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Steve's mind is still playing on repeat once he arrives home:
"Didn't you work at that ice cream place? Scoops?"
"Shouldn't you know how to–?"
"Shouldn't you know–?"
"You should know, should know, should know..."
Yes, he should know. But he doesn't, is the thing.
He can't recall much on a good day, but on bad ones, his mind feels empty, his memories gone up in flames and smoke like the mall itself.
Most of his summer at Scoops is lost. He knows that he's worked there, remembers what Robin and the kids told him, but trying to recall makes his head hurt. It feels like trying to run through quicksand to pick up pennies.
He can count the clear memories of this time on one hand. They feel like Polaroids, little snapshots of a moment, sometimes a looping movement but often only a still; and he does his best to handle them carefully, fearing they'd get lost or fade too.
He can't afford to lose them.
Not the picture of the first time Robin smiled at him, the little wiggly dance move Eddie did across the hall once Steve noticed him.
He also remembers the atrocious, uncomfortable outfit he had to wear and that girl that came in daily. She was always blowing bubble while she waited for her order. In Steve's head is a picture of that one time the gum popped and stuck to her cheek, the rest, how often she showed up, he only knows because Robin told him so.
And then there's that one time Hopper came in and left with a drop of chocolate on his shirt. It was the last time Steve saw him before–
He falls heavily on the sofa, his shoes and vest removed on autopilot. He's trembling, his breathing uneven. Somehow, he's still trying to remember if he ever made a coupe Romantic or whatever he was asked about today.
Can't even fucking remember that!
Robin would know, she always fills in his missing pieces, but she’s not here, she’s–
Frustrated, his hands go to his head, not sure yet if they are going to hit or grab at his hair, but they never make it. Warm hands, ringed and calloused, wrap around his and carefully pull them into someone's lap.
Eddie's with him. He can't fill in this memory, but he's patient, doesn't mind the black holes, the delays. Steve's breathing evens out.
"There you go sweetheart."