#also i know he just woke up or whatever and prolly isnt coherent but blah blah hand wavey medical science

[worldsokayestbabysitter]

a little snippet that might one day turn into more. a kind of sequel to this

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Steve remembers holding his mamas hand every Sunday, the only day they consistently spent together when she was home. Remembers sitting in the pews, trying to keep his eyes open in the midday heat. Remembers looking down at his hand in hers, seeing that his was entirely engulfed by her painter’s hands. Felt like he could survive anything as long as his hand fit in his mom’s.

When he woke up in the hospital, for the third time, for the last time, after he swam his way to consciousness, his mom was at his bedside. And his hand was bigger than hers, his hand was calloused, cut to hell from where he fell running from the end of the world. Her hand was still soft. More wrinkles than he remembered, but still as unblemished. She was gripping his hand like her life depended on it, even in her sleep. Same deceptive strength.

Steve knows it's only been a week since he last saw her. Leaving again, but this time he was grateful. She would be safe.

It feels like it's been an eternity. Just the weight of his mom's hand has brought him back to himself. Time feels like it's passing again, every tick of the clock and every rise and fall of her shoulders rushing through him.

His mom is here. Her hand in his, asleep, but here.

He's alive. It all comes back to him in waves. They all survived, it's over. His mama's here, and it's over.

When she wakes up and sees Steve looking at her, she freezes. Looks at him in disbelief.

They don’t say anything, at first. What is there to say? Where do they even start?

Steve wants to say, where have you been. Steve wants to say, why are you here, just you, and not dad? He wants to say, I did it all without you, I survived without you, I went through hell and lost so much and you weren't there. He wants to say, thank god you were safe, he wants to say, why didn't you protect me?

But he waits for her to speak first, doesn't think he's able to if the dryness of his throat of is anything to go by.

"Oh Steve," she finally whispers. She runs her free hand through his hair and her eyes quickly fill with tears.

"My Steve, my baby, I'm sorry," she says. She could be apologizing for a million things, for leaving him, for the long business trips, for the wounds he's starting to feel, for the years he was left alone, for the horrors he's endured, for showing up now instead of then. She could be apologizing for all of it. And Steve knows he should be angry. Knows that some distant part of him is furious and that that white-hot rage will bubble up to the surface eventually, but his mom is holding his hand, her thumb gliding across his knuckles like they used to in church, and she's here.

"Mom-" Steve chokes out. It comes out rough, through the lump in his dry throat. His mom moves from the chair at his bedside to sit on the edge of the hospital bed, hand never leaving his.

"I know, I'm here, I'm sorry," she says, her voice still soft and wobbly. Tears have started to run freely down her face, and she does nothing to catch them. She leans over and grabs a glass of water, holds it as he takes tentative sips from the straw. When he leans away, she sets it aside, helps him sit up. That same angry relief bubbles up again. Here she is, being his mom, finally. He must have really come close to death this time, he thinks.

They stare at each other again, his mom's hand running through his hair. And it's been too long since he's studied his mom's face, because he can't tell what that emotion is.

"Steve, I-" she takes a breath, struggling to find words. So different from the woman who used to pick out her sentences carefully, used to enter conversations like they were battles. "I don't know what happened, to you or to Hawkins. I know it was bad, that whatever you went through was- that it was bad enough to put you here. There's been a crowd rotating through here and I can't get a straight answer from anyone. But whatever it was, I should have been here. I should have been here a long time ago, and I'm- I'll be sorry for it for the rest of my life. But I'm here now, If you'll have me."

A year ago, hell, a week ago, Steve would've scorned the idea of it, an apology. Forgiveness past the last minute.

But his mom is here. And she's holding his hand.