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One moment they’re hurtling back into some saner version of reality – aka not the Upside Down – the lousy, sour air still circling through their airways, the hems of their pants stiff and crusted in foul monster blood. Dustin’s cheering rings in Steve’s ear, Nancy squeezes his shoulder from the backseat, and Jonathan’s somewhere back there too.
"Holy shit, holy shit, holy shiiiiiiit…"
The kid’s losing it in the most positive way, and he’s not the only one.
They’re all so giddy, buzzing with leftover adrenaline and triumph, minds filled to the brim with enormously high spirits. Like cracked-open soda cans, all foam and fizz. They’re practically bouncing in their seats, all of them, when they see a nearly-clear, apricot sky stretching wide above them. Someone winds down a window. Steve’s lungs gulp down the chilly air that reeks of gasoline but proves to be miraculously almost dust-free.
Even his car, Steve notices dimly as he shoves his door open and stumbles out on shaky legs, is remarkably unscathed in daylight. And oh right, it’s just a stupid car, a minor concern considering they all could have fucking turned belly-up, but still – it’s a nice minor miracle to see it so intact. The kind of stupid detail Steve’s fried, overloaded mind latches onto. Amicably, he pats the hood of it while the rest of the gang topples outside as well.
Really, not a whole lot of damage at all, considering. Considering it crashed into some huge, veiny wall of pulsing monster flesh and got stuck there like a goddamn bug in a web, it’s honestly holding up fine. Just some shattered headlights. A cracked windshield. Sure, it’s missing both side mirrors, but honestly? It’s looked worse. This? Piece of cake.
So yeah. One moment, life seems … all right. All things considered.
Dustin, with his face still all battered, split lip and a purple bruise blooming around one eye like mold, launches himself into Steve’s arms like a bouncy ball, and they shake together, roaring like idiots on the sidelines of some game. Except Henderson’s not the type for that. They check that each other’s arms and legs, fingers and toes are complete in number. Somewhere behind him, Steve’s pretty sure Nancy’s kissing Jonathan, but for once, he really doesn’t give a shit. He’s just glad – achingly, stupidly glad – to be alive. That they all are. And that over Dustin’s bouncing shoulder, he spots more figures running their way across the open stretch of gravel leading up to the Squawk. That’s when it clicks – the rest of them made it too.
They’re all right, and Vecna isn’t, and for once, finally, it’s fair. The math has worked in their favor.
Steve lets himself pick up Henderson’s bright, toothy grin and just bark out a laugh. A real one. Not the desperate, tight-throated we’re-all-so-screwed-and-we’re-all-gonna-die one.
"Fucking hell." He doesn’t realize he says it out loud. It’s over.
That doesn’t feel real. He can’t believe how the hell they got this lucky.
One moment, he’s in total bliss. So much he wants to hold them all tight. Even Jonathan.
Then Will crashes into them. Steve believes he’s going in for a group hug, ready to awkwardly sandwich the kid in with Dustin, but then the kid only tugs at Steve’s sleeve and Steve finally looks at him. He’s pale, almost sickly gray, reeks of blood, but it’s not just that. Blood is drenching his trembling palms, he holds them out like he’s offering something. And no, that’s no smile or laugh sitting under that shaggy bowl cut.
"It’s … it’s Robin," the kid stammers.
One moment, everything’s okay.
The next, Steve breaks into a run.
*
The first second he catches a glimpse of her – sprawled on one of the old sofas in the station’s dim basement – Steve’s heartbeat sags a little. It’s her favorite couch, he knows. The one with the overused spongy cushions that sag too much in the middle, the one she wouldn’t allow him to put his dirty shoes on. Like ever. Even when they were both tipsy. Now, one leg of hers dangles off the side. One arm is flung across her face, the other lifts in a lazy wave as she spots him storming down the staircase, taking two steps at a time.
In that first, dumb second, honestly? He thinks they’re all messing with him.
In that second, he promises himself he’ll strangle someone if that’s true. It’s not funny. Not even close.
Then he gets closer, takes a second, closer look – and knows he won’t be strangling anyone today.
"…shit."
His shoes tread through the squelch of dark red soaked into the carpet, and he imagines feeling it soak through his soles, into his own skin. Like it’s climbing him, trying to get inside. Deliberately, Steve turns a blind eye to the prominent claw marks gouged deep into the concrete walls, the yellow stuffing that’s oozing from slashed cushions like exposed guts, the stench of copper and mold and something sweeter.
Steve flops to his knees right beside the cushions, unsure where to put his hands or himself. Not to mention what to do with his voice. His mouth opens, then closes. He tries again. Nothing. He settles on silence and one palm on her ankle. A patch of skin between where the hem of her jeans ends and the cuff of her sock starts – ice-cold. Carefully, he lifts her leg back onto the couch, tries not to jostle her.
One of Robin’s eyelids flutters open at that, her lashes sticky with something dark. Her lips part a little, her front teeth tinged red. She tries to grin – because of course she does – maybe even say something cheeky, but nothing other than coughs and tiny dots of red burst through her cracked lips.
Joyce – a nearly immobile, ashen statue sitting by Robin’s side, carefully rocking her head – lifts an already blood-stained tissue. She dabs at Robin’s lips, her own shirt-sleeves smeared dark.
"Th– Thanks," Robin rasps, eyes both retreating to the state of narrow, white slits.
Joyce sniffles. "You’re very welcome, sweetie," she says, muffling her voice behind a hastily lifted sleeve. On any other day, Steve might’ve wondered when that happened – not that it matters – he’s just glad– just glad she wasn’t alone and–
God, his eyes sting. So much he can barely make out her shuddering shape under a heap of mismatched blankets. Among them he thinks he recognizes the half-zipped purple sleeping bag he used to drape over his own shoulders and carry everywhere whenever that dodgy heating decided to give up again. He doesn’t dare lift the fabric to see the wounds beyond. Doesn’t want to see it. Doesn’t think he could look and stay upright.
Something brushes his wrist. Steve almost startles. The sudden shift from joy to whatever this is freezes time in his mind and, at the same time, makes his head spin. He feels like if this were a movie, he must’ve accidentally dropped off and skipped over a part crucial to understanding the plot. One minute they were high-fiving and howling like careless idiots outside. The next, he’s here, blinking at the dark red soaking into the folds of what looks like layers of fabric.
Barely he recalls the shorthand version of what happened from Will. Barely recalls that they can’t take her to a hospital because there is no fucking hospital in Hawkins anymore.
It’s all rubble and ash. As is most of the town.
"Ste–Steve?"
Robin’s blood-speckled fingers hook into the cuff of his sleeve. Her eyes stay almost shut, her breath so very shallow he can barely tell it’s there. It makes him want to press his palms flat against her ribs and start CPR right here on this goddamn couch, even if it’s pointless. How’s it go again? He strains to recall that first aid course at school years ago, the one he only signed up for to get out of algebra for a day or two. All he remembers now is zoning out, staring at the back of some girl’s head. Wondering what her shampoo smelled like, whether her skin was as smooth as it looked. Maybe, if he hadn’t been such an ignorant dipshit, he’d know how to help Robin now.
Shit. What else? What else can he do to– to– just to keep her here a little longer. Just a little…
"Yeah," he chokes out, unsticking her fingertips to tuck them into his own palm, curl his fingers around them. Steve squeezes tight. Tight enough that it should hurt her, but she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t twitch, doesn’t fight him. Robin only sighs, a slow, crumpled breath, like it’s coming from a balloon with a pinhole. One corner of her mouth quirks again like she’s trying to think of a way to make fun of him, failing.
She’s turned so pale that each freckle on her face stands out like stars. Absurdly bright, they shine. He’s never noticed how many there are. Now it’s all he can see. Countless. That, and the black smudges of mascara and whatever else it is she put on her eyes.
"Holy crap," he mutters. "Fuck, Robin. Rob. Jesus fucking Christ."
He doesn’t care any longer if the kids are in the room with them. She’s dying, goddamnit. Cut him some slack. Pressure builds in his gut, presses up into his chest, barely leaves his lungs any air. But he needs– he needs to say … something. He needs to hear her voice answer. While he still can. He squeezes her fingers again, wanting to prepare her.
"How you feelin’, Buckley?"
"Like…" Her lips barely move. She winces, glossy eyes alternating the motions of flicking open and shutting like broken blinds. "Like … shit."
"Gee, I wonder why."
Steve just knows she’s trying to smile, failing so miserably it makes his chest ache. So strange, seeing Robin all serious and stripped of any humor and sarcasm, drained out along with half her blood. The lack of that is even more startling than the stark paleness and cloud of iron she’s wrapped in. She looks like a different person, propped up here, so much he can almost convince himself that this isn’t her.
It’s not her. It’s that simple. It’s all in his head. It’s Vecna – no, no, it can’t be because he is– fuck.
"Hurts, huh?" Steve leans closer, brushing his knuckles down her damp cheek. She nods gingerly, lips remaining parted. "I’m sorry I took so long."
"’S okay. You– you’re … always … late…"
"Am not," Steve shoots back, automatic. "Who says that?"
Robin’s lips twitch, a ghost of a smug smile as she croaks a feeble, "Me."
"Ah ah, no. I don’t think so, dummy." He hears his own voice shake, but barrels forward anyway. "Who– who always has to wait for you to get your ass into my–"
There comes another wet cough, a deep, rattling tear that sounds like it’s ripping her vocal cords, and Steve falls silent, only mouthing car. Bright red bubbles at her lips, spills from the corner of her mouth, glides down her lower lip, down her chin in one glistening line. This time, Steve lifts his own sleeve to wipe it away before Joyce’s hand with the tissue can appear.
Robin doesn’t even protest or mocks him for it, which is terrifying, frankly.
The muscles in her face tremble and jitter at the touch, her brows knitting tight, then slowly easing as Joyce’s hand begins to comb through the tangled hair at her temple, as tenderly as a mother would. And Steve wonders, hollow and helpless, whether Robin misses her parents now. If she wishes they were here now, holding her one last time. Wonders whether they are even alive. Whether anyone’s parents are.
One of Robin’s arms flails and wobbles as she tries to prop herself up on it. Her elbow slipping on the uneven cushion, damp with sweat, blood, and God knows what else.
"No, no, careful," Joyce murmurs quickly, one hand rising to steady her, wanting to guide her back down. But Robin’s body squirms weakly, trying to bend the other way, stubborn as ever.
"C’mon, stop that, you moron," Steve hurries to add. He moves in closer, hovering uselessly. "You don’t need to sit up now–"
"No, I want…" Robin pants, still struggling. Blood idly trickles from one corner of her mouth. "Wanna see you. Pro–properly."
Steve sighs, surrendering to helping her. He braces her back with one arm as she slumps into the back of the sofa, Joyce rubbing her arm. Sagged as she sits, she’s nothing but boneless and fragile, and that realization kicks him squarely in the gut. Leveling him with the sturdiest stare she can probably manage in her state, Robin squints over at him, taking him apart in the dim light. He is uncertain what she’ll see.
"Did you… did you… kick monster ass?"
Robin’s still trying to smile, still failing to – not that he can blame her.
He intends to laugh. Swear to God, or whoever, he does. To give her what she wants. That moment, that last bit of banter. Letting her be a joker one last time, the role she feels safest in. But what starts out as a genuine chuckle in his throat collapses quickly into a sob, and he doesn’t hold it back as the harsh, raw sound bursts through his lips and shakes his ribs, unable to diminish its impact.
"Yeah. I kinda did," he admits, but no longer feels any pride. He can barely remember any of it now. Some flashing claws, the stench of burned meat. He wipes at his face with the back of his hand, smearing snot across his cheek in the process. "Scared the heck out of those fleabags."
Robin gives the smallest of nods. Her eyelids droop again, only a flicker of bloodshot blue peeking through half-lifted lashes as she peers down at his face. She smiles, a little.
"Good," she whispers, almost inaudible. "’m proud of you, dingus."
The lump in Steve’s throat swells to a size where he thinks he’ll soon drown within his own mouth. He gasps for air and liquid, like a fish yanked out of water and left flopping on hot asphalt. His whole chest seems to shake, his teeth click against each other. Fuck, it hurts.
"It’s good– good to see you," Robin murmurs, though her gaze is already slipping again, though her eyes are closing, unseeing any part of him she might have seen before.
*
To think that months ago, he was chasing Robin’s wildly alive, bouncing figure down these stairs for the first time – barely keeping up with her racing steps and rapid-fire rambling – and to think that back then he had no chance of knowing that she wouldn’t be able to take these stairs back up one day. Absurd, now. Cruel, even.
Most things Robin has ever done, she did fast and loud. As though always in a rush, always outrunning something, always scared to let anyone see the seriousness behind it. And it’s eerie that now, as Steve gathers her body into his arms and carefully carries her up those same steps, she is none of those things. She’s limp. A boneless heap in his arms, head resting against his shoulder. Even her breath against his neck is so damn quiet he has to keep checking. He hums scrambled, tuneless harmonies to stuff the silence. No taunting voice cuts in to comment on his apparent tone-deafness.
To take her outside now goes against Steve’s every instinct to keep her inside where she’s warm and surrounded by familiar faces. Also, the light outside here makes it all look just worse. But she asked for this. And he guesses she’s right – it doesn’t matter, she’s gonna die anyway, and so why not give her what she wants then?
Let her choose the view.
It does start to feel like the only right thing to do, really.
Steve lowers with her leaning against him onto the cracked stone just outside the station’s back wall, sitting against the pitted concrete, Robin half-curled in his lap. The air bites at Steve’s cheeks and arms. Her blanket’s not enough for both of them.
Together, in solemn silence, they face the fields, or what’s left of them. Charred earth, skeletal bushes. Smoke and mist curls and steams around the line of the horizon, eerily golden. Oddly pretty. Reminds him of those early mornings before their shift that they spent sitting here on the curb, in the halo of twittering birdies. Sometimes sharing a cigarette, though Robin claimed to hate the smell on him, and even more on herself.
No birds are chirping now. Of course. Any bird smart enough to fly already left.
Maybe they should have too.
He adjusts the angle of her body, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other pulling her against his chest. He’s trying to make comfortable what can’t possibly be comfortable at all. Every tiny shift makes her wince, and him too.
"This okay?"
"Light," Robin whispers, out of breath from lifting her head alone.
Steve’s heart stutters, lurches sideways.
Don’t you dare go toward that stupid light.
He instantly wants to snap at her, wrapping his arm tighter around her. But then she lifts a shaking finger, points vaguely into the morning haze. At what starts to look like a burning smear of mockingly blazing sun rising past the far-off tree line. He slumps back against the wall, eyes hot, trying to swallow.
"Yeah. There you go," he mutters against the knots of earth and blood clotting her hair at the back of her skull. "Lots of light. All for you, smartass."
He thinks Robin might laugh again, at the deadpan, unenthusiastic way he says it. That she’ll tease him. Waits for a jab. A quip. Some half-baked smart fact about what sunlight really is, scientifically or shit. He wants her to do all that. Needs her to.
Instead–
"Scared," she whimpers, fingers grappling to reach the front of his jacket. "I am … fuck…"
"Me too," Steve whispers, sniffing, his nose delivering some absurdly loud noise.
Robin’s mouth twitches as her head slowly begins to slide down his side. He shifts quickly, steering it into his lap, clumsily patting her scalp and cheeks as her hair spills over his legs. Her skin feels clammy. The tips of her hair are dark, almost black. Like scorched.
"Don’t … do that– that thing … with your nose," she mutters, slurring the syllables. "…it’s disgusting."
This time, he does her the favor and laughs.
*
"You know… my first thought when I first saw you at Scoops?"
Ah, here we go, Steve thinks, curling a strand of Robin’s sticky, matted hair around his forefinger. They’ve watched too many movie death scenes together during slow shifts at Family Video to know that this is what’s inevitably going to happen – if there’s enough time, someone always starts reminiscing. It’s cliché.
"I thought…"
"This is gonna be the best summer of my life?" Steve sing-songs, pitching his voice into the worst impression of some cartoon character. "This is gonna be the start of a beautiful friendship?"
It gets a laugh out of her, so he succeeds in a way. But it also tears more wet coughing out of her poor, raw throat. She turns her face, spits blood onto the cracked concrete beside their tangled legs, then wrestles for breath, lips tinged blue-gray. Steve rubs slow circles into her arm. She’s so cold, even through the blanket her skin feels like something from the freezer aisle. Blood keeps blooming through the fabric, spreading into both their shirts. Just from seeing Robin’s collar peeking out, Steve thinks she must be wearing one of her old, faded band tees.
"There, there, it’s okay… Deep breaths. That’s it, come one. Breathe ... breathe. Look at the sun, Rob. Try to … to breathe."
It’s stupid advice, only the product of his own desperation.
Robin pulls a grimace, but her chest rises slower, her breathing seems to ease, or just thin out, slow down, vanish.
Before he can tell her not to waste the little air she still seems to have on speaking, she already is.
"So, like, when I got there… and saw you standing there with– with Tom, I thought … well, what’s this idiot doing here, obviously. I mean – you were holding the scoop by the wrong end." Her eyes are only partly open, but her lips tug into a real, watery smile. "Isn’t it kinda funny to think this time … two years ago we’d just … only just become friends?"
Steve thinks there’s little he finds funny about that, especially not now, but for Robin’s sake, he cracks a small smile. He’s not sure she even registers it, though.
"Fuck." He rakes one hand through his hair, more habit at this point, just something to keep his hand from punching the wall– "How … how am I gonna find a new job without you, Buckley? No one’s gonna hire me just on my own."
"You can put … monster slayer on your resume now. And world-saver."
"Right. Great." Steve snorts. "That’ll impress the Burger King hiring manager."
A small puff of warm air escapes her as she turns her face against his stomach, a small, muffled, "Thank me later."
Later
If only he could.
*
It’s so strange – waiting for someone to die.
Makes it sound as though it’s something you’re looking forward to, not dreading.
Like waiting in line for a movie to start or something. Except this isn’t some shitty movie.
He glances down at her every few seconds. Can’t help it. Tries to remind himself of how her face looks when the muscles clench and relax and move, silently begs her to keep her eyes open for longer at a time so he can try to memorize the exact shade of blue. So he can recreate it in his mind. If he has to.
"I got your shirt all bloody," she mumbles, tugging at the hem of it, only dragging more red across it.
He huffs a tiny, mirthless laugh. "I don’t care about that stupid shirt, Robin."
Appearing unbothered by the harsh, teary edge of his, Robin’s face softens into a more solemn state than he’s seen it in for a long time, maybe not once since the bathroom floor at Starcourt Mall. She’s still toying with the fabric of his shirt, her smudged, red fingerprints all over his torso now. He lets her because he’d let her do just about anything now.
"You’re gonna be okay," she says at last.
With one blood-tipped finger, she draws a lopsided smiley on the back of his hand.
Steve blinks. "Me?"
"Mmmh." Robin’s head bounces lightly in his lap. "You’re … an idiot, obviously. But– the– the good kind. I think."
He raises a brow, snorts. "You think?"
A tiny laugh is his reward. More like a wheeze. Then she winces again, tapping the side of her head with the pads of her fingers, leaving his shirt for now. "M–my head– ouch. Gimme a break, Harrington."
He holds his hand out to her, offering, "You can bite down on my hand if you need to."
She gives him a withering glance – well, as withering as someone in her state can manage.
"Gross."
But she accepts his hand anyway. Laces their fingers. Clings, just a little.
The smell of something rotten rises in Steve’s nose. Maybe just smoke, like from a distant bonfire. Maybe it’s her. The wounds. He breathes through his mouth and doesn’t say anything. The thought that every word might matter now strikes him speechless. God, this can’t be happening.
*
In hindsight, this might have been the last time he heard her speak – he’s not sure.
Only that it starts like this:
"Stevie…"
She’s indeed bitten down on his knuckles, her teeth leaving skin as the sound tries to work around his bones and break free. Steve wipes her saliva on his already-ruined shirt, then brushes his palm across her brow. On any other occasion he’d give a joke a try. Something along the lines of Bet I could toast a marshmallow on your forehead.
Right now, right here, though, all he manages is a soft, "Huh?"
Robin swallows. It looks painful as hell.
"If … in case you see my mom…" She swallows again, trails off.
"You want me to tell her something?"
She nods, but doesn’t seem able to articulate it. Only squeezes his other hand, he figures it’s as tight as her fingers can still clamp down on anything.
"Like what?" he inquires softly. "Like … you suck?"
Robin grunts, half a laugh, half a reminder for him to be nice if he’d have to guess.
"Anyone else?" He isn’t sure if he even wants to ask. He’s not sure he wants to deliver any last messages. But Robin, surely Robin would do the same for him without a beat of hesitation. So. He has to ask at least. And in case she wants it then– "Vickie?"
He’s an idiot for bringing her up, he just knows it right then, wishes he hadn’t.
In his lap, her body shudders, curls inward, something that looks like tears spilling free now.
"No," she sobs. "Dunno. I don’t know. My … Steve … my head– hurts…"
"Okay." Steve tries to swallow around the solid lump. It’s still there, refuses to leave, like he’s choking on a fist. He clamps his lips shut, just trying not to gag. When he slowly eases the pressure, eases his jaw open again, he’s nearly astonished to find that he can still breathe. "That … that’s okay."
It’s not. It really isn’t. How is she supposed to sass him if her brain’s misfiring?
Thinking of what used to help him with a headache as a kid, his mind rewinds to a distant, fuzzy memory of his mom sitting on the edge of his bed, pressing a damp washcloth to his forehead – back when it was just this tiny strip of baby skin. Steve doesn’t have a washcloth now, and neither does he have any water within reach. But he places his palm on her feverish brow, half-expects to hear the skin sizzle through the contrast. Robin sighs, so maybe it’s doing wonders.
The wings of her nose flare, the shadows beneath her eyes seem to darken.
Steve stares down into her face, half there with him, half taken up by a drowsy glow and blown pupils.
He thinks he remembers Will telling him that they already gave her all the pain meds they had left.
"’s okay, Rob. The meds make you woozy for a reason. Just– just let it happen, it’s okay."
She doesn’t seem to listen to him, all wrapped up in her own head again.
"I’m glad it’s you … that’s here now."
Under his palm, Steve feels her skin pucker while her mouth fights her lungs for more air, more air to finish whatever thought’s still cramped in her brain, aching to be released. For one thing, he wants to hear it all, then again–
"I hate that it’s you … for you. But– I’m glad."
The lump – yeah, it’s back. Or never left at all. Who knows. It’s pretty fucking pesky.
"It's alright. I’m here."
Robin tears her eyes open, lashes trembling so badly, Steve can’t bear to let his gaze focus.
"It hurts … keeping them … open…"
"Okay. Okay. Then don’t."
He takes her bloodied hand in his, links their fingers, her cold ones with his that nearly count as warm against her skin. Robin has nice hands. Long, slender fingers. Hands made to play the piano or stuff like that. He always wondered why she chose to play that weird horn thing instead. Shit, he never even asked her that. Why not? He imagines asking her now – just to keep her talking – but she looks so tired, tinged only in white and red, that he can’t bring himself to. Only to prolong–
"C’mon. Close your eyes. I'll stay right here."
Something flitters across her face. As brief as it is, he thinks it’s a smile. He smiles back.
"Just … just a li’l nap," Robin whispers, voice hoarse, cracked in places he’s not used to hearing.
"Yeah." Steve flips the palm on her brow to the cooler side, runs the other through her hair. One hand of hers curls into his shirt again, so weakly he feels no difference. "Just a nap."
She looks … almost content like this, setting aside the obvious factors for which she’s not.
*
Thinking back on all the movies Steve’s ever seen where someone dies in someone else’s arms – all the war flicks his dad enjoys watching, all the classics Robin has ever made him sit through – he used to think there must be a moment. One moment where you must feel this last bit of life draining out of them. Like a shiver or something.
With Robin, at least, he doesn’t. Or maybe he just doesn’t remember. Doesn’t want to.
All he does remember – all he’ll ever remember – is looking down and seeing her chest still.
And then seeing his own hand – like it doesn’t belong to his arm anymore – reach out, two fingers clumsily prodding for a pulse at her throat, then her wrist, both slick with blood and still. Nothing. His vision blurs. He shrugs out of his beaten leather jacket, tucks her in.
Then he leans down. Presses his lips to her forehead, the one patch of skin where she still feels warm, alive. All he can taste is the salt of his own tears. She smells like seawater.
He lifts his head, sees the sun – asshole that it is – peek through the parting clouds and stab him clean in the eye.
He squints up at it. It shouldn’t look beautiful, but it does.
He opens his mouth. Screams.
The morning doesn’t scream back.
*
Dead weight is so heavy.
He doesn’t remember her body feeling this heavy on the way up the stairs. Perhaps his arms are just shot. Soreness. Stiffness. An ache that has struck root in his marrow, his shoulders, has infested his biceps, his joints, and his arms all the way down to his fingertips now too as he carries her away from the wall where – in his mind – he thinks he can still hear the air rattle in and out of her strained lungs.
The farther he walks, the quieter it gets. Until he hears nothing at all.
Even the wind has lost its melody. The air circulating in his own system – though he can still feel it, cold on his face and scalding when slicing through the sweat under his collar – has gone mute. If anything, there’s some low rushing noise reverberating in his ears. Blood. Or water. There’s still so much blood. He’s certain he must be leaving a trail, but he knows if he turns to look, if he sees it, he will have to retch. And he can’t, not yet – not while he’s still carrying her.
Robin would say he’s an idiot for doing this.
Steve can hear her voice say it – you’re such an idiot, dude – in her fondest tone.
He cracks a smile into nowhere ahead, momentarily lifts his gaze into the open sky, as if he’ll see her soul or something float upwards, waving him goodbye. He nods toward a flitting, drifting shred of cloud. Fast, like Robin. Almost dizzying. God, what bullshit. He’s never even believed in anything like that, can’t imagine why this would have changed now, even while wishing that it had.
The sky looks pretty enough, though, now, sheening in soft pastels. Resembling the insides of those conch shells Robin keeps arranged along her bedroom windowsill. Kept. Or technically, they should still be there. If her house is still standing. Maybe he should go there. Collect some. Lay them down on– whatever.
Any place is as good as the other, he figures.
And his arms – Jesus, he’s so sorry – but they are getting so damn tired, going numb. He’s been gripping her arms so tight, must have dug his nails into her shins so bad that he’s hurting her … oh, right. No. He can’t, of course. He keeps forgetting. Urging himself to.
Setting her down, though, feels wrong too. Like letting go. Like letting it happen. He does it anyway. Doesn’t see any other way. He’s only got two hands. Two bloody, aching hands. Hands that are indifferent now to the additional stretch of digging them into the cold, unyielding soil. The ground is stubborn. Soon, the edges of his nails are black. His fingertips, numb. And he’s barely scratched the surface. All he’s done is rip up grass.
Steve isn’t sure how far he’s come, if it’s already deep enough, he’s never done this before. He’s elbow-deep in torn grass and roots when hands join him. Knees that drop to the other side of the narrow pit. Whether a voice belongs to those hands and knees or not, he can’t hear it, only notices that they’re faster now, as fast as the hot drops that keep dutifully pouring down his face, dripping from his chin into the earth.
Judging by the ache in his throat, the soreness, the raw heat in his cheeks, Steve thinks he must be sobbing. Either his body has learned how to manage that soundlessly, or he’s just gone deaf.
And maybe he’s going insane once and for all – finally, properly losing it. Maybe some monster got into his head after all. Maybe he’s just high. Because as he turns back towards her to– to pick her up one last time – Steve swears she’s peeled those blue eyes open. Eyes he knows he closed. They’re staring at him now, just watching. Watching him fumble with her hair, attempting to bring it into order, to smooth it down and wipe her lips free of blood.
As though only waiting for her chance to tell him how it’s actually done.
Steve?
Her definitely not-real voice pipes up.
I’m glad you’re here.
Steve exhales. His fingers twitch in her hair. He doesn’t answer the ghost or memory or whatever-the-fuck it is right away. He just breathes. Just tries to get it right.
"I’m not going anywhere, don’t you worry."
*
"We should … say something," Nancy whispers, squeezing his hand over the hole that’s now a grave, just like that, their fingers sticky with blood and mud.
"Then say something," Steve hears himself croak.
He’s taken off one of Robin’s rings – one in the shape of a tiny, silver leaf with a bite taken out of it – and he thinks she’d forgive him. Now he’s rolling it in the palm of his other hand, over and over, imagining that it still feels warm. What to do with it? No idea. But Robin’s got his jacket with her down there, and so it seems only fair that he gets to keep – something.
Maybe Nancy indeed starts saying something, maybe not.
The sound of a distant whistle – maybe nature, maybe human-made – distracts Steve.
Staring off into nowhere, he thinks he meets Robin’s gaze somewhere where she can’t be. She grins, and it looks so real, or at least realer, without all the spatters of blood competing with her freckles. She laughs, snickers, her eyebrows doing those weird little flips.
Tilting her head, she asks, "Were you worried that I was dead?"
"Of course not," he replies, aloud or not. Real or not, she sounds like Robin.
"Awww, you were." Her grin widens, if possible, and he supposes if she were close enough, her fist would nudge his shoulder, or her shoulder would bump into his. Then, her gaze drifts downward, into the pit that houses her destroyed mirror, and the joy falters. "Oh."
When she glances back up at him, Steve can’t help but frown. For he knows Robin’s prone to surprising, to doing the opposite of what one expects her to, but her smile hasn’t faded all the way.
"See! And you thought I was being dramatic when I said–“
"Steve?"
His hand is being shaken, and Robin flickers, glitches, pales away, the version of her standing at least. Leaving the version in the pit, and the version in his head, nothing in between.
Steve stares down at his own arm, at the deep red handprint circling his wrist.
Shoving his own hand away from himself, he reaches down. His fingers caress the friable soil piled at his feet. He lets a handful of it rain down on her, not her face, just her legs, for now. Watches it scatter. Baby steps. Her feet still in her pair of red, scuffed Converse. The left one’s missing its laces. That’s Robin for you. Showing up to a fight meant to wrestle for life or death with one shoe barely clinging to her foot. He’d laugh if it didn’t burn so fucking much.
"Love you, Rob," he rasps, barely under his breath.
Duh. Sure you do, dingus.
More earth.
It’s just dirt. It’s just his hands doing a job. It’s not–
(goodbye.)