Work Text:
Steve finds that the couch next to Eddie’s hospital bed is ridiculously comfortable.
Eddie’s talking to the nurse—he can’t really catch what’s being said, the world growing warm and hazy—but he can hear that Eddie’s making her laugh. Knows that’s important, something that would’ve been unthinkable not so long ago: that Eddie feels brave enough to let something of himself shine through. That he can still trust in the kindness of certain people, even strangers.
Steve vaguely hears the nurse leave, glances over to see Eddie within touching distance, perched on the side of his bed. He’s folding some T-shirts in preparation for getting discharged—he’d joked when Steve had first arrived that it’s the most organised he’s ever been.
He must’ve washed his hair this morning, left it to air dry: some of the ends are still damp, and it’s gone kinda wispy around his face. It’s a calming sight, leaves Steve grateful that he no longer associates it with the dive into Lover’s Lake; now it’s something softer.
Something safe.
Eddie looks up. Smiles.
“Uh, Steve, with all due respect,” he begins, which makes Steve snort; he’s come to know it as one of Eddie’s sayings, preceding all manner of teasing objections, “what the hell?”
Steve would usually ask, “What now?” in feigned exasperation, unable to hide his amusement—but his head feels suddenly heavy, and all he manages is, “Hmm?”
Eddie’s smile grows, showing his dimples. He reaches over, and he places a hand on Steve’s knee, presses down gently, “Are you, like, training to be a contortionist?”
Steve feels the warmth of the touch through his jeans; he realises then that he’s sitting awkwardly: one knee bent towards his chest; his neck crooked, arms folded; his whole body instinctively angled toward the edge of the couch.
It’s a position he’s perfected over the years, honed in all kinds of makeshift beds—most recently the chairs of hospital waiting rooms, leaving space for one of the kids to rest on his shoulder. Snatching rest wherever he could throughout the nightmare of that Spring Break, never quite relaxing fully: ready to move, to spring into action at a moment’s notice.
He remembers Robin tactfully making sure that the RV was empty while everyone else stayed outside; his side still aching, Steve stretched out on the seat in the back. Even while he was alone, he only managed a fitful doze—nearly fell off his seat as he wrenched himself awake at the slightest disturbance.
He can’t find that urgency now. Hasn’t needed to for…
He must have zoned out for a couple seconds, because Eddie’s standing now. Watching fondly.
“If you’re tired,” Eddie says quietly, “you should sleep.”
And Steve hears the shape of it, that deliberation in how Eddie says certain things, where he slows down just a little—and Steve knows it must be because it’s something Eddie’s once been told by his uncle.
There’s a blanket getting draped across him now. Eddie touches his knee again, and this time Steve relaxes fully, feels himself slowly tilt back. There’s a pillow beneath his head that wasn’t there before.
Eddie smoothes out the blanket with care. Steve’s view is getting dimmer, a drowsy blur of eyelashes.
But he can see that Eddie’s smiling again. Hears him make a soft, jokingly disapproving tsk.
“Close your eyes,” Eddie whispers, with such affection.
Oh, you love me, Steve thinks.
It’s a thought that drifts in, honeyed and slow, like it’s really been there all along—that perhaps before, in the white-knuckled days of survival, he was too afraid for it. Did not have room to feel it.
Steve’s eyes close.
He falls asleep so completely, knowing that Eddie will still be there, that time isn’t running out anymore; he can stay right where he is. He has room to breathe, to just be—room for the next thought, the next moment, for every moment to come.