Chapter Text
Steve Harrington has never felt peace.
There’s always something happening – something he has to stay on edge for, stay alert for. Especially over the last couple of years.
Which is why Steve can’t sleep.
Well, he can, but it’s incredibly fitful and chaotic and sweaty and–
Point is, he hasn’t been able to sleep well since limping out of Starcourt a week ago.
If he’s being honest, he hasn’t been able to sleep well since Barb was taken from his backyard. He swears he’s going to fill that pool in with concrete the first chance he gets. Get rid of any evidence it ever existed. Not like his parents are ever home to use it anyway. They probably wouldn’t even notice.
Come to think of it, he doesn’t even remember the last time they were home. Maybe Christmas? No, they were in Paris then. Thanksgiving? No, they were in Rome.
He scratches his head, eyes pinched in concentration. It’s had to have been over a year at this point since he’s actually seen them.
Huh.
His chest constricts with the pain of that realization, but he just threads his fingers through his hair and tugs. Not a worry for tonight. (Not a worry he ever wants to actually confront, so it goes tucked on a shelf in the corner of his mind.)
No, tonight his only worry is getting some goddamn sleep. Except all he can keep picturing every time he shuts his eyes is Robin bleeding out on the ground in a bunker beneath Starcourt, an angry doctor coming after her with a saw the length of his arm. The meat monster pulling Max apart instead of Billy. Demogorgons dragging Jonathan and Nancy through the Byers’ walls. Dustin and Lucas and Max getting mauled by demodogs in the junkyard.
In the blink of an eye, he’s from his bed to keeled over his toilet, chest heaving, muscles straining from effort. Coughing and sputtering, but nothing will come up. Nothing ever comes up. Nothing except the ache of his muscles, the burn in his throat. The twisted part of it all being that it makes him feel alive.
He sits there on the cool tile, back pressed against the tub, willing the nausea to dissipate in the slightest, to let him move. After a few minutes, he drags himself to the cabinet, pulls out the bottle of nausea pills the medics gave him, and manages to choke one down, face turning at the sour taste of bile at the back of his throat.
Somehow, he manages to stand, slowly brush his teeth, rinse his mouth out one too many times with mouthwash, until his tongue and throat burn with the cloying taste of mint. Splashes cold water on his face. Tries to pull together the desperately frayed edges of his being.
His reflection glares back at him, his skin a sickly shade of yellow-purple-blue-gray-green, the bruises still claiming more than half of his face. What looks a hell of a lot like a scar calls out to him from the deep bags that have set up residence under his eyes. He pokes the cut on his lip, winces at the raw skin there, already seeing the way it will never heal quite right. The sight of his bruises makes the pit in his stomach start to bubble again, so he looks away, washes his hands, much more thoroughly than he needs to, as if he can scrub away every inch of his body that made contact with that bunker.
Sleep is off the table for now, his body too wound up, too twisted, too stuck.
The clock blinks, angry red lines distorted in the mirror. 2:17 AM.
Steve groans, pads back into his dimly lit room, hands scrubbing down his face – “Son of a–” Pain zaps through his eye, clouding his vision. The doorway serves to steady his trembling frame until the world clears again, for the most part.
A yawn rips through him, but not one built out of tiredness – one built from the general exhaustion of life, of having to keep fucking moving when his brain and body can’t seem to agree on anything, of having to keep fucking fighting for this god awful fucked up town when all he wants is to leave and never look back.
But, he can’t.
Well, he can, technically. Now that he’s done with high school, he could just…leave. An option that he probably would’ve taken no hesitation two years ago. Now, though?
Now, he has a job to do. Even if he keeps failing at it. At least he can serve as a punching bag between the kids and whatever otherworldly bullshit busts through.
A deep itch is settled into his bones, like there’s millions of fire ants skittering beneath his skin, trying to burn him from the inside out. Every time he closes his eyes, all he can see is his own failure.
His failure to protect, protect, protect.
The only fucking thing he’s ever been good at it turned to something else he can’t do. Just another way he’s completely and utterly useless.
His eyes flick to the half-empty bottle of whiskey on his bedside table. He’s half-tempted to just finish it off. Let the weight of alcohol pull him back to sleep like it has almost every night for the last week. And, honestly, more nights than not for the last year. It’s a miracle he hasn’t fully depleted his father’s collection.
He knows, though, that it won’t help the nausea. Will probably just lead to him back on the bathroom floor.
It’s not like sleep is an option, though. Not without something to force him under.
No. Because his brain is loud, keeps telling him that everyone is gone – dead, hurt, injured. It’s all the same in his brain. Someone getting a bruised elbow when he could’ve prevented it makes him want to scream.
The battle wars in his brain. He knows that everyone is fine. But, the what if. The need to check, to know for certain–
The walkie glares at him from his bedside table. But he knows that waking anyone up just to make sure they’re alive without probable reason otherwise, even in their ragtag group of apocalypse survivors, would just get him cursed out. Especially if any of the kids’ parents heard.
He also knows that the itch won’t go away until he knows they’re all safe.
So, he does the only thing he can do. Grabs his keys and heads out the door.
He tells himself he doesn’t really know why he’s doing this – except that he really, really does.
He needs to be able to see it. To see that nothing has swallowed their houses. That nothing has broken through their walls. That no one is sobbing on the lawn. That no one is passed out or dead or being dragged into the woods.
He has to fucking see it.
So, he drives. To each and every house. Everyone in their muddled group of post-apocalyptic fuck-ups.
Nancy and Mike. Dustin. Lucas and Erica. Max. Robin. Will and El and Jonathan.
Drives to all of their houses. Twice.
Drives out to Starcourt just to make sure it’s actually gone. That the Russian bunker is fucking buried for good. That he didn’t just dream it.
By the time he’s done, it’s nearly 5 AM.
He falls face first on his bed and sleeps somewhat peacefully for the first time in a week.
It becomes a routine, then, the drives. Something to calm him down, to assure him everything is okay. That everyone is okay.
Steve never tells anyone about them. Never lets anyone know about the nightmares. About how every time he closes his eyes, he sees one of them dying and he’s helpless to save them.
It’s not theirs to be concerned about. It’s his. His responsibility. His burden. His fucked up brain.
He’ll deal with it.
Besides, he doesn’t even really know who he’d even talk to about it. In terms of their group, he’s kind of the outcast. Which has been a very weird feeling to reckon with. Everyone clearly has someone.
And he has no one.
Something that should taste bitter on his tongue, but simply tastes normal. Standard. Par for the fucking course.
Steve’s fine with it, honestly. Used to it. And this way, he can keep being their protector. Kind of like a nighttime security guard. Making his rounds. Making sure everyone is locked up safe and sound for the night.
Just doing his job to keep everyone safe and let them have some semblance of normalcy return to their lives.
And it works.
At least, the first few times.
The first few times are quiet. Peaceful, even. Not a soul to be seen, apart from the occasional bedroom light or shadow behind the curtains.
He doesn’t actually see anyone on his drives.
Until he does.
Until one night, Steve rounds on Robin’s house and the light in her room is on, her window open, curtains fluttering in the late summer breeze. Steve checks the time. 1:27 AM. He scrunches his nose, looks back up at the window, sees a flicker of movement to the side.
Registers Robin sitting on the roof.
Waving at him.
He stops the car. Waves back. Unsure if she can even see.
But, next thing he knows, she’s sliding down from the roof to the ground— in the most coordinated feat he has ever seen of her, what the fuck—and walking over to his car, sliding into the passenger seat.
Buckles herself in.
Hugs her knees to her chest.
Stares straight ahead.
And says nothing.
As if this is normal.
As if they do this all the time.
Steve just looks at her. Sees the faint splotches of blue-gray-purple fading to sickly yellow across her cheekbone. The jagged line matching his across her throat. The unkempt frizz of her hair. The way her body is shaking.
He grabs a jacket from the backseat and drapes it over her wordlessly.
Then, he drives.
He doesn’t really know why he does it, but he settles back into his routine, takes her through his normal route. Twice. Even though he’s been through it once already tonight. He wants her to see. That everyone is okay. Feels like that’s important to know for maybe more than just him tonight.
Even takes her by Starcourt. Parks for a minute. Stares at the wreckage with her.
After a moment, she nods.
So, he takes her home.
She gets out of the car and slips back into her house, Steve’s jacket still draped across her shoulders.
Steve doesn't leave until he sees her wave from her window as she pulls it shut.
It becomes their routine then.
They don’t say anything about the drives during the day. Really, they don’t even see each other much in the light of day. It’s still the burning edges of summer and there’s nowhere really for them to be other than home.
Steve knows the drill by now. The few weeks following the yet again thwarted end of the world are always murky. People huddling close to home, soaking up time with their families, the kids forming sleepovers after sleepovers. The older of the group…well. He’s sure Jonathan and Nancy are spending time together. A thought that should make him feel some kind of anger or sadness or something, but instead just leaves him feeling nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
And now, there’s Robin.
He doesn’t really know what to do there. He doesn’t want her to feel alone in this. The thought that she might not have anyone to talk to about this didn’t even cross his mind. Now, he makes it his personal mission to give her a space, even if she’s not ready to take it, or she doesn’t need it. Maybe she’s coping just fine and Steve’s the crazy one.
They end up wordlessly sitting in his car together more nights than not.
Let the silence blanket them, uneasily coating the tension forever lurking in the background.
They don’t talk on the drives.
Not until the fourth one.
It’s nothing big, either.
They’re at the end of the first round of checks, the clock blinking 12:54 AM in the quiet of the car as they stare at the wreckage of Starcourt.
“I can still feel it.” Robin whispers, the sound spooking Steve out of his thoughts. “The needle.”
He looks at her, sees her swallow down a shudder as her fingers rub against the side of her neck, the jagged scar taunting him in its vibrancy.
“Yeah?” His throat clicks, voice cracked from disuse and, honestly, general lack of hydration.
A few stray locks tumble from her lopsided bun as she nods. Steve reaches out tentatively, slides them behind her ear, his fingers resting atop hers. Her eyes find his, the moon casting them both in pale gray.
“Me too.” Their fingers clumsily link together, the pads of his fingers pressing warmth against her chilled skin. “Fuckin’ drives me nuts.”
Robin snorts, the sound reverberating through his fingers, drawing a small smile from deep within his chest — from a box slowly being built, labelled “just for Robin.” He doesn’t fucking know what to do with that knowledge, has only ever really had shit friends before now.
Wait.
Are they—are they friends?
Is it possible to call someone a friend when you never even talk, just sit together in your trauma in the middle of the fucking night?
”I, like—I can’t even look myself in the mirror anymore most days.”
“That explains the hair.” Steve tugs softly at a loose strand, amusement tinging the edges of his rasped voice.
Robin scoffs. “Shut up, asshole. Like yours is any better.”
“Hey, I’ll have you know my hair has won awards.”
Robin looks at him, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Yeah, seriously doubting that the way your hair looks right now is what won you those awards, dingus.”
Her hand reaches out, pulls at a tuft of hair sticking straight up.
He huffs, feigned annoyance. “It might have. You don’t know.”
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that, hotshot.”
Fondness fills his chest, threatens to consume him whole with how softly Robin is staring at him, their fingers still loosely linked together where he’s mindlessly soothing her skin.
He doesn’t quite understand the feelings swarming in his chest. The ache to protect and hold and love, but also to sit with, to laugh with, to share morning coffee and late night drives with. He can’t recall ever having someone that he wanted to share so much with, to be so close with. The intensity of it hitting him like a truck.
This is nothing like how he felt when he was with Nancy. No, none of those feelings are even remotely in the same realm of whatever is bubbling inside of him for Robin. The thought of it being anything like that just feels incredibly wrong in a way he can’t quite put a finger on, just knows that he definitely never wants to date Robin, no matter how truly brilliant of a person she seems to be.
So, maybe…friends? No, that doesn’t feel like…enough. Not enough to truly quantify this.
Even when he was friends with Tommy and Carol, it was never…like this. Never this easy. Never this honest. There were always multiple arms lengths between them — no room for sincerity. No emotions. All jagged edges and sharp words.
Robin is none of that. So achingly sincere. So wonderfully soft and unabashedly herself. Hopelessly endearing.
Which doesn’t make sense to him, why he feels this way. They’ve barely spoken since the battle, and before then, only really spoke out of necessity, or when she wanted to remind him of how spectacularly he failed at everything.
Now, though?
Now it feels…different. Like something beautiful and fragile is being built from the ashes of their combined past.
He knows, though, that he always feels too much too fast too too too –
Robin squeezes his hand, eyes searching his, questioning.
Steve feels like he could maybe, potentially, let Robin in. Let her see the loudest parts of his soul that he’s pushed down, wholly ignored, for eons. Feels that she might slot right in without a second thought.
Maybe.
Just not tonight.
Steve smiles, impossibly warm and soft, squeezes her fingers in return. “C’mon. Gotta finish our rounds.”
A week later, they’re parked in an alcove, tucked away in the edges of the forest, at the crest of a hill overlooking Hawkins.
“I’m not gonna drive off the cliff. Just calm down.” Steve had sniped, eyes rolling as he edged his car through the thicket.
“That’s exactly what someone who was about to drive off a cliff would say.” Robin had deadpanned, hands gripped tightly to the seat.
“What would I gain from driving us off this admittedly very small cliff?”
“I don’t know! Maybe you’ve been infected with Upside Down bullshit and you’re planning to kill us all in our sleep.”
“You’re not asleep, Robin.”
“Yeah, well,” she had thrown her arms up, exasperation lacing her voice. “Who’s fault is that?”
Steve had parked, and threw her a withered glare. “Hey, don’t blame me for not being able to sleep.”
“I absolutely will blame you.”
That’s how they find themselves on the hill in the middle of a random Thursday night slash Friday morning, the town of Hawkins sleeping peacefully beneath them, the clock on the dash shining 3:24 AM at their exhausted faces.
Late summer breeze shifts through the trees, the sound whispering through the quiet between them.
Wordlessly, Robin opens her door, walks up to the edge of the cliff.
“Rob–wait.” Steve tumbles out after her, extra jacket in hand.
She sits, arms hugged around herself, staring out at the city. Steve plops down next to her, drapes his jacket across her shoulders.
“Thanks.”
“I’m beginning to think you purposefully forget your jacket so you can keep stealing mine.”
Robin’s mouth quirks up, the tiniest hint of a smile, eyes gleaming as she glances over at him. “And yet you always seem to have an extra jacket on hand.”
“I–uh–” His cheeks redden, mouth helplessly forming around nothing.
Robin laughs, the sound warming something deep inside his chest. She nudges her shoulder against his. “Easy there. I’m kidding.”
“Right. Yeah.” He scoff-laughs, eyes darting between hers before shifting out to the city. He scoots a bit closer to the edge, crosses his legs, plants his palms flat on the ground behind him. “Looks so normal from up here.”
Robin scoots up beside him, her legs tangled awkwardly in the grass, spurts of wildflowers spilling between her fingers. She hums, eyes trained in the distant space before her.
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Robin twists her fingers through the wildflowers, rips a handful free, unceremoniously dumps them in Steve’s lap.
“Hey!” Steve jumps a bit, swipes the broken strands of grass and wilted flower petals off his lap.
Robin smiles. “Never been given flowers before?”
“Wouldn’t exactly call these flowers.”
“Too bad, that’s what they are.”
“You’re deflecting.”
“And?”
He looks at her pointedly as he dusts the last bits of grass off his lap. Her eyes glisten with pain, something deep and sharp that he recognizes all too well. His voice softens a bit as he bumps their shoulders together. “You can talk if you want. I’m not that great at advice, but, uh,” he shrugs. “I’m here.”
She blinks. Eyes quietly shifting across his face. Finally settling back on his, a soft smile to accompany it. “I know.”
Steve nods, then turns back to looking at the city, lets the late night sounds of summer swell through his brain, cover his skin in warm promises. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. A moment of actual peace coursing through him.
“I, just–” Robin’s voice is quiet. Laced with frustration. “I can’t believe I lived all that time not knowing about the literal hell dimension beneath my feet with the fucked up meat monsters and magic powers and, and–” She groans, rips another clump of grass.
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
She scoffs. “Please, you’ve been there since day numero uno.”
Steve hesitates, cracks one eye open to peer at her, finds her staring back all too smugly.
“Don’t even try to deny it Mr. I-Fought-A-Demogorgon-With-A-Studded-Baseball-Bat.”
He laughs, the sound more like panic than joy. “Well, it was–”
“Heard you did big numbers there.”
“I mean, we’re still–”
She snorts a laugh. “Could’ve really used that bat at Starcourt.”
Steve stops, fully glances at Robin. Her face a mask of emotions – confusion, fear, panic, anger, Steve’s not really entirely sure, but he feels like he’s getting pretty okay at trying to figure it out, and right now, it seems like fear might be winning.
His brain searches for something to say. Some way to respond that doesn’t clog his throat, make him feel like he’s going to pass out. “I’ll keep it in mind for next time.”
Robin chokes on a laugh. “Next time?”
Steve blanches. “I mean – oh, fuck.” His hands cover his face, body hunched over. “That came out so, so wrong.”
“You tryin’ to get me kidnapped by Russians again, Harrington?”
“Uh, well, um.” He straightens a bit. “No. No, ‘course not. No.”
"I just - fuck," Robin’s gaze is a bit wild, fixed on the ground between them. “Literally hearing ‘who do you work for’ in my brain on loop. God.”
“Mhm.” Is it hot? It feels hot. Steve feels hot. When did it get hot?
Laughter trickles between them, sounding a bit like it’s underwater. “God, I don’t think I can ever even go to a dentist again. I just keep…”
Steve zones out, eyes staring out over the city, at the hundreds upon thousands of people bustling about, wholly unaware of the world beneath their feet, of the fact demons and meat monsters and magic powers and actual evil Russians exist here in Hawkins. He swallows down the lump in his throat, chokes a bit around it, mind blaring with how a group of kids has had to save the world three fucking times. How he’s stepped in to protect various parts of their group every single time, how he would do it all again, protect them, no questions asked. Take every hit so they don’t have to hurt.
He sits there and he thinks and lingers and aches.
The feeling of it all consuming him, making his head throb. The lingering edges of bruising hands fading across his face. Nausea rolls through his stomach and he groans, falls flat on his back. He swallows around nothing, his throat still feeling full all the same, clogged tight with emotion and unspoken words. The cavern of his chest feels like it cracks open. Splays his ribs apart, leaving him fully exposed to the starless sky.
“Steve?”
“Hm?”
“You good?”
“Ye–” he coughs, tears pricking his eyes. “Yeah, ‘m good.”
God.
His face throbs. The bruises deeper than just skin. The muscles angry and torn and taut. The cut on his lip bursts apart, fresh blood trickling down his lips, spilling out the edges of his mouth. Faintly, he smiles, thinks of how he must look like a vampire, the blood staining his lips, reminiscent of some childhood Halloween before he outgrew it.
Robin stares down at him, brows scrunched together. She bites her bottom lip, the skin there chapped beyond repair. Watches as his chest rises and falls, as his eyes start to take on a glassy quality, unblinking, unyielding. She leans down next to him, slowly, quietly.
“Steve?”
Steve’s chest feels like it’s caving in, folding in on itself repeatedly, like a fucked up paper airplane made by the clumsy hands of toddler. Everything is suddenly too loud, too open, too closed, too prickly, too – where did those Russians come from nonononono, I swear –
“Hey, Steve, can you –”
Hands grabbing twisting pulling pain pain pain bruised needles god so many needles –
His head fills with crackling static, the sound crowding his ears, drowning out everything and nothing and it’s too much too loud –
“St– I c— pl—”
When did his eyes get –? He tries to blink, his eyelids suddenly feeling weighed down, tied to cinderblocks crushing his brain.
Everything is dark, too dark, swallowing him whole. The grand expanse of nothing crashing through him.
“ –I–y—!! S–p– er—!”
Bright, when did it bright? No god no, bunker, chairs, tables, Robin Robin Robin.
Crying, sobbing, bleeding, hurting, dying always dying why always dying please–
Please no, no, no, pain, protect, protect--
Water clogs his brain – or at least, it feels like it does. Feels like when he would swim laps practicing for a meet, his head staying underwater, blocking out the noise, the lights, the everything, feeling the burn in his chest from lack of oxygen, staying longer underwater each time, pushing until the edges of his vision would black out, chasing that feeling to the edge of the pool and back, over and over and ov–
“Steve!”
Steve gasps, sputters and chokes around the cool night air, the feeling of it burning his throat and lungs. He coughs around it, the taste acrid on his tongue. Vision swimming, spots everywhere. Blurry shapes twisting above him. He groans, flinches when something soft and clammy grabs his cheek, just this side of too rough.
“Steve Harrington, I swear to whatever fucking higher power exists, if you die on me up on this hill, I will kill you.”
Robin.
That’s Robin.
He blinks, over and over and over, her blurry face coming into view in fractals. Her hands frantically soothe over his cheeks, run through his hair. Unable to remain in one spot for more than 3 seconds. Her eyes, damp and wild and so, so blue. A kind, earnest blue. Soft and pure. Safe.
“Rob–” He coughs, his mouth suddenly feeling so dry. Why is it so dry? And why can’t he make any saliva coat his tongue?
“Oh, thank fuck.” She heaves, falls full bodily on top of him, eliciting a groan from deep in his chest.
Immediately, her warmth seeps into his bones, swarms around him, a comforting blanket to his aching soul. The feeling of clarity prickles at the edges of his mind.
“Shit, sorry, I–” She starts to pull away.
Steve’s hands find their way around her, squeezing her tighter to him. Possessively splayed across her back, gripping tight to her (his) jacket. He whispers into the meld of their bodies. “No.”
“Oh. Okay.” Robin relaxes, tucks her head under his chin, and rests.
They lay there for what could be minutes, hours, eons. Steve’s not sure. But, he holds tight to Robin, like she’s something fragile and precious, because she is. She’s alive. So fucking sweet and kind and wild and so incredibly dear to his lonely fucking soul and alive. She is alive. The thought blares across his mind, near suffocating him with its intensity.
Because, when the fuck did that happen?
When did this person become so important to him?
Trying to trace that moment back to its origin hurts too much, because somehow he knows it started well before the end of their relative innocence.
Instead, Steve clings tight to Robin, lets her weight soothe him, her warmth give him a space to relax into, to feel safe and warm and comforted.
Loved.
Eventually, he loosens his grip, squeezes her tight once more, then drops his hands to the ground. Robin rolls off him with a grunt, knocks their shoulders together as she shimmies next to him. Their fingers find each other in the mix of grass and wildflowers and they tangle together.
The silence stretches around them, a bit comforting in the clarity. “Sor’y.” Steve whispers, his voice cracking through the dryness of his throat, but still fearful of being too much, too loud, too everything. He coughs. “F’ck, god, d’yu ha–?”
“Here.”
A half drunk Dr. Pepper bottle lands in his hand. He immediately chugs it, ignoring how his lungs feel like they’re drowning since he refuses to sit up just yet.
He sighs, drops the bottle between them. “Thanks. My throat felt like a desert.”
“Why?”
His brows furrow. “Why what?”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Oh.” His thumb traces the back of her hand. He shrugs. “For whatever just happened.”
“Steve.” Robin’s voice is soft – so, so soft. Why soft? He feels her eyes on him, burning into the side of his skull. He turns to look at her, feels breathless at her rawness – how full of care and pain her eyes are. “Do you know what just happened?”
He opens his mouth, shuts it again, a formless slew of sounds tumbling from his lips.
“Steve. I think you had a panic attack.”
At that, he seizes up, whole body going rigid, fingers stalling in her own. He shakes his head. “No. No, I didn’t. You’re wrong.”
Her expression is full of pain. “Steve–”
He sits up, pulls his arms around himself, starts shaking his head violently. “No, you’re wrong.”
Robin pulls herself up beside him, warm hand smoothing down his back, even as he instinctively flinches away before melting back into it.
“That’s not – panic attacks aren’t like that. They’re, they’re big and loud and hyperventilating and – no, it just, I just spaced out. That’s it.”
“Panic attacks don’t have to look like that.”
“How do you–” He shakes his head, bites his lip. “No.”
“My mom’s a therapist. Trust me when I say I have learned far too much about the human brain over family dinner.” She chuckles, the sound warm and sure. “You try eating lasagna while she not-so-secretly tries to teach me and dad about the inner workings of the human mind. I swear, she once tried to use garlic bread as a metaphor for how anxiety can bake into our bodies.”
“Jesus, what?” Steve laughs, eyes trained on Robin’s now.
She nods, all serious. “Oh, yes. It’s very educational. Mandatory education in the Buckley household. Just don’t let her bribe you with apple pie. That’s her secret weapon.”
“What does she need a secret weapon for?”
“Pray you never find out.”
Steve shakes his head, the last dregs of panic bleeding out of him into the cool, damp earth. “You’re ridiculous.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. But it worked.”
He scrunches his brows. “What worked?”
“Distraction. Talking. Regaling you a bit of lore of my life.”
He scoffs, unable to hold back the smile that cracks through. “Did you just refer to your life as lore?”
“I 100% did, yes.”
“Isn’t lore reserved for, like, storytelling?”
“Isn’t life a story to be told?”
Steve just freezes. Watches the calm surety of Robin’s expression. The curiosity and pain in her eyes. Feels the desperation pulled taut in the fibers of his being. Sees the soft yellow glows dotting the sea of darkness below them. People walking, existing, living.
If life is a story to be told, then his has got to be written by some masochistic bastard.
“Yeah. I guess it is.”
The early weeks of August bring a new challenge to their nightly ritual.
“So, we need jobs.”
Robin snorts. “Yes, I am well aware.”
“I’ve been looking around and, like, everything is…”
“Awful?”
Steve shrugs. “Yeah. Basically.”
“Nothing can be as bad as slinging ice cream for overly hyper children and the idiotic slugs of Hawkins High.”
“Did you just call them slugs?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Take...Tommy Hagan, for example.”
Steve feels a hot flare on the edges of his mind. Locked away dormant moments of hot and touch and take and test and everything he’s ever tried to obscure. He looks out the windshield. “What about him?”
“Well, you’re telling me that you don’t see it? Like, he just waltzes around, leaving behind this trail of utter disgust in his wake. Tripping people and pushing them down–”
“I don’t think slugs can push people.”
“The slime trail they leave could absolutely trip a person.”
“I think you’re making this up.”
“I think you need a better imagination.”
He shakes his head as he laughs. “Fine, fine.”
“Thank you.” Robin looks thoroughly pleased with herself. “So, I don’t know what kind of jobs you were looking for, but, I think I might’ve found some leads.”
She leans down and digs through her bag, a rare accompaniment. Out comes a notebook – along with, like, several receipts and hair ties.
“Jesus, Rob. Do you ever clean that thing?”
“Don’t you even start with me, Steve Marie."
“Not my name.”
“I know where you live.”
Steve blinks. Stares at her. “I know where you live.”
“Irrelevant.”
“What–”
“So!” Robin smacks her notebook, making Steve flinch back slightly, though if she notices, she doesn’t comment. “We have options.”
“We…do?”
“Mhm.” She flips open the notebook and starts reading.
There’s a moment where Steve panics. Because what he hasn’t said, what he’s hoarding close to his chest, is that he honestly really wants to get another job with Robin. He’s enjoyed the time they’ve spent not in a Russian bunker and he doesn’t want to have to work with anyone else, really. He’s exhausted. And mostly just really –
“I think we should consider…” Her voice drifts through his brain, a comforting line of sound.
He feels the pain of too much too fast through his veins. Feels too scared to even ask. Maybe she’s tired of him. Maybe she doesn’t really like him. Maybe she just needs someone to vent to in the middle of the night. It’s not like they ever hang out during the day. No, just these nightly escapades where sometimes they talk and sometimes they don’t. Maybe she’s just being nice. She probably wants to work with anyone but him. Especially after he’s the reason she ever got dragged into this mess. She–
“I see you spiraling out over there.”
Steve looks over, sees Robin staring back at him. Her expression one of concern, mostly. “I’m not spiraling.”
“You are so spiraling. You made that face.”
“What face?”
“You know, the face.” Robin says with a tone conveying this should be wholly, completely obvious.
It’s not.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Jesus.” She huffs out a sigh, the movement making her bangs flutter softly. “Your eyes get all squinty and your nose ticks up and to the right a bit and you kind of curl your lips or you bite them, like, a lot, actually, you know, you should really use some chapstick, and–”
The rest of what she’s saying kind of falls into the void as Steve realizes something in utter clarity.
Robin…pays attention.
To him.
What the fuck?
“And there you go drifting off again.” Robin looks incredibly displeased.
“Uh.” Steve blinks. Shakes his head a bit. “Sorry.”
“No sorries. You’re good.” Her eyes are sharp as she cuts them back down to her notepad. “Now, pay attention, please, so we can figure this out.”
“What–” Steve clears his throat. “What are we figuring out exactly?”
“The job situation.”
“Oh.” He blinks. Stares at Robin’s notepad like it’s an alien predator.
Robin just barrels on.
“Okay, so, I heard that there’s a few openings on Main Street. They’ve got the arcade. Which, like, the sound of kids screaming at machines and having to clean icees out of the carpet sounds so much worse than Scoops.” She shivers, marks something off in her notebook. The edge of her pen finds a home between her teeth as she hums thoughtfully.
“There’s the salon. You might be able to get in there, buuuut they would never take me.” She laughs, marks it off the list too. “My hair is practically a national security risk. I think they’d burn me alive.”
“Oh!” She taps her notebook aggressively. “There’s Melvald’s. If you want to stock shelves and stand behind a counter all day. Though, shit,” her shoulders drop slightly. “They probably won’t put us both on at the same time.” She cocks her head slightly. “They’d pair us with Ms. Byers at least. So, that wouldn’t be the worst option. Uh, what else.”
She flips the page and starts reading through what appears to be an aggressively long list. Steve didn’t even think there were this many places to work in Hawkins.
“Yeah. Said that. Mm. Oh, okay.” Robin taps the page. “There’s the bank? We could be tellers. Pretty quiet and chill. But…ugh, do you think they’d hire me? Being still in high school?” She glances at him and shakes her head once before turning back to the list. “Maybe they don’t think I’m competent enough to handle money. How old do you have to be to be considered competent to handle money?”
As Robin rattles through the list, Steve is hit with an overwhelming wave of…confusion? Happiness? Fear? It’s something. Something big. That just washed over him, kind of altered the fabric of his being a fraction.
Robin is choosing to get some shitty, dead-end job with him. She’s choosing to get some shitty job with him because she wants to be around him. She’s choosing something that would have them together in the light of day.
Robin is choosing him.
“You aren’t ashamed to be seen with me?” Steve’s voice is quiet, but it still cuts Robin completely short.
She looks at him with complete and utter confusion. “Why would I be ashamed to be seen with you?”
Steve stutters. Starts tapping his leg in the footwell. “Well, uh. I just figured since, you know, we, uh – well, because – fuck.” He sighs, long and deep and hard and aching painful pain pain pain –
“Hey.” Robin rests her hand on his shoulder. Her warmth bleeds deep into his skin immediately. “It’s okay.”
“Yeah. Yeah.” He shakes his head. “Fuck. I feel stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.”
Steve laughs. “There’s at least, like, six to ten people we both know who would wholly disagree with you.”
“That’s not–”
“Yes, it is.” He stares at her. Not unkindly. But, a stare full of raw self-loathing. Full of acceptance to the fact he’s never going to be considered the smart one in the room. “We both know it is.”
The look Robin gives him is pained. Completely and utterly wrecked. “Steve.”
He looks away, the weight of her gaze too much to hold. His fingers scratch at a spot on the steering wheel. “Anyway, jobs.”
She groans. “Stop doing that.”
“Stop doing what?”
“That.”
“Gee, Robs, you’re very descriptive tonight.”
She full on turns in her seat, pulls one leg up on the chair, wraps her arms around it. “Look at me?”
“Why?”
“Please?”
And Steve is helpless to that voice. So, he turns, mimics her position. “Alright. What?”
“Why do you always deflect like that?”
“Like…what?”
“Whenever shit gets real. Like, whenever things get to what might be on your mind, or what might be bothering you, or whatever. You always deflect.”
“That’s not…entirely true.”
“Steve.” Robin stares at him, eyes piercing through the cracks in his armor.
He shrugs, voice dropping to barely a whisper. “I don’t really know what you want me to say to that.”
“The truth, Steve. I want you to say the truth.”
And, like, fuck. What does that even mean?
He sighs. “Okay. What do you wanna know?”
Robin looks at him. Seems to study his entire body. Eyes raking up and down. Head tilted slightly. “What’s your favorite color?”
“My–” he laughs. “My favorite color?”
“Yeah. Figure we start small. Work our way up the ladder. So. Favorite color.”
“Uh…” Steve leans his head against the headrest and closes his eyes. He honestly isn’t sure the last time he even thought about this. The concept of having a favorite color isn’t, like, foreign to him, but it’s definitely odd enough that it makes him realize– “I don’t think I have one.”
“What?” Robin shrieks, making Steve flinch back. “Sorry, sorry! I just…what do you mean?”
“...I mean that I don’t have one.”
“Everyone has a favorite color, Steve.”
He shrugs. “Not me.”
“Not true.”
“What?”
“You have to have one!”
“Says who?”
“Wha–” Robin scoffs, leans back against the door. “How can you not have a favorite color?”
Steve bristles at that. “It just never seemed important?”
“Well, it is!” She says with far too much indignation. “It’s, like, one of the first things kids latch onto. You’re telling me you never just fell in love with, I don’t know, red or something, and made your parents buy you red everything when you were a kid?”
Steve snorts and shakes his head. “No? They wouldn’t’ve anyway.”
“Oh, come on. My parents literally could not escape me begging for, like, every single orange thing I saw.”
“
Your favorite color is orange?”
“Well, yeah, as a kid at least.” She tilts her head slightly. “Still kind of now. It’s cozy and warm.”
“Huh.”
She squints at him. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, spill.”
“No, really!” He laughs. “It just, uh, it, ya know,” he gestures helplessly in the space between them, near-knocking over the empty fry carton from their late night second dinner. “It fits.”
Her face drops completely neutral. “It…fits?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I mean, you’re, ya know, you.
“Gee, now who’s the descriptive one?”
“Fine, fine. You’re, I don’t know, Robin. You just put off this kind of,” he gestures vaguely between them before shrugging and saying, “warmth, I guess? This, like, safeness, or whatever. Just.” Steve sighs. “Just really nice.”
“Oh.” Robin stares at him wide-eyed.
Steve nods. “So, yeah. Orange makes sense. Cozy. Like a hug.”
Robin’s entire expression softens, her bright blue eyes shimmering in the moonlight. Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen someone more beautiful.
The moment lasts approximately 8 seconds before Robin narrows her eyes at him. “This doesn’t get you out of having a favorite color.”
“What, you’re going to force me to pick one?” Steve barely bites back a smile.
“You can’t force it. The color chooses you.”
“Ugh.” Steve groans. “What are you, some inspirational speaker?”
“I am formally taking on the role of helping you discover your favorite color.” She cocks her head, purses her lips a bit. “And whatever other bullshit you were deprived of.”
That…is not what Steve was expecting. He sits there a few moments, completely stunned into silence. There’s a part of him, a very loud, insistent, angry part, that keeps screaming that these things aren’t important, that it’s a waste of time, that he needs to man up and focus on things that actually matter, Steven. But sitting here next to Robin is helping him realize that that loud, angry, cruel part of him sounds a hell of a lot like his father and not very much like him anymore.
Maybe it never did.
But, all of that feels a bit too raw and honest to spit out in the middle of the night overlooking a sleeping Hawkins. So, instead, he just smiles and says, “Good luck with that.”
“Don’t underestimate me, Stephano.”
He chuckles something loud and bright. “That’s so not my name.”
“Could be.”
“But it isn’t.”
Robin shrugs. “Made you laugh, though, didn’t it?”
And, well, fuck. She’s got him there.
She knows it, too, if her conniving smile is anything to go by.
“Alright, well, now that we’ve got that outta the way.” Robin readjusts and opens her notebook across her lap. “What slice of retail hell should we subject to our war-hardened people skills?”
Steve looks over her shoulder at the page full of listings, eyes scanning down the rows, stopping on one and smiling crookedly. “You know what would be really funny?”
And that’s how the next day they walk into Family Video, arm in arm, resumes neatly printed, and proceed to bully Keith into giving them jobs.