Chapter Text
The hospital smelled like antiseptic and exhaustion, that sharp chemical bite mixed with the faint metallic tang of blood that still clung to Steve’s clothes no matter how many times he’d tried to wash it off.
He sat hunched in a stiff plastic chair in the hallway outside Eddie Munson’s room, elbows braced on his knees, head hanging low. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like angry hornets. Every so often a nurse’s shoes squeaked against the linoleum as they hurried past. Monitors beeped steadily from inside the room, a fragile rhythm that meant Eddie was still alive.
Steve’s hands ached. The cuts across his palms from the rope burns were bandaged tight, but the pain pulsed with every heartbeat. A reminder. They had actually done it. They had hauled Eddie out of the Upside Down. Vecna was gone. The gates were closing. Hawkins was shattered, but they were breathing.
Eddie had barely made it.
Steve rubbed at his eyes, trying to push away the memory of Eddie bleeding out on the ground, pale and still. The way his own voice had cracked when he’d shouted for help. The way he’d kept pressure on the worst wounds the entire way back.
He should go home. Sleep. But the thought of the empty house waiting for him made his stomach twist.
Footsteps approached. Robin dropped into the chair beside him with a heavy sigh, her shoulder bumping his. She smelled like sweat, fear, and the faint strawberry of her lip balm. Her hair was a mess, clothes still stained with dirt and blood.
“You look like shit,” she said quietly, voice rough from everything they’d been through.
Steve let out a weak laugh that hurt his bruised ribs. “Feel like it too.”
They sat in silence for a long time. The kind of silence that came after the world had nearly ended, thick, heavy, full of everything they weren’t ready to say yet. Robin didn’t push. She never really did about the important things. It was one of the reasons their friendship worked.
A nurse walked by pushing a cart, the wheels rattling. Steve straightened automatically, pulling on the familiar mask. Easy smile. Relaxed shoulders. Make sure no one looks too closely or asks questions he couldn’t answer.
“You should go home,” Robin said after a while. “Get some real sleep. I’ll stay.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” Her voice was gentle but firm. “You haven’t slept in days, Steve. You carried him half the way out. You fought Vecna’s monsters. Let someone else take a turn.”
Steve shrugged. The motion pulled at sore muscles. “Someone has to be here when he wakes up. Dustin will lose it if he’s alone.”
Robin studied him. He could feel her gaze, sharp, observant, seeing past the King Steve armor he still wore like a second skin. She had seen him at his worst in that Starcourt bathroom. She knew pieces of him no one else did. But she didn’t press.
Instead, she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Okay. We’ll stay a little longer.”
The relief that washed through him was almost dizzying. No questions or digging. Just acceptance, it’s always been like that with her.
Hours bled by. Steve drifted in and out of a light doze, jerking awake every time a doctor or nurse entered Eddie’s room. When Eddie finally stirred, groggy, pained, voice raspy but undeniably alive, Steve stayed in the doorway like a ghost.
He watched Dustin’s tearful reunion, watched Wayne Munson grip his nephew’s hand with trembling fingers. Eddie’s dark eyes found him across the room, hazy with drugs but full of exhausted gratitude.
Steve offered a small nod and that practiced, reassuring smile. You’re welcome. Glad you’re okay. Then he slipped away down the hallway before anyone could pull him into the moment. Before the questions started.
The drive home through Hawkins’ broken streets was surreal. Cracked pavement. Houses with tarps over roofs. The sky lightening to a bruised gray. When he pulled into his driveway, the big house loomed dark and silent.
His parents were still gone. Some trip overseas. They probably didn’t even know how close their son had come to dying. Again.
Steve kicked off his shoes in the foyer. The echo of his footsteps followed him to the kitchen. His hands moved on autopilot, filling a pot with water, pulling ingredients from the fridge and pantry. He didn’t need to think. The motions were burned into him from years of empty nights just like this one.
Soon the kitchen filled with the comforting scent of simmering sauce and garlic. He ate alone at the massive dining table, the scrape of his fork loud in the quiet. Empty chairs stared back at him like silent accusations.
Later, after washing every dish until the kitchen gleamed, Steve climbed the stairs to his room. He collapsed onto the bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling as the sun rose higher.
Sleep came in broken fragments, haunted by the image of Eddie bleeding out, by the weight of too many secrets, and by that old, familiar whisper in the back of his mind:
If they really knew you… they wouldn’t stay.