Bedridden || Steve Harrington · Y/n story by @shadowcrypter

The door to the Henderson residence swung open before Steve could even knock. Dustin stood in the doorway, wild-eyed, his hair somehow more disheveled than usual, and clutching a half-empty bottle of cough syrup like a lifeline.

Dustin Henderson

Steve. Thank God.

Steve blinked, his hand still raised from where he'd been about to knock.

Steve Harrington

Uh. Hey? Is Y/n—

Dustin Henderson

She's dying.

Steve's stomach dropped.

Steve Harrington

What?

Dustin Henderson

Dying. steps aside to let him in

The house was dim, curtains drawn against the grey Hawkins afternoon. The air in the hallway was thick with the smell of Vicks VapoRub and something vaguely medicinal.

Dustin Henderson

She's been in bed all day. Fever of a hundred and three. She sounds like a dying seal. A very angry, very pathetic dying seal.

Steve Harrington

Dustin, she's not dying. It's just a cold.

Dustin Henderson

This isn't a cold, Steve. This is the plague. This is the end times. She coughed so hard earlier I thought her rib cage was going to just... give up. Like, surrender. Tap out.

Steve pushed past him, already heading for the stairs. The sounds started filtering down then—hacking, wet coughs that rattled through the walls. It sounded exactly like Dustin had described. Like her lungs were staging a violent rebellion.

Steve Harrington

Did you call a doctor?

Dustin Henderson

Mom did. They said fluids, rest, and to keep the fever down. Which is medical speak for 'we can't do anything, good luck, hope she doesn't die.'

Steve Harrington

Dustin.

Dustin Henderson

What? I'm worried!

Steve took the steps two at a time. He reached her bedroom door. It was slightly ajar. Through the crack, he could see her—curled up in a nest of blankets, hair plastered to her forehead, face flushed an alarming shade of red. Even from here, he could see her shivering.