Work Text:
Robin is certain of three things:
1) Today is going to be terrible, 2) she’s dying, and 3) Steve is the worst.
Well – okay, no, that last one isn’t really true; he’s actually making breakfast for them both right now, which is great, because, again, Robin is probably dying.
It’s just he has the audacity to bustle around their kitchen like he hadn’t had just as much to drink as Robin had last night, like the morning sunlight filtering in through the windows isn’t stabbing painfully into his eyes the way it is Robin’s, like his stomach isn’t roiling like they’re on a ship in a storm, like the dark circles under his eyes and his sallow complexion don’t indicate he’s every bit as hungover as Robin is.
“How are you even functioning right now?” Robin whines from where her head is half hidden behind her arms, slumped over at the kitchen island.
Steve shrugs. “Practice, I guess?” His voice is a little croaky, but he sounds otherwise unaffected, and Robin hates it a little.
“There is no way you’ve been this hungover often enough to just be used to it,” Robin argues. “I would’ve noticed.”
“No, not hungover,” Steve answers with the soft breath of a laugh. “Just– migraines, y’know?”
Robin gives a vague, affirmative grunt, but it takes a few long moments for the meaning of the words to reach her through the soupy mess of her brain.
“Wait,” Robin mumbles, braving the murderous rays of the sun to look up at Steve where he’s standing over the stove. “This is what a migraine feels like?”
“I mean, I don’t know exactly how you’re feeling right now, but– are you nauseous?” Steve asks.
Robin swallows thickly, humming in the affirmative.
“Kinda dizzy?”
“Mm.”
“Light and noise make you feel kind of like you want to die?”
“God, yes.”
“Head hurt so much that you wish it would actually just fall off?”
Robin jams the heels of her palms into her eyes, nodding pitifully.
Steve hums. “Then that’s about it, yeah.”
“Oh my god.” Robin drags her hands down her face, staring blearily at Steve as he pokes nonchalantly at the eggs he’s currently scrambling. “You do this regularly?”
“Sometimes it’s not as bad. Sometimes it’s worse. That’s when I get stuff like trouble seeing, or talking. But I guess?” Steve shrugs again, the line of his shoulders stiff; it’s clear he doesn’t feel well, but he’s far more active than Robin thinks she has the capacity to be right now. “Like, this sucks, but I’d still classify it as okay enough to go to work. Maybe run errands, if they’re important.”
“Oh my god,” Robin mutters again, laying her head back on her folded arms. “You deserve financial compensation for being alive.”
Steve snorts. “When you find someone to talk to about that, let me know.”
The quiet clink of porcelain against tile sounds just beside Robin’s head, and she opens her eyes, unable to remember when she’d closed them. Scrambled eggs and buttered toast are laid out temptingly on a plate before her, looking good enough that she’s willing to contemplate actually eating them despite the faint protests of her stomach.
“Did you take something for your head already?” Steve asks.
“Tylenol,” Robin says, fingering the edge of the plate. “Definitely hasn’t kicked in yet.”
Steve rounds the island, coming to stand behind the stool Robin is perched on. “Here, sit up straight for a minute.”
Robin groans, but slowly drags herself upright. Behind her, Steve laughs.
“Don’t complain; I’m gonna make it worth your while.”
Before she can ask just how he’s going to do that, Steve’s hands come up to rest at the juncture of Robin’s neck and shoulders, large and strong, a little clammy, but comforting and warm all the same. Then he digs his thumbs into the tense muscle at the back of Robin’s neck, and she thinks she might actually murder him.
The pain only lasts a few moments, though, before the stiff muscle gives way under Steve’s attention, loosening and relaxing until the persistent ache that’s been radiating from the back of Robin’s head begins to ease.
“Holy shit, you’re magic,” Robin says, hushed, almost reverent, shifting slightly in discomfort as Steve moves on to her shoulders, before the muscle there yields, too, granting another ounce of relief.
“Magic, huh?” Steve teases, sounding warm and smug. “I’m gonna remember you said that.”
“Tell anyone and I’ll deny it. You’re too full of yourself as it is,” Robin says, though it comes out with zero conviction, on the tail of a pleased sigh.
“Uh huh.” The massaging motion of Steve’s hands slows and tapers off, leaving him rubbing warm, comforting circles just at the slope where her neck meets her shoulders. “Well, now that I’ve worked my not-magic, do you feel like you could eat?”
Robin looks at the eggs and toast again and finds that her stomach has calmed a little now that her head isn’t pounding. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Good. I didn’t put all that work in just to have it go to waste,” Steve says, moving back around the island to hop up on his own stool, pulling a second plate towards himself.
“Oh, yeah, ten whole minutes of work. You poor thing,” Robin drawls, but there’s an amused little smile tucked up into the corners of her mouth.
It might not be such a bad day after all, she decides, and she’s probably not dying, but she does know that Steve is actually, probably, the best.