Hopper drives slowly but methodically on the way to the hospital.
It's just him, Joyce, and Steve because Joyce wouldn't let anyone else come along (no matter how desperately Dustin and Jonathan tried).
If Steve could feel anything beyond the overpowering nausea, dizziness, and shock, he thinks he would feel relieved.
He's pretty sure he's hit rock bottom and he appreciates the reprieve of witnesses.
Currently, he's hunched over a grocery bag in the back seat, trying his damnedest not to throw up again. Joyce is sitting in the front seat, but she's reaching behind her to keep a hand on Steve's knee.
"You're okay, sweetie. You're going to be just fine."
No, Steve doesn't think he will be. Because he doesn't think he cares at all what happens from this point forward. And he knows that's bad – like… off the rails, wheels spinning, crash and burn bad.
But he just doesn't care.
He doesn't care.
"Steve," Jim says softly. "Tell us again."
Steve spits into the bag, takes a deep breath, and recites the date dutifully.
"Good," Jim praises and looks in the rearview mirror to meet Steve's eyes. "We're almost there."
xxx
Déjà vu is not at all fun to experience when said déjà vu is occurring at the hospital.
Once again, Steve finds himself sitting in emergency room triage for the second time in two weeks.
Last time, it was just him and Nancy. Steve doesn't remember much about it (thank God, because it was probably awkward having his now and then ex-girlfriend tending to him while he learned the extent of his concussion), but he does remember being here. He remembers the noise, the smells.
He feels over-stimulated which does absolutely no favors for the nausea gnawing at his gut.
Hopper is standing behind his chair with a grounding hand holding onto his neck and Joyce is sitting beside him, holding one of those emesis basins in her lap in case Steve needs it and a cup of water that Steve hasn't felt brave enough to try.
"What time is it?" he asks, when it occurs to him that he has absolutely no idea.
"Little after 10:30," Jim answers, without looking at his watch, which tells Steve he's been keeping an eye on it this whole time.
"Don't you have to get home…?" Steve asks him, leaving the to El? unsaid, because they're in public and who knows who could be listening.
"No, it's alright, kid. I'm not leaving until you're seen by a doctor."
Steve bites down on his lip because he feels like a goddamn burden.
He knows how much Jim hates being away from El, especially ever since she closed the gate. He knows that had taken a lot out of her; she still has a long recovery before she's back to 100%.
Steve's starting to think he has a long recovery, too.
xxx
Puking blood evidently trumps a concussion because Steve is seen by a doctor within 30 minutes, which is unheard of in the Hawkins ER.
He sits quietly while Jim and Joyce explain to the doctors what has been going on, from the time Steve had gotten a concussion, courtesy of Billy Hargrove, to now (sans Shadow Monster and Demodogs). Every now and then Steve will answer a question directed at him, but for the most part he lets Jim and Joyce do the talking.
He just doesn't have the energy.
xxx
Ninety minutes and a glut of tests and imaging later, the doctors rule out the possibility of an internal bleed. Best conclusion they can come to is that the blood in Steve's vomit stemmed from the nose bashing that he had endured from Hargrove. Post-nasal drip, hemo-style.
Not the wildest of assumptions considering Steve hasn't gone even two days without a nosebleed since the blow.
Now, Steve has been transferred out of the ER and admitted to the medical unit for observation overnight. He's severely dehydrated (apparently drinking only cheap beer for an entire week will do that to you, plus prolonged vomiting stints) and he's been through "trauma," and they want to make sure he's emotionally stable before they release him.
Jesus.
Good luck with that, people.
Steve feels the opposite of emotionally stable as he lies on his hospital bed and listens to Joyce's end of the conversation while she calls Jonathan and the kids to give them an update.
Hopper left once Steve was settled with the promise of returning first thing in the morning.
So now it's just Steve and Joyce – she insists on staying the night on the pullout cot – which makes Steve feel loved, vulnerable, and smothered all at once.
The nausea has finally subsided, now that they've got him hooked on an IV and there are anti-nausea meds pumping though his system. But the queasiness in his gut has been replaced with a lump in his throat.
On the outside, everything feels still now.
Quiet.
But on the inside, Steve feels so keyed up he can barely stand it.
His father is dead. He's dead, and moments before he died he drove Steve out of the house. (He can still hear the beer bottles shattering over his head.) His father is dead, and Steve can still feel the twinge of pain in his back that he caused. (It makes him feel sick all over again.) His father is dead, and his mother is God knows where, completely oblivious to the news. (He seriously can't handle this.)
"Steve, sweetheart?" Joyce's voice breaks into his inner turmoil.
"Yeah?" he croaks, and turns his head to face her.
She gives him a pitying smile, and reaches to brush some tears away from his cheeks that he hadn't even known were there. "Do you think you can drink a little water now?"
Steve licks his lips, nods, and hoists himself up to accept the cup she's holding out to him.
"Do you need to talk, Steve?" she asks kindly, almost knowingly, as he takes a few sips and it occurs to Steve that Joyce knows – to some extent – what he is going through. She recently lost Bob, and her grief is still palpable.
Steve clears his throat. He doesn't want to encumber her with even more heartache. She has enough on her plate.
He also doesn't feel like talking. Not now. He feels like sleeping. Sleeping is the best coping mechanism out there. He just doesn't know if his brain will turn off enough to allow it.
"Actually, Mrs. Byers…. I-I think I just want to try and go to sleep, if that's okay."
"Of course it is," she responds. "I know you must be exhausted. Do you want to take something to make falling asleep easier?" she asks. "We can see if your nurse can give you something."
Yes, God bless her, that's exactly what he wants. "Yeah, I-I think that would help," Steve says. "Thanks, Mrs. Byers."
"You're welcome," she says as she presses the button to page the nurse. Then she squeezes Steve's arm gently and says, "And call me Joyce, hon."