Chapter Text
The others don’t come back in, even as Robin slowly quiets, slowly drifts back to sleep in Steve’s arms, her hand falling from where it wraps around him to rest on the couch. There’s salt drying on his shirt and neck, and even as he clutches Robin close, still rocking her slowly, he feels exhaustion warring with the panicked alertness. He doesn’t want to go back to sleep, even as he feels his eyes fighting to close; something inside him screams to stay awake for Robin, to watch over her as the clock ticks quietly in the empty room. That’s fine by him. Logic is easy to ignore, that part of his brain trying desperately to remember the past week pushing him to sleep, to rest, to quit starving himself of sleep; Robin is here, and the feeling of damp fabric where her tears had fallen on his shirt is more than enough to keep him awake.
He’s not sure how much time has passed since she finally fell asleep, just knows that dim light is starting to slowly filter in through the window in the kitchen. His eyes feel dry and sore from staring at the wall across from him for god knows how long, but every time he blinks, he feels his head drop slightly. Can’t have that, not with Robin finally secure again is his arms, shoulders rising and falling against him. Not when he needs to watch over her, to protect her better than he did before.
(And it’s funny, really, how even when he’s in a house he knows is safe, his mind still blaring klaxon alarms at every little creak of wood. It’s like it hasn’t fully registered that nightmare has ended, that they’re out of the woods now; how can it, when the nightmares of the nightmare don’t stop?)
When he hears a quiet footstep on the floor behind him, his tired brain screams into alertness, and he whips around, almost reaching down to grab a nonexistent weapon. His eyes meet wide blue ones, and he freezes as Dustin takes a step back, hates the wariness he sees in the younger boy’s face. Relief sweeps through him at his presence, though, and he feels himself slump slightly.
“Dustin.” At the sound of his name, Dustin seems to realize that Steve isn’t about to hit him away as he had Jonathan earlier (and he knows he needs to apologize to him, but he doesn’t want to, not after feeling so sure he had been an enemy), and he cautiously steps closer. “Here, c’mere--” He gently untangles his hand from Robin’s hair and reaches out for Dustin, gently catches his wrist to tug him closer.
“Are-- Is she okay?” Dustin whispers, gaze darting down to Robin for a moment before meeting Steve’s again.
“Yeah.” For now, at least, she’s alright; her breathing stays even, even as she shifts slightly. Robin’s okay, now, and that knowledge seems to raise the dam again for Steve’s own problems. With a shaky sigh, he wraps an arm around Dustin, and the kid easily sinks onto the couch next to him, hugging him with careful avoidance of Robin. “I’m sorry for scaring you earlier, I didn’t mean to.”
“It’s okay.” It isn’t, it really isn’t; he’s already let down Dustin once before, and he feels terrible for scaring him so many times in such a short space. “Are you okay, though?” Steve pauses, shrugs slightly.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” For the moment, at least. Dustin fixes his gaze on Steve’s face, though, narrows his eyes accusingly.
“Did you sleep? After she woke up?” No. Of course not, how could he sleep when he needed to watch over her? The compulsion to stay awake is still there, a drive more powerful than caffeine. “Dude, you need to sleep. Please.”
“I can’t, Dustin.” (Even aside from that bone deep need to watch over Robin in case something happens, to watch over Dustin, too, he can’t ignore the part of him that would rather be beaten up again than face that white room in his mind once again. Not that he’ll admit that, though.) “Robin… she--”
“Robin’s asleep, Steve.” Pushing himself closer to Steve on the couch and effectively cornering him, he pins him to the cushions with a glare. “And you aren’t. Even though you look like shit. When’s the last time you slept, man? Before tonight, I mean?” He has to pause and rack his memories for that (and god knows that doesn’t work so well when he can barely even remember the past few days, much less the last time he had woken up).
“Uh… What day is it?”
“Thursday.”
“...Uh.” Was it Monday or Sunday he had woken on the bathroom floor with a throbbing headache?
“ Steve. ” He would brush off Dustin’s complaint, but there’s a quiet desperation in his voice, a sadness that stabs at Steve’s heart. “Please, dude. Go back to sleep. I promise I’ll wake you up if something happens, okay? I promise. Just… please go back to sleep.” He doesn’t want to, would rather swallow hot coals, but meeting Dustin’s eyes is somehow even worse than eating embers. He doesn’t like seeing for the first time how red-rimmed his eyes are, as if he’s been crying, doesn’t like seeing that sadness he’s heard in his voice reflected back in the eyes he’s seen disappear too many times in his nightmares.
It’s worth it to hurt again, if Dustin will stop looking at him like he’s a dying man. God knows it can’t be worse than feeling like he’s betraying the kid all over again.
“You’ll stay here, huh?” A weak, gap-toothed smile is flashed at him, and Steve hopes to heaven and hell that the wateriness in Dustin’s eyes when he snorts out what could be a pitiful laugh is from relief, not upset.
“Dumbass, I’m not going anywhere. You think I’ve gotten any sleep since you guys kicked me on the floor?” He pushes against Steve again, twists so he can rest his curls beneath Robin’s. “Get some rest. I’ll wake you up. I promise.” Steve can’t help but lay his arm over him, pulling him in. He doesn’t want to sleep, god, but maybe it will help. At the very least, it’ll make Dustin happy, and he knows that Robin’s worries will be somewhat assuaged if he rests.
Finally, he forces himself to close his eyes again, to untense his shoulders. It isn’t long before sleep grabs him again, pulling him down. Maybe this time it’ll be different. Maybe this time it’ll be okay.
--
But why, why would that ever be the case? Not after hearing Robin sobbing against him, not after seeing betrayal again in Dustin’s eyes, not after feeling truly endangered again. Why would he think he could go again without those invading his dreams, think he could sleep without guilt and fear overtaking his mind?
--
When he jerks awake with a whimper, the first thing that he realizes is that there’s pain and blood in his mouth, and that’s all it takes to convince him that it’s all real. The taste is harsh and the blood is warm in his mouth, and when he raises a hand to his face, he feels it dripping from the corner of his mouth onto his thumb. Pulling his hand away, he stares hard at it, waits for it to swim away or pale as the blood before has (and what a thing, to realize that you’ve been seeing things from sheer stress!), but it stays painfully real, a dark red that slowly trickles down to the quick of his thumbnail.
The second thing he realizes is that he’s cold, no pressure on him. He jerks his gaze away from the blood, darting his eyes around the room he’s in. Robin. Dustin. Nobody, nobody to be seen or heard, not a soul in the room but Steve, all alone again, waiting and waiting for the next blow--
He scrambles off of the couch, nearly falling on his face when his stiff legs refuse to work. “Shit!” Barely managing to catch himself, he pushes himself up, tenses when he hears footsteps thumping on the floor. Shit, shit, shit. The blood is heavy in his mouth, and he swallows as the footsteps grow nearer, braces himself for whoever will come through the hallway. No weapon, but he’s not tied up anymore, not watching someone with a gun pressed to dirty blond curls, not hearing sobbing and screaming from somewhere in the distance--
“Steve?” He doesn’t even realize he’s half-raised his fists until they drop, surprise freezing him. Dustin stands there, rubbing his eye as if he’s just woken up, staring at him with surprise. “Steve, are you--”
He doesn’t even know what he’s going to do until his body’s already moving, striding over to him and dropping down. Wrapping Dustin up in a hug, he pulls him close, nearly yanks him off of his feet with how desperately he pulls him close. He’s okay, he’s okay, god, god.
“Shit--” Dustin wriggles in his grip before sinking down, looping one arm around Steve’s neck and one under his arms, a small hand pressing against his back. As much as Steve tries to fight it, he feels his breath hitch slightly when he registers again that Dustin is safe, feels his shoulders shake as he curls around the kid once again. “Shit, Steve, it’s okay, it’s okay. ” A small hand gently reaches up to his hair, gingerly pats it (and if it’s right where he’d cracked his head against the tiles, the pain barely even registers as he closes his eyes, buries his face in Dustin’s shoulder). “You’re okay. We’re okay.”
There’s a quiet thump down the hall, more footsteps headed towards him; when he tenses, eyes flying open, Dustin lets out a panicked little yelp. “Whoa, dude, it’s okay, it’s just Robin.” Sure enough, Robin steps out of one of the rooms a moment later, eyes widening when she sees him sitting on the floor with Dustin.
“Steve, shit--” She rushes over, drops to her knees before him. “Jesus, Steve, you’re bleeding. ” She’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, and she pulls the sleeve over her fist to gently wipe at the side of his mouth. “Did you bite your cheek?” Oh. That would explain why he’d been bleeding, at least. Not an injury inflicted, just a wound from a nightmare.
He’d much rather believe that than what that paranoid little part of his head that’s become not so little over the past couple weeks screams is true, that he’s back there, that this is the dream. He hopes he isn’t dreaming. He doesn’t think he could even feel this tired in a nightmare.
“You’re not dreaming, Steve. Okay? We’re safe. You’re okay.”
He’s so tired. God, everything hurts, a tangible ache in his bones of exhaustion and fear and anxiety, finally tangible, finally real. He’s spent so much time worrying, and now that he’s actually slept, actually felt some weight off his shoulders, it feels as if he’s even more worn out than he had been before.
“I know, buddy,” Robin soothes, gently patting his cheek. “Come on, let’s go sit down on the couch, huh? Spent enough time on floors.” She stands and Dustin releases him, lets Robin give him a hand up before they both all but lift Steve to his feet. The hall spins, and he nearly falls against the wall. Shit.
“Whoa, dude, you okay?” Dustin sounds concerned, holding Steve’s elbow and helping to steady him. Now would probably be a good time to mention the probable concussion, huh? And so soon after the one the Russians had given him, too. “A concussion? ”
“Jesus, Steve,” Robin chides, more worry in her voice than anything else. “C’mon, we’re going to the couch now, there we go.” They guide him to the couch, and he sits on it with relief, trying to ignore how sore he was. How long had he been driving?
“Christ, dude, you’re not supposed to drive with a concussion, I don’t even have a license and I know that.” Yeah, no shit, kid. He knows.
Robin sits beside him with a sigh, still holding his arm; Dustin does the same beside him, pressing close. It’s reassuring, to have the two of them there, warm pressure that reaffirms he’s here. “What happened, Steve? You didn’t seem… quite this beat up last time I left.” Not beat up, just tired. Tired and paranoid and sleep deprived and miserable. “C’mon, bud, use your words and quit mumbling.” Mumbling? Oops. God, he’s tired. His skin itches, though he’s almost too tired to care if there’s blood or not, imagined or real. Why is he so exhausted?
“I… Uh. Fell. Hit my head. And…” The succession of events is confusing, hard to get quite in order. “Didn’t want to sleep. Kept going back there. But I…” A smashed radio asking who he works for, dropped mugs on the kitchen floor. “I wanted out. So I took a road trip.” All the way to Illinois, somehow not driving into a ditch, even on such little sleep. His skin had felt less bloody, cleaner when he passed state lines; he absently raises a hand to his neck, testing to see if his skin is still dry. (And he should probably get that checked out, really, it’s not good to keep feeling blood when there should be none there.)
“Christ, Steve. Did you get our radio transmission?”
“Yeah. Came back to help.” And just what had that been about, anyways? They don’t seem worried about an outside threat, just about him. “What was the code red?”
“The code red was you, dingus.”
“Oh.” Oops. He hadn’t wanted to worry them, just wanted to get away for a little bit. “Sorry.”
“Say you’re sorry when you’re actually lucid, dude.” Dustin pats his arm. “You look like shit. Do you want to go back to sleep? You weren’t out for long.” Fuck, no, he doesn’t. He may be tired, but he’d really rather not revisit being strapped to that chair, Robin screaming somewhere in the distance, Dustin standing before him with a silver barrel pressed to his temple--
“Jesus, Steve, what?”
Son of a bitch. Maybe he does need to sleep. Dustin is pale next to him, but Robin just looks… woefully understanding.
“I get it, Steve. I do. Jesus, you think I’ve been sleeping much the past couple weeks?” She squeezes his arm gently, pulls him close and lets his head fall on her shoulder. “You still need to sleep, man. You need to be able to function. You can’t…” Blowing out a breath, she shrugs slightly. “You can’t die from fuckin’... starving yourself of everything. Not after surviving everything that happened, huh?”
“Ms. Byers said we can stay here as long as we want,” Dustin adds quietly. “She just went out with Jonathan to pick up El and Nancy. The funerals aren’t until next week, anyways.” Steve nods, raises a hand to gently pat Dustin’s head. Yeah. Maybe he’ll stay for a bit. The tiny piece of his mind that still has any sense agrees, knows that he shouldn’t be left alone right now. He doesn’t want to be alone. Alone is when the bad things come, when he feels like he’s never going to escape. With Robin and Dustin, here, at least he has some sense of comfort, however scant it may be.
He’ll stay for now.
“Thank you, Steve.” He nods again against Robin’s shoulder, tries desperately to force himself to close his eyes, to force himself not to. It’s confusing. Everything is just tired and sad, and he doesn’t know whether he can trust himself to sleep again.
“We’ll stay here, Steve. Promise.” Dustin’s hands are still on his arm (they’re so small Robin), and he can feel the kid leaning against him. He shouldn’t have to learn to comfort so young, shouldn’t have to help chase away night terrors for someone who’s supposed to be protecting him.
“Yeah. We’ll stay.” Robin shifts, moves away from him and pulls his head down onto her lap. Thin fingers gently comb through his hair, feeling at the bruise from his fall and moving away, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. It’s nice. Dustin’s hands begin to fall away from his arm, but he reaches up and catches one, tugs Dustin down on top of him.
“Hey--”
“You’re gonna make me sleep, you gotta sleep too,” he mumbles, pulling Dustin up so he can wrap his arms around the kid. He flails for a moment, then sighs, grumbling, “You’re hot , dude, I’m gonna overheat like this.” Still, he doesn’t try to force his way out from Steve’s grasp, just shifts until he’s more comfortable. His still-healing ribs complain about being used as a human mattress, but he ignores the pain in favour of the comfort that sweeps him at knowing his friends are there.
“Go to sleep, Steve. We gotcha.” Robin’s voice is warm, if still a bit sad. No dream could be so kind, so warm as this.
For the third time in the past night, day, whatever it’s been, he closes his eyes and falls asleep.
For the first time in two weeks, he sleeps without nightmares, without pain, without bangs and screams and sobs. Just warmth and pressure, hazy orange and pear, gentle hands in his hair and a small hand on his arm.
It’s the best sleep he’s had in years.
--
He stays behind with Joyce and El when the funeral is over, people slowly filing to the reception. It feels like the whole town had come, officers and neighbors and friends of friends who Hopper had helped before in his own gruff way. She had spoken first and last, prepared a eulogy that he could tell she had almost been unable to finish. Everybody had spoken, it feels; everybody, no matter how long they had known him, had kind words to say. And yeah, perhaps they embellished his kind heart, perhaps they had fluffed him up a bit in death, but really, what was the harm? They all missed him. They all loved him.
When they hadn’t been speaking, Steve had sat between Robin and Joyce, one hand squeezing each of theirs, Dustin right beside Robin and El right beside Joyce, silently weeping. The poor girl was the only one unable to speak over him, at least not in front of the people. The rest of the party had been sitting behind and around them, Max the only one not shedding too many tears; Steve would suspect she was wrung dry of tears from Billy’s funeral two days before, but when he had swung by the reception to pick her up out of some strange sort of indebted feeling to Billy (even though he had been responsible for so many deaths, Steve knows in his gut it would have just been someone else who would eventually take his place. at least he had sacrificed himself to save El, to save them all), her eyes had been conspicuously dry, if red. Poor girl. Jonathan and Will each had hands on their mother’s shoulders, watching solemnly as people spoke. Steve knew that they knew better than anyone else that had Hopper not done what he had, Joyce would be the one in that empty casket right now.
He had helped Joyce finish preparing for the funeral, guilty hat he’d been unable to help before. When he had apologized at their dining room table, she’d just smiled at him, sad and understanding. “Oh, honey, I wasn’t able to even think about planning this until they’d told me the ‘missing persons’ wait time was over. It’s okay. We’re all… struggling, I guess.” He’d nodded and reached across the table to squeeze her hand gently when the tears began to well in her eyes. He was--not happy, no, but satisfied, in some melancholy way--that he could be there for her, different from the sons she had tried so hard to stay strong for but still (he thinks, he hopes) someone she can lean on.
Now, though, they stand together over the half-buried hole in the ground, Steve squeezing Joyce’s hand as tears slowly track down her face, Joyce squeezing El’s as the girl wraps her arms around Joyce’s middle and cries into her blouse. The others are walking away, her sons shooed away at her request. He understands why she had wanted to be alone there with El; he just doesn’t understand why she had asked him to stay. Maybe it was so Jonathan and Will wouldn’t have to see her so vulnerable, so raw. He gets that.
After what feels like forever, Joyce sniffs and quietly says, “I dream about him, you know. When… When we were down there. When it happened. I had to…” She trails off, sniffs again. She’s already told him what had happened, perhaps not in detail, but enough that he knew she blamed herself for his death. At least she was wise enough to know that had she not, the girl clinging to her would be dead to, alongside her sons and the rest of the kids. Still, that’s two men who Steve suspects she loved in the course of a year. It’s more pain than the hardworking woman who clutches his hand deserves in any lifetime. “I keep remembering it. He smiled at me.” A shaky sigh; he hears El sniffle slightly. “I keep telling myself I did what I had to do. He knew exactly what he was in for. But… It hurts.”
After a minute, he clears his throat, tries to will away the feeling of tears choking him. Not blood, anymore, not right now; just tears, painful and heavy. “The dreams are the worst. But you wake up from those, at least.” They’re painful, he knows. They’re knives digging at your heart every night, chipping away at the walls you build when you’re most vulnerable.
He turns his head to look at her, sees the tears glinting in the July sunlight. She doesn’t look away from the hole in the ground, even when she asks quietly, “Do you think he…?” Her voice trails off, but she doesn’t need to finish her sentence. He knows what she’s thinking, what they’ve all been thinking.
“I don’t know.” Nothing seems impossible at this point, not after what they’ve all been through. They both know that those who disappear without a trace can come back; even though it’s improbable, none of them can keep that small seed of hope from lodging in their hearts. She nods, squeezes his hand gently back. How strange to think these thin hands have fought wars; how strange to think that any of them have. Too small, too naive, too worn and weary.
But still, they go on.
El sniffs again, and Steve sees her draw slightly back. “Joyce?”
“Yeah, sweetie?”
“Can I…” El pauses, hiccups slightly. “Can I talk? For him?” His heart twists painfully as he looks at her face, so young and miserable. She’s lost the first one to take her in as family perhaps in her whole life, lost the man who adopted her and protected her and gave her his last name, even after he’d already lost a daughter. What greater act of kindness could there be than to take someone into your home and name it as theirs, too? What family better than the one who chooses you?
“Of course, El.” Joyce’s voice seems close to breaking, but she nods, lets go of El’s hand. After a moment, the girl moves on shaky legs to go to the head of the grave, where the preacher had officiated the funeral, where he and Joyce and all the others had stood to speak once more for him. El takes a deep breath, wipes tears from her face before she starts to speak.
“Hop… was family . He saved me. I was cold, and lonely, and he… he saved me. Saved everyone. He wanted to talk about emotions, even though I think… I don’t think he liked them.” He feels Joyce rest her head against his shoulder, releases her hand to draw her in. Tears soak both of their faces as El speaks, uncertain words with uncertain grammar wobbling through the air with certain love and pain. It hurts, hurts like a fresh wound, more than the torture had, he thinks. “I know I did things wrong. And he did, too. But he was good. ”
“Do the dreams ever stop?” she whispers, so quiet that he can barely hear it. El continues on, occasionally sniffing and wiping tears away from her pale face. No child that young should have to give a eulogy for their parent. No child should have to stay that strong.
“I don’t know.” He doesn’t know, doesn’t know if any of them will live without nightmares, live without feeling the gaping wounds in their hearts as if every day they’ve been torn anew. None of them will be okay, he thinks; not for a long, long while, at least. He knows the scars will never fully heal, both physical and mental; he knows that even when they think it’s all over, the nightmares will come back, make them bleed fresh again. They can’t escape that. None of them can, no matter how strong or determined they are. Sometimes, things will never end, not in their hearts or minds. “But that’s okay.”
Even if none of them are, even if none of them ever will be, it’s alright. They have each other, at least for now. They have some good left, memories and notes and tiny children they can hug and feel the heartbeats of, steady even through the pain. They have hands to hold and people to call, pictures and relics of those gone and those still there.
“Yeah.” She sniffs again, and he lets his head rest against hers, both of them watching El speak to Hopper one last time.