Chapter Text
All your dreams are on their way
See how they shine
Oh, if you need a friend
I'm sailing right behind
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will ease your mind
- Simon & Garfunkel, “Bridge Over Troubled Water”
- 1 year later -
The sun is setting when Gareth, Robin, and Wayne pass the “Welcome to Hawkins” sign on the side of the road. It sits far into the distance, backlit by the golden horizon – that sleepy town full of every nightmare Gareth has had since he first stepped foot into it. It makes his skin itch, like the very air here is caustic. Truth be told, if it weren’t for the fact that Eddie was buried here, none of them would bother returning. Today, however, is a special occasion.
He fiddles with the dial of the radio. He loves the grumpy old fuck like he was his own dad, but Gareth and Robin could only stomach so many hours of Wayne’s Grand Ol Oprey oldies before their ears started bleeding.
Robin smacks his hand away, and starts adjusting the dial herself. She’s shoved into the middle seat, which she never fails to complain about, and settles on a classic rock station. Smiling to herself, she settles back and fiddles with the mood ring on her hand. Anytime Gareth looks at her, if she’s not otherwise preoccupied, her hand is always close to her chest.
Envy is a nasty thing, but hard to avoid in quiet moments. So he turns away, and looks toward their destination.
“One of these days,” Wayne says as they step out of the truck, its worn shocks squeaking with the shifting weight, “This place is liable to just collapse.”
Anita’s Diner stands before them, still old. Still faded and worn, slowly rotting back into the earth, just like everything else here.
“And they’ll keep it open until it does,” Robin agrees, before grinning, “or they’ll just throw a tarp over the roof and call that good enough.”
Gareth snorts, and Wayne chuckles. “I ‘spose yer right, little lady. But hungry dogs can’t be picky. Let’s head in.”
They eat in silence, and Gareth tries to pretend he can’t envision it – Eddie sitting just across the booth from him, speaking with his mouth full, and smiling that stupid, wonderful smile. Tries to pretend it doesn’t still hurt that he can’t anymore.
“When does the semester start again, youngins?” Wayne asks, pulling Gareth out of his head. He’s pretty sure Wayne already knows the answer, and though he isn’t disagreeable to silence himself, he’s good at catching on when others aren’t fairing as well beneath it.
Robin sips her coffee. “August 13th. Garebear and I think we found an apartment a couple of blocks from campus, too, so that seems promising.”
“It’s a dump,” Gareth mouths over a bite of floppy, underwhelming bacon, “But it’ll do.”
Wayne hums. The diner is pretty empty, surprisingly, but there’s still the usual sounds drifting through the air: the clinking of silverware on plates, muffled shouting from the kitchen, and… gum chewing?
Gareth looks up and sees Heather. Her hair is thrown into a messy bun with a pen stuck through it, with a single strand falling gently over the side of her face. She stands beside him, arms crossed with an almost disconcerting glance trained right on him. It makes him want to hide, just a little bit, but in a weirdly good way.
“You’re back in town, huh?” She asks, voice level and not betraying her intentions in the slightest.
Gareth feels frozen for a moment. She remembered him? That seems insane. He’d never had the nerve to speak a single word to her.
Robin kicks him in the shin, breaking him out of his stupor.
He winces, and stutters out a reply, “Uh, y-yeah. Yeah. Had something to take care of.”
Heather searches his face for a moment, before her expression softens. “I was sorry to hear about your friend. I hope Carver rots for that.”
The energy at the table shifts at the reminder, turning slightly sour. Carver was still awaiting trial at Indiana State; not that there was much to be argued per his guilt, the D.A. assured Wayne. It was just a matter of sentencing.
He clears his throat, and tries to smile, “Thanks. We do, too.”
As the group gathers themselves to leave, Heather stops him by the door. Her hand is slender and slightly cold as she grips his shoulder firmly. “Before you leave town, stop by. There’s a nice free milkshake with your name on it, ‘kay?”
He nods dumbly, and stumbles out the door as soon as she releases him.
Robin, already scooted into the center seat of the truck, smirks.
Gareth’s face burns. “Shut up, Birdie.”
“I didn’t say anything!” she laughs, and Wayne’s quiet chuckle joins the chorus.
The laughter fades, however, as they drive down the road, bringing the gates of Hawkins Cemetery into view. Waiting for them just outside, tapping her foot impatiently next to a nondescript hatchback, is Nancy Wheeler.
“Took you long enough!” Nancy calls out, but there’s no real venom in it. Just excitable impatience. “They finished up about an hour ago.”
She hugs them all warmly as they approach, even Wayne who appears slightly shocked by the direct, physical affection. Robin only blushes, shuffling her feet awkwardly and no doubt trying to keep a veritable flood of nervous word-vomit at bay.
Nancy leads them in without further comment, her steps strong and sure against the cobblestone walkway. The air here is still, but he feels more comfortable here than anywhere else in town. There’s a peace to it, a gentle reprieve from the memories elsewhere. He supposes that’s how cemeteries are meant to be.
Following Eddie’s death and Carver’s arrest, Robin and Gareth found themselves needing something to do. Anything at all to channel all the energy and grief they felt into something worthwhile. Their first call, then, was to Nancy.
Jim Hopper agreed to meet with her, and not even two weeks later, her new story was published. They exposed every vile, reprehensible thing the Harrington’s had done, from neglecting and abusing their son to covering up his death. Dead and gone as they were, maybe it meant little to them. But he hoped that somewhere out there, they felt it: this giant “fuck you” to their ghostly egos.
The town, hoping to save some face, agreed to find and move Steve’s body to a marked plot. If town officials thought it strange that Wayne, Jim, and Nancy insisted that it be next to Eddie’s, they didn’t make a fuss about it.
Gareth hates that his knees weaken ever so slightly at the sight of Eddie’s gravestone – black and shining in the midday sun. But he likes how it stands out amongst the field of white marble and limestone. And he likes it even more with the gray stone now sitting at its right side.
“Steve Harrington,” it reads, “Loved and Never Forgotten.”
Nancy kneels on the dirt, seemingly uncaring of how the fresh soil might dirty her perfectly pressed pantsuit. Pressing a gentle hand to the gravestone, she smiles softly. “Rest easy, Steve. Sorry it took so long.”
She turns her head toward Eddie’s and the softness turns into a cheeky grin. “You, too, punk. See you both on the other side, once my adventures are done.”
He, Wayne, and Robin look on, bemused despite the sadness nudging at the edges of it all.
A sudden, gentle breeze rolls across them, sending a trail of goosebumps up Gareth’s arm, and he can’t help but smile.
He guesses Eddie and Steve are pleased.
Robin can feel them easily and readily. She’d always had a knack for languages, she told him, and this was just another one. Gareth wasn’t so gifted; he just wasn’t built that way. But if he tried hard enough, really focused in, he could feel them.
Wherever Gareth and Robin were, Steve and Eddie were never far behind.
They’d tried to use the spirit box once, but Gareth didn’t like it. It just wasn’t the same – it felt wrong, somehow. Eddie and Steve were fairly quiet when the box was brought out anyway.
Grief was such an easy thing to get lost in. And Gareth got the distinct impression that the two didn’t want either of them to be trapped in it for long.
No, they didn’t need the box. They were right there when he really needed it, when all the pain and despair bore down on him and he was certain it would crush him. Even if it was hard to catch, like a wonky radio signal, the feeling was much better than any monotonous words drifting through static.
The feeling was them, in the purest way possible. And that was enough.
- 10 years later -
Robin looks beautiful, draped in a flowing, lace veil dotted with constellation patterns that falls over the shoulders of her well-fitted white suit. He’d laughed at her when she insisted on finding a veil, thinking it would look a little strange unmatched with a wedding dress. Looking at her now though, beaming and jittery in the large mirror, he realizes how wrong he was. It was perfectly Birdie, down to the vintage white dress shoes she’d spent days polishing.
“Will Carla like it, you think?” She asks, wringing her hands together until her knuckles turn red. From beside her, Heather stands and takes Robin’s hands into her own firmly. “Of course she will. And if she doesn’t, I’ll kick her ass two ways to Sunday.”
“I’ll provide back-up,” Gareth chimes in.
Heather rolls her eyes, but he catches her tiny grin. Together for eight years, married for two, and he still doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of seeing it.
“Besides. At least you aren’t carrying a giant balloon under that fancy shirt of yours,” Heather deadpans, gesturing down to her own stomach.
It would be any day now, the doctor had said. The thought of being a dad still scared the shit out of him, to be honest, but he’d never been more excited in his life. When she’d told him, in a manner so very Heather – that being, throwing the positive test at his face and demanding they leave immediately to buy a baby book – he’d been sure he was going to throw up. But when he felt the faintest pair of pats on his back, it helped ease the fear and nausea.
The ceremony was a few hours away still; it was to be a small, private affair, held in Wayne’s backyard. Robin, in a fit of panic, had insisted on getting dressed anyway. Although he suspected her new worry was going to be ruining the outfit somehow. But that was fine; he and Heather would carry her through it all.
Just then, Heather’s eye twitched. Followed by the smallest, near imperceptible wince.
Oh. Oh god.
“Heather? Babe? Are you-“
“Shut up,” she mutters, “I’m fi- oh fuck!” She quickly reaches for her stomach, bending only as much as it will allow. Gareth is at her side in an instant, and she grabs his hand so hard he thinks it might shatter again.
Robin’s eyes grow wide as saucers. “Is it happening? Oh my god, oh shit, oh shit wait. Let me- I’ll call Wayne. Shit. Shit!”
“No,” Heather groans, “it’s fine. It’s your day, I’m sure it’s just those uh, those-“ she snaps her fingers, “What do you call them?”
“Braxton Hicks contractions?” Gareth suggests. That doesn’t seem right though. She’d had plenty of those already.
“Yeah, that. Definitely that-“ She tenses again, face twisted in pain. “God fucking damnit that hurts.”
“Wayne!” Robin shouts, obviously panicking. “Wayne! It’s happening!”
He hears rapid footfalls from the hall, and there Wayne is. His usually stern face lit up like a Christmas display. “Now? Yer sure?”
“Yes,” Gareth and Robin say, just as Heather grumbles a half-hearted “No.”
A man of action as always, Wayne steps up to the plate. “Alright. You got the go bag, son?”
“In the truck, yeah.”
“Then let’s hop to it,” Wayne says, “I got a grandbaby to meet.”
As he helps Heather into the truck, doing his damndest to time out the contractions in his head, she starts to cry. “Birdie, please. It’s your day, I don’t want-“
“Zip it, Heather,” Robin snaps, even as she shakes with nerves, “I will get married right there in that hospital room if you want, doesn’t matter. You’re having a fucking baby!”
Heather sobs and smiles wider than he’s ever seen, and Gareth holds her as tight as he can. “We’re having a baby!”
His stupid navy suit feels far too hot. It’s not even that warm of a day, but the sweat is already pooling against his skin.
Robin clenches her hand, and it clicks.
Gareth smiles. Seems like everyone is excited.
Two hours later, Gareth is holding his son in his arms as Wayne and Robin crowd over him, cooing and gently brushing their fingers against his chubby little cheeks. Heather has drifted off into sweet, medicated slumber – a well deserved one at that.
“What are you gonna name him?” Robin whispers, eyes bursting with love and awe.
“Eddie.” Gareth whispers back. There was never any other choice, in his mind. “His name is Eddie.”
Gareth pretends not to see Wayne’s sniffle and swift wipe at his eyes, for the old man’s sake. “Fine name son. A fine name for a youngin’.”
When Robin drags her befuddled fiancé and the officiant into the hospital room once Heather is awake, Gareth snaps their first photo together as wife and wife, holding baby Eddie in their arms.
Gareth is not surprised, when he looks at the screen, to see a splash of brilliant, soft watercolor, surrounding his son.
“You’ve got guardian angels,” Gareth tells him every night, “Same as your old man.”
- 40 years later -
Gareth always thought he was afraid of dying. Maybe not his own death, per say, but how it would affect those he left behind. He had greeted grief too many times, as everyone eventually does. Nancy, then Wayne, and even Birdie, just two years ago.
It was like an old friend, in a strange way. He had trouble explaining it, he just felt like it was true.
The hospital monitors beep from behind Heather as she holds his hand. Her grip is firm, always firm and grounding. He was the rock, and she was the earth itself, keeping him upright while he held up everyone else. But he can see the cracks forming along her fault lines, try as she might to hide them behind a sad smile.
He’d had a good life. A long life, full of all the love he could have ever asked for.
So no, he wasn’t afraid of dying. If only because he knew, as sure as he knew the faltering beating of his own heart, who was waiting for him on the other side.
It had been Robin who told him, as he sat beside her on her hospice bed. Alzheimer’s was cruel; for days at a time, she simply didn’t know who anyone was. It was its own sort of tragic grief, watching someone you love be eaten away by their own mind. She was gone before her body failed her, and even now Gareth shudders at the memory of that aching pain he felt when she looked into his eyes as if it was the very first time.
Through it all, she kept holding her hand to her chest. Even as she began to drift away, it stayed cradled next to her heart.
“I can see them, Garebear,” she’d whispered, her dry throat making her voice croak. Her eyes were distant, but with the barest spark of life that assured him she wasn’t lost to the disease. She was just… somewhere else. “I’ll wait, too. We’ll wait for you.”
Gareth couldn’t hold back the sob that shattered through him as her eyes went dim.
Now his own vision begins to fade. Years of heart complications, as carefully monitored as Heather could manage, had taken their toll. He just feels tired.
His son bursts in the door, his shaggy blonde hair drenched by the rainfall outside. Gareth hadn’t noticed it, but he supposes it’s only right – to take his final breaths as the rain pours.
Heather finally breaks, sobbing as Eddie Jr. drops to his knees and throws his head onto Gareth’s chest. He finds the strength to lift his hand and cradle his son, one last time.
His son weeps and shakes, grief already settling heavy on him.
Gareth caresses him. Hopes that it’s a comfort. He can’t bring himself to speak above a whisper, but he manages to get the words out. “Your grandpa Wayne told me a long time ago that grief is a stone. It can drown you, if you aren’t careful. But it’s an easy enough fix.”
Eddie Jr. replies, voice quivering, “And what’s that old man?”
Gareth smiles, and his vision fades further. “Simple. You give it away. Every bit of love I’ve given you… just give it to other people.”
When Gareth Emerson takes his last breath, all he can hear is the beautiful sound of his son’s quiet, strained laughter. The mournful cries of his beloved wife. The flatline of the monitor. And the soft pattering of the rain.
And he feels loved.
The world is strange, now. Gareth can’t make sense of all the feeling, this lambasting torrent of sensation that ripples through him like an endless echo. All the good and all the bad, wrapped in on themselves and pushing through every particle of his being.
Eddie and Steve are here, with Robin close behind. He can’t see , exactly, but there they are. And he knows they’re all smiling.
About time you showed up, Garebear, Eddie says, dancing around him as a kaleidoscope of colorful joy.
It’s good to see you, Steve adds, floating with Eddie as a cool, calming breeze.
Not that we ever really left, Robin says, blooming forth excitedly as daisies and poppies and every flower he’d ever seen.
I missed you, Gareth whispers without a voice, weeping as solid earth opening up to a babbling brook.
There is everything here, in this place that is not a place. But none of that matters. Not when they’re all together again – forming a world all their own.
The Scooby Gang is back, baby! Eddie exclaims as he and Steve dance.
Steve laughs like the shaking of leaves kissed by the wind. I think I oughta be Fred.
This analogy is still very dumb, Robin giggles as she wraps Gareth up to join, pulling him along.
He lets himself be pulled.
But he doesn’t fuss; doesn’t grumble or worry.
They all dance together as shooting stars in the bright, brilliant night sky. Still looking down on all those they’ve left behind, gifting them love with every streak of light.
They’re together.
They’re Home.