There's darkness crushing down on her. It seeps into her lungs and fills her throat, choking, grasping, stealing away every last breath. Pearl reaches up and reaches out, fingers curling into the air, grabbing onto something long gone.

Sometimes, she says his name and sometimes she calls out for his mother. But always, always, she vanishes in a burst of light and he wakes up - screaming, to begin with, and Garnet always rushes into his room and holds him close, because she knows, she knows, she knows, and everything will be okay; sobbing, later on, even once Pearl's come back to him, and sometimes Amethyst slips into his room, laughs and tells him to cheer up, and they go for a run out down to the beach, playing in the gently lapping waves by the light of the stars.

Once, though, it's neither. Once, the door to his bedroom cracks open and Steven rolls over, hides his face in the pillow. It's stupid that he still thinks of this, stupid to still be so upset, because that sword might have damaged Pearl's gem but it didn't break it, not yet, not ever, and she's right downstairs. But his cheeks are damp with tears and his chest rises and falls, rises and falls, rapid, aching, desperate.

"Steven?" Pearl lingers just inside the doorway. She sounds unsure, hesitant, and it's been so many years since he's had a nightmare, so many years since she last picked him up in his arms.

But Pearl remembers those days - when Rose had first left, and it was this squirming, wiggling thing that she held; and she remembers the day that Steven first showed an inclination for powers, and how Greg had come to them, so lost, so confused, because that was his baby boy and he didn't want to give Steven up, not ever, but he couldn't take care of someone that wasn't completely human; and she remembers, clearly, hushing the child when he dreamt of reaching shadows, telling him that they weren't true, that he would never be harmed, not while she was around.

Most important of all, Pearl knows that she hasn't been in here for a long time. She wonders if she's even welcome.

Steven presses his face harder into the pillow. His words are muffled by the fabric, warped by the sobs. "M'fine," he says. Then a second time, louder than the first.

"Can I come in?" Pearl asks, rather than argue. Lying is something that she understands, after all, and keeping hurts hidden is a trait that must run amongst all of them.

Eventually, the boy nods and Pearl walks inside and perches on the edge of his bed. They don't talk, not at first, but she rests a hand on his shoulder. It's warm and solid; Steven rolls over and presses his face against her thigh, because she's here now, she's always going to be here. "I don't want to lose you," he says, but the words are too soft to really be heard.

Pearl hushes him, and soothes him, and runs a hand through his hair. "I'm right here, Steven. I'm right here."

He cries until there are no more tears. Steven's eyes burn and his throat hurts, tongue cotton in his mouth. But he doesn't let go, and neither does Pearl, and they sit there, together, in the dark, until his breaths even out and slumber claims him. The dream doesn't come again and Pearl is glad for that, because Garnet has always been so much better at this then her. Even Amethyst, child that she is, can steal his attention onto more pleasant things.

And Pearl finds, each time, every time, that she can never do much more than hold on.