Work Text:
May 20h, 2025
Steve stands in O’Hare at 6:45 A.M., coffee in both hands. Robin’s flight is delayed until 7:05 A.M. He needs to find a seat, but it’s already starting to fill with early morning travelers rushing to make their flights. Every time Robin files in, she begs him to stay at pick-up, and every time he ignores her and pays to park his car and wait inside. He misses the days when he could scoop Robin up as soon as she deplaned.
Steve finds an empty seat and scrolls through his notifications: Nancy solved today’s Wordle in two, Dustin spiraled over a movie theory from 1:10 A.M. to 3:05 A.M. PST, and El sent her usual “Good Morning!” text, this time with a picture of her corn snake, Noodle.
Steve slips his phone back in his pocket. He bounces his knee —a tic he knows he picked up from Robin. His coffee is still too hot to drink. There’s a family of eight struggling under their luggage, and he’s thrown back to spring break ‘86: a stolen RV, Nancy’s hair in the sunlight, a sinking feeling in his chest. Steve focuses on his breathing, lets his mind take note of every green object he sees. It helps. He doesn’t stop until the clawing fear fades from his chest. He’ll make a note of it for when he sees his therapist next month.
His phone chimes and this time it’s Erica who’s sent him a meme about her fellow congressmen on the Oversight and Accountability committee. He’s about to respond when he hears Robin across the lobby. He stands up and spreads his arms wide for the incoming hug. She smells like sweat, lime deodorant, and recycled air, but it’s his Robin. “Happy Anniversary.”
Robin steps back and frowns at him. “Steven Andrew Harrington, I cannot believe you didn’t FaceTime with me this entire trip because you stopped dying your hair. You look like a hot grandpa.”
Steve grabs her suitcase and guides them to the airport bus shuttle. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
Robin takes her coffee from his hand. “It’s not a surprise if Max posts photos of you and Lucas playing pick-up on Instagram.”
“Fuck. You know I’m bad at Instagram.”
“That’s a lie. I’ve seen the thirsty comments Mr. ‘Whoops i didn’t mean to post my after-swim look.’”
“I really didn’t! Erica roasted me in the Scoops Troop group chat for two weeks!”
Robin rolls her eyes with a smile. They board the shuttle and relax in the seats. “Can we go to that diner near your apartment? I’ve had dreams about their tiramisu french toast.”
“You literally just left one of the best food countries in the world.”
“And there are only some food cravings that Americans can solve.” Robin snuggles into his chest.
Steve runs a hand through her pixie cut. There’s more grey than before she left. The shuttle stops in their parking lot. Steve nudges Robin and they trudge to his Beemer, almost the same color as his first one.
Traffic is miserable. Robin passes out during the first traffic jam. Steve puts on Tears for Fears last album and hopes she doesn’t wake up and give him shit. Doesn’t think about the “Break for Emergency” Spotify playlist they all share. Or his yearly plans to get the hell out of Chicago for the Fourth of July. Completely ignores the mess that is late October through November. He weaves through traffic —Robin doesn’t even move when he’s cut off and he lays on his horn.
He parks at the diner and doesn’t wake her up. Instead, he puts in his AirPods and listens to a book Will recommended four months back. It’s not bad. His high school self would be surprised he can get through twenty books a year. His high school self also had undiagnosed ADHD and was a douchebag. He finishes two chapters before Robin jolts awake. “Hey, you okay?”
Robin braces her arms on the dash and takes deep breaths. She shakes her head. “Yeah, just —you know.”
Steve does. The nightmares might be the worst part: an anniversary, stress, even lack of sleep, ironically.
She playfully punches his shoulder. “How long have you been sitting here like a creeper?”
“Not long.” He opens the car door and steps out into the parking lot.
“I know that’s just Steve for ‘Robin will think it’s a creeper amount of time, so I won’t tell her.’”
He holds the diner door open for her. “Something like that.”
“You’re insufferable.”
They’re seated in a booth next to the windows. Steve eyes the exits while the server runs through the morning’s specials. They both order coffee. Robin gets her french toast sugar abomination, and he orders the veggie egg white omelet.
“Gross,” says Robin as they hand back the menus.
“Some of us don’t have the palette of a six year old.”
“Some of us like flavor.”
Steve snorts. “Thanks, Rob. How was your research?”
Robin beams and launches into an explanation of the manuscripts she studied for the past six months. Steve smiles and relaxes into the booth. They’ve had conversations like this in many diners over many years. If he closes his eyes, Steve can replace the Robin in front of him with a Robin from any time over the last forty years: undergrad, graduate, doctorate, second master’s, and years of research and teaching. This is one of his favorite Robins: gushing, excited, carefree. They worked hard for that.
The server returns with their coffee and an apology that the kitchen is swamped, so their food will be later than expected.
“No problem,” says Robin. The server leaves and Robin fishes a small box out of her bag. “Happy Anniversary, dingus.”
Steve opens the box and laughs. “Where did you even find this?” He holds up the silver D.I.L.F. charm.
“Etsy is amazing. Be glad I didn’t get you the ‘Forty and Horny’ one. Thank god for the ‘no shopping while high’ pledge.”
Steve clips it onto his charm bracelet next to a pair of ballet slippers and a walkie talkie. It’s nearly full now, a jangle mess of plastic and metal, heavy on his wrist. He pulls an almost identical box out of his jacket. “Happy Anniversary to you too.”
Robin shreds the wrapping open. She peeks inside the box and tears up. “Oh fuck you.” She pulls the charm out: two hands connected at the pinkies with a ruby in each center.
“They’re lab grown,” adds Steve
She laughs through her tears and holds out her wrist. Steve takes the charm and clips it between a double scoop cone and an electric guitar. He takes her hand and they stare at their joined hands and messy charms. They’re a memorial, a tribute, a love letter. Above their bracelets are the ice cream scoops they had done in ‘95. They’re a bit faded from the sun and years, but Steve remembers the shop in downtown Indy: the buzz of the machines, the cool alcohol wipe, the sting of the needle, Robin’s hand in his.
Their server pulls them out of the moment with their breakfast. “Anything else I can get you?”
“We’re good, thank you,” says Steve.
The server nods. “I’ve got to say this, but you guys are such a cute couple! How long have you been together?”
Robin barks out an ugly laugh and slips down the booth. Steve sends the server an apologetic smile. “We’re just friends. Have been since ‘85.”
“Oh,” says the server. “That’s really sweet. You never hear about old friends like old couples.”
“Yeah,” says Steve as he glances over at Robin. She’s recovered for the most part and spreading whipped cream. The server wishes them a good meal and leaves. Steve unrolls his silverware. “The heteronormativity, huh?”
Robin sighs. “We would have had such pretty kids. My face and your hair? Little Harrington heartbreakers, all of them.”
Steve nearly snorts his coffee up his nose. “Warn me next time, Buckley.”
She grins. “Never, Harrington.”
They pick up their silverware and tuck into their meals. Steve and Robin together, just as it should be.