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Do people wax skis like surfboards? She'll have to ask Steve.
Now her boots are mid-way to hell with how deep they are in the mud. (Could you ski in mud? Or is it on mud? Who cares about prepositions anyway?) The laces are stuck together, that will be a nightmare to clean when she comes back to the cabin.
When they come back to the cabin, actually.
Nancy is wearing boots too. Booties. They make her look so cute and harmless. The remington does, too.
Robin wonders how she didn't freak out or at least pass away when she got lost in the woods as a kid. She played with the ants and built them a house out of pinecones that the wind later blew down, and she tried making a flower crown out of wet twigs. Now she would probably dig a hole with her bare hands and bitten-to-death nails (would it be darker there and then than here and now?) and bury herself in it.
Good thing Nancy is here. If Robin, after acute thinking, decides to go down corpse-style, she will dig her out, threaten to hit her with the gun and, worse, scoff at her. Or even give her The Look. So that's a no-go.
Angry Nancy is scary and cute. And that, by itself, is a scary thought to have. Thinking is scary. Okay. Forest. Woods. Danger. Focus. She wants to spin on her heel and skedaddle, but there is mud and there is danger and there is Nance... Okay. Okay, no more thinking. All she needs to do is keep Hawkins safe tonight. That's it. Nothing too serious.
Nancy has become sweeter, though. Not like sugar or honey, or candy, or those gigantic rainbow lollipops at the fair, or caramel popcorn in someone's basement (god, she should have eaten before this) but like rhubarb pie. Tart. Hits you in the face at first bite. And you ease into it later, not noticing when you've got up to get another plate. It's not like she wants to eat Nancy Wheeler. But you get the point.
She checks in more. Asks about Robin's day and work, and what she had for breakfast, and what she did at night when she couldn't sleep, and her Song Of The Day (Robin always has one. Today it's 'Call Me' by Blondie). Different. Maybe she's having that character arc thing Steve had. But no, no way, she was not bad before. She was quite perfect, actually. It was Robin's fault for calling her a priss when she wasn't one. But now she's somehow got even better. That thought makes something start in her stomach, but that's probably an engine of some mystery machine that's making her body digest her brains because she last ate at Steve's. In the morning. (Yes, she told Nancy what she had had for breakfast. Eggs, sunny side up, and Steve's last half-a-cup of orange juice.)
And still Robin almost trips up and falls on her knees when Nancy suddenly stops, turns around, places her warm (how? It's literally freezing) hand on her arm and looks. And checks up on her, again. And tells her she's a little pale with her eyebrows lightly puckered. And asks when she last ate. And Robin gets a glimpse of The Look after she answers before Nancy drops it, puts a hand into her Night Watch! Bag (yes, she would stylise it with an exclamation mark in the middle and italicised if she were to ever write a superhero comic book about her. What a badass thing to carry around. The gun is too, but that's besides the point) and pulls out a little packet. Almonds.
She can't just drop dead, right? She'll get a scolding. And a revival. Not sure which first. Can Nancy do CPR? She'll make sure to ask when (if) her brain works again.
Sweet. Caring. Careful. Loving. Cute.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh no.
Abort mission! Abort mission! What is she thinking? No, no, no, the mystery machine in her guts is churning out the sweetest melodies and whispering things Robin does not want to hear right now. No. Please, no. Please. What is she asking for, again?
She stammers out a 'thank you. So much' and yanks the almonds out of Nancy's soft, warm hand as nicely as she can before absolutely taking off. She'll brush it off as if she'd heard a noise somewhere in the woods. Doesn't matter that she'd made it.
She's pretty sure it's a birthing position, the way she's standing. Back folded over, hands on her knees, lungs working overtime. What was that? Why did she scram? Nancy. Oh. Oh. Alright, that's not good. She needs to think about something else. Or not think at all, but that's a utopian idea. Alright. She needs to make sure the machine has left at least a little bit of her brain for her to utilise. Alright. Let's turn to music fun facts. The Beatles' 'Yesterday' had different lyrics at first. What were they? Think, Robin, think! She feels as if she's at some middle school competition again.
'Scrambled eggs'
Yes, her brain is scrambled.
'How I really, really love your legs...'
Yes, she loves Nancy's legs.
...
No! No, no, no! Not allowed, bad Robin. Bad. She needs to get ready to start digging that hole she was thinking about earlier.
"Why'd you run?"
Robin jolts upright. Hands at her sides, ready for combat. Eyes wide.
She turns around so slowly. Too slowly. Like she was caught doing something she shouldn't have.
Nancy's breathing is a bit shallow, and she's leaning on some tree slightly. Cute. "Heard something?"
The machine (Robin might name it Ringo later) rewires her brain in a millisecond, just so she can make an immediate fool of herself. "Y-yeah, 'twas nothing, though. Don't worry, Nance. Not an interdimensional monster or anything."
Nancy gives her that sweet, sweet, slighty confused smile that Robin never realised made her just a little more prone to death by internal crashout. The breath that comes out of her mouth is a little wheezy and brittle. Just a little. Crashout-worthy, nonetheless.
Ringo stills her, but she's still spiralling. (Why is she allowing herself to be controlled by a non-existent machine named after a Beatle?)
"You're really pale now, you really should eat," Nancy says so, so softly, "if you don't like almonds, I'm pretty sure I have something else in here, just give me a minu-"
"No! No, it's okay. I like them. Yes. Yeah. They're... sweet." Jesus, what is she saying?
A pause. Why in the world did she have to say it like-
"You're sweet too." Since when does Nancy Wheeler flirt? No, that can't be it. Impossible. Illegal, even. Nancy smiles again. Her knees buckle and Robin is officially ready to sign a declaration that she is not, by any means, responsible for any of her actions ever again.
Nancy takes a step, right into uncharted territory. The wind decides to rub this moment in Robin's face; one of Nancy's curls flies out in front of her eyes and she gently puts it back behind her ear. Cute, painfully so.
"Tell me if this is wrong." Two more steps closer. Nancy puts a strand of Robin's hair behind her ear, too. Crashout sirens are blaring so loud, and she doesn't give them any of her attention. Nancy has it.
Nancy touches her cheek. Softly. Brushes her finger over a freckle or two, or twenty.
Stop. Hold up. Rewind. It's loading. Replay.
And now all of Robin's life boils down to deduction. Nancy's finger moves to her lips, breathing quickens by a margin, her eyes are trying to map out her face (her face. Hers!). This must mean something she's scared to say out loud. She's also scared of cute, cute Nancy Wheeler who might just be blushing (but Robin gives it the benefit of the doubt) inches away from her face that's still being thoroughly looked at.
Ringo crashes the system.
"Can I-"
"Yes, Nance."
Robin had never before wondered what galaxies forming feels like. She knows now.
She also knows that she leans in first. And that Nancy catches her quickly. That Nancy's lips are even softer and warmer than her hands, which is barely possible, since it's so cold out and-
She gives in. Stops thinking for just a second. She feels Nancy's lips getting braver, not brushing lightly anymore, but still moving slowly, carefully, lovingly, still leaving space for her to pull away as if this wasn't a literal dream a moment ago. Going deeper.
And then her brain wakes up, as if it had been hibernating forever:
When does one kiss end and another start?
For how many seconds, no, minutes, could she kiss Nancy Wheeler before drawing another long, shameful breath? (Why breathe? Why bother? Nancy is enough. Who needs oxygen?)
Nancy‘s toothpaste has blueberry extract in it. And her floss is minty.
Why doesn‘t she care her lungs are shrivelling to nothing? Oh, right. Nancy Wheeler.
If she lets her mind run laps around them again, she‘ll start thinking even harder. That‘s bad.
They‘ll name their dog Jeanie, and their fence she‘ll paint sunny yellow and blue, and she will be the happiest girl in the world, if she isn‘t already, Robin Whee-
Right. Not now. Keep it on a leash.
Right. Right. So right.
And maybe she lies on the phone every time, saying she's watching the movies she stole from work and not thinking about her at night. That's okay.
Robin moves one hand to Nancy's face – to cup her cheek, to trace her jaw, to twirl a curl around her finger, to pull her closer – and the other under her jacket, to let it wrap around her waist, caress her back, to get her to come closer, closer, closer. Nancy's fingertips feel like ants walking down her neck. Barely there. Still there. So soft.
There's still so much mud where they're standing, and they feel it seep through their boots and wet their feet more and more, little by little. Nancy's still holding her gun with one hand. Now that's a thought.
She wonders if flower crowns at weddings are only a hippie thing. She'll ask someone, sometime. Not now.
Can the world can be saved by love, or is that only a hippie thing too? Huh, what a question. She doesn't know the answer. She won't know until she tries it out.
And the record in her head starts spinning again. She hasn't ever been more sure. Nancy can call her, any-anytime. Not only that, to be very, very honest.