'm the heavy-hitter, right? I do the fighting, that's me, I'm the fists."
"And me?" Munson said bitterly.
"Uh, you're the fucking love of his life, dude," Tommy told him sarcastically. "And you keep him safe. That's what you did today, exactly what you were supposed to do. You got Steve out of a bad situation and you kept him from falling to pieces. You're gonna help him when he has nightmares tonight and then tomorrow you're finally gonna fucking bite him and save him forever from nasty perverts." Tommy huffed angrily. "So don't whine to me about fighting, asshole, you already got your goddamn job. We don't need two people to throw punches, okay?"
Munson hummed thoughtfully. "We do need to make sure the party is balanced."
Whatever the fuck that meant.
Munson gave Tommy another five minutes of peace before he was at it again. Because apparently this wasn't a car ride, it was a goddamn therapy session.
"You said you'd bite him," Munson said quietly.
"What?" Tommy asked.
"Steve. You said—you told that fucking monster Creel that if you had to bite Steve, you would. To protect him."
"Oh." Tommy thought for a moment. "Yeah, I guess I did. That was—it was, like, one of the options, back when it was just me and Steve dealing with this. I mean, it wasn't, like, Plan B or Plan C, it was more like Plan J or something, but it was on the table. Emergencies only, of course." Tommy shrugged against the floor of the van. "Then you came along and biting became 100% your problem, dude."
"And Steve agreed to that?" Munson asked.
"Oh, no, no way, I never told him. He had no idea."
"What?" Munson cried.
"No—Christ—I mean, like," Tommy sighed. "I would have asked before I did it, duh, I just didn't tell him it was an option I was considering. He would have gotten mad if I told him."
"Well, yeah man," Munson said. "You would have—if you had bitten Steve you wouldn't have been able to bite your soulmate. Even if you found her, you couldn't…"
"Yeah, I get it," Tommy said. "And, you know, that would've sucked. But I could've lived with it, if it kept that fuckin' psycho Creel away."
"Jesus H. Christ," Munson muttered, shaking his head. "You know, every time I think I've got you figured out, Hagan, there's something else."
"I've got depths, man," Tommy told him sagely.
Munson shut up again and it was quiet except for the sounds of the road and the van's ancient sputtering engine. Tommy tried to relax and not think about what Steve and Munson might have done on the grody blanket he was lying on. But it wasn't, like, a quiet companionable silence. Of course not. It was the tense, ugly silence of someone who was thinking bitter thoughts so loudly that Tommy could almost hear them.
After another minute he sighed loudly. "You're still thinking about running from the fight, aren't you?" he asked accusingly.
"Shut up," Munson replied, all tense.
Tommy groaned. "Please put on some music so I don't have to just, like, lie here and listen to you hate yourself."
Munson laughed once, a sharp ha!, like it had been forced out of him. "And what music, pray tell, is best to accompany the sounds of my self-loathing?" he asked in one of his stupid accents.
Tommy had heard most of Munson’s horrible screeching music over the summer at Thatcher’s Tire. "Put on the scuba diving album, that one's not as shitty as the rest of them."
"The scuba—" Munson whipped around to stare down at Tommy. "Are you referring to Holy Diver by Dio?" he asked incredulously.
"Yeah, man. The diving one." Tommy reached up and thumped the back of Munson’s seat. "Eyes on the road!"
Munson turned back around and reached into the glovebox for the tape. "The diving one. The diving one!" he muttered angrily as he jammed the tape into the stereo.
"I mean, it's right in the name," Tommy pointed out.
"That is a metaphor, you philistine!" Munson shrieked. He jabbed viciously at the play button.
Philistine, Tommy mouthed silently. Who even talked like that in real life?
"This whole album is a goddamn masterpiece, Hagan. We are in the presence of rock gods!" Munson announced over the sound of guitars.
"Sure," said Tommy easily. "Like Foreigner."
"Foreign—no! God, you're such a meat-head. Do you hear that rhythm? This is…"
Aaaaand he was off. Good. A nice long rant always cheered Munson up. Tommy reached back, pillowed his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes. Munson ran his mouth most of the rest of the way to Chicago.
They pulled up to their building about ten minutes before the leasing office closed, but Steve worked his usual magic and managed to convince the guy to turn over their keys and do the final paperwork tomorrow. So they let themselves into their apartment, which was empty except for them and the handful of bags they had snagged from the trailer. Tommy didn’t have anything except the clothes on his back, all of his stuff still sitting in his room back at home.
The phone had been hooked up the day before, thankfully, so they all took turns calling people back in Hawkins, explaining or lying or whatever about where they were and why. It would all come spilling out eventually, but until Steve and Eddie had bitten each other and gotten registered they were all keeping things under wraps.
Hopper confirmed that he had arrested Creel and Mr. Harrington, thank God, and that they were both spending at least one night in jail. He was confident that the financial evidence he had collected and some letters found inside the house would lead to a firm conviction. Steve didn’t share Hopper’s optimism, but Munson squeezed his hand and looked hopeful enough for both of them.
When Tommy called Mama she was pretty fucking pissed that he had disappeared to Chicago before he could even come home for dinner. He couldn’t explain to her yet why, but they talked about having her come up with his things in a few days. Tommy figured Hopper was going to need to take his statement or something, maybe they could carpool. He kept the call pretty short, his throat really starting to ache now, and promised to call again tomorrow.
None of them felt like sleeping alone that night, so they hauled everything up out of the van, including the blankets from the back, and piled it all together in the living room. Tommy ordered pizza to the apartment, which felt weirdly like something special, and they sat on the floor, eating pizza off of ripped-up pieces of the box top and wiping their hands on their shirts. They didn’t really sleep much that night, too keyed up and in pain and worried that someone might come busting through the door and ruin everything.
Eventually morning came and Tommy excused himself to walk to the cafe down the street and linger over a cup of coffee. He stopped in the little corner store and bought some grocery essentials to tide them over, a toothbrush and deodorant for himself, plus some paper plates and a roll of toilet paper. By the time he made it back to the apartment, Steve and Munson were sitting up on the kitchen counters, beaming, with fresh bites on both their necks. Tommy politely did not mention how strongly the apartment smelled like cookies because he was a class goddamn act. But he did open a window.
They got directions from a guy in the leasing office to the closest Cook County clerk’s office, but it wouldn’t open until 10, so instead they got directions to a nearby Goodwill. They bought a couple of mattresses that didn’t look too disgusting, a folding table and chairs, and a bunch of dishes and pots and shit for the kitchen. Tommy found some clothes to tide him over until he went back to Hawkins and then the three of them spent way too long arguing about whether or not a couch would fit in the van until it was almost 9:30 and they left without one after all.
They ended up driving to the clerk’s office rather than trying to learn to navigate the train system on the fly. Fuck getting lost on their first day in the city. Once they found the building it took a while to figure out how to register; Steve ended up waiting in two different lines before they were directed to the right office. The lady there got all sour-faced once she realized who, exactly, was registering, but she still did her fucking job. Maybe it was because Tommy stood right over her desk and glared at her while she did the paperwork.
Munson and Steve were practically bouncing on their toes while they waited. They had to show ID, and sign a bunch of things, and get their bites photographed. They kept smiling and giggling at each other over every step; Munson really hammed it up, signing everything with a flourish and bowing as he handed over his drivers license. None of it seemed super romantic to Tommy, honestly. But then, this was about as close to a wedding as these two were ever going to get. Male-male alpha-omega pairs with registered bites had the same legal protections that male-female pairs had, which wasn’t quite the same as an actual marriage, but it was close. Steve had said he and Munson were lucky to have that much.
In the end Tommy had to sign something too, as a witness; he signed it like a normal fucking human being—not a goddamn cartoon character—but he smiled at Steve anyway. Then the clerk lady took it and stamped a bunch of things, printed off two copies for the office and two more for the couple, and it was done.
Steve was legally registered as a mated omega. He was no longer under his parents’ supposed protection.
There were some tears. Tommy could admit that, okay? It was a big fucking deal.
They walked from the clerk building down to the big park along the lake and wandered around the gardens. They ate lunch from a hot dog cart, which sounded all savvy-city-dweller-cool but was actually pretty messy and not all that tasty. Tommy fed about half of his hot dog to some pigeons. Munson wanted to go to visit some big fucking science museum but Tommy absolutely put his foot down about being a goddamn nerd all afternoon, so they went to the aquarium instead.
When they got out it was getting close to dinner time, so they trekked all the way back to the car (fuck, this park was big) and drove back to their new neighborhood. They found a restaurant on their street with a little pink triangle in the front window, so they sat down and Steve and Munson held hands right on top of the table. The waiter asked about their bites, eventually, and then they had the whole staff congratulating them. The owner even came by and took their picture to hang on a wall of photos of patrons. The restaurant didn’t sell alcohol but somebody ran down the street to a liquor store and brought back a bottle of champagne.
Munson looked like he might cry when a bunch of strangers toasted his almost-marriage to his soulmate. Steve smiled so hard his face must have hurt. When Tommy got up to use the bathroom he asked the owner for a copy of that picture; it would look nice in the new apartment.
That night Tommy slept on the floor of his new bedroom on the slightly-stained mattress they had picked up from Goodwill. His feet ached from all the walking. His throat was still killing him and he had bruises everywhere. He lay awake listening to the unfamiliar sounds of his new home: the traffic outside on the street, the creaking of the pipes, a door slamming somewhere downstairs. He could hear Steve and Munson talking quietly in the next room.
We made it, Tommy thought.
We’re here, he thought.
She’s here too, he thought. Somewhere.
Day One of the rest of his life was over. And in the morning he would start on the next one.